NATIONAL TREASURE by Barry Faulkner (life books to read .TXT) 📗

basic cocaine and upgrade it in their factory, which masquerades as a fabric cleaning plant. We have it under surveillance, and as I said, in a couple of weeks, when the Romanians are ready, we will raid it and close the Bogdans down once and for all.’

‘And the van?’

‘They use – or should I say used – it to deliver the finished product in single tabs to their street wholesalers, who sell on to the postcode gangs. All very professional.’

‘So they’ll miss the van straight away, won’t they?’ That worried me.

‘Of course they will, and the two men that were with it. This throws up a bigger problem – if they suspect OC have taken it and have their men in custody, they’ll get jittery and might close down and run.’ He stood up. ‘Go home, Nevis, and stay there – no more heroics. I need to talk to some people and then I’ll get back to you.’ He turned to go. ‘And I hope you’ve a black tie for tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Harry Cohen’s funeral, eleven a.m. Golder’s Green Cemetery. Be interesting to see who turns up.’

And he left in a hurry, looking worried.

    CHAPTER 14

The cemetery was big enough for Gold and I to stay a good hundred metres away from the Cohen funeral party gathered around the grave for the ceremony. Gold had brought a camera with a telescopic lens with her and took lots of pictures of the mourners. It was a good crowd. We had positioned ourselves beside a large old oak tree, giving us a good amount of cover. I noticed Clancy representing the police, a few of Harry’s business friends and some people obviously from his talent roster. They were easy to pick out as they kept turning towards the few media photographers twenty metres away, hoping for a picture of themselves in the tabloids or entertainment media the next day. No publicity is bad publicity, even if it is at your agent’s graveside. Assholes.

Marcia and Janie were there in sombre garb, and I noticed four pretty obvious plainclothes officers hanging nearby. Harry’s widow was easy to pick out by her position nearest to the priest, or rabbi – not sure what to call him at a Jewish funeral. The widow had a young man in his thirties beside her, whom I took to be Harry’s son, and a lady of about the same age who must be his daughter. He’d mentioned them once but hadn’t gone into any detail. I wondered if his wife had known about his ‘illegal’ career? How had Clancy explained Harry being shot to the family?

Gold jarred my elbow. ‘Bandits three o’clock.’

I looked and saw two goons – pretty obvious by their appearance: flowing overcoats, hands in pockets – a good distance away. I stepped back behind the oak just in case they were looking for me. A picture of me may well have made its way to the Bogdans, or what was left of them, via friends in the Romanian police. Gold snapped them before stepping back with me.

‘You think they are checking on Janie?’ she asked.

I nodded. ‘Could well be – mind you, to try and take her again would be daft.’

‘Still a million quid in play in an account they think Marcia has access to.’

‘True.’

Harry’s coffin was lowered into the grave, the wife’s wreath was lowered onto it and the party left, shaking hands with the priest or rabbi as they made their way to the car park. The goons left too, hurrying away before the funeral party.

  ****************************************

Back at my office Gold loaded the camera SIM card into her laptop as I made a coffee to have with beef and horseradish rolls I’d bought from the deli opposite. I sat back and watched as she pulled up the pictures one by one. Was Randall’s mysterious driver/accomplice amongst the mourners? Perhaps the last two Bogdan brothers were at the graveside? I wouldn’t know what they looked like, but they might well have been there, and the two goons might just have been their protection. I recognised a couple of the Z-list celebrities; couldn’t name them, but their duck lips and Botox faces seemed familiar. I chastised myself for watching too much crap telly.

‘Whoa…’

‘What?’

‘Go back to the last one.’ I leant nearer to the screen.

Gold clicked back to the last picture, the young man beside Harry’s wife.

‘Harry’s son, Avram,’ Gold told me.

I’d had a flashback when the face hit the screen: a flashback to Izvor underground station and the goons running in from the road as I knelt by the wall pretending to tie a shoelace. This face was one of them, I was sure.

‘He was one of Bogdan’s men that ran into Izvor station. I’m positive.’

‘Positive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you saying Harry Cohen’s son works for Bogdan?’

‘That man was at Izvor, one hundred percent.’

My mobile buzzed. It was Clancy; he wasn’t happy. There’s a surprise.

‘You’ve upset the apple cart taking that van – there’s increased activity around West London Cleaners’ premises. Looks like they’re moving stuff out, so we are going in with AROs at four o’clock.’

‘Am I invited?’

‘Why not? Your actions are probably responsible for it.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Clapham Industrial Estate, know it?’

‘I’m a private detective, not an estate agent.’

‘Yes, well, you rank equal in my estimation.’ Clancy can be hurtful.

I humoured him. ‘Ha ha. Where is it?’

‘Union Road, Clapham – meet me by the gate at 3.45 and stay out of sight. If they know your face and see you, they’ll realise something’s definitely up and run a mile.’

I told Gold what was happening. We continued through the pictures but none of the rest struck a chord. Something was bothering me.

‘So if Harry Cohen’s son is working for the Bogdans, they wouldn’t kill Harry, would they?’