“Chemicals,” Sigurd said. “Mainly the production of polystyrene and polypropylene for packaging. And you—?”
He wasn’t asking for Dylan’s name, he was merely making polite conversation and asking about Dylan’s line of business. However, pretending to misunderstand, Dylan thrust out his hand. “Dylan Scott. Good to meet you.”
A half smile tugging at his lips, Sigurd shook his hand. “Sigurd Jorstad and this is my brother, Mathias.”
“Pleased to meet you both. So you’re taking a holiday from the rough and tumble of the chemical industry?”
“Part holiday and part business,” Mathias said. “We have a factory near Tromsø that we’re on our way to visit. We also had some business to conduct earlier but now we’re relaxing.”
“Conducting business on a cruise ship?” Dylan grinned. “It’s all right for some. Lucky you.”
“You’ll find that many Norwegians use the ships as offices or just places to meet up with friends and family.” Sigurd smiled, a slow, lazy smile. “Also, it wasn’t terribly lucky as it turned out. We’d set up a meeting with someone but unfortunately the meeting couldn’t take place.”
“Oh dear. Well, at least you can enjoy your cruise.” He waited but nothing more was forthcoming. “God, I hope your business meeting wasn’t with that poor lady who died?”
The two men exchanged a glance, but neither confirmed or denied his hunch.
“It was, wasn’t it?” Dylan said. “What a dreadful shock that was. I didn’t know the woman, obviously, but she was in the cabin next to mine. I spoke to her the night she died. I couldn’t believe it when everyone said she was dead.”
“An unfortunate business indeed,” Mathias said. “She was elderly, and I gather she had a heart condition, but yes, a terrible shock, especially for her family.”
“So you were supposed to meet with her?”
“At her request, yes,” Sigurd said.
It was difficult to tell if they were being cagey or if Dylan’s overactive imagination was working overtime.
“How awful.” Dylan shook his head in sympathy with them, and with Hanna Larsen’s family. “I trust it wasn’t important. Oh, wait. When I had that brief chat with her, she mentioned something about a meeting. It was to do with some property, wasn’t it?”
“She was—how do you say?—very stubborn,” Mathias said. “It’s no big secret that our company tried to buy her land. We want to put a road to our factory through her property and made her several generous offers. We think, although now we’ll never know, of course, that she was finally seeing the wisdom of selling. As I said, she was elderly. She also had family in Tromsø. We think she was beginning to realise that, if she sold her property to us, she could end her life in comfort. She asked us to meet her so we assumed that was the case.”
“Wow. And now you’ll never know what she intended?”
“I’m afraid not. What did she say to you? Did she give any indication that she was finally going to sell up?” Mathias’s eyes were a deep intelligent blue that looked as if they could read minds.
“No, nothing. Sorry.”
Perhaps that meeting had taken place after all. Maybe the old lady had told them that hell would freeze over before she sold them so much as a square inch of her land. Maybe they’d decided to put an end to negotiations for good.
“So what will happen now?” Dylan asked.
“Her lawyer will deal with her estate. The proceeds might go to charity, to her family, who knows? When it is settled, perhaps the new owner will sell to us. We really don’t know, Mr. Scott.”
“Dylan.”
“Dylan,” Mathias repeated smoothly as he rose to his feet. “And now, if you’ll excuse us, we have things to attend to. Enjoy the rest of your holiday.”
Smiling, Sigurd also stood up. Much friendlier than his brother, he shook Dylan’s hand. “Yes, have a good holiday, Dylan. I hope you see the northern lights if that’s what you wish.”
“My wife has set her heart on it,” Dylan said. “I hate to see her disappointed although I’ve heard the forecast isn’t very promising.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The northern lights take people by surprise. They like to have fun. Keep watching the sky, Dylan, and enjoy our country.”
“Thank you.”
Dylan watched the two men leave. They didn’t look like killers, but prisons all over the planet were crammed with lifers who didn’t look like killers.
Chapter Thirteen
Just after ten o’clock that evening, Dylan spotted Mike Lloyd striding out onto the deck for a smoke. Dylan slipped on his coat and ventured out to join him. His body was protected, but the wind tore into his face, making his eyes water and his nostrils sting. A sudden gust rocked him on his heels, causing Lloyd to smirk.
“At least it’s not snowing. Yet,” Lloyd said.
“It’s cold enough for it. I suppose it always is this far north. It’s good, though. Very bracing.” Calling himself a complete dickhead for describing this as bracing, Dylan looked up at a dark sky heavy with cloud. “I doubt we’ll see the northern lights tonight.”
“Not a hope in hell.” Lloyd, despite having lived in England until a few weeks ago, considered himself an expert.
Dylan turned slightly so that the hungry wind caught the back of his head instead of his face. “What’s new with you?”
“Not a lot.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any news from a postmortem on Hanna Larsen?”
Lloyd shook his head. “We’re not expecting any. These things take ages.”
Dylan knew all too well how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turned in the UK, but he’d assumed the Scandinavian countries were ultra-efficient. “I suppose they do. You passed on my—concerns though, yes?”
“Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?”
“You did. Thanks.” Dylan would bet Lloyd hadn’t said anything to anyone. He might have joked about it with his colleagues, but he’d bet he hadn’t made his concerns official. “Who did you tell? The ship’s captain?”
“What? Yeah.”
He was lying. He hadn’t said a word about it.
“Another woman was originally allocated Hanna Larsen’s cabin, you know,” Dylan said.
“That’s right. The Larsen woman kicked up a fuss so we had to change. That happens all the time. But I wouldn’t really know anything about it. It’s not my job.”
“I don’t suppose it is.” Dylan stamped his feet to keep frostbite at bay. “Hanna Larsen was due to meet someone while she was on board. Still, I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that either.”
“I don’t. Sorry.” Lloyd flicked the butt of his cigarette for the wind to carry it away. “I’d better get back to work. Have you booked an alarm call if the northern lights are spotted?”
“I have, yes. Thanks.” Bev had at least.
“Okay, Dylan. Be seeing you.”
Dylan was surprised Lloyd had remembered his name. “Good night, Taffy.”
He supposed he could understand the Welshman’s reluctance to seek out his bosses and tell them that some crazy passenger thought Hanna Larsen had been murdered in her bed. Lloyd was a new recruit and, although he strode around the ship like an old hand, he was sure to be trying to impress. Sharing Dylan’s concerns would make him look naive and he’d spend the rest of the trip being the butt of his colleagues’ jokes.
It didn’t matter. If Lloyd hadn’t mentioned his concerns to the ship’s hierarchy, Dylan would do it himself. First thing in the morning, he’d seek out the ship’s captain and have a chat with him.
He went back inside and wandered aimlessly from lounge to bar to dining room. He saw no one he knew. He returned to the bar, bought himself a whisky and inspected his fellow drinkers. It seemed as if a new quota of passengers arrived every day. Dylan didn’t recognise a single face.
Correction. He recognised the barman.
Five minutes later, he recognised another passenger and his spirits sank. It was
Bill Carr, the man who’d insisted on telling them how every member of his extended family had met their end.
If he’d been quicker, he would have made his escape. As it was, Carr gave him a cheery smile, no doubt pleased to find someone to bore to death, and sat beside him.
“I owe you a drink, Dylan. What are you having?”
“That’s kind of you.” It was, but Dylan wasn’t sure a free drink was fair exchange for hearing about Carr’s dead relatives. Surprisingly, as far as Dylan knew, none had doused themselves in petrol and struck a match while Carr was talking. “I’m on whisky. Thank you.”
“I’ll have the same.”
When their drinks were in front of them, Carr, who always looked as if he was about to trek to the North Pole single-handed, patted his pockets. “I’ve left my camera in the cabin so what’s the betting we see the northern lights?”
Dylan smiled and nodded. “I’m sure it can only help.”
“I can soon get it though. I think I’m finally finding my way around the ship.”
“It’s a maze, isn’t it?”
“It is. That’s half the fun though, isn’t it? I’ve met some lovely people as I’ve been trying to find my way around. There’s a chap with a cabin on the same deck as me who’s an architect. Another is a marine biologist. You meet some fascinating people, don’t you? There are people from every walk of life imaginable on this ship, you know.”
There was no need for Dylan to add to the conversation. A nod now and again and Carr was happy.
Thankfully, the ordeal was reasonably short-lived.
“Time I was off,” Carr said, “or I’ll have Maud after me. We have to keep our women happy, don’t we?”
“We do, Bill. It’s time I made a move too. I’ll see you around.”
“Probably when we’re both lost.” Chuckling at his attempt at a joke, he headed off in the direction of the cabins.
Dylan expelled his breath and ordered a nightcap. He was taking a long draught when Tom Jackson came into the bar, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder.
“Hi, Tom,” Dylan called to him.
Jackson looked around and gave a nod of recognition before joining Dylan at the bar. Most passengers had a rosy glow courtesy of the weather, but Jackson looked pale. Tense, too. The only colour in his face came from dark circles surrounding his eyes.
“You haven’t been working, have you?” Dylan asked as Jackson put the laptop case on the bar.
“Me? Certainly not.” He gave a smile that was at odds with those shadows around his eyes. “I’m sure everything’s running smoothly back in Spain. I have good staff. They’re all perfectly competent.”
Dylan would love to know how well—or badly—Jackson’s business was doing. It was bad enough for him to ask his mother for money. Dylan would need to be close to starvation before he approached his own mother, but perhaps Jackson had no such qualms. Or perhaps he was close to starvation.
“I’m sure it is. Or as smoothly as anything can run given the current economic state. Greedy bankers have a lot to answer for.”
“Too true. They’ve left us in a right mess.” Jackson ordered himself a double whisky. “Are you having one, Dylan?”
“Thanks, but I’ve just got one.”
Jackson’s hands shook as he took a huge gulp of the fiery liquid. Something wasn’t right in his world and Dylan would love to know what that was.
He was about to ask some probing questions when Jackson’s phone, buried somewhere deep in his pockets, trilled into life. He made no attempt to answer it.
“You’re turning into your mother,” Dylan said with a chuckle. “She was telling me that she’s refusing to answer her phone too.”
Jackson, the whisky relaxing him, gave a weak smile. “It’ll probably be for her anyway. Laura, my sister, phones all the time when we’re away. Of course, Mum doesn’t answer her phone so Laura insists on pestering me. She can damn well wait.”
“You don’t get on well, I take it?”
“We’re okay, probably because we rarely see each other.” He shrugged. “She’s the baby, you know? I suppose she was always going to be spoiled rotten. Daddy’s little girl and Mummy’s favourite.”
That wasn’t the impression Dylan had from Ruby. According to her, both children irritated her equally. She loved them both equally too.
“What about you?” Jackson asked, looking slightly more at ease as he embarked on boring small talk. “Any brothers or sisters?”
“None.” At times, Dylan thought that was a good thing. As they said, you can choose your friends but not your family.
“Lucky you.” Jackson spoke with feeling.
They lapsed into a thoughtful silence until Dylan decided to break it.
“People are still talking about Hanna Larsen,” he said.
“Who? Oh, the woman who died?”
“Yes. I’d love to know what really happened, wouldn’t you?”
“How do you mean?”
“Haven’t I mentioned it? Monday night—well, Tuesday morning—when she died, I heard someone go to her cabin. It was about three in the morning. You see, I don’t think she died from natural causes at all.” Dylan kept his voice low. “I think she was murdered.”
Jackson looked at him as if he was crazy. “Murdered?”
It was difficult to tell if Jackson’s shocked expression was due to the possibility of a killer being on board or the fact that Dylan could think such a thing.
“It’s possible, isn’t it?” Dylan said. “She was an old lady, and pretty frail, so it would have been easy enough for someone to overpower her.”
“But that’s madness. Christ, there are lots of people coming and going every night. Last night, a really noisy crowd woke me up in the early hours.”
“Yes, but I have the cabin near the end of the deck. Hanna’s was next to mine—right at the very end. No one was coming or going. The person I heard was definitely leaving Hanna’s cabin.”
“You can’t say that for sure. You didn’t actually see anyone, did you?”
“No. More’s the pity.” Dylan took a slow drink of whisky. “It makes you think though, doesn’t it? It must make you think especially. If not for the mix-up with the cabin allocations on that first night, your mother would have been sleeping in that cabin.”
Jackson’s expression didn’t change but a nerve throbbed at his throat.
“I believe she would, yes.” Jackson emptied his glass and put it down on the bar. He grabbed his laptop case and slung it over his shoulder. “I’d love to stay, but I have things to do. Good night, Dylan.”
“Take care.” He’d thought Jackson had looked in need of several drinks. Perhaps he wasn’t. Or perhaps he didn’t like the company or the topic of conversation.
Dylan watched him weave his way through a group of passengers, a tight forced smile on his face for their benefit. He was almost at the exit when he took a phone from his pocket, flipped it open, tapped a few buttons and held it to his ear. He stood perfectly still as he spoke.
It was late to be making a business call, but it didn’t look like a social one.
Whoever was on the other end of that line was receiving the full brunt of his anger. And Jackson looked furious.
Chapter Fourteen
Passengers were in a celebratory mood when the Midnight Sun arrived in Bodø on Saturday morning. They were, most of them for the first time in their lives, some distance above the Arctic Circle. And it was snowing—at least, a mix of snow and rain was falling. It wasn’t enough to cover the roads, but the mountains behind the city were a pristine white. A strong wind was blowing although, again, it wasn’t as cold as Dylan had feared.
It was a little after nine-thirty in the morning and the sun hadn’t yet risen. According to the forecast, the sun would shine today—for a total of four hours before it set.
He’d heard someone say that the sun didn’t set from the beginning of June to the middle of July and, consequently, the town was heaving with touri
sts. Even now, it was busy. Another attraction was the nearby Lofoten Islands, home to sea eagles, and many people were keen to see the birds.
The busy commercial harbour had surprised Dylan, but that was nothing compared to the dozens of gleaming yachts in the large pleasure harbour.
Bev wanted to see everything the town had to offer and they darted from street to street until Dylan thought they were walking in a small circle. They’d left Luke and Freya with Dylan’s mother, which, given her atrocious sense of direction, was probably a bad move. Bev was too happy peering in shop windows to worry.
Dead Calm (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 7
