Waiting for the lights and the engines to resonate the triumphant perfect cadence.
But it did not come.
‘Well, at least the air’s back on.’ said Prior. ‘It’s a start.’
Christine agreed and opened her mouth to speak. But, at that moment, Prior’s radio — which had been resting on the table besides his empty glass — bleeped loudly, catching them both off-guard.
Christine jumped slightly, but recovered her composure as she listened to the crisp, clear tones of Captain Andrews bouncing over the statically disrupted airwaves as he called for his Chief of Security. She closed her mouth and watched as Prior picked up the radio, acknowledging Andrews.
‘We’ve managed to get some of the back-up power online again. These kids really are good!’ he said.
By ‘kids’, Prior assumed he meant the group of young engineers and mechanics he had had working on the problem of trying to restart the ship.
‘We heard the air-flow system kicking in. What about the emergency lighting?’
‘Not yet.’ said Andrews, ‘I’ve had them diverting all the power they can so that we can restart the surveillance system. They’re downloading the images it captured prior to everything shutting off as we speak. I thought we could try and put a face on our killer before he realises we’re back in business.’
Prior seemed impressed, his lower lip jutting out as he nodded his silent praise. Christine felt the corner of her mouth flicker to a cheeky grin. Prior caught her and almost laughed, in spite himself.
‘Excellent plan, sir.’ he said.
‘Thank you. The emergency lighting and P.A. systems should be up and running in about an hour or so, which should give us more than enough time to scroll through the images in and around engineering and the other . . . sites.’ he paused, but kept transmitting. Christine could hear each torn and tested breath. ‘That should also give the air-flow system enough time to start circulating properly. I’ll make an announcement in — say — an hour and a half, informing the passengers and crew that it’s safe to return to their rooms.’
Prior couldn’t help but think that most of them would be unconscious through drink by that time, but that was beside the point. ‘Very good, sir.’ he said.
‘I know I told you to take the rest of the evening off, but . . .’ Andrews’ voice trailed off and the transmission ended.
‘Would you like me to come and take a look at the footage?’
There was a pause. Then a transmission of sheer static, just long enough — Christine realised — to account for Andrews holding down the call button and nodding his head. Then, in a somewhat relieved and only slightly flustered voice, he aired a second message. ‘Yes. If you wouldn’t mind.’
Prior also nodded, but accompanied this with a verbal confirmation, adding the freely volunteered information that he had been drinking.
Andrews gave a small laugh on the other end, which seemed to say Well, if that’s all you’ve done, you’re better man than me!
‘Good.’ he said, ‘You needed it. I doubt it’ll effect your judgement too much. You’re still the best I have.’
Prior seemed touched by this last statement and didn’t know quite how to react and so remained silent for a moment. ‘Thank you. Sir.’ he said. Eventually. ‘I’ll be up as soon as I can.’
‘Right.’ said Andrews, ‘That’s all.’
And he was gone.
‘Well,’ he said, turning to Christine. ‘That wasn’t at all what I expected.’
‘And what did you expect?’
‘I don’t really know.’ he said, frowning, ‘He’s usually adding further problems to the mix. Never offering solutions.’
‘You need to give that poor lad a break.’
‘That poor lad is the Captain of this ship. The commanding officer of us all; in charge of the health and well-being of every person sailing under him.’
‘And don’t you think he knows that? Don’t you think he feels it?’
‘If I’m honest, I don’t think he’d grasped the full gravity of it until this voyage.’ he said, ‘I think he liked to play at being Captain. Liked to lord it over all ‘the little people’.’
Christine raised her eyebrow. ‘Do you know what I think?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’ Prior said, grinning boyishly.
‘I think you want to like him. I think you’ve wanted for him to succeed and become the Captain you know he can be, for a long time. I’ve noticed the hold you seem to have on the young men and women of this ship. They look up to you, Jon. Especially Jason Andrews. And I think you know that.’ Christine placed a gentle hand on his arm, ‘You’re a very positive paternal figure, you know. Incorruptible, logical, hard-working. And I think that you too might just have some paternal feelings towards those you count as being part of your flock.’
‘My flock?!’
‘Yes, your flock. This ship. You might not be the Captain, but you are certainly the steady course they all strive to follow.’
Prior took in a deep breath, releasing it slowly through pursed lips as he eyed Christine. ‘So, no pressure then.’
She laughed, ‘Aye. No pressure at all.’
21:08
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Shona blinked, but could see nothing.
She struggled to move her arms. But they were bound and tied behind her.
She was sat on a chair. Tied. To an uncomfortable, wooden chair.
She tried to scream, but the terrified noise building in her throat didn’t make it past her lips and, with a sudden and absolute horror, she realised the reason for this. A length of gaffer tape had been less-than-lovingly slapped across her jaws, clapping shut within the confines of her mouth a well-worn rag that bore the faint, but unmistakable duel tastes of oil and alcohol.
Even as a second wave of panic broke on her, Shona found herself seeking out the awful material with the tip of her tongue. It seemed to snag and catch on every individual cell that stretched across the surface of that fleshy muscle, sending a horrid shiver down her spine. She gagged and struggled to suppress the urge to vomit as the cloth brushed against the backs of her teeth, squeaking like cotton wool.
She could smell wood and metal and paint and chemical cleaning fluid. And, though she could see nothing in the pressing darkness, she felt as though she were being held in a very tightly confined space.
She heard a noise beyond the wall behind her; objects being moved. The catch of a door. A handle being turned. Then the door was being pulled open, though little further light entered the tiny box of a room.
She was aware of a figure standing in the doorway behind her. She felt the presence and tried to make a noise. She struggled and squirmed to try and spy a friendly face; someone who would help her. Tell her what was happening. Explain why she was there and rescue her.
It was no use.
She couldn’t turn her head or twist her body far enough around to make a difference. Her eyes could make out only shadows moving against the darkness. And for the moment, all was still.
Rolling her shoulder, she leaned into the chair and twisted in one last effort to try and see just who had struggled their way in here to find her. The presence that was now simply standing there. Watching her.
She felt suddenly, violently sick.
They weren’t here to help.
In the next moment, a blinding torrent of blue-white light scorched her eyes and she turned away instinctively, blinking over and over. Trying to rid herself of the bright, burning orbs imprinted on her vision.
She turned back to see the wall before her.
Now lit by the harsh torchlight, she could see that the wall had been cleared of all that had been there previous. She could make out screw holes and bracket-shaped patches where the atrocious pale green paint that covered the wall was a shade darker, but no less awful.
But what really caught her attention — and was, no doubt, the true reason for the torch being switched on and aimed in that
direction — was a lengthy message of capital letters scrawled in red marker pen across the puke-mint wall.
She read silently over each of the devastating words and could not help but acknowledge the hopelessness of the situation. She found herself staring at her silhouetted self, her shadow, projected onto that awful green wall; a background for the red-penned words that prophesied her death.
She felt a tear slide down her face as she read last six words:
Nod your head if you understand.
She did so and the light went out. Immediately.
She listened as the door was locked once more and the objects stacked back in place, barricading the entrance. She had no idea where she was.
She sobbed and sobbed and eventually tried to scream; to shout.
To make any kind of noise.
She tried twisting free her bound ankles and wrists.
When it became clear that this was fruitless, she began to press her tongue against the rag inside her mouth, to move it around; manoeuvring and manipulating it until she could reach the corner of her lips. Then, again with her tongue, she worked the sticky gaffer; despising the taste and the sensation.
If she could only force a gap . . . there might be a chance. She might be heard.
She had to try.
She didn’t want to die this way.
She didn’t want to die.
Chapter Nine
21:20
Sunday 15th May, 2011
Prior was pleasantly surprised at how quickly the surveillance imaging system had downloaded the video and image files it had captured in the hours before the ship had been sabotaged.
He sighed as he thought about everything that had happened since then.
It all seemed a lifetime ago. Not some mere twenty-eight hours.
He was sat staring at a monitor filled with black and white images when Commander Roberts passed him a small thermos cap full of coffee.
‘I have no milk, but it’s strong and there’s sugar in it.’ he said.
‘That’ll do nicely.’ Prior replied, holding the cup under his nose for a moment, feeling the heat near his lips before he drank. ‘Thanks.’
Most of the power on the bridge was still out. There were two monitors and a couple of processors whirring softly in the background.
He sipped at the coffee, his eyes locked on the somewhat fuzzy images that tracked the day’s events outside the medical bay. He felt a sudden shiver as he saw the then-living form of Dr Cunningham approaching the camera in a stream of static poses. The camera recording one image every two seconds.
Prior held his breath and watched as Cunningham drew closer, reaching for the camera.
He shook his head and cursed.
They had already drawn a blank on several of the medical bay cameras from the Friday evening and — though no one wanted to speak ill of the dead — it was the general consensus that Dr Cunningham might have had more than a little to do with it.
Now he had the unfortunate proof. The damning evidence.
‘What is it?’ Roberts asked.
‘It was Cunningham.’ Prior said, annoyed, ‘He turned off the main camera in the medical bay. I don’t doubt he was responsible for turning the others off too.’
‘Dozy bastard.’
‘Damn it!’ Prior said, angrily, mentally exploring his other options, ‘I’ll try the images from the camera in the corridor. I remember someone saying they’d had to reset it on the Saturday morning. I didn’t really think anything of it then. Just thought it was a technical fault; a loose connection, low battery. Something like that.’
Roberts shook his head. ‘It still doesn’t seem right, does it? Sabotage. Murder.’
‘It’s just not something you expect.’
Roberts remained silent, returning his attention to the screen before him, which, like Prior’s, was scrolling slowly through countless two second images.
It was laborious.
It was slow, boring and was beginning to make his eyes ache. But as a task with the potential for positively revealing the identity of their killer, it could not be overlooked.
Prior watched Roberts for a moment and saw that he was currently checking on images from all of the cameras surrounding room fifteen-thirty-four. Stacey Atkins’ room.
He swallowed the last mouthful of coffee and sat the cup down on a spare bit of surface amongst the control panel. As he did so, he made the decision to start scrubbing through the images on his monitor at a higher speed.
He was just working his way through the day, when Roberts made an irritated noise in the back of his throat, distracting him. He paused the playback.
‘You ok?’ he asked.
‘Just annoyed. There’s a few times we should have caught him on the camera here.’ he said and paused while Prior moved from his seat to stand next to him, before he scrolled back over the images, allowing the Security Chief to take a look, ‘but, every time he’s just out of shot. We get a shoulder or the back of his head or an extreme long-shot that’s so fuzzy it’s no use at all. It’s like he knew where every camera on this ship was located. Like he could sense them.’
Prior could understand his commander’s frustration. He remembered the first time he had had to go over grainy CCTV footage, searching for one person in a sea of other people. Not knowing what he was looking for and being told over and over that he would simply know it when he found it.
It was — he had to admit — incredibly irritating.
He sighed and lowered his eyes for a moment.
He was lost in contemplation, in the memory of scouring through hours — days — of video surveillance tapes when a particular video was suddenly ejected from his well-watered recall memory, planting itself firmly within the cinema of his mind.
He recognised it even before it began to play. Remembered it well.
It had been taken from a club in Matthews Street. Liverpool.
He had sat studying that tape for hours at a time. Over and over and over again in the weeks that had followed.
Prior allowed himself a brief smile, noting how strange it was the way that things could suddenly pop into your head like that. Things you hadn’t thought about in years. Jogged by the slightest sight or scent, touch or sound.
The video had contained some of the last known footage anyone
had managed to capture of Isaac Simmons. Isaac . . . Leigh . . . Simmons.
That was it. Jacob Matthew. And Isaac Leigh.
It was yet another piece of the never-ending jigsaw puzzle that had been driving him to distraction ever since Christine had asked about the Simmons’ brothers earlier. She had stirred the waters and now the memories were slowly beginning to resurface.
Scum always rises to the top.
How could he have forgotten something as paramount as the lad’s full name?
Then again, he had tried so very hard to forget so many aspects of those cases; certainly after the day that his life had slowly begun to crumble. The day that he had lost so many friends and colleagues. When he had shot Jacob Matthew Simmons.
The day that Isaac Leigh had watched his brother die.
He shook his head, thinking for a moment. Trying desperately to recall . . . had there been something in the news recently? It was on the edge of his memory. Again, just beyond his reach. The outer ring of a fast-fading orbit.
What was it that Christine had suggested? That Isaac Leigh may have come on board?
He supposed it could be possible. But not without him noticing.
Surely.
‘Do we have the footage from the security checks?’ he asked, suddenly.
Roberts nodded. ‘We should do. Are you thinking of comparing these images with the check-in video? Because you could be sat there for quite a while, if you are.’
‘I know. But I was thinking . . .’ he paused for a moment, considering his words, ‘Whoever is doing this . . . if they’re a passenger then they had to check in. They had to have come through security on Friday morn
ing and so they would have to be on that video.’
Prior didn’t fancy explaining the ‘Simmons theory’ to Roberts. He felt slightly foolish in even contemplating the idea himself, and yet . . . there was definitely something there.
He felt it.
It had all sounded so far-fetched to him earlier, but somehow Christine had managed to plant a seed in his mind that had matured into a great vine that now snaked through his active thoughts and long-shelved memories, connecting them in a way that shouldn’t have been possible.
And then again, in a way that he couldn’t quite explain — for reasons he didn’t quite understand — it actually made a crazy sort of sense.
Still, he was probably better off not mentioning it to Roberts just yet.
‘When will the satellite system and the servers be back online?’
Roberts shrugged, adding, ‘Captain Andrews is with the team now, but, I really have no idea.’
Prior nodded.
If he could get online, he might be able to access a few files that he had attached to several personal inboxes via a series of emails he had sent to himself before he had left the force. He knew that the CCTV footage from the Matthews Street club was amongst them.
It had been a risk to copy the confidential files to his personal email, he knew that. He had known it at the time, but there were certain cases that a detective simply couldn’t walk away from. Cases that stayed with him.
That stuck to him like a piece of gum on the underside of his shoe.
And the Simmons’ case had certainly stuck to Prior. Like a ball of cheap, sticky, pink, penny bubble-gum. The shit you could never get rid of!
If he was lucky there might be a decent shot of Isaac Leigh’s face that he could print out and ask Davies to compare with the check-in footage, while he continued to scour through the remaining images of the countless other cameras that may or may not have captured something.
As the thought struck him, Prior picked up his radio and called Davies.
There was no response.
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