Murder Has No Guilt

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I had no option. Neither of us would have left Ivanov’s villa if I hadn’t.’

  ‘You were told to kill Becali. Stanislav Ivanov is a forgiving man to those who are loyal to him, indifferent to those who aren’t.’

  ‘I could not kill Becali. He has always been loyal to me.’

  ‘Ivanov was willing to abide by his agreement, the same as he has with me, but now, your fate is sealed.’

  ‘Can we make a deal? It is not too late to save us, you included. Anyone who knows what Ivanov is in England, the crimes he has committed, will die.’

  ‘I have seen nothing, nor will I. The man has my allegiance, you do not.’

  ‘But I shot you.’

  ‘A subterfuge to test you. You did not check the gun, it contained a blank, and I was wearing a bulletproof vest. Ivanov wanted to know if you were capable of violence and whether you would shoot me in the chest.’

  ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘Not to us, but we are not smart men, not as smart as Ivanov. I had to decide, the same as you. I chose Ivanov, you chose to die,’ Crin Antonescu said.

  Cojocaru, not sure what to say or do, sat down on a chair. Antonescu sat too, always ensuring that the gun he held was pointed at his former boss.

  Neither man moved, except to maintain their gaze at the other. Cojocaru could see the impassiveness in the other’s eyes, but he was not surprised. Crin Antonescu had always been emotionless when violence was involved, whereas Ion Becali had followed orders, and now he was in police custody.

  ‘It would be better if you shot me now,’ Cojocaru said.

  Antonescu shot Cojocaru once in the head, the man’s lifeless body slumping forward. After the man had died, Antonescu reflected on what he had just done, feeling a pang of regret.

  He knew that Cojocaru, for all his faults, had supported him, and what he had done in France was only what he would have done if the positions had been reversed. He left the penthouse with a heavy heart and drove back to his hotel. He had re-entered England under a false name, his dark hair dyed blond and cropped short. Life was as uncertain for him as it had been for Cojocaru and for Becali. He knew that he needed to leave the country as soon as possible.

  ***

  Ion Becali sat in the interview room at Challis Street Police Station. In front of him, a cup of tea, to one side, his lawyer, a naturalised British citizen from Romania. Across from the two Romanians, Isaac Cook and Larry Hill.

  Isaac followed the procedures required, informed Becali of his rights and that what he said could be used in evidence. He had said it many times in the past, and he knew it verbatim, but it was imperative that Becali, a man with a good level of fluency in English, understood it as well, the Romanian lawyer ensuring that he did.

  ‘Mr Becali, you have been arrested outside Stanislav Ivanov’s house. You were armed. Why?’

  ‘My client has nothing to say,’ Klaus Ponta, the lawyer, said. The man’s English was flawless. He was in his mid-forties, starting to put on weight, his hair beginning to thin. Isaac felt that Becali had chosen his lawyer well.

  ‘Carrying a loaded gun is a crime in this country,’ Isaac said. ‘There is a minimum five-year prison term for the offence. Mr Becali needs to be made aware of this.’

  ‘I am,’ Becali said.

  ‘What was your intent on approaching Mr Ivanov’s house?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to him, to reason on behalf of Nicolae Cojocaru.’

  ‘With a gun?’

  ‘I knew that Ivanov would have guns in the house. It was for personal protection.’

  ‘Are you telling us that Ivanov is a criminal?’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Then why would Cojocaru want to make a deal with Ivanov? Ivanov is a man without a criminal record, but we all know in this room that Cojocaru is responsible for distributing large quantities of illegal drugs throughout the area and the country.’

  ‘No charges have been laid against Mr Cojocaru,’ Ponta said. ‘Supposition is not the basis for an interview, neither is putting words into the mouth of my client, who may or may not fully understand the legal implications.’

  ‘Mr Becali, we can prove that you were in the flat where the first assassination attempt was made. We believe that you intended to try a third time, although that would have almost certainly resulted in your death.’

  ‘I am not guilty of murder.’

  ‘As an assassin, you have proved your incompetence. As a prisoner, you may be more effective. The choice is yours. If we release you with no charges, then Ivanov may choose to remove you, or maybe Cojocaru will. And what about Sal Maynard and the shooting at Briganti’s? Was it you?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, I may have been with the Maynard woman, nothing more.’

  ‘We now believe that she was also involved with Crin Antonescu. Did you know this?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Ryan Buckley, an inspector with the Irish police, was murdered. We know it wasn’t you, although it is possible that you know the reason why.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Buckley was a friend of Seamus Gaffney, a man who kept his nose to the ground. We believe he knew something which he told Buckley. Buckley, we know, killed Gaffney and then attempted to strike a deal with someone, either Cojocaru or Ivanov.’

  ‘It appears that you have nothing against my client, other than carrying a weapon,’ Ponta said.

  ‘You can try if you want to dismiss that charge, but the charge of attempted murder still applies.’

  ‘How?’ Becali said.

  ‘We have a witness,’ Larry said. ‘A witness that will testify that you were in the flat where the shot on the first attempt was made. Also, on the second attempt, CCTV footage of a person fleeing the area, as well as a shoe print. We have enough to make a conviction stick. Mr Becali, I would suggest that you start to tell the truth.’

  ‘Why? You intend to convict me of crimes I didn’t commit.’

  ‘We have sent a vehicle to pick up Nicolae Cojocaru. He will be offered the chance to make a statement. If he knows you are to be convicted of attempted murder, what do you think he will say?’

  ***

  Isaac had to agree that the evidence against Becali was not tight. The man was guilty, but it was mainly based on incomplete evidence. Even the gun recovered from outside Ivanov’s did not have fingerprints, Becali having worn leather gloves on account of the cold morning. And Fahad Shaikh, a recent arrival in the country with his young wife, probably a first cousin as was the tradition, and his involvement on the periphery of crime, would be regarded as a marginal witness. Careful manipulation of the jury by a skilled defence lawyer would ensure prejudice against the Pakistani, and his testimony would be debased as a result.

  Even so, it was a win of sorts, and the first arrest in an investigation that had gone on for too long.

  Isaac sat on his chair in his office, his hands clenched behind his neck, leaning backwards, the weariness of the long hours starting to tell. He would have remained there for longer except that Brigitte came rushing in.

  ‘Cojocaru,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’

  Isaac left Challis Street soon after, Wendy with him. Larry, who was out of the office, cancelled his meeting with Bateman and headed out to Cojocaru’s penthouse.

  On the street, the crime scene tape, the barriers being erected. A uniformed police officer let the three of them through, Gordon Windsor did not. ‘Get kitted up if you want to go in,’ he said.

  ‘Have you seen the man?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘One shot to the head. One to two hours ago.’

  ‘Who phoned the police?’ Larry asked.

  ‘The man’s housekeeper. She’s available,’ Windsor said.

  ‘Wendy, talk to her and get a preliminary report. I’ll go up with Larry,’ Isaac said.

  Three men, kitted up with coveralls, gloves, and overshoes, entered the penthouse, stepping to one side of a crime scene investigator who was on the floor checking for e
vidence. At the other end of the hallway, the main living area, a man slumped on a chair.

  ‘Not a pretty sight,’ Windsor said.

  ‘Any signs of a weapon?’ Larry said.

  ‘Not here. It’s a clean kill, and whoever did it was smart enough to black out the CCTV cameras in reception.’

  ‘Fingerprints?’

  ‘Not yet. Don’t hold your breath on this one.’

  ‘Becali?’ Isaac said.

  ‘If it’s one to two hours since the man died, Becali didn’t shoot him,’ Larry said.

  ‘This may loosen his tongue,’ Isaac said.

  Chapter 27

  Two days passed; two days when the initial flush of success after the arrest of Ion Becali had ground back into a routine.

  The team at Challis Street met each morning early, and the days stretched into the nights, no one going home until late; nobody complaining either.

  The body of Nicolae Cojocaru had been examined by Pathology, the man’s penthouse had been checked by Gordon Windsor and his team, and Forensics had conducted tests on the bullet removed from the body. Nothing new had been found, and frustration at the lack of progress was felt by all.

  Commissioner Alwyn Davies had been on the phone to Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard who had been in Homicide attempting to rally the team – it was not needed.

  Stanislav Ivanov stayed in his house, apart from a brief excursion out to his football club for a function, his wife accompanying him. The man had made a speech about how pleased he was that they had won the most prestigious footballing competition in the country, the FA Cup, and sorry that he had not been there to cheer them on, but he had been otherwise occupied.

  Ivanov made light of the assassination attempt, and Isaac, who had made sure to be in the back of the room at the function, could only imagine what the man really thought.

  Annie O’Carroll had been on the phone from Ireland to let Larry know that leads had dried up there, and whoever it was that had shot Ryan Buckley, he wasn’t Irish, but that was known already.

  Another man sat in his hotel room; a man not used to inactivity and apathy; a man who needed to get out from the four walls and room service.

  At four in the afternoon of the third day after Cojocaru had been shot, Crin Antonescu stepped out through the front door of his hotel and walked down the street. He needed a drink first and then a meal. The pub he chose, five miles from where Cojocaru had lived, five miles from the West Indian gangs and Challis Street, seemed safe enough for him.

  He ordered a beer and a pub lunch. He then sat down in the corner of the bar. It was not ideal, but it was better than nothing, he realised. He looked up at the television mounted high on one wall and saw the face of Ivanov beaming back; it was a face he had trusted, but now the man was not answering his calls.

  Without finishing either his beer or his lunch, he walked down the street, absent-mindedly, not knowing where he was going. He reflected on what had been, the early years in Romania, the setting up in England, on Ion Becali, on the woman who had fallen for him, and even though he had not loved her, there was a warmth in her, a genuine wish to be with a short, stocky ex-wrestler from Romania. But she was dead in that hairdressing salon with the others. He had sent her to her death, and he was sorry, an emotion he did not feel comfortable with. He phoned Stanislav Ivanov one more time – no answer. Gennady Peskov answered on the second ring when he phoned again.

  ‘You were told to wait,’ Peskov said. He had hated Antonescu from the first time he had met him in France. A man who is willing to change sides was not a man to be trusted, and now the man was phoning him.

  ‘I have completed my task. It is for you to protect me, to get me out of the country.’

  ‘Then wait.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For as long as is needed. Ivanov does not forget those who are loyal, and you have done what is required. Your hotel has been paid for, and extra money has been given to you. You have no reason to complain.’

  Peskov cut the call; Antonescu kept walking.

  It was after nine in the evening when Crin Antonescu walked into the police station at Challis Street. The appearance of the man caused consternation in Homicide and alarm with Ivanov when he heard.

  ‘I will tell you what I know,’ Antonescu said in the interview room. He did not have a lawyer with him.

  ‘We have always assumed you to be dead,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I am guilty of entering this country under a false name and with a false passport. I wish to return to Romania.’ The man spoke slowly and with great thought.

  ‘What other crimes are you guilty of?’

  ‘I have committed no other crimes in this country.’

  ‘Ion Becali has been charged with attempted murder. Nicolae Cojocaru is dead.’

  ‘That I know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It is on the news.’

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  Isaac realised that his questions were inane, but he wasn’t sure what else to ask. Across the table from him and Larry was a savage killer, the man who had probably killed Cojocaru, almost certainly had murdered Ralph Begley, yet there was nothing to tie the man to the crimes. It was as if Antonescu was playing with them, but Isaac knew he was not. Antonescu was not an intellectual, not a strategist, but a man who thought a passport violation would get him transported out of the country.

  ‘There’s no reason for me to be here now.’

  ‘You came in illegally. Couldn’t you leave the same way?’

  ‘There are others who will not let me leave alive.’

  ‘Why? Because you have murdered for them? And what’s the truth with Sal Maynard?’

  ‘She was a decent person and I mistreated her.’

  ‘By making her go into Briganti’s?’

  The man’s behaviour concerned Isaac and Larry. Antonescu had spent his life as a violent criminal, and now he was being circumspect and remorseful. It was an act, and it was convincing, and if the man’s history had not been well known, others might have been duped.

  Isaac knew that whenever a villain was contrite, it meant something else. The man had said that others would not let him leave alive, but why?

  ‘Before we can help you, we need to know why they want you dead, and why did you return to this country illegally?’

  ‘I needed to make peace with Nicolae Cojocaru.’

  ‘A phone call would have sufficed. What happened at Ivanov’s place in France? You went in but never came out.’

  ‘I am out now, and I am willing to tell you what you need to know.’

  ‘The truth?’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘Then let’s start with what happened in France.’

  ‘Cojocaru shot me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Stanislav Ivanov wanted proof of his loyalty.’

  ‘An unusual way to test a person.’

  ‘Not with the Bratva. I cannot blame Cojocaru.’

  ‘Would you have done the same?’

  ‘With a gun to my head if I didn’t?’

  ‘That’s not an answer. I’ll repeat the question. Would you have shot Cojocaru if the positions had been reversed?’

  ‘Yes, and so would you.’

  Isaac ignored the man’s attempt at justification. ‘Have you killed a man before?’

  ‘In self-defence.’

  ‘In England?’

  ‘Never. Nicolae Cojocaru was always careful to ensure that we trod lightly with breaking the law.’

  ‘Was the man importing drugs into this country?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you are guilty of more than a passport violation.’

  ‘My job was to protect him, not to become involved in his business.’

  ‘Yet you stayed in France and now the man is dead. What do you say about this?’

  ‘I failed in my duty.’

  ‘And France?’

  ‘What could I do? I either sided with Ivanov o
r I was dead. Cojocaru would have taken the shot, and I would not have been wearing a bulletproof vest.’

  ‘Your story makes no sense,’ Larry said.

  ‘Then release me, and I will chance my luck on the street.’

  ‘Ivanov has not committed murder in this country. Why is your life in danger?’

  ‘If you guarantee that I will be protected and you will deport me to Romania, then I will tell you all.’

  ‘Including how you killed Marcus Hearne?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him and you can’t prove that I did.’

  Isaac could see that they were hitting the proverbial brick wall. A conviction for Ion Becali was based on the testimony of an illegal migrant, not on forensic evidence. A smart lawyer would have argued that Ion Becali wanting to see Ivanov was not unreasonable and there was no proof that his intent had been murderous. Men such as Ivanov, men as rich as Midas, received requests all the time from people down on their luck.

  ‘Then who killed Hearne?’ Larry asked. ‘We can’t help you if you don’t cooperate.’

  ‘I was wrong to come in here. I want to leave this country; not admit to a murder I did not commit.’

  ‘Tell us about the meeting. What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was not there.’

  ‘Let me come back to Becali. Did he kill Marcus Hearne?’

  ‘If I say he did, you will keep me in this country.’

  ‘As a witness.’

  ‘What life is that for me? I will be on the street and Ivanov will have me killed.’

  After one hour of questioning, a break in the proceedings. Antonescu asked for a pizza, which was duly delivered to the police station. Isaac and Larry went back to Homicide, and Larry phoned Annie O’Carroll in Ireland.

  ‘What do you have?’ Larry said after he had updated her.

  ‘Unreliable witnesses, a possible man on Buckley’s street twenty minutes before he was shot.’

  ‘Possible?’

  ‘Someone was taking selfies with an iPhone. There’s a man in the background. The time’s right, but we can’t recognise him.’

  ‘Short, stocky?’

  ‘We’ve been through this before,’ the Irish police officer said.

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘Very well. The man that we have is short, but we’ve been through the faces you sent before. Came up with nothing.’