Fold and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 8)

by Stella Whitelaw

Such a pretty place. I had enjoyed the morning so much, looked forward to a stroll round the town after lunch, taking in the cobbled streets and all the ships and boats in the harbour.

  Most of the passengers were laughing and chatting. Word had not spread of the incident. No doubt the ship’s grapevine would be in action this evening. Meanwhile it was being played down. Hardly an item for tomorrow’s daily newspaper.

  Free. The word came into my head. I was free. Joanna Carter was being looked after by the medical staff. There was a guard on her door. All I need to do was pay regular visits and find out what I could. A burden rolled off me. But first I needed a shower.

  The two staterooms looked the same, neat and tidy, clean towels in the bathrooms, bins emptied. A pail of fresh ice in the refrigerator. Our steward, Ali, had serviced the staterooms. Everything was spic and span.

  Yet I had a feeling that someone had been in. Perhaps it was too tidy. Someone had looked around or had been searching for something. It was difficult to pin down this feeling but I knew it was so. It was intuition that crept along my skin, prickling, alerting my senses.

  I picked up a heavy brass lamp and opened all the wardrobe doors, one by one. Heaven knows what or whom I expected to jump out at me. But there was no one hiding in the staterooms.

  I went into locking every door mode before I took a shower. That Psycho film haunted me. Then I saw the blinking red light on the phone by my bed. There was a message from Francis saying he’d booked a table for two at the second sitting.

  The ship was moving. I went out on to the balcony in time to see her sliding away from the quayside. At first it was only a few inches, then the gap widened. The lines had been let go. The ship’s hooter nearly made me jump out of my skin. It was the traditional naval goodbye to a port. Once clear, the ship steamed out of the harbour. I supposed we had a pilot on board, steering us through the home waters that he knew so well.

  Second sitting meant a long gap between now and food. My stomach was hooked on food. I went to the Internet study and emailed James. I told him what had happened. Then I went on to Google and surfed keelhauling. It was a medieval form of punishment, pulling the victim under the keel of the ship. Joanna would have died on leaving Stavanger, as the ship turned round. It seemed a freak incident. But then so had my nun on a meat hook been a freak murder.

  The wind was getting up. They cordoned off some of the outside decks. No one overboard on this cruise, please. I could hear the wind howling through the deck superstructure. Crew were hurrying about, securing deckchairs with yards of rope, collecting cushions, making everything safe. They were hooded and fastened into weatherproof navy anoraks.

  It was not an evening for finery. It was coded semi-casual. I wore the black dress from Guilbert’s store. The neckline was ribbon-edged and I had my crimson pashmina to throw over my shoulders. I would be warm and comfortable. I wondered if Francis would recognize it.

  To ease my guilt, I made a lightning visit to the medical centre. They assured me that Joanna was sleeping now and there was no need to visit her till the morning. Guilt rolled off me like melting butter.

  Francis was waiting for me outside the Delphi dining room. His semi-casual was, of course, a blazer, shirt and tie. He smiled, recognizing the dress.

  ‘As lovely as always,’ he said, forever gallant. ‘I’m glad you still wear it.’

  The table for two was well away from the crowds. I could not have borne being questioned by everyone we knew. Francis was the perfect host, ordering wine without consulting me. I didn’t care what I drank. It wasn’t cranberry juice.

  Strangely, my rampant hunger had eased. A transitory thing. It was a delightful meal. I even made a few notes as I ate more than I ought to. I might never eat like this again.

  Asparagus spears with hollandaise sauce, followed by cream of Stilton and leek soup, followed by a champagne sorbet. Wasn’t that enough for any human? No, we were not even halfway. I felt tired just reading the menu.

  I went for a small portion of baked fillet of halibut while Francis chose beef Wellington with Perigordine sauce. Whatever was that when you were at home? I couldn’t count the veggies offered. At some point, I had to say, no thank you, no more please. I was sated with food.

  The desserts were mouthwatering. Crème brûlée, chocolate and mint parfait, plums in sangria syrup. I went for fresh strawberries Romanoff. Did this mean they were Russian strawberries? Fortunately it was a small helping, decorated and dusted with icy swirls of this and that, like a picture on a plate.

  Neither of us had an inch of room left for the cheese board or the fresh fruit or the petits fours.

  ‘Coffee in the lounge, I think,’ said Francis. ‘Then these poor souls can start clearing up. Do you want to go to the late showing of the musical tonight? I’ve no idea what it is.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, Francis.’ Suddenly I was tired out. I would check one last time on Joanna, then have an early night with a book. Or make some more notes. I was forgetting my cardinal rule. Write everything down, even the smallest detail. ‘You’ve been so kind, Francis, and I’ve enjoyed your company. But I’ve a few things to do before I turn in.’

  ‘I quite understand. A little sleuthing. Don’t let me detain you.’

  I dropped a light kiss on his cheek with a smile of thanks.

  Francis was looking happy and content. Perhaps he was imagining a series of suppers for two.

  I went back to the Internet study and keyed in my registration number and password. It was all very high tech. I was hoping for a reply from James. It flashed up on the screen that I had a new message. It was from a coded name I didn’t recognize and the subject matter was business.

  ‘Keep your nose out of this. It’s none of your business,’ it said. It wasn’t signed. It was a direct warning. And someone who knew my email address. I felt vulnerable and hollow. Was I the next target?

  SEVEN

  Almost At Sea

  It had been a delightful day at Alesund, but I had only been able to hop on and off the ship, not daring to be away from Joanna for long. The town was a feast of Art Deco houses with a lovely meandering canal to wander along and as always, a range of majestic mountains in the distance.

  Preparations had been made to cast off but the movement of the ship was wrong. It wasn’t the usual full steam ahead, but a sort of erratic rocking. The word battering came into mind. I had no idea if we were still berthed alongside at Alesund. The Double O had been scheduled to leave at six o’clock in the evening, and as far as I knew, all the passengers had returned safely.

  There had been no urgent messages earlier, tannoying for passengers Mr and Mrs So-and-So to pick up the nearest phone and dial reception. The swipe card check occasionally hiccupped and the missing passengers were usually found on board, in their cabin, in a bar, on deck, oblivious of the mild panic on the bridge.

  It looked windy outside the balcony. I could feel the ship rocking more wildly. But I’d walked the Latching sea front in winds far stronger than this. It was about force six, a south-westerly, still overcast with occasional sweeps of rain. But the Latching’s sea front was solid and steady and a deck balcony was not.

  I pulled a track suit on and fastened a warm anorak. No one else was on deck. That email still irked me but I refused to be scared of an email. I’d had far worse in my days at First Class Investigations. There had been all sorts of nasty warnings through my letterbox.

  There were land lights to starboard, twinkling in the hills.

  We were still berthed at Alesund, despite my seeing a gap growing earlier. Had I dreamed that departure?

  The wind was stronger than I thought and the Double O was being blown against the berth, despite all the sturdy lines holding the ship. There must be some worried faces on the bridge. She was a big ship and needed a lot of power to turn her against the wind.

  Once she could head into the wind, she’d be off and away. But now she was sideways on, thousands of tons of white steel, the siz
e of a tower block of flats.

  They needed another tug. Even a novice like me could see that. Maybe a couple of extra tugs, powerful ones. Perhaps I ought to ring the bridge and suggest it. There was a phone number on display somewhere, that anyone was invited to ring if it was a man overboard emergency.

  ‘Don’t stay on deck, Jordan. It’s too dangerous.’

  Staff Captain Hamish Duncan was hurrying along the deck, done up to the chin in navy waterproofs. A gust of wind nearly knocked him against me. He caught hold of a rail to steady himself, inches from a collision.

  ‘The wind is forty-five knots,’ he said. ‘You should go inside, Jordan. It isn’t safe.’

  ‘I want to watch what’s happening,’ I said.

  ‘Not sensible. It’s a difficult departure manoeuvre, but everything is under control. Go and watch a film in your stateroom.’

  He looked anxious and I didn’t want to add to his troubles. His dark hair was blowing about. It added to a general sense of disorder which gave me another feeling of alarm. The cruise brochures didn’t warn passengers about dreadful weather. The photographs were always of sunshine on deck and happy people at a bar.

  ‘You need another tug,’ I said.

  ‘Correct. A couple are on their way. You’ll make a seaman yet.’

  Supposing they couldn’t move the Double O? Two weeks in Alesund wouldn’t be that bad. It was a fascinating place with those mountains to explore and the seven nearby islands joined by ferries or tunnels.

  I couldn’t open the heavy door to the inside corridor, nor could I walk unaided to the next set of doors. Hamish added his weight and we managed to push the door wide enough for me to hurry inside. The wind was starting to howl.

  The relief was instant. It was warm, calm and cut the wind, despite the rocking. I didn’t want to go back to the staterooms. I didn’t want to watch a film. I wanted to know what was happening. Hamish had already gone with some haste so he missed my smile of thanks.

  Somewhere there was a late night bar, quite small, called the Bridge Bar. It had a panoramic window. I’d not been there before. Tonight there was a small cluster of passengers glued to the windows, watching the manoeuvres.

  ‘Hello, Jordan.’ A man detached himself from the group, whisky glass in his hand. It was Craig Quentin from our dining table. His company was not my first choice at any time although I could not pin down why. But I could hardly snub him in these circumstances. ‘Spiffing fun, isn’t it? We might be stuck here for weeks. Who cares, as long as the bar stays open?’

  ‘Fun for us but not for the captain,’ I said. ‘He must be very worried.’

  ‘They’ll work it out. Probably the extra tugs they need are miles away, and it’s taking hours to move them to this fjord. Can I get you a drink?’

  It was a bit late for any more drinking but I accepted a pineapple juice. Craig raised a bushy eyebrow but ordered it from the bar. The barman was sleepy-eyed. It was getting late. He couldn’t close until the last drinker left.

  The wind was streaming through the ship’s flags on line. They were flapping violently, being shredded. I hoped they had a stock of new ones on the bridge. The decks below were ghostly, shrouded in shadows.

  I felt like a shadow myself. Talking to this man was not normal.

  ‘Here she comes,’ said Quentin, pointing to a sturdy ship shape that was emerging through the darkness. ‘Help at last. A powerful, tough tug. She’s going to be made fast centre, I bet. Lead aft.’

  I wondered how he knew so much, but what was going on below was so interesting, I forgot about the man standing beside me. The tug looked small and squat beside the long, elegant Double O. She didn’t look strong enough to tow a rowing boat.

  ‘How will they do it?’ I found myself asking.

  ‘They’ll use this new forward tug and the ship’s thrusters to slowly bring the bow off the berth. The other tug, at the stern, will hold the stern off the dock, so we don’t get banged against it. The new tug is going to have to work damned hard to swing the Orpheus Odyssey to the port. Tricky stuff. Once we are turned round, we’ll be able to head out of the harbour, use the wind to our advantage. On our way to Trondheim.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  He tapped his nose. ‘Years of cruising, m’dear. You pick up a few things on the way.’

  Quentin was right although it seemed an age before the great ship began to heave and move. The forward tug was billowing clouds of smoke and we could see the strain on the heavy cables. I imagined the staff captain sweating it out on the bridge. He deserved every inch of the gold braid sewn on his dress uniform.

  I was ready for sleep now that I could feel the reassuringly regular movement of the ship as she headed into the wind and out of the harbour. The pilot stayed on board for several hours, taking us through troubled waters. For a short while I had forgotten Joanna’s plight and the warning email.

  A small drama at sea. I could only endure small dramas.

  ‘Thank you for the drink, Craig,’ I said. ‘Fascinating to watch. See you tomorrow sometime.’

  ‘Goodnight, m’dear. Take care. There’s still a lot of movement.’

  Craig seemed settled in for a long night’s drinking so I made my way down to the next deck. I could sleep now that everything was all right. Everywhere was deserted, not a soul anywhere. I was halfway down the staircase when there was a sudden violent push in the middle of my back. I gasped.

  My feet lost their grip on the carpeted stairs. I felt myself falling, flying through the air in slow motion. My hand shot out to grasp the banister but my fingers were suddenly slippery with sweat and weak with fear. I felt the polished wood slide away from me as I tumbled.

  We learned how to fall in the police force. Long forgotten training came automatically into my brain and transferred swiftly to my body. It’s the landing that causes injuries, not the fall. Land hard and you’ll break something. So land away from obstacles. Strike your head on an immovable object and that’s trouble. That’s pain and blood and stitches, maybe concussion.

  I went into a roll. Just in time. I felt the hardness of the landing floor but let my body roll into the space. It knocked the breath out of me. I lay there, not moving, hoping that nothing was broken. In that moment I opened my eyes and looked upwards to the top of the stairs.

  I thought I saw a shadow move away but I could not be sure. There was a small flash of light but I couldn’t recognize its significance. But it hadn’t been the wind that sent me flying. It had been a deliberate human punch. I’d been punched before, many times. There’d be a bruise in the morning.

  EIGHT

  Trondheim

  I didn’t break anything but I was as stiff as an ironing board the next morning. Rolling out of bed was the only option. A hot bath helped and I stayed under water until the prune effect took hold. So I had an enemy on board who sent me nasty emails and pushed me down the stairs. Not nice.

  This bodyguard business was taking on a whole new aspect. I was unsure of anything, especially myself. I was still eating more than was healthy for anyone, although I kept hopefully to fruit and salad. It was the undercover extras that were piling on the weight.

  People kept coming to me with theories about poor Joanna. It was kind enough but I didn’t want to know how they thought Joanna got strapped to the rope ladder. I wanted to hear it from her own lips. But she was still not talking.

  And the weather was awful. Forget a Caribbean tan. It was too cold and too windy to sit anywhere outside on deck. Take a sleeping bag or a rug and find a sheltered corner. Walkers on the promenade deck were wrapped into anoraks and scarves. The shop sold out of socks and gloves.

  The ship was making slow progress. She felt heavier. We had all eaten too much porridge. The ship was entering the Trondheimfjord and proceeding towards the berth, guided by a pilot. It was a long way, some eighty-five nautical miles and still windy.

  The crimson pashmina made a perfect scarf, folded longways and knotted round my throat.
It was blissfully warm. I stopped worrying about Joanna. She couldn’t come to any harm in the medical centre. My aim was to find out what had really happened and I couldn’t do that if I was frozen to the deck in a torpor.

  Joanna and I were booked to go on a city tour, so I decided to join the party on my own. I might pick up something from the passengers. They were more talkative when in smaller groups.

  Staff Captain Duncan caught sight of me while waiting in the queue to disembark. Cruise life was turning into one long queue for this or that but don’t tell anyone. ‘A quick word?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, stepping aside. It would have to be quick or I would get black looks from the passengers on the coach. Or left behind on the quayside.

  ‘I thought you might like to know that we have additional ammunition in our investigations. A passenger who is a retired police detective, quite high ranking I think, has offered to help out.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said, not sure if I meant it or wanted interference.

  ‘Would you like to meet him?’

  My heart sank still further. ‘Maybe … ’ I replied, unenthusiastically.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, ushering me back into the queue at a different point. I ignored the outraged expressions. After all, I had given up my original place in the line. People could be quite emotional about queues.

  Trondheim was indeed a medieval city. I expected to see pilgrims and merchants, maybe even King Olav II Haraldsson himself, riding the streets on a great horse, clothed in furs and armour. The city had had its share of fires, fifteen in five hundred years, each time reducing the city to ashes. Somehow the great Nidaros Cathedral had survived, especially the spectacular west front with its rows and rows of stone statues of Norwegian kings and bishops. One bishop had three heads in a basket, apparently his nephews. I didn’t want to know that story.

  ‘This is the cathedral for all of Norway’s coronations,’ said our guide. This was news to me. I was so ignorant, I wasn’t even aware that they had coronations.