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
