Waves of Murder (33 page)

“Good,” Hannah said, “cos I’m not moving from here!” and laughrd.

“Well, you’d better be a good girl during the night,” Keiron said, smiling a wicked smile.

“Oh, I’ll be marvellous,” she answered. They slept until 7 am and Hannah was in the mood ‘for a little of what she fancied’ as she put it, “And this is where I stop being a good girl!” she giggled, and put her hand down between Keiron’s legs. They made love again, then collapsed across the bed. They showered together and ordered breakfast from room service. “Wow, look at the time,” she said, “I must go to work, can we call a cab, please. Shall we meet for dinner tomorrow night? I’ve got some late work to do tonight.”

“Yes,” Keiron said, “but this time we’ll go to a restaurant.”

“Yes, I know a good Chinese in the Lanes.” They kissed goodbye as she said, “I’ll call you tomorrow at 6 ish.” The cab pulled away as she waved from the window, Keiron looked out to sea from the hotel steps, the ocean, he thought, my friend the sea, I may need you again very soon, very soon indeed.

“Put on all your glad rags, honey,” he said to Hannah over the phone the next day, “there’s a summer ball at the hotel tonight, I’ll have to hire a DJ etc., but we will look fantastic, I’ve got tickets.”

“Fabulous,” she said, “I will look like a million dollars!”

$200 will do, he thought with a wicked smile, “Grab a cab and get here at about 7 o’clock.” He hired a white DJ with all the accessories from a good store in the town centre.

Heads turned as they walked arm-in-arm into the special banqueting suite of the hotel, a string quartet played near the entrance as Keiron handed the tickets to the doorman. The six course dinner was very good and Keiron ordered a bottle of Bollinger, the best that was available. He had declined the table that they were shown to and asked for a table for two near the dance floor, the waiter had said ‘no’ until he received £20 in his hand and then his attitude suddenly changed with a smile and a ‘thank you, sir’. He ran off to move tables and chairs to make room for a table for two. They received the best of service, perhaps the waiter expected another £20, but he didn’t get it. They danced fast ones, medium ones and smoochy ones, the band was terrific, with the female singer smiling at Keiron a lot of the time.

Hannah noticed, and said, “Silly tart, can’t she see you’re with the best looking woman in the room!” Keiron laughed, and the most be-jewelled, he thought. Once again the black mist started to fall, the deed will be tonight, but how? he wondered. Could he take her for a walk along the beach, it was a warm balmy night and they could kick off their shoes and go for a paddle, and then WHAM!

At 1am the venue started to empty as weary revellers left to go home, he suggested a walk along the shore, “Okay,” she said, “is there any sand?” They found that the tide was out a long way and they walked barefoot on the soft sand that felt fantastic between their toes. It had become pitch black, there was only the start of a new moon. They walked to the ruined pier, and as they did Keiron put on a pair of latex gloves and manoeuvred Hannah towards some shingle then pushed her to the stones and put his hands around her throat pressing with all his strength on her windpipe, which was soon crushed. Her arms and legs thrashed about for a few minutes, then stopped, she was dead. He dragged her body to an up-turned rowing/fishing boat and in it’s shadow removed her diamonds, then lifting the boat, he rolled her body under it and let it entomb her. Putting his shoes and socks on and brushing himself down, he walked westward, away from the boat and up the steps to the main promenade. A drunk man asked him for some change, he ignored him. “Tosser,” the man said loudly. But Keiron didn’t want any confrontation and therefore recognition. He crossed the road and then turned towards his hotel, he walked through reception and went up to his room and started to pack. He would leave at 6 am, get a taxi to Gatwick and then back to Tunis.

He booked a cab for 5.45am and had an alarm call for 5am and was ready at reception, on time, paid his bill and waited at the front door. Suddenly he thought about the DJ kit which was in his luggage, oh well nothing I can do about it now, anyway it would have his DNA, perhaps a happy mistake! At Gatwick he checked in at BA and the Air Tunisia desks for the first flight out. BA had one going at 11.30am, that’ll do nicely, he thought as he walked to the sales desk. He paid for his ticket and received his boarding card and then went straight through to air-side, keeping his head down away from the CCTV cameras. He wandered around the shops, still keeping his head down. His flight number came up on the screen ‘boarding gate 25’, he walked slowly with his head down, reading a newspaper and sat in the waiting area, still reading. He had spread the jewellery around, the necklace wrapped in a handkerchief in his large suitcase, he wore the rings on his little finger with the stones turned inwards and the bracelet and watch were wrapped in clothes in his smaller case. His luggage went through without a hitch and so did he. He had passed a shop window in the air-side shopping area and he saw, in the condensation, the words ‘I’m here’, his blood ran cold and the inner heat built up. He sat with his head down, being a scheduled flight and a first class ticket holder, he turned left at the plane’s doorway.

Tunis

T
unis customs were very relaxed, in fact the x-ray machines were switched off and the two officials were standing just chatting and smoking as they waved passengers through to the luggage carousel area. He collected his cases and went outside to get a taxi, at the hotel he paid for a further week in the same double room. They were glad to see him back and afforded him the graciousness a regular customer would expect, in fact in his absence the room had been decorated and the furniture renewed even two shirts and a pair of slacks had been laundered and were hanging in the wardrobe with his freshly valeted dinner suit, of which he now had two! He unpacked and wrapped the gems in the red handkerchief and put them in a large envelope and took it down to the hotel’s safe, but padded it with newspaper to disguise the feel of jewellery.

Brighton

H
annah’s brother Monty reported her missing 24 hours after her failure to arrive at the factory. She had never missed a day without calling him first, whether sick or any other reason. The police learned that she had been seen at the dinner and ball after a taxi driver saw her face in the local paper and told them that he had taken her there at about 7pm the night before last. Police searchers covered the beach and a young WPC suddenly shouted in horror, “Over here.” As she and two PC’s lifted the boat Hannah lay there staring skyward, with dark bruises on her throat. She was taken to the mortuary where the pathologist began his examination.

“Straight forward strangling,” he said to Detective Inspector Wickes of Sussex police.

“Yes,” he said, “are those scratches on her neck, as well as the bruises?”

“It looks like a chain or necklace has been removed in a hurry.”

“Thank you,” DI Wickes said, “I’ll go to the Grand and ask who, if anyone, she was with.”

They found the name of the waiter that had attended them, “He’s not on duty until 6pm.”

“Get him here now, this is a murder enquiry,” Wickes demanded.

“He’ll be a while, he lives in Worthing.”

“I’ll wait,” he said. David Markham looked very worried and flustered when he met DI Wickes. “Right,” Wickes said as they sat in the conservatory, “what did her companion look like?”

“Tall, very smart, suave, you know, Rolex watch, suntan, good looking and spoke with a slight Irish accent,” he said.

“Irish eh, that’s interesting. How was the lady dressed?” he asked.

“Oh, she was lovely, beautiful jewellery, and lots of it. He was a good tipper, I got the impression he was some sort of gigolo, we get them here all the time.”

“I would like you to come to the police station to do a photofit comparison, okay?”

“Yes, of course,” David said, “I’ll clear it with the boss.”

“That’s all right, you’ll be back by six.”

At the police station, the photofit technician made an almost perfect face of Jonathan Weston, but they didn’t know that, and DI Wickes took a copy of the photofit with the intention of putting it on websites all over the world, for him to be caught. He hoped it would be soon, airports and ports were checked but to no avail, Wickes thought, and hoped that he was still in the country, but Jon Weston was at least a thousand miles away. Once again Satan had helped him to disappear.

Now he wanted to sell the diamonds, but he would have to go to another country in North Africa, Algeria perhaps, just a short flight from Tunis, he could be there and back in one day. With just a small brief case he went to the travel agent and booked a flight to Algiers. Two hours was the flight time across the Med, to avoid landing air traffic overland. He had in mind that he would have no trouble selling the gems and hoped there was a ‘diamond quarter’, they paid the best prices because they recognised quality diamonds. He went through customs with the usual lackadaisical attitude of the officers. They were just looking for guns and other armaments, and drugs. Outside the airport he found a cab and said, as it was their second language, in French, “Place de diamond, si’l vous plait.” This area was small, with a square with a Moorish tiled fountain in the centre. In one corner he saw just what he was looking for, a large double fronted shop with signs in Arabic, French and English. He pressed the security buzzer which opened the door almost immediately, a grey haired bearded man stood behind a thick glass partition with a microphone on each side. “Do you speak English?” Keiron asked.

“Yes, we cater for all nationalities.”

“I have some diamonds to sell that belonged to my mother.”

“Why have you come to Algiers to sell them?” the dealer asked.

“I’m here on holiday and didn’t want to leave them in my London flat for safety reasons.”

“May I see them?” the man said. Keiron took the envelope from his pocket and passed it through the opening in the glass. “I’ll have to check them on the world list computer,” he said, “I’ll be ten minutes.” He returned from the rear office and pushed the rings and the bracelet back through the partition, “I’m sorry,” he said, “but these pieces are zircons, but I’ll offer you 60,000 euros for the necklace and the watch and that is a very good price as there is a stone missing from the watch band,” he pointed to the gap where the stone had been. Keiron sat down in a customer’s chair, fucking fakes he thought, fucking fakes! “I’ll give you 200 euros for the metal content of the rings and the bracelet,” the man added.

Keiron thought, 60 grand is 60 grand, he stood and said, “Okay, I’ll accept your offer.” The dealer pushed the obligatory form through the glass, he filled it in with some lies and just one or two truths. He came out of the shop angrily thinking that he had killed a beautiful woman for just 60,000 euros. He suddenly stopped, he had just fallen for the oldest trick in the jewellery dealer’s book. He went back to the shop, pressed the buzzer and was let in , “Hello again, as you have only bought the metal of the rings could I have the fake stones?” he asked.

“No, Mr Weston you cannot. Now, if you don’t leave my shop I will call the police, your face has been on satellite TV for two days, so I suggest you go quickly,” the dealer threatened.

He left the shop smarting from the thought that he had just been had, still, he thought, I was lucky to get the 60,000 euros, he could have kept the lot and called the police. New problems were upon him now, fucking satellite TV was showing him around the Middle East. Where can I go now? South Africa, South America? Is my picture all over the world? Inwardly he started to panic, back at the hotel he walked in with his hat on and his head down. Up in his room he dyed his hair blond once more, and laid on the bed to contemplate his future. Plastic surgery might be an option but a lengthy process and very expensive if the surgeon recognised him. He took a tepid shower to get rid of the sweat of the day, even though the water was barely warm the mirror had steamed up, in the steam just two letters appeared ‘UK’. Of course, he thought, that’s the last place they’ll look for me!

New Rochelle (New York State)

“C
hief Inspector Lloyd of Scotland Yard.”

“Mel,” shouted the lady phone operator at the sheriff’s office, “he wants to talk to you.”

“Jon Weston is still alive,” came the message on the phone, “ he’s been seen in Tunisia and Algiers.”

“WHAT?” said Mel, “have these sightings been confirmed?” he asked.

“Yes, and we think he may have killed a woman here down on the south coast, in Brighton. We’ve got him on CCTV at the Grand Hotel and at Gatwick boarding a flight for Tunis,” he reported.

“Well I’ll be,” Mel said, “this guy would survive a nuclear holocaust, so who did the Russians kill?” he asked.

“Some poor tourist that looked like him,” he replied, “they do that sort of thing to save face and put it out on the internet for all to see, he died a terrible death.”

“Yeah, I know, I saw the DVD,” Mel said, “what can we do about it?”

“Nothing at the moment, unless he comes to England.”

“Okay, Chief Inspector,” Mel said, “thanks for the call.” The phone went dead.

London

“I
want airports and ports covered 24/7,” he told his 2nd in command, “we’re going to get this murdering bastard, we’ve been trying for two years,” he stated.