by Ruth Ware
As the shower trickled and gurgled to a halt, I groped my way back to the door, my dripping hair plastered to my face, and felt for the light, which would activate the extractor fan and clear some of the steam.
I hit the switch and light flooded the shower room—and that’s when I saw it.
Written across the steamy mirror, in letters maybe six inches high, were the words STOP DIGGING.
Monday, 28 September
BBC News Website
Monday 28th September
MISSING BRITON LAURA BLACKLOCK: BODY FOUND BY DANISH FISHERMEN
Danish fishermen dredging in the North Sea off the coast of Norway have found the body of a woman.
Scotland Yard have been called in to assist the Norwegian police investigation into the discovery of a body, dredged up in the early hours of Monday morning by Danish fishermen, lending weight to speculation that the deceased may be missing British journalist Laura Blacklock (32), who disappeared last week while holidaying in Norway. A spokesperson for Scotland Yard confirmed that they have been called in to help with the investigation, but declined to comment on possible links to Ms. Blacklock’s disappearance.
Norwegian police said that the body was that of a young Caucasian woman, and that the process of confirming the woman’s identity was under way.
Laura Blacklock’s partner, Judah Lewis, when telephoned at his home in North London, refused to respond to the speculation, except to say that he was and is “devastated by Laura’s continued disappearance.”
- CHAPTER 17 -
For a second I couldn’t do anything. I just stood, staring at the dripping letters, my heart beating until I thought I would be sick. There was a strange roaring in my ears, and I could hear sobbing sounds, like a frightened animal—it was a horrible noise halfway between terror and pain and an odd, detached part of myself knew that the person making the sounds was me.
Then the room seemed to shift and the walls started to close in, and I realized I was having a panic attack, and was going to pass out unless I got myself somewhere safe. Half crawling, I lurched to the bed, where I lay, curled in the fetal position, trying to slow my breathing. I remembered what my CBT coach used to say: Calm conscious breathing, Lo, and progressive relaxation—one muscle at a time. Calm breathing . . . conscious relaxation. Calm . . . and conscious. Conscious . . . and . . . calm . . .
I hated him even then. It barely took the edge off the panic attack at the time, let alone now, when there really was something to panic about.
Calm . . . and conscious . . . I heard his light, smug tenor in my head and somehow the well-remembered fury anchored me, made me strong enough to slow my shallow, panicked breaths and, at last, to sit up, dragging my hands through my damp hair and look about me for a phone.
Sure enough, there was one on the counter, beside an empty pack of spa mud. My hands were shaking, and crusted with dried mud so that I could barely pick up the phone, let alone dial 0, but when I did, and I heard a Scandinavian-accented voice say, “Hallo, may I help you?” I did not speak, I just sat, my finger poised over the dial.
Then I put the phone down with a click.
The message was gone.
I could see the shower-room mirror from where I sat on the bed, and now that the shower was turned off and the extractor fan was running, the steam had all but disappeared. All you could see were a couple of runnels of water where the bottom of the two Is in DIGGING had been, and that was it.
Nilsson would never believe me.
When I had showered and dressed, I walked back along the corridor. I looked in as I passed the other two rooms, but they were quite empty, their doors open, showing neatly cleared couches ready for the next clients. How long had I been asleep for?
When I made my way up the stairs to the spa reception, it, too, was empty, apart from Eva, who was sitting at the desk and typing something on a laptop. She looked up as I emerged from the concealed door and smiled.
“Ah! Miss Blacklock. Did you enjoy your treatment? Ulla went down to remove the wraps a little while ago but you were deeply asleep; she was planning to return in quarter of an hour. I hope you weren’t disorientated to wake up alone.”
“It’s fine,” I said tightly. “When did Chloe and Tina leave?”
“About twenty minutes ago, I think.”
I nodded at the door behind me, the one I’d just come through—now closed again and invisible unless you knew the mirror’s secret.
“Is this the only entrance to the spa?”
“It depends what you mean by entrance,” she said slowly, obviously confused by the question. “It is the only entrance but it is not the only exit. There is a fire exit downstairs that leads into the staff quarters, but it is . . . what’s the word. Single way? It opens outwards only. Also it is alarmed, so I don’t recommend you use it or there will be an evacuation! Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
I had made a mistake in blabbing to Nilsson this morning. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. I was keeping my cards close to my chest this time.
“They are serving lunch in the Lindgren Lounge,” Eva said, “but don’t worry, you haven’t missed anything—it is a buffet lunch, so people are free to come and go. Oh, and I almost forgot,” she said as I turned to go. “Did Mr. Howard find you?”
“No.” I stopped dead, my hand on the door. “Why?”
“He came here looking for you. I explained that you were undergoing a treatment so he could not speak to you personally, but he went downstairs to leave a message with Ulla. Would you like me to try to find it?”
“No,” I said shortly. “I’ll find him myself. Did anyone else go down?”
She shook her head.
“No. I have been here the whole time. Miss Blacklock, are you sure nothing is wrong?”
I didn’t answer. I just turned and left the spa, feeling the chill damp of my skin beneath my clothes, and a cold dread that had spread far deeper.
The Lindgren Lounge was empty except for Cole, who was sitting at a table with his camera in front of him, and Chloe, who was across from him, staring out of the window and forking salad absentmindedly into her mouth. She looked up when I came in and nodded at the chair next to her.
“Hey! Wasn’t the spa amazing?”
“I guess,” I said as I pulled up a chair, and then, realizing how strange and ungracious I must be sounding, I tried again. “I mean, yes, it was. My treatment was very good. I’m just—I’m not good with enclosed spaces. I’m kind of claustrophobic.”
“Oh!” Her face cleared. “I wondered why you looked so tense downstairs. I thought you were hungover.”
“Well.” I gave a false-sounding laugh. “That too, probably.”
Could it have been her, down in the spa? It was definitely possible. But Ben had been so clear about last night—she had never left the room.
What about Tina, then? I thought of her wiry strength, and her fierce reaction to my question about where she had been last night, and I absolutely could believe she would push someone overboard.
Could it have been Ben? He had come down into the spa, and I only had his own word for his alibi last night, after all.
I wanted to scream. This was sending me mad.
“Listen,” I said casually to Chloe, “you were playing poker last night, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t playing. But I was there, yes. Poor Lars got fleeced, but then, he can afford it.” She gave a short, rather heartless laugh, and Cole looked up from the other table and flashed her a grin.
“This is going to sound like an odd question . . . but did any of the others leave the cabin?”
“I couldn’t honestly say,” Chloe said. “I went through to the bedroom after a while. Poker’s the most boring game to watch. Cole was there for a bit of it, weren’t you, Cole?”
“Only for about half an hou
r,” Cole said. “Like Chloe says, poker’s not really a spectator sport. I do remember Howard leaving. He went to get his wallet.” My mouth was suddenly dry as he continued, “Why d’you want to know?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I tried to force a smile, and changed the subject before he could pin me down for an answer. “How are the photos?”
“Take a look if you like,” he said, tossing the camera across with such casualness that I gasped, and nearly dropped it. “Press the play button on the back and you can scroll through them. I’ll send you a print of any you like.”
I began to work my way through the pictures, going back in time through the voyage, past moody shots of clouds and wheeling gulls, past the poker game last night, pictures of Bullmer laughing and scooping Ben’s chips towards him, and Lars groaning as he laid down a pair of twos to Ben’s three fives. One, from last night, almost took my breath away. It was a photo of Chloe, taken from very close. Her eyes had just flicked towards the camera. You could see the tiny hairs on her cheek, golden in the lamplight, and the smile that just tugged at the corner of her mouth, and there was something so intimate and so tender about the shot that I felt like an intruder even looking at it. My gaze went to Chloe, almost inadvertently, wondering about her and Cole, and she looked up.
“What is it? Found one of me?”
I shook my head and hastily flicked on to the next picture before she had time to look over my shoulder at the little screen. The next one was of myself, the shot that Cole had taken last night that had caught me unawares and caused me to spill my coffee. He had snapped me as I flung my head up in alarm, and the look in my eyes made me flinch.
I pressed the button to continue.
The others were just more of the ship . . . one of Tina on deck looking piercingly at the camera, her eyes like a raptor’s, one of Ben carrying an oversize rucksack up the gangway. I was reminded again of Cole’s enormous trunk. What was in it? Photographic equipment, he’d said, but all I’d seen him use so far was this one point-and-click.
And then I was past the pictures of the ship and into some society party. I was about to hand the camera back when my heart seemed to stutter in my chest and I froze. The screen was displaying a picture of a man eating a canapé.
“Who’s he?” Chloe said over my shoulder. And then, “Wait, isn’t that Alexander Belhomme in the background, talking to Archer?”
It was. But it wasn’t Alexander or Archer I was looking at.
It was the waitress holding the tray of canapés.
She had her face turned half away from the camera and her dark hair was falling out of its clip, across her cheek.
But I was almost certain—almost completely certain—that she was the woman in cabin 10.
- CHAPTER 18 -
I handed the camera back carefully, my heart thumping, wondering whether to say anything. This was proof—irrefutable proof—that Cole, Archer, and Alexander had been in the same room as the woman I’d seen. Should I ask Cole if he knew her?
I sat in an agony of indecision as he switched off his camera and began packing it away.
Fuck. Fuck. Should I say something?
I had no idea what to do. It was possible Cole didn’t realize the significance of the picture he’d taken. The girl was half out of the shot, the focus was on some other person completely, a man I’d never met.
If Cole had something to hide, I’d be incredibly foolish to flag what I’d just seen. He’d deny it, and then he’d probably delete the picture.
On the other hand, it was very likely he had no idea who the girl was and might be willing to let me have the image. But if I raised the issue now, in front of Chloe, and with who knew who else possibly listening . . .
I thought of the way Bjorn had appeared from behind the paneling at breakfast and I involuntarily looked over my shoulder. The last thing I wanted was for this picture to go the way of the mascara. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. If I did decide to confront Cole, I should do it in private. The photo had been safe on Cole’s camera up until now; it would be safe a little longer.
I stood up, my knees suddenly shaky.
“I’m—I’m actually not very hungry,” I said to Chloe. “And I’m supposed to be meeting Ben Howard.”
“Oh, I forgot,” she said casually. “He was in here looking for you. I met him coming up out of the spa. He said he had something important to tell you.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Back to his cabin to do some work, I think.”
“Thanks.”
Bjorn appeared again like a genie from behind the concealed screen.
“May I get you a drink, Miss Blacklock?”
I shook my head.
“No, I’ve remembered I’m supposed to be meeting someone. Could you please send a sandwich to my suite?”
“Certainly.” He nodded, and I slipped out of the room with an apologetic nod to Cole and Chloe.
I was hurrying along the corridor that led towards the aft cabins when I rounded a corner and ran slap into Ben himself—literally. We collided with a crash that knocked the breath out of me.
“Lo!” He grabbed my arm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“I know. What were you doing down in the spa?”
“Didn’t you just hear me? Looking for you.”
I stared at him, at his face, the picture of innocence, his eyes above his dark beard round and full of urgency. Could I trust him? I had absolutely no idea. A few years ago I would have said I knew Ben inside out—right up until the moment he walked out. Now I had learned that I couldn’t even totally trust myself, let alone another person.
“Did you come into my treatment room?” I asked abruptly.
“What?” He looked momentarily confused. “No, of course not. They said you were getting a mud wrap. I didn’t think you’d want me barging in. I was told to look for some girl called Ulla, but she wasn’t there, so I pushed a note under your door and came back up.”
“I didn’t see any note.”
“Well, I left one. What’s this about?”
Something in my chest felt like bursting—a mixture of fear and frustration. How could I possibly know if Ben were telling the truth? The note would be a stupid thing to lie about anyway—even if he’d written the message in the steam, why fib about leaving me a note? Perhaps it had been there, and I’d just overlooked it in my panic.
“Someone else left me a message,” I said at last. “Written in steam on the mirror of the shower next door while I was having the treatment. It said Stop digging.”
“What?” His pink face went slack with shock, his mouth hanging open. If he was acting, it was the best performance I’d ever seen him give. “Are you serious?”
“One hundred percent.”
“But—but didn’t you see them go in? Is there another entrance to the bathroom?”
“No. They must have come through the room. I . . .” I felt oddly ashamed saying it, but I put my chin up, refusing to be apologetic. “I fell asleep. There’s only one entrance to the spa, and Eva says no one went down except for Tina and Chloe . . . and you.”
“And the spa staff,” Ben reminded me. “Plus, surely there must be a fire exit down there?”
“There’s an exit, but it’s one-way. It leads into the staff quarters, but you can’t open it from the other side. I asked.”
Ben looked unconvinced.
“Not that hard for someone to wedge it open, though, right?”
“No, but it’s alarmed. There would have been sirens going off all over the place.”
“Well, I guess it’s possible if you knew enough about the system you could fiddle with the alarm settings. But Eva wasn’t there the whole time, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“She wasn’t there when I came back up. Anne Bullmer
was—she was waiting for her nail varnish to dry. But Eva was gone. So if she says she was there for the whole time, she’s not telling the truth.”
Oh God. I thought about myself, lying there, half-naked beneath the thin film wraps and towels, and how someone—anyone—could have come in and placed a hand over my mouth, wound a sheet of plastic around my head . . .
“So what did you want to see me about?” I said, trying to sound normal. Ben looked uneasy.
“Oh . . . that. Well, you know we were on a tour of the bridge and so on?”
I nodded.
“Archer was trying to text someone, I think, and he dropped his phone. I picked it up, and it was open on the contacts page.”
“And?”
“The name just said Jess, but the preview picture was a girl, a lot like the one you described. Late twenties, long dark hair, dark eyes . . . and this is the thing—she was wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt.”
Something cold trickled down my spine. I remembered Archer last night, his laughing face as he twisted my arm up behind my back, Chloe’s disapproving maybe the rumors about his first wife are true. . . .
“Was she the person he was trying to text?” I asked. Ben shook his head.
“I don’t know. He might have pressed a few buttons when he fumbled the phone.”
Automatically, I pulled out my own phone, ready to google “Jess Fenlan”—but the search bar whirred fruitlessly. The Internet was still down, and my e-mails were still not loading.
“Is your Internet working?” I asked Ben. He shook his head.
“No, there’s some issue with the router, apparently. I suppose teething problems are par for the course with maiden voyages, but it’s a right pain. Archer was sounding off about it over lunch; he kicked up quite a stink to poor Hanni. I thought she was about to burst into tears at one point. Anyway, she went and spoke to Camilla Wotserface, and it’ll be fixed shortly, apparently. At least, I bloody hope it will be, I’ve got a piece to file.”