‘What sort of man? A criminal, the head of the Tverskoyskaya Bratva?’
‘One of the wealthiest men in Russia. People such as him make enemies.’
‘You’ve been schooled well,’ Isaac said. ‘We’ve checked you out. In Russia, you spent time in prison for violence, almost killed a man once.’
‘When I was younger, and the law is not always honest as it is here in England.’
The two police officers realised that Peskov, a gun for hire even if he denied the fact, was not a stupid man and that he had the innate street sense to say the right words and to not exacerbate the situation.
‘Stanislav Ivanov is in the hospital.’
‘I will stay by his side. The other bodyguards were not concerned about him, I am.’
‘Why?’
‘We grew up in the same village. To me, it is more than my job. To me, it is an honour.’
‘Your visa is in dispute. You are not here to be employed, only to conduct business meetings.’
‘I do attend the meetings, and I am not paid in this country. I don’t think that you will deport me.’
Isaac knew they wouldn’t. Even if Peskov had been carrying a weapon, he was a witness to a crime.
‘Let us come back to the crime scene,’ Isaac said. ‘You are there with Ivanov, yet he gets shot. Why?’
‘He enjoys the freedom in England. He wants to act as if he’s English. Sometimes he gives us concern by his actions.’
‘At the crime scene?’
‘He wanted to talk to the people in the street, to look at his garden. We were hurrying him from the house to the car. He was not allowing us to do our job.’
‘Are you saying it was his fault?’
‘Not entirely. And it’s not ours, not mine, that he was shot.’
‘And what will Ivanov’s reaction be, assuming he regains consciousness?’
‘He will be angry and he will blame others.’
‘Who?’
‘Those who did not stay at his side, those who were responsible.’
‘Do you know who it was that shot him?’
‘No. Once I am free of here, I will be at Stanislav Ivanov’s side.’
‘There are no charges against you, Gennady Peskov. Where will we find those that ran from the crime scene?’
‘I’ve no idea. If they could, they would have left the country by now.’
‘Back to Russia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, Mr Peskov. You’re free to go,’ Isaac said.
Gennady Peskov walked out of Challis Street and hailed a taxi. ‘St Mary’s Hospital,’ he said.
***
Nicolae Cojocaru’s initial optimism was starting to wane. His nemesis, Stanislav Ivanov, had now been in intensive care at the hospital for nine days, and each bulletin from the hospital always said the same – the patient’s condition is still critical, although there are signs of recovery.
Cojocaru could see the implications if the man made a full recovery, the consequences even if he did not. So far, the Tverskoyskaya Bratva’s approaches to him had been low-key, no mention of how and why and who had shot their leader, only concern about how to maintain business, how to increase the distribution of the drugs out of Afghanistan.
The Romanian was under no illusion, and his denial if they asked about his involvement in the man’s shooting would mean little to them.
Ivanov alive was a threat, dead he was also a threat, but in the half-world that the man occupied, he was an enigma; he made everyone nervous.
Cojocaru turned to Ion Becali. Both were in Cojocaru’s penthouse.
‘While Ivanov is in the hospital, we are safe,’ Cojocaru said.
‘We have taken control of the latest shipment, and we are setting up more distribution outlets for the Russians.’
‘At the reduced price?’
‘That is what Ivanov planned, and we have complied.’
‘What about the gangs in the area? Any trouble?’
‘We’ve taken them on to help with the distribution, although there are some complaints about the lower payments.’
‘We’re still maintaining their percentage at the old rate. They’ve no reason to complain.’
‘Even so, it’s more work for them, more chances of being caught.’
‘They know the alternative,’ Cojocaru said as he looked away from Becali. The man had gone from loyal employee to friend, even a junior partner, but now with Ivanov hanging on, Cojocaru could only see a man who had failed him; a man who had said his marksmanship was without equal. And yet he had been unable to kill Ivanov.
Cojocaru picked up his coat and headed out of the penthouse. ‘You’re driving,’ he said to Becali.
‘Where to?’
‘St Mary’s Hospital. I want the truth.’
‘Is there any concern that what they are reporting is not correct?’
‘It is always a risk. If he’s dead, we will last longer, maybe even long enough to plot our return to the old country.’
‘But we are not wanted back there.’
‘I must maximise the profits in the short term. Back in Romania, I will buy myself a house in the country and grow vegetables.’
‘Nicolae Cojocaru, you are not a man of the soil.’
‘Becali, it is better to plant the vegetables than to be the fertiliser that makes them grow.’
‘I don’t want to go back to my old life,’ Becali said as he grabbed the car keys. ‘I want to stay here. I will deal with the problem on my own.’
In the basement of the building was Cojocaru’s Mercedes. Becali eased it out of its parking spot and left the building, heading east in the direction of the hospital.
***
Serious and Organised Crime Command was watching the unfolding events with concern. The Russian mafia had, so far, had minimal impact in England, although they had made inroads into the former Soviet satellite states, but now their influence was starting to increase in London. A mansion in
