by Ruth Ware
“Jesus, Lo,” Ben said. He stared at me. “Did you? Or didn’t you? It kind of matters.”
“I know that,” I said peevishly. The boat heaved up and down a wave, and the feeling of nausea swept over me again, the half-digested pancakes shifting uneasily in my gut. I tried to think back to the conversations below decks, but it was hard to remember, I’d been so hungover, so distracted by the claustrophobic artificial light of those narrow, windowless cabins. I shut my eyes, feeling the sofa lurch and tilt beneath me, and tried to think back to the staff canteen and the pleasant, scrubbed faces of the girls tipped up towards me. What the hell had I said?
“I can’t remember,” I said at last. “I really can’t. But I could have mentioned it. I don’t think I did, but I can’t absolutely say that I didn’t.”
“Bollocks. Well, that widens things out considerably.”
I nodded soberly.
“Look,” Ben said at last. “Maybe one of the other passengers saw something. Someone going in and out of the empty cabin, or whoever stole the mascara going into yours. Who’s in the aft cabins?”
“Um . . .” I counted them out on my fingers. “Well, there’s me in nine, you in eight. Alexander is in . . . I think it might be six?”
“Tina’s in five,” Ben said thoughtfully. “I saw her go in last night. Which means Archer must be in seven. Okay. Want to go and do some door stepping?”
“All right,” I said. For some reason, maybe it was the surge of anger, or the feeling of being believed, or maybe just the effect of having a plan, I was feeling better already. But then I caught sight of the clock on Ben’s laptop. “Shit, I can’t, not now. I’ve got this bloody ladies’ spa thing.”
“What time does it finish?” Ben asked.
“No idea. But I shouldn’t think it will run over lunchtime. What are the men supposed to be doing?”
Ben stood up and flicked through a brochure on the desk.
“Tour of the bridge. Nice and sexist—blokes get technology, women get aromatherapy. Oh, no, wait, there’s a men’s spa morning tomorrow. Maybe it’s just to do with space.” He picked up a pad and pen from the dressing table. “I need to be going, too, but let’s see what we can dig up this morning, and then we can rendezvous back here after lunch and door step the remaining passengers. After that we can take the whole lot to Bullmer. Maybe he can get the boat to divert—get the local police on board.”
I nodded. Nilsson hadn’t taken me seriously, but if we could find out something to corroborate my story—even just someone else who’d heard the splash, it would be a lot harder for Bullmer to ignore.
“I keep thinking about her,” I blurted as we reached the door. Ben stopped, his hand on the latch.
“What do you mean?”
“About the girl—the girl in Palmgren. What she must have felt when he went for her—whether she was alive when she went over. I keep thinking what it must have been like, the shock of the cold water, the sight of the boat pulling away . . .”
Had she screamed as the waves closed over her? Had she tried to call out, as the salt water flooded her lungs, her chest laboring as the cold bit harder and the oxygen leached from her blood, and she sank deeper and deeper . . . ?
And her body, drifting through the cold silent blackness of the deep ocean, white as bone, the fishes nibbling at her eyes, her hair floating in the current like a stream of dark smoke . . . All that I was thinking of, too, though I didn’t say it.
“Don’t,” Ben said. “Don’t let your imagination run away with you, Lo.”
“I know what it’s like,” I said, as he opened the door. “Don’t you see? I know what she must have felt like, when someone came for her in the middle of the night. That’s why I have to find out who did this to her.”
And because if I didn’t find out, they might come for me next.
- CHAPTER 16 -
Chloe and Tina were waiting in the spa when I arrived. Tina was leaning over the counter, reading something on the laptop Eva had left open behind the desk, and Chloe was ensconced deep in a luxuriously upholstered vintage leather chair, playing on her phone. I was surprised to see that without her makeup on, she looked completely different—the huge smoky eyes and jutting cheekbones of last night looking somehow faded and flat by the light of day.
She caught me looking at her in the mirror and grinned.
“Apparently I’m down for a facial, so I took it off. I told you, I’m quite the makeup artist.”
“Oh, I didn’t . . .” I trailed off, feeling myself blush.
“Contouring,” Chloe said. She swung the chair around to face me and winked. “Honestly, it’ll change your life. I could turn you into anyone from Kim Kardashian to Natalie Portman with what I’ve got in my cabin.”
I was just about to make a joking reply, when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye, and I saw with a shock that one of the full-length mirrors behind the desk was moving, swinging inwards. Another door? Seriously, how many concealed entrances did this boat have?
Tina’s head jerked up from the laptop as Eva came through the gap, smiling politely.
“Can I help you, Miss West?” she asked. “We keep our client lists and confidential information on that computer, so I’m afraid we don’t allow guests to use it. If you wish to use a computer, Camilla Lidman will be delighted to arrange one for your cabin.”
Tina straightened awkwardly and turned the laptop to face the desk again.
“Sorry, darling.” She had the grace to look slightly shamefaced. “I, ah . . . was just looking for the list of treatments.”
Since there was a full list in the press pack, it was a slightly lame excuse.
“I would be delighted to give you a printout,” Eva said. There was no hint of coolness in her tone, but she looked at Tina rather appraisingly. “We have the usual types of massage and therapies, facials, pedicures, and so on. The manicures and hair treatments take place in this room.” She indicated the chair that Chloe was perching on.
I was just wondering where the other treatments took place, as there was only one chair in the spa, and no more room on the upper deck as far as I could make out—the hot tub and the sauna took up most of the rest of the space—when the deck door swung open and, somewhat to my surprise, Anne Bullmer came in. She looked a little better than last night, her skin less sallow, her face somehow slightly less drawn, but her dark eyes were circled with deep shadows as though she hadn’t slept.
“I’m sorry,” she said, breathlessly, trying to smile. “It takes me so long on the stairs at the moment.”
“Here.” Chloe stood up hastily and tried to edge out of the way into an unoccupied corner of the room. “Have my seat.”
“There’s no need,” Anne said. Chloe began to insist, but Eva cut across their polite exchange with a smile.
“We’re heading to the treatment rooms now, in any case, ladies. Lady Bullmer, if you would like to take a seat here. Miss West, Ms. Blacklock, and Mrs. Jenssen, shall we make our way down?”
Down? Before I could wonder what that meant, she opened the mirrored door behind the desk—a touch at the frame sent it swinging inwards—and we began to descend a set of narrow, dark stairs, one after the other.
The contrast, after the light and air of the reception room, was extreme, and I found myself blinking, my eyes trying to get used to the low light. Small electric tea lights were placed in holders at intervals along the staircase, but the flickering yellow glow they cast merely intensified the darkness around them, and as the boat tilted slightly over a big wave, I had a momentary wash of vertigo. Perhaps it was the staircase disappearing into darkness below us—or perhaps it was the realization that the lightest of touches from Chloe—who was directly behind me—would send me tumbling into the back of Tina and Eva in front. If I broke my neck, there would be no way of knowing that I hadn’t simply tripped in the dark.
At last, after what seemed like an interminable descent, we stopped in a small lobby. There was the sound of water from a small electric water feature in a niche on the wall, the kind that trickled endlessly recycled water over a stone globe into a bowl below. The noise should have been soothing, and probably would have been on dry land, but the effect on a boat was somehow different. I began to think about leaks, and emergency exits. Were we below the waterline here? There were no windows at all.
My chest started to feel tight and I clenched my fists. Don’t panic. Do not, for God’s sake, have a panic attack down here.
One. Two. Three. . . .
I realized that Eva was speaking, and tried to concentrate on her words, not on the low ceiling and cramped airless space. Perhaps when we got into the treatment rooms, and were less crowded, it would be better.
“. . . three treatment rooms down here,” Eva was saying. “Plus the chair upstairs, so I have taken the liberty of selecting therapies that we can run concurrently.”
Please, please, please let mine be an upstairs one. My fingernails were digging into my palms.
“Miss West, I have you down for an aromatherapy session in treatment room one with Hanni,” Eva said, consulting her list. “Miss Jenssen, you are having a facial in treatment room two with Klaus. I hope you don’t mind a male therapist? Miss Blacklock, I have booked you a mud wrap in room three with Ulla.”
I felt my breath quicken.
“What about Lady Bullmer?” Chloe said, looking around. “Where’s she?”
“She is having a manicure upstairs.”
“Um . . .” I spoke diffidently. “I don’t suppose . . . could I have a manicure upstairs, too?”
“I’m sorry,” Eva said, and she did sound sorry. “But there’s only one chair upstairs. I’d be delighted to book you in for a manicure this afternoon, after your wrap. Or is there another treatment you’d prefer? We can offer Reiki, Swedish massage, Thai massage, reflexology. . . . We also have a flotation tank—if you’ve never tried one, they’re incredibly soothing.”
“No!” I said reflexively. Tina and Chloe turned their heads, and I realized suddenly how loudly I’d spoken, and consciously lowered my voice. “No, no, thank you. Flotation’s not . . . not really my thing.”
Just the thought of lying down here in a sealed plastic coffin full of water . . .
“No problem,” Eva said with a smile. “Well, if you’re all ready to begin? The treatment rooms are down the corridor. Each has its own en suite shower. Robes and towels are provided.”
I nodded, hardly hearing her instructions, and then as she turned to go back upstairs, I followed Chloe and Tina down the corridor, hoping that my growing fear didn’t show in my face. I could do this. I could not let my phobias get in the way of doing a good job. Hi, Rowan, no, I didn’t try the spa because it was two floors down and had no windows. Sorry.
No. No way. It would be better once we were out of this narrow corridor and in our own treatment rooms.
I’d been hoping that the spa treatment time would give me a chance to talk to Tina, Anne, and Chloe, and sound them out about their movements last night, but as Chloe disappeared into her treatment room, the door closing behind her, I realized that wasn’t going to be the case.
On the other side of the corridor, Tina had stopped at a door marked “Treatment Room 1,” and I waited for her to enter so I could pass on down the corridor, but she turned back to face me, her hand on the doorknob.
“Darling,” she said awkwardly, “I, um . . . I may have been a little abrupt, when we last spoke.”
For a moment I couldn’t think what she was talking about, and then it came back—our encounter on the deck, her spitting fury at my questions. Why had she been so touchy about her movements last night?
“What can I say . . . hangover . . . lack of cigs. But that’s no excuse for snapping at you.” Her whole bearing and manner screamed a woman more used to demanding apologies than giving them.
“It’s fine,” I said stiffly. “I completely understand, I’m not a morning person, either. I— Honestly, consider it forgotten.” But I felt my face flush with the lie.
Tina put her hand out and squeezed my arm, with what I assumed was meant to be a friendly gesture of farewell, but her rings were cold against my skin, and as the door swung shut behind her, I let the shudder I had been repressing roll over me.
Then I took a deep breath and tapped at the door of treatment room three.
“Come in, Miss Blacklock!” said a voice from inside, and the door swung open and Ulla was standing there smiling, wearing a white spa uniform. I stepped inside the little room, looking around me. It was small—but not as narrow as the corridor, and with only Ulla and myself, it felt considerably less crowded. I felt the tightness in my chest ease slightly.
The room was lit with the same flickering electric candles as the stairwell, and there was a raised bed in the center, covered with clear plastic film. A white sheet was folded at the foot.
“Welcome to the spa, Miss Blacklock,” Ulla said. “Today you will be experiencing a mud wrap. Have you had one before?”
I shook my head, mutely.
“It is very pleasurable and very good for detoxing the skin. The first step is to please remove your clothes and lie upon the bed, covering with the sheet.”
“Should I keep my underwear on?” I said, trying to sound as if I went to spas every day.
“No, the mud will stain,” Ulla said firmly. My face must have expressed my feelings, because she bent and took what looked like a piece of crumpled hand towel from a cupboard.
“If you prefer, we provide disposable panties. Some of our guests use them, some do not; it is entirely how you feel comfortable. And now I will leave you to undress. The shower, if you wish it, is through here.”
She indicated a door to the left of the bed, and then backed out of the room with a smile, closing the door softly, and I began to strip off my clothes layer by layer, feeling more and more uncomfortable. I piled them on the chair along with my shoes and then, when I was completely naked, I stepped into the flimsy paper knickers and climbed onto the bed, my bare skin sticking uncomfortably to the plastic, and pulled the white sheet up to my chin.
Almost as soon as I’d done so—quickly enough to make me wonder queasily whether there was some kind of camera in the room—there was a soft knock on the door and I heard Ulla’s voice.
“May I come in, Miss Blacklock?”
“Yes,” I said croakily, and she entered, holding a bowl of what looked like, and presumably was, warm mud.
“If you would like to lie on your front,” Ulla said softly, and I wriggled around. It was surprisingly difficult, with the sticky film clinging to my skin, and I felt the sheet slip, but Ulla deftly tweaked it back into place. She touched something to the side of the door and the room was filled with soft whale sounds and the crash of waves. I had the unsettling image again of the weight of water just the other side of the thin metal hull . . .
“Could you . . .” I said awkwardly, speaking into the bed. “Is there another track?”
“Of course,” Ulla said. She pressed something and the music changed to Tibetan metal bells and wind chimes. “Is that better?”
I nodded, and she said, “Now, if you’re quite ready . . . ?”
The treatment was surprisingly soothing, once I had forced myself to relax a little. I even got used to the feeling of having a complete stranger massaging mud into my mostly naked body. Halfway through I realized, with a jolt, that Ulla was speaking to me.
“Sorry,” I managed sleepily. “What did you say?”
“If you could turn over,” she murmured, and I turned onto my back, the mud slipping and sliding against the plastic. Ulla draped the sheet over my upper body once again and began to massage the fronts of my legs.
She worked her way methodically
up my body, and at last smoothed the mud over my forehead, cheeks, and closed eyes, before speaking again, in her low, soothing voice.
“I will wrap you up now, Miss Blacklock, to allow the mud to work, and I will return in about half an hour to help you unwrap and shower. If you need anything, there’s a call button to your right.” She pressed my hand to a button set into the side of the bed. “Is everything quite all right?”
“Quite all right,” I said drowsily. The warmth of the room and the soft chimes of the music were extraordinarily soporific. I was finding it hard to remember everything that had happened the night before. Harder to care. I just wanted to sleep. . . .
I felt the plastic film close around me, and then something heavy and warm on top of that—a towel, I thought. Behind my closed lids, I was aware that the lights of the room had been dimmed.
“I will be just outside,” she said, and I heard the soft click of the door. I stopped fighting the tiredness, and I let the warmth and the darkness close over my head.
I dreamed of the girl, drifting miles below us in the cold, sunless depths of the North Sea. I dreamed of her laughing eyes white and bloated with salt water, of her soft skin, wrinkled and sloughing, of her T-shirt ripped by jagged rocks and disintegrating into rags.
Only her long black hair remained, floating through the water like fronds of dark seaweed, tangling in shells and fishing nets, washing up on the shore in hanks like frayed rope, where it lay, limp, the roar of the crashing waves against the shingle filling my ears.
I woke uneasy and heavy with dread. It took me a while to remember where I was, and still longer to realize that the roar in my ears was not part of the dream but real.
I climbed off the bed, shivering slightly, and wondering how long I’d been lying here. The warm towel had cooled off and the mud on my skin had dried and cracked. The noise sounded like it was coming from the en suite shower room.
My heart was thumping in my chest as I approached the closed door, but taking my courage in both hands, I turned the bathroom door handle and flung open the door, a wave of hot steam engulfing me. I coughed as I fought my way across the misty bathroom to turn off the shower, getting half drenched in the process. Had Ulla come in and turned it on? But why hadn’t she woken me?