DCI Isaac Cook Box Set 2

by Phillip Strang

  ‘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 here, 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.

  Cojocaru picked up his coat and headed out of the penthouse. ‘You’re driving,’ he said to Becali.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘St Mary’s Hospital. I want the truth.’

  ‘Is there any concern that what they are reporting is not correct?’

  ‘It is always a risk. If he’s dead, we will last longer, maybe even long enough to plot our return to the old country.’

  ‘But we are not wanted back there.’

  ‘I must maximise the profits in the short term. Back in Romania, I will buy myself a house in the country and grow vegetables.’

  ‘Nicolae Cojocaru, you are not a man of the soil.’

  ‘Becali, it is better to plant the vegetables than to be the fertiliser that makes them grow.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back to my old life,’ Becali said as he grabbed the car keys. ‘I want to stay here. I will deal with the problem on my own.’

  In the basement of the building was Cojocaru’s Mercedes. Becali eased it out of its parking spot and left the building, heading east in the direction of the hospital.

  ***

  Serious and Organised Crime Command was watching the unfolding events with concern. The Russian mafia had, so far, had minimal impact in England, although they had made inroads into the former Soviet satellite states, but now their influence was starting to increase in London. A mansion in Kensington had been bought by Alexei Koch, a colleague of Ivanov’s.

  Reports indicated that whereas Ivanov was a man with some charisma and education, Koch could not be tagged with the same attributes.

  According to Oscar Braxton, the man who had bought into one of the best streets in London was known for his savagery, a man who had personally murdered and tortured back in Russia, a man who had ascended up through the hierarchy of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva, a man who frightened many.

  In Isaac’s office at Challis Street, the team assembled, as well as Braxton.

  ‘Ivanov’s condition has improved,’ Isaac said.

  ‘Any signs of retribution for his shooting?’ Braxton asked.

  ‘Not yet. He’s in for a long period of convalescence, whatever happens.’

  ‘And in the meantime, we wait,’ Larry said.

  ‘Any better ideas?’ Isaac said.

  ‘Bateman’s worried. The Russians are becoming too visible.’

  ‘We’re keeping a watch on them,’ Braxton said.

  ‘And doing what?’

  ‘As long as they don’t break the law, and they’ve no crimes against them back in Russia, it’s difficult to refuse them a visa.’

  ‘And with enough money, no one’s looking too hard.’

  ‘Can’t we pre-empt the situation?’ Isaac said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ivanov’s the key. No one is going to act decisively while the man’s life hangs in the balance. What if we issue a bogus report on his condition, and then watch what happens.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that you’re willing to allow an upturn in violence while the Bratva fight it out amongst themselves in Russia, and Cojocaru and Becali attempt to quell the local villains?’

  ‘Can we control it?’

  ‘It would require senior management to buy into it. If it goes wrong, it’s on our heads.’

  ‘And the lives of a few villains, and possibly a few innocent bystanders.’

  ‘You’ve been on the streets, what about the cut-price heroin out there? Neatly packaged and brought in from Afghanistan, a stamp of quality marked on the outside.’ Larry said. ‘Do we have an option?’

  Isaac made a phone call; Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard appeared within three minutes.

  ‘Davies suggested something similar. Y
ou’ll never get permission,’ Goddard said.

  ‘What are the options?’ Isaac said. ‘The streets are being flooded with low-cost heroin, and the police are only making a dent in it. We’ll not win on this one, and everyone knows it. We could handle the West Indian gangsters, barely contain the Romanians, but the Russians have the muscle and the money to ride over us.’

  ‘DCI Braxton, put it to your boss, and then I’ll want a joint report from both our departments as to what is proposed, the risks, the rewards, the collateral damage.’

  ‘And then?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’ll take it to Commissioner Davies, get his input.’

  ‘What are the chances?’

  ‘It depends on your report. Davies doesn’t want the street flowing with Russian gangsters and cheap heroin. What will happen after they’ve flooded the market, increased the number of drug addicts?’

  ‘The price goes up, and so does the crime rate.’

  ‘Get me the report, and we’ll see. In the meantime, what are you doing?’

  ‘Continuing with the investigations into the murders of Marcus Hearne and Ryan Buckley and the deaths at Briganti’s.’

  ‘Buckley’s death is a matter for the Irish Garda,’ Goddard said.

  ‘His murderer could still be in England.’

  ‘Very well. Just keep busy and arrest someone. I don’t like what you’re suggesting. Too many variables, too many opportunities for a mistake.’

  Chapter 23

  Wendy Gladstone had confronted death many times, and the sight of a body hanging from a beam, or with a bullet in it, did not bring her to tears. But the body lying on the ground did. A cord was tied around its neck, the bike that the man had been riding was off to one side, propped up against a tree. It was a bike that she knew; it was the bike of Ralph Ernest Begley, or Ralphie as he preferred to be called.

  In the times she had spent with the young man, she had seen a decent soul wanting to make a difference, unable to break the cycle that condemned him. And now he was dead, and Gordon Windsor was with the body.

  ‘You knew him?’ Windsor said.

  ‘Ralph Ernest Begley,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘I received a phone call from him ninety minutes ago. I came out here to meet him.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘We used to meet nearby, and then I’d pay for a feed at McDonald’s for him. It was how he liked it.’

  ‘And when you got here, he was dead?’

  ‘He said it was important.’

  ‘You’re not sure if it was?’

  ‘With Ralphie, you could never be certain. He may have just wanted a feed and some money.’

  ‘He was killed for a reason,’ Windsor said as he stood up. ‘The others in my team can complete the investigation.’

  ‘Strangulation?’

  ‘A neat job, no signs of resistance from Begley.’

  ‘Which means that whoever killed him, knew him, or they were in conversation.’

  ‘A local?’

  ‘Not from around here,’ Wendy said. ‘The area is full of minor villains and layabouts, but not murderers. What else can you tell me about the death?’

  ‘Whoever did it was strong.’

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘Not at this time. The investigators will go over the area. You’ll have an updated report later in the day. Next of kin?’

  ‘The local police have informed them. I’ll talk to them after here, but I don’t expect much from them.’

  ‘Someone that’s killed before, I’d say.’

  Wendy left Windsor and headed for the Begleys’. No time like the present, she thought.

  The front door was opened on the second knock by a young woman. ‘What do you want?’ she said.

  Wendy looked at the woman; assessed her to be in her teens. She was wearing a tee-shirt two sizes too small, a pair of faded jeans and her feet were bare. On both arms, tattoos were visible, and she had a ring in her right nostril. Apart from the affectation of disreputability, Wendy could see an attractive young woman already destroyed by the environment and the system, the same that had condemned Ralphie.

  ‘Sergeant Wendy Gladstone, Challis Street Police Station,’ Wendy said.

  ‘A bit late, isn’t it? He’s dead.’ It was the reply of someone who didn’t care or was incapable, stupefied by the effects of one or another recreational drug.

  ‘I came to offer my condolences.’

  ‘Suit yourself. They’re in the other room.’ The young woman left and went back to the front room of the house, music blaring loudly. Inside the room, Wendy briefly saw an older man. Wendy held her handkerchief to her face, not to stifle the tears, but to lessen the smell of sweat mixed with marijuana and tobacco. In the back room of the house, a group of people sat or stood. Leaning with his back against the kitchen bench, the elder and violent brother of Sal Maynard.

  ‘You still here?’ the man said on seeing Wendy.

  Wendy felt the urge to rebuke him and to tell him what she thought of him and his family, as well as what she thought of the Begleys, but did not. Ralphie and Sal Maynard had become friends out of a need to better themselves. Sal had become obsessed with celebrity to find her way out of her malaise. Ralphie had seen McDonald’s and its hamburgers as his salvation. Neither had stood a chance, and here in this kitchen, was all that Wendy despised. She wanted to turn around and leave, but there were questions to be asked; answers, if there were any, to be drawn from people who did not trust the police.

  ‘Mrs Begley,’ Wendy said. She could see Sal Maynard’s mother with her arm around a small woman, the tears rolling down her cheeks.’ I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘What are you doing here, tormenting this poor woman?’ Mrs Maynard said.

  ‘I liked Ralphie. He was a decent young man.’

  ‘He said you were alright,’ Ralphie’s mother said.

  ‘With some help, he may have achieved something.’

  ‘We’ll never know now, will we?’

  Ralphie’s father leant against the far wall. In his right hand, he held a bottle of beer.

  Wendy could see some worth in the mother, none in the father. The other drug-consumed brother of Sal Maynard was not present. The blaring music from the front room continued to impede the conversation.

  ‘Could that music be turned down?’ Wendy said.

  ‘No one dare interfere when she’s entertaining,’ Mrs Begley said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She does what she wants.’

  ‘How old is your daughter?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘And you, Mr Begley, allow your daughter to prostitute herself in your house?’

  ‘She’s not mine.’

  ‘We were separated for some years. Ralphie was ours, Rosy is mine,’ Ralphie’s mother said.

  ‘I came here to offer my condolences and to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I’m not sure we can help.’

  ‘Very well. Could the Maynards leave us for half an hour?’

  Sal Maynard’s brother opened the fridge door, took a can of beer and left soon enough. After a few more hugs and kind words from Mrs Maynard, she left as well.

  Three remained in the back room, Wendy and the parents of Ralphie Begley. Fred Begley took another beer for himself, gave one to his wife. No sign of affection between the two was shown. In the other room, the music continued to blare, together with the sound of the daughter and the man she was with. To Wendy, the noises were not of an innocent fifteen-year-old female who should have been at school.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Wendy said. She left one room and walked down the narrow hallway and opened the door of the other; she did not knock. ‘Get your clothes on, and get him out of here. Your brother has just died, and you’re screwing around.’

  ‘It’s my house,’ Rosy said.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ the man said.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’<
br />
  ‘A female of fifteen, under the age of consent, and truant from school. There’s a police car outside, a couple of officers. They’ll have a few questions for you on the way out.’

  ‘She told me she was seventeen.’

  ‘Ignorance is no excuse.’

  ‘I’m not a tart, and Billy, he looks after me.’

  ‘And Billy is over thirty, and if he’s giving you clothes and money, taking you to fancy hotels and restaurants, that’s prostitution. You, young lady, need discipline, but I suppose there’s not much in this house.’

  ‘You’re not my mother.’

  ‘If I were, you’d feel the weight of my hand on your backside. Now get Billy out of here, and I’ll be pressing charges against him. You, Miss Begley, will come into the other room with your parents now.’

  Wendy opened the front door of the house and beckoned one of the officers over. ‘Check out Billy here. Book him for having sexual relations with a minor, and then take him down to Challis Street, get him checked out. I want the book thrown at him.’

  ‘We know Billy Jepson,’ the officer said. ‘Smarmy individual, sells drugs around the back of the pub of a Saturday to minors. We’ll make something stick.’

  ‘This is police brutality,’ Jepson said.

  ‘It’s justice,’ Wendy said.

  Wendy returned to the back room, Rosy with her.

  Mrs Begley sat quietly sobbing, her husband stood, his back resting against a wall. Rosy crouched on the floor. Not one of the three spoke to the other.

  ‘Rosy, let me start with you,’ Wendy said.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because I’ve not spoken to you yet. You were too busy with Billy Jepson before, but now I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘If you must.’

  Wendy saw another lost soul, but she couldn’t feel the warmth for the young woman that she had for her brother. ‘What was your relationship like with Ralphie?’

  ‘We’d talk, that’s all.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘He was alright, but we didn’t have anything in common.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone has in this house, do you? Rosy, you don’t seem to be upset that your brother has died.’

  ‘Why, should I be?’