‘What’s the problem?’ Bridget said, not used to seeing her friend in such a state.
‘Impending doom. As though there’s something in the air so tangible that you could cut it with a knife, yet we can’t see it.’
‘You were talking about Ion Becali before. Is that it?’
‘I’m not sure. The injustice of it gets to me sometimes. Becali is out there larger than life, Cojocaru is enjoying the sweet life, and Stanislav Ivanov acts as though he owns the country. And there’s Sal Maynard who did nothing wrong in her life, except wanting to better herself; and there she is, forgotten and not even missed by her own family.’
‘She wasn’t the only one in Briganti’s,’ Bridget said.
‘I know that, but the others had been loved, even Alphonse Abano. But with Sal, nobody.’
‘There’s Ralphie.’
‘It’s not sufficient.’
‘Welcome to the human condition. If she wasn’t loved, there’s not much you can do about it.’
‘There is. I can give her justice.’
‘How?’
‘By making sure whoever talked her into going into that salon and draping herself around Hendry is brought in and charged with being an accessory to murder.’
***
Cojocaru sat in his suite at the Radisson Blu Hotel in Bucharest. Located on Calea Victoriei, it was not far from Revolution Square, the scene of a disastrous speech by another Nicolae, Nicolae Ceausescu, the former president, who had been deposed and shot after a show trial, the guilty verdict predetermined. The irony was not lost on Cojocaru. He reflected on what he had achieved on his return to the land of his birth. It had been good to visit his parents’ grave, to see the house where he had grown up, even where he had shot his first man, but Bucharest had changed. No longer as easy as it had been, it was now full of shops and cars, and the government, if not totally incorruptible, was not as pliable as before.
He had contacted one of the crime syndicates, a group that he had dealt with before. Back then, the leader had been a man his age, but he was dead, and in his place, his son, a smart thirty-two-year-old. Cojocaru realised that he was a man whose time was past, a man who did not belong. He had made a few phone calls, only to receive impersonal replies, or on two occasions the clicking in his ear as the phone was hung up on him. The visit had been a disaster, and he knew that the surly confidence he had had in London had gone.
Cojocaru turned on the television, found nothing of interest, walked out of his room, and went and sat by the swimming pool. The evening climate was balmy, and he was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt. He felt some serenity as he leant back on a reclining chair.
‘Stanislav Ivanov will not be pleased,’ a man who came up to him said.
‘Your boss has no need to worry. I am here visiting my parents’ grave, that’s all.’
‘Do not lie. The best thing you can do is to return to London and to pray that Stanislav Ivanov has a forgiving nature.’
‘Does he?’
The man looked Cojocaru directly in the eyes. ‘Not that I’ve ever seen it.’ He then walked away.
Panic seized the gangster, the realisation that he was no longer the hunter but the hunted, and that Romania was no longer his home, nor was London. The only hope lay with the West Indians, but he knew that was futile. They did not have the tenacity to deal with the situation. But did he? The situation was too difficult to comprehend, but nothing could be resolved from Romania, and now Ivanov had men following him, men who at a command could kill him. He went to his room, packed his suitcase, and took a taxi to the airport.
In London, Becali received a phone call from his boss at eight in the evening. ‘Pick me up at the airport, 11 p.m. flight.’
‘Any success?’ Becali asked. His situation had become difficult as well. His link to Sal Maynard would be confirmed in time, and regardless of what he had said, he had enjoyed his time with her. It wasn’t love, but it wasn’t hate or indifference. With him, she had been genuine. With the women who cost a great deal more, the show of enjoying his company was fake, but that simple and uncomplicated woman who had lived in a depressing ten-storey tenement building had confessed her love for him, her willingness to trust her life to him, her blind obedience if that was what he wanted.
‘None. Ivanov has people here, and the old contacts are gone. London is where we are, where we must do what is necessary.’
‘Is there no alternative?’
‘None. You, Ion Becali, are the one who must do this. There is no one else who I can trust.’
‘We will succeed, you and I.’
Cojocaru did not answer as he did not know what to say. Becali had always been a loyal servant to him, but now the man was about to become more. Whatever the outcome, Cojocaru knew that the relationship between the two men would be inexorably altered.
***
Larry was tired of being away from home. One of the children had a cough, another had a ‘parents meet the teachers’ function in three days. He wanted to be home for both of them.
‘Buckley’s wife?’ Annie said.
‘Any suspicions there?’
‘Not with her. It’s not as if
