Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  Dead Slow Ahead

  Stella Whitelaw

  © Stella Whitelaw 2008

  Stella Whitelaw has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2008 by Severn House Publishers, Ltd.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  To Jeanne Newman of Epsom, a long-time fan of Jordan Lacey, who tracked me down like a true-born PI

  Many thanks to the ever patient staff of both Oxted and Worthing libraries who never fail to find answers to the strangest queries. To Nigel also, who glued together the perfect map.

  To Fran and Neil Reynolds who recently produced and choreographed Copacabana and still found time to steer me in the right direction. And thanks to Dr David Thomas for medical advice despite working long hours in Australia. The wonders of email.

  Lastly, I sincerely thank my excellent editor, Anna Telfer, for her enthusiasm, hard work and helpful comments.

  As always, any nautical errors are entirely mine. Throw me a lifebelt, please.

  Table of Contents

  One -

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

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  Casey’s Ten Commandments

  Always listen sympathetically

  Always listen with patience

  Never look bored

  Never discuss politics or religion

  Never mention illness

  Never ask personal questions — even if the passenger offers answers

  Never boast — exude authority and confidence

  Always be tidy

  Always be sober

  Smile

  One

  Southampton

  The train from Worthing to Southampton shunted along the line like a nervous beginner at a cha-cha-cha class. It was already half an hour late and I was due back aboard the MV Countess Georgina by lunch time. I’d picked up a smudge on my sleeve and that was enough to have me biting my nails.

  I stared out of the window, taking slow, deep breaths, watching cud-chewing cows sauntering about rain-sodden fields. They were moving faster than the train.

  The reasons for the delay were relayed to passengers in what could have been a foreign language. It could have been leaves on the line, snow, frozen points, signal failure, damaged rolling stock or a wildcat strike. When the guard had finished his announcement, we were none the wiser.

  ‘Why do we keep stopping?’ a little old lady asked me. People always thought I knew the answer to everything. Keep calm, Casey.

  ‘Trouble with the signals,’ I said with a serene smile. She was reassured.

  It would be my own fault if I was late. Six hours ashore seemed enough time to get to my flat in Worthing and back. My optimism was limitless. All I’d gone for was to water my plants and remind myself that I had a base on terra firma and was not doomed to sail the seven seas forever like the Ancient Mariner.

  Normally my time calculations are faultless. My working day is ruled by the clock. Every event is regulated by those hands, tick-tocking time away. Six hours was ample time to water a few plants, check the flat for wildlife, shuffle mail.

  I could smell the sea, salty and fresh. We were nearly there.

  I shot out of Southampton Central station and fell into a taxi. Passengers would be arriving by now in their masses, with mountains of luggage, living out the pre-holiday travel hell.

  ‘Conway Blue Line docks, please,’ I said.

  ‘Lucky you,’ said the taxi driver. ‘Wish I was going on a cruise.’

  ‘Do I look like a passenger?’ This was off-duty me, low-key in jeans, T-shirt, denim jacket and smudge. A thousand sea miles away from the posh as paint entertainments director who sashayed round the decks all hours, 24/7. How I hate that tabloid phrase. Say all day and every day.

  *

  It was time to cast off. I felt a tremor of apprehension, almost fear, strike at my heart. My second cruise on the MV Countess Georgina was about to begin. Calm down, Casey, nothing’s going to happen this time. The brass band was assembling on the quayside to play us away. Flags were snapping in the breeze. Passengers were leaning over the rails to wave goodbye to their friends.

  ‘Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad.’

  ‘Have a wonderful time!’

  The elegant white ship never failed to fascinate me, with her clean lines, sweeping bow and striking blue funnel. She was beautiful. I hoped this Mediterranean cruise would not be as eventful as my first.

  No more unexpected deaths and men overboard, please. I wanted the quiet life. Nothing more exciting than a new deputy entertainments director to ease into the team with me. The previous one was now safely behind bars, in custody, probably losing weight, courtesy of HM Prison Service. Susan Brook ought to be grateful, send me a thank you card.

  It was a great job and satisfied my innate yearning for the sea, that cool blue expanse, the raging waves, the troughs of iridescence. My birth sign was Cancer. I was a sea-groupie, without the fins.

  ‘Did you enjoy your shore leave, Miss Jones?’ asked one of the immaculate officers as I went up the gangway, crew card in hand.

  ‘Leave? It was six hours,’ I said. ‘I spent most of it sitting on a train.’

  This time, arriving on-board, I didn’t get lost. I knew my way to cabin 414 E Deck on autopilot, threw myself on the bed. It had been a rush. I’d brought a bag full of mail back with me. I could hardly open the door to my flat in Worthing for the accumulated junk mail. Junk is killing the environment.

  Now it was time for blue sky thinking. The days ahead were for the passengers, making this the cruise of a lifetime for them, solving everyone’s problems. Don’t bother about mine. Put them on a back burner.

  Passengers were wandering about, mostly lost. Inside the Countess was a bewildering place, so many decks, so many corridors, going in all directions. Don’t mention starboard and port, aft and stem. It was a wonder anyone ever found the way back to their cabin. It took days to sort out the decks.

  I remembered hearing a story about a passenger who had Alzheimer’s and was lost on board for several days. His wife was apparently happy to have some time to herself. I don’t know if it was true. It sounds true. He was found eating with the crew.

  Ahmed, my cabin steward, had already refilled the refrigerator in my cabin with bottles of water. As entertainments director I talk a lot, get a dry throat and drink a lot. Mostly mineral water. Champagne is off limits when your working day stretches into the night hours.

  I’m rarely off duty, nor is Dr Samuel Mallory, or Sam as he now insists that I call him. He says it’s more streetwise. He hasn’t a clue. The man is dishy, dark and Grade A gorgeous. He doesn’t need a gimmick. He could be called Horatio Augustus and women would still swoon at his knees. Not me. From now on I’m not the swooning type.

  He’s in charge of our medical centre. He had a few hou
rs off duty today as well, as passengers came aboard with their luggage and viruses. He may have spent it touring the delights of Southampton. It does have historic spots. Ancient walls and towers, though, search me, I’ve never spotted many. I did find the West Quay where the Pilgrim Fathers set sail for the Americas in their tiny ship Mayflower. In 1620, I think. Quite long ago. They must have been off their rockers.

  This was a different cruise to the last one I worked, which had sailed the Caribbean and Mexican Riviera. The winter was on its way out and cruises were now aimed towards shorter holidays in the Mediterranean. All those hot, sultry days on deck and fabulous ports of call. Slosh on the factor thirty-five.

  It was going to be three weeks of hard labour. I knew it. I could feel it in my bones. It was no holiday for me even though I loved my few hours ashore and my snatched moments leaning over a rail, watching the tumbling wake, looking for dolphins, enjoying a glorious sunset.

  There was this feeling. I had a twitchy feeling. This was going to be no ordinary cruise. But no two cruises were ever the same. Different people did different things. But the problems remained the same.

  ‘Casey? Come aboard safely? No leaping on from a pilot’s launch?’

  Dr Samuel Mallory was never going to let me forget a previous, somewhat impromptu arrival. The infuriating man stood at my side, a knowing smile on his tanned face, his silvery-grey eyes glinting behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Thank you for reminding me, Dr Mallory. As you can see, I am here in one piece and ready to start work. As soon as our entertainers have all arrived, I shall be in my office, signing them in, checking documents, allocating cabins and listening to endless lists of requests. I was going to say demands, but they are not all like Estelle Grayson.’

  ‘Has she left us?’

  ‘Yes, she has a contract on another ship in ten days. Just time to get her stage costumes dry-cleaned. But Joe Dornoch seems to have vanished. How about that? He was a fast runner. He was off the moment we docked. So her dreams of a mini honeymoon seem to have vanished too.’

  ‘Very sad,’ said Samuel Mallory. But he didn’t sound at all sincere. He thought Joe, our talented lounge pianist, had had a lucky escape from Estelle, a prima-donna, has-been singer. ‘Maybe they’ll meet again, on another cruise.’ He almost sang the phrase.

  ‘That’s quite possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a lot to do.’

  ‘No time for a sail-away glass of champagne on deck, then?’ he asked. The stewards and stewardesses were already circulating with trays of bubbly. The passengers would soon find out that they were not free. They used to be but times are hard for the shareholders of Conway Blue Line.

  ‘Sorry. Work calls. No doubt you’ll soon find a lonely woman passenger, several in fact, only too happy to share their first cruise nerves with our gorgeous doctor.’

  ‘No doubt I shall. My first concern will be to put her worries at rest and give her advice about the Bay of Biscay.’

  ‘May all your concerns be little ones.’

  ‘None of those on board, I hope.’

  The Countess was a child-free ship. No passengers under sixteen. Not for us crèches and junior clubs and non-stop teenage activities. Not for us early suppers and cabin-sitters and washing machines daily churning out mountains of clean clothes. Or endless treasure hunts and discos and fancy dress parties.

  But in every other respect the passengers of the Countess were like a small village. We had our share of births, deaths and love affairs. Occasionally a female passenger carrying a baby bump gave us a surprise. And death was always around, and not always among the elderly. Romance was often a bonus among the older passengers. But there were always more women than men, so nothing was guaranteed with the purchase of a ticket.

  ‘This feels so strange,’ said a woman passenger standing next to me, holding her glass of champagne. ‘It doesn’t feel like a ship. She’s so steady.’

  ‘It’s more like an isolated village, Brigadoon, miles from the nearest land for days at a time,’ I said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ It was then that the crew were stretched, keeping everyone happy, well-fed, fit, comfortable and entertained.

  Keeping the passengers entertained was my responsibility. I coordinated arrangements for all the shows, cabarets, lectures, classes and demonstrations. It was non-stop, not only for the passengers but also for the entertainers. I had to keep them in a good humour as well. Like knitting with barbed wire. The odd difficult diva came on board, not mentioning any names. The real stars, even fading ones, were always easy to get along with.

  ‘But the Bay of Biscay may be a little different,’ I went on. ‘You’ll feel some movement of the ship then. The Countess has excellent stabilizers but sometimes there’s bad weather.’

  ‘I’ve some pills,’ she said. ‘I shall take them and come up on deck.’

  ‘Well done. Fresh air always helps and you’ve come prepared. I’m Casey Jones, your entertainments director. Do come and talk to me, any time.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m Lucinda Ember.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Ember.’

  A small piece of fuel in a dying fire. Her name gave me an unexpected shiver. I hoped it was not a premonition. I did not want to be intuitive or perceptive. Let me stay sane and ordinary. I’ve only enough energy for ordinary.

  No streamers these days. Forget the black and white films of ships leaving Southampton, festooned with streamers. The council doesn’t think they are environmentally friendly. Throw a smile instead.

  My deputy arrived. It was a remarkable surprise. I had been given the name of Lesley Williams. But it was Leslie Williams, five foot ten of cool male in slim, belted jeans and open-necked white shirt. I must tell him about jeans. We are not allowed to wear them on duty.

  ‘Am I a surprise?’ he asked, as if it often happened. He had a deep voice with an interesting accent. A touch of Cornwall? He was going to be a hit. I knew it already. The ladies would love him. He sounded caring, considerate but somehow vaguely sad. In a flash, I knew we would get on. You know how it is.

  ‘I don’t care what sex you are, as long as you are part of this team,’ I said. ‘We have a lot to do, every day. Have you found your cabin yet?’

  ‘No, I’m still lost.’

  ‘OK if you stay lost for another hour? I’ve a lot to explain to you.’

  ‘Fire away, boss lady. I’m listening.’

  I liked him. He had short brown hair and clear blue eyes. I had not read his documents yet so I knew only a little about him. But funny how you can look at a person and know that you can trust them.

  ‘So do I call you Leslie? Or Les?’ Les didn’t sound right. A bit like a dodgy car dealer.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I prefer Lee. My mother had a fixation on Gone with the Wind, and named me after an actor called Leslie Howard who was in the film.’

  ‘He got killed during the war, didn’t he?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. Before my time.’

  ‘Then, Lee it is. I’m Casey Jones.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. And Casey actually stands for K.C?’

  ‘Yes, Katherine Cordelia. You’ve done your homework.’

  We sat down and I took Lee through the routine of the day. He had already worked on another cruise ship as part of the team but this was his first deputy post. He was going to fit like a second glove.

  Before I had finished the bells went off and it was muster time for the lifeboat drill. Everyone was supposed to take part, go to their muster stations with their life jackets. Some didn’t bother. They stayed in the bars. I was in charge of the Galaxy Lounge area this cruise. Passengers shambled in, dragging their life jackets, half on or half off, straps all over the place, tripping over them. No wonder we had to have a practice.

  I went through the drill for putting them on, strapping tight, which bit does what. Don’t blow the whistles, please. God help them if we ever had a disaster. No one was really listening. One or two looked anxious-eyed and tested everything
that I said. Lee was good, explaining with patience.

  We went round, checking straps. Some passengers had their lifejackets on back to front. It was Laurel and Hardy without the cinema organ.

  It was the best we could do. We had gone through the motions as required by the law. But how many would ever remember? It would be panic stations if we hit an iceberg.

  Still, this was a Mediterranean cruise. No icebergs in the Med unless a melting one floated south. So to hell with the lifejacket. Put it back in the wardrobe. Let’s get ready for dinner. Pass me a black tie, mother.

  *

  I stood at the entrance to the Windsor Dining Room, greeting diners as they arrived. What was I wearing? Anyone really interested? I’d thrown myself into a fabulous Schiaparelli dress bought from a vintage shop in south London. Yellow and black stripes, with a tight pleated black bodice. It was amazing, like a bee on legs. But I didn’t wear it often, not a favourite. I had to be in the mood and tonight I needed to be memorable. The skirt was long enough to cover kitten-heeled shoes. Break-your-neck heels are for the dancers.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Casey Jones. Your entertainments director on the Countess. Have a lovely cruise.’

  They had no idea who I was or what I did. They pretended they understood. But it didn’t matter. They would soon find out as I circulated the decks every day. Word would spread. The right words, I hoped.

  ‘Ah, Miss Jones. We meet again. I expect you’ve been very busy, getting all your entertainers aboard.’

  It was Lucinda Ember. She was wearing a camellia couture dress by Chanel. It was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. Big, overblown camellias in gold, then more in black, rising to a scooped-out neckline. Long sleeves in black chiffon belled into more gold flowers.

  I had to catch my breath. It was stunning. Where had she got it from? How much had it cost? It would have been mind-blowing.

  Something about her still gave me the shivers. And that dress. The dress was beautiful but I could not help shuddering. The iconic camellias were somehow depressing, showing a darker side of the famous designer. I would never wear it.

  Lucinda Ember was also wearing a lavish Byzantine necklace. It was Turkish, but I could not tell whether it was genuine or a reproduction.