A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  We strolled around the town, not quite hand in hand, but almost, occasionally brushing hips. Cafés, restaurants, shops, bars, mansions and government buildings sprawled along every street. It was a honeymooner’s paradise. A little train rattled round, filled with footsore tourists.

  ‘You know, Casey, your help is often underestimated,’ he said. ‘You observe things overlooked by others and sometimes the guilty fall through cracks in the system. You’re able to cut corners and ask questions that the authorities can’t do without officialdom behind them.’

  ‘Short cuts?’ I was still walking on alcoholic froth. It was idyllic.

  ‘I’m relying on you to come up with some new leads. So far, I have nothing. The crew has clammed up on Tracy Coleman. The Russian pianist has retreated into a state of melancholy and refuses to see me. John Fletcher has nothing more to say about the state of his wife’s mind, though he did admit to the quiz cheating. She was in contact with one of the ship’s librarians. Dr Skinner is not exactly a forensic expert. And she has her hands full with patients injured during the hurricane.’

  ‘Two are being flown home today.’

  ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘They’ll be offered a free cruise to make up for the disappointment.’

  ‘But it’s not the same, is it? And they have the pain and discomfort of some limb in plaster to put up with. And weeks to endure in an NHS hospital.’

  ‘I also have a clue about the cleaning fluid spilled in Pierre’s cabin. Apparently, a few days earlier he had asked a steward for some to clean his camera equipment. Rather a coincidence.’

  Speak of the devil. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a white Panama hat tilted at an angle, slicked-back hair and the cut of an immaculate blazer. I would know that look anywhere. Pierre was going into the Royal Gems jewellers on Herenstraat, a posh jewellery shop. At his side was a woman that I recognized, too. He had his hand on her arm as he steered her inside.

  15. At Sea

  That evening, as he introduced the two shows, Pierre wore a flashy gold signet ring on his right hand. The diamond flashed in the stage light. It shone brighter than the dancers’ rhinestone costumes. His white dinner jacket was sharp, too.

  That night it was a Stephen Sondheim show, all his brilliantly satirical songs and poignant melodies. Pierre had not said a word about my organizing shore leave for our team. As far as I was concerned, the poor man had still been sick in bed, suffering. How was I to know that he was up and about and shopping? I did my best, as deputy, didn’t I, in the circumstances?

  We were set on an easterly course through the Caribbean Sea, towards the Venezuelan island of Isla Margarita. Hurricane Ricky was a bad memory. The sky was half-cloudy and half-sunny. The perfect weather for lounging on deck with a bottle of suntan lotion.

  I had been thinking about what Bruce had said, that what amateur sleuths do is get evidence that has been overlooked by others, then present it to the right authorities. Exposing the truth is what it is all about. Whether the case is solved or the right person charged with a criminal offence is not my business.

  There was still a couple from the winning quiz team that I had not found or managed to speak to. Hurricane Ricky had thrown a Goliath-sized spanner into the works. Mr and Mrs Angus MacDonald were the missing pegs in the mystery of Lorna Fletcher’s death.

  They were avid bridge players. It took time to track them down and prise them out of the bridge room. They were a couple in their fifties, so well married to each other that they looked the same. Both had iron-grey hair in no-nonsense short styles. They wore identical clothes. Grey shorts and white Aertex open-necked shirts or fawn trousers and red sweatshirts and sneakers. It was a uniform. In the evenings they both wore unrelieved black. Different shoes.

  I caught them in the library, immersed in crime books. They liked puzzles. They looked at me as if they had never seen me before. They did not remember me as the quiz hostess. I had merely been a face with the answers.

  ‘Have you a moment? May I talk to you?’ I asked.

  ‘Sshh,’ they said in unison. ‘No talking in the library.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like a drink in the bar?’ I suggested.

  The invitation did not need repeating. Their books closed in nanoseconds. They were up and out of their armchairs, following me to the nearby bar. Even though alcohol was cheap on board ship, perhaps they still had to be careful. Not everyone was a lottery winner or on a big bonus.

  But their drink orders were modest, not taking me to the outer limits of alcohol consumption. I began to like them as I sipped my iced orange juice.

  ‘I know we are all truly saddened by the unexpected death of Lorna Fletcher, and we still cannot believe that she is not with us. But I wondered if you could tell me a little more about her, what kind of person she was and if she said anything about being depressed in any way.’

  ‘She certainly wasn’t depressed,’ said Angus MacDonald, an ordinary-looking, mediocre sort of person. ‘She was on a high, enjoying the cruise, loving the quiz, especially winning every night. She’d been looking forward to this cruise.’

  ‘Lorna loved the quiz. It was the highlight of her day,’ added Mrs MacDonald. I learned later that her name was Fiona. ‘Of course, we didn’t know anything about the cheating. She thought that up and we’ve no idea why. We were a bright team without needing to cheat. That came as a real surprise to us. We would never cheat. We’re bridge players.’

  I smiled reassuringly. I believed them as much as I believed Big Ben struck thirteen occasionally. ‘It was a great shock to all of us,’ I agreed. ‘We’ve never had a case of cheating before. The quiz is for fun and enjoyment. It doesn’t actually matter who wins, as long as everyone has a good time.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Angus MacDonald, finishing his drink. ‘It’s what we have always thought. It’s not about the winning, although we never saw a single drop of the bottle of champagne.’

  Fiona MacDonald laughed, disturbing her wrinkles. ‘It always disappeared into their cabin.’

  ‘Faster than you can say: it’s all over, folks.’

  ‘You mean, you never got any of the winnings despite being part of the team? They didn’t open the bottle straight away and share it around?’

  ‘You’re joking. It vanished. Straight down to their cabin, I suppose.’

  ‘Didn’t this upset you?’

  ‘Not really. We’re not drinkers. We’re more players.’

  ‘Would you like some top-ups?’ I asked.

  They both nodded. A steward brought a dish of olives and a dish of carrot sticks and nuts. He was on my side and slipped a wink. I didn’t know his name. I should find out.

  ‘Tell me more,’ I said, when the new drinks arrived. ‘This is fascinating. I mean, I know nothing about the players who come regularly to the quiz. What else do you know about our regulars?’

  ‘Gina is a prostitute.’

  This was from Angus. It shocked even me. I quite liked her. Her silvery-blonde hair always looked sleek and she wore fairly smart clothes, nothing over the top. If she was a prostitute, then she was certainly a classy one. Even prostitutes need to take holidays, perhaps even more so, given their hours.

  ‘She has approached almost every male passenger on board. She charges sixty pounds a half-hour, takes dollars, euros. Sometimes she does it for free, if you have the right face.’

  ‘Ye Gods,’ I said. I hadn’t spotted that. Call me blind. I didn’t ask him how he knew.

  ‘So now you know,’ said Fiona, spiking an olive with a stab.

  ‘What can you do about it?’ Angus asked.

  ‘Not a lot unless someone makes a formal complaint. We can hardly turf her off at the next port. She might need a holiday.’

  This conversation had thrown me. They say that conversation can be dangerous. And this one was reaching a danger zone. Time to backtrack.

  ‘Let’s get back to Lorna. What do you know about her as a person?’

  ‘She loved quizz
es and books. She hated her husband. John is a boring old soak, golf mad. She drank too much to make up for being left out.’

  The woman was now in a freezer with all her secrets. I was beginning to feel sorry about asking all these questions, but somehow I still knew that she had not taken her own life. Lorna seemed much too vibrant and enthusiastic about life.

  ‘How do you know this? Can you be sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ said Fiona. ‘I’ve known her all my life. She was my sister.’

  *

  How little we know about our fellow travellers. So Fiona and Lorna were sisters. Once she had admitted their relationship, Fiona relaxed and began to tell me all about their family. And she began to munch her way through the olives and nuts.

  ‘To be exact, we are half-sisters. Same mum, different dads. Our mother married twice. Her father was English, mine was a Scot, but we spent most of our childhood together. We went to the same school, holidays together, played together most of the time. We were even Girl Guides in the same troop.’

  ‘Did you get the same badges?’ I asked, before I could stop myself.

  ‘No, she was the clever one. Morse code, first aid. I managed to scrape by with fire-lighting and hostess badges.’

  ‘Useful,’ I said.

  ‘Then Lorna went to university to do economics and religious studies. I’ve no idea why she did religion. An easy option, perhaps. I went to secretarial college. You’ll never be without a job if you can type, my mother said.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘But those were mostly dead-end jobs, typing dull monthly reports, sales rep figures, standard letters to enquiries, the same thing over and over again. My boss used to say to me ‘Standard letter number three, Fiona, then standard letter number four and alter the required quantity’. He wasn’t needed, totally redundant. I could do it all standing on my head.’ There was an element of frustration in her voice.

  I tried to imagine years of typing standard letters, before the days of computers and simply clicking a print button.

  ‘But you did meet me at one of those dead-end jobs,’ said Angus wryly. ‘Surely that wasn’t so bad?’

  She gave him a look that was difficult to fathom. There was a degree of affection in it, laced with tolerance and resignation.

  ‘That was the only good thing that happened,’ she had the grace to say.

  ‘Lorna made a fortuitous marriage,’ said Angus. ‘She married someone who had a steady job and a decent pension. He also inherited money from his parents. I think this was their ninth cruise. I’ve lost count. Ask John. He can rattle them off. They always pretended to be hard-up, needing to save for the cruises.’

  ‘So she had no need to cheat to win a bottle of champagne. They could buy as many bottles as they wanted?’ I asked.

  Fiona nodded. ‘It was the thrill of cheating and not being found out. She probably went shoplifting in M&S, just for the thrill.’

  ‘Did she know that I had spotted her?’

  ‘She never said anything. I don’t really know.’

  ‘Surely she wouldn’t have killed herself because of that?’ I was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, that perhaps I had been the cause of her death. ‘No one kills themselves because they have been caught cheating.’

  ‘How do we know what goes on in people’s minds?’ said Fiona, giving me a sharp look. ‘You could have been the reason why she hung herself.’

  I was getting out of my depth. It was not going the way I wanted. My conscience was fragile and I couldn’t cope with anything extra, especially anything muddy. I stood up, holding on to the edge of the table. The ship was pitching to a different rhythm.

  ‘No, I’m sure she was sensible enough to know that there would be no repercussions as long as she stopped. We are hardly a police regime. It’s a fun quiz and we want everyone to have fun.’

  I saw Bruce Everton hovering in the entrance to the bar. He looked at me and beckoned me with a slight movement of his head.

  ‘Will you excuse me? Thank you for talking. My sympathy, Mrs MacDonald, for losing your sister. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Thank you. Nobody knew. Nobody else has said they are sorry.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry.’

  I hurried away before I did anything I might be more sorry about. Bruce sensed that I was upset and steered me out of the bar, through the lounge and out on deck. We were being allowed on deck again. It was considered a bit rough, but safe enough.

  ‘Good time or not a good time?’

  ‘Not a good time for me, but a good time for you to talk to me,’ I said. ‘Treble Dutch, I know, but I need some straightforward conversation.’

  ‘Who were you talking to?’

  ‘Angus and Fiona MacDonald, two of the winning quiz team that Lorna Fletcher belonged to. But I don’t want to talk about it yet.’

  Bruce Everton found a sheltered spot in the lee of a tender. The force-six wind cut around us, but it wasn’t cold. This was the Caribbean. He was looking tired. He looked every one of his forty-nine years and a few extra.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘That hurricane knocked the guts out of me. My legs are made for firmer land, Casey. I’m not a sea person, I’ve discovered. It is exhilarating, but only for short lengths of time. I’m surprised we’re not at the bottom of the sea.’

  Not a sea person. He was distancing himself from me. It was the second blow of the day. Here was I, nursing fragile thoughts about the detective chief inspector and myself, daydreaming of days together and maybe a few nights. I was not bothered by the age gap. It was not that intimidating. Close your eyes and he was young and virile again.

  ‘Do you have to stay on board any longer, Casey? Can you get off soon and go home?’

  ‘Barbados, maybe, if they get another replacement out to the ship by then. I’m only temporary. Why?’

  ‘It’s not safe, Casey. Those two deaths are linked. Tracy Coleman and Lorna Fletcher. I think you should go home as soon as you can.’

  ‘What are you trying to tell me?’

  ‘They were both murdered, and by the same person. It was the same method in both cases. Strangulation by a method called the Spanish windlass.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I shivered. It sounded like torture.

  ‘A loop of material or cord is placed round the victim’s neck and tightened with a stick, turning it quickly. It’s like a tourniquet. If the victim is taken by surprise and it’s done quickly, then quite a weak person can do it. The murderer doesn’t need a strong arm.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ I didn’t really want to know.

  ‘Dr Skinner made a further examination. There’s a small bone in the throat called the hyoid bone. In both women, this bone was fractured. It’s a sure sign of strangulation.’

  ‘Poor souls. How dreadful. Perhaps they knew their killer, trusted them?’

  ‘I think they did. There was no sign of a massive struggle. Then Lorna Fletcher was strung up to make it look like suicide. The murderer hoped Tracy wouldn’t be found before he disposed of her body overboard. Hurricane Ricky was something he hadn’t reckoned on.’

  ‘You’re saying he.’

  Bruce shrugged. ‘We always say he.’

  ‘So why do you think I should go home as soon as possible?’

  Bruce looked at me shrewdly. He was trying to decide whether to tell me or not. Sometimes I thought we could read each other’s minds. He took my arm as if to shelter me from the bad news.

  ‘Judith Skinner also found shreds of material under both victims’ nails as if they had tried to tear off what was strangling them. And it was the same kind of material used to strangle both women.’

  ‘And I’m not going to like this?’

  ‘No, Casey, you’re not. In both cases, it was a blue silk scarf like the one that you’re wearing now as part of your uniform. I’ve seen you wearing one many times, tied round your neck.’ Bruce paused. ‘The murderer is someone who has a
ccess to your cabin or your clothes, or it’s one of your female team.’

  ‘Or someone who is trying to implicate the Aveline entertainment team.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I slumped against him. ‘It wasn’t me,’ I said. ‘I didn’t kill them.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Bruce. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to arrest you.’

  ‘It was Tracy’s own scarf,’ I said, coming up for air. ‘That makes sense, doesn’t it? That’s why her cabin was ransacked. We always carry spares. The murderer has a stock of them now.’

  16. Isla Margarita

  I’d been to the Venezuelan island of Isla Margarita many times and its cheerful, bustling pierside has never failed to cheer me. But not today. El Guamache was the only deep-water port in Margarita. The steel band was playing a welcome as fast as the three flag-wavers waved. The lines of stalls selling local wares were all ready to encourage passengers to leave their money behind on the island.

  There were a variety of cafés and bars, sprucing up tables with flowers and putting on their smiles. There was one bar that did the most mouth-watering fruit punches, laced with something lethal. Pawpaw, mango, pineapple, whatever fruit you chose, the punch pumped alcohol straight to your veins.

  I was not in the mood for escorting, so I stayed on board and did my goodwill rounds of those passengers who also chose not to go ashore. It was the ideal place for wheelchair passengers, as everything was right there on the pierside and they did not have far to go for anything.

  Even the two small beaches were only a walk away, but there were some rough steps to negotiate. The island had once been the centre of the pearl industry and few could resist buying some pearls from the vendors. I’d bought a tiny band of seven misshapen pearls on my last visit. They were all colours from black through cream and pink and white to the shiniest brassy brown. I’d felt sorry for them because they were not perfect enough to be made into jewellery.

  It was a colourful island, and all the tours would enjoy their sightseeing, especially if they went to the national park La Restinga which had sea, beaches, mangroves, seabirds and flamingos.