‘Even if this was true, and we strenuously deny this, what has the woman’s death got to do with my client?’
‘Mr Becali was in the crowd outside Briganti’s on the day of the shooting.’
‘I don’t deny that. I had heard about it, so I went down to look. Not that I stayed long.’
‘Why not?’ Isaac asked.
‘I’ve seen shootings before.’
‘In England?’
‘Not here, but back home they happened from time to time.’
‘And when you realised that it was a woman that you had been seeing?’
‘If it was someone I knew, then she wasn’t using that name.’
‘Can you supply us with a list of names?’
‘Not all of them, and sometimes they don’t give a name. I don’t spend time with them for their conversation. I saw a picture of the woman afterwards, not my type.’
‘Plain, frumpish?’
‘That’s it. I like to spend a bit more. If you know what I mean.’
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
