‘I intend to stay as well,’ Ivanov said. ‘You can stay at the country house, I will stay here. And let us not pretend with each other.’
‘I was worried.’
‘So was I, but we maintain the pretence. You are the face of respectability, but I have no need of you,’ Ivanov said.
‘And I have no need of you,’ the wife said. ‘I will return to my home with your permission.’
‘It is granted. I have work to do.’
‘Be careful, the police are not fools. They will be watching.’
‘It must be done. I have upgraded your security, just in case.’
‘Thank you, my husband. I will check on you from time to time, and if you need me at your side, then call.’
As soon as Ivanov’s wife had left, Gennady Peskov entered the room.
‘Is all ready?’ Ivanov said.
‘It is ready. When?’
‘Five days. I want everyone to be lulled into a sense of complacency. I want everyone to believe that my return does not upset the equilibrium. Cojocaru?’
‘He is outside.’
Ivanov raised himself from his chair, Peskov assisting. ‘Let him in,’ Ivanov said.
Nicolae Cojocaru entered the room, the sweat beads on his forehead clearly visible. It was what Ivanov had hoped to see. The last time they had met, the Russian had forced the Romanian to shoot Crin Antonescu, one of Cojocaru’s henchmen, one of the very few that the man could trust. And now the Romanian was back in the lair of the Russian godfather, a lair where he, Nicolae Cojocaru, was a mere pawn.
‘I am pleased to see that you are well,’ Cojocaru said.
‘I thank you for your kindness. As you can see, I am fully recovered,’ Ivanov said, struggling to maintain an upright posture. ‘Please sit down. We have matters to discuss.’
Cojocaru sat down, bolt upright; Ivanov slumped back onto his chair, hopeful that it looked as though it was planned, and not as the need to take the weight off his feet as soon as possible.
‘The distribution goes well, up nine per cent on last week,’ Cojocaru said, his voice quavering.
‘That is not why you are here.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Peskov stood to one side of Cojocaru, his right hand inside his jacket pocket.
‘I want you to kill Ion Becali and to bring his head to me,’ Ivanov said calmly.
‘Why?’
‘I need a sign of loyalty that I can trust you. You killed Antonescu, but you did not learn that my benevolence is limited, my wrath infinite. You have attempted to kill me on two separate occasions, and you have failed on both. I should be dead, yet I live. You, Nicolae Cojocaru, live because I have need of you. Either you comply with my request, or you will not leave here today.’
‘The police are watching this house, you must know that.’
‘Let me rephrase what I’ve just said. You will leave this house as a free man innocent of all crimes, or you will leave as a condemned man, the date of execution not yet determined. Which is it to be?’
‘I wish to live, but for how long?’
‘I will make you a promise. Do what I want without hesitation, and I will leave you alone. You are not the first to attempt to kill me, and some have died, some have lived. I do not blame you, I only pity your stupidity. Now, admit that you wanted me dead.’
‘I did, but purely for my own survival.’
‘Then we are honest with each other. Cojocaru, I do not like you or any of your Romanian friends, and you don’t like me and what I represent. Openness is the way forward, and I want Becali dead as a token of our agreement here today.’
‘And afterwards, when my usefulness has been exhausted, then what?’
‘You will be free to do what you want.’
A confused man left the house, a man who knew that he was condemned whichever way he turned, but then he had known that since Ivanov and his Bratva started to make inroads into England. Peskov smiled as Cojocaru walked down the steps to the road. At that moment, Cojocaru wished that Becali was still in the flat that he could see up above him; he wished that the man was there to take a shot at him, and not to miss.
Chapter 25
Wendy attended the funeral of Ralph Ernest Begley, and watched as the young man’s mother mounted the steps to the lectern at the front of the church and spoke of her son.
In the front row of the church, Begley’s father and Rosy, the fifteen-year-old child who has flirted with danger and promiscuity. The two did not sit close to each other. On the left-hand side of Fred Begley, a police officer sat. To compound Ralphie’s death, investigations into Fred and his step-daughter revealed that the man had been guilty of crimes against her, and he was now on remand awaiting trial. Rosy was dressed in black, the nose ring removed, the tattoos covered. Wendy looked over at her; she smiled back. At the conclusion of Ralphie’s mother’s eulogy, Rosy got up and helped her back to her seat. The young woman then mounted the steps to the lectern and spoke from the heart. The mother had been tearful but her eulogy devoid of any content other than a mother’s love for a son and how he had always been a good child, rarely crying, and how his future had looked promising, and
