DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  It was clear to Wendy that the young woman was hostile, although she wasn’t sure if it was a result of her abrupt removal from her lover, or whether it was the woman’s natural state. Regardless, she needed to talk.

  ‘Rosy, let me be plain here. If you’ve been selling yourself to Billy and others, I’ll have you remanded and placed in care. Do I make myself understood?’

  ‘You can’t talk to Rosy like that,’ the mother said.

  ‘I can and I must. You seem to be upset over Ralphie’s death, although your husband and Rosy don’t.’

  ‘Has your father ever laid a finger on you?’ Wendy asked Rosy.

  ‘I’ve never touched her,’ the father said.

  ‘I’ll be reporting Rosy and her behaviour once I’m back at Challis Street. You, Mr Begley, if it is found that you have touched your daughter, then charges will be laid. Now, Rosy, has your father ever made any inappropriate actions against you?’

  Rosy sat mute, her eyes looking down.

  ‘No need to answer,’ Wendy said. She knew the truth; others would deal with the father in due course.

  ‘Ralphie was worried, I know that,’ Rosy said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He liked Sal, not me, but she was fat and plain.’

  ‘Ralphie told me that he identified with Sal. Both of them wanted something better out of life, so do you. But giving yourself to Billy Jepson and others is not the way to achieve it. Sal Maynard thought that associating with celebrities would be her way out, Ralphie had no idea of how to get out and had resigned himself to his fate. But you, Rosy Begley, believe that giving yourself to older men is the way. You’re still a child, even if you have the body of a woman.’

  ‘It’s better than what they do,’ Rosy said, lifting her head, glancing over at her mother and father.

  ‘It’s not the solution. I’ll ensure that you receive counselling if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Ralphie said you were a good person.’

  ‘Not that good. I was wild at your age, but I had good parents.’

  ‘Mum’s fine, even if she’s unable to control us.’

  ‘Rosy, what did Ralphie tell you?’

  ‘It was earlier today. He told me he was going to phone you, but he was frightened.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘He knew who the second man was.’

  ‘That Sal Maynard mentioned?’

  ‘Yes. He’d seen him somewhere, and the man frightened him. Ralphie was thinking of disappearing, and he wasn’t sure of what to do.’

  ‘Did you advise him?’

  ‘I told him to vanish, and now he’s dead.’

  ‘Did he give you a name?’

  ‘I can’t remember what he said.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Or maybe you were spaced out on drugs.’

  ‘I might remember later.’

  ‘And if you do, what will you do? Phone me or try to make some money for yourself?’

  ‘I’ll phone you.’

  ‘Ralphie was probably killed because of this name. If you try to make a deal, he will kill you. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Rosy Begley, you don’t. One of the men that Sal Maynard was involved with was a Romanian gangster, not a Stockwell villain, not a Billy Jepson. These men kill without conscience. If they or he suspect you know, then your life will be forfeit, as will your parents’ lives. Does everyone in this room understand?’

  Wendy looked at the other two, both nodding in acknowledgement. She knew they did not.

  Chapter 24

  In St Mary’s Hospital Stanislav Ivanov opened his eyes for the first time since he had been shot. The time had come to see whether the football club owner, entrepreneur, and Bratva Godfather was to be a vegetable for his remaining days, or whether he was to make a full recovery.

  Detective Chief Inspectors Isaac Cook and Oscar Braxton stood back from the bed.

  Ivanov slowly moved his head, looked at his wife and smiled. She came closer and kissed him on his forehead. A nurse checked the patient’s pulse, a doctor felt proud that the medical care that had been provided appeared to have been successful.

  ‘What happened?’ Ivanov said to his wife.

  ‘There was an assassination attempt,’ she replied.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The police don’t know.’

  ‘They are unimportant. Where is Gennady Peskov?’

  ‘He is here, but you must rest.’

  ‘I need Peskov.’

  ‘Your wife is correct,’ the doctor said. ‘We need to ascertain your intellectual acuity, conduct further tests. You are still under mild sedation, and will be drowsy for the next few days.’

  Ivanov moved his head towards his wife and spoke, his voice still slurred. ‘Peskov knows what to do,’ he said. His wife nodded but did not speak.

  Isaac Cook and Oscar Braxton heard the words but did not understand; a police sergeant, the child of Russian immigrants, stood next to them.

  Outside Ivanov’s room, the police sergeant reported all that she had heard spoken in Russian.

  ‘Peskov’s the key,’ Isaac said.

  ‘The key to what?’ Braxton replied.

  ‘We’re none the wiser, but Ivanov seemed coherent.’

  Gennady Peskov came out from Ivanov’s room, as did Ivanov’s wife. Isaac walked down the corridor with the woman, Braxton stayed with Peskov.

  ‘Mrs Ivanov, you must be pleased that your husband will recover,’ Isaac said.

  The woman did not miss a step and kept walking. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘There will be violence. We cannot allow it to happen in England.’

  ‘I am the wife of Stanislav Ivanov. What he does or does not do is not my concern.’

  ‘It is your concern. So far, he has not committed a criminal offence in England. If that changes, it could jeopardise your welcome in this country.’

  ‘Inspector Cook, I am powerless in such matters, the same as you.’

  The automatic doors at the exit to the building opened and Mrs Ivanov stepped into the back seat of a black Mercedes, the chauffeur opening the door for her. The vehicle sped away, leaving Isaac standing by the side of the road. He returned to where Gennady Peskov was standing with Oscar Braxton.

  ‘Peskov tells me that there is nothing of concern,’ Braxton said as Isaac arrived.

  ‘Mr Ivanov has placed his trust in you. You must know what he wanted you to do,’ Isaac said.

  ‘It is for me to let others know that Stanislav Ivanov lives and that it is business as usual.’

  ‘Business – commercial or criminal?’

  ‘With Ivanov, commercial. I need to bring in my own security,’ Peskov said.

  ‘There has always been a police officer outside Mr Ivanov’s room,’ Braxton said.

  ‘But Mr Ivanov is awake.’

  ‘Do you expect another assassination attempt?’

  ‘Your police officers will be no match for someone determined.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the Tverskoyskaya Bratva will attempt to kill him, or will it be closer to home?’

  ‘I am not suggesting anything. Stanislav Ivanov needs more security, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘We are wasting our time with Mr Peskov,’ Isaac said to Braxton, ensuring that the Russian heard the disdain in his voice.

  ‘If anything happens to anybody in this country, then you, Gennady Peskov, will be our primary suspect. Is that clear?’

  ‘That is clear,’ Peskov said as he walked away.

  ‘There’s going to be trouble. What about Cojocaru? If he was behind the assassination attempt, then he must be worried,’ Braxton said.

  ***

  Larry met with Claude Bateman who had taken the role of lead police communicator for the West Indian gangs in the area. Bateman was affable, more so than on the previous occasion.

  The Wellington Arms in Bayswater, the venue for their
meeting, was full, mostly with locals enjoying a quiet drink, a few tourists winding their way through the area, a few West Indians, some gang members, some not, sitting quietly or propping up the bar. Larry sat towards the back of the pub; on his left, Bateman, and on his right, one of Bateman’s men.

  ‘What will happen?’ Bateman asked. He had a cigar in his mouth, he offered one to Larry. The two men took a puff on their cigars before expelling the smoke; neither spoke for a minute.

  ‘What will you do? Are you clean?’ Larry said.

  ‘Becali took the shot at Ivanov.’

  ‘Did he take the shot, the truth?’

  ‘He had been in that building before.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’

  ‘Tell you what? If you knew that he had been seen there, what would you have done? Nothing, other than to confront Becali and Cojocaru. You wouldn’t have arrested them. And then what?’

  ‘You’d be exposed.’

  ‘Discretion is the better part of valour. If you arrest Becali for attempted murder, cast-iron evidence, then the person who saw him in that building will testify. Until then, nobody will say anything.’

  ‘You’re telling me now.’

  ‘The situation has changed. Ivanov will live, others will die.’

  ‘Becali entered the building, took the shot from the flat and left. Did your person see this?’

  ‘Not the flat, but the man entering and leaving the building, yes.’

  ‘It’s still circumstantial.’

  ‘That’s why you’ve not been told. You can’t prove it, nor can we, but Ivanov does not need proof.’

  ‘You’ve not told the Russians?’

  ‘If we told one of his men, could they be trusted? Would they believe us? They hate us more than they hate Cojocaru.’

  ‘Have you had any more contact with the man?’

  ‘He’s keeping a low profile, and with Ivanov recovering he must be worried.’

  ‘And worried people do stupid things.’

  ‘We will not become involved. The Russians are smarter than Cojocaru, more violent, and better resourced. We’d not stand a chance.’

  ‘Neither would the police. What can you do to help us?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Keep us informed at all times, no matter how insignificant. Any strange faces on the street?’

  ‘Russians?’

  ‘Or Romanians.’

  ‘How do you tell the difference?’

  ‘I’m not sure, apart from the language. Have you seen Ion Becali?’

  ‘He was in here a couple of days ago, drank a couple of beers and left.’

  ‘Did he speak to you?’

  ‘He wasn’t in a talkative mood. He met up with a woman, left with her.’

  ‘Is she important?’

  ‘She’s known in the area, but no, she’d know nothing.’

  Larry felt that his time was wasted with Claude Bateman and that the West Indians were bit players in the unfolding drama. A phone call from Isaac, an excuse to leave the pub.

  Outside, Larry got into his car, acknowledged one of Bateman’s men who had been keeping a watch on it for him. Graffiti, a nuisance in the area, had been on the rise, and a police car was a prime target for a quick spray, the words artistically applied, yet derogatory. No one would dare touch Bateman’s car, but a police vehicle was fair game, and for those who indulged in such behaviour, a badge of honour.

  At St Mary’s Hospital, Ivanov was sitting up and enjoying a good meal. No hospital food for him, it had been brought in from a Michelin-starred restaurant.

  ‘This would not have happened in Russia,’ he said.

  Larry had arrived at the same time as Isaac, and both had entered the man’s room together. To one side of Ivanov’s bed, Gennady Peskov. There was no sign of Ivanov’s wife.

  ‘We’ve tightened security,’ Isaac said by way of an apology, which he knew was an inadequate response. ‘We’ll ensure that it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘No doubt, but it doesn’t help.’

  In Ivanov’s previous room at the hospital, one floor up, Gordon Windsor and his crime scene investigators were commencing their investigation, the bullet hole in the window clearly visible.

  ‘We believe it was the same person that shot you before,’ Isaac said. Larry said nothing, disturbed that with the security they had provided for the Russian gangster, no one had thought to check the possibility of another shot being taken from outside the building, the same as when the man had stood on the street outside his house.

  ‘I thought the English police were the best, but it appears they are not. I may have to re-evaluate my time in your country. It may be that Russia is a safer place for me.’

  Isaac knew this was rhetoric on Ivanov’s part and that this incident would be breaking news in the media: a prominent and respected Russian businessman, the intended victim of a brazen assassination attempt, the second since the man had returned to England, the first since the football team he owned had won the FA Cup.

  ‘Our investigation has been thwarted by a wall of silence. Mr Ivanov, who took these shots?’

  ‘I am a powerful man, and in Russia, powerful men have powerful enemies.’

  ‘Are you saying that the attempts are orchestrated from Russia?’

  ‘I have said no such thing. Do not try to trick me with your English language. I am suitably fluent not to fall for such tricks. In Russia, business is sometimes conducted with a gun, but here in England, I thought it was not.’

  ‘It is not an Englishman who shot you, and you know this. It was either a Romanian or a Russian. We are aware of your connections in Russia, of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva.’

  ‘I am a legitimate businessman who abides by the law and the ethics of the country that I operate in.’

  ‘Are you saying that the Bratva is legitimate?’

  ‘It is you that mention the Bratva, not I. And may I remind you that I am an influential man, and any aspersions that I am in some way guilty of any crime are slanderous, and I will ensure that your superiors are informed of what you are saying.’

  Isaac knew that once the words ‘influential’, and ‘I have friends in high places’ were mentioned, then the person saying the words was rattled, and they were guilty.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I will go and check on your previous room,’ Isaac said. ‘What will you do about this second assassination attempt?’

  ‘I will rely on the British police to apprehend who is responsible and to bring them to justice.’

  Both Isaac and Larry knew that the man would not.

  Upstairs, in the room previously occupied by Ivanov, Gordon Windsor was busy, as were three of his colleagues. Outside, along the corridor, some of the other patients in the adjoining rooms were being moved. It was a crime scene, and it was neither as quiet as it should be nor as hygienic. A middle-aged woman from the hospital administration made herself known to Isaac, expressed her concern at what had happened, and asked how long it would be before the police were finished and that it was a hospital for the ill, and not there for a police training exercise.

  Isaac soothed the woman, ensured her that all efforts would be made to keep the disruption to a minimum, but a man had almost been shot in the hospital, and that had to take precedence. After ten minutes of his best diplomacy, the woman left.

  Isaac and Larry kitted up in coveralls, gloves, overshoes, and entered Ivanov’s previous room.

  ‘Not a good record,’ Windsor said. He was looking out of the window at a building across the road.

  ‘The police or the assassin?’

  ‘Both. You’ll be hauled over the coals on this one. The man was in our protective custody this time.’

  Isaac did not respond. He knew that Windsor was correct. Stanislav Ivanov had been provided police protection. It was not so much an oversight, more a realisation that it was the first time that a bullet had been fired into a hospital, and this time, the point of the bullet’s departure
could be clearly seen, an open window no more than fifty yards distance.

  ‘We’ve got people over there?’ Larry asked. ‘It was only luck that Ivanov moved to one side in his bed at the right time.’

  ‘The shooter’s been sloppy this time. We found some prints.’

  ‘Larry, get over there,’ Isaac said. ‘Find out what you can and make an arrest. If you don’t, we’re in for a rough time.’

  ***

  Two days after the second attempt on Ivanov’s life, the man checked himself out of St Mary’s Hospital and returned to his home in Bayswater. However, this time Gennady Peskov ensured that the security provided was the best possible, no more low-grade thugs from Russia, other than a core group of four personally chosen by Peskov. A private English security company were to patrol outside the house; they were not armed, not even with pepper spray or tasers, a result of stringent English laws restricting the carrying and use of weapons, and although Peskov thought it foolish, Ivanov could not agree. With the money being paid, and the incorruptibility of the men employed, he knew that he was safer with men who regarded security as a profession, not just a chance to carry a gun and act important.

  Peskov and his chosen four, fellow villagers back in Russia, had an arsenal of weapons in the house, although when they left the building they ensured that only two of them would discreetly carry guns. In the event of a gun being used, that person would be whisked out of England before the authorities could question him.

  Ivanov sat in his favourite chair, his wife nearby.

  ‘I want to stay in England,’ the wife said. She was holding her husband’s hand, but not with the attendant affection that would be assumed, but then, Ivanov knew that didn’t exist. They had married young and had had three children. One of them, the only daughter, was a doctor in Moscow, and she used her mother’s maiden name, and never mentioned that she was the child of Stanislav Ivanov. The two sons, one was killed in a shootout in St Petersburg, the other, a lieutenant in the Tverskoyskaya Bratva. Of the three children, Stanislav and his wife were fond of their daughter, not the remaining son. Each year the three of them would meet at a dacha near to a Black Sea resort. For ten days, they would be a family and no mention would be made of where the wealth had come from.