DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ***

  Four men sat in a room heavy with the smell of ganja, the Caribbean name for marijuana. Their collective criminal empires overlapped and included the area covered by Challis Street Police Station: from Paddington in the east, through Bayswater and Notting Hill and Holland Park to the West, up north as far as Ladbroke Grove and then south taking in Shepherd’s Bush and Kensington.

  The house where the men sat was not affluent Kensington or Holland Park, not even Bayswater, but Ladbroke Grove and a council property. The men, leaders of their various gangs, did not often meet, and then only on the street and mostly late at night when a dispute had to be settled that invariably resulted in violence.

  Larry, who had smelt ganja many times before, had to admit to a feeling of light-headedness as he waited in an adjoining room. Across from him, two Rastafarians.

  ‘They’re not sure what to do with you, copper,’ one of them said. Larry could see the glazed look in the man’s eyes, the colourful and expensive clothes he wore. He could also see the knife in its sheath pushed down the front of his trousers. Larry knew him as Delroy Williams, a man who had spent time in jail for selling crack cocaine. He wasn’t the only one in the house who had served time, but of the four leaders, only one had. He had been caught in an affray three years earlier, stating that a man had come at him with a knife and he had defended himself.

  ‘Talk to me, that’s what they’ll do. They’re scared,’ Larry said. He had liked Rasta Joe, a former gang leader and part-time informer, when he had been alive, as big a villain as any of the four in the other room, but he had been charismatic too. Delroy Williams was not, and he had a surly manner about him and a hatred of the police.

  ‘We’re scared of no one,’ Williams said, although Larry had the measure of the man. Williams was a coward, feeling brave on account of the four men in the other room, and the fact that he was spaced out on ganja. Larry chose not to indulge in any more conversation with him.

  The other man in the room, a short, unattractive individual, was unknown to Larry. ‘Your name?’ he said.

  ‘Liston Hayes.’

  ‘After the boxer?’ Larry said, assuming that he had been named after Sonny Liston, a former world heavyweight boxing champion.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ the man said.

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘A couple of hours.’

  ‘This country, I meant.’

  ‘I was born here, up in Manchester.’

  Larry looked intensely at the man, recognised the speech patterns, knew that the man had not been in England for more than six months to a year.

  Liston Hayes was only small, but he had a look about him that Larry didn’t like. As if he was a man who was more than he seemed, a possible murderer brought into the country in anticipation of the gang warfare which could explode at any time.

  The door beyond opened, a man stood at the entrance beckoning Larry to enter. The smell from the room was stronger than where he had been sitting.

  ‘Don’t worry, Larry. We’ll open the windows, put a fan on high for you. We don’t want one of London’s finest corrupted by us,’ the man said sarcastically.

  ‘Long time, no see,’ Larry said. ‘I thought you were doing five to ten in Pentonville.’

  ‘I served three, out for good behaviour. I’m a model citizen now.’

  ‘Not you, Marcus Hearne, you’ll always be a villain.’ Larry remembered the man from before his imprisonment: good-looking, polite and friendly, a dealer in drugs, a loyal friend to those he liked, ruthless to those he did not. In the end, he had served time for the drug dealing, not for the murders that had occurred on his orders. Personally, Larry liked the man; professionally, he did not. But he knew one thing: if Hearne was one of the four, then he would be safe. Outside on the street, two blocks away, an unmarked patrol car. Larry made a phone call. ‘I’m fine. Don’t stay where you are, leave,’ he said.

  Information was coming through from sources on the continent about Briganti’s. Larry would use it if it helped with the discussion, keep it to himself if it would not. The information was dynamite, and the West Indians were touchy at the best of times; he didn’t want them rushing to mobilise their people. He also did not want them arming themselves more than they already were.

  ***

  ‘What did you find out?’ Cojocaru, an even-tempered man most times, said. He was sitting in a leather chair in his penthouse. It was early in the afternoon, and the view out over the area was excellent, not that he could enjoy it, not that day.

  ‘No one knows anything,’ Becali said. He was standing up, as was Antonescu. To sit in the presence of their boss without his express permission would be a marked show of disrespect, almost a challenge to his leadership.

  ‘It’s the Russians,’ Cojocaru said.

  ‘None of our contacts have confirmed that,’ Becali said.

  ‘Your contacts are just the minnows, mine are the sharks.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I need to meet with them.’

  ‘But why? If they don’t like what you say, you don’t return.’

  ‘We need a neutral location where I’m safe.’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘Here’s as good as anywhere.’

  ‘But what do they want? We take whatever they send to us.’

  ‘There’s a bumper crop in Afghanistan of opium poppies. It’ll drive down the price, and the Russians don’t want to ship more to maintain their margin, they want to increase their profits.’

  ‘But how?’ Becali said.

  ‘They’ll go through England and Europe taking out whoever opposes them, drop the price of the drug, ensure more addicts, and then bring up the price. The strategy is good, the only problem is that they want to cut us out.’

  ‘They’ve always hated us,’ Antonescu said.

  ‘They hate Romanians as much as we hate Russians. What’s new? We can still do business with them.’

  ‘How did you find out their plans?’

  ‘Yuri Aliyev.’

  ‘He’s our primary contact with the Russian mafia?’

  ‘Bratva if you want to use their Russian name. And yes, Aliyev has served us well, ensured that the shipments arrive on time and the quality is good.’

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  ‘Aliyev is one of them. He can’t be trusted, but business is business. I need to convince those in their senior hierarchy that we are the best option.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘We have to be.’

  ‘This meeting with the police, are we prepared?’ Becali said. ‘What will you tell them?’

  ‘I will judge at the time how much they need to know and how much we confuse them. We weren’t responsible for Briganti’s, and I don’t want them trying to pin that on us.’

  ‘You don’t intend to tell them it was the Russians who shot up the hairdresser’s?’

  ‘I may hint, I may not.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the Russians?’

  ‘Aliyev is the messenger. He could have lied. He may not even know the truth. A loyal lieutenant, no more, the same as you two. Now, what do we have to confuse the police and to give us time to negotiate with the Russians?’

  Chapter 9

  Isaac paced around Homicide; his team were letting him down, which meant that his leadership was not up to par, and he had seniors to answer to. Not only was DCS Goddard looking for results, so was Commissioner Alwyn Davies, and he was not a man to take no for an answer, let alone an ‘I don’t know’.

  And that was precisely what the man had received from Goddard, although couched in police jargon, and now Goddard was in Isaac’s office, and he wasn’t looking happy.

  Unable to avoid the confrontation, Isaac entered his office, a perfunctory shaking of hands before sitting down.

  ‘Isaac, you’re stuffing around on this one. A man can’t just walk into a hairdresser’s, shoot the place up, and then walk out of the door and down the stree
t. Hell, he could have been sat across the road, a cappuccino in front of him, a cream bun in his mouth, having a laugh at you, at us.’

  ‘We interviewed everyone in the vicinity. He wasn’t there.’

  ‘If this is someone from outside the country, then it’s organised crime. Have you contacted Serious and Organised Crime Command?’

  ‘I have. They’re looking at that angle. Although, if it’s the Russians, what happened is not their normal modus operandi in this country.’

  ‘That’s what’s worrying everyone, even Davies. In the confines of this room, the man’s a fool, but then we’re both agreed on that. We answer to him, he answers to the politicians, the prime minister, the general public. If there’s to be an upsurge in violent crime, he intends to stamp it out ASAP, with your help and mine, or without.’

  ‘Has he threatened?’

  ‘Not in as many words, but we know what happened last time. We’ve been out on our ears before, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Returning me to Challis Street must have stuck in his throat when he issued the directive, and the man doesn’t forget. And if you hadn’t arrested the damn woman, being stabbed for your troubles, receiving a commendation for meritorious service, then you’d be out on the beat, back in uniform.’

  ‘We brought the woman in,’ Isaac said by way of defence. He realised that it was a lame response, but it was the only one he had. Goddard was right, Isaac knew that, but what could he say. Serious and Organised Crime Command was running with the information provided so far, including a detailed analysis of Nicolae Cojocaru and his organisation. Not that they had to do much as the man was well known to them.

  And as for the others in Briganti’s that fateful day, Guy Hendry’s body had been released and buried, a moving ceremony according to the evening news on the television channel which had covered it, as well as a one-hour documentary on the life and times of the man.

  Isaac had watched it at home with Jenny, his latest girlfriend, a willowy part-time model from a small town to the south of London, as white as he was black. One friend had commented that the two of them together was like a rerun of the Black and White Minstrel Show, popular in the sixties on television. Isaac had taken it in jest, Jenny had not, and the friend was now off the Christmas card list, and not welcome at the flat that Isaac and Jenny shared.

  The documentary on Hendry, the subject of a meeting in the office the following day, had emphasised the man’s achievements, the charities he supported, loved by his colleagues. It had not dwelt on his female conquests, only to say that he was beloved by many, male and female. Gillian Dickenson had been one, and she had been buried in the family plot in her hometown, a smaller gathering than for Hendry, but Isaac had attended, noted that the man’s first wife, the mother of his children, had been there and she had shed a tear for the dead woman.

  The body of Baz Hepworth, one of Peppe Briganti’s employees, had been sent back to Australia, and that of Fred Boswell, the other stylist, had also been released. Briganti’s body still remained in the mortuary, as did the bodies of Paul Waverton, Alphonso Abano, and Sal Maynard.

  Richard Goddard, normally agreeable, could be irritating on occasions, and now was being just that. Isaac could sympathise with the man, as he had to deal with seniors who were not always pleasant, and most of them were driven by ambition and internal politics. Goddard was a master of both disciplines, but his ambition was being thwarted, as was Isaac’s, and neither wanted Alwyn Davies’s stooge, the incompetent boot-licker Superintendent Caddick, back in Homicide.

  ‘This Russian angle? Is it likely to hold up?’ Goddard asked.

  ‘Eighty–twenty,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Your estimate or that of Serious and Organised Crime?’

  ‘Both. I’m meeting with one of them later in the week. No point before as they’re in contact with their counterparts overseas.’

  ‘In Russia?’

  ‘They prefer to deal through Interpol: more efficient, less bureaucratised, more unlikely to have a mafia man on the inside.’

  ‘A problem in Russia?’

  ‘There’s big money at stake.’

  ‘It’s not much to go with. I’ll hold Davies at bay for as long as I can, but any more deaths or shootings, and you know what happens.’

  ‘I know. Not something any of us want, and non-productive. If it’s Caddick who comes through the door, then all bets are off. He’ll only stuff it up.’

  ‘If it happens, then make yourself scarce and keep working on it. Policing would be a lot simpler if everyone was competent.’

  ‘A lot simpler if we didn’t have criminals either, but that’s life. Whatever happens, the team in Homicide won’t let you down.’

  ‘I know that, Isaac. While you and Serious and Organised Crime are working on the eighty, make sure your team continues with the twenty. It may still be homegrown.’

  ‘We’re still following through on four of the bodies. Everyone’s got skeletons, and the four have histories of wrongdoing. Three of them are minor, and Abano was a criminal, but of little note. We should wrap up our investigations into them in the next couple of days and then we’ll release their bodies.’

  ***

  It was late in the day when the phone call came through. Bridget answered the phone, took the message, and called the others into Isaac’s office. Larry had been dealing with paperwork, entering his day’s activities into his laptop; Wendy was doing the same, although her typing was woeful, and her spelling was suspect. She was pleased that Bridget would fix it up for her afterwards, a ten-minute job for her, an infinity for her.

  Isaac looked at the clock on the wall. It was nine-thirty in the evening, another hour for him in the office. He’d been running through the investigation so far, messaging his contact at Serious and Organised Crime.

  ‘It’s serious,’ Bridget said as she took the seat in the far corner of the office. Wendy sat down alongside her, Larry remained standing and leaning against the door.

  ‘What is it?’ Isaac said.

  ‘A phone call from the Irish police.’

  ‘Why would they phone us?’

  ‘Seamus Gaffney.’

  ‘He visits every few weeks,’ Larry said. ‘A family man who commutes to Ireland on a regular basis. Devoted to his wife, and I asked the Garda, the Irish police, to keep tabs on him.’

  ‘They found his rental car five kilometres from the airport, Gaffney inside.’

  ‘Dead?’ Larry said.

  ‘Two bullets to the head.’

  ‘Cojocaru?’ Wendy said.

  Larry looked ashen-faced. ‘First Rasta Joe and now Gaffney,’ he said.

  ‘Occupational hazard,’ Isaac said. ‘He probably found out something he shouldn’t have. Any contact with him, Larry?’

  ‘Not since the last time I met with him. If he had found out something, he was either keeping it to himself, or he was aiming to see who’d pay the most.’

  ‘Assume the latter. Larry, get yourself over to Ireland. There should be a flight tonight.’

  ‘It’ll be tight. Bridget, update me on the way. Contact, phone numbers, and book a hotel close to where I’m heading.’

  ‘Get to Dublin, rent a car. I’ll place an order on the rental company, should save you some time.’

  Larry left the office; Isaac phoned DCS Goddard to update him. ‘Forewarned, forearmed,’ Goddard replied. ‘His death is not likely to be major news, or is it?’

  ‘It’s unlikely, but whoever killed him and for whatever reason is worried.’

  ‘So are we. Cojocaru?’

  ‘Too obvious,’ Isaac said. ‘And the man knows we’ve been keeping a watch on him. Bridget will check out the flights to Ireland, see if Antonescu or Becali have been there, although the man has others who could have killed Gaffney.’

  ‘Stay with it. I’ll consider how to keep the commissioner off our backs. The man’s death in Ireland is another complication we could do without.’

  ‘It means that someone’s frightened.
The question is what did he find out.’

  Isaac turned to the other two in his office. ‘We’ve got some work to do. Five minutes, get a coffee, and let’s see what we’ve got.’

  It was going to be a long night, and the meeting with Cojocaru was scheduled for the next day at a pub outside London. It had been intended for Larry to go with him, but Isaac knew that wasn’t possible, and he wasn’t going to cancel the meeting.

  Upon her return, with a cup for him as well, he spoke to Wendy. ‘How do you feel about meeting a vicious thug tomorrow?’

  ‘He won’t be the first I’ve met.’

  ‘He makes the West Indians look like Sunday School teachers.’

  One in the morning, the three left the office. An itemised list of questions to ask the master gangster and a file opened for Gaffney, although the man had been killed in another country so strictly speaking it was their case. Isaac had worked with the Irish police before; he knew there would be full cooperation between the two police forces.

  ***

  Larry arrived in Dublin late, the last flight. He picked up his car at the rental company, a woman handing him the keys. ‘The local police have been on the phone, so has a Bridget Halloran. There’s a purchase order, and your driver’s licence has been forwarded. No more to do, just sign on the dotted line,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Larry said. It had been a long day, an even longer night. He found the car quickly enough, a local police car waiting alongside.

  ‘Detective Inspector Hill?’ the patrol officer, a ruddy-faced man carrying more than a few extra pounds, said.

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘Fine. We’ve been asked to show you the way, save you trying to find it.’

  With the patrol car leading, a late model Ford with a broad yellow stripe bordered by a thick blue line on both sides of the vehicle, it took fifteen minutes to make it out to where Gaffney had died. A Nissan, the same as Larry had rented, although his was green, Gaffney’s blue.