‘But if Captain Nicolas was standing outside, you’d let him in, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course. He’s the captain.’
‘But how would you know it was him? Can you recall his voice?’
It was true. I’d met Captain Nicolas frequently, spoken to him lots of times, could vaguely remember his voice, a touch of the north. But that was all. If someone announces from the other side of a door that they are the captain, then you assume that they are.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘But do you really think I am in that much danger?’
‘I think someone is trying to scare you off. You’re making them nervous and nervous people do foolish things. If only you had not got yourself involved in all this business. You’re in charge of entertainment, shows and lectures. There’s nothing in your contract about being a private investigator.’
‘But it does say that I should be committed to the welfare of passengers. And I am committed to their welfare, even to the dead ones.’
His face relaxed. ‘You have a wonderful way of putting it, Casey. I hope the occupants of my freezer appreciate your concern.’
‘Is Rosanna all right?’
‘Singing your praises. You are the saint of deck-walking as far as she is concerned. It helped her to feel some normality, that she might have a new life ahead, once she is cleared at Southampton.’
‘Will she be cleared?’
‘I don’t know. I’m a doctor, not a policeman.’
Samuel walked me to my cabin and opened it with the card. It was embarrassing because I had left the inside in a mess. Clothes and undies thrown everywhere. Make-up and toiletries in disarray. It had been a quick change.
He searched every inch which took about one fluid minute. He even opened the wardrobes, moved dresses about and looked under the bed. He checked the window fastening.
‘Heavens, no Latin lover lurking?’ I said. ‘I am disappointed. I told him on the dot of midnight. He’s never late.’
‘Go to bed, Casey, and lock your door.’
So I slept through our approach to Acapulco but the membrane between dreams and sleep was uneasy. I went up on deck early to take in the sparkling scene. There were several big cruise ships anchored in the bay. The Countess was small enough to berth quayside. Already the taxi drivers were gathering to pounce on passengers. ‘Two dollars to the market, signorita?’
My face didn’t look too bad. It hadn’t swollen. I didn’t cover the butterfly strips with make-up, wary of infection. Better to leave it untouched. A big hat and sunglasses was all the disguise I needed.
Susan eventually dragged herself into the office. She looked wan and depressed, not the vibrant deputy that I wanted to leave in charge. It was my turn to go ashore. I’d been counting on a few hours in Acapulco.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Still a bit fragile. A little sailing boat is a lot different to a big cruise liner. It was awfully choppy. We got bounced around all over the place. Waves were coming at us, that high. I hated it.’
‘Never mind. Dr Mallory brought you back safe and sound, and I’m sure he’ll think of something a little calmer for your next date.’
Susan looked somewhat cheered. ‘Yes, I expect so. He said we’d have a drink after tonight’s show.’
‘There you are. He’s still interested.’
‘Yes, he is, isn’t he? And he’s so nice. Listens to all my problems and seems to understand them. He said he’d work out a diet personally suited to my hectic lifestyle. It’s all to do with metabolism. Isn’t that kind of him?’
‘Very kind.’ I’d had enough of this conversation. I finished answering my emails and told Susan what needed looking into. One of the male dancers had volunteered to DJ late at night. He said he knew what he was doing. We’d already checked the ship’s newspaper for tomorrow. There were no last minute changes, but Susan needed to review the spotlights in the Princess Lounge with the lighting man. Estelle had complained that they were all over the place. Maybe she had been all over the place.
‘I don’t want to talk to Estelle.’
‘Then don’t talk to her, write her a letter. Send a polite note to her cabin. Use your initiative, girl.’
I saw her hand close over a brass letter opener that was always on her desk. It was some market souvenir that she had picked up in Casablanca. The Arabic workmanship was rough but the knife was still sharp.
My photograph had been slashed with a knife. Could Susan have done it? But why? She had access to the key to the display cabinet. She was not exactly my number one fan, even if I had introduced her to Samuel.
I sent her a totally insincere smile. ‘Don’t worry. Estelle is a totally changed woman since romance came sweeping into her life. A little late perhaps, but still making her eyes sparkle.’
‘Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed. She’s too old for sparkling eyes. It’s disgusting at their age. They should know better.’
I couldn’t get out of the office fast enough. I’d had enough of Susan Brook.
The quayside was busy with passengers getting on coaches, others trying to walk to town and being waylaid by taxi drivers. It was no distance. They didn’t need a taxi. Passengers could walk anywhere in Acapulco, the old town or the new.
It was a fine, natural harbour and most of the passengers made for the famous Strip where the restaurants, luxury hotels and shops were, or to the Old Acapulco town which was centred round the shaded square in front of the cathedral. This downtown area was the hub for people-watching. The church wasn’t that old but it was weirdly Byzantine with bulbous domes.
Most of our passengers were going to watch the cliff divers (the clavadistas) perform their spectacular leaps off the cliffs more than 130 feet above the sea. It was a nail-biting performance and the divers only got tips from their audience. The famous stars of the past, Errol Flynn, Lana Turner and John Wayne, as well as Frank Sinatra, had once owned homes in La Quebrada but they had long gone.
I managed to side-step the persistent taxi drivers.
‘No, thank you. I want to walk,’ I said. ‘I’m getting fat.’ I patted my stomach and they laughed, offering me an even cheaper fare. Maybe they thought I was pregnant and commiserated.
I wanted to walk along the Strip and go shopping. There were over 600 shops in Acapulco and I’d saved my shopping spree for here. There was everything from designer names to local handicrafts.
The big luxury hotels had the best views of the ocean, the city or the bay. It was a long walk round the bay. I stopped to look at the mermaid statue sitting on the rocks, not unlike the one in Copenhagen but smaller and not quite so sedate, and the pelicans standing guard close by on every outcrop.
Once Acapulco had been a target for pirate raids because of the silver being exported and exotic oriental items going the other way. They built a star-shaped fortress on the front and it was beside these tall walls that I was walking now. I reckoned there were still a lot of pirates around.
The taxi drivers would not leave me alone. ‘No, thank you. No, gracias,’ I said in English and Spanish. ‘I want to walk.’
They clearly thought I was touched by the sun, and offered cheaper and cheaper fares to take me bargain shopping. I felt sorry for them. They only had a few hours in which to make some money.
There were so many bars and restaurants offering every kind of delicacy. Some of our passengers had already given up in the heat and were sitting at café tables shaded by big umbrellas.
I spotted Tamara Fitzgibbons strolling ahead, wearing a short strappy cotton dress which was far too revealing for the sanity of the taxi drivers. She was being accosted on all sides. I hurried to catch her up.
‘Haven’t you got a wrap or a shawl?’ I said. ‘Those acres of bare skin are sending the locals wild. You’re going to be sorry.’
‘I’ve got factor thirty-five on,’ she said.
‘I’m not talking about sunburn. I mean the hot-bloodied Mexican men. They are not used to seeing this amount of fle
sh showing.’
‘What about on the beach?’
‘This is not the beach, this is walking about in the middle of town. If you look at the Mexican women out shopping, they are decently covered.’
Tamara was about to continue arguing with me, when the unexpected happened. A taxi drew up alongside and the driver leaned out of the window. He was dark and swarthy with the Aztec bone structure of his ancestors.
‘You want a taxi, senorita?’ he asked. ‘Private taxi.’
‘Oh yes, thank you,’ she said, getting in the back. ‘To the Strip, please.’
It was less than a ten-minute walk and Tamara was getting a taxi. It was a two-minute ride if the traffic was clear. Acapulco traffic was a nightmare. Road rules and speed restrictions were ignored. Pedestrians usually crossed streets massed in groups as that meant they were less likely to be run over by a manic driver.
‘Tamara,’ I called out. ‘Come back.’ But the taxi was speeding away. It was too late to stop her. Oh well, I supposed she could take care of herself. It was only a two-minute taxi ride.
The sun was blisteringly hot. The celebrity hotels sparkled like icing sugar. Enticing wavelets rolled along the shore but I didn’t have time for a swim.
But I couldn’t get it out of my head, the way the taxi had cruised alongside us. It was unusual. The drivers touted for passengers on the quayside, their vehicles parked a distance away.
It was a shop till you drop day and I had my fill. I bought a local straw hat for Rosanna from a street trader, resisted the shell sculptures, glassware and jewellery. But I couldn’t resist a pair of strappy blue sandals encrusted with gems. They looked gorgeous if somewhat dangerous. I’d probably cut my legs on the gems. I recognized the designer name, Fendi, but was unsure if it was genuine. I hadn’t paid a Fendi price.
It was five in the afternoon when I climbed the gangway to go on-board, showed my crew card, had my purchases scanned. I kept my eyes open for Tamara returning, but she wasn’t around. I couldn’t take Rosanna for a walk round the Promenade Deck until the Countess had let go her lines. It would be pleasant for her to see the sweep of the Bay of Acapulco as we steamed out into the Pacific Ocean.
‘Is this another record?’ said Samuel Mallory. He hadn’t gone ashore. Too many patients. ‘Back on time again?’
‘I was hoping you’d notice,’ I said. ‘Have you seen Tamara? The girl from the art gallery.’
‘No. Is it important?’
‘I’ve got a horrible feeling …’
‘Heartburn. Chew a Rennie. Drink a glass of water.’
‘I think she may have been kidnapped. We’ve been warned, several times, about taxi drivers who take passengers up into the hills and then demand money before they’ll bring them back to the ship. It has happened.’
‘Kidnapped? Isn’t that a bit extreme?’
‘Believe me.’
Dr Mallory looked serious for once. ‘That’s true. And there was the couple who had everything stolen by a taxi driver, wallet, cards, currency. What makes you think that something has happened to Tamara?’
‘It was the way the taxi appeared suddenly, like it was cruising. She was on her own. She was hardly wearing a dress, nothing decent, not the sort of thing to walk about in. And he said “private taxi” which was very odd. Before I could stop her, she had got into the taxi and it shot away.’
‘Let’s check whether she’s back. I’ll get on to the purser’s office.’
But Tamara Fitzgibbons had not been checked back on-board. She would have a cruise card or a crew card like everyone else. Announcements began to come over the loudspeakers, asking certain named passengers to make their whereabouts known to Reception. The cruise card scanner at the top of the gangway was not a hundred per cent sure. There were occasional hiccups.
Tamara’s name was on the list. Again. And again. I leaned over the rail, hoping to see a taxi screeching to a halt and Tamara flinging herself out and up the gangway. They would sail away without her. They never waited. If it was a passenger left behind, they had to make their own way to the next port of call to pick up the ship. Expensive.
‘I think she’s been kidnapped,’ I told Richard Norton on the phone. ‘Can we do anything?’
‘I’ll alert the police on shore, the British Consulate and our agents. They’ll be able to enquire at the hospital, in case she’s been in an accident. What does she look like?’
‘She’s about five foot three with light brown hair, around twenty-nine and wearing a very short white dress with shoulder straps.’
‘It might be a red, white and blue dress by now.’
‘That’s not funny,’ I snapped.
‘Sorry, my wife is always telling me I have the weirdest sense of humour.’
His wife? I didn’t even know there was a wife. First mention of wife’s existence. Unknown factor. Had he let it slip by mistake? This does happen on cruises. Any on-shore relationships get conveniently forgotten. I wondered if Dr Mallory had commitments, kept out of sight.
‘But I did manage to take some of the registration number of the taxi, despite the mud and dust on the plate,’ I said, still reeling.
‘Shoot.’
‘There was a five, six and a nine. That’s all I can remember.’
‘Not exactly brilliant but better than nothing. I’ll phone ashore.’ Richard put the phone down.
That was me all over. Not exactly brilliant but better than nothing.
Twenty-Five - At Sea
Rosanna had been waiting for me all day. She knew she wouldn’t be allowed out on deck until the ship was at sea. She had been moved to a secure inside crew cabin as Dr Mallory needed the isolation room. A male crew member had a chest rash and had to be kept in isolation till it was diagnosed as one hundred per cent not infectious.
‘Thank you, thank you so much for coming,’ she said. ‘I’d like to see something of Acapulco. That great song and everything. My dad was always playing Sinatra. He was a number one fan.’
‘Come along, on deck. It’ll take a while for the Countess to sail through the bay and the Boca Grande. There’s so much commercial shipping and other cruise liners. I’ve bought you a souvenir.’
She loved the cowboy straw hat and plonked it on her head. She looked so vivacious and happy, I almost felt like offering her a job on my team. She’d be a change from the sour-faced Susan.
When we got out on deck, she exclaimed with more joy over the sight of Acapulco Bay, all the gleaming white hotels and the mountains in the background, the incredible blue of the sea. At a distance from the litter and the traffic, it looked pure Hollywood and so glamorous.
‘It’s wonderful. I don’t care if I do go to prison,’ she said. ‘This has been worth it. See Acapulco and die. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. My poor dad.’
‘I know you didn’t,’ I said. ‘There have been enough deaths on this cruise. Two others, as well as your father. Did Dr Mallory tell you that?’
Her face sobered. ‘No, he didn’t say anything much, apart from my father being found in his magic box. Are you going to tell me? I might be able to make some sense of my father’s death, if I knew what was going on.’
I saw no harm in telling her about George Foster, supposedly a heart attack, and Nigel Garten, supposedly a man overboard, possible suicide. ‘Mr Garten had just bought a reproduction from the art gallery. They were both on table two, second sitting, which is also strange. And so was your father. He had been given a place on table two but no one remembers if he ever sat there for a meal.’ I didn’t say that maybe he was already dead.
‘Who else sits there now?’
‘Mrs Joan Foster, the widow, when she feels like coming down which is not often. Several new couples and some elderly ladies. The word has gone around that the table is jinxed and no one will sit on it. Too many accidents. I’ve eaten there a couple of times, so that it won’t look so empty.’
‘My father’s death wasn’t an accident, you know. He was always so careful. He knew hi
s equipment, could work it blindfolded. I’ve seen him practising the procedure. He didn’t just fall and get locked in. Or bang his head. No way.’
‘Are you trying to tell me something that I don’t know?’ I asked. We were strolling the Promenade Deck in the evening sunshine. It was quite crowded with passengers hanging over the rails, catching a last glimpse of sunny Mexico, before we headed back to the Azores and Southampton. We had several days at sea now, another transit of the Panama Canal, and then the Atlantic and home.
‘Casey. I can call you Casey, can’t I? You are the one person who has been continually kind to me. Look, I’m not very bright. I haven’t got a job or anything. I look after my dad between shows, that’s all. But I watch a lot of television and it strikes me that all these deaths could be connected. And it must be something to do with the ultrasound scanning equipment my dad was being forced to bring on-board.’
‘You may be right.’ Rosanna might well be right.
‘If we could find out who was making him bring it on to the ship, threatening him and everything, then I reckon you got the person who killed him and chucked that other passenger overboard. I don’t know how the heart attack geyser fits in.’
We’d done one circuit. I could spare time for two more, making it nearly one mile. ‘Oh, but he does fit in, Rosanna. George Foster was a director in a Bond Street art gallery called Fine Art. It’s all to do with some famous painting, lost for years, that is actually hidden under a very ordinary reproduction. Though how anyone could paint over a masterpiece, I don’t understand.’
‘But it is done. I saw a programme about it. Television tells you a lot, you know. I don’t just watch soaps.’
‘And now the young woman in charge of the art gallery on board ship has gone missing. We had to leave Acapulco without her. I was the last person to see her, getting into a suspicious taxi. I should have stopped her.’
‘What could you have done? Dragged her out by her hair? Hung on to the back of the taxi. Please, Casey, don’t feel responsible. You couldn’t have done anything.’
Second Sitting Page 21
