Insurance investigator William Rohm has discovered that before they were drowned in a sailing accident in Liverpool Bay, multi-millionaire Charles Rudd and his CEO Nick O’Keeffe had been threatened by a vengeful crime syndicate, less than impressed at being cheated in one of Rudd’s big-money property deals. But with no hard evidence to take to the police, Rohm is returning to London with only unconnected facts and a too-close-for-comfort encounter with Rudd’s grieving girlfriend to show for his efforts.
As Rohm drove back to London, he tried to empty his mind of the events of the past two days – he would leave it all to swirl around in his subconscious to be sifted, processed and marked Action, File or Delete. Things would be clearer tomorrow after a good night’s sleep in his own semi-detached house, in his own bed with his own wife.
His homecoming was nice. He’d had hugs from both the kids, a kiss from the missus and a lick from the dog and after a late supper of scrambled eggs, he’d flaked out just before midnight. The next morning, his journey into work was a thirty-five minute train ride from Chorleywood into Marylebone then another twenty on the tube – Bakerloo to Oxford Circus and Central Line to Holborn. Rohm had been a commuter most of his working life and would spend the time on auto-pilot as he planned the day ahead. Today would be about drawing a line under the Rudd and O’Keeffe insurance claims.
He stared out of the train window at the rolling Hertfordshire countryside and thought back through the Rudd affair for what he hoped would be the last time. He’d probably never know what had really happened out there in Liverpool Bay and there was nothing he or the company could do about it. The cops would have no interest in his suspicions or theories and he couldn’t join up the dots to make any sort of case against the EPSOK gangsters. He knew from the research that most bodies lost out at sea stayed lost but even if the remains of the drowned O’Keeffe were eventually found, they probably wouldn’t tell him anything new. But they might get lucky – some flotsam from Rudd’s boat had been washed up hadn’t it? The currents in a shallow tidal bay full of sandbanks had dumped that stuff on a beach so why not a body? Why not indeed. Now that was a good question…
Rohm had got off his train and was already half-way down the escalator to the Underground before he noticed where he was. It didn’t matter – he had something more interesting going on inside his own head. Suppose O’Keeffe’s body was never found because he was still alive – that somehow he’d got ashore and then kept on running? The Russians were after him too don’t forget – he was Rudd’s partner in crime. Was this the missing piece in the puzzle; the thing that had been bugging Rohm from the start of this case? Maybe, maybe not, but it was worth a look. We might not leave footprints on the ground like the Mesolithic
Will Rohm walked quickly into his open-plan office, grabbed a Mocha and said his good mornings to his team.
Everything that happened on the premises of Leighton’s Assurance was confidential but some things were more confidential than others. Access to sensitive commercial and personal information was dependent on pay grade and some of it was so private it could only be viewed in the security of the firm’s Data Centre. As soon as he finished his coffee, Rohm would take the elevator up two floors, punch-in his pass code on the door entry key pad then go to a terminal and search the digital world for a man who was meant to be dead.
He sat down at his desk, logged on and looked out across High Holborn at the old Pearl Assurance building. It was a swanky hotel now, too rich for his blood or bank balance. He tugged back the sleeve of his M & S jacket, glanced at his humble Seiko watch then stared at nothing for a full thirty seconds.
“Felix?” said Rohm over his shoulder.
“Yes Will?”
Rohm’s assistant Felix Fyndes remained glued to his screen as he responded.
“All Rolex watches have an individual serial number which is registered to the owner yes?”
“I don’t know – I can find out?” said Felix, now turning round to look at his boss.
“Sorry – it was a rhetorical question. They are. Contact Rolex and ask them to check their records for any watch owned by a Mr Nicholas O’Keeffe. Whilst they’re at it, see what they’ve got under the name of Charles Rudd.”
“Why do we want to know?”
“Tell them it’s a possible insurance fraud.”
“Is that true.”
“Not really.”
“So why are we doing it?”
“Tell you later – I’ll be in the Data Centre,” said Rohm, getting up from his desk. He’d remembered that in the photograph of Rudd and O’Keeffe together, they were both wearing Rolexes. If O’Keeffe was still alive, he may have had to sell it. If his body had been found, someone may have taken the watch and tried to sell it. It was a thousand-to-one shot.
An hour later, Rohm returned to his desk empty handed. He’d found nothing. Absolute zero. It looked as if Nick O’Keeffe really was dead. Rohm shrugged resignedly as he sat down at his desk. Felix wasn’t there but at the next work station, young Andy Mann was at his PC, ploughing through a set of spread sheets.
“Where’s Felix?” asked Rohm.
“He’s out for lunch boss,” said Andy. “He messaged you some stuff.”
Rohm opened up the email with low expectation and little enthusiasm.
Rolex have nothing registered in the UK under the name of Nicholas O’Keeffe.
In 2015, Charles Rudd paid for two watches bought from Dobson’s in Liverpool; a vintage Comex
Cheers, Felix.
It looked as if Rudd had bought the watch for O’Keeffe as a present. And Rohm’s thousand-to-one bet had paid off.
Felix had left a contacts list at the bottom of the page and after a string of identity-proving emails and phone calls, Rohm had lined-up conversations with the
At two o’clock, Rohm dialled the jeweller’s number. The owner, Jeremy Harbison, answered.
“Thanks for speaking to us,” said Rohm.
Once the introductions were over, Harbison had a minor rant. “It’s all been very difficult…the police have been back here three times…it’s bad for business…”
“I guess there isn’t much crime around there – this is a big deal for them,” said Rohm trying to calm the guy down and get the conversation on track. “Can you tell me about the man who brought the watch in?”
“Our CCTV wasn’t working so we’ve got no pictures of him but he was white, English, average height, expensive clothes, wore a hat. We took his credit card details as security and that brought up an address in Mexico. His bank was there too.”
“He gave no Isle of Man address?”
“He said he was staying with friends – moving around a lot. He just left his mobile number for when the watch was ready. I don’t think he knew about the Rolex registration system.”
“And when is he expecting the watch back?”
“We told him we’d courier it to Manchester and it would take ten days. That’s now. The bracelet was damaged and it needed a new glass. It’s worth a hundred-and-twenty thousand pounds so I had to tell our insurers.”
“I hope your policy is with us!” chuckled Rohm.
“I’m afraid it isn’t, your premiums are too high,” said Harbison humourlessly.
There was a moment of awkward silence before Rohm continued on.
“You didn’t challenge him when you checked the Rolex data base and found he wasn’t the registered owner?”
“I stayed cool and kept smiling. As soon as he left the store, I called the police.”
“And where’s the watch?”
“The police have it – I presume its stolen property. Detective Steele is going to set up a time for us to call Mr Cain to let him know it’s ready for collection. When he comes to the shop, they’ll nab him.”
“Is there anything else about this man that would help us – maybe something you forgot to tell the police or remembered later?”
“Don’t think so…” said Harbison, pausing for a few seconds. “…he dyed his hair black. I couldn’t see much of it – only the sides and back, but it looked badly done…you know, cheap. Not like the rest of him.”
Rohm thanked the jeweller and said goodbye. Felix had returned and was sitting at his desk.
“Have you had lunch Will?” he said.
“Not yet,” said Rohm brusquely. “I’ll grab something after we’ve spoken to the Manx police.”
“You should eat – skipping meals is bad for your health.”
“Christ, you sound like my missus.”
“And you trust her judgment yes?”
“Alright…point taken. You might want to listen in on this next call.”
Rohm hated people telling him what to do, especially when it was in his own best interests – he couldn’t argue back. The two men connected their Bluetooth headphones as Rohm dialled the number of the Douglas police.
“Is this Detective Kirsten Steele?” he asked when his call was eventually answered.
“Yeah, I’m Steele.” She sounded bolshie – like she had better things to do than talk to amateur sleuths sitting in posh offices in London.
“Will Rohm from Leighton’s Assurance. It’s about the Rolex watch left at Harbison’s jewellers. The owner tells me you’re about to spring a trap?”
“Spring a trap?” she said incredulously, “that sounds like a line from a TV cop show – a bad one. We hope to make an arrest if that’s what you mean.”
“Then there’s other stuff you need to know – that watch is only a part of the story,” said Rohm, gesturing to Felix to take notes.
Then Rohm explained it all. He told the detective about the Rudd case and everything that had happened. Well, almost everything.
“And you were planning to tell the Liverpool police about this when exactly?” she said with a sarcastic edge. Rohm knew the cops didn’t like it when insurance geeks like him didn’t share information.
“When are the jewellers going to call Mr Cain?” asked Rohm, ignoring her awkward question.
“Now I’ve got the team ready, tomorrow afternoon. We’ll be in the back of the store and in the café opposite. When this John Cain walks in, we’ll go get him.”
“Could I come along? Just to observe. There’s a lot of my company’s money involved.”
She took a few silent seconds to weigh-up the pros and cons.
“OK, if you promise not to call the operation a stake-out,” she said finally. “Besides, you might be of some use to us.”
“Thanks. You want me to let the Liverpool police know what’s happening?”
“No – I’ll do it. It was Sergeant Winter wasn’t it. I know her.”
“Thanks Kirsten. I’ll book a flight now. See you tomorrow.”
“Let me know when you arrive in Douglas. And by-the-way, people call me Rusty.”
She was combative and awkward and was going to be difficult to work with. He liked her already.
A re-edited and revised omnibus edition of Liverpool Bay is now available. The complete short story can be accessed as an eBook via Amazon-Kindle.
© Tom Marriott, February 2020
This story and its characters are fictitious. Some real places, institutions, agencies and public offices are mentioned but the people and organisations involved are wholly imaginary.
Photo by Hannah Gerrish
Acknowledgements: Raymond Chandler, Robert Macfarlane
Thanks to: Ed Gaynor, Hannah Gerrish, Stephen Lee, Rod Mcleod, Jeremy Price, Philip Rees-Roberts and Nick French.
