Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  I tried to laugh but it was no laughing matter. My feeble laugh echoed round the tiled pool house. The laugh came back at me. The place echoed. A thought surged into my head. I had to use the echo. It was worth a try.

  ‘Help, help,’ I shouted but my voice had no strength. ‘Help, help me.’

  Courage, Casey. I remembered Brownie camping, sitting round a flickering fire singing, eating burnt sausages and toasted marshmallows.

  ‘Ten green bottles hanging on the wall,’ I started singing. It was the only song I could remember at that moment. We used to sing it, my brothers and me on childhood journeys to Cornwall.

  ‘Ten green bottles hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle should accidentally fall, there’ll be nine green bottles hanging on the wall. Nine green bottles hanging on the wall …’ The words echoed round the tiles. I had a backing group.

  Then I sang One Man Went to Mow a Meadow all the way through, Oranges and Lemons, The Twelve Days of Christmas, A Hard Day’s Night, Yellow Submarine. The water was getting colder. My fingers were pruned. I couldn’t feel my toes.

  I ran out of words and there was nothing for it but to start all over again. The words were becoming difficult, slurred. I was tiring fast. I’d got as far as three g-green bottles h-hanging on the wall, when I heard footsteps running along the outside corridor and a door being wrenched open. In moments, arms were in the water, pulling me out of the pool. I recognized the pool attendants. They were wrapping me in towels, trying to rub some life into my arms and legs and trying to get me out of the netting, all at the same time.

  ‘S-someone tried to d-drown me,’ I spluttered, coughing up water.

  I was shivering badly when Dr Mallory arrived with his bag of magic potions. I couldn’t speak, a lot of netting still tightly wrapped round my body.

  ‘Let’s get her out of this stuff. Careful, now. Cut it if you have to. Gently does it.’

  ‘How d-did you k-know?’ I asked incoherently, trembling, when my face was finally free.

  ‘You were spotted on a remote CCTV,’ he said. ‘When I was told there was a singing whale in the pool, I knew it could only be you.’

  Twenty-Three

  Gibraltar

  There would be an enquiry, of course. There’s always an enquiry. It was discovered that the pool attendants had been summoned to a departmental meeting which they couldn’t locate and the call was untraceable. The heating had been turned off by a person or persons unknown.

  ‘Do you know where you are?’ Dr Mallory asked.

  ‘Of course I know where I am,’ I said. ‘I’m not confused or disorientated and I don’t want you sticking a rectal thermometer up me.’

  ‘Excitability is the first stage of hypothermia,’ he said.

  ‘I got cold and wet and very frightened. If you want stage of torpor, I can do stage of torpor.’

  ‘I think she’s all right,’ said the doctor, closing his bag with a snap.

  ‘Who knew you were going for a swim?’ asked Richard Norton. He was a little put off that the interview was being held in my cabin, and I was in bed, wrapped up in blankets, sipping hot milk. I didn’t think the hot milk was necessary but my steward had insisted. Ahmed had read somewhere about English ladies liking hot milk. He really was a poppet.

  ‘No one. It was a spur of the moment thing. Maybe Lee Williams. He might have seen me getting my swimsuit out of the filing cabinet. I’m not sure. I thought he’d gone on deck by then.’

  ‘You keep your swimsuit in a filing cabinet?’

  ‘Of course. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘So Lee Williams is a suspect,’ said Richard.

  ‘No way,’ I said, shaking my head. My hair was drying out into an absolute bird’s nest. End of any possible romance with the security officer if I’d ever wanted one.

  ‘You’re not being very helpful,’ said Richard.

  My temper was heating up. It must be the hot milk.

  ‘And you are being completely ridiculous. Lee wouldn’t try to drown me. He has no reason to drown me. Miss Ember has more reason to try and get rid of me.’

  ‘Miss Ember may have a good reason but she certainly hasn’t got the strength to drag a heavy net over you and manage to twist it round your body. You may recall she is only five feet tall.’ This was said with heavy sarcasm. The man was an idiot.

  Samuel wanted to leave a nurse with me but I refused. It was a waste of her time.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I insisted. ‘I’ll be fine on my own. If I feel in the slightest bit woozy, I’ll phone you.’

  He put my mobile by my bed. ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘And lock your door.’

  As soon as the mob had left my cabin, I snuggled down into the warm blankets for a few moments, letting my brain return to an even keel. It had been unnerving but I was safe now. Somehow I was getting near the truth and that made me dangerous.

  I staggered to the bathroom and put some moisturizer on my face. The swim had played havoc with my skin. A touch of eyeliner and lip gloss and I was ready. I phoned DCI Bruce Everton.

  ‘I have some information,’ I said. ‘My cabin is 414 E Deck. But the door is locked so you must say who you are clearly.’

  ‘I heard what happened,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Warming up.’

  ‘Do I need a password?’

  I was beginning to like him very much. ‘Definitely. It’s hippopotamus.’

  ‘I’ll be right over.’ He didn’t waste words. I wiped off the lip gloss. No need to go over the top. He was only a policeman, not a rock star.

  Bruce Everton was at my door in five minutes. He knocked on the door and gave the password without the slightest embarrassment. He had a bunch of yellow roses, bought at the florist’s shop in reception. I thought this showed style.

  ‘Come in,’ I said, flopping back into bed, swathed in blankets. ‘Sit down. Dr Mallory turned the thermostat up. You can turn it down if you like.’

  ‘I’ll suffer,’ he said, putting the roses into a jug of water. ‘It’s more important that you thaw out.’

  ‘Thank you for the roses. They’re lovely. A kind thought.’

  ‘I thought you have suffered enough because of my incompetent handling of this case. I’m sorry. I never realized how difficult it would be to sort out information about all the passengers on board ship. They are everywhere, doing this and that, all of the time. It’s a nightmare. I’m making a grid.’

  ‘I have several bits of information to give you about Mrs Dora Belcher’s death. I’ve recently found out that her first husband, someone called Frank, may also be a passenger. Their marriage was also full of bad feeling, acrimonious divorce, etc. She should have stayed a spinster.’

  ‘And do we know who he is?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’ve a list of passengers with Frank or Frankie as a Christian name. He may have changed his surname.’

  He nodded. ‘Criminals often don’t change their first name. It makes life easier.’

  ‘Miss Lucinda Ember is most certainly out to file a fraudulent claim on the company, to take Conway to the cleaners. But we have discovered that one of my entertainers, the so-called singer, Miss Judie Garllund, along with Miss Ember, actually brought items aboard to provide evidence of mismanagement and set the scene for trauma, nervous breakdown, or whatever Miss Ember was about to stage.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  So I told him about the sachets of fake blood, the dead rats and the snake in the refrigerator. I also told him what was found in the wardrobe of Miss Garllund’s cabin. Even he was shocked. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘More work for forensics.’

  ‘We all thought Miss Garllund had gone ashore at Monte Carlo. The scanner had swiped her card, but she hadn’t gone ashore. It’s easily done. You say to the security officer, oh dear I must pop to the loo first, and they let you. People who are going ashore often make a last-minute visit as a precaution. No one wants to be caught short in a foreign country.’

&n
bsp; ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘Under a lounger on the balcony of Miss Ember’s stateroom. She’d been holed up there for days. In the stateroom, not under the lounger.’

  ‘So Miss Garllund is not who she says she is. She could be anyone Lucinda Ember picked up in a pub, advertised for, bumped into on the street?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s a conspiracy to file a compensation claim against Conway Blue Line. Hundreds of thousand pounds. I’ve seen claims that size. You know what the claims market is like these days. And Judie was going to get her share.’

  ‘Don’t I know it? Scotland Yard is snowed under with huge claims for hurt feelings. And that’s officers, not victims of crime. Is there anything else you want to tell me, Casey?’

  He was looking at me with those nice eyes, not policeman’s eyes but honest man around town eyes. I felt he was trustworthy. He’d guard me, protect me, escort me across busy roads.

  ‘Are you married?’ I asked suddenly. I don’t know why I overstepped a boundary. I couldn’t stop myself.

  ‘I was. Not any more,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I,’ he said. ‘My wife was run over by a drunk driver. She was on her bicycle. She’d been to a Spanish evening class. Debbie was hooked on further education and we were planning a holiday in Spain.’

  I didn’t know why I asked him such a personal question. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘That was unforgivable of me. I shouldn’t have asked.’ He leaned over and touched my hand.

  ‘I want you to know,’ he said. ‘You’re such a lovely lady.’

  I wanted the blankets to swallow me. I felt two inches high. This nice, top Scotland Yard detective actually liked me. I had to change the subject before I started to cry.

  ‘Professor Papados. I think he was murdered because of photos he had taken on his mobile phone. I don’t know if he ever had time to get them printed, but his phone disappeared after he died. The photos had evidence about the planting of Miss Ember’s Chanel dress in the Bond Street shop window. I think there’s a reflection of someone.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Bruce, letting go of my hand. It was a reluctant movement. ‘I thought he had a heart attack or a stroke.’

  ‘He did but Dr Mallory felt sure he had saved him. Then something else kicked in that paralyzed the nervous system.’

  ‘Defibrillation doesn’t always work,’ said Bruce. ‘Television programmes give us the wrong idea that it saves lives all the time. But the percentage is actually quite small.’

  ‘This Garllund woman, the one in league with Miss Ember, had been talking to Professor Papados in Paddy’s bar not long before he started acting strangely.’

  ‘And why are the photos significant?’

  ‘Because behind the shop window are the beauty counters and they have several mirrors. Maybe there was a reflection of someone in one of those mirrors, someone who didn’t want to be seen. And the reflection showed up in the photos.’

  ‘Such as who?’

  ‘Miss Ember herself? 1 think Miss Ember put the dress in the shop window with her own photo on the model’s face, and tipped fake blood over the feet. Don’t ask me why. Part of this crazy compensation scheme?’

  ‘I suggest you know far too much for your own good,’ said Bruce Evcrton, rising to his feet. ‘You should stay in your cabin and let no one in.’

  ‘But I’ve work to do.’

  ‘Work can wait. We nearly had a third victim, remember?’

  There was a knock on the cabin door. I looked at Bruce and he went over to listen.

  ‘Who is it? Identify yourself.’

  ‘It’s Lee Williams, deputy entertainments director. Casey knows me. I’m her right-hand man and I’ve got some information for her.’

  I nodded. ‘Lee’s OK. I trust him.’

  Bruce Everton raised his eyebrows. ‘You can’t trust anyone.’ But he opened the door and Lee came bouncing into the cabin.

  He looked round. ‘I’ve never been in your cabin before,’ he said. ‘It’s the same as mine, only everything is the other way round.’

  ‘They are all the same,’ I said, suddenly weary.

  ‘I heard about, you know what, the marathon swim,’ he began. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m very tired,’ I said.

  He looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry. I’ll be quick. I think I’ve found the man you were looking for. Christian name Frank, naval connection, as you said.’

  ‘Well done, Lee. Good work. Where did you find him?’

  ‘He was in the library. Commander Frank Trafford, retired, he says. But I think he’s lying about the rank. Some fast self-promotion on the passport application. I tripped him up on a couple of nautical questions. And there was something else that was funny.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘The hems of his trousers were wet.’

  *

  Greg Belcher agreed to go with me to the library to identify Frank Trafford as being Dora’s first husband. I dressed quickly in a tracksuit and trainers, hair tucked in a bandeau. Props lent me a pair of brown-rimmed spectacles. I could be anyone, streets away from the elegant Miss Jones.

  ‘I don’t want you to speak to him or indicate in any way that you know him,’ said Bruce Everton firmly. ‘All we want you to do is identify him.’

  ‘And I want to catch the bastard,’ said Greg Belcher. ‘My lovely Dora …’

  Dora had become a lot lovelier in the last few days. He was forgetting all the quarrels and arguments. She was being elevated to matronly sainthood.

  ‘Are you sure he won’t know you?’

  ‘He’s never met me, even at the wedding. But I’ve seen photos of him, and the ones in the newspapers when he was given a six month non-molestation order. He wasn’t to go within a hundred yards of Dora, or she was to call the police. He’d been bashing her up. That’s when she filed for a divorce.’

  ‘So he won’t recognize you?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  Funny how women go for the same kind of men, time and time again. Dora Belcher had come aboard with a black eye.

  There was only one entrance to the ship’s library and DCI Everton and Richard Norton stationed themselves outside it. Lee wandered along the book shelves with me at his side. He said he wasn’t letting me out of his sight. Greg Belcher was a few steps behind us, peering at the titles on the sleeves.

  ‘Have you read this one?’ said Lee, taking down a gory-covered thriller. ‘He’s a good writer, fast and furious. Never a dull moment.’

  ‘I like a story that’s a little more relaxing,’ 1 said.

  ‘So did my Dora,’ said Greg, completely forgetting his instructions. ‘Dora loved a good book. Never happier than when her nose was buried in a book.’

  Lee nudged me and whispered. ‘Over there by the desk. Fawn trousers, navy blazer, short grey hair.’

  Greg Belcher heard the whisper and spun himself round. His eyes widened. ‘That’s him,’ he shouted, pointing. ‘That’s the murdering bastard.’

  Commander Trafford moved like lightning, but so did DCI Everton and Richard Norton. It was a clash of the Titans.

  *

  There wasn’t room in the brig for another prisoner, so Petty Officer Frank Monk (alias Commander Trafford) had to be secured in crew quarters, down in the depths. He denied he had smashed Dora Belcher on the head with a heavy crystal ashtray from the Galaxy Lounge, then somehow transported her body from the cabin to the interview room.

  But when charged with attempted murder, that of wrapping me up in heavy netting, hoping I would drown, he went strangely quiet.

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ he said. ‘I want a lawyer.’

  ‘I reckon he’d been among the crowds that witnessed the row between Dora and Greg Belcher and decided it was a good opportunity to put the blame on her husband’s shoulders,’ said DCI Everton later. ‘But it didn’t work because of your computerized billing system. You can fool people, but you can’t fool a sophistica
ted machine that records every penny you spend, when and where.’

  Lee was conscious-stricken that he might have alerted Frank Trafford in some way. He admitted that he’d been talking to Kristy, the dancer, for quite some time before he came looking for me and heard about the incident in the pool. He hadn’t realized that the man might be dangerous.

  More flowers arrived for me, freesias from Lee and a huge bouquet from the stage company. My cabin was beginning to look like a florist’s shop. Another bouquet was delivered, signed from William Owen and Jeanne. I didn’t know who Jeanne was, but I could guess.

  ‘I go find more vases,’ said Ahmed, grinning. Dr Mallory stood in the doorway, taking in the flowers, his face contrite, floppy hair falling over his brow. ‘Sorry, Casey, I didn’t have time to buy flowers.’

  ‘It’s OK, you don’t have to give me flowers. Saving lives is more your scene.’

  ‘But I should have. I didn’t think. I was too busy with something else. Can I come in?’

  ‘You’re my doctor, aren’t you? I want to get back to work. It’s safe now, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so. Both Judie Garllund, or whoever she is, and Frank Monk (alias Commander Trafford) are in custody. There are more guards on their doors than stewards serving drinks. They won’t get out until we reach Southampton.’

  ‘Oh dear, they’ll miss Lisbon.’

  ‘But you won’t miss Lisbon. I’ve arranged that Lee will stay on-board and you are having a day off, a whole day ashore.’

  ‘Right bossy boots, aren’t you? I’ll run my department as I want to. It’s for me to say who gets shore leave.’ Talk about Miss Attitude. I needed counselling.

  Sam ignored me. ‘I thought you might like to know that I have discovered something interesting about Professor Papados’s death. It wasn’t totally natural causes, but it wasn’t insulin as I first thought. He did have a weak heart and had had surgery. True, he could have gone any time. But traces of atropine were found.’

  ‘Atropine? What’s that?’

  ‘Di-hyscyamine or Hyoscine, in the book. Eye drops to you and me. They are used for pupil dilation and are not for consumption. A few drops would be lethal in about six minutes. The circulation and respiratory systems collapse, paralysing the nervous system. The victim is hot, dry, red-faced, with aggressive behaviour, just as Paddy described.’