Death in Shetland Waters

by Marsali Taylor

  I watched her go down the aft steps and speak to Mona, who made a thumbs up and headed up to the boat deck to get life jackets, then went on forward, with three slung by the armhole along her arm. Her blue jacket dimmed to a silhouette. I saw arms lifting as each jacket was put on, then Mona’s shadow returning, ready to lead her team up the foremast.

  Ahead of me, ten metres in the air, the radar arm stopped revolving. The blips on my screen disappeared. Now we were crawling blind through the greyness, all senses alert for the sound of a foghorn or a distant light through the murk. There had been nothing within ten miles of us when we’d switched the radar off, and in theory no responsible captain would be hammering his ferry or cargo ship at twenty knots in this dimness, but not all captains were in a position to resist the demands of their company that the ship keep to its timetable whatever the conditions.

  My job was to delegate. There was no sense in making my own eyes hurt. We had two sharp youngsters and a responsible older person in the bows. I focused on my own work. The ship was on course, heading straight across the North Sea towards the Pentland Firth. Erik and Mona were leading the trainees up the forrard ratlines, a handful of people on each side. As I watched, the first swung up and over onto the platform, and began to edge along the yard. Petter was watching from on deck. They were doing the upper topsail first, then the lower one. It would take them a good three-quarters of an hour to secure both, then we’d need to square up the yards. An hour of creeping forward blindfolded.

  It felt a long, long hour, with everyone staring upwards at those dark figures spread along the yard, reaching over to gather the canvas and bundle it upwards, reaching again to pull up the gasket and secure it around the sail, tying it, then moving on to the next one. Three bells rang as they were climbing back to the lower topsail. That reminded me that nobody had come to tell me what Olav had wanted to say. He was off duty now, so he’d likely come up to tell me himself.

  He didn’t. I couldn’t see who was on lookout now; they were lost in the dimness. Maybe he’d stayed there. Then, at last, the trainees began climbing down, and Mike went to switch the radar back on. The arm began to turn, and the blips reappeared on the screen. Nothing close; an oil supply boat was within a mile of us, but heading away, and a ferry would cross behind us. I let out a long, relieved breath.

  Petter came up as the trainees prepared to start on the mainmast. His fair hair was damp with drops that sparked in the ship’s lights. ‘I spoke to Olav.’ His voice was curt, as if he resented being used as a message boy. ‘He wanted to tell you that the “mystery man” in the dark coat is still aboard.’

  A cold chill ran down my spine. ‘He saw him?’

  ‘He came for dinner with the last of the white watch. He wasn’t wearing the coat, he had a sailing jacket on, and a woollen hat pulled down over his brow, but Olav was sure it was him. He took a good look at him, and recognised his face.’

  Still aboard … ‘But they found nothing,’ I said.

  Petter flushed. ‘I did think of one hiding place, when Olav said he was still aboard.’ He glanced from me to Mike, as if he was expecting we’d tell him off for not mentioning it sooner. ‘We found it as we were clearing up during the winter, Rolf, Erik and I. There’s a cargo space down under the engine room, right at the back, under boards, so inaccessible that we couldn’t think of a use for it.’ He straightened his head and added, defiantly, ‘But he couldn’t have been in there while they searched, because you couldn’t put the boards back from below.’

  ‘But he could have hidden there if someone had helped him,’ Mike said.

  Petter looked directly at me, startled, pupils wide in the dim light. ‘Hidden him there? But how would they know? Visitors aren’t allowed in the engine room—’ He thought about it, and flushed. ‘It would have to be one of us, wouldn’t it?’

  I glanced towards the engine-room door. The Russian could easily have been shut in this morning, while Anders was at breakfast. Rolf, Erik and I … I gave Petter a sideways glance. Surely he wouldn’t come and tell me about the place if he himself had put the Russian there? Unless it was an elaborate double bluff, or unless he was now afraid of the man, and wanted him found?

  ‘Should I tell Captain Gunnar about the hiding place?’

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ Mike said. ‘For now, don’t mention it to anyone else, and don’t go down there.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Petter said. He turned away, then back to me. ‘Olav said he’d come and speak to you himself when he came off duty.’

  But he hadn’t; and when the red and blue watches formed their lines, we were one person short. Olav was missing.

  Of course we searched. The banjer first, then the heads and the pantry. He was nowhere to be found.

  The last time anyone had seen him was at the end of his trick as lookout. They hadn’t spoken much, Ludwig and Ben said. They’d all been too busy staring out into the blankness. They’d left the foredeck before him, coming down the starboard steps. Ben had an impression of someone going up the port steps as they came down, but ‘People were always coming and going. I didn’t take any notice.’ The next lookouts, Ellen and Naseem, had said hello to him as they passed, heading straight for the bow, to stand one each side of the headsail sheets, staring out into the greyness. They hadn’t noticed what he’d done behind them.

  We dismissed the watch, whispering speculations to each other. It would be a while before they slept. Then Mike went down to tell the captain while I went to the foredeck. The life jacket Olav had worn was lying on the coil of anchor rope as if he’d dropped it there, but there were no signs of a struggle: the coil itself lay in a neat circle, and the ropes hung in their usual places.

  I stood where Olav had last been seen, at the top of the narrow stairs leading down to the main deck. Ludwig and Ben had gone down the starboard side, and they’d thought Olav was following. On my right hand, the ship’s rail that protected the foredeck crew stopped, and there was a gap between that and the ratlines leading up the foremast. I imagined coming up behind someone here, catching them from behind, silencing them in some way and then lifting the body over the side, between rails and ratlines, letting it down by the arms and dropping it that last metre to the water. If you were strong enough to lean over yourself, between the extra metre of your arms and his, his feet would almost touch the water, so that when you let him slide downwards, the splash would be no louder than the curling waves beneath the ship’s forefoot.

  Olav took a good look at him, Petter had said. No doubt the Russian had noticed. He’d hoped to slip back to being thought of as a member of another watch, but here was this person on galley duty staring at him, making sure he’d know him again.

  He’d been small, Olav, and slightly built. It would take only a few seconds for a combat-trained man to catch him from behind, smother him or break his neck, and lower him overboard. I shuddered at the picture. Could the Russian really have done that unseen?

  I looked forrard. The lookout, only fifteen metres away, were focused on the grey mist ahead of us. Back along the ship, the trainees were gathered midships, and the corridor between the galley and ship’s side was empty. During my watch, the trainees up in the rig had been looking only at their handholds on the folds of sail and hanging gasket lines, and Petter, on deck, had his head tilted up, looking at them. The other trainees were smoking in their corner or chatting under the shelter of the banjer roof overhang. Aft, as the bell had rung, I’d been checking our course, ready to direct the new helm, and the other physicals had been changing over. It was a risk, of course, but it had paid off.

  I leant over the side, and thought there was a dark smear on the lip of the single porthole immediately below me, black in the green of the starboard light. It could be blood.

  I came slowly back along the main deck and up the steps.

  ‘No sign?’ Agnetha asked. Her face was drawn in the dim light, with lines of a woman thirty years older. I shook my head.

  ‘Now what?’ Erik aske
d. Like Agnetha, he was pale and tense. ‘We’ve never lost someone like this. They’ll blame us for not keeping count. Only seventeen on the watch, and four of us. “How come we didn’t notice sooner?” they’ll ask.’

  ‘You and Mona were up the rig,’ Petter said. ‘I was the one on deck; they will expect me to have seen.’

  ‘No,’ I said forcefully. ‘Don’t start allotting blame. We have the ship routines, and they’ve always held good.’ I looked them straight in the eyes. ‘I carry this can. You head off to bed. I’ll report to Captain Gunnar.’

  I glanced at my watch. Five to one. On heavy feet, I headed to his door and knocked. It was opened straight away; he and Mike stood there, grave-faced. He motioned me in.

  ‘Take me through your watch, Cass. When was he last seen?’

  I made as short a tale of it as I could, only explaining at the end that Petter had said Olav had recognised the man in the dark coat. The captain held up a hand to stop me.

  ‘No, Cass. Mike has also told me this, but I will not have it. An accident on board the ship is bad enough. I will not have your conjectures about mysterious men.’ He sighed. ‘Very well. I will inform the police. This is a matter for the helicopter. There is no point in us turning back; where he was last seen is three hours behind us now.’ He bent his bushy brows towards me. ‘They will ask why he was not missed sooner.’

  I’d been working out my answer to that since Erik had asked the question. ‘Why would he have been?’ I said simply. ‘Our focus was on the crew up in the rig; we weren’t worrying about an adult on deck. We only muster the crew at the end of each watch.’

  He knew that, of course. He nodded heavily, and gestured towards the door. ‘Go to bed now, Cass. The police may need to talk to you, but that can wait. If they insist, I will wake you.’

  I nodded, and left them to it.

  My berth was empty. Cat and Rat must both be curled up beside Anders. I wanted to speak to Gavin, but the signal symbol on my phone was blank. I wouldn’t be able to talk to him again until we reached Scotland. Above my head, Agnetha walked the deck. The bell rang; the trainees on helm duty changed over. I heard the creak as the great wheel turned, the new helm getting used to the feel of the ship. We’d left squaring up the main and mizzen yards to give the next watch something to do, and now there was the pad of several sets of feet immediately above me, and a series of slaps as coils of rope were taken from the belaying pins and dropped on deck.

  I wanted company but there was no sense in me going up on deck again. I had a watch to lead in the morning, a ship to steer across the North Sea. There were tears pricking behind my eyelids. I’d had enough of this. I didn’t want to see Olav’s face in that split second as the man in the dark jacket came up behind him, or imagine his body slipping into the water. I didn’t want to hear the captain’s voice, or see Mike’s look as he stood beside me on the aft deck. I shut my eyes and pretended with all my strength that I was aboard my own Khalida, in my narrow quarter-berth. If I opened my eyes, I’d see the engine box, with my heavy brass candlestick on the top step, and the book I’d been reading beside it. Then I heard Cat’s soft paws landing on the settee-step and felt him arrive on the bed beside me. He patted my face with one paw, then curled himself into the space between my shoulder and chin. I freed a hand to stroke the soft fur behind his ears. He began to purr, and the soft rumble comforted me. I buried my face in his side, and slept.

  THREE BELLS

  The North Sea: Stavanger to Scotland

  Sunday 28th June

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Things always feel better in the morning. I woke hoping that Captain Gunnar would have calmed down, that his knee-jerk reaction to the gun would be modified by remembering my record. Then the evening rushed back on me: the search for Olav, the smear of blood, the captain’s reaction. He’d called the police. I’d have to tell them what I knew, no matter how it annoyed Captain Gunnar. Keep quiet, a voice inside me urged. Making a fuss couldn’t help Olav now. I had no real evidence that the Russian was still on board, hidden in that cargo space under the engine. I wished I could talk to Gavin, but the waves curled with that slow, rolling motion that told me we were now well out at sea. We’d been thirty miles from Norway when I’d signed off six hours ago, and we’d have doubled that now. I’d have no phone signal until we reached Scotland.

  It was Sunday. I was just reaching for my battered scarlet missal when I heard a soft, angry voice speaking through the wall. I couldn’t hear the words, just the vehement tone. That side joined Mike’s room, but the voice was female. Then there was the sound of someone retching into the sink on the wall, a metre from me on the other side. Agnetha’s voice came clearly through the wall, right at my ear. ‘I won’t have it.’

  Agnetha? Agnetha and Mike? My brain spun, trying to visualise this unexpected combination. I couldn’t hear Mike’s reply, but the tone was soothing.

  ‘I won’t,’ Agnetha repeated. She stopped and was sick again. My own stomach curled. ‘You can’t force me.’

  Mike’s reply was sharp, and Agnetha’s retort sharper still. ‘Do that, and I’ll go to the captain. You’re my senior officer.’ Her voice was sour. ‘Fifteen years older than me. You’ll never work on a tall ship again.’

  This time his voice came across clearly. ‘Nor will you.’

  I’d heard enough. Was this how affairs ended, two people who’d once loved scraping each other raw? I curled away from them, pulled the downie over my head, and waited until Agnetha moved away from the wall, and the voices returned to murmurs. Then Mike’s door snapped open and closed again.

  An abortion, Gavin had said. Agnetha’s voice echoed: I won’t have it. It wasn’t Erik’s baby, but Mike’s. I’d got completely the wrong end of the stick. If it has to be done, Erik had said, not If I have to tell her. Agnetha had replied, It doesn’t have to be done. An abortion would solve everything – except that Mike, brought up in a country where abortion was still illegal, didn’t want her to have one.

  Five bells rang above my head and echoed from the foredeck. Half past six. I took a deep breath and dismissed everything but the day ahead from my thoughts. I had a shower, dressed in a crisply-ironed shirt and clean cargo breeks, and went out on deck.

  The fresh air hit me, cold and salt-tanged, with a touch of dampness in it. Nils’s watch had just finished scrubbing the decks, turning the wide teak planks from grey-brown to dark red. The varnished handrail gleamed against the two ochre funnels. The whole ship had that extra sharpness of rain-cleared air.

  The yards had been squared overnight, but the sails were still furled. I turned my head until I felt the wind soft on my right cheek. We could carry full sail. I strolled over to the nav screen box and lifted the lid. The dot flashed, not quite a third of the way across. Two hundred miles at six knots; thirty-three hours. We’d be approaching the Pentland Firth in the early hours of tomorrow morning. I’d need to calculate more precisely, to make sure we were still good for the tricky tides going through.

  ‘You’ll need to check the Pentland Firth tides,’ Nils said over my shoulder. ‘It’s a difficult stretch of water.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘You lost a trainee last night.’

  I turned to meet his toffee-brown eyes. He’d been on board this ship for five years – did he know about the hidey-hole? Yet it didn’t seem in his rule-stickler character to smuggle a man aboard. ‘So it seems.’

  ‘We have never had an accident aboard.’ His tone suggested I’d somehow caused this one. ‘Come, you will be late for breakfast.’

  I closed the lid, squared my shoulders and headed for the officers’ mess, with Nils behind me like a prisoner’s escort. Anders was already there. I slid in beside him. He gave a quick look at my face, and his hand stole to touch mine under the table. The ship’s gossip chain was obviously on overdrive; I could see he’d heard all about Olav’s disappearance.

  Captain Gunnar was looking particularly grim. As soon as we were all assembled and h
e’d said grace, he began to speak. ‘There was an unfortunate incident last night. It seems a trainee was lost overboard. He was on extra lookout duty, and did not rejoin his watch. It was a foggy night, and I conjecture that he stumbled coming down the steps to the foredeck and fell overboard. Nobody heard him cry out, or heard a splash, so my belief is that he had a heart attack, and did not cry out.’

  He paused to give a stern look around us. ‘The police will of course investigate all this. There is no point in us turning back. The Belfast police will come on board when we arrive. They will take statements from those on watch, while the police in Norway will talk to his family and doctor and find out if a heart attack was likely.’ I could see that Captain Gunnar had persuaded himself of it. A heart attack didn’t reflect on his ship. ‘A helicopter has been sent from Norway to search the area, in case his body can be recovered, but he was not wearing a life jacket. It is not likely that he will be found. I depend on you all to minimise this unfortunate accident.’ His eyes bored into mine for a moment. ‘I will call a muster at the change of watch, and make a statement to all crew and trainees. After that, we must get on with the voyage, and make sure the trainees enjoy themselves. We also need to turn them into an efficient crew. We have a race to win in the next leg, do not forget.’

  I had forgotten, although we’d discussed it endlessly in the evenings before we left. Our fellow Norwegian ships, the Staatsraad Lemkuhl and the Christian Radich, had both won prizes in previous years, and we were determined that we’d be in the top three this year. We’d need luck with the wind, of course, and spot-on navigation, but we also needed the crew to be slick with turning the yards and trimming the sails. I drank my yoghurt and ate my oatmeal, considering. More rope work, so that my watch went unhesitatingly to the right ones when Erik said, ‘Trim the main lower topsail.’ They’d need more practice up in the rig to be able to furl the sails quickly, and it shouldn’t take us two miles to tack.