Cruising to Murder

by Mark McCrum

  ‘I’m guessing she was in her mid to late eighties,’ the doctor said. She reached out her gloved forefinger and touched Eve’s upper left arm, then followed up with a second gentle poke to the flesh below the neck.

  ‘Stiff already,’ she said.

  ‘Rigor mortis,’ said Francis.

  ‘Exactly.’ She smiled. ‘Are you, perhaps, a reader of crime fiction?’

  ‘I write it actually.’

  This surprised the doctor. ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here on the ship. I’m lecturing on the history of the genre.’

  ‘I must try and come. I don’t get a chance to read as much as I’d like, but that’s one of my favourite things, when I’ve got time off …’

  As she talked she was continuing with her checks. Francis noticed that even though Eve was clearly dead, the doctor took her pulse.

  ‘That’s routine,’ she said, spotting his interest.

  ‘I’m Francis, by the way,’ he said. ‘Francis Meadowes.’

  ‘Alyssa Lagip.’

  They exchanged a slightly awkward nod.

  Having poked and prodded a little more, Dr Lagip pulled back one of the eyelids and examined the eyeball.

  ‘Hm. Interesting.’

  She pushed back the lid, which slid shut like a doll’s, and studied the other eye. From her pocket she took out a black notebook and a pen and made a note.

  Just as Francis was about to ask her what was so interesting, the cabin door swung open and there was the sound of voices. It was Hentie, accompanied by the captain, a fellow officer with four stripe epaulettes, Viktor, and the blonde expedition staffer.

  ‘Close door, please,’ said the captain. He was a beefy fellow with a rather rough red face and thick black hair, cropped short. Hentie, at the back, must have done what he asked, as Francis heard the click. The little posse reached the centre of the cabin and stopped. The captain nodded at Francis but said nothing; it’s just a matter of time, he thought, before he asks me to leave.

  Dr Lagip turned. ‘Captain,’ she said, with a smile.

  ‘So,’ he replied, after a few long moments studying Eve in silence. ‘We have Operation Rising Star.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said the doctor.

  ‘We’re not having much luck on this ship, are we? So what happened to this one?’

  ‘It’s not entirely clear. But I would like to request a post-mortem, sir. As soon as possible.’

  The captain didn’t answer this question. Instead he turned to Francis, fixing him with startling blue eyes. ‘Hentie tells me you heard her scream when she discovered this body?’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’ Francis had toyed with ‘sir’, before deciding to copy the doctor. ‘I’m in the cabin next door.’

  ‘This is in a way unfortunate. But I suppose you are here now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The captain said nothing for a few moments, his brow creased in thought. Then: ‘We like to keep this sort of thing quiet. Not deliberate deception, you understand. But obviously it spoils cruise for other guests if they are thinking one of them has died. If people ask about missing person, we generally say that they are ill, confined to cabin.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Francis. ‘You can trust me to be discreet. As you may or may not know, Goldencruise has invited me here to lecture—’

  ‘Yes,’ said the captain, cutting him off. ‘I am aware of your status. And also your story. You will probably find yourself at my table one evening for dinner, along with a selection of other distinguished guests, and then you can tell us all how you write your books. And also, maybe, about how you solved famous murder at English music festival.’

  ‘Literary festival,’ Francis corrected, feeling a little absurd.

  But the captain had already turned away. ‘So how immediate must post-mortem be, Doctor?’ he asked.

  ‘As immediate as possible. There are hospitals in Takoradi.’

  ‘Can’t it wait for Dakar?’

  ‘Not really, Captain, no.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we should establish a definite cause of death. As soon as possible.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ The captain looked slowly round the group. ‘That there is some uncertainty here?’

  Dr Lagip gestured towards the body, immobile at the centre of the bed, with its horrid little downturned grimace. ‘Eve was old,’ she said. ‘In her mid eighties, I am guessing. It is perfectly consistent with her age that she should have suffered a heart attack or stroke and died suddenly in her sleep. But I don’t know. There is something about this that doesn’t feel quite right to me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Her eyes are a little bloodshot. Of course, it may be nothing, but then again …’

  ‘Then again what, Doctor?’

  ‘Such a symptom would be consistent with, for example, suffocation.’

  ‘You think somebody suffocated her?’ The expression on the captain’s heavy-set features was one of astonishment. ‘Really? Who?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’m not even saying that it’s likely. Just that I would like to be sure. Another possibility is some kind of toxin.’

  ‘Toxin! Are you serious?’

  ‘It is a possibility. There are several small hospitals in Takoradi, sir. A post-mortem could easily be arranged.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said the captain, exchanging a look with his fellow officer. ‘But even if you are not questioning cause of death, authorities will have to be involved with removal of body – if they allow it at all. So we have problem. African police, swarming all over my ship, searching for God knows what. Not a pretty thought. When did she die? Have you established that?’

  ‘Rigor mortis has set in,’ the doctor replied. ‘So at least six hours ago. Probably longer.’

  ‘And who else has seen her? Apart from butler?’

  ‘Hentie?’ asked the doctor, looking over at her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Hentie replied. ‘Nobody, I would think. Her door was locked.’

  ‘And when did you last see her?’ the captain asked.

  ‘I brought her supper last night, sir. At around seven o’clock.’

  ‘You didn’t come back to clear away?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It was only a bowl of soup, sir. She was watching a film … I thought she would want to sleep, sir …’

  Hentie was as flustered as the captain was displeased.

  ‘I shall be speaking to hotel director about this,’ he said. ‘You know routine. But you were first to see her this morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Eight thirty, sir.’

  The captain nodded. ‘So if this woman died last night, some time after seven o’clock, who’s to say she even died in international waters? Technically speaking, we might have to sail back to Togo. To allow another bunch of – of – chaotic idiots on board.’

  ‘With due respect, Captain,’ said Viktor, turning towards his staffer for support, ‘the police in Togo were extremely helpful and professional. As Carmen will agree.’

  The blonde nodded. ‘They were,’ she said; her accent was Australian.

  ‘Giving your two coaches escort,’ said the captain, ‘through crowded city. In return for fat bribe. Of course, they are helpful. That’s what they do. Most of time. But investigating possible murder. Of wealthy white person. On luxurious ship such as this. It’s recipe for disaster. They could keep us in port for days. And even then not allow body off. Come on. We all understand what we’re talking about here.’

  ‘Of course I understand, Captain,’ said Viktor, though the set expression on his features said otherwise.

  ‘Sorry to offend your PC sensibilities,’ said the captain, ‘but this is my experience. Of this continent. You saw yourself what happened in Libreville.’

  ‘With respect, sir, that was an entirely different situation. And Gabon is a different country.’


  ‘Africa,’ said the captain, with a shrug. He looked towards Francis, then over at his fellow officer again, whose lips registered a slight, supportive smile.

  ‘Who does have jurisdiction in a matter like this?’ Francis asked, into the awkward silence. ‘I mean, just for the sake of argument, what would happen if the death occurred while you were in international waters?’

  The captain said nothing and for a moment Francis thought he had overstepped the mark. But: ‘It’s grey area,’ he said eventually. ‘If death actually happens, physically, in territorial waters of particular country, like man overboard, then yes, we must inform that country and expect them to be involved. But death on board ship, in middle of ocean, it doesn’t come up. Wherever we are, we normally keep body in morgue, take it off at next appropriate port, and then in due course report death to police in Nassau.’

  ‘In Nassau!’ said Francis. ‘Why Nassau?’

  ‘Vessel is registered in Bahamas. Deaths on board are technically concern of Bahamas Maritime Authority.’

  Despite the tense atmosphere, Francis was on the brink of laughing out loud. ‘So strictly speaking,’ he said, ‘if Dr Lagip has a concern about what happened to Eve, it should be investigated by a detective from the Bahamas?’

  ‘It’s not something I’ve encountered before,’ said the captain. ‘But yes.’

  ‘But you just said you’ve had deaths on board before?’

  ‘Of course. It goes with demographic. But nothing ever,’ he slowed down and looked hard at the doctor, ‘considered suspicious. Not on my watch.’

  ‘Eve here is a British citizen,’ Francis went on. ‘What about the UK police? Shouldn’t they send someone out?’ He turned towards the doctor. ‘If you’re really concerned?’

  ‘Why would they be interested?’ said the captain. ‘We are well away from UK. There is no consulate for high seas, I’m afraid.’ He paused and looked round the assembled party. ‘My problem here is that this situation is avoidable. Your suggestion that cause of death was not natural is based on what, Doctor? Bloodshot eyes? Can I really jeopardize entire cruise for bloodshot eyes?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Viktor?’

  The expedition leader shrugged. ‘I will obviously go along with your decision, sir,’ he replied, tight-lipped.

  ‘If Dr Lagip wants to have a post-mortem,’ Francis suggested, ‘couldn’t you organize one under the radar, as it were? Just get the body delivered discreetly to a hospital and checked out without informing the police.’

  ‘And how is body going to be “delivered discreetly” to hospital in small port in Ghana?’ asked the captain. ‘Where everybody knows everybody. When we have removed bodies before, it is usually done, discreetly, yes, while guests are on day tour. Local authorities in such a case are aware, because generally body is being shipped home. So all is fine. But are you likely to conceal from authorities ambulance leaving biggest ship to come into port in weeks?’ He turned towards Francis. ‘You’ve seen what it’s like in these places. Every hawker in town is on quay. Do you imagine police are not also noticing everything that is going on?’ Now his gaze rested on Alyssa. ‘Really, Doctor. This is silly. An old woman has died. Very sad. Why can’t we leave it at that?’

  ‘We can,’ said the doctor, her mouth tightening. ‘But I cannot sign the death certificate, I’m afraid. And I would like it registered in the logbook that I had these concerns. In case anything else happens.’

  ‘Anything else happens …’ the captain repeated slowly. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the doctor. ‘This is why I would like to be sure …’

  The captain drew in his breath. ‘We have impasse,’ he said, after a moment. ‘But then again, this is my ship. So I can insist that body remains in morgue till Dakar.’

  ‘You can,’ said Dr Lagip. ‘But then you would have no doctor. I cannot allow myself to be compromised in this way. This isn’t just my reputation at stake here. It’s a matter of professional ethics.’

  There was silence at this sudden blast. After ten long seconds Francis decided to take a chance; for what, really, other than a satiation of curiosity, did he have to lose? He had stumbled into this situation by accident; he was quite happy to be asked to stumble out again. ‘So there’s really no way,’ he said quietly, ‘that you can put your worries to rest without a post-mortem, Doctor?’

  ‘No. As I said, I don’t have the equipment on board to check for toxins. And in any case I’d like a second opinion before I sign the death certificate.’

  ‘So how long do these toxin tests take?’ Francis continued. ‘I mean, surely they’re not immediate.’

  Dr Lagip held out both her hands in a gesture of controlled frustration. ‘Of course not. It might take days, weeks even, to get a full set of results. I’m not trying to stop the cruise. Just so long as the body gets properly medically examined I’ll be happy.’

  Her clear brown eyes were flawless in their sincerity.

  ‘I see,’ said Francis, turning towards the captain. ‘Is there, perhaps, another way forward here …’

  At a quarter to one, Francis headed up to the open-air restaurant – the Whirlpool Grill – at the back of deck six. There was a tiny plunge pool at the centre, surrounded by slatted wooden tables for four or six. Each had a large white parasol at its centre, up and flapping lightly in the brisk sea breeze. All but one table in the corner was already taken, with groups of guests enjoying beers, cocktails, hamburgers, minute steaks, fish and chips, salads. The more elaborate lunch menu of many courses was not served out here, but that suited Francis fine. A beer and a burger with a view over the ocean was just the ticket; he hurried over and staked his claim at the last available table.

  But no sooner had he sat down and been served a beer in a glass frosted with condensation than he was aware of a shadow falling on him.

  ‘The open sea!’ said Klaus. ‘Nothing like it. May I join you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Francis, putting down his book, doing his best to manage a smile.

  ‘I would have left you in peace, but this is the last table.’

  ‘It’s a popular place.’

  ‘Which is why I came up early,’ said Klaus. ‘And are you feeling OK this morning?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  Klaus ordered two drinks from a hovering waiter: a beer and a whisky. ‘You see, I am sticking to visky sandvich, even on board ship. You can never be too careful. Especially at the moment.’

  What was he talking about? Francis gave him a puzzled look.

  ‘Yes, it is a day at sea, and people are relaxing in their cabins,’ Klaus said. ‘But I have noticed quite a few are missing. I have not this morning seen, for example, the glamorous Indian and his, er, friend.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Nor the large English lady and her husband. Nor the merry widow who ate those fluorescent prawns at lunchtime yesterday.’ He raised his bushy white eyebrows theatrically. ‘I can only hope she is OK.’

  Francis hoped his face didn’t give him away. ‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ he replied.

  ‘But it’s not a mystery.’ Klaus leant forward confidentially. ‘I notice there are suddenly those antiseptic hand gel dispensers everywhere. That is a sign. They are worried about the norovirus. If an epidemic takes hold it could stop the ship from docking. Even at the next port, Takoradi. And then everything goes to pieces. Because not only can they not stick to the itinerary, but there are problems with deliveries of fresh produce and so on.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Francis innocently.

  ‘I have also seen the doctor. Do you know her? A surprisingly young woman of Far Eastern appearance. Filipina, I should guess. You might wonder to look at her whether she’s even passed her exams. But she is looking worried today. Brows crinkled. Something is going on.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She is preoccupied. Definitely. You are the writer. I am surprised you have not noticed this. She will have confi
ned these cases to cabin, and they will have been sent a strict letter from the captain, forbidding them from leaving, under pain of being put off at the next port. That is normal. But can she stop the sickness spreading? That is the question.

  ‘Do you know the code they have for illness on board these cruise ships? Operation Bright Star. If you hear that over the tannoy one time, that means a seriously sick passenger. And if you hear’ – Klaus tapped his long nose with his forefinger – ‘Operation Rising Star, do you know what that is?’

  Francis shrugged; he had guessed, from what the captain had said in Eve’s cabin, but he didn’t know.

  ‘A death,’ Klaus said, leaning closer. ‘If there are no relatives, they keep that sort of incident very quiet, just remove the body down to the morgue below decks.’

  ‘I see,’ said Francis.

  ‘It holds three bodies. There was one cruise I heard about,’ Klaus continued, ‘where they had so many deaths on board that the morgue was full and they had to start using the freezers in the kitchen to store the corpses. The only thing the guests knew about it was that they were suddenly all offered tuna for dinner. Tuna special, eh!’

  As the German barked with laughter, his drinks arrived. He knocked the whisky back in one. ‘Down your hatch, as you say in UK.’ He looked back at the hovering waiter. ‘A Scottish beefburger for me, please. And you, Francis. Are you eating?’

  Francis’s peace had been destroyed, but there was a certain wry amusement to be had from the German’s misconceptions. It was not for Francis to enlighten him about what had happened to poor Eve, the urgent meeting that had taken place in her cabin and the agreement that had finally been reached: that the ship would dock in Takoradi as usual; that while the guests were out on their scheduled excursion to the famous slaving fort at Elmina, an unmarked van would be arranged to take Eve’s body to the hospital; and that Dr Lagip would accompany it, any talk of a post-mortem or reasons for that being kept in strict confidence. With the sincere hope, among all parties, that this would avoid the unwelcome attentions of the Ghanaian authorities.