Clean Cut (32 page)

The car drew up outside the Peckham house. Patrol cars, forensic vans and SOCO teams were all still there.

‘That scum Vernon, he knew this place. We could have got here sooner.’ Langton slammed the car door shut and headed into the house. Anna and Lewis followed.

Brandon led them through the house, pointing out what had been taken for evidence; then they went into the cellar.

Langton stood looking around. No one spoke. After spending half an hour there, they left and drove back to the station in silence. The horrors that had taken place in the house sickened them all.

‘It was well cleaned out,’ Lewis said, when they were back in the incident room.

Langton sighed, closing his eyes. ‘Camorra’s had enough time–he could be anywhere, using Christ knows
how many different names and passports. He’s got rid of anyone that could finger him, and with the amount of money he’s got stashed, we might have lost him for good.’

T
he forensic lab had been hard at work for over a week. They had more than six different DNA samples from the bloodied altar; there could have been many more, but the stone had been scrubbed with disinfectant. They had also succeeded in matching the roll of black bin-bags, not only to those wrapped around Rashid Burry’s body, but also the dead child in the canal: yet another murder linked to Camorra. They tested semen stains on the sheets taken from the bedrooms for DNA. Two matched the samples taken from Carly Ann after her rape and murder: one belonged to Idris Krasiniqe, the other was not on any records, nor was the third fingerprint taken from the Range Rover.

The team had all this incriminating evidence against Camorra, but still no clue as to his whereabouts. The charred documents revealed hundreds of figures, but there were no bank accounts in Camorra’s name and the local bank in Peckham had no customers who answered to his description. The drug squad had been given his details: every day, mules and possible illegal immigrants were being arrested at the airports, so they were to work with the murder team on anyone who could be connected to the case. The fact that airports were so hot
on security could also mean that Camorra might have gone to ground somewhere in the UK.

Staring down into the room from the packed incident board were the photos of the dead, red lines linking one to the other. It felt as if the jigsaw would never be completed.

Langton was in a permanent cold anger. His frustration often boiled over and he was edgy and aggressive with the team. Sickert’s post-mortem results arrived, confirming that he died of organ failure and chronic heart disease. The sickle cell disease had destroyed him. Anna looked up at Sickert’s picture on the board. Her eyes were drawn to the photo of the child found in the canal. As a thought, she fetched the Sickert file. The small square photograph of the woman and two children, cracked through being folded and refolded, was kept in a plastic cover.

She picked it up and went in to see Langton. ‘I don’t know if this will do anything for us, but the children in the photograph–one is a boy, the same age as the child found in the canal.’

Langton looked up.

‘Now we have the DNA of Sickert,’ Anna went on, ‘I just wondered if, you know, we were looking for a reason for Sickert to protect the two children.’

‘He didn’t, did he though?’

‘He did take them to that nursery. What if Camorra had brought Sickert’s children over too? It would be a motive for him to—’

‘Go ahead, test it, but it won’t give us much; just another sickening fucking link!’

Anna walked out to set the wheels in motion for the tests even though, as Langton had said, if the child
proved to be related to Joseph Sickert, it brought them no closer to finding Camorra.

Just as Anna put the phone down, it rang again. It was Alison from the Child Protection Unit.

‘I just wanted to tell you that we have made a lot of progress with Keith,’ she said. ‘We have also found a foster carer who is prepared to take both children. She’s been spending time with them here, getting to know them, and will be taking the children at the end of the week.’

‘Could I come in and talk to Keith?’

‘Yes, that is why I am calling. However, I don’t have to remind you how precarious his recovery is. I can’t allow him to be questioned too long and, if it is too emotional for him to deal with, then you will have to wait.’

Anna felt the hairs on the back of her arms standing up as she replaced the receiver. She then returned to Langton’s office and gave him the update.

He sighed. ‘Okay, do you want anyone with you?’

‘I think I should go it alone; he has met me before.’

‘Good luck then.’ And he went back to his reports.

Langton was going over the statements of Eamon Krasiniqe’s cellmate, Courtney Ransford. They still did not have the identity of the person who had visited Ransford. He had steadfastly refused to give any information, bar the fact he did not know the man who came to visit, and the death of Eamon had made no difference. Langton called in Harry; he told him to take Brandon and have another try.

‘He has maintained that he did not know the bloke and was surprised that he had a visitor. He has also
denied that he was passed any of this poison. Can we put some more pressure on him? He’s awaiting trial as a category A prisoner for helping Krasiniqe kill Murphy: let’s call that a twelve-to twenty-year sentence. Add to that a few more years when we charge him with fucking poisoning him, he could be a very long time behind bars.’

Harry shook his head. ‘I dunno, these bastards–he doesn’t seem to give a shit. But why should he? He’s got three meals a day, gym, TV, bloody computer train—’

‘Just go, Harry,’ Langton snapped.

Alison met Anna in the reception, and said that Keith was in the play area. This was a larger room than the one she had first seen him in. A big open space, it had lots of toys and, in one corner, a games console. She couldn’t believe the change. Keith was standing by the machine, playing with another small boy; they were shrieking and shouting.

‘Keith, do you want to come and sit and talk to Anna?’

Keith continued to play, then jumped up and down, clapping his hands; he had obviously won! He turned to look at Anna, his eyes bright and his cheeks pink with all the excitement.

‘This lady is a police officer,’ Alison said. ‘She’s brought you something very special.’

‘What?’ he asked, like any normal inquisitive child.

Anna sat a small low table. Alison drew up a chair for Keith to sit on, but he hovered.

‘What have you got?’ he repeated.

Anna took out a very authentic-looking black plastic wallet. ‘It’s a detective’s badge, Keith, like a real policeman’s. A plain clothes one though, not a policeman in
uniform. I have a proper notebook and a pencil as well, for you to write down notes.’

Keith sat down. He fingered the badge and then opened the notebook.

‘That’s for when you question a suspect. You have to always make notes, so you don’t forget anything.’

‘Have you got handcuffs?’

‘Well, I can get you some, but we have to sort of test you, you know, to be a detective. I need to know if you could make an arrest.’

He nodded.

‘Do you know what that means–to arrest someone?’

‘Yes, put bad men away.’

‘Correct–that is exactly what I meant. You question them, and it’s called evidence, and you write it down in your book. Then you arrest them if they are bad.’

‘Put handcuffs on them?’

‘Yes, that’s right! Do you think you would make a good detective?’

‘Yes, I got a badge!’

‘Yes, that is yours.’

‘Can I go in a police car?’

‘Oh, that depends. I will have to ask you some questions and then, if you can answer them, you’ll get your handcuffs and a ride in the car.’

‘Can I have a gun?’

‘No, detectives don’t have guns, they’re only for the special squad.’ Anna was on tenterhooks; it was going so well. She told him to open his notebook, ready to write down information. ‘Do you know any bad men?’ she asked.

He gave her a strange look, and she wondered if she had gone in too quickly.

‘Or, can you tell me about the last house you were in? Or a house you think may have bad people inside?’

He became a little agitated, then twisted the pencil. ‘How do you spell “detective”?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about spellings. It’ll be your secret code. We often write words in a funny way.’

He began to write, the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated, taking great pains over each word.

Harry and Frank Brandon waited in the visitors’ section, in a room used for solicitors to interview their clients. It was a small room with three chairs and a table. The door was part glass, so the prison officers could monitor the interactions, but they could not hear conversations. A speaker was high up in one corner; the small window was also high up, and barred.

‘How do we work it?’ Brandon said quietly.

‘Just like we discussed: give it to him straight. You got a problem with it now?’

‘No, just checking we’re playing the right roles.’

‘Don’t fucking start,’ Harry said, as they heard footsteps.

Courtney Ransford was huge, with square shoulders and a body builder’s torso. He sat down and his handcuffs were removed by the uniformed officers who had brought him in.

‘Thank you for agreeing to talk to us,’ Brandon said politely.

Ransford shrugged as the officers left. ‘Anything for a bit of relief from the boredom. What’s this about?’

Then, as Brandon opened a notebook: ‘If it’s anything to do with Arthur fucking Murphy, I’m not answering.
I’ve been questioned and shit so many times, I’m losing count. Why don’t you just say that it was a job well done? The bastard was into rape; he was a sicko.’

‘Couldn’t agree with you more,’ Harry said, and he meant it.

‘I gotta stand trial for it. Arseholes.’ Courtney flexed his muscles.

‘You know Eamon Krasiniqe is dead?’

‘Yeah. He was a crazy anyway.’

Brandon coughed and leaned forwards. ‘You got a possible twelve to twenty for helping hold down Arthur Murphy. I am here to question you on another charge that could get you a lot longer.’

‘
What?
’

‘Murdering Eamon Krasiniqe.’

‘Wait! When did this fucking go down?’

‘I’m here just here to discuss—’ Brandon began.

‘Discuss what, for fuck’s sake?’

‘–that you fed poison to Eamon Krasiniqe.’

Harry tapped the table. ‘I was with him when he died. He said you’d given him something called Jimson weed. It’s a poison–very potent.’

‘Like fuck he did! He couldn’t do nothin’ but stare at the fucking wall, so what is this?’

‘We have his statement and his post-mortem report. He was fed this poison in prison and we have you as his cellmate; we also have you being visited by someone who we believe passed you the—’

‘I am not fucking believing this, man.’

Harry wagged his finger. ‘Well, you’d better, because you got a lot coming your way for Arthur Murphy–you could be looking at another ten on top of that! Now, I am just here to help you. All I need is the
truth. Who was this visitor and what did he pass you?’

‘Jesus Christ, I didn’t even know the bloke! I get the nod from the officers I got a visitor. They don’t say who it is. I think, maybe he’s a solicitor and, like I done today, I reckon anything to get out from the wing, right?’

‘That is all very well, Courtney, but Eamon Krasiniqe died, and you are going to be charged with his murder.’

‘The fuck I am!’

‘I’m afraid you
are
fucked.’

Courtney sat shaking his head. He flexed his arm muscles so much, they looked like ebony; then he cracked his knuckles. They were obviously getting to him: the sweat was now standing out on his forehead.

‘I think you were offered money, or something else worth your while, to give the dose to Krasiniqe. Now, they are about to arrest a guy called Camorra–you ever heard of him?’

Courtney stared.

Harry continued, lying through his teeth: they had no idea where Camorra was, let alone were on the verge of arresting him. ‘He’s a drug trafficker, also brings in illegal immigrants. He’s got a lot of money and a lot of contacts. He wanted Murphy dead, because Murphy was going to inform on him.’

Courtney swallowed and shook his head. ‘I don’t know about this, man; I dunno about this.’

‘Do you know this man Camorra? Clinton Camorra.’

Courtney suddenly put his hands over his face. ‘Oh shit, shit!’

‘You got relatives back in Uganda?’

Courtney pinched the bridge of his nose; his eyes were brimming with tears. He nodded.

‘I hope to Christ they aren’t kids,’ Harry said, ‘because you know what Camorra does to kids. Did you read about that little boy’s body? Decapitated, found in a black bin-liner in Regent’s Canal? He supplies boys like that to sickos. So, I certainly hope, Courtney, you have not got kids being brought in by this piece of filth. Now, can you give us anything?’

Courtney slammed his hand flat onto the table.

‘Yes. Yes, I got something!’

Langton listened to Anna’s call, almost with disbelief.

‘Sweetheart, you can have a fleet of squad cars if that’s what the lad wants.’ He listened, and then rubbed his face. ‘Whatever you need. Take it slow; this is the first lucky break we’ve had.’

Langton returned to the incident room in a really up-tempo mood, just as Brandon and Harry walked in. Harry wafted a piece of paper in the air.

‘What you get?’ Langton asked eagerly.

Harry and Brandon, like two grinning kids, passed over the statement.

Courtney had been telling the truth when he said he did not know his prison visitor. What he had never divulged, however, was that the visitor had come with a deal. He said that he worked for someone with very high connections: someone who could bring his wife and two children to England–at a price.

Harry held up two fingers. ‘He had to give two coconut rock cakes to Eamon Krasiniqe.’

‘What? Fucking rock cakes?’

‘Coconut rock cakes,’ Brandon interjected.

‘He was told they would make Krasiniqe dopey. Courtney was to say they had come from his brother. He
was then to help Krasiniqe with Arthur Murphy, make it look like a prison fight. As it turned out, the poor kid had already been fed so much of the Jimson whatever, he went crazy and cut Murphy’s throat in the exercise yard!’

Langton looked at the grinning pair and shrugged. ‘Terrific–but what does this give us, apart from the rock cakes? We knew the bastard must have had something to do with it; this just confirms it.’

Brandon held up his hand again. ‘We have more. You see, Courtney is still waiting to hear about his kids–like, when do they arrive. We gave him the lowdown on Camorra, and said he should pray that they don’t get brought into the UK.’

‘Laid it on with a trowel, we did,’ Harry said. ‘We were gonna make an arrest of Camorra, all that–then he gave this up. It’s a mobile phone number. He said he’d called twice and spoken to the contact who said the deal was going down–which is why he agreed to help Krasiniqe kill Murphy, and why he’s refused to talk before. For the sake of his wife and kids.’