‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to start looking for Joanna. It’s all that’s left of my job. And we ought to find Suna. She might be able to tell us something.’
‘I’ll come with you. It’s my job too. She’s my patient. Let’s go.’
Suna was in the crew quarters, off duty from her day shift serving in the Bridge Bar. She was a slim, dark-haired young woman from the Philippines, hair pulled back into a glossy pleat, her skin as fresh as an eighteen-year-old. She was nothing like the older woman who had been taking care of Joanna Carter.
‘Sorry, but you are not the right Suna,’ I said.
‘Yes, I am Suna,’ she said with quiet dignity.
‘Is there another Suna on board?’
‘I am the only Suna.’
‘But it’s an older stewardess called Suna who has been staying overnight with my friend, a passenger called Mrs Carter who has not been well. She brought magazines to read and letters to answer from her mother.’
‘I am sorry but I know nothing about this other Suna. There is only one Suna on board. You must be mistaken.’
We could have got the name wrong, but I didn’t think so. I’m particular about names. I had written it down in my notebook. I scrolled back the pages. Yes, there it was: SUNA, the date and the time she first came to help out. Nothing but meticulous.
‘So now Suna has disappeared,’ said Max, thawing a few degrees. ‘Or she never existed at all.’
‘Do you believe me now, that something odd is going on? It has to be kept under wraps. I met an officer who said that emergency ladders are always kept locked, so how did Joanna get strapped to one? There could be a vicious killer on board. We don’t want a mass panic among the passengers.’
‘I couldn’t cope with a mass panic,’ he said dryly.
‘Who organized for Suna to stay with Mrs Carter?’
‘It was the security officer Geoff Berry. He volunteered to find someone.’
‘So he found someone who doesn’t exist.’ I couldn’t keep a certain disdain out of my voice. ‘Typical.’
Being on the Double O was so different to conducting an investigation in Latching and the surrounding towns. There I knew what to do, where to go for information, my next step planned. I had no DI James here for support and advice, nor his irritating put-downs. Nor did I have my circle of grapevine friends, who often came up with a glimmer of a hint that made everything fall into place.
This was a big ship on an even bigger stretch of water. I felt as if I was cycling on the wall of death, bouncing off the walls, getting nowhere. The good doctor was annoyed with me for some reason. I’d stepped on a tender corn, without thinking. Ouch.
‘I must get back to surgery,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to leave you to it. Sorry, if I was a bit short with you earlier.’
‘I thought I’d upset you.’ The words came out automatically. ‘I wondered what I had said or done.’
‘No, it wasn’t you,’ he said, turning on his heel and going back to the medical centre. ‘It was someone else. I’ll catch up with you later.’
I went straight to the computer room and emailed James. He was the only one left I could rely on.
Dear James, can u come immediately? Our next port is Tromso. I need yr help. Joanna Carter has disappeared. Suna does not exist. Pls send advice & self in person. I am desperate. Love & 1 kiss, no time 4 any more. Jordan.
I clicked on send and hoped he wasn’t in the middle of a case that needed all his brain power and resources. It would be my luck if he didn’t have time to look at his emails. He often let them pile up.
There was no way I could sit and wait. Terminals were in demand and passengers came and went all day. Probably checking the stock market and the FI share index. I reluctantly logged off but would return after a reasonable time, say an hour, hoping for an answer. In the meantime, I’d lost track of time. I didn’t know if I should be eating or at some event, wearing some other clothes. The dress code was pretty strict. First sitters were wandering about in glad rags which gave me a clue. It was a formal night. I should go and change. Miss Brown didn’t have anything formal. Poor old thing. It was an early night for her.
The stateroom was strangely quiet without Joanna or Suna. I put on the television and twiddled about, trying to find some music. But all I could find was a replay of an old episode of Dad’s Army. It was noise of a sort.
I hung over the balcony rail with a glass of Joanna’s brandy in my hand. I felt I needed it. The flare of the distant oil refinery lit up the sky. It was apparently the only light they got in the dark winter months. I’d got the hang of how they managed to get the ship moving again. They let go the lines and then the forward thrusters moved the ship off the berth. They were swinging the bow to starboard, through the wind, before heading for the breakwaters.
The ship’s whistle gave me the usual jolt. I never expected it. They were saluting the small town of Hammerfest as if it were a huge metropolis. A few people waved from the quay. Quite soon we were in open sea.
I was very late for first sitting dinner. I apologized all round but everyone seemed happy to see me. It had taken me ages to decide what to wear, considering that I had somehow mislaid my boss and therefore should dress down. My black trousers and a sparkly silver top, chosen by Doris, were as near as I could get to formal tonight. The sparkly top cost a fiver at a charity shop but looked as good as any of the posh outfits around.
I half expected to find Joanna already at the table, fully recovered and done up to the nines, ordering an expensive wine, but her chair was empty.
‘We’re so glad to have you back, Jordan,’ said Mrs Birley, expansive in brocade. ‘The table has been quiet without you and Mrs Carter to cheer us all up. How is the poor lady? We heard she is very unwell.’
‘She’s recovering from her ordeal,’ I said. What else could I say? That I’d lost her? ‘Well, how are you all? Tell me about your day in Hammerfest. Did you know it’s the most northerly town in the world? I didn’t go on any trips.’
They began to tell me, all at the same time, about the ancient stuffed polar bear society, the triangular church, the fish hotels and the German cemetery in the town, which was the only place not burnt down when the retreating occupation troops adopted a scorched earth policy.
‘It’s still going to be light tonight,’ said Craig Quentin, filling my wine glass from his bottle of Merlot without asking. I sent him a smile of thanks. I was mellowing towards the awful man. ‘Why don’t you join the midnight quoits tournament on the lido deck?’
‘That sounds fun,’ I said. ‘I need some fun.’
‘We could make up a team, dearie,’ said Natasha. ‘Challenge the crew.’
She was wearing another of her outrageous dresses, a sort of conglomeration of purple and silver stripes, with a feathered corsage that threatened her soup every time she bent forward. ‘We must give our team a name. Something terrifically spunky.’
‘The Sputniks?’ suggested Ron Birley. This was quite unexpected, coming from him. I’d gathered he was something to do with insurance in the city.
‘I’ll make us some badges to wear,’ said Mrs Birley who had been going to the craft classes. ‘I’ve got some canvas and felt left over.’
We all agreed that this was a terrific name. Ron Birley glowed in the appreciation. I was beginning to like my table mates. Ron had probably been on deck all day in dark glasses, practising for the tournament.
‘So let’s drink to the last wilderness and the Sputniks,’ I said, raising my glass.
‘To the last wilderness!’ they chorused.
I skipped a couple of courses and settled for grilled sea bass and all the bits and pieces they threw in with it. I always enjoyed sea bass at Maeve’s Cafe when one of her fisherman friends had a good catch. Craig’s wine on top of the neat brandy was relaxing me. Afterwards I fell for the sticky toffee pudding and Chantilly sauce. It was pure decadence.
‘I like to see a woman who is a hearty eater,’ said Craig.
‘Lunch passed me by,’ I said.
I didn’t want to dilute the wine so I left the table before the coffee stage. The Internet study was empty and I logged on to a computer quickly.
There was one email waiting for me. A reply from James. I was almost trembling when I opened it up. Getting a reply was joy enough. It began with my name. He never said dear or darling, not even hello.
Jordan. Go back to the beginning. Sieve through every detail of your first mtg. What Mrs C said, did, let out by mistake. There may be a clue. Cannot join you. Heavy caseload. But not too busy to look Mrs C up on certain confidential data base. She once worked in a bank and was convicted of fraud. Sentenced to two years’ imprisonment. Paroled after nine months. You owe me one. James.
THIRTEEN
At Sea
So Joanna had been sentenced to two years in prison for fraud. Not quite so naive and lily-white then. How had she managed to get her hair done inside? It must have been purgatory. And her nails. All that laundry work could cause nail havoc.
I decided instantly that the best way to use this information was to keep quiet about it. And when we found her, as I now felt sure we would, to act as if we knew nothing about her past.
After all, she might be a reformed character. Prison might have worked its reformatory finger. I ought to have checked that cheque.
Hamish had come back to me with a fast message. All the crew and hotel staff had been alerted and were on the lookout for Joanna. He was at a loss to explain the other Suna.
‘There must have been a mix-up in the names,’ he said. ‘Some of the girls have very similar names.’
‘Probably,’ I agreed. But I was not convinced. The young Suna had been quite adamant that there was not another on board with the same name.
I spent the next hour looking at the CCTV film records from the camera that was trained on A Deck, hoping to see Joanna and Suna leaving the staterooms, one furtive and heading for the nearest bar. But there was nothing. It was unbelievable. How could they have both disappeared? It wasn’t possible for two women to walk through walls, especially the one that was in a trance.
An hour later and it was out of my glad rags and into two vests, woollen shirt, fleece and anorak for the passengers versus crew quoits tournament on deck. It would take my mind off things. The cold might sharpen my brain.
And it was cold. Three degrees below freezing, north-easterly wind, with an uncomfortable swell, but in full daylight. The sun was low in the sky but it was still shining. I wanted to go to bed but my body refused to accept the time. My body said look the sun is shining. It was full of energy and raring to go.
The two months of darkness from late November to late January must be horrendous. No wonder many Norwegians succumbed to depression.
Sputniks team assembled on the quoits deck, hardly recognizable in mufflers and gloves and hats down to the nose. We were issued with our badges to wear. No other team had badges. Natasha was wearing a fluffy white coat and resembled an upright polar bear.
‘We’re going to win,’ she announced to the other teams in a ringing voice. ‘Win, Win, Win.’ We all joined in the chant. ‘Win, Win, Win.’ It was called demoralizing the competition.
It should have demoralized the other teams but they were all fuelled up on other substances and started their own chants. Lots of seagulls flew away.
It was a hilarious tournament. Few of us knew the rules. I didn’t know any of the rules. I threw the quoits when I was told to throw, and aimed for the white one in the middle. Members of the entertainments staff were trying to keep it all on the straight and steady but it was impossible. New rules were frequently invented.
The average life of a quoit was an hour and a half before it went overboard.
Late arrivals were a team from the girl show dancers, now wearing more clothes but still looking glamorous in fake fur and big earrings and enough eyelashes to keep them warm. Of course the men gravitated to their team. We lost both Craig and Ron in minutes.
James would have loved it, once he thawed. He would have enjoyed clowning around, forgetting he was a policeman, hugging me to keep me warm. I wanted his arms round me. There was no one to hug me. I got colder and colder.
A great cheer went up as the dancers were proclaimed the winners. Not surprising since their team had swollen in numbers. But the crew were bringing round hot drinks and no one really cared who won.
I looked at my watch. It was twenty past one. Ridiculous and it was still daylight. It was time I was in bed, dreaming of James.
‘Wasn’t that fun?’ It was Craig, done up to the chin in a bulky padded anorak and wearing a flat cap. He looked rather more normal than the fancy gear he wore at dinner.
‘I saw you having lots of fun with the younger generation.’
‘Never miss a chance,’ he grinned. ‘Fancy a nightcap?’
I shook my head. ‘Sorry, I really think it’s been a long day. And I’m so cold. My hands are going to drop off any minute.’
‘I won’t offer to warm you up. Another time?’
‘Yes, another time,’ I said with some degree of fake enthusiasm. Natasha had already retired below with her woolly coat, and Ron and Flo Birley were saying their round of goodnights. My warm duvet in A710 was singing to me like a siren song. I turned to leave.
‘Goodnight, Jordan.’
‘Goodnight, Craig.’
I was so numbed with cold that for a moment I wasn’t sure whether I had to go up a deck or down a deck. My brain had frozen. There must be a useful deck sign which would tell me where I was.
But there was some disturbance going on from the quoits area. Passengers were crowding to the stern, leaning over the rails, and there was a lot of shouting. Surely not a man overboard? No one would last minutes in this temperature of water. I found myself squashed between two people craning over the rails.
‘There she is, down there. Look, down there. Can’t you see her?’
I could only see something white being tossed about in the frothy wake of the ship. It was only the vaguest shape.
Slices of silver dappled the waves. A red rescue dingy was being lowered from a lower deck, crewed by seamen in orange lifejackets. The outboard motor burst into life and the dingy went straight towards the white shape which was rapidly being carried away, but already it seemed to have stopped moving and was only something white floating on the top of waves.
A gasp went up from the crowd as the white bundle was pulled aboard the dingy, arms flapping, or was it sleeves flapping? It was hard to tell. Although the sun was still shining, there were long shadows caused by the sides of the ship.
The dingy returned to the mother ship and was winched back on deck. The sound screeched in my ears. I saw Dr Russell hurrying on deck as the seamen reported their find. Suddenly I knew what the white mass was. It was a bathrobe, the kind that the posh staterooms provided for their passengers. Not all the cabins got them. Joanna had one and so did I. She had been wearing it that morning. She had been wearing it the last time I saw her.
There were dark stains on the bathrobe. In the midnight sun they were suddenly crimson, spreading like wine, creeping down the front. The bathrobe was empty. There was no Joanna. I ran to the rails again, my heart pounding, and looked down into churning froth. There was no one there.
‘She must be down there,’ I shouted. ‘Someone find her. Please … a lifebelt.’
I started to struggle out of my anorak. I was a good swimmer and I’d find her. There were lifebelts at intervals along the rail. It would be easy to take one with me. I thought I saw a hand struggling to reach the surface.
I felt something holding me back as I tried to climb over the rail. Then an arm went round my waist. It was a firm, masculine grip. There was no chance I could escape from it.
‘Don’t be daft, Jordan. You wouldn’t last five minutes in that water.’
It was Craig Quentin holding on to me, pulling me back. He looked different, not quite so superficial and pompous.
He’d shed the smooth cravat and whisky glass image. Then I knew. I recognized the look of a professional.
‘You’re the retired police officer?’ I gasped.
He nodded but lowered his voice. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Quentin,’ he said. ‘Early retirement due to injury. Don’t ask nature of injury. Very personal but it doesn’t stop my brain from working.’
‘Thank goodness it’s you but you know we’ve got to get Joanna out of the water.’
‘It’s probably far too late.’
‘It must be her.’
‘How do we know?’
‘Is your name really Craig?’
‘Yes, Craig is my middle name. My mother’s maiden name. My full name if you really have to know is William Craig Quentin, which gives me the unfortunate set of initials, W.C.Q. So during my entire school life I was known as queuing for the loo.’
‘Oh dear, not much fun,’ I said, with a slight shiver of sympathy and trying not to laugh, both at the same time.
‘So I changed my first name to Bill. You can call me Bill.’
Suddenly I liked him. Not the way I like James, of course. But Bill Quentin was of the same ilk. He was trustworthy, funny, a streetwise detective.
‘Bill.’ I let the name sink in. ‘I need your help. You know that. We need your help, Joanna and me.’
‘I know you do.’
‘What can we do about Joanna?’
‘If she was in that bathrobe, then she is beyond our help now. But I don’t think she was. I think it was thrown overboard to distract out attention. A decoy. Now, how about that nightcap?’
‘Thank you,’ I said unsteadily. ‘But as I said, I am very tired.’
‘Ten minutes, I promise, that’s all. We need to swap a few facts, then I’ll see you safely back to your cabin, sorry — stateroom.’
I believed him. He took me to the Bridge Bar, both shedding outer clothes as we walked. This bar was his favourite haunt. Some old Sinatra tape was playing.
Fold and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 8) Page 11
