Clean Cut (24 page)

Anna stood up, watching the fragile figure wearing the dead girl’s shoes totter out of the front door. The two guys sitting on the steps laughed; one put his hand up her skirt but she swiped it away.

Brandon came down the stairs; he was sucking his right hand.

‘Fucking piece of shit. He threw a punch at me, so I got one back at him and he tried to kick me in the nuts! He missed–but I didn’t.’

Anna walked out of the door, passing the two lounging boys; she looked at them, almost daring them to touch her, but they cowered away.

Back in the patrol car, they headed out of the rundown street, Anna at the wheel.

‘Okay, Mark identified the bloke from the white Range Rover: six feet four, black, two gold teeth, missing tooth in the front.’

‘Sounds like Rashid Burry,’ she said.

‘He told Mark to put Carly Ann’s gear into a bag, said she wouldn’t be coming round any more, and that if he tried to find her, he would wind up with his throat slit. This, I reckon, was about a year before she ended up dead. Mark was scared rigid, he said. After the bloke had gone, he looked out of the window. He said there were maybe two other men in the car, but he didn’t see clearly; she wasn’t there with them though. There was someone dressed in maybe a white tracksuit, ’cos the car door was left open, and then clothes and stuff got thrown onto the pavement, like they weren’t worth keeping. He seemed to think that Carly Ann had found some rich punter, ’cos the bloke gave him two hundred quid after kicking him around; threw it at him, and warned him not to try to look for her.’

‘So he never saw her again?’

‘Nope.’

Anna sighed, trying to calculate how long Carly Ann had to have been with the so-called rich punter
before moving to Dora’s; it could only have been a matter of months. In that time, she was given a lot of jewellery and fine clothes, too much for someone just using her as a whore–unless the clients he was able to pass her on to paid big money. It made sense that if Carly Ann walked away from this person, they wouldn’t like it.

Langton had not only shipped in Frank Brandon to swell the murder team, but they now also had a mass of clerical workers and uniformed officers attached to the station. The manpower was costing a fortune. Langton’s budget was severely depleted; he had put in numerous requests for further finances. When he eventually joined the team, he looked exhausted.

He stood staring at the board, his eyes roaming over the mass of information, as everyone quietly gathered. Drawing up chairs to sit in a semicircle around him, they waited.

He gave a long sigh.

‘Okay, I tried to contact your Professor Starling about the voodoo connection, Anna, but he’s gone to Luxor on some dig or other, so Grace and I have been to various quacks, trying to get something that might help us. It seems to me that our only possible hope is to break this Idris Krasiniqe and see if he does have some information that can assist us. As you can all see, we need it. It beggars belief that, after this length of time, we are still at square one. I am not aiming fault at any one of us; we’ve all been working our butts off, but it seems we just can’t get a break. The last report in we have about the medical condition of Eamon Krasiniqe is he’s fading fast, so time is against us.’

He was about to continue when Harry Blunt raced in. Langton turned, irritated.

‘Call’s just come in from a crusher’s yard: they’ve got the Range Rover. They’ve not touched it more than to sit behind the steering wheel.’ Harry had to heave to get his breath. ‘I’ve had the squad at Scotland Yard send it over to their guys; I said to start on it straight away.’

Langton gestured to Harry for him to calm down. ‘How did it get there?’

‘Guy walked in, paid over the money, said someone had put sand in the ignition and it was screwed. He said he wanted to watch it going up the ramp to make sure they didn’t fuck around with it. They agreed and went through the deal, then had one of ’em remove the plates–got to have everything recorded. The bloke was getting real uptight, but when he sees it heading up to the crusher, he pisses off, leaving the plates behind. The boss smells something isn’t kosher, stops the machine and calls in the locals. Gov, it’s the missing Range Rover! White body, black-tinted windows and the licence plates tally!’

The buzz went round the incident room: just as they felt they were going nowhere, at last they had a break. Harry gave the description of the driver as a tall, black guy, well-dressed. He had someone waiting for him outside the yard in a red four-door Mercedes, but they didn’t see who.

No sooner had the buzz died down, when a second call came in. This time, it was Brandon who took it.

‘Scotland Yard: they’ve opened the Range Rover. There’s something in the back of it.’

The naked body was wrapped in black bin-liners. It was that of a black male, around six feet four, with
cropped hair, minus a front tooth but with two gold teeth. The body had been virtually folded in half to make it fit inside the boot.

The patrol car with Langton and Anna sped up to London, followed by Harry Blunt and Brandon. The crusher’s yard was already awash with spotlights when they arrived and a team of experts was preparing to strip the car down. The boot remained open; the body had not as yet been removed.

Langton took Anna’s elbow and led her to the back of the Range Rover. The black plastic had been slit to enable them to see the dead man’s face. A scientist wearing gloves and a mask gently eased the head round for Anna to get a better view. She moved closer and, from behind her mask, asked if they could use a spatula to lift his lips, so she could clearly see his teeth.

‘Yes, it’s Rashid Burry,’ she said.

Langton nodded for them to continue working; the police would be able to confirm the man’s identity from fingerprints on record. There was little else for them to do until the scientists and pathologist were ready for them. The mortuary van pulled in, ready to transfer Rashid to the mortuary, as Langton spoke briefly to the head forensic officer. He confided quietly that they were desperate: they needed anything they could get from the car that would help their investigation. He was reassured that forensics would remove the seats and the wheels to check the vehicle inch by inch, inside and out.

Mike and Brandon remained at the yard, but Langton wanted to get back to the incident room. Returning to the car, he seemed very subdued.

Anna gave him a small smile. ‘We just got lucky. I’m sure this is a major step forwards.’

Langton wasn’t that confident. He sat in the front seat, eyes closed, as Anna contacted the station to tell everyone that Langton wanted a press blanket on the new development.

By now it was after nine. Anna was tired, but needed to collect her own car from the Hampshire station. She couldn’t think of anything more to say to him, as he remained with his eyes closed, so she gently reached out and touched his shoulder.

‘You okay?’

‘Yes.’ He rubbed his eyes.

‘You want some water? I have a bottle with me.’

‘No.’

She looked out of the window, and watched as the night traffic passed. She wanted to ask Langton about his sessions with the voodoo doctors, or cranks as he called them, but he seemed not to want any interruption. The driver drove in silence, never glancing back to her in the rear seat. She closed her eyes, then opened them quickly when she heard a soft low moan; she leaned forwards to look at Langton, but he appeared to be asleep.

Langton could feel the blade cutting into his flesh, the flash of agony erupting through his entire body. He fell forwards as the blood spurted; the slash to his thigh cut it wide open, slicing through his clothes as if they were made of butter. Then he fell backwards down the stairs. His heart pumped so ferociously he truly felt it had been hacked apart. His brain was splitting in two with the searing pain.

He wasn’t sleeping: he was wide awake.

The man grinning, as Langton’s blood sprayed over him, was the man whose face he had just seen through the slit in the black bin-liner–a face he had been unable to recall in any detail until now. But Rashid was not the man who had slashed him; he was the man standing behind his attacker. Rashid Burry had been there. Rashid Burry had witnessed the attack–and he had laughed.

Langton kept his eyes closed; he would keep this to himself. It was imperative that no one knew. If it was made public, he would be replaced–and the case was what was keeping him going through the persistent pain he had to deal with every day and night. Langton knew he was getting closer to tracking down the man who had wielded the machete. He didn’t want to find Camorra dead; he wanted him very much alive.

R
ashid Burry’s photograph, pinned on the board, now had a red cross over his face. He had been garrotted, the thin cord still left around his neck, and had been dead for around forty-eight hours. They would have to wait for further information until the post mortem and the forensic examination of the Range Rover were complete but, as everyone gathered for an update, there was a much more positive feel.

Langton appeared, refreshed and energized, as he gave the details of the discovery. He then discussed his interaction with the voodoo doctors; he made them laugh, with some funny stories about the cranks and timewasters he’d had to interview. He then moved on to the one meeting he felt might have been beneficial.

‘Okay, we have a doctor calling himself Elmore Salaam–whether that’s his real name or not, who knows? He has a pretty substantial practice in the East End, with certificates plastered all over the waiting room. He has worked in Haiti and Jamaica, and is originally from New Orleans. He’s married to a woman called Esme, who acts as his receptionist and nurse; she is the one who shepherds his patients in to see him. He works on what appears to be a mostly cash basis, but it looked legit; he assured me that
he pays his taxes, and I believe him. He looks the business: long white robe, heavy crucifix and a lot of gold rings, but I noticed he had pretty expensive loafers on underneath! He was very eloquent and gave me a long diatribe about his work as a healer. His patients are often suffering from anxiety and simple afflictions, for which he prescribes herbal remedies.’

Langton paused to sip his coffee before he continued. ‘To get him on to voodoo took some time, as he was at pains to explain that it was not his practice; that said, he is an authority on its rituals and has written a number of paperbacks.’

Langton held up a few thin volumes that looked as if they had been printed off his own computer.

‘He was very serious, explaining that some of his patients have been scared rigid. Many of the people who come to him are illiterate, and it takes many sessions using his knowledge of psychology–in which he has a degree–to calm them into understanding that whatever curses or hexes have been put on them can be eradicated.’

Harry Blunt stifled a yawn. Anna knew that he didn’t believe in any of that crap and would be impatient to know where it was all leading, but just then, Grace Ballagio joined Langton.

‘Okay, whilst the Gov was getting the info from the doctor, I spent some time with Esme. She was not very forthcoming to start with, but opened up when I did a bit of Pinocchio, saying my aunt lived in New Orleans and that, unlike my boss,’ she grinned at Langton, ‘I was a believer.’

Grace continued, explaining that they were interrupted every so often by patients with their so-called prescriptions, so Esme was kept busy, measuring out
powders and counting out pills by hand in a small anteroom, which gave Grace the opportunity to have a quiet look around. There was a desk with a diary and a chart, with a list of names. When Esme returned, Grace asked her about this, as she would be very interested in learning about her husband’s work. Esme told her that she would have to talk to the doctor himself, as this was a private practice.

‘I tried to get her to open up and explain what the private practice was. She was very edgy and said that she didn’t approve, but running the practice cost money, and some of the patients didn’t have any, so they did what they had to do.’

Langton placed his hand on Grace’s shoulder. ‘Doctor Salaam is a voodoo practitioner: he teaches it to specially chosen students and does not–and he took great care to emphasize this–does not go into the “darkness”. That’s his word, by the way.’

Grace continued. ‘The students obviously pay a lot of money. I asked if Esme could give me names, but she refused. I then changed the subject and asked her if she had something for a migraine. She went into the anteroom, so I nipped back to the diary–but she caught me and snatched it back.’

Langton took over again. ‘This was the moment I came out of Elmore’s office. His wife said something to him, in I dunno what language, and the friendly priest-cum-doctor-cum-psychiatrist got very nasty. He accused us of being there on false pretences. I had to show my ID again, calm him down, but he was very unpleasant. I got a bit heavy about how he was running his business, but said I didn’t want to cause trouble: I was there because I needed his help.’

At this point, Harry Blunt got up and walked across the incident room. Langton glared at him. ‘Where you going?’

‘I need to take a leak. To be honest, Gov, I dunno where all this is leading, but you’ve taken a hell of a long time to get to the point.’

‘Sit the fuck down!’ Langton snapped. He stared around the room. ‘Anyone else think this is a load of shite? I am going into the details of what went on for a fucking reason. You want to hear it or not? Right now, we’re still flailing around like arseholes. You want to carry on taking a piss, Harry, go do it–and don’t come back.’

‘For Chrissakes, Gov, it’s eleven o’clock. I’m up to my ears in coffee.’

Langton ignored him, then crossed to the board and slapped the name Camorra with the flat of his hand. ‘This bastard has been paying Elmore for years. He’s obsessed, to such an extent that the doctor started to get uneasy. The only thing the fucker was interested in was the “darkness”, for want of a better word.’

Anna sat straight-backed; she couldn’t believe it. Langton had not even mentioned this to her. Brandon and Lewis shot covert glances at each other; they, too, had been left in the ‘darkness’!

The incident room fell silent.

‘Camorra gave them a false address and numerous mobile phone numbers; he changes them frequently, almost weekly. He had sessions with Elmore until his wife said he should not continue: the bastard scared the shit out them, culminating when he brought in a shrunken head and two claws. A child’s hands! You want to take a piss now, Harry?’

Harry sat down, sheepishly.

‘We need Doctor Salaam, because the one lead we might have is the Krasiniqe kid in Parkhurst who believes he’s got a hex on him and is dying. Okay, Harry, if I continue?’

‘I’m sorry, Gov.’

Langton outlined the arrangements for Dr Salaam to come in and discuss what he could or could not do to help Eamon Krasiniqe. Time was running out; the boy was dying, so it had been arranged for Elmore to come in and talk to them that same afternoon. They would then make the journey to Parkhurst.

It was after twelve when the briefing ended. Langton had slammed into his office, leaving everyone taken aback. There was quite a lot of ill-feeling from the team, especially Anna, who felt that she should have been informed. She was also somewhat jealous that Grace appeared to have taken her place beside Langton: it was obvious that he no longer wanted her as his sidekick.

At one o’clock, Rashid Burry’s post-mortem results came in. He had been injected with a horse tranquillizer, so when he was garrotted he had been unable to move a single one of his massive muscles to save himself. The forensic reports from the search of the Range Rover were also coming, but in dribs and drabs. So far, they had discovered a great number of dog hairs in the rear of the Range Rover, possibly from a longhaired breed, like a German shepherd. The hairs had been sent to a different lab to be tested by an expert in canine DNA. They had found saliva and blood inside the black plastic bags that covered Rashid’s body, which were being matched with his DNA. The bags were also being matched to the bag
containing the dead boy in the canal, since each roll of bags would have distinctive markings.

They had also found blood and hair in the right-hand rear seat. This was being tested as a match for Carly Ann North. The steering wheel and dashboard had been wiped clean, but fingerprints were being recovered from the rear door and the passenger door. More hair and fibres were found in the front passenger seat, plus mud on the carpet. They were also testing mud from the wheels and the chassis. The teams were working flat out and they hadn’t even removed the seats or carpet yet.

Langton read down the list from the forensic report. At long last, the case felt as if it was moving, albeit in many directions. These developments renewed his energy and he hoped that Dr Salaam could move them on a stage further; the Camorra connection had spurred him on and he was getting to feel like his old self, adrenalin buzzing. They still had not been able to trace the property in Peckham linked to Camorra; Langton surmised he had long gone and taken up residence elsewhere.

Early that afternoon, there were further press conferences and interviews, at which the police asked if anyone had seen the Range Rover parked up and, yet again, requested information from the public in connection with Joseph Sickert and Gail’s missing children.

The team had been given various tasks, but the main focus of the day was the arrival of Elmore Salaam, to discuss how they would approach Eamon Krasiniqe. They were getting regular bulletins in from the prison authorities: the young man was fading fast. He had been transferred to the hospital wing and was in isolation. The usual medical staff had been overseeing his progress and
had called in various different specialists, in an attempt to keep him alive. Sick as he was, he was still able to rip out any attempt to feed him intravenously. They had put him in an oxygen tent, as his breathing had become laboured. According to the prison doctor, he still lifted his right hand to point to the opposite wall and make a slow circular movement, but even these gestures had become less frequent, as he was so weak. Krasiniqe just lay with his expressionless eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

Anna had been given the assignment of contacting Missing Persons, in case they had any information regarding the children. It was a time-consuming and depressing job; the number of young children missing was heartbreaking. Many of them had been kidnapped by one parent or the other and taken abroad; others had simply disappeared. Seventy per cent of the children were of ethnic origin and aged between two and eight years old. She was also in contact with immigration, getting lists of children who had been brought into the country under new legislation that allowed family members residing in the UK to act as guardians. There had already been a shocking case of a little girl shipped to a so-called aunt and uncle, and subsequently found brutally abused by both. The child was dead and the adults were now in prison. Anna skimmed the reports to see if any of the social workers had come into contact with Camorra. He was known to be a trafficker, so there was a glimmer of grim hope that perhaps one of these missing children had been part of his vicious trade.

Langton walked out of his office; he motioned to Anna and Grace. ‘The doctor and his wife are on their
way. I don’t want them brought through the incident room; we’ll use an interview room. I will need the photographs of the Krasiniqe brothers, medical reports from the prison and so on.’

Grace moved off; he remained by Anna’s desk and looked at the mound of paperwork she was dealing with.

‘Anything?’

‘No, not yet. It makes very depressing reading.’

He nodded and went over to Harry Blunt, who had returned from trying to gather information on Rashid Burry.

Harry wafted his sandwich towards Langton. ‘The fucker was only claiming benefits. Gave the same address we had for him at the halfway hostel–bloody unbelievable. We have this bastard’s face plastered over the newspapers, in every police station, and he just walks in and picks up his fucking benefits!’

Langton sighed; sometimes Harry’s tirades irritated him, but he had to agree with him on this one. ‘What you got?’

Harry opened his notebook. ‘Last seen Wednesday at the hostel. Social worker–and she was fucking brain dead not to contact us–says he gave her this bullshit about starting work on a building site. She gave him the benefit slips, and asked for a forwarding address; by rights, he was no longer under a probation order, but somewhere ticking in her brain was the fact that we had been there half a dozen times asking about him. Anyway, he gives her a load of bullshit and walks out. She called the local cops to say he had been there; according to them, they were in the process of contacting us! She also said–and this I could believe–that he
scared her; one of the reasons she didn’t want to get into a confrontation with him was that he was built like a brick shithouse.’

Harry thumbed through his notebook and bit into his sandwich. ‘There was a kid there with probation order and tag–probably have that cut off in a few days–anyway, I’m asking around if anyone saw the hulk Rashid, and this boy—’

‘How old is he?’ Langton interrupted.

‘Sixteen: done for aggravated burglary and threatening a police officer–got two years and out on probation for six months.’

Langton gestured for Harry to continue.

‘Rashid asks the boy if he wants some extra cash; kid said he was up for anything and Rashid gives him this mobile number.’ Harry passed over a Post-it note. ‘We’ve been trying to track it down, but it’s another pay-as-you-go bugger, so we might not get much luck; it was over two weeks ago.’

Langton asked whether, when Rashid’s body was found, they had also found a mobile.

‘Nope, pockets stripped, nothing on him; surprised they left his gold teeth.’

Langton sighed. ‘Okay, keep on pushing.’ As he turned away, Grace informed him that the doctor and his wife had arrived.

‘I’d like to sit in on that one,’ Harry said, his mouth full of the last of his sandwich.

Langton smiled and walked out of the incident room, gesturing to Anna to join him.

She was on the telephone and signalled for Langton to wait. ‘I’ve got something,’ she mouthed.

‘Can’t it wait?’ he snapped.

‘No, it can’t.’ She had to take a deep breath. ‘Two children have just been dumped at a playground in Tooting. Teacher said a black guy was seen at the gates, holding the kids by the hand; then he walked off. They’re white–and their ages match those of Gail Sickert’s missing children.’

‘Jesus Christ, get over there!’ He then stopped, frowning. ‘No, I need you in with me.’ He nodded over to Harry. ‘Give him the details, then come into the interview room.’