‘Peskov tells me that there is nothing of concern,’ Braxton said as Isaac arrived.
‘Mr Ivanov has placed his trust in you. You must know what he wanted you to do,’ Isaac said.
‘It is for me to let others know that Stanislav Ivanov lives and that it is business as usual.’
‘Business – commercial or criminal?’
‘With Ivanov, commercial. I need to bring in my own security,’ Peskov said.
‘There has always been a police officer outside Mr Ivanov’s room,’ Braxton said.
‘But Mr Ivanov is awake.’
‘Do you expect another assassination attempt?’
‘Your police officers will be no match for someone determined.’
‘Are you suggesting that the Tverskoyskaya Bratva will attempt to kill him, or will it be closer to home?’
‘I am not suggesting anything. Stanislav Ivanov needs more security, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘We are wasting our time with Mr Peskov,’ Isaac said to Braxton, ensuring that the Russian heard the disdain in his voice.
‘If anything happens to anybody in this country, then you, Gennady Peskov, will be our primary suspect. Is that clear?’
‘That is clear,’ Peskov said as he walked away.
‘There’s going to be trouble. What about Cojocaru? If he was behind the assassination attempt, then he must be worried,’ Braxton said.
***
Larry met with Claude Bateman who had taken the role of lead police communicator for the West Indian gangs in the area. Bateman was affable, more so than on the previous occasion.
The Wellington Arms in Bayswater, the venue for their meeting, was full, mostly with locals enjoying a quiet drink, a few tourists winding their way through the area, a few West Indians, some gang members, some not, sitting quietly or propping up the bar. Larry sat towards the back of the pub; on his left, Bateman, and on his right, one of Bateman’s men.
‘What will happen?’ Bateman asked. He had a cigar in his mouth, he offered one to Larry. The two men took a puff on their cigars before expelling the smoke; neither spoke for a minute.
‘What will you do? Are you clean?’ Larry said.
‘Becali took the shot at Ivanov.’
‘Did he take the shot, the truth?’
‘He had been in that building before.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’
‘Tell you what? If you knew that he had been seen there, what would you have done? Nothing, other than to confront Becali and Cojocaru. You wouldn’t have arrested them. And then what?’
‘You’d be exposed.’
‘Discretion is the better part of valour. If you arrest Becali for attempted murder, cast-iron evidence, then the person who saw him in that building will testify. Until then, nobody will say anything.’
‘You’re telling me now.’
‘The situation has changed. Ivanov will live, others will die.’
‘Becali entered the building, took the shot from the flat and left. Did your person see this?’
‘Not the flat, but the man entering and leaving the building, yes.’
‘It’s still circumstantial.’
‘That’s why you’ve not been told. You can’t prove it, nor can we, but Ivanov does not need proof.’
‘You’ve not told the Russians?’
‘If we told one of his men, could they be trusted? Would they believe us? They hate us more than they hate Cojocaru.’
‘Have you had any more contact with the man?’
‘He’s keeping a low profile, and with Ivanov recovering he must be worried.’
‘And worried people do stupid things.’
‘We will not become involved. The Russians are smarter than Cojocaru, more violent, and better resourced. We’d not stand a chance.’
‘Neither would the police. What can you do to help us?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Keep us informed at all times, no matter how insignificant. Any strange faces on the street?’
‘Russians?’
‘Or Romanians.’
‘How do you tell the difference?’
‘I’m not sure, apart from the language. Have you seen Ion Becali?’
‘He was in here a couple of days ago, drank a couple of beers and left.’
‘Did he speak to you?’
‘He wasn’t in a talkative mood. He met up with a woman, left with her.’
‘Is she important?’
‘She’s known in the area, but no, she’d know nothing.’
Larry felt that his time was wasted with Claude Bateman and that the West Indians were bit players in the unfolding drama. A phone call from Isaac, an excuse to leave the pub.
Outside, Larry got into his car, acknowledged one of Bateman’s men who had been keeping a watch on it for him. Graffiti, a nuisance in the area, had been on the rise, and a police car was a prime target for a quick spray, the words artistically applied, yet derogatory. No one would dare touch Bateman’s car, but a police vehicle was fair game, and for those who indulged in such behaviour, a badge of honour.
At St Mary’s Hospital, Ivanov was sitting up and enjoying a good meal. No hospital food for him, it had been brought in from a Michelin-starred restaurant.
‘This would not have happened in Russia,’ he said.
Larry had arrived at the same time as Isaac, and both had entered the man’s room together. To one side of Ivanov’s bed, Gennady Peskov. There was no sign of Ivanov’s wife.
‘We’ve tightened security,’ Isaac said by way of an apology, which he knew was an inadequate response. ‘We’ll ensure that it doesn’t happen again.’
‘No doubt, but it doesn’t help.’
In Ivanov’s previous room at the hospital, one floor up, Gordon Windsor and his crime scene investigators were commencing their investigation, the bullet hole in the window clearly visible.
‘We believe it was the same person that shot you before,’ Isaac said. Larry said nothing, disturbed that with the security they had provided for the Russian gangster, no one had thought
