But surely they wouldn’t be planning to get off without the painting they had gone to so much trouble to smuggle on board? The one that was in Mrs Foster’s stateroom at this very moment. Why had I used the word smuggle? Because that was it. The painting had been smuggled on-board at some port, say Palma, and was about to be smuggled off again.
I hurried back to my office and turned on Susan’s computer. I knew her email address but not the password. Somehow I had to get into her emails. I tried various words: cruise, liner, countess, anchor. All rejected. I tried colours, flowers, kings and queens. I tried careers, teacher, director, doctor …
I phoned Samuel.
‘You again? This is called phone stalking. Is she in her cabin?’
‘No, she’s not there but she is packing. I’m trying to get into her emails.’
‘That’s a criminal offence.’
‘I’ve got to but I don’t know her password. Give me some ideas. Please, before it’s too late.’ I must have sounded desperate.
‘She once had a dog called Sparky.’
I typed in Sparky. Bingo. ‘Thanks, genius.’
It’s funny how many people use pet cat or dog names for passwords. Sparky opened the door to Susan’s secret life. There in front of me in the mailbox was an email letter from Tamara Fitzgibbons, dated yesterday. She had read it but not deleted it. Tamara was apparently alive and well and with access to an Internet café. This was a reply to one Susan must have sent earlier.
The last sale of the painting was to Mrs Joan Foster. She bought it before I had wrapped it for delivery to Nigel Garten. Due to his unfortunate accident, it seemed easier to let it go to Mrs Foster rather than let it get lost in some probate tangle. Safe keeping, as it were. We could remove it at a later date. No problem, eh?
There was too much risk keeping it in the gallery any longer. I was on tenterhooks all the time. It might be bought accidentally by someone without any knowledge, or worse still, stolen by someone who did know what they were looking for!!!
See you soon — roll on Florida and the good life together. We’ll rent a villa near the beach. Tamara.
I printed the letter and was then out of the office in a flash, folding the sheet of paper so that it went in a pocket. That one phrase stood out in neon. We could remove it at a later date. I knew what that meant. Mrs Foster was in danger.
Mrs Fairweather waved to me as I raced past but I didn’t have time to stop and talk. I smiled and waved briefly. Maria de Leger was still writing her memoirs in a secluded comer. She nodded to me. There was an air of renewed gaiety round the ship. It was the thought of a port of call tomorrow, even if it was all fishing and whales and not a palm tree in sight.
There was no time to talk to anyone. I cursed the layout of the ship, all the corridors and stairs. It was such a long way to the upper deck staterooms. I pressed on Mrs Foster’s stateroom bell, and after a delay she answered. She was in casual trousers and a shirt, her face strained. I got the feeling I was unwelcome.
‘Hello, Mrs Foster. I’ve called to see how you are,’ I said, nearly breathless.
‘You’ve been running.’
‘Yes. Well, I thought I’d catch you before you went out on deck for a coffee.’
‘I can make coffee here and sit on my own balcony.’ She sounded distant and unfriendly. Had I upset her in any way?
‘Of course, and very nice, too. I understand you bought some paintings at the art gallery and I was wondering what arrangements you had made for shipping them home.’
‘I think it’s none of your business,’ she said sharply, trying to close the door. ‘You’d better go. I have another visitor.’
Then I saw him, standing behind the door, reflected in a mirror on the far wall. It was Darin Jack, yellow hair shaved off, in jeans and T-shirt. He was holding a knife to Mrs Foster’s back, the tip indenting the fabric of her shirt.
Our eyes met in the mirror.
‘No, I’ve changed my mind. I think you had better come in, Miss Jones,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘How nice. After all, two’s always company, isn’t it?’
Thirty-Two - At Sea
Mrs Foster had been trying to save me, by getting rid of me at the door. It was very brave of her. I tried to give her some gesture of understanding as Darin Jack pulled me into the cabin. His threatening attitude at the art gallery came flooding back. We should have done more to find him, to restrain him. We had none nothing. Not exactly me, but what had Security been doing? Sending emails?
‘So, Miss Jones. We meet again. How fortunate. I think you are going to be able to help me,’ he said, herding us both into the sitting room area. He smelled strongly of stale sweat. Susan hadn’t found him a shower. I sat down on the sofa, my legs unaccountably weak.
‘I’m so sorry about the competition,’ I said, pretending to misunderstand, playing for time. ‘We had so many winners. We had to draw one out of a hat in the end.’
‘No matter. In fact, I think I am the outright winner. The painting that so many people seem to be looking for is right here in this stateroom. But Mrs Foster seems to have forgotten where she put it.’
‘Easily done,’ I went on. ‘Mrs Foster has not had a good cruise. It’s been a traumatic time.’
‘And it’s about to get a lot worse. Of course, I sympathize with the untimely passing of her husband just when he was about to track down the Cézanne.’
‘It’s a Cézanne?’ I exclaimed, open-mouthed. ‘Good heavens, I didn’t know that. And your husband was here on the cruise to find it?’
Mrs Foster nodded. She seemed relieved to talk about it at last. ‘Yes, it wasn’t only a lovely holiday although George needed a break. He heard through some contact that the painting was going to change hands on board the Countess Georgina. The genuine owner is a client of the gallery and the painting was in our hands, lor some restoration work, when it was stolen and painted over. So George felt responsible.’
‘Heavens,’ I said faintly again. I could play gormless very well. No acting required. ‘Stolen, you say?’
‘Yes, he felt morally bound to make every effort to get it back. And I have done what he wanted. I’ve found the painting and it’s going to be returned to the rightful owner.’
‘But that’s where you are mistaken,’ said Darin Jack, helping himself to a whisky and ice. It was a generous tumbler full of the golden liquid. No bar measure. Had Susan been keeping him short?
‘You are going to tell me where it is, Mrs Foster.’
‘I’ve told you. It’s not here any more. It’s been removed. I decided it wasn’t safe to keep it in this suite.’
‘Then you are going to tell me where you have moved it to.’ His sly eyes were hooded with menace.
‘I don’t exactly know where it is,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘And if I did, I’d never tell you. Never.’
He sat on the arm of the sofa, much too close to me for comfort. He took my hand and examined my nails. He was hardly admiring the silvery pink polish. ‘Now Miss Jones wouldn’t look so gorgeous without her nails, would she? And the pain, extracting them! Extremely painful, almost excruciating. And think of all the blood on this nice carpet.’
He tilted my head up. ‘Would Mrs Foster get a bill for the blood or would Conway foot the cost? Have they insurance or something?’
‘Conway never charge for genuine accidents,’ I said, sounding braver than I felt. He took a pair of pliers out of his pocket and looked at my nails closely. ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, which shall be the first to go? How about the little one?’
I got up quickly, wrenching my hand out of his grasp. ‘I think Mrs Foster and I should have a private talk, alone. Perhaps we could come to some sort of compromise. After all, the rightful owner might be very relieved to get his Cézanne back. There might be a magnificent reward in the offing?’
I looked hopefully towards Mrs Foster. I wanted her to play along, to play for time. Someone was bound to come soon. Stewards were always changing towels.
‘Naturally,’ she said, catching on. ‘I’m sure there’s a magnificent reward. It could be arranged.’
‘But the Cézanne is worth more than several million on the underground market. I think I’d rather have the going price, Florida and the good life.’
Ah, Tamara’s phrase. Florida. So was that what they were planning? To disappear to Florida, buy a villa with pool, enjoy the good life in the sun. But how many of them? Who was going to dump who? They did not seem to me to be an ideal threesome. Someone was going to get the push. But which one? My betting was on the loathsome DJ.
‘So shall we go into the bedroom, Mrs Foster?’ I suggested. ‘Just a quick talk. It won’t take more than a few minutes.’
Somehow I was going to get Mrs Foster out of this. Wasn’t there a communicating door somewhere for when these staterooms needed two separate bedrooms? I wished I knew the ship’s layout more thoroughly. Or a telephone. Anything. It was worth trying. Or we could barricade ourselves in, though most of the furniture was fitted. I was beyond rational thinking. Send me on a course.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Darin Jack, moving fast. He pushed Mrs Foster into a dining chair and in seconds was fastening her wrists to the arms and her ankles to the legs with twine. No doubt taken from our stores. Her face was white, her lips dry. She was very frightened.
‘Now you’ll get a good view, Mrs Foster. I won’t gag you because you’ll be wanting to tell me where the Cézanne is.’
‘Don’t tell him,’ I urged. ‘We won’t give in to these thugs.’
‘Casey …’ she said, weakly.
I ran out on to the balcony. The sun hit my eyes, blinding me. Quick girl, think. I could climb down a deck or climb sideways on to the next balcony. I looked about. Not many holds for either manoeuvre. The deeply blue rolling Atlantic was a long way down from this deck, full of dancing sparkles and white horses. I remembered the death-defying divers at La Quebrada, Acapulco, where they dived from the cliffs straight into the sea.
But I was hardly a death-defying diver. I could abseil if I had a rope. A sheet. Anything.
‘Hold on a minute, Miss Jones. Not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?’ The knife was close to my ear. Another kitchen knife. Had Susan hidden him somewhere near the kitchens?
He was swilling a second glass of whisky. Good. The more the merrier. Let’s get him under the sofa.
‘Just taking in the view,’ I said, returning inside, my brain running in circles. There must be something I could do. ‘Tell me, exactly who runs this show? You, Tamara or Susan?’
He looked momentarily taken aback. He was foxed that I knew about the others. He was running through the possibilities, expecting the whisky to give him the answers.
‘So who is the brains, the mover and shifter, the boss? Who says, do this, do that? And who is going to get dumped when the Cézanne is safely in some rich American’s vault? I think it’s going to be you, Mr Jack. You are not nearly classy enough for Tamara or rich enough for Susan. The ladies are just using you. A bit of macho meat in their game.’
This got to the raw. He snarled and flicked the knife close to my ear. I didn’t like that. I’ve got such a lovely collection of earrings.
‘Please, Casey,’ said Mrs Foster. ‘Don’t say anything more. This is nothing to do with you. Let her go. Having Miss Jones here doesn’t help. It’s between you and me. Please let her go. She won’t say anything. She’s very sensible.’
‘I’m very sensible,’ I agreed. But I wasn’t going to leave Mrs Foster.
He was pacing about, clearly out of his depth.
‘No way,’ said Darin Jack, going back to the drinks cabinet. He’d finished the whisky and was moving on to vodka. Excellent. ‘Now let’s get this straight.’ He was already slurring his words. ‘You have moved the painting? Right?’
‘Right,’ said Joan Foster. ‘Into safe keeping.’
‘And you are going to tell me where.’
‘Yes, I’ll tell you where if you let Miss Jones go.’
Thank you, Mrs Foster. Very clever. I liked it. I thought I’d muddled him up a bit more. He was already spilling drink on the desk as he poured a generous helping into a glass. He dabbed his fingers in the spillage and licked them.
‘Nigel Garten, the man who bought the painting,’ I threw in. ‘Where does he come into all this?’
‘An independent scout,’ said Darin Jack. ‘He follows up bargains for collectors and gets paid for his trouble. Don’t know how he heard of it. We had to get rid of him.’
‘Poor soul. He was only doing his job. Nice man.’
‘He was in our way. The Cézanne had to stay in the gallery.’
‘Of course, until you and Susan get off. Is that Ponta Delgada? Perhaps you have a private plane waiting for you. Though, of course, the painting is quite small. It could go in baggage if you fly commercial.’
Even Mrs Foster looked confused. Perhaps she had lost track of the days. It happens. Even I have trouble remembering the date. ‘The Azores,’ I added. ‘It’s our next port of call. Tomorrow.’ Wrong thing to say. It brought DJ back to the present. He only had until tomorrow. Time was running out.
‘I don’t care how long it takes. You two are staying here until the painting is in my hands. I suggest you tell me where it is, Mrs Foster. Who shall I ring? I will hold the phone to your mouth and you will tell them to return the painting to you, now.’
‘No,’ she said faintly.
‘OK,’ he said, grabbing my head. ‘Which first, her nose or her ears?’
Now, I had always wanted a nose job but not this way. He nicked my nostril with the knife. Blood trickled down my chin. I licked at it with my tongue. I had a decent white shirt on. Blood is difficult to get out.
‘I’ve an even better idea,’ I said softly, sort of seductive and come-hither. I’m not good at seductive. ‘Have you seen the bathroom attached to this suite? It’s absolutely gorgeous.’
He looked puzzled. ‘You want to go to the bathroom?’
‘Yes, of course, and don’t you?’ I said, slightly moving my shoulder against him. It wasn’t much of an encouragement but it seemed to work. ‘There’s a Jacuzzi, you know, one of those big baths with lovely warm bubbles. Wouldn’t you like a lovely bath with me in all those warm bubbles? We could take the vodka with us and have such a lot of fun.’
This didn’t sound like me talking at all, yet it was me. I heard Mrs Foster gasp. Darin’s alcohol-fuelled eyes clouded over with lust. He’d be hiding out on his own for a long time.
‘Smashing idea, baby,’ he said, slurring. ‘Let’s get your clothes off first.’ His fingers went straight to the buttons on my shirt. I froze. I hadn’t thought much further than pushing him under the bubbles, after a few more vodkas, or drowning him with the sponge.
There was a sudden, peremptory knock on the door. I jerked back.
‘Room service,’ came a voice.
DJ went straight over to Mrs Foster. ‘Tell them no. Get rid of them.’
‘I didn’t order room service,’ she said loudly. ‘Go away.’
‘Room service,’ came the voice again. ‘Please open the door. Your meal is here, Mrs Foster.’
DJ grabbed me and pulled me over behind the door, with the knife. He whispered into my ear, all hot and breathy. ‘Tell them to go away. Say it’s a mistake. If you say one word out of place. I’ll stick this right into where it will hurt a lot.’
The blade was hard against my ribs. He unlocked the door and pushed me into the slight opening. Outside were Dr Samuel Mallory and Richard Norton, both in white steward outfits, a couple of burly sailors behind them and that blonde young man who was always with Amanda.
‘Room service, ma’am,’ they chimed together.
‘Sorry, folks,’ I said, keeping the tremble out of my voice. ‘But Mrs Foster didn’t order anything. It’s a mistake. Would you please go away?’
‘But we have Mrs Foster’s order,’ said Samuel, flourishing a trolley of covered food. ‘Soup
, grilled sole, side salad, apple charlotte and ice cream. May we come in and serve?’
Before I could answer, they swept in, pushing the trolley. It caught the unsteady DJ full in the knees. He went flying. The two sailors were on him in a flash and held him down to the floor. Richard Norton was doing something with restraints. The blond man went straight to Mrs Foster and began untying her. She wept into his shoulder, clinging to him.
‘Thank goodness you came, all of you. This is Amanda’s bodyguard, Bruno. He guards her,’ she said. ‘He has the painting. I gave it to him for safety.’
‘And who are you?’ I said to Samuel. I was shaking and it was beyond me to stop a few tears. I was glad to see him. There was no laughter in his eyes but I wouldn’t put it past him to offer me some ice cream.
‘I could be your bodyguard,’ he said. ‘If I ever found the time.’
Thirty-Three - Ponta Delgada
I was given permission to go ashore at the Azores even though we were short of staff. Special dispensation by Captain Nicolas. Not exactly for valour, but mainly because Mrs Foster insisted that I deserved some time off to recuperate from my ordeal.
‘She was going to sacrifice herself for me,’ she told everyone, tearfully. ‘Those beautiful nails. Wonderful girl.’
She was full of praise for the way I had coped though, truly, I’d done very little. Cracked a few jokes. Nearly made a Tarzan-like abseiling exit from the balcony without any ropes. Don’t mention the Jacuzzi.
Susan Brook was below decks, in custody. They’d found her in the Terrace café stockpiling yogurts and biscuits into a beach bag. So was Darin Jack. He was probably in chains. There was a brig, or guardhouse, near the morgue. Very appropriate. They blamed each other for Nigel Garten’s death. It was an accident. Like a blow on the head is accidental. They were being put ashore today into Portuguese police custody, waiting for Scotland Yard to collect them and fly them back to the UK for questioning and the judicial process.
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