Clean Cut (35 page)

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.