‘What was in the bag?’ asked Moss, even though they knew the answer.
‘The girl,’ said Barbora. ‘She was in the bag, and he just left.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Erika.
‘I cleaned up the mess in the cupboard. There was blood and other stuff . . .’
‘And then?’
‘He came back later, and he told me I’d done a good job. He even gave me some money . . .’ Barbora’s voice was full of self-loathing. ‘And then we carried on again, as if nothing had happened. But he started to tell me about his work. How he’d meet girls from the buses at Victoria Coach Station; how they came to work for him.’
‘To work as what?’ asked Erika.
‘Prostitutes. The more I knew, the more Igor kept giving me money. He bought my mother a new electric wheelchair she could use herself. She didn’t have to be pushed anymore. It changed her life.’
‘And how is Andrea part of this?’
‘I was so stressed I couldn’t eat; my periods stopped. Igor just didn’t look at me that way anymore, so Andrea took over. She provided him with that service.’
‘Was all this going on when you went on the family holidays with Andrea?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know that later on, Andrea got engaged?’
Barbora nodded, and accepted another cigarette.
‘And did Andrea know about Igor? Did she know what kind of work he did?’ asked Erika.
‘I don’t know. I never discussed it with her. We’d been close at first, and we still were weirdly close on the holidays with her family, but I withdrew into myself. I think Andrea had this romantic notion that Igor was some kind of roguish London gangster, like in those stupid Guy Ritchie films.’
‘So how did you come to be in the witness protection programme?’ asked Moss.
‘The body of the girl was discovered in my bag a few months later.’
‘Where?’
‘A landfill in East London. The bag had an old store card belonging to me in the inside pocket. It led the police to my door. They said they’d been watching me for a long time, and that I could strike a bargain for giving evidence.’
‘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.’