Murder Has No Guilt

by Phillip Strang

  ‘How do men like Cojocaru manage to evade the law?’ Isaac said. He knew that it was a rhetorical question.

  ‘Have you met the man?’ Goddard said, choosing not to answer his DCI’s question.

  ‘Larry Hill has, I haven’t.’

  ‘Any advantage if you do?’

  ‘If the man is frightened, then there’s no harm done.’

  ‘If someone’s muscling in on his action, either they are planning to strike a deal with the man or to eliminate him.’

  ‘They could have done that instead of killing innocent people.’

  ‘Innocent?’

  ‘Alphonso Abano is no great loss, but the others didn’t deserve to die purely because there’s a war going on out there.’

  ‘Cojocaru was bad enough in dealing with the local villains before, but now this has taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘It has been quieter for a few months, up until Briganti’s, that is.’

  ‘A temporary lapse. Meet with Cojocaru, see if he’ll help us. We can deal with him another time.’

  Isaac knew that it was a compromise, in that dealing with one villain at the expense of withholding access to another, more violent, more unpredictable, more unknown, was necessary. He left DCS Goddard’s office with the intention of getting Larry Hill to set up a meeting.

  ***

  An air of palpable tension pervaded the air as Larry, fishing for information, entered into his and most of the villains’ favourite pub, the Wellington Arms.

  In one corner, propping up the bar, Crin Antonescu. He cast a steely glance over at the police inspector, a brief nod of his head in acknowledgement. Larry responded in the same manner, not pleased to see him there, not disappointed either. Ion Becali, the other of the two men closest to Cojocaru, was sitting down at a table, a woman in her twenties close by, her arm around his shoulder. Larry knew her by sight and by name: Betty Acton, black, beautiful, although starting to show the effects of selling herself and the drug abuse she had subjected her body to. It wasn’t often that she came into the pub, nor was it usual for Cojocaru’s two men.

  Larry strolled over to Becali, passing by Seamus Gaffney and giving him his pint. He wanted to speak, but Larry had a more pressing question for another.

  ‘Where’s your boss?’ Larry said to Becali, who had pretended not to notice the police officer approaching him.

  ‘Our night off,’ Becali replied. Not a good enough answer for Larry. Betty grabbed hold of Becali’s face and pulled it forward to hers before kissing him firmly on the mouth, a clear sign to Larry to leave them alone. Usually, he would have. Becali was a violent lover, known to be so because another Betty lookalike had ended up in the hospital badly beaten and bruised. She had wanted to bring a case against the man, supposedly a dispute over the final payment for her services. In the end, the woman had left the hospital and moved out of the area. Larry had made some low-level enquiries, but nothing had come of them. Either she had found herself face down in a ditch somewhere, or she was feeding the fish and the crabs at the bottom of the river, or she had changed her name and was standing on a street corner somewhere selling herself for whatever she could. Regardless, no one, not even a next of kin or a friend, had come forward after the woman vanished.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen you and Antonescu in the pub together without your boss.’

  ‘Nicolae Cojocaru’s not a man for drinking.’

  ‘He’s game for anything else.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The last time I saw you, it was in here with Cojocaru. He was worried then, so were you, and here you are with your fancy woman. No doubt you’ve got a night of pleasure planned. I hope we don’t have to visit the hospital later tonight or tomorrow to find her in intensive care.’

  ‘Ion treats me well,’ Betty said, the needle marks visible on her skin.

  ‘We need to meet with your boss,’ Larry said. ‘If he’s in the country, that is. If he’s not, where is he?’

  ‘He’s here. Others are looking out for him. And he’s entertaining tonight, the same as I am. Antonescu’s keeping himself comfortable with a few beers.’

  ‘He’s not a lover?’

  ‘He is, but he likes a drink now and then. For myself, a couple of pints and a good woman.’

  ‘Betty’s the good woman? I thought you had a couple of classy whores in your stable.’

  ‘How dare you insult me,’ Betty said indignantly.

  ‘Take no notice,’ Becali said. ‘Detective Inspector Hill’s just leaving.’

  ‘It’s my night off, Hill,’ the man said, turning his gaze to Larry. ‘And If I fancy a bit of rough, then that’s my right. It’s a democratic country where a man can make his own decisions.’

  Larry sat down and looked over at the young prostitute. ‘Betty, you heard the man, you’re the rough. Just make sure that you don’t end up as the beaten or even the dead.’

  ‘Cojocaru will see you tomorrow morning,’ Becali said. Larry could see the redness in the man’s face, the tightening of his grip on his glass, the look of an angry man.

  ‘I’ll be there with Detective Chief Inspector Cook. There’s a gang war brewing, and we want to stop it before it gets out of hand.’

  ‘So do we. Now if you’ll excuse us, go away and talk to your informer friend. And tell him to be careful. We don’t like people sticking their noses into our business.’

  ‘I’ll tell him, but I’ll be keeping an eye out for what you’re doing. We’re not sure that you weren’t involved in what happened at Briganti’s.’

  ‘Okay, Mr Policeman, you don’t like us, and we don’t like you. Mutual dislike and distrust, is that it?’

  ‘It is, but I’ve got the law behind me, you haven’t.’

  ‘Idle threats. Mr Cojocaru doesn’t take favourably to people who threaten him.’

  ‘We know his solution, and you and Antonescu carry it out.’

  Larry stood and walked away, observing the look between Becali and Antonescu. Betty sat to one side of Becali; she was not holding him as tight as before. Larry hoped that the woman would not regret selling herself to a vicious man for the night.

  ***

  Seamus Gaffney, a man who appreciated a few pints of beer of a night after a hard day of not doing much, was waiting for Larry to come over to where he was sitting. That day he had organised the location for an illegal dogfight where bloodthirsty men would bet on the outcome of two half-starved dogs fighting each other, the victor being accorded the accolades, the other, either maimed or dead. Gaffney didn’t appreciate the spectacle himself, but he had bills to pay, the same as everyone else.

  There was a wife, a homely woman who preferred to stay back in Ireland, although he went over there every six weeks to see her. Not that he was idle back there, as there were six children and another on the way. He liked it there, and the cottage where his family lived was paid for. The only problem was that the community was honest and law-abiding, the sort of place where everyone went to church on a Sunday, and where he didn’t fit in. In his childhood, he’d been hyperactive, and in his teens, he had been into graffiti and vandalism, painting the church door with his impression of art: bright orange and blue. And then as an adult, it was false cheques and a few months in prison. He had become a leper in Ireland, yet Sheila, the next-door neighbour’s daughter, had always been there, even during his childhood and his adolescence, and then his time in prison. They had married on a Saturday, a small affair at the church where he had adorned the church door. Even Father O’Rourke, the village priest, had made a joke of it at the time of the wedding, although the day after the defacing of the Lord’s house, he had turned up at the Gaffneys’ home with a cane in his hand, and he had tanned the young Gaffney with it, putting him in bed for a week.

  Seamus’s mother had wanted O’Rourke to be prosecuted, but Seamus had pleaded with her not to do it as he would be ostracised from his friends, and Father O’Rourke was right in what he had done to him.


  In time, life in the small community moved on, and Seamus never defaced the church again, even stopping every time he passed the place to enter and offer a prayer to be forgiven, and to apologise to the Almighty for what he had done.

  England was the only place for Seamus Gaffney after he left prison, and although he had tried his hand at labouring, and then serving in a shop, he was a restless man. He was, however, reliable, and those in Notting Hill and the adjoining suburbs recognised that. He always had his ear to the ground, and he knew how to set up activities on the edge of illegality. Gambling on fighting dogs, bare-knuckle fighting, although there wasn’t much of that in the last few years, and arranging a cheap car for someone: stolen, resprayed, the engine markings removed on more than a few occasions. He had spoken out of turn once and had inadvertently given a clue to the police; the outcome of that an arrest, and a man had spent two years in jail. On his release, he had grabbed Seamus by the collar, marched him up to the pub.

  ‘You owe me a skinful of beer,’ the released prisoner said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘They never found out about the other crime. The money’s safe from that one, and later tonight you’re going to drive me to the airport. I’ve got plenty, and after two years that I spent inside courtesy of Her Majesty, I’m well ahead.’

  Seamus had been relieved when the man had boarded the flight to Thailand, and a life of bargirls, cheap alcohol and drugs. The word came through six months later that for all his luck the man had been on the receiving end of a beating in a bar in Phuket and had died of his wounds.

  ‘Seamus,’ Larry said, having visited the bar in the Wellington Arms to order another pint of beer for the man, one for himself. ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Becali.’

  ‘Why not? The man knows more than you do, or does he? He’s a vicious bastard, so’s Antonescu, but we need to find out who shot up Briganti’s. Have you found out any more?’

  Seamus took a drink, downing almost half the contents of the glass in one gulp. ‘The rumour mill is working overtime. Everyone’s got a theory. Most think it’s the Romanians aiming to tighten their grip.’

  ‘Their grip is already tight. Are there any dissenters?’

  ‘Some of the gangs are in discussion.’

  ‘To form an alliance against the threat?’

  ‘If it’s not the Romanians, then they need to be ready. There’s talk of bringing in more weapons. It could get nasty.’

  ‘That’s why we need to meet with Cojocaru, the other criminal syndicates, the gangs.’

  ‘We! Count me out. I’ll talk to you here for a few pints and some of your money, but don’t ask me to meet with any of them.’

  ‘Seamus, you’re letting your mind get away with you. It’s the police who’ll be talking with them. You can help with letting me know who’s talking to who, or I can find out from them direct.’

  ‘They’ll not talk openly to you, not yet. Another incident and they may do.’

  ‘Another incident planned?’

  ‘That’s the problem, just rumours. There are some that say the hit on Briganti’s was aimed at the man himself, others say it was the hot-shot banker, others reckon it was Guy Hendry or the woman he was with, even the Maynard woman. Myself, I think they’re all wrong.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘I read that they shoot up places overseas.’

  ‘It’s not part of our culture.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Gaffney said. ‘I’ve heard there is a shipment of weapons coming in.’

  ‘A rumour?’

  ‘It could be, but if it’s correct, they’ll be available to the highest bidder. You’d better be prepared.’

  ‘We will be,’ Larry said as he downed his last pint. He had kept it to four; he would not be sleeping on the sofa that night.

  Chapter 8

  Pathology had completed the autopsies of those who had died at Briganti’s. Isaac read through the reports in his office. He had been joined by Bridget and Wendy; Larry was out on the street attempting to meet with the various gang members and villains, those that would talk to him.

  ‘According to the reports,’ Isaac said, ‘Abano had been drinking, nothing excessive, and Briganti was clean, as were the other two hairdressers that died, although one of them, Baz Haywood, was found to have traces of cocaine.’

  ‘Guy Hendry and Gillian Dickenson?’ Wendy said.

  ‘Nothing to report apart from Gillian Dickenson being two months pregnant. Paul Waverton, the banker, was heavily into cocaine. And as for Sal Maynard, her autopsy reveals that she was verging on obese, no sign of any other ailments. What do we have on her?’

  ‘The family has some criminal history, hardly enough to warrant execution,’ Wendy said. ‘I’m following up in detail with Bridget on all those in Briganti’s. We’re not excluding that one of them was targeted and that Cojocaru is not responsible.’

  ‘Correct,’ Isaac said, knowing that he had trained his team well. ‘We can’t assume anything. Larry’s out there trying to find out more details, and we’re meeting with Cojocaru.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Bridget said.

  ‘I’ve already run it past Detective Chief Superintendent Goddard. He’s given the go-ahead, and we’ll have armed backup not far away.’

  ‘So will Cojocaru,’ Wendy said.

  ‘The fact that the man’s worried indicates that it’s a foreign syndicate attempting to take over.’

  ‘But why Briganti’s?’

  ‘Depends on the reason. An arrogance on whoever’s part that the English police are ineffective, a warning to the Romanians and the other criminals in the area.’

  ‘Are we ineffective?’

  ‘We go by the book. It’s still more effective than the alternatives, and we’re not dealing with terrorism here.’

  ‘It’s worse than that,’ Bridget said.

  ‘Terrorism is usually committed by low-intellect, religiously dogmatic and radicalised peoples. Organised crime overseas is not run by fools, but by people who are smart and know what they’re doing,’ Isaac said.

  ‘As I said, it’s worse.’

  ‘The upsurge in weapons in the area?’ Wendy said.

  ‘There are enough already, but there could be more. We’ll see what Larry’s got to say, and what Cojocaru tells us.’

  ***

  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 s
urly 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.