‘I’m not getting a lot of help from my colleagues with Gaffney, plenty with Ryan. And we can’t assume that the man had an English accent, doesn’t hold weight now.’
‘Not really. If he were Romanian, it would help.’
‘Not that I’d know Romanian from Bulgarian or Greek,’ Annie O’Carroll said.
‘No one would. If we could link it to Cojocaru and his men, it would be a bonus. Although one of them is not around now.’
‘What happened?’
‘Went on a trip to the south of France, never came back. Serious and Organised Crime is putting him down as missing in action, presumed dead.’
‘Murdered?’
‘Poetic justice if he is. There’s an attempt to bring in a large shipment of weapons from the continent, and the gangs are nervous, even meeting with Cojocaru. And then we’ve got Stanislav Ivanov not far behind.’
Larry had to admit to enjoying his conversation with the Irish police officer, but unless the situation changed, he’d have to stay in London.
Wendy had spent more time with Ralphie; his family, not as dysfunctional as Sal’s, although still uncaring, had not impressed Wendy when she had met them. His father lounged in a well-worn chair, the television showing the horse races, his phone at his side to place the bets. Apart from that, the man did little other than complain about how they had laid him off at work, a menial cleaning job, on account of his bad back, and he was going for worker’s compensation for the permanent injury that he had suffered. Not that Wendy had seen much of the injury when the man jumped out of his seat when his horse had won.
‘See, I told you that I could pick them,’ he said to his wife, Ralphie’s mother.
‘About time,’ the only words to emanate from the woman. Even when Wendy had questioned her about Sal Maynard, her replies had been monosyllabic, just yes and no. Ralphie’s father had been more forthcoming in saying that Sal’s mother was just a tart and the daughter was no better, just a useless lump of lard. Wendy could only sympathise with Ralphie, and she vowed to help him if she could.
Outside the house, Ralphie had been apologetic, although his vocabulary was interspersed every few words with a four-letter expletive.
‘Did Becali kill Sal?’ Ralphie asked.
‘We’ve no proof.’
‘You don’t need proof to know whether he did or not.’
‘We don’t think so. And whatever you do, keep well away, the man’s violent. I don’t want you getting involved.’
‘It’d be more interesting than around here.’
‘It probably would be, but Ralphie, mark my words. Becali is not a person to be trifled with and never approach him. You must promise me that,’ Wendy said, speaking to him as she would have her own sons when they had been younger.
‘I won’t. Promise.’
Wendy left Ralphie, having gained no more information. She had only come back to the area after Becali’s importance in the investigation had risen. With Antonescu out of the picture, the murder of Buckley could have been at Becali’s hand. A window of opportunity had been discovered for the second murder in Ireland, long enough for the Romanian to have made the trip over, probably using a false name and identification. And no need to use a rental car, as local transport, especially the train from the airport to a station, no more than a five-minute walk from Buckley’s house, ran at regular intervals.
Becali was front and centre, and at Challis Street, the team met again. This time in the presence of DCS Goddard. The man was not happy, not that anyone else was, and an air of inadequacy had settled over those present. A team honed through numerous murder investigations, sometimes challenging, sometimes procedural, but now the clues were too few and far between.
Larry was the first to speak, that is after Goddard had given his usual speech about working ‘the hours required, I expect everyone to do their bit, the eyes of the commissioner are on us’. They had all heard it before, and it hadn’t been necessary, but Isaac could see that the man was wearying of the battle to keep Commissioner Alwyn Davies out of Homicide, as well as his man, Superintendent Caddick.
‘Inspector O’Carroll believes the hit on Ryan Buckley was professional. If it was, then Becali’s a possibility, and what about him and Sal Maynard?’
‘I feel sorry for the woman,’ Wendy said. ‘She had a dreadful home life, and then scum like Becali treat her like a piece of meat.’
‘We’re not here to discuss the injustices of the world,’ Isaac reminded her. ‘Only who’s guilty and who’s not. And what about Seamus Gaffney? Larry, you knew him, what do you reckon, the sort of man to make enemies?’
‘Apart from informing, I’d say not. A likeable man, but he knew what was going on, and was willing to part with some of it for a price. But I reckon he kept quiet on some things, too dangerous otherwise.’
‘Would he have known about Briganti’s?’
‘Who knows? We’re assuming Cojocaru didn’t. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have met Ivanov in France.’
‘According to Oscar Braxton, you don’t debate whether to meet the man or not. A command is what you receive, and failure to attend is at your peril.’
‘Becali didn’t go to France,’ Wendy said.
‘No chance. He was here with us, and we were keeping a watch on him. And if he was in Ireland, then he was busy. Maybe he wasn’t summoned to France.’
‘Which means he could be working for the man.’
The name of Stanislav Ivanov had filtered through to Westminster, and politicians on both sides of the House were out trying to gain brownie points by accusing the other of inaction over terrorism in the past, and now organised crime.
The team in Homicide knew which of the two was the
