Wendy put down the report and focussed on the current day. Larry phoned again, spoke to Isaac. The conversation was brief, and Isaac made no comment when he came out of his office and left Challis Street with Wendy. On the drive south, she asked him what Larry had said.
‘He’s just curious, disappointed that he’ll not be there when we meet with Cojocaru.’
Wendy questioned no more, not sure that there wasn’t more to the conversation. The final destination had been messaged to Isaac who had entered it into his GPS.
‘I don’t trust Cojocaru, and he could end up feeding us nonsense,’ Isaac said. ‘Larry’s not so sure now that Gaffney and Briganti’s are related. There are some differences.’
‘Is that what he was talking to you about?’
‘Sorry. I was distracted before. Alwyn Davies is sticking his nose in, and then we’ve got Serious and Organised Crime Command to update.’
‘Superintendent Caddick?’
‘Davies will use any excuse to get his man back, and in truth, we could do with some help, not Caddick obviously.’
‘Serious and Organised Crime Command will be able to offer backup, more their case if Briganti’s is proven to be the result of organised crime.’
‘Cojocaru probably knows by now, although we can’t be sure he’ll tell us the truth.’
Wendy looked out of the car window: at the people driving to work or to the shops, the school children in their uniforms, heavily-laden backpacks containing their books. Every other child she could see had a smartphone and was busy texting. In her day, there had been no smartphones, no internet, no ability to send a message to someone around the world, or ten yards down the road. She missed those times: calmer, safer, more agreeable. A time when a child rode a bike to school with no helmet, no fear of abduction, and where the mother would be at home on the child’s return after school, as her mother had been. But now, for most of those at the schools they passed, there would be an empty house, a meal in the refrigerator for reheating in the microwave, a computer in the child’s bedroom for skyping, or Facebook, or for watching pornography. And now, she and her DCI were off to meet a thug, a man who prospered from the misery of others, a man who should not be in the country.
Sometimes, on the days when her arthritis troubled her, she felt that her time for policing had passed. Those were the times when she missed her husband the most, difficult though he had been in his final years with dementia setting in and an increasingly narrow view of people other than Anglo-Saxon and white. She knew what he would have thought of a Romanian gangster. It was a good job he was not in the car with them as they pulled into the pub car park.
‘The Black Rabbit,’ Wendy said as she looked up at the sign outside the building. ‘Hardly seems appropriate, does it?’
‘It depends who’s the rabbit, him or us.’
Across from their car, Antonescu and Becali.
‘They’ll want to check us for weapons, recording devices.’
‘We’ve no protection,’ Wendy said. ‘I don’t like the look of the shorter one.’
‘Crin Antonescu, a former wrestler, violent, and apparently he enjoys it.’
‘I’ve read their files. The other one, Becali, looks more agreeable.’
‘Socially, maybe, but he’s a murderer. We don’t think they were in Ireland with Gaffney.’
‘Any reason why not?’
‘They were in London four hours before the man’s death, and two hours after. We’ve got witnesses who’ll attest to that.’
‘Reliable?’
‘One was an off-duty policeman, the other, the publican of the Wellington Arms.’
‘We’re clean,’ Isaac shouted across to the two men.
‘Where’s Hill?’ Becali said.
‘In Ireland. I’ve brought Detective Sergeant Gladstone instead.’
‘What’s in Ireland?’ Antonescu said. He was standing on the other side of the car to Becali, alongside Wendy. She looked up at him; he, down at her. Neither smiled. Wendy could see that his eyes were too close together and his muscles bulged under a jacket two sizes too small for him. He reminded her of a Smurf, a cartoon that was still popular, but without the blue skin, and definitely without the smile.
The two police officers got out of their car. Becali patted down Isaac. ‘Police business. I’ve left the phone in the car.’
‘And how about you?’ Antonescu said to Wendy.
‘Clean.’
The man shrugged his shoulders and moved away.
‘He’s inside. Don’t trick us or he’ll not be pleased,’ Becali said as the four walked towards the pub’s low door.
‘Don’t worry. No one’s coming if that’s what you’re worried about, and no one’s listening in,’ Isaac said. ‘Let’s hope Mr Cojocaru is going to tell us something. It was a long drive for just a drink.’
‘What he tells you is not our business. We only follow orders,’ Antonescu said.
Inside, the pub was typical of so many: horseshoes on the walls, old newspaper articles and photos of the area stretching back a hundred years and even longer. One picture of the pub, horses and carts outside, the men with their stiff collars and hats, the women dressed in their Sunday best.
‘I’ve bought three pints,’ Cojocaru said as he shook Isaac’s hand.
Not wishing to be impolite, although not wanting to return the gesture, Isaac smiled and offered the typical, ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘I though Inspector Hill would have been here.’
‘He’s in Ireland. Seamus Gaffney was shot.’
‘I heard about it, tragic. I believe he was
