Murder Has No Guilt

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Marcus Hearne, gang leader, someone I used to meet with from time to time,’ Larry said.

  ‘You pick your friends well.’

  ‘We needed Hearne,’ Larry said.

  ‘That’s why he’s dead.’

  ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Is this to do with Briganti’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Larry could see no more to be gained at the murder scene. He drove back to Challis Street. He was not in a good mood.

  The first person he saw on his arrival at the police station, the obnoxious and unwelcome Superintendent Caddick. ‘Bad day,’ the man said.

  ‘Not the best. What are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here, sir,’ Caddick replied. Larry could see that the man hadn’t changed: overly impressed with his own importance, incompetent without equal. The man was a walking disaster, and he was in Challis Street.

  ‘Are you coming back, sir?’ Larry said, adding emphasis on the ‘sir’. It was close to impertinence, but he didn’t care, and if Caddick wanted to write a report about his attitude, then that was fine. Larry walked away and left Caddick standing where he was.

  In Homicide, the welcome face of Isaac in his office.

  ‘Caddick’s downstairs,’ Larry said.

  ‘He’s been in here. I gave him his marching orders. If the man wants to make something of it, that’s up to him. Marcus Hearne?’

  ‘Dead, one bullet.’

  ‘No idea where Cojocaru is?’

  ‘The general area, but it doesn’t help us.’

  ‘Stanislav Ivanov landed in his private jet ninety minutes ago,’ Isaac said.

  ‘To attend the meeting?’

  ‘We don’t think so. He’s at his house in Bayswater. We’ve got people staking it out.’

  ‘Is he on his own?’

  ‘A couple of women, they looked expensive. And then there are some bodyguards.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘Not on arrival.’

  ‘It’s all coming to us,’ Larry said. ‘And Caddick?’

  ‘He’s just sticking his nose in. The man’s come to gloat. He’ll wait until we’ve got the case almost solved. Then he’ll be back to take my seat or DCS Goddard’s.’

  ‘We’d better solve it sooner than later,’ Larry said.

  ‘Marcus Hearne, what did you expect him to tell you?’

  ‘If Cojocaru had offered him a sweetener, he might have told me nothing.’

  ***

  The revelation, coming later in the day, was a shock. So much so that Larry had taken the first flight to Ireland. Upon landing, Annie O’Carroll had been there to welcome him. To see her there, a half-smile on her face, lifted the dark mood that he had carried all day.

  ‘You’ve cracked it?’ Larry said.

  ‘One of them. I’ve booked you into the same hotel as before.’

  ‘Not sure if I can stay. The situation in London is fluid. Ivanov’s in the country, and Cojocaru’s missing, as are three of the West Indian gang bosses. There’s a palpable tension on the streets. No one wants to be caught in the action if anything happens.’

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘People panic, especially when they are being fed rumours from opposing sides. But if Ivanov has had Cojocaru and the others killed, then who knows?’

  The two police officers drove in silence; Larry took the opportunity to close his eyes for a few minutes.

  Inside the house they had driven to Sheila Gaffney sat silently in one corner of the room. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ she said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’ Larry said.

  ‘I was upset over Seamus’s death. I did love him, but he was away for so long each time. I had hoped he would have come back to live with us, and when he said that he would, I told Ryan that it was over.’

  ‘How long had you been having an affair with him?’

  ‘Five years, on and off. Ryan couldn’t accept what it was, just a casual fling. He saw it as love, and no doubt with Dervla being difficult, I seemed the ideal choice for him. He became angry when I told him.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘The same day as Seamus arrived, early in the morning. Long enough for, well, you know.’

  ‘We know now.’

  ‘Mrs Gaffney, you’re pregnant,’ Annie O’Carroll said.

  ‘It’s Seamus’s, I know that. I wouldn’t have done that to him.’

  ‘The full story, in your own time,’ Larry said.

  Sheila Gaffney got up from where she had been sitting and walked around the room before sitting back in the same chair. She seemed to have visibly shrunk.

  ‘It was after the third child. Before that, they came at regular intervals, and I was always busy looking after them. And then a spell where I failed to get pregnant. Seamus was still commuting, supporting us as he always did. I became lonely, maybe because I wasn’t expecting, and from loneliness comes melancholy and then reflection, and finally the need to do something. It was on one of Ryan’s visits. He was always dropping in to see how we were. Seamus, the rogue that he was, and Ryan, a police officer. It’s hard to believe the friendship between the two men, but it never wavered.

  ‘Ryan is here, and I knew that he always liked me, always commenting if only his wife could be more like me, and then it happened. I wanted to say no, but I couldn’t. And afterwards, I thought I should feel guilty, but I didn’t. I felt loved, and by two men. After that, he’d come over occasionally, but he started to become serious. He even spoke of my divorcing Seamus, he divorcing Dervla, and for us to get married. I had wanted to end it for some time, always too afraid to do it, and then Seamus is on the phone saying that he’s coming back for good.’

  ‘Ryan Buckley’s reaction?’ Larry said.

  ‘He stormed out of here, ever so angry. He said he was going to have me one way or the other.’

  ‘Which you interpreted as meaning that he intended to murder your husband?’

  ‘No. Ryan could be hot-headed but I could never have imagined that he would harm Seamus.’

  ‘We’ve proof?’ Larry asked Annie.

  ‘We had never considered Ryan as the murderer. A fellow police officer, a loyal friend of the family.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘When Sheila told me, we re-examined the evidence, checked on Ryan’s movements. His car was fitted with GPS monitoring. We backtracked where it had been driven and found a layby where he had pulled in. Our people went there and found the weapons. It’s conclusive. Ryan murdered Seamus,’ Annie said. She had her arm around Sheila Gaffney.

  Larry realised there were no words that he could offer that would alter the anguish and the shame that Gaffney’s widow felt. He left the house and returned to Annie’s car. Five minutes later she came out of the house.

  ‘It came as a shock, but we have our murderer,’ Annie said.

  ‘What about Buckley’s killer?’

  ‘That still remains unsolved.’

  ‘I should get back to London. If you could drop me back at the airport, I’d be grateful,’ Larry said. He had spent just under three hours in Ireland before he boarded the plane for the return journey; his despondent mood had returned.

  ***

  ‘It sticks in your throat,’ Oscar Braxton said. Isaac and Larry were at New Scotland Yard in Braxton’s office. On the television, a football match, and in the owner’s box, Stanislav Ivanov. ‘That’s the trouble, people just don’t care. Look at them fawning over him, making him out to be something special instead of the grubby gangster that he is.’

  Isaac could sympathise, knowing full well that there were more villains outside of the prisons than in, and with enough money anyone was innocent. He realised that it was a pessimistic view of the law, and any attempt at meeting with Ivanov, possibly bringing him into Challis Street, would be met with a barrage of Queen’s Counsels, all of them at the pinnacle of their legal prowess.

  The philanthropic businessman was how the football team saw him, the
general public if they knew of him, but never as the head of a violent criminal gang, only separated from the hoodlums causing trouble of a Saturday evening after a few too many drinks by his wealth.

  ‘We can’t touch him, I suppose?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘He doesn’t break any laws in this country, and back in Russia, he’s protected. Friends in high places protecting his back, him protecting theirs. And now, the man is making a move in this country.’

  Larry, glad to be back home with his wife and their children, having arrived the previous night, said little, although the events in Ireland had unsettled him. Sheila Gaffney, the dutiful wife, a person who caused no harm to anyone, now tainted as a scarlet woman in the press; the reputation of Ryan Buckley in shreds.

  ‘Look at that,’ Braxton said. On the television, Ivanov making a speech about how he was honoured to be the owner of such a prestigious club, and how he was looking forward to making England his home.

  ‘He wants the place for himself,’ Isaac said.

  ‘He intends to run his criminal empire from here. And there’s nothing we can do about it.’

  ‘Any more on Crin Antonescu?’

  ‘He never left Ivanov’s villa. And now you have another death, Marcus Hearne. He’ll not be missed, I assume.’

  ‘Not by us,’ Larry said. ‘His family maybe.’

  ‘Not really relevant, is it? What about the other so-called leaders of their communities? Any chance of finding out what was said at the meeting with Cojocaru? He must be quivering in his boots with Ivanov coming here on a permanent basis.’

  ‘They’re not talking at present. Since Hearne died, I’ve not heard from them.’

  ‘Cojocaru has left the country,’ Braxton said.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Romania. He knows he’s the meat in the sandwich. It would help if we knew the story of what happened to Antonescu.’

  ‘We may never find out,’ Isaac said. ‘Was there a reason for us coming up here?’

  ‘We’ve had a lead on who may have killed Ryan Buckley.’

  ‘Who and how?’ Larry said.

  ‘We checked with our counterparts in Russia, the ones we can trust.’

  ‘Some you can’t?’

  ‘Corruption’s endemic there. You’re either part of the system, or you’re dead. But there are one or two who keep a low profile, take the backhanders, keep us informed. We checked on a couple of names we received from them, men who Ivanov uses outside of Russia.’

  ‘Do you have photos on file, any other details?’

  ‘We’ve checked on the movements of the two men. One of them is arrogant enough.’

  ‘Has he been in England?’

  ‘He’s French, and he’s been in Ireland, as well. We’ve checked with the police over there, and we’ve had our CCTV people looking for him. He came in through Belfast and then took a train to Dublin. From there, he disappeared for a couple of days, probably stole a car or hired one using false ID. From Dublin, he crossed to Wales on the ferry and disappeared. The French police have a lead on him. I’m going to France on Eurostar tonight. I assume you’ll both come with me.’

  ‘I will,’ Isaac said. He had promised to take Jenny out that night to a restaurant, a celebration of six months together, but he knew she’d understand.

  ‘I’ll pass,’ Larry said. ‘I need to be back in Ireland. If he’s been there, we’ll need proof that he spoke to Sheila Gaffney.’

  ‘Agreed, that’s a plan,’ Isaac said. He had a phone call to make at the conclusion of the meeting; he had to phone Richard Goddard. The wolves were closing in on the man again, and a fresh lead, a link between a murder and an organised crime leader, would give Goddard and the Homicide department a breather of a few days before further questions as to why the shooting at Briganti’s was still without a murderer.

  ***

  The three remaining gang leaders considered their position carefully. As had been agreed with Cojocaru, they were lying low for a few days, a house on the south coast, a supply of good food, good drink, and five women, recent arrivals in the country who did not speak English, other than a smattering. Of the five, two had been known to Becali in the old country. They were there to ensure the men did not leave the house until the all-clear had been given. The other three were there for entertainment.

  ‘It’s either Stanislav Ivanov or me,’ Cojocaru had said. ‘You’re smart men, you’d not want the Russian mafia, and they’d not want you.’

  At the end of four hours, during which Cojocaru had stated his case and told the three about the barbaric acts committed by Ivanov, and that the man had admitted to the attack at Briganti’s, there was an agreement to give the Romanian three days. After that time, they’d decide as to whether the Romanians and the other gangs would combine against a common enemy.

  The second day. ‘We’re in trouble here,’ Devon Harris, a tall man from Barbados, said. Back in the West Indies, he had been hustling the tourists out of their hard-earned money, but with an English grandfather who had been white, and a brother who had permanent residency in England, he had managed to deal with the bureaucracy and to legally enter the country. His contribution to the country that had taken him in: two murders, another maimed for life. And what had it given to him? The opportunity to use his streetwise cunning to build up his gang until he was supplying Notting Hill up through Bayswater and Paddington with drugs. He would have said that he had done well for himself, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Cojocaru has given us his word that we are safe,’ Jeremy Miller, the second of the gang leaders, said. Second generation, born in London, he was a softly-spoken man, his Jamaican accent the result of growing up in Trench Town, a wild and lawless suburb of Kingston, the Jamaican capital. The left side of his face had a scar from just below the eye down to his upper lip, the result of a knife fight when he was fifteen. He shouldn’t have been in his parents’ place of birth, but his father had died after he had cheated on another gang leader in London, and Miller’s mother had quickly taken the three-year-old back to Jamaica. Not that the place was much safer, but the threat against her son was reduced by distance. At the age of eighteen, Miller had returned to London and had used his quiet yet authoritative manner to work his way up through his gang, using his innate intelligence and his ruthless ability to remove anyone in his way by whatever means seemed appropriate.

  ‘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 unde
rstand 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.’