A dark-haired man and a blonde-haired girl . . . thought Erika.
‘Why are we going through all this just to talk to you?’ started Moss. ‘You know we could nick you here and now for having that knife. It’s more than seven inches long, and don’t get me started on the mace . . .’
Barbora had tears in her eyes. ‘I’m so scared, but I have to talk to you. There are things I have to tell you or I’ll never forgive myself . . . I shouldn’t have contacted you using my real name,’ she said. ‘I’m in the witness protection programme.’
58
They froze for a moment, Moss, Peterson and Erika. The wind rushed through the treetops above.
‘I’m not going to tell you my new name,’ said Barbora, shakily.
‘No,’ said Erika, holding up her hand. ‘Don’t say anything more.’
‘Shit, this should have been bloody obvious,’ said Moss. There was a faint beep from the open car window, and they heard Crane ask for their status and position.
‘We’ve got to call this in, boss . . . If someone in witness protection reveals themselves or is revealed, then we have to call it in,’ said Moss.
‘You’ll need a new identity,’ said Peterson, trying to hide his annoyance.
‘Wait. Please. There are things I have to say,’ said Barbora. ‘I met you because I have to talk to you about George Mitchell . . .’ She swallowed and shook even more. ‘I should tell you his real name.’
‘What’s his real name?’ asked Erika.
Barbora gulped, and it seemed like a physical effort to say it. ‘Igor Kucerov,’ she said, finally.
Peterson made for the car where the radio was.
‘Please! Let me tell you everything before you . . . Before you make it official.’
There was another pause. Crane’s tinny voice floated from far away, asking for their status and position.
‘Peterson. Tell him we’re still waiting. All is okay . . . And please, Peterson, nothing about this until we’ve heard her out,’ said Erika.
He nodded, and then sprinted off back to the car.
‘We don’t want to know your new name, or where you’re living around here,’ said Erika.
‘I live far away from here. I have more to lose than all of you put together, but I’ve made up my mind to finally speak,’ she said. ‘If we double back a bit, there’s a picnic spot up ahead.’
They followed, leaving Peterson to man the radio in the car. After a five-minute walk they came into a clearing with a picnic bench. The light had difficulty penetrating a canopy of branches high above. Again, Erika thought it must be beautiful on a summer’s day, but in the cold and gloom it was oppressive. She pushed this to the back of her mind and she and Moss sat down opposite Barbora, the table between them.
Erika offered Barbora a cigarette, and she took one gratefully from the pack. Her hands shook as she leaned in, cupping her hand for a light. Erika lit her own and Moss’s, and they inhaled in unison.
Barbora looked as if she was going to throw up. She ran her hand through her short blonde hair. It was bleached cheaply, with a yellow, straw-like appearance. She gulped and started to speak, her voice shaky.
‘I first met George Mitchell . . . Igor Kucerov . . . three years ago, when I was twenty. I lived in London, and I was working two jobs. One in a private members’ club in central London called Debussy’s.’ She took another drag on her cigarette, and went on, ‘I worked shifts there, and at the same time I worked in a café in New Cross called The Junction. It was a fun, vibrant place, where local artists, painters and poets met. It was also where I first met Igor. He was a regular customer, and every time he came in, we started to talk. Back then, I thought he was gorgeous and so funny. I was flattered he spent his time talking to me . . . One day, I was in work and very upset. My little iPod had broken, and it had songs and photos on it that I couldn’t replace. He was kind, but I didn’t think anything of it. When I came for my next shift a few days later, he was there, waiting with a gift bag, and inside was a new iPod . . . Not like the tiny little one I had, but the newest and most expensive, worth several hundred pounds.’
‘And that’s when you started a relationship with George / Igor?’ asked Moss.
Barbora nodded. It was growing darker, and a cloud was looming above.
‘At first, he was so wonderful. I thought I was in love and that I’d found the man I would spend the rest of my life with.’
‘What did your family think of him?’
‘It was just me and my mother. She came to England when she was in her twenties. She wanted to meet a man and live a nice middle-class life, but then she fell pregnant with me. Her boyfriend at the time didn’t want to know, so she had me on her own and struggled as a single mother. Then, when I was ten, she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It was slow at first, but when I was sixteen she got really bad. I had to leave school and look after her. I took these jobs in the mornings at the café and nights at the club.’
‘So how long were you in a relationship with Igor?’ asked Moss, gently moving her story forward.
‘About a year. He did so much in that time. Helping us out. He paid for a special bathroom to be put in for my mother. He cleared my credit cards . . .’ Barbora smiled off in the distance, the memory still alive in her mind. She took a drag on her cigarette and her face clouded over.
‘Then, it was a few months into our relationship. One night we’d been to the cinema in Bromley . . . These boys had been making comments about me when we bought our tickets, stuff about my body. Igor had got angry, but I told him to leave it. We went inside and watched the film, and I thought he’d forgotten about it. When we came out it was late and there weren’t many people around. Igor saw one of the boys leave and he walked in front of us to the car park. When we were near our car, he just went for him, punching and kicking. He was like an animal. This boy went down on the ground and Igor just kept on kicking him, stamping on his head. I’d never seen him like this; it shocked me . . . I tried to pull him away but he punched me in the face too. Finally, when he had no more energy, he just walked away. He left the boy lying on the floor in the dark . . .’
Barbora began to cry. Moss pulled out a small packet of tissues. She held them across the table and Barbora took one. She took a deep breath and wiped her face.
‘And I followed him,’ she said. ‘We just left the boy on the ground between two cars . . . Igor made me drive, even though I wasn’t insured on his car, and I did. He grabbed my handbag and found my make-up remover wipes and cleaned the blood off his knuckles, and some that had sprayed on his face. And then he dropped me home. I didn’t see him for a few days, until he showed up with a gift, and my mum was so happy to see him. I just took it and carried on as if nothing had happened.’
‘What happened to the boy?’ asked Erika. Barbora shrugged. There was a far off rumble of thunder and a flicker of lightning.
‘So where does Andrea come into all this?’ asked Moss.
‘A few weeks after I started work in the club Debussy’s, behind the bar, Andrea came in for a drink. It was quiet and I served her a drink and we got chatting. She started coming in more regularly, and I slowly got to know her. She said how much she hated all the snobby trust fund girls she’d been to school with. When she heard I lived south of the river, she said she’d love to come and visit me. She said it like she was going off on a package holiday or something . . . but New Cross is only ten minutes on the train from Charing Cross.’ Barbora laughed bitterly.
‘So, did Andrea come to your house?’
Barbora shook her head. ‘No, she used to come to The Junction, the coffee place where I worked. She loved it. It was so bohemian, and there were always interesting people there; people who’d lived life free, not in a cage, that’s what she said . . . I said her cage was gilded, but she didn’t get that. I don’t think she knew what the word “gilded” meant.’