Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Not, the …? I’d build her anything. Does she want a yellow brick road?’

  ‘With difficulty,’ I said. ‘That one’s been dead many years.’

  ‘True.’ Sam’s eyes twinkled over his spectacles. ‘A momentary mistake on my part, on hearing such a famous name. She was a real star.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me about the unscheduled passengers who came aboard at midnight with a small beaten-up rowing boat? I recognized the blast for dead slow ahead. We came to a stop to pick them up.’

  ‘Some unscheduled who? Where did you get this rigmarole from? I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  The Berlin Wall again. He was not going to tell me anything.

  I was still hungry, but I was not going to succumb to a croissant in front of this annoying man. Biscuits were stockpiled in my cabin as Ahmed also didn’t think I ate enough. But biscuits did nothing for me. I fed them to the seagulls. They weren’t fussy if they were past their sell-by date.

  ‘Give me a ring if you’re going ashore,’ he said, nonchalantly, folding mushrooms into a rasher of bacon as if he was operating. ‘We could have a coffee.’

  ‘I might need counselling by then. Juliet balcony to fix.’

  ‘I could do that, too. The counselling, I mean.’

  Our gorgeous doctor was a poppet as well as being far too handsome for his own good. But I didn’t want him in my life. I didn’t want anyone. I was a cool cat who roamed the roofs on her own. Isn’t that a line from some film?

  Miss Juliet minus a balcony was waiting in my office before I had even wiped the juice off my mouth. She was frocked up in mauve taffeta and black tights, despite the rising temperature.

  ‘You take your time,’ she said, tapping my desk.

  I could see I was in for trouble. I put on my most soothing face. ‘Sit down, Miss Garllund and let’s sort this out. I understand you want a balcony?’

  ‘Yes, a Juliet balcony, for one of my songs.’

  ‘A whole balcony for one song?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You do understand that this is a ship?’ I could get the sack for this. At Head Office, it’s called insolence. ‘We don’t carry an excess of wood or ironwork, or a crew of set-builders. Barcelona probably doesn’t have an IKEA store where we could buy a kit.’

  ‘This song requires an extra dimension.’

  ‘Perhaps you could sing a different song?’

  Her halo of frizzled fair hair began to wobble. She was beginning to lose her composure. Oh dear, I’d wondered if this could be the foreseen trouble, and now I was seeing real trouble, charging straight ahead for me like the headless killer in Sleepy Hollow. It would have been interesting, if it hadn’t been so frightening.

  No Johnny Depp on horseback to rescue me. More’s the pity.

  ‘I won’t be treated like this,’ she said in a shrill voice. ‘I have my show, which people have loved all over the world. They expect this song. It’s my signature tune.’

  What signature tune? Pardon me, I’d never heard of it.

  ‘Would a rope balcony do?’ We could do rope. Plenty of rope aboard.

  No, apparently rope would not do. Miss Garllund ranted for a full five minutes till we were both exhausted. I’d have built her the Taj Mahal by then to get her out of my office. Lee put a coffee in front of me.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said, defeated.

  ‘I want it by my first rehearsal,’ she said, flouncing out.

  Lee looked at me with sympathy and admiration.

  ‘White flag time,’ I said, gulping the coffee. It went down like a flush of champagne. But the effervescence didn’t last long. My taste buds shrivelled. ‘This is awful coffee,’ I added.

  ‘Sorry. The machine is on the blink.’

  ‘Get it fixed.’ I immediately regretted those abrupt words. ‘I mean, will you please phone maintenance and get them to fix it.’

  ‘No problem. I knew what you meant.’

  This easy-going Lee was on my wavelength. It was a relief and I sent him a grin of thanks. ‘By the way, that dead rat,’ he said.

  ‘So you know about the rat too.’

  ‘Everyone knows about the rat. I think it had been dead for several days. It therefore follows that someone kept it in a refrigerator.’

  I shuddered. The thought put me off eating anything that had been anywhere near refrigeration.

  ‘Have you told Richard Norton this possibility?’ I was not one for stealing other people’s bright ideas. ‘Give him a ring.’

  ‘OK. I’ll add private investigator to my CV.’

  ‘You do that. I’m just about to add set-builder.’

  The Juliet balcony was impossible. We were not geared up for sudden artistic demands. Scenery was always minimal. Spectaculars had the odd pair of substantial pot plants, or archway, or backcloth. Drama should be in the imagination. I doubted if I could persuade Miss Garllund to sing on an imaginary balcony.

  I was still thinking about what I had witnessed on deck. Where were these extra passengers now? Were they mingling with the passengers or were they under guard? And what were they doing, out in the Atlantic Ocean, in something the size of a seaside dingy?

  ‘So when are you going to tell me about these extra passengers we’ve taken on board?’ I asked Richard Norton, catching up with him on deck. He pretended not to understand.

  ‘Extra passengers? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘They came aboard in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Tut-tut. You’ve been dreaming again.’

  Richard was toweringly tall, and his stride was difficult to keep up with. He didn’t stop walking, trying to shake me off like an irritating kitten that was clinging to his heels. This was not like Richard, though of course I had given him the push off last cruise. Some men harbour a grievance for months.

  ‘Someone has got to tell me,’ I said, clutching his sleeve and stopping at the same time. He was brought to a sudden halt. ‘What happened?’

  He turned abruptly. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘Don’t do what? Try to have a civilized conversation with you? Try to get some information? How can I do my job if I don’t know what’s going on? Passengers stop me and ask things. Do you want me to look like a proper moron?’

  He looked a little taken aback by my onslaught. We were supposed to work as a team. I was not all couture dresses and vintage gowns.

  ‘I didn’t know you were interested,’ he said.

  Pathetic. He plummeted in my esteem. Take off the uniform and what have you got? A quivering, overweight, fleshy mass rejected from the services. This was harsh, I knew, but then I’d had a battering that morning. I was not in the mood to be gentle or forgiving. Or fair.

  ‘So how about coming clean? I’m not asking for anything that’s confidential. OK, I know we have a celebrity aboard, travelling incognito, for as long as it takes everyone to suss out who it is. But what about the survivors who were picked up out of the water in the middle of the night? Is that all hush-hush, too?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ Richard said stiffly. ‘Nothing happened in the middle of the night. You are overwrought.’

  I took him off my Christmas card list. It was the least I could do. I was not putting myself at risk for him again. I’d had enough of this prevarication.

  ‘Don’t ring me when you want a favour,’ I said, steaming. ‘I’ll run my team and you run yours, if that’s the way you want it. Of course, we are a lot brighter so we’ll get there before you have put even one foot out of bed.’

  I hurried off to find the stage crew before I really lost my cool. If Judie wanted a balcony, then perhaps they’d fix her up something round the funnel and she could sing her number from up there. It would be different.

  But I didn’t get as far as finding anyone from the stage crew. There was a crowd of passengers clustered round the shop window of the Bond Street salon which was always closed when the ship was in port. Surely the fash
ion model was not that exciting? They had some nice sports gear and evening clothes, but definitely mature cruise styles.

  ‘Miss Jones. Can you do something about this?’ Professor Theo Papados, the lecturer, turned to me. I wondered why he wasn’t on shore. Lecturers usually liked to wander around, picking up information. ‘It’s not funny.’

  I pushed my way through the crowd, wondering why I had to sort out everything. For a moment I couldn’t see what was causing the disturbance. The model was wearing vintage Chanel, that wonderful stylized black and gold camellia dress, similar to the one Miss Ember had been wearing two evenings ago. Similar? But it had to be the same dress, down to the last detail. Chanel would not have made two gowns exactly the same. This was Miss Ember’s own dress, on the model, in the shop window.

  But what made it really scary was that a blown-up photograph of Miss Ember’s face was pasted over the model’s oblique features. It was a grotesque parody.

  ‘Just a joke, I’m sure,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ll get the manager to remove it.’

  If I could find Derek Ripon, the manager of the shop. He’d probably gone ashore by now. It was a day off for him and his staff, unless there was major stocktaking to do.

  But it wasn’t only the dress or the photograph that were causing consternation among the passengers. I followed their downward gaze. The model was standing in a pool of blood, her pointy toes dripping.

  Shop models don’t normally bleed. They are without soul or arteries.

  Seven

  Barcelona

  It was move quickly time. Priority: move the evidence. Priority: photograph the evidence. Priority: return evidence before it was missed. All at the same time. I wasn’t sure why I needed the gruesome model photographed. Perhaps because I thought no one would believe me.

  Professor Papados was still standing there, apparently mesmerized. Maybe it reminded him of some Greek myth.

  ‘Professor Papados,’ I said. ‘Could you do me a favour? Do you have a digital camera? Could you take a photo of this shop window, now, as it is with the model?’

  ‘I can do better,’ he said, coming to life. ‘I have a mobile phone which takes photographs. The days of the Brownie are over.’

  ‘And you can get a print from the mobile?’

  ‘Of course. If you’ll let me use a computer. It’ll be in your hands by tomorrow,’ he promised. He seemed quite pleased to be doing something. Most of our lecturers mixed well. Perhaps he was shy and was now thawing.

  ‘Thank you. I’m really grateful.’

  The Professor went into Lord Snowdon mode and was taking photos from all angles. Memo to self: do not make fun of Professor Papados, ever again. He was a good egg, or some dish similar.

  I found a member of staff who could open up the shop which was a miracle. We put up window drapes and removed the offending model. It was definitely Miss Ember’s dress. It was still wearing her perfume and some of the flowers were crushed where she had sat on them, The bodice and waist had been pinned back so that it fitted the size zero figure of the model.

  I examined the dress carefully and was pleased to find there was no damage, no cuts or splodges of blood. After all, it was vintage. It ought to be in a fashion museum.

  Before the cleaner came to wipe the floor, I scooped up a sample of the blood into a screw-top jar lifted from the beauty counter. They always had empty ones on display. The head of the model came off and I put the head in a carrier bag. Please, nobody trip me up and have hysterics, start screaming, bring security running. If security could run.

  Another investigation for the ship’s doctor.

  ‘More blood?’ he would say, raising those dark eyebrows. ‘Really, Casey, this is becoming obsessive.’

  But first, the Juliet balcony. The stage carpenters were not enthusiastic. They agreed to provide a low platform from stock, which Judie could stand on. They also had a plywood lattice archway from an old show which would frame the singer. But build a balcony?

  ‘Can’t be done, Miss Jones. Not enough time. No spare timber,’ they said, as if they were being asked to build a house.

  ‘It hasn’t got to be substantial,’ I said. ‘It’s only for a song. How about ropes, garlanded with flowers? Would she know the difference if they were well disguised?’

  They agreed to ropes and flowers. I would have to buy them several rounds. Ropes and flowers were thirsty work.

  My few hours ashore were slipping further away. I wouldn’t even have time to dash to the nearest market. I love open-air markets, all the fascinating sights and smells. My souvenirs were always bought from ramshackle stalls, made locally. I’m a market groupie.

  ‘Miss Jones. You’re still on-board?’ Samuel Mallory was obviously about to go ashore. He was in those sharp black jeans again, white T-shirt, Armani jacket. Señoritas of all ages would swoon at his feet. He was irresistible. I couldn’t vouch for the señoras. Draw a black lace mantilla.

  ‘Busy morning,’ I said. ‘Sorry, more blood for you.’

  He read the label on the jar. ‘Lancome Hydra Zen, Neurocalm. How interesting. Is this a new species?’

  ‘It’s a sample of blood.’

  ‘Another shower?’

  ‘Shop window.’

  ‘And what have you got in that carrier bag which you have clutched to your bosom?’

  ‘It’s a head.’

  He nodded sagely. ‘I thought it was. Do you want me to take that from you as well? I’ll put it somewhere for safe-keeping. You don’t look too happy, carrying it around.’

  ‘I need to think about what to do with it,’ I said vaguely.

  ‘I understand. Heads are always a problem. Especially unattached heads.’

  ‘Don’t laugh at me. It’s a headache.’

  ‘Unattached heads are always a headache.’

  He was laughing at me now, quite openly. I went to walk away, get on with my work, but he caught my arm firmly. ‘I prescribe a walk on shore, Casey. Get your feet on dry land, take five. Doctor’s orders.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘How about a walk on Roman remains? We could walk the line of the walls, gates, ramparts and temples? Look at a few chunks of stone?’

  ‘You know I would love that, but I don’t have enough time. You can’t even tempt me with the Shoe Museum or the Chocolate Museum.’

  ‘Pity. I fancy the Chocolate Museum.’

  So that’s how I came to be walking along the wide sea promenade of Barcelona, skirting the squares, the statues, the grand monuments to every explorer who had ever left those shores. I only had time to grab a hat, sunglasses, crew card and some money from my cabin. It was going to be a short visit, but Sam was right. A break would refresh me. Get my thoughts straight.

  He was an easy companion, talking trivia, anything except heads and blood. He was amused by the Juliet balcony, made several suggestions, all totally useless, but fun. His imagination let rip. ‘How about a rocking balcony made from a hammock?’

  ‘I’ll run it past her.’

  ‘One of the passengers this morning asked me if I was qualified,’ he said.

  I hid a smile. We get a lot of funny remarks. A passenger once asked me who was steering the ship when the captain was at his cocktail party. ‘So, what did you say?’

  ‘I said I was practising.’

  We broke into silly giggles. I had to sit on a wall to stop myself falling down. I waved my hat in front of my face to create a breeze. It was getting hot. The sun was like a furnace. There were going to be a few red faces this evening.

  ‘Have you time for a quick coffee before I walk you back to the ship?’ said Sam.

  ‘Yes, a quick one. But I can walk myself back. She’s over there.’ The white upper decks of the Countess were visible among all the other ships in the harbour. I only had to point myself in the right direction.

  We sat at a small street cafe, under a striped shade, watching the world pass by, drinking big cups of good coffee. A small plate of snacks appeared, mouthfuls of
sweet and spicy things, some made of honey and coconut. Some tiny blown birds, species unknown, hopped about on the pavement for crumbs. Their wing feathers flapped, gathering in cooler air.

  I found myself telling Samuel about the new style of window dressing in the Bond Street salon. He didn’t interrupt until I had finished. He looked thoughtful.

  ‘It appears that someone has it in for Miss Ember,’ he said. ‘I wonder who it can be and why. She seems a reasonable lady.’

  ‘She’s not the easiest person to get on with. Although our amiable Mrs Fairweather seems to be coping. They were still talking this morning.’

  ‘Mrs Fairweather could get on with a boa constrictor. She sees the best in everyone. She thinks you’re wonderful.’

  I nearly choked on my coffee. ‘Well, I am wonderful,’ I agreed, dabbing my mouth. ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘So this is the blood that you want me to test. I stored it in a refrigerator in my surgery while you fetched your hat. I also took a quick peek at the head in case it needed to go into the currently empty morgue. I’ll get it photographed for you and let you have it back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, humbly. ‘I don’t know what to make of it.’

  ‘Has the dress been returned to Miss Ember’s stateroom?’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t think there was any point in keeping it. No clues or anything. It isn’t as if a crime was committed and we needed forensic tests for debris or hairs.’

  My forensics were a bit elementary. I knew they could discover amazing things, but from vintage material? It would be loaded with years of trace elements.

  ‘Will her steward be in trouble?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I’ve arranged for the head steward, Karim, to replace Nicky with someone else, just for this cruise. It seemed sensible. Let it all calm down. It probably wasn’t his fault. Nicky couldn’t be expected to guard the stateroom night and day.’

  ‘But Miss Ember would expect it. She’ll expect the earth, moon and skies now,’ said Sam. ‘She’ll demand the royal touch.’

  ‘Do you think she needs to be told? Couldn’t we keep it from her? She hasn’t returned to the ship yet and all the evidence has been removed. There are only the photographs taken by the good professor.’