by J B Raphael
“My name is Keiron Pearce, my passport is in my jacket pocket.” His pockets were emptied, the passport was found and sent down to forensics for verification as to it’s authenticity.
In the interview room Jon protested his innocence in his Irish accent, Wickes banged the desk and said, “You’re about as Irish as I am, you’re Jonathan Andrew Weston from Camden Town, London, and when the report on your passport comes back perhaps we’ll get to the truth,” he said. “We’ve got you on CCTV at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, arm-in-arm with Hannah Golding.”
“That proves nothing,” Jon said.
“We’ll see about that as soon as the report comes back, we’ll take a step in the right direction.” The passport report was decisive, “Well,” the DI said, “ it appears that the number of the passport belongs to Kevin O’Leary of Waterford, who unfortunately died two years ago, what do you say to that eh? Jon Weston of London?” Jon buried his head in his hands. “Oh, there is a lot more evidence we are going to show you, you will probably appear in front of the magistrates in the morning.”
Bow Street Magistrates Court
“Jonathan Andrew Weston, you are charged that you did unlawfully kill Hannah Riva Golding on the 20th of July this year 2012, how do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”
“I am Keiron Pearce of Dublin and I plead NOT FUCKING GUILTY,” he reverted to his Irish accent.
The magistrate opposed bail, “Take the prisoner into remand,” he said. He was taken down to remain on remand until his trial at the central criminal court, the Old Bailey.
St Petersburg
Vasili’s phone rang, “Hello,” he said.
“They’ve caught Jonathan Weston in England, the real one with an Irish passport, he came in on a flight to Gatwick from Tunisia,” Mikhail said, “that’s all Georki knew, he’s a good agent.”
“I’ll send him a reward,” Vasili said, and put down the phone.
Two men were sent to London, they took up residence in a flat owned by Vasili, in Kensington Gardens. Peter, the older one, was an expert marksman and assassin, his father had been one of Stalin’s heroes and had taught him everything he knew about poison darts, firearms, bombs etc. If anyone could get to Jonathan Weston, he could. He spoke four languages including perfect English. Every day they went to the Old Bailey disguised as paparazzi with long lens cameras, every morning the accused would arrive in a white dark windowed prison van. Cameras flashed through the little blackened windows hoping to get a shot of the serial killer, as it was alleged in all the daily’s and red-tops. Peter thought that a bomb would be the answer, as they went over a piece of road en route, BANG! Peter chose the corner just before the van turned in to the entrance. At two in the morning he put up an emergency board in the middle of the street with the warning ‘Gas leak - no smoking or naked lights’. He and his colleague dug up the cobble stones and dug to a depth of 18 inches, they then laid 4 kilos of semtex, very high explosive. When buried, the power became as much as 50lbs of gelignite, the van and everybody in it would be blown to pieces. The bomb would be activated by remote control, with a mobile phone, all he had to do was press the ‘call’ button. A beat constable suddenly appeared, saying, “Gas problems?”
“Yes, officer, but we’ve managed to solve the problem, thanks for your concern,” Peter said. The policeman walked on at a slow pace. They packed all the equipment into their little van and sped off, they would be back in the morning.
At 6am a Swedish tourist made a phone call to Stockholm, as he pressed his ‘call’ button in a nearby tourist hotel there was an enormous explosion just down the street from the Old Bailey. At first it was thought to be a gas main, the patrolling PC had reported workmen at this location to his desk sergeant as he went off duty. The police checked with the gas authority who said that no such work had been authorised. A red alert was called ‘Terrorists’. The devastation in the close-built area was huge, not a window within a quarter of a square mile survived. The ‘Pen and Wig’ pub/restaurant close to the courts was badly damaged, even the doors were blown off. The fire brigade and police were there in 6 minutes, there was only one casualty, a cleaner on his way to work, but his injuries were superfluous, just cuts and bruises, he was very lucky and only spent one day in hospital. The Old Bailey was put on terrorist alert, the whole area was cordoned off to the public and traffic, news cameras and even a TV news helicopter hovered above the scene.
Jon Weston was kept in his cell, he asked the warder the time, who said, “Don’t know.” Jon’s Rolex had been retained as possible evidence. Hot water, for a wash and shave he thought. The single sealed razor was in the prisoner’s special pack, the blade, if tampered with, would disintegrate (for possible suicides). He had to wait for the water to flow, it wasn’t switched on until 6am, but at least he knew now what time it was. As the small mirror steamed up after running the hot water, the words ‘OUT SOON’ appeared on the glass.
The Old Bailey - The Trial December 15Th 2012
“Prisoner at the bar,” the Clerk of the Court said, “ are you Jonathan Andrew Weston, also known as Keiron Robert Pearce, residing at 12D Albert Street, Camden Town, London?”
“No, I am Keiron Robert Pearce of 90, McCoyle Road, Dublin,” he lied.
The Clerk referred to the Judge who called the prosecution QC to the bench and was told about the false passport and fake identity. “Prisoner at the bar, you will be tried for murder in the name of Jonathan Andrew Weston, the jury will adhere to that ruling,” the Judge said.
“I AM KEIRON PEARCE!” came the shout.
“The accused will remain silent or be taken down to the cells and be tried in his absence,” said His Lordship.
“Is he going for some sort of insanity plea?” asked the prosecutor’s colleague.
“I hope so, the trial could go on for weeks while his sanity is verified, or not,” he answered with a knowing smile. Jon remained quiet sitting behind the thick glazed dock between two policemen, and handcuffed to one.
“You are charged that on the 20th of July of this year, 2012, you did unlawfully kill by strangulation Ms Hannah Goldring. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?” the Clerk said.
“Not guilty,” came the reply.
The prosecution QC stood to address the jury, “Members of the jury, I will introduce you to a man that has covered two oceans with horrible crimes of pre-meditated murder. He has killed four women on the high seas for their jewellery, callously throwing their bodies overboard after seducing them and stealing their diamonds,” he said. “But here today, we are only concerned with the murder of Hannah Riva Golding, who was strangled on Brighton beach on the 20th of July of this year, 2012, and her body callously put beneath an upturned fishing boat. He was then caught on CCTV boarding a flight the next day, to Tunisia. He subsequently returned on the 22nd of July when he was arrested and taken into custody. A trail of vicious killings will be unfurled during this trial.”
“Objection m’lord,” said the defence barrister, “the accused is only on trial in the case of Hannah Riva Goldring, and no other.”
“Objection sustained,” his Lordship said.
“Thank you m’lud,” came the reply from the defence barrister.
“Why did Jonathan Weston change his appearance by dying his hair and growing facial hair, why did he buy a fake passport in the name of Keiron Robert Pearce, and where did he amass $580,000 and 300,000 euros in cash? Only from the sale of ill-gotten gains. These amounts of money were found in his luggage together with about £50,000 worth of jewellery that he has yet been unable to sell. So, members of the jury, I can only ask you to return a verdict of guilty. The prosecution will show how the accused befriended and seduced Hannah Golding on a cruise holiday in the Mediterranean. He then followed her to Brighton two weeks after their liaison on the ‘Afrique Queen’ cruise ship and booked into the ‘Grand Hotel’ in Brighton. There is CCTV evidence and booking paperwork to substantiate this. He then accompanied her to a ‘Grand Ball’ on the 20th of July, aft
er which he took her to the beach opposite the hotel and did strangle her until she was dead. He then robbed her of her jewellery and hid her body under an up-turned rowing/fishing boat that was conveniently on the beach. The next morning he took a taxi to Gatwick airport and flew back to Tunis with her diamonds. For some reason he decided, after three days, to return to England, possibly to sell te gems. He was arrested upon returning to Gatwick, on suspicion of the crime. There is CCTV evidence of him escorting his victim to the ball, and a waiter’s testimony that they spent the evening together, and left the venue at 1.15am, leaving the hotel arm-in-arm. Thirty six hours later her body, minus her jewellery, was found under a fishing boat. Meanwhile, the accused went to Gatwick early in the morning by taxi and boarded a flight for Tunisia, arriving some three and a half hours later. As previously stated, he returned to England and was then taken into custody, it can only be surmised that he came back to England to turn his ill-gottten gains into cash. I now call David Markham.” The waiter from the hotel entered the witness box and was sworn in. “Are you David Markham of 27, Richmond Road, Worthing, West Sussex?” the lawyer asked.
“Yes,” replied Markham.
“Do you recognise the prisoner at the bar?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“When did you last see him?” he asked.
“At the Grand dinner and ball, on the 20th of July.”
“Who was he with?” he was asked.
“He was with a very attractive dark haired lady who wore lots of diamonds on her neck and on her hands.”
“At this juncture m’lud I will state that no such jewellery was found on Hannah Goldring’s body,” the QC said.
“Carry on Mr Marks.”
“Yes, m’lud,” came the reply.
The trial lasted 3 days, no other victims of Jon Weston’s were brought into question, although there was an investigation as to the cash that was found in his luggage. On the last day of the trial, Jon Weston stood in the dock as the jury were recalled. The Clerk of the Court stood and addressed the foreman, “Members of the jury, have you reached a decision?”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of murder, and is it a majority verdict?”
“It is, sir,” he said.
“And the verdict is?” the Clerk asked.
“Guilty,” he answered. There was a strange silence in the court as the verdict was announced, it lasted until the Judge stated that the prisoner would be sentenced on January the 10th, 2013. He was taken down to a holding cell to await transport back to Belmarsh remand wing. The van arrived, and in handcuffs and with a head covering, he was led to the van just a few feet away. The van pulled out into the main street, travelled 20 metres when there was an enormous explosion directly below the van. For the second time in one year the Russians had tried their vengeance, the van was blown to pieces with the police motor cyclists and the squad car escorts killed. The van driver and his mate’s bodies were spread all over the area, but out of the wreckage walked Jon Weston. He started running and running and running, even his handcuffs had gone. He ran up small streets, along main roads, until his lungs were almost bursting. He came to a small side street and parked there was the old VW Golf, he looked inside, the keys were in the ignition just as he had left it all that time ago. He jumped in and drove off, the fuel gauge registered ‘full’, he drove into the countryside and turned into a wooded area and stopped. His breathing had calmed down. Opening the boot of the VW there still was his suitcase, but on top was a red envelope. He opened it to find a Saudi Arabian passport in the name of Suliman Mouhammed Hussain, but the photograph was not Jon Weston, that is until he caught his reflection in the rear window! He now had dark skin and thick black hair and a moustache, exactly like the photo in the passport. He opened the suitcase, it contained three new, high quality suits, six very good shirts, underwear, silk socks and three pairs of good hand-made shoes, toiletries etc., plus all of his cash and a small piece of red paper with the word ‘MORE’ written on it. He started the car and logged in Heathrow airport on the sat nav, it would take about an hour to get there. He kept glancing at himself in the rear view mirror. About one mile into the journey he suddenly realised that he was no longer driving the VW Golf, it was now his beloved Mercedes SLS. The heat overtook his body as he sped along the M4 to the airport, his transformation was now complete. He said goodbye to Jonathan Weston and Keiron Pearce, but he thought that they had served him well and he had enjoyed them, after all they had made him a fortune, and with his new persona he could continue. Perhaps he would now dance to his master’s tune in Dubai, lots of wealthy gorgeous women there, and his new passport could now take him anywhere in the world to ply his trade. Standing at the desk of Saudi Arabian Airways, he heard the stewardess speak in Arabic and he understood every word and when he faced her to buy a ticket to Dubai, he spoke the language perfectly.
How wrong he was, the women in Dubai were mostly covered in religious black garb. He booked in to the ‘Burj-al-.Arab Hotel’, it seemed to be the most luxurious hotel he had ever seen. His luggage was taken to his single suite, which was a double de-luxe in Europe. Being on the 20th floor he could even see the Royal Palace about a mile away, it was a magnificent edifice with minarets rising majestically above the rest of the city. He unpacked, showered and decided to go down to the reception area just to look around. He asked the girl at the tourist desk if the hotel had a bar, “Tourists only,” she said with a beautiful smile. He went back up to his suite and found his passport, ‘damn’ he said loudly, ‘it’s a Saudi passport.’ Well, there might be another way around this, he said to himself. He rang for room service, it took just 2 minutes before there was a knock on the door. He said, enter, in Arabic. The boy came in and bowed. “Does this suite have a mini bar?” he asked, holding up a $50 bill. The waiter took a key from his pocket and walked over to a panel in the wall, he inserted the key and pulled out a fixture of shelves containing a host of spirits, bottled beers, wines and champagnes. The bottom shelf held glasses and an ice box.
He gave the money to the boy, who then gave him the key and an envelope containing another key, “Your car has been delivered, sir,” he said.
“My car?”
“Yes sir, it is in the basement garage.” The boy then bowed and left.
Jon poured himself a very large single malt whiskey and almost downed it in one. He then went down to the basement garage, so many super cars, the best marques in the world, Bugatti, McLaren, Ferrari, Maseratti, Rolls Royce, Bentley, Lamborghini, he pressed the tiny button on the ignition key so that he could see the flash of his immobiliser light. There it was, way down on the right hand side, he almost ran to it. He got in and then realised it had suddenly become a left-hand drive car. On the seat was a red envelope, he opened it, it was a name, Baroness Nina Mescotti. Who was Baroness Nina Mescotti, he thought. Only one way to find out, he said to himself. He went to reception and said to the young girl “I’m meeting Baroness Mescotti, has she arrived yet?”
“No, she is due in at 7pm,” she replied.
“The thing is, the meeting was arranged over the phone,” he confessed, “and I don’t know what she looks like.”
“Oh, you can’t miss her, she arrives with an entourage of at least six aides and a mountain of luggage, just be here at 7pm and you will meet her. She is a very, very beautiful and rich woman. They say that two of her entourage are millionaire ex husbands.”
At exactly 7 o’clock a Rolls Royce limousine pulled up at the front of the hotel, followed by an estate car. Porters started to unload both the boot of the Rolls and the estate car, cases, trunks and hanging dress covers. A chair was put about 6ft from the reception desk, and the Baroness made her grand entrance. Looking straight ahead, not looking left or right, she sat down on the chair provided, while her entourage saw to everything. She was beautiful, probably the most beautiful woman Suliman (Jon) had ever seen, a goddess. Obviously of Mediterranean descent, Italian per
haps. He sat to the left of the reception desk with a newspaper. He especially wore one of the new silk Armani suits, cream with a burgundy silk shirt and brown lattice shoes, but no socks as was the Muslim way. She started to look around while waiting for the booking of the whole second floor to be completed. Her eyes stopped for a few seconds on him, he smiled and went back to his newspaper. The Baroness and her followers disappeared, he continued to sit, just thinking and people-watching, when suddenly a middle-aged well dressed man came over to him and said, “ Baroness Mescotti would like to invite you to her drinks party in her suites on the second floor, at eight. Shall I tell her that you will be there?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jon replied, “it will be my pleasure. The man bowed, took one step back and then walked to the lift.
At 8.05pm he pressed the lift button to the second floor, he had changed into a black suit and white silk shirt, the lift door opened and standing there was the man who had invited him. He smiled and ushered Jon into the main suite, she was sitting on a purple velvet chair. When the Baroness saw Jon she stood and walked towards him holding out her hand, “Welcome,” she said, “how nice of you to accept my invitation at such short notice,” she said with the most fascinating smile.
“It’s my privileged pleasure,” he said as he kissed her hand very lightly. As they spoke, more guests were arriving, and a waiter started to mingle with a tray of champagne. Jon had done his best to keep his eyes off of her fabulous necklace, it was the finest he had ever seen, large diamonds and rubies set in platinum, he was completely enthralled. He didn’t even notice the rings and the bracelets, they were all magnificent, about $2 million worth. Her dress of purple and white silk was a beautiful cover to her very gorgeous body, although she wouldn’t see 40 again, she was very beautiful, and he wanted her and her jewellery. Finally there were about 20 guests, mainly middle-aged, but obviously wealthy people, one or two young ones made up the number but they left at about nine, leaving the older ones to finish the canapes and chrystal champagne. Jon just sat watching and the Baroness was watching him. She came over and sat next to him, she asked “What is your name?”
