by J B Raphael
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise I was still wearing it, it’s so lightweight,” he lied.
“Shall we stay ashore for dinner?” she suggested.
“Good idea,” Jon said.
“By the time we go back to the ship and change etc, we’ll be starving, we can spend some winnings in the best restaurant in Gib.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jon said. He stopped a taxi, “What’s the best eating place in Gib?” he asked the driver.
“The Rock Hotel,” came the reply.
“Okay, let’s go,” Jon said, and they got into the taxi. Anywhere in Gibraltar is 15 minutes, the Rock Hotel was about half way to the top of the rock. The building was actually built into the granite and a beautiful colonial mansion facade fronted the large venue.
St Petersburg
Vasili’s reputation and power had waned amongst his peers in the underworld and the brotherhood. The word had gone out that he’d been made to climb down from catching the man who’d killed one of his family and robbed them of thousands of dollars. In short, he’d been made to look a fool, and he would have to do something about it. To make things worse, a rival gang had robbed one of his gambling outlets and burnt out one of his Lear jets.
He summoned Mikhail and five of his best men, “Go and find me a substitute for this Jon Weston, and we will bring him back here and make a big show of killing him, IN FUCKING PUBLIC,” he shouted. “He must be English, and look like Weston,” he demanded.
It was a very warm day down by the Hermitage, tourists by the hundred from all over the world, “What does an English tourist look like?” He parked the Mercedes opposite the queue, Mikhail needed to get back into his brother’s good books. Over $500,000 had been spent looking for Jon Weston, he read the description and studied the photograph.
James Sumner, an accountant from London, with the obligatory large lens camera over his shoulder, walked along the snaking file of people to enter the museum to see its treasures. The Mercedes crawled slowly along the road and then the rear door opened and two henchmen got out and grabbed the Londoner, pulling him into the large car. His camera fell in the gutter as the horrified queue watched. The car screamed away at break-neck speed, Mikhail turned around in the front passenger seat and said, “English?”
“Yes, yes, what’s going on?” he shouted, “let me out, I’m a British citizen.”
The Russians laughed, “But you are in Russia now,” Mikhail said.
“What do you want, money? I’ll give you money,” he cried, and tried to reach into his pocket for his wallet. One of the men grabbed his wrist with an iron grip.
“No, we don’t want money, we’ve got plenty,” Mikhail said, “we want English lessons or perhaps we want to teach the English a lesson.” He laughed.
James was pushed in to Vasili’s office, Vasili stood and looked him up and down, walked around him and then read the description while he looked at Jon Weston’s photograph. “Very good, Mikhail, you and your men have done very well. Sit down Mr Weston,” Vasili said.
“My name is James Sumner, I’m an accountant from London,” James answered.
“NO, you are Jonathan Weston from London and you killed a member of my family, stole her jewellery and threw her body into the sea.”
“No, no, I can prove I’m James Sumner, here, here, look I have my passport,” he cried as he offered it to Vasili who slapped it out of his hand and then slapped James across the face sending his spectacles across the marble floor. One of his henchmen stood on them, smashing them to pieces.
“Put the word out that we have brought Jon Weston back. Tell London, New York and Rome, and we will bring him to justice. Find me the best make-up artist to make this man look more like Weston and then take his photograph with a copy of the day’s newspaper above his head, “ he said calmly, but with menace.
James was shaking, sweating and crying at the same time, “You’ve got the wrong man,” he shouted. He received a heavy slap across the face again that almost rendered him unconscious. Mikhail walked towards him with a hypodermic syringe and plunged it into his neck, blackness descended, James Sumner was as good as dead.
The word was soon spreading around the world’s TV networks, the web and all other media, announcing that the ‘Cruise’ killer was in custody in Russia and would be put on trial there.
Yonkers - New York State
Mel Novak threw his newspaper into the air and shouted, “The Russians have got him!”
Mary-Lou rushed in from the kitchen, “I don’t believe it, I presume you are talking about Jon Weston?” she asked.
“Yes, but I don’t know how they did it,” he said.
“A very tenacious people, the Russians, and they’ve got friends everywhere,” she said.
Mel looked at the picture of Jon Weston, it had been a long time since he last saw him, but it definitely looked like him, or did it? Mel thought, but now it was way beyond his tenure, and after all, he had, allegedly, murdered a Russian citizen.
In Los Angeles, Liz Fenner’s sister had been made bankrupt and had tried to convince a bank that she was the beneficiary of a large fortune, with forged documents, in cash and property, by mis-representation. She had been charged with attempted fraud, found guilty, and imprisoned in the state women’s penitentiary for two years, with a twelve month parole order. Mary-Lou said, “She’ll only do 6 months, otherwise she’ll go crazy in there, I know, I’ve been to these places on client visits, they are the pits!”
St Petersburg
Vasili had put out an edict to punish the raiders of his casino’s and the arsonists that burned his jet. Four lesser members of a rival family were brought to him and paraded before his ornate Louis XIV desk. “You know what to do,” he said to Mikhail. The four unfortunates were taken to an enormous basement area, two video cameras had been set up to record what was about to happen. They were suspended upside down, naked, above industrial cattle carcass grinders. When these were switched on the screams were blood-curdling.
Mikhail shouted, in Russian, “You will soon be fertilizer,” and the victims were lowered into the machinery, screaming, which soon stopped as they were devoured by the spinning knives. The cameras had recorded the whole event, with sound, which made it more horrific.
“I WANT A COPY OF THE DVD SENT TO EVERYONE IN ST PETERSBURG,” shouted Vasili, and when Weston goes in, he goes feet first.” They laughed. “And I want recordings sent to Scotland Yard to show them how to treat murderers of women,” he added. James Sumner was dragged from his cell-like room still in a drugged state, then suspended by his arms. He was lowered, feet first, into the grinder. His screams stopped at about his midriff, it was all recorded, sound and vision, in colour.
New Scotland Yard (London)
Chief Inspector Lloyd opened the stiff envelope and pulled out the disc, the note attached read ‘Jonathan Weston’s justice’. He put it in his DVD player and what he saw made him feel sick, he’d seen a lot of horrific things in his long career, but this was the worst. “Get me NYPD, I want to speak to Captain Colletti at the 30th Precinct,” he said to the operator. “Hello sir, I’ll get straight to the point, I’ve just seen the most disgusting DVD of the execution of Jonathan Weston by the Russians. I won’t go into detail, but it was completely barbaric, strictly from the dark ages of the tzars. Perhaps you’d like to pass on the information to Lt Novak.”
“Okay, Chief Inspector, I’ll do that, thanks for calling.” The Captain hung up. I’ll send it to him, he thought.
Yonkers - New York State
“The Russian mafia have executed Jonathan Weston,” Mel told Mary-Lou, “in the most horrific way. But he had no trial, just captured and executed, they don’t waste any time, those bastards, do they?”
“I think sometimes that’s better than keeping them on death row for years,” Mary-Lou said.
“Yeah, may be you’re right,” Mel said, “it’s a shame we couldn’t have brought him to good old American justice,” he added.
“
Yeah, and he would be a VIP on death row for 10 years and then have his sentence reduced and be paroled in two years to go cruising again!” she said.
“Wow!” Mel said, “you are very radical and I didn’t know it!”
“When it comes to murderers of innocent women for their jewellery, I am,” she answered.
Mel could only agree, “Yeah, he was an evil murdering bastard,” he said.
The Afrique Queen
Jon could not believe his eyes watching the CNN news in his stateroom, it announced the execution of himself by the Russians. The British Foreign Office had lodged a complaint and the Russian Ambassador had been called to be seen by the Home Secretary to explain his countries’ policy of a no trial execution of a British subject. It came to nothing and was just put on file to be brought up at the next International Conference ..... end of. A formal notice would be sent to Moscow to be filed somewhere, but no one would ever find it again either in Moscow or London.
Jon was definitely now, Kieron Robert Pearce, an Irish citizen, a free man of the world, or was he? He was still in debt to Satan, who had undoubtedly arranged the fiendish episode in Russia, also his finger prints and DNA were Jon Weston’s and there was very little he could do about it but hope that the reason to check them would never arise.
Just two days cruising left, and Keiron had to deal with two women and get their diamonds, but hang on a minute, he might go to Brighton and strike Hannah there, and that would leave only Rosa to worry about. “Rosa, it’s Keiron, what’s happening?” he asked on the phone.
“Nothing, I was waiting for you to call, you bad boy, I’m lonely and need some company, come to my stateroom for coffee and doughnuts on the balcony, and we’ll talk about today,” she said.
“Okay, I’ll be ten minutes,” he said. It was time to concentrate on the job in hand, he knocked on Rosa’s door.
“C’m in,” she said as she opened it, “good to see you, handsome, sit down.”
As she poured the coffee, he looked around and noticed a jewel case partially open with part of the necklace hanging out of the lower drawer. The black mist descended, but it was too early in the day, it would have to be much later because of cabin cleaners, plus he didn’t want to sit with her dead body for the rest of the day, until about 3am the next morning. As previously, he would wine and dine his victim until the early hours, and when the time was right he would kill her, and her jewellery would be his. They spent the day together. After an early lunch they laid on the sundeck, but it was too hot, 90+ even in the shade. They kept the bar staff busy, but with soft drinks, Keiron wanted to keep his head clear for later, he said the same to Rosa with a wink, and Rosa agreed but she had a different reason!
It was a formal night, a ‘black and white ball’ with a special menu in all three restaurants, and a grand dance in the magnificent central ballroom. At 6.30pm Keiron knocked on Rosa’s door which opened almost immediately, “Wow!” she said, “you look fabulous.”
He wore a white silk DJ with a black silk shirt and bow tie, with black mohair and silk trousers. “And you look out of this world!” he enthused. She was in a black dress, knee length, with a white squared pattern, low cut to reveal her beautiful cleavage, and of course, the necklace to which Keiron’s eyes were magnetically drawn, “You, my darling girl, look absolutely beautiful and I will be so proud to escort you tonight,” he blarnied.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she said. He also ogled the watch, bracelet and rings. It wasn’t the black mist that descended, but he was filled with a strange warmth and almost started to salivate like some sort of beast of prey. He managed to control himself and took her hand as they started to walk to the bar for pre-dinner drinks. “Good lord,” she said, “your hand is very hot!”
“I’m sorry, I’ve been hot all day, being with you,” he said, they laughed.
But she felt a little uncomfortable and took his arm instead, the warmth came through his sleeve, but he wasn’t sweating, ‘weird’ she thought, but let it slide. They walked in to the ‘Casablanca’ restaurant and turned many heads, they were shown to a table on the central, raised part of the venue. “Keiron,” Rosa said, “let’s have a bottle of champagne, I am in the mood,” she added.
“You bet,” he agreed and gestured to the wine waitress, “a bottle of Chrystal, please,” he said. It was soon brought in a bucket of ice on a stand and served with a flurry and a bang from the cork. “Here’s to you my darlin’,” Keiron said.
“And here’s to us having a ‘special’ night,” she said, with a wink.
Keiron picked up his champagne flute and saw the word ‘soon’ etched in the mist on the glass. Caviar to start was ordered, beluga of course, followed by lobster in champagne sauce. They ordered another bottle of champagne, Keiron made sure that Rosa’s glass was brimmed and his was only a third full. “It’s time to go dancing,” Rosa said, as they finished their coffee and cognac. Just a little unsteadily Rosa took Keiron’s arm which she said had ‘cooled down’.
“Good,” he said, “it must have been the cold champagne!” The six piece western style band were very good, and Rosa and Keiron went straight on to the floor and danced to ‘Love me do’ by the Beatles. They danced to three or four Beatle hits, then fell in to a booth and ordered large cognacs, and sat looking at each other in a lecherous way, but Keiron’s sights were on the gems, not Rosa, although he managed to catch her sexy gaze. “He looked at his watch, it was 1.15am, the time was getting close.
“Let’s go, my lovely Irish boy, I am feeling very naughty,” Rosa said.
“Okay,” Keiron said, “so am I.” But he meant it in a more sinister way.
“Another brandy?” Rosa said as they entered her stateroom.
“Yes, why not, it’ll finish the evening off nicely,” he said.
“Oh no, I’ve got something else in mind to finish the evening off!” she giggled. She poured two large Remy Martin cognacs into balloon glasses and they sat on the balcony listening to the waves lapping against the side of the ship.
Sipping their drinks, looking at the gems that Rosa was wearing, he began once again to feel the inner warmth and the black mist started to descend. He jumped to his feet and took her by the throat and at the same time dragging her back into the room, all the time pressing with enormous satanic strength on her windpipe which was soon crushed. She stopped breathing and her eyes bulged, she was dead and he laid her on the bed and started to strip her of her diamonds, he also removed her dress etc. He’d taken the precaution of washing the glass, he hadn’t actually touched anything, the door, anything on the balcony or in the bathroom. Rosa had handled the bottle, there were none of his prints on anything. He waited until 3am before he lifted her off of the bed, carried her, fireman style, and let her body drop into the sea. A man on a lower deck turned to go back into his stateroom just as she fell past his balcony, he heard the splash but thought nothing of it through his alcohol-filled haze. Once again, Jon wiped the ‘Do not disturb’ sign as he hung it on the outside of the door and went back to his stateroom. He thought, she would be missing for one day, even if a room attendant went in all they would do is clean after finding no one there, and remove the sign. Rosa would not be seriously missed until disembarking time, and by then he would be gone and away with her jewellery. He patted his pocket containing the diamonds and once again the inner warmth started to engulf him, but he went straight into a cool shower. But even with very cool water, the mirror began to steam up and the words ‘U O ME MORE, S’ appeared, still wet he poured himself a very large brandy and sat on the bed. He woke at 6.30 and went into the bathroom, the mirror was clear, he ran the hot tap so that steam would cover the mirror, but nothing appeared. He thought it could have been the alcohol or the fact that he could have dreamed it.
Tunis
Back at the home port, Keiron found Hannah in the reception area, “Hi,” she said, “not really a holiday romance was it! You must come over to England some time and come and see me in Brighton,” she suggest
ed, as she gave him her card.
He looked at it, and said, “Hollingbury, that sounds nice, and very rural.”
“It’s an industrial estate,” she said, laughing, “but please come over soon, I’ve enjoyed our ‘dalliance’ even though it was only for a few days,” she kissed his cheek and whispered, “soon!”.
Keiron thought, yes I’ve an idea it will be! He checked back into his hotel for another two weeks and was able to do a tourist deal for cash in advance with a double de luxe sea-facing room. He laid on his king size bed and watched European news, an item about Jon Weston’s death in Russia, and that the government had made a protest to the Russians. Keiron thought ‘well, that’s the end of me’, he laughed and went over to his mini bar and poured himself a large scotch and added lots of ice, ‘here’s to Keiron Pearce’ and raised his glass.
Brighton
Keiron landed at Gatwick airport at 5pm, at the north terminal, he went through passport control without any problems even though he was carrying a huge amount of cash. If he’d been stopped he’d have shown his newly printed business card in his new name, but the occasion had not arisen. His haul of diamonds and the bulk of his cash was in a safety deposit box in the Bank of Tunisia. He walked out of the terminal straight into a taxi, “Brighton, please,” he said to the Asian driver who said ‘it’a a fixed fare of £60, sa’, “okay, fine let’s go, and to the best hotel on the seafront, I think it’s the ‘Grand’.”
They arrived at the hotel about an hour later, having hit road works, and rush hour traffic, “Here we are, sa,” the driver said, as he jumped out of the cab to get Keiron’s luggage from the boot. A doorman took the bags to reception. Keiron gave the cabbie £70, “Thank you, sa,” he said as he got back into the cab.
“I’d like a double facing the sea, if possible, I’m sorry I don’t have a reservation,” he said.
“That all right, sir, I think we can accomodate you,” Rebecca said, “I’ve a double on the second floor, but it won’t be ready until 7 o’clock, perhaps you woud like a drink, complimentary of course, in the bar,” and gave him a blue card with ‘bar token’ written on it.