A Wide Berth

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Thank you, Hasid,’ I breathed.

  It was all lovely. I had some soup and some canapés before I dozed off into fragmented sleep. All in aid of building myself up. I was making an effort.

  I heard the door open. It was probably Hasid with refills.

  ‘Come in,’ I said sleepily. ‘That was really delicious. Thank you.’

  ‘What are you doing in my cabin?’ a voice snapped.

  Edmund Morgan looked surprised and angry, a sort of nervous tic appearing round the corner of his mouth. He filled the doorway, undecided whether to come in or go out.

  ‘Hello, Edmund. I needed somewhere to sleep. I thought you wouldn’t mind if I used your cabin, temporarily, of course.’

  He didn’t seem to notice that the blue nightgown was pretty short and there was a lot of tanned leg showing. He was not reacting like any normal man. Bruce and Daniel would have been kneeling at my bedside in five seconds flat.

  Edmund was holding something behind his back. It was difficult to see what he was trying to hide. Then I caught a glint of metal and knew instantly. I recognized the weapon.

  It was a gun. A sawn-off shotgun. The one which had fired at me. It had to be.

  20. At Sea

  It’s not often that I panic, but I panicked at the sight of that gun.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ I cried. ‘I’m already shot.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Casey,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to shoot you. I found the gun on deck. Someone else tried to shoot you. And it wasn’t any of the raiders. They had automatics.’

  ‘You mean it might have been one of the passengers? Surely not.’

  ‘You were certainly not shot by one of the raiders. The line of fire was quite different. I don’t know much about firearms, but I do know that the shot came from a different direction.’

  ‘But you are holding the gun now. So how about fingerprints or DNA?’

  ‘There might be something,’ said Edmund putting it down gingerly on his desk. ‘It ought to be in a plastic bag,’ he agreed. ‘Contamination, you know.’

  Quite useless. He’d be security on a ferry boat next year.

  ‘Well, it’s very reassuring to know that I was shot by one of our own passengers and not by a raider,’ I said. But the comment didn’t register. How I longed to be back in my own cabin. I would pull the duvet over my head and not re-emerge until it was time for me to fly home. Surely they must have found a suitable replacement by now?

  ‘So, how are the passengers?’ I asked.

  ‘Drowning their sorrows, having hysterics or fast emailing personal losses to their insurance company.’

  ‘Nothing has changed, then?’

  ‘Except that we have a captured gang of raiders on board, and I don’t know what to do with them. Some of them got away.’

  ‘Put them ashore at the next port of call. Let the local police deal with them.’

  ‘As always,’ said Edmund, ‘you are full of common sense.’

  ‘I’m also very tired and would like to go to sleep.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, backing off. ‘You go to sleep. I’ll be back later.’

  *

  I have no idea if he did come back later because, after a nap, I dismantled the drip and took off for my own cabin. I was quite capable of drinking a glass of water without the aid of a tube.

  The cabin, even my temporary one, seemed like home. I locked the door against all intruders, propped a chair against the handle, made some coffee and then got out a sheet of paper and a pen. I had to write down everything that had happened to see if I could spot some sort of sense or order.

  1. Tracy Coleman disappeared.

  2. Tracy found dead, head injury, garrotted.

  3. Lorna Fletcher cheated at quiz.

  4. Lorna found dead, garrotted, made to look like suicide.

  5. Pirates raid ship.

  6. I get shot.

  7. Suspects:

  I paused. I had no real suspects. Even if the victim had been taken by surprise, she would have struggled. And it must be someone who had access to Conway neck scarves or took Tracy’s. They needed frequent laundering, so I had a stock.

  Romanoff had been having an affair with Tracy but seemed genuinely distressed by her death. He had cancelled several of his concerts and when he appeared on deck, his face was haggard and gaunt.

  Gina had bought Pierre expensive jewellery, but did that mean anything, apart from some seedy explanation? Equally, Lorna Fletcher had a secret life, but it was not enough to be a motive. Her husband had a strong alibi for when his wife died. He was in a bar with the MacDonalds and Ted Sullivan and was seen by several passengers.

  None of it made any sense. And I didn’t think Bruce Everton had been any more successful with his investigations. He would surely have confided in me if he had discovered anything of importance. Or would he? He had been too preoccupied to spend much time with me recently.

  There was an urgent knock. I heard his voice outside my door.

  ‘Let me in, Casey. Unlock Fort Knox, please. I know you are in there. I think I’ve got a breakthrough.’

  This was too good to miss. I pulled the bathrobe round me and got off my bed. I unlocked the door and moved the chair. For a second, I hesitated. Suppose it was someone who only sounded like Bruce?

  ‘Bruce?’ I asked uncertainly.

  ‘You have every right to be extra careful, Casey,’ he said. ‘But it is me, and I can prove it. Would it be the act of a cad to remind you of a goodnight kiss that knocked me out for six?’

  I opened the door with my good hand. ‘Me, too,’ I said. ‘Knocked out.’

  Bruce was standing in the corridor, smiling. ‘Good.’

  He came in. He had the unwashed, unslept look of half the crew and quite a few of the passengers. We were going to have to work hard to get back to the scrupulously high standard of the Conway Blue Line.

  ‘How are you?’ He took in my arm in a collar and the wrist sling. ‘No drip?’

  ‘Not wanted on voyage.’

  ‘Take it easy, Casey. Don’t rush back into work. You have been injured.’

  I found half a smile from somewhere. ‘This is taking it easy.’

  Bruce came into my cabin, his keen eyes raking in the list and the coffee and the state of undress. I wrapped the bathrobe more firmly round me. I didn’t want anyone getting ideas.

  ‘While you were in the medical centre, I went on to the NID. They let me use the computer terminals in the purser’s office these days. Very helpful. It takes a bit of time, but it came up with some useful information.’

  ‘The NID? What’s that stand for?’

  ‘Everything is reduced to an acronym these days. It stands for National Injuries Database. It’s managed by the National Police Improvement Agency at Wyboston, Bedfordshire, bless their rural cotton socks. It has more than twenty thousand images from four thousand cases, mostly suspicious ones.’

  ‘It sounds amazing.’

  ‘There’s no other database like it in the world. You can search for injuries that match the case you are working on. You know how profilers pick on similarities? I thought these two deaths were very strange. Garrotting with a silk scarf, hiding other injuries.’

  ‘You mean, they have found others that match these injuries?’

  ‘You’re pretty quick, Miss Jones. They have found two other cases, one an assault and the other a fatality, but both were garrotting with a silk scarf to cover a different injury.’

  ‘Four cases,’ I breathed. ‘The assault case, does that mean the victim survived?’

  ‘Yes, she survived that attack. She was a member of a ship’s entertainment crew. Her name was Tracy Coleman, and it was when she was working on another cruise ship line, one of the giant ones. They’ve a dozen ships. Won’t mention the household name. She was assaulted but managed to survive.’

  ‘Was it our Tracy Coleman?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘But not so lucky this time.’ Poor Tracy C
oleman. ‘And the fatality?’

  ‘Another cruise death. This was a first-class passenger called Sally Newman. A widow. Same big line. And at about the same time. Still checking date of cruise.’

  This presented an entirely different picture. Now we had four similar crimes with cruise ships as their location. I could see the work ahead.

  ‘So now we have to check crew and passenger lists of those cruises and this cruise. We have to see if the same name comes up on both?’

  ‘But people can change their name. Get a new passport by devious means. Of course, they can’t change their appearance without extensive surgery.’

  Bruce sat down heavily on my only armchair. I was still perched on the bed. He looked worn out. I got up and made him some coffee with my good arm, but when I came back, he was fast asleep, looking most uncomfortable.

  Somehow, with one arm, I heaved him to his feet and steered him, sleepwalking, towards my bed. He fell on it, sprawled all over the place, never waking. He was out for the count. I took off his shoes and socks, loosened his belt and top trouser button, loosened his shirt-collar buttons and then pushed him over to the far side of the bed, against the wall. No further intimacy. He was still asleep.

  It was hardly the most romantic of moments, but I slid onto the bed beside him and wrapped myself in his arms. I could dream, couldn’t I?

  *

  He had gone when I awoke. No little note. It might never have happened. Nothing did happen. It had been the sleep of innocents. But the duvet had been pulled up over my shoulders.

  I was unsure of my status now. Pierre had dismissed me from all duties, except boring office-confined typing. But I was officially walking wounded, status: heroine. And I couldn’t type efficiently with one hand. And there were these lists of crew and passengers to check. It had to be done straight away.

  *

  I had a leisurely shower with a plastic bag wrapped round the dressing on my arm. I looked out the cabin window, wrapped in a bath towel, making my first cup of tea. There was a light mist and rain spattering the glass. The weather had changed. We were on our way to St Lucia, where it rained a lot.

  All I could remember of St Lucia from previous visits was that it grew sixty-five different types of mangoes and its last earthquake was in 1980. And I knew, from the locals, that a long line of wave is dangerous.

  I put on my uniform. The hardest part was doing up a bra with one hand. In the end I had to step into it and pull it up. I began to appreciate having the use of both hands. My makeup was weird. I gave up and left Nature to do its best.

  There were lots of comments from passengers on my way to the office. They were all kind comments and I had to stop and reassure them that I was recovering.

  ‘But you are not working, surely?’ They were astonished.

  The office was empty. Debbie and Gary were already out on deck, refereeing various games. The port lecturer was in full swing with colour slides of the Piton Peaks. Other lecturers were carrying on, keeping to their programmes. Pierre was nowhere to be seen. Obviously still recovering from his hostage ordeal.

  I had a computer terminal to myself. I emailed Head Office, reassuring them that I was alive and well, but I asked them if it was possible to get the crew and passenger lists of the cruises which Bruce had mentioned.

  ‘I know this is unethical,’ I emailed, ‘but the information is urgently required by DCI Bruce Everton, who is in charge of the investigations here. Surely you must have some access? We really need it.’

  They asked me to wait, agog with curiosity.

  While I waited, I looked into Tracy Coleman’s files. Yes, she had worked for the other line. There was nothing suspicious about that, except that she had requested a double lock on her cabin door. It hadn’t done her much good.

  Head Office was so efficient. They emailed back reams of names, but said that it had cost them a mile high of favours and that I would be top of the list fulfilling those favours. I didn’t understand this part, but gathered that I would pay for it later.

  I had one black coffee after another as I checked these lists against the lists we had for the Aveline. Names began to blur. All the Smiths and Jones and Robinsons. Then one name stood out. It shone in neon.

  I had to talk to Bruce. I phoned him, tannoyed, emailed, began to panic when I couldn’t get hold of him. Then he answered.

  ‘Yes, Casey. What is it?’

  ‘We have a serial killer on board.’

  21. At Sea

  There was no way we could confront the man. Bruce agreed that we had to lay low until he showed his hand again. Though this was the last thing we ever wanted to happen.

  It was in a sober mood that we went up on deck. The Caribbean was curiously quiet and iridescent, its blueness so vivid that it almost hurt the eyes.

  ‘It’s difficult to believe that we are sailing through such beauty with such a monster on board,’ I said.

  ‘It’s the same all the world over,’ said Bruce. ‘It’s God’s country and yet terrible deeds are happening all the time. I see enough of it and that’s only London. I have to leave you now. I must inform Captain Wellington immediately, to keep him up to date.’

  ‘Will he be able to do anything?’

  Bruce shook his head. ‘We have no proof. It’s all circumstantial. All we can do is tell him that we have discovered a link and hope that the authorities back in England have some forensic or DNA evidence from the Sally Newman case that could lead to an arrest.’

  The only way to keep my mind straight was to knuckle down to some work and keep out of his way. To give him a wide berth. It would be difficult to act naturally, as if I knew nothing. As Bruce had said, we had no proof. It was only circumstantial that the man in question had been on board all the cruises where women had been garrotted. If he was questioned, he might have solid alibis for all the murders.

  I hoped he had. The man was likeable in a strange way. The thought loitered in my mind that we might be wrong. It could be someone else.

  ‘Hello, Casey.’ It was Gina. She was looking sleek in a long chiffon dress with matching coat in two shades of lilac, trimmed with silk. Her sandals toned. She had even painted her toenails the same shade. She had been to the beauty salon despite the pirates’ disruptions the previous evening. No depression here.

  ‘Gina. You’re looking very smart.’

  ‘No point in letting life get you down. How’s your arm?’

  ‘Sore.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. You were lucky it didn’t hit the bone.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  She wore a smile tacked on with nails. ‘Lucky guess. Must go, dear. Meeting a friend for coffee. Can’t be late.’

  Gina was gone in a lilac swirl to her assignation, leaving a trail of perfume that nearly choked me. There was nothing subtle about her choice of scent. She probably bought it in pint bottles, mail order.

  In the distance, on the surface of the sea, I saw an arc of silver, then another. It was a dolphin leaping into the air, with all the joy of a free creature, enjoying the sunlight and the sea. Dolphins often followed ships for the company. It was unspeakably moving and lifted my feelings. I smiled without thinking.

  Some of the passengers had spotted the dolphins and there was a surge to the starboard side to take photos and videos. It was always an exhilarating sight and it never failed to delight me. The cruise line ought to put the dolphins on the payroll.

  I checked with the office that all the morning’s activities were in hand and made a circuitous route to the purser’s department. I had my letter of permission from the captain. It didn’t say anything about using computer terminals, but I hoped that they wouldn’t want to read what it said too closely.

  Fortunately they were overloaded with work following last night’s chaos and simply waved me to a free terminal. A young female officer even brought me a cup of coffee. ‘You look as if you need it,’ she said, nodding towards my sling.

  I began hacking into a bank acc
ount, using the information which Bruce had passed to me. Hacking is only illegal if the intent is fraudulent. Bruce had told me that a case taken to the House of Lords was overturned on the grounds that simple hacking did not constitute forgery.

  This was simple hacking. I only wanted information. The crooks know how to do it, especially if their victims bank online.

  I didn’t ask Bruce how he got the security numbers. Scotland Yard had its mysterious ways.

  The numbers. This individual had over half a million pounds in various banks. I looked at the incoming payments. There were regular amounts of £500, £300 and £100. Several were for £1,000. They were nothing like a salary or wages which usually have so much deducted for national insurance and pension funds. They were perfectly round sums, and some were cash payments. They looked fishy. Not dolphin fishy, dead-cod fishy.

  I clicked print and, thank you, nice printer machine, copies of the pages I had marked came out in seconds onto the tray. And there were other bank accounts in his name with the same pattern. Round sums paid in at regular intervals. Bruce was going to be interested.

  The Aveline was programmed for an overnight stay at St Lucia. We had a reciprocal arrangement with a big hotel on the coast. Passengers could book to have a night ashore at the hotel, and we hosted a party of visitors from the hotel who could enjoy a tour round the ship and dinner in the Zanzibar Dining Room. Minibuses were laid on for all the journeys involved.

  It was always a popular arrangement. Pierre would not demean himself to act as a guide, whereas I liked showing off the wonders of a luxury cruise ship, answering questions, knowing that I was talking to possible future customers. I had my little patter about the history of ship design. ‘Ships have always been designed to look like the houses and buildings that people leave behind. They are a series of floating rooms so that passengers feel secure when travelling. The decor is similar or better than our passengers have at home.

  ‘So we have areas that look like English conservatories, bars that look like Bavarian hunting lodges, dining rooms like French palaces and indoor pools like Roman baths.’ This usually raised a laugh.