by Sewell, Ron
Petros felt the bullet roar past his head. “What the fuck.”
“Self-defence. He fired first and missed, you didn’t.” Amadou wiped the weapon clean and inserted it in Giovanni’s dead hand.
“I can live with that.” Petros set the radio to channel sixteen. “Predator this is Tuna Turner. Job done. Time to go home.” At the rear of the bridge, he watched as Predator’s navigation lights came on and the curving wake trailing astern as she dashed for the Marsamxett harbour.
He put down the microphone. “Unfortunately, the police must be involved.”
Tommaso looked at the two men as if unsure what to say. “Piracy is a crime and you three acted in self-defence. I saw this one,” he pointed to the bloody corpse, “raise his weapon and fire. One moment’s hesitation and you’d be dead and he did shoot Marco.”
Petros held up his right hand. “I get the message but thankfully we do have two legal beagles on the Predator.”
“Coffee,” said ZZ, balancing a tray. “We have a corpse in the galley and two men tied to the heavy steel oven.”
Petros grabbed two cups and handed one to Tommaso. “How long before we’re alongside?”
“An hour at most.”
The radio operated. “Tuna Turner – Channel One.”
Petros set channel one on the radio. “Unknown caller – This is Tuna Turner – out.”
“James here. When you arrive, there will be a police superintendant Hawksworth and his team waiting on the jetty. I’ve briefed him on the situation but he has to inspect the crime scene and take statements.”
“Hawksworth is rather English,” said Petros.
“I understand his father was a sailor and married a local girl.”
“No problem, James. Thanks. Speak later. Out.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Late in the evening, the Tuna Turner came alongside the same berth in the marina she had left hours before. On the jetty, Alfredo and Simone stood in front of a police car. An ambulance, its siren wailing arrived seconds later.
Petros, with Tommaso, watched from the bridge as an overweight man in his late thirties, black hair brushed back from his forehead, and with the face of experience, stepped out of the police car. He gave orders to two police officers to block the gangway.
Petros raised both eyebrows. “Must be the superintendant. He’s certainly efficient. I’ll go and meet him.”
Once the gangway was secured, the superintendant strolled across.
“Superintendant Hawksworth.” Petros held out his hand.
Hawksworth ignored the gesture. “I need a room where I can interview and take statements from everyone on board. You have a casualty who may leave after being questioned.” He pointed to the ambulance team and said, “Go and give emergency treatment.”
The two men carrying a stretcher nodded and scurried across the gangway. “Where is the casualty?” one asked.
Petros’ gaze shifted to the men. “I’ll take you. Mind your feet on the ropes and wires.” In a line, they walked to the crew’s mess where Marco rested.
One of the medics removed the dressing, inspected the wound and applied a fresh dressing.
“Three heads turned when Hawksworth entered.
He pointed. “Your name?”
“Marco Russo.”
“Who shot you?”
“Don’t know his name.”
Petros butted in. “His body is on the bridge, where I shot him.”
Hawksworth, with a troubled look in his eyes, nodded as he glanced around the room. “I’ll question you in a minute. You may remove the casualty.”
With a bit of help, Marco stood and assisted by one medic walked out. The other followed with the stretcher.
Hawksworth allowed himself a faint smile as he sat at the mess table and waited.
One of his officers entered. “Two dead and two suffering from head injuries. The crew are lined up outside.” The sergeant, with a serious but intelligent face, removed a folder and a miniature recorder from his case and sat in the chair next to his boss.
“Recording a conversation concentrates the mind, Mr Kyriades,” said Hawksworth. “You may sit if you wish. In your own words, explain the part you played in the repossession of this craft. I will stop you to ask questions as appropriate.”
Petros began from the time he and the others met for dinner and finished with his shooting Giovanni.
“Did you aim to kill this man?”
He shook his head slowly. “He did, I didn’t. If I hadn’t fired, I’d be dead. Ask Tommaso, he was there.”
“Thank you, Mr Kyriades. And I will ask. Please send the next man in and remain on board as I may wish to question you again.”
Tommaso strolled into the mess as if he had all the time in the world and sat facing the two men. Hawksworth lifted a sheet of paper as if to read it but signed the bottom. He repeated the same opening statement to Tommaso, leant back in his chair and listened. “Why do you think Mr Kyriades shot the intruder?”
“Because the bastard fired at him. What would you have done, asked him to hand over his gun? The pig shot Marco and would have killed him. He threatened to shoot me just for fun.”
Hawksworth smiled. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“If he hadn’t you’d be carrying another body off on a stretcher. Self-defence is the way I see it.”
Hawksworth nodded thoughtfully as his eyes scanned the statement taken by his assistant. “Your comments are noted. Please send the next man in and wait outside.”
Alfredo stormed into the mess and screamed. “Why haven’t you arrested those men who stole my ship?”
Hawksworth folded his arms. “And you are?”
Alfredo fixed him with a stare. “Captain Alfredo Abruzzi and owner of this vessel”
Hawksworth unfolded his arms. “Please sit. Captain. I need a statement from you and your part in the recovery of your vessel. Two men are dead and I’m sure you understand it’s my job to investigate the circumstances in which they died. Would you not agree?”
After three hours had passed, Hawksworth’s the sergeant came out of the mess “The Superintendant asks that you attend his summing up of this affair before he leaves.”
Hawksworth shut his file and pushed it to one side, stood, stretched his legs and back. He turned to the waiting men. There was a moment’s silence as his hand rested on the file. “I have statements from everyone involved except the cook, Marco, two lawyers, James Eden, Allan Vella, and an Adrian Sullivan, plus the two surviving hijackers.” He paused for a moment. “When I have those statements I’ll have completed the evidential stage of my enquiries. My team will scrutinise and produce an event schematic for our National Crown Prosecutor to analyse. A decision as to a realistic prospect of conviction will result. The hijackers will relax in our prison. You, Mr Kyriades, are to remain in Malta until a conclusion is reached as to the killing of Giovanni Silvio.”
Petros angled his head. “No problem. I wasn’t going anywhere.”
Hawksworth fixed him with a stare. “And I’ll take your passport.”
“Bit difficult - it’s in my hotel room.”
“Mr Kyriades, I’ll have an officer waiting at reception when you return to your hotel.” Their eye contact was enough to say everything.
With his sergeant trailing two steps behind, Hawksworth left the mess and the ship.
***
James Eden and Allan Vella sipped their drinks while they waited in the bar of the Silver Sand Hotel.
James peered over his glass. “Our mutual friend has arrived along with a uniformed police sergeant.”
“Hawksworth will have demanded his passport. Wait here.” Allan, still in his boating kit, sauntered across. “Sergeant, why are you with my client?”
“Orders from Superintendant Hawksworth. I have to take this man’s passport.”
“Really and you have the necessary paperwork?”
“I’m obeying orders.”
“I suggest you retu
rn to your station and come back with the appropriate paperwork. In the meantime, I’ll vouch for and hold my client’s passport. You can collect it from my office tomorrow morning. Goodnight.”
Petros was sure the man flinched.
The sergeant, his face-hardened, thought for a few moments. “I will inform the Superintendant.” He turned and strolled out of the hotel.
“Can you do that?” asked Petros.
“No,” he grinned. “You have accomplished tonight what most men would have walked away from. The superintendant might agree self-defence but knows it’s not his decision. In the morning, I’ll talk to the Crown Prosecutor’s office. They decide whether prosecution is needed in the public interest. I will suggest another course of action to follow.”
“Petros shrugged. “I couldn’t have done anything without the use of your boat.”
“One thing bothered me. Would you have bought me a new boat if you had trashed Predator?”
“Yes and no. If I was alive to tell the tale, yes, but if the operation had gone pear shaped, no.”
Allan laughed. “All well that ends well. You must be knackered.” He checked the time. “Any problems with the law give me a ring.”
“No doubt I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks again. Drive carefully.”
Allan shook his head. “This is Malta, he who sounds his horn first is in the right.”
“Great legal judgement.” He waited until Allan exited the building before strolling across to James. “I’m off to bed. Appreciate your help. See you in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Petros sat in the breakfast room with Amadou and ZZ. “You’re here early. What’s so urgent?”
“The job’s finished and ZZ’s girlfriend high-tailed it last night. I could be home with my wife.”
“I agree. I’ll have your money wired to your usual bank account.” He glanced around and whispered, “plus when I know what the gold’s worth, one percent of the total. Happy with that?”
Amadou nodded and helped himself to a glass of water.
“Thanks for your help, ZZ. Pity about Scarlet.”
“I liked her a lot but apart from the sex, we both lived a lie. You have a saying in England, ships that pass in the night.”
Petros stood and held out his hand. “Very true. If there’s another job could you be interested?”
Amadou cleared his throat. “The next year might be a busy and profitable one for me in the arms trade to Syria. Unlike many, I trust you PK. Life with you has its exciting moments.” He checked the time. “Must go, we have a flight to Benghazi at midday.” They shook hands.
ZZ fidgeted with his right ear. “Time to go.” He hugged Petros, looked him squarely in the eyes, smiled then walked away.
“Don’t think about it, PK. He has the greatest admiration for you.”
“He’s growing up. Look after him.” Petros strolled with Amadou to the hotel entrance and waited while he and ZZ jumped into a taxi and it drove away.
“Morning, Petros,” said James.
“And I thought I’d have a quiet breakfast and read the paper,” said Petros as he returned to his table.
James sat opposite. “I’ve a suggestion. Land the gold and send Alfredo and his crew home. At the moment you’re spending a load of money for no return.”
“That thought did cross my mind.”
“I can arrange for an armoured car to collect it, with luck today or tomorrow.”
Petros accepted James’ point. “You make the arrangements and I’ll talk to Alfredo.”
James nodded thoughtfully and pointed to the coffee pot on the table. “Is that still hot?”
Petros shook his head. “I’ll order another.” He lifted the pot and made eye contact with a passing waiter.
“Certainly, sir.” The man grabbed the pot and scurried away, returning moments later with another. “He filled two cups and took a half step back. “ Anything else, sir?”
“Brown toast and lime marmalade, please”
James sipped his coffee and when the toast arrived helped himself to a slice. He glanced around making sure no one was within earshot. “How many bars did you recover?”
Petros shrugged. “Not sure but I’ll count each one prior to depositing them in the bank.”
“Well if you’ll excuse me, he doesn’t know yet but I’ve an appointment with the director of the Bank of Valletta.”
Petros folded his arms. “Have a good look in the vault before you leave.”
With a nod, James smiled. “Do you know there was a time in Malta when the locals would only deposit their money with the bank on the clear understanding they would be allowed into the vaults to see where it was kept.”
Petros grinned. “Better than under the mattress.”
“You may be right. Give you a call later.”
Petros poured his fourth cup of coffee and sipped the luke-warm dregs. Outside the sunlight filtered by the one way glass gave a comforting glow to the room.
***
Later that morning Petros, wearing blue jeans, trainers and a white polo shirt, left the hotel. At a steady pace he threaded his way towards Quarry Wharf and the water taxi station.
Once on the wharf he discovered to his surprise, not one water-taxi. He thought of jumping in a cab but glanced at his watch and decided he would wait. Five minutes elapsed before a water taxi arrived.
“How much to Vittoriosa Yacht Marina?”
The driver’s eyes sparkled. With a wrinkled face from too much sun, wearing a peaked cap and light blue cotton overalls he replied, “Today special offer, thirty Euro.”
“I’ll give you forty if you can do the distance in less than ten minutes.”
He laughed, sensed a kindred spirit. “Jump in and hold on.”
The yellow fibreglass hull rocketed across the calm waters of Grand Harbour and passed Fort St Angelo.
Petros pointed to the Tuna Turner.
The sensation of clinging onto the side of a craft hurtling over the water concentrated his mind. The driver slammed the throttle shut and allowed the hull to glide alongside the jetty.
Petros handed over forty Euro and stepped onto the wooden plank-covered pontoon.
He straightened his back on seeing Hawksworth alight from his black Mercedes.
Hawksworth stood with his feet apart and waited for Petros to arrive on the quay. “Mr Kyriades, you were next on my list but first I must talk with Captain Alfredo. You may wait in my car.”
“Can you tell me what this is about?”
“I have a few more questions.”
“Questions about what in particular?”
“Who, Mr Kyriades, who?” He stomped across the Tuna Turner’s gangway and entered the accommodation section.
Petros sat in the front passenger seat and waited.
Ten minutes later Hawksworth returned, sat behind the wheel, started the engine and drove sedately away from the marina.
“Adrian Sullivan, Mr Kyriades, what do you know about him?”
“Apart from the fact he operates a submersible for a living, nothing.”
“Well he robbed my men and me of what little sleep we might have had last night. Shortly after leaving the marina, I watched him being pulled out of St Julian’s Bay at four this morning.”
“Bloody hell. I assume as he was pulled out he was dead.”
“Unfortunately he is and I want you to see him.”
“Could it have been an accident?”
“I keep an open mind until the facts tell me different.”
They stopped in the small car park outside a building, which stood on its own to the west of the Mater Der Hospital.
“Mr Sullivan wasn’t in the water long.”
In a room at the far end of a long corridor and on the other side of a glass petition, two men wearing green surgical gowns and matching wellingtons waved at Hawksworth. On a stainless steel slab the body of Adrian Sullivan lay naked.
“Mr Kyriades, can you confirm the man on the
slab is Adrian Sullivan?”
“From what I can see and the colour of his hair, it is.”
“When did you last see him?”
Petros paused in thought. “I’ll be honest, I can’t remember. Maybe two days ago. I booked a room in a hotel and never saw him again.”
“Thank you. That’s all I need to know. You have confirmed the name on the driving licence in his wallet. We can now leave.”
“Do you know who did this?”
“I have my suspicions.”
“Who?”
“I believe it’s the same men who stole the Tuna Turner. We have a video from a shop’s security camera, which shows them and the victim walking from a car park. Only four returned.” He looked Petros straight in the eyes. “You mix with the wrong people, Mr Kyriades.”
“I don’t know any of them.”
“Somehow they knew you and what you discovered. I understand you have employed the services of Allan Vella. He’s a good man to have if you’re arrested.”
Petros felt sick and did not reply.
Hawksworth laughed. “I think you need a drink.” He drove from the hospital to Msida yacht marina and pointed. “My bar and restaurant. It will supplement my pension when I retire.”
They entered an open door on the left. The area was spacious, each table set for dinner on pristine white table clothes.
“Looks up-market,” said Petros.
“My customers are from those obscene motor cruisers in the marina. But then their money is as good as anyone’s. What would you like to drink?”
“A fresh orange juice and tonic, please.”
Hawksworth signalled to a waitress standing nearby. “Christina, two fresh orange juice and tonics, please.” His mobile rang. He checked the display and switched it off.
Their drinks arrived.
“Mr Kyriades, who knew you were searching for gold?”
Petros shook his head. “You’ve interviewed most of the crew, and my associates I’d trust with my life.”
Hawksworth shrugged. “From information I’ve received, the man you shot came from Palermo and his older brother, who appears to have gone missing, was the leader in the Cosa Nostra. Someone talked but I doubt if we’ll ever discover who. They beat Mr Sullivan before throwing him in the sea. If he talked and I believe he might have, that would explain their attempt at piracy. Once back in Palermo the gold would have vanished. You, Mr Kyriades, are a brave, if somewhat foolish, man but then it’s the business you’re in. The Collectors is the name of your London-based company.”