‘Good heavens, no Case, please don’t ask the captain to take part.’ Dawn was aghast. She was always a little in awe of our captain.
‘Only joking. I haven’t been anywhere near his bathroom.’
‘I’d give your dishy doctor some personal voice coaching any day.’
‘Not my dishy doctor. Half the female crew are setting traps for him and all of the female passengers.’
‘But he only has eyes for you,’ Dawn said, with a grin.
‘He needs new lenses.’
*
Scotland Yard were going to fly someone out to the Countess. Richard Norton was none too pleased, but it was maritime law and he had to put up with it. The detective would be joining the ship at the next port of call, Santa Margherita on the Italian Riviera.
I didn’t sleep. I was too wired up to sleep, couldn’t even close my eyes. A walk on the decks might have cleared my head. But I was even afraid of shadows.
The passengers were a more resilient lot, getting on with the serious business of planning their day between meals. The sober faces of the evening before had been replaced the next morning with their normal British good humour. Some even made bad jokes about this being a murder mystery cruise, and Miss Marple would soon be joining the crew.
But minute by minute, those on deck became aware of something different happening. They could not quite pinpoint what was changing. It made them uneasy. They could feel the Countess slowing down, if it is possible to put the brakes on forty-five thousand tons of ship like an emergency stop. Tattered shreds of conversation became confused and apprehensive.
Dead Slow Ahead. I recognized the signal blasts though the passengers didn’t. I thought about the figures I’d seen bundled aboard at midnight. That mystery had never been solved. It was still tapping on my mind.
Crew were alerted. Some passengers panicked. They thought the engines had broken down and they would be doomed to days on end floating about mid-ocean, running out of food, running short of water. Strict rations and no shopping. Maybe there would be complimentary booze.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said to a couple of nervous women. ‘We are only slowing down. There must be a good reason. The captain knows what he’s doing.’
‘Nothing wrong, we hope?’
The good reason was floating, adrift, portside. It was a small yacht, about fourteen feet long, bobbing on the waves, a broken mast dragging in the water. It looked deserted and battered.
A rubber dingy was being lowered from the promenade deck with two crewmen in life jackets. They had long poles and grappling hooks. There was quite an audience of passengers craning over the rails, camcorders recording every moment of the rescue drama. It was all good stuff for winter evenings when having the neighbours in to see their holiday snaps. Doris and George, who went to Weston-super-Mare and stayed in a caravan, would be impressed.
Dr Mallory strolled on deck, a bottle of water in hand. He’d found time for some sleep and it showed. No more panda eyes half open behind his glasses.
‘Trim little craft,’ he said. ‘My dad used to have one like that.’
‘So you still know how to handle a boat?’
‘She was called Tipperary Lady. I remember navigating by the stars at night. All comes in handy. Stitching a torn sail is not unlike stitching up a wound.’
‘How are your patients?’
‘Recovering, I’m happy to say. A couple are returning to shipboard life today, wearing plaster casts courtesy of Conway Blue Line. I never charge for the plaster.’
‘But you charge for everything else.’
‘Naturally, and they get the best service.’
The crewmen had hauled the yacht alongside, made it fast, and were clambering aboard. One went into the tiny stern cabin. He came out again pretty fast. He signalled something to the officer who was in charge of the operation. It was difficult to make out what was going on. I felt a tremor of alarm.
‘I don’t like the look of this,’ said Samuel. ‘I think I may be wanted. See you later, Casey.’ He disappeared inside, taking the lift down.
The crewman was being sick over the side. Camcorders were hastily switched off or panned to a more salubrious view of the Countess, her clean white lines glistening. The sun was visiting each deck in turn. She was rocking gently on the swell, her engines now on a low throb. The captain didn’t like bringing her to a complete halt, mid-sea. He was a man with a mission — to get sixteen hundred paying passengers to a dozen ports of call on time and home again to Southampton. If he could do it, so could the railways.
Now we were a lifeboat rescue service in action. It was a rule of the sea. If any craft in distress needed help, no matter how big or luxurious you were, you stopped and offered help. Everyone understood, or nearly everyone.
‘Can’t stand all this hanging about, doing nothing,’ said one disgruntled man, looking at his watch. ‘Can’t they get a move on?’
I curbed my tongue. Careful, Casey. It was not my job to argue with anyone. It would only cause aggro. Better to walk away and leave him creating bile in his stomach. He would have indigestion after lunch. I hoped.
Our intrepid doctor was climbing down a rope ladder slung down the side of the ship, holding on with one hand. Very Tarzan, without the leotard. He had his emergency bag in the other hand. It wasn’t for the nauseated crewman. He clambered into the rocking dingy and then went across on to the broken yacht. After speaking briefly to the crewmen, he ducked down into the stern cabin.
He didn’t stay long, and was on his phone immediately. There was a flurry of activity. I could guess what they were going to do. They were going to haul the yacht aboard, probably on to the lower stem deck, the area normally reserved for crew members at leisure.
But we were in Italian water. The captain would have to inform the Italian authorities. They’d be swarming on-board tomorrow. The passengers might even be delayed going ashore. There was always that possibility. Red tape often strangled a routine procedure.
‘Isn’t this exciting,’ someone said. ‘I’ve never seen a rescue before.’
Not exactly exciting for whoever or whatever was in the stern cabin. And hardly a rescue if we were too late.
I didn’t want to know.
*
Richard Norton was in a state. He didn’t like the idea of a Scotland Yard detective intruding on his patch. So he became his own worst enemy, smoke coming out of his ears, annoying everyone with officious demands and orders. He put crime scene tape round the interview room and Mr Belcher’s cabin which upset a lot of people. Mr Belcher was moved to the empty cabin that Lucinda Ember had turned down.
‘It’s only temporary,’ Richard blustered. ‘We’ve got to dust for fingerprint evidence.’ With what, I wondered. We didn’t carry finger printing equipment. He’d seen too many films.
Then Richard insisted on taking extra statements from everyone. He made me give another one about their row that morning and what happened when I ushered the couple into the interview room.
‘So what happened then?’
‘Nothing happened,’ I said. I’d already told him about six times. ‘They just went on yelling at each other. I went away and got them some coffee.’
‘What happened while you were away?’
‘How on earth should I know? I wasn’t there.’
‘Did Mr Belcher threaten Mrs Belcher at any time?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I said no, didn’t I? I wouldn’t have said no, if I hadn’t been sure. Look, I’ve already been through all this with you, Richard. I’ve got a lot
to do.’
‘I’ll get your statement typed up and you can sign it,’ he said heavily, the woes of the entire universe balanced on his shoulders. ‘I may need to see you again, clear up a few points.’
‘Mind your blood pressure,’ I said, leaving. ‘I can see it climbing.’
The doctor was next in line for interrogation. Samuel raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Am I
in for the water torture?’ he asked.
‘It’s worse than that,’ I said. ‘He’s pulling out toenails.’
‘Oh dear, I’m rather fond of my toenails. They’ve been with me for a long time.’
‘Taboo subjects. Don’t mention Scotland Yard, CID or the Italian police. Those words are a red rag. He doesn’t like interference.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘Are you going to tell me what you found in the cabin of the yacht?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Samuel firmly. ‘It’s not for your delicate ears.’
The yacht had been winched up on to the stern deck, made fast and covered in a tarpaulin. It was out of bounds to everyone, waiting for the Italian police to take charge. They were on their way to join us.
As usual, rumours were circulating. They ranged from deposed royalty to aliens. One hypersensitive passenger was now insisting that she had seen lights on the deck, dancing about. She was teased about little green men from then onwards. Her nickname became E.T.
‘Dr Mallory, if you please,’ said Richard Norton, coming to the door of his office. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
‘Neither have I,’ said the doctor, briskly. ‘Make it quick, Dick.’
Richard Norton hated being called Dick.
It was a soporific day with a blue sky that stretched forever, and a light breeze that merely ruffled a few tendrils and cooled warm skin. Everyone was on deck, except for the bridge players who had barricaded themselves into their room and were locked in combat. They had put chairs against the doors, tired of people who used it as a short cut to the Princess Lounge bar. It was against all regulations but it was difficult to argue with them.
‘I could get some notices printed for you to hang on the door,’ I suggested. ‘How about “GAME IN PROGRESS”?’
‘We’ve tried that. It didn’t work. People still traipse through, being chatty and noisy. It ruins our concentration and we’re sick of it.’
I left the bridge fanatics to work out their own salvation. Another Berlin Wall wasn’t the answer.
A couple of hours later the bridge players were not so chirpy. Some comic had jammed a key into the locks of both doors and neither would open. It was another hour before I managed to get a carpenter to come and take the doors off their hinges and let the clearly distressed players rush out for the nearest loos.
They never barricaded themselves in again, merely erected a wall of icy coolness and disdain towards anyone who dared to walk through while they were playing. They froze them out.
Fourteen
Santa Margherita
This delightful seaside resort was one of the prettiest on the Eastern Riviera, with its busy waterfront, sweeping bay and clear water for swimming. There was a charming town with pastel-washed houses and hotels with shuttered windows and cascades of flowers from every balcony.
The shops were small and colourful, not a supermarket in sight. The bars were frequented by the locals which is always a good sign. A green oasis of grass, statues, palm trees and wooden benches separated the town traffic from the harbour-side, and here lovers met, women gossiped and men smoked their pipes.
‘It’s all so pleasant and normal,’ I said to Lee. ‘This huge cruise ship is anchored a mile off their scenic coast and they barely glance at it.
They don’t bother about selling cheap stuff to the passengers, or plying taxis everywhere, or drumming up business.’
‘It’s the laid-back, relaxed Italian style of doing everything tomorrow.’
‘Do you want to go ashore?’
‘Yes, I do, but I realize it’s really your turn, especially after yesterday. You need a break. I’ve been ashore the last three ports.’
‘And today I have to stay aboard in case I’m needed for questioning. But if you could come back early, I might catch a free hour later on.’
‘OK. I’ll do that. Back by lunch time. Thanks, Case.’
Another one calling me Case. It was catching. As if they hadn’t had enough of cruising, many of the passengers were taking a boat trip up the scenic coast to Portofino, for a walking tour of this camera-perfect little village. Or perhaps they were going to see the church where the remains of St George (the dragon slaying one) were supposed to be buried. Or perhaps it was for the Italian wine and hot focaccia served on the boat trip. I hoped they realized there was a lot of uphill walking involved.
Both contingents of police arrived at the same time. It was somewhat confusing at first, but the Italians were slim and dark-haired in dapper uniforms, whereas Detective Chief Inspector Bruce Everton was big, blue-eyed and very Scotland Yard. His hair might be fair if he grew it longer. He’d had the shortest crew cut possible which meant his ears stuck out. But he had what I call a good face for a man, especially a policeman. Not handsome but manly and well proportioned.
Captain Nicolas came out on deck to greet the Italians and DCI Evcrton. The DCI arrived on one of our tenders, low-key and unobtrusive. The Italians came in their own police launch, cutting fast through the waves, the launch rearing like a warhorse, slapping the water.
‘Welcome aboard the Countess Georgina,’ said the captain. ‘I wish it were a social occasion and not so sad and serious. Perhaps you’d like some coffee before you begin your enquiries? I’ll then introduce you to members of my crew, my security officer, Richard Norton, and Dr Samuel Mallory.’
Bruce Everton was already shedding his jacket. ‘Nobody told me it would be this hot. It was raining when I left Heathrow.’
He was wearing a crisp white shirt that had lost its crispness on the flight. His tie was a club tie, striped. Bowling or rowing, I guessed. I wasn’t needed yet. They would call me.
Lucinda Ember waylaid me again on my way to the office. She was wearing an extravagant sort of frock, pleated mauve chiffon with big sleeves, which would have looked perfect on a twenty-year-old. I stood my ground, rallying forces to deal with whatever grievance she’d thought up for today.
‘Have you got my dress back?’ She went straight for the jugular.
‘No, I haven’t.’ Always stick to the truth. It paid.
‘What have you found out about it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, you’re not doing your job properly, Miss Jones. I think a letter to Captain Nicolas about your inefficiency is due,’ she went on.
‘As you please, Miss Ember.’ I knew Captain Nicolas well enough to hope that he would simply file it in some inaccessible place, like the top of a wardrobe. Maybe he’d make the occasional jokey remark in passing. ‘Lost any Dior dresses lately, Miss Jones?’
I could sense that Miss Ember was already composing her letter. ‘I’m sorry we were not able to find you another companion after Mrs Fairweather broke her leg. But we’ll keep looking.’
‘Don’t bother,’ she said huffily. ‘I’m not sure I want a companion. I paid good money for single occupancy of my stateroom and I certainly didn’t expect to have to share. In fact, I think the company should refund me for those days that Mrs Fairweather occupied half my stateroom. That woman never stopped talking.’
Her audacity had me speechless. We’d been trying to help her with a companion. For a moment I was nonplussed.
Then a tiny bell sounded a tinkling alarm in my head. It was a sort of sixth or seventh sense. It occurred to me that Miss Ember was up to something. Possibly the company would offer her a free cruise in compensation for the blood in the shower and the rat in the wardrobe. They were always generous. But we couldn’t accept responsibility for the appearance of her dress in the shop window, nor its current disappearance.
And Mrs Fairweather’s company had been a sympathetic move to help Miss Ember through any residual nerves from both shattering experiences. I was beginning to wonder if they were that shattered.
I didn’t think for one moment that Mrs Fairweather had taken a shine to the Chanel dress and gone off with it, alongside the trauma of a broken leg. It was a ridiculous idea.
I was saved from f
urther interrogation by Miss Ember by my phone ringing. I moved away for some privacy. It was Richard Norton, stiffly asking me to attend his office.
‘Attend?’ I asked innocently. ‘How lovely. Is it a party? Shall I bring a bottle?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Everton would like a word with you,’ he went on. ‘Take you through your statement.’
‘Which one? I’ve given you dozens.’ Cut it out, Casey. No need to be stroppy with the man. Richard was under stress, his nose severely out of joint. The Yard had sent one of their senior officers, at least in rank if not in age. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
I liked the DCI immediately. He was sitting on the edge of Richard’s desk and had loosened his tie. He was drinking iced coffee which they make very well on-board. He got off the desk and came towards me, holding out his hand.
‘Miss Jones, thank you for coming. I hope I haven’t taken you away from something more important.’
He was tall, over six feet. I’d cross a road with him any day. He was taller than Samuel but not as tall as Richard. Athletic build. He obviously worked out at some police gym. His eyes were a clear, light blue with a fan of crinkles, as if he laughed a lot. Perhaps laughter was the only way he could deal with the horrors that confronted him every day.
‘No, not at all,’ I murmured, sitting down. 1 wished I’d tidied my hair before coming. I knew it was all over the place. I looked like an upended mop.
‘I’ve read all your statements so there’s no need to take you through them again.’ He shot up in my esteem. ‘But there are a few further questions.’
I nodded. ‘Shoot,’ I said. But I wished I hadn’t said shoot, wrong word.
‘Did you see Mr and Mrs Belcher go ashore in a tender?’
‘No, I didn’t. I had other things to do.’
‘And you left them together in the interview room?’
‘Yes, to cool down. There was coffee for them.’
‘Was the interview room locked during the day?’
‘I don’t think so. There’s nothing in it. A desk, a few chairs. But the purser will be able to tell you that.’
‘Did you notice anyone going into the interview room during the day?’
Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2) Page 12
