by Ruth Ware
“Oh.” I chewed my lip. “What time did you get to bed?”
“Christ knows. Four-ish, I think.”
“Only because . . .” I started. And then stopped. Nilsson did not believe me. I was getting to the point where I barely believed myself. But Ben . . . He would believe me—right?
I thought back to our time together, to how it ended . . . Suddenly I wasn’t so sure.
“Never mind,” I said shortly. “I’ll tell you later. Have your breakfast.”
“Are you all right?” he said as I turned to go. “You look terrible.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“No, I just mean—you look like you’ve barely slept.”
“I didn’t.” I was trying not to snap, but anxiety and exhaustion were making me more abrupt than I meant. Then, as the boat lurched over another wave, “I’m finding this sea a bit rough.”
“Yeah? I’m lucky, I never get seasick.” There was an irritating touch of smugness in his voice and I resisted the urge to snap back something short and sharp. “Never mind, we’ll be in Trondheim early tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” My voice must have betrayed my dismay, for he looked at me sharply.
“Yes. Why, what’s the matter?”
“I thought—I imagined, today . . .” I trailed off. He shrugged.
“It’s a long way, you know.”
“Never mind.” I needed to get back to my room, think this through—try to work out what I had and hadn’t seen. “I’m going to go back to my room—have a lie-down.”
“Sure. See you later, Blacklock,” Ben said. His tone was light. But his eyes, as he watched me walk away, were worried.
I thought I was heading for the stairs to the lower deck, but I must have taken a wrong turn because I ended up in the library—a tiny paneled version of a country-house library, complete with green-shaded reading lamps and tiered shelving, re-created on a miniature scale.
I sighed, and tried to work out where I’d gone wrong, and if there was a quicker route back than retracing my steps and facing Ben again. It seemed impossible to get lost on such a small boat, but there was something very confusing about the way the rooms were fitted together, like a locking puzzle designed to squeeze out every inch of empty space, and navigating the maze was made more complicated by the way the boat’s movement messed with my sense of direction.
It didn’t help that, unlike a ferry, there were no floor plans or maps, and minimal signage—I supposed to help the impression that this was a private home that you just happened to share with a load of rich people.
There were two exits, and more or less at random, I opened the door to the deck. At least outside I could be certain which way I was facing, relative to the direction of travel. As I stepped outside, feeling the wind buffet my face, I heard a hoarse, nicotine-soaked voice from behind me.
“Darling, it’s a miracle you’re standing! How are you this morning?”
I turned. It was Tina, standing beneath a curved glass smoking shelter, a cigarette between her fingers. She took a long drag.
“Little bit the worse for wear?”
I suppressed the urge to turn and flee. I was supposed to be networking. I couldn’t let a self-inflicted hangover get in the way of that. I attempted a smile, hoping it was convincing.
“A bit. I shouldn’t have drunk so much.”
“Well, I was rather impressed by the amount you put away,” she said, with a slightly mocking smile. “As my old boss told me when I started at the Express back in the days of the really long lunch, if you can outdrink your interviewee, you’re on your way to your first scoop.”
I looked at her through the haze of smoke. Office gossip was that she had made her way up the corporate ladder by treading on the backs of more young women than you could count, and then, once she was through the glass ceiling, pulling the ladder up behind her. I remembered Rowan once saying, Tina is one of those women who thinks every bit of estrogen in the boardroom is a threat to her own existence.
But somehow, I couldn’t quite square her remarks with the woman standing in front of me. I knew at least one ex-colleague who said she owed Tina her career, and as I looked at her now, her heavily made-up eyes laughing at me, I thought about what it must have been like to be a female journalist in that generation, clawing your way up through the ranks of the old-boys’ network. It was hard enough now. Maybe it wasn’t Tina’s fault she couldn’t take every other woman in the office with her.
“Come here, darling, I’ll let you into a little secret,” she said, and beckoned me over, her rings chinking on her skeletal fingers. “Hair of the dog, followed by a long, slow screw.”
There was only one possible response that didn’t start with eeeeeeww, and that was a noncommittal silence. Tina gave her throaty, nicotine-soaked laugh again.
“I’ve shocked you.”
“Not really. It’s just—you know—we’re a little short on candidates.”
“I thought you and that sexy little Ben Howard were looking rather friendly last night . . .” she drawled. I repressed a shudder.
“Ben and I were together, years back,” I said firmly. “And I’ve got no desire to go back there.”
“Very sensible, darling.” She patted my arm, her rings clinking against my skin. “As the Afghans say, a man may never bathe in the same lake twice.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to this.
“What’s your name again?” she said abruptly. “Louise, was it?”
“Lo. It’s short for Laura, actually.”
“Nice to meet you, Lo. And you’re with Rowan at Velocity, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said. “I’m a features writer.” And then, surprising myself, “But I’m hoping to cover her maternity leave while she’s off. It’s partly why I got this trip, I think. They wanted to test the waters. See how I did.”
Although if this was a test, I was well on my way to failing it. Accusing my hosts of covering up a death was definitely not what Velocity had had in mind.
Tina drew on her cigarette again, and then spat out a thread of tobacco and looked at me appraisingly.
“Lot of responsibility, that role. But it’s good that you want a step up. And what will you do when she gets back?”
I opened my mouth to reply—and then stopped. What would I do? Go back to my old job? I was just wondering how to answer when she spoke.
“Give me a call sometime, when we’re back in the office. I’m always on the lookout for freelancers, particularly savvy little things with a bit of ambition.”
“I’m on a staff contract,” I said regretfully. I appreciated it was a compliment, and I didn’t want to throw it back at her, but I was pretty sure my noncompete clause wouldn’t let me moonlight.
“Suit yourself,” Tina said with a shrug. The boat lurched as she spoke, and she staggered against the metal rail. “Blast, my ciggie’s gone out. You don’t have a light, do you, sweetie? I left mine in the lounge.”
“I don’t smoke,” I said.
“Damn it.” She flicked the end over the rail and we both watched as it was snatched by the wind and whisked out of sight, gone before it even hit the churning water. I really should have given her my card, or at the very least started subtly pumping her about the Vernean’s plans for future issues and how far she’d got in buttering up Lord Bullmer. It was what Rowan would have done. Ben would probably have scored a freelance contract by now, and sod the noncompete stuff.
But right at this moment—with Nilsson probably even now shooting holes in my story to the captain—my career didn’t seem as important. If anything, I should be quizzing her, working out her whereabouts last night. After all, Ben had been playing poker with Lars, Archer, and Bullmer, which left a comparatively small pool of people who could have been in the cabin next to mine. Was Tina strong enough to push a woman overboard?
I eyed her covertly as she began to hobble across the salt-sprayed deck toward the door, her narrow heels skidding slightly on the painted metal deck. She was greyhound thin, more sinew than muscle, but I could imagine there would be a wiry strength in her arms, and the picture Rowan had painted was of a woman whose ruthlessness more than compensated for her physical size.
“So how about you?” I said as I followed her towards the door. “Did you have a good time last night?”
She stopped abruptly at that, the heavy door held in one hand, her fingers clenched on the metal, the tendons on the back of her hand standing out like iron cables. She turned to stare at me.
“What did you say?” Her neck was thrust forward like a velociraptor’s, her eyes boring into me.
“I—” I stopped, taken aback by the ferocity of her response. “I didn’t—I was just wondering . . .”
“Well, I suggest you stop wondering, and keep your insinuations to yourself. A clever girl like you knows better than to make enemies in this business.”
Then she let go of the door and let it slam shut behind her.
I stood on deck, staring blankly after her retreating back through the salt-misted door, and wondering what on earth had just happened.
I shook my head and pulled myself together. There was no point in trying to figure it out now. I should be back in the cabin, preserving the one bit of evidence I had left.
I had locked the door before I left with Nilsson but I realized, as I made my way carefully down the stairs to the cabin deck and saw the cleaners pulling their vacuums after them, their trolleys piled with towels and linens, that I had forgotten to put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign.
Inside, the suite had been valeted to within an inch of its life. The sink had been polished. The windows cleaned of salt spray. Even my dirty clothes had magically disappeared. The torn evening dress was also gone.
But I wasn’t interested in any of it. Instead, I went straight to the bathroom, to the neat ranks of makeup and cleansers on the vanity surface.
Where was it?
I pushed aside the lipstick and gloss, the toothpaste, moisturizer, eye makeup remover, half-used blister pack of pills . . . but it wasn’t there. No flash of pink and green leaped out at me. Under the counter, then—in the bin.
I went through to the main bedroom, opening drawers one after another, hunting under chairs. Where was it? Where was it?
But I knew the answer, even as I sank to the bed, head in my hands. It was gone. The tube of mascara—my one link to the missing girl—was gone.
Saturday, 26 September
Harringay Echo website
LONDON TOURIST MISSING FROM NORWEGIAN CRUISE VESSEL
Friends and relatives of missing Londoner Laura Blacklock are said to be growing “increasingly concerned” about her safety. Blacklock (32), who resides in West Grove in Harringay, was reported missing by her partner, Judah Lewis (35), during a holiday aboard the exclusive tourist ship the Aurora Borealis.
Mr. Lewis, who was not with Miss Blacklock on board, reported that he had become concerned after Miss Blacklock did not return messages on board the cruise liner, and when attempts to contact her failed.
A spokesperson for the Aurora Borealis, whose maiden voyage left Hull last Sunday, confirmed that Blacklock had not been seen since a planned trip to Trondheim on Tuesday, 22 September, but the company said that it had been initially assumed that she had decided to curtail her trip. It was only when Miss Blacklock failed to return to the UK on Friday and her partner raised the alarm that they became aware that her departure had not been planned.
Pamela Crew, the missing woman’s mother, said that it was extremely out of character for her daughter not to have made contact, and appealed for anyone who might have seen Miss Blacklock, also known as Lo, to come forward.
- CHAPTER 14 -
I tried not to let the panic overwhelm me.
Someone had been in my room.
Someone who knew.
Someone who knew what I’d seen, and what I’d heard, and what I’d said.
The minibar had been restocked, and I longed with a sudden visceral sharpness for a drink, but I shoved the thought aside and began to pace the cabin, which had seemed so large yesterday and now seemed to be closing in on me.
Someone had been in here. But who?
The urge to scream, to run away, to hide under the bed and never come out, was almost overwhelming, but there was no escape—not until we reached Trondheim.
The realization jolted my thoughts out of their rat-run and I stood, my hands on the dressing table, my shoulders bowed, looking at my white, gaunt face in the mirror. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep. There were deep circles of exhaustion under my eyes, but it was something in my eyes themselves that made me pause—a look of fear, like an animal run to ground.
A whining roar came from the corridor, and I remembered, with a jolt, the cleaners valeting the rooms. I took a deep breath and stood straighter, shaking my hair back over my shoulder. Then I opened the door and put my head out into the corridor, where the hum of the vacuum cleaner still buzzed. Iwona, the Polish woman I had been introduced to downstairs, was cleaning Ben’s cabin just up the corridor, the door wide-open.
“Excuse me!” I called, but she didn’t hear. I ventured closer. “Excuse me!”
She jumped and turned around, her hand on her heart.
“Excuse!” she said, breathlessly, putting her foot down on the switch to silence the hoover. She was wearing the dark blue uniform all the rest of the cleaners wore, her heavy features pink with exertion. “I am startle.”
“I’m sorry,” I said penitently. “I didn’t mean to shock you. I wanted to ask—did you clean my room?”
“Yes, I did already. Something is not clean?”
“It’s not that. It’s very clean—beautiful, in fact. It’s just that I wondered—did you see a mascara?”
“Mass—?” She shook her head, but not meaning no, her expression was uncomprehending. “What it is?”
“Mascara. For your eyes—like this.” I mimed putting it on, and her face cleared.
“Ah! Yes, I know,” she said, and said something that sounded like toosh do resh. I had no idea if this was Polish for mascara or I put it in the bin, but I nodded vigorously.
“Yes, yes, in a pink-and-green tube. Like—” I pulled out my phone, meaning to google Maybelline, but the Wi-Fi still wasn’t working. “Oh, damn, never mind. But it’s pink and green. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, I see last night when I clean.”
Shit.
“But not this morning?”
“No.” She shook her head, her face troubled. “Is not in bathroom?”
“No.”
“I am sorry. I did not see. I can to ask Karla, stewardess, if possible to, um . . . how say . . . to buy new—”
Her floundering words and worried expression made me realize, suddenly, what this must seem like—a madwoman half-accusing a cleaner of stealing a used mascara. I shook my head, put out my hand to her arm.
“I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter. Please don’t worry.”
“But yes, it matter!”
“No, honestly. It was probably me. I expect I left it in a pocket.”
But I knew the truth. The mascara was gone.
Back in the cabin I double-locked the door and put the chain across, then I picked up the phone, pressed 0, and asked to be put through to Nilsson. There was a long piped-music delay, and a woman who sounded like Camilla Lidman came back on the line.
“Miss Blacklock? Thank you for holding. I’ll put you through.”
There was a click and a crackle, and then a man’s deep voice came on the line.
“Hello?” It was Nilsson. “Johann Nilsson speaking. Can I help you?”
“The mascara is gone,” I said without preamble. There was a
pause; I could feel him sorting through his mental filing cabinet of notes. “The mascara,” I said impatiently. “The one I told you about last night—that the woman in cabin ten gave to me. This proves my point, can’t you see?”
“I don’t see—”
“Someone came into my cabin and took it.” I spoke slowly, trying to keep ahold of myself. I had the strange feeling that if I didn’t speak calmly and clearly, I might start screaming down the phone. “Why would they do that, if they didn’t have anything to hide?”
There was a long pause.
“Nilsson?”
“I’ll come and see you,” he said at last. “Are you in your cabin?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be about ten minutes. I’m with the captain, I must finish here, but I will come as soon as possible.”
“Good-bye,” I said, and banged the phone down, more angry than afraid, though I wasn’t sure if it was with myself, or with Nilsson.
I paced the small cabin again, running through the events of last night, the pictures, sounds, fears, crowding my head. The feeling I could not get over was one of violation—someone had been in my room. Someone had taken advantage of the fact that I was busy with Nilsson to come and pick through my belongings and pull out the one piece of evidence that supported my story.
But who had access to a key? Iwona? Karla? Josef?
There was a knock at the door and I turned sharply and went to unlock it. Nilsson stood outside, an uneasy mixture of truculent, ursine, and tired. The dark circles under his eyes were not as big as mine, but they were getting there.
“Someone took the mascara,” I said.
He nodded.
“May I come in?”
I stood back, and he edged past me into the room.
“Can I sit?”
“Please.”
He sat, the sofa protesting gently, and I perched opposite him on the chair from the dressing table. Neither of us spoke. I was waiting for him to begin—perhaps he was doing the same, or simply trying to find the words. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, a delicate gesture that looked oddly comic in such a big man.
