Clean Cut (30 page)

‘I dunno, different places.’

‘Do you know any other addresses?’

Idris sighed impatiently. ‘No, but what happened with Carly Ann went down in the Peckham house.’

‘What did go down?’

‘She had run off with Eamon; Camorra had all his henchmen searching for them. She got to some woman in a care place, who was looking after her. I dunno if she really cared that much about my brother, but he was on the loose. I was scared to help him, you know, even though he was my brother, but I met up with him once and gave him some money. He said they were gonna go maybe to Manchester. He didn’t have no passport, so he couldn’t leave the country.’

Idris opened a bottle of water, gulping it down. He said that a couple of Camorra’s henchmen had found Carly Ann and taken her back to the house. She told Camorra where his brother was and they got him too.

‘He tied her up, like on this altar thing he had, and he brought in Eamon.’ He started to cry.

Anna waited. He drank more water and then managed to go on.

‘He raped her. Then he made me do the same. All the while, my brother was forced to watch. Camorra said no one ever crossed him and, as he’d got us both into the UK, he would have us arrested or deported, but I knew that was a lie. I knew he’d kill us if we didn’t do what he wanted.’

‘What did you do?’

Idris began to shake his head from side to side. ‘I didn’t kill her, he did. I didn’t kill her. I carried her body out into the car.’

‘The Range Rover?’

‘Yeah. Rashid Burry helped, and there was another guy. Camorra said he wanted us to bring back her head. We had to cut off her hands so no one would know who she was.’

Idris broke down, weeping uncontrollably, incapable
of talking. He just sat, his elbows resting on his knees, his head bent forwards, sobbing.

Dr Salaam was sent for and gave Idris some calming tablets, nothing else, but Idris was convinced they would cure the poison that he believed he had been given via the tattoo. His mind was playing tricks on him: his dry mouth was due to nerves, not Jimson weed.

Having talked to Anna for over an hour and a half, he was exhausted, mentally and physically. He was returned to Wakefield prison, to be kept in solitary confinement until the authorities decided whether he could be transferred to another prison. He was told that Eamon was also being taken back to prison. He was not informed that his brother was dead.

It took a long time for all the papers to be signed so that Eamon Krasiniqe could be released to the mortuary. A post-mortem was required, to confirm the cause of death. Afterwards, he would remain there until it was determined what should be done with his remains.

It was after seven in the evening when a tired Dr Salaam and Esme were taken back to the safe house. With the new information the team had from Idris, it was agreed, without any question, that they should both be protected, just in case word got out that Idris had been talking.

Langton and Lewis were driven out of the hospital at eight; Anna followed in the second patrol car. She was glad to be able to rest back and close her eyes. The nightmarish jigsaw was coming together piece by piece, but the last and most important section was still missing: the whereabouts of Camorra. The manhunt to find him would now be stepped up. Armed with the new
information, Langton would be able to bring in as many officers as he needed. Their main concern was that, if Camorra found out that Idris Krasiniqe had talked, he would skip the country.

It was after nine when they reached the Hampshire station. Some of the team were still hard at it. Harry Blunt was trying to get any further information from the bus tickets used by Joseph Sickert, but to no avail. Frank Brandon had been tracing the visitors to Parkhurst prison to find anyone who could have passed the poison to Eamon Krasiniqe. The dead boy had had no visitors; but his cellmate Courtney Ransford had. The visitor had used fake ID and an assumed name. Frank was preparing to travel to Parkhurst the following day to interview Ransford.

Langton sent them home and, tired as he was, began to update the incident board ready for a team briefing first thing in the morning. Anna began to transcribe her tape-recorded interview with Idris, while Lewis plotted out the team’s work for tomorrow.

Langton stared at the incident board. Eamon Krasiniqe’s face now had a red cross over it, as did Rashid Burry, Gail Sickert, her toddler, Joseph Sickert and Arthur Murphy; however, it was as if parts of the edges of their massive jigsaw were still missing, as well as the central piece. Why had Eamon Krasiniqe murdered Arthur Murphy?

Langton tapped the photograph of Vernon Kramer. Could this no-good piece of shit, now serving his time at an open prison, hold any answers? Kramer was connected to them all. He sighed, too tired to think straight.

He looked at Mike Lewis–his tie undone, dark circles
beneath his eyes–and said, ‘Call it quits for tonight, Mike. Go get some sleep.’

Mike was relieved; he didn’t argue. He’d only eaten two stale sandwiches since lunch and his head ached.

Langton looked over to Anna. Headphones on, she was still working on her report. She jumped when he put his hand on her shoulder.

‘That’s enough for tonight,’ he told her.

She eased off the headphones and leaned back in her chair.

‘Good day,’ he said softly.

‘Yeah, long one though.’

Langton stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘You did good work. A lot of this new development is down to you.’

‘Thank you.’

He hovered, hands still in his pockets. ‘You found it difficult working alongside me?’

‘Not really. I’m pretty used to you by now,’ she said, closing down her computer.

‘I have. Sometimes.’

‘You have?’

‘Yes. Mike was asking me earlier, you know, about you and me. You can never keep anything private in an incident room. He said how much you’d done for me when I was at the rehabilitation house. I mean, I know you did, of course I do, but I’ve never really thanked you enough. I don’t know how I would have coped without, you know, you being there for me.’

‘I wanted you to be well, and you have thanked me, so you really don’t owe me any more thank-yous,’ she smiled.

‘Well, if you say so…’

She looked at him, still hovering. His eyes were sunken with tiredness and the five o’clock shadow under his prominent cheekbones made him look haggard.

‘What?’ she asked gently.

‘I, er…I had a talk with Esme, the doctor’s wife.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’

She waited. He turned and walked into his office. She picked her jacket off the back of her chair and stood up, stretching; as she lowered her arms, he walked out again. He had his wallet in his hand. He opened it and held it out for her to see a photograph.

‘This was my wife.’

She looked at the photograph and then back to him, unsure why he was showing it to her. She was taken aback: his eyes were brimming with tears.

‘I loved her.’ He could hardly get the words out.

Anna didn’t know what to say.

He closed the wallet, he turned to the incident board and gestured with his hand. ‘Deal with death every day, every case; you learn early on not to get involved on a personal level–can’t do your job otherwise.’

‘Yes,’ she said, unable to look at him. She knew he was trying to explain something to her.

It proved too difficult. ‘Goodnight, Anna. See you in the morning.’

‘Yes, see you in the morning.’

He returned to his office. She picked up her briefcase and walked out of the incident room. From the car park, she could see his office light was still on, his shadow across the blinds, as if he was watching her.

Anna had successfully suppressed her feelings for him, but at times like this evening, they rose to the surface.
She couldn’t help thinking that if he had put his arms around her, she would have had no idea how to deal with it. All she wanted to do was hold him close; she wished he could be the same man who used to draw her into the curve of his body as they lay in bed together. She felt the ache in the pit of her stomach; it was impossible to simply stop loving someone. She knew it would be a long time before she was truly able to say it was over.

Y
ou could feel the adrenalin pumping as Langton gave the briefing. Both Krasiniqe brothers were illegal immigrants, shipped into the UK as very young teenagers. Both had been drawn into Camorra’s world, used and abused by him, and totally dominated by his perversions, his threats and his so-called voodoo powers. They now knew how Carly Ann North’s death linked to the brothers, and to Camorra. Along with his illegal traffic of immigrants, they now wanted him for her murder.

They were pulling back on press releases and television coverage, as it was imperative they did not tip off Camorra to leave the country. They now had another team of extra officers to push up the hunt for him; they also had, from Idris Krasiniqe, a good description of the house in Peckham where he was known to reside.

The stunned team listened as Langton listed the pieces of the jigsaw that were still missing. They needed to interview Eamon Krasiniqe’s cellmate, who was believed to have fed the poison to him. Who was the visitor listed with the assumed name and fake ID? Who wanted Arthur Murphy dead? Langton was also going to get
Vernon Kramer brought in for questioning again, this time at the station.

Langton suggested that what they were looking at was a massive clean-up by Camorra: all the dead were connected to him, and he had simply got rid of them. Rashid Burry had been found in the same white Range Rover that had been used to transport Carly Ann’s body. They knew Joseph Sickert had needed a safe house and, assisted by Arthur Murphy, he had ended up at the piggery. The Range Rover had been to the same location.

Langton was at full speed. ‘Did Camorra want Gail’s children? He’s a sick perverted bastard. I reckon Sickert saw Rashid and co. turning up at the farm and knew something bad would happen. They took Sickert and the two older children; he presumed Gail and the toddler would follow. The biggest reaction I got from him was over the murder of Gail and Tina. He must have known about it–it was all over the news–so, Sickert takes the kids and goes on the run. Right now, our priority is to find out where he and the children were first taken.’

Langton ran his fingers through his hair. Holding the reins on this case was a nightmare.

‘We know the immigration service is totally screwed, but we do not know how many bodies this man has shipped illegally into the UK. We keep on hearing about his wealth and that it’s cash; we hear he has a fleet of vehicles and houses. He must have money stashed somewhere. He couldn’t bank it, unless he also uses the poor souls he ships in to open up strings of accounts. We are talking about them paying up to five thousand for transportation and God knows how much on top for visas and passports. Maybe these bank accounts are
well hidden, but that is another area we need to start digging into.’

Anna felt that this was one of the keys to the whole case, but it was like a loose end dangling, with no one quite catching hold of it.

At this point, a call came in to say that they had found the house in Peckham. It was empty and, according to neighbours, had not been used for some weeks. A team of SOCO officers were ready to break in and begin searching for evidence. Frank Brandon and Harry Blunt left the station to join them.

Grace had little to add to the briefing; she had not been able to gain any further details from the two children held at the Child Protection Unit. Langton asked Anna to take over and, if she got anything, to join them at the Peckham property; he would go over there after interviewing Vernon Kramer.

There was a lot of movement with officers and squad cars moving out; after the initial high, the incident room fell silent. Langton waited for Vernon to be brought in and taken to the holding cells. They had had a bit of an argy bargy with the open prison Governor, who said they could conduct the interview there, but Langton refused. He wanted no prison authorities breathing over his shoulder, no prison officer privy to the interview. Mike Lewis had instructions to cut up rough: to use, not a squad car, but a white prison van. Langton wanted Vernon cuffed.

Vernon Kramer’s photograph had been almost the first up on the incident board, with Arthur Murphy’s beside him. It had a few red arrows linking him to Gail and to Joseph Sickert; he was also linked to Rashid Burry, but a question mark was over his relationship with Camorra.
He had given them only a very vague description of Camorra’s house but, even so, he had a red line linking him to the prime target.

Harry Blunt and Frank Brandon had got into a heated argument. The house was, as Harry said, hard to fucking miss, but they
had
missed it. Now there was a team of SOCO officers, plus two forensic scientists and three assistants, ready to enter the premises. The usual police warning was given, case there were occupants, then they burst open the front door. It took some hammering, as there were so many bolts and locks; although it looked like wood, it was, in actual fact, a steel security door. There was a similar door at the rear; whoever had been there had obviously left via this back door, as the bolts were not thrown across.

Brandon gave instructions for the SOCO team to be wary, just in case the place was booby-trapped. After the house was deemed safe to enter, Brandon and Harry went inside.

From the outside, it appeared to be an ordinary property–a three-storey house with a double garage and an overgrown front garden–but the inside was something else.

Harry whistled. ‘It’s like one huge brothel, from the old days! Look at the mirrors, and the drapes.’

‘I’m looking, I’m looking,’ Frank muttered. Everywhere hung massive gilt mirrors, reflecting ornate reproduction furniture.

‘So when were you last in a whorehouse this size?’ Harry dug his toe into a once-white carpet, now stained and dirty.

Frank took in the heavy chandelier and the matching
wall lights with crystal drops. The wide staircase had a black boy figure at the bottom, holding a glass-flame torch. ‘You buy this gear in a place in Marble Arch. The Arabs love it.’

‘Lotta marble–that’s not cheap,’ Harry said, running his hand over a hall table; it was thick with dust.

‘Well, he flashed his money around, didn’t he?’

Frank looked through a set of double doors into a dining room. A large oval table with gilt legs and fourteen fabric-covered chairs dominated the room, which was hung with yet more elaborate mirrors, above cabinets full of Capo di Monte figures. The lounge was next, with dirty white leather sofas and a massive plasma-screen TV. The kitchen was filled with every possible kind of culinary equipment, all filthy. The once black-and-white tiled floor was greasy and the cooker looked as if it had never been cleaned. The smell was pungent. There were baskets of rotting vegetables; food had been put in the waste disposal unit, but no one had bothered to turn it on. The fridges and deep freezes bulged with yet more food. There was an industrial roll of black bin-liners left on the floor; a few bags had been filled, as if someone was trying to clear up, but had just abandoned the rubbish instead of removing it.

The first-floor bedrooms were equally over-dressed, with drapes and mirrors, and equally filthy. The wardrobes were empty, but grimy sheets were still on the unmade beds. These were removed for tests. They had, thus far, found no indication that anything untoward had been happening. It was, to all intents and purposes, merely the home of someone with pots of money and no taste, who hadn’t been able to hire decent cleaners! Not until they moved up to the next floor, did an
all-pervading feeling of something wrong hit everyone.

This floor was also carpeted, but in a deep burgundy; it was threadbare, in some places worn down to the floorboards. The three bedrooms had locks and chains on the outside. The one bathroom for that floor was old-fashioned and filthy. Each room was bare, apart from single beds with dirty sheets. The top floor had another two rooms, again with locks and chains on the doors. Inside were children’s toys and cots, again stained, and an overpowering stench of urine; faeces were growing mould on the floor. There was no bathroom at this level, just washbasins; in one, they found dirty nappies and some children’s nightclothes.

Brandon and Harry returned to the ground floor to check if any papers or documents had been left behind. In a small anteroom by the kitchen was a printing press; acid had been poured over it and the two boxes of papers alongside, which contained stacks of hard-backed passport covers.

Brandon poked around as Harry looked over the printing press. ‘So this is where he forged the documents.’

They found some charred papers in a fireplace, and more in the bins outside.

‘Shit!’ Harry turned over a piece of paper. It was handwritten and burned almost black, with some of the words crossed out, but what was left of it described the availability of a white eight-year-old boy.

They turned when a SOCO officer appeared in the doorway. ‘We’ve opened the cellar.’

They stood at the cellar doors and looked down a flight of stone steps. The cellar was much larger than one would have thought; it ran the entire length and width of the house. There were wrought-iron candleholders
spaced three feet apart, leading down; by now, forensic had brought in some lamps. The white-suited scientists were already at work; there were markers on the steps to indicate where they shouldn’t tread.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry muttered.

On one wall was a massive cross; in front of it was a stone altar. Grotesque masks, skulls and hideous shrunken heads hung on the walls, and robes in various shades of red hung on hooks.

‘Oh my God,’ Brandon breathed.

There were deep red stains over the stone altar. The forensic team was gathered around it, taking scrapings. There was a hideous smell that made their nostrils flare. Both men knew it was the stench of rotting flesh.

Anna was led into the Child Protection Unit’s ‘home’ section by the carer working that morning, Alison Dutton. This was an area dressed like a warm, friendly house. The nursery was decorated with paintings and big colourful posters. A doll’s house and boxes of toys were placed neatly against one wall. The room was bright and cheerful, with coloured bean bags and small children’s tables and chairs. Nothing gave any hint of the torment that brought these children into this environment; everything was designed to help the children adjust to normality, yet the entire place was somehow fake to Anna. The women she met were kindly and helpful but, at the same time, protected their charges with a set of rules and regulations made by the Government. The children were waiting for the social services to find them a foster home; until a satisfactory one had been found, they would remain at the protection house.

Anna was told that the little girl, Sharon, was making
great progress; she had not started to talk yet, but had formed a strong bond with one of their team. At first, she had refused to eat and never slept; it had taken time and patience for them to get her to the point that she could now be spoon fed and had begun to play with the toys. She had not, after examination, been sexually abused, but she was deeply distressed. She could not control her bladder and would easily become hysterical, screaming continuously.

‘What about the little boy?’

They were having problems with him; unlike his sister, he was not responding. Although he did sometimes talk, he was quite violent if anyone touched him. His medical examination had been very difficult, as he was so traumatized. They ended up tranquillizing him. When examined, it became obvious that he had been sexually abused. His anus was ulcerated; he also had wounds to his genitals and marks on his wrists as if he had been tied up. They were concerned that the infection in his bladder was not responding to the antibiotics.

Anna felt tears stinging her eyes. But she was there for a reason. She spent considerable time explaining the need for her to at least attempt to talk to Keith.

When she got a cold, flat refusal, she went on the defensive. ‘Alison, do you think I want to do this? That little boy’s mother was found mutilated and his other sister decapitated; all I want is to find out what he might know.’

‘Detective Travis, all I have trained for, all I do, is to try to help these wretched children in any way I know how. Yesterday he held my hand–only for a second–but that was my first breakthrough. You want to try to talk to him about his dead mother, his dead sister? Don’t
you understand? I am trying to heal what has been done to him.’

‘Please, let me just have a few moments with him. I am not asking to be alone with him; you can be in the room and monitor whatever occurs between us. If you want me to stop at any time, I give you my word that I will. It’s just possible too, that what I need to know might help him.’

Mike Lewis tapped on Langton’s door, then popped his head round. ‘Kramer’s in the holding cell, and not a happy man.’

‘Right.’

‘You want him brought up here?’

‘No, he can stay down in the cell, and Mike–keep the uniforms off my back, will you?’

Lewis hesitated, then gave a nod and closed the door.

Langton flipped a pencil over while he looked at his watch. Five minutes passed before he got up and walked out.

The Hampshire station had only four holding cells; these were situated at basement level. Used mostly for drunks and smalltime burglary suspects, they were cold and bare. They smelt of mildew, stale vomit, urine and disinfectant. The cell doors were the old heavy steel studded ones, with a central flap that opened for officers to monitor the prisoner. At ankle level was a second flap, used for pushing in meal trays. The walls were a dim green, and the stone floor a dark red. Each cell was as unwelcoming as it could be.

Langton carried a clipboard, holding all the statements that had been taken in the previous sessions with Vernon.

Printed by the side of Vernon’s cell door, in chalk, was his name and time of arrival. Langton noisily opened the flap, purposely banging back the bolt. He looked into the cell, just half his face showing.

‘We need to talk,’ he said.

‘Too bloody right we do. What the fuck is going on? I want a lawyer, because this isn’t fucking right. You got no right to bring me here and bang me up!’