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.’
‘You want me to get him on the phone?’ asked Crane.
‘No, hold off on contacting Chief Superintendent Marsh,’ said Erika, realising that this could work to her advantage.
61
The next morning, Chief Superintendent Marsh lay with Marcie in a beautiful hotel room – the name of the hotel escaped him, but he knew it was far from London with a sweeping view of Dartmoor. Her head lay on his bare chest, and he had that warm post-coital rush. The feel and smell of his wife’s skin was intoxicating. It was now light, and they’d woken from a night of repeated lovemaking, something unheard of since the twins had come along.
The phone beside the bed screamed out, breaking the silence. Marsh rolled over and saw it was nine-thirty in the morning. He reached over, lifted the receiver, and dropped it down into the cradle again.
‘Did you order a wake-up call?’ murmured Marcie.
‘Course not,’ he said.
‘Ooh. That turns me on the most, you not answering the phone,’ purred Marcie. She kissed him, sliding her hand down over his stomach . . .
The phone rang again. Marsh cursed, rolled over and yanked the cord from its plug on the wall. He rolled back to her and grinned. ‘I believe you were about here,’ he said, placing her hand on his growing erection.
‘Again? Chief Superintendent.’ She grinned.
Suddenly, there was a hammering on their door. ‘Sorry, hello . . . it’s the front desk,’ came a voice.
‘What the hell!’ exclaimed Marsh, as Marcie was poised to unroll a condom over the head of his stiff cock.
‘Tell him to piss off; this is the last one in the pack,’ said Marcie.
The hammering came again. ‘Sir, sir?’ quavered the voice of the young boy from the front desk. ‘I know you said not to bother you under any circumstances, but there’s an Assistant Commissioner Oakley waiting on the line. On your phone . . . Sir? He says if you don’t pick up there will be consequences . . . That’s me quoting him . . . that’s what he said.’
Marsh leapt up out of bed and scrabbled to reconnect the phone into the wall socket.
‘Where the hell have you been, Marsh? We have a situation!’ snapped Oakley when Marsh picked up the phone.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know it was you . . .’
‘One of your officers, that bloody Foster woman, showed up on Sir Simon Douglas-Brown’s doorstep at five this morning with an armed response unit. She’s taken him and his daughter Linda into custody. She’s taken Giles Osborne into custody too.’
‘What the hell?’
‘Now I’m up in Scotland, Marsh, on a much needed bloody holiday and I do not want to have to return to London. I trust you will rectify this.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘You’d better. I don’t often get woken up before nine by someone from the bloody cabinet office. Heads will roll on this one if we’re not careful, Marsh.’
The call was abruptly disconnected. Marsh stood there, naked, his penis now shrivelled to nothing. He picked up the phone again and dialled, shouting that he wanted to speak to DCI Foster. Immediately. Marcie pulled the bedclothes up around her, and bit back her tears. This would be yet another holiday ruined by her husband’s work.
62