‘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 pussy.’

  ‘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 dicking 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.