04.08.13 07.28 9281 (ID) TENPLT4 Tender/ID check (CCTV?)
‘According to this,’ Peter said, ‘Estelle entered her cabin a minute before midnight on the Thursday, and then got off the ship and onto a tender at twenty-eight minutes past seven the next morning.’
‘So they . . .’ I waved the piece of paper. ‘Faked this?’
‘Not necessarily. I think Estelle’s Swipeout card got off the ship. Think about it: how hard would it be for a crew member to sidle up to one of his colleagues at the tender platform and distract him for a few seconds, long enough to slide a card through one of those handheld machines?’
In my mind’s eye, I saw Ethan doing just that and felt that, unlike Cusack’s explanations, this theory actually made sense.
Unfortunately.
‘That would explain Blue Wave’s willingness to give you the Swipeout activity,’ I said, ‘but not the CCTV.’
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding encouragingly. ‘Exactly, Adam. Yes. Indeed.’
He seemed . . . Relieved? Yes, relieved that I was agreeing with him. But then this was probably the first time he had told someone this and got a response other than pity or concerned queries about his mental health.
‘What’s their excuse though?’ I asked. ‘I mean, what do Blue Wave say when you ask to see the CCTV?’
‘Officially, the footage contains sensitive operational procedures.’ Peter rolled his eyes at the phrase. ‘And they tell me that, if I’m looking for evidence that Estelle had left the ship, I already have it. But what I actually have is evidence that something happened to her on it.’
I looked at the printout again, then back up at Peter.
‘What am I missing here?’
‘Look at the times.’ He pointed to the page. ‘Estelle buys the Paracetamol at twenty-three minutes past eleven, just after she leaves the other women in Fizz. But she doesn’t enter her cabin until a minute before midnight, almost forty minutes later. I’ve studied the maps. The Crescent General Store is on Deck 12, aft of the D elevators. All Estelle had to do was walk twenty, thirty feet along a corridor, get into the lift, go down a few floors and then walk another fifteen, maybe twenty feet to her door.’
When I raised my eyebrows at this, Peter said, ‘I’ve had nothing to do but think about this. I’ve studied the maps for hours. I could probably navigate my way around this ship blindfolded at this stage.’
‘What are we talking in minutes?’ I asked.
‘Even if Estelle took her time, it would take five, ten minutes. Fifteen, let’s say, if the lifts were busy. So why the forty-minute gap?’
‘Maybe she stopped to look in a store or something.’
‘But she had a headache bad enough that she left the group and went to buy something that would get rid of it.’
‘Well, I don’t know then.’
‘Neither do I, but I have a theory. If someone had her Swipeout card and used it to make it look like she’d got on a tender and off the ship, couldn’t that same person have let himself into her cabin with it the night before?’
‘Run me through it then,’ I said. ‘What happened?’
‘I think Estelle’s drink was spiked. That’s why she was feeling unwell. Whoever spiked it then followed her out of the bar and into the Crescent Store. Watched her. Perhaps got talking to her. Remember: she’s on holiday on a cruise ship. She feels safe. She’s not thinking that this is just like meeting a strange man in a dark alley at the end of the night out, only everything is brightly lit and floating on the Mediterranean Sea. Then he either walks her back to her cabin and follows her in – which would also explain the delayed key-card entry and the unopened Paracetamol box – or he takes her somewhere else – she has a headache, maybe he suggests that some fresh air out on deck would do her good – and then . . . Well, then he does it.’
There was a beat of silence during which we both tried not to dwell on this.
‘If it did happen elsewhere,’ Peter pushed on, ‘then afterwards he uses her key to open her cabin door, thereby creating a record of it in the Swipeout activity. Does the same thing the following morning on the tender platform.’
‘But where does the passport and the note come in?’
‘Well, it throws a spanner in the works, doesn’t it? A communication that appears to be from Estelle, sent from the place where she supposedly got off the ship. It diverts attention from the Celebrate. You think whatever happened, it must have happened after she went ashore.’
‘But do you think . . . The notes . . . I mean, are you saying he forced—’
‘I think it’d be relatively easy for a crew member to get hold of a weapon. That’s what I think. You have how many restaurant kitchens full of knives, for a start?’
My stomach churned at the thought.
‘Now,’ Peter said, ‘he’s covered all the bases. There’s no evidence, no body and no police. Blue Wave say she got off the ship, so their hands are clean. It’s the perfect crime. He waits a while, just to make sure. A year later, he does it again. Only this time, he selects his victim ashore and then manoeuvres her onto the ship. And this time, her boyfriend finds his way to the husband of the first woman and, when we talk, we learn that we both got passports with notes stuck inside. This time, someone figures out that the only connection the two women have is him.’
It seemed like it could be a perfect fit for the hole in the jigsaw, but I didn’t want to slot it in to check for sure.
Peter looked at his watch.
‘We sail at six,’ he said. ‘We’ll start searching for him then.’
I told Peter that now I had to go buy some Paracetamol, that all the no sleeping and the travelling and the heat had conspired to start a thundering pulse in my temples. I listened while he told me where the nearest store was. I assured him there was no need to take me there himself.
And then I fled.
Sarah dead. Murdered.
The worst-case scenario.
But also, the only one we had that made any sense.
Eyes bulging in fear, hands on her mouth and neck. Her clothes ripped. Her skin bruised.
There could be no avoiding it any more. Holding the worst thoughts back was so exhausting, it was a relief of sorts to give up and let them in.
I hurried back down the deck, blinded by the sun, burning in the heat, gasping in the warm air. Trying to find a way inside as images of Sarah’s death went off like light-bulb flashes in my mind.
A body falling through the night air—
I pushed past a young mother, her troupe of three children and their assortment of inflatable swimming-pool toys. Streaks of sunscreen glistened on their cheeks. A faint scent of coconut.
—dropping into dark water like a stone, lost for ever—
I clipped the shoulder of a guy close to my own age, wearing board shorts and struggling to carry two sloppy beers. He swung around towards me and shouted, ‘Hey!’
—Sarah lost for ever—
A Blue Wave crew member wearing flowers in her hair pushed a flyer into my face.
—cold, damaged and alone.
‘Why not join us tonight in the Horizon Room for a special screening of . . . sir? Are you okay, sir?’
I saw a set of double doors propped open up ahead. I ignored her and made straight for them.
Into a dim corridor I followed the flow of people. Tasted salt on my lips and, lifting a hand to them, realised that my face was wet.
When had I started crying?
I put my head down and walked faster. I just needed to get to a place where I could sit down for a second and think.
The corridor ended suddenly in a burst of light. I was on a paved garden path now, winding through lush green palms grown tall enough to bend and hang overhead. Birdsong was being piped in. I could hear the gentle trickle of an unseen water feature and, through gaps in the foliage, see the
glint of a golden, twirling carousel. When I looked above me, I saw what looked like two opposing cliff faces – cabins they were, balconies stacked side by side and row upon row – towering up all the way to the atrium’s ceiling.
I should never have come here.
If Ethan had killed Sarah, what was I supposed to do when I found him?
I dug out my phone and powered it up. It’d been off since back at the airport. Cork Airport – I couldn’t take the chance that anyone would talk me out of coming to Barcelona, because I knew they wouldn’t have to try very hard.
Now I needed someone to talk me down.
The moment the phone connected to a service it sprang to life, beeping and pinging as text messages, emails and voicemail alerts came streaming in. Ignoring them all, I went to Contacts and scrolled until I found Rose.
I spotted an empty garden bench set back from the path. While the call was connecting, I walked over and dropped into it.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Rose spat when she picked up. ‘Where the hell are you? Your parents have been losing their shit. They think you’re in a river somewhere, that you jumped off some bridge out of grief. What the hell, Adam? Didn’t we just spend a week of our lives wondering where—’
‘Rose,’ I cut in. ‘I need you to shut the fuck up for a second. Where are you right now? Are you at home?’
‘I’m in town, Mr Manners. On lunch. Where are you?’
‘Rose, I’m on the ship. The Celebrate. At the port in Barcelona. It’s getting ready to set sail.’
Silence.
Then:
‘What are you doing, Adam? Why are you there? You’re not . . . You’re not planning on doing anything stupid, are you?’
‘Rose, listen. I met a man. Found him, then met him. Peter. I read all this stuff online and then I saw that he’d been sent a passport too and now we’re here and— And Ethan! That’s his name. Cusack found out who the number belonged to, and get this: he works here. He’s on the ship. Right now. The man who’ – my voice began to waver – ‘killed her, Rose. Who killed her. Oh, God. What if he did? What if she’s dead? What am I going to do?’
The silence was longer this time.
‘Adam, you listen to me,’ Rose said. ‘Where are you right now? Are you sitting down? Are you alone?’
‘I’m on a bench . . . Yeah, alone.’
‘Okay. Start at the beginning. Go slow. Who is the man you’re talking about? This Peter guy?’
I took Rose through the events of the last few days: remembering the comment about the Fiesta, Googling cruise ship crimes, finding out about Estelle, contacting Peter, him telling me that he had received a passport and a note too. An identical note, save for the initial. I told her about Cusack giving me Ethan Eckhart’s name and the fact that he was working here, on the ship. Peter’s theory about Ethan. Our plan to search the ship until we found him.
‘And then what?’ Rose asked. ‘What will you do then?’
‘I came here because I thought he could fill in more blanks,’ I said. ‘Move the timeline along. Tell me where Sarah was going when she left him, go there then. But now . . . Now I don’t really know.’
‘You need to come home,’ Rose said. ‘Now.’
‘But it’s the only explanation that makes any sense.’
‘It’s not an explanation at all. It’s only speculation. The baseless kind. This is real life, Adam. Not one of your screenplays or, you know, a movie that’s actually been made. Do you know how rare serial killers are? How few of them are out there?’
‘Jesus, Rose, we’re not talking about Ted Bundy. We’re talking about a man who’s seen the opportunity to kill two women and get away with it, and has taken it. Maybe he has killed other women, I don’t know...’
‘But how could anyone kill anyone, anywhere, and have no one at all do anything about it? How could that even happen? Think about it.’
‘That’s just it, Rose. It does happen. Maritime law screws the investigations up. The cruise ship companies don’t want anyone to know what’s really going on so they pay people off and keep it quiet. And he knows what he’s doing, Rose, this guy. Ethan. We wouldn’t even know about him if I hadn’t found that phone bill in Sarah’s desk drawer. She didn’t tell you any details. We didn’t even know his name, for God’s sake.’
‘But that’s just it. Sarah was with him. She liked him. Was attracted to him. Trusted him enough to go away on a trip with him. Are you saying that she would’ve fallen for a murderer? I know love is blind and all that, but I think she might have noticed.’
‘This isn’t a fucking joke, Rose. Why are you being like this?’
‘Like what? Realistic?’
‘Like a bitch.’ I regretted it before I’d even made the ‘T’ sound. ‘Sorry, Rose. Look—’
‘I’m only trying to help you,’ she said quietly.
‘I’m sorry. I know.’
‘Do you know what you sound like? I hate to say this to you, Adam, but a conspiracy theorist. One of those guys who think man never landed on the moon and that 9/11 was an inside job. I think you’ve been taken in by this guy, and I don’t blame you. You’re dealing with a lot right now. There’s people who prey on the vulnerable. That’s why religious cults have a disproportionately high rate of members who have lost a spouse or a family member.’
‘Where are you getting all this from?’
‘I believe they’re called books.’
‘Rose, I’m just trying to find out what happened to Sarah.’
‘And I’m just trying to stop something from happening to you.’
‘Don’t you want answers?’
‘Of course I do, but am I going to get them from this random guy you met online? What about her reading the WhatsApp message? What about the note? How does that fit into Peter’s theory? You said the handwriting on it was definitely Sarah’s, and I agree.’
‘Ethan must have forced them to write them. Maybe at knifepoint. Then he addressed the envelope – that’s why the writing is different – and posted it after he killed her.’
Rose asked me then when I’d last slept. I ignored the question.
‘It couldn’t be a coincidence?’ she asked.
‘Don’t even mention that word, Rose.’
‘Okay, fine. Well, not to fan the flames of crazy, but let’s pretend for a second that this Peter guy is right. What are you going to do now?’
‘Find Ethan.’
‘And?’
‘And then figure it out. I don’t know. Get him to confess. Trick him into doing it. Or find evidence against him. Maybe he . . . He could have something of hers. Get more information to go back to the Gardaí with, I suppose.’
‘But you said the Gardaí have no jurisdiction.’
‘Whoever then!’ I said, frustrated.
Rose sighed, long and loud, down the line.
‘You were there,’ I said. ‘In that room with Louise. You heard her outside afterwards. There is something going on, Rose. And everything Peter says, it fits.’
‘Well, if Psycho Peter says it . . .’
‘Rose, he lost his wife.’
A pause.
‘Right. Sorry.’
‘This is all I can do,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it? I mean, what else is there? I can get off the ship and go home and – what? Sit and wait? Wait for what? Wait for how long? How long is enough? How am I going to wait?’
‘We’ll figure it— Adam, I hear Moorsey at the door. Why don’t you talk to him? Maybe he can—’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s okay. Tell him I’m okay. But I have to do this. We’re about to set sail.’
‘Adam, no.’
‘Listen, write this down somewhere. Peter’s last name is Brazier. His wife was Estelle. She disappeared last August. You can look up the details online. Tell my parents and Jack and Maureen that I’v
e just come to Barcelona to look around or something. To check the hotel. Don’t mention anything about me going on the cruise ship, okay? Or the stuff I just told you. They’ve enough to be worrying about right now. And no point giving them any news until we’re a hundred per cent sure.’
‘Will you please just listen to me for a second? This isn’t a good—’
‘I don’t know if there’ll be wi-fi at sea but I’ve seen signs here for internet cafes. I’ll check my email when I can but my phone probably won’t work. We’ll be in Nice tomorrow and back in Barcelona Thursday morning. In the meantime, you and Moorsey, maybe you can try to find out as much as you can about Ethan. Last name Eckhart.’ I spelled it for her. ‘Cusack found him on a website for cruise ship workers so I bet there’s loads more out there. Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn. Have a search. Email me anything you find.’
‘Adam, please just—’
‘This is all my fault, Rose. I should’ve realised something was badly wrong sooner. Not just after she left but before it. When she was . . . When she was falling for him. There were signs, I realise that now. She was done. She was fed up. I’d had my finger on the pause button for long enough. She didn’t want to wait any more.’
‘Adam, it’s not—’
‘So I have to be there for her now. Be what she needs.’ More tears were coming; I needed to get off the line. ‘Please understand.’
I ended the call.
While I recomposed myself, I scrolled through my recent calls list. There were seven missed calls from Dan.
I took a deep breath and hit Return.
‘Oh, so you’re not dead?’ he said when he picked up. ‘I’m so glad, because—’
‘Dan,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘I’m going to talk now and you’re going to listen and this time I don’t care what you have to say, okay? My girlfriend is missing. I haven’t heard from her in over a week. She was supposed to be on a business trip in Barcelona but I’ve traced her to a cruise ship off the coast of France, and I just met a man who thinks she might have been murdered. I’m on the ship now and I’m going to find him, the murderer. The cruise is for three nights, four days, and it leaves in less than half an hour. Obviously finishing the rewrites is not on my list of priorities right now and, since I pay you, I’m not interested in hearing your thoughts on that. I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about my career. All I ever really cared about was this girl, about being with her, about sharing my life with her. Now I don’t know where she is, or how she is. If she’s even alive. I have to find out what happened to her, and I will. First. If the studio is unhappy about this, their options are to fuck off or wait longer. You can tell them that from me. When all this is over – if it ever is – I will call you and tell you that I’m ready. You don’t call me. Are we clear?’
Distress Signals Page 19