‘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.