Cojocaru studied Ivanov, careful not to be too obvious, aiming to gain an understanding of a man who had a fearful reputation. Cojocaru was nervous in his presence, the intended effect of someone who had the earthy look of a man of the soil, but clothing of the finest cut.
Surrounding the villa, there were expansive gardens. At the perimeter of the property, a high wall protected it from the view of those outside. Every fifty yards along the wall there was a man dressed in a suit, a Kalashnikov held firmly across his chest. The villa was a fortress and he, Nicolae Cojocaru, was inside it.
So much for a neutral location to hold discussions, Cojocaru thought. He was cornered, as was Antonescu. The squat man sat resolutely outside the room where the two crime bosses met.
‘You have handled our business successfully for the last six years, but now there’s a need to change,’ Ivanov said. The message was clear. Do what I say, and you will survive. If you don’t, you will die.
‘Why the need to change?’
‘Nothing is static.’
‘Why here? Why not in London as I suggested?’
‘I decide what happens. You will do what I command, or you will not see London again. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You do,’ Cojocaru said, seething at the way the man was dismissing him as if he were no more than a cockroach to tread under foot. He wanted Antonescu to come in from the other room and to shoot the man in the chest, but he knew that was not possible. In London, a possibility, but not in France, knowing full well that Crin Antonescu was unarmed and in the company of two of Ivanov’s men.
‘There are some who say that we should just take over, but I do not agree.’
‘Tell me what you want. We have handled the distribution for you up till now.’
‘You’re a businessman. It’s a scale of economics. We, the Tverskoyskaya, can lower the costs, increase the price, maximise the margin. You, Nicolae Cojocaru, cannot.’
‘We have suppressed the competition.’
‘Only in your area, and what are they, a bunch of spaced-out junkies from the Caribbean, no more than a handful of brain cells between them.’
‘We agree, then.’
‘Not on what is important. You’ve killed a few, frightened the others, no more than sheep, but what about the police? Are they in your pocket?’
‘Some are, but England is not the same. They still have their rules and regulations, and most are incorruptible.’
‘Then get rid of them. If you don’t, we will. And what about that dwarf outside?’
‘Crin Antonescu. He was a wrestler, I’d trust him with my life.’
‘That is all well and good, but does he kill for you?’
‘He has and often.’
‘We showed you what we are capable of. Would he have been capable of that?’
‘Was it necessary?’
‘A man with morals. You’ll not go far. I don’t think we can use you,’ Ivanov said as he raised himself from his seat. ‘It seems another example is needed.’
Ivanov called to the other room. A bloodied Antonescu was dragged in, unable to stand without assistance.
‘Will you work with us or will you die here, Cojocaru?’ Ivanov said, pointing at Antonescu.
Realising that he was cornered, Cojocaru meekly replied, ‘We will work together.’
Ivanov pulled a gun from inside his jacket and handed it to the Romanian. ‘A sign of your loyalty. This way, I will know that you mean what you say.’
‘Not Crin. He’s been loyal to me, almost a friend.’
‘There are no friendships in the Tverskoyskaya Bratva, only blind loyalty. Are you loyal?’
‘I am,’ Cojocaru said. He raised the gun and walked over to Antonescu. ‘Sorry, my friend, I must do this.’
The former wrestler, then gangster, and now a victim, said nothing. Cojocaru pointed the gun at the man’s heart and pulled the trigger.
***
Larry met again with the lady from the car rental company. It was surprising how upset she was.
‘I saw him, the man who killed Seamus and now Inspector Buckley. I could have prevented it if I had reported the man.’
‘Reported what? Larry said. Alongside him was Inspector Annie O’Carroll.
‘You were not to know,’ Annie O’Carroll, a career police officer, fifteen years in the Garda, and highly experienced, said. After Buckley’s death there was an agreement with Buckley’s and O’Carroll’s superintendent and DCS Goddard for the two police forces to work together, a joint sharing of the case, given that the two murders had occurred in Ireland, yet the initial investigation remained in England.
The consensus was that the two men had been killed by the same man, although that was still awaiting final confirmation from Forensics and the crime scene examiners.
Seamus had been shot twice, the first with a rifle from a distance, a skilled shot. Ryan Buckley’s shot had not required a great deal of skill, just the knowledge of where the man would be and when, the nerve to approach his vehicle in a lighted area and to pull the trigger. Buckley’s street had been residential, and no CCTV cameras were nearby, although a person out late at night walking his dog had seen a car driving away at speed at the time of the murder. The description hadn’t been good, only that the vehicle was medium sized, white or yellow, and the driver wore a cap.
The Garda, like the London Metropolitan Police, regarded the death of one of their own as a crime of the highest seriousness, even more so than the death of Gaffney. Larry could understand the sentiment, having seen one of his partners die at the hands of a
