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. You’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 i
t? 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.’
‘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?’
It was clear to Wendy that the young woman was hostile, although she wasn’t sure if it was a result of her abrupt removal from her lover, or whether it was the woman’s natural state. Regardless, she needed to talk.
‘Rosy, let me be plain here. If you’ve been selling yourself to Billy and others, I’ll have you remanded and placed in care. Do I make myself understood?’
‘You can’t talk to Rosy like that,’ the mother said.
‘I can and I must. You seem to be upset over Ralphie’s death, although your husband and Rosy don’t.’
‘Has your father ever laid a finger on you?’ Wendy asked Rosy.
‘I’ve never touched her,’ the father said.
‘I’ll be reporting Rosy and her behaviour once I’m back at Challis Street. You, Mr Begley, if it is found that you have touched your daughter, then charges will be laid. Now, Rosy, has your father ever made any inappropriate actions against you?’
Rosy sat mute, her eyes looking down.
‘No need to answer,’ Wendy said. She knew the truth; others would deal with the father in due course.
‘Ralphie was worried, I know that,’ Rosy said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He liked Sal, not me, but she was fat and plain.’
‘Ralphie told me that he identified with Sal. Both of them wanted something better out of life, so do you. But giving yourself to Billy Jepson and others is not the way to achieve it. Sal Maynard thought that associating with celebrities would be her way out, Ralphie had no idea of how to get out and had resigned himself to his fate. But you, Rosy Begley, believe that giving yourself to older men is the way. You’re still a child, even if you have the body of a woman.’
‘It’s better than what they do,’ Rosy said, lifting her head, glancing over at her mother and father.
‘It’s not the solution. I’ll ensure that you receive counselling if that’s what you want.’
‘Ralphie said you were a good person.’
‘Not that good. I was w
ild at your age, but I had good parents.’
‘Mum’s fine, even if she’s unable to control us.’
‘Rosy, what did Ralphie tell you?’
‘It was earlier today. He told me he was going to phone you, but he was frightened.’
‘Of what?’
‘He knew who the second man was.’
‘That Sal Maynard mentioned?’
‘Yes. He’d seen him somewhere, and the man frightened him. Ralphie was thinking of disappearing, and he wasn’t sure of what to do.’
‘Did you advise him?’
‘I told him to vanish, and now he’s dead.’
‘Did he give you a name?’
‘I can’t remember what he said.’
‘Why?’
‘I wasn’t listening.’
‘Or maybe you were spaced out on drugs.’
‘I might remember later.’
‘And if you do, what will you do? Phone me or try to make some money for yourself?’
‘I’ll phone you.’
‘Ralphie was probably killed because of this name. If you try to make a deal, he will kill you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Unfortunately, Rosy Begley, you don’t. One of the men that Sal Maynard was involved with was a Romanian gangster, not a Stockwell villain, not a Billy Jepson. These men kill without conscience. If they or he suspect you know, then your life will be forfeit, as will your parents’ lives. Does everyone in this room understand?’
Wendy looked at the other two, both nodding in acknowledgement. She knew they did not.
Chapter 24
In St Mary’s Hospital Stanislav Ivanov opened his eyes for the first time since he had been shot. The time had come to see whether the football club owner, entrepreneur, and Bratva Godfather was to be a vegetable for his remaining days, or whether he was to make a full recovery.
Detective Chief Inspectors Isaac Cook and Oscar Braxton stood back from the bed.
Ivanov slowly moved his head, looked at his wife and smiled. She came closer and kissed him on his forehead. A nurse checked the patient’s pulse, a doctor felt proud that the medical care that had been provided appeared to have been successful.
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