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.