‘Talking about what?’
‘My girlfriend. She’s missing. And I just got new information from this man and his wife went missing and he got a note too and now I think maybe something awful has happened to her and I need . . . I need . . .’
I ran out of breath.
Garda Cherub slowly raised one eyebrow.
‘Sarah,’ I panted. ‘Sarah O’Connell. That’s her name.’ I pointed at the computer sitting on Garda Cherub’s side of the desk. ‘Look it up.’
He did while watching me out of the corner of his eye. I was then directed to a row of nearby chairs, told to wait there. I collapsed into the first one and stuck my head between my legs.
Cusack appeared five minutes later, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She sat down in the chair next to mine.
‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘I was just on my way home.’
‘I think something bad has happened to Sarah.’
‘Adam.’ A sigh. ‘We’ve been—’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘This is different. This is serious. Listen . . .’
I told her everything – about the visit to Blue Wave, Louise lying, what I’d found on Google about cruise ship crimes and what Peter Brazier had said about Estelle.
About how a woman with no connection to Sarah had also been on the Celebrate just before she disappeared. About how the man that woman loved had received her passport in the mail too, postmarked Nice. About how the note inside had said exactly the same thing, save for a different initial.
About how, a year later, that woman still hadn’t come home.
‘And you think what now, exactly?’ Cusack asked when I was done. ‘That someone is out there kidnapping cruise ship passengers after they post notes home?’
‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’ In my peripheral vision I could see Garda Cherub’s head snap up from his sports pages at my swearing. ‘What the hell do you need to believe that something is going on here, Cusack? What will it take? Seriously, tell me. Blood-stained clothes? Video footage? A dead body?’
‘There’s no need—’
‘I feel like I could come in here and tell you that I came home to an apartment full of someone else’s blood and you’d be like, “Well, maybe a butcher came round and mistook your living room for an abattoir.”’ I rolled my eyes. ‘I thought the police didn’t believe in coincidences. You seem to see them everywhere. You see nothing but them. So tell me: what do you need to say around here to convince you people that a crime has been committed? I’m actually asking. Save me a fucking trip next time.’
‘Do you like flying?’ Cusack asked.
‘Do I . . . What?’
‘I hate flying.’
‘Well, that’s just . . .’ I threw up my hands. ‘That’s fucking wonderful, that is. Tell me more about utter irrelevant things I don’t give a shit about.’
‘You didn’t swear at all when Jack and Maureen were with you. Did you know that?’
‘Yeah, well. Back then I thought you were going to help us.’
‘I hate flying,’ Cusack said again. ‘I’m terrified of it. Avoid it as much as I can. But sometimes you have to get on a plane, and in this job you might have to get in a helicopter from time to time, which is even worse. So I went on one of these Fear of Flying courses. One of the first things the instructor told us to do was to look at the faces of the flight attendants if we felt scared. Like if there was turbulence or a strange noise. Because turbulence isn’t a big deal, and the crew know that what sounds like the arse of the plane falling out is actually just the landing gear coming down. They know it’s normal. That’s why they can remain calm. So if you look at them, their faces will help reassure you, and you will stay calm too.’
‘Cusack, I’m sorry, but what the—’
‘I’m your flight attendant, Adam. I’m the one remaining calm because I’m experienced enough to know that the chances of something being seriously wrong here are between slim and none. Do you know how many people were reported missing in Ireland last year?’
‘Why would I know that?’
‘No reason at all. But it’s my job to know. It was seven thousand, seven hundred and forty-three. Want to guess how many were still missing at year’s end?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me any—’
‘Fifteen people, Adam. Fifteen. One-five. That’s less than point-nought-one per cent. You think I don’t care because when you come in here and tell me that a grown woman – who lies – went on a holiday and didn’t come home, I don’t immediately send out an international search party. But it’s not because I don’t care. It’s not because the Gardaí aren’t interested in helping you. It’s because I do and we are. I’m here telling you there’s no need to panic because, all the other times my colleagues and I have heard similar stories, the outcome wasn’t what you fear it will be here.’
‘But this Peter guy,’ I said. ‘What about what he says? About the ship?’
‘Leaving aside my concern that you are taking as fact something you read about online and then’ – Cusack made air quotes – ‘verified by talking to a stranger over the phone, I actually can’t help you there. We don’t have jurisdiction.’
‘I need to call the French police?’
‘You don’t need to call any police.’
‘But if I wanted—’
‘If you wanted to get politely listened to for a couple of minutes and then completely ignored thereafter, you could call them, yes. But there’d be no point calling the French. The last sighting of her was on the ship, right? While it was sailing? That’s international waters. Maritime law applies.’
‘Which means what?’
‘When at sea, all seafaring vessels fall under the jurisdiction of the country in which they are registered. If you get mugged in Times Square, you’re not going to call the Gardaí, are you? I should hope not. You’d call the NYPD. Same wherever you are in the world. If something happens, you get the local police. But what if you’re not in any country at all? What if you’re at sea? That’s where maritime law comes in.’
‘Who do I call then?’
‘You’re still not calling anyone, because it’s up to the captain of the ship to invite an outside authority aboard. But if he or she did, then it would be the authority of the country where the ship itself is registered. The Celebrate is registered in Barbados.’
There was a beat of silence while my brain – still processing the idea that there were, essentially, no police at sea – caught up with what Cusack was saying.
‘How do you know that? Did you call Blue Wave?’
‘I know because of Shane Keating.’
‘Who?’
‘I’d have thought his name would’ve come up in your Internet search. He was the boy who went overboard from a ship called the Fiesta a while back. Another Blue Wave ship. He was just—’
‘Sixteen,’ I said. ‘Yeah. He did come up. Just not his name.’
‘Initially they didn’t know he’d gone overboard. He’d just disappeared from the ship. A family member contacted Gardaí in Dublin, and we contacted Blue Wave. They politely told us we’d no jurisdiction. He’d disappeared while the ship was in the Adriatic, Blue Wave have their European headquarters in City West and their global headquarters in Florida, but the Fiesta was registered in Barbados, like all Blue Wave ships. Those large cruise ships, they’re all registered in places like that – the Bahamas, Panama, Libya even – for tax reasons. Flags of convenience, they call them. Two – what do you call them? Barbadian, isn’t it? Two Barbadian police officers were just about to get on a plane and fly halfway around the world to meet the ship in Croatia when they discovered that he’d actually gone overboard and called in the Coast Guard to start search and rescue instead.’ Cusack sighed. ‘So like I said, I can’t help you.’
‘This is bullshit.’
‘This
is procedure. Best practice based on cumulative knowledge and experience. I’ve been a Garda for ten years. You’ve had one week.’
‘So yet again, there’s nothing you can do for us.’ I stood up to go. ‘You know, I always thought— Well, I never really thought about it, I suppose, but in the back of my mind, I had this idea that the Gardaí would be there to help me if anything ever went badly wrong. Silly me.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘We don’t know where Sarah is. We need your resources to find her. Sounds simple to me.’
‘Adam, wait.’ Cusack stood, too. ‘I know you’re angry at us – at me – and that’s fine. I get it. I really do. But I don’t know how many other ways I can say it: this is how it works. We’ve contacted the Department of Foreign Affairs. They’ll contact us the second they hear from her. We’ve sent out an Interpol bulletin so if Sarah’s name comes up in any police investigation anywhere in the world – whether it be a missing person or a car accident or a parking fine – we’ll know about it too. So, no, there aren’t any police officers walking the streets searching for her, but every police department in the world has an alarm on her name. We can’t help you with the ship but . . .’ Cusack stopped, hesitated.
‘What? What is it?’
‘I did do one thing you asked,’ she said. She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled, folded piece of lined paper. ‘I looked up that phone number.’
‘What phone number?’
‘The one that you said belonged to the guy Sarah was seeing.’
I glared at the piece of paper. ‘Is that it?’
‘You could’ve found it yourself, if you dug around online long enough. He used to have it on an old profile on a jobs website. That’s why I’m giving it to you.’ Cusack looked at me pointedly. ‘Because you could’ve found it yourself. Understand?’
‘Yeah.’
She handed over the paper. I began to unfold it, but Cusack put a hand on mine to stop me.
‘Listen to me for a second, Adam. His name is Ethan Eckhart. He is American, and he does live in Dublin. This is an email address for him that I found. The telephone number seems to have been disconnected.’ A pause. ‘And there’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘It’ll explain something for you.’
‘What?’
‘Why Sarah was on that ship.’
‘She was on it with him.’
‘I mean why she went there with him and not, say, on a sun holiday or to Paris on a mini-break. It’s a piece of the puzzle we were missing that we have now. That’s the way you need to look at it too.’
‘Just tell me.’ My fingers tightened around the folded piece of paper. ‘Just say it.’
‘Ethan Eckhart,’ Cusack said. ‘He’s on the Celebrate right now. He works there.’
Part Three
THE BAY OF ANGELS
Corinne
It was mid-afternoon and the crew mess was filling up with cabin attendants, relaxed and jovial now that they were finished for another day.
Corinne was too exhausted to wait in line for the hot counter. She took a pre-packed salad from the fridge instead, a leftover from one of the cafes on board that was no longer fresh enough to serve to paying passengers despite still being perfectly okay to eat. She poured herself a coffee from the self-serve machine and then, on second thought, poured herself a second one.
It had been a long night with almost no sleep and then, because of that, an even longer day. She was struggling to stay awake.
She found a table right at the back of the mess, an ideal vantage point from where to watch other crew members join the queue for lunch. She opened her salad with her eyes on the faces coming through the doors, forked a piece of torn chicken breast and put it in her mouth. It had no discernible flavour. To Corinne, it tasted like chewing gum that had been chewed for too long.
Where was Lydia? That’s all she could think about. Why didn’t she meet me here this time yesterday?
That she hadn’t wasn’t in itself that big of a deal; Lydia could have easily overslept or been called on-shift earlier than usual. They had no phones to contact each other with and, anyway, it wasn’t like their meetings were anything other than a convenience they’d both fallen into over the previous week.
She could’ve had dinner with some of her colleagues instead, spent the time with friends her own age. She was a dancer in one of the stage shows; the Entertainment Department had nothing but young people in it. Who’d want to hang around with an ailing, sixty-odd-year-old French woman when there was such fun to be had? Corinne had worried that Lydia was having difficulty adjusting to life on the ship; she would only be happy to know that the girl was settling in so well.
There was no way of checking if Lydia had gone to work – crew weren’t allowed into passenger areas when they were off duty – and Corinne found it impossible to tell if the jumble of cosmetics on the girl’s bed had been disturbed since the day before. She’d checked the cabin again just now, but perhaps Lydia hadn’t been there because she was showering.
Which just left Lydia’s absence on the crew deck this morning to explain away.
Why hadn’t she shown up for that?
Corinne hadn’t seen her cabin-mate for more than twenty-four hours now, not since just before she’d found the photograph in #1001.
Could that really be a coincidence?
Or was this another message from him?
She should tell someone about this. But who? And what would she even say? Surely if Lydia hadn’t shown up for her shift last night, someone would’ve noticed already and—
‘Oh my god.’ Lydia’s voice, then the girl herself dropping into the seat opposite. ‘The queue for the shower-room was insane, Cor.’ She was panting, out of breath. The girl’s make-up had been freshly applied and her hair was still wet at the ends. ‘How’s things?’
‘Where . . .’ Corinne was at once flooded with relief and angry at the young girl for making her worry. Then she was angry at herself for being so paranoid. She swallowed all those feelings and said, as cheerfully as she could, ‘I am very good, thank you. And you?’
‘Good. Great, actually.’
‘Good. Are you going to have some dinner? I think I saw some pizza up there . . .’
‘Mmm. I will in a sec.’ Lydia glanced over her shoulder. ‘When the queue calms down a bit.’
‘Here.’ Corinne pushed the extra cup of coffee across the table. ‘Have this.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course. It is for you.’
‘Thanks, Cor. You’re a lifesaver.’
‘Did you start early yesterday?’
Lydia took a sip of her coffee. ‘Start early?’
‘You weren’t here . . .’
‘Oh, yeah. Well.’ Lydia blushed. ‘I, uh, had a date.’
‘A date?’
Corinne couldn’t hide her surprise. To her, Lydia seemed so young, so naïve. A child alone out in the wide, adult world for the first time. She couldn’t imagine her out on a date. But then, Lydia was the same age Corinne had been when she’d got married. She couldn’t imagine that either.
‘Yeah. We work the same shift, so that was the only time we could meet.’
‘I see. Did you have a good time together?’
‘A very good time.’ She burst out laughing. ‘Sorry, Cor. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed to tell you this, but I am.’
‘It is probably because I am old enough to be your mother. But I’m glad you had a nice time. Are you seeing him again this evening?’
‘I think so. I—’ Lydia’s face changed. ‘Oh, Cor. You weren’t waiting for me, were you? Out on deck this morning? Sorry, I thought . . . I thought that, you know, you’d be going out there anyway and it wouldn’t matter if—’
‘I
was,’ Corinne said. She smiled. ‘No problem. So’ – she picked up her own coffee – ‘tell me about him. Your new friend.’
‘He’s a security guard.’ Lydia’s eyes sparkled. She was clearly delighted to have an opportunity to talk about him. ‘His name’s Luke, and he’s really nice. Really good-looking too. Fit.’
‘Fit?’ Corinne was confused. ‘You mean healthy?’
Lydia laughed.
‘It does mean that, but it can also mean, like, sexy.’
Now Corinne blushed.
‘You’ll know all the slang by the time you go home,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ll teach you. You’ll be so down with the kids. But you’ll have to teach me French in exchange. If things work out with Luke, between the two of you I might be fluent by the time I have to go home.’
Corinne frowned. Between the English and the accent, it took her a second to put together what Lydia had said.
‘Luke is French too?’
Lydia nodded. ‘Yup. Isn’t that funny?’
‘Yes . . .’ There were very few French crew on the ship. Corinne had yet to meet another one, and that included the crew she’d encountered during the introductory training she’d done, which had been more like a convention with hundreds of people in attendance. ‘Did you tell him that your cabin-mate was French?’
‘Yeah. He wanted to know where you were from. It’s Lyon, right?’
‘Yes,’ Corinne said absently. ‘Lyon.’
It was the first town she had thought of when Lydia had asked.
‘Good. I wasn’t sure I got it right.’
‘Which part of France is he from? Did he tell you?’
‘Um . . .’ Lydia made a face. ‘North of Paris, I think?’
‘Do you know where exactly?’ Corinne barely dared ask. ‘Did he mention a town?’
‘It was like dev-oh or something . . .’
Corinne tried not to react, but she was only partly successful. Lydia mistook the dawn of horror on her face for recognition.
‘You know it, Cor?’
Corinne nodded silently. She couldn’t speak.
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