Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘Just give us the bottle now,’ jeered another team leader.

  In the quiet little room I began marking the answer sheets. They were a clever bunch. Outside the dark sea was rushing by, and through the glass I could see stars shooting about all over the place.

  My spine froze with fear. Someone was staring at me through the glass. It was no more than a glimpse of a shape. It could have been a man or a woman.

  Ten

  St Tropez

  Passengers thought they would be bumping into movie stars and celebrities on every street corner of St Tropez … Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Sienna Miller, Robbie Williams and Geri Halliwell. But they were going to be disappointed. The stars kept away from this crowded, noisy, traffic-throttled French harbour town and departed to their villas along the coast or hidden in the hills.

  The narrow streets were crowded with tourists and locals. It was almost impossible to walk on the pavements. Powerful, fume-belching motorbikes and scooters roared round the harbour road, scattering pedestrians. The harbour was packed with a clutter of rattling masts, huge white luxury yachts and floating gin palaces.

  I knew what it was like. I’d been there before. If I didn’t have Miss Ember’s dry-cleaning, I would not have gone ashore. The Countess was too big to come into port and was anchored half a mile out at sea, north-west of the harbour. The wind was variable, force two.

  There was a continuous tender service taking passengers from ship to shore, but it was not an easy manoeuvre for crew or passengers. The Countess was besieged, port and starboard, by flotillas of noisy motor boats and speedboats coming out to stare at us and take photographs. They created a huge swell and the landing platform, hung and secured to the side of the ship, was rocking and banging. It made stepping on to the tender a scary work of art.

  Burly crew members, used to timing the step aboard, helped passengers make that step across an ever-changing swirling gap of choppy sea. The elderly and the lame were game for the leap but not agile enough. Many of them gave up and decided to spend the day on board, rather than be fished out of the water.

  Several of the tenders stood guard at sea, trying to dissuade the pesky speedboats from approaching the ship, but the local sightseers didn’t realize or care how dangerous they were making it for everyone else. They zoomed in close, taking photographs, creating choppy waves which splashed into the tenders.

  ‘Can’t the captain do something about this?’ said Commander Trafford as he waited to go ashore. ‘He should phone the coastguards. Get them to do something about all these dratted speedboats.’

  I waited until the queue had diminished and went carefully down the swaying steps to the landing platform. I was clutching Miss Ember’s precious dress. It would be curtains for my salary if I dropped it in the water though it was probably insured.

  Two crewmen took my arms and timed my step on to the tender. I only just made it as the tender rocked away.

  ‘Thanks,’ I called out, shaken but not stirred.

  The oppressive heat hit me immediately as I stepped ashore. A burning sun was high in the sky. St Tropez was a hot and heaving mass of people. My map was useless. Some of the narrow cobblestoned streets were not named or had names hidden by advertisements. Once picturesque fishermen’s cottages had been vandalized into arty boutiques selling overpriced clothes and souvenirs. It was shops, shops, shops everywhere. Shops and cafes and amusement arcades. The old St Tropez had vanished along with its dusky pink and ochre houses.

  It was a scandal. St Tropez had once been such a delightful harbour.

  Occupation number one was jumping out of the way of taxis and scooters racing round the roads and pavements. They didn’t hesitate to mount the pavement and career through pedestrians if something was coming the other way. It was a walking nightmare. And I was suffocatingly hot, cotton trousers clinging to my skin. I longed for a swishy skirt, for air round my legs.

  The sooner I found this dry-cleaners, the better. It was at the back of the old town and I was glad to rid myself of the bulky dress bag. The assistant did not seem in awe of the vintage Chanel, but slung it on to a hanger and pushed it along a rail with a flick of her long hair. So they got a lot of Chanel.

  I paid for the vastly expensive one hour service for all three items and decided to kill time by walking round the big open-air morning market. Some of the stalls had shades. It was becoming unbearably hot in the crowd. The market was the usual mixture of cheap clothes, food and souvenirs. I gave up looking at displays of local cheeses and smoked meats and found a nearby café.

  My money had run out. I only had enough euros left for an iced lemonade. It was delicious and cooling. Soon I was sucking broken ice and cupping the coldly dewed glass in my hands. Time ticked away in the irritatingly slow way it does, when it knows it’s being watched.

  I spotted passengers combing through clothes on a Moorish style stall. They had a rail of long, loose cotton Arab kaftans which men or women could wear. My cotton trousers and T-shirt were longing for some air swishing round my legs.

  In an hour, the vague assistant had said. I went back to the dry-cleaners on the dot of twelve. I wasn’t going to risk them closing for a long lunch and endless Mediterranean siesta. The assistant took my receipt and stared at it for a long time as if it was foreign.

  ‘Pardonnez-moi, madame,’ she said, ‘but zee dress has already been collected.’

  ‘That’s not possible. I’m here now and this is the receipt. Please look again. It’s a Chanel dress, black and gold, not easily mistaken, and a black chiffon evening skirt and a pashmina.’ She tossed her long glossy hair and went behind the serving area, into the back of the shop. She was gone so long I thought she had emigrated. She returned, carrying the skirt and the pashmina in carrier bags.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said.

  ‘But where is the dress, the black and gold dress?’

  ‘The dress was collected some time ago. You take skirt and pashmina.’

  ‘But who collected them? Who was it? They didn’t have the receipt. I have the receipt.’

  She shrugged her slender shoulders and regarded her nails. ‘Je ne sais pas. I did not see them. I was getting cappuccinos.’

  It was like talking to a shop dummy.

  ‘I’d like to see the manager,’ I fumed. ‘Would you please fetch him?’

  ‘The manager has gone for zee day. He will not be back till tomorrow.’

  ‘Is there anyone else here?’

  ‘Only zee valet.’

  ‘Valet?’

  ‘He does zee cleaning.’

  So that’s what they call them these days. They valet the garments. I was getting mildly homicidal. My expression did not betray how much. No wild-eyed bull in a cleaning shop.

  ‘Perhaps I could talk to him.’

  ‘Perhaps …’ She went out back again. She was like one of those changing figures on a Swiss clock. And she took as long. A young man came out, wearing cut-off jeans and tight black T-shirt. He smelled of chemicals, the stuff they use to dry-clean. He was bronzed, very handsome.

  No wonder the girl took such a long time. He was time-consuming material.

  He grinned at me, all sparkling white teeth. ‘Zee black and gold dress, oui?’ he said in a fetching accent. ‘You wants zee dress?’

  ‘Yes, please. I want the dress. Here is the receipt.’

  ‘Zee dress ’as gone,’ he said like a magician, flicking his hands. ‘C’est tout. Voila.’

  I was losing my patience with this pair. ‘I should like to search for it myself. May I have a look round? You may have overlooked it.’

  ‘Izz not allowed,’ said the girl. ‘’Ealth and safety.’

  ‘I’m not going to blow up the place. Please describe whoever came in and collected the dress. You have given the dress to someone who did not have a receipt. That must be wrong.’ I was speaking very slowly and clearly in order not to explode with annoyance.

  ‘I was not ’ere,’ she said.

  ‘Nor was I
,’ said the young man.

  ‘It was zee manager,’ they said together.

  I could visualize terrible repercussions if I returned without the dress or a very good explanation.

  ‘Please write this down on a sheet of your headed stationery and explain that the dress has been collected by someone else and at what time it was collected.’ I said it all even more slowly and clearly.

  It still threw them. They did not understand headed stationery. They didn’t have any. They only had receipts. I made them write it down on a couple of receipts and sign and date it. By now, they were giggling together, so God knows what they were writing. It was not in English. I wished I had an instrument of torture. They deserved the stocks at least.

  I put the receipts in my shoulder bag. I’d had enough of this charade. I wanted to be gone.

  ‘Money, please,’ said the girl.

  ‘Money? What for?’ I suddenly thought they were going to charge me for the brief statement they had written.

  ‘For the skirt and the pashmina.’

  My lemonade coolness had completely evaporated by now. ‘I have already told you a million times, I have a receipt,’ I nearly yelled. ‘This is the receipt. Look at it. I have already paid. The one and only receipt for dress, skirt and pashmina.’ I waved it around. ‘You gave it to me yourself when I paid the cost, to you, in euros. Remember?’

  ‘I was not ’ere,’ she said.

  ‘Of course, you were out getting cappuccinos,’ I said nastily. ‘The receipt wrote itself. If you came down to earth for five minutes and did your job instead of snogging with Adonis here, somewhere out back, you might remember.’

  ‘My name’s Pierre,’ he said with a shrug, sending the girl a seductive look. She melted, wishing I’d get lost.

  Their English was better than they made out.

  *

  Everyone wanted to return to the ship at the same time. There was a thirty-five minute wait in the broiling heat. As a crew member, I had to let passengers go before me, even if I needed to get back to my work. There was little shade and the waterless and hatless were sitting on any wall or rock or rail. Some began arguing with the officer in charge of each tender.

  ‘Can’t you take a few more?’

  ‘Look, I was here before that woman.’

  ‘She’s waltzed up to the front of the queue.’ At least they were letting the wheelchairs on first. There was some civilized behaviour. ‘Ruined St Tropez, haven’t they?’ said an elderly couple turning to me. ‘Turned it into a playground.’

  ‘At least they rebuilt the old town in the original style, after the bombing,’ I said, taking a long drink of water. I offered them an unopened bottle but they said they had plenty.

  ‘It was badly bombed in the war, wasn’t it?’ they spoke in alternate sentences. ‘Must have been a pretty place once. It was that Brigitte Bardot film that started it all, wasn’t it? With a bit of luck, we’ll get on this launch.’

  We did. Once on board, I heard from the officer at the helm the reason for the long delay on shore.

  ‘A bit of an accident,’ he said, deftly steering the tender away from the quayside. It was bliss to feel the cooler air, though the speedboats were racing alongside us like a swarm of locusts. The swell was splashing into the cabin.

  ‘Not serious, I hope.’

  ‘It was as choppy as hell. The wash around the landing platform was making it pretty tricky. People were standing up as they always do, wanting to be the first off. The tender tossed on a big wave and half a dozen passengers fell over. One woman fell awkwardly and broke her leg. Another broke her wrist, and a lot had nasty cuts and bruises.’

  ‘How awful,’ I said. ‘A broken leg? What a way to end a holiday.’

  ‘We couldn’t get the woman with the broken leg off the tender or up the gangway, so Dr Mallory took her back to St Tropez and arranged for her admittance to a local hospital.’

  ‘I suppose she’ll be flown home, poor woman.’

  ‘It’s those bloody speedboats,’ the officer said, under his breath. ‘They ought to be prosecuted. I’d mow them down. They’ve no idea how dangerous it can be.’

  They were still buzzing round the Countess like a swarm of idiots when our tender reached the ship. We were tossing and rolling on the swell. It felt very unsafe.

  ‘Don’t stand up until I say so,’ the officer said loudly to the passengers. He was nervous, trying to look calm.

  Fortunately, there were no more accidents. Our transfers were orderly, if a bit daunting. I put my faith in the crewmen and their firm grip on my arms to see me safely across the gap. Unfortunately, it also reminded me of the last cruise when I missed the ship and had to step aboard from the pilot’s launch. Half the passengers had been leaning over the rails watching my undignified arrival.

  I said goodbye to the nice couple and hurried to my office. Lee looked up from his chaotic desk. I don’t know how he managed to work so efficiently when his desk was like a tip.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to handle this,’ I said. I poured myself some coffee and sat down. ‘I’ve lost the dress.’

  ‘Cripes. How did that happen?’

  I was grateful that Lee didn’t immediately assume it was my carelessness. He offered me a biscuit which I nibbled. It was cardboard. I don’t like biscuits.

  ‘I don’t really know. When I went back to the dry-cleaners, someone had already collected it. The two youngsters in the shop were besotted with each other and useless. I’ve got the skirt and the pashmina and a written explanation from the assistant, but I don’t reckon Miss Ember is going to take it quietly.’

  ‘Perhaps it was Mrs Fairweather?’

  ‘I’m pinning my hopes on the good lady. But somehow I’ve got to find out without letting on that I haven’t collected it.’

  Lee stood up and straightened his shirt. ‘How about I go and chat? I’ll ask her if she enjoyed her day ashore. Maybe she picked up the dress for her friend.’

  ‘Would you? Thanks. That’s one way of doing it. I’d be very grateful.’ I sank back into my chair.

  ‘I’ll see if she’s watching the tenders from the rail. I understand that coming aboard is hardly a bundle of fun, but as a spectator event it beats the greasy pole.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  Lee finished his coffee and went out. I couldn’t hold my breath though I wanted to. My training said that holding one’s breath was dangerous.

  *

  It was late before Dr Mallory surfaced from the health centre. He looked worn out and had not bothered to change. He went straight to the Galaxy Lounge bar and ordered a brandy and soda. He needed it.

  ‘Busy evening?’ I said.

  ‘Come and sit with me, Casey. A white wine for the lady,’ he added to the barman. He turned to me. ‘You could say so. We’ve got a full house. So many people got hurt getting on or getting off those damned tenders. It was a disaster.’

  ‘It was those speedboats, dozens of them. They created a huge swell. It was impossible to keep the tenders steady.’

  ‘I know. And one poor lady is spending the night in St Tropez Hospital, before being flown home tomorrow. And I’ve got every bed full of injuries. It’s like an epidemic. I’m dead beat.’

  ‘Too tired for a walk?’

  He swallowed the rest of his brandy and took my arm. ‘Never too tired for a walk with you, angel face. I can manage one quick circuit of the promenade deck. I need the exercise and fresh air.’

  He wasn’t talking much as we traversed the empty deck. The daytime chairs were stacked up and fastened down. Debris had been cleared away. Decks washed down. Everything was ready for the next day.

  ‘Night, Casey,’ he said, opening one of many heavy glass doors. ‘I must go and check on my patients. No sleep for the permanently wicked.’

  ‘The lady who broke her leg. Do I know her?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? It was that nice lady with the funny nickname
. Weather forecast or something.’

  My heart did a jump. I knew exactly who it was.

  Eleven

  Monte Carlo

  Everyone was hoping that the next port of call would not be a disappointment. We were heading for the Côte d’Azur, the glamorous coast of the French Riviera, and those magical places, Cannes, Nice and Monte Carlo. They were all within a short distance of each other and I’d been there several times. A coach ride in any direction had you gawping at the palatial pastel-washed houses of the rich and famous.

  Mrs Fairweather’s accident was already fading from passengers’ minds, but not from mine. It was bad luck to happen to such a nice lady.

  I’d rung the ship’s agent at St Tropez to enquire after Mrs Fairweather.

  ‘The lady is comfortable in a private hospital, receiving the best of care,’ he said. ‘We shall be flying her home tomorrow by air ambulance. It is all arranged.’

  ‘That’s good. Please give her my love and best wishes.’

  ‘Of course, Miss Jones.’

  ‘And can you send her some flowers and charge them to me?’

  ‘No problem.’

  I tried not to think of the other problem. Miss Ember would be on her own again. The crew were starting to call her Dismember Ember which was a little on the cruel side. It would be encrypted to DE by next week.

  I couldn’t think of anyone kind enough to share with her. And I wasn’t going to volunteer. Perish the thought. I gave the dry-cleaning package to her new steward and scuttled away, if a tallish person like me can scuttle.

  There was no roaring mistral today so disembarking from the tenders was a tranquil operation, though there were some nervous women.

  ‘Nothing to worry about. Trust the crew,’ I said, standing at the head of the gangway steps. ‘Let them time it for you and step across when they say so.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as yesterday, is it?’

  ‘Nowhere near. No swell at all. Calm as a duck pond.’

  It was also only a short distance to the quayside where the red, yellow and pink stucco houses climbed the steep streets and alleyways up the hills. There were small and friendly cafes lining the quayside where it would be a pleasure to sit and watch the harbour activities.