Even so, it was a win of sorts, and the first arrest in an investigation that had gone on for too long.
Isaac sat on his chair in his office, his hands clenched behind his neck, leaning backwards, the weariness of the long hours starting to tell. He would have remained there for longer except that Brigitte came rushing in.
‘Cojocaru,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’
Isaac left Challis Street soon after, Wendy with him. Larry, who was out of the office, cancelled his meeting with Bateman and headed out to Cojocaru’s penthouse.
On the street, the crime scene tape, the barriers being erected. A uniformed police officer let the three of them through, Gordon Windsor did not. ‘Get kitted up if you want to go in,’ he said.
‘Have you seen the man?’ Isaac asked.
‘One shot to the head. One to two hours ago.’
‘Who phoned the police?’ Larry asked.
‘The man’s housekeeper. She’s available,’ Windsor said.
‘Wendy, talk to her and get a preliminary report. I’ll go up with Larry,’ Isaac said.
Three men, kitted up with coveralls, gloves, and overshoes, entered the penthouse, stepping to one side of a crime scene investigator who was on the floor checking for evidence. At the other end of the hallway, the main living area, a man slumped on a chair.
‘Not a pretty sight,’ Windsor said.
‘Any signs of a weapon?’ Larry said.
‘Not here. It’s a clean kill, and whoever did it was smart enough to black out the CCTV cameras in reception.’
‘Fingerprints?’
‘Not yet. Don’t hold your breath on this one.’
‘Becali?’ Isaac said.
‘If it’s one to two hours since the man died, Becali didn’t shoot him,’ Larry said.
‘This may loosen his tongue,’ Isaac said.
Chapter 27
Two days passed; two days when the initial flush of success after the arrest of Ion Becali had ground back into a routine.
The team at Challis Street met each morning early, and the days stretched into the nights, no one going home until late; nobody complaining either.
The body of Nicolae Cojocaru had been examined by Pathology, the man’s penthouse had been checked by Gordon Windsor and his team, and Forensics had conducted tests on the bullet removed from the body. Nothing new had been found, and frustration at the lack of progress was felt by all.
Commissioner Alwyn Davies had been on the phone to Chief Superintendent Richard Goddard who had been in Homicide attempting to rally the team – it was not needed.
Stanislav Ivanov stayed in his house, apart from a brief excursion out to his football club for a function, his wife accompanying him. The man had made a speech about how pleased he was that they had won the most prestigious footballing competition in the country, the FA Cup, and sorry that he had not been there to cheer them on, but he had been otherwise occupied.
Ivanov made light of the assassination attempt, and Isaac, who had made sure to be in the back of the room at the function, could only imagine what the man really thought.
Annie O’Carroll had been on the phone from Ireland to let Larry know that leads had dried up there, and whoever it was that had shot Ryan Buckley, he wasn’t Irish, but that was known already.
Another man sat in his hotel room; a man not used to inactivity and apathy; a man who needed to get out from the four walls and room service.
At four in the afternoon of the third day after Cojocaru had been shot, Crin Antonescu stepped out through the front door of his hotel and walked down the street. He needed a drink first and then a meal. The pub he chose, five miles from where Cojocaru had lived, five miles from the West Indian gangs and Challis Street, seemed safe enough for him.
He ordered a beer and a pub lunch. He then sat down in the corner of the bar. It was not ideal, but it was better than nothing, he realised. He looked up at the television mounted high on one wall and saw the face of Ivanov beaming back; it was a face he had trusted, but now the man was not answering his calls.
Without finishing either his beer or his lunch, he walked down the street, absent-mindedly, not knowing where he was going. He reflected on what had been, the early years in Romania, the setting up in England, on Ion Becali, on the woman who had fallen for him, and even though he had not loved her, there was a warmth in her, a genuine wish to be with a short, stocky ex-wrestler from Romania. But she was dead in that hairdressing salon with the others. He had sent her to her death, and he was sorry, an emotion he did not feel comfortable with. He phoned Stanislav Ivanov one more time – no answer. Gennady Peskov answered on the second ring when he phoned again.
‘You were told to wait,’ Peskov said. He had hated Antonescu from the first time he had met him in France. A man who is willing to change sides was not a man to be trusted, and now the man was phoning him.
‘I have completed my task. It is for you to protect me, to get me out of the country.’
‘Then wait.’
‘For how long?’
‘For as long as is needed. Ivanov does not forget those who are loyal, and you have done what is required. Your hotel has been paid for, and extra money has been given to you. You have no reason to complain.’
Peskov cut the call; Antonescu kept walking.
It was after
