Cruising to Murder

by Mark McCrum

  FOUR

  Takoradi, Ghana. Monday 24 April.

  The African sun was a giant shining disc, too bright still to look at for more than a second, its lower circumference now just kissing the brilliantly backlit clouds above the dark horizon. The ship’s engines were throbbing. Up on deck six, the Whirlpool Bar was packed with passengers, standing with cocktails looking down one way at the stacked-up containers of Takoradi port, the other at the fishing boats chugging out past the long breakwater to the open sea, each with its attendant flock of gulls. The whole scene was bathed in a glorious evening light: enhancing the orange and pink of cocktails in bulbous goblets, the scarlet and maroon slashes of lipstick on wrinkled faces, the shiny black of dark glasses, the twinkle of jewellery, emeralds and rubies and sapphires and diamonds, nothing too showy, not really. Just that one oversized one, glinting in that caramel cleavage, showcased by a dress of shimmering gold.

  She was smiling, the Puerto Rican, and her scruffy senior partner was grinning devotedly beside her, a change from his furious expression last night, when her tipsy dancing with a variety of partners had reached new heights. Today had been an interesting day, out at historic Elmina Fort, where you could not help but be moved by the slimy green walls of the Male Slave Dungeon and the Female Slave Dungeon and the heavy metal ‘Door of No Return’ which led directly out to the rocks above the sea, where once gangplanks would have been laid, up to the ships where more had usually died than survived on the dreaded ‘Atlantic crossing’. There had, the latest local guide had told them, been up to 600 slaves waiting for transit crowded into those cells. One tiny barred chamber had a grim skull and crossbones above the door. This was the punishment cell, for any brave spirits who dared to put up resistance.

  On a whitewashed wall a marble inscription read:

  IN EVERLASTING MEMORY

  OF THE ANGUISH OF OUR ANCESTORS

  MAY THOSE WHO DIED REST IN PEACE

  MAY THOSE WHO RETURN FIND THEIR ROOTS

  MAY HUMANITY NEVER AGAIN PERPETUATE

  SUCH INJUSTICE AGAINST HUMANITY

  WE THE LIVING VOW TO UPHOLD THIS

  The carved letters were infilled with black, but a part of that had peeled away, leaving some words harder to read than others: ANGUISH, ROOTS, LIVING. Fading already!

  ‘That guide was a bit bad-tempered, though, wasn’t he?’ Candy from Chicago was saying to English Shirley, as they stood with their partners by the ship’s rail, looking out to sea, cocktails in hand. Candy had been the cheerleader woman in that voodoo dance in Lomé, and was still dressed young, tonight in a tight frock as pink as her name.

  ‘Wouldn’t you be,’ Shirley replied, ‘repeating that terrible story of injustice, over and over, day after day. Especially if you’re black yourself.’

  ‘Sure, I get that,’ Candy replied. ‘But the guide didn’t have to take it out on us. I got the sense that he resented us somehow.’

  ‘Because we were white and obviously well off,’ chipped in her husband Bruce, whose puce face was adorned with a skinny white moustache.

  ‘Did you feel that, Gerald?’ Shirley asked.

  Her other half managed a smile. His hands were trembling, Francis noticed. Out of nerves, being put on the spot by his wife, or did he have the shakes habitually?

  ‘I see what you mean,’ he replied. ‘He could perhaps have been a bit more …’

  ‘A bit more what?’ said Shirley, aggressively.

  ‘Upbeat, maybe.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bruce. ‘You know, I almost got the sense that he felt he was doing us a favour, showing us around. I mean, tourism has got to be that place’s greatest asset. What else have they got? A few fishing boats. I don’t personally think they should be cocking a snook at the people who are paying their wages.’

  ‘So – what?’ said Shirley. ‘He should adjust his attitude and become a grinning Uncle Tom, just to please us?’

  ‘I didn’t use that phrase and I’m not saying that.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m agreeing with Candy. The experience could have been better. And yes, I did think there was some poor attitude there. Look, we’re twenty-first-century tourists, not nineteenth-century slavemasters.’

  ‘We’re descended from them.’

  ‘Are we? I don’t think I am. My ancestors came to the US from Ireland a hundred years ago. I don’t remember hearing much about the Irish Slave Trade. In any case, even if I were descended, so what? This is history. I was talking to a German fellow last night, very interesting, who was telling me that the African leaders themselves were just as much involved with all this slavery business as the Europeans and Americans.’

  ‘Encouraged by the Europeans and Americans,’ said Shirley. ‘Come on. There would have been no transatlantic slave trade without the demand from wealthy whites.’

  ‘They weren’t all wealthy, that’s just the point,’ said Bruce, his voice rising towards anger. ‘And they weren’t all white. Some of their new masters probably needed those slaves because they weren’t wealthy.’

  Shirley was laughing. ‘That’s an interesting point of view,’ she said, looking round and rolling her eyes. ‘We’re not going to agree about this, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What do you think, Francis?’ asked Bruce.

  Francis had been standing to one side, half listening to this sudden, alcohol-fuelled barney, half looking out over the gunwale at the sunset. The sun had turned a deep red, staining its surrounding blanket of grey as if with blood from a wound; above, the scattered clouds were picked out against the green-yellow sky in a deep flamingo pink. Was he being oversensitive in thinking that this entreaty from his latest shipboard acquaintance had something to do with his colour? You may not be African, or even properly black, but you are at least brown-skinned, so your opinion on this subject has some validity.

  ‘I found the fort very interesting,’ he replied. ‘I take the point about the guide, he did have a bit of a grouchy attitude, but then again, perhaps he was having a bad day, perhaps we were just unlucky.’

  ‘Attitude!’ cried Shirley. ‘His ancestors were shackled and led down those steps, left to rot and die on the slave ships, and you’re talking about attitude. I’d have that attitude if that were me.’

  They were interrupted by the announcement over the tannoy of the day’s round-up and briefing, down in the theatre. Francis eased away from the two couples and stood back, watching them join, separately, the shuffling queue heading downstairs. The guests were very dutiful, it had to be said. Almost all of them went down every night to hear Viktor’s studiedly irreverent recap of the day’s events, and his look forward to what was on the agenda for tomorrow; which was, as it happened, another two days at sea, as the ship steamed past the huge territories of Cote D’Ivoire and Liberia, none of whose ports had been deemed suitable, apparently, for a visit by the adventurous First Worlders.

  Just before he followed the others inside Francis took a last glance across the deck and spotted a familiar silhouette against the spectacular backdrop. Dr Lagip with a cocktail. He sauntered over to join her.

  ‘Amazing sky, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she replied with a smile. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good, thanks. Is it cheeky of me to ask how your day went?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. And yours?’

  She was a bit of a tease, this one. Which was not to say he wasn’t enjoying her considered flippancy.

  ‘Interesting. I went out with the rest of the punters and had a look round Elmina Fort.’

  ‘Slaves and guilt?’

  ‘Exactly. Lots of thoughtful conversations on the coach on the way back. Not to mention just now here on deck.’

  ‘I would have loved to have seen it. It’s the second time I’ve had to miss. Next time, perhaps.’

  ‘This is becoming quite a popular route, isn’t it?’

  ‘The more seasoned travellers love Africa. It titillates them. Takes them beyond the standard sights most cr
uises do. Makes them feel like explorers, even if they are explorers who return for a four-course meal every night.’ She giggled. ‘Then again, you only need one disaster to put a stop to it all.’

  ‘A pirate attack?’

  ‘For example. Or something happening in the interior.’

  ‘An ambushed coach or something?’

  ‘I personally think that’s unlikely. The Africans are incredibly keen to make this kind of high-end tourism work. Look at the escorts they give us. I know this is a doctor’s point of view, but I’d say it’d be more likely to be an outbreak of some new disease. Ebola, Zika, you never know quite what’s round the corner on this continent …’

  Francis nodded, thinking of his daily prophylactic dose of anti-malarial Malerone, not to mention the injections he had had to have, Yellow Fever among others; all the guests would have done the same, for this adventure in insalubrious parts. ‘So what are you drinking?’ he asked.

  ‘Singapore gin sling.’

  ‘Want another?’

  ‘This is probably enough.’ She met his eyes. ‘Oh, go on then. After the day I’ve had.’

  Francis waved for the waiter.

  ‘Are you going to tell me about that?’ he said.

  ‘I suppose I could.’

  Eve’s body had been removed from the ship an hour or so after the punters had left for Elmina Fort. In an unmarked van, as Francis had suggested. Dr Lagip had accompanied it, and there had been no difficult questions asked by the authorities. They had gone to the European Hospital in the harbour zone, rather than the regional hospital or – she raised her eyebrows – the Police Hospital.

  The supervisor was, as it turned out, an Australian. He had been happy for things to be discreet, so an autopsy was now under way. Samples would be sent for forensic toxicology testing. Dr Lagip had done her duty.

  ‘You said that that might take a while?’

  ‘This isn’t a TV show unfortunately. It could be six weeks before we’ve got the full report. Longer if the samples have to go to Europe.’

  ‘The cruise will be long over by then.’

  ‘Yes. But I’ll get the basic autopsy report by email tomorrow, and as for the rest of it, everything’s been done in the right way. You know, I wasn’t setting out to be unreasonable. I just couldn’t cope with the fact that the captain was trying to strongarm me into leaving this body in the so-called morgue till we got to Dakar. I don’t think he quite understood where that leaves me professionally.’

  ‘Why so-called morgue?’

  ‘There isn’t one. They just put the bodies in the meat freezer. Don’t tell them I told you.’

  Francis nodded. So Klaus only knew so much. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I admired your stand.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked down, her dark eyelashes fluttering like trapped insects.

  ‘Different nationalities have different ways of doing things,’ Francis said.

  ‘They certainly do.’

  ‘Am I interrupting?’

  It was Sadie, in a tight purple dress, holding some creamy-yellow confection; a maraschino cherry, a wedge of pineapple and a pink cocktail umbrella clung to the rim of her glass.

  ‘Not interested in Viktor’s briefing?’ asked Francis.

  ‘I really don’t need to be reminded about what I already saw, and the next two days are at sea, so I’m not too interested in Viktor’s take on that. Lectures and things, isn’t it?’

  ‘You can come to mine, if you like.’

  ‘What’s that about?’

  ‘“A Short History of Crime Writing”, it’s called.’

  ‘I’m hoping to go,’ said Dr Lagip.

  ‘Sorry to change the subject,’ Sadie interrupted, ‘but I was just wondering about Eve. I haven’t seen her for over two days now and I was really surprised she’d miss the slavery trip. She was so interested in the subject. Is she ill or something?’

  Dr Lagip’s face, as she turned slowly towards Francis, gave nothing away. ‘You’ll excuse me,’ she said curtly. ‘I am expected at the briefing.’

  ‘So what was that about?’ breathed Sadie, after she’d gone. Her long crimson-varnished fingers settled lightly on his wrist. ‘Come on, Francis. What do you know? Eve’s got the dreaded norovirus? She’s at death’s door?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can say.’

  ‘Oh, go on!’ From below there came shouts as moorings were untied from bollards, then the ship began easing away from the quay.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Sadie. ‘If it’s some big secret I’m not going to tell anyone.’

  ‘If I tell you, you’ll have to swear to keep it to yourself. Not even share with Aunty.’

  ‘I just had a big row with her, so I’m not in a sharing mood.’

  ‘Your second guess was correct.’

  ‘She’s at death’s door?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘Worse … what?’ Sadie was studying Francis’s face. ‘Not actually …?’

  Francis nodded.

  ‘Dead? You’re not serious?’

  ‘’Fraid so. The body was taken off today while we were at Elmina.’

  ‘Oh my God! What happened?’

  ‘Old age, probably. The doctor’s not being too specific. I’m not sure she really knows.’

  ‘But she seemed so well. Old, I grant you, but in great shape. I can’t believe that she’s—’

  ‘Well, she is.’

  ‘That’s terrible. I feel so sad now. She was telling me about all the other cruises she wanted to go on, all the places she was looking forward to seeing.’

  The bell was ringing for dinner.

  Sadie turned away, tears in her eyes. ‘I’m not sure I can face sitting down for a meal after what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, Sadie. But also hungry. All that sightseeing has given me an appetite.’

  Sadie smiled wanly. ‘You shallow man.’

  ‘Honest, perhaps.’

  ‘Can we just sit together then? You and me at a table for two? I don’t think I can bear to make small talk with any more of these people.’

  Afterwards they repaired to the Panorama Lounge. With Elmina Fort behind them, and the prospect of two days at sea, there was quite a crowd in tonight. Hangovers could be slept off in the morning. The first (optional) engagement at eleven a.m. was a lecture on sustainable fishing by one of the expedition staff, the bearded Australian marine biologist whose name was Mike. To the accompaniment of the pianist’s cheesy playlist, people were letting rip. Every now and then sporadic singing broke out. ‘Danny Boy’ was sung to applause by a white-haired gentleman with oddly black eyebrows.

  There was a lot of loud laughter from a group right by the bar: the Indian designer and his portly companion were back with the Bostonian couple again, and now joined by Shirley and Gerald too.

  But then their good spirits seemed suddenly to have soured.

  ‘Don’t treat me like a child,’ the Puerto Rican was shouting at her hung-dog partner, who even in wedges was some inches shorter than her.

  ‘Lauren, honey,’ he was saying, ‘I only said that maybe you should think twice …’

  ‘You think I can’t make my own financial decisions.’

  ‘You don’t know who these people are …’

  The old man’s voice dropped as he picked up on the hush in the bar. There were no such qualms for her. She raised a finger.

  ‘I do know who they are. As it happens. And guess what? It’s none of your freakin’ business anyways.’

  As if by magic, hotel director Gregoire had appeared and led Lauren out on to the little dance floor. The pair stood out effortlessly against the older couples, so much younger and more energetic. Even Carmen and Leo, now out of boring khaki and into floral African shirts, couldn’t keep up. At one point, breaking into a stylish rock and roll routine, the French/Puerto Rican combo garnered applause from across the bar.

  Now Klaus was here too, clutching a brandy, asking if he might join them. He
had some interesting facts about stowaways, who were, he said, a particular curse of Takoradi. They crept on to oil tankers, cargo ships, all sorts, and hid till they docked in Europe.

  ‘And sometimes the crew knows perfectly well they are there.’ He chuckled. ‘I noticed the expedition team searching the ship very carefully this evening. Before we left. These migrants are very good at hiding, if Europe is the prize.’

  ‘But the cruise ends at Dakar,’ said Francis.

  ‘And then the ship continues straight on to Lisbon.’

  ‘Are you seriously suggesting a stowaway would try and hide out for the duration of two cruises?’

  ‘Three weeks. It’s nothing for these people. I don’t suppose you remember the story of Kingsley Ofusu?’

  They didn’t, so Klaus told them. Ofusu was a Ghanaian who had worked on the docks in Takoradi, back in 1992. He’d had ambitions to get to Europe and train as an engineer, so he stowed away with seven others on a ship loaded with cocoa. Sneaking on at night, they had hidden themselves in the hold, only to discover yet another stowaway who had already boarded the ship, at Doula in Cameroon.

  After six days, one of the nine managed to break the water container they had all been drinking from. They became so thirsty that one of them crept out into the corridors to look for a replacement. At this point he was discovered by a member of the crew.

  ‘And then their troubles really began,’ Klaus continued. ‘Because the crew found all of them and confiscated their money and locked them into the tiny compartment where the anchor chain was stored, without food or water. After three days they took them out of there, in groups of two or three. They told them they were going to put them in a comfortable cabin. Instead’ – Klaus’s eyes shone – ‘they killed them. One by one. They beat them to a pulp with an iron bar and then shot them, before dumping them overboard.

  ‘Kingsley Ofusu was the last to be taken out, with another fellow. As the crew came for them, they saw blood on these men’s clothes and realized what had happened, so they tried to break away. Ofusu’s companion was shot, but he managed to escape and hide deep in the bowels of the ship. Incredibly, the crew failed to find him until they docked at Le Havre in France, when he escaped again and made his way to a police station. The crew were arrested and under the good ministrations, how-to-say, of the French police, four of them confessed. All six of them were tried. Five were found guilty and went to jail. What nationality do you think these pleasant people were?’