The Girl in the Ice

62

Erika and the rest of the team were struggling after little sleep. They had worked into the early hours, piecing the evidence together with the new information, and at one o’clock in the morning they’d experienced a breakthrough. A frenzy of planning had ensued, and at three am Erika had sent everyone home to grab a few hours’ sleep, before they came back at first light to begin the first phase of Erika’s plan.

It was now eleven am and Erika sat with Moss, Peterson and Crane in the observation suite at Lewisham Row. In front of them were four screens. Each screen showed a police interview room.

In interview room one, Linda Douglas-Brown was agitated and paced up and down, wearing a long dark skirt and a vast tea-stained white jumper covered in black kittens. On the next screen, in interview room two, her father, Simon Douglas-Brown, sat impassively with his hands on the table, staring ahead. Despite being pulled out of bed by a group of officers in armed response gear, he had dressed smartly in dark slacks, a freshly ironed blue shirt, and a V-necked jumper.

On the next screen was interview room three, where Giles Osborne cut a curious figure. He was dressed in skintight bottle-green jeans, his belly barely constrained by a tight t-shirt with a tropical print of palm trees. His greasy hair was parted to one side and he stared up at the camera.

‘He hasn’t looked away from the camera for twenty minutes,’ said Crane, tapping his biro against the screen.

‘The only one who looks like he hasn’t got a care in the world is Igor Kucerov,’ said Erika, watching the screen of interview room four.

Igor sat behind the table, slouched back in his chair with his legs spread wide. He’d been working out when the police arrived to arrest him at his house on a pleasant middle-class street in Kilburn. He wore a tight white t-shirt with a Nike tick emblazoned across the front, shiny black Nike running shorts and trainers. His body was lean and muscly, and his skin a baked olive colour. The stubble he had in the pictures with Andrea was gone. His black eyes flicked up and regarded the camera.

‘Let’s have a crack at him first,’ said Erika. Moss and Crane remained in the observation suite, as Erika left with Peterson. They met Igor’s solicitor in the corridor, who was a thin, greying man with a neat little moustache. He started to protest as to why his client was being held.

‘I will be recommending that my client answers none of your questions until you have credible . . .’

They moved past the solicitor and entered interview room four. Igor stayed slouched back in his chair. His black eyes looked Erika up and down as she filed in with Peterson. There was a long tone as the recording equipment kicked in.

‘It’s five minutes past eleven on the morning of January the twenty-fourth. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Foster, and with me is Detective Inspector Peterson. Also present is solicitor John Stephens.’

Erika and Peterson took a seat opposite Igor and his solicitor. She spent a few moments checking over her paperwork, and then looked up at Igor.

‘Okay, Mr Kucerov. Or should I call you George Mitchell?’

‘Call me what you want, darling.’ He grinned. His voice was deep, with a trace of a Russian accent.

‘Could you explain why you use two names?’

He shrugged.

‘Do you work for MI5 or MI6? Or are you a secret agent involved in espionage? Perhaps you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act?’

Igor gave her a lopsided grin, and rubbed at his chin. ‘No,’ he said, finally.

‘I’m sorry, but these are absurd questions,’ said the solicitor.

‘No, these are valid questions. Were you aware, Mr Stephens, that your client was tried for the murder of a young woman called Nadia Greco? Her decomposing body was found dumped in a quarry, zipped up in a hold-all.’

Erika pushed a photo of Nadia across the table. Her bloated, blackened body could be seen through the open folds of the hold-all.

‘The hold-all was traced back to Mr Kucerov’s then-girlfriend, Barbora Kardosova. Nadia Greco had been beaten to death at Barbora’s house. Igor’s DNA was found at the scene, and Barbora testified against him at his subsequent trial. However, the jury failed to reach a verdict, and the trial collapsed.’

The solicitor glanced to one side at Igor.

‘Prove it,’ said Igor, shrugging.

‘That’s the problem, Igor. The records and transcripts from your trial are now marked as CMP: closed material procedures. This classification is only reserved for criminal trials involving matters that could damage national security. Are you aware of this, Mr Stephens?’

‘I’m aware of what closed material procedures are, yes,’ said the solicitor, flustered.

‘So you’ll understand how unusual this is, that this restriction was imposed on your client’s murder trial, when he has nothing to do with the secret service,’ finished Erika. Igor stretched his arms above his head, then moved his neck from side to side with a crack of his joints.

‘Maybe I look a bit like James Bond,’ said Igor.

‘No, we don’t see that when we look at you,’ said Peterson, coldly.

‘Don’t look so sour, mate. Aren’t they always talking about having a black James Bond? You could still be in with a chance,’ replied Igor.

Peterson paused, and slid the photo of Nadia Greco’s body closer.

‘Please look at the photo, do you recognise this girl?’ he asked.

‘I’m advising my client not to answer that,’ said Stephens.

‘Okay. How about this photo? This is you and Andrea Douglas-Brown. Are you aware of the Douglas-Brown murder? This photo was taken four days before she died, and this and this . . .’

Peterson pushed the series of photos across the table, starting with Igor and Andrea standing together outside the Horniman Museum grounds, and moving to the sexually explicit pictures. Igor pursed his lips and sat back.

‘This is the same Andrea Douglas-Brown who was found murdered.’

‘Yes, we’re all aware of who she is,’ snapped the solicitor. ‘Are you charging my client with her murder?’

Erika ignored him. ‘You were seen with Andrea just hours before she died, at The Glue Pot pub in Forest Hill . . .’

‘I don’t have to answer your questions. I want to leave,’ said Igor, getting up from his chair.

‘Sit down,’ said Erika. He pursed his lips and folded his arms, still standing. ‘And you do have to answer my questions. As I said, you were seen with Andrea.’

‘No. I wasn’t seen anywhere, because I wasn’t in the UK the night Andrea went missing. I was in Romania from the 31st December to the 15th of January. I have tickets, and you can check my passport records.’

‘Is that the records of you, or George Mitchell?’

‘You know, it’s not against the law to change your name,’ said Igor. ‘You’re Slovak, yes? And you have a name like Foster?’

‘It’s my married name,’ said Erika.

‘Married?’ asked Igor, raising an eyebrow. ‘How did that work out?’

‘I’ll ask that you sit down,’ shouted Erika, slamming her fist down on the table.

‘If you are going to charge my client . . .’ started Mr Stephens.

Erika stood and left the room.

‘DCI Foster has just left the interview room. I’m stopping this interview at eleven-twelve am,’ said Peterson, rising, then following her out.

‘He’s a bastard, isn’t he?’ said Erika when she was outside with Peterson. She was shaking with anger. ‘I shouldn’t have lost it so early with him. He’s just so smug . . . Can you get Crane to check out his alibi, that he was out of the country?’

‘Yes, boss. Just don’t let him get under your skin. We’ve only just started. You want to go back in?’

Erika took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘No. I want to have a crack at Simon Douglas-Brown.’