He had made an announcement earlier. Advised people to go to one of the restaurants or conference rooms on the upper levels (where the oxygen would still flow naturally), but he couldn’t force them. Could he?
In reality he hadn’t the man power to instigate such an order.
He was also painfully aware that once the revelation dawned of the full shut-down procedure knocking out the automated locking system — the system that was used to secure the passenger and crew rooms — that he would have a battle to keep people from wanting to protect their belongings. He shuddered at the thought, though he knew that for some the need to guard their material possessions would seem oddly far more important than the need to breathe fresh, oxygenated air.
No, he wouldn’t have it.
If there was even a small chance that leaving the safety of the designated rooms would cause more casualties amongst his passengers and crew, he had to make sure that no one left. And if that meant enforcing a strict ‘no access’ policy, then so be it.
He sighed, striding back towards the main corridor in the dark.
Now the real mayhem would begin.
13:12
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Davies had let Christine take the lead in interviewing Mike Jones.
She wondered, as she sipped at the bottle of water he had brought for her earlier, whether this was simply a courtesy due to some perceived chain-of-command between the pair of them, or whether it was because the athletic and handsome blonde actually felt somewhat less-than-confident in taking the reins in this matter.
Not that it mattered, really.
The room was large enough to not feel claustrophobic, but small enough to achieve the sense of intimacy needed in drawing out the truth; enough to put the suspect a little at ease and even create a sense — perhaps a false sense — of trust.
This environmental tool could be especially useful when the suspect was feeling like he wanted to brag. But, so far, Mike was not feeling this.
In the centre of the room a wide, metal table stood bolted to the floor; a metal bench bolted similarly either side.
Mike was sat opposite Christine, watching her as she took up her pen and began writing in short hand on the notepad in front of her. Davies was stood a little way off to her left, watching all.
‘What you writing?’ Mike asked, craning his neck to try and gain a better view.
Christine looked up at him and smiled slowly, before standing the pad upright and turning it around for him to see; judging the movements in his face as he tried to decode the shorthand manuscript.
He snorted.
‘Is that meant to impress me?’
‘Does it?’ Christine asked, returning the pad to the table and the lid to her pen. She folded her hands, palms-down, one on top of the other onto the cold metal and waited.
‘No,’ he said, ‘Not really.’
‘Good.’ she replied, ‘Because, I’m not here to try and impress you, though you’re clearly trying your hardest to impress me.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, come on, Mike. Look at yourself, listen to yourself. Your tone, posture, attitude. You’re desperately trying to make a statement.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, playing right into her hand, ‘and what’s that, then?’
‘That you’re not scared.’
‘Well, I’m not!’
Mike seemed to realise the — almost hilarious — futility of his statement and proceeded to make a big fuss of folding his arms across his chest. Huffing and puffing as he did. Christine curbed the smile that threatened her lips and continued to stare at him.
‘So, do you want to tell me what all that was about? Earlier on.’
‘All what?’ he said, a smarmy look on his face.
Oh. He wanted to play that game, did he?
‘Mike.’ Christine said, drawing in a long breath and releasing it, slowly, ‘We caught you, there and then. At the scene of the crime. Kelly’s blood all over you; knife in hand.’
‘Hey! I didn’t cut that stupid dyke! Ok?’ he said, viciously. ‘She was bleeding when I got there.’
Davies chuckled in the corner and Mike shot him a cold look. ‘Oh, that’s brilliant, that.’ he said, ‘Yeah, I’ve heard some excuses before, but that one, that’s . . .’
‘It’s the truth, you fucking hominid.’
Continuing the theme, it was obvious that Mike was now trying to rile Davies by throwing — what he believed to be — insults at him relating to own his sexuality.
Christine kept a poker-faced calm, despite the overwhelming urge to laugh in Mike Jones’ childish face and inform him that all three of them, in fact, were hominids. That every other person on the ship; every single human being in the world was — in fact — a hominid! That that was what the word meant; only he was too stupid to realise it.
She resisted the urge.
Tearing a page from the pad, Christine scribbled a note and passed it to Davies.
‘Marc,’ she said, softly, her accented tones bouncing off the tin walls and echoing in the space around her, ‘would you go and ask Prior if he still has these evidence bags, please?’
He took the note, his eyes on Christine, ‘And leave you in here? With him?’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, her eyes never leaving Mike ‘You’re going to behave now, aren’t you?’
Mike frowned, looking from Christine to Davies and back again. He nodded.
‘I’d feel better if you let me cuff him to the table.’
‘Yeah, I bet you would.’ Mike said.
Davies ignored him.
Christine shook her head and Davies sighed. ‘I’ll be quick.’
She heard the door click shut behind her and although she hadn’t seen Davies leave, she felt the room suddenly absent of his somewhat larger-than-life presence.
‘So, what is it that makes you so special?’ she said, her accent and the timbre of her voice continuing to resonate almost liquidly around the metallic room.
‘What?’ Mike asked.
‘What is it that makes you think you don’t have to obey the laws that others do.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ he said, nonchalantly.
‘Oh, I think you do. All this violence, Mike. Did you think there’d be no retribution? That you’d just get away with it forever?’
For a fraction of a second, Mike’s face clouded with doubt and fear. Then, like a wispy cumulus on a windy day, it was gone.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, but I know you do.’ she said, relaxing back into her chair, ‘I’ve sat across the table from many a seasoned life-taker. But everyone is different. What I want . . . is to understand. To understand why you do what you do. What drives you? What is it that you get out of killing?’
‘Killing?’ he said, the worry springing back to his face.
Christine remained silent, watching as he struggled to gather his thoughts, his alibis and his reasons. Watching him sweat.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong. Well, maybe I went a bit far bursting into Shona’s room and . . . but I haven’t hurt anyone. I haven’t done anything to anyone else. I swear.’
Christine nodded slowly, hearing the door open behind her.
‘We’ll see.’ she said.
Davies managed to hand over the evidence bags quite discreetly before returning to his position by the door. Christine thanked him, her eyes always on Mike.
She waited a moment before bringing the first of the evidence bags from her lap and placing it on the table.
‘This is the knife taken from you when you were apprehended in Shona’s room earlier.’ She didn’t ask him if this was correct. She didn’t ask his to identify the weapon. She merely watched him. Watched every movement that his eyes made as they darted over the intricate detail from the handle to the blade. ‘It’s really quite beautiful. Isn’t it?’
Mike nodded, almost involuntarily.
�
��But, I have to admit, I was more than a little curious about it,’ she continued, lifting the still-bagged blade as she spoke, ‘I mean, all this fine detail, the enamel; the stones, the mother of pearl; the silver. It must have cost a small fortune.’
‘A fortune, yes. Small, no.’
‘So why spend all that money on a knife? A knife that I assume is locked away most of the time.’
‘Because, I wanted it.’ he said, proudly.
‘Like you wanted Shona?’ Christine replied, ‘But she couldn’t be bought. Could she? She wasn’t interested.’ Mike slumped back, staring at the table. ‘Do you look at the knife much? Do you take it out and hold it? Do you think about how it would feel to stick it into another human being? To twist it in and watch them bleed.’
‘No!’ Mike shouted, jumping to his feet. Davies stepped in close behind Christine. ‘No! I don’t do that! I don’t dream about killing people. I never even wanted to . . .’
Mike had started pacing the room, setting Davies on edge. ‘Sit down!’ he barked, but Mike ignored him. ‘Mike.’
The male dancer turned his head to look at Davies, but remained where he was.
‘It’s ok, Mike.’ Christine said, ‘Come and sit back down.’
He looked back and forth between Christine and Davies for a long while before eventually yielding to sit.
‘Thank you.’ Christine continued. ‘Now, you understand why I’m asking these questions, don’t you? Understand why I have to ask these questions of you?’
He shrugged before answering. ‘Because I attacked Shona and . . . the other one.’
‘Yeah, for starters.’ Davies snorted.
Mike’s head swung round to look at Davies, his face burning with rage; his defensive eyes awash with fear and curiosity. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
Christine had already raised her hand and — taking his cue — Davies remained silent.
‘Come on, Mike. You’re not stupid. I’d like to say that I know you’re not stupid. Marc Davies believes that you’re not.’ She watched Mike’s narrow eyes flick across to Davies once more, ‘But, that knowledge is really only an assumption with a little common courtesy thrown in for good measure. And, I would be grateful if you extended the same courtesy now. And spoke plainly to the both of us.’
‘I am speaking plainly. It’s you that talks like a bloody text book!’
A small, soft smile played on Christine’s lips as she gave a single nod, acknowledging his point. ‘Tell me what you know about all that’s been happening on this ship, recently.’
‘What’s to say?’ he said with a shrug, ‘It’s gone to shit! Some big accident or something. It killed half the engineers and left us without power.’
‘And that’s all you know?’
‘I heard something about a girl on a hen do. People were even saying we had our own Jack the Ripper on board. But there were so many different stories — you know — I just thought everything must have been blown out of proportion. Like that girl, for example, she could have died from alcoholic poisoning or something that, but with everything going tits up and a massive game of Chinese-whispers . . . well, the story just expands. Doesn’t it?’
‘Sometimes.’ Christine said, scrutinising Mike as she spoke, ‘Though, on this occasion, I can categorically confirm that that young girl did not die of alcoholic poisoning. Nor anything even vaguely related to any cause of death that might be considered natural.’
Mike seemed genuinely taken aback to hear this.
He was either a better actor than any of them had given credit, or he truly had no idea that Stacey Atkins had, in fact, been murdered.
And horrifically murdered at that.
‘Let’s return to the incident in Shona’s room for a moment,’ Christine said, changing tactic; hoping to draw Mike out. ‘And to the weapon you used.’
‘I’ve already told you, I didn’t use my knife! I didn’t stab anyone, I didn’t slice anyone.’
‘Did you intend to?’
Mike was silent for a moment, contemplating his answer. ‘No. I think it was more for show.’
‘To what ends?’ Christine asked, ‘To threaten? Do as I say or I will . . .’
‘I suppose.’ he shrugged, ‘but, I wouldn’t have used it. Not on the ship.’
‘And what do you mean by that? Not on the ship.’
‘Well, I’ve used it when I’ve been hunting and stuff.’
‘And what did you like to hunt, Mike?’
‘Nothing big. Rabbits, cats — ’
‘Cats?’ Christine said, horrified.
Mike nodded. ‘Wild ones, yeah. In Greece, Morroco, Italy, places like that. Nobody cares about them. It’s pest control out there.’
Christine managed to put a lid on the overwhelming revulsion she felt.
But only just.
Mike grinned sadistically.
‘Did you hunt birds? Out there?’ Davies asked, his words so weighted that they had an almost metallic edge to them, which cut through the sudden silence and strangely buzzing energy of the room like a machete through butter. ‘Did you hunt in Livorno?’
The grin was wiped from Mike’s smug face as though it had been slapped right off it and he began rising slowly to his feet once more. ‘I don’t like your tone — ’
‘Sit. Down.’ Christine said, taking an iron-like grip of control over the situation before it could spiral.
Mike obeyed. Much to his own apparent surprise.
‘Well, well.’ he said, looking into her eyes, ‘You can be quite commanding when you want to, can’t you?’ Meeting his gaze, Christine resisted the urge to use the clichéd double-negative You ain’t seen nothing yet!
Instead she held the first evidence bag, dangling it in front of his nose before placing it on the table. ‘So,’ she said, ‘you smuggled a knife on board, despite the fact you could be charged if discovered.’ Christine turned her body towards Davies, ‘What’s the penalty for that, Marc? Anything up to ten years?’
Davies raised an eyebrow and nodded, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned coolly up against the door jam. ‘Certainly is.’
‘And that’s before we add a charge of ‘threatening use with the intent to harm’.’
‘Wait!’ said Mike, ‘Wait a minute. What is it that you want from me? What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry?’
‘Sorry won’t bring back the crew. Or any of your other victims.’
‘The crew? They’re not my victims.’ he said, raking his hands through his hair, ‘I have no fucking victims! I told you, I haven’t hurt anyone onboard this ship. You have to believe me.’
‘But, how can we believe you, Mike? When — by your own admission, your own actions — you’ve proved to us just how much you wanted to hurt Shona. And Kelly.’ she paused, folding her hands flat once more, ‘When you’ve purchased a knife — yes an incredibly expensive and beautifully crafted knife, but a knife none-the-less — and smuggled it on board with the sole purpose of killing when you make port.’
‘Rabbits and cats! God damn it! They aren’t the same as people!’ he said, the frustration in his voice ringing clear as a bell.
‘No.’ Christine said, ‘They’re not, are they? They’re too small. They don’t satisfy the urge, do they?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Mike flustered.
‘Oh, I think you do.’ Christine said, staring at him once again; her eyes locked like lasers on her target.
‘I lied! Ok? I lied.’ he said, throwing his hands up in the air, ‘But, that’s all I’ve done. Look, the knife’s not even mine.’
‘Really?’ Christine said, playing her cards close to her chest, ‘But, we found you with it. Your prints will be all over it.’
‘But, I didn’t bring it on board. I didn’t smuggle it on.’ He paused for a moment, trying to regulate his breathing, ‘I know I threatened Shona and . . .’
‘Kelly.’ Christine said.
‘Yeah, and that was fucked up a
nd maybe I need help. But, I don’t deserve to be locked away for ten years of my life. Please,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to help me.’
Christine turned herself slowly to look Davies.
‘Is that what we’ve . . . got to do?’ he said, smiling.
‘What do you think, Marc? Without the smuggling charge, what could he expect for ‘threatening behaviour’?’
‘Oh, that all depends.’
‘On what?’ Mike pleaded.
Davies looked as though he was beginning to enjoy himself and Christine made a mental note not to let things go too far.
‘You could get anything really,’ he began, ‘from a fine and stint of community service to two years in prison. It all depends. You have to think about Shona’s statement and Kelly’s statement, not to mention her injuries. Then, there’s the hearing to consider. Judge, jury, all of that depends on the severity of the attack and perceived intent of the attacker by the victims.’ he paused and looked at Christine, who nodded. ‘Then again, Shona and Kelly might be kind enough to simply drop the charges. But, there’s still the ownership of the knife, which — regardless of your protestations — does have your prints all over it. Even if Shona did choose not to pursue this, I doubt Prior would be so quick turn a blind eye.’
‘But, what if I could prove that the knife didn’t belong to me?’
‘How might you do that?’ asked Christine.
‘Well, like you said, it’s a posh knife. But, more than that, it’s an identity knife, you know? Personalised. Beautiful, polished blade; individually crafted handle. Very expensive.’
‘But, you could afford it if you wanted it.’ Davies said, ‘especially if you haggled for it in some of the shops off the beaten track. I mean, you’ve been all over. Haven’t you, Mike?’
‘Yes, but my point is this,’ he said, his arms cutting wildly through the air as he spoke, ‘Why would I spend all that money on this knife? Look! Why would I buy an identity knife that bore the wrong initial?
‘Initial?’ Christine asked, appearing wholly curious.
‘Yes.’ he said, reaching for the evidence bag and turning it over.
Christine leaned in as Marc Davies too took a step forward. ‘What is that?’ he asked.
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