Dead Slow Ahead (Casey Jones Book 2)

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘He was poisoned?’

  Sam nodded. ‘That’s the probability, but we need more tests. I can’t do them here. I checked on his bar billing, and apparently he signed for two drinks some minutes before he collapsed. Time enough for a couple of drops to be squirted into his drink as he signed the chit for one beer and one vodka and dry ginger. Apparently she only stayed to drink half of the vodka. Paddy remembers her having to leave for some rehearsal.’

  ‘Rehearsal,’ I said drily. ‘She didn’t know the meaning of the word. And the eye drops?

  ‘Anyone could bring them on-board. Normal medication. It could still be in Lucinda Ember’s bathroom, looking quite harmless.’

  ‘Or it could have been tossed overboard, to give the fish a headache. How did you find out?’

  ‘I sent some samples to a colleague of mine in London. He’s emailed me back with this information. They’ll have to run more tests, of course. But it does look as if the poor professor was poisoned.’

  ‘And all for taking a photograph.’ I was stricken now. It had been my fault. He’d still be alive if I hadn’t asked him to take some photos.

  Sam went over to my cabin window to distract my attention. ‘Look, we’re coming into Gibraltar Bay. Only the afternoon here. Quite long enough to stock up on booze.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like you,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t mean me, I meant the passengers. There’s only time for a fast trot to the Main Street shopping centre or a cable car ride up to the top of the rock and the apes’ den. I’d rather see the great siege tunnels.’

  ‘I’d rather stay on-board.’ But I was remembering my promise to Hilary Miles. I had to keep it. ‘I have to see a passenger down the gangway. Then I’ll come back.’

  ‘As your doctor ordered. Shall I see you this evening?’

  ‘What about your harem?’

  ‘My harem has lost interest. Doctors don’t make as much money as company directors and property magnates, even the bald, paunchy ones.’

  *

  I showered quickly, dressed in casual three-quarter length trousers and a sleeveless shirt. I wanted to catch the last of the sun before we started the voyage back to cloudy England. It was a fine, clear day and still warm.

  ‘We wondered where you were last night,’ said several couples. ‘It was an excellent show.’ I thanked William Owen and his companion, Jeanne, for the flowers. They looked very happy together. Sometimes cruises did work a magic. They were in no hurry to go ashore, no shopping, no rock, no apes.

  ‘The name’s Arabic, isn’t it?’ said William, stopping at the top of the gangway. The Countess was berthed in the vast dock area.

  ‘Yes, from Jebel al Tariq. You can just hear the name in the middle. He was a general who conquered Spain in 711.’

  ‘Before my time,’ said Jeanne.

  ‘Tariq ordered his men to bum their battle ships behind them, which meant that they could only conquer or die,’ I went on.

  ‘So “to burn your boats” means not to give in or look back,’ said William.

  ‘Something like that. A rather harsh order.’

  ‘Those were cruel days,’ said William, taking Jeanne’s hand as if to reassure her. ‘Let’s have a stroll ashore, my dear. Stretch our land legs.’ Their happiness was so acute, it made me catch my breath.

  Hilary Miles arrived at the top of the gangway. She was looking nervously at the expanse of dockside below. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said.

  ‘A few minutes ashore, that’s all,’ I said. ‘Nothing more. Let’s go together. I’ll go down first. Just look at me, my white shirt, nothing else. Ignore Gibraltar. Pretend it’s not there.’

  It wasn’t easy for her. She was shaking as she went down the gangway and clutched the rail as if she never wanted to let it go. She was helped down the last step by a member of the crew.

  ‘A quick look at the souvenir shops and then back,’ I said. I heard footsteps behind us, hurrying. It was Cavan Franetti, the antiques lecturer, looking suave and debonair. He tipped his hat to Hilary Miles with a gallant bow.

  ‘I hope to see you at my lecture tomorrow,’ he said. ‘It is about beautiful things. So it would suit you.’

  It was a hammy compliment but she seemed to like it and raised half a smile. I noticed that she gazed after him as he hurried into town to shop.

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ I asked.

  ‘It was all right,’ she said.

  *

  I wore my favourite dress that night. It was a pleated, silk-crêpe, full-length, strapless gown by Valentino. I dare not tell anyone what it cost, even second-hand. The original owner only wore it once, to a film premiere. What a waste.

  It floated round me like a crimson flame.

  Tonight’s shows were based on Jules Verne’s classic novel Around the World in Eighty Days. It was an ambitious programme of musical numbers from shows, films, operas and variety. Lee was the MC, looking very smart in a new dinner suit. Derek Ripon even gave us a discount. We assured him that the stolen items would eventually be returned to him and he was in a good mood. The late-night film was Bridges of Madison County with Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood. I’d be there for that.

  There was a liberated feeling about the ship that evening. Both prisoners were secured. We were all safe. No more nasty happenings. We could enjoy the last few days at sea and the last port of call, Lisbon.

  And Sam was with me. He sat beside me in the dark of the cinema, and when I shivered in the air-conditioning, he put his jacket round my shoulders. Meryl Streep never had it that good.

  Twenty-Four

  Lisbon

  Lisbon was different; Lisbon I loved. It was a spectacularly hilly city with cobblestoned streets, baroque and beautiful buildings, a stately city with classical squares and boulevards, ancient castles and cathedrals.

  The approach to Lisbon was fascinating — a slow progress along the River Tagus, past villages, scorched fields and vineyards. I stood on deck, watching life on the banks carrying on as if the majestic, gliding, white Countess was nothing more than a paddle steamer. I was not the only one skipping breakfast. The first view of Lisbon was something special.

  DCI Everton joined me on deck to watch the passing scenery. He was wearing a London suit and a tie. At his feet was a soft zip-up holdall.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye and to thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ve checked out,’ he added, as if it was a hotel.

  ‘You’re leaving us? Surely not? You’ve only been on-board five minutes.’ Suddenly I didn’t want him to go. He was something stable in a mad world.

  ‘We’ve decided that Frank Monk and Judy Street should be flown back to the UK today from Lisbon. They are too much of a liability to remain on board. I can’t expect the crew to take responsibility for keeping them secure.’ He wasn’t looking at me, his gaze intent on the passing scenery.

  ‘I can understand that, but I’m sorry you’re going,’ I said. ‘Judy Street — is that her real name?’

  ‘Apparently. Or it’s one of her names. She changes her name as regularly as she changes addresses. Our database is miraculous. I tracked Lucinda Ember to Holloway Prison of all places, where she shared a cell with a prisoner called Judy Street for several months. It seemed too much of a coincidence. Miss Ember had been found guilty of credit card fraud, not surprisingly, and Judy Street for a shoplifting spree in Oxford Street. She stole on a mammoth scale, several thousands of pounds worth of stuff. Your Bond Street salon was peanuts to her, a few practice runs, keeping her hand in.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ I said. ‘So it does seem possible that they cooked up this whole fraud scheme while sharing a cell? It must have helped to pass the time. Maybe they were going to go halves on the payout. But why aren’t you taking Miss Ember back with you?’

  ‘Because, so far, she hasn’t actually done anything wrong. She may decide to abandon the whole idea if Judy Street splits on her. There’s no proof that she or Judy fixed the shower, or put the dead ra
t in her wardrobe, or that Judy bought a doped snake in Barcelona and smuggled it aboard. It all depends on whether Miss Ember pursues her compensation claim.’

  ‘She may drop it now that she knows Judy Street is going to be charged.’

  ‘It alters the whole scenario,’ he agreed. ‘I’m taking the old shower head back with me for forensic tests. Something may show up.’

  ‘So you are going?’ I didn’t want him to go. I felt safe with him.

  ‘Yes, Frank Monk is too volatile to be left here. He is a man with a dangerous temper, out of control. So we have him on a count of murder and a second count of attempted murder.’

  ‘Attempted murder?’

  ‘He was going to leave you to drown, Casey. The netting would have dragged you down overnight. The lighting is timed and goes out. The CCTV would not have picked you up then. You had a lucky escape.’

  I shuddered. It did not bear thinking about. Change the subject, Casey, quick.

  ‘Has he confessed to murdering his ex-wife, Dora Belcher?’

  ‘No, he denies everything. But apparently he had arranged to meet her for a drink that evening. It could have turned into a row and he hit her with the crystal ashtray in a violent temper.’

  ‘So that’s why she had her hair done again. She had a date with her ex.’

  ‘But he’s insisting that he didn’t keep the arrangement. That he forgot all about it.’

  ‘Forgot? You don’t forget about murdering somebody.’

  ‘Well, quite.’ Bruce smiled, his eyes warming up. ‘I’m going to miss talking to you, Miss Jones. You’re the only person I would ever talk to about anything.’

  It threw me, of course. I hoped I still looked the immaculate entertainments director, not some soft, knee-wobbling female. ‘So you are going?’

  ‘Yes. There’ll be a police escort for the prisoners to the airport. You’ll see the vans when we dock.’

  ‘Vans?’

  ‘Armoured police vans. No windows.’

  Bruce Everton suddenly went silent and remote as if someone had altered the scenery overnight. He took a card out of his pocket and scribbled something on the back. He weighed it in his hand as if a lot depended on it.

  ‘This is for you,’ he said.

  ‘For me?’ The art of conversation seemed to have disappeared.

  ‘I want you to have my office email address,’ he said. ‘If you ever need help of any kind, please get in touch with me, straightaway. No hanging about, Casey. And here is my private email address, as well, in case.’

  ‘Thank you, Bruce. How very kind,’ I said, tucking the card into the pocket of my cut-off white jeans. I didn’t know what to say. I was wearing the plain navy and white nautical outfit that Sam liked. I was going ashore at Lisbon today. It seemed a long way ahead.

  ‘You might fancy a meal one evening or to go to a show,’ Bruce went on diffidently, strangling the words. ‘Hell no, I forgot, you get enough of meals and shows on-board.’

  ‘Are you asking me out?’

  ‘Sounds like it. Sorry, I’m not very good at this. I’m long out of practice.’

  ‘Thank you, Bruce,’ I said again, not sure what to make of it. He’d thrown me completely off balance twice today. ‘That would be lovely. One day, I don’t know when, maybe. I’d like to go on the London Eye sometime. And long out of practice is OK with me.’

  He grinned like he’d had a personal sunrise. At least I hadn’t chucked him overboard. Email is a wonderful thing and he would make sure we kept in touch.

  ‘Take care, Miss Jones. No more detective work, please. Stick to shows. It’s a lot safer.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that, Detective Chief Inspector Everton.’

  Then he was striding away, desperation written into every inch of his ramrod back. The man was lonely. Everyone around him had been enjoying themselves and it made him realize that it was time to set himself free from the past.

  I moved away. I didn’t actually want to watch him leaving.

  *

  It was all the little details that I liked most about Lisbon. Mosaics in pavements, hand-painted tiles on walls, decorative street signs. Coming into the harbour was to discover a magnificently majestic slice of history. Explorers and traders had set out from this harbour to discover the world. Prince Henry the Navigator and Vasco da Gama were still remembered by the proud Portuguese.

  The Countess came into the dockside and made fast among all the other shipping. A line of coaches was waiting to take passengers to the delights of the hills, to Sintra, to Estoril. At a discreet distance I spotted several police cars, two vans and uniformed officers. DCI Everton and his prisoners would leave from the lower level crew gangway, long before any passengers went ashore.

  I turned away. I didn’t want to witness the event. Frank Monk had battered his ex-wife to death and had tried to drown me. I didn’t want to lie awake at night, thinking about him. His face had to be forgotten.

  ‘Ready to go ashore?’ said Sam. He was admiring my outfit, conservative and modest to suit the Portuguese temperament. ‘Like the gear. Where would you like to go, Casey? Cathedrals, palaces, cafes, shopping?’

  ‘I’d like to go for a tram ride through the old town,’ I said. ‘How does that suit you?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Sam. ‘We’ll get a taxi to Black Horse Square and hop aboard a tram.’

  ‘We could walk it.’

  ‘Even better.’

  ‘And while we are walking, you can tell me all the things that I want to know. I don’t understand why I’m not given any straight answers. It’s infuriating and frustrating.’

  ‘You already know far too much for your own safety,’ he said complacently.

  ‘For instance, I saw people being smuggled aboard, in the middle of the night. I’m not stupid, I know what I saw. Yet everyone denies it. Who were they and what were they doing? Richard refuses to say anything.’

  ‘As he would, being strapped by red tape. It was, you see, strictly against company rules and he would not want to even know about it. He might lose his job.’

  ‘But I want to know,’ I persisted.

  ‘You were probably imagining it, Casey. Ghostly shapes in the dark. A little too much brandy at the last bar.’ His grey eyes glinted with amusement. ‘I suggest you forget about it.’

  ‘I was not imagining it and I refuse to forget about it.’ This was not a good start to our day together. The situation needed to be defused or I would be taking that tram ride by myself.

  ‘Casey, I am not going to say anything. But let’s imagine a fairly domestic sort of scenario. Perhaps a member of the crew and his pretty stewardess girlfriend, were too much in love to check the time, had been so immersed in each other on some park bench or on some beach. Then they saw our great ship sailing away without them. Panic set in. They’d lose their jobs, their pay, their possessions. What would you do? Apart from leaping aboard from the pilot’s launch, I mean.’

  ‘I’d hire some sort of boat.’

  So that was it. Two members of the crew crept back aboard at night, helped by other members of the crew. Somehow they’d got hold of a boat to come out to the Countess. They would be in dead trouble if the truth was known. Too much in love? As if I knew.

  I sobered down. ‘And the corpse in the yacht. Who was that? No one will tell me about those poor remains.’

  ‘Quite right, too. The less anyone knows about that individual, the better. I am presuming that it was some sort of Mafia killing. Some cousin, brother or uncle, getting rid of another rival cousin, brother or uncle. A gangland killing. The Italian police refused bluntly to say anything. Even poor old Richard was kept in the dark. He wasn’t at all happy.’

  I was beginning to feel somewhat better. A brightly coloured bird from ashore fluttered on to our rigging, scenting breakfast crumbs. There were explanations and the good doctor was treating me like another adult, giving me nearly straight answers at last. But there were still other aspects that needed clearing up.

/>   ‘How did that … that thing, that rotten thing, that crawling thing get into Judie Garllund’s wardrobe?’

  ‘I should imagine she stole it from the butcher’s area of the kitchen. She’s good at nicking things. They probably use it in making their delicious minestrone soup stock. And the snake, which you are probably going to ask me about next, was bought in Barcelona, maybe at a market, and smuggled on board, half doped. Perhaps bits of the butcher’s special ingredient had been used to feed the snake. I don’t really know what they eat. Insects, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. Please explain.’ The conversation was getting out of control and the private screen of my brain was overloaded with flashing lights and zigzag snow. The aerial was pointing the wrong way.

  Sam took my arm and headed me towards the gangway. ‘Enough of all this interrogation. Now have you got your hat, water, sunglasses, crew card, factor thirty-five? I’m not taking you ashore in Lisbon unless you are a good girl and promise to behave nicely.’

  ‘I promise,’ I said, putting on the straw hat. ‘No more questions. Oh sorry, there is one more.’

  He stopped, a look of weariness crossing his face. ‘No more, I refuse.’

  ‘The celebrity who is supposed to be on board. Is it a pop star, a football millionaire, a cabinet minister? Their disguise is absolutely perfect. Come on, tell me. Do you know who it is?’

  ‘Miss Nosey Parker Casey Jones, yes, I do know who it is and you are the last person I would ever tell. You’d have them up there on that bloody stage of yours, doing a spectacular, making speeches, handing out the dance prizes.’

  ‘It’s royalty!’ I said triumphantly.

  ‘I’m not telling you.’

  We went through the security scanner and began to descend the gangway. Lisbon in all its perfection lay before us. Bird of Paradise flowers and palm trees and wide avenues awaited our inspection. I was wearing comfortable shoes.

  ‘Look,’ I said, stopping. A couple were walking ahead of us. ‘There’s Hilary Miles and Cavan Franetti going ashore together. It’s a miracle. He’s managed to get her ashore.’