Chapter 25
Wendy attended the funeral of Ralph Ernest Begley, and watched as the young man’s mother mounted the steps to the lectern at the front of the church and spoke of her son.
In the front row of the church, Begley’s father and Rosy, the fifteen-year-old child who has flirted with danger and promiscuity. The two did not sit close to each other. On the left-hand side of Fred Begley, a police officer sat. To compound Ralphie’s death, investigations into Fred and his step-daughter revealed that the man had been guilty of crimes against her, and he was now on remand awaiting trial. Rosy was dressed in black, the nose ring removed, the tattoos covered. Wendy looked over at her; she smiled back. At the conclusion of Ralphie’s mother’s eulogy, Rosy got up and helped her back to her seat. The young woman then mounted the steps to the lectern and spoke from the heart. The mother had been tearful but her eulogy devoid of any content other than a mother’s love for a son and how he had always been a good child, rarely crying, and how his future had looked promising, and that she would miss him. Rosy, her face no longer caked in makeup, spoke of her brother, and how they would talk, sometimes into the night, and to her, he was the most important person in her life. She did not mention the father, nor did she look at him. To Wendy, it was as if she was talking to her, and it brought a warm glow to her; as if the death of Ralphie had not been in vain, and that the young woman had a chance of redemption, the chance her brother had never had.
Outside the church the young woman came over and put her arms around Wendy. ‘Thank you for coming. Ralphie would have appreciated it,’ she said.
‘He wanted to be someone better. You seem better equipped to succeed.’
‘I am. I was always top of my class at school, and I’ve refocussed myself on my studies. Please stay in touch. My father will not be around, not that he ever was, not when it was important, and my mother, well, you know what she is.’
‘Call me if you need me,’ Wendy said as she walked away and to her car. She had a smile on her face; for once, amongst all the misery and despair, a ray of sunshine, the possibility that she may have made a difference.
As she reached the car, Rosy came running up. ‘I remembered the name of the other man. Anton something.’
‘Antonescu?’
‘That’s it. Crisp?’
‘Crin?’
‘That’s what Ralphie said. Do you know him?’
‘I know him, but he’s dead.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘I hope it helps.’
‘It does,’ Wendy said as she gave Rosy a hug. ‘Look after yourself.’
‘I will.’
***
Commissioner Alwyn Davies was angry, and it was Detective Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard who was on the receiving end of the man’s invective.
‘How do you think this is going to reflect on the London Metropolitan Police?’ Davies said. ‘Twice they’ve tried to kill him, and the second time he’s in intensive care at St Mary’s Hospital, a guard on the door. What did you think, that they’d give up after the first attempt?’
‘We provided the best security we could,’ Goddard said. ‘It was touch and go if the man would live after the first attempt.’
‘But he did, and now he’s back at his house. Do we have security there?’
‘He’s employed a private security company, very expensive, professional. They provide security to diplomats in the city, influential visitors.’
‘Questions are being asked about Ivanov,’ Davies said. His tone was almost conciliatory; before it had been combative. Goddard didn’t like the change. He knew Davies to be a political animal, more concerned with his own survival than that of others.
‘Enough money and questions go away.’
‘What does that mean?’ Davies’s voice once again combative.
‘Not bribery or corruption, but Ivanov entered this country with his pockets full of money and no criminal convictions overseas. He came on a Tier 1(Investor) Visa, two million pounds to invest. After two years, he injected another fifty million, although the minimum requirement was ten. He followed the correct procedures and we can’t deport him.’
‘If he’s a legitimate investor in this country, then why are people trying to kill him?’
‘It’s in the report.’
‘Goddard, don’t get smart. Tell me why.’
‘Stanislav Ivanov is the head of a criminal organisation that calls itself the Tverskoyskaya Bratva. Mafia, if you like. He’ll claim that he isn’t the head, and even if he is, there are no convictions against him, and he’s done nothing wrong in this country.’
‘What about the Romanians?’
‘Serious players in the importation of illicit drugs and distribution. The Russians are attempting to muscle in, either use them or kill them.’
‘And in your patch?’
‘That’s where Nicolae Cojocaru, the most significant of the Romanians, is based, but his operations spread out from there.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard this all before, but what are you doing about it? What are you doing about Ivanov? These rogues sneak into our country, flashing their money and we do nothing.’
‘We’re here to police the wrongdoers, not to say who comes in or not,’ Goddard said. ‘We need to wrap up the shooting at Briganti’s first. Serious and Organised Crime Command have Ivanov in their sights, but unless the man makes an illegal move, they’re powerless.’
‘He won’t.’
‘DCI Cook is maintaining the pressure on Nicolae Cojocaru. He’s behind the attempted assassinations, not Briganti’s though.’
‘Can you be sure of that?’
‘There’s one inconsistency which doesn’t make sense.’
‘Which is?’
‘Sal Maynard, a celebrity-obsessed woman, was in Briganti’s, died there. It appears that she was spending time with Cojocaru’s two lieutenants.’
‘Then that’s a clear tie-in, or am I missing something?’
‘Cojocaru had no reason for Briganti’s, Ivanov did. It’s Ivanov for Briganti’s, yet Sal Maynard is tied to Cojocaru. Not that she probably knew, not too bright according to reports, and now her friend from where she lived is dead as well. The trail continues to lead back to Cojocaru, yet we know it’s not him.’
‘Goddard, I’ve little confidence in your DCI Cook, you know that. I’d prefer my man Caddick in charge, but I’ve kept him out for the time being, hoping that you’d deal with the investigation.’
‘Superintendent Caddick would not be advisable at this time,’ Goddard said. He knew that a direct statement that the man was Davies’s lackey and incompetent would have met with an immediate rebuke.
‘Very well, have it your way. Goddard, for once you make sense. Now go and stir up your team, and leave me to deal with running the Met. You’re not the only one who worries me.’
Richard Goddard sensed that for once the man did not mean what he had just said. It was as if there was a begrudging admission from Commissioner Davies that Chief Detective Superintendent Richard Goddard was a good police officer doing a decent job under difficult circumstances.
Goddard could not think the same of his commissioner, a man he still loathed.
***
‘I’ve told you because I don’t want to kill you,’ Cojocaru said. The two men were in Cojocaru’s penthouse; neither was interested in the view.
‘If Ivanov knows that you are telling me, he’ll have you killed,’ Becali said. ‘We will not succeed a third time. Have you admitted to our previous attempts?’
‘I had no option. If I kill you, then I will survive a little longer.’
‘Then do it,’ Becali said.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t mean me. Kill someone, make it out to be me, body destroyed beyond recognition.’
‘You would do this?’
‘For you, Nicolae Cojocaru, I would.’
‘But who?’
‘Does it
matter?’
‘Ivanov will want proof of your death.’
‘Then Ivanov must die. What about the other Russians?’
‘Ivanov’s Bratva will do nothing, business is more important to them. As for the other Bratvas, they will not act. The only risk is Gennady Peskov. He is loyal to Ivanov, the same as you are to me. He will forfeit his life if necessary to avenge Ivanov’s death.’
‘Then he must die as well.’
‘But how?’
‘You must stay here. This time I need to get close to the man.’
‘You will die.’
‘If I survive, get me out of the country,’ Becali said. ‘And I want the truth of what happened to Antonescu.’
‘It seems that we will both be growing vegetables back in the old country,’ Cojocaru said.
‘The truth.’
‘I was given an ultimatum in France. Either I shot Crin, or they would shoot both of us there and then.’
‘And you shot him in cold blood?’
‘They had severely beaten him. I apologised before I pulled the trigger. He forgave me before he died.’
‘You had no option, but now, we do.’
***
At Challis Street Police Station, a quandary on how to move forward. Larry met with Claude Bateman, the second time in as many days, a café close to Notting Hill.
‘The calm before the storm,’ Bateman said. ‘It’s a wait and see, and none of us wants to be involved. Ivanov’s recovery frightens us. We do not believe that Cojocaru will live long, now that it is proven that Becali shot at the Russian twice.’
‘Proven?’
‘Yes, we know that he did. I did not tell you the full story last time, too dangerous. Becali was seen going into that flat. I have a witness who will come forward when needed.’
‘Who? There is only one we know of, a covered woman in one of the flats on the same floor.’
‘It was not her.’
‘Then her husband.’
‘He will not talk without certain assurances.’
‘Such as?’
‘Protection and the right to stay in this country.’
‘You cannot give him that,’ Larry said.
‘But you can. If he gives you what you want, it is the lever to deal with Cojocaru, the opportunity to free ourselves from his influence.’
‘Would you welcome this?’
‘What option do we have?’
‘You’re admitting to criminal activity. I could have you arrested. Our conversation here today could be used as evidence.’
‘You will not arrest me or others,’ Bateman said. He took out a cigar from his pocket, put it back again.
‘Why not?’
‘The chance to rid yourself of Cojocaru is more important than arresting me. And besides, if what we plan works out, we can re-establish ourselves. And maybe Ivanov will go, and I will take the Romanian’s place.’
Bateman was not a fool, Larry knew that, but the man was indiscreet and naïve. He had seen how Cojocaru had dealt with those he did not trust or want. The West Indians were violent and handy with a knife and a gun, but they still retained the Caribbean sentimentality, and death, even if they were responsible, was met with sorrow by them and the community.
‘You are taking a risk, you must know that,’ Larry said.
‘There will be winners and losers, but to stand on the sidelines will achieve little. You can have Fahad Shaikh once you have satisfied his concerns.’
‘We can pull him in anytime. Why does he trust you?’
‘Who else can he trust? He has exceeded his visa, and he has been working two jobs, cash in hand. He came to me, not out of fondness, but out of desperation. He knew what would happen if he had come to you directly.’
‘We would have secured his visa for as long as necessary.’
‘For as long as it took to convict Becali. Shaikh needs more, and now, you have a man you can arrest. How much is this worth to you?’
‘Why have you protected him for so long?’
‘Leverage. He wants a commitment from you, in writing. I want your word that you will remove the malaise of Cojocaru and Ivanov.’
‘Guarantees I cannot give. Cojocaru is possible, Ivanov is uncertain. The jobs that Shaikh has been doing. For you?’
‘It is better that I do not answer, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘I would. Where can I find Fahad Shaikh?’
‘He is at his flat. No agreement and he will not talk. He has placed his trust in me, not you.’
Larry knew that Bateman was right. Fahad Shaikh would give the team their first arrest and with the man’s testimony their first conviction.
***
‘Can’t be done,’ Richard Goddard said. He was sitting in his office on the third floor at Challis Street. On the other side of his desk, Isaac Cook and Larry Hill.
‘But the man’s a material witness. We need his evidence.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Sergeant Gladstone is with him. I’ve organised two officers from Armed Response to ensure his safety.’
‘Okay, put him and his family in a safe house. I’ll see what can be done. Becali’s trial will stretch out for some time. I’ll make a few phone calls on behalf of the man, pull in a few favours. No promises, but it’s the best we can do for now.’
Isaac left his chief superintendent’s office and travelled out to Shaikh’s flat.
‘Everyone’s curious as to why we’re here,’ one of the armed officers said.
‘We’re moving the family,’ Isaac said. ‘A safe house.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. I need to go in.’
Isaac knocked on the door, Wendy answered it. ‘I need to talk to Mr Shaikh.’
‘He’s frightened. They had a rough time back in Pakistan, and neither he nor his wife wants to go back.’
‘We can get him a year in the UK, and DCS Goddard’s trying for more. Becali’s conviction will go in his favour.’
After five minutes, while Fahad Shaikh’s wife moved to one of the bedrooms, Isaac entered the previously forbidden flat. He explained the situation, offered no guarantees, only emphasised the British sense of fair play and decency. Shaikh listened intently, finally agreeing with what he had been told. Two hours later, Wendy left with the family and five suitcases, the extent of their worldly goods in England. It wasn’t much, Wendy had to admit, but it was probably more than where they had come from. Shaikh’s wife grabbed her arm as they left the flat for a small house in the country. Fahad carried one of the children, his wife, another, and Wendy held the hand of a pretty girl of four.
Downstairs, a four-wheel drive waited for them. Wendy followed in her car for the fifty-minute drive. Whatever the future held for the Shaikhs, it was better than the depressing little flat they had left, Wendy thought.
***
An all-points warning had been put out for the arrest of Ion Becali, possibly armed and dangerous. Oscar Braxton was in Isaac’s office, as was Richard Goddard, who left soon after to phone Commissioner Alwyn Davies about the breakthrough.
At the same time, a desperate man, unaware of his fate, sat in a café two streets from Ivanov’s home. He knew what needed to be done, but not how to do it. He had walked up Ivanov’s street fifteen minutes earlier, suitably disguised, and had seen the security, professional and alert, not like the Russians who stood to attention when needed, slouched when no one was looking.
Becali left the café. He was not thinking straight, and his plan, which had seemed plausible at Cojocaru’s, now seemed foolish. There he had been willing to sacrifice his life for the man who had saved him from a life of subsistence and had brought him to England, but now he did not want to die, only to live. The future lay with Ivanov. He walked the two streets to Ivanov’s house and shouted to the bodyguards on the road.
‘I want to see Ivanov,’ Becali shouted. ‘I’m laying my weapon down.’
‘Slow and easy. Which side of the body is the gun, right or
left?’ one of the men shouted back.
‘Left.’
The four men standing outside the house moved behind a Range Rover on the street.
‘Remove the weapon using your left hand and put it on the ground.’
Becali complied. He knew that the men ahead of him were English and unarmed, but from one of the windows to the left of them, two pairs of eyes watched. They would be armed, he knew.
‘Now lie down spread-eagled, arms and legs stretched out. One of us will come over and check that you’re not carrying any other weapons.’
Becali complied with the request; another man came over. He placed one of his boots firmly on the Romanian’s back, pinning him to the ground.
‘Don’t move, not till one of the others has checked you out.’
A second man came over and frisked Becali thoroughly, pulling his wrists together behind his back and securing them with a cable tie.
‘You can stand now,’ the man said.
‘I need to meet with Stanislav Ivanov,’ Becali said. The cable tie was unexpected, and he knew it had to be removed.
‘The police have issued an all-points for your arrest.’
‘I need to see Ivanov first, it’s important.’
‘We’re here to protect the man, not to let scum like you through. A police car will be here soon enough. You can either comply, or I’ll flatten you. Your choice.’
‘I’ll comply.’
Becali realised that his chance to strike a deal with Ivanov was gone, but he was still alive. It wasn’t the outcome that he had wanted, but it could have been worse.
Chapter 26
Nicolae Cojocaru realised forty-eight minutes after Ion Becali had left that he had made the wrong decision. A man stood in front of him, a man he had not expected to see.
‘Becali has been seen close to Stanislav Ivanov’s house. What did you expect? Did you imagine that he would be successful on his third attempt?’
‘I killed you in France,’ Cojocaru said.
‘Ivanov was right. You are a fool, easily duped.’
‘We were friends.’
‘We never were. To you, I was a man who committed violence when it was needed, nothing more. You were willing to kill me to save your life.’
Murder Has No Guilt Page 19