The Girl In The Ice (Detective Erika Foster, #1)(85)

‘And you did?’

‘Yeah. My mother, she died just before this. Thank God. She never knew . . . Igor seemed to trust me by now. He wanted me to start coming to Victoria Coach Station to meet the girls. They thought they were coming to England to work as housekeepers. He figured if I was there they’d trust me, and get in the car . . .’

‘Igor was trafficking women to London, to work as prostitutes?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes.’

‘Was he working alone?’

‘No. I don’t know; it was all so complicated. There were other men involved, and their girlfriends.’

‘Where were the girls taken? How many girls were there?’ asked Moss.

‘I don’t know,’ Barbora started. She broke down, heaving and crying.

‘It’s okay,’ said Erika, reaching out across the dark table to take Barbora’s hand. She flinched and pulled it away.

‘So what happened?’ Erika continued. ‘Igor was arrested?’

‘Yes. It went to trial,’ said Barbora. Erika looked across at Moss. Even in the darkness, she could see the shock registered on her face.

‘Trial, what trial? We have no record . . . What happened?’

‘The prosecution’s case collapsed. There wasn’t enough solid evidence. The jury couldn’t rule either way . . . I think Igor got to some of the other witnesses. He . . . he knows too many people.’ Barbora now looked blank. ‘I realise how I must come across; the terrible things I’ve done. I know what a terrible person I am. All from loving a man,’ she said. Erika and Moss were silent. ‘When I saw those girls on the news, when you made your appeal, I remembered one of them – Tatiana. When she arrived in London. She was so excited, and . . . I had to speak to you. You have to get that bastard.’

‘Have you seen Andrea since?’ asked Moss.

Barbora shifted uncomfortably. ‘Yes.’

‘Was it the night of the eighth of January, in a pub called The Glue Pot?’ asked Erika.

‘Yes.’

‘Was Igor with her?’

‘What? No! I never would have gone near her if . . . Was he there?’

‘No,’ said Erika. Moss shot her a look. ‘Why were you there in London? You’re in the witness protection programme.’

‘I go to London every month, to visit my mother’s grave. I tidy, and I lay fresh flowers. Do you know how hard it is to be a stranger, to have a new identity? I texted Andrea thinking we could meet for coffee. I know it was stupid. But Andrea kept changing where we were going to meet and . . . I know I shouldn’t have gone, but I missed her.’

Moss was finding it hard to mask her disbelief.

‘We only met for a little bit. She was on her own. She said she was meeting a new boyfriend later on . . . It was like nothing had ever happened with her. She wasn’t surprised that I’d vanished and that now I was back. She didn’t care.’

‘When did you leave The Glue Pot?’

‘I don’t know. Before eight. I knew there was a train from London Liverpool Street just before nine.’

‘And you didn’t see anyone else?’

‘No, Andrea said she was going to have a drink at the bar. There was a girl working . . . I wanted to say to her, watch out, that was me once, but I didn’t.’

‘But all this, we’ll need you to go on record, Barbora.’

Barbora was suddenly silent. When she spoke, her voice sounded far away. ‘I’ve had my mobile phone on, recording this,’ she said, handing her phone over. ‘I have a little more to tell you, but first I really need to use the bathroom.’

‘Really? It’s dark and . . .’

‘Please, I have to,’ she repeated, urgently.

‘Okay. Well, don’t stray too far . . . We’ll be here,’ said Erika.

‘Here, use this little torch,’ said Moss, pulling one out of her coat pocket. Barbora took it, got up and went off into the undergrowth. The thunder was rumbling now with increased frequency. A flash of lightning lit up the inside of the clearing.

‘I’m calling Peterson,’ said Erika. ‘When she comes back we should make a move. Take her back to London. I mean, she’s just revealed herself so the new identity is no use. I don’t know the procedure for any of this.’

‘Jesus, boss, what about that trial? There is no record of George Mitchell or Igor Kucerov. And when they ran the photo of him through the national database, nothing came back . . . I don’t like it; this is getting weird.’

Erika nodded and lit a cigarette. ‘We need to confirm her new identity. Then cross-check all she’s told us . . .’

‘Another complex twist in the murder of Andrea Douglas-Brown,’ said Moss. Erika looked at the phone for the first time and fiddled with the buttons, managing to play back a little of Barbora’s voice.

‘We’ve got her on record. It’s grounds to bring this George Mitchell, or Igor Kucerov, in. We need an address from her when she gets back,’ said Erika.

Moss got on her phone and called Peterson, trying to explain where they were, but the signal was bad.

‘It’s breaking up, boss; I can’t get through.’ Thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning lit up the sky above. ‘Jesus!’ she cried. ‘I’m not using my bloody mobile when there’s lightning above. Peterson can wait.’