Murder Has No Guilt

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Criminal?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean they’re the murderers.’

  ‘We need the names of whoever they are,’ Isaac said. ‘Dirty money could mean drug money, and we’ve a few names there.’

  ‘I’ll keep checking,’ Bridget said. ‘It may take some time.’

  ‘Time is what we don’t have. And no one’s going to come forward with a description of this man.’

  ‘The same person as in Ireland?’

  ‘Whoever it was, he was capable of it, but it wasn’t a difficult shot, not if the person was trained and the scope was lined up. According to Windsor, two shots had been fired before taking the shot at Ivanov,’ Larry said. ‘Even if we found the target for zeroing, it’ll not tell us much. CCTV cameras?’

  ‘We’re checking, but if the man were organised, he’d only have to change his clothes. Some of the women in the building are covered, some of the men wear traditional dress.’

  ‘An abaya?’

  ‘It’s always possible, although it seems bizarre.’

  ‘I’ll check,’ Bridget said.

  Chapter 21

  Wendy Gladstone had thought that her time in Stockwell was at an end. She had conducted interviews with Sal Maynard’s family, not that they had revealed much, in as much as the family were neither articulate nor still interested in a dead family member more than a few weeks after her death. It had saddened the police sergeant on the times she had visited the house, the drunken and foul-mouthed mother, the tattooed and violent elder brother of the dead woman, the drugged younger brother vacantly staring into space.

  And now, a phone call from Ralphie.

  Wendy and the young man met at McDonald's, which according to Ralph Ernest Begley was the best food that money could buy. Not that Ralphie was paying. Wendy ordered a Big Mac and extra fries for each of them, as well as a milkshake.

  ‘What’s this all about, Ralphie? I’m not out here on a wild goose chase, am I?’

  Ralphie spoke between mouthfuls. Someone else was paying, and he was going back for seconds. ‘It was something Sal said once. I didn’t remember it before, and I suppose I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Did you do that often?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not remember or listen.’

  ‘Both. Sal could talk, and sometimes I just switched off. Not that she realised. I liked her, but you know that already. But she could talk rubbish sometimes, especially about celebrities and their perfect lives.’

  ‘They have their problems the same as everyone else.’

  ‘They don’t have to live around here.’

  Wendy realised that Ralphie wanted better, but as he sat eating it was clear that his time to change was limited. He was generationally unemployed and uneducated, his parents leading by example. The only hope for him was to leave the area, find himself a good family, re-engage with his education. She had already passed his details on to the local church and welfare services, but she knew they were inundated with worthier persons. And besides, she had three grandchildren, the eldest approaching school age, and she wanted to spend time with them, not to be a nursemaid to someone else’s child, knowing full well that at the end of the day he would return to the negative influence of his family and friends. And even if Ralphie married, it would be the repeating cycle in that he would become the uncaring parent, possibly someone who would take a belt to the child.

  ‘Do you want another Big Mac?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘My friends reckon I’m foolish talking to you.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Not if you feed me and give me some money.’

  Wendy left the table and went and ordered another Big Mac, bringing it back after a few minutes. ‘Now, what have you got to tell me?’

  ‘And the money?’

  ‘Tell me what you know first.’

  ‘Sal, it was the week she died. She was in a good mood, talking about this man and how he was going to take her away from here, put her on a pedestal.’

  ‘Do you know what a pedestal is?’

  ‘Not really, but Sal thought it was special.’

  ‘It is, but who was this man, and why?’

  ‘That’s it. The one I saw was tall and slim, but that’s not how she described him to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She said he was the same height as her. And she didn’t say he was slim.’

  ‘But she was sleeping with Becali, the man you saw.’

  ‘I’m certain of that, but I told you before that Sal made extra money.’

  ‘You told me that Sal was keen on Becali?’

  ‘I did, but I also told you about the face he pulled when he let her off that one time.’

  ‘Can you be certain that it was Becali she was keen on?’

  ‘Maybe I didn’t hear right, and sometimes I’d tell her to slow down, but if she’d seen a celebrity, she’d not stop going on and on. I belong around here, so did she. It’s okay to dream, but that’s all it is.’

  Wendy knew that she could have told him that life was what you made of it, but she did not, she had more pressing issues to deal with. If Sal Maynard did have another man, then who was he and where was he?

  Yet again, the young woman had been thrust front and centre into the investigation. Not that she was guilty of any crime, but whatever she was, she was dead because of it.

  Ralphie, his meal eaten, cycled away, fifty pounds in his back pocket. She had no intention of contacting him again unless it was vital. She sat at McDonald's for another ten minutes going through what he had said, wondering about the truth of it, and how to find Sal Maynard’s mysterious admirer. She realised that it was not going to be easy.

  ***

  Nicolae Cojocaru did not regard the presence of the two police officers as anything more than an inconvenience. In the past, back in Romania, if an officer of the law had not succumbed to gentle persuasion, either financial or with a gift, a car, a woman, then that officer had been sidelined or removed from circulation permanently. In the old country, when he had been a man of note, the bribes had been extortionate, and there was always a senior officer who would deal with a recalcitrant lower rank. In some ways, the gangster missed the old days where everyone and everything had a price or a solution. His recent trip to Romania had shown him that he was no longer a significant player and that a young class of villains had taken over. Even if he had wanted to go back, he couldn’t, not without committing himself to violence and a large capital outlay to secure allegiances, to re-establish himself.

  And now, back in England, two men who were incorruptible, two men he could not remove.

  ‘Stanislav Ivanov is still in a medically-induced coma,’ Isaac said.

  ‘What has that to do with me?’

  ‘You visited him in the south of France,’ Oscar Braxton said.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Are we going to go around in circles on this?’ Isaac said. The three men were meeting in a restaurant in Notting Hill, at Cojocaru’s suggestion.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Cojocaru said. He leant back in his chair, stifling a yawn.

  ‘Are we keeping you up?’

  ‘Busy night.’

  ‘Celebrating that Ivanov is in the hospital?’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you that the man does not interest me?’

  ‘We know the truth, even if you continue to deny it. We know that you were picked up in a car belonging to Ivanov at Marseilles Airport and that you entered the man’s villa. Antonescu never left there. We believe he is dead.’

  ‘You’re living in a fantasy world,’ Cojocaru said. He looked away and beckoned the waiter.

  ‘A whisky for me,’ he said. ‘How about you two, or are you on duty?’

  ‘I’ll take a beer,’ Braxton said.

  ‘Likewise,’ Isaac said. He didn’t want to drink, and certainly not with the man opposite, but they needed to find out what he knew or what he was willing to tell.

  ‘Crin Antonescu
travelled with you to France, we can prove that,’ Braxton said.

  ‘And if he did, then so what? Travelling out of the country is not a crime. Maybe he’s taking a holiday,’ Cojocaru said, a tenseness in his voice.

  ‘We’re suspicious that you would meet with the head of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva after you had given us his name.’

  ‘You cannot ignore people purely because you dislike them.’

  ‘Let us be honest, Nicolae Cojocaru. You are the head of a crime syndicate in England,’ Isaac said. ‘We can’t prove it, not sufficiently to arrest you and to send you back to the hovel you came from, but there is a more pressing matter, the shooting at Briganti’s.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say Ivanov.’

  ‘He is another grubby individual who hides behind a veneer of respectability.’

  ‘No doubt you don’t say that to his face.’

  ‘There are no investigations into his activities in this country, although we believe he was behind the shooting at Briganti’s, also the death of a police officer in Ireland.’

  ‘Then you’d better talk to him.’

  ‘We will when he regains consciousness. And when he does, we’ll tell him that you ordered his assassination. How do you think he’ll respond?’

  ‘I did not organise it.’

  ‘Then who did?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The two police officers could see that Cojocaru was not going to respond. Not that they had expected him to, but if he was unnerved and frightened then maybe he would act irrationally.

  ‘We can’t prove it yet, but it has to be you,’ Isaac said. He looked over at Cojocaru, hoping to see the tell-tale signs of a man who was lying: the eyes looking away, the twitching hand, the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘We are trying to find out who owned the flat where the shot was fired from,’ Braxton said. ‘We will make the connection to you, and then it will not matter whether Ivanov lives or not. We don’t even have to bother arresting you. All we need to do is to let Ivanov’s Bratva know that it was you. Or maybe they’ve figured that out already. We’re told there are a few after Ivanov’s position. Whoever takes his position won’t be coming over to England to thank you. He’ll be looking to carry on Ivanov’s work, and maybe he’ll use you for a while, or maybe he’ll just have you killed. One way or the other, you, Nicolae Cojocaru, are a dead man.’

  ‘Time will tell,’ Cojocaru said.

  ‘And this drug shipment that’s in the country. Do you intend to distribute it?’ Isaac asked. He took a drink of his beer, realising that in the company of evil it did not taste the same. He put it to one side, not intending to drink any more.

  ‘I am an honest businessman.’

  ‘You are a malignant parasite on society. If Ivanov doesn’t get you, we will. In fact, your best chance is to level with us, turn Queen’s evidence.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Cook, Detective Chief Inspector Braxton, I’ll bid you both farewell. I do not find your company agreeable,’ Cojocaru said as he stood up from his seat. He then walked out of the front door of the restaurant and got into the back seat of a black BMW, Ion Becali in the driver’s seat.

  ‘We made him feel uncomfortable,’ Braxton said.

  ‘We did, but what next? He could still strike a deal with the Russians. Cojocaru has residency in this country, they may not.’

  ‘We still don’t know what’s going on, do we?’

  ‘If Ivanov regains consciousness, he’ll be looking to reassert himself. We should follow through on that angle,’ Isaac said. ‘But this investigation has deviated from what it was. Challis Street was looking for whoever shot up Briganti’s, but now we’re working with you on organised crime. The focus has been lost.’

  ‘The focus hasn’t, but how do you find out what happened? If, as we believe, Ivanov was responsible for Briganti’s, and that Cojocaru was behind shooting Ivanov, then the person who took the shot in that flat is important. Get one, you get them all.’

  ‘No one’s come forward, and the gun on the twentieth floor wasn’t registered, and there were no prints.’

  ‘I’ll get back to Serious and Organised Crime, find out what information is coming in from overseas,’ Braxton said.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to Challis Street. Sergeant Gladstone has an update, one of her people. Keep in touch,’ Isaac said.

  The two men shook hands, one heading down the road to his car, the other heading up.

  Chapter 22

  One of Stanislav Ivanov’s bodyguards remained at Challis Street, not because he provided protection to the Russian businessman but because in a drain close to the assassination scene a gun had been found, the obvious deduction being that one of them had dumped it there.

  Isaac looked across at the man in the interview room. ‘Your name?’ he said.

  ‘Gennady Peskov,’ the heavyset man replied. His English was acceptable although guttural. A translator was offered, but declined, as was legal aid. In the man’s passport, a visa entitling him to carry out business in England, although no mention of his protection activities.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Eight weeks.’

  Larry sat to one side of Isaac. ‘Why did you stay at the crime scene?’ he asked.

  ‘It was my job.’

  ‘You provide personal protection for Stanislav Ivanov, is that correct?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you carry a gun?’

  ‘In Russia I would, but not in England.’

  ‘Yet we found a gun near where Mr Ivanov was gunned down. Was it yours?’

  ‘Not mine, but some of the others may have carried them.’

  ‘Even if it is illegal?’

  ‘Even if it was. Not that Ivanov would have approved. He’s an honest man, but men such as him are always under threat.’

  ‘What sort of man? A criminal, the head of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva?’

  ‘One of the wealthiest men in Russia. People such as him make enemies.’

  ‘You’ve been schooled well,’ Isaac said. ‘We’ve checked you out. In Russia, you spent time in prison for violence, almost killed a man once.’

  ‘When I was younger, and the law is not always honest as it is here in England.’

  The two police officers realised that Peskov, a gun for hire even if he denied the fact, was not a stupid man and that he had the innate street sense to say the right words and to not exacerbate the situation.

  ‘Stanislav Ivanov is in the hospital.’

  ‘I will stay by his side. The other bodyguards were not concerned about him, I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We grew up in the same village. To me, it is more than my job. To me, it is an honour.’

  ‘Your visa is in dispute. You are not here to be employed, only to conduct business meetings.’

  ‘I do attend the meetings, and I am not paid in this country. I don’t think that you will deport me.’

  Isaac knew they wouldn’t. Even if Peskov had been carrying a weapon, he was a witness to a crime.

  ‘Let us come back to the crime scene,’ Isaac said. ‘You are there with Ivanov, yet he gets shot. Why?’

  ‘He enjoys the freedom in England. He wants to act as if he’s English. Sometimes he gives us concern by his actions.’

  ‘At the crime scene?’

  ‘He wanted to talk to the people in the street, to look at his garden. We were hurrying him from the house to the car. He was not allowing us to do our job.’

  ‘Are you saying it was his fault?’

  ‘Not entirely. And it’s not ours, not mine, that he was shot.’

  ‘And what will Ivanov’s reaction be, assuming he regains consciousness?’

  ‘He will be angry and he will blame others.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Those who did not stay at his side, those who were responsible.’

  ‘Do you know who it was that shot him?’

  ‘No. Once I am free of he
re, I will be at Stanislav Ivanov’s side.’

  ‘There are no charges against you, Gennady Peskov. Where will we find those that ran from the crime scene?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. If they could, they would have left the country by now.’

  ‘Back to Russia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Peskov. You’re free to go,’ Isaac said.

  Gennady Peskov walked out of Challis Street and hailed a taxi. ‘St Mary’s Hospital,’ he said.

  ***

  Nicolae Cojocaru’s initial optimism was starting to wane. His nemesis, Stanislav Ivanov, had now been in intensive care at the hospital for nine days, and each bulletin from the hospital always said the same – the patient’s condition is still critical, although there are signs of recovery.

  Cojocaru could see the implications if the man made a full recovery, the consequences even if he did not. So far, the Tverskoyskaya Bratva’s approaches to him had been low-key, no mention of how and why and who had shot their leader, only concern about how to maintain business, how to increase the distribution of the drugs out of Afghanistan.

  The Romanian was under no illusion, and his denial if they asked about his involvement in the man’s shooting would mean little to them.

  Ivanov alive was a threat, dead he was also a threat, but in the half-world that the man occupied, he was an enigma; he made everyone nervous.

  Cojocaru turned to Ion Becali. Both were in Cojocaru’s penthouse.

  ‘While Ivanov is in the hospital, we are safe,’ Cojocaru said.

  ‘We have taken control of the latest shipment, and we are setting up more distribution outlets for the Russians.’

  ‘At the reduced price?’

  ‘That is what Ivanov planned, and we have complied.’

  ‘What about the gangs in the area? Any trouble?’

  ‘We’ve taken them on to help with the distribution, although there are some complaints about the lower payments.’

  ‘We’re still maintaining their percentage at the old rate. They’ve no reason to complain.’

  ‘Even so, it’s more work for them, more chances of being caught.’

  ‘They know the alternative,’ Cojocaru said as he looked away from Becali. The man had gone from loyal employee to friend, even a junior partner, but now with Ivanov hanging on, Cojocaru could only see a man who had failed him; a man who had said his marksmanship was without equal. And yet he had been unable to kill Ivanov.