‘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 Ralphie.’
‘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.’
‘You’re living in cloud cuckoo land,’ Bateman said. ‘This is the real world, crime happens, people take drugs, people get drunk, even you in the past when Rasta Joe was alive.’
‘My habits are not of concern. What do you want from me? What are you going to give in return?’
Bateman turned away from Larry and Wendy and focussed on the other four at the table. ‘Leave us alone. I’ve got two police officers to protect me now,’ he said.
The four gang members moved away, taking up a position close to the bar. Of the four, Morris kept his eyes firmly on Bateman, Larry and Wendy.
‘I don’t like the look of him,’ Wendy said.
‘Marlon? He’s harmless, just likes to look big and strong,’ Bateman replied. His tone was mocking. Wendy didn’t believe the man.
‘What do you have for us?’ Larry asked. His glass was empty. He looked over at the barman and held up the empty glass, a nod from the barman in return. Bateman followed suit as did Wendy. Soon there were three more pints of beer on the table.
‘Devon Harris and Jeremy Miller will be here soon enough.’
‘Why not now?’
‘Cojocaru has been trying to make a deal. He’s frightened of the Russians, so are we.’
‘They killed Crin Antonescu, almost certainly were responsible for Briganti’s and one other murder in Ireland.’
‘We can’t trust the Romanians, no more than the Russians. What do you suggest we do?’
‘Seamus Gaffney knew something. He told someone else what it was, and he’s dead. Whatever it was, it was lethal. I need to know what the man knew,’ Larry said.
‘You want a lot. We know less than you, and that we’re unsure what to do. If Gaffney had fou
nd out something, why didn’t he tell you?’
‘It had more value if he sold it on, or offered his silence if they paid enough.’
‘Gaffney was always a fool, playing the margins, listening where he shouldn’t. He was going to die one day on account of his big nose.’
‘Maybe that’s true. What else do you have? Hearne’s dead, yet you stayed with Cojocaru.’
‘He told us about Antonescu, not that we cared for the man. Marcus was talking to the police, and secrecy was vital.’
‘You accepted that? He did no more than what you’re doing now.’
‘We didn’t accept it, but we needed to know what Cojocaru had to say. Men die, men live, and Hearne led a violent life.’
‘The same as you.’
‘The same as me. One day, one of those at the bar will challenge me. You know this.’
‘Cojocaru’s been in Romania, although he’s back now. Have you seen him?’
‘Not since that day when Hearne died. Cojocaru told us about Ivanov and what he’s capable of. Is it true what he said?’
‘That Ivanov is a mafia boss, more violent than anyone else you’ve ever encountered, and that one of his men shot up Briganti’s?’
‘That’s about it.’
‘He didn’t lie.’
‘That’s what we thought, not that we trust Cojocaru. But the man had a message, we had to listen to it.’
‘Why were the three of you out of touch with your people?’
‘We weren’t, not totally. Hammond knew where I was, but he was keeping quiet. We agreed to give Cojocaru three days, but then he never came back. We enjoyed his hospitality, and Harris and Miller are still there.’
‘It must be good hospitality,’ Wendy said.
‘It was,’ Bateman said. ‘The best.’
Wendy needed to know no more.
Larry looked over at the four gang members. He could see that two of them were drinking heavily, Victor Powell and Marlon Morris were not.
‘You need to stop Ivanov,’ Bateman said.
‘With what? The man’s got no criminal record, not even a parking ticket, whereas you do.’
‘I’m not the problem, Ivanov is. We’ve learnt to live with Cojocaru, even do business with him, but this Ivanov may cut us out altogether.’
Murder Has No Guilt Page 13
