DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘You’re living in cloud cuckoo land,’ Bateman said. ‘This is the real world, crime happens, people take drugs, people get drunk, even you in the past when Rasta Joe was alive.’

  ‘My habits are not of concern. What do you want from me? What are you going to give in return?’

  Bateman turned away from Larry and Wendy and focussed on the other four at the table. ‘Leave us alone. I’ve got two police officers to protect me now,’ he said.

  The four gang members moved away, taking up a position close to the bar. Of the four, Morris kept his eyes firmly on Bateman, Larry and Wendy.

  ‘I don’t like the look of him,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Marlon? He’s harmless, just likes to look big and strong,’ Bateman replied. His tone was mocking. Wendy didn’t believe the man.

  ‘What do you have for us?’ Larry asked. His glass was empty. He looked over at the barman and held up the empty glass, a nod from the barman in return. Bateman followed suit as did Wendy. Soon there were three more pints of beer on the table.

  ‘Devon Harris and Jeremy Miller will be here soon enough.’

  ‘Why not now?’

  ‘Cojocaru has been trying to make a deal. He’s frightened of the Russians, so are we.’

  ‘They killed Crin Antonescu, almost certainly were responsible for Briganti’s and one other murder in Ireland.’

  ‘We can’t trust the Romanians, no more than the Russians. What do you suggest we do?’

  ‘Seamus Gaffney knew something. He told someone else what it was, and he’s dead. Whatever it was, it was lethal. I need to know what the man knew,’ Larry said.

  ‘You want a lot. We know less than you, and that we’re unsure what to do. If Gaffney had found out something, why didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘It had more value if he sold it on, or offered his silence if they paid enough.’

  ‘Gaffney was always a fool, playing the margins, listening where he shouldn’t. He was going to die one day on account of his big nose.’

  ‘Maybe that’s true. What else do you have? Hearne’s dead, yet you stayed with Cojocaru.’

  ‘He told us about Antonescu, not that we cared for the man. Marcus was talking to the police, and secrecy was vital.’

  ‘You accepted that? He did no more than what you’re doing now.’

  ‘We didn’t accept it, but we needed to know what Cojocaru had to say. Men die, men live, and Hearne led a violent life.’

  ‘The same as you.’

  ‘The same as me. One day, one of those at the bar will challenge me. You know this.’

  ‘Cojocaru’s been in Romania, although he’s back now. Have you seen him?’

  ‘Not since that day when Hearne died. Cojocaru told us about Ivanov and what he’s capable of. Is it true what he said?’

  ‘That Ivanov is a mafia boss, more violent than anyone else you’ve ever encountered, and that one of his men shot up Briganti’s?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘He didn’t lie.’

  ‘That’s what we thought, not that we trust Cojocaru. But the man had a message, we had to listen to it.’

  ‘Why were the three of you out of touch with your people?’

  ‘We weren’t, not totally. Hammond knew where I was, but he was keeping quiet. We agreed to give Cojocaru three days, but then he never came back. We enjoyed his hospitality, and Harris and Miller are still there.’

  ‘It must be good hospitality,’ Wendy said.

  ‘It was,’ Bateman said. ‘The best.’

  Wendy needed to know no more.

  Larry looked over at the four gang members. He could see that two of them were drinking heavily, Victor Powell and Marlon Morris were not.

  ‘You need to stop Ivanov,’ Bateman said.

  ‘With what? The man’s got no criminal record, not even a parking ticket, whereas you do.’

  ‘I’m not the problem, Ivanov is. We’ve learnt to live with Cojocaru, even do business with him, but this Ivanov may cut us out altogether.’

  ‘He may just remove you, chop you into little pieces and feed you to the fish.’

  ‘We’ll fight.’

  ‘On a street corner, knives and fists? Not a chance. The Russians will be armed with guns, and they’ll know how to use them. If this is not stopped, it’s you who’ll lose. What was Cojocaru’s plan?’

  ‘I don’t think he knew what to do. He just needed to know that we’d be with him and not the Russians.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘We represent our community, not his or Ivanov’s.’

  ‘If you had to choose?’

  ‘Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.’

  Wendy could see that Bateman, the same as Marcus Hearne, was looking for de facto support from the police for the criminals. She knew that would not happen, and that Bateman was not a man to be trusted.

  Marlon Morris came over, a scowl on his face, a disparaging look at Larry and Wendy. He carried a half-full glass of beer. He drank it before speaking. ‘Devon Harris is back,’ he said to Bateman.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not here,’ Morris replied. Larry knew that what he was saying was that he was wherever the police weren’t.

  Larry stood up, offered his hand to Bateman, which he shook. ‘Keep in touch and don’t get yourself killed. You’re playing with the big boys now, and they won’t have any scruples about killing you and your men.’

  ‘According to Cojocaru, they kill the police as well.’

  ‘None of us is safe, you’d better remember that. If you want to meet Harris without us being present, then so be it. But don’t blame us if you end up on the pathologist’s table, cut open from top to bottom.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Bateman said as he leant over and shook Wendy’s hand.

  Larry wasn’t sure if he would see the man again. The West Indians were playing a dangerous game, a game they were not prepared for.

  ***

  At 10.02 a.m. Stanislav Ivanov walked down the four steps outside his Bayswater residence. On the street, three men stood close to a Rolls Royce. On the other side of the road, another man looked up and down, checking. All four men were bodyguards, as were the two on either side of the leader of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva.

  Ivanov was in a good mood: the latest financial statements were all in the black, and the planned expansions throughout Europe and England were progressing well. The two men at either side of him were anxious to hurry him away from the house and into the car, but Ivanov wanted to look around, to look at the garden, even to say hello to a woman pushing a child down the street in a pushchair, to wave to a man walking his dog. Those protecting the man knew that it was out of character for their charge, and that in France he stayed concealed most of the time, and in Russia he travelled in a convoy of ten to twelve vehicles.

  The bodyguards were disturbed with the change in the man, the result of his decision to stay in England on a permanent basis, his belief that England was safe.

  On the pavement Ivanov stopped once again to talk to a group of schoolchildren, not that they knew who the man was, other than he was wealthy and influential. He asked them about their lessons, and what smartphones they used, and were they on Facebook. The guards attempted to hurry him along, careful not to touch his person.

  From a window on the upper floor of a block of flats one street away, another man watched the scene. He opened the window, confident that with distance came protection. He took aim with the rifle set on a tripod, its telescopic sight tested many times for accuracy. He loaded one bullet into the rifle and pulled the trigger. He then left the room, the rifle still in position. He had no need of the weapon again, no need to gloat over his handiwork, only to feel a wave of relief surge over him.

  The bullet’s target lay motionless on the footpath, the schoolchildren screaming in horror, the bodyguards unable to comprehend the scene, conscious of their fate if the man died, and even if he didn’t, they were guilty of negligence.

&n
bsp; An ambulance arrived five minutes later, a medic stabilising Ivanov before putting him in the back of the vehicle and transporting him to the nearest hospital, the Rolls Royce following as well as two other cars.

  The first that Homicide heard of the shooting was a phone call from Isaac. ‘I’m with Oscar Braxton. Get over to St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington. Ivanov’s been shot.’

  Both Wendy and Larry were familiar with the place, as it was on Praed Street, just up from Paddington Station.

  ‘We’re heading back on Eurostar. We’ll come to the hospital on arrival. Expect a media circus there.’

  ‘Buckley and Briganti’s murderer?’

  ‘That’s still ongoing. Stanislav Ivanov is the key, and if he dies, there’ll be no Russian incursion into England. But if he survives, you can imagine the consequences.’

  ‘Revenge?’

  ‘And lots of it. The man is not the “forgive and turn the other cheek” kind of person. Whoever shot him must have known this.’

  ‘Who? Any suspicions?’

  ‘Not yet. Find out where the shot was taken from. No stone unturned on this one. I’ll phone DCS Goddard. He’s bound to have Commissioner Davies onto him soon enough.’

  ‘Caddick?’

  ‘God help us if he appears,’ Isaac said. ‘Got to go, taxi to the station. See you in a few hours.’

  ***

  Not far away, Devon Harris met with Claude Bateman; Jeremy Miller was on his way. Everyone, including Cojocaru, the West Indians, the police, knew that whatever happened, a day of reckoning was coming when the opposing forces would be lined up against each other, either to come to an agreement or to fight.

  At St Mary’s, the police were attempting to keep the media at bay, setting up an area across the road, and bringing in metal barriers. At the entrance to the hospital, two uniforms stood, backed up by a patrol car.

  Larry waved his warrant card at the uniforms. They let him and Wendy through after a call from DCS Goddard to tell them that the man in the operating theatre was part of a homicide investigation. The uniforms, nervous due to the importance of the man inside, had only been doing their duty, Isaac knew that. A high-profile patient, and forged identification papers, easy enough to come by, could have been used by the media, or by the assassin if the man showed up to check on his work.

  ‘I need an update,’ Larry said to the lady at the desk outside the operating theatre.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a doctor to see you.’

  Across the room, an elegantly dressed woman.

  ‘Mrs Ivanov, I’m Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street Homicide. Could I take a few minutes of your time?’

  ‘Why? What has my Stanislav done? We intended to come and live in England but after this? Such a good man.’

  Wendy could have said because he was a thug who controlled the most powerful criminal gang in Russia, the Tverskoyskaya Bratva, a man who killed and tortured people without a care, a man who had a couple of high-class women at his place in Bayswater, while, she, the wife, lived in Richmond in a mansion. Wendy could see a hardness in the woman’s face and realised that she would not have cared about the negatives, only the positives – the man was rich and generous, and he left her alone.

  ‘Have you received any updates on his condition?’

  ‘They told me to prepare for the worst,’ Elena Ivanov said. At her side sat another woman of a similar age, although not as well-dressed. She held the other's arm in a sign of friendship.

  ‘We will need to question him.’

  ‘Not Stanislav. He does not answer to anyone.’

  ‘This is not Russia. Here in this country, the police have the right to question. With citizenship comes responsibility. It is important that we find out who shot your husband and to bring that person to justice.’

  ‘He will talk to you if he can,’ Ivanov’s wife said. Wendy was sure it was only an answer to make her go away.

  Wendy knew that whoever had pulled the trigger would receive punishment. The answer to who would administer it remained unknown. With the British legal system, the man would be afforded the benefit of a fair trial. With Ivanov’s cohorts, the man would be condemned and killed with little formality.

  Wendy left the woman and returned to Larry. ‘She’ll not tell us much,’ she said.

  ‘Ivanov’s wife. She would regard us as no more than insects to squash underfoot.’

  ‘Not if she wants to stay in this country. Ivanov wants to be here, so does she, but why? He doesn’t need to be in London to run his organisation.’

  ‘Ivanov doesn’t feel as secure as he did before. He wants out, he wants England and a peaceful life.’

  ‘Peaceful to men such as Ivanov is subjective,’ Wendy said.

  Chapter 19

  Nicolae Cojocaru sat back in his chair; he was a contented man. On one side of him, a bottle of whisky; on the other, mounted on the wall, a flat-screen television tuned to a news channel. The breaking news, the shooting of Stanislav Ivanov, the latest report from the hospital stating that the man’s chances were not good. A brief synopsis followed of the man’s career. How, at the age of ten, he had been abandoned in the height of winter, surviving by sleeping in heated basements when he could find them, underneath stacks of cardboard when he couldn’t. How he had been taken in by an orphanage and had educated himself, taking every opportunity to better himself, eventually leaving university with two degrees. After that the television report became sketchy. There was mention of the ending of communism with Gorbachev, the rise of the oligarchs, Ivanov being one of the most prominent. Cojocaru knew that most of the story of the man’s past was not true, having been put out there by a loyal employee. Cojocaru wondered how long before the veneer started to crack and the truth was revealed.

  Becali sat in another chair. ‘A great day,’ he said. He lifted his glass of whisky in the air, a salute that the worst was over.

  ‘It will be when they take him out of there in his coffin.’

  ‘There is no question of his death.’

  ‘That is what you said before.’

  ‘They’ll not give up on him that easily, but it was a good shot, I’ll vouch for it.’

  ‘On this, Ion, I trust you. What of the three West Indians?’

  ‘They have left the house.’

  ‘Good. Give them a bellyful of food and drink, a few women, and it’s as easy as leading a camel to water.’

  ‘With Ivanov gone, they’ll go back to what they were before. Will you honour your agreement with them?’

  ‘What agreement?’

  ‘To deal with them in a more consultative manner in the future; to fight the Russian threat together.’

  ‘Ion, still so naïve. No wonder you were starving in Bucharest. I never made any agreement, only suggestions. Are we ready for what happens?’

  ‘The weapons are here, and Ivanov’s people are ready to start shipping the extra quantities of drugs. Are you sure about this?’

  ‘I am sure. What Ivanov planned, we will implement.’

  ‘The Russians have agreed?’

  ‘Whoever killed Ivanov has done them a service. They are very grateful.’

  ‘They must never know.’

  ‘Not from me, they won’t. What now for you, Ion?’

  ‘Today, I intend to celebrate. Tomorrow, day one of what has been agreed. It has all worked out better than could have been expected.’

  ‘As long as Ivanov stays dead.’

  ‘His bodyguards?’

  ‘Some have disappeared, the others have been told to not indulge in reprisals. And besides, they don’t know who was responsible.’

  ‘Does it matter to them?’

  ‘No, but without Ivanov and the Tverskoyskaya Bratva giving them clear instructions, they’ll hold back.’

  ‘Let’s hope the man’s dead, for all our sakes,’ Becali said.

  ‘I can feel it in my bones,’ Cojocaru said. ‘He’s dead, and for once, I will join you in your cele
bration.’

  ***

  As fast as Eurostar was, it wasn’t fast enough for Isaac. As the train was pulling into St Pancras Station, he was off and running; Oscar Braxton, not such a fit man, struggled to keep up with him. In the taxi, Isaac caught his breath; Braxton tried to look at ease, but his face was red, and he was gasping for breath.

  At St Mary’s Hospital, the two men soon found Larry and Wendy. Updates on Ivanov’s condition were slow in coming. Braxton, his tie still undone after loosening it in the taxi, contacted his department. Serious and Organised Crime, New Scotland Yard, had more clout than Homicide, Challis Street. He spoke to his commander who phoned the hospital’s director of communications.

  ‘There’ll be a power struggle in Russia, survival of the fittest,’ Braxton said to Isaac.

  ‘Deaths?’

  ‘It’s probable, but it’ll be internal and in Russia. It’s not our concern. What’s happening here is, though.’

  Ten minutes later, a surgeon came out from the operating theatre.

  ‘I’m Brian Forsythe, you’ll need an update on the patient,’ the surgeon, a man in his fifties, greying at the temples and as tall as Isaac, said.

  ‘You’re aware of who the man is?’ Isaac replied.

  ‘Not that it matters, but yes.’

  ‘He’s still alive?’ Larry asked. A blunt question, he knew, but he had spent enough times in hospital to know that the surgeon would feel the need to give a description of the effect of the bullet entering a man’s skull, the prognosis, how long he may or may not live, the difficulties in stemming the internal bleeding, and so on.

  ‘It’s important,’ Isaac said.

  ‘The patient is still alive. There was internal bleeding in the brain, fracturing of the skull. His survival is still dependent on a number of factors. We’ve put him into a medically-induced coma.’

  ‘How long for?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘It depends on how he progresses. Anywhere from a few hours up to two weeks.’

  ‘Ivanov wore body armour under his jacket, that’s why the shot was to the head.’

  ‘I only know the man from the media reports,’ Forsythe said. Isaac could see that he was anxious to get away.