Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Sounds like stage fright to me.’

  ‘Exactly what I thought. I recommended deep breathing, relaxation, plenty of sleep and more exercise. But I doubt if she was even listening.’

  ‘She certainly wasn’t listening when I advised against going ashore when she has her solo spot evening. Her cruise card has been swiped and she has gone ashore. Perhaps taking your suggestion to get more exercise. I hope she remembers to turn round and come back on-board in good time.’

  ‘You’re looking tired,’ said Samuel. For a moment his eyes changed, were warm and concerned, his voice less formal. ‘A lot of problems?’

  ‘Only minor, nothing major. I could say the same about you.’

  ‘Shall we swop jobs?’

  ‘Done. Show me how to use the blood pressure sleeve.’

  His appearance was, as always, pristinely smart and immaculate. Not a spot on his whites. His eyes were shadowed and there was a slump to those broad shoulders, but he was still absolutely, unavoidably delicious.

  ‘Nothing that a few hours of sleep won’t cure,’ he said. ‘We could both do with a nap. Care to join me? I know where there is a discreet couch, at present unoccupied.’

  ‘The operating table?’

  ‘Casey, please. I wouldn’t be so unromantic.’

  He was amused.

  ‘Yes, you would, especially when it concerns me. Anything would do for good old, hardworking, uncomplaining K.C. Jones.’

  ‘You really know how to hurt me,’ he said, returning the slides to a refrigerated compartment. ‘I shall remind you tonight when we are having a celebration drink in the bar.’

  ‘This is new. What will we be celebrating?’

  ‘We’ll be celebrating Miss Garllund’s miraculous last-minute recovery from stage fright and her exciting performance on stage. Standing ovation, repeat encores. A star is born.’

  ‘If pigs could fly.’

  Passengers were beginning to return to the ship. Where had the day gone? Time had flown by on fluffy wings to a melancholy five o’clock. And I had meant to get so much done. I kept out of Miss Ember’s way. She was the purser’s problem now. But I had not reckoned on her perseverance. There she was, making straight for me, all floating scarves and big hat, her stiletto heels making pointy marks on the decking.

  ‘Miss Jones,’ she said, barring my way. She had been ashore and was laden with posh shopping bags, all glossy labels. ‘Have you got my Chanel dress?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Did you take it to the dry-cleaners in St Tropez?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Did you pick it up with the skirt and the pashmina?’

  ‘No.’ I was still sticking to the truth. Miraculous in the circumstances.

  ‘Then where is it?’

  ‘I don’t exactly know.’ The patron saint of trapped truth was definitely on my side. I’d light a candle.

  ‘I suppose that stupid Mrs Fairweather dropped it in the sea when she fell over. It would be exactly like her. I’ve never met such a clumsy woman.’

  ‘No one saw her drop anything,’ I said, coming to the poor injured lady’s rescue with sincerity. ‘No one knows if she even collected it. Perhaps it was someone else.’

  ‘She probably still has the dress. Will you check that she is not taking it back to England with her when she flies home? I know she liked the dress. You could tell by the way she looked at it and kept making remarks about the perfect sewing.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll check,’ I said, not intending to do anything of the sort. This was rubbish. I was no snooper. The whole thing was becoming a farce. I half expected men to come flying out of nearby cabins in their M & S boxer shorts, chased by irate wives waving hair dryers.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said, continuing the charade.

  ‘I’m relying on you,’ she said. ‘That dress is evidence.’

  I was not sure how a dress could be evidence. It was not damaged. The rat hadn’t gnawed at the hem nor had the shop model stuck her false nails into the camellias.

  ‘Of course, Miss Ember, now if you’ll excuse me?’ I escaped on a false errand before she could raise the question of a cabin companion. Perhaps one of the stewardesses might be persuaded to do a spot of disaster-sitting for overtime pay.

  Our songbird had not yet reappeared. I was beginning to feel one per cent worried. At this rate, the count could rise rapidly. It was not the first time that a diva had caused trouble but no one had ever missed a show. The opportunity to sing was always too tempting. Some producer might be in the audience, on holiday, but still looking for talent for his new show. There might be a rep from a record company out to spot a new star, waving a million-pound contract.

  The last tenders were arriving back, full to the gunwales with tired passengers, still chattering away. It had been a good trip, making a day of it in Monaco after a drive along the coastal road to the Middle Corniche. I never got to the medieval village of Eze and never phoned Richard. Some had preferred the old town of Nice then a walk along the elegant Promenade de la Croisette in Cannes. On a clear day you could see the Alps. No one was grumbling.

  ‘Who is it tonight?’ I heard a woman say.

  ‘It’s that Judy Garland.’

  ‘I thought she was dead.’

  ‘No, she can’t be. Not if she’s singing here tonight.’

  I was getting twinges of apprehension and alarm. Judie was cutting it fine. Soon all the ship’s tenders would be stowed and the Countess would be ready to proceed to sea. When the last tender was back, she would weigh anchor and back off the anchorage, setting a northeasterly track towards Santa Margherita.

  The last tender returned and tied up. There was no sign of Judie, unless I’d missed her. I half expected to see a fast-moving motor boat speeding out to the ship, a female at the helm waving frantically. But there was nothing.

  I checked her cabin again and security. Her cruise card had not been swiped back.

  I went to see the dance captain of our troupe of lovelies. Dawn Charmans was a gorgeously lithe and slim girl with muscles of steel. She ruled her girls with firm discipline plus a healthy dose of East End humour.

  ‘Wotcha Case,’ she said. She always called me Case. ‘Wot’s up? You don’t look a bundle of fun tonight. Dishy doctor stood you up?’

  ‘Miss Judie Garllund,’ I began. ‘I think she’s done a runner.’

  ‘The new singer? Not surprised. You should have copped her rehearsal. Bloody disaster, excuse my French. Talk about amateur. I don’t reckon she’d ever sung in anything bigger than a church hall out in the sticks. Did some female impersonations, Streisand, Winehouse, Piaf, but they all sounded the same. I’m surprised Simon Cowell didn’t send her home twenty seconds after she opened her mouth, if she really did audition for The X-Factor, which I just can’t believe.’

  My face fell. My worst nightmare and it was my fault. I should have checked earlier. All this stuff about a Juliet balcony had distracted me. If somehow she had got past all our reference checks at Head Office and was an amateur, not an X-Factor contestant, then no wonder she was nervous and hiding out in a café on shore.

  ‘There’s going to be a big zero nothing on tonight,’ I said morosely. ‘I suppose it’s too much to ask if you have a reserve dance show up your sleeve? If you are wearing a sleeve, that is.’

  Dawn was busy inspecting her stuck-on talons. They were a quarter of an inch long, all sparkly with stars. ‘It just so happens, Case,’ she began, all mysterious. ‘I have been incubating a smashing idea for the last few days. So, along the lines of the Simon Cowell show …’

  ‘The X-Factor?’

  ‘Yes. We could do a skit on it. Our boys and girls could do solo turns, like auditions, some form a group, singing for survival, and we’d have our judges giving their opinions, and the audience could vote on them to stay or be sent home. They’d love it. Except they could hardly go home. Bit of a swim.’ It was a good pitch.

  ‘Would it work?’ I asked dubiously. />
  ‘My lot can all sing to a degree, some better than others. And they’d be great at the screaming and crying buckets.’ Dawn was looking really hopeful. She’d been cooking this idea for more like weeks. This was her big chance. ‘I’d introduce everybody, you know, be the lady compère, the host.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Audience participation,’ she added.

  ‘Do you need to rehearse it?’

  ‘It won’t be rehearsed. It’ll be impromptu, like it was for real. You could be one of the judges,’ she said, thinking this was a big carrot to dangle.

  It wasn’t a carrot but I could see it as a form of control over the performances. The show might need a steady hand.

  ‘And our dreamboat doctor, of course. If he’s free, not operating on anybody. We’ve gotta have a bit of male glamour on the judges’ table.’

  She didn’t count me as glamour apparently.

  ‘What about the security officer, Richard Norton? He’s very solid and down to earth,’ I suggested, warming to the idea. There was no other solution unless Judie arrived on deck, having chartered a helicopter. ‘And perhaps a passenger? Have we anyone aboard with show business experience?’

  ‘I’ll try and find out. We’ll start the show with one of our stock ensemble numbers and end it with another. That won’t be any trouble. I’d better get a move on, whip up some volunteers. So, is it OK, Case?’

  ‘I think it’ll have to be. I can hardly show a film in the Princess Lounge. No screen. We need a judges’ table at the front and four chairs. Trevor can arrange that. We also need a good strap name. We can’t use The X-Factor. We’d get sued.’

  ‘How about The XYZ Factor since we don’t know what we’re doing?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  She gave me a big grin. ‘Don’t worry, Case. It’ll be a riot.’

  That was the last thing I wanted.

  *

  There wasn’t much time to organize the new show. Announcements were made over the tannoy. I needed a stunningly glamorous dress if I was to be on the judges’ table. I wasn’t going to have Samuel outshine me. I wore my ruched red satin from Topshop with cross-over back straps and tantalizing plunging neckline. It was an event dress. There was no time to do more than clip my hair up in a tumble.

  Dawn Charmans found a retired theatre owner called William Owen. He didn’t mind missing his supper in exchange for champagne in the top deck grill later, with some of the lovelies. He had kind, twinkly eyes and was obviously delighted to be able to air his professional knowledge.

  Samuel Mallory arrived at the very last moment, looking devastating. He’d had an extra after-six shave. Those eyes threw me completely off balance. I had sparks coming out of my fingertips.

  ‘That’s some dress,’ he whispered, sliding into the seat beside me. ‘But you have forgotten to do up the front.’

  ‘It is done up,’ I said. ‘Careful, the mikes are on.’

  ‘Clothes are your armour, they’re hiding your insecurities,’ he added.

  ‘They reflect my identity and self-worth,’ I said.

  It was a great show, considering it had been thrown together at the last minute. One of the young male dancers had a strong voice and was a potential winner. Nervous Kristy, the new chorus dancer, sang a soulful If My Friends Could See Me Now which was pretty good. Richard made lots of sensible, obvious remarks. Mr Owen’s comments and criticisms were spot-on. Dr Mallory was amusing and controversial, trying to do a vague impersonation of Simon Cowell’s laid-back style. I was … well, I was the usual honest me. Smile, Casey.

  The audience loved it. They hissed and booed and clapped. Dawn Chatmans looked stunning, having poured herself into a glittery silver dress.

  ‘Don’t forget to vote,’ she announced at the end of the show. ‘Voting slips at the door. Every vote counts.’

  There was a break between the dinner sittings while the audience changed and the performers had a chance to chat and relax. I went to get some coffee. Maybe we’d join the lovelies for supper in the grill.

  ‘Sorry about this afternoon,’ I said to Richard. ‘There simply wasn’t time.’

  ‘Quite understand,’ he said stiffly. ‘Perhaps another port in the Med.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  We had assembled for the second showing of The XYZ Factor when Dr Mallory received a call on his mobile phone. He took it, standing some distance away from the judges’ table. His face gave away nothing. He switched it off and went to talk to Richard Norton, but Richard was already answering his phone. His face was one of horror.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said. He hung up and turned to me. ‘Gotta go,’ he said. He was striding up the side aisle and out of the Princess Lounge before I could speak to him.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I said to Samuel as he came over to me, my hand over the table microphone. His face gave nothing away.

  ‘Sorry, Casey,’ he said. ‘I’ve been called away. Emergency. Give my apologies to Dawn. You’ll have to find two other judges.’

  I had no idea what was going on but it must be serious if both Richard Norton and Dr Mallory had been summoned. I made some sort of announcement and a faded but still pretty middle-aged woman from the audience volunteered to be a judge. Mr Owen’s twinkly eyes twinkled even more when she sat beside him.

  ‘I used to be on the stage,’ she confided to me. ‘But a long time ago.’

  ‘Surely not that long ago, m’dear,’ he said.

  Trevor, the stage manager, leaped into the breach, glad for once to be up front and not invisible behind the scenes. He was wearing black jeans and a T-shirt which were perfectly suitable. He’d certainly had enough stage experience and a fund of recycled jokes which he trotted out. The second showing of The XYZ Factor was up and running.

  Afterwards, I hung about, talking to the audience, while the votes were counted. I saw Lee hurrying towards me. He looked grim, running his hands through his hair.

  I turned to him. ‘Lee? Tell me. What’s happened?’

  ‘They’ve found a woman,’ he gulped. ‘With her head bashed in. A crater the size of an egg cup.’

  ‘Do they know who it is?’

  ‘It’s a passenger called Dora Belcher.’

  Thirteen

  At Sea

  So the news travelled. We might as well have announced it over the tannoy. The passengers knew more than I did. And what they didn’t know, they made up. Thus rumours take hold.

  I assumed that Mrs Belcher had been found in her cabin but I was wrong. She had been found in the interview room where I had taken the couple that morning. That shook me. I was questioned about the incident by the captain, the security officer and Dr Mallory. It was as if they thought I’d done it. I felt like a suspect.

  ‘Don’t be upset,’ said Samuel, later in the Galaxy Lounge bar. He’d bought me a brandy and soda. This was getting to be a habit. ‘It’s routine procedure. Mrs Belcher wasn’t killed in the interview room. She was killed elsewhere, sometime after five o’clock, after the tenders were stowed and we were heading for sea. She was moved somehow and dumped in the interview room.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘No blood in the interview room. She’d stopped bleeding.’

  ‘I keep thinking I could have prevented it,’ I wailed. ‘If I’d done something more.’

  Samuel shook his head. ‘How could you? What could you have done? You can’t wave your magic wand and declare people’s personalities changed for the better. They argued constantly according to the passengers in the cabins either side of theirs. We know Mrs Belcher came aboard with a black eye.’

  ‘Are you assuming that Mr Belcher hit his wife with something?’

  ‘He’s denying it. He says he was in a bar, drinking, most of the evening. The barman confirms it and the cruise card bar purchases tally with the time. The perfect alibi. It looks like classic domestic violence but maybe it’s not. He does seem very upset. A Bafta performance, if he killed her.’

  ‘Looks like we�
��ve got a murderer on board.’

  ‘Hmmm, unless the villain swam back to shore.’

  ‘Do we know what was used to kill her?’

  ‘Not yet. Richard Norton has found nothing in their cabin with any traces of blood. We need one of those infra-red instruments that pick up tiny smudges that the eye can’t see. Or there’s a Luminol spray which shows up blood stains by making them fluorescent.’

  ‘Blood can be washed off.’

  ‘There are always traces left, if not to the human eye, then to a microscope. Murderers are often caught that way. Confront them with the path of sprayed blood in certain rooms or on walls and they confess.’

  ‘You think this is murder, then?’ I shivered. The destruction of life was never easy to accept. I knew I would not be able to sleep tonight. The thought would be with me all night. We had a monster walking among us.

  ‘She hardly tripped and fell on a blunt instrument by herself. It had to be something hard enough to fracture her skull, something like a brick or a rock.’

  ‘No bricks or rocks on board ship.’

  ‘It wasn’t something like a bottle or piece of wood. There was no residue or fragments in the wound. We’ve got to find the murder weapon. Cheer up, Casey. Don’t look so glum. You can’t take the blame for this one.’

  ‘I’m not glum. I’m upset.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry,’ he said swiftly. ‘Murder is always a shock. A & E had its quota on a Saturday night when the pubs closed.’

  Dawn Charmans was on a high after her hugely successful show, The XYZ Factor. She was drinking champagne like water, seeing herself stepping into Sharon Osbourne’s shoes on television. The dresses wouldn’t fit.

  Judie was still missing. No one had seen her. We’d left her behind in port. She’d have to get herself home.

  I suggested that Dawn might like to do it again in place of Judie’s second solo show, with members of the crew as the entrants and with judges’ panel from the passenger list as before. Kirsty, the young dancer who won the event was also on a high, but on sparkling mineral water.

  ‘I hear the captain has a good singing voice,’ I said.