‘It doesn’t pay to dwell on what might have been,’ Larry said to the distraught woman. ‘I could have had another drink, and who knows, Ryan Buckley might still be alive. What is important is that we apprehend whoever did it. Now, let’s go back over what you told me. You said that the man was in a hurry to follow Seamus.’
‘I did.’
‘Are you sure it was Seamus? It could have been that the man was late for an appointment.’
‘No, it was Seamus, I’m sure of it.’
‘Why?’
‘He wrote down the registration number when I gave the car keys to Seamus.’
‘Assuming you’re right on this, let’s go back over what he looked like. And what about the vehicle he borrowed.’
‘He returned it soon after Seamus died. He only had it for five hours, paid the full day rate.’
‘We’ve checked the licence he showed you. It was stolen two months ago. Did you check the photo on it with the man?’
‘I think I did, but I may have just taken a note of the name, the date of issue, the date of expiry. That’s what the insurance people want.’
‘The picture on the licence and the man could have been different?’
‘I would have taken a cursory glance, but every day there are a lot of people renting, returning, extending. His insistence for me to hurry up didn’t help.’
Larry could see that the seemingly unflappable woman who stood behind the counter was actually a nervy woman. He wasn’t sure how much credence could be given to her testimony; however, the stolen driving licence was of concern.
‘Not conclusive,’ Inspector O’Carroll said. A red-haired woman in her forties, Larry had to admit to being impressed by the way she handled herself. Ryan Buckley, a hearty, friendly man had not impressed him. Sure, he had been competent at Seamus’s murder scene, even handled himself well with the man’s widow, but he had not had the attention to detail, the enthusiasm Larry expected.
‘He wasn’t the easiest,’ Mrs Buckley had said when Larry met her. ‘Sometimes we didn’t talk for a few weeks, not that I can blame him totally. We’re both fiery, and Ryan would drink too much, and then there was the occasional smell about him.’
‘What kind of smell?’
‘Another woman.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘I never asked, never wanted to know.’
‘An unusual reaction,’ Larry had said.
‘I can deal with ignorance. The truth would have eaten at me. Not that it mattered, not after the first few times, and he kept to his room, I kept to mine.’
‘You weren’t sleeping together?’
‘Not for four years. I suppose he had to do something about it, but I would have preferred us to be closer.’
‘Then why weren’t you?’
‘It just became a habit, him and me, and now someone’s killed him.’
‘Anyone you can think of?’
‘It’d be better if you ask down at the police station. There are plenty in prison because of him.’
After Sheila Gaffney, Larry couldn’t help but make the comparison. Sheila was soft and comforting, even in her distraught state; Buckley’s wife was not the same. A similar age to the other woman, she had maintained her figure, and it was clear that her appearance mattered to her more than it did to the other woman. He could warm to Sheila, but not to Dervla Buckley, a woman who had a husband that strayed. Larry resolved not to think badly of Ryan Buckley and to assist Inspector Annie O’Carroll to the best of his abilities. But London was where he needed to be, and even if the murderer was still in Ireland, the Irish police were as competent as those at Challis Street.
It was after midnight when Larry arrived back at his home in London, his wife waiting for him, a hot cup of tea and a meal. Not that he needed either, he was just glad to be home. For now, he would forget all that had occurred and savour his wife, and in the morning, it would be him that drove the children to school. He realised that if his wife was sometimes demanding and difficult, she was still the woman for him. He gave her a kiss, had a shower, and went to bed, asleep within five minutes.
***
Cojocaru arrived back in England no more than two hours after Larry. For the gangster, there was no welcome home by a loving wife, a meal on the table. All that he could look forward to was his penthouse flat with its view of the River Thames. Suddenly it did not seem so important. He made a phone call.
‘The police are fishing,’ Becali said on answering.
‘They’ve got nothing. My place, twenty minutes,’ Cojocaru said.
Becali wanted to say he was busy, but the tone in Cojocaru’s voice told him that the female company he had was less important than a direct request from the man who had saved him from a dismal life in Romania.
‘Antonescu is dead,’ Cojocaru said as Becali walked through the door at the penthouse.
‘How?’ Becali said as he instinctively headed to the drinks cabinet to pour himself a whisky, another for his boss.
‘They killed him in front of me, an example of what will happen to us if we don’t comply.’
Becali knew that he should feel sad for the dead man, a colleague and someone who could always be trusted when there was violence to commit or murder to carry out. It was a time to say a few kind words about him and to reflect on the good times, the benevolent and generous acts he had committed, his goodness, but Becali could not. He could only remember the negatives, the Jamaican Rasta they had held down while they forced the man to give the names of
