Freberg looked wary. Very wary. “That is correct,” he said.
“I see. What made you think that?”
“The results were returned and should have been published on first November. A delay came. The results weren’t published until early December. Why delay, I wonder?”
“That was when you were employed by the Jorstads?”
“That is correct.”
There was something Dickensian about Freberg. He sat with his knees pressed tight together, his shoulders hunched, and straggly eyebrows drawn together above his glasses.
“I believe I read that you were charged with assaulting one of the Jorstads, and that you spent a month in prison.”
“That is correct.”
“I see.” Christ, Freberg was hard work. “So why do you believe their results were falsified?”
“I know these things. One day, I shall have the proof.”
“You have no proof at all?”
“That is correct. I keep my eye on the Jorstads. Cannot trust them.”
“That’s why you’re here? On this ship?”
Freberg nodded.
“They had dealings with the woman who died,” Dylan said. “Did you know Hanna Larsen?”
“Yes. And I know Jorstads try to cheat her out of her property.”
“I thought they offered her a fair price for her land.”
“That is what they say.” Freberg tapped the side of his nose. “Mrs. Larsen didn’t agree. I keep my eye on the Jorstads. Cannot trust them.”
Freberg seemed harmless enough. Deranged, nerdy and weird, but harmless. He might stalk the Jorstads but he merely wanted to discredit them. He wanted facts and figures to prove his theories.
“Do they know you’re following them?” Dylan asked.
“Oh, yes. I tell them I won’t let them rest until I have the proof.”
Freberg was definitely harmless. And as the Jorstad brothers knew he was watching their every move, they were unlikely to murder Hanna Larsen in her bed.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Freberg.” Dylan rose to his feet. “Enjoy the rest of the journey.”
As he walked along the corridor in the direction of the evening’s entertainment, Dylan thought it odd that Freberg was keeping an eye on the Jorstads and yet he hadn’t seen him before. He’d spotted Sigurd and Mathias Jorstad several times but Freberg hadn’t been around. Odd.
He gave a groan as he reached the ballroom. It was heaving with couples dancing to old hits being played by an equally old band. He looked around, but he couldn’t see Bev.
He wandered over to where Maud and Bill Carr were sitting at a table. “You haven’t seen Bev, have you?”
“She was dancing with Jason just a couple of minutes ago.” Maud craned her neck to look. “Really, it was no more than two minutes ago. I’m sure she’s here somewhere.”
“No matter. I’ll find her. Thanks.” He wandered off and got himself a drink. He was about to step outside, thinking perhaps Bev had gone onto the deck, when he saw Jason.
“Were you dancing with Bev?” Dylan asked.
“I was, but she’s gone back to her cabin.” Jason added a smiling, “I think she was suffering from the effects of the wine.”
Oh, no. Bev sober was one thing, Bev drunk was something no man should have to endure. She was one of those weepy drunks who would burst into tears over the slightest thing. Anything, from a pet hamster that had died when she was five to a broken fingernail, could reduce her to hysterics.
“Thanks, Jason. I’d better go and find her.”
He was on his way when he saw the chef who’d allegedly had a ding-dong with Hanna Larsen. Dylan followed him into the kitchen.
The kitchen shouldn’t have come as a surprise because he knew there were a thousand hungry passengers on the ship, but it did. It was vast. And busy. So busy that no one seemed at all interested in a passenger walking through their midst. Even the bulk of the chef seemed diminished.
“Excuse me.” Dylan touched him on the shoulder.
The man stopped and turned around. “Yes?”
Damn, Dylan had forgotten the bloke’s name. What had Lloyd said it was? Gerry the chef?
“Is it Gerry?”
“That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“I was just wondering—I heard that Hanna Larsen, the late Hanna Larsen, had an argument with someone from the kitchen on the night she died. Do you have any idea who that was?”
“It was me.” Judging by his accent, Gerry hadn’t strayed far from England in his life. Born and raised in Birmingham, Dylan would guess. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. What was the problem?”
He put the tray he’d been carrying on a long metal drainer. “She dared to suggest that my cooking had given her indigestion.” He sucked in an angry breath. “She dared to suggest that the food wasn’t cooked properly.”
“Ah.” Dylan smiled his understanding. “I can’t say I’m surprised. When I met her, she was complaining about everything and everyone.”
The chef nodded. “She was a right royal pain.”
“You chased her, I believe?”
“I did.” He leaned in to Dylan. “And if the stress of a pissed-off chef chasing her with a cleaver finished her off, I’m glad. She was—evil.”
Dylan nodded, surprised by the other man’s strength of feeling.
“It was the final straw,” Gerry said. “She wanted soup, right? The first serving was too hot, the second too salty and the third was lukewarm. I then had to spend half an hour assuring her that, yes, the vegetables were bloody fresh before she’d touch the main course. She had dessert and only when she’d eaten enough to feed a family of six did she accuse me of giving her indigestion. Bloody woman.”
Hell hath no fury like a chef insulted.
“You won’t find anyone in this kitchen sorry that she’s dead,” Gerry said. “Bloody woman.”
Dylan could sympathise and he’d only met her once.
“What happened after you chased her?” he asked.
Gerry shrugged. “She stormed off to her cabin threatening to report me to the captain. As he hasn’t mentioned it, I assume she didn’t. She was probably waiting till morning.”
“And you didn’t see her again?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
Dylan ignored the question. “How did you hear she’d died?”
“Two passengers, businessmen, had asked for refreshments to be served at a meeting they were having with her.”
“Sigurd and Mathias Jorstad?”
The chef nodded. “The order was cancelled because—well, obviously, the meeting was no longer taking place.”
“Who cancelled the order?”
“I can’t remember. I seem to think it was Sigurd Jorstad.”
Two waiters came in with more trays laden with used plates and glasses.
“Sorry,” the chef said, “but I have work to do. Why all the questions?”
“I’m just curious. Well, I’ll leave you to your work. See you again, Gerry. Oh, and the food’s delicious. Everything has been perfect.”
Before the chef had more questions for him, Dylan strode out of the kitchen.
He was distracted again. There, talking to Bill and Maud Carr, was none other than Vidar Freberg. He didn’t know why that struck him as odd. On board ship, passengers had to learn to get along with each other, and there was no reason why Freberg and the Carrs shouldn’t pass the time of day. Except Freberg wasn’t particularly sociable.
Forgetting them for the moment, Dylan went back to his cabin. Freya was sound asleep, there was no sign of his wife, and his mother was looking extremely anxious.
“Have you found Luke?” she asked him.
“Luke? I’m looking for Bev. Why? What’s Luke doing?”
“I don’t know. Bev came, said she couldn’t find him and dashed off again. What’s going on, Dylan?”
“I don’t know.” His heart began an uneasy beat. Was this another war
ning? “I’ll go and find them.”
Bill Carr’s words came back to haunt him as he began a search of the ship. Steps led here, there and everywhere. At times, he had no idea which deck he was on. Walls were covered in modern works of art but he paid them no attention. The carpet, blue with red squares, began to blur before his eyes. A Norwegian woman, singing as she worked, polished the brass handrails.
He saw Bev at the exact moment she spotted him and she ran, somewhat drunkenly, right into his arms.
“I can’t find Luke. Dylan, I can’t find him.” A tear raced down her cheek. “He’s not in his cabin and I’ve searched every inch of this bloody ship. And there was a man.”
“What? What man?”
“I was on the dance floor and there was a man watching me. I didn’t like him. There was something—creepy about him.”
“Okay, calm down. Luke’s more than capable of taking care of himself.” Christ, he hoped he was. “What did this man look like? What was he doing?”
“He wasn’t doing anything. Just watching me. I saw him about three times and he was staring at me. He was—oh, I don’t know. Just average.” Two more tears fell.
“Okay. We’ll go to the reception and get them to put a call out for Luke. I’m sure he hasn’t gone far.” He didn’t like this one little bit. He’d had an uneasy feeling ever since he’d boarded this damn ship, or since he’d managed to convince himself there was a cold-blooded killer on board. Speeding cars and threatening emails had done nothing to help. “He’ll be fine.”
He took Bev’s hand and they marched back the way he’d just come. If anything had happened to Luke—
“Tom Jackson was there too.” Bev sniffed. “He’s another who gives me the creeps. He was watching everyone, too.”
Dylan had his own doubts about Jackson.
“I expect he was trying to find himself another sexy young Norwegian.” Dylan tried to make light of it, but if anyone had so much as looked at his son, he would kill them with his bare hands.
Chapter Nineteen
This was the night. He could feel it in the blood pumping through his veins.
There was no one outside at the moment, despite the clear night. The air was still, the sky dark and pinpointed with millions of stars. He breathed in deeply, the sharp cold air stinging the back of his throat.
Two teenagers came outside, nodded at him and walked across to the smoking area. Smokers were creatures of habit. On the hour, they left what they were doing and ventured outside, turning their backs to the wind as they sucked smoke into their lungs. Inside, a cigarette might take them five minutes to smoke. Outside, it took less than two. Half of them, having craved a cigarette for an hour, would light up and decide they weren’t that desperate for nicotine after all.
He’d smoked from the age of twelve so he knew how it was. Not that he was hooked. He could take it or leave it.
A woman came outside, already hunting in a large bag for tobacco and lighter. “Will we see the northern lights tonight, do you think?”
“Who knows?” he said. “We might get lucky.”
“Let’s hope so.” She went to join the teenagers in the smoking area.
He wanted to laugh. We might get lucky. He sincerely hoped he’d get lucky.
Hanna Larsen was forgotten. She’d been a vicious old woman and no one regretted her death. He’d felt a bit queasy afterwards but it was probably nothing to do with killing her. Perhaps he’d eaten a dodgy sausage or something. You could never be too careful with meat.
He went back inside.
People were still dancing. A lot were drunk. He ignored their talk, dismissed their laughter and scanned their faces. He soon found the one he was looking for.
He checked his watch. He could afford to wait awhile before visiting Scott’s cabin. The thought made him smile. No one survived sarin, and when mixed with steam or water, it was deadly. Germans had discovered it before the Second World War when they’d been trying to create stronger insecticides. Or so they claimed. It hadn’t taken them long to incorporate it into their artillery shells. They’d chickened out of using it, and production of any chemical weapon was a big no-no these days, but it wasn’t too difficult to get if you knew the right people. His had come all the way from Iraq, with a high price tag, but it was worth it.
He’d thought of using it on the old lady, but it was too precious and too risky. It had been far easier to suffocate her.
He’d known the time would come though and he couldn’t wait to use it…
Chapter Twenty
Dylan and Bev strode through the double doors and up to the reception desk.
“Excuse me but—” Dylan broke off.
Walking through the door opposite, carrying bags of crisps and a bottle of lemonade, and looking concerned about nothing more than enjoying a midnight feast, was Luke.
“Oh!” Bev ran to him and hugged him so tight that two bags of crisps and a bar of chocolate fell to the floor.
“It’s okay, thanks.” Relief flooded through Dylan. “We’ve found him.”
She smiled her understanding.
“Where have you been?” Bev demanded, shaking Luke. “We’ve been out of our minds with worry.”
“To get something to eat.” He looked at his mother as if she were crazy. “I’m starving.”
“But you didn’t lock the cabin door.”
“So?”
“So? So anyone could get in.”
“Why would they?” He shook his head in despair of parents. “I couldn’t find my keycard and Gran’s got the other. Anyway, I’ve only been gone ten minutes.”
“Why can’t you find it?” Dylan asked. “When did you notice it was missing?”
“It’s in the cabin somewhere,” he said. “I had it earlier. No one’s pinched it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was only nipping out for a couple of minutes so I didn’t bother to look too hard.”
“You’ve been gone ages,” Bev said.
“I stopped for a quick game in the arcade.”
Bev released her grip on him and he picked up his crisps and chocolate.
“You can come back to our cabin and stay with me until your gran’s ready to turn in for the night,” Bev said.
“What? Oh no, do I have to?”
“Yes, you do. Besides, as you haven’t got your keycard, you can’t get in to your own cabin, can you?”
“But I left it—”
“Yes, and I made sure it was locked.” Bev grabbed his shirt at the shoulder and marched him along the corridor. When they reached the cabin, she pushed Luke inside.
She decided to try and relax with a book, Luke was reasonably happy to eat crisps and play a game on his phone, and Freya, lucky kid, was oblivious to everything.
“I’ll have a quick smoke, a drink and a dance, and then I’ll come back here for you,” Vicky told Luke. “We’ll have a game of poker then, shall we? It’ll give you a chance to win some of your money back.”
“Cool.” He gave his gran a high five.
Dylan didn’t want to worry Bev, but he didn’t want some crazy bastard issuing more warnings either. “Don’t go wandering off.” He ruffled Luke’s hair and added in a low voice, “And keep the door locked, okay?”
Luke nodded. He had a dozen questions in his eyes and the good sense not to ask a single one.
“I’ll tell you later,” Dylan said.
He walked along to the ballroom with his mother.
“So what’s Luke been up to?” she asked.
“He’d nipped out to get some food, that’s all. Bev called at your cabin to check on him and panicked when he wasn’t there.” There was no need to mention the man who’d freaked her out, although Dylan would love to know who it was, and there was certainly no need to mention the crazy bastard who wanted him to stop asking questions.
“She forgets what it’s like to be a teenager,” Vicky said. “He’s a sensible kid. He just likes the freedom this ship gives him.”
“I know.�
�
Passengers were still dancing in the ballroom. The crowd had thinned out slightly but the music was louder than ever. His mother went outside for a smoke and Dylan got himself a drink, a large one. Every muscle in his body was tensed, ready for anything. His son had nipped out of his cabin for snacks, nothing more than that, but Dylan couldn’t help wondering what form the next “warning” would take.
Dead Calm (A Dylan Scott Mystery) Page 10