The same question was in all the officers’ minds: was this the right bad man?

  The house now under surveillance, Langton regrouped at the nearest police station to determine how many people occupied the premises and to work out the best strategy for entering. It would be getting dark soon. He ordered a helicopter to move over the house with an infra-red camera to determine what they would be faced with.

  The property had extensive land, both in front and behind, with about an acre of dense woodland and a small manmade lake. They knew there were dogs at the front of the house, but didn’t know if they would be loose or chained. There was a red Ferrari parked outside a double garage and, behind it, the Mitsubishi.

  Langton was standing in a corridor, lighting a cigarette when Anna walked towards him.

  ‘Only place you can smoke in here without the alarms going off,’ he grumbled.

  ‘We’re ordering some food for everyone,’ she said. ‘You want anything?’

  He shook his head, and took a deep drag on the cigarette; then rested his head against the windowpane. ‘We’ve got the authority to deploy firearms officers. As soon as the armed response guys get here, we go in. I’ve waited long enough.’

  She put her hand on the small of his back, but said nothing. She then returned to the waiting teams of officers, and gave a silent prayer that Camorra would be at the house.

  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.