I would need to tell him. I looked around and saw him on the aft deck, leaning against the rail, talking to another man, while white-suited forensic officers clustered around the aft doorway where the crew harnesses hung. I was going to head over when I realised that Micaela hadn’t said to tell the police, but to tell Captain Gunnar. This was ship’s business first.
He was in his cabin, at his desk, one hand shading his eyes, a pen idle in his hand. When I knocked and went in, he looked at me for a moment as if he’d forgotten who I was.
‘I’ve just spoken to Micaela, sir,’ I said. ‘She asked me to tell you – she explained that it was Erik who smuggled Bezrukov aboard. They – the gang he belonged to – had a hold over him, blackmail. She asked me to tell you how sorry he was. She said he’d told them he wouldn’t do it again, and that’s why they killed him.’
Captain Gunnar’s white brows drew together. ‘Erik smuggled him aboard?’
I nodded.
‘Have you told this to the police?’
‘Not yet.’ I spread my hands. ‘Ship’s business. Micaela said to tell you.’
He lifted a paper, squared it against another, set them both down. ‘So this Russian really was on board. He was the killer.’ I could feel the relief flooding through him. ‘Not a member of my crew. The stowaway.’ He looked up at me and hesitated for a moment, then the captain I knew came back into his face: fair, kindly, encouraging, a good leader. ‘I owe you an apology, Cass. You wanted to tell me about him, and I would not listen.’
‘I don’t suppose it would have made any difference, sir.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He rose. ‘I will talk to the police. To the office too.’ He had regained his height. ‘We will need to tighten up our watch procedures in port, to make sure this does not happen again. The ship must never be left in the care of one person only.’ He nodded a dismissal. ‘Thank you, Cass.’
I walked back on deck to a throng of Belfast folk in holiday mood, admiring the ship, looking up at the masts and either longing for a climb or saying, ‘Wouldn’t catch me going up there.’ My job was to mingle, so I mingled, answered questions, took photographs of families posed against the bow and gave out leaflets about our voyages. It was routine stuff, and I was glad of that, for my mind felt too full to think. Micaela’s story hadn’t been a shock; a hundred little things I’d never consciously noticed were fitting together in my head. It had been Erik’s air of tension that had given me that sense of foreboding; Micaela’s fear, as she’d seen him off. But what would happen to her now? Would she need police protection from the gang, or would she be extradited?
The ship was as full as it could hold with visitors when a wholesale truck arrived with the supply of food for eighty-five people for the next ten days. Good timing, I thought wearily, and went to join the human chain shifting it from pallets on the pier to the cold store and freezer. Box after box of cauliflower, broccoli, wax-skinned peppers, apples, bananas, lettuce; sacks of potatoes; plastic-wrapped trays of tins; square lengths of cold meat; boxes of fresh meat in rustling sky-blue bags. It took us a full hour just to get it all on board, and by the time it was all piled up below my arms felt like spaghetti. The last thing I felt like was a crew parade.
Gavin came over just as I was taking a breather, leaning against the banjer table. ‘We’re done now. I’ll go back with the squad to HQ, and text you when I can get free.’ He gave me a concerned look. ‘Will you get a rest before this crew parade?’
I nodded. ‘Muster at 16.00.’
‘Make the most of it.’ He bent forward for a quick kiss. ‘Otherwise, stick with the crowd. See you later.’
I watched him cross the gangplank and disappear among the crowd, kilt swinging, then walked slowly to my cabin to wash my hands for lunch. Cat was curled up on my berth – he could only do so much of being admired before he headed below. There was a piece of paper under his paws. I eased it out, and unfolded it.
It was a page of notebook, with a message. Heard about the museum. Still dangerous. Don’t go the whole length of the crew parade. Slip out at the big fish. You’ll be met there. Code word is O’Donoghue’s.
I knew O’Donoghue’s. It was the pub we’d sneaked into, Sean, Seamus and I, all those years ago, to listen to live music. I hadn’t seen Sean’s handwriting for twenty years. I examined the cramped, secretive script, and supposed it looked familiar. I read the note again. Heard about the museum – Bezrukov. It must be Bezrukov who was Still dangerous. Waiting at the end of the crew parade?
I was turning it over in my hands when my phone buzzed. CI Beattie’s rich voice boomed out at me. ‘Cass, I was wondering if you spoke to the wife of the dead man this morning. Micaela. You moor your boat at their house, that’s right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re friendly?’
‘Yes. I phoned her straight after breakfast.’
‘Now, there may be nothing amiss, nothing amiss at all. It’s just that the Norwegian police have been around and she’s not at the house, and the car’s still there, though I gather it’s a pretty out-of-the-way spot. She didn’t mention to you that she was going to stay with a relative, or anything like that?’
‘No.’ For a moment my heart went cold. Could the gang have descended on that quiet house and taken Micaela and the children? Then I remembered that ‘going for a picnic’ air of excitement in the background of the phone call. ‘Micaela doesn’t have any relatives in Norway. Erik will, of course, but I don’t know who they are.’
‘The Norwegian police will find that out. That’s fine, Cass. And how are you today? Recovered?’
‘Oh, yes, life as usual.’
‘That’s good. Thanks for that, Cass. We’ll speak again.’
He rang off before I had time to think about what to say. I sat down on my berth and stared at the bookshelf above my desk. Erik had been a planner. Suppose, just suppose, he’d decided to run from the gang, to put his family in security. They had a boat, bigger than my Khalida – a Colin Archer design, strong, seaworthy. Nobody ever questioned carrying bags of stuff up and down from a boat. If I’d been him, planning escape, I’d have filled her up with fuel, clothes, tins. Money, in a strongbox in the bilges. Then, when the time was right, I’d have left everything behind; I’d have walked down to the boat, without giveaway suitcases, just as if we were heading out on a day-sail. I’d point my nose to the horizon, to a country where nobody was looking for me.
Micaela was a sailor too. She’d done the RYA classes up to Yachtmaster.
It was summer, and the world lay ahead of them. Westward to Shetland, Faroe, Iceland, America. South to France, Spain, the Canaries, Africa. The wide Atlantic. The longer I kept quiet, the more of a start she’d have, to lose herself among the dozens of little boats that skimmed the world’s waters.
I said a quick prayer for her and the children, for luck and fair winds, and went through to lunch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I tried several times to phone Gavin, but got only voicemail. I didn’t think they’d be doing the autopsy on Erik so quickly; Mike, perhaps. I pushed that image away, and considered Sean’s note. Still dangerous. It felt like the classic setup. Girl is sent supposedly friendly note luring her into lonely old house. Girl is stupid enough to go. Girl meets nasty end.
I was reasonably sure it was from Sean. O’Donoghue’s would only make sense if it was a genuine message from him to me. I didn’t know what he was up to, but if he’d been on board shadowing Bezrukov, he would still be following him. He might know something of his plans. If he was against Bezrukov, he was on the side of the angels, so far as anyone ever could be in the tangle of today’s politics. Don’t go the whole length of the crew parade. If Bezrukov’s plans included me – and I had no doubt he’d be coldly furious about a woman having tricked him – then whatever was going to happen was planned for the end of the parade, where we’d all be standing still, looking at the stage. Targets for a man with a gun. I needed to talk to Gavin. I tried his phone agai
n and left a message for him to call me urgently. If he didn’t get back to me in half an hour, I’d call the station and insist on talking to CI Beattie.
Slip out at the big fish. I pulled out my map of Belfast and studied it. The Big Fish area was numbered (3) on the map, with a note offering me street theatre and performers, live music, information point and official merchandise. It didn’t say what the Big Fish was, but no doubt I’d spot it. You’ll be met there.
There was still no word back from Gavin at half past three. I managed to get as far as a DI in the Belfast police, who sounded harassed, with a bustle behind him as if the office was mobilising. He said that CI Beattie was out, and he’d leave a message. Urgent, I said, and he promised he’d let him know straight away. Yeah, I thought, and didn’t hold my breath. But surely Gavin would phone back soon.
We mustered on deck at four. The officers were in uniform, the trainees dressed in a mixture of Sørlandet T-shirts and Tall Ships ones. The sun had come out, glinting on the water and dazzling off our polished brass. Our local volunteer liaison officer had arrived, a cheerful schoolteacher with a pale blue Tall Ships fleece, and an identifying board on a long pole: SØRLANDET, Norway. She brought two more volunteers with her, who would stay on board to guard the ship while we partied. Henrik had more wristbands, with tear-off pieces for food and drink at the crew party, and Agnetha was carrying a bag of flags. Once we were all gathered, our liaison officer led us through the streets to the muster point on a broad side street turned into pedestrian-only by traffic cones, with a main road and flyover ahead, and an imposing red-brown civic building across from us.
It was my first parade of the season, and I’d have enjoyed myself if it hadn’t been for the cold worry in the pit of my stomach. Our trainees were high with excitement, and our fellow crews were partying all around us. The crew of Frederyk Chopin, ahead of us, sported red-and-blue-striped rugby shirts, with white sailor caps on the men, leis round the necks of the women and Irish shamrocks painted on their cheeks. One of them was on stilts, the sort that strap on to a leg, like the jazz players had worn. The stiffness of her walk jogged a memory somewhere, something important, but it was too noisy here and I couldn’t place it. There was an odd gryphon figure parroting among them – the Polish eagle, of course, the mascot of a Polish ship. They had music with them, and began dancing reels and the Macarena. The Alexander von Humboldt crew were behind us, until a miniature lighthouse trundled by and installed itself in front of them. They were dressed in green, and doing a circular dance. Inspired, our trainees distributed flags. Dimitris hoisted Maria on his shoulders, and she held the Greek cross above them, fluttering in the wind. Jenn took charge of the Canadian maple leaf. Several of them clustered round our large Norwegian flag, brought down from the mast, and Lena began working out a routine where the people behind ran under it, then crouched to let it pass back over them.
Still no word from Gavin. Perhaps he’d not had time to listen to his messages. I tried again. Voicemail. I had to make a decision.
I’d risk trusting family. I spoke quickly into the phone. ‘I’ve had a message from Sean not to go to the end of the parade, but to stop at the Big Fish. Unless I hear back from you, I’ll do that.’ Girl is decoyed into lonely house … Of course, the flip side of that was Girl insists on ignoring warnings. I hauled my map out from my back pocket and checked my bearings. The Big Fish was when we arrived at the river. I’d tell Agnetha I didn’t feel well, that I’d catch them up later.
There was a good crowd gathered now, just visible under the flyover. The blare of a brass band drifted back to us. The crews jumped down from the walls they’d been sitting on or prised themselves up from the ground, and tightened up their formations. The colourful line shuddered, then began to move.
We came out of our side road into the middle of modern Belfast, with a glass-walled office building on one side, finished with a steel tower and festooned with banners, Belfast Harbour notices and Daily Telegraph marquees. The sun was out now, shining from a sky of duck-egg blue, dazzling off the chrome of cars and glass of windows, and warming our faces as we marched. There was a good crowd on each side of the road, but oddly silent, not interacting with us. It took a moment for me to realise why. Only the children were looking directly at us; almost all the adults were filming us on raised tablets or mobile phones, and watching through the tiny screens. A strange world …
The road widened out into a square, boasting a Palladian building along one side, with a pillared front topped by a statue-filled triangle, Parthenon-style. Beyond it was a steel and glass tower with a pointed roof, and down to my left, at last, a space clear of houses, and the river gleaming willow-green between bridges. We halted, and I looked around. The Big Fish was here somewhere.
I recognised it as soon as I saw it. It was exactly what its name said: a big fish, blue-backed, white-bellied, balanced as if it was swimming, with its nose pointing towards a curved footbridge streaming with people. There was no sign of cousin Sean, but then I didn’t expect to see him. He wouldn’t have left a password if he was going to be there himself.
Now or never. I touched Agnetha on the arm. She jumped, as if her thoughts had been miles away, and turned a startled face towards me.
‘I don’t feel great,’ I told her. ‘I think I’ll rest a bit here. I’ll catch you up later.’
She gave me a concerned look. ‘You OK? I mean, there’s not something wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘Just a bit tired, with all this standing about, then slow shuffling. Give me a good brisk walk any day.’
‘Me too. See you later, then.’
I waited for Frederyk Chopin’s crew to launch into the Macarena again, then slipped quietly out of the parade. Nobody seemed interested in me. I retreated to the outer edge of the crowd, checked around me again, then threaded my way through a forest of bicycles to the Big Fish.
It was the sort of thing that gives modern art a good name. Close up, I could see how big it really was: a good three metres tall to the top of its back fin, and ten metres long from pointed snout to tail flukes. The staring eyes were opaque brown. It was made of ceramic tiles, all different shapes, like crazy paving, cut to create the lines of gills and fins, and printed with old photographs of the city: faces, bills and accounts, trade advertisements, letters and newspaper cuttings. The upper ones were black on navy, or navy on cobalt, the lower ones faded to smoky blue on cream. There was a large ‘Do not climb on the fish’ notice which was naturally being ignored by every child in sight. The temptation to clamber up its back was irresistible.
I stepped away from it and strolled back into the shadow of the trees, feeling conspicuous in my officer togs, too visible a refugee from the parade. We’d been almost at the head of it, so there was a good length to go. The crew of Ecuador marched past in military formation, white shirts crisp, caps at exactly the same angle, with a couple of masked creatures capering around them, scarlet masks topped with pom-poms on sticks. I turned away from my fellow sailors and looked at the people around me. Parents hauling children off the fish to watch the parade. Watchers with cameras, backs turned to me. A mother with a baby in a sling around her neck. The white and black lighthouse that had been immediately behind us in the parade was also stopping for a breather. I didn’t blame the person inside; it was a solid-looking construction, with chunky frames around the rounded windows, and topped by two black circles separated by a criss-cross of white two-by-two, with the light revolving in the centre. It seemed to be supported on four wheels – an old pram carriage, maybe, covered by canvas painted as foam-frothed rock – but it would still be hard work to push. Two pinstripe-shirted men walked briskly past it in long-toed shoes, each having a different conversation into their mouthpieces – or perhaps they were talking to each other, who knows? There was no sign of anyone who might have come from Sean.
The mother with the baby paused beside me to adjust the sling and peer into the folds. ‘Sure, it’s a grand day. Makes you feel like sitting qu
ietly in the sun at O’Donoghue’s, and having a long, cold drink.’
She said it so casually that it took a moment for the words to sink in. ‘A long cold drink sounds a good idea,’ I agreed, cautiously. ‘Though O’Donoghue’s is maybe a bit far to go for it.’
Password given and returned. I gave her a quick glance, and realised that I recognised her; she’d been the texting teenager I’d kept seeing in the Titanic museum. There, she’d been the complete teenager, with immaculate make-up, dyed hair strands, a row of earrings and the latest thing in baggy black overshirts; now she was an equally convincing mother, too frazzled to do more than wash her face, scrape her hair back with a band and find a T-shirt that hadn’t been sicked on. I looked at the contrast between her clothes and my uniform, and felt a strange lurch at my heart, part relief and part envy.
Now what? ‘We could maybe find somewhere closer,’ she agreed. ‘But it’s a soft afternoon. Why don’t you go round the other side of the Big Fish, now, and lean against it, and enjoy the view?’
Order received. ‘I’ll do that,’ I said. I nodded, as to a chance-met passer-by, and strolled around the Big Fish, my heartbeat speeding up. It was quiet now, with the last child dragged streetwards to watch the parade. There was silence behind me, as if I was in a game of What’s the Time, Mr Wolf?, and my role was to stand here motionless and blinded, while the rest of the players crept up on me from behind. I’d never liked it much in the playground, and I liked it even less now, but I knew about obeying orders from somebody who could see the whole picture.
There was a scraping noise from further off behind me, as if a roughly built door had been opened and shut. It was over to the left, where the lighthouse had been parked. My brain began working fast. Bezrukov hadn’t come here into a void; he’d been expected. The people waiting for him would have made him a costume that would hide not only him but his weapons as well. I didn’t even try to follow the tangled politics of Northern Ireland, but there would be political bigwigs up on that stage to welcome the crews from all round the world. The lighthouse would get him close enough to shoot, and protected enough to make taking him dangerous to all the celebrating teenagers around him – unless he could be diverted into a nice, quiet place by the chance of finishing off a private vendetta before he trundled on to the finish.
Death in Shetland Waters Page 27