Clean Cut

Chapter Twenty-One

Leatherhead police station had never seen so much action. Boxes of pizza and beakers of coffee were handed round. Langton’s team had taken over a large room on the first floor, used as an incident room when necessary. They now had a map of the area, plus a detailed layout of the property from a prominent estate agency, which had sold it about two years ago, for over three million pounds, to someone called Emmerick Orso. The previous owners, a Mr and Mrs Powell, had remained on the estate, retaining as their home what would once have been the staff cottage. The estate agency had recently been approached by Mr Orso, with the particulars of the property, to query the boundary line that crossed the lake. They had not as yet contacted Mr and Mrs Powell to discuss it, but were intending to do so.

Everyone was poised, adrenalin pumping, waiting for Langton’s decision on how to orchestrate the raid. Langton joined them, and did actually have a slice of pepperoni pizza, but he was strangely distant and didn’t interact with anyone. Eventually, he called Mike Lewis over and asked him to get the key team together. He needed a talk, and fast. In a small anteroom off the main incident room, allocated for Langton’s personal use, his team gathered.

Langton sat on the edge of a table. ‘I’ve put a hold on the armed response team.’ He said it very quietly.

Anna glanced at Mike: he seemed as surprised as she was.

Langton continued. ‘From the copter’s aerial take, we have maybe four adults; the heat sensors said there could also be another two that might be children. Orso’s married with one child, according to the electoral register. He’s got a legitimate import/export company, shipping in artefacts from Africa, and a string of properties, including a warehouse close to Heathrow. He has no police record and he doesn’t fit the profile of our prime suspect, Camorra, but we do know that Camorra, at one time, used the Christian name Emmerick. That’s about all we know until we start pushing some more buttons.’

‘You saying we got the wrong bloke?’ Frank slurped his coffee.

‘Something doesn’t fit. What we have here doesn’t match with that hellhole in Peckham. This guy, Orso: his kid goes to the local school, he’s lived here for two years.’

‘Was he the bloke the little kid saw?’ This was Harry.

‘The estate agent described Orso as tall, elegant, well-educated and very charming, which doesn’t sound like that bloke, or Camorra. Camorra’s a crazy voodoo freak, surrounded with sickos and heavies, whereas we’ve got a respectable business guy in Orso. We’ve so far got nothing on him, or the bloke at the off-licence.’

Anna sipped her coffee. They had already been to the off-licence and interviewed the staff, who knew the bloke only as a semi-regular customer. They did not know his name, just that he lived close by. He always bought good wines and spirits, and paid in cash. They had also checked, and the house did not have milk or newspapers delivered. They had not yet had time to question other local shops, like the butcher’s; nor had they spoken to any neighbours.

Langton lit a cigarette, then put it out when he noticed the fire alarm sensor was above his head; he swore.

‘My gut feeling is that this Emmerick has to be properly checked out. Up until now, we’ve been going along the lines that Camorra is the big cheese but, the more you think about it, the more it doesn’t gel. We’re saying that he’s getting literally hundreds of thousands of pounds, from illegal immigrants to drug-trafficking, but we have found no trace of how he’s been moving the money or where it is stashed: that would need very sophisticated accounting brains! I am not saying that Camorra isn’t wily, because he is; but he’s also crazy. My gut feeling is, he could not have engineered this trafficking solo. So, now we are switching tactics: not going in wham-bam-thank-you. We want to get more information. Yes?’

Brandon said that he was sorry to interrupt, but wasn’t the key objective time? The longer they left it, the more chance Camorra had to skip the country, if he hadn’t already. Harry agreed.

Langton shook his head. ‘You think I haven’t thought about that? If he is in the house, then we will pick him up. If he leaves, we’ll pick him up. I think he could have gone to ground at Orso’s, if he is the main man. We have hanging loose the last days of Joseph Sickert: did he go to the house in Peckham, with Gail’s two children, and did something happen there that made him take the kids to Orso’s place?’

‘But what about the bastards we’ve been after?’ Brandon asked, chucking his empty coffee beaker into a bin.

Langton was getting tired of their interruptions. ‘We do a full-scale surveillance of the property day and night: we find out exactly how many people are in there and what they are doing. We get phone intercepts set up; we get every possible toy to find out what is going down inside. Anyone moves out, we tail them. In the meantime, we check out the warehouse and we check out Emmerick Orso. I want to know what this guy eats for breakfast.’

They broke up and joined the rest of the waiting officers. Langton would oversee the surveillance operation. His team was to return home, get a case packed, and book into local hotels, so they would be on site. In the meantime, the wheels were set in motion. The four officers already staking out the house reported that there had been no movement so far, other than someone putting some rubbish out at eleven o’clock. The house, apart from the security lights, was in darkness.

Anna packed a small overnight bag and was returning to her car, when she received a call from Grace. The DNA of the dead child found in Regent’s Canal matched the DNA of Joseph Sickert: they were the same blood group. The dead child also had the sickle cell trait.

From her hotel room, Anna relayed the information to Langton who, at eleven-fifteen, was still at the Leatherhead station. She also said that she would contact Alison first thing in the morning, to try and get further details from Keith. She had called earlier and been told that he was not showing any severely adverse reactions to the afternoon, but had been withdrawn and quiet. Alison said she would try to talk to him if he was still making progress, rather than regressing.

Anna asked that Alison specifically try to find out what the bad man did, and to now talk to the boy about Joseph Sickert. Someone took him to the zoo and to the Chessington theme park, and they needed to know who that was.

There were a few hours’ delay, as Langton had to get clearance to allow Brandon and Harry to go into Orso’s warehouse. He wanted a covert operation and photographs which, without prior authority, would be a breach of the Human Rights Act. He also organized for an actual customs officer to accompany them.

They were taken to a massive new storage warehouse, ten miles from the airport. There were over 40,000 square feet of cages, containing shipments from West Africa, already labelled as cleared by customs. Many of the wire containers were stacked with hand-woven baskets of various shapes and sizes, from laundry baskets to flat fruit bowls.

Harry peered at them. They had labels saying that all were handmade and took many weeks to complete; they had the maker’s name for authenticity.

‘Fucking brilliant. You ever think what China left — the dynasties, the artwork — and what did Africans do? Ignored their own diamond and mineral mines for centuries to make baskets.’

‘You’re a racist bigot,’ Brandon said.

‘It’s the truth, though. Go to the museums and see: baskets and a few masks a kid could hack out of a tree trunk!’

‘Just shut the fuck up and look at that mask: where have you seen that before?’

Harry looked. Stacked, with Bubblewrap between them, were big masks carved from dark wood. The one on top had been unwrapped: it was identical to the one in the cellar in the Peckham house. Just as they were about to take a closer look, the customs official joined them.

‘This is Job Franklin,’ he said, introducing a tall African in a brown overall. ‘He is the manager here. This is customs official Frank Brandon and—’

Harry put out his hand. ‘Harry Blunt. Nice to meet you, and thanks for helping us out. You’ve been told, have you, the reason we’re here?’

‘We had customs check these cargoes out last week,’ the man said sullenly. ‘They’re all cleared and ready to be sent out.’

‘I know, and we won’t hold you up any longer than necessary, but I’m afraid we’re gonna need to check the papers.’

‘Why?’ Franklin asked.

Brandon lowered his voice. ‘They just picked up the guy that okayed this lot for taking bribes.’

‘Not from us!’

‘I’m sure they are all legit, but we have to just check.’

‘Come into the office then.’ Franklin led them round the back of the cages to a small office. He lifted down a massive file and placed it on the desk. ‘These are all the particulars of the last shipment.’

‘Mr Emmerick Orso is the boss, right?’

Franklin gave a small nod.

‘He comes here on a regular basis?’

‘No.’

‘But you know him?’ Harry said, drawing up a chair.

‘Of course.’

‘What kind of bloke is he?’

‘I work for him.’ Job Franklin was very obviously not about to get into a conversation with them about his boss, but he didn’t appear to be nervous: more irritated at the intrusion.

‘How many workmen do you have?’

‘Fifteen, and five drivers.’

‘You got their details?’ Brandon asked.

‘Naturally.’ Franklin went to the filing cabinet and withdrew a file.

‘Thank you very much,’ Brandon said, sitting down himself.

‘Do you need me to stay?’

‘No, no, you carry on. We shouldn’t be long.’

Brandon watched Franklin walk out. ‘Well, he seems legit.’

Harry nudged him. ‘Any money he’s on to his boss now: take a look.’

Through the glass panel in the door, they saw Franklin dialling on his mobile as he walked away.

Harry took out a small camera and began to photo each page of employees, while Brandon did the same with the cargoes. They worked very fast, and didn’t speak.

At eight-forty, the black Mitsubishi drove out, with the same driver as before at the wheel. Beside him was a well-dressed woman, in Western clothes, with heavy gold earrings. Seated in the back, safety belt on, was a small girl in a school uniform: a grey coat with a grey felt hat. They drove to the local private school where the woman got out to drop the girl off, leading her inside by the hand. After five minutes, the woman came back and the couple drove to a large Sainsbury’s. Both went in. She did quite a grocery shop: steaks and chops with vegetables, fresh milk and ice cream. He carried the shopping back to the car and they returned to the house. At twelve-fifteen the driver and the woman, who they presumed was the mother of the child, collected her from school and returned to the house.

Langton had been through all the hoops to gain phone interceptions, but there had been no calls. They knew there was a gas Aga, and a gas hob and oven; the Aga heated water for one section of the house. At twelve-forty, the main gas link to the house was cut off.

At twelve-fifty, they had the first call from the house. A woman, calling herself Mrs Orso, phoned the Gas Board, asking someone to come out: their Aga had gone out and she didn’t know if it was a problem with the stove or the gas. She was told that they would try to get someone out to her that day, but could not give a time. She complained, and said they needed it, as it also heated their hot water. She was told, again in typical jobsworth fashion, that they would try to send an engineer as soon as possible.

Mr and Mrs Powell sat with Langton and Anna. They had been very nervous to begin with, but Langton had told them they were investigating a tax fraud and it was nothing to be concerned about. It seemed to satisfy them. Mr Powell, ex-Army, said that he’d always wondered where the chap got all his money from. He was able to give a very detailed description of the man he knew as Emmerick Orso. It matched the one given by the estate agents.

The couple were unable to give details of anyone coming and going to the house, however, as it was so secluded, with the wood in front and the lake.

‘We heard voices sometimes.’ This was Mrs Powell.

‘Yes, sound travels across the water,’ Mr Powell agreed.

‘Did you ever see anyone suspicious?’

‘Not really. We did complain about the dogs being loose. They barked all night when they first arrived.’

‘When was that?’

‘Quite recently. I saw a tall man, out by the boat hut, and I said to him that we were concerned about the dogs. He was quite pleasant and said he would keep them to the front of the house.’

‘Was this Mr Orso?’

‘No, I think it was his chauffeur. Anyway, we had no real problems again; they do still bark, but it’s not so intrusive.’

‘Was there anything else? We are really interested in the people that Mr Orso has staying with him.’

‘There was only the one time; it was very strange,’ said Mrs Powell.

Mr Powell looked at his wife. ‘Yes, that was very strange. When was it?’

‘A few weeks ago, maybe even more.’

Langton waited: they were both wrapped up in trying to pinpoint the exact date.

Finally, Mr Powell said gravely, ‘We wondered if someone had broken in.’

‘It’s amazing: the echo is so loud, even with the wood in between,’ mused Mrs Powell.

‘You said it was possible someone had broken in — to the main house, do you mean?’

‘I don’t know. They were searching around the water’s edge with flashlights, and looking into the boathouse.’

‘Before that, we heard children. They have a child, don’t they?’ said her husband.

Langton was losing patience, so Anna took over. What she was able to piece together was that the couple had heard children’s voices and then some kind of argument. It had been so loud that Mr Powell had got up, as it was very late — well, to the elderly couple it was — they thought it was about ten in the evening. He had taken a flashlight and walked through the woods and to the edge of the lake; then it had gone silent.

Mrs Powell then interjected to say that they had found the small rowing boat on their side of the lake. There was an old rope attached to the small jetty; you could, she said, literally pull yourself across from one side to the other.

Langton coughed. ‘So what, you think someone got into the boat and pulled themselves across?’

‘Well, that’s what we thought, but they weren’t in the woods.’ Mr Powell puffed himself up. ‘I know that because I did a good search around. I had my flashlight with me, and my cosh, so if anyone was trying to break into our cottage…’

Langton sighed. The interview had really tried his patience, but at least now they had the Powells’ permission for officers to camp out on their land. He was just worried that ‘the General’, as he nicknamed Mr Powell, might give the game away with his flashlight and cosh!

Anna called Alison to say that, when she spoke to Keith, could she ask him if he was ever in a rowing boat with Sickert.

‘It all adds up, you know,’ she told Langton. ‘Dogs arriving: could be the ones from Peckham. Then to hear kids’ voices by the lake and some kind of argument — maybe that’s how Sickert got the kids out of there. It would also make sense of why Orso wants that boundary line: he could fence in the property.’

Langton leaned over and ruffled her hair. ‘Little brain never stops ticking!’

She hated people who ruffled her hair!

He didn’t notice her response, however, as he checked his watch. ‘Mike must be in there by now.’

Mike Lewis, wearing a Gas Board boilersuit and accompanied by a real Gas Board official, was being shown to the back kitchen entrance by the tall man they knew as the driver. The kitchen door was opened by a good-looking black woman in her thirties. She was nervous, but gestured for them to come in.

The kitchen was massive, with a marble floor and a square central marble-topped chopping area; above it were rows of copper pans and utensils. There was a large round pine table in the bay window, which overlooked the lake. The table was set for lunch: four places.

‘The Aga no work,’ she said, pointing.

They kneeled down in front of it, as she hovered.

Mike then got up and turned to the woman. ‘This might be a mains gas problem; does this also heat the water?’

She looked confused.

‘Only I’ll need to check the water tanks.’

‘Excuse me.’ She walked out. Mike had the tiny microphone in place beneath the table within seconds.

‘What is the problem?’ This was the elegant woman seen driving in and out.

‘We think you have a gas block but, as this Aga also heats your water, I will need to look into your boiler room. Have you turned off the main gas taps?’ He showed her his fake ID. ‘Are you the owner?’

‘I am Mrs Orso. Ella, stay in the kitchen please,’ she snapped, then gestured for Mike to follow her.

According to Mike, compared to the house in Peckham, this place was like Buckingham Palace. It was very classy: full of antiques and clean as a new pin. He had not been able to get any microphones in the main dining room, lounge, or guest bedrooms, but he had one in the kitchen, one on the staircase close to the front door, another on the first-floor landing and one in the master bedroom.

‘It’s a huge place, bloody massive; from the plans, you can’t really tell just how big it is. There are two Alsatians chained up in a kennel at the front by the garage. The rear is clear — access would be easy from across the lake, with good coverage from the woods — but the front is like Fort Knox. You’ve got the gates, that high fence, and a wall with a dense hedge all the way round. They also have a lot of automatic security lights; these are positioned right the way round the house and gardens. There’s a wine cellar, but we couldn’t get down there.’

Harry and Brandon arrived, and gave their report. They had checked out the delivery lorries that belonged to the warehouse and would now process all the known employees. They had also discovered that Orso had shipped the same cargo into the USA.

‘Who buys all these bloody baskets?’ Harry said disgustedly.

‘Same masks as the ones in Peckham house,’ Brandon noted, then looked to Mike Lewis. ‘How did the gas fitting go?’

‘Okay. They’re planted, but sadly not in the main rooms. We saw no one apart from a very nervous servant girl and Mrs Orso, who’s a piece of work.’

Langton sighed. ‘We’ve also no sighting of this guy Emmerick, or the other men in the house, apart from the driver.’

‘Big place though; there was a whole floor I couldn’t get to,’ Mike said.

Langton sighed again, then looked up as the sound engineer opened the door and gestured for him to come into the van parked outside. There was a four-man team closeted in the van, working round the clock for as long as it took to get a result. Langton entered, and one of them passed him a set of headphones.

‘Phone?’ he asked.

‘No — kitchen microphone.’

It was Mrs Orso and she was screaming. ‘How can you ruin a steak, how can you ruin a steak? This is fillet steak, do you know how much this cost? What each of these steaks cost? Just get out of my way, get out!’

There was a clatter and rattle of what sounded like pans.

‘She has been trouble from day one. I want you to get rid of her — she is driving me crazy! She still has no idea how to use the iron. I had to show her how to work the dishwasher, never mind the tumble-dryer. I want you to get me someone else.’

The voice was male, soft and cultured. ‘Make do with her until we leave.’

‘How long is that going to be? We can’t keep taking Rose in and out of school; it’s very unproductive for her. Will you have this one? It’s the only one not spoilt. You know what I caught her doing? Boiling it! She was boiling fillet steak!’

‘Yeah, well, they eat dogs where she came from.’ This was another male; a cruder voice, lower-pitched.

Langton listened attentively. There was the sound of crockery and cutlery, and then Mrs Orso again.

‘There’s some salad, but God only knows what she would have put on that. She can’t even mix a simple olive oil and vinegar dressing.’

‘Gimme some Hellmann’s,’ said the crude voice.

‘Sweetheart, go and see Rose, and get David in; maybe he likes shoe leather.’

There was a laugh, again from the crude voice. ‘He’d eat it if it was.’

‘That’s enough; keep your mouth clean round my wife!’

Langton felt the sweat run down from his armpits. ‘That’s got to be Emmerick; so if she’s gone to get David, who’s the big mouth?’

They listened as cutlery hit crockery; then in came footsteps and voice three.

‘I’ve had Franklin on the phone. He says there’s been customs officers crawling all over the warehouse, saying some bloke’s been picked up for taking bribes.’

‘Wasn’t our man,’ said Emmerick.

‘They were there for a hell of a long time and he got into a panic.’

‘Too late. The cargo was checked and clean, so just stay calm.’

‘I am calm — I just thought you’d want to be informed. You know I didn’t like that prick from Parkhurst coming on to me.’

‘Then lose the phone!’ Emmerick again.

‘Christ, this is tough. I can’t eat this shit,’ said the crude voice.

There was a crash, as what sounded like a plate hit the floor and broke.

‘You are beginning to get on my nerves. If you can’t eat it, give it to the dogs, but you chuck one of my dinner plates around again and I’ll—’

‘Sorry, sorry, but it was disgusting. Gimme the Hellmann’s; I’ll have some salad. I’ve not had anything to eat since breakfast and I’m starving. Being stuck up there is starting to drive me nuts. Maybe send the bitch Ella up to make my bed.’

‘You know, sometimes your audacity makes my skin crawl. You didn’t even consider what problems you caused by handing her over to me, did you?’

‘I didn’t know the prick was gonna turn up here.’

‘No, but he did.’

‘My steak’s okay,’ David interjected.

There was a pause as the crockery and cutlery clanked; then there was the sound of a cork being popped open, wine being poured and glasses clinking.

‘How long will it take for Milton to get the gear ready? I’ve been printing them off for fucking years with no problem; now he’s fucking us around. When is he coming?’ asked the crude voice.

‘When he’s ready. If you hadn’t fucked up at the house, none of this would have been a problem. In fact, you started going off the wall with that girl. Ever since then, you have been screwing up and we have been trying to clean up after you, so don’t push me. I don’t like it.’ Emmerick sounded tense.

‘Yeah, well, we all know why you put up with me: take a look around you! And it’s not just this place — you need me. You need to treat me right and with respect, man.’

‘I got some new videos for you,’ said David.

‘I fucking need something; I’m going stir crazy stuck up there.’

‘They’re on the hall table,’ said David.

There was the sound of a scraping chair, more wine being poured and then receding footsteps.

‘You got a real problem with him,’ said David.

‘I know,’ responded Emmerick.

‘How deep is that lake?’

There was a soft laugh; then footsteps as Mrs Orso walked back in.

‘You want coffee? I’ve also got some plum tart.’

A second officer put his hand up. Langton watched as he switched to a different wire transmitter, then listened. They were picking up the microphone hidden in the hall.

‘Hello, sweetheart, how was school today?’ It was the crude voice again.

There were giggles and childish laughter, then footsteps.

‘Rose, go into the lounge — now.’ Mrs Orso.

More footsteps; then Mrs Orso back in the kitchen.

‘I told you not to let him even eat with us, let alone move in here. I don’t want that animal anywhere near her.’

No one had said anything yet, but Langton was certain that the crude-voiced animal in question had to be Camorra.

Coming in now were the checks on the employees of Orso’s company. Brandon and Harry had taken details, not just of the men working there at the present time, but all employees from the past two years. The list of names and addresses on Orso’s payroll was endless, and they kept coming up as not registered.

Mike Lewis was nonplussed and contacted the Serious Fraud Squad: hundreds of thousands of pounds were being moved around in pay cheques.

They ascertained that the employees were illegal immigrants. The company opened bank accounts using their names. The cash was later transferred back into Orso’s company, as sales.

Still no movement outside the house; no phone calls in or out; no visitors. The surveillance teams switched over and the night officers took up position, hidden in the woods, the boating shed and at another property across the street.

They knew that Emmerick Orso planned to leave with his family, as did the crude-voiced man that Langton was sure was Camorra. The question was, when? They surmised that it had to be imminent.

They had taken fingerprints from the nervous maid Ella and Mrs Orso, from the documents that the men from the Gas Board asked them to sign. They ran them through the database, but found no match.

They checked the local refuse collections and got lucky: the following day was pick-up.

Early the next morning, the dustcart was buzzed in through the gates. Langton had earmarked for retrieval the pieces of a broken plate. The crude-voiced man had smashed it. It would have his prints.

Anna got a phone call from Alison, and a result from Keith. The little boy had said that he and his sister went in a boat, and the bad man had hit Joseph and made him bleed. He was also able to recall that, before he went to the big house with the bad man, Joseph had taken them to the zoo. Only when he had been asked about the house in Peckham did he pull back: this was obviously where the abuse had taken place.

Anna was now building a timeframe for when the children were taken from their mother at the piggery and on to the house in Peckham. At some point whilst there, Joseph Sickert had discovered something — perhaps that his own son had been murdered — that made him decide to take the children to Emmerick’s house. From there, he then escaped with them via the boat. She could not as yet piece together how long they had been on the run. All she knew was the date that Sickert had left them at the nursery. That was, until they got a call from Mr Powell.

Langton had been wary about using the Powells’ house for the undercover officers to take a leak or have a cup of tea, and was edgy when told Mr Powell had called to speak to him. He had therefore waved the call over to Anna.

Mr Powell was, in actual fact, enjoying the undercover operation and taking it very seriously. He had been thinking about the night of the possible break-in. The more he thought about it, the more determined he had become to pinpoint the exact date.

The date, he said — and he was certain that this was the exact date, because his grandchild had got chickenpox, so had not come to see them as planned — was a Friday, eight weeks ago.

Anna worked out when Sickert left the bungalow with the children, arrived in Peckham and then turned up at the big house. He and the children must have lived rough for a week. She took her calculations to Langton.

He looked down at them, then up at her. ‘Great. What does that give us?’

‘Whatever happened must have tipped off Camorra to close down; other than that, I don’t really know.’

Langton’s mobile phone rang: at long last, they had some unusual movement at the house. A BMW saloon had just drawn up. They had the registration number: the car was owned by a Milton Andrews, who had an address in Coventry, but no record on file.

Officers tapping the house were having trouble with the bug in the hallway: it seemed that someone had put a coat over it! There was no conversation in the kitchen, bar Mrs Orso screaming at the maid.

Meanwhile, forensic came through: the fingerprints taken from the broken dinner plate matched the hitherto unidentified prints taken from the white Range Rover.

The BMW remained parked at the house until eleven-thirty. It was tailed to the end of Redhill Lane and then blocked off by two patrol cars.

Milton Andrews was taken to the station in a white-hot rage. When they searched the car, they found twenty thousand pounds in cash in a briefcase. At the same time, the police in Coventry broke into his house. They found printing equipment, passport stamps and numerous passport covers with no documents inside.

Milton at first refused to speak, but Langton didn’t waste time: he planted in front of him the mortuary photos of Gail Sickert and her dead child, and said they had found his printing equipment. Milton folded, pleading innocence for any other crime than providing a passport and driving licence for a black male, Stanley Monkton. When shown the surveillance photograph of the driver, Milton said it was the man who had provided him with Stanley Monkton’s photograph.

Concerned that he could tip off their prime suspect, as well as the man who they believed would actually be using the passport, Milton was held at the station pending charges.

Things were moving, and fast. They had incriminating evidence on every member of the household, bar the maid and Mrs Orso. They even had confirmation from Parkhurst prison: Courtney Ransford, when shown the photograph of David, Orso’s driver, said it was the man who had passed him the rock cakes during the prison visit!

The wiretap brought another result: the man they believed to be Camorra walked into the kitchen.

‘Stanley Monkton! Fucking hell! Couldn’t he have come up with a better bleedin’ name for me to use than Stanley fucking Monkton? Jesus Christ!’

‘Take a look at it though,’ said David.

‘It’s perfect — beautiful job, worth every cent,’ said Orso.

‘I’m not saying it’s crap, just I hate the name, and I’m gonna have to live with it, right? I gotta live with this Monkton shit.’

‘Go and pack and shut your mouth. I’ll arrange your flight.’

‘Sooner the better.’ Footsteps moving away.

There was a pause. ‘You know, the longer I think about it, the more attractive that lake looks for that piece of pondlife to end up in,’ said Orso.

David laughed.

They traced no calls to any airlines or travel agents. Langton, faced with the possibility that the man they had hunted for so long might be dumped in the lake with a weight round his neck, decided that they would go in.

The timing was almost a joke. Mrs Orso did the school run and brought her daughter back home. She said that she was going to eat her lunch with Rose in the playroom. No way was she going to sit and eat with that crude animal.

‘Last one he’ll have here, that’s a promise,’ said Orso.

As soon as they got the signal that all three men were sitting down to lunch, they would go in.

The Specialist Firearms Officers, SFOs, were now standing by. Two would come in from the woods; behind them, the four surveillance officers. From the front entrance, two Armed Response teams would climb over the high fence; another armed vehicle would ram through the front gates. They would burst open the front door and signal to their partners to enter the rear kitchen entrance at the same time.

Four more officers were standing by for the signal that the house and occupants were secure; only then would they enter and serve the warrants. They were Langton, Lewis, Blunt and Anna.

Langton chain-smoked. The months of waiting were now to be paid off. He would, at last, come face to face with Camorra.

‘Going in,’ came the quiet, steady-voiced command from the number one SFO.

There was no countdown; just a pause and then, ‘Go.’

It was so well orchestrated that Langton could hardly believe his ears how quickly they got the radio contact to say all bodies were secured. By the time he walked into the kitchen, the three men were pinned against the wall, handcuffed and legs apart.

The screaming came from upstairs: Mrs Orso, her daughter and Ella were held in the child’s playroom. Mrs Orso had become hysterical, and had been cuffed to keep her quiet; the little girl clung onto her, and the terrified maid Ella was on her knees with her hands over her head. They were led out to the waiting police van. Mrs Orso continued to scream her head off, but the maid had grown mute with terror. Anna tried to calm Mrs Orso, but she wouldn’t shut up. She was having more effect on her daughter than any of the police. Anna drew the scared girl away from her mother to sit on a side seat, and fixed her safety belt. Mrs Orso began sobbing as she was pushed into her own seat; Ella sat without any persuasion, and wept.

Emmerick Orso was about six feet three and wore a well-cut grey suit and white shirt, his tie hanging loose. As the warrant was shoved into his face, and Lewis read him his rights before charging him with conspiracy to murder and defraud and accessory to murder, he said nothing. His handsome face was taut with rage, but he gave no other sign of aggression, and looked disdainful as he was roughly manhandled out to the waiting police van. Harry Blunt and Mike Lewis accompanied him.

Next, the driver was read his rights and told that he was being arrested for accessory to murder. He snarled and spat at the SFO as he was dragged out; they held his cuffed hands high up behind his back, so he had to bend forwards to walk.

Lastly, Langton stood behind the man he had hunted for so long: Camorra. His face pressed against the wall, he wore a blue tracksuit and trainers. He gave no reaction as he was read the charges and his rights. The SFO officer hauled him round to face Langton. Blood trickled from his nose; he had been the only one of the three to resist arrest. He was smaller than Langton, but his mug shots didn’t do him justice: he was very good-looking, with a chiselled face and deep-set, black eyes. He was quite slender but very fit.

Langton was finally face to face with the man who had cut him to shreds, a face that had been a blur of pain and blood. Now, in a flash of total recall, Langton was without any doubt that it was Camorra who had brought the machete down into his chest.

‘Get him out,’ Langton said harshly. As they dragged him past, the prisoner turned back to glare at Langton, but if Camorra recognized him, he didn’t show it.

The vans took the prisoners to the New Forest police station, where Langton began orchestrating the interrogation of the suspects. They would only be allowed to hold the suspects for up to thirty-six hours, and he didn’t want to lose a second.

Mrs Orso had by now quietened down; her daughter had been taken to her sister’s. Ella was still in a state of shock and had not spoken. Emmerick Orso was demanding his lawyer. It would be a long night.

They would question Mrs Orso first, then Ella, then go for the driver, whose name was now known to be David Johnson. Next up would be Emmerick Orso. Camorra would be kept until last.

Mrs Orso sobbed that she knew nothing. She kept saying she came from a very respectable family, that her parents were doctors who ran a hospital in Uganda, and that she was innocent: she had no idea who this man Camorra was or what he had done. She insisted that she knew nothing of her husband’s business: she was just his wife and mother to his child. She did nothing but cry.

It was time-consuming and irritating but, as they got no information, she was possibly telling the truth. Via her solicitor, it was agreed that she could be released to stay at her sister’s with her daughter, pending further enquiries. She would not be allowed to have any contact with her husband whilst he was detained, as she was co-accused in the same case. Anna had been wary about releasing Mrs Orso, as she felt that her being held in custody might be a strong lever on her husband. Langton dismissed her worries, saying that he felt Mr Orso would not care.

As the interrogations continued, the Orso house was being stripped and searched by SOCO teams. Bags of papers and files were taken away. The room occupied by Camorra was being carefully checked for fingerprints; his packed suitcase was opened, and items removed. The two Alsatian dogs were driven to police kennels and fur samples were taken to see if they would match the hairs discovered in the back of the Range Rover.

Emmerick Orso sat in his stinking cold cell, his shoelaces, belt and tie removed. Allowed to make one call, he had arranged for legal representation for himself and his wife. He was returned to his cell to wait.

Orso’s driver, banged up next to him, was pacing with nerves. David Johnson was scared stiff: he had been charged with the attempted murder of Eamon Krasiniqe. He couldn’t believe it and was trying to shout to Orso that he needed to talk to a lawyer. Orso asked the officer outside his cell to tell Mr Johnson that his legal representation was already organized.

Camorra sat in sullen fury. He would not give any of those bastards the pleasure of seeing him show any emotion. He had been taken aback when the murder charges were read: her name obliterated anything else. Carly Ann had been the only woman in his life he had ever cared about. All the others were just meat, and the one woman he had chosen had betrayed him; it still stung him and it was all he could think about. He had loved her; the bitch could have lived like a princess, but she had betrayed him and fucked one of his flunkies. It was all her fault; if it hadn’t been for her, he would still be living the life of a prince in Peckham. Carly Ann’s death had begun a spiral of murders to which Camorra gave not a single thought.

Anna called in Langton to sit with her as Ella put pieces of the jigsaw together, although some Anna had already determined. When asked her name, she had said it was Ella Orso, and when this was questioned, she shook with nerves. She wept throughout and crumpled the tissues provided in her hands. She had a terrible air of defeat; her body sagged, her voice was scarcely audible. After being given some tea and treated kindly, she stuttered that her name was Ella Sickert.

She admitted that Joseph Sickert was her husband. He had come to England five years before her. When shown the photograph found in his clothes, she sobbed heartbrokenly. She had seen neither child since they had been brought to England; she had been told that her sons were with a good family and being educated. Joseph had promised to send money from his wages. She waited for years, but none ever came.

‘Did you see your husband?’

Ella looked to the floor. Anna persisted, asking if Joseph Sickert had made contact with her. They did not think she was going to be able to continue, but she straightened up and pushed herself back in the chair.

‘Mrs Orso took me in when I arrived in England. I was told that Joseph would come to see me, but he was working. They said I had to give it time. I was always worried about my boys, but Mrs Orso said I was not to keep asking: I was in the UK illegally and I should be grateful to have a roof over my head.’

‘So she knew you were an illegal immigrant?’ Langton asked.

‘Yes, sir — and Joseph and my sons.’

‘So you never saw him?’

The woman began to cry. She explained that one night, two months ago, she had been told to stay in her room; from the window, she had seen her husband with two white children. Mr Orso had been very angry and there was an argument in the hall. Ella left her room and ran down the stairs. Joseph had tried to get to her, but she had been taken back. She said he had looked sick, hardly recognizable. She had not seen him or the children again, but knew the others were searching the woods for them. She said that Mr Johnson had punched her husband, and made the children cry.

She remained silent for a moment and then looked up. ‘I heard Joseph asking for Mr Camorra: he made threats and he was very angry. He was asking him about our boys, they were only seven and nine years old. He kept on saying, over and over, “Where are my boys?’”

Anna asked for a blood test. There were tears in her eyes; it was so pitiful. She found it hard to produce the photograph of the child’s torso.

‘We think your son was murdered,’ Langton said gently.

Ella gasped. If she had been defeated before, she now sat in mute grief.

‘We do not know the whereabouts of your other son, but we hope we will be able to trace him.’

Ella nodded, but she was staring at the wall. A steady stream of tears ran down her cheeks and one hand rested on the photograph in the plastic evidence bag.

An officer came and took a swab from Ella for DNA testing. She was left in the interview room while one of the clerical staff tried to find a hostel where she could remain in protective custody until the trial. Once Ella had given her evidence, she would be handed over to the Immigration Services for a decision.

The Desk Sergeant had never in his entire career known so much action. The car park was filling up with an array of expensive vehicles, as Emmerick Orso’s legal representatives arrived. They were each allowed to speak to their clients in private before the murder team interrogated them. All three would then be taken before magistrates, as Langton was not prepared to let them go after the obligatory thirty-six hours: he wanted a three-day extension, as the preparation for the interviews would be lengthy.

At ten o’clock that night, the team was released. They all needed to recharge their batteries: it had been an exhausting day and evening. The lawyers could sit with their clients through the night, if they wished: the team all needed time to recuperate. None had expected to sleep, but even Langton had crashed out without his usual handful of sleeping tablets.

The next morning, each prisoner was led out, handcuffed to an officer, and driven to court to go before the local magistrate. The amount of work to organize this had been a major headache, but it gained Langton three days for further questioning, due to the severity of the charges laid against them.

Harry Blunt and Frank Brandon were set to prepare the list of charges that would be brought against Camorra. Mike Lewis, with assistance from a Fraud Squad officer, began to plough through the mass of paperwork they had accumulated against Emmerick Orso. The paper trails were so complicated that even to pin down the ownership of the house in Peckham took half an hour. They wanted to know just how much he was involved with Camorra; if he did own the house, then he would have been privy to the flesh trade and barbaric murders that had taken place there.

Camorra refused to eat the food offered, insisting it was his right to send out for a proper breakfast. He appeared not to care about the charges mounting up against him; quite the reverse. He was cocky and kept on calling out to Orso, who remained silent, determined to distance himself from Camorra as much as possible.

Langton had decided they would go for the weakest link first, the one who appeared to be most agitated: Johnson.

He sat sweating and twisting his hands. His solicitor tried to calm him, as Langton told Johnson that he had been identified as the man who had visited Courtney Ransford in Parkhurst prison and had passed poison to him to be given to Eamon Krasiniqe. Johnson would therefore be implicated in Krasiniqe’s murder.

He interrupted. ‘Listen, I just work for Orso, right? I do what he tells me to do. I was told to take the stuff in; it was nothing to do with me, I just carried out orders. If I didn’t do what he wanted…’

‘So are you saying that Emmerick Orso handed you these rock cakes?’

‘No, he didn’t give them to me. I had to go to Peckham and collect them from Camorra. I didn’t know what shit was in them; I swear before God, I didn’t know. I am not going down for this. I just did what I was told to do.’

Langton sighed. ‘Yes, but who told you to do it?’

‘Camorra — well, my boss sent me over there. He said Camorra needed to sort something out. It was connected to this guy Arthur Murphy, that was all I knew. I swear before God I didn’t know it would send the kid crazy.’

‘Did you know Arthur Murphy?’

‘No.’

‘How often did you go to the house in Peckham?’

Johnson gasped, taking short sharp breaths; his eyes bulged.

Langton tapped his pencil on the table with impatience. ‘Did you go on a regular basis?’

‘No, no, I didn’t. It belonged to Eugene Camorra.’

Langton turned to Anna. ‘Eugene Camorra? You sure about that?’

‘Yeah. He uses a lot of other names, but that’s the one I know him by. Eugene, that’s his real name.’

‘Do you know what the house was used for?’

‘No.’

‘So how often did you go there?’

‘Not recently — I didn’t go there recently.’

‘Well, if you didn’t go there recently, when did you go?’

‘Few years back.’

‘One? Two? How many years back?’

‘Listen, Eugene was doing stuff there. He’s a freak. I mean, sometimes I’d go, you know, for sex — but not recently.’

‘Sex?’

‘Yeah, he had girls working for him.’

‘What girls?’

Johnson was now sweating; he used the same box of tissues that poor Ella had plucked at to wipe her face. ‘Oh shit, every time I open my mouth I feel like I’m digging myself into a hole, but I done nothing.’

‘These girls, were some of them underage?’

‘What?’

‘I said, were some of the girls underage?’ Langton snapped.

‘I never went with them, but yeah, some of them were.’

‘Do you know this girl, Carly Ann North?’ Langton slapped down the photograph that Dora had given them.

Johnson stared for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know her. I had nothing to do with her.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Ah, shit man. I’m getting all wound up. This isn’t right. I didn’t know her.’

Langton now placed the mortuary shots of Carly Ann in front of him. Johnson recoiled. This was followed by the horrific photo of the mutilated boy found in the canal. Now Johnson was really caving in: the sweat stained his jacket and dripped down his face.

Langton placed more photographs down as if he was dealing a game of poker: Arthur Murphy, Eamon Krasiniqe, Rashid Burry, Gail Sickert, her little girl. The more he was forced to look, the more agitated Johnson became. Lastly, he was shown the e-fit of Joseph Sickert.

‘No, no, I didn’t know him,’ he said, gasping for breath.

‘Let’s start again from the top, Mr Johnson. Tell me what you know about Carly Ann North.’

Johnson stood up. He was shaking. ‘No, you can’t. I got nothing to do with these people, I swear before God.’

‘Sit down!’

The man slumped into his seat. His lawyer leaned close, whispering; he sat listening, his head bowed. He repeated that all he had done was take the food into Courtney, that’s all he had ever done, and he was not connected to any of the other crimes.

‘But you do know about them, don’t you?’ Anna said. ‘You must know about Rashid Burry. You said you went to the house in Peckham.’

Johnson’s lawyer held out his hand. ‘Could I please have a few moments alone with my client?’

Langton spoke into the tape recorder that they were leaving the room and turned it off.

Anna followed Langton into the corridor. ‘He’s sweating like a pig and we haven’t even got to his boss yet.’

Mike Lewis walked towards them. ‘Thought you might like to know: we have been on a paper-chase that was mind-blowing. Emmerick Orso bought the house in Peckham eight years ago. It was buried as a company purchase, for use by his employees. Water bills, electricity and gas bills are sent to a box number in Clapham. So far, we’ve got over a hundred and fifty different post office boxes! Household bills also appear to be paid out from another property in Clapham and another one in Tooting. We reckon he also owns numerous others, but I thought you’d want to know about the Peckham house and the other properties as they link to the bus tickets found on Joseph Sickert.’

Langton nodded and turned, as Johnson’s lawyer came out and said quietly that his client wished to give a statement. In return for assisting their enquiries, he wanted a deal on the charge of being an accessory to the murder of Eamon Krasiniqe. ‘I truthfully believe that my client is only directly linked to that case; perhaps he has information regarding the other.’

‘I can’t offer any deal until I know what he’s got in exchange,’ Langton told him.

‘I think a deal will really be beneficial, Detective Chief Inspector Langton.’

‘For him or for us?’

‘For you, obviously: he’s going to give information on Eugene Camorra.’

Anna and the rest of team were unaware that Langton already knew that Camorra was the man who had attacked and almost killed him.

‘Let’s see what he’s got then, shall we?’