Murder Has No Guilt

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Tough bastard,’ Seamus said.

  ‘He frightens me,’ Larry said. ‘He could have done it.’

  ‘Too close to home, he’s not responsible.’

  Larry knew that while Cojocaru was capable of ordering violence, he was not a man who carried a gun or committed the acts personally. He was a godfather figure in his community, and there were those from the old country who looked to him for assistance; people not in a position morally or financially to condemn the man’s criminal activities.

  That night, late as usual, Larry found his wife waiting for him when he arrived home, her typical stern look not apparent.

  ‘Busy night,’ she said with almost a touch of affection. Larry knew that she wished he’d leave the police and get a job that wasn’t so dangerous and didn’t come with the temptation of boozy nights. He knew she had been right on a previous case when the Homicide team were getting close to solving some murders, and he had ended up in hospital, severely beaten. If it hadn’t been that the hoodlums who had gone at him with baseball bats were ineffectual, he would have been dead. As it was, he had escaped with no more than severe bruising, a couple of broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder blade.

  ‘You’ve seen where I’ve been on the television,’ Larry said.

  ‘Guy Hendry. Why would anyone kill him?’

  ‘They killed his girlfriend and six others, a bloodbath.’

  ‘And you’re mixing with those who did it?’

  ‘Not this time. We don’t think it’s local-based, and Hendry was not the target. Never can be sure on that, though.’

  ‘He always seemed a charming man, but then on the television, these celebrities let us see what they want of them.’

  ‘DCI Cook and Wendy have met with his family, also Gillian Dickenson’s. According to them, Guy Hendry was a decent man. Gillian Dickenson came from a good home, as well. They had to tell the mother that her daughter was dead.’

  ‘Not you this time?’

  ‘Not this time, thankfully. Just hope there are no more villains out there with semi-automatic rifles.’

  ‘And you in the middle of it. You know I worry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t love you if you didn’t. Someone’s got to deal with this.’

  ‘But why you?’

  ‘Let’s not go there again. You know I’m not leaving.’

  ‘I know. Your dinner’s in the oven if you’re hungry.’

  ‘I’m starving. Any chance of sleeping upstairs tonight?’

  ‘Just make sure you brush your teeth and use some mouth freshener. I can’t be angry tonight, although I should be. Any suspects?’

  ‘I met Cojocaru.’

  ‘He gets as much publicity as Guy Hendry,’ Larry’s wife said as she walked out of the door to the kitchen.

  ‘Not good, though. He’s a man who frightens me.’

  ‘He frightens a lot of people. Don’t go getting yourself killed.’

  ‘I don’t intend to,’ Larry said.

  ‘But Cojocaru. He’s a killer.’

  ‘I’ll make sure to call him sir every time I meet him.’

  ‘Not you. You’re more than likely to have a beer with him.’

  ‘Reluctantly,’ Larry said, knowing that Cojocaru was a man who would know what was happening before anyone else, even the police.

  Chapter 6

  Giuseppe Briganti’s mother, an elderly woman, her back bent from years of working outside tending to the cattle and the vegetables that they grew for sale, sat in the corner of the farmhouse. In another corner, a television was on. For the woman, it was her only connection to the son she had seen three weeks previously when he had been on one of his frequent visits. She remembered the joy that he had given her when he had told her how successful his business had become. He had told her about where he lived and how he preferred to be on his own. She regretted that he had not married and given her grandchildren, but she knew the anguish that had driven him to London.

  ‘I’ll not last for much longer,’ she said, desperately sad at the loss, aware of her own mortality; the stroke last summer, and now the inability to walk more than a few paces. She was sixty-eight, but life had been tough, and Giuseppe had offered to take her to London and look after her and to make sure that she received the best medical care. Once, eleven years ago, she had visited him, the one time she had left her Italy, and she only remembered the cold and the rain, and the fact that she did not understand what everyone was saying. Not that they were unfriendly, on the contrary, but she was a village woman, as was her mother, and her mother before that.

  Her husband had died five years previously, and Giuseppe had visited to organise the funeral and to say a few words praising his father and mother for giving him life, and for caring for him. He had said that he wanted to stay, but his mother knew that it was just words for her, and he had never been a farmer. He had been destined for more, and she had seen him achieve that.

  Around her in the farmhouse, her brothers and sisters, the ones still alive, as well as half the village. It had been a good life, the woman had to admit. She raised herself from her chair to make sure that everyone had something to eat and drink. A sudden pain in her chest and she slumped back in the chair. Ten minutes later the village doctor pronounced her dead.

  ***

  Early morning in the office, DCI Cook’s mandatory practice: the six o’clock meeting during a murder investigation. The others in the team had no trouble agreeing, only with complying. Bridget Halloran had worked late the previous night dealing with the paperwork, and setting up the reporting structure that a bureaucratised police force demanded. Not that she complained, as she enjoyed her work immensely and had great respect for her DCI. It had been two in the morning when she had left the office, and a twenty-minute drive, less than three hours sleep, and then back to the office.

  Isaac could see that Bridget was suffering, as were the others, as was he. He had only slept for one hour. He’d lain in his bed for longer, but the events had been churning over in his mind. Wendy Gladstone, the ever-loyal sergeant, yawned. Larry Hill was another person who had had a late night, but his had been tinged with alcohol and Nicolae Cojocaru.

  ‘Thanks for making it,’ Isaac said. ‘I needn’t tell you the seriousness of what we have here.’

  ‘We understand, sir,’ Wendy said. ‘Why can’t the villains let us have a good night’s sleep?’ she said by way of lightening the sombre tone of the room.

  ‘We’ll ask them sometime, but in the meantime, what do we have? Larry, you first.’

  ‘The word is that it’s someone from overseas aiming to muscle in.’

  ‘Cojocaru?’

  ‘I met with him yesterday, not that I intended to. Most times the man keeps out of the way, but he wanted to talk.’

  ‘Update us on what he said.’

  ‘His arrival in the area has changed the pecking order amongst the criminals.’

  ‘What about the West Indian gangs? You were friendly with them before.’

  ‘They’re still there, but they’re maintaining a lower profile. Cojocaru is the most savage we’ve come up against, and according to the man, someone else is out there that frightens him.’

  ‘Keep in contact with him, find out what else he knows, and keep us updated as to where you are. That man kills, whether you’re a police officer or a gang member.’

  ‘I know that. With the West Indians, I felt safe enough, but with Cojocaru, I don’t.’

  ‘Wendy, what do you have?’ Isaac said. He’d noticed that the woman’s arthritis had been troubling her less in the last few weeks, a sign that the weather was improving, and early-morning frosts had not been seen for some time.

  ‘I’m working through the others in the salon. You’ve met with the more significant people, so I’ve concentrated on the other two hairdressers, Baz, short for Barry, Hepworth and Frank Boswell. Hepworth was Australian, and I’ve got the local police in Sydney dealing with informing his family and interviewing them. If there’s any nee
d, I’ll set up a video link from here, but the man seems clean. His father was English, and Barry Hepworth had an English passport, no immigration issues. The man paid his taxes, and Briganti’s books seem to be in order. Frank Boswell seems to be clean as well. He’s English, born in Liverpool. From what we know so far, he came from a middle-class family, the father is an accountant, his mother teaches at a local school. Nothing on him other than drunken driving a few years ago, and he’d been apprehended once for buying cocaine off the street. He was probably still snorting it, and Forensics and Pathology will confirm if that’s the case. I’ll go up to Liverpool if we find any negatives against him. Sal Maynard is of more interest. Her family has had more than its fair share of run-ins with the law. One of her uncles had been in Maidstone prison for five years for theft, cars mainly.’

  ‘Delve into the others with Bridget,’ Isaac said. ‘Anything untoward and we’ll follow up.’

  ‘Cojocaru could be leading us down the garden path.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Isaac said.

  ‘A diversionary tactic.’

  ‘He’s savage enough to have been responsible.’

  ‘The man’s not stupid. Antonescu and Becali, his two offsiders, are not too smart, and I reckon that Antonescu would have no compunction in shooting innocent people, nor would Becali, but this time I reckon that Cojocaru’s levelling with us.’

  ***

  ‘I don’t care who the bastard is, I want him dead,’ Cojocaru said as he stomped around the living room in his penthouse flat. Standing not far away, afraid to sit, were his two henchmen.

  Crin Antonescu, the first of the two, a squat pug-faced man, a wrestler in his youth, enjoyed violence, although only if he was not on the receiving end. He still remembered the time when he had been, the result of not throwing a championship match on which a gambling syndicate had staked a fortune. Not only had they lost millions, but Antonescu had lost the full strength in his left arm after four men had gone to work on him for not following orders.

  ‘You live to tell others who may think that they are smarter than us,’ one of the four men had said, and now Antonescu sat in the room in Kensington listening to the man who had controlled that syndicate.

  Antonescu hated Cojocaru, although the thought of betraying him brought the pug-faced man out in a cold sweat.

  Cojocaru knew that fear brought with it respect and devotion, the same way a maltreated dog will continue to follow its master, even after it had been starved and beaten.

  The second of the two men in Cojocaru's presence, a tall, slender man with wavy hair and a dark complexion, went by the name of Ion Becali. He did not fear Cojocaru, only loved the man for what he had done for his family when he had been desperate and struggling to make ends meet in Romania.

  ‘He’s not a local,’ Becali said, referring to the shooting at Briganti’s.

  ‘Ion, I’m not a fool,’ Cojocaru said.

  ‘Abano wasn’t much of a target,’ Antonescu said.

  ‘He may have fancied himself as an important man in the area, but he was just small time. What was he involved with?’

  ‘We used him a few times to sell drugs for us. We paid him well enough, and he kept his mouth shut.’

  ‘You two are my eyes on the street, but you’re coming up with nothing.’

  ‘Nobody knows, or else they’re clamming up.’

  ‘I don’t care what you do, who you hurt, but I need to know. If it’s someone from the old country we’d know by now. If it’s someone from elsewhere with fewer scruples than us, then it’s war. Are we ready?’

  ‘If it’s locals, then yes. We’ve got them under control, but if it’s unknowns from overseas, no chance,’ Antonescu said.

  ‘What are you suggesting? That we bring in more people to help?’

  ‘How many of the locals did we kill when we came to this country?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Over twenty, but most of them were Jamaicans, the rest Irish, some from Scotland, and a few English, but they weren’t used to our kind of violence. Or at least the English weren’t, lily-livered the lot of them.’

  ‘The police, any issues?’

  ‘A few uniforms can be paid to look the other way, or if they don't take money, they’ll respond to threats.’

  ‘What sort of country is this, where the police are honest, the villains are harmless?’ Becali said.

  ‘The sort of country that has made us rich and feared. The sort of country where we can hold our heads up high.’

  Becali thought back to Romania and how he had scratched out an existence, stealing what he could, fencing what he couldn’t. And now he was living in an upmarket flat in Bayswater, a couple of women on tap, a cabinet full of drink, and the best hashish that money could buy. It had been a good eight years in a country that respected his right to be there, even paying him government money in the first few months while he established himself, while he and Antonescu with Cojocaru’s planning had methodically eliminated all opposition. If the authorities had known what atrocities they had committed, especially against those from the Caribbean, the police would have been more diligent.

  Concern over gang warfare had been raised in parliament at the time, and in the media on occasions, but not much had come of it, just blustering and grandstanding by a few. Cojocaru knew, as he had back home in Romania, that society needs discipline, not vague rules and regulations. The area that he controlled was calmer than before; there was a lower level of street crime, and areas that had been no-goes late at night were now safe to walk in by the law-abiding majority.

  The master gangster looked out of the window of his penthouse flat and surveyed his domain. He knew that the move to England had been right, as back in the old country there was a new government that had been elected on a platform of law and order. They weren’t achieving much of either, but they had become a nuisance.

  In England, the presumption of innocence before guilt had served him well, and apart from a few attempts by the authorities to muscle him and his men out of the country in the early days, he had managed to stay. And those that had shown the possibility of securing his deportation were either in his pay now, or keeping out of the way, or dead. Of the three options, Cojocaru knew which he preferred.

  ‘The Russians would be capable of hitting Briganti’s,’ Cojocaru said, a shiver running down his spine.

  ‘But why? We take the heroin they ship out of Afghanistan, pay them plenty for it,’ Antonescu said.

  Chapter 7

  Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard was not a happy man, Isaac knew that. The two had worked together since one had been an inspector and the other a constable on the beat. The relationship, akin to friendship, had served the two men well, although as Isaac, now a detective chief inspector, was well aware, it did not obviate the need for his Homicide team to provide a result.

  ‘Isaac, I’ve got my seniors breathing down my neck, the same as I am down yours. What’s going on, and what are you doing to prevent a repeat?’ Goddard asked in the sanctity of his office.

  ‘We’re struggling on this one,’ Isaac admitted, knowing full well that his senior appreciated an honest answer, even if it was not the one he wanted to hear. ‘Apart from a minor villain in the salon, we can’t find any reason to kill the others in Briganti’s. We’re still conducting enquiries, interviewing the next of kin, checking on the street for what’s being said, who’s suspected.’

  ‘And?’ Goddard said from the comfort of his leather-backed chair. His DCI had to do with a wooden chair, and not very comfortable at that.

  ‘It appears to be a warning to the crooks in the area. Larry Hill’s been in conversation with Nicolae Cojocaru, and the man believes that’s what it is.’

  ‘We take the word of a gangster?’

  ‘Not normally, but it’s more his style,’ Isaac said. ‘Not that we can pin it on him.’

  ‘Men like Cojocaru don’t get their hands dirty, you know that,’ Goddard said. Isaac c
ould sense a tenseness in the man. He’d thought he’d be heading up Counter-Terrorism Command by now, but was still stuck in Challis Street Police Station, courtesy of a police commissioner by the name of Alwyn Davies, an acerbic political animal who neither Isaac nor his chief superintendent liked, having had more than a few run-ins with him.

  Davies should have been out on his ear after a string of terrorist acts in London. And then there was his bringing in of his own people into senior positions, temporarily removing both Isaac and DCS Goddard on one occasion and bringing in an incompetent to take their places.

  But now stability reigned at Challis Street, even if there was an unease about the place. Isaac, in his younger years, had featured in a promotional for the television-viewing public as the face of the modern and cosmopolitan London Metropolitan Police: urbane, black, degree-educated. There were some who saw him as a future commander, even commissioner, but now he’d been languishing for too long in Homicide. Not that it concerned him unduly, not in the last year anyway, as his team were efficient, and he had just managed to upgrade his flat in Willesden for one in Hammersmith.

  Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard was a political animal, but not with the savagery of Alwyn Davies, the senior officer in the London Metropolitan Police.

  Goddard had gone out of his way to protect his protégé, Isaac, on a couple of occasions, both woman-related. The first time, a more youthful and less-experienced Isaac had slept with a woman who had later turned out to be a murderer. The second time was in the north of the country, when he had been snapped in an embrace with a woman. It had happened at a party in the hotel where he was staying during the hunt for a woman who had killed several men. A group of three women, all inebriated, had grabbed him to take a photo of them all before one of them had taken a picture of just the two of them, smiling, arms around each other. Isaac had thought no more of it until later that night when the woman – the murderer – had loaded the photo onto social media. For a while, he had become a laughingstock, although in the end he had regained some creditability by arresting her, but not before she had stabbed him with a knife.