Murder Has No Guilt

by Phillip Strang

  ‘For the moment. Five minutes, at the park.’

  Wendy phoned Bridget, updated her as to her movements, before driving the short distance to the park. Ralphie was waiting on her arrival, his bike propped up against a bench where he sat.

  ‘You’ll be seen,’ Wendy said.

  ‘That’s alright. The others know I’m here, and I’m taking them all to Maccas afterwards.’

  The highlight for the local hoodlums, McDonald's, Wendy thought but did not comment to the young man, knowing full well that he probably came from a dysfunctional home, his parents in and out of work, drinkers, and the father possibly with a criminal record. Ralphie’s problem was that his outlook on life was an inherited trait.

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘The money first.’

  ‘If you think you can be smart with me, then you’ve got another think coming,’ Wendy said as she opened her handbag, withdrew a small purse and handed over the money.

  Ralphie looked at the money, the most he had seen in a long time, before stuffing it into the left pocket of his jeans. ‘I saw Sal on the television. They said she worked in a shop,’ he said.

  ‘She sometimes did.’

  ‘That’s not all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sal and me, we were friends. Nothing like what you’re thinking, but we used to talk.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she saw that my life was similar to hers. She had ambition, did Sal. Not that she expected anything to change.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You saw Sal?’

  ‘I saw her dead body.’

  ‘Sal wasn’t attractive. Heavy-boned she used to say, and she could hold her drink. She tried to better herself, but her family are trash. You know that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Anyway, Sal told me about this man. It seems he fancied her, don’t know why. That’s her words, not mine.’

  ‘Is this man important?’

  ‘If Harry Maynard finds out that I told you, he’ll find me and give me a good belting.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Harry is possessive. He regarded Sal as his property, not that he ever touched her. But Harry, he’s bad news. Alex, the younger brother, doesn’t do much, and the mother is a tyrant. I don’t like her either. Strange really, that from that flat came Sal. If she had been pretty and slim, she could have made something of herself. Always had her head in a magazine about celebrities and movies stars.’

  ‘An unhappy woman?’

  ‘She was, but with this man, he used to pay her money, she was fine.’

  ‘Prostitution?’

  ‘Sal didn’t think it was, but I saw him once.’

  ‘Describe him?’

  ‘Tall, foreign looking. Sal said he was from Europe somewhere.’

  ‘Romania?’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘If you went to school, you’d know it was a country.’

  ‘I’ve heard of Romans,’ Ralphie said.

  Wendy did not intend to give a geography lesson to someone who wasn’t interested, and besides, she hadn’t known a lot about the country before Briganti’s and Cojocaru. And now, something about the Maynard woman. A woman who five minutes previously had been a bit player in the murders.

  ‘Did Sal sometimes sell herself?’

  ‘Harry, if he ever finds out it was me, he’ll go crazy.’

  ‘I’ll not tell him it was you, but it’s important. You want us to find out who killed her, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m frightened. If they killed her, they could kill me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I watch those programmes on the television.’

  ‘That’s fiction, this is reality. Sal wasn’t the target, we’re sure of that. But this man, he’s important. Once again, was she selling herself?’

  ‘Her mother did when she was younger, I know that. But yes, Sal was. Not often, not that she minded much. She would have done anything to get out of here. And those actresses in Hollywood, they’re doing it all the time.’

  ‘Ralphie, you need to get your head out of your backside and look around. What they write in the magazines and put on the television isn’t fact, it’s pulp for the gullible.’

  ‘Sal believed it all, but then that was the way she was. Simple in some ways, smart in others.’

  ‘Smart?’

  ‘This man was promising to find her a place where they could meet, upmarket, with a concierge and all. She was excited, and she thought that he loved her.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Not him. I saw him with her, the look on his face as he drove away.’

  ‘Did you tell her?’

  ‘Once I tried to, but she wasn’t listening. And besides, I know who he is. I saw him on the television, standing not far from where she died. He was in the crowd.’

  ‘You’d recognise him again?’

  ‘I would.’

  Wendy scrolled through the photos on her smartphone. ‘That’s him, that’s the man that Sal used to go around with,’ Ralphie said.

  After Ralphie had gone, she made a phone call. ‘DCI Cook’s office, thirty-five minutes.’

  Bridget hung up her end of the phone line and arranged for everyone to be in the office. Wendy had not told her what it was about, but she had known the woman for many years. Whatever it was, it was important.

  ***

  Larry had attempted to leave Ireland, even getting as far as the airport in Dublin and checking in, returning the rental car on the way. The same lady who had taken his keys was surprised to see him standing back at the counter twenty minutes later.

  ‘I’ll need to extend. If you can use the same purchase order, it would be appreciated,’ Larry said. He needed to be home, one of the children was not well, and his wife was fretting, but events in Ireland had taken precedence.

  ‘I rented him the car,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Seamus Gaffney. He’s a regular, every six weeks, and he never misses one of the children’s birthdays or a school open day.’

  ‘How do you know all this? Larry asked.

  ‘As I said, he was a regular. Sometimes you get to talking with the customers, and after so many years, we got to know each other well.’

  ‘Strictly business?’

  ‘Oh yes. Seamus was a family man, devoted to his wife. Not that I ever met her, but a good woman from what he said.’

  Larry was anxious to be on the road as time was of the essence, but the clerk behind the counter had possible information. He could spare her a few minutes, and then he’d be off, returning to conduct a formal interview with her at a later time.

  ‘He picked up the car from me the day he died. He was in a good mood, but then he always was when he came back to Ireland. I can understand that. I spent two years in England, not that I liked it that much. Apologies if I insult your country.’

  ‘No apology needed. What can you tell me? What is there that would be of interest? Something has come up, I’ve got to go,’ Larry said. His wife was on the phone, and she wanted to know why he would not be home that night.

  ‘It was strange, not that I thought much about it at the time.’

  ‘What was?’ Larry said, eyeing the clock, running the car keys through his hand.

  ‘I could swear he was being followed.’

  ‘Any idea who? Can you describe the person?’

  ‘That’s it. I can’t, not really. You tend to get an eye for people in this job, those who are going to feed you a stolen credit card, forged driving licence, those who should pay extra for additional insurance. Too many of them, I’m afraid. They rent a cheap runabout and then think it’s a supercar or a four-wheel drive. And then they’re back here with the vehicle claiming it was in that condition when they rented it, not that they get anywhere as they had a chance to complain at pickup, and we have photos befor
e they leave. The insurance saves us a few arguments, that’s all.’

  ‘If you’re so perceptive, how come you didn’t figure this person?’

  ‘Average height, average look, average clothes. It’s as if he was experienced at blending in.’

  ‘Professional, you might say.’

  ‘Anyway, Seamus is off, and this person is agitating for his vehicle quickly. But if he’s not booked ahead, or he’s not on the database, it takes time.’

  ‘Did he get the car?’

  ‘He had to take one of the more expensive vehicles. Literally ran out of here, took off with his foot to the floor. The car’s back here now, and there was no damage, so I assume he was a competent driver.’

  ‘What luggage was he carrying?’

  ‘Nothing special. A small suitcase, the type you can take on the plane with you.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘It’s on file.’

  ‘English?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell these days, but yes, I’d say he was. Good-looking, if he wasn’t so shifty.’

  ‘Was he? How would you know?’

  ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He must have killed Seamus, such a nice man.’

  ‘A nice man who saw and said too much,’ Larry said, not elaborating on what he meant. ‘I’ll need you at the police station. I’ll phone for a vehicle to pick you up. Is that okay?’

  ‘Not really, but if it’s important.’

  ‘It is.’

  Larry made a phone call, a patrol car arrived within five minutes. Larry left the office and jumped into the rental car. Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived at his destination. The crime scene was crowded with police officers, an ambulance, the crime scene examiners, the obligatory onlookers, the media. He flashed his warrant card at a police constable and was waved through. He parked back from the crime scene at a distance of twenty yards.

  ‘I need to get up there,’ he said to another constable who wasn’t letting him through. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Not unless you’re kitted up, it isn’t,’ the constable replied. Larry knew he was right, but it was urgent. Over to one side he saw one of the officers who had met him at the airport the day before.

  ‘Can you get onto the crime scene team, get me some overshoes, gloves?’ Larry said.

  The officer walked over and gave him what he needed. ‘We always keep some in the vehicle. It’s tense here.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Larry said as he ducked under the crime scene barrier. To the left of the road, a couple of floodlights. To the right, Ryan Buckley’s car.

  ‘In his driveway as he was coming home. You could be the last person to have spoken to him,’ Fergus Turnley, the crime scene examiner, said after Larry had introduced himself and explained that he had only left the man a couple of hours previously.

  Larry looked in the vehicle. Ryan Buckley was leaning back, his face covered in blood. His mouth was open, his eyelids still slightly open. Not far away, at the front door of the semi-detached house, a woman in her dressing gown could be seen. She was being held firmly by someone Larry assumed to be a neighbour or a friend. Larry remembered that Buckley had said that it wasn’t a happy home, but the woman, thought to be the wife, looked sad, or maybe it was shock, or perhaps she had killed him.

  Larry put the last option to one side; he knew that speculation served no purpose. The only known certainty was that Inspector Ryan Buckley, a man he had shared a Guinness with, was dead in his car, the result of a shot to the head at close range. The similarities to the murder of Seamus Gaffney were all too obvious.

  Larry phoned Isaac to update him. They both kept the conversation short.

  ‘If Seamus Gaffney and Buckley have been killed by the same person, that means the murderer knows you by sight,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I know, and I don’t mind admitting it, I’m not feeling very comfortable at this time.’

  ‘Work with the local police, keep us updated.’

  ‘We might have a witness to the murderer, the lady at the car rental company. We’ll go through the usual: photos of known criminals, the passengers coming into the airport, driving licence, address.’

  ‘Get back here as soon as you can. The situation is becoming more difficult,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I’ll need two days,’ Larry said.

  ‘No more. See if you can find out who it was, and why.’

  Chapter 13

  Ralph Ernest Begley, a distinguished name for such a worthless individual, Wendy thought, but it wasn’t her call to make character evaluations. Her responsibility had been to follow up on Sal Maynard and to confirm if she had been tied into what had happened at Briganti’s, even if that proof came from an individual who would quickly be discredited as a witness in a court of law. Wendy knew how a smart defence lawyer would work, the soft build-up, pretending to be the man’s friend, lulling him into a sense of security. And then, the shift in tactics, the ability to convince the witness that it could have been another day, another time. And had the witness been drinking, or maybe taken drugs?

  Wendy knew that Ralphie wouldn’t stand a chance, and even if they questioned the man he had identified, it wouldn’t hold up, certainly not enough for a prosecution, not even enough to hold the man for twenty-four hours.

  Isaac, not so pessimistic as Wendy, saw it differently. It was the first definite link between the crime at Briganti’s and one of the victims, and now the triangle had been completed, and one of Cojocaru’s associates was involved.

  Ion Becali at home, occupied as he liked to be on a day away from his boss with a bottle of whisky and a woman, didn’t appreciate the knock at the door, the two police officers standing there, requesting his attendance at Challis Street.

  ‘Give me two hours, and I’ll be there,’ Becali had replied.

  Two hours later, Ion Becali walked through the door of Challis Street Police Station. He was dressed in a suit, a white shirt with a tie. Isaac looked at him, knowing full well that the man’s sartorial elegance wasn’t going to save him from stiff questioning.

  As Larry was still in Ireland, Wendy was seconded to sit along with her DCI in the interview room. The time was 2.30 p.m. Becali’s breath still smelt of alcohol, although he was sober, and his face wore a scowl. Alongside him, Jerry Zablozki, a lawyer known to Challis Street. The man was a Jew, third-generation English of Polish descent. Outside of the interview room, Isaac liked the man: affable, open to discussing the law, his family; but inside, representing his client, the man wouldn’t let anything pass. Isaac knew he would need to be careful.

  Anything prejudicial or an inappropriate accusation would be noted by Zablozki, and if Becali came to be charged and standing up in front of a judge and twelve good people, the jurors, on a charge of murder, then Isaac’s or even Wendy’s statements would be used in the man’s defence.

  Isaac completed the formalities, informed Becali of his rights, the procedure to be followed. The man nodded his head, said yes as appropriate, gave his full name and address.

  ‘My client regards his attendance here today as an affront to his integrity. He is an honourable and upstanding member of his community,’ Zablozki said.

  Isaac wanted to say the vicious and violent Romanian gangster community, but he did not. He merely said, ‘Mr Becali is helping us with our enquiries. No charges have been laid against him, and we appreciate him coming here of his free will.’

  ‘And if I hadn’t?’ Becali said.

  ‘There are still questions to be answered.’

  Zablozki turned to his client. ‘Let it go. If you hadn’t come, they would have obtained a court order, and you would have been regarded as a hostile witness.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Becali said. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Very well,’ Isaac said. He had leant forward on his chair to assert his authority and to emphasise what he was to say. ‘We have proof that you, Mr Becali, were meeting with Sal Maynard
on a social basis.’

  ‘What makes you think that? And yes, I know who she is.’

  ‘It is necessary for you to state who she is, and what she has to do with my client,’ Zablozki said.

  Isaac knew the man was deliberately being obtuse.

  ‘Sal Maynard was a young woman who was brutally murdered with seven others at Briganti’s hairdressing salon. Mr Becali was meeting with her. The question is why didn’t he tell us this before.’

  Becali shifted uneasily on his seat. ‘I meet with a lot of women.’

  ‘Maintaining your image?’ Wendy said.

  ‘What image is that, Sergeant Gladstone?’ Zablozki said.

  Isaac gave Wendy a poke under the table, a ‘keep quiet, don’t bait the man’ nudge.

  ‘A man about town,’ Wendy murmured.

  ‘My client’s personal activities are of no concern to the police or to anyone else. If he wishes to entertain a woman that’s his prerogative. I’m sure you and your DCI would agree.’

  ‘We would,’ Isaac said. ‘But the fact remains that we have irrefutable proof that Mr Becali and Sal Maynard were involved. We believe that the arrangement was commercial, at least on Mr Becali’s behalf, although the information that we’ve received indicates that Sal Maynard was enamoured of Mr Becali, and even saw it as love.’

  ‘Even if this was true, and we strenuously deny this, what has the woman’s death got to do with my client?’

  ‘Mr Becali was in the crowd outside Briganti’s on the day of the shooting.’

  ‘I don’t deny that. I had heard about it, so I went down to look. Not that I stayed long.’

  ‘Why not?’ Isaac asked.

  ‘I’ve seen shootings before.’

  ‘In England?’

  ‘Not here, but back home they happened from time to time.’

  ‘And when you realised that it was a woman that you had been seeing?’

  ‘If it was someone I knew, then she wasn’t using that name.’

  ‘Can you supply us with a list of names?’

  ‘Not all of them, and sometimes they don’t give a name. I don’t spend time with them for their conversation. I saw a picture of the woman afterwards, not my type.’

  ‘Plain, frumpish?’

  ‘That’s it. I like to spend a bit more. If you know what I mean.’