The Cairo Lounge was deserted, and I soon spotted Edmund. He was sitting at a table in a corner with two glasses, each one a third full of golden liquid which was slopping about inside the glass.
‘Thought you might like a brandy,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ I said, sitting down carefully. ‘That’s really thoughtful of you. Definitely brandy weather.’
‘I hope this is good,’ he said. ‘I’ve got other things to do.’
There was a loud shriek of wind, turning to a low roaring sound. I could see fast fans of water against the lounge windows. It was frightening. I turned away, hoping the windows would hold out against the force. They must use extra-strong double-glazing — treble-glazing maybe. The familiar sea waves and sea spray had gone. Instead we were surrounded by mountains of water, sucking back its own foam.
I shuddered. I am not frightened of the sea and can cope with bad weather, but this was something different. My ten commandments were being no help. I should have been comforting passengers, but they had all vanished.
‘I have some information about Tracy Coleman which could mean that she is still on board, trapped somewhere or being held prisoner. Maybe she has fallen and is injured. We need a full-on ship search, every nook and cranny.’
‘Hardly possible now, Casey.’
‘I didn’t say now, at this very moment.’
‘Who wants this search?’
‘It’s Romanoff Petrik, the Russian pianist. He says that she did not go ashore at Acapulco. He is very sure.’
‘Romeo Romanoff? Him? Why should he say that?’
‘Because Tracy was with him, all day. They were in bed.’
‘Ah.’ Edmund gulped at his brandy. ‘A little romance?’
‘A big romance, I think. Fairly serious. He is very worried.’
The older and smaller Aveline creaked inside her new modern hull, as if remembering other battles with the sea. She had been seaworthy for years, totalling thousands of nautical miles without a mishap. Some tables slid across the dance floor and the heavy armchairs inched in different directions, bumping into each other like bumper cars on fairground dodgems.
The wind speed was immense, sending spray like fountains over the ship. We couldn’t see anything out the windows. I ought to have checked on the safety of my staff. Debbie, Gary, even Pierre. I got Debbie on my mobile.
‘We’re barricaded up in the disco bar,’ said Debbie. ‘It’s too dangerous to take the short outside walk to the lifts. Can’t hear the music, though. Turn up the volume, Gary.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘Sure. No one can stand up without holding on. It’s a bit like a roller-coaster ride. Half the off-duty officers are up here. Best view of any, they said.’
‘I should think they’ll all be back on duty any moment, if this gets any worse. What about Pierre?’
‘If I know Pierre, he has taken a strong sleeping pill with a double whisky and is snoring it off in his bed.’
‘Is it worth a call to check?’
‘Don’t expect any answer.’
There wasn’t one.
‘Have you any idea who met Bruce Everton when he came on board at Panama City?’ I said suddenly to Edmund.
‘Bruce Everton? Who’s he? Have we got an extra passenger? How unusual for this leg. One of the stewards, probably.’ His face was quite blank. ‘I’d better go.’
I phoned Judith Skinner down in the depths. ‘Are you busy? I’m wondering if you need any help,’ I said. ‘I can’t do anything medical, but I can talk reassuringly to your patients and hold a hand.’
‘Bless you. We could do with your help down here,’ said Judith. ‘Brittle bones break like straw in weather like this. And we have so many falls. I can find you something to do, even if it’s only making cups of tea. But take care on the way, Casey. We don’t want another casualty.’
Edmund Morgan had gone, hopefully to initiate some kind of search for Tracy Coleman, but I realized that people had other things on their mind during Hurricane Ricky. The ship was taking a battering, constantly hit by huge waves. Except for a few lulls, you could not see anything, not even the sea. It was still frightening, but I was beginning to feel that we would soon emerge into calmer water.
I took the lift down to the medical centre. Thank goodness the lifts were working. The corridors were eerily empty. Most of the passengers had taken refuge in their cabins, as instructed, preferring to be tossed about in a small area that was familiar and raiding the minibar in the lulls.
The medical centre was full. A lot of passengers had fallen and hurt themselves, some badly, some only bruised and shocked. The waiting room was full. Chief nurse Helen gave me a clipboard with forms to fill in. It was something I could do even when the floor was tilting. Some of the women were crying. I offered tissues and words of comfort. I couldn’t calm the waves.
Down here we could not hear the howling of the hurricane, only feel it. We could only guess at the concentration of the officers on the bridge, this great ship shuddering in their hands. The wind was continuing to increase. It was now a solid roar which echoed in the confined space.
Bruce Everton came through the door to the medical centre. Windswept was not a strong enough word. He was wind-battered, flattened. He’d never encountered such weather and his ashen face said so.
‘This is not my idea of luxury cruising,’ he gasped, holding on to the receptionist’s desk. ‘I thought yesterday was rough enough.’
‘It’ll soon be over,’ I said hopefully.
‘I’m beginning to wish I’d stayed at home,’ he said. ‘One night without sleep was enough. This looks like being another sleepless night. Casey, are you all right? I heard you were down here.’
‘I’m all right, but we could do with your strong arm. We can’t get these ladies safely along to X-ray. Can you help? Mrs Wells first, please. She has a really nasty sprain.’
‘Come along, Mrs Wells. Let’s get you sorted,’ Bruce said. His smile was warm, reassuring. I felt safe with him. So did Mrs Wells.
*
The hurricane continued to increase, though we could barely hear anything of the wind or the sea over the continual roar. The wind force could have been over the Beaufort scale. I had no way of knowing. All I could do was give some kind of assistance to those who were hurt or injured. Reception had been handing out free seasickness pills to anyone who made it to the deck.
But a corner of my mind was thinking about Tracy Coleman. Where was she in all this? I hoped she was safe and not being thrown about in some insecure hold. How were we ever going to find her?
We lost track of time. Relays of tea and coffee arrived from somewhere, mugs rattling on tilted trays, sliding as the ship rolled. Our decks were immensely strong and made to withstand the suction of the wind. But the hatches were more vulnerable. They could cope with force from above, but pressure from a different angle and they could give way. The crew was dealing with deluges of water.
Cabin doors were jamming and the maintenance crews were hurrying about to emergency calls. Passengers were imprisoned inside or outside their cabins. Pictures began to hang askew or come loose. The art gallery stock was all over the place and the staff were trying to save their valuable wares from destruction.
The medical centre had less panic than other areas of the ship. Passengers in the medical centre knew that they had been hurt or injured and were resigned to their fate. They’d arrived for treatment and were getting it. Elsewhere on board, passengers were trying not to fall or be blown over. No broken bones and having to be flown home for them, thank you. Only the gamblers seemed oblivious to the mayhem outside.
‘A bit blowy,’ one of them said, looking up from the spinning wheel.
I was surprised when Edmund appeared in the entrance to the medical centre. I was trying to work out what to do for a woman who had bashed her elbow on a wall. Edmund was done up to the neck in waterproofs, and he was dripping water onto the floor, his hair wet and flattened.
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‘Can I talk to you, Casey?’ he mouthed.
I nodded and passed the patient on to a nurse for an ice compress.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘You aren’t going to like this.’
‘I don’t particularly like anything about this evening. This is not my favourite way of ending the day. What is the time? We’ve lost track down here.’
‘It’s past midnight. Well past, nearly one a.m. We should run out of this weather by dawn. You are safer down here.’
He was blinking the water off his eyelashes. He could barely see. The water was dripping off his nose.
‘Tell me what you want to tell me,’ I said, leading him to an empty chair. To hell with the cost of the upholstery. The man was drenched. Take it out of my salary.
‘It’s Tracy Coleman,’ he said, helping himself to my mug of coffee. ‘The hurricane, you know.’
‘Yes, Tracy?’
‘We’ve found her.’
A wave of relief, a dry one, washed over me. Romanoff Petrik had been right. Tracy had not been left behind in Acapulco, as everyone thought. She had been here, all the time, on board the ship.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s dead.’
13. At Sea
Tracy Coleman had been found in the hull of one of the small, antique lifeboats, the type from the original Aveline, which had not been demolished or removed for nostalgic reasons. Tracy lay like a rag doll and had been dead for several days. There was a large fracture at the back of her head. She was fully clothed and lying under a heavy folded tarpaulin. The high wind had disturbed her shroud and tipped the lifeboat.
There was a back way into the medical centre and crew members brought Tracy to the mortuary on a stretcher, away from the eyes of curious or nervous passengers.
‘The dead will have to wait,’ Judith Skinner said briskly, as she came out of the X-ray room. ‘I’ve the living to look after.’
‘It’s one of the crew. One of the entertainment team.’
‘I know. Don’t think I’m not sorry, but she’ll have to wait.’
Detective Chief Inspector Everton had immediately taken charge on Captain Wellington’s orders and Edmund did not seem to mind. Murder was out of his depth, and he was only too pleased to leave it all to someone else.
‘Shall I tell Romanoff?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.
‘No,’ said Bruce. ‘We won’t tell anyone yet. Of course, I shall keep the captain informed. And it will be difficult to stop the crew from talking among themselves, but the less anyone else knows, the better. This looks like murder.’
‘Poor Tracy,’ I said. ‘I never knew her, but I seem to know a lot about her. I feel I know her. And I’m her replacement. Should that worry me?’
‘Watch your head,’ said Bruce.
Not exactly helpful or reassuring, but he knew instantly that his flippant remark had jarred. He did not touch me, but it was as if he nearly did. He came over and put his head close to mine. His eyes showed concern.
‘Sorry, Casey. Murder always has that effect on me. It blunts the sensitivity. It’s the only way I can deal with sudden and unnecessary death.’
‘I understand,’ I said. I was trying to understand.
‘I’ve seen so many horrific sights.’
‘Don’t worry, Bruce. I’ll be all right. You get on with what you have to do. It’s in your court now.’
‘May I see you back to your cabin for what is left of the night, when you have finished being Florence Nightingale without a candle or a bonnet? We can’t have you falling over and breaking something vital.’
‘Thank you. I’ll wait here for you.’
It was a long wait. Nothing desperate had happened to our engines. They were efficient, modern, high-powered engines, ready to cope with any weather. Chief Engineer Daniel Webster could feel the stress but knew they could cope. He found time to phone me on his mobile. He had reduced speed to seven knots.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Coping. I’m helping out in the medical centre.’
‘Good for you. Don’t worry, Casey,’ he said. ‘We’ll get through this hurricane. She’s a big ship.’
‘Are you working somewhere dangerous?’
He laughed. ‘Not your problem, sweetheart. The air-conditioning is holding out. Not like years ago when steam heat could have killed. But take care moving around the ship. We must be coming to the vortex soon. It’s a lull when it’s safe to move, but it doesn’t last long.’
‘Thank you for phoning. Shall I see you soon?’
‘Of course. It’s the island of Curaçao tomorrow, when we get there. We might be a bit late. Lovely place. Dutch, you know. Very picturesque. We could have a drink at a quayside café, watch the world go by.’
It sounded so civilized, I almost forgot the hurricane outside. I nodded as if it was a video-call. But he had switched off. He had more important things to do.
Bruce came for me, some hours later. He had registered the formalities, received official permission to stay on board and was now on autopilot of fatigue. Most of the walking wounded had been escorted back to their cabins, and others had been bedded down in the small private side rooms of the medical centre.
‘You need sleep now,’ he said, putting his hand under my arm to steady me. I was almost too tired to stand up. I could have slept in that hard chair.
I had forgotten the fierceness of the wind, and there had been no sign of abatement. Gusts came howling, too loud for us to speak. We were too tired to talk, anyway. Suddenly it stopped; all was eerily calm. We had reached the vortex.
‘Hurry,’ said Bruce. ‘This is the time to move. Let’s get you to your cabin. D deck, 333, isn’t it?’
‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘Don’t talk, just walk.’
He had my hand and we moved together along the corridors. I vaguely recognized the length of D deck. It seemed years since I had been there. We stopped outside 333. Hardly the right moment to invite someone in for coffee.
Then it happened. It was electricity. His arms were round me and his mouth warm on mine was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I stood entranced, my hands by my side. I did not have the strength to lift them.
‘Oh, Casey,’ he sighed. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this since the first moment I saw you. It’s been a torment.’
I couldn’t speak. My wits had scattered.
All sorts of quivers went through my body and my groin. I longed for him. But we were in the middle of a hurricane and romance was way down on my list. But I would remember that kiss till the end of my living days.
‘Goodnight, Casey,’ he said, when at last he drew away. I leaned against him, savouring the solid strength of the man. ‘Good morning, I mean. Get some sleep. We both need it.’
He took my key card from me and opened the door of my cabin. It was a foreign place with things strewn all over the floor. I didn’t recognize any of it or remember what happened next. The door closed and Bruce was gone. I fell onto my bed and into sleep, the sleep of the exhausted, plunging deep in to my own ocean.
*
DCI Everton was present when Dr Skinner made her first examination of Tracy Coleman. She had been dead three or four days, the doctor said. Probable cause of death: a blow to the head by a blunt instrument.
They came out of the medical centre together, faces grim, holding on to the walls. They had no idea if the storm was abating. It still felt rough.
‘But it’s rare that a single blow is enough to kill,’ said Dr Skinner. ‘Death from a brain injury can happen without the skull being fractured. Sometimes hours or even days can pass before death.’
‘Do you know what kind of blunt instrument?’ I asked. A couple of hours’ sleep had given me a new burst of energy. But I couldn’t stay for long. I had to get my team working again to keep the passengers amused. A few passengers were up and about, determined to keep vertical and get their money’s wor
th.
‘It could have been anything. A poker, stone, rock, golf club. Anything heavy enough can be used. Even a can of beans is enough. But it doesn’t always kill. Sometimes, victims are finished off some other way,’ said Bruce. ‘Strangulation or a knife.’
I didn’t want to think about it. ‘Any similarities to Lorna Fletcher’s death?’ I asked. I don’t know what made me ask it. Two deaths on one cruise. I didn’t want to connect them, but my brain had its own ideas.
‘Funny you should ask,’ said Judith. ‘There was something. A very slight thing, but it struck me as odd.’ She clamped her mouth shut. She was not going to tell me in front of Bruce Everton until she was sure.
That special kiss might never have happened. Perhaps I had dreamed it. Perhaps I’d had some weird storm hallucination due to atmospheric conditions. Bruce showed no sign of remembering it, either, but he did have his policeman’s face on, and the two did not mix.
I certainly wasn’t going to let Bruce see that our encounter had affected me so deeply. ‘Guess I had better sort out which items I can rescue for today’s programme. It had better be good. I’ve a hurricane to beat.’
There was no shelter outside. The wind and seas were still too rough. Everything would have to be indoors, seated. Safety first. I took the lift up to the Boulevard Café. The breakfast service was restricted. No hot dishes. It was fruit, cereal or rolls. Stewards were helping the brave, or the desperately hungry, to tables, carrying their trays.
No piles of food this morning. The less, the better. Spillage was rife. Bananas don’t roll. Nor do croissants. I was hungry and thirsty. I let a steward carry my cup of coffee.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said.
‘Rough enough for you, Miss Jones?’ It was Ted Sullivan, looking spruce and dapper, red cravat in place. He was taking the hurricane in his stride, if a little unsteadily.
‘Soon be out of it,’ I said. ‘We are past the worst.’
‘Can I have that in writing?’
‘Sure, when we reach the Dutch Antilles. It’s a very picturesque island. Have you been there before?’
A sudden gust sent his tray flying. Stewards rushed to clear the debris and mop up the floor. ‘I was wondering if we’ll get there at all. Does the captain know what he’s doing?’
A Wide Berth Page 11
