Murder Has No Guilt

by Phillip Strang

  Wendy didn’t appreciate the man’s dismissive attitude towards a woman who had not met his ideal of perfection. She remembered back to her teens when she had been the plain Jane and she had hung around with the prettiest girl in the village, the beauty and her friend. Sure, it had made her feel better, and there was always the drunken throwaway who’d give her some of his time, even make love to her in the back seat of a car, or behind a hedge. But Wendy knew her history had been different, in so much as her parents had been good people who had loved her, and she had been good at school. And then she had joined the police force, met her husband and married, had children. But Sal Maynard had had none of that. She had been doomed from the start, and she had followed her mother down the path to despair, and she had died because of it.

  ‘Our witness will state that you dropped her off at the block of flats where she lives,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I don’t make a habit of dropping them anywhere, not the rentals.’

  ‘Neither my client’s behaviour nor his morality are of any concern to the police,’ Zablozki said, conscious of Becali’s derogatory view of women.

  ‘We are not here as arbiters of his beliefs,’ Isaac said. ‘We are trying to establish that he had a relationship with Sal Maynard. That does not mean that he was involved in her death, although it is suspicious.’

  ‘Assuming I knew this woman, why would I want her dead? I’ve nothing to hide, and believe me, she wouldn’t have learnt much from me, or maybe the art of lovemaking,’ Becali said.

  Isaac could tell that the man was becoming obnoxious on purpose, a belief that he had the interview in his control. Isaac knew that was when people started to make mistakes and to relax their guard.

  ‘Mr Becali, are you categorically denying any knowledge of Sal Maynard?’ Wendy said.

  ‘I deny nothing. If I had been with her, I can’t remember, and as for dropping her off, where did she live?’

  ‘Stockwell.’

  ‘Not me. It’s a dump up there, not my sort of place.’

  ‘Your continuing denial does you no credit,’ Isaac said. ‘We will continue to check, and there are CCTV cameras across London. It may take some time, but if you were with Sal Maynard, here or in Stockwell, we will find proof. Your visit to this police station will not be so cordial the next time.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Becali said. ‘I’ve got one on the boil. I’d like to get back to her if I may?’

  ‘Plain and frumpish?’ Wendy said. She couldn’t resist another go at the man.

  ‘Beautiful and expensive,’ Becali replied.

  Isaac wrapped up the interview. Becali left, a car waiting outside for him. Wendy retreated in disgust back to Homicide and her desk. Zablozki came up to Isaac as both men stood outside the police station. Isaac had needed the fresh air after an odious encounter with a man who was known to kill people, although Sal Maynard seemed unlikely. He had been disgusted by Becali’s dismissive condemnation of and disinterest in the woman, even if she had been part of life’s flotsam. Whatever she had been, she deserved better in death.

  ‘DCI, you’re wasting your time with Becali,’ Zablozki said. A short man, he barely came up to Isaac’s shoulders. On his head, a kippah, or what most people referred to as a skull cap.

  ‘I hope they’re paying you well. It’s not over yet.’

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t mention it, but the rumours on the street are talking about the Russians. Any truth in it?’

  ‘It’s part of our investigation. I assume you’re not too fond of them.’

  ‘They were ruthless in my homeland. The reason my grandfather came to England. He was penniless then, worked hard, a lot of prejudice back then, still is in certain areas.’

  ‘You’ve done well.’

  ‘I’m English through and through. I took advantage of all this country has to offer. If the Russian criminal class is coming, I’d not like to see it.’

  ‘Nor would we. What do you know of the Bratva?’

  ‘The Russian mafia. Not a lot, only that they’re ruthless.’

  ‘Cojocaru’s frightened.’

  ‘DCI, we’re heading into areas we shouldn’t discuss. I’ll bid you goodbye.’

  As Zablozki walked away, Isaac shouted to him. ‘Your client?’

  The man turned around and smiled.

  Isaac knew that his position was easier than Zablozki’s. He had no illusions about guilt, all he had to do was to prevent further deaths, and find the culprits of those that had already occurred.

  Chapter 14

  Nicolae Cojocaru knew the man sitting opposite him, not personally but by reputation – Stanislav Ivanov.

  Cojocaru had wanted the meeting to occur in England, Ivanov had not. A villa in the South of France was not of the Romanian’s choosing, but he had had no option. The command had been given, and he had obeyed. To have not met with the head of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva would have been an affront, and as had often been with others, a death sentence.

  Cojocaru studied Ivanov, careful not to be too obvious, aiming to gain an understanding of a man who had a fearful reputation. Cojocaru was nervous in his presence, the intended effect of someone who had the earthy look of a man of the soil, but clothing of the finest cut.

  Surrounding the villa, there were expansive gardens. At the perimeter of the property, a high wall protected it from the view of those outside. Every fifty yards along the wall there was a man dressed in a suit, a Kalashnikov held firmly across his chest. The villa was a fortress and he, Nicolae Cojocaru, was inside it.

  So much for a neutral location to hold discussions, Cojocaru thought. He was cornered, as was Antonescu. The squat man sat resolutely outside the room where the two crime bosses met.

  ‘You have handled our business successfully for the last six years, but now there’s a need to change,’ Ivanov said. The message was clear. Do what I say, and you will survive. If you don’t, you will die.

  ‘Why the need to change?’

  ‘Nothing is static.’

  ‘Why here? Why not in London as I suggested?’

  ‘I decide what happens. You will do what I command, or you will not see London again. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘You do,’ Cojocaru said, seething at the way the man was dismissing him as if he were no more than a cockroach to tread under foot. He wanted Antonescu to come in from the other room and to shoot the man in the chest, but he knew that was not possible. In London, a possibility, but not in France, knowing full well that Crin Antonescu was unarmed and in the company of two of Ivanov’s men.

  ‘There are some who say that we should just take over, but I do not agree.’

  ‘Tell me what you want. We have handled the distribution for you up till now.’

  ‘You’re a businessman. It’s a scale of economics. We, the Tverskoyskaya, can lower the costs, increase the price, maximise the margin. You, Nicolae Cojocaru, cannot.’

  ‘We have suppressed the competition.’

  ‘Only in your area, and what are they, a bunch of spaced-out junkies from the Caribbean, no more than a handful of brain cells between them.’

  ‘We agree, then.’

  ‘Not on what is important. You’ve killed a few, frightened the others, no more than sheep, but what about the police? Are they in your pocket?’

  ‘Some are, but England is not the same. They still have their rules and regulations, and most are incorruptible.’

  ‘Then get rid of them. If you don’t, we will. And what about that dwarf outside?’

  ‘Crin Antonescu. He was a wrestler, I’d trust him with my life.’

  ‘That is all well and good, but does he kill for you?’

  ‘He has and often.’

  ‘We showed you what we are capable of. Would he have been capable of that?’

  ‘Was it necessary?’

  ‘A man with morals. You’ll not go far. I don’t think we can use you,’ Ivanov said as he raised himself from his seat. ‘It seems another example is needed.’

  I
vanov called to the other room. A bloodied Antonescu was dragged in, unable to stand without assistance.

  ‘Will you work with us or will you die here, Cojocaru?’ Ivanov said, pointing at Antonescu.

  Realising that he was cornered, Cojocaru meekly replied, ‘We will work together.’

  Ivanov pulled a gun from inside his jacket and handed it to the Romanian. ‘A sign of your loyalty. This way, I will know that you mean what you say.’

  ‘Not Crin. He’s been loyal to me, almost a friend.’

  ‘There are no friendships in the Tverskoyskaya Bratva, only blind loyalty. Are you loyal?’

  ‘I am,’ Cojocaru said. He raised the gun and walked over to Antonescu. ‘Sorry, my friend, I must do this.’

  The former wrestler, then gangster, and now a victim, said nothing. Cojocaru pointed the gun at the man’s heart and pulled the trigger.

  ***

  Larry met again with the lady from the car rental company. It was surprising how upset she was.

  ‘I saw him, the man who killed Seamus and now Inspector Buckley. I could have prevented it if I had reported the man.’

  ‘Reported what? Larry said. Alongside him was Inspector Annie O’Carroll.

  ‘You were not to know,’ Annie O’Carroll, a career police officer, fifteen years in the Garda, and highly experienced, said. After Buckley’s death there was an agreement with Buckley’s and O’Carroll’s superintendent and DCS Goddard for the two police forces to work together, a joint sharing of the case, given that the two murders had occurred in Ireland, yet the initial investigation remained in England.

  The consensus was that the two men had been killed by the same man, although that was still awaiting final confirmation from Forensics and the crime scene examiners.

  Seamus had been shot twice, the first with a rifle from a distance, a skilled shot. Ryan Buckley’s shot had not required a great deal of skill, just the knowledge of where the man would be and when, the nerve to approach his vehicle in a lighted area and to pull the trigger. Buckley’s street had been residential, and no CCTV cameras were nearby, although a person out late at night walking his dog had seen a car driving away at speed at the time of the murder. The description hadn’t been good, only that the vehicle was medium sized, white or yellow, and the driver wore a cap.

  The Garda, like the London Metropolitan Police, regarded the death of one of their own as a crime of the highest seriousness, even more so than the death of Gaffney. Larry could understand the sentiment, having seen one of his partners die at the hands of a crime syndicate, a hit and run as he had crossed the road outside the police station.

  ‘It doesn’t pay to dwell on what might have been,’ Larry said to the distraught woman. ‘I could have had another drink, and who knows, Ryan Buckley might still be alive. What is important is that we apprehend whoever did it. Now, let’s go back over what you told me. You said that the man was in a hurry to follow Seamus.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Are you sure it was Seamus? It could have been that the man was late for an appointment.’

  ‘No, it was Seamus, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wrote down the registration number when I gave the car keys to Seamus.’

  ‘Assuming you’re right on this, let’s go back over what he looked like. And what about the vehicle he borrowed.’

  ‘He returned it soon after Seamus died. He only had it for five hours, paid the full day rate.’

  ‘We’ve checked the licence he showed you. It was stolen two months ago. Did you check the photo on it with the man?’

  ‘I think I did, but I may have just taken a note of the name, the date of issue, the date of expiry. That’s what the insurance people want.’

  ‘The picture on the licence and the man could have been different?’

  ‘I would have taken a cursory glance, but every day there are a lot of people renting, returning, extending. His insistence for me to hurry up didn’t help.’

  Larry could see that the seemingly unflappable woman who stood behind the counter was actually a nervy woman. He wasn’t sure how much credence could be given to her testimony; however, the stolen driving licence was of concern.

  ‘Not conclusive,’ Inspector O’Carroll said. A red-haired woman in her forties, Larry had to admit to being impressed by the way she handled herself. Ryan Buckley, a hearty, friendly man had not impressed him. Sure, he had been competent at Seamus’s murder scene, even handled himself well with the man’s widow, but he had not had the attention to detail, the enthusiasm Larry expected.

  ‘He wasn’t the easiest,’ Mrs Buckley had said when Larry met her. ‘Sometimes we didn’t talk for a few weeks, not that I can blame him totally. We’re both fiery, and Ryan would drink too much, and then there was the occasional smell about him.’

  ‘What kind of smell?’

  ‘Another woman.’

  ‘Any idea who?’

  ‘I never asked, never wanted to know.’

  ‘An unusual reaction,’ Larry had said.

  ‘I can deal with ignorance. The truth would have eaten at me. Not that it mattered, not after the first few times, and he kept to his room, I kept to mine.’

  ‘You weren’t sleeping together?’

  ‘Not for four years. I suppose he had to do something about it, but I would have preferred us to be closer.’

  ‘Then why weren’t you?’

  ‘It just became a habit, him and me, and now someone’s killed him.’

  ‘Anyone you can think of?’

  ‘It’d be better if you ask down at the police station. There are plenty in prison because of him.’

  After Sheila Gaffney, Larry couldn’t help but make the comparison. Sheila was soft and comforting, even in her distraught state; Buckley’s wife was not the same. A similar age to the other woman, she had maintained her figure, and it was clear that her appearance mattered to her more than it did to the other woman. He could warm to Sheila, but not to Dervla Buckley, a woman who had a husband that strayed. Larry resolved not to think badly of Ryan Buckley and to assist Inspector Annie O’Carroll to the best of his abilities. But London was where he needed to be, and even if the murderer was still in Ireland, the Irish police were as competent as those at Challis Street.

  It was after midnight when Larry arrived back at his home in London, his wife waiting for him, a hot cup of tea and a meal. Not that he needed either, he was just glad to be home. For now, he would forget all that had occurred and savour his wife, and in the morning, it would be him that drove the children to school. He realised that if his wife was sometimes demanding and difficult, she was still the woman for him. He gave her a kiss, had a shower, and went to bed, asleep within five minutes.

  ***

  Cojocaru arrived back in England no more than two hours after Larry. For the gangster, there was no welcome home by a loving wife, a meal on the table. All that he could look forward to was his penthouse flat with its view of the River Thames. Suddenly it did not seem so important. He made a phone call.

  ‘The police are fishing,’ Becali said on answering.

  ‘They’ve got nothing. My place, twenty minutes,’ Cojocaru said.

  Becali wanted to say he was busy, but the tone in Cojocaru’s voice told him that the female company he had was less important than a direct request from the man who had saved him from a dismal life in Romania.

  ‘Antonescu is dead,’ Cojocaru said as Becali walked through the door at the penthouse.

  ‘How?’ Becali said as he instinctively headed to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a whisky, another for his boss.

  ‘They killed him in front of me, an example of what will happen to us if we don’t comply.’

  Becali knew that he should feel sad for the dead man, a colleague and someone who could always be trusted when there was violence to commit or murder to carry out. It was a time to say a few kind words about him and to reflect on the good times, the benevolent and generous acts he had committed,
his goodness, but Becali could not. He could only remember the negatives, the Jamaican Rasta they had held down while they forced the man to give the names of those who could threaten Cojocaru, their strengths, their weaknesses, who they loved, where they lived. The man had said plenty before Antonescu had taken a brick and smashed it against the man’s head. Apart from that, nothing came to mind. No times of sheer jocularity with the man, when both had been at ease with the world, and now he was dead.

  ‘But why? We could have helped them.’

  ‘We can and we will. The situation is difficult, and now you, Ion Becali, must raise yourself up and work with me. We are no longer the masters of our destiny, and what happened to Antonescu could happen to us.’

  ‘We are doomed, you know that.’

  ‘Our only hope lies in preventing the Russians from taking control, but I don’t know how.’

  ‘You spoke to the police. They could help.’

  ‘They cannot stop this. Set up a meeting with the West Indians, let them know that the situation has become more serious.’

  ‘Briganti’s, did Ivanov admit to it?’

  ‘Yes. It was a warning to us and to others.’

  ‘I was hauled into Challis Street,’ Becali said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘One of my women died.’

  ‘Zablozki?’

  ‘He was there. They couldn’t hold me, although they were trying to make a case out of it because I was seen outside her place, and then in the street outside Briganti’s.’

  ‘What is so important about her?’

  ‘She was in Briganti’s when it was attacked.’

  ‘Hendry’s woman?’

  ‘The other one.’

  ‘Why? You can afford better.’

  ‘Sometimes, I fancy them that way. Reminds me of the old country when my choice was limited.’

  ‘Why eat peasant food when you can afford the best?’

  ‘It may be better in the old country for me now,’ Becali said. A wave of nostalgia flowed over him, even a tinge of remorse that Antonescu was dead. He could not help but feel that Nicolae Cojocaru was not telling him the full story; the man never had in the past, only issuing commands. But now he was talking to him almost as an equal. Regardless, he would set up a meeting with the West Indians, knowing full well that they would be suspicious.