Murder Ahoy!

by Fiona Leitch

  It was enough to make the bile rise. ‘Jilted Joel’? Yes, I’d jilted him alright, after discovering he’d slept with the entire female contingent of our local Weatherspoons. He hardly deserved such a sympathetic headline. And ‘lovely Louise’? Just - no.

  I clicked on the link and brought up the article. It was just a few lines long, but it still managed to mention me and my age (of course), but the worse thing was the second photograph.

  It was a photograph of me, scowling. The website had managed to insinuate that it was taken in the bar as I glared at the happy couple, jealous, when in actual fact I could see it had been taken much earlier in the evening when I was talking to my detective team; and I wasn’t scowling, I was telling them a funny story and the photographer had caught me, mid-expression. But when had the truth ever mattered to a tabloid?

  Two can play at that game, I thought. I retweeted the article, adding my own comment above it:

  Annabelle Tyson @AnnabelleTysonYepItsReallyMe

  SO happy for @THEJoelQuigley and @RealLouMeyers ! Don’t they make a lovely couple? Such a wonderful surprise to share this #MurderMysteryCruise with you, looking forward to testing out our detective skills! Let’s hope the ‘murderer’ doesn’t get you… ;-)

  And I hit enter before I could change my mind. Although spending a week on the high seas with those two was slightly less appealing to me than getting my legs waxed, a root canal filled and a cervical smear done ALL AT THE SAME TIME BY THE SAME PERSON, I didn’t give a damn about them seeing each other. They thoroughly deserved one another.

  “You typed that through gritted teeth,” said Will, beside me. I laughed and bent over to kiss him.

  “Not really. I don’t care about them,” I said. “And if they’re together, hopefully they’ll be too busy with each other to annoy us.”

  Will pulled me down for a cuddle. He was lovely and warm.

  “You seem to forget that we’ll be too busy with each other to even notice them,” he said. I liked the sound of that and snuggled closer. He didn’t speak but I could feel him thinking.

  “What is it?” I asked. He sat up, dislodging me.

  “Show me that post,” he said. I handed him the phone and he studied it. “Who took these photos?”

  “I dunno.” I looked at them again, more closely. “There’s a ship’s photographer on board, isn’t there? I don’t remember seeing them there last night, though.”

  “No,” said Will. “And these don’t look like professional photos. Plus I would assume that any photographer employed by the cruise line would have to sign something to say they can’t leak pictures to the press.”

  “Yeah…” I looked at them carefully again. “And the crew would be subject to the same rules, wouldn’t they? So it’s probably a passenger.”

  We looked at each other, slightly alarmed. I’m quite well known, but I’m not the sort of well known that has the press following me around and taking photos. The thought that someone on this ship was potentially going to be watching our every move in case we did something they deemed newsworthy was a bit perturbing. Added to that, the angle the photos had been taken at made it clear they’d been done surreptitiously; rather than asking if they could take a photo or even just openly snapping one, the photographer had secreted themselves somewhere. And to then send them off to the press, hinting that I was jealous… The sneaky way it had been done made me feel very uncomfortable.

  Will scrolled down, reading the phone screen. I made a grab for the phone.

  “Don’t read the comments,” I said. “It’s Twitter. They’re either really lovely or really horrible.”

  His face clouded over. “Apparently you traded down when you swapped Joel for me,” he said. I grabbed the phone.

  “You and I both know that’s bollocks,” I said. “Everyone knows that’s bollocks. I traded WAY up - ”

  “You swapped the ‘hottest crime writer in the world’ for a man who’s ‘short, balding and middle-aged’.”

  “Well that’s obviously completely wrong, because I’m the hottest crime writer in the world,” I said, trying to make a joke out of it. Will laughed, but not really. I took his face in my hands - his lovely, sweet and slightly sad face - and gazed into his eyes. “You have to ignore it. It’s rubbish. I wouldn’t swap you for Joel Quigley, Tom Hardy or Chris Hemsworth - ”

  “I notice you didn’t mention Tom Hiddleston,” he said.

  “I’m not making promises I can’t keep,” I said. He did laugh then. I kissed him on the lips. “You are the only man I want. You’ve ruined other men for me now. None of them could ever hope to measure up.” He opened his mouth to speak but I stopped him with another kiss. “Not even Tom. And definitely not Joel. I love you and no one else.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Again? Oh alright…”

  So I proved it, and then we got up and went for breakfast. We toyed with the idea of eating in our cabin, but Will said we should make it clear we weren’t hiding away. He was right. We had to ignore the rubbish on Twitter (and wherever else it had spread to by now) and carry on as normal.

  We opted to eat in the executive breakfast room, which was slightly less ‘in-your-face glamour’ than the Excelsior and the Pearl and more ‘subdued grandeur’. It was fairly quiet, reserved for the occupants of the penthouses and suites, and I hoped that the type of passenger who could afford a suite would not be the sort who’d be interested in social media gossip.

  Harvey and Michael were already at a table. They stopped talking and looked up as we sat down, and I knew immediately by the looks on their faces what they’d been talking about.

  “Morning!” I said breezily. I wasn’t going to mention it if they weren’t. They did, though.

  “Oh honey,” said Harvey sympathetically, reaching out to squeeze my hand.

  “You saw it then?” said Will. They nodded.

  “What a load of old rubbish!” said Michael hotly. “You reacted perfectly normally if you ask me. And that terrible photo of you - ”

  “Thanks…” I muttered.

  “I didn’t mean it was terrible, I meant - well, you know. They caught you in full flow.” Michael was clearly quite offended on my behalf.

  “Who took the photos, that’s what I want to know,” said Harvey. Will and I exchanged looks.

  “Yes, we’d quite like to know that too,” said Will.

  “What I’d really like though,” I said, picking up my tea cup, ”is to forget all about it and enjoy the cruise.”

  Harvey and Michael nodded in agreement. I launched myself head first into a Full English and tried not to imagine someone sharing a photo of me tucking into a sausage on social media.

  Chapter 6

  After breakfast we took a stroll around the ship. It was enormous and we’d seen hardly any of it. Apparently there were shops, a ‘fitness zone’ (gym to you and me), three swimming pools, two hot tubs, a theatre, a cinema, a nightclub and more places to eat than you could shake a stick at.

  We reached the beauty salon, and stopped to gaze in at the row of women - and a few men - being scrubbed by a whole battalion of hairdressers, manicurists and beauticians. I jumped as a well groomed, heavily (but tastefully) made up woman appeared in front of me.

  “Ms Tyson,” she purred. “Lovely to see you. Would you like to make an appointment?”

  “Oh, I…” Truth be told, I do sometimes wish I was more polished - it’s all I can do some days to wash my hair and shave my armpits - but I feel completely out of my depth in beauty salons. Will noticed my discomfort and came to my rescue.

  “Could you book us both in?” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “I need a trim. My wife is already the most beautiful woman on the ship, but she deserves a bit of pampering.”

  Behind us there was a collective aahhh as every woman in the salon melted. Even the salon manager, who was far too professional to actually melt, clutched her heart as she made our appointment. Will smiled
at me and took my arm as we walked away, and I thought, that’ll show anyone who believes what they read on Twitter…

  We were just passing the pursers’ desk (kind of like the concierge desk at a hotel) when the duty purser hailed us.

  “Message for you!” he said, handing me a piece of paper. It was an invitation, beautifully handwritten on the ship’s own luxury stationery.

  “You are cordially invited to the library. Tell no one.”

  The library was wonderful, if completely out of place on a boat. It should by rights have been in a large country house or stately home. It was lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves and mahogany panelling, with most of the books being leather-bound and gold-tooled. They were clearly more for show than reading, although there were a few lower shelves full of popular novels (lots by me, a few by Joel, none by Louise, as far as I could see). There was even a library ladder, the sort on a rail that went around the room so you could reach books on the higher shelves. I immediately had library envy.

  “I have always wanted a library with a sliding ladder,” I said to Will.

  “I can just see you up there, whizzing around the shelves,” he said. “Not looking for a book, just whizzing around.”

  I looked around, furtively. “Let’s come back at night and have a go on it!” He laughed.

  “It’s a date.”

  In the corner of the library was a coffee bar, with a shiny brass coffee machine that looked like something out of a steampunk novel - all valves and knobs and steam escaping. Leather Chesterfield sofas and comfortable wing-backed chairs were dotted around the room, with coffee tables displaying an array of magazines and newspapers. I fully expected to look out of the window and see a croquet lawn, a summer house and a herd of deer beyond the ha-ha. I had no idea what a bloody ha-ha looked like or how to recognise one, but it was the sort of thing every self-respecting country estate had. Ha ha ha.

  One thing that most self-respecting country estates do NOT have, however, is a dead body sprawled on the Axminster.

  It took me a while to notice their chest moving up and down, ever so gently. Thank god for that, I thought. I may be well known for writing about murder, but what’s less well known is that sometimes my job seems to encroach upon real life. This was not the first dead body I’d come across, but luckily it was the first corpse who was still breathing.

  They were sprawled (relatively comfortably, I thought - the murderer had been quite considerate) on the floor, eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling. I watched them for a while, waiting for them to blink, but they were world class starers. My eyes started to water in sympathy.

  “Well well well,” said Will. “I didn’t expect that.”

  We’d confidently expected the victim (and murderer) to be Mr and Mrs Too Innocent, but instead the lovely Indian man I’d spoken to last night was lying in front of us, a bloody dagger not really sticking out of his chest. In a nearby chair, weeping, was his lovely Indian not-really-wife. Her clothes were covered in blood. I had to hand it to the cruise line, it had done well.

  The murder mystery players gathered around the corpse. Sylvia and Heather were there in suspiciously new and un-sweaty fitness gear; apparently they had just been about to start a ‘Fit and Fab and 50 Plus’ class at the gym when they’d received their invitation. Harvey and Michael were carrying Gucci shopping bags, so they’d been adding to their already extensive designer wardrobe. The other players turned up in dribs and drabs, and I felt for the corpse; he was having to stay still for an inordinately long time, and his wife’s sobs were beginning to run dry.

  The Chief Purser nodded to me as she entered, and gestured for Will and I to step back and let the paying guests take charge of the investigation. They gathered around the body and prodded him, turned him over, studied the wound and looked around for the murder weapon.

  “By ‘eck it’s right posh in ‘ere, innit?” Bloody Louise could not enter a room quietly. It just wasn’t in her DNA. “Ooh, ‘as someone died? What happened, did they read Bella’s last book and die of boredom?”

  “No,” I said. “They choked on your ‘real life’ memoir, because it’s so hard to swallow.” I smiled sweetly at her and turned away, catching a glimpse of Joel’s mocking face as I did so. I turned back to glare at him, and to my surprise he wasn’t mocking me, he actually looked uncomfortable. It wasn’t an expression I was used to seeing on his face.

  I rather liked it.

  After half an hour everyone had got fed up of poking the poor corpse (who had started wriggling slightly and probably needed a toilet break), so we adjourned to a nearby coffee shop for tea and a cake buffet (I know, right? how bloody marvellous is that idea?! I decided I was going to live on this ship for ever). The grieving widow dried her eyes and allowed herself to be questioned over a Victoria sponge and a cup of Earl Grey.

  Louise and Joel wandered up to the counter to order coffee. The barista offered them both cake plates, but Louise waved hers away.

  “Not for me, thanks,” she said loudly. “Some of us are watching our figures, int that right Bell? Of course, some of our figures are easier to spot than others.”

  Joel muttered under his breath. “That’s enough.” She laughed and, unabashed, sat down across the room with her coffee.

  Zoé, who had missed all the fun in the library, bounced into the seat next to me, watching as I finished my carrot cake slightly less enthusiastically than I’d started it.

  “I can’t believe I missed a dead body!” she cried. The people at the table next to us (who weren’t part of the game) looked at us, alarmed. She ignored them and leaned in close to me.

  “You poor thing!” she said. “I saw that awful Tweet this morning! How did they get those photos? It was so mean of them to tell everyone you were jealous.”

  I could feel my cheeks getting hot. She was right next to me, why did she have to talk so loudly? “I’m not jealous,” I said. She looked surprised.

  “No, of course you’re not…” She turned her gaze on Will, who had gone to get a glass of water, for a second then back to me. “Of course you’re not.” She leaned back and really obviously watched Louise and Joel across the room. “How are you holding up, though? Really? With those two rubbing it in your face…”

  As she spoke, ‘those two’ looked over at us. Louise smiled; Joel just stared at me for a moment, then looked away. I waited for the ground to open up and swallow me but it stayed resolutely solid beneath my feet.

  “I am not jealous,” I growled at Zoé under my breath. Couldn’t she take a hint and shut the fudge up?

  “I just hope the mysterious photographer doesn’t pop up and get another incriminating photo of you,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I AM NOT - ” Heads were turning and I forced myself to lower my voice. “I am not jealous, Zoé, honestly. Will and I are very happy and absolutely fine and we’re just ignoring it, okay? Please do the same.” She looked for a moment like she might cry, and I immediately felt terrible. “I’m really touched by your concern, honestly, I am. Thank you. But let’s not talk about it, okay?”

  “Okay.” She looked at me sympathetically. “I did feel for you when it all came out about Joel, though.” Christ almighty, if you don’t stop talking I swear to God I will throw something at you. She looked down at her plate of untouched Battenburg and her bottom lip trembled. “I know what it’s like to put your heart into something and have someone you thought the world of let you down.” She looked over at Louise, but the faraway expression in her eyes told me she wasn’t seeing the loudmouthed Northern bint in her mind. “I know what it’s like when someone steals it away from you.”

  Holy crap, this was all getting a bit too emotional for me. Will sat down next to me, immediately sensing there was something going on and deciding to ignore it.

  “Oh hi Zoé!” he said brightly. “You missed the floor show. But at least you got here before the cake ran out.” He smiled at her, then turned to me. “Eve
rything okay?” he asked, making it clear he knew it wasn’t.

  “It’s fine,” I said, leaning over to kiss him. I just hoped it was.

  Chapter 7

  We spent the afternoon killing time before our pampering session at the salon. Mine took longer than Will’s, because quite frankly there’s a lot of me to pamper and now I’d bitten the bullet and let a beauty therapist get at me, I wasn’t leaving until I’d been pumiced and polished and tweaked and painted and smoothed and curled to within an inch of my life.

  Will looked up from the magazine he was reading as I stood in front of him, feeling slightly self conscious but marvellous. His jaw dropped. Literally. I have never had a man drop his jaw for me before in my entire life.

  “That bad?” I asked, but I knew it wasn’t.

  “Oh my god, you look amazing,” he said, his eyes wide. I felt my heart flip, and vowed to actually make an effort more often. He stood up and took my hand, looking me up and down. “You always look amazing, but this is next level…”

  We made it back to the cabin without stopping for a bunk up on route (although it was touch and go). Will said he wanted to fully appreciate the fruits of the beauty therapist’s labour but I didn’t want him messing my hair up, so I told him he’d have to wait until later. And then we got into our dinner outfits.

  Tonight’s entertainment was a fancy dress party. Will had groaned when he’d read that, but I was quite excited; this would be the first time I could go in a couple’s costume. In the past I’d always gone as something really obscure that no one had got, or something cool, clever and impossible to go for a pee in.

  I wore a tight-fitting pencil skirt with a slit up the side and stiletto heels; not my usual kind of thing, but when I looked in the mirror I was amazed how good it looked. A thin sweater, with a scarf around my neck and a beret at a jaunty angle, completed the outfit. Next to me, Will wore a sharp double-breasted suit with wide leg trousers and a trilby.