Idris broke down, weeping uncontrollably, incapable of talking. He just sat, his elbows resting on his knees, his head bent forwards, sobbing.
Dr Salaam was sent for and gave Idris some calming tablets, nothing else, but Idris was convinced they would cure the poison that he believed he had been given via the tattoo. His mind was playing tricks on him: his dry mouth was due to nerves, not Jimson weed.
Having talked to Anna for over an hour and a half, he was exhausted, mentally and physically. He was returned to Wakefield prison, to be kept in solitary confinement until the authorities decided whether he could be transferred to another prison. He was told that Eamon was also being taken back to prison. He was not informed that his brother was dead.
It took a long time for all the papers to be signed so that Eamon Krasiniqe could be released to the mortuary. A post-mortem was required, to confirm the cause of death. Afterwards, he would remain there until it was determined what should be done with his remains.
It was after seven in the evening when a tired Dr Salaam and Esme were taken back to the safe house. With the new information the team had from Idris, it was agreed, without any question, that they should both be protected, just in case word got out that Idris had been talking.
Langton and Lewis were driven out of the hospital at eight; Anna followed in the second patrol car. She was glad to be able to rest back and close her eyes. The nightmarish jigsaw was coming together piece by piece, but the last and most important section was still missing: the whereabouts of Camorra. The manhunt to find him would now be stepped up. Armed with the new information, Langton would be able to bring in as many officers as he needed. Their main concern was that, if Camorra found out that Idris Krasiniqe had talked, he would skip the country.
It was after nine when they reached the Hampshire station. Some of the team were still hard at it. Harry Blunt was trying to get any further information from the bus tickets used by Joseph Sickert, but to no avail. Frank Brandon had been tracing the visitors to Parkhurst prison to find anyone who could have passed the poison to Eamon Krasiniqe. The dead boy had had no visitors; but his cellmate Courtney Ransford had. The visitor had used fake ID and an assumed name. Frank was preparing to travel to Parkhurst the following day to interview Ransford.
Langton sent them home and, tired as he was, began to update the incident board ready for a team briefing first thing in the morning. Anna began to transcribe her tape-recorded interview with Idris, while Lewis plotted out the team’s work for tomorrow.
Langton stared at the incident board. Eamon Krasiniqe’s face now had a red cross over it, as did Rashid Burry, Gail Sickert, her toddler, Joseph Sickert and Arthur Murphy; however, it was as if parts of the edges of their massive jigsaw were still missing, as well as the central piece. Why had Eamon Krasiniqe murdered Arthur Murphy?
Langton tapped the photograph of Vernon Kramer. Could this no-good piece of shit, now serving his time at an open prison, hold any answers? Kramer was connected to them all. He sighed, too tired to think straight.
He looked at Mike Lewis — his tie undone, dark circles beneath his eyes — and said, ‘Call it quits for tonight, Mike. Go get some sleep.’
Mike was relieved; he didn’t argue. He’d only eaten two stale sandwiches since lunch and his head ached.
Langton looked over to Anna. Headphones on, she was still working on her report. She jumped when he put his hand on her shoulder.
‘That’s enough for tonight,’ he told her.
She eased off the headphones and leaned back in her chair.
‘Good day,’ he said softly.
‘Yeah, long one though.’
Langton stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘You did good work. A lot of this new development is down to you.’
‘Thank you.’
He hovered, hands still in his pockets. ‘You found it difficult working alongside me?’
‘Not really. I’m pretty used to you by now,’ she said, closing down her computer.
‘I have. Sometimes.’
‘You have?’
‘Yes. Mike was asking me earlier, you know, about you and me. You can never keep anything private in an incident room. He said how much you’d done for me when I was at the rehabilitation house. I mean, I know you did, of course I do, but I’ve never really thanked you enough. I don’t know how I would have coped without, you know, you being there for me.’
‘I wanted you to be well, and you have thanked me, so you really don’t owe me any more thank-yous,’ she smiled.
‘Well, if you say so…’
She looked at him, still hovering. His eyes were sunken with tiredness and the five o’clock shadow under his prominent cheekbones made him look haggard.
‘What?’ she asked gently.
‘I, er … I had a talk with Esme, the doctor’s wife.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes.’
She waited. He turned and walked into his office. She picked her jacket off the back of her chair and stood up, stretching; as she lowered her arms, he walked out again. He had his wallet in his hand. He opened it and held it out for her to see a photograph.
‘This was my wife.’
She looked at the photograph and then back to him, unsure why he was showing it to her. She was taken aback: his eyes were brimming with tears.
‘I loved her.’ He could hardly get the words out.
Anna didn’t know what to say.
He closed the wallet, he turned to the incident board and gestured with his hand. ‘Deal with death every day, every case; you learn early on not to get involved on a personal level — can’t do your job otherwise.’
‘Yes,’ she said, unable to look at him. She knew he was trying to explain something to her.
It proved too difficult. ‘Goodnight, Anna. See you in the morning.’
‘Yes, see you in the morning.’
He returned to his office. She picked up her briefcase and walked out of the incident room. From the car park, she could see his office light was still on, his shadow across the blinds, as if he was watching her.
Anna had successfully suppressed her feelings for him, but at times like this evening, they rose to the surface. She couldn’t help thinking that if he had put his arms around her, she would have had no idea how to deal with it. All she wanted to do was hold him close; she wished he could be the same man who used to draw her into the curve of his body as they lay in bed together. She felt the ache in the pit of her stomach; it was impossible to simply stop loving someone. She knew it would be a long time before she was truly able to say it was over.
Chapter Nineteen
You could feel the adrenalin pumping as Langton gave the briefing. Both Krasiniqe brothers were illegal immigrants, shipped into the UK as very young teenagers. Both had been drawn into Camorra’s world, used and abused by him, and totally dominated by his perversions, his threats and his so-called voodoo powers. They now knew how Carly Ann North’s death linked to the brothers, and to Camorra. Along with his illegal traffic of immigrants, they now wanted him for her murder.
They were pulling back on press releases and television coverage, as it was imperative they did not tip off Camorra to leave the country. They now had another team of extra officers to push up the hunt for him; they also had, from Idris Krasiniqe, a good description of the house in Peckham where he was known to reside.
The stunned team listened as Langton listed the pieces of the jigsaw that were still missing. They needed to interview Eamon Krasiniqe’s cellmate, who was believed to have fed the poison to him. Who was the visitor listed with the assumed name and fake ID? Who wanted Arthur Murphy dead? Langton was also going to get Vernon Kramer brought in for questioning again, this time at the station.