Clean Cut (17 page)

In all the time she had known Langton, Anna had never seen him so angry. He had his fists clenched and looked as if he might swing a punch at the Governor. He jabbed the air with his finger very close to the man’s face.

‘You have just sat there giving me a load of facts
and figures. Well, my facts are this: Arthur Murphy was scum, a rapist and a killer. I don’t give a fuck about him; what I need to know is why these two men attacked him. If they are sex offenders, like Murphy, you know as well as I do that they protect each other; discuss their filthy antics with each other. Why knife
him
? They’re sex offenders, child sex offenders! Right now, I have a suspect on the loose and two small children at risk, a suspect who has…’

Langton suddenly went chalk-white and had to sit back in his chair. His face glistened with sweat. He took out some pills and asked for a glass of water.

Anna leaned close to him. ‘Are you all right?’

Langton nodded, taking pill after pill, gulping at the water. The prison Governor remained silent, then got up and excused himself, leaving them alone.

‘Do you want to lie down?’ Anna asked. He shook his head, then leaned forwards, bending his head down low. She watched him gasp for breath. It was some time before he slowly leaned back, his eyes closed.

When the Governor returned, he was sweating almost as much as Langton. ‘I’m sorry. I am acting on orders from the Home Office. However, considering the seriousness of your enquiry, I will allow you access to each prisoner, for ten minutes.’

‘Thank you,’ Langton said quietly.

The Governor moved to sit back behind his desk. ‘Prisoner 3457, D Wing, is called Courtney Ransford. He is here after escaping from Ford Open prison in 2001; he was picked up for murder two years later. This is his record sheet.’

Langton reached over for the papers. Anna stood up to read over his shoulder.

‘The second man involved is an illegal immigrant waiting for a deportation order, Eamon Krasiniqe.’

Langton looked up in shock. ‘What?’ The man he had arrested for the murder of Carly Ann North was also called Krasiniqe. As Eamon Krasiniqe’s file was passed over, he skimmed the pages. He turned to Anna, pointing to the name. There was no mention of siblings or family.

‘Can you check if this man is related to Idris Krasiniqe, sent down for murder? There’s no mention of family living here.’ The connection was shattering to Langton; he simply could not believe it.

‘We have no documentation on his background. He came into Britain on a forged passport, so even his name could be a fake; it’s quite possible that others are using the same name and same papers. We were in the process of trying to discover exactly how he entered the UK and from where. He was charged with drug dealing and abduction of a fourteen-year-old girl.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Langton muttered.

‘We obviously stripped both their cells, and found nothing that gave us any indication of why it had happened. There is also something that I think I should tell you. One of the reasons we have been in discussions with the Home Office about this situation, and why we cannot allow it to be made public…I mentioned to you how many foreign inmates we have, and how many are of ethnic origin.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Langton was hoping he would not have to listen to another lengthy ‘facts and figures’ monologue.

‘Two days ago, during his recreational period, Krasiniqe asked to make a phone call. He had only a few pence left on his phone card, so wanted to make a reverse
charge call. This was denied. The following day, he had acquired enough money to make a call. He was waiting some time, as the phone on his wing was in use. Krasiniqe became very abusive about waiting, as he said it was a very important call. The officer on the wing gave instructions for the prisoners ahead of him to get a move on, or the recreational period would be up. This is the reason we are aware of the call. He finally got to make it; according to the duty officer, it was after the call that he started to act oddly.’

‘Oddly?’

‘Yes. He became very subdued, and when told to return to his cell, he appeared to be very disorientated. He was led to his cell, and lock-up went ahead. During the night, the officers reported that he was not in his bed, but standing up. He was told three times to go to his bed, but made no answer. The following morning, he was still subdued and didn’t eat. During recreation—’

‘The phone call: you record all outgoing calls, right?’

‘Well yes, but you know we have hundreds per day. We did find on a cigarette packet a phone number; it could have been the one dialled by Krasiniqe. It’s a mobile phone number; no name.’ He passed over the report of the contents of both prisoners’ cells, and Langton copied down the number that was listed.

Langton was then shown photographs of the body of Arthur Murphy. The knife had cut his throat in one slice.

The Governor gathered up the reports and photographs. ‘Krasiniqe has not really spoken since the attack. He is vacant and submissive, and does not seem to recall anything of the incident.’ Langton sipped a glass of water as the Governor continued. ‘The other accused,
Courtney Ransford, has made a statement that he was coerced into holding Murphy down whilst Krasiniqe cut his throat.’

He licked his lips, stacking the reports on his desk, packing them neatly into the files. ‘He claims that Krasiniqe was “zombied” and if he didn’t help him, he would suffer the same fate. Do you know what zombied means?’

Langton looked to Anna and then back to the Governor.

‘It’s a voodoo term,’ the man explained, ‘the ability to make someone appear like a zombie. It sounds incredible, I know, but if somehow Krasiniqe was got at, and if his belief is strong enough, then God only knows what the mind will do. Surely now you can understand: if this was made public inside here, it would create havoc.’

Anna and Langton were shown into a small interview room. A uniformed officer waited outside. There were just two chairs and a table, so Anna would have to stand during the interview.

Courtney Ransford was led into the room handcuffed, wearing prison issue denims. He was a big, raw-boned man with stiff spiked hair, and his hands were like big flat shovels.

Langton spoke very quietly, forcing Courtney to lean forwards to hear clearly. He had never heard of Joseph Sickert, he said, he had never heard of Gail Sickert and he did not know Rashid Burry. His bulging, red-rimmed eyes were vacant; when asked to explain what had happened in the exercise yard, he hesitated, then, in a voice that was like a growling animal, said he couldn’t remember anything.

‘You held a man down whilst his throat was cut, and you claim not to remember anything about it?’

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘This action will put ten years on your sentence. How does that make you feel?’

‘Bad.’

‘So why don’t you help me? Because I can help you.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘What can you do for me?’

‘Get you maybe a lighter sentence; depends on how much you are willing to—’

Courtney leaned even closer across the table. ‘Man, you can’t help me, and no way do I want it known that I even said two words to you, so fuck off and leave me alone.’

‘That scared, are you?’

‘Yeah, you could say that.’

‘Scared so bad you are willing to get another life sentence?’

Courtney leaned back, looked up to the ceiling and started sucking his teeth.

‘I could also get you moved to another prison.’

Courtney shook his head. ‘Listen, man, there is nowhere, no place they can’t find me. That creep deserved what he got, so why bother me?’

‘Who’s they?’

Courtney glared.

‘If you give me names, I’ll see what I can—’

‘You can do nothin’, man, hear me straight? You can do nothin’, not for me, just like I ain’t doin’ nothin’ that can make me like that poor fucker. He’s walkin’ dead.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘No. No! Officer! Officer, get me out of here!’ Courtney screamed for the officer waiting outside; he showed for the first time a real fear.

Langton tried to calm him. ‘What are you so scared of?’

It had no effect. Courtney wanted out, and eventually Langton had no option but to let him leave.

They waited for almost fifteen minutes before they heard footsteps outside the room. Eamon Krasiniqe was twenty-two years old, yet he shuffled into the room like a frail old man. He was glassy-eyed and his hands hung limply at his side. He had to be helped to sit; he seemed so vacant, as if he had no idea where he was.

Langton tried to question him, but Krasiniqe made no reply. His lips were wet and he dribbled saliva down his chin. His huge expressionless eyes were like dark holes and he didn’t look at either Langton or Anna but at some fixed point ahead of him.

‘Why did you kill Arthur Murphy?’ Langton asked.

Krasiniqe slowly lifted his right hand and pointed with his index finger to the space between Langton and Anna. He then twirled his index finger in a slow circle. They both turned to look behind them; there was a clock on the wall. They had no idea what it meant, unless he was indicating their ten minutes were up! Having got nothing, not even one word out of him, they watched as he was led back to his isolation cell.

When they left the room, a prison officer was waiting to take them back to the main gates. He was a friendly, broad-shouldered man in his thirties. Langton walked ahead of Anna, asking the officer what he reckoned had gone down. He said the attack had caught everyone
off-guard, as there had been no lead-up to it. Murphy appeared to get along with Courtney, and they were often seen playing table tennis together. Courtney also knew Krasiniqe well; as the latter was so young, Courtney had taken him under his wing. They had never seen the three men arguing. It had happened very quickly. Murphy was left lying on the ground, as Krasiniqe stood there with the shiv still in his hand; he made no attempt to palm it. Courtney had tried to extricate himself from the murder, but he had blood sprays over his denim shirt.

Langton mentioned that the only response Krasiniqe had made was to imitate the movement of the clock’s hands in the interview room.

‘Yeah, he does that all the time. Sort of points ahead of himself and twists his index finger. No idea what it means, but then we have no idea what’s the matter with him. Doctors have checked him over and it’s not drugs; there’s whispers going round about voodoo. We’ve all been given instructions to sit on them–you know, not let it get into a rumour that starts a bush fire.’

As they were boarding the ferry to head back to London, Langton got the first good news of the day. DC Grace Ballagio had run the name Rashid Burry by numerous hospitals and learned that he had been attended to in the emergency section of a hospital twenty miles out of the New Forest area, suffering from a kidney infection, and had given his address as the hostel in Brixton. The date of his admission and treatment coincided with the days after Anna had been to see Gail, and matched the date that Vernon had admitted to being at the piggery. It also fitted with the time Gail went
missing. However, the description of the patient did not fit Rashid Burry–but it did Joseph Sickert.

By the time they reached the Hampshire station, it was after eight o’clock. Langton was looking very tired, and said that he would give a briefing the following morning.

As the team packed up for the night, ready to return for an early start, Langton remained in his office. Anna walked out to the car park with Mike Lewis. He had had a frustrating day, moving from hostel to hostel between probation departments in an attempt to trace Rashid Burry and check out the other occupants; he could not believe their incompetence. The hostels in their target areas were inundated with prisoners on release, parolees and ex-prisoners waiting for deportation, and the number of the men who had simply disappeared was a disturbing factor for the services as well as for their enquiry.

Anna did not get home until after ten o’clock. With the station being so far out of London, she had a long drive back and forth. She was fast asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Langton, on the other hand, remained at the station until very late; he had booked into a Bed and Breakfast close by. He sifted through all the new information, and, although some of it was hard to believe, he knew intuitively they were getting close to discovering the identity of the man who attacked him. He was certain that, in some way, it was linked to the murder of Arthur Murphy. Whatever Murphy knew had got him killed, and whoever owned the mobile phone that Krasiniqe called must have given that instruction. Langton made a note for his team to try and trace that person. He then sat
staring at the incident-room board, one leg outstretched in front of him. He was in a great deal of pain and his knee was badly swollen. Grace had also been working at her desk, and went up to the canteen for some dinner. When she returned, Langton was still sitting on the chair in front of the board, slowly rubbing his right leg, so immersed in his own thoughts that he never even acknowledged her quiet goodnight.

A
nna 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.