A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘D-dunno what happened,’ he groaned. At least he understood the question, even if he didn’t have an answer. ‘Dizzy … fell.’

  As he spoke, he was being wrapped in a blanket and lifted onto the stretcher. It was an art getting him onto the lurching tender. But the crewmen managed it without dropping him into the water. There were the usual gawpers, and I tried to disperse them.

  ‘Give him air, please,’ I said, forming a sort of human barrier.

  ‘Plenty of air in this gale,’ said a joker.

  ‘Is he going to be all right?’ asked a subdued Gina. The lace shawl now looked like widow’s weeds. Her flamboyance had gone.

  ‘You’ll be able to find out soon,’ I said. ‘Phone the medical centre and they’ll tell you. I’m sure he’s going to be fine.’

  ‘It’s the Panama Canal tomorrow. He was looking forward to seeing it and taking photographs. He’s never seen it before. I’ve been through it at least three times myself.’

  ‘He may well have recovered by tomorrow. A night in the medical centre may be all he needs. Why not get something warm to wear from your cabin and then go up and get some midnight snacks being served in the Boulevard Café? You could do with a hot drink or some soup.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, but something hot to drink would be nice.’ She sounded more cheerful.

  Dr Skinner dismissed me as soon as we got on board. She was very good at dismissing people. There was nothing unkind about it. She had her work to do and people got in the way.

  I put on a fleece and some socks, soaking up the instant warmth, then went up to the Boulevard Café to write up my report in a quiet spot. I needed something hot, too. A bowl of mushroom and garlic soup with croutons was perfect. Gina was holding court on the far side, regaling an audience with the tale of the mysterious downfall of Ted Sullivan.

  ‘He looked absolutely awful.’ Her voice carried across the café. ‘Groaning.’

  My report was brief and to the point. Tours Office didn’t have time to read a novel. I made a quick check on the disco, but there was no need. Gary was there, playing the same music, but the bar was almost empty. It was no fun trying to boogie on a tilting floor. He winked at me.

  ‘You could pack up early at this rate,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘An early night would be great.’

  Early night? He called midnight an early night?

  ‘Sweet dreams,’ I said.

  ‘You bet,’ he grinned. ‘I’ve got a few of those lined up.’

  I wondered with whom; he was popular.

  The Aveline was having a rough time, even at anchor. I could feel the pull, but the ship was firm and secure to the bed of the sea. Her size and weight were a stabilizing factor in this kind of weather.

  The red light was blinking on the answer phone in my cabin. It was Dr Skinner.

  ‘Hi, Casey. I thought you might like to know. Ted Sullivan isn’t drunk. He was drugged. More tomorrow when I’ve made a few tests. Sweet dreams.’

  Sweet dreams? They were turning into nightmares. I needed a pair of strong arms around me. But where would I find some? The only arms that I fancied were Samuel Mallory’s. There was no one on board this ship that I could go to. I knew no one. I was alone.

  10. Panama Canal

  The Panama Canal was a miracle of engineering. Fifty-one miles cut through a land mass of jungle from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic. It would take the Aveline nine slow hours to travel along this great time-saver. We would go through three huge locks: the Miraflores, the Pedro Miguel and, after the sprawling Lake Gatún, the Gatún lock.

  Shipboard events were minimal and the mysteries seemed to recede. No one was interested in anything except sitting on deck. Dozens of bags and books reserving deck loungers and an all-day canal commentary from the bridge. We were told that each year the canal handles over 1,300 ships, mostly cargo and cruise. Each ship is charged according to its tonnage. One brave man swam the length of the canal. He got charged, too. Not much, said the commentator. It worked out around a dollar a kilo.

  Happily he was not devoured by crocodiles on his swim. This was spot-the-croc season. The leathery reptiles sunbathed on the banks, oblivious to the great ships creating a cooling wash.

  ‘Ted Sullivan’s bottle of water was spiked.’

  It was Judith Skinner. I liked the way she appeared at my side, any time, any place, and told me straight. I was on deck as we passed under the immense Bridge of the Americas and entered the canal. We had embarked twenty Panamanian linesmen to help us through the locks. I knew what the doctor was talking about.

  ‘Not surprised. Any idea what it was?’

  ‘It was Midazolam, a controlled drug, but anyone working in a hospital can get hold of it. It gives the appearance of drunkenness, the sort of thing kids put in Coca Cola for a lark.’

  ‘Is Mr Sullivan recovering?’

  ‘Yes, he’s sleeping it off. He’s doing very well. He can return to the world of cruising any time. He’s had a lucky escape. If he had drunk the whole bottle of drugged water, it might have been a different story.’

  ‘Ah … any malicious intent?’

  ‘Possibly, somewhere along the line. I must go. I only wanted a quick word.’ Dr Skinner was already retreating.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The good doctor was gone in a puff of ether. Back to the busy medical centre, where the sick and ailing passengers awaited her attention. She didn’t get much time off.

  The other good doctor was still in my head. Sometimes the feeling was so strong I thought that Sam was by my side. I could hear his voice as if he had never left. I was a danger to passing traffic.

  I did my goodwill tour of the decks, smiling and talking to people, pointing out things of interest. The world never ceases to fascinate me. I often get asked if sailing the same routes is boring. It’s never boring because the passage of time brings change. There’s always something new along the way, something I hadn’t noticed before.

  Gina was sunbathing in a Lurex bikini. She was a little overweight for such flimsy coverage, and her sunhat was larger than the bikini. She caught sight of me and waved me over.

  ‘I’ve sent in a letter saying how wonderful you were last night, taking charge and doing everything possible to save Ted. You were so cool, calm and efficient,’ she said. She was lathering herself with factor 30. ‘I sent the letter to the captain. I thought he ought to know.’

  ‘How kind,’ I said. ‘Thank you. I really appreciate that. We often get letters of complaint. You know, not enough ice in the free drink type of complaints.’

  The letter had been addressed to the captain, thank goodness. Pierre would have shredded it.

  ‘Is Ted all right now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, he’s recovering, but I doubt if he’ll want an alcoholic drink for a couple of days.’

  ‘I don’t know where he got the drink from. We didn’t stop at any bars, did we?’

  Gina wasn’t aware that his bottle of water had been spiked.

  ‘No. It was a whistle-stop tour.’

  ‘We could both do with sticking to orange juice. Give the poor old liver a chance to recover.’ She waved over a passing waiter. ‘I’m going to have the recommended cocktail of the day. Panama Passion. Would you like one?’ She gave her order.

  I shook my head. ‘No, thank you, Gina. A bit early for me. I did wonder if you knew where Mr Sullivan got his bottle of water? Do you know if he bought it on board? Or did he bring it with him from his cabin? Can you remember?’

  ‘I think he brought it with him. It’s not exactly something that one notices, is it? Water is water. We all have a couple of bottles stacked away somewhere.’

  ‘True. I only wondered. Here comes your Panama Passion. It looks wonderful.’

  It did indeed. It was festooned with a paper umbrella, slices of fruit and whisked-up alcohol, all in a blue Martini glass. She signed the chit and took her first sip through the straw. ‘It is wonderful,’ she sighed.

  I moved on
, leaving Gina to enjoy her Panama Passion. She was set to order a second. I was sure that the bar would have good sales today. Everyone was on deck. It was getting hotter. The hotter it got, the thirstier they became, the more drinks sold.

  I knew the canal by heart: the number of chambers we traversed, the time they took to fill with gallons and gallons of water. We had a tug on standby for the narrowest section of the canal under the Centennial Bridge.

  It was the perfect time for asking innocuous questions.

  It’s something the police can’t do. Amateur investigators can ask the strangest questions and follow wild clues without all the encumbrance of interview rooms and statements. And all we are looking for is the truth. Leave it to the professionals to arrest, charge and try.

  I roamed the decks, looking for anyone from the Queensbury quiz group. John Fletcher seemed to be absent from the bars or pools, grieving for his wife, no doubt. As unsympathetic as it may sound, I didn’t feel that his grieving was all that genuine. I might be wrong. People hide their true feelings, especially men. Stiff upper lip, and all that.

  But John Fletcher was not in his cabin, grieving. He was at the stern of the ship, almost unrecognizable in a floppy linen hat and dark sunglasses. He was taking photographs.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said, spotting me. ‘You think it’s strange, me being out here, but this is what Lorna would have wanted me to do. We had saved hard for this cruise. We had both been looking forward to it for months.’

  ‘So why do you think she took her life?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t think she did. I don’t believe it was suicide. You might say that I’ve read too many detective novels, but it doesn’t look right to me. It wasn’t like her. She was full of beans that evening. We’d been to a nice drinks party. We were all geared up towards winning the quiz and then she got this headache. Not like her at all. She was not a headachy person.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’ I asked, leaning on a rail and looking at the churning waves. I was starting to feel tired.

  ‘I don’t know. Someone or something got to her. She got a phone call. That Ted Sullivan was always giving her the eye, trying to get her to meet him on deck. He thought he was God’s gift to women.’

  ‘I take it that you don’t like Ted Sullivan? Did your wife feel the same?’

  ‘She thought he was an idiot, but a harmless idiot. She wanted him off the team because he kept making silly remarks.’

  ‘Did you know that something unusual happened to Ted Sullivan during the Panama City tour last night?’ I wasn’t going to say what, but I wanted to see his reaction.

  John Fletcher snorted. ‘I’m not surprised. There must be a dozen husbands who would like to teach him a lesson. I hope it hurt a lot.’

  Dr Skinner had told me that John Fletcher had not wanted his wife’s body to be flown home. Waste of money, he’d said. He’d muttered something about a burial at sea. Cruise ships were never happy about burials at sea, as it upset the other passengers. It always took place very discreetly, late at night; a ceremony without any bands or bugles.

  We had an onboard pastor for the Sunday services, and he would be there to say a few suitable words. Captain Wellington would be there, too. I’d never seen a burial at sea. It might be quite moving.

  So far on this cruise, I’d had one missing person (Tracy Coleman), one suicide (Lorna Fletcher) and one attempted GBH (Ted Sullivan). It was not exactly attempted murder. Dr Skinner had not been that explicit. And then there was Henry Fellows who had not been seen since ‘sleeping it off’. I didn’t know how to categorize him.

  And there was one entertainment director AWOL. Perhaps I ought to send him some flowers. A bunch of lilies? I left a message on his answer phone, in case he was another victim of mysterious circumstances.

  ‘Hi, it’s Casey,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Hope you are feeling better. Best wishes from everyone.’ I refused to say that we were missing him. I’m not that good at telling lies. We were doing very well without him.

  *

  I was still no wiser, but it had been good to talk to Gina, John Fletcher and Dr Skinner. Ted Sullivan was next on my list, if I could find him. But instead, someone else unexpectedly turned up.

  Debbie was back in the entertainment office. She was looking much better and had colour in her cheeks. Her hair was newly washed and shining.

  ‘Dr Skinner has given me medication, and I’m feeling much better. Dr Skinner said it was a natural miscarriage, probably an imperfect placenta and the foetus wasn’t getting any nourishment. She said it often happens with first babies. She said it was absolutely no fault of mine. It would have happened anytime, wherever I was.’

  ‘That’s good to know, isn’t it? Nature’s way of correcting mistakes,’ I said, switching on my computer to check email. ‘I still want you to take it easy. You’ve had a rough time. Fortunately, the canal is a light day, so no vigorous activities in demand. I’ll do the two stage shows and then the quiz. Gary can do his usual disco and the karaoke. You can have the evening off.’

  ‘Thank you, Casey. You’re so thoughtful. Peter-pecker would have had me doing twice as much. I’ve done the programme draft for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It’s a day at sea, so chock-a-block full of talks and games, line dancing, pottery. I could hardly get them all in.’

  ‘That’s a real help, thanks. We’ll do a quick check together and then we can send it down to the printers.’

  There was an email from Edmund Morgan. He sounded agitated.

  ‘Hi Casey. I hope you don’t mind. I’m really worried by the escalation of events. It’s getting out of control. Perhaps it’s time to call in the cavalry. You have your job to do and I have mine. We can’t expect miracles and this is all beyond me. Edmund.’

  I emailed back, short and sweet. ‘Sound the bugle.’

  I didn’t know what he meant, and it didn’t really matter. I had suspected it was getting too much for him. His Marine background might have been sedentary; the payroll office would suit him.

  Next were some emails from Head Office. I answered them in my name, without saying that Pierre had taken extended sick leave, hoping they would put two and two together and come up with five.

  We were entering Gatún Lake for our transit and taken on the twenty Panamanian linesmen again. Their job was to secure us to the mules at each end of the ship. The mules were not stubborn, four-legged creatures with nasty tempers, but instead very powerful engines on tracks. We had four mules at each end, and once they were in position, they pulled the ship into the first chamber. Once we were lowered down to the level of the next chamber, they could move us forward, then switch back and repeat it all over again. It was a long process. Three chambers of water to transverse in total, keenly watched by most of the passengers.

  It was an eerie process if you were sitting in one of the lounges. The walls of the lock chamber would rise up, only inches from the windows, and it would go almost dark.

  I went up on deck. We were going through the breakwaters that marked the end of the Panama Canal. Our course now moved through the Bahia Limon and across the Colombian Basin towards the Dutch Antilles.

  I was leaning on the rail, letting the bracing sea air blow away the sultriness of the long land-bound transit. There was a movement by my side, but I did not stir, pretending not to notice. The Atlantic Ocean was mesmerizing, its colour so dark, the waves so powerful, the white horses, wild and furious.

  ‘So this is how you spend your time, is it? Is the entertainment department running on autopilot while you take in the views? I’m surprised, Casey Jones. You are usually so dedicated to your job.’

  I knew that amused voice. I did not have to turn round. My heart turned over in a double somersault.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Bruce Everton,’ I breathed. ‘What are you doing here? Surely not a stowaway? We don’t allow stowaways, you know. They get chucked into the brig.’

  He chuckled. ‘It might be an improvement on the cabin I�
��ve been allocated, somewhere down on Z deck. The ship’s pretty full, I’m told. There are only a few empty cabins.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here. You’re a godsend. I hope you don’t mind being drawn into the security chaos that is, at present, on board the Aveline.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  This was the cavalry. DCI Bruce Everton from Scotland Yard. I had no idea what strings had been pulled to get him on board, but I was pleased. I knew I could rely on this man. He was a tower of strength.

  11. At Sea

  Detective Chief Inspector Bruce Everton was once my rock, my stave from an earlier cruise on the Countess Georgina. He had been brought on board then to deal with a tragic set of circumstances.

  ‘I’m really pleased to see you,’ I said again, trying not to show my pleasure too much. I liked him; he was a good man. ‘But why have you been summoned, if that’s the right word? We don’t exactly have a homicide on our hands.’

  ‘That’s true. No mutilated corpse or manic murderer. But you do have one woman in an icebox who should not be there.’

  ‘Lorna Fletcher, you mean? Did Edmund tell you that? Surely the ship’s grapevine doesn’t have wings?’

  ‘Who’s Edmund? Yes, Lorna Fletcher, John Fletcher’s wife. John is convinced that she didn’t commit suicide and that somehow it was made to look like suicide. He phoned me from the ship and asked me to take a look in to the circumstances. He doesn’t know that you lead a double life and how ingenious you are sometimes, that you had probably come to the same conclusion.’

  So this was not Edmund calling in the cavalry.

  ‘He thinks you work hard, and are a very beautiful woman wearing a succession of gorgeous clothes.’ Bruce nodded and grinned.

  ‘How kind.’ It sounded trite, but I was touched. ‘So how did you get here, if it wasn’t Edmund? How was it all arranged?’

  Bruce Everton still had a weary look about him. It had probably been a terrible journey. ‘I flew out to Panama City, arrived very late last night and had a horrendously rough boat ride out to the ship which was anchored in the harbour. I’ve been sleeping it off since. It was really good news to find that you were also on the Aveline,’ he added with a smile.