Murder Ahoy!

by Fiona Leitch

  “Mrs Ty - Bella,” he corrected himself. “I’ll level with you. There is no one else on this ship who has any motive for killing Ms Meyers.”

  “As far as you know,” I interrupted him.

  “As far as I know, yes,” allowed Harry. “As far as we are aware, only you and Mr Quigley had even met her before this cruise, and most of her interactions had been with the two of you and a few other passengers. You were in her cabin - ” he held up a hand as I opened my mouth to interrupt him again - “yes, I know, she invited you. There are witnesses who corroborate you getting the message from her. But none of them can shed any light on why she might do that or what her intentions were. The murder method - ”

  “That is just ridiculous,” Will interjected sharply.

  “The murder method is tenuous,” said Harry. “I’ll admit that. But everything else points to you.”

  I hugged Will tighter. This was turning into a nightmare.

  “You are confined to your cabin while we investigate,” said Harry. “There will be security guards posted outside your door, so please don’t try to leave. We do have a secure holding facility - ”

  “A prison cell,” I corrected him, wiping my nose.

  “Yes,” he said. “A prison cell. I think you will be more comfortable here, so please don’t force me to use it.”

  “What about me?” demanded Will. “Can I leave, or am I under arrest as well?” I clutched at him; I didn’t want him to leave me. He smiled gently. “I need to leave the cabin if I’m going to clear your name,” he said.

  “You are free to come and go as you please,” said Harry. “But I will not have you interfering with or obstructing my investigation.”

  “As an officer of Interpol I have the authority to investigate a murder, particularly when it occurs in international territories,” said Will, drawing himself up to his full height (which wasn’t that high, but it was high enough for me). “Legally, this ship doesn’t come under the jurisdiction of either the UK or the US - ”

  “The Captain has authority over this ship when it’s in international waters,” said Harry, drawing himself up too. They looked like two middle aged, rutting stags, fighting over a female in heat. Watching someone bleed to death, being accused of murder, having two men fighting over me - it was turning into an evening of firsts…

  “The Captain is a sensible man,” said Will. “A sensible man doesn’t turn down any offers of experienced help. How many homicide investigations have you led?”

  Harry stared at him for a moment, then sighed.

  “Fine. But I will be watching you. Yours is hardly an objective view point, and I won’t have you leading or influencing witnesses.” He turned to the security guard behind him and nodded, and they both turned to leave. He stopped at the door and looked back. “Get some sleep, Bella. I will need to talk to you again.”

  I flopped back onto the bed, exhausted, as I heard the door shut. I stared up at the ceiling and felt the mattress move as Will lay down next to me, but I didn’t look at him.

  “Go on then,” I said. I felt him roll over to gaze at me.

  “Go on then what?”

  “Ask me if I did it.” I swallowed hard, fighting back the tears again, but I was determined not to cry any more.

  “No,” said Will. I turned to see him watching me closely.

  “You mean you don’t want to know?” I said, in a small voice. He smiled and shook his head.

  “No, you looney, I mean I don’t need to ask. I know you didn’t do it.” He reached out and stroked a lock of my formerly glamorous hairdo out of my eyes, and I felt a pang for the hard work of the beauty therapist and hairdresser, completely ruined by the night’s events. We should have had that bunk up earlier. “You are the softest, warmest, most compassionate person I’ve ever met.” He laughed gently. “I mean yes, you have got a bit of a gob on you and you’re good at sarcastic comebacks - ”

  “Usually two hours too late,” I said.

  “Not always. Words are your weapons, not sharp pointy things.” He pulled me to him and kissed me on the forehead, then we slowly undressed each other and fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.

  Chapter 11

  We slept late the next morning. I woke with an aching head and sore, puffy eyes. Will made tea as I swallowed an aspirin and stood under the shower again; I hoped it would clear my head, but part of me also wanted to scrub myself all over again, just in case any traces of Louise lingered.

  We sat and drank our tea and looked at the room service menu, but neither of us felt like eating. I was strangely calm and no longer perpetually on the verge of bursting into tears, in fact I felt absolutely fine - if you ignored the massive panicky knot of anxiety lurking in the pit of my stomach that left no room for breakfast.

  I picked up my phone, more out of habit than a desire to look at anything, but Will put his hand on mine with a warning glance.

  “Are you sure you want to look at that?” he asked. I thought about it. He was probably right to be wary, but at the same time I wanted to know if I was already facing trial by social media.

  “Sticks and stones,” I said lightly. “I’m going in…”

  As I’d expected, #RIPLouiseMeyers was trending on Twitter. The same tabloid newspaper as before had posted a story about her murder, but they had stopped short of accusing me of committing it, just saying that I had been among the last to see her and was unavailable to comment. The same though could not be said of the Twitterati, who all had their own theories as to what had happened, most of which hinged on my supposed bitter jealousy over her bonking my ex.

  “Is it bad?” asked Will tentatively. I laughed, but not really.

  “I’ve been found guilty and completely exonerated,” I said lightly. “I’m a jealous bitch who’s so much happier with my lovely new husband than I ever was with Joel, who I apparently am desperate to get back together with. So you know, it could be worse…”

  My voice trailed off. I’d been tagged in a post by someone I didn’t know (not unusual in itself - although it was usually someone slagging off one of my books and kindly letting me know I was a crap writer). But there was no text, just a hashtag - #Guilty - and a picture. A picture of me, being led away from Louise’s cabin covered in her blood. I went cold.

  “What is it?” Will saw the blood drain from my face, and was on his feet and next to me in a second. He saw the photo and plopped down onto the chair next to me.

  “Who the hell is taking these pictures?” I cried.

  “And leaking them online,” said Will grimly. “Although I notice they’ve posted it directly this time, not sent it to the newspapers.”

  “The newspapers aren’t daft,” I said. “They know I’d sue their arses if they shared this.” I glared at my phone, then jumped out of my skin as it rang. Susie.

  “Oh my GOD Bella, what’s going on?” she shrieked. I held the phone away from my ear. “I just heard about Louise. I should’ve told you as soon as I found out she was going to be on the ship, but I honestly didn’t find out until the last minute. I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault this has happened - ”

  “Of course it isn’t your fault,” I said, trying to calm her down, although to be fair I was the one facing a murder charge, not her, and I did feel a moment’s irritation that we seemed to be doing things the wrong way round. She should have been reassuring me, by rights.

  “I just feel so bad…” she said. How do you think I bloody feel?!!!

  “Have you seen Twitter yet?” I asked, and she went quiet. I could hear her tapping away at her laptop. Then -

  “What in the name of Mark Zuckerberg?!” Susie sounded like she was having a coronary on the other end of the phone. I held it further away from my ear.

  “Er, I think that’s Facebook - ” I said. She ignored me.

  “I can’t BELIEVE Twitter have let that go - you do mean the picture, right? Oh my god, you have seen that picture, haven’t you? I haven
’t just made things worse - ”

  “Yes I’ve seen the picture,” I said. “I want you to get onto Twitter and threaten to sue the bejesus out of them unless they take it down now. And I want to know who posted it.”

  “The username is Fletcher92DM,” Susie said. I went cold. In my horror at the sight of that photo, I hadn’t even noticed the username. The main character in the series of books I was famous for - including the one with the corkscrew murder - was DCI Daisy Fletcher, badge number 92DM… I could hear more typing. “They’re new. This is the only thing they’ve posted. We could trace their IP address…”

  “No point,” I said. “I know exactly where they are, they’re on this bloody ship, hiding in pot plants and behind doorways, waiting to jump out and take a photo of me.”

  Susie swore - although she never really swore because she was far too posh, she just exclaimed slightly bizarre things in lieu of a good cussing - Susie had a bit of a random outburst and then calmed down long enough to listen to my requests: to get that photo off Twitter, get that user banned, and threaten the tabloid with legal action if they posted any more photographs of me. I didn’t hold out too much hope for the last one, although there was a chance that the fact there was now an ongoing criminal investigation might persuade the editor that it wasn’t worth the risk.

  “Oh, and have a word with Louise’s agent,” I said. “Give her my condolences.”

  I got her off the phone, and looked over at Will. He was smiling.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You’re ready to fight now, aren’t you?” he said, and I realised with surprise that I was. I no longer felt like crying, or hiding away in my cabin (notwithstanding the fact I’d been told not to leave). I was desperate to get out there and find out who had murdered Louise - because it sure as hell hadn’t been me.

  The first thing we had to work out was when exactly Louise had been attacked. That was easy; she had called the pursers’ desk to invite me to her cabin, and it had only taken the duty purser a few minutes to come to the Pearl and find me. I’d been a little reluctant to go and hadn’t exactly hurried there, but that still only gave the murderer a window of about six or seven minutes at the most to enter the cabin, attack Louise and leave. It had been cutting it very fine, and it was surprising that I hadn’t passed them in the corridor.

  “They could have gone into a neighbouring cabin,” I said. “Louise wasn’t pouring with blood, but there must have been - ” I swallowed hard, feeling a bit sick - “there must’ve been a bit of a spurt when they stabbed her. They must have got blood on them, so they could have cleaned themselves up and stayed there until all the fuss died down.”

  Will thought about it. “But there would have been security guards and members of the crew in the corridor for hours afterwards. There are probably still some out there now. The murderer wouldn’t be able to slip out unseen.”

  “Unless they were seen,” I said. Will looked puzzled. “Remember what we were talking about, over dinner? That if you look like you belong, no one will notice you. Who would have access to Louise’s cabin, and the neighbouring ones, and would be able to slip out unnoticed?”

  “A member of the crew,” said Will.

  We looked at each other. There were so many crew members on the ship that it was impossible to recognise who should be on that deck and who shouldn’t. And once they were in uniform it was difficult to tell some of them apart, certainly at a brief glance, anyway.

  “Of course, it could still be a passenger,” said Will. “If it was someone staying on the same deck, they could have attacked Louise then just holed up in their cabin until today. It was quite late in the evening, so they wouldn’t have been missed if they’d just stayed there and gone for breakfast this morning.”

  I nodded. “We need to know who’s staying in those cabins.”

  There was a loud, urgent banging on the cabin door, and we both jumped out of our skins.

  “If that’s Harry…” I started, but Will stopped me with a kiss.

  “It will be fine,” he said. “You’re innocent.”

  But when he opened the door, it wasn’t Harry. It was Zoé. She pushed past Will and wrapped me in a great big hug, then stood back looking slightly embarrassed.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I just wanted to make sure you were okay! What people are saying about you is horrible!”

  “What are people saying about me?” I asked. She opened her mouth to speak, but I laughed softly and stopped her. “I’m joking. I can guess.”

  “It’s not true, though,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question. “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if - ”

  “No of course it’s not true,” I said, trying not to snap at her. She was sweet, and she was concerned about me, yet there was something about her that really irritated me. I fought it down. “It was really nice of you to come and see me.”

  She smiled and was about to speak again, when her phone rang. The familiar, charming refrain - snitches, end up in ditches - rang through the cabin as she quickly grabbed it and turned it off, blushing.

  “You really need to change that ring tone,” I said lightly, and she nodded.

  “I know,” she said. “I was so embarrassed when it went off last night! Right in the middle of the murder! You don’t think everyone heard it, do you?” she asked, with a hopeful expression on her face. I hated to dash it.

  “I think they probably all did, I’m afraid,” I said gently, remembering the laughter in the dark room. “Don’t worry about it, it lightened the mood, didn’t it?”

  She laughed. “Yes, it probably did.”

  Will cleared his throat. “Are you okay if I leave you for a bit? I want to go and talk to the Chief Purser, about - what we were just talking about.”

  I nodded, and Zoé looked between the two of us, open mouthed.

  “Ooh, that all sounds very mysterious!” she squealed. “Is it to do with the murder?”

  I looked at Will, and he shrugged. What harm could it do?

  “We’re going to clear my name,” I said. She squealed again.

  “It’s a real life murder mystery!” she said. She just stopped herself clapping her hands together in excitement. “I mean…do you need a hand?”

  Will and I exchanged looks. “I don’t know…” Will sounded dubious, but she ignored him.

  “The murder mystery’s been cancelled,” she said, “and you’ve got a whole team of amateur detectives sitting around with nothing to do. Let us help you!”

  I suddenly felt on the verge of tears again. “You believe me, then? You don’t think I did it?”

  Zoé smiled. “I know you didn’t do it,” she said, grasping my hand and squeezing it. I stood up, wiped my eyes, blew my nose and smiled at her.

  “Then the game is afoot.”

  Chapter 12

  Will went to talk to the Chief Purser and ask her about the passengers in the cabins near Louise, and Zoé left soon after to ‘rally the troops’, as she put it. I didn’t think my amateur detectives would be that likely to help, but just knowing that not everyone thought I was guilty was reassuring.

  I made some tea and sat down with a pen and paper, hoping that if I could just relax, some flash of insight or inspiration would flash through my mind and I would instantly know who the murderer was, or at least how to clear my own name. But inspiration remained conspicuous by its absence. My stomach rumbled; I must be feeling better. Food would help (food always helps, particularly chocolate and bacon, though probably not both at once). I ordered breakfast - or lunch, looking at the time - from room service and went to stand out on the balcony, watching the late summer sunshine highlighting the ripples of the waves. It was quite fresh out here in the middle of the Atlantic, but there was very little wind and the sea was calm. I pulled my long cardigan around me and breathed in deeply. In my mind I looked proper dramatic, like the cover of a romantic novel; you know the type, where the back view (n
ever the front) of a woman gazes wistfully out to sea, or at the Eiffel Tower or some mountains or something (I don’t know how she manages to look wistful when all you can see is her back, but she does). She’s probably wearing a floaty dress and clasping a summer hat to her head, too - the women on these book covers are never wearing trainers or clutching a Tesco’s Bag for Life like normal women. And the book’s always called The Little (Something) in the (Somewhere), or The (Something or Other’s) Daughter.

  But knowing my luck the only book cover I would ever personally grace would be called The Middle-aged Writer Who Got Seagull Shit on Her Cardy. Either that or ‘The Countess of Monte Cristo’.

  There was a loud knock on the door of the cabin; brunch! I opened the door to the steward, who placed the plate of Eggs Benedict with extra bacon (for brain power) on the table. I tipped the steward and sat down, ready to tuck in, as he turned to leave.

  “I see guilt hasn’t affected your appetite,” said Joel, making me jump. I leapt up and glared at the steward, who stood apologetically in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” he said. “Mr Quigley just - ”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Mr Quigley has a habit of turning up where he’s not expected. This ship, my cabin, other women’s knickers…”

  “I’m not here for an argument,” said Joel.

  “No? What are you here for?” I noticed the steward hopping about in the doorway, looking embarrassed. “It’s fine, you can go.” He escaped gratefully as Joel sat down, eyeing my bacon. You can keep your thieving mitts off that, I thought. “Oh please, do make yourself at home,” I said sarcastically.

  “I will.” He reached out to snaffle a rasher and I slapped his hand.

  “I see grief hasn’t affected your appetite,” I said. He looked affronted.

  “I am upset!” he said. I looked at him, and he bristled. “Don’t look at me like that! I am. I’m shocked. I was fond of her.”

  “‘Fond’? You romantic fool.”