DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Cojocaru’s word meant little when he came to England. Do you believe him now?’ Harris said.

  ‘He can never be trusted, but what can we do?’

  ‘If we are to throw in our lot with Cojocaru, what guarantees do we have that he will honour what has been agreed?’

  ‘What has been agreed? And what of Marcus Hearne? And these women can’t be trusted, junkies the lot of them, apart from those two over there.’

  The third gang leader, Claude Bateman, older than the others, sat without saying a word. He looked over at one of the three women who had just walked in the door. ‘While you two debate, I intend to keep myself occupied. He grabbed the woman – blonde, no more than nineteen or twenty – and led her away. The two other women in the room, supposedly not available, looked at Devon Harris and Jeremy Miller.

  ‘I’d take the one on the left,’ Harris said.

  ‘They understand what we’re saying, or she does. Did you see her reaction when you mentioned her? We used to control everything, and now we’re here, no more than children waiting for the parent to decide what to do with us.’

  ‘We may not leave here alive, have you considered that?’

  ‘I have. What do you suggest?’

  ‘For now, nothing. Bateman had the right idea. If we leave here, then we have the Russians to deal with. If we stay here, then it’s Cojocaru. I trust neither, but we must wait and hope that the cards are in our favour.’

  ‘You are an optimist when there is no reason for optimism. We’re sitting ducks in here, targets out there.’

  ‘Then I’m taking the one who pretends she doesn’t understand English. You can choose amongst the others.’

  The woman who had previously resisted any advances by the three men stood up and took hold of Harris’s hand. The other gang leader sat in his chair, pensively weighing up the options.

  Chapter 17

  Emotions were running high at New Scotland Yard in Commissioner Alwyn Davies’s office. The man could see from the reports that the investigation into the murders at Briganti’s was far from resolved. Goddard had nothing to say, not in defence of his position, and for once the blustering, belligerent and political animal Davies was right.

  ‘We’ve got a lead on who killed Inspector Buckley in Ireland,’ Goddard said.

  ‘What’s Ireland got to do with this? It’s London I’m concerned about, and especially your part of it. I put you back there against my better judgement, and this is how you repay me. You could have got rid of Cook. The man’s a walking liability with his laid-back approach to policing.’

  ‘I don’t believe that’s a fair assessment of the situation and of DCI Cook.’

  ‘Fair! When did fair come into it? We’ve got hoodlums running around the streets, arming themselves from what I hear, and you talk about fair. Get real, man. You’re a chief superintendent, not a welfare counsellor. You need to ride your men, be there every minute, following up on every aspect of the case. But what do you do? Leave it to them, and now this. This Cojocaru, how long’s he been in the country?’

  ‘Nine to ten years.’

  ‘And he’s a major distributor of illicit drugs?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Why? You’ve had long enough to get him under control.’

  ‘Attempts are being made to get him deported.’

  ‘You can’t deal with men like him through the courts. More QCs than you and I have had hot dinners. You need to bait him, let him show his true colours, force him to commit a crime. Time’s against you on this one, and Caddick’s waiting for the say-so from me. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t dump your Cook and put Caddick in. He’ll not mess around.’

  ‘Sir, with all due respect,’ Goddard said, ‘Superintendent Caddick is the last person we need at Challis Street at this time.’

  ‘Don’t give me “with all due respect”. You don’t like Caddick, nor does Cook, but that’s not the point. We need to show action on this matter, and you’re telling me it’s under control and we have a suspect. Frankly, it does very little to quell my nerves. A gang war is the last thing we want at this time.’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to prevent. Isaac Cook is in France with Serious and Organised Crime. Inspector Hill is in Ireland checking on the Frenchman, gathering evidence.’

  ‘I read the report of Stanislav Ivanov. A nasty piece of work if Serious and Organised Crime is correct.’

  ‘They invariably are. We can’t touch the man, not legally, and he’s well-protected.’

  ‘Why do we let such scum into the country?’

  ‘You’d better ask the government. Obscenely rich and you’re welcomed in. Poor and desperate and the doors are bolted.’

  ‘Yes, we know all that, but what are you going to do? And don’t give me your usual platitudes. The situation is not under control. Are we going to have a repeat of what happened at the hairdressing salon?’

  ‘It’s unlikely.’

  ‘And how do you know this? The reports indicate that Ivanov is probably involved, yet you can’t make the connection. So how can you say it’s unlikely?’

  Davies paced around the room, did not speak for what seemed to be an eternity to Goddard, but was less than twenty seconds.

  ‘One week,’ Davies said.

  ‘And then what, sir?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘To come up with some results. And if there are any mass murders in the interim, don’t bother reporting, just send me your resignation, an email will be fine.’

  Davies had broken every rule in the book by his dismissive and derogatory dressing down of a chief superintendent. Goddard knew he would be wasting his time taking the matter forward.

  ***

  With Larry in Ireland and Isaac in France, Wendy Gladstone was in the office with Bridget Halloran. One variable remained outstanding: the presence in Briganti’s of Sal Maynard.

  ‘If she was there as a distraction,’ Wendy said, ‘she wasn’t looking to get herself killed.’

  ‘Her life wasn’t that good. Was she stable, mentally?’

  ‘According to Ralph Begley, she was.’

  ‘You reckon that if the woman was in there, it was because of Ion Becali?’

  ‘Yes. Which would mean that he was involved.’

  ‘Becali’s playing it both ways?’ Bridget said.

  ‘Men have died for less, but why? Becali’s a disgusting man, but he’s not stupid. If you cross Cojocaru, you end up dead. If you cross Ivanov, you end up dead. Not good odds whichever way you look at it.’

  ‘If you’re faced with two imponderables, you choose the path of least resistance, the winning side.’

  ‘Who’s the winner?’

  ‘Us, hopefully. But if I had to stake money, I’d say Ivanov.’

  With no more to discuss, Wendy went back to her desk. The office felt cold without the other two police officers. She sat and looked at the blank screen of her laptop, realising that a feeling of negativity had come over her, negativity she could not shake. Inaction and apathy, two conditions that she had always avoided, had surfaced with a bang. She stood up with a start, pushing her chair back with such force that it upended.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Bridget said, not used to seeing her friend in such a state.

  ‘Impending doom. As though there’s something in the air so tangible that you could cut it with a knife, yet we can’t see it.’

  ‘You were talking about Ion Becali before. Is that it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. The injustice of it gets to me sometimes. Becali is out there larger than life, Cojocaru is enjoying the sweet life, and Stanislav Ivanov acts as though he owns the country. And there’s Sal Maynard who did nothing wrong in her life, except wanting to better herself; and there she is, forgotten and not even missed by her own family.’

  ‘She wasn’t the only one in Briganti’s,’ Bridget said.

  ‘I know that, but the others had been loved, even Alphonse Abano. But with Sal, nobody.’

  ‘There’s Ralp
hie.’

  ‘It’s not sufficient.’

  ‘Welcome to the human condition. If she wasn’t loved, there’s not much you can do about it.’

  ‘There is. I can give her justice.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By making sure whoever talked her into going into that salon and draping herself around Hendry is brought in and charged with being an accessory to murder.’

  ***

  Cojocaru sat in his suite at the Radisson Blu Hotel in Bucharest. Located on Calea Victoriei, it was not far from Revolution Square, the scene of a disastrous speech by another Nicolae, Nicolae Ceausescu, the former president, who had been deposed and shot after a show trial, the guilty verdict predetermined. The irony was not lost on Cojocaru. He reflected on what he had achieved on his return to the land of his birth. It had been good to visit his parents’ grave, to see the house where he had grown up, even where he had shot his first man, but Bucharest had changed. No longer as easy as it had been, it was now full of shops and cars, and the government, if not totally incorruptible, was not as pliable as before.

  He had contacted one of the crime syndicates, a group that he had dealt with before. Back then, the leader had been a man his age, but he was dead, and in his place, his son, a smart thirty-two-year-old. Cojocaru realised that he was a man whose time was past, a man who did not belong. He had made a few phone calls, only to receive impersonal replies, or on two occasions the clicking in his ear as the phone was hung up on him. The visit had been a disaster, and he knew that the surly confidence he had had in London had gone.

  Cojocaru turned on the television, found nothing of interest, walked out of his room, and went and sat by the swimming pool. The evening climate was balmy, and he was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt. He felt some serenity as he leant back on a reclining chair.

  ‘Stanislav Ivanov will not be pleased,’ a man who came up to him said.

  ‘Your boss has no need to worry. I am here visiting my parents’ grave, that’s all.’

  ‘Do not lie. The best thing you can do is to return to London and to pray that Stanislav Ivanov has a forgiving nature.’

  ‘Does he?’

  The man looked Cojocaru directly in the eyes. ‘Not that I’ve ever seen it.’ He then walked away.

  Panic seized the gangster, the realisation that he was no longer the hunter but the hunted, and that Romania was no longer his home, nor was London. The only hope lay with the West Indians, but he knew that was futile. They did not have the tenacity to deal with the situation. But did he? The situation was too difficult to comprehend, but nothing could be resolved from Romania, and now Ivanov had men following him, men who at a command could kill him. He went to his room, packed his suitcase, and took a taxi to the airport.

  In London, Becali received a phone call from his boss at eight in the evening. ‘Pick me up at the airport, 11 p.m. flight.’

  ‘Any success?’ Becali asked. His situation had become difficult as well. His link to Sal Maynard would be confirmed in time, and regardless of what he had said, he had enjoyed his time with her. It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t hate or indifference. With him, she had been genuine. With the women who cost a great deal more, the show of enjoying his company was fake, but that simple and uncomplicated woman who had lived in a depressing ten-storey tenement building had confessed her love for him, her willingness to trust her life to him, her blind obedience if that was what he wanted.

  ‘None. Ivanov has people here, and the old contacts are gone. London is where we are, where we must do what is necessary.’

  ‘Is there no alternative?’

  ‘None. You, Ion Becali, are the one who must do this. There is no one else who I can trust.’

  ‘We will succeed, you and I.’

  Cojocaru did not answer as he did not know what to say. Becali had always been a loyal servant to him, but now the man was about to become more. Whatever the outcome, Cojocaru knew that the relationship between the two men would be inexorably altered.

  ***

  Larry was tired of being away from home. One of the children had a cough, another had a ‘parents meet the teachers’ function in three days. He wanted to be home for both of them.

  ‘Buckley’s wife?’ Annie said.

  ‘Any suspicions there?’

  ‘Not with her. It’s not as if Buckley had much to show for his years in the police force.’

  ‘Neither do I. It’s the life we choose, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. Although with my husband and myself working, we’re not so badly off, and Ireland is a lot cheaper than London.’

  ‘Is Dervla Buckley at home?’

  ‘She will be. I’ve phoned to tell her we’re coming.’

  Larry could tell that Annie O’Carroll still had a lingering sorrow for Buckley.

  Larry had no such sentiment; a crooked police officer had abrogated his right to sympathy and concern.

  Dervla Buckley was not in a dressing gown on their second visit. This time, she was dressed in an ankle-length dress, her hair coiffured, her makeup immaculate. She was welcoming to the two police officers.

  On a table in the sitting room, a spread of sandwiches, freshly-brewed coffee, and a pot of tea. ‘I thought we’d make ourselves comfortable,’ Mrs Buckley said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Annie said, ‘but we’ve got a few questions. There are disturbing aspects to your husband’s death.’

  ‘I don’t miss him if that’s what you expect me to say. I know about Sheila Gaffney.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She came over here to offer her condolences.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I was angry at first. Seamus had died, and although she had been sleeping with Ryan, it just doesn’t seem that important to bear any malice against her.’

  ‘Have you known her for long?’ Larry asked.

  ‘A long time, almost as long as I knew Ryan. A good woman, good mother, and before what she admitted to, a loyal wife. It goes to show, doesn’t it? People assumed I’d be the one to stray, not that I did, and humble and sweet Sheila is there, flat on her back, my husband on top of her.’

  ‘There’s another issue,’ Larry said. ‘We’ve identified the man who probably shot your husband. We believe that Seamus had told Ryan something of value. And that was why Ryan killed Seamus, hoping to grab the money for himself.’

  ‘I never considered him to be dishonest. He loved being a police officer. I can’t believe that of him.’

  ‘Inspector O’Carroll would prefer to believe the same, but the facts are indisputable. Your husband died as a result of an order from a foreign crime syndicate. We need to know why it’s important. Is there anything he said to you that seems obscure?’

  ‘Nothing. We were barely talking, only what was necessary.’

  ‘I hope you’re telling the truth. Two people have died in Ireland, I don’t want you to be the third,’ Larry said.

  ‘I don’t know anything, believe me. Ryan’s life insurance is still valid, although I don’t expect his police pension is. I have been left financially secure, at least I can thank Ryan for that.’

  On the drive to the airport, Annie spoke. ‘Did you believe her?’

  ‘The money that Ryan’s life insurance will pay is not going to last indefinitely, no matter what she said. However, I do believe her. Just hope that others are of that opinion,’ Larry said.

  Chapter 18

  Claude Bateman, the most ruthless of the gang leaders who had enjoyed Nicolae Cojocaru’s hospitality, was the first to leave the house where he and the two others had been wined, dined, bedded, and given the runaround.

  He had been spotted in the Wellington Arms. Larry heard of the man’s reappearance through a contact who phoned him from time to time, a fifty pound note, a few drinks given in return as payment.

  Bateman was in a corner of the pub when Larry walked in. This time he had brought Wendy, a woman who was also partial to a drink, but the visit was business not social, although Larry ordered
a pint of beer for each of them.

  ‘Over here, Inspector,’ Bateman shouted.

  Larry and Wendy sat down at the man’s table. Around him, four men, members of his gang: Tony Hammond, a young man, skinny as a rake. Good with a knife if the word on the street was accurate, six months in prison at twenty for theft. Victor Powell, short, in his thirties, an open-necked shirt with a large medallion proudly showing. Larry hadn’t seen him before and assumed he had been brought in if there was to be violence. The third gang member, Marlon Morris, a surly-looking individual who didn’t like the police under any circumstances, and he had elbowed Wendy when she sat down. She had made a mental note to check him out with Bridget. To her, he looked more than a rank and file hoodlum. The fourth man, good-looking, well-spoken, and polite had shaken the hands of the two police officers, as had Bateman. His name was Colin Ross. Wendy thought he was charming, Larry did not.

  ‘Where are the other two?’ Larry asked Bateman. A woman came over and put her arms around the man’s shoulder; he pushed her away.

  ‘One of your admirers?’ Wendy said.

  Bateman, not responding to the question, looked over at Larry. ‘The bastards killed Marcus Hearne.’

  ‘There have been others in the past. Why are you concerned and why are we talking in this pub?’

  ‘Where else? Either I declare my position or I sit on the fence.’

  ‘And you intend to work with the police on this?’

  ‘I intend to survive.’

  ‘Your men here, what do they reckon?’

  ‘They’ll do what I say.’

  ‘Until you’re deposed.’

  ‘Others have tried.’

  ‘And died. Isn’t that how you decide who’s in charge?’

  ‘Inspector, let’s focus on our common position. You don’t want an escalation in violence in the area, nor more drugs coming into the country, correct?’

  ‘We want no violence and no drugs.’