Again Lloyd spoke but it was impossible to make out what he said.
“Yes, of course she died of a fucking attack of the heart. That’s not important. The important thing is our passengers and the police. Passengers pay, we have to treat them like the fucking gods, yes?”
Dylan had the feeling this would be a quick chat so he crept back to the door and away from the staff’s quarters.
The captain had redeemed himself. Dylan had thought he planned to ignore him too, but no, he’d passed on his concerns to the police. Good for him.
Dylan made a mental note to buy Lloyd a drink when he next saw him. He’d unintentionally put the bloke in a lose-lose situation. Melgarde seemed one of those difficult-to-please individuals and Dylan would bet that if Lloyd had told him that a passenger wasn’t convinced Hanna Larsen had died of natural causes, he would have been bollocked for time wasting.
He’d buy Lloyd a drink. And be prepared to have it thrown in his face.
As he headed back to the main part of the ship, he caught another blast of loud music. Although he’d been told he was attending the evening’s entertainment, it would have to wait.
The conference room with its half-dozen computers made available for passengers’ use was empty so Dylan sat in front of one of the machines and fired it up. He checked his emails, but there was nothing of interest and certainly nothing that couldn’t wait until he returned to England.
He spent the next half hour searching for information on Sigurd and Mathias Jorstad. The men, their father and the chemical company seemed squeaky clean, and he was about to give up when he saw a name he recognised. Vidar Freberg. How the hell did he know that name?
He read on and discovered that Freberg, an ex-employee, had been arrested and spent a month in prison for assaulting Sigurd Jorstad at the chemical factory. He’d been adamant that the Jorstads had made false claims about the safety properties of a chemical used at their plant. The Jorstads had labelled him as some sort of harmless nutter.
He was about to switch off the machine when a sound alerted him to a new email. He opened it.
That was just a warning. Keep out of things that don’t concern you or he won’t miss next time.
Beneath the message was a picture of a big blue car. Not the car. A car.
“Fuck!”
The door opened and Dylan closed the email before swivelling round in his chair to see Bev scowling at him. She was wearing a short black dress, her blond hair was shining and tamed, and her makeup had been carefully applied.
“I knew you’d be here,” she said.
“I was just coming.” He cleared his internet browsing history and switched off the machine. “Do I need to change?”
“Yes.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll meet you in the bar in five minutes, okay?”
“What is tonight’s entertainment anyway?”
“I told you. It’s music and dancing, a talent show—it’ll be great. Everyone’s looking forward to it.”
“It sounds just up my street,” he said, and Bev, laughing in a despairing way, punched him on the arm.
He walked slowly back to the cabin wondering who the hell wanted him scared off. The email had been sent to his website address and that was accessible to anyone who cared to look.
Christ, Bev was shaken enough as it was and she believed joyriding teenagers had been responsible. If she knew the truth—
Who knew he’d been asking questions? The Jorstads, Tom Jackson, the women his mother had quizzed, the ship’s captain—it would be easier to work out who didn’t know.
Shit!
So what had this crazy bastard done? Followed them off the ship, stolen a car, rejoiced when they chose to eat at a restaurant in a narrow side street?
He preferred the notion of thrill-seeking teenagers. That had been a fairly easy one to believe. The car had been old, big and a little battered, just the sort of thing students would drive until it gasped its last.
He carefully pushed open the cabin door and automatically tensed. He had a good look before walking inside. A quick check of the bathroom and the balcony reassured him that all was as it should be.
As he dressed, his mind ran round in circles. The Jorstads were Norwegians and probably had dozens of people eager to drive a speeding car at someone if the price was right.
Vidar Freberg! Damn it, he knew he’d seen that name before. When boarding the ship, they’d all had to wait for a steward to show them to their cabins. Right by Dylan’s feet had been a large blue suitcase. Flight tags had still been attached to the handle and the name shown had been Vidar Freberg.
He tried to put a face to the owner but, as far as he could remember, there had been no owner. He hadn’t paid it any attention at the time but he was damned if he could remember seeing anyone with that case.
If he hadn’t been with his luggage, what had happened to it? The ship’s staff wouldn’t simply throw it in a lost luggage area. Freberg must be on this ship.
If he wasn’t, if only his suitcase was—
Dylan didn’t like the direction his thoughts were taking. Maybe Freberg wasn’t the harmless nutter the Jorstads believed him to be. Perhaps the idea of blowing an entire ship, and especially the Jorstad brothers, to kingdom come appealed to him.
Chapter Fifteen
“Do we have to see him, Bill?”
“Yes.” Bill stood behind Maud to check his tie in the mirror. “We can hardly refuse, can we?”
“I don’t see why not.” Maud applied another coat of lipstick and pouted in the mirror.
“We’ll have a quick drink with him,” Bill said. “It won’t hurt us. We don’t have to stay long.”
He had no wish to talk to Vidar Freberg either, but the sight of him had come as such a shock that Bill hadn’t been able to think straight.
“What a surprise,” Freberg had said. “We must catch up with each other over a drink. It will be just us three this time. No Hanna Larsen, eh?”
Bill had been too taken aback to do more than stammer, “Yes. Well, we’ll look forward to it.”
It should have been fairly easy to avoid people on the ship but, this afternoon, he’d seen Freberg again.
“The ballroom at eight o’clock?” Freberg had suggested.
“Sounds good,” Bill had said.
If it was difficult to avoid people on the Midnight Sun, it was damn near impossible to invent excuses. Stuck on a ship, one couldn’t claim dinner parties, weekends away or other pressing engagements.
“Freberg’s okay.” He gave Maud’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It won’t hurt us to talk to him.”
“But I’ve given everyone the impression I didn’t know Hanna Larsen. It just seemed easier that way.”
“So? Me, too. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does, Bill. Everyone’s talking about her. Questions are being asked.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Bill said again. “We had a chat with her last year, that’s all. Only Freberg knows about that.”
Maud tugged on her bottom lip, her brows drawn together in a frown. “Exactly. Which will be why he’s so keen to talk to us.”
“He isn’t. He’s only being polite. He was as surprised as I was to find someone he knew on the ship. Well, apart from the Jorstads. I assume he knows they’re aboard. That’s probably why he’s here.”
“I expect he wants to quiz us about them. He’s obsessed.”
“Then it’ll be a very quick chat, won’t it?” Bill gave her a smile. “We know nothing about the Jorstads, do we?”
“Adam does.”
“Stop worrying about nothing, Maud. Come on.” He gave her his hand and helped her to her feet. “You look wonderful. Freberg will be too busy admiring you to care about Hanna Larsen or Adam.”
Chapter Sixteen
They looked as stupid as sheep. No, they reminded him of a robot he’d had as a kid. The batteries used to die and his robot would stagger around like this lot. A band was playing and they danced just like his rob
ot had. They laughed louder than necessary, kept silly grins plastered to their faces and drank too much. Being on a cruise, even a shit one like this, made them believe they were living the life of the jet set.
The music was shit too. Any minute now, Vera Lynn would walk on stage and start singing “We’ll Meet Again.” Worse, they’d all link arms and join in.
The band consisted of two guitarists, a bloke on keyboards and a drummer, none of them under fifty. One of the guitarists thought he was Freddie Mercury and, despite a beer gut hanging over tight trousers, strutted his stuff as he sang the old hits. He was complete shit. He was thrusting his pelvis and leering at any woman who glanced his way, no matter her age. Perhaps he’d get lucky with some unfortunate octogenarian. There were plenty of those on board.
One man was dancing with his wife. It was easy to tell they were married because he slid his hands down her arse and she swotted him away and scowled at him. No doubt she’d bloody begged him for it before they were married.
Drink was flowing freely. They’d all be staggering to their beds in the early hours and waking tomorrow with hangovers. Served them right.
He was only watching. And waiting.
His time would come. It was just a matter of watching, and waiting for the right moment.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, glanced at the display and hit Reject. Fuck it. He wasn’t taking orders from anyone. Christ, he hadn’t had so much as a sniff of any cash yet.
He knew what he was doing without people issuing orders every five minutes. When the moment was right, he’d pounce.
Before then though, he had a little job to do in Dylan Scott’s cabin…
Chapter Seventeen
This was Bev’s first cruise but she was determined it wouldn’t be her last. She was loving every second of it. As soon as they were back home, she’d investigate cruises around the Med or the Caribbean.
This evening’s talent show had been a perfect example of how friendly everyone was and how determined they were to have fun. The few children on board had been involved, making it a lively family affair, and now, with the youngsters in bed and a band on stage, people looked set to dance until dawn.
Bev would have been dancing too, but she didn’t have a partner. All Dylan had to do was put on some smart clothes yet there was no sign of him. Typical.
Luke had returned to his cabin to listen to some decent music in peace, as he put it, and Vicky was keeping an eye on Freya.
Bev helped herself to a glass of wine from a passing waiter. Oh yes, this was the life. She couldn’t remember if she’d had two or three glasses, but she made a mental note not to have much more.
She turned and saw that man again. He was standing apart from the crowd, watching people, and something about him unnerved her. Their gazes collided and a shiver ran down Bev’s spine. He seemed almost to smile before he turned and walked away.
He was probably harmless. Maybe he was travelling alone and was too shy to start up a conversation with anyone. He was definitely an oddball, but perhaps it wasn’t his fault.
Talking of oddballs— “Hello, Bill, Maud. Isn’t this lovely? Have you been dancing?”
“We have, but no more.” Maud laughed. “We’re getting too old for this. It’s wonderful to see everyone enjoying themselves though, isn’t it? Isn’t Vicky with you?”
“She’s acting as unpaid babysitter.” Bev experienced a twinge of guilt although Vicky never seemed to mind. “There’s no need to worry though because I can’t stay up too late. She’ll come along later.”
Dylan’s mother could dance the night away. Easily. She never seemed to tire.
Maud chatted about how much she’d loved to dance as a teenager. It was funny but, when Maud was with him, Bill didn’t say a lot. Without her, he’d bore people to death within minutes but, around her, he was quiet and happy to let her do all the talking.
Jason, one of Vicky’s young smoking partners, approached them.
“Care to dance, Bev?”
He was late teens or maybe early twenties with a long fair ponytail. Bev was probably old enough to be his mother—the thought brought her up short. She was old enough to be his mother. Still, she wasn’t turning down the chance.
“I’d love to.” She gulped down her wine, put the glass on a table, offered her hand and walked with him to the centre of the dance floor.
“I thought you might need rescuing from Bill,” he said.
“He was fine. He’s not too bad when Maud’s with him. But, thanks. I appreciate the gesture.”
The band launched into a Status Quo song and as soon as Bev began moving to the fast tempo, she realised she must have had three glasses of wine. Four counting the last one. Her head was swimming.
“Where’s Vicky?” Jason leaned in to shout over the music. “Can’t she stand the pace?”
“Ha. You wait. She’ll dance you off your feet later.”
“She’s some woman, isn’t she?”
Oh yes, Vicky was some woman. She drove Dylan to despair, she’d never outgrow her hippie tendencies, never grow up, but Bev couldn’t think of anyone else she’d rather have for a mother-in-law.
The music finally stopped and Bev, the whole room spinning now, decided it was time she called it a night. She shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine. At least, she shouldn’t have drunk it so quickly.
“Vicky will be along soon,” she told Jason, “so make sure you save her a dance.”
“I will.”
Jason approached someone else, someone much closer to his own age, and Bev headed back to the cabins. Unless the ship had suddenly hit a rough patch, she really had drunk too much.
She was on the wrong blasted deck again. Not that it mattered, it just meant she had farther to walk. Or stagger. And she could check on Luke while she was here.
She knocked on his cabin door but there was no answer. “Luke?”
She knocked harder. Knowing him, he had music blasting out at ear-bleeding volume and couldn’t hear her.
She called again then tried the door. Much to her surprise, the slider had been engaged to prevent the door locking and it swung open. She flicked on the light. The cabin was empty. Why would he leave the door unlocked? More important, where the hell was he?
She remembered the man circling the dance floor, the oddball who’d smiled in that strange way, and a bubble of panic rose inside her.
Chapter Eighteen
Dylan stopped at the reception desk. “Excuse me, but could you tell me if a Vidar Freberg is on board?”
“One moment, please.” Looking grateful to have something to do, the young woman tapped at her keyboard and looked at the computer. “He is, yes. Would you like me to put a call out for him?”
“Would you? I’d be very grateful. Thank you.”
Her request, in Norwegian, rang out through the speakers.
“I’ve asked him to come here,” she told Dylan. “We shall see, yes?”
“Thank you.”
To pass a few minutes, Dylan inspected the notice board where passengers were informed of the ship’s itinerary and the various “fun” events provided for their entertainment. Just as he was beginning to think that Freberg wasn’t on board after all, that only his suitcase was enjoying the cruise, a man walked up to the desk.
Dylan used the few moments it took the receptionist to explain to give Freberg the once-over. Surprisingly, Dylan didn’t recognise him. By now, Dylan reckoned he’d glimpsed every passenger on this ship and, although most of them wouldn’t have stayed in his memory, this chap would. Once seen, never forgotten. Freberg was short, probably only about five feet two or three, and wore spectacles with thick lenses. Dark hair was thin, lank and greasy. His suit was old and shabby.
“Dylan Scott.” Giving him a broad smile, Dylan offered his hand. It was reluctantly shaken. “I wondered if I might have a word. Do you speak English?”
Freberg nodded, and again there was some reluctance. “What is this about?
”
“Shall we have a seat?” Dylan walked away from the desk to the benches that offered a view of the darkness outside.
Freberg followed and sat beside Dylan. “Your name is Dylan Scott, you say?”
“That’s right.” Dylan wasn’t quite sure where to start. “I work in the chemical industry and I’m particularly interested in some test results that the Jorstads published. I saw a news report saying you believed those results to have been falsified.”
Dead Calm (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 9