‘Charming, yet vicious. I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of him,’ Wendy said.
‘He could still have given the order for Gaffney’s murder. We need to know if that’s the case. When Larry’s back, the two of you check on Gaffney’s movements, see if he saw or heard anything and if he was trying to set up a deal.’
‘It’ll not be easy.’
‘That’s why I’ve got the best team in Homicide,’ Isaac said.
Chapter 11
Sheila Gaffney said little, her eyes red from crying. Ryan Buckley sat beside her, his arm around her shoulder.
‘I know he was a rogue, but I loved him, he loved me, and he always had time for the children,’ the woman said eventually. She had a happy look about her, Larry decided. Apart from the fact that she was pregnant, she was a short, roundish woman with red hair, rosy cheeks and a freckled face.
The house where the three of them sat was small, with no more than three bedrooms judging by the size of it, but it had a loved look.
‘Your children?’ Larry asked.
‘They’re not far away. The eldest, she’s the most sensible, the closest to her father, is next door with her best friend. She’ll be back here soon enough. The others are in the garden or with the neighbours. Seamus loved it here, and he was looking to come back on a permanent basis. Not that I had any idea how he’d fit in. He upset a few when he was younger, and they’ve forgiven him. But my Seamus wasn’t the sort to stay at home.’
‘Is that what he was planning to do?’
‘He said it was. Something about how our future was going to be better. Not that I wanted anything to change. He’s away for a few weeks, then back here for a few days. It was like a honeymoon every time, and now he’s not going to walk in the front door again, is he?’
‘Sorry, Sheila, but no,’ Buckley said. Larry could see the man’s genuine affection for the woman.
‘Do you know who? I know that people could get angry with him, but killing someone, that’s different, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ Larry said. ‘Any enemies that you know of?’
‘Not Seamus. Was he involved with crime in London?’
‘On the edge. He was crafty, managed to avoid too much trouble. We let him go a few times with a warning, a swift kick up the rear end.’
‘Literally?’
‘Metaphorically. I used to meet with him occasionally, talk about this and that.’
‘He gave you information for money?’
‘He did.’
‘I told him that it would get him killed, but he kept telling me not to worry, and it was only general knowledge that he was passing on.’
‘Sometimes it wasn’t. Easy to upset people doing that,’ Larry said.
‘That’s what got him killed, talking when he shouldn’t. Mind you, he never wasted his money, and he looked after us well.’
‘We believe it was something more serious than that. Have you seen anyone suspicious around the house lately?’
‘I should get you a cup of tea. Forgetting my manners. Seamus wouldn’t like me doing that.’
‘It’s not important,’ Buckley said.
‘I must,’ the woman said as she got up from her seat and left the room.
‘You’d better go with her,’ Larry said. ‘Delayed shock.’
Five minutes later the two returned, Buckley carrying a tray with three mugs and a bowl of sugar, a jug of milk.
‘Mrs Gaffney,’ Larry continued after all three had settled again, ‘we believe this was not a local with a grudge. If anyone’s been around the house that looked out of place, we need to know.’
‘Well, there was this one man looking for directions, a foreign accent and I didn’t understand what he was saying at first.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘Apart from the accent, he was about average height. I noticed that he limped with his left leg.’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘Smart. He wore a suit which was unusual for around here, apart from a Sunday.’
‘Sunday?’
‘Church. We’re all firm believers around here, even if Seamus wasn’t too keen. When he was back here, he came with me, never failed. Not so sure if he did in London. Probably not, I suppose. And he did like a drink, and he was close to the children.’
Larry could see the woman drifting. The initial tears had dried up. They were soon to be replaced by inconsolable anguish. After that, there’d be no more questions for some time.
‘Mrs Gaffney, would you recognise this man again?’
‘I would.’
Larry took out his phone and scanned through the photos of people of interest that he had on it.
‘No, it’s not any of them, although he looks similar,’ Sheila Gaffney said, pointing at a picture of Crin Antonescu.
Outside, their collars turned up against a cold wind, Buckley lit up a cigarette, gave one to Larry.
‘Was it him?’ Buckley said, referring to the picture of Antonescu.
‘We can prove that he was in London, and he doesn’t limp. The person that Sheila Gaffney met may just have been a tourist.’
‘We’ll keep checking, but this time of the year the place is full of them.’
***
Isaac dropped Wendy off at Challis Street. She had work to do after their conversation with Nicolae Cojocaru. He continued on to New Scotland Yard, parking his car on the street outside, a police-parking designated spot. He walked through the security at the entrance, showed his warrant card and received a badge to display inside the building, before proceeding through the first door to the main building and taking the lift to the fourth floor.
‘Isaac Cook, long time,’ Detective Chief Inspector Oscar Braxton said.
‘It’s not often I get an invite to such a hallowed place,’ Isaac replied in jest to a man he’d known for some years.
The two men, one black, the other white, sat down at a desk and spoke about old times, out on the beat, training, and what life had brought them both. Braxton, married with three children; Isaac, still single and hoping for the patter of little feet one day. Isaac could see that the man, a similar age to him, looked older by at least five years, but then, Braxton was a smoker and a drinker, and Isaac was neither, apart from the occasional social drink or when he was meeting with villains, as he had that day.
‘Nicolae Cojocaru, slippery bugger,’ Braxton said. ‘We’ve been watching him, but he plays the game well. Apart from the deaths that occurred in his name, none proven, he maintains a low profile. We suspect him of being a major player in importing illicit drugs into this country, but he uses middlemen. Men who don’t know who the others are, except over a phone, and the points of entry into the country change. And if they’re storing the goods for any length of time, a factory unit on a weekly or monthly hire. With no actual contact linking back to Cojocaru, we can’t prove anything.’
‘How about his bank accounts?’
‘We managed to gain access to one in the UK, but the money was legit. If he’s being paid, it’s offshore. The money moving around can’t be spent that quickly, anyway.’
‘Any reason?’
‘What can you buy with it? A castle in Scotland, a Greek Island, a fleet of Rolls Royces?’
‘Cojocaru lives well,’ Isaac said.
‘He’s got enough businesses and property in London to justify his lifestyle. The man even pays taxes.’
Isaac realised that Braxton was expressing a personal view on the distribution of wealth. He thought it a naïve outlook for a man working in Serious and Organised Crime. Men such as Cojocaru, Isaac knew only too well, were not satisfied with sufficient; they wanted all they could get, a way of keeping score.
‘He can’t be the only player in this country,’ Isaac said.
‘He’s not, but he concerns us more than the others. And he’s been dealing with the Russians, but you must know that,’ Braxton said.
‘We do, but we’re Homicide, not Serious and Organ
ised Crime. If someone’s murdered we’re there, but drug smuggling and whatever else goes on in our patch is of interest, but not our primary focus. Briganti’s is murder. Otherwise, it’s up to you, and you’re telling me you can’t pin the man down.’
Not entirely true,’ Braxton said, irritated by the impertinence of someone from Challis Street, not the prestigious surroundings of New Scotland Yard.
‘Sorry if I’m blunt, but I’ve just spent time with the man in question, and he gave us the runaround, gave us a name.’
‘Everyone thinks we’ve got it easy,’ Braxton said. ‘They know who the criminals are, so they expect us to go out there and arrest them. But it doesn’t work like that, you know that. Cojocaru can afford the best legal advice, and the prosecution, good men and women, are paid by you and me out of our taxes. This is not Romania or Russia or the Middle East where these ratbags come from. We can’t just go and pick them up, put on a show trial, slam them in prison or make them disappear. We’re accountable, and they know it. No doubt they have a good laugh at our ineffectiveness, but that’s the way it is.’
‘We have the same problem,’ Isaac said. ‘What about Stanislav Ivanov? Cojocaru gave me his name.’
‘What do you know about the Russian mafia?’ Braxton asked. An air of cordiality existed between the two men.
‘Not a lot, other than they’re organised and dangerous.’
‘That’s it. They are exceptionally well-organised, and they regard crime as a business, not as anything dishonest, and now, in Russia with so much corruption, they’re thriving. Ivanov heads the Tverskoyskaya Bratva, one of the most influential of the crime gangs.’
‘What does the name mean?’
‘Tverskoy is a district in Moscow. Skaya translates as belonging to. The Tverskoyskaya Bratva was formed in Tverskoy. Most of the mafia gangs take the name of the place where they were formed or where they’re based. Bratva, I assume you know what that means.’
‘The Brotherhood, although not much brotherly love from what I’ve heard.’
‘None at all, and if you’re a member and in trouble, you’re hauled before their executive. If found guilty punishment is swift. No chance of an appeal with them, no right of reply.’
‘Tough justice,’ Isaac said.
‘Don’t feel sorry for whoever’s on the receiving end. They’re bad news, and so far, we’ve kept them out, but now, if it’s Stanislav Ivanov, we’ve got trouble.’
‘Tell me about him?’
‘He’s well known in this country. Fifty-two, educated in Moscow at the Lomonosov University. A master’s degree in economics, a bachelor’s in English. The man speaks flawless English. No convictions against him and he has a dacha outside of Moscow, heavily fortified.’
‘Protection?’
‘Men such as Ivanov get neurotic about their own importance. He’s only in charge as long as there are no pretenders to the throne in the wings.’
‘Where does Cojocaru fit into all this?’
‘We’re not sure. He wouldn’t be a pretender, and he’s only a small cog in the wheel. But he’s a weak point, and the Russians are making a move.’
‘Any proof?’
‘We have our sources in this country and overseas. Not that the locals know any more than we do, but overseas there is a power struggle between the various mafia gangs in Russia.’
‘I’m interested in solving the murders. The possible incursion of the Russians only concerns me if it has some bearing, if it will precipitate more murders.’
‘It will, you can be sure of that.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Prayer might help. What we really need is for Cojocaru to open up. He does not intend to allow anyone to come in and usurp him. He’ll be in contact with the Russians, but be warned, don’t get too close, or you’ll end up regretting it.’
‘From Cojocaru?’
‘He’ll play it strategically. Have you seen any Russians?’
‘We don’t know who we’re looking for.’
‘Okay, I’ll give you a rundown on who is who, as well as photos. We’ll be monitoring the airports in case anyone comes in. But Ivanov is not a criminal in his own country, no one would risk saying anything to the contrary, and it’s not likely to change. He’s got those who could change his status in his pocket, and he visits England on a regular basis. He’s got a house, more like a mansion, close to the River Thames in Richmond, a place in Bayswater. His wife comes for the shopping, he comes for Ascot and the football, but most of the time she’s at one place, he’s at the other indulging in what crime bosses do.’
‘What’s that?’
‘High-quality women. Sometimes he brings them with him, sometimes he sources locally.’
‘No crimes against him in England?’
‘None, and if Cojocaru is right and Ivanov is planning something here, it’s a frightening development.’
‘Cojocaru only mentioned the name.’
‘He must be scared if he’s talking to you.’
‘He’s still dangerous.’
‘He’ll double-cross you or anyone else if it helps him,’ Braxton said. ‘Keep in contact, and be careful.’
‘I will,’ Isaac said. He needed to get back to Challis Street. Larry was back from Ireland, and he had to be debriefed, and the additional information disseminated amongst the team.
Chapter 12
Wendy continued with her investigations into the others that had been in the salon that day, placing emphasis on the four whose bodies still remained in the mortuary. She discounted Waverton, the banker, soon enough. The man had no criminal record, no known associates, and although he was financially sharp, there had never been any suggestion of anything untoward. With him out of the way, her focus turned to Sal Maynard, once again travelling out to where she had lived.
Time had moved on for the Maynards, not a close family, in that though it was only a few weeks since the daughter had been shot, there was a raucous party in full swing at the depressing flat in Stockwell. Wendy parked her car, careful not to leave anything inside that suggested it was a police issue, and walked up to the tenement, pushing past a group of youths attempting to look menacing, but looking stupid instead. Wendy took the lift to the ninth floor where it stopped with a shudder.
At the flat, Sal’s heavily-tattooed older brother opened the door to Wendy’s knock. ‘Bad time? Wendy said.
‘It depends, doesn’t it?’
‘On what?’ Wendy took two steps back as she didn’t want to get too close to the man, who was clearly drunk.
‘Are you here to party or to cause trouble?’
‘I’m here conducting further investigations into the death of your sister.’
‘Not partying, a shame. I like older women, more experienced.’
Wendy retreated from the door and back to the relative safety of her car parked on the street below. A teenage boy riding a bicycle, his shirt hanging out and a cigarette in his mouth, approached her.
‘Are you here about Sal?’ he said.
‘Yes. What do you know about her?’
‘Knowing too much around here only causes you problems.’
‘It’ll cost, is that what you’re saying?’ Wendy said.
‘A man has got to make a living somehow, and you look as though you’ve got plenty.’
‘Man? You should be in school.’
‘What’s the point? All they want to do is to teach us about other places, and how to spell and write and to add up. What use is that to me?’
‘It’ll get you a job.’
‘Not me. I make enough.’
Wendy’s two sons were a credit to her, both married with children and holding down good jobs, but the individual in front of her, no more than sixteen, was unlikely to make thirty, she thought, if he continued the way he was. His future, she decided, was either drugs or prison or both. Regardless, she needed to know what he was referring to.
‘How much?’
‘A good feed first, McDo
nald's will do. And five hundred pounds.’
‘For what? To tell me that Sal Maynard didn’t do much and the Maynards are criminals. Is that it? Or are you going to tell me that they robbed the local newsagents? I’m investigating Sal’s murder, not chasing petty criminals.’
‘It’s more than that.’
‘Very well. Fifty pounds and another ten for McDonald's. You can go on your own afterwards.’
‘It’s a deal. There’s a park not far from here, down the end of the road, the second turn on the right. I’ll meet you there.’
‘If this is a trick…’
‘It’s not. It’s good, you can trust me, and Sal, she wasn’t such a bad sort. A bit stupid, but she would always talk to me, sometimes buy me a drink.’
‘You’re underage.’
‘The publican doesn’t worry too much, and besides, I go around the back. Sal deals with him, you know what I mean?’
‘I’m not sure that I do. What’s your name?’
‘Ralph, although everyone calls me Ralphie.’
‘Okay, Ralphie, you need to earn your money. The park or down at the local police station.’
‘No deal. They know me down there.’
‘And what will they tell me when I check with them?’
‘They’ll tell you I’m a liar and can’t be trusted. But what do they know, stuck in that station of theirs? It’s tough, and the police don’t like it up here, and they don’t like the Maynards, and they don’t like me.’
Wendy could understand why. ‘What’s your surname?’
‘I don’t want to give it,’ the youth said.
‘Don’t be stupid. You’ve told me your name is Ralph, and that you prefer to be called Ralphie. You ride a bike, you know Sal and the local pub, and you’ve got two earrings and I can see a tattoo in the shape of a cross on your arm, or I assume that’s what it’s meant to be. Did it yourself, did you? I’m sure the police could tell me your full name, where you live, the crimes you’ve committed, even the days you failed to go to school. Fifty pounds and a Big Mac is dependent on you playing ball with me.’
‘Okay, Ralph Ernest Begley. Satisfied?’
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