‘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
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.
br />
‘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.’
63
Simon Douglas-Brown’s solicitor was equally as grey as Mr Stephens, but he wore a much better suit. He was waiting outside the interview room, straightening his tie.
‘We’re in here,’ said Erika, pointing to the door of interview room one.
‘I’ll be advising my client not to answer any of your questions until . . .’ he started, but Erika and Peterson moved past him.
Simon glowered at them as they filed in to the interview room. ‘Just be aware that when I’ve finished with you, you’ll be directing bloody traffic on the Old Kent Road. For the rest of your years on the force!’
Erika and Peterson ignored him, and they all sat. She went through the formalities for the tape and then opened a folder in front of her on the table.
‘Where is Linda?’ he said. Erika ignored him. ‘I have a right to know where my daughter is!’
‘Linda has been arrested, and is here in detention,’ said Peterson.
‘You leave Linda out of this, you hear me? She’s not well!’ shouted Simon.
‘Not well?’
‘She’s under a lot of stress; she’s not fit to be interrogated.’
‘Who informed you that we’re going to interrogate her?’ asked Erika.
‘When police officers rock up at my door at the crack of dawn in riot gear with guns, they don’t want a chat. I presume of course . . . I’m warning you . . .’
‘Your wife is in reception. Where is your son, David?’ asked Erika.
‘He’s on a stag weekend, with friends, in Prague.’
‘Where is he staying?’
‘I don’t know, a pub or hotel; could be a youth hostel for all I know. It’s a stag party.’
‘A stag party for who?’ asked Peterson.
‘One of his friends from university is getting married. I can get the information from my secretary; she booked it all.’
‘We’ll do that,’ said Peterson. There was a pause as Erika flicked through her file.
‘You run several companies in connection with your business and personal affairs, is that correct?’ she asked.
‘What a stupid question. Of course that’s correct.’
‘One is called Millgate Ltd, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you have another one called . . . Peckinpath.’
‘Yes.’
‘Quantum, Burbridge, Newton Quarry . . .’
The solicitor leaned across the table towards Erika.
‘I don’t see why you feel the need to read this out to my client, DCI Foster. He’s well aware of his business interests; these are all public limited companies and this information is in the public domain.’
Simon sat back, alert but furious.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ said Erika. ‘I just needed confirmation for the tape, before I proceed. Sorry to waste your client’s valuable time . . . So, I’ll ask again.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. Is that loud enough for your bloody tape?’
‘I would like to draw your attention to one of your bank statements from the month of September last year.’ Erika took a sheet of paper from her folder and laid it on the desk. Simon leant forward.
‘Hang on, why do you have this? On whose authority?’
‘On my authority,’ said Erika. ‘A payment was made by you to Cosgrove Holdings Ltd, which is the registered company behind Yakka Events – Giles Osborne’s Yakka Events. The sum was for forty-six thousand pounds.’ Erika tapped the figure on the statement with her finger.
‘Yes, I’ve invested in the company,’ said Simon, sitting back and eyeballing Erika.
She took out another bank statement. ‘I also have one of Giles Osborne’s bank statements. For Cosgrove Holdings Ltd, for the same date, which shows the forty-six thousand pounds goes in to the account . . .’
‘Where is this going?’ asked the solicitor. Erika held up her hand and carried on.
‘But on the same day, your forty-six thousand pounds goes back out again.’
Simon started to laugh, and looked around the room to see if anyone would laugh with him. Peterson remained stony-faced. ‘Why don’t you ask Giles? I’m not involved in the day-to-day running of his company. I’m a sleeping partner.’
‘But you invested forty-six thousand pounds. That’s a lot to be just a sleeping partner?’
‘Define a lot? To me, forty-six thousand pounds is not a vast sum of money . . . I’m sure for you, with a police salary, it??
?s a lot more.’
‘With that taken into account, surely you and Giles would have at least agreed what your investment would have entailed?’ said Erika.
‘I trust Giles and, if you remember, before the brutal murder of my daughter, I was welcoming Giles into my family as my son-in-law.’
Simon’s angry mask cracked, and they saw the raw pain from the loss of Andrea.
‘Okay, so as your son-in-law, did Giles share with you why the forty-six thousand pounds was paid straight out to a company called Mercury Investments Ltd?’
Simon looked across at his solicitor.
‘Yes or no? It’s a simple question,’ said Erika. ‘Yes or no, did Giles share why the forty-six thousand pounds was paid back out to a company called Mercury Investments Ltd?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know of a company called Mercury Investments?’
‘No.’
‘It’s registered to a Rebecca Kucerov, wife of this man – Igor Kucerov. Just in case you need reminding, we recovered Andrea’s second mobile phone with these pictures.’
Erika took the explicit photos from the folder and laid them out in front of Simon. He glanced down at them. He closed his eyes and began to shake.
The solicitor leant in and started to gather them up. ‘I object to my client being shown these distressing photos of his daughter, who has only just been buried . . .’
‘But what does your client have to say about this forty-six thousand pounds? We believe this man, Igor Kucerov, is linked to the illegal trafficking of young Eastern European woman to the United Kingdom. He was also tried for the murder of a young girl called Nadia Greco.’
‘Was he convicted?’ asked Simon, sharply.
‘No, but even without a conviction it adds up to a damming link. So I’ll ask you again. Do you know why Giles Osborne transferred the forty-six thousand pounds to Igor Kucerov?’
Simon sat back, looking rattled.
‘My client has no comment.’
‘Right,’ said Erika. She gave Peterson a look and they both stood.
‘And?’ asked the solicitor.