James was also nowhere to be seen. But it was so easy to miss anyone on board, all those decks, all those different routes via stairs and lifts. It was a wonder that passengers ever met the person they were sharing a cabin with. Hey, have we met? Are we sharing? That’s my bed.
The women had disappeared completely. It was normally easy to spot Natasha, huge and flamboyant and flowing, glowing like a beacon. But the light had gone out.
Where was the last place anyone would look for Natasha? The thought hovered in my mind, then I knew. She did not exercise.
The gym.
She would never be seen among all that monster wall machinery and two mirrored walls that reflected back any personal grossness with total honesty. It was the last place on earth or sea that she would go to. I pressed the button in the lift down into the depths of the ship, the place where people came to work off their last meal.
The corridors were less plush. This was where people worked out or took their smalls to the laundry. A smell of sweat lingered in the air. The machines were motionless. It was empty. The pool water swished from side to side accommodating the swell. Should I stay or should I leave? It was like that crucial moment in the film Sliding Doors.
I turned to leave but heard a sudden whirring noise behind me.
The watertight doors were closing.
They were heavy white steel walls that could close in seconds in an emergency. I ran towards them but hesitated, remembering being told about an awful incident when a crew member did exactly the same and had an arm severed. I needed both arms.
That moment of hesitation was my downfall. It was a failure of monumental proportion, the beginning of a nightmare. I had forgotten where I was. Was anything going to kick in?
The doors clanged shut. Watertight doors? Was this an emergency? What emergency? Had we hit another bit of shallow ground? Had the hull been holed? Was I trapped in a watertight compartment?
I stood watching the waves slapping the sides of the pool. We were still moving. My heart took on a wilder beat, praying that it was a drill of some sort, testing all the doors, and that this one would open soon.
But nothing happened. There was no one else around. No evidence of staff. I went to the desk to use the phone but the connection had been severed. Then I switched on the computer but it was dead. The screen was blank. I couldn’t even check my emails.
I was trapped. It was not a happy moment.
TWENTY-THREE
Still at Sea
The pockets of the crew fatigues yielded nothing. No handy gadget for opening watertight steel doors. No packet of chocolate biscuits. No chewing gum. Me and my J-cloth were totally isolated.
I wandered round the equipment in the gymnasium, wondering if the weights could be used, but I could hardly lift anything heavier than the one kilo pair. Two weeks of cruising and my muscles had gone to flab. There was another computer on the manicurist’s treatment table but that was also dead. Whoever had turned this into a living grave had made a thorough job of it.
Time to phone a friend. I dialled Hamish’s mobile number but there was no answer. Either it was switched off or needed recharging. Perhaps he had to switch it off when he was on the bridge because of the delicate navigational instruments.
The forward end of the ship and this far down in the depths was completely sealed in. I could practically feel the point. No daylight of any kind, no corridors leading to somewhere else. It was like the last drawer in a refrigerator where things get forgotten.
‘Of course, it’s the swell,’ I said aloud to myself. ‘They have closed the doors because of the swell, being careful.’ There was stillness and emptiness, only the slapping of the pool water. ‘Or perhaps it’s shallow water again.’
I stopped. There was the faintest scratching sound, like a mouse running along a skirting board. Rats. Supposing there were rats this far down? But surely not on such a beautiful, well-kept, pin-clean floating palace? No discounts for rats.
It came again. The faintest scratching. I began to listen carefully, to trace the noise to its source. It seemed to come from the changing rooms, tucked away to the side. The doors were closed but opened to my touch.
There were lockers for clothes and a shower and toilet. Further on was another door marked SAUNA.
The sound was coming from the sauna. I looked around for a weapon. A bowl of fresh fruit was hardly a weapon. I shook out a big towel and advanced into the sauna, holding it up against my face, ready to swamp anything that attacked me, like a survivor from Davy Jones’s locker.
A blast of heat hit me. The sauna was going at full steam ahead. I could barely see for the mist rising from the artificial hot coals. The temperature was unbearable. A tropical jungle.
A mountain of flesh was sprawled on the lower bench, naked, strapped to the wood with wide brown parcel tape. The same tape was stretched across her mouth and her eyes. Her nails were making this faint noise of movement on the wood. Sweat was running off her body in rivulets. She was melting in the heat.
It was Natasha. I didn’t wait for modesty but pulled the tape off her mouth first, then threw the towel over her body. Then I eased the tape off her eyes. She lost a lot of eyelashes. Fortunately, most of them were false.
Her eyes were petrified with fear, staring. Then she saw it was me and a flash of relief filled them. She began to struggle, dripping with sweat.
‘Keep still, Natasha,’ I said. ‘You’re safe now but you need water first.’
A row of water bottles were conveniently displayed in the gym and I grabbed a couple off a shelf, unscrewing the lids. Back in the sauna, I poured some into Natasha’s mouth and she swallowed greedily, drinking, drinking. The manicurist’s workplace revealed a pair of scissors and I raced back with them, freeing her wrists, her arms and legs and ankles, cutting off the tape. She sat up gratefully, still drinking, clutching the towel to her heaving bosom.
‘Jordan,’ she gasped. ‘They did it. They did it … I thought I was going to die. They were leaving me here to die.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, helping her out of the sauna and on to one of the loungers round the pool. She fell on to it, all huddled up, still catching her breath. ‘We wouldn’t have asked you to help if we thought there was any danger. Who did it? Tell me slowly.’
She began to cry. Every bit of her body wobbling. It was a sad sight. I found another big towel and gave it to her. She mopped up tears and sweat, drinking and spilling water and crying. It was a very wet scene.
‘Joanna agreed to pay me for the photos and said we would go back to her cabin and she would get the money,’ Natasha went on, still weeping. ‘But she didn’t. And there was this other man, in a uniform.’
‘A khaki uniform?’
‘I think so. I’m not sure. Not a regular crew uniform. It was that security officer. I only saw him for a second before they flung something over my head and bundled me down here.’
‘It wasn’t the doctor, Dr Russell?’
‘Oh no, it wasn’t the doctor.’ She picked up a peach from the bowl and sank her teeth into the sweetness. She was obviously feeling better. ‘I would know the doctor anywhere. I’ve spoken to him several times.’
‘Tell me exactly what happened from the beginning.’
‘I phoned the cabin and spoke to Joanna Carter. I told her I had photographs of her in a bar, talking to the doctor, when she was supposed to be overboard and declared missing and dead. I said I was prepared to give her the photographs and negatives for a very healthy sum of money.’
‘How much did you ask for?’
‘A hundred thousand pounds.’
‘How much? A hundred thousand.’ I nearly fell off the lounger. I was tucking into an apple now. Call it second sitting.
‘Not a lot when you know that her life was insured for half a million and her husband would get the entire amount on her death. Quite a hefty windfall. They could live in style when it all quietened down, Bermuda, the Bahamas, Barbados.’
I choke
d on a bit of apple. My fifty thousand pounds was beginning to look like small change. I’d been set up to look as if I had murdered Joanna, so that they could claim the insurance. Somehow they made it appear that Joanna had been pushed overboard, when in fact only her white towelling robe had actually hit the sea. No one saw her body swallowed by the waves. She only had to lay low.
‘What happened then?’
‘They must have knocked me out with something, then bundled me into a lift and then I came to and found myself in this sauna, strapped to the bench without any clothes.’ She began to cry again and I patted her arm. Her clothes must be somewhere. There were bins around for used towels. I found her clothes stuffed into the bottom of a bin.
She clutched the colourful bundle to her bosom gratefully. ‘Thank you, thank you, Jordan.’
‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you got involved. It was unforgivable of us. There was too much danger, too much risk. But please tell me how you know that they took out insurance for half a million on Joanna’s life? It’s not something they were likely to tell you.’
‘I have a confession to make,’ said Natasha, searching in the fruit bowl for another peach. ‘I’m not who you think I am. Yes, my name is Natasha, but I am actually a claims investigator for the insurance company involved. It is a very large sum for a couple to take out and there was no reciprocal policy on the husband’s life. That always makes us suspicious. I needed a holiday anyway.’
‘So you have been watching Joanna all the time, and me as well, I suppose?’
‘Yes, dearie, at first I thought you were involved, but then I realized you had nothing to do with it. The whole scheme was far more complicated and you were being set up.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘It was the incident of the diamond necklace at the captain’s cocktail party. You see, I saw Joanna take off the necklace and slip it to a man. I followed the man and saw him put it in the used towel bin.’
‘Her husband? Oliver Carter, the grey man.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it was, now. But if you had been in on the scheme, then she would have slipped it to you, far easier, and you would have put it in the towel bin. So I knew from the start that you were a complete innocent.’
‘What about the keelhauling, Joanna being strapped to the ladder? That really happened, didn’t it?’
‘I don’t think it did. Everything below is kept locked at all times. There is no way that anyone could be strapped to the ladder. But there is a way of getting Joanna on to one of the maintenance platforms, securely bound in luggage straps and pretending that she had been rescued from the ladder. I think Geoff Berry had a lot to do with stage managing that event.’
‘Then Berry is involved?’
‘Up to his neck. Beware of the man. A nasty individual.’ ‘I know. He was the reason I was sacked from the police.’ Natasha sent me a look of sympathy. She was obviously worn out and looked years older without make-up. Her time in the sauna had exhausted her. She only wanted to rest and sleep.
‘I think I’ll go back to my cabin now and have a nice shower and a generous gin and tonic. I could sleep,’ Natasha said, gathering all her things together.
Now for the bad news. ‘Unfortunately we can’t get out, Natasha. Someone has closed the watertight doors. No prizes for guessing who. And no one knows we are down here.’ ‘Phone someone for help.’
‘The phones are dead. And the computers. We can’t even send an email.’
She collapsed like an expired balloon. There was nothing I could say or do to cheer her up. I needed cheering up too.
‘At least we have the bowl of fruit, plenty of water, the loungers and a cupboard full of clean towels. We’ll make ourselves comfortable and wait it out.’
‘I’m supposed to be going to drinks this evening,’ said Natasha.
‘Perhaps they’ll miss you and send out a search party.’
‘Your dishy DI should be sending out a search party.’
‘He probably is,’ I said with more confidence that I really felt. DI James had rescued me from many disasters but this felt different. He was not on his home ground. ‘I’ve checked all the phones and all the computers. They have been severed or disconnected. We have no contact with the outside world.’
‘How are we going to let them know that we are stuck down here?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said glumly.
‘If I can’t have a shower, then I’m going to have a swim,’ said Natasha. She threw off the towels and plunged into the pool like a white whale. It was an awesome sight. But I had to admire her. She was grossly overweight but her body told her she needed cooling down, to swim in water, and that was what she was going to do.
I struggled out of the crew fatigues. At least I was wearing bra and pants, two items more than Natasha. I dived into the water and it was cool and refreshing and for one blissful moment I could forget that someone was trying to kill me.
I came up for air. Natasha was paddling about, water streaming off her hair. She did not look as if she was about to duck my head under water. I was still not a hundred and one per cent sure of her. I took a deep breath and dived down again.
For some reason I thought the pool might have a plug. If I pulled the plug out and the pool emptied, surely this would register on some computer somewhere? Pools don’t empty themselves. They’d send someone down to find out why.
There was no plug. Of course it wouldn’t have a plug. It was not a bath.
I came up, gasping. Somewhere there must be a valve. I tried to remember something, anything about swimming pools. How to fill them. How to empty them. That area of my education had been neglected. Usually it was done by bronzed young pool men, flexing their muscles. It was probably on line, by computer these days.
I began hunting around for anything that looked like a valve.
The swell was making the water slosh about, drenching the walls. Natasha was clinging to the ladder that led out of the pool, trying to stop herself from falling off.
‘I think I’m coming out,’ she said. ‘It’s getting a bit rough for me.’
‘Any idea of how to empty this pool?’
‘Drink it?’
Her humour had returned.
‘Would it be a valve or a pump?’
‘I’d go for a pump.’
‘Have you seen anything that looks like a pump?’
She was climbing out, shaking her head. She’d got water in her ears. I handed her some towels. We were going through their stock of towels at a rate of knots. I looked at the pile of wet towels for inspiration. They needed washing. Was there a laundry chute?
I started a systematic search of the entire area, gym, sauna, changing rooms and pool. Nothing. They obviously collected used towels in bags to deliver to the laundry. I began my search again, this time tapping on every surface. There must be something I had missed.
The changing rooms each had a wall of lockers, a row of hooks on another wall, a shower and a lavatory. The last wall had a wooden bench. On the bench in the men’s changing room was a navy Hessian bag, with drawstring neck. It was stuffed full of used towels. The men obviously used more towels than the women passengers.
I tapped on the wall above the bench. It had a different sound to the other walls. Had I found something? Was it going to be something useful, or merely a cupboard with shelves stacked with clean rolled-up towels? Under the end of the bench was the smallest lever. I pushed it towards the wall. A panel opened.
It was a lift, about the size of service lifts used in restaurants decades ago. It was for bags of laundry, that was obvious, and one bag was here, waiting to be delivered. But the bag could wait. The lift was going to deliver me.
There was no start button anywhere. It was my guess that it worked on weight.
I rushed back to Natasha. She was half asleep, wrapped up in towels.
‘Stay here. I’ve found a way out but only one of us can go. I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. Have a banana.’
TWENTY-FOUR
The Seven Mountains of Bergen
It worked on weight. My weight. No sooner had I closed the door, than it began to descend. I was doubled over in the small space. It was pitch dark, like inside a mine. I was beginning to wish I’d found a pump.
I didn’t know how many decks we went down. It felt like dozens. The laundry must be in the bowels of the ship, industrial sized machines churning out thousands of clean sheets, table napkins, tablecloths, towels, face flannels, pillowcases, nonstop, day in and night out.
Panic gripped me. Supposing the lift delivered the towels straight into a machine? But common sense told me that the bag would have to be emptied. The lift stopped, the door flap opened and, clever stuff, the floor of the inside tilted and tipped me into a large skip full of laundry bags. I floundered about, trying to stand, falling over, striving to regain some balance. The noise of the machines was thunderous. I needed earplugs.
I clung on to the edge, then realized I was wearing only a wet M & S bra and pants. Not suitable for this totally male regime. The laundry boys would be more panic-stricken than me. One of the drawstring necks was not firmly tied and I pulled out a crumpled pillowcase. I pulled it over my head and, with my teeth, tore at the other end, making a hole for my head. They could charge me. Shopping list: buy replacement pillowcase. White.
I managed to climb out of the skip and half fell on to the floor. The area was a hive of industry. Not only huge washing machines, but huge tumble-dryers and vast ironing machines, clamping linen into pristine smoothness, thundered the air. They even had folding machines. And dozens of laundry crew in white gear hurried around, handling the technical side of the laundry, and piling clean linen on to trolleys. It was so well organized. I felt rather sorry to be a cog in the wheels.
A dark-skinned boy caught sight of me and his eyes widened. He stood shocked still.
‘I wonder if I could use your phone?’ I said.
‘Where are you?’ said James.
Fold and Die (Jordan Lacey Mysteries Book 8) Page 19