***
Cojocaru arrived back in England no more than two hours after Larry. For the gangster, there was no welcome home by a loving wife, a meal on the table. All that he could look forward to was his penthouse flat with its view of the River Thames. Suddenly it did not seem so important. He made a phone call.
‘The police are fishing,’ Becali said on answering.
‘They’ve got nothing. My place, twenty minutes,’ Cojocaru said.
Becali wanted to say he was busy, but the tone in Cojocaru’s voice told him that the female company he had was less important than a direct request from the man who had saved him from a dismal life in Romania.
‘Antonescu is dead,’ Cojocaru said as Becali walked through the door at the penthouse.
‘How?’ Becali said as he instinctively headed to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a whisky, another for his boss.
‘They killed him in front of me, an example of what will happen to us if we don’t comply.’
Becali knew that he should feel sad for the dead man, a colleague and someone who could always be trusted when there was violence to commit or murder to carry out. It was a time to say a few kind words about him and to reflect on the good times, the benevolent and generous acts he had committed, his goodness, but Becali could not. He could only remember the negatives, the Jamaican Rasta they had held down while they forced the man to give the names of those who could threaten Cojocaru, their strengths, their weaknesses, who they loved, where they lived. The man had said plenty before Antonescu had taken a brick and smashed it against the man’s head. Apart from that, nothing came to mind. No times of sheer jocularity with the man, when both had been at ease with the world, and now he was dead.
‘But why? We could have helped them.’
‘We can and we will. The situation is difficult, and now you, Ion Becali, must raise yourself up and work with me. We are no longer the masters of our destiny, and what happened to Antonescu could happen to us.’
‘We are doomed, you know that.’
‘Our only hope lies in preventing the Russians from taking control, but I don’t know how.’
‘You spoke to the police. They could help.’
‘They cannot stop this. Set up a meeting with the West Indians, let them know that the situation has become more serious.’
‘Briganti’s, did Ivanov admit to it?’
‘Yes. It was a warning to us and to others.’
‘I was hauled into Challis Street,’ Becali said.
‘Why?’
‘One of my women died.’
‘Zablozki?’
‘He was there. They couldn’t hold me, although they were trying to make a case out of it because I was seen outside her place, and then in the street outside Briganti’s.’
‘What is so important about her?’
‘She was in Briganti’s when it was attacked.’
‘Hendry’s woman?’
‘The other one.’
‘Why? You can afford better.’
‘Sometimes, I fancy them that way. Reminds me of the old country when my choice was limited.’
‘Why eat peasant food when you can afford the best?’
‘It may be better in the old country for me now,’ Becali said. A wave of nostalgia flowed over him, even a tinge of remorse that Antonescu was dead. He could not help but feel that Nicolae Cojocaru was not telling him the full story; the man never had in the past, only issuing commands. But now he was talking to him almost as an equal. Regardless, he would set up a meeting with the West Indians, knowing full well that they would be suspicious.
Chapter 15
Larry sat in a café on Portobello Road. It was early in the day and whereas he had often been there for breakfast, now it was for a meeting with Marcus Hearne, one of the four at the house where they had met with Larry, put forward their concerns, even their willingness to open up on what they knew, what was happening. They had been worried then, and now Hearne admitted that they worried more.
‘It’s like this,’ Hearne said. ‘We met with you that day, told you what was going down, and how Cojocaru had taken over.’
‘Not enough to bring the man in for murder,’ Larry said.
‘You’d need witnesses, a body.’
‘And neither of them is likely.’
‘That’s why we brought you to the house.’
‘Almost poisoned me, though.’
‘Medicinal,’ Hearne said, a wry smile on his face, the only sign of ease in the man. Larry couldn’t warm to him in the same way he had to Rasta Joe, the beer-drinking Rastafarian. Larry, out on the street and ferreting around, heard plenty, always without proof. He knew for instance that Marcus Hearne was a murderer and that he had killed a man eight years previously in a vicious gang fight on a vacant block of land not far from Regent’s Canal. It had been a settling of grievances between two rival gangs as to who controlled which part of the area. Larry would have said the police, if asked, but the gangs considered themselves masters of the area, although that had been before Cojocaru.
‘I didn’t feel any better for it,’ Larry said. He ordered a coffee for himself, as well as breakfast. The importance of the meeting with the gang leader had exempted him from Homicide’s early-morning meeting.
‘We’re willing to work with you on this,’ Hearne said.
‘You told me that before, but I don’t remember anyone coming forward with anything worthwhile.’
‘There wasn’t much to tell you. After Briganti’s, it went quiet.’
‘There’s always something happening, and you know it.’
‘I’m not an informer.’
Larry felt no need to comment. Hearne had served time in prison before; he would be back there again, and if he, Detective Inspector Hill, had to be the person to arrest him then so much the better.
‘Cojocaru, is that why we’re here?’
‘You know it is. What happened to Antonescu?’
‘We don’t know,’ Larry admitted, not mentioning that it was known that the missing man had left England with Cojocaru and not returned. The French police were helping, at the request of the Met, and Braxton at Serious and Organised Crime was interfacing with Homicide.
‘He’s dead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘We don’t need proof.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Don’t go wasting your time on him. He’s not worth it.’
‘It’s still murder.’
‘According to you, and what about Cojocaru wanting to meet with us?’
‘When?’
‘One day’s time, a location of his choosing.’
‘And what do you want me to do? Come to the meeting?’
‘Of course not. But if we don’t return, we want you to know about it, who’ll be there and where.’
‘You suspect a trap?’
‘We do. Cojocaru never consulted with us before. All he did when he took over was to start killing anyone who got in his way. The man has his back to the wall now, and he wants our help.’
‘If you let us know where and when we’ll keep a look out for you. But you’ve got to level with me, no playing me for a sucker.’
‘Not this time. If Cojocaru is going to issue ultimatums, it’s going to get nasty.’
‘And you and the others will be at the meeting unarmed and without backup.’
‘We have no option.’
‘I need something from you.’
‘Name it.’
‘Ion Becali and Sal Maynard, one of the women who died at Briganti’s. We know he was messing around with her, although he denies it.’
‘What do you suspect?’
‘It’s possible that Becali was involved. Possibly used her as a decoy. The woman was susceptible to the man’s charm, saw it as love. He could have spun her a story about robbing the place. We don’t have proof of anything, and it may be nothing, but we need to know if there was any more to it.’
‘Becali hedging hi
s bets, playing both sides?’
‘Find out what you can and let me know. I’ll protect you the best I can, but once the threat’s been removed, I’ll be after you for the crimes you’ve committed.’
‘I’m not admitting to any.’
***
Two in the morning, Inspector Oscar Braxton phoned. Isaac took the phone call. ‘Not too late for you, is it?’ Braxton said.
‘That’s fine. I’ve not heard from you for a while,’ Isaac said as he got out of bed, not wanting to disturb his girlfriend, and went into the other room. Instinctively he put the kettle on to make himself a cup of tea, knowing full well that a phone call at such an hour meant only one thing – developments.
‘I’ll do it,’ Jenny said as she came into the room. Isaac had had problems with other romances, when the hours he worked, the midnight phone calls, had been something they said they could deal with, but none had, not until Jenny. She understood and he was grateful.
Isaac looked out of the window of the flat, saw a few lights in the other flats in the building, a couple arm-in-arm on the street, a drunk slowly making his way home. It was remarkable, he thought, that one of the world’s major cities could be so quiet.
‘Are you still there?’ Braxton said.
‘Yes. Just waking up.’
‘Easy life at Challis Street, nine to five.’
‘I wish.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’ve got a cushy number.’
Isaac remembered the light-hearted repartee of the man from when they had first met years before. He took Braxton’s comments in the spirit they were given.
‘We followed up on Cojocaru in France. Disturbing news.’
‘Give me the details.’
‘Stanislav Ivanov.’
‘I gave you the name,’ Isaac reminded him. ‘Cojocaru gave it to us, told me that he’d contact me in a couple of days, but never did.’
‘Cojocaru and Antonescu were picked up at the airport in Marseilles and transported to a villa along the coast.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Our counterparts in France keep a watch out for anyone of concern.’
‘Cojocaru?’
‘Not him. Ivanov has a villa down there. Surveillance picked up one of his cars at the airport and took a photo of the two men getting into it. It didn’t ring a bell at the time, not a big one anyway. After we contacted them, passed on the details, they checked further. The car entered through the gates of the villa twenty-five minutes after leaving the airport.’
‘Ivanov inside the villa?’
‘He was, and some of his men. The French know he’s got weapons in there, not that they can do much about it.’
‘Why?’
‘Model resident. He doesn’t break any laws down there, uses it as his primary residence. Too hot, not the climate, in Russia, and he’s always under threat of assassination. Makes sense if you’re Bratva to keep out of the country.’
‘Listening devices?’
‘Not in the villa, and the area’s been swept by Ivanov’s men. Anywhere that could have been used to eavesdrop has been removed, including a couple of houses where the residents were obliged to sell.’
‘Or else?’
‘That’s it. Anyway, Cojocaru leaves the villa after fifteen hours. He’s on his own, and the same car drops him off at the airport. That’s all we know.’
‘Antonescu?’
‘He’s not been seen since.’
‘Larry Hill’s been told that he’s dead.’
‘A reliable source?’
‘Not one hundred per cent, and there’s no way whoever told Larry would have been in that villa.’
‘Unless Antonescu appears we’ll assume that he is,’ Braxton said. ‘The ball’s in your court. Find out what’s going on. And one other thing, a shipment of weapons was intercepted in France.’
‘Forwarding address?’
‘Cojocaru, not that it was on the manifest documents, but we know of a few aliases and how they get the drugs in.’
‘Which means there’s another shipment that you’ve missed.’
‘The quantities indicate something major. You’d better get extra people on the street.’
‘We’re working on it.’
‘Okay. I’ll let you get back to sleep,’ Braxton said.
‘Not much chance of that now.’
***
Inspector Annie O’Carroll continued with the investigation into the deaths of Seamus Gaffney and Inspector Ryan Buckley. Forensics had given a ninety per cent probability that the two men had not been murdered by the same person. No gun had been found at either location, even after dredging the local waterways and scouring through the usual places where they could have been dumped.
Feeling the effects of being a woman in a male enclave, the eyes of others on her performance, she phoned Larry in London.
‘Any chance of you coming back here?’ she said. ‘Ryan Buckley’s death is professional, and we’ve no leads. Seamus Gaffney’s is probably local.’
‘What about the car that followed Gaffney from the airport?’
‘Kathleen Pearse from the rental company has proven to be an unreliable witness. We found the driver here. He had dropped the car back at the airport but didn’t catch a flight. He’s in custody for a burglary he committed four years ago. We had him on our radar, that’s why the false driving licence, the bogus address.’
‘The reason for him hurrying off?’
‘His mother was on her deathbed. He got there five minutes too late. Still, once we caught up with him, we had to arrest him. No doubt he’ll be allowed to attend the funeral.’
‘Which means Seamus Gaffney is still unsolved, and no leads.’
‘I’m not getting a lot of help from my colleagues with Gaffney, plenty with Ryan. And we can’t assume that the man had an English accent, doesn’t hold weight now.’
‘Not really. If he were Romanian, it would help.’
‘Not that I’d know Romanian from Bulgarian or Greek,’ Annie O’Carroll said.
‘No one would. If we could link it to Cojocaru and his men, it would be a bonus. Although one of them is not around now.’
‘What happened?’
‘Went on a trip to the south of France, never came back. Serious and Organised Crime is putting him down as missing in action, presumed dead.’
‘Murdered?’
‘Poetic justice if he is. There’s an attempt to bring in a large shipment of weapons from the continent, and the gangs are nervous, even meeting with Cojocaru. And then we’ve got Stanislav Ivanov not far behind.’
Larry had to admit to enjoying his conversation with the Irish police officer, but unless the situation changed, he’d have to stay in London.
Wendy had spent more time with Ralphie; his family, not as dysfunctional as Sal’s, although still uncaring, had not impressed Wendy when she had met them. His father lounged in a well-worn chair, the television showing the horse races, his phone at his side to place the bets. Apart from that, the man did little other than complain about how they had laid him off at work, a menial cleaning job, on account of his bad back, and he was going for worker’s compensation for the permanent injury that he had suffered. Not that Wendy had seen much of the injury when the man jumped out of his seat when his horse had won.
‘See, I told you that I could pick them,’ he said to his wife, Ralphie’s mother.
‘About time,’ the only words to emanate from the woman. Even when Wendy had questioned her about Sal Maynard, her replies had been monosyllabic, just yes and no. Ralphie’s father had been more forthcoming in saying that Sal’s mother was just a tart and the daughter was no better, just a useless lump of lard. Wendy could only sympathise with Ralphie, and she vowed to help him if she could.
Outside the house, Ralphie had been apologetic, although his vocabulary was interspersed every few words with a four-letter expletive.
‘Did Becali kill Sal?’ Ralphie asked.
‘You don’t need proof to know whether he did or not.’
‘We don’t think so. And whatever you do, keep well away, the man’s violent. I don’t want you getting involved.’
‘It’d be more interesting than around here.’
‘It probably would be, but Ralphie, mark my words. Becali is not a person to be trifled with and never approach him. You must promise me that,’ Wendy said, speaking to him as she would have her own sons when they had been younger.
‘I won’t. Promise.’
Wendy left Ralphie, having gained no more information. She had only come back to the area after Becali’s importance in the investigation had risen. With Antonescu out of the picture, the murder of Buckley could have been at Becali’s hand. A window of opportunity had been discovered for the second murder in Ireland, long enough for the Romanian to have made the trip over, probably using a false name and identification. And no need to use a rental car, as local transport, especially the train from the airport to a station, no more than a five-minute walk from Buckley’s house, ran at regular intervals.
Becali was front and centre, and at Challis Street, the team met again. This time in the presence of DCS Goddard. The man was not happy, not that anyone else was, and an air of inadequacy had settled over those present. A team honed through numerous murder investigations, sometimes challenging, sometimes procedural, but now the clues were too few and far between.
Larry was the first to speak, that is after Goddard had given his usual speech about working ‘the hours required, I expect everyone to do their bit, the eyes of the commissioner are on us’. They had all heard it before, and it hadn’t been necessary, but Isaac could see that the man was wearying of the battle to keep Commissioner Alwyn Davies out of Homicide, as well as his man, Superintendent Caddick.
‘Inspector O’Carroll believes the hit on Ryan Buckley was professional. If it was, then Becali’s a possibility, and what about him and Sal Maynard?’
DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2 Page 55