Locked-Room Mystery Box Set

by Kim Ekemar

“It briefly woke me up, as a matter of fact. I didn’t know the origin of the sharp sound at the time, but feeling too weak to pay any attention to it, I drifted back into sleep. When Leila returned to our cabin, she briefed me, and later the captain filled in the gaps she had left. As I understand it, the poor man committed suicide on the bridge, risking the ship and the lives of the passengers on board. Is that what happened?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m conducting these interviews with everyone on board just to be able to establish the facts, and at this point I don’t have any additional comment to make.”

  “I understand. You’re right – you’re merely doing your job.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to add – anything you noticed or heard before or after the shot?”

  “No, as I’ve already described, I was profoundly asleep that afternoon with the exception of waking up upon hearing the shot, and once again when Leila entered our cabin, perhaps half an hour later, to tell me about it.”

  “Thank you, Mister Mohraki.”

  CHAPTER 12

  The Lebanese Intermediary

  Despite minuscule pearls of sweat emerging on his predominantly bald head, Antanias entered the captain’s cabin with an attitude as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. Without being asked to, he took the chair opposite Ricardo and waited expectantly for the detective inspector to begin the interview.

  There is something, both fishy and disagreeable, about this man that I can’t quite put my finger on, Ricardo couldn’t help thinking, before he began the interrogation of Antanias.

  *

  Antanias Murad was a Lebanese hustler who, despite his wobbly, corpulent shape, was endowed with considerably sharp elbows. By using information about the diverse factions in the Middle East to his advantage, he had skilfully managed to promote himself in a world where bribes and corruption ruled the day. For every piece of information or business deal where illegal merchandise was moved, Antanias made certain that he was rewarded a generous percentage for being the intermediary who made things come to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Lebanon was the perfect country for his clandestine dealings. Since its civil war had ended in 1990, the country – devastated by sixteen years of warfare – was slowly being rebuilt towards its former glory. Hezbollah, the organisation labelled terrorist by Western powers, had received military and financial support from Iran and political support from Syria. All this, along with the volatile situation in the region – Turkey, ISIS, the Kurds, Israel, Palestine and the expansionist plans by Iran, among others – made Antanias’s opportunities endless. He had the right contacts both in Lebanon, which after the end of the civil war had become a relatively peaceful hub in the area, and in the surrounding countries at war.

  Besides information – which he sold to the highest bidder regardless of the buyer’s ideology – he moved weapons, ammunition, hijacked hardware, food meant for refugees, goods stolen from containers in the port of Beirut and occasional drug deals. Antanias had done all this successfully over the past twenty-five years, secure in his knowledge that officials high up in the bureaucracy would protect his back as long as he greased their hands with the expected bribe.

  Recently, a request he had not run across previously had come his way. The civil war in Syria had devastated not only the country, killed half a million of its population and caused the biggest emigration since the Second World War; it had also severely affected the country’s food production and delivery logistics. The situation had been made worse by the sanctions implemented by the US and the European Union. Among the many products that had been sanctioned were beef, and Antanias captured the scent of considerable profit to be made, should he be able to secure a couple of shiploads.

  After studying his options, he found Argentina to be his best choice. The country faced surplus production, which meant he could get a good price and an increased profit as a result. His biggest problem was to find a seller who was willing to ignore the potential punishment for circumventing the strict sanctions imposed by the West. Antanias did his homework, and eventually found his ideal candidate, an estancia in Mendoza that sustained a quarter of a million cattle. It was owned by a family who lived in Buenos Aires. The estancia was managed by a man named Alfredo Carbonara. Antanias didn’t have any contacts in Argentina, nor did he speak Spanish, but he was acquainted with some drug traffickers in Colombia with whom he had done business in the past. He asked them to find out more about Carbonara.

  A few weeks later, Antanias got the information he had requested. Carbonara was a recent widower in his late fifties. His two sons lived on the property, both of them newly married. Carbonara was a shrewd negotiator who had lived on the estancia his whole life. He had learnt English sufficiently well to occasionally travel to Chicago to personally close business deals at the mercantile exchange. Any interested buyer was received at the estancia by invitation only. Still, there might be an opportunity for Antanias to meet with Carbonara in person, since in early October he had been booked on a cruise from Punta Arenas together with his sons and in-laws.

  It didn’t take Antanias long to decide how to proceed. He called his old friend Ferah Tayran in Istanbul and laughingly explained to her that he wanted to take her on a surprise vacation to the end of the world with everything paid for. Would she be interested? To his contentment, Ferah sounded delighted at the prospect.

  As soon as he had hung up, he called his travel agent with instructions for the tickets he wanted to book.

  *

  Antanias Murad, who presented himself as “my beautiful Ferah Tayran’s fortunate fiancé”, turned out to be quite a colourful character.

  “Please confirm where you were when you heard the shot go off?”

  “Where I was? As certain as the sun rises every morning – except here in Patagonia, perhaps – I’m sure that I was either on my way to our cabin or maybe had already entered it, I’m not completely positive, but I know I wanted to surprise Ferah with an amorous tête-à-tête, and –”

  Ricardo held up a hand to stop his flow of words.

  “That’s all well and good, and I’m sure that any intentions on your part in that regard are really not of my concern. I’d prefer if you could, in a more straightforward way, respond to my very simple question. Where exactly were you at twelve minutes past three, when the gun went off?”

  With protruding lips, Antanias briefly mulled over the question while looking at the ceiling, moving his head back and forth sideways.

  “Yes, now I remember it distinctly. I had gone to the cabin, but since she wasn’t there, I stepped out into the corridor. That’s when I heard the shot. I was anxious to catch up with Ferah, because –”

  “And what did you do immediately after hearing the shot?” Ricardo interrupted him. Although he did his best to maintain a neutral stance, he couldn’t help feeling a growing antipathy towards the glib Lebanese, who did his utmost to come across as insincere.

  “What could I do? I wasn’t even sure that it was a gunshot at the time. I hurried out of our cabin, eager to see Ferah. To my surprise, despite her promise to be waiting for me there, it had been empty. Before reaching the cabin, I remember noticing a slight vibration caused by the ship’s engine and wondering why the ship was moving. Anyway, I went back to the stern, where the staircase between the decks is located. There I found her. She had been looking at the merchandise in the shop on the Magallanes deck! Souvenirs from the ship were more important to her than a memorable moment with –”

  “On what deck is your cabin?” Ricardo again interrupted him.

  “The Cape Horn deck”, Antanias replied after a slight hesitation.

  “Which means your cabin is on the same deck as the bridge”, Ricardo said. “You were only metres away when the shot was fired, yet still you ignored it and went back to the staircase and went down it to find Miss Tayran. That’s certainly demonstrating a lot of disinterest for when a shot’s being fired.”

  “I only registered the sound
as one would consider a car that’s backfiring, or something –”

  “A car backfiring? On board a ship?” Ricardo cut in.

  “What I mean is that my thoughts were elsewhere”, Antanias responded heatedly. “In my mind, surely it could have been something related to the ship’s engines … whatever. Remember, the ship’s engine had started up a few minutes earlier or so. What do I know about ships? Nothing. As I’ve already told you, I was looking for Ferah with the intention –”

  “Did you see anyone else in the corridor where your cabin is located? Please think about answering this question carefully – it’s important.”

  “No, I’m sure I didn’t see or meet anybody from the moment I left the Darwin Lounge up until the moment I saw Ferah”, Antanias replied angrily.

  Ricardo looked intently at Antanias.

  “Thank you, that will be all for the moment”, he finally said.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Turkish Escort Empress

  Next entered the flamboyant Ferah Tayran, heavily made-up and wrapped in a red outfit that revealed more of her ample bosom than Ricardo felt prepared to view. It wasn’t difficult to make her talk; in fact, it took her less than a minute to dominate the conversation completely with her speculations, suggestions and the squabbles she claimed to have suffered with members of the crew up until then.

  *

  Wise from years of experience of manipulating men, either through astute conversation or the temptation of her body, Ferah Tayran ran a high-class escort service in Istanbul. In her younger days, she had worked as an escort girl herself, with the added benefit that it had taught her every angle of the business. Ferah had prudently saved her money, well aware that someday the attraction of her youthful looks would fade. Her eye was infallible when it came to finding tall, good-looking girls who added interesting conversation to their list of skills. Ferah trained them for a month or two before she would let them out on dates. She didn’t care whether or not they made some extra money by sleeping with the customers, not as long as she could keep 60 per cent of the high-priced escort service fee for herself.

  Her proud bearing, along with the success she enjoyed at maintaining her business as the foremost high-class escort service in Istanbul, had earned her the nickname “the Empress”. However, business had been slow of late. The increasingly troubled situation in the Middle East and the political power grab in Turkey had affected the number of visitors. Yes, she told herself, a ten-day vacation with everything paid for is just the thing I need. She sent a thankful thought to Antanias, although she understood perfectly well that he hadn’t invited her out of charity. No, she knew she was expected to use her still considerable charms to help him secure some deal.

  Ferah had been born in the Turkish region of Kurdistan. Strong-willed and intelligent, at fifteen she had been forced by her father to marry a man she quickly came to loathe. In exchange, he slapped her every time she opposed his orders to satisfy his needs. At eighteen, she couldn’t stand being his slave any longer. She packed two changes of clothes along with whatever money she had managed to put away and walked to the bus station located in a nearby village. In search of a better life, it took her two days to reach Istanbul, a city that promptly fulfilled every dream she had looked for.

  She had met Antanias a few years later, while she was employed by the escort agency where she had been fortunate to find work. Although she knew he was a hustler, they developed a mutual liking. Antanias always requested Ferah’s company when he was on business in Istanbul, which occurred four to six times a year.

  Their recent trip to Argentina had been a long one, with a brief stopover in Madrid. They spent two days in Buenos Aires to catch up with the time difference before continuing to Punta Arenas via Santiago de Chile. Ferah began to despair in Punta Arenas’s dull weather, and her mood wasn’t improved by what she learnt during the briefing concerning the coming days’ activities.

  Then, during the tour to the engine room, after all these years she had seen Shadid again. Shadid, who had hired her to be his escort ten years earlier when visiting Istanbul. They had gone to dinner with some business acquaintances of his, during which they all had ignored her completely. Afterwards, Shadid had invited her for a nightcap before ordering her to accompany him to the suite he was renting. There, the brutality he had handed down for his perverse pleasure had caused Ferah more intense pain than she had ever endured. When he finally ordered her out of his sight, she had limped out of his suite unable to work for three days.

  She had felt her renewed hatred surge inside, seeing him again after all this time.

  *

  When Ricardo finally got a word in, he could tell that his question caught her off balance.

  “As the first to enter the engine room yesterday, with me right behind you”, Ricardo said, as he steeled his gaze to prevent it from slipping down below her chin, “I couldn’t help but notice your reaction when you saw the man who now has been found dead. You gave me the impression that you knew him from some previous occasion. Is that correct?”

  It became obvious that Ferah felt ill at ease by his question.

  “No”, she finally replied, raising her left eyebrow. “I thought I recognised him, but I was mistaken.”

  Ricardo didn’t believe her. It was also the first time she had given him a short, concise answer to anything he had asked.

  “Then, please tell me where you were when the shot rang out.”

  “I was browsing the things on sale in the ship’s shop on one of the lower decks”, Ferah replied, again lifting her eyebrow. “When I left the Darwin Lounge, I recalled it was next to the reception and I was curious about viewing some items I had noticed when we checked in. I actually talked briefly with the captain, when we met on the stairs between the decks. Is there anything wrong in that?”

  “Were you on your own, or were you in the company of someone who can vouch for your whereabouts?”

  “Antanias came looking for me.”

  “When was that – before or after the shot?”

  “A couple of minutes after I heard the shot.”

  “From where did Antanias appear when he caught up with you?”

  “He came down the stairs from the deck above.”

  “What did you do after he had found you?”

  “We talked a bit about how he had expected me to be in our cabin and a few other things of private nature.”

  “Apart from Antanias, did you see anyone during the fifteen minutes after hearing the gunshot?”

  “No”, Ferah replied after some hesitation, “not that I recall.”

  “What about Berenice, the hostess?”

  “I just told you – no”, she said, a little vexed. “From the moment Antanias found me in the shop until we returned to our cabin, I can’t remember meeting or seeing anyone.”

  Although he continued to press her, Ricardo couldn’t get any additional information of interest from her. As she left, he made a mental note to ask Captain Abasolo about their encounter when she claimed to have gone to the ship’s shop.

  CHAPTER 14

  The War Photographer

  The Englishman, Brent Crenshaw, was the next passenger to enter the captain’s quarters. Ricardo soon found him to be extraordinarily careful as he phrased the replies to his questions, and the distant Crenshaw now did so using the most exquisite Queen’s high English. This was a new side to the photographer that Ricardo hadn’t seen during the meals they had shared on board.

  *

  There was no doubt whatsoever, for anyone who knew him, that Brent Crenshaw had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His great-great-grandmother had been first cousin to Queen Victoria. The royal pedigree, however distant and diluted over the years, had ensured the following generations a steady income one way or another thanks to the respect the less fortunate classes tended to show the upper crust that represented the British Empire.

  Naturally shy, yet secretly passionate, Crenshaw developed an interest
for photography during his teenage years. His mother, glad that he had found something that he liked to do, spoiled him by buying all the equipment he wished for. Since he had a natural talent for composition, Crenshaw’s work got a lot of favourable mentions from his peers and at school, and his pride found no limits when he won first prize in a competition arranged by a national paper.

  Immediately after graduating from Eton, he applied for work at the same paper that had given him the award in his late teens. He was accepted as a photographer to cover regional news. He enthusiastically entered his new work, but after two years of taking pictures for stories about accidents, petty crimes and society titbits, he went to the paper’s management to demand more interesting tasks.

  Crenshaw was in luck, because six months later, the paper’s regular war photojournalist decided he had had enough after twenty years of torn limbs, explosions and interminable sorrow watched through his camera lenses. In luck – as Crenshaw naively thought at the time – to at age 29 get the prestigious job of covering stories in war zones taking pictures that would be syndicated to other news outlets worldwide, if the news angle held sufficient importance.

  His first mission was to join the paper’s correspondent in Baghdad to report on the ongoing Iraq war. After Saddam Hussein had been captured and executed, Crenshaw was transferred to cover the seemingly never-ending war in Afghanistan together with a newly recruited correspondent. There, he saw more than his fair share of landmine victims and suicide bombers. From Afghanistan, they were sent to Tunisia, Egypt and Libya to cover the Arab Spring movement. After Muammar Gaddafi was lynched by the mob, the paper wanted Crenshaw to cover the development of the Syrian Civil War together with a seasoned reporter already stationed in the country. By then, the stress of covering the wars and the violence had begun taking its toll on Crenshaw. When he was sent to Syria, the cracks began to show. In this fragile state of mind, he faced his worst assignment yet: reporting on the repeated chemical attacks ordered by Bashar al-Assad on his own people.