‘And the girl he killed at Barbora’s house. The one he stashed in the sports bag.’
‘He was arrested for this and went to trial, and he’s not in any system or database?’
‘He’s not in any system as George Mitchell,’ said Erika. On cue, there was a hiss and a beep as Crane came over the radio.
‘Boss, we found an address for Igor Kucerov from the council tax records. He lives in Kilburn; he’s thirty-seven, of Romanian-Russian descent. He’s married, too. House is in the wife’s name, a Rebecca Kucerov. They’ve got a five-year-old son.’
‘Jesus,’ said Moss.
‘How long has he been married?’ asked Erika.
‘Ten years,’ said Crane.
‘Any employment history?’
‘He runs a landscape garden maintenance business. He’s down as director, but the company is in his wife’s name. We’re just running our computers to find out if he had any contracts in the locations where the dead girls were found.’
There was a pause.
‘Do you want us to bring him in?’ asked Crane. Erika looked at the clock glowing on the dashboard. It was past five pm.
‘We should be back in London in about two hours,’ said Peterson, reading her mind.
‘No. Hold off bringing him in. I want to be ready for him. Put a surveillance team outside his house. Don’t let him know you’re there. And keep him in sight.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘We’ll be back at Lewisham Row in a couple of hours. In the meantime I want everything you can find on him: bank statements, emails, companies he owns, any bankruptcy. Also, check out the wife – full profile. I bet anything else he’s hiding stuff in her name too. And try to unlock the new identity they gave Barbora Kardosova. Now she’s dead it should be easier.’
‘We’re already working on it,’ said Crane. He added, ‘Are you all okay? We heard she topped herself right in front of you.’
‘We’re fine,’ said Erika. ‘Now get off this radio and concentrate on Igor Kucerov.’
Outside the car it was pitch black. The fields and fens around them were invisible. There were no moon or stars, and barely any light pollution; just the road in front, illuminated by the arc of the headlights. Erika longed to get far away from the bleakness of the fens, from where Barbora’s body had swung creaking from the tree. She needed to be back in the city, where buildings crowded around her; where there was noise, and time didn’t stand still.
She pulled down the mirror above the passenger seat and its light flicked on. She saw she had mud on her face. Peterson’s reflection stared back from behind, bathed in the light.
‘It doesn’t get any easier, does it, boss? Seeing a dead body,’ he said.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Erika. She wiped at the mud with a tissue, and then snapped the mirror shut, plunging the interior of the car back into darkness.
They rode the rest of the way back in silence, conserving their energy for the night ahead.
60
Erika, Moss, and Peterson arrived back at Lewisham Row Station just after seven pm. The torrential rain had moved with them during the journey back from Norfolk, and was pelting the car park as they dashed into the reception area. They were met by Crane, who buzzed them through from reception. Erika was impressed to see that the full team had stayed, and the incident room buzzed with activity.
‘Good evening, everyone. I take it that Crane has briefed you on what happened?’ said Erika. There was a murmured nodding. ‘Good. Now, what can you give me?’
One of the officers had brought up some towels from the police gym in the basement and threw one each to Moss, Peterson and Erika. They took them gratefully.
‘We’ve gone back through records and found that the girl who was found dumped in the sports bag was seventeen-year-old Nadia Greco. A trial was held in Southwark Crown Court,’ explained Crane.
‘And?’ asked Erika, rubbing at her hair with the towel.
‘And this is where it gets weird, boss. The trial records have been marked as CMP – closed material procedures.’
‘What?’ asked Erika. ‘Why would Igor Kucerov’s trial be put on the same legal footing as a classified secret intelligence trial?’
‘I don’t know; as I said, very little is available. The transcripts have been redacted, names blanked out,’ said Crane.
‘How do we know it’s his case then?’
‘It matches the keyword search I did for the murder – the location where the body was found and the details of the victim weren’t classified.’
‘Are there any details of the trial verdict?’ asked Erika.
‘It says that the trial collapsed due to insufficient evidence.’
‘And there’s no record of an arrest for an Igor Kucerov or a George Mitchell?’
‘No. We’ve done a Google search on Igor Kucerov, and several of the search results have been removed under the European data protection law. And if Igor Kucerov had a record, it’s been wiped. There’s nothing for him, or for a George Mitchell, in the database.’
‘I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘We’re gonna keep working, boss.’
‘What about unlocking Barbora Kardosova’s real identity?’
‘We’re working on it now, but the courts won’t open until nine am tomorrow. Witness protection is a highly secretive department; they work on a different computer network.’
There was a silence. Erika stood and went over to the whiteboards, where photos of all the victims were pinned up. There were also CCTV stills of Andrea’s last sighting, when she had boarded the train, and next to these was the photo taken of her with George Mitchell, now known as Igor Kucerov. There was also a new photo of Igor Kucerov taken from his driving licence, and at the end were family photos of the Douglas-Browns on holiday with Barbora Kardosova, before she’d cut her hair short and dyed it blonde, and vanished in the witness protection scheme.
‘Okay. I know it’s been a long day,’ said Erika, turning back to face the room. ‘But we need to get out our spades and start digging. I’m asking a big favour of you all, and I’d like to work on for a few more hours. I want to go back to basics and go over everything to do with this case with a fine-tooth comb. Everything. I’ll order in food, coffee; I’m buying. We just have to find something. There’s a link between Andrea Douglas-Brown, Igor Kucerov and the rest of the murders. We need to find it, and it could be the tiniest thing we’ve missed. As I always say, there are no stupid questions.
‘Now, with this trial being classified, we’re dipping our toes into dangerous waters here, but don’t be afraid to dig deep, in particular with Sir Simon. He was off-limits before, but he isn’t now. We have Barbora Kardosova’s recorded statement; I’ll get it uploaded to the intranet. Now, who’s willing to stay?’
Erika looked expectantly at the full incident room. Slowly, people put their hands in the air. She looked at Moss, who grinned and raised her hand, as did Peterson.
‘If I wasn’t such a bitter old cow I’d kiss you all. Thank you. Right. Let’s make the next few hours count and get to it.’
The officers in the incident room sprang into action.
‘Where did you get those doughnuts from last time?’ asked Crane, coming over with a pile of files.
‘Krispy Kreme. You have free reign to order,’ said Erika. ‘Where’s Marsh?’
‘He left early. He’s got the weekend off; taking his missus to some kind of art retreat,’ said Crane.
‘I didn’t know he was into painting, too,’ said Erika.
‘No, he’s dropping her off; it’s in Cornwall. I think he’s getting some tonight though; he’s told us he’s not on call . . . under any circumstances.’
‘Typical; we’re at a crucial point in our investigation and he decides to bugger off on a mini-break.’