I knew that somebody wanted me dead.
Ten
I slept uneasily that night, if I slept at all. It seemed that at every creak of the ship I was out of the bunk and facing the cabin door; but I must have finally fallen asleep during the early hours of the morning. I awoke, surprised at seeing the sunlight streaming through the open porthole. From now on it would be screwed down tight and the curtain drawn across.
Normally I was an early riser, except when I had been drinking heavily; which was exactly how I felt at that moment – drained, empty, alone.
The faces at the breakfast table were downcast. Nobody likes a death at sea. Come to that, nobody likes a death at any time. It makes us realise how vulnerable we all are, and a death at sea is an omen of bad luck.
No-one said a word as I walked in. All conversation stopped. I received a nod from one of the officers, but the rest just looked at me with sullen faces. The two wives present kept their heads bent down to the table. It seemed to me as though each person was laying the whole of the blame on my shoulders.
The captain looked up from his breakfast as I sat down. “Morning,” he mumbled through a mouthful of cornflakes, a dribble of milk escaping from one corner of his mouth. He wiped his chin. “I thought we might hold an enquiry at ten o’clock this morning. Would that suit you?” I ignored his sarcasm.
“You’re the captain,” I replied, throwing it straight back at him. “You’re the one that makes certain the ship runs like clockwork – without any little problems.” If he wanted to be smart with me, so be it. “Whatever you say goes. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m only a passenger on this ship. Pete was a friend that I’d made on board; that’s all.”
I didn’t want anybody getting the idea that I had any interest in the affair, other than as a friend of the deceased. I was just the poor bastard who had found him. This report would go direct to the authorities in Singapore as soon as we docked and I could do without embarrassing questions on my arrival. I didn’t want anybody poking around and finding out that pressure had been used to get me on the ship in the first place. I wasn’t interested in avenging Pete’s death or of bringing his killer to justice. If I got the chance I would knock the bastard off, but I wasn’t going to prejudice anything by doing so. What I wanted was the identity of the killer; and finding out exactly what information he had, and the names of those behind him.
The fire smouldering in Flint’s eyes pulsated as he fought to hold his temper back.
“Yes, Mr. Rider,” he snapped. “I am in charge. The ship comes first, then the crew. You come last. From now on, keep out of my way, and the crew’s, until we reach Singapore!”
For a few seconds it was touch and go as I half expected him to fly across the table and grab me by the throat. But I had been ready for him, my right hand gripping the bottom of the back of the chair and my weight on both feet, ready to spring up and sweep the chair around at his head. It wasn’t necessary. He had made up his mind. He would save me for later.
He turned and addressed the gathering. “We’ll hold the enquiry here in the saloon. Ten o’clock this morning. I don’t think it will be necessary to bring the body along. We can make an examination later on, in the cabin.”
He moved on to his bacon and eggs. Some of the others had pushed theirs aside.
“Mr. Rider,” he continued. “I want you and the first officer to meet me up by the bow as soon as you have both finished eating.” The first officer nodded his agreement and silently went on with his breakfast. “We’ll carry out an inspection of the area and take a few photographs.” He thought for a minute and then turned to the first officer. “First, find someone with a camera. There should be one somewhere on the ship. And bring some paper and pencils.”
He downed his coffee. Breakfast was over. “Right, I’ll see you both down there in ten minutes.” And with that he strode out.
We weren’t the only ones inspecting the scene. It seemed that everybody who didn’t have a job to do was up on the foredeck, looking down at the bloodstains on the steel plating, totally ignoring the captain’s order that nobody was to venture past the number two hatch. A couple of the crew were down on their haunches, fingers touching the dried blood. I could see why the captain had called them morbid. There was even one of the women looking down at the stain, holding tight to her husband as though the spectre of death might suddenly spring up and carry her away.
The few slack ropes that were supposed to have cordoned off the area were removed as we approached. Flint scowled at the assembly, waited as they backed off a few paces and then pointed to the deck. “Right, Mr. Rider. Show us exactly where he was lying.”
The rain through the night had managed to wash a lot of the blood away, but the outline was still visible. I pointed to the stain. “Well, Captain. As you’ll recall from last night, his head was right here where the stain is.”
I didn’t want to be treated as the star witness. I wanted it made clear from the outset that Flint had seen nearly as much as I had; and so had half the ship’s complement for that matter. But on the other hand I didn’t want to be seen as uncooperative. I swept my arm round to the steel rungs. “And his body was stretched out from the bottom of the ladder. He was lying on his chest, with his head twisted towards the left-hand side of the ship.”
“Towards the port-side bulwark,” Flint interjected, pointing in the direction of the left-hand side of the ship.
“Yes.” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “He was facing the port-side bulwark, if that’s the proper name for it.”
“And that was all, nothing more?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, non-committal. “As far as I can recall.”
“What about his hands and arms? Was he holding anything?”
“No,” I replied. “There was nothing in his hands.” And then I realised I hadn’t seen his hands, at least not clearly. His arms had been under his body, stretched backwards, with his hands more or less beneath his thighs. “Captain, I think his arms were under his chest, although one of them might have been stretched out in front of him. Yes, that’s it. One arm was out in front. I distinctly remember now. It probably slid forward when he tried to break the fall.”
It was a blatant lie and I hoped that nobody caught me out on it, but even if they did, I could plead a bad memory – and shock.
Pete must have been unconscious when he was flung down towards the deck; if not already dead. There was no way he could have tried to break his fall. But if they realised where his hands had been they would know he didn’t simply trip over the top step and crash to his death. And there was no way I wanted them to find that out.
As I pointed out the position of the body and limbs the first officer made a few chalk marks on the deck. When he had finished he straightened up and glanced over at the captain. “Sir, it’s a pity we didn’t take a couple of photographs last night. It would have made everything a lot easier.”
Flint didn’t say a word. What could he say? He hadn’t been thinking too straight the previous evening: hauled from his bunk with more than one glass of whisky under his belt. He glared at me, as though it was me who had come up with the criticism. Then he spun to the officer and let fly. “As far as I know, First, there isn’t a bloody flash-camera on board!”
He hadn’t even thought to ask if there was one. Even so, he could have covered the area with a tarpaulin and rigged deck lights.
“Mr. Rider,” he asked. “Did you see him fall, or hear him cry out?” We were back to the cross-examination.
“No. I didn’t see it happen and I didn’t hear a thing. He must have fallen while I was still in my cabin getting my jacket.”
I didn’t mention the metallic sound I had heard. That was between me and the killer.
And that was the finish of the questions for the time being. The first officer got out his pencils and ruler, sat down on the deck, and proceeded to draw pictures. Somebody produced a camera and took a few photographs of the bloo
dstains, the ladder, and the general area.
When they had finished getting all of the details of the scene together we moved back to the saloon; or rather the captain, the first officer and I did. The rest of the spectators stayed on deck, taking in the gruesome details.
The remainder of the so-called enquiry was as tedious as the inspection on deck had been. The captain took down my statement in longhand, making certain he included every single detail, covering the entire episode from the time of our departure from the lounge after dinner the previous evening, to the time I had raced back and told the others that Pete had fallen. When the statement was finished I read it through and signed at the bottom. The first officer witnessed my signature.
The whole of the ship’s complement was brought in one by one. Each was asked if he had seen or heard anything; the answer always in the negative.
I looked for a guilty face and trembling hands, but knew he would be too good for that. Besides, the use of an interpreter gave the bastard plenty of time to frame his answers.
I was convinced that it had to be one of the crew and not one of the officers. Those of the officers who hadn’t been on duty had been in the lounge at the time. The only person missing was one of the wives, and she claimed to have been in her cabin most of the evening. She was the one clutching her husband’s arm as we had all gathered around to view the scene. I didn’t see her as the killer. She was also the one Pete claimed had been giving him the eye.
The enquiry, if you could call it that, lasted for most of the day; with only a break for lunch.
It was a miserable meal. I had never seen so many plates returned to the galley with their contents just stirred about. They all sat in morbid fascination: whispered conversations, eyes downcast, with every now and then a quick glance in my direction.
I was anxious to get my parka back. I wanted to have a better look at the stain; and to destroy the evidence; but the captain wasn’t having any of it. Nothing was to be removed from the body. It wasn’t to be cleaned. It wasn’t to be touched. The corpse had to be kept in the same condition it had been in at the moment of death.
I cursed under my breath and tried to convince Flint otherwise, but he was firm. He wouldn’t even let me check through the pockets to see if any of my things were still there. I had to get rid of the stain. It was the only thing that pointed to foul play, the only thing that could burst the incident wide open.
I was fairly certain what had made the mark on the back of the hood. It looked and felt like dried grease, but with a distinct odour of paint. The grease had been dry. It had to be some object that had been covered in grease at one time and either been left lying near fresh paint, or part of it had been painted. It had to be light enough to lift and swing against a man’s neck; but heavy enough to knock him out, or kill him.
I wandered up towards the bow section. There was nothing I could see that had recently been painted. And when I thought further, I realised I hadn’t seen anybody using paint since shortly after leaving Adelaide.
It was puzzling. I strolled up onto the fore-deck and down around the hatch-coamings, but there was nothing that seemed obvious. I ambled back up along the right-hand side of the vessel, the starboard side. Suddenly the faint smell of paint reached my nostrils, then teasingly disappeared only to reappear a moment later; and then I had it. It had been in front of me all the time, staring me in the face.
The paint locker: the compartment under the foredeck where all the paint and other bits and pieces of deck maintenance equipment were stored. The smell hadn’t come from the stain on the jacket! It had come from the paint locker.
When we came down to inspect the scene of the accident during the morning, the door had been open. At least, I think it had been. But I was almost certain that it had been closed the previous night.
But if it hadn’t been open at the time Pete was killed, then how had the smell of paint reached my nostrils? And then I recalled the metallic sound that clanged in the night as I prowled the deck looking for Pete. It was where the killer had been hiding. He must have heard me calling to Pete and ducked into the paint locker, closing the heavy door behind him in a panic and failing to stop it banging. The bastard had been there the whole time I had been bending over Pete. If he’d had any guts he would have come out and finished me off there and then. It told me something. It told me he wasn’t brave enough to face a man. He was the type who had to sneak up from behind.
As soon as I had raced off for help he would have made good his escape, once again closing the door. And that’s where the weapon would be, unless he had tossed it overboard. But I didn’t think he would have done that. He might be seen with it in his hand; certain proof that he was the killer. No, he would have dropped it in some cluttered corner where he thought it wouldn’t be found.
It might still be in the paint locker. He wouldn’t have had a chance to go back and get rid of it over the side. I would search the locker that evening, as soon as everyone had settled down for the night.
It wasn’t until about an hour before dinner that Flint finally terminated his enquiry. Pete’s body was carried unceremoniously down to the galley and placed in the bulk food freezer. The cook wasn’t pleased and threatened strike action, screaming for the body to be taken away. But there was no other place to store it, and there was no risk to the food. He hadn’t died of a disease. And he was wrapped in the blanket and a couple of large plastic garbage bags.
The crew wanted a burial at sea, and for once I agreed with them. But the body was to be taken ashore at Singapore for an autopsy. I hoped it would be nothing more than a mere formality and that they wouldn’t be in any sort of a hurry.
Dinner was almost a repeat of the mid-day misery. The diners were hungry now, but the thought of the corpse in the food freezer was enough to turn all but the captain and myself off the meal.
After my coffee I adjourned to the lounge with those of the officers who weren’t on duty. It was Chinese video tapes again, so I settled down to a few stiff whiskies and challenged myself to a couple of games of darts.
At ten-fifteen I decided it was time to go snooping and said goodnight to the other loungers, leaving them to their sing-song music and kung-fu movie. I think they were pleased to see me go, for conversation had been subdued the whole evening. I picked up a fresh bottle of whisky and went out the door, giving the impression that the whole thing had been too much for me; that I was exhausted.
I had acted totally distressed at dinner, even though I had been one of the few to go through the whole three courses. I had made a point of telling the steward that it was a terrible thing to happen; one I would remember for the rest of my days; that I was going to drink myself into oblivion and forget about it for a few hours. He was a gossip and I felt sure he would let the crew know that I would be out of everybody’s way for the rest of the night.
I closed the cabin door and drew the thin curtain across the porthole. It only took a minute to sneak out on deck and check whether it was still possible to see in. It was, but only vaguely, and with the light out it would be impossible to tell whether I was in the bunk or not.
I left the light on and poured myself a whisky, or that’s what anybody looking through the window would have thought. I had substituted the fresh bottle for an old one, filled with a mixture of water and black coffee.
I sat there for an hour, staring at the wall and sipping the bogus whisky. A third of the bottle later I undressed, turned off the light and climbed into the bunk. I lay in the dark for another fifteen minutes, watching the faint circle of light behind the curtain, watching for any sign of movement.
I was sure I had been watched as I sat with the small glass tumbler gripped tightly in one hand. There was nothing to indicate it, no sounds of footsteps on the deck, no scraping as he leaned against the bulkhead, but there was that old feeling in the small of my back. And I couldn’t be certain, but I was sure there had been a quick movement as I had turned out the light, as if a head had suddenly been
drawn away from the porthole.
I dressed hurriedly: an old pair of jeans, navy-blue sneakers and a dark roll-neck sweater pulled up to cover the lower part of my face. I opened the door without a sound, crept out into the passage and along to the door leading to the deck. I saw no-one. I went back to the cabin, picked up my torch and locked the door on my way out again.
It was eerie. The whole of the accommodation section was ablaze with lights, but there was no sound except the hum of the engines, and no sign of life. Those on duty were either down in the engine room or high up on the bridge. The rest were all asleep. I was just on the point of slipping out of the main doors on to the deck, when I heard a cough and footsteps approaching down the internal staircase.
I was out through the door in a flash and into the darkness of the companionway leading up to the next deck. The noise faded away as I closed the door. I waited a few minutes, but nobody emerged.
Making my way with the utmost stealth I crept down the ladder to the main deck, feeling like an idiot – and scared stiff. Apart from the sound of water slipping beneath our bows, and the low rumble of the main engines, it was deathly quiet.
I moved up to the main hatch, sneaking along under the lip of the coaming like a thief in the night, then around the first winch-house and past the forward hatch; the hum of the engines fading the further I moved towards the bow.
Crash!
I jumped as the noise smashed out above my head, and raced for my life, up around the hatch and into the protection of the bow companionway; the one Pete had been thrown from. Huddled in silence, I waited for him to reveal himself. I was prepared to wait as long as my nerves would allow, which I didn’t think was going to be very long.
Crash!
The noise rang out again with a dull thud, still coming from above my head, but on the opposite side of the hatch. I peered upwards into the mass of cargo-handling gear as the noise sounded again, but softer this time. One of the crane booms had lifted from its bracket and was crashing against the side of the winch-house at the end of each roll of the ship.
THURSDAY'S ORCHID Page 15
