Waves of Murder

by J B Raphael

  Lloyd put down the phone and held his head in his hands and said to no one, “I don’t believe it, I just don’t believe it. We had him and let him go! DAMN” he shouted, and banged the leather-topped desk.

  His door flew open and Sgt Bryant asked, “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he said, “just pissed off, we missed Weston by a whisker. Oh he’s clever, very clever, but the fucker’s going to get caught one day and I hope it’s soon,” he added.

  Rome

  Was the devil working on Jon again, he had feelings of restlessness. Lounging around in Rome was boring him, he had a wicked thought, a cruise, not necessarily to murder a rich woman for her jewellery but his thoughts were going that way. He would have to give that one a lot of consideration. He had found an apartment not far from the hotel, it had all mod cons, was cheaper than living at the hotel and Gretta was able to move in with him and give up the bedsit-sized flat she was living in.

  The shopping centre included a travel shop, deja vu kicked in as he looked at the window display, ‘CRUISES’ the large poster said and listed lots of examples, including pictures of the cruise ships. Mmm he thought, ‘ I wonder’ he said to himself, smiling. Had the devil taken up residence again? One of the ships was enormous, 14 storeys or decks high, he counted, it went to the Greek Islands, Greece, Cyprus, the Holy Land and Egypt, for three weeks than back to Orbetello, the nearest deep port to Rome. The ship boasted large staterooms with balconies, ‘luxury on the waves’ it said. He walked in and said, “ Inglese?” to the young man at the desk.

  “Yes, signore,” he replied.

  “Good, I’d like to book the cruise advertised in the window. What’s the price for a mid-ship, half-way up, stateroom?”

  The young advisor referred to the brochure and his computer, “Okay, sir,” he said, “6,000 euros including 150 euros on-board spending.”

  Jon laughed and said, “Can I put the 150 euros spend on the red, in the casino?”

  “Yes, of course, and I hope you win!” said the youngster, also laughing.

  “Okay, let’s go for it, I need to get out of the city and get some fresh air in my lungs.”

  “Magnifico!” said the salesman, and started to fill out the booking form. He showed Jon the graphic of the ship and pointed to the exact stateroom.

  “Perfect,” Jon said. The 6,000 euros was passed over the desk, he received a copy of the booking which was also his receipt. The cruise would leave in two weeks time, good he thought, 3,000 passengers, at least half of them women.

  He left it for another week before he told Gretta that he had to go on a business trip to Ireland. His family house in Dublin had been sold and he had to see to the sale of the contents and other assets to do with the property. “Why are you taking your dinner jacket?”

  Thinking very quickly on his feet, “My family is having a big celebration because of the sale, at a posh hotel in Dublin, but as you aren’t coming I will buy you something very very special,” he promised, and kissed her cheek.

  “That would be very nice,” she said smiling, and kissed him passionately.

  A simple soul, he thought. He left with his luggage on the morning of the sailing which was timed for 3pm, which gave him three hours to get to the ship and check in, and to park the car etc. His case and suit carrier was taken and his car was parked. Terrific he thought, that’s what I call service. His stateroom aboard the ‘Cesaro Roma’ was luxurious to say the least, absolutely terrific!

  London

  Chief Inspector Lloyd lay in bed unable to sleep, how did that cheeky, audacious, murdering bastard get away with getting his hands on the 320 grand at the safety deposit bank? he said to himself. Then it hit him, “Disguise,” he said out loud, waking his wife.

  “What did you say?” she asked, “you’ve been mumbling in your sleep for hours, now please shut up and go to sleep!” He did.

  “Bryant,” he called loudly to his DS, “we’re going over to Barclays Bank, have a plain car brought round.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said.

  They walked into the bank and up to the deposit desk, “I’m Chief Insp. Lloyd, Scotland Yard,” he said, showing his warrant card, “I’d like to see your CCTV recording of Wednesday the 8th of July.” It took about 15 minutes to find the recording, they were ushered in to a small rear office where the play-back equipment had been set up on a desk. “Right,” he said to the clerk, “please could we see from opening time?” The clerk ran the tape, after about ten minutes the image of a tall blond bearded man walked in and up to the desk. “Was that the man with the deposit key 0771?”

  “I don’t know sir,” said the clerk, “I was off sick on that day.”

  “I see,” said Lloyd, “can you get the chap who was on duty, please?”

  “Yes, sir, I think it was Andrew Backley,” and disappeared.

  He soon came back with the young clerk whose face was ashen and wide-eyed. Lloyd showed him the stilled image of Jon, “Is that the man who entered box 0771 last Wednesday?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said with a wobble in his voice.

  “Did you not know of the instruction that we were to be informed when he turned up?”

  “No, sir, I was a temp on the desk that day,” he added.

  “Okay,” Lloyd said, “you can go now, both of you,” he grunted. He sat studying the image, “Bryant, take this down, blond hair, blond moustache and beard, 6ft 1” or 2”. Now all we’ve got to do is to get this new description circulated on every TV station in Europe. He’s probably using an alias, but the image is the main thing,” he declared.

  They walked out of the bank past the two clerks who said, ”Goodbye gentlemen.”

  Lloyd waved half-heartedly, and said sarcastically, “Should be serving burgers.”

  The ship was almost an hour late due to the tardy arrival of a group of American tourists, which was music to Jon’s ears. He laid back on his king-size bed, and started to watch TV. The news came on and after about two minutes he saw himself on the screen, “Fucking hell!” he said loudly, “those poxy bank cameras.” There he was, almost full faced, at the deposit desk. But in his favour was the fact that he could discard the facial hair. He went immediately into the bathroom to shave. there was nothing he could do about his hair, but just wear his fedora hat.

  He went for a walk around the main deck of the enormous ship and decided to count the number of blond men who were about his height. The TV description had said 6ft+, slim, blond hair, moustache and beard. He checked his reflection in a window, nothing like the TV look-alike, even with his hat off. He had counted 38 men on the ship so far, that would answer to that image, probably from Scandinavia, they loved the Mediterranean. If he was challenged at a passport control he would merely say that he shaved off his beard because of the hot climate, job done! The Russians, Scotland Yard and even NYPD had the bearded face on record now. Would his one step ahead all the time one day come to a halt? Perhaps South America would get him away from the furore? He had all the money with him, mostly in the ship’s safe, which was in larger notes that he had changed at the ‘Bank Roma’ before he left.

  Rome

  Sitting watching TV with a salad dinner, Cecila Moretzi recognised the face of the man who changed 200,000 euros into notes of 1,000 euros. She had thought it a little strange and had sought permission from the manager who came out of his office and asked for identification. Jon showed him his Irish passport, and said that he was in Italy to buy second-hand Ferrari’s or Maseratti’s. The manager’s face lit up and praised the fact that he wanted the best that the Italian motor industry could offer, ‘Yes,’ he said to the girl teller, ‘it’s okay. Molte grazie,’ he said, going back into his office.

  “Hello (in Italian), is that the police?”

  “Yes,” said the deep male voice.

  “I have to report the sighting of a wanted murderer who was pictured on TV news, I work in the ‘Bank Roma’ and this man came in to change some large amounts of mone
y that totalled 200,000 euros.”

  “What was his name?” the policeman asked.

  “I don’t know but he showed his Irish passport to the manager.”

  “Okay,” he said, “we’ll come to the bank in the morning, first thing, thank you for the call,” he said, and hung up.

  The captain of the local Polizia showed Cecila the photo tele image of Jonathan Weston, “Is this the man?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Was he using the name on the photo?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, the manager looked at the passport.” They were joined by him but he couldn’t remember the name. He apologised and could only confirm the face and that it was an Irish/European one.

  As he walked out, he said to himself, “Should be serving pizzas!” He laughed.

  St Petersburg

  “He’s been seen in Rome,” he said to ten of his agents, “GO AND GET HIM OR DON’T FUCKING WELL COME BACK,” he screamed. Vasili Kashnosky normally meant what he said. The men were on large bonuses but their lives were their main concern, and they went about the business with brute force to anybody that stood in their way.

  Two private jets were waiting to take them to Rome and closer to Jonathan Weston, but where would they start? The underworld of Rome might be a good place. They started asking questions in St Peter’s Square, the Romas were targetted. “Have you seen this man?” he asked one, who knew immediately who they were and his blood chilled a little.

  “No, but you see that man sitting at the end table of the cafe, he might be able to help.”

  Once again the Russian asked, “Have you seen this man?” as he showed him the photograph.

  “Yes,” the Roma said, “I sold him an Irish passport three days ago,” he replied. He too knew who they were, and shivered slightly.

  “What name was the passport?” he demanded. The Roma took a piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to the Russian. “Keiron Robert Pearce, good, if you are right you will be rewarded,” he said, and walked away.

  The Roma wondered what would happen if he was wrong, perhaps the industrial cattle carcass grinder that he had heard they use, he shivered again, more violently.

  The Cesaro Roma

  The first port of call was Naples, to go to Pompeii. At this sight-seeing point Jon (Keiron) could see any likely candidates. The buses were lined up for the journey to the ancient site, among the passengers he spotted a woman about 40 years old. What attracted him was the diamond encrusted Rolex and a twin row diamond bracelet with a necklace to match. Nice, he thought, I wonder what else she had? He looked at her hands for rings, none, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have any. He kept reasonably close as they wandered around the ruins, what she was wearing was about 80 thousand quids worth, he guessed, still plenty of time to find out! With about 3,000 people on the ship, if all went well with any future plans, no one person would be missed for a long time. But first he would have to get to know her, his luck kicked in when she stumbled on some loose ground and almost fell. However, she did drop her camera which Jon retrieved from the grey dust and wiped with his red handkerchief, after steadying her to her feet. “Why, thank you,” her American accent said with a smile. “Do you speak English?” she suddenly asked.

  “Yes, I am from that part of the world,” he answered, putting on a very slight Irish accent.

  “Ireland, right?” she almost shouted, smiling.

  “Yes, Dublin,” he lied.

  “I’ve never been to Ireland,” she said, “I hear it’s beautiful.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, although he’d never been there either! They seemed to keep together for the whole sight-seeing trip, but Jon kept out of the sight of vision whenever she took photographs. Towards the end of the trip she put her arm in his, she definitely fancied him, he thought. Back on the bus they sat together, and once aboard the ship again they agreed to meet at 7 o’clock in the Palermo bar. It was an informal night, Jon (Keiron) wore white slacks, white shoes, no socks and a navy silk shirt. It would be the first time she would see his blond hair, and as a woman she would know that it was dyed. A fedora hat would look wrong.

  “Hi Kieron,” Liz from New York said. Jon stood and suggested that they take a corner table. Good old American straight talking kicked in when Liz asked, “Why do you dye your hair?”

  He laughed, “I’m an actor.”

  “An actor!” she said loudly.

  “Yes, I’ve been doing part of a James Bond movie at Cinicenta, in Rome, but I’m finished there now, until shooting resumes in, wait for it, New York! I play the part of a Swedish villain’s henchman,” he lied.

  “Wow!” she exclaimed, “I’ve got me a James Bond villain.”

  “Shush!” he said, looking around and laughing, “can we keep it under wraps?”

  “Sorry,” she said, “Oh, by the way, I’ll have a champagne cocktail please, shaken not stirred!” she burst into uncontrollable laughter. Jon ordered her drink and a scotch on the rocks for himself. She, apart from the necklace, bracelet and Rolex, was now wearing a ring on her opposing marriage finger, the right hand. It was an exquisite single stone surrounded by sapphires, big ones, in all about 9 carats adding up to at least 150 grand. Very nice, he thought, and started to wonder how he could get his hand on them, but first gain her confidence. Wine her and dine her, and if she wants, sleep with her.

  They thought the ‘Ionian’ restaurant would be nice for dinner, Jon found it difficult to keep up the Irish brogue, but after three champagne cocktails she didn’t notice any change in his speech. Dinner was typically Italian and very good, the service impeccable. Jon insisted on signing the bill for everything and then realised that the dinner was inclusive. She reached across the table and asked quietly, “Is my little James Bond having a good time?” as she took his hand and rubbed his fingers in a very suggestive way.

  “Yes,” he said, forgetting his Irish brogue, “he’s having a very good time!” He had learned that she was a divorcee from Yonkers, New York State, but also had an apartment in Manhattan. Her poor ex-husband had borne the expensive brunt of the divorce through his philandering.

  “Good,” she said, “let’s hope it gets even better!” she laughed and winked. He thought, was this woman a re-incarnation of Helen Smithson, returned to haunt him?

  Three large casinos, quite a choice, four night clubs and bars, amazing he thought. “What deck are you on?” Jon asked.

  “I’m one below the promenade deck,” she replied, “nice and quiet.”

  Good, Jon thought, not too far to drop. The devil was rising within him and he couldn’t help it, diamonds had a very evil effect on him. They sauntered through the atrium and through the shopping mall, still buzzing with shoppers, and walked into one of the night clubs. The ‘Ionian Nights’ was super luxury, lovely waitresses wearing very short skirts and skimpy tops, thighs and tits abundant he thought, and laughed inwardly. “Okay, handsome Irishman,” she said, “I want you to help me boogaloo until I can booga no more,” she laughed. She was amazingly attractive, a cross between Doris Day and Grace Kelly with the figure to match, almost as tall as Jon, in heels, gorgeous he thought, and was very happy for her to be on his arm. Heads turned as they took a table in the corner, as far away as possible from the gyrating bodies. Above the loud music, Jon ordered a champagne cocktail, “No, no,” she cried, “a bottle of the best French champagne,” she insisted with a wicked smile. Tonight she was wearing the necklace, the bracelet, the watch plus the ring, the very expensive beautiful sapphire ring, and another single diamond, about 4 carats. Her dollar tally had gone up to about $200,000 plus any cash she may have. He thought, the devil’s ride was gaining momentum! There was quite a long time to go, but he had perfected a plan in his mind. He would wait until the last port of call before doing the evil deed and be off the ship and away before she was missed. He wasn’t too bothered about being seen with her because he had now counted 110 tall blond men on board, and whenever he spotted CCTV he was either we
aring his fedora or he covered his face with his hand as if he was coughing. He thought of his hat, but he had seen a lot of them on the ship.

  “Okay honey,” Liz said, “let’s make some moves James Bond baby, my booga needs some looing!” she laughed after at least two flutes of Dom Perignon. She stood, took his hand and pulled him on to the dance floor. At one o’clock Liz fell on to the seat at their table, “That’s it,” she said, “I’m bushed. More champagne!” she said, and poured the last two glasses that were left in the bottle. A waitress came, bending over to clear the table, she smiled at Jon and displayed the most beautiful pair of bosoms. Jon smiled and passed her 10 euros, Liz grabbed the bill for the champagne and signed it, “My turn to pay,” she said.

  “Do you gamble?” Jon asked Liz.

  “No, not really, but I seem to be lucky at roulette,” she replied, “my ex showed me how to go red black and double your bet each time. It certainly worked in Monte Carlo, but that may have been just beginner’s luck. We won $10,000, he kept it of course!” she replied, and laughed, “but I got it back with interest,” she added and this time laughed uncontrollably. This was all music to Jon’s ears, cash would also be very desirable, but his eye was on her very expensive jewellery. They went into the large casino on what was called the ‘pleasure deck’. Two casinos to choose from but the big one seemed busier, with Americans and Russians placing large bets. Fuck me, he thought, just look at that lot, he saw the most amazing diamond collection on a huge woman sitting on the other side of the table. The diamond necklace with a huge emerald resting between her enormous cleavage, plus three or four diamond rings, a diamond bracelet and a square, diamond encrusted, Cartier watch. She must have been 18 stone, and 70 years old, but to Jon she was the most desirable woman in the room! The black mist started to descend as he ogled the gems, he would murder Liz and the fat lady, or just rob the obese one. Plenty of time to reach a decision, romancing the second female would be out of the question. She must have been wearing half a million quids worth, and the way they caught the light told him that they were the ‘Real McCoy’. He smiled at her, she ignored him and just tidied and counted her huge pile of high-value chips, at least 20,000 euros he mentally calculated. Diamonds and cash, he started to salivate, the evil one was working inside him.