Waves of Murder (13 page)

“No, it’s all rubbish!” he said.

“Yes, it’s how you say, a load of craps!”

Jon laughed out loud, “Yes, a load of craps!” he repeated. The hotel was on the edge of the smarter side of Kingston, Jon and Anna stayed at the hotel bar for about two hours, surely Collins couldn’t afford any more than iced water, which was free! Jon kept glimpsing the detective in a small piece of angled mirror on a bar pillar. He didn’t let on that he knew he was following him. They left to return to the ship, just outside the hotel was a cab rank, oh no Jon thought, not him again was he the only bloody cab driver working in Kingston?

“Ello again sir-r-r,” he smiled with his dentist’s nightmare, “ar-r-r you going back to the ship?”

“Er, yes please,” replied Jon, “but can we go a little slower this time?”

“Yeah sir-r-r,” he replied. Anna threw a $50 note over to him, “Than kyew ma’am,” the brown teeth smiled.

At least Insp Collins couldn’t follow them, but he would know where they were going. They walked up the gangway and Jon turned to see if Collins was there, he was. Dammit, Jon said to himself. Two more ports of call, perhaps that will see the back of him.

“You come to sundeck vith Anna?” she asked.

“Er, no, I want to go gift shopping in the mall, I’ll see you later, perhaps, okay?”

“Goot,” Anna said, and tried to kiss him, but he turned away, Collins was watching.

No lunch today, but somehow he wasn’t hungry, the drinks had filled his stomach, perhaps later in the mall he would grab something. “Ello sir-r, were you happy with your-r purchase?” the young fellow said as he stood in the doorway of the gift shop.

“Purchase? what purchase?” Jon asked.

“You know, the knife!” the boy said.

“I’m sorry, but you must have me confused with someone else, I don’t own a knife,” Jon lied, “so long,” he said, and walked on in to the men’s boutique to see Anita.

“Hello darlin’,” the lovely face said, “can I help you with anythin’, I mean anythin’?” she asked

Jon laughed, and said,” Yes, you could help me enjoy my dinner tonight and perhaps a little something afterwards?” he suggested.

“Oh, yes please,” Anita said, “I hope the ‘afterwards’ means a lot of fucking!”

“Shush,” Jon said, looking around, “you’ll give yourself a bad reputation,” he said, smiling.

“I don’t want reputation, I want yoo-o-o!” she almost shouted.

Jon turned towards the door again, and caught a glimpse of Collins lurking in the middle of the mall, pretending to window-shop, poor sod Jon thought, talk about ‘flogging a dead horse!’

Jon was just applying some aftershave when there was a knock at his door, opening the door he was shocked to see Collins standing there with the biggest uniformed copper he had ever seen, 6’6”x5’ and twice as nasty! “I have a warrant to search your stateroom,” Collins said.

“Go ahead,” Jon said, smiling, “by the way, what are you looking for?” he asked.

“We’ll let you know when we find it,” Collins answered sarcastically.

“Well, look, I’ve got a date, must go, you’ll leave it as you found it won’t you, I’ll be in the Archipelago if you need me,” he said smiling. He thought that Collins could possibly plant drugs or something, but then again he had the feeling that he was a straight, honest sort of copper who played it by the book. He never saw the Inspector again.

Cuba

O
h yes, Jon said to himself, as the ship approached the quay, this is the highlight of the cruise. Anita and he had enjoyed a fabulous lobster dinner, and the ‘afterwards’ was amazing, her yelping when having an orgasm compared with the ships horn, as it prepared to dock! He saw Anna down the queue, but he managed to get ashore quickly and grabbed a cab, a 1950’s Chevrolet that had seen over 50 years of better days. Happily the driver remained silent after only saying, “Si signor,” and drove slowly into Havana. Actually the cab suited the surroundings, Jon had been transported to the fifties, wonderful, he thought, considering he had been born in the eighties. The only 21st century signs were in fact, signs, KFC, McDonalds etc., otherwise it was the 1950’s when Castro took over. Loud music played from speakers above a music shop, and youngsters were dancing on the sidewalk. He noticed that some of the young girls, as they swirled around, were not wearing knickers, as their skirts flared a young boy held out a hat to tourists for money. Jon obliged with some change from his pocket, “Gracias signor,” the ten year old said. Not wanting to appear some sort of pervert, Jon walked on. Around a corner Jon saw a queue of classic American convertibles, for city tours. The first was a ‘57 Cadillac, fantastic he thought, and negotiated a price with the driver, for a one hour sightseeing trip.

The driver offered Jon a throw-away camera, “Ten dollar signor, yes?”

“Er, yes, thank you,” he said giving the money to the young enterprising Cuban. The Cadi purred around the streets and down the tree-lined avenues as if it had just come off the assembly line almost 60 years ago. The hour went quickly, and back at the pick-up point Jon gave Luis (the name on his licence badge) a $10 tip. He had exhausted the 24 frames in the camera, snapping at old buildings, statues and of course, those of Castro and Che Guevara, he couldn’t wait to see how they turned out. On board ship again, he went to the pharmacy to get them developed, “No rush,” he said, after he had given his name and cabin number.

The Voyage Home

H
e felt a little sad leaving Cuba, it had been the best port of call of all, relaxing and entertaining. The snaps were very good, something to show Vicky and Lorna when he got home, 24 shots of Havana. Plans would now have to be made for Anna’s demise, he was still in two minds about Katti. That emerald necklace was really something, and worth a lot of money, was there a way of getting it without doing away with her? He had six days to work that one out. He would keep away from Anna until the last day, he would be on his way back to London before she was reported missing. He could get Katti drunk, also on the last day, so that she passed out until leaving time. Yes, that would do it, a crew member finds her unconscious when everyone has gone, good he thought, I’ll get both lots but only one will disappear.

At the NYPD Precinct, Lt Novak was mulling over the report of a female floater being washed up on the beach at Coney Island. The disappearance of Helen Smithson was still on file and had stuck in Novak’s craw for months, and he knew that Jonathan Weston was the murderer, deep in his gut. “Get me the Coney Island coroner’s office,” he said to the station, “Novak, 30th Precinct,” he said to the coroner, “ do you have the body of the woman found on the beach?”

“Yeah,” the coroner said, “it’s not in very good condition, the fish have been at it. There’s an arm missing and part of one leg,” the voice said.

“I’m on my way down to have a look,” Novak announced. He was shown into the examination room, the body laid on a table covered by a white sheet, the pathologist pulled back the cover. What met Novak’s eyes, once a beautiful vivacious woman, was now a blob of rotting flesh, no eyes just a wisp of hair, one arm and only half of one leg, “Probably sharks,” the pathologist said.

“Is it possible that any male sperm could remain in her vagina?” Novak asked.

“It’s possible,” came the reply, “but I doubt it,” the patho said.

“Well, could you take a deep swab and analyse it to see if there is any DNA, I want to try and get a match,” Novak said.

“Sure, gimme 20 minutes and I’ll get you a sample of what’s there,” came the answer. Twenty minutes later, exactly, Novak was given a plastic pack, “There was something there,” the patho said, “I hope it’s enough.”

Back at his office, Novak contacted the police forensic laboratory, and told the technician what he was hoping to find on the sample swab. “It’ll take a day or two,” the tech said.

“Okay, there’s no rush, I’ve waited a long time, a coupla days won’t matter,” Novak replied.

“Did you say the UK DNA data computer?” the tech asked.

“Yeah,” answered Novak, “those Brits don’t hurry, you know,” came the reply.

“Okay,” said the cop, “as soon as poss, thanks.” A week went past before a loud, “GOT YOU, YOU MURDERING BASTARD,” was heard from Novak’s office when he opened the report from the forensic lab. “Now, I’m gonna get you back here,” he read the report with relish.

The subject is:-

Jonathan Andrew Weston d.o.b 20.08.1986

Apartment 4, 26 Hampstead Road,

Chalk Farm, London, NW3

Time of sample on file :- 11.40pm 10.08.2008

Place:- Camden Town Police Station.

“YEAH, I’M GONNA GET YOU BACK HERE AND HAMMER YOUR BALLS, YOU MURDERING ASS-HOLE,” he sang out loud.

The door burst open and the Captain said, “What the fuck’s going on Novak?”

“I’ve got him, that cruise killer from England, look,” he said as he showed the lab report to him.

The Captain read the report, “This only proves that he had sex with her, it doesn’t prove that he killed the victim,” the Capt said.

“I’ve got other evidence, he sold her jewellery in Jew town, that’s on film and the dealer will swear to it,” he announced, “no jury in the country will let him off by the time we’re finished with him. That bastard is going down for life,” he almost shouted.

“Okay, okay, okay,” the Capt said, “but first you gotta get the Brits to agree to send him back.”

“I’ll go over to London and bring him back, once the extradition has been agreed,” Novak stated, “but first a call to Scotland Yard.”

The Extradition Treaty between the US and the UK had been in place for many years, and many criminals had crossed the Atlantic to meet their judges in both directions. But it wasn’t a swift process, with a good lawyer it could be delayed for months and months. The worst case scenario was 5 years to bring back a homophobic killer, who was found ‘not guilty’ by a whisker thin margin, it cost the NYPD thousands of dollars. “You’d better be right on this, Novak, the department’s down to it’s last dime,” his boss said.

Novak got through to Chief Inspector Lloyd at Scotland Yard, “Chief Inspector, sir,” he said, “I am Lt Novak of the New York Police Department, we have an interest in one of your nationals, a Jonathan Andrew Weston. We have detected a positive match from a dead female body that was washed up at the Coney Island sea shore. She disappeared from a ship from England just before it came into American waters. She was an American citizen so we have to make a complete investigation on her death, which we think was murder, a murder committed by a British citizen. Would you be prepared to help us with our enquiries?”

“Yes, of course,” Lloyd answered, “what would you like us to do exactly?”

“Weston’s whereabouts in London, his address now. We have an address but an update would be of great help.”

“I will put a man on to this as soon as possible, and will try to get back to you in 48 hours,” Lloyd replied.

“Thank you, sir,” Novak replied. Three days passed.

“Lt Novak?” the girl said on the office phone, “I’ve got Chief Inspector Lloyd of Scotland Yard.”

“Okay, thanks, put him on,” Novak said.

“Good morning,” LLoyd said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not the best of news, Weston is out of the country. One of our best men has been to his address and other addresses he has used, and he is not to be found. We will of course, continue with this enquiry,” came the message.

“Thank you Chief Inspector, please keep in touch, this is a big one. Goodbye now, and thanks,” Novak ended the call.

Lorna started to inwardly panic after the policeman left, the money, must get the money she thought. She’d told C.I. Lloyd that Jon was away on business, somewhere up north, looking for prestige high quality cars. She feigned trying to call him on his mobile but she knew it wouldn’t answer because it was switched off in his bedside cabinet drawer. But she assured the C.I. that he would be back in 4-5 days. He thanked her and said it was just a routine question or two, nothing to worry about. Parking her car in a bay in Edgware Road, she walked quickly to Barclays Safety Deposit branch. Inside, she told the clerk that she wanted access to box no: 212, and showed him her key. “I’m sorry madam, but that is not a safety deposit box key,” he said.

“But it’s got 212 stamped on it,” she almost shouted.

“Madam, that is probably the makers serial number, our numbers all start with an ‘0’, I can assure you your key will not fit the box,” he replied.

Without saying a word, she walked out of the bank. Standing outside on the pavement she said quietly, through gritted teeth, ‘the bastard, the fucking bastard, but you won’t get away with it Jon Weston, oh no!’ In her rush, she had omitted to buy a one hour parking ticket and had been given a penalty ticket by a warden. She grabbed it and sat in the car, sobbing. When her anger had subsided she began to think clearly, perhaps he had given her the wrong key by mistake, perhaps! perhaps! perhaps! After all the flat was only rented, the furniture was on HP and the bloody Lexus was probably leased, these lies would mean nothing to him. He was an evil murdering thief, but then she had been his accomplice to the killings. Hell, she thought, I’m in a terrible mess, how could I face him again, let alone live with him? she started crying again.