Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘I know,’ he said, nodding. ‘How could I forget you? The woman with the radiant smile.’

  ‘I can read maps, too.’

  He stopped and looked at me. We were halfway along the corridor that housed a shuttered clothes shop and the closed Internet study. Nothing was happening at this time of night. He looked normal in a grey lounge suit, white shirt. I looked normal in my casual silk trouser suit. Not overdressed, minimal make-up, not too much wine.

  ‘Miss Jones, can we talk? Is there somewhere we can go where we won’t be overheard? I should like to talk to you. You seem to know everything that is going on on board ship. Or is it too late? I know you work a long day.’

  ‘Sure, if I can be of any help,’ I said, my heart thumping. ‘There’s always music until late in the Galaxy Lounge. We could sit far back, away from the dance floor, out of sight, a table in a corner.’

  ‘Lead me on.’

  ‘And you don’t have to dance with me.’

  ‘I should rather like to but I think it would be unwise, to be seen dancing with a suspect.’

  I had no idea why I was doing this, except that it seemed a good idea. I had nothing better to do. Maybe it was part of my job. We found a table, way back in a dark corner and a stewardess brought two drinks immediately. Wine for me and a scotch and soda for the DCI.

  ‘So, Casey. May I call you Casey? Tell me all you know about this cruise and the various goings on.’

  So I told him about Professor Theo Papados’s death and the missing mobile, Miss Lucinda Ember’s various dramatic problems, added Mrs Fairweather’s kindness, Mr and Mrs Belcher’s row and anything else that popped into my airy-fairy mind. It was a relief to offload it all on to him. He had broad shoulders.

  I told him about the terrified Judie Garllund and her abrupt and unheralded departure. I mentioned the unknown celebrity who was supposed to be travelling with us and the extra passengers rescued from some clapped-out rowing boat in the middle of the night. For good measure I threw in Mrs Hilary Miles who wouldn’t go ashore and Wilfred Owen, the retired theatre owner who had been one of The XYZ Factor judges.

  ‘It makes my job seem almost humdrum,’ he said, writing volumes in his notebook. ‘And yet you look so calm, and always so confident.’

  ‘It’s only acting,’ I said. ‘I act being confident. I was once on the stage. I was a dancer until I had an accident, a nasty break that didn’t heal properly.’

  ‘Then you deserve an Oscar,’ he said, his eyes suddenly bright and admiring. ‘You’re brilliant at it.’

  ‘So how are your investigations progressing?’ I felt I could ask, acting confident.

  ‘I’m being buried under an avalanche of information. Sightings of the Belchers quarrelling or sitting in stony silence. Greg Belcher sightseeing on his own, or Dora on her own. Dora coming back to have her hair done. But so far, nothing adds up. Zip, zero, nada.’

  I raised my eyebrows at the last phrase.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I watch too many late-night American cop shows.’

  Now, I was halfway to falling in love with Dr Samuel Mallory, man of many charms and always kind to a stressed-out female. But a reluctance or weakness held me back. DCI Bruce Everton was different. He was ordinary, he worked on the street, he solved crimes, he was a basic, pizza-grabbing, pub-going copper.

  This tall, perhaps lonely detective with cropped hair and nice manners did an unexpected somersault into my heart. I couldn’t stop it happening. Maybe it was an excess of wine. Maybe it was his scotch after a long day.

  ‘Would you like to dance?’ he said.

  ‘I’m a little rusty.’

  ‘I like rusty.’

  Now big men usually can’t dance, but this one could. Perhaps it went back to his teenage days, dancing at discos or pubs. DCI Everton danced in a slow, careless sort of way, but it was in time to the music which always helps. He didn’t step on my feet, just moved me about like in Dirty Dancing, a twirl here, a twirl there. I shut my eyes and enjoyed the sensation.

  ‘Do you feel like a walk on deck?’ he asked.

  ‘For a bit,’ I said. ‘I have a busy day ahead and it starts early.’

  ‘So have I,’ he said.

  So that’s how I was seen on deck being thoroughly kissed by Bruce Everton. It was very nice kissing, not too much, no tongue in the mouth, fairly old-fashioned kissing, romantic and star-struck as was fitting for the velvet Mediterranean sky.

  ‘A wonderful evening,’ he said, coming up for breath. ‘Thank you, Casey. You’re not really a suspect, you know. You couldn’t be.’

  ‘I’m glad. I didn’t do it. And thank you, too, for this evening,’ I said. ‘You are a most unusual policeman.’

  This struck home and his hold tightened.

  ‘Oh, Casey, if only you knew, if only I could tell you.’

  I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know his baggage. He probably had six kids at home, a mortgage the size of Everest and a wife who nagged.

  He let go of me and the warmth dissolved like ice cubes on a hot summer’s day. It was not that he had stopped liking me, it was more that his responsibilities had reared up and hit him on the head with ice-edged sledgehammers.

  ‘I’d better say goodnight,’ I said hurriedly.

  ‘Goodnight, Captivating Casey,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you back to your cabin. I don’t want anything to happen to you. And it might, if you are seen around with me. I’m dangerous company.’

  I’d never been called captivating before. It was a moment to treasure.

  Sixteen

  Rome

  Everybody had been to Rome some time or other. It was a city needing a hundred visits. No one could say they had seen all of Rome on a four-hour coach tour.

  The pilot had come aboard early, at six thirty-six. We had to pass the breakwater and enter the harbour of Civitavecchia. It was a big 180 degrees swing of the ship before we came astern on to the berth. And it was windy, force five. Overcast with thunder and lightning in the vicinity. Not a good forecast, fingers crossed. Take a raincoat.

  Tour sales rang me up in a panic. They had so many coaches booked for this city and not enough escorts. Could I please manage a few hours?

  ‘Please? Please? Please, Casey, masses of photo opportunities for you,’ said the manager, desperate. She could see tours being cancelled for lack of escorts.

  ‘I can only do the morning. I can’t spare any longer.’

  ‘Thank you. There’s a morning coach tour. We owe you a favour.’ She’d probably forgotten the favour bit before she’d put the phone down.

  It was impossible to see all of Rome’s glories in one visit. No one could. It needed an extended weekend, at least four days, to take in everything. One day I would take some leave and spend it in Rome, exploring it on foot.

  The Countess was berthed in a busy industrial port, Civitavecchia, and it was an hour’s drive into Rome, quicker by train if you were an independent traveller. Some of our passengers had a free-roaming sense of adventure and train tickets were amazingly cheap.

  My allotted tour was less adventurous. It was a morning-only itinerary that took us to all the most popular sites, stopped long enough for photo opportunities and a brief walk. It was merely a taster. No time for shopping or the café culture. Two comfort stops at roadside cafés where the quick-footed could buy an ice cream or a cold drink.

  I checked everyone on-board, made a note of the numbers. Experienced guides counted the empty seats and where they were on the coach.

  But passengers had an unhelpful habit of changing seats so it was not a reliable record.

  I found myself sitting next to William Owen, the retired theatrical impresario and one of our talent show judges. He was easy to get along with but spent much of the drive into Rome recording a commentary as his camcorder took in the sights. At first I thought he was talking to me. The avenue into Rome was particularly impressive, a wide, tree-lined approach with enormous ruins haunted by the sound of chariot wheels an
d the clopping of hooves.

  Awesome Rome. Huge and beautiful ruins from different dynasties, defeating time. The Pantheon with its immense columns designed by Emperor Hadrian. The Spanish Steps, comparatively new, finished in only 1726. The huge Colosseum where gladiatorial combats gloried the spilling of blood until 404 AD. We got out and walked round the vast monument but were not allowed in because some private function had been booked. A stag party? Any spilled blood?

  St Peter’s Basilica, the largest church in the world, resting on over 800 pillars, the square a mass of people waiting, hoping for a glimpse of the Pope, whether it was his day to speak or not. We drove past, cameras clicking. The Trevi Fountain, site of romantic films, drop in a coin and your wish comes true. If only. I had a few wishes.

  All these treasures were within walking distance of each other, with so many cafés lining the streets, little boutiques and small hotels. Everything was enchanting. I longed to stay, skip ship, immerse myself in roaming Rome. Of course, it would be nice to have someone to share in all these delights. Sharing would be part of the magic.

  For a second, but only a second, I wondered if DCI Everton might be that person. I was trying to put those midnight kisses firmly out of memory. It had been a moment of madness, like fireworks going off. Glorious and heady, then fizzling out, sparks dropping into darkness.

  I caught a glimpse of a handsome, dark head that I knew. He had got off a different coach and was listening to their guide, the usual group of ageing Barbie dolls clustered around him. For a moment it threw me completely off balance. Then I recovered. He was doing his job, caring for the physical and mental health of our passengers by being charming. I was the oddball. Book me an appointment.

  He caught sight of me and immediately strolled over, scattering the entourage. I wondered what he was going to say. Something superficial?

  ‘Was Professor Theo Papados a diabetic?’ he asked. ‘Can you find out for me from your general guest questionnaires?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A diabetic.’

  ‘What do you want to know for?’

  ‘I took a sample of his blood and found a very low sugar level. Rather unusual.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can when I get back to the ship. We’ve got files. All this Roman culture comes first.’

  ‘And history. The history of the whole world is out here.’

  The sun bruised my eyes as I followed his tall figure walking back to his coach party. Then he was lost among the swirling masses. I didn’t even know which coach he was on. Did I know what I was doing? I had to concentrate on my group, count heads, empty seats. Sometimes people took off on their own, left a coach, without telling anyone. Pass the headache pills. I was getting a familiar throb.

  Our last highlight was the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican City with its famous frescoes of the Creation of Adam and The Last Judgement. No time to look at them, of course, but that’s where they are, folks. There were a few grumbles, but I reminded them this was only a whistle-stop tour.

  ‘You’ll have to come back another time,’ I said. Always the optimist.

  William Owen was clearly tired by the tour, all the traffic and crowds, seeing so much of classical Rome crammed into such a short time. He put his camcorder away and shut his eyes, folding his hands on his stomach.

  ‘You will excuse me, won’t you, Miss Jones? Coaches always make me feel sleepy.’

  ‘You have a nap, Mr Owen. You’ll enjoy your lunch all the more.’

  ‘Wake me up when we get there.’

  We hadn’t lost anyone so I could relax now, too, and enjoy the rural scenery between the city of Rome and the coast. There were acres of fields and farms and olive trees. It was dusty and peaceful. I thought about Dr Mallory’s query. Why ever did he want to know if Professor Papados was diabetic? It would be on his personal details form. Anyone coming aboard to work had to sign a statement about their current state of health, allergies, medication. It was company policy. Managed diabetes would not be a problem.

  ‘Ah, lunch,’ said William Owen, waking up like clockwork as the coach rolled into the dockyard area. ‘I’m looking forward to that. And a little pre-luncheon drink, somewhere in the shade. Would you care to join us, Miss Jones?’

  He used the plural pronoun, us. That meant he had pre-arranged company for lunch. I wondered if it was his fellow judge on the show, the faded but once pretty lady. I’d seen them together several times.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Owen. But another time. I have some work to do.’

  Escort guides had a form to fill in afterwards and I was no exception. You had to report on the state of the loos used — as if you could personally check on the gents’ — cleanliness of coach, the local guide’s knowledge and attitude. Also record any unscheduled incidents. We were incident free. I ticked off all the boxes and returned the form to the tour office.

  ‘Didn’t lose anyone,’ I said cheerfully to the harassed staff. Port days were a nightmare for them. They hardly had time to nod, wave or smile.

  ‘Good on you, Casey.’

  I went to my office and switched on the computer, logging into the lecturers’ files. It was a big file but I soon scrolled down to his name and brought up details on the screen. Professor Theo Papados was not diabetic. He listed no illnesses. Perfect health, he had written, in the comment space. I emailed the information to Dr Mallory. He might be on an all-day tour and not back for hours.

  I had a replacement lecturer arriving from London this afternoon. It was rather late in the cruise for a lecturer on Ancient Rome, so Head Office had gone for something completely different. Well, almost completely different. This man was going to lecture about antiques. He was an expert in the field. Field wasn’t exactly the right word either. Most antiques are found in old houses, car boot sales, stacked in dusty attics. Perhaps the odd one might be dug up in a field.

  There was a knock on my door. Most unusual. People usually breezed in and out as if it was a station terminus. I’d be issuing tickets soon.

  ‘Miss Jones? The entertainments director? Is this the right place?’

  ‘This is the right place,’ I said. ‘Come in.’

  The door swung open and five foot eight of South American manhood walked in. He was wearing tight white jeans, a red striped shirt and cravat. He came over, flashing a million-dollar smile, took my hand and kissed it.

  ‘Cavan Franetti, at your service, Miss Jones. I’m your new lecturer. Charmed to meet you.’

  His smile was dazzling. I wondered if he could also sing.

  Cavan had brought me a gift — possibly a bribe for a cabin upgrade, a reduced lecture load, invites to parties. It was a piece of Delft porcelain, blue and white, a sort of vase. I knew nothing about antiques.

  ‘How lovely,’ I said. ‘That’s a very kind thought. Entertainments directors don’t get many presents.’

  ‘But you should. You work hard to keep everything running smoothly. This is a ribbed beaker vase, a copy of Delftware dating from the eighteenth century. And I have brought a few other small things to sell, a few trifles,’ he went on smoothly. ‘Do I have your permission?’

  ‘Anything for sale has to be sold through the shop, Bond Street,’ I said. ‘They take a small commission. I’ll arrange for you to see the manager, Derek Ripon.’

  He looked aghast. ‘But they are valuable items, Miss Jones. I can’t leave them in a shop. I couldn’t allow it.’

  ‘They will be perfectly safe,’ I said, trying not to think of our shoplifter still on the loose. ‘Mr Ripon will lock them away when wc are in port and every night.’

  ‘I should rather sell them at the end of each lecture,’ he went on, determined to get his own way. ‘People are always more interested then.’

  ‘That isn’t allowed,’ I said. ‘You have to move out of the lecture theatre, on time, to make way for the next lecturer or next event being held in there. You can’t hang about, selling things.’

  ‘This is very unsatisfactory,’ he said, the warmth g
oing out of his eyes. I wondered if he was going to take back his gift. ‘I must think about it. Now which is my cabin?’

  I gave him the number. It was Professor Papados’s cabin, cleaned out, serviced and ready for a new occupant. Everything neat and pristine. Not a whiff of sudden death.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll work things out,’ I said hopefully. This man wanted to make money on the side, selling his antiques to the passengers. ‘I’ll show you the lecture theatre. It’s a lovely venue. You will be delighted.’

  He did like the roomy theatre, stage and facilities. It seated a lot of people in a semicircle but was still intimate. He tested walking around and standing at a lectern, waving his arms about, throwing his voice to the back row, getting the feel of the place.

  *

  Dr Samuel Mallory returned very late from his tour. I saw the passengers rushing aboard, only minutes before all the pre-departure checks. The Countess was ready to sail and the lines let go at seven forty-two. We needed the aid of our thrusters and a tug secured aft. We moved off the berth.

  Once clear of the breakwater we steamed into the Tyrrhenian Sea and headed towards Calvi and the Balange region.

  ‘So?’ It was Samuel on the phone. ‘What have you found out? Tell me.’

  ‘Professor Papapdos was not a diabetic. Why did you want to know?’

  ‘His sugar level was very low. Most unusual. I had a hunt around. It’s so unusual and easily missed. Perhaps he had been working on deck in his shirt sleeves. But there was the tiniest prick, minute, on his forearm.’

  ‘So what might it be?’

  ‘I’m guessing that someone might have injected him with one hundred units of insulin. The syringe looks like a fountain pen or a biro. You can get them anywhere, especially in India. They don’t ask you for a prescription. Anyone could have bumped into him, accidentally, and injected him.’

  ‘So what does it mean? If you don’t have diabetes and are injected with insulin?’

  ‘It means that your sugar level plummets and you die. And it looks like a heart attack. Insulin shock is when the blood sugar drops suddenly leading to unconsciousness. Professor Papados was in a diabetic coma which led to massive brain damage and death.’