‘Although it might be easier, I doubt if the captain or the purser would approve of such a devious plan. I should imagine that she has already been offered a considerable refund on her fare. And wasn’t she offered a flight home? What else can they do?’
‘I know,’ I said, suddenly. The next step in the compensation chain came to me in a flash. ‘They’ll offer her another cruise, in lieu, completely free, with pounds to spend on board.’
‘Wow, nice one. I’d put up with a few dead rats for one of those.’
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
But Dr Mallory would not be drawn. He got up and stretched languidly. ‘Time to go shopping. I need a new panama hat. Perhaps Adolfo Dominguez will have one in my price range. See you back on board, Casey. Don’t get lost. You go in that direction, remember, no detours round street markets.’
He tipped his current hat and set off towards the shopping district. He’d done his good turn for the day. St Peter had written it down in his notebook. Another gold star for the doctor’s record. They’d reserved his white feather sofa.
I retraced my steps, not looking forward to various imminent interviews. First a report to the purser, then maybe the captain would want to see me. Would I have to tell Miss Ember? On the plus side, there was thanking the professor for the photographs he had so graciously taken, and informing our star that she had the Juliet balcony that she yearned for. In all, a busy day. Thank goodness for the oasis of calm ashore. I was back on an even keel.
The light on my computer was blinking frantically. I had emails from practically everyone on board ship, including security. It was like Facebook. I saw the purser first, then the manager of the Bond Street salon, Derek Ripon (he was known as Rip-off behind his back), and Captain Nicolas. I managed shocked, efficient, protective, traumatized, helpful and mystified, all at the same time. Quite a feat.
They couldn’t blame me for anything. Only assess the way I handled the situation. Nine out of ten for handling, apparently, said the captain. Mr Ripon was annoyed that I had taken the model’s head. I waffled on about tracing the photograph, the sort of glue or Sellotape being important evidence.
‘Well done, Miss Casey. Not easy for you, I’m sure. You coped very well in the circumstances,’ said Captain Nicolas. ‘Would you be prepared to tell Miss Ember? I shall understand if you would prefer not to. In which case, the security officer will do it.’
‘I think it would be better coming from a uniformed officer,’ I murmured, opting out. Cowardly, Casey. I was allowed this one, I reckoned.
‘Quite right. I’ll call Richard Norton.’
‘I’ll be on hand, of course,’ I added. If she started throwing things at him, I’d be there to catch.
‘Yes, that would be appropriate,’ he said, closing the interview.
Passengers were returning from the day ashore and all the trips. The ship was starting to hum again, busy and vibrant, the security machines working overtime as they screened purchases and cruise cards. Everyone seemed to be in a good humour. They’d had a lovely day and were looking forward to a shower, a drink, a gourmet meal and a show. In any order.
All the pre-departure checks were made and the Countess was ready to sail. No one had been left behind. Passengers were blissfully unaware of the hectic behind-the-scenes activity. Lines were let go and the thrusters were used to move the ship off the tight berth. Once clear, we steamed out towards the northern breakwaters, passing small and large shipping, passengers waving to anyone who cared to wave back.
I left a message for Richard Norton, asking him to let me know when he was going to see Miss Ember. Meanwhile I had to get ready for the evening’s mad rush round the shows. It would have to be a simple, understated outfit. I did not want to look overdressed for the interview with Miss Ember.
My grey silk with black beading was understated. I added a silver belt and plain silver slippers for running about in. No time for careful hair styling. I gave it a quick brush, then tied it back with a silver ribbon and let it fall around in general disorder.
It was an Abba show this evening. I did the introduction on stage and then fled to the first sitting where I had time to host my table for ten minutes. They were a pleasant group, pleased to see me, telling me about their various busy days. Time for a starter. Spinach and ricotta tortellini in cream and mushroom sauce sounded good. My taste buds nearly fainted with joy. There was barely time to gobble the fillet of bream with lemon mayonnaise, and I was almost too full. But not too full for a generous half glass of wine.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, finishing the glass. ‘I have to go. Maybe one evening I’ll manage a whole meal with you.’
‘Don’t worry, Casey. We get to eat your share of the sweets.’ They meant the petit fours served at the end of dinner.
On my way to the back entrance of the Princess Lounge theatre, I noticed a phalanx of stewards keeping everyone away from one of the side bars. Something was going on. I peered in the glass windows and recognized the broad shoulders in an immaculate dinner jacket. It was Dr Mallory.
He was on his knees, working on someone on the floor of the bar. He was using a portable defibrillator to restore a heartbeat. A shirt had been opened and I caught sight of a hairy chest, but not the face. Dr Mallory was working ceaselessly, as if his patient was coming and going. I could see the sweat on his forehead as he tried to maintain a heartbeat.
It must have been ten minutes that I stood there, helping to keep inquisitive people away. The brightly-lit graph was now showing a flat green running line on the screen. His patient had gone.
I heard Sam’s voice, dispirited and low, noting the time of death. He had worked so hard and lost. He packed up the defibrillator and closed the lid, then got up from his knees and wiped a hand wearily across his forehead.
‘What was it?’ I said at the doorway, stopping him as he made to leave. For a moment, my face didn’t register. He looked shattered.
‘Cardiac arrest. He had a dicey heart. There was a chest scar where he’d had open-heart surgery. Probably a mitral valve problem.’
‘Do we know who it is?’ I asked.
‘One of yours,’ he said. ‘Your Greek lecturer, Professor Theo Papados, I believe. Nice chap.’
Eight
Toulon
It was a shock. My few meetings with Theo Papados had always been pleasant if a little tepid. He had been a reticent man as academics often are. Now he was dead. It didn’t seem fair, to be wiped out like that, so fast and undignified on the floor of a bar. Perhaps he knew he was living on borrowed time.
Then it hit me. Practicalities. I’d have to get another lecturer flown out. The passengers needed their daily dose of culture. Head Office would find someone. They had lists of contacts. Did I have time to email them straight away?
Then it hit me again. Where was his mobile phone? The one with the photos of the tampered model? I actually needed them. Although most people believed me, some photographic evidence would not go amiss.
Derek Ripon was already making irritated noises. I had a nasty feeling that he thought I had planted the dress and the blood to discredit him. Tell me how, O Master of the Shop Keys? He had once refused me a staff discount, but I hadn’t taken it to heart. Rejection was part of life. I was used to it.
I sent the email. I did the shows. Passengers started to ask questions. The ship’s grapevine was in overdrive. Miss Ember was predictably still upset, but what could we do? We couldn’t upgrade her to the penthouse suite. It was occupied by a very pleasant couple from Manchester. She began writing a furious letter while Mrs Fairweather made consoling cups of tea.
‘But you still have the dress, Lucinda,’ she said. ‘It’s only been in a shop window. And there’s no damage to it. In fact, your lovely dress has become quite famous.’
Thus spoke the voice of common sense.
The professor’s mobile phone was nowhere. I made enquiries all evening without seeming too indiscreet or insensitive. No one had seen it.
His steward searched Professor Papados’s cabin for me, after I implied that the doctor needed the phone. But it was not there. Nor was it anywhere in the bar where he had collapsed. It had disappeared.
It seemed a year but was only hours before I caught up with Dr Mallory. He seemed quieter than usual, less flamboyant. His face was drawn. The loss of a patient had affected him and there had been a stream of passengers returning from the trip ashore with minor injuries. They wanted their money’s worth, draining his energy with lengthy descriptions of other slight indispositions.
‘Hey, Dr Mallory,’ I said. ‘You look in need of some tender loving care. I know of a good doctor.’
‘Lead me in his direction,’ he said. ‘Or a pretty girl would do. Have you got one as pretty as you?’ A glimmer of amusement returned to his eyes. He had relaxed for a few seconds, knowing his flippant remark would annoy me.
I brushed my escaping hair out of my eyes. If he wanted to flirt, he could have flirting. ‘Now let me see, yes, I can do tender. A soothing flannel to the neck, cool drinks, soft music. Loving care, even better, hot water bottle, lullaby, tucking you up in bed.’
‘I like the sound of the tucking up,’ he said. ‘When could you start?’
‘As soon as I have Professor Papados’s mobile phone.’ I regretted saying it the moment the words were out of my mouth. The amusement faded from his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I went on. ‘I saw how hard you tried to save him. I was there, watching from the other side of the bar window.’
‘It should have worked,’ he said. ‘He had a good chance. I thought I was in there winning, then suddenly it all went wrong and I don’t know why. I can’t explain what happened.’
‘And you don’t know why?’
He was staring out of the window as if going over it again and again in his mind. He was tapping his brain for clues.
‘No, Casey. It should have worked. I was clearly winning. I have a friend back at Guy’s, a cardiac consultant. He might be able to tell me. All the odds were in Theo Papados’s favour. Then suddenly it changed. As if something else kicked in.’
I didn’t really understand what he was talking about, but I was ready to listen to whatever he wanted to say. At the same time I was guiding him toward to the Terrace Café where the midnight buffet was in full swing. It was not gourmet food but a selection of sandwiches, pizzas, soup, cakes, ice cream. If you are starving at midnight, cold apple pie can look good.
I took a tray and filled two bowls with broccoli and Stilton soup, put a couple of rolls on a plate, and went over to a window seat. I guessed he hadn’t eaten. The night was black outside, the sea rolling by endless and soundless.
We sat down and he nodded his thanks towards the soup. He’d had nothing substantial since our coffee under the balconies of Barcelona. This soup was a favourite of mine. I even made it when I was home at my flat in Worthing. A sudden pang of homesickness caught me. My home and all my things were special to me. It even had a distant view of the changing sea. I collected shells from the beach, blue glass, crystal bits and pieces. I loved the sharp edge of real cut crystal.
‘Have you met Miss Jones?’ he began to sing under his breath, as he dipped in his soup spoon. ‘You’re a girl who understands, I’m a man who must be free.’
I sang through the next few lines for him. ‘And all at once, I own the earth and sky.’ I took a pause. ‘I know you are man who must be free, Sam.’
‘But you’ve been so cool lately,’ he said, breaking up the roll and dunking it in the soup. ‘I wondered what I had done wrong.’
‘Nothing. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s me overreacting. I was reading too much into a friendship by mistake, of course. Friendship is all I want. Nothing more complicated.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I understand. Just friendship. It suits me.’
‘Good.’
‘As long as we have a few special moments together.’ He winked.
His words took me by surprise. Sam was a smoothie. He knew what to say, how to say it and when. The fact that he was finishing up my soup did not come into it. He was hungry and his appetite had returned. He needed his strength for tomorrow’s patients. Tomorrow was an unknown factor.
‘That was below the belt,’ I said.
‘I’m a doctor, remember. I’m allowed to go there.’
Tiredness made it impossible for me to flip back a smart reply. So I let him win on points. We went on deck for the shortest of walks. The wind was getting up. It was a northeasterly course towards Toulon. My hair was blowing all over the place and I had lost the ribbon. I wished I had a pashmina round my shoulders.
Sir Galahad wasn’t feeling the cold and didn’t offer his jacket. I used his body as a wind shield. It meant dodging about around him which Sam thought was a new kind of dance. ‘Like it, like it,’ he said. ‘It could catch on.’
He walked me back to my cabin on E Deck and left me with the briefest kiss brushing my right cheek. It was like the wing of a butterfly.
‘Sleep well, Casey. Sweet dreams. Hope they are all about me, in a better mood.’
‘I’ll let you know.’
1 was out like a light, as soon as my head touched the pillow. I don’t remember my dreams but they were not frightening. Some time in the night I was aware of noises along the corridor but I was too far gone to never-never land to wake up and wonder about them.
Maybe it was cleaners. Maybe it was repairs. But there was certainly some activity which was noisier than usual. At night, the ship was full of vibration, creaks and shudders, even on the most modern of vessels.
Maybe it was Juliet’s balcony being constructed. Judie Garllund was intruding into my dreams. She had that much influence on my life. It was unacceptable. I wanted my dreams to myself.
The next port of call was Toulon. It was new to me, a large military port on the south coast of France. I wasn’t bothered if I went ashore or not. It wouldn’t be very interesting. Armoury and guns. Lee could go and look at warships.
But I changed my mind rapidly on first sight of the harbour as the pilot eased us into a tight berth. We were all fast port side to the quay by a minute after 8 o’clock. It was a delightful place, sunlight already streaming on to a harbour lined with cafés and pastel-washed houses. A marina was bobbing with yachts and fishing boats. There was a lovely French feel about it, leisurely and less bustling than Barcelona.
Judie Garllund pounced on me before I had even finished my mile on deck. She was flushed from hurrying after me.
‘I don’t call this service,’ she said. ‘You running around the deck before my set is ready for me. I expected to rehearse all morning.’
‘Have you checked with Trevor, the stage manager? There may be another activity in the theatre this morning. Sometimes the crew have a fire drill.’
‘I should have thought my rehearsal takes precedence over any fake fire drill.’
‘It might not be a fake fire,’ I said.
She looked stunned for a second. ‘I don’t believe you. Perhaps when you have sorted your priorities, you’ll meet me in the Princess Lounge theatre. There may be a few other things I need.’
‘Is your real name Frances Ethel Gumm?’ I asked.
‘No, of course not. What a ridiculous thing to say,’ she said, with a flounce. She hadn’t a clue what I meant. So much for being a genuine Judy Garland fan.
My lazy deck-side breakfast was not to be. I rushed through a lukewarm shower and hotter coffee in my cabin, put on the Conway Blue Line uniform skirt, shirt and scarf. Very formal. The hat would have been going a touch too far.
‘What’s all this? A meeting that I haven’t been invited to,’ said Dr Mallory, passing me in a corridor. He was also moving at a quick trot, bag in hand.
‘I am about to face the wrath of Juliet on her balcony.’
‘No blood, please.’
‘I may push her off it.’
‘That’s allowed.’
My spirits surged, like a firework
let loose. A few light exchanges and he made the morning sunny. Careful, Casey, this is dangerous ground for your size sixes.
Judie wasn’t there, but her balcony was. I thought the carpenters had done a terrific job. It was only a foot off the stage but then this is not the Globe Theatre. They had looped garlands of flowers across the front, and above was a latticed arch. Lit properly, it would look good. Good enough for one song.
Trevor appeared beside me, a growth of stubble on his chin, bags under his eyes. He looked tired. Heavy night, perhaps.
‘Is the wicked witch of Oz coming in?’ he asked.
‘Very soon.’
‘Then I’m disappearing fast. I had her breathing evil spells down my neck all yesterday and although I am partial to buxom blondes, this one gives me the creeps.’
‘Have I got to deal with her on my own?’
‘That’s what you’re paid for, Casey.’
Perhaps he wasn’t partial to tall brunettes with a blonde streak either. We had always got on pretty well, but were not exactly buddy-buddies. He was efficient and I was efficient. We recognized each other’s efficiency. And that was the limit.
I caught glimpses of Toulon harbour through the windows. It was enticing me with thoughts of a glass of cassis at a harbour-side cafe or a bowl of delicious bouillabaisse, my all-time favourite fish soup.
Richard Norton, the security officer, strolled into the lounge. He was also in uniform. No time ashore for him either.
‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he said.
Great detective work, I thought. Watch out, Sherlock Holmes.
‘Hi, Richard,’ I said, bright and breezy. ‘How can I help?’
‘I hear you’ve been making enquiries about Professor Papados’s mobile phone. Is there a reason for this?’
Now, my residual feelings of affection for Richard Norton had evaporated once I realized he was keeping quiet about a Mrs Norton under lock and key somewhere in the suburbs. But I wasn’t going to hamper his enquiries about anything he might be investigating. I’d come clean.
I took him over to one of the cosy tables for two that were perfect for night-time romancing. Dust was dancing in the air. But this was eight thirty in the morning, stark daylight, not a drink in sight.
Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2) Page 7
