A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘So you are not here officially?’

  ‘No, not yet. But it could become official. I’m taking a well-earned holiday, one leg of the cruise only, as a guest of John Fletcher. I hope to repay his generosity by solving the mystery of his wife’s death.’

  ‘We will, we will,’ I said, suddenly full of optimism. We could do anything together.

  ‘I shall need to see the … body,’ he said. He hesitated over the word.

  ‘I can arrange that with Dr Skinner.’

  ‘Your ship’s doctor may have missed something. GPs are not usually trained in forensics.’

  Bruce Everton was a good-looking man, quite a bit older than me. But age was easy to forget in his company. His thick, greyish hair looked distinguished. His lean body was the pay-off from many hours in the gym and would look good in any state of undress. But we had never got that far. It had been a genuine friendship, touched by the occasional sexual frisson.

  ‘So how do you know John Fletcher? And how does he know you? What’s the background here?’

  Bruce looked disconcerted. ‘Don’t laugh, Casey. It’s the old story. We play golf together.’

  ‘Golf is no laughing matter, I understand,’ I said, keeping a straight face.

  ‘You are laughing. I knew you would. You think it’s funny, grown men hitting a tiny white ball around acres of green grass and into a distant hole.’

  ‘I’m sure it gives you a great deal of pleasure, though I have never actually understood the complexities of the game.’ Straight face still in place.

  ‘Also John Fletcher is a retired policeman. He was never plain clothes or CID, but a copper on the beat. Now does that make more sense?’

  ‘Of course, that makes perfect sense: the police network. He was quite right to get you on board. You’re the best. Now, let’s go sort out your dismal cabin.’

  *

  It was the worst cabin I had ever seen, situated at the far end of the crew deck, fathoms below sea level. Four narrow bunk beds with a heavy black TV on a tiny cabinet placed in between them. There was no chair, no table, no telephone, no fridge, no tea-making facilities, no chest of drawers. The so-called bathroom was a corner partitioned off with a shower and a tiny washbasin. No towel rail, not even a mug for his toothbrush.

  The carpet needed a steam clean. The shower curtain was stained with urine. Graffiti was scrawled on the walls. The only touch of value was a twenty-two-inch-long shelf, if you could call that an amenity.

  ‘This is awful, Bruce,’ I said. ‘I’m so ashamed and so sorry. You can’t stay here. There must have been a terrible mistake. I didn’t know such squalor existed on this ship. Even the crew shouldn’t have to put up with this.’

  ‘I thought I was being downgraded for some devious reason.’

  ‘Who said this was your cabin? I’d like to find out who put you here.’

  ‘Some cadet met me off the tender and escorted me to this cabin. I don’t know who it was. It was pretty dark and I was dead tired. I didn’t even bother to unpack.’ His soft case was on the floor, still strapped up.

  ‘Well, they certainly didn’t want you to stay. I think it was deliberate. No one would stay in these circumstances. They thought you would get off at the next port of call. Let’s see what the purser can find for you.’

  *

  The purser was apologetic. ‘I’m really sorry this has happened, Mr Everton. There has been a terrible mistake. You were taken there by accident by a very new cadet. Your cabin is 104 A deck, next to John Fletcher. I’ll get a steward to move your things immediately.’

  ‘I didn’t unpack,’ said Bruce.

  ‘How did this happen?’ I persisted. ‘Don’t you know why the cadet escorted Mr Everton to that crew cabin?’

  ‘I’ll make enquiries and let you know what I discover.’ Purser-speak for ‘no comment’.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I shall be interested to know. So will Captain Wellington. Mr Everton is a personal friend.’

  What a whopper. I’d make sure they became friends as soon as possible.

  I took Bruce up to the Boulevard Café, which was fast becoming my favourite rendezvous. Bruce collected a tray full of delicious bits and pieces while I got two cups of tea. I remembered how he liked it. We found a table out of earshot of any passengers and I filled him in on the events of the past few days. I left nothing out, not even Pierre Arbour’s undisguised dislike of me.

  ‘I get all the worst jobs, constant put-downs and sometimes direct rudeness. He is not my favourite person.’

  ‘It’s jealousy,’ said Bruce. ‘Sheer jealousy because you are good at your job, probably better than him, and much better-looking. Remember your ten commandments. No one can beat you.’ He selected a canapé of toast piled high with prawns. ‘You’re the tops.’

  ‘You’re the Eiffel Tower,’ I sang back.

  ‘Sorry, that’s all I know of that song.’

  ‘Don’t forget to leave room for tonight’s supper,’ I said, amused by his hunger. ‘Dozens of delicious courses designed to be consumed in a short time.’

  ‘I may not have time for supper,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot to do and I must see John Fletcher straight away. All these mysterious happenings on one cruise and within days of each other. I can’t help but wonder if they are linked.’

  ‘Tracy Coleman, Lorna Fletcher and Ted Sullivan? And there’s Henry Fellows. I keep saying ‘and Henry Fellows’ as if he’s an afterthought. No one seems to know anything about him. It would be strange indeed. A more unlikely foursome one could hardly imagine. I must go and change for tonight. Sorry, Bruce, work calls. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘How about a nightcap somewhere?’

  ‘Perfect.’ If I could find him again …

  It would have to be my black fishtail chiffon tonight, as a sign of respect for Lorna Fletcher. No gaudy glad rags, no razzmatazz. I’d also asked Debbie to wear something discreet when introducing the Russian concert pianist. We had both suddenly remembered the concert and Debbie said she could do it, as long as she sat down most of the time.

  ‘Time to go get dolled up,’ Bruce said, eyeing up some egg and salad canapé, wrapped in pastry. He probably hadn’t eaten decently for days. One day I would ask him if there was a Mrs Everton, but did I want to know? Cruise ships were a kind of no-man’s-land. ‘I’ll catch you around for a late-night drink.’

  ‘It’ll be very late,’ I warned. ‘I’m short of staff. The passengers will be keen for all sorts of entertainment after going cross-eyed watching for crocs all day. But I’m really glad you’re here. I was beginning to feel lost and isolated.’ I didn’t mention feeling alarmed and a bit frightened.

  ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me for years,’ said Bruce. This time he was not looking at me. Perhaps he was afraid of what his eyes might be saying. ‘And I like the sound of being very late. I’m at my best when being very late. Police training.’

  I liked the sound of it, too.

  *

  The two shows tonight were hour-long tributes to the genius of Ivor Novello and his music. Rather before my time, but the lovely songs had lived on.

  It was such a big theatre, there was no way I could see who was sitting in the audience. But I did notice that Ted Sullivan was circulating again, back in hunter-gatherer mode, bottled water in hand. I hoped he’d checked the seal. Gina was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she had moved on to fresher, lusher pastures.

  It was getting rough outside. I wondered how the dancers managed to keep their balance on that stage. They wore high heels, but always with a T-strap to keep the shoe secure. I heard drinks sliding off tables. We were riding rough weather.

  Chief Engineer Daniel Webster was hurrying along the promenade deck, done up in his waterproofs. I was taking a breather between shows.

  ‘Better stay inside, Casey,’ he said. ‘Time to batten down the hatches.’

  ‘Is it going to get that bad?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Ma
ybe a bit blustery.’

  It was more than a bit blustery. I was no novice sailor. The Aveline was rocking, hit by waves and a wind that was force nine or ten. I could feel the old Aveline groaning inside the new hull, absorbing the battering. I made the precarious journey to the IT room and via a hurried Google search, found the weather forecast for this leg of the cruise.

  And the news wasn’t good.

  Hurricane Ricky. The meteorological office had precise details. We were heading into the path of Hurricane Ricky. Surely Captain Wellington had time to plot a different route or head inland for some safe harbour? A ship should never argue with a hurricane.

  Maybe Hurricane Ricky had changed course, unpredictable and precocious as hurricanes always are. But I didn’t like the sound of it. Hurricanes could be dangerous aboard a big ship. It would be prudent to cancel the quiz, otherwise papers and drinks would be flying all over the place. Passengers would be safer in their cabins, watching the replay of an old film. And I had my team to consider.

  Edmund Morgan was hurrying forward, wearing his worried look. ‘Don’t go outside, Casey. No stargazing tonight.’

  ‘But I love my stargazing.’

  ‘Not safe.’

  ‘Are we really heading into the path of Hurricane Ricky?’ I asked.

  ‘Good heavens, wherever did you get that idea?’ he blustered. ‘It’s just a bit of a gale.’

  After the second Ivor Novello show, which was understandably not well attended, I began searching the bars for Bruce Everton. I’d feel safer beside him, in just a bit of a gale.

  Food. Where had food gone to? I couldn’t remember my last food intake. I’d missed dinner by doing both shows.

  Romanoff Petrik cannoned into me as I left the Acropolis Theatre, on my way to make sure that no one turned up for the quiz. It had been cancelled over the tannoy and on the in-cabin television. The disco had also been cancelled. The casino stayed open in any weather. The serious punters were oblivious to the weather.

  ‘Please, Miss Jones, Miss Casey, for one minute. You are the only one I can talk to. I must talk to you.’

  The Russian pianist looked distraught, his dark hair dishevelled, white shirt buttoned up the wrong way, black bow tie unfastened. His concert had also been cancelled and maybe he was at a loose end. I had not seen him for ages. He was always practising, for hours every day.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Let’s find somewhere we can safely sit.’

  ‘You don’t understand. Nobody understands.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I agreed. ‘And no one will understand unless you tell me what you are talking about. Let’s sit here and you can tell me what you are worried about.’

  It was a pair of armchairs, selectively placed outside the art gallery where the art connoisseurs could look through the wares on show. But tonight there would be no one there.

  ‘Tracy Coleman. Why is no one looking for her? They all say that she left the ship in Acapulco, but she didn’t. Why is no one checking her swipe card? It will show she never left the ship. She is still here. She never got off.’ His voice was trembling with passion.

  ‘She never got off? How do you know that?’ I asked. ‘How can you be so sure? Everyone says she went ashore at Acapulco.’

  ‘Because she was with me all day,’ said Romanoff, wringing his priceless, highly insured hands. ‘We were in bed, my bed, making love. We were in bed the whole day. Tracy and me, we are desperately in love. We are having a shipboard romance, an affair. But now she has disappeared and I cannot find her anywhere.’

  He did look distraught, his deep brown eyes clouded with worry.

  ‘But you have said something to someone, surely?’

  ‘Yes, I have asked many people, but everyone says she went ashore and did not come back.’

  ‘You’ve told them that she was with you?’

  He shook his head, dark hair falling over his eyes. ‘No, I have not said this. It was not right, you see. I have a wife in Moscow. She would be very upset, my Natasha. I must protect her. We married very young.’

  Another tangled web, these shipboard romances. But if Tracy Coleman was still on board, where was she? She could be trapped or being held prisoner, or lying injured in some desolate spot. A chill touched my spine. She could have been pushed overboard as we left Acapulco, weighted down, and was even now on the seabed of the harbour.

  ‘Have you ever been to her cabin?’

  ‘No, never. I don’t even know where it is. She always came to my cabin.’

  ‘It’s been wrecked — clothes, make-up, everything. But her inhaler, for asthma, is still there among the debris.’

  His face lightened a degree. ‘There, that proves it. She always took her inhaler with her. She is still on the ship. We must find her.’ Suddenly his face went white under his tan. ‘Oh my God, she may not be alive. Something may have happened to her. Please, Miss Jones, you believe me, don’t you? You’re a nice lady, with a kind face. Help me find her.’

  No one had ever said I had a kind face before. ‘I believe you. Yes, I’ll do what I can. I’ll get the security officer, Edmund Morgan, to organize a thorough search of the ship, all the storerooms, the laundry, the kitchens, everywhere. Even the engine rooms. Try not to worry.’

  ‘But I am worried. She is so beautiful, so vivacious, such a lovely person. I cannot bear anything to have happened to her.’

  I’d seen the photograph of Tracy Coleman in the entertainment team group on the wall outside the library. She was tall and willowy with lots of dark, wavy hair and sparkling eyes. Quite a glamorous woman. It was no wonder the romantic Russian had been taken by her looks.

  ‘Did everyone like her?’

  ‘Oh yes, she was very popular, always laughing and joking. Maybe some of the ladies were a little jealous, but she never did anything wrong.’

  Except with you, I thought. Though perhaps Romanoff had not mentioned Mrs Petrik. Some men do forget these details.

  ‘Was there anyone who did not like her?’

  Romanoff snorted in a loud, emphatic way. ‘Did not like her? I tell you, this man hated her. He made her life a number-one bad misery. She said that one day, she would lose her temper and kill him.’

  ‘And who was that?’ I asked quietly, wondering if I already knew the answer. Of course, I did.

  ‘I keep out of his way, or I would kill him, too. Fast, with a knife. He is, as you say, a smarmy lizard. The director of entertainment, Monsieur Pierre Arbour. He is making my darling Tracy into this mystery.’

  His English was garbled, but I understood.

  12. Hurricane Ricky

  A rough sea and a gale-force wind should be nothing to a fine modern ship like the Countess Aveline. The wind whistled through lines and along corridors and the waves slapped the hull with relentless fury as we rode the Caribbean Sea.

  I’d been on the edge of a hurricane before, but it had never been this bad. Walking was a calculated hazard: forget pride; hold on to everything handy. The crew was busy putting up extra ropes across open spaces of carpet. The Zanzibar Dining Room had closed, and I could see the staff hurriedly stacking cutlery and glassware into secure compartments.

  My flimsy evening dress was not the right gear for a hurricane. I’d get blown away. The stairs were too dangerous, so I took the lift down to my cabin and changed into a tracksuit and trainers. I also grabbed a lightweight waterproof jacket. We were pitching and rolling.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Edmund Morgan said again, when I phoned him. ‘It’s only a tropical disturbance. We don’t get hurricanes of any magnitude in this area, believe me.’

  ‘It seems pretty rough to me,’ I said. ‘I can’t understand why we aren’t going towards the land, to some safe harbour. All the captains I’ve known have always taken the safest route. They daren’t do anything else.’

  ‘Perhaps Captain Wellington thinks our extra speed will outride the hurricane.’

  ‘There. I knew it was a hurricane. Hurricane Ricky. Edmund, I want to see y
ou. Can we talk somewhere?’

  ‘You should stay in your cabin and watch a movie. It’ll blow itself out by the morning. Goodnight, Casey.’

  ‘This is important. It’s about Tracy Coleman.’

  ‘What about Tracy Coleman?’

  I knew a little about hurricanes. I knew there was a vortex, the centre, where all was calm. In a quadrant, the ship could be sucked in or buffeted out, like a spinning top. But the Aveline was far too big to suffer such treatment. The captain was probably, even now, plotting our escape route. We would be in radio contact with all the shore stations.

  But hurricane behaviour is eccentric. It can change course, change velocity and change strength in minutes. Still, at least a big ship is safer than a building. Bungalows and offices get torn down. Palm trees flattened. Cars wrecked and tossed about.

  ‘I have got to see you,’ I said. I’d read somewhere that the spin of the earth is what starts hurricanes, that and hot and cold air; that a hurricane is a vast energy produced by the condensation of water from rising air. A little bit of knowledge is always confusing.

  The strength of the wind was increasing. I could feel it buffeting my cabin window, waves obliterating any night-time view. It would be safer to stay here and tuck myself up with a hot chocolate and a good book. I was about to change my mind when Edmund agreed to meet me.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the north end of the Cairo Lounge,’ said Edmund. ‘Take the lift. Don’t take the stairs. They are too dangerous. You could get thrown down.’

  Everything was being battened down. On deck, the crew were lashing down all the loungers. The cushions were being stacked inside. The deck bars were closed, shutters down. The pool was being covered with heavy tarpaulin and lashed down.

  A few passengers were about, hoping for something spectacular to video. The gamblers were still working the fruit machines and tables in the casino. They hadn’t even noticed that it was rough.