Murder Has No Guilt

by Phillip Strang

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Bridget Halloran is working on it for us.’

  ‘Not long,’ Isaac said. ‘No luck yet?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ve got others on the floors above. Gordon Windsor reckoned the bullet was fired from up high.’

  ‘I’ll take his word,’ Isaac said as another flat door opened, a woman hiding in one room, covered head to foot in black.

  ‘You can’t come in here,’ a man with a full beard said. He was dressed in the traditional clothing of Pakistan.

  ‘We believe someone has used one of the flats to shoot at someone down on the ground.’

  ‘I’m just home from work, and my wife won’t let anyone in when she’s on her own.’

  Isaac, sensitive to the situation, phoned for a female police officer to come up to the flat.

  After five minutes, Constable Jill Albertson reported for duty. ‘Pleased to help. The crowds down below are restless. Some want to get home, and we’re not letting them.’

  ‘We’ll need to set up a mobile canteen, toilets.’

  ‘There’s a church hall nearby, and the locals are helping out. But it’s not the same, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Constable Albertson will check your flat, is that acceptable?’ Isaac said to the man, now identified as Fahad Shaikh, a recent arrival in the country with his wife and three children.

  ‘We are a law-abiding family. And yes, the constable can come in. Thank you for your understanding.’

  Jill Albertson entered the flat, checking each and every room, placing emphasis on the windows looking out and over to Ivanov’s house. She returned, thanking the Pakistani for his assistance and wishing him well.

  ‘The flat on the corner,’ she said to the police officers.

  ‘You saw something?’

  ‘It juts out from the other flats. It must have an extra bedroom. There’s a small window that I could see in. I didn’t want to mention it to Mr Shaikh.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘A rifle.’

  Isaac phoned Gordon Windsor to update him. Two crime scene investigators arrived soon after, their boss with them.’

  ‘Are you sure of this?’ Windsor said.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Constable Albertson said.

  ‘We have to hold back until Armed Response arrives. We don’t know who’s inside.’

  ‘Nobody, you know that,’ Windsor said.

  ‘I don’t want to have to write a report on how you or one of your team were shot,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Fair enough. We’ll get ourselves organised. It would be best if they didn’t have to smash the door in.’

  ‘Armed Response won’t care too much for what you want. If there’s to be shooting, they’ll not be too fussy.’

  ‘Understood. Regrettable, though. We should clear the people out on this floor.’

  ‘Constable Albertson, up to the task?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Leave it to me.’

  ‘And keep it quiet. Those closest to the flat, set up some sort of a barrier as you bring them out, in case there’s some shooting.’

  As anxious as Isaac was to enter the flat, it was another thirty-five minutes before the all-clear was given. Armed Response was in place, Sergeant Northam in charge.

  A knock on the door, no answer, Northam keeping to one side, protected by body armour. Isaac and the others waited at ground level. The arrival of the police officers with their weapons had increased the number of onlookers, some even leaving the church hall and their food to watch and to offer comments, some congratulatory, some critical, and some racial about the occupants in the block of flats.

  ‘One more time and we go in,’ Northam said. He hit the door hard with a metal bar. ‘Police, we’re armed. Come out at once with your hands up in the air.’

  A break of sixty seconds for a reply. None was forthcoming.

  ‘Okay, break it down,’ Northam issued the command to one of his men.

  The battering ram, known as the enforcer, made short work of the door, one attempt all that was needed before the door opened. Inside, a clear view through to the front window.

  Down below, Windsor winced at the amount of evidence that the men would disturb. A formerly pristine crime scene devalued by the tactics of a group of men whose function was to secure the flat, not to concern themselves with where they walked and what they disturbed.

  On the twentieth floor, Northam gave another command. ‘Stand back.’

  He then called out once again. ‘Police, we’re coming in, and we’re heavily armed. Resistance is not advised, and we will shoot to kill.’

  No answer.

  ‘It’s empty,’ one of the other armed officers said.

  ‘Okay, maximum care, and keep your weapons ready to shoot.’

  At the rear of the flat, the rifle was found on its tripod. No person was discovered. The flat was declared safe.

  Chapter 20

  A hastily-convened press conference at Challis Street Police Station, and Richard Goddard’s one failing would become apparent. Numerous courses and plenty of practice had convinced him of one thing – he was a lousy public speaker, his monotone voice tiring on the ear, his need to pause, when no words emanated other than ‘Arrgh’ and ‘you know’.

  At the back of the room, three cameras were mounted on tripods; at the front, iPhones on record. Goddard rose to speak.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. The recent upsurge in violent crime is of concern to all of us. That is why we are meeting here today. Let me thank Detective Chief Inspector Cook from Homicide for being here, as well as Detective Chief Inspector Oscar Braxton from Serious and Organised Crime Command. They will both make a short speech, after which there will be time for questions. I would ask that you allow them to make their speeches first.’

  ‘What about Stanislav Ivanov?’ a man in the second row of the assembled media contingent asked.

  ‘And you are?’ Goddard said.

  ‘Colin Bartlett, Fox News.’

  Isaac cringed. Everyone knew who Bartlett was. The man was the bane of the police force, forever criticising it for its inability to control terrorism. He had been scathing two nights previously on the television about the progress on the Briganti shooting, and now the chief superintendent was trying to control the man by belittling him. It wasn’t going to work, Isaac knew that, and the press conference was a shambles before it had started.

  In Russia, a group of men sat around a table in a boardroom, watching a live feed streaming into a laptop and then onto a screen on the wall. At a penthouse in London, two men watched smugly, confident that whatever happened their future was secure. At the Wellington Arms in Bayswater, the television was tuned to the press conference, although it was only the rank and file hoodlums who watched. The three gang leaders that Cojocaru had attempted to bring onto his side were ensconced in the house where Larry had met them previously, but then there had been four; Marcus Hearne now dead and in the mortuary.

  ‘We’ll answer your questions after DCI Cook and DCI Braxton have spoken.’

  Bartlett sat quietly. Isaac knew it would not be for long.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector, would you speak?’ Goddard said, directing his request at Isaac.

  Isaac, confident in what he wanted to say, approached the lectern. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. The first matter of interest is the attack at the hairdressing salon of Giuseppe Briganti. We have eliminated all those inside of any involvement, and all the bodies have been released to their families.’

  ‘Why did you hold on to the body of Sal Maynard?’ Bartlett shouted.

  Isaac could see that the man had no intention of being quiet.

  ‘Some discrepancies needed to be resolved.’

  ‘She was involved with a major crime figure, sleeping with him.’

  It was clear that Bartlett had inside knowledge – knowledge that was confidential.

  ‘I am unable to comment on specific details of the case,’ Isaac said. ‘We have proo
f that the crime at Briganti’s was committed by a foreign national. We have identified one person, and we are working with overseas police forces to bring this man to justice. We also believe that he was in Ireland and that he killed another man there.’

  ‘From what was reported, Inspector Buckley killed Seamus Gaffney, a known informer, a man in regular communication with Detective Inspector Larry Hill.’

  A general air of unease was apparent in the room. Richard Goddard took hold of the microphone. ‘I would suggest that any questions are held for later,’ he said.

  Isaac knew that the man was wasting his time. Barely ten minutes into what was slated as a twenty-five-minute presentation, and nothing of importance had been said.

  ‘Let me come back to where we are,’ Isaac said after reclaiming the microphone. ‘An overseas crime syndicate has been attempting to enter this country and to take over a large part of the illegal drug trade. They intended to base themselves primarily in the local area and to fan out from there. This has caused tension in the wider community, and unfortunately some deaths.’

  ‘Why Briganti’s?’ A voice from the back of the room.

  ‘The evidence we have received is that it was a show of strength, a warning to deter others who may resist.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘At this time, we believe it has.’

  ‘There’s a power vacuum, isn’t there?’ Bartlett said.

  ‘There are elements in the community, as there are in other areas of the city and throughout the country, who believe they are above the law.’

  ‘Elaborate on that statement.’

  ‘At this time, I cannot. We are attempting to defuse the situation and to prevent further violence. Outlining our plan at this time would be counter-productive.’

  ‘Let Braxton speak,’ Goddard whispered in Isaac’s ear.

  Isaac stood to one side; Braxton came to the microphone.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Braxton, Serious and Organised Crime Command,’ he said. ‘We have been working together with DCS Goddard and his team. An attack on a hairdressing salon by an organised crime syndicate, where innocent people were killed, was a senseless and cowardly attack and must be condemned.’

  ‘Wonderful words, but worthless,’ a woman in the front row said. Isaac recognised her, Lisa Saunders. The woman was on the television every night, debating law and order with a panel of so-called experts. She had a soothing and mellow voice, the type that sucked you in before she spat you out.

  Braxton ignored the woman and continued. ‘Organised crime, as in any major city, is unfortunately present here. The efforts of the police and the community have kept it at controllable levels up till now. I have been in France with DCI Cook, consulting with the French police. An arrest is expected soon.’

  ‘Then why did you come back to England after Stanislav Ivanov was shot?’ Bartlett asked. ‘Is it because he is a major crime figure? Is he, in fact, the head of a Russian mafia crime syndicate that calls itself the Tverskoyskaya Bratva? A group of people who will stop at nothing to ensure their aims.’

  ‘There are no criminal cases against Mr Ivanov.’

  ‘Not in this country, not in Russia, but you know all about him. Everyone is careful in what they say, the result of his influence and wealth, but behind closed doors, what’s the truth, what do you say about him?’

  ‘Mr Ivanov has been shot. His life hangs in the balance. Speculation will serve no useful purpose.’

  Isaac could see Braxton being pushed into a corner. He had thought that the man’s attendance had been ill-advised, but Goddard had been adamant, and now the conference was being railroaded by the media.

  ‘We are here to discuss the murders and attempted murders, not to speculate,’ Isaac said.

  ‘We’re here for the truth. Marcus Hearne, a local gang leader, has been murdered, another drinking friend of Inspector Hill.’

  ‘Inspector Hill is above suspicion.’

  Lisa Saunders decided it was her turn to speak. An attractive woman, Isaac had to admit, but with a viper’s tongue and a wasp’s sting. ‘In recent years, there has been a disturbing rise in the number of criminal gangs from eastern Europe entering England. Is that correct?’

  ‘That has been reported by us,’ Braxton said.

  Isaac could see the subtle drawing in by Lisa Saunders, making her target relax his guard.

  ‘There were some deaths some years back when one major crime figure entered this country, true or false?’

  ‘There has been an escalation at times of criminal activity. Criminal gangs operate throughout the city, that’s true. But it would be wrong to lay the blame on one group of people based on their ethnicity or their religion.’

  ‘Why? Because it’s not politically correct?’

  ‘Apportioning blame to one group or another serves no purpose.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you sit in your office in Serious and Organised Crime Command, and don’t mention where someone comes from, their background? Are you telling those assembled here, and those watching on the television, streaming it over the internet, that you don’t make decisions based on these factors?’

  ‘We are conscious of the differences, and yes, we do discuss such matters, converse with our counterparts overseas.’

  ‘Then, Detective Chief Inspector Braxton, why the subterfuge? Do you think we’re all fools?’

  Touché, Isaac thought, Braxton’s been taken hook, line, and sinker.

  ‘It is our responsibility to not exacerbate the situation by making claims without proof.’

  ‘Nonsense. We have one such criminal, a Romanian by the name of Nicolae Cojocaru, running a crime syndicate. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘There are no crimes recorded against Mr Cojocaru.’

  ‘Yet you have a case file on him, and there have been several attempts to deport him, a man who has been labelled a criminal back in Romania.’

  ‘Speculation,’ Braxton said.

  ‘Did Cojocaru arrange for Ivanov to be shot?’

  ‘Mr Ivanov is a successful businessman, the owner of the football club that I support.’

  Isaac winced at Braxton’s attempt at levity. The woman asking the questions wasn’t going to be distracted by such a tactic.

  Richard Goddard took hold of the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this press conference was scheduled for twenty-five minutes. We’ve run over time, and as you can appreciate we are busy.’

  A flurry of hands from the other reporters in the room; a retreat by the three police officers.

  ‘Disaster,’ Isaac said. ‘Was Commissioner Davies watching?’

  ‘He would be,’ Goddard said.

  ‘Then you either drop your phone out of the window or you and he will be having a conversation soon. Oscar, you shouldn’t have been there. You’ve connected Ivanov with organised crime, made it obvious that the man is of interest.’

  ‘I’d disagree. Cojocaru was mentioned as well. Both of them will be very nervous now.’

  ‘One will be. We should meet with him,’ Isaac said.

  ***

  ‘A Steyr SSG 69 PIV, Austrian, bolt-action, .308 cartridge,’ Gordon Windsor said. ‘It’s been fired.’

  ‘You’ve looked down the scope?’ Braxton asked. He and Isaac were back at the flat where the shot had been taken to kill Ivanov.

  ‘Kahles ZF84 10x magnification scope. More than accurate for the distance. It was focussed on where Ivanov had been standing.’

  ‘A bulky item to bring up here. Someone may have seen whoever brought it in.’

  ‘Too bulky to take out afterwards if you’re aiming to get away, and if Ivanov’s men had figured out where the shot had come from. There’s not much to see in the flat. It’s empty, and apart from the toilet being used, nothing to tell you.’

  ‘The person who fired the shot?’

  ‘He would have used his right shoulder against the butt.’

  ‘Conclusive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How
long do you reckon the person was here?’

  ‘We’re assuming anywhere from thirty minutes to three hours. It’s cold at night, and there was no heater, no electricity either.’

  ‘If it was thirty minutes, the shooter must have known of Ivanov’s movements.’

  ‘That’s for you to find out,’ Windsor said. ‘If it were only thirty minutes, then the rifle would have had to be set up in advance, possibly another target to zero in the scope.’

  ‘Needle in a haystack looking for another shot. Any help on that?’

  ‘None. Some noise when fired, but it did have a silencer.’

  ‘Around here, not too many people would have been asking questions even if they heard a shot.’

  Wendy took responsibility for the door-to-door interviews in the building. The rifle had been removed and was with Forensics for further testing, not necessary according to Gordon Windsor, but required nevertheless as it was vital evidence.

  As expected, no one had heard anything, except for the wife of Fahad Shaikh, but as she had explained to Constable Jill Albertson and Wendy, she had not seen anyone. In the two women’s presence, she had removed the cover from her face. The two were astonished by her beauty. She looked no more than nineteen or twenty; it was found out on checking that she was twenty-two, her husband older than her at thirty-eight.

  Bridget had checked out the shooter’s flat and found out that it had been sold two years previously, and up until three months before the shooting it had been rented to a family of four. Apart from that, a dead end.

  ‘Someone must have known that the place was empty,’ Isaac said at his early-morning meeting in the office. ‘And whoever it was may well be the breakthrough we need.’

  ‘It was sold to a company, they’ve purchased a few in the building and throughout the area,’ Bridget said.

  ‘The principals of the company?’ Larry asked.

  ‘I’m checking, but it seems that efforts have been made to conceal their identities.’

  ‘Suspicious?’

  ‘It could be part of a complex tax-reduction strategy, not necessarily illegal, or it could be an overseas company hiding dirty money.’