Clean Cut

Chapter Ten

Anna had stopped on her way into the station to buy a cappuccino, but was still one of the first to arrive. Mike Lewis followed her into the incident room, eating a bacon and egg roll with one hand, a takeaway coffee in the other. Harry Blunt came in and walked straight over to the trolley. He helped himself to the stack of doughnuts piled up on a paper plate, then stopped to stare at the board.

‘Bloody hell! Local primary school been let in, have they?’

Lewis gave a half-smile at Harry’s joke, but was actually taken aback by the mass of information written up. The board was covered with events and suspects, scrawled notes and diagrams.

‘Boss been busy, hasn’t he?’ Lewis looked to Anna.

‘I guess so. I left him here last night.’

‘He’s moved into a B and B just up the road,’ Harry said, his mouth full of doughnut.

They gathered round, looking with some confusion at Langton’s work in progress. There were lists of names, in some cases ringed or with big question marks above them, and thick red felt-tipped pen arrows linking one to the other. Standing out, in large green letters, was the word VOODOO in block capitals. Conversation was muted as they tried to fathom it all out.

Langton was the last to arrive. He was smartly dressed but looked very pale; he asked the room to give him five and then he’d join them. He went into his office.

Lewis turned to Anna. ‘Popping more of his painkillers.’

‘What?’

‘Come on, haven’t you noticed? He’s taking them all day.’

‘No, I haven’t,’ Anna said snappily.

‘Well, he is. And something to keep his energy up — and it’s not vitamins!’

Anna made no reply.

‘Listen, I’m not telling tales. I worry about him, you know? The rate he’s pushing himself, he’s gonna break, and now you’re not around to pick up the pieces…’

‘Mike, leave it out, will you?’

He shrugged, and crossed to his desk.

Harry was talking to Grace when Langton came in from his office.

‘Okay, everyone, quieten down. Let’s get on with it.’ He crossed to stand by the board, he picked up a ruler and pointed to a photograph of Carly Ann North. ‘This was the victim in my last murder enquiry. The suspect, Idris Krasiniqe, was arrested and charged with her murder. Let’s call this case number one.’

He then pointed to Krasiniqe’s mug shot. ‘He gave us the names and address of the two other men who were at the scene of the murder, but they did a runner.’

He indicated the two names, and then the address of the hostel in Brixton where he, Lewis and Barolli had followed up this lead. ‘One of the men was a black Jamaican; his pal was more like a Somali, but we have no ID for either, and both men got away.’ Langton failed to mention the almost fatal injuries he sustained that night. ‘Idris Krasiniqe subsequently said he made up the names, however, and refused at trial to admit to giving us false information.’

Langton moved along the board and jabbed with the ruler. ‘Case number two: the murder of Irene Phelps. The man wanted for her murder was Arthur Murphy. DI Travis went to another hostel in Brixton, to try to find out whether a Vernon Kramer was harbouring Murphy. This second hostel was not only minutes from Irene Phelps’s house, but also four streets away from the first hostel, where my attack took place. When DI Travis approached the house, using the old voting register enquiry scam, she was refused entry by a black Jamaican with two gold teeth to the right side of his mouth. We are now pretty sure that this man is Rashid Burry, and we now think he slammed the door in Travis’s face because he was paranoid that she was there to arrest him in connection with case number one.’

Langton went on to explain that Arthur Murphy was subsequently arrested and charged with Irene’s murder. Vernon Kramer was also arrested, and charged with perverting the course of justice and harbouring a wanted criminal; however, he was released on bail.

‘During the time Vernon was on bail, Rashid Burry put him under pressure to find out how close we were to picking him up for case number one, not knowing that DI Travis was actually on case number two. What he did find out, however, was that DI Travis and I knew each other.’

‘Case number three: the murder of Gail Sickert and her youngest child. Gail was Arthur Murphy’s sister. She was living with this man, Joseph Sickert.’ Langton pointed to the ident picture that Anna had worked on. ‘Sickert suffers from sickle cell anaemia and needs medication, which he usually obtains from Rashid Burry. Rashid — still, we think, paranoid that we are close to arresting him — gets Vernon Kramer to hand over the medication on his behalf. When Vernon hands it over, he mentions to Sickert that Travis was in on the arrest of Arthur Murphy, and that she knew the cop who got “cut up”. We know that Sickert later panicked when Travis called on Gail again. Travis was not there for any reason other than to discuss the photograph of Murphy and Kramer that Gail had given her, but Sickert puts two and two together to make a lot more.’

A murmur ran round the team as they followed Langton’s arrows.

Langton indicated the victims’ photographs and descriptions. ‘The piggery is still being searched for other remains. After extensive press coverage, we have no information as to the whereabouts of Sickert, Gail’s other two children, or Rashid Burry.’

Langton then pointed to a second picture of Murphy. ‘Call this case four. Arthur Murphy was killed in Parkhurst prison. His cellmate was young, possibly Somali, with no papers of any kind. They do not know where he’s actually from, or if the name he was charged under is his real name, but the name he is known by is Eamon Krasiniqe. This links directly back to case one, my last murder case: the killer has the same surname as Idris Krasiniqe. We do not know if they were related, or both used the same assumed name, but it is a bloody coincidence.’

Langton sipped a glass of water before he continued. ‘Travis and I interviewed both the prisoners involved in the murder of Arthur Murphy. The first, this guy Courtney, would give us nothing as to why Murphy was a marked man. The second, Eamon Krasiniqe, is in a stupor and unable to speak; the prison is in about the same state.’

Langton drew up a chair and sat down in front of his work. He rubbed his knee, and asked for a coffee. From the chair, he pointed to the board. ‘We have to find out what Murphy knew that warranted his throat being cut. We have to trace Sickert and Rashid: either they, or someone close to them, have or has enough power to terrify someone inside a prison so much that they would kill.’

He sighed. ‘It also emphasizes that Gail Sickert’s two missing children, if not already dead, are in a very dangerous situation. We’ve had a lot of press coverage and television news, but nothing has come from either.’

He stood up as if sitting pained him more than standing. He now turned to the room and asked for any developments.

Grace gave a report on the hospital that had seen Joseph Sickert. He had walked into the emergency department and given his name as Rashid Burry. He said he had been staying with friends locally when he was taken sick, and gave as his address the hostel in Brixton.

‘He had a very high temperature and was very obviously a sick man. The doctor advised him that he should have a Doppler echo-cardiography test, but Sickert did not want to remain there for any length of time. He was given medication for high blood pressure—’

Grace was interrupted by Langton. ‘Grace, we don’t need all this. Did you ask if there were any kids with him?’

‘Yes. Apparently he walked in alone and was seen quite quickly, as he was very agitated. He was shouting and being abusive and at one time lay on the floor, saying he couldn’t get his breath.’

‘How long did he stay at the hospital?’

‘Twelve hours. He was about to be transferred when he discharged himself and walked out.’

‘The two older kids and Sickert have now been missing for nearly three weeks! Somebody, somewhere must have knowledge of their whereabouts, so we go with another round of press releases.’

‘The doctor warned Sickert that he was heading for a crisis, as he was vomiting and, as I said before, had a very high temperature. In this state, he is very susceptible to infections. I would say, wherever he is, he will need further medical treatment.’

Mike Lewis was next up. ‘We have been checking out hostels in the Harlesden, Hackney, Brixton and Tottenham areas. Some people who live there have been ordered to move in by the courts, as a condition of bail, or are on parole. Others become resident when they have been required to do community service, as the courts believe that they need supervision. We were repeatedly told that offenders living in hostel accommodation are not free to come and go as they please, but have a strict set of rules, including a curfew, usually from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. Most hostels were manned around the clock, and staff were very keen to make it clear they were in contact with their local police and local community. If residents don’t abide by the instructions of those staff, then they stand a chance of being returned to prison or having their parole withdrawn. They are not allowed to bring in intoxicating drinks, drugs that are not prescribed by a doctor or nurse, or any solvents and so on. Rooms are, I was told, checked out on a regular basis.’

Lewis looked up. Langton sat, head bowed — bored.

Nevertheless, Lewis continued. ‘Okay, that’s what is supposed to be what goes down in these hostels and halfway houses. In reality, those places are a shambolic mess, but to get anyone to admit it was like pulling teeth. They are all understaffed and under pressure. We have here a list of offenders who have simply cut off their electronic tags and walked out — and this, you won’t believe: some of these bastards free early on release are being allowed to take foreign holidays while still on licence! Apparently, the bloody Government dropped a long-standing ban on overseas leisure travel for those under supervision. One probation officer was at his wits’ end.’

Langton yawned. Lewis turned over a few pages in his notebook.

‘He said thousands of offenders, including rapists and armed robbers, are out there, fucking enjoying themselves abroad, while technically serving out their sentence on probation — even though there is no indication that foreign authorities are even being informed! One of the staff said it was getting harder to keep a check on the occupants, as many did not speak English. Did you know that in the press recently, there was a bloody illegal immigrant working as a security guard at the Old Bailey, despite having been jailed for crimes and deported twice! He’d got fake birth certificates, and he was often on duty guarding the main entrance to the Central Criminal Court, which has countless terrorism trials—’

‘For Chrissakes, get on with your bloody report!’ snapped Langton.

‘Sorry, Gov. Okay, we know that Vernon Kramer had Arthur Murphy hiding out in his room at his hostel. We checked at the same hostel for Rashid Burry; they said he was a friend of one of the residents. We also have a Rashid Burry listed by a Hounslow hostel: one of Burry’s friends there, another resident, is a real dangerous psychopath. Four weeks ago, he cut off his tag and has not been traced. To date, we have no previous prison record on Rashid Burry, so we can only presume he was visiting; he seems to have come and gone as he felt like it. It’s possible he was dealing drugs.’

Mike Lewis sat down. Langton said nothing; he just watched as an officer marked up the board with even more names.

Harry Blunt was next up. ‘I was with Mike at the Hounslow place, but got bogged down with the time it took to get anything out of these hostel officials, so I talked to a young kid on community service. I think this may be a very valuable link.’

Langton sat with his hand resting across his face. Anna watched him wince with pain and yet again rub his knee.

Harry pointed to the board. ‘The kid told me about a resident who came for a short time to do community service. He said this bloke was a real freak and, whilst he was there, bragged about how he had access to hundreds of fake documents, from passports, to work permits, to visas. His name is Clinton Camorra and I reckon he is that psychopath — the same bloke that Mike Lewis was informed about.’

Langton looked up, listening intently now.

Harry continued. ‘Clinton Camorra was detained in 2000, suspected of smuggling hundreds of illegal immigrants into the UK, many of them children, but because of the deportation fiasco he is still at large. He was jailed for four years for people-trafficking and was also quizzed over a ritual killing of a six-to-seven-year-old boy whose body was found in a bin-liner in Regent’s Canal. On his early release, the authorities put him in the same hostel with Vernon Kramer where, as we know, Rashid Burry was also a visitor. The lad said that Camorra was living in or around the Peckham area. When I checked his record, he first came to the UK in 1997, using the name Rashid Camorra.’

Langton shook his head. ‘This is bloody mind-blowing. How many Rashids do we have, for Chrissakes?’

‘It was probably a fake name. When Camorra was on trial, the judge sent him down for four years, and ordered his deportation to Nigeria!’

Harry picked up the black felt-tipped pen and wrote in capital letters the name Clinton Camorra (in brackets, also known as Rashid Camorra), then he underlined the name.

‘As Rashid Camorra, he claimed he had fled war-ravaged Sierra Leone. He was granted asylum. Now they have checked out that he was actually from Benin City, Nigeria.’ He looked to Langton and apologized for being so long-winded, but felt that the details were important.

‘I hope to Christ you get to the point soon,’ Langton said.

Harry ignored him. ‘If we lose the name Rashid,’ he went on, ‘and go back to what I think may be his real name, Clinton — well, it’s widely known that Clinton Camorra is a voodoo enthusiast. It’s a bit more than just playing around: he apparently terrified the prisoners, and at the hostel, he threatened anyone who got in his way.’

Now Langton was 100 per cent attentive. Harry passed over the mug shots taken of Camorra after his arrest, to be pinned up on the board. Camorra was quite light-skinned and rather handsome, his lips parted in a faint smile, and with dark, hooded, wide-apart eyes.

‘When he was in jail, the team investigating the murder of the boy found in the bin-liner questioned him. They came away certain that he was involved somehow; they suspected that the kid had got into the country illegally and was used in some kind of voodoo ceremony. They got nothing from Camorra, but his reputation in the prison was pumped up. He lived like a prince, and if he didn’t get what he wanted from any of the prisoners, he would threaten them.’

Langton looked at the board, and turned back to Harry. He was very tense. ‘Good work. Do we have any idea where this Camorra bastard is now?’

‘All I know from the boy at the hostel is that he was somewhere in Peckham, and with a lot of money.’

The murmuring team started to discuss the new developments as Langton, Harry, Lewis and Anna grouped together by the board. Langton stared at Camorra’s face. Something in that smirk made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

He spoke softly, tapping the photograph. ‘If we say that this Camorra guy smuggled Sickert into the country, he would have a hold over him. If he was also in the same hostel as Vernon Kramer, where Murphy was hiding out, we have the links. Maybe Murphy found out something and that’s the reason he got his throat slit?’

Anna agreed, and interjected that it also meant the two missing children were now in an even worse situation — if that was possible.

Langton underlined the importance of trying to trace the call made from Parkhurst prison if it was, as he now suspected, to Camorra. Langton also gave out the orders to track down Camorra and Rashid Burry, and to pump out the press on Sickert. He reckoned that, with Sickert being so ill, he would be the easiest to trace. Although if the wanted men had someone with access to fake documentation, they could be anywhere and using God knows how many different names.

But at least, and at last, the murder team were moving forwards again.

The duty manager was assigning details of the work to be done to each officer as Anna sat at her desk, waiting for her assignment for the day. Langton had returned to his office. He looked dreadful: in need of a shave and with sunken eyes. She wondered if Mike Lewis had been right about him popping painkillers to keep going. She could see how much discomfort he was in, and his limp was very pronounced.

She was not given a schedule so, confused, went and knocked on Langton’s office door. She was in two minds whether or not to disturb him, so waited a while before she knocked again.

‘Come in,’ Langton said irritably.

‘Sorry, but I’ve not had my schedule, and—’

‘We go back to Vernon Kramer after the press interviews.’

‘Okay. We doing them at Wandsworth?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. When you’re ready.’

‘Gimme fifteen minutes and I’ll be out.’

She nodded and quietly closed the door. She was very concerned. He was taking something, it was obvious; his pupils were like pinholes and he was shaking — she could tell by the cigarette between his fingers.

As Anna returned to her desk, Harry was passing, and she said, ‘Good work, Harry.’

‘Thanks. I thought I’d just go and have a jar with the Gov.’

‘I wouldn’t. I think he’s busy with the press reports.’

‘Oh, okay.’ He hesitated, and looked around. ‘Mind if I ask you something?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Is it my imagination, but isn’t he kind of playing down the fact that this guy Camorra and this Rashid Burry might have been involved in his attack?’

Anna bit her lip and then shrugged. ‘I think if they were, the Gov wouldn’t play it down, Harry — on the contrary.’

‘Yeah, right; it was just a thought. See you later — I’m off to Peckham! See if we can trace this bastard Camorra.’

Anna watched him head out, and sighed uneasily. She was certain Langton was playing down the importance of the Camorra connection, and she knew why, but it was nevertheless worrying.

Langton waited for the shakes to stop, smoking one cigarette after the other. His head was throbbing, his knee agony and he had pains across his chest. It had taken so much willpower to stand for so long in the incident room, but it had taken even more when the mug shot of Camorra was pinned up on the board. Langton had hardly been able to control his emotions. Camorra was, he was becoming sure, the man who had attacked him, the man who had almost sliced him in two — and the physical shock of that recognition had hit him like a terrible panic attack. It took him half an hour to calm down. He picked up his electric razor and shaved, then drank a bottle of water before he felt capable of leaving his office.

‘Right Travis, let’s go!’

Anna hurried after him; as always, he never ceased to amaze her. She had been taken aback at how ill he had looked earlier, but now he seemed refreshed and energized. If he was popping pills, then he must obviously need them: the question was, how many and how often? She had no idea how much he was relying on them, and what he was suppressing with their help. It had taken all his willpower to allow Harry and Mike Lewis to begin to trace Camorra rather than do it himself, but when they did, Langton would have him.