‘Likewise,’ Isaac said. He didn’t want to drink, and certainly not with the man opposite, but they needed to find out what he knew or what he was willing to tell.
‘Crin Antonescu travelled with you to France, we can prove that,’ Braxton said.
‘And if he did, then so what? Travelling out of the country is not a crime. Maybe he’s taking a holiday,’ Cojocaru said, a tenseness in his voice.
‘We’re suspicious that you would meet with the head of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva after you had given us his name.’
‘You cannot ignore people purely because you dislike them.’
‘Let us be honest, Nicolae Cojocaru. You are the head of a crime syndicate in England,’ Isaac said. ‘We can’t prove it, not sufficiently to arrest you and to send you back to the hovel you came from, but there is a more pressing matter, the shooting at Briganti’s.’
‘I thought you were going to say Ivanov.’
‘He is another grubby individual who hides behind a veneer of respectability.’
‘No doubt you don’t say that to his face.’
‘There are no investigations into his activities in this country, although we believe he was behind the shooting at Briganti’s, also the death of a police officer in Ireland.’
‘Then you’d better talk to him.’
‘We will when he regains consciousness. And when he does, we’ll tell him that you ordered his assassination. How do you think he’ll respond?’
‘I did not organise it.’
‘Then who did?’
‘I don’t know.’
The two police officers could see that Cojocaru was not going to respond. Not that they had expected him to, but if he was unnerved and frightened then maybe he would act irrationally.
‘We can’t prove it yet, but it has to be you,’ Isaac said. He looked over at Cojocaru, hoping to see the tell-tale signs of a man who was lying: the eyes looking away, the twitching hand, the beads of sweat on his forehead.
‘We are trying to find out who owned the flat where the shot was fired from,’ Braxton said. ‘We will make the connection to you, and then it will not matter whether Ivanov lives or not. We don’t even have to bother arresting you. All we need to do is to let Ivanov’s Bratva know that it was you. Or maybe they’ve figured that out already. We’re told there are a few after Ivanov’s position. Whoever takes his position won’t be coming over to England to thank you. He’ll be looking to carry on Ivanov’s work, and maybe he’ll use you for a while, or maybe he’ll just have you killed. One way or the other, you, Nicolae Cojocaru, are a dead man.’
‘Time will tell,’ Cojocaru said.
‘And this drug shipment that’s in the country. Do you intend to distribute it?’ Isaac asked. He took a drink of his beer, realising that in the company of evil it did not taste the same. He put it to one side, not intending to drink any more.
‘I am an honest businessman.’
‘You are a malignant parasite on society. If Ivanov doesn’t get you, we will. In fact, your best chance is to level with us, turn Queen’s evidence.’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Cook, Detective Chief Inspector Braxton, I’ll bid you both farewell. I do not find your company agreeable,’ Cojocaru said as he stood up from his seat. He then walked out of the front door of the restaurant and got into the back seat of a black BMW, Ion Becali in the driver’s seat.
‘We made him feel uncomfortable,’ Braxton said.
‘We did, but what next? He could still strike a deal with the Russians. Cojocaru has residency in this country, they may not.’
‘We still don’t know what’s going on, do we?’
‘If Ivanov regains consciousness, he’ll be looking to reassert himself. We should follow through on that angle,’ Isaac said. ‘But this investigation has deviated from what it was. Challis Street was looking for whoever shot up Briganti’s, but now we’re working with you on organised crime. The focus has been lost.’
‘The focus hasn’t, but how do you find out what happened? If, as we believe, Ivanov was responsible for Briganti’s, and that Cojocaru was behind shooting Ivanov, then the person who took the shot in that flat is important. Get one, you get them all.’
‘No one’s come forward, and the gun on the twentieth floor wasn’t registered, and there were no prints.’
‘I’ll get back to Serious and Organised Crime, find out what information is coming in from overseas,’ Braxton said.
‘I’ve got to get back to Challis Street. Sergeant Gladstone has an update, one of her people. Keep in touch,’ Isaac said.
The two men shook hands, one heading down the road to his car, the other heading up.
Chapter 22
One of Stanislav Ivanov’s bodyguards remained at Challis Street, not because he provided protection to the Russian businessman but because in a drain close to the assassination scene a gun had been found, the obvious deduction being that one of them had dumped it there.
Isaac looked across at the man in the interview room. ‘Your name?’ he said.
‘Gennady Peskov,’ the heavyset man replied. His English was acceptable although guttural. A translator was offered, but declined, as was legal aid. In the man’s passport, a visa entitling him to carry out business in England, although no mention of his protection activities.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Eight weeks.’
Larry sat to one side of Isaac. ‘Why did you stay at the crime scene?’ he asked.
‘It was my job.’
‘You provide personal protection for Stanislav Ivanov, is that correct?’
‘I do.’
‘And you carry a gun?’
‘In Russia I would, but not in England.’
‘Yet we found a gun near where Mr Ivanov was gunned down. Was it yours?’
‘Not mine, but some of the others may have carried them.’
‘Even if it is illegal?’
‘Even if
