by Mark McCrum
‘So what about Gregoire being involved with Hentie?’ Carmen asked. ‘Does that make him more – or less – of a suspect?’
‘It makes it less likely that he was involved with Lauren,’ Francis replied. ‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Which would make your friend Sadie a liar. With who knows what motives.’
‘It would. But if Gregoire is the killer, then Hentie would make an excellent accomplice. She can go anywhere, upstairs or downstairs. She has the perfect reason to be in any of her passengers’ rooms at any time. Mine included.’
‘Eve was on her corridor,’ said Carmen.
‘She was.’
‘Her motive presumably being the same as Gregoire’s. Money.’
‘I had a chat with her when she brought me a cup of tea earlier. Her ambition is to own a game farm in Namibia. I don’t imagine they come cheap.’
‘Depends what currency you’re buying in. The US dollar gets you thirteen South African rand these days. That’s why you get plenty of South Africans doing these jobs. Because they can earn a relative fortune …’
She tailed off. There was a hush in the bar. Sebastian was up by the piano, striking quite a pose in a knee-length cream kurta pyjama, decorated with a filigree of orange-gold, a purple scarf slung over one shoulder. Sebastian the glam serial killer, thought Francis for a moment; he certainly looked the part. Now he was asking everyone to be quiet please while his friend Alfredo sang ‘Nessun Dorma’.
‘We are listening here to a man who reached the finals of “The Philippines Have Got Talent”.’
This announcement was greeted by loud laughter. Alfredo gracefully bowed his head, as if this patronizing derision were a compliment. Sebastian’s face remained composed and serious, as he held out a straight arm towards Alfredo.
The chords rang out; and then, from this little smiling man, came a deep, rolling tenor that took everyone by surprise. By the time he’d reached the final lines, the Panorama Lounge was quiet. Women – and men – were dabbing at their eyes. On a banquette to the left, big Shirley was sobbing loudly, hubby Gerald rubbing her shoulders with his scrawny right hand.
All’alba vincerò!
Vincerò! Vincerò!
The last note, the sustained high A made famous by Pavarotti, faded into the pin-drop silence. Someone clapped. The bar broke into noisy applause.
‘The Filipinos have got talent!’ came an Australian shout.
Sebastian was weeping too. Next to him, Kurt was stony-faced.
‘May I?’
Francis looked up to see a familiar face. Klaus was in maximum twinkly mode tonight, dressed up in his navy blazer and a striped blue and crimson tie that looked as if it might belong to some English sports club or public school, rather than anything more European. He was clutching a large whisky.
‘Please,’ said Francis politely. He gestured at the empty seat next to his companion. ‘You know Carmen, I’m sure.’
‘Yes.’ Klaus nodded. ‘I have been on some little Zodiac expedition captained by you. And of course I heard your very interesting lecture on the pygmies of Cameroon.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carmen. ‘I hope you enjoyed it.’
‘I was particularly interested in their language having a totally different root from the Bantu peoples around them.’
‘Ubangian. Yes.’
‘This is one of the lesser known stories of this fascinating continent. How the Bantu superseded the indigenous peoples. Of course, further south it was the Khoi and the San who were wiped out. There’s not much left of them now either, except perhaps in the genes of the so-called Coloured people of the Cape.’
‘You know your history,’ Carmen said.
‘Just a little,’ Klaus replied smugly. Now he turned to Francis. ‘So, have you solved any of the mysteries yet? Found any murderous stowaways tucked away?’
‘No stowaways, that’s for sure,’ Francis replied. Carmen was looking puzzled; but it was hardly Francis’s fault, was it, that Klaus had such an unashamedly intrusive nature. ‘How about you?’ he added. ‘Have you got anything more to tell us?’
‘I think the drink has calmed the nerves of the guests a little,’ the German replied. ‘Although some of this laughter is a bit on the hysterical side. But nobody is going to be taking a lonely walk up on deck seven tonight, I don’t think. We may laugh and joke here in company, but we will be straight back to the cabin and locking the door. How is your stomach, by the way?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Francis.
‘Keep using the disinfectant gel. I would. Nobody is saying anything, but the norovirus is spreading. I see some familiar faces are not here tonight.’
‘Really? I thought it seemed rather crowded.’
‘It is. For the bar. Many of the diners have come through for a how-to-say nightcap. But there were fewer at dinner. I notice these things.’
‘You certainly do,’ said Francis, rolling his eyes discreetly at Carmen.
She half rose. ‘Another drink?’ she asked. ‘I’m getting one.’
The invitation had been to Francis, but Klaus was no slouch in saving himself a trip to the bar. ‘If you are offering,’ he said, ‘I vill have another visky. It’s a Scottish malt. Frederick knows which one.’
‘Frederick’s the barman?’
‘Of course. An old friend of mine. Though whether that’s his real name I have no idea.’ This last remark was made, it seemed, without irony.
‘OK then, why not,’ Francis said, smiling up at Carmen. ‘I’ll have another of these fine brandies. But just a small one, please.’
Once Carmen had gone, Klaus turned towards Francis with a conspiratorial smile. ‘So this attractive blonde lady is your Hastings, I think?’
‘Not quite Hastings,’ he replied. ‘A bit too bright for that.’
‘Perhaps you are her Hastings then,’ said Klaus, with a chuckle. ‘At any rate I notice your heads pushed together. What have you concluded?’
Francis gave him a blank smile. ‘Not very much at all. Though obviously if we had, it would have to stay confidential.’
Klaus was not to be so easily put off. ‘And have your collective thoughts been affected by this latest incident?’
Francis tried to look as if he had no idea what Klaus was talking about.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘It is lucky you are a writer,’ said Klaus, ‘and not an actor, because I don’t think you would have got far in that profession. We both know what we are talking about. The shocking murder of this crew fellow who saw poor Lauren go overboard.’
Who had told Klaus about this? Hadn’t the captain insisted that George’s death be kept entirely under wraps? In addition to being on chummy terms with barmen, how deep below deck did Klaus’s information network go?
‘You’re very well informed,’ Francis replied. There was little point in denial. Strange thought – maybe Klaus would be able to help?
‘Clearly this man saw something,’ said Klaus. ‘And by something, I mean someone, as mere things don’t go round doing random killings by themselves, do they? Do you have any idea who might have helped our glamorous lady friend over the railings?’
‘No.’
‘But you’ve spoken to his cabin mate?’
‘You seem to know as much as me, Klaus.’
‘And he told you he never got the chance to talk to his friend. So he wouldn’t know either. Do you really believe that?’
‘He seemed pretty adamant.’
‘Of course he would. If what his friend told him was that it was one of his bosses he saw, he’s probably running scared for his life. There’s no getting off this ship. Until the day after tomorrow, at least.’
‘No,’ Francis agreed. ‘Is that what you think? That it’s one of his bosses?’
‘I don’t know. This is one of the reasons I thought I would come over and have a chat with you. But one thing is worth considering: that a guest is less likely to know how to get around in that
strange industrial area beyond the Crew Only doors.’
‘You sound as if you’ve been down there yourself, Klaus.’
‘Bear in mind that I admit to being an inquisitive man. Also that I have been on several cruises and occasionally – how should I put this? – when the weather is bad and the place is deserted, my curiosity overcomes me. Never, when my wife is with me, would I dream of stepping outside the hallowed luxury areas. But yes, sometimes when I am alone, I have explored. Though not far, because as you know, when we are at sea, those watertight doors are often locked and it really is a maze down there. Every corridor looks the same. One time I got seriously lost and thought I would never get back. Finally I found myself in the laundry, deep in the bottom of the hull, staffed by three Chinese I never saw before or again, even on those party nights at the end of the cruise when they bring out what they tell us is the whole crew to be paraded before us. One of these anonymous oriental gentlemen kindly showed me back to civilization.’
‘Do any of the other passengers have any clue about this latest death?’ Francis asked.
‘I have no idea. But then I have not had this conversation with any of them. To be honest, I doubt it. Even with the shock of this poor female who went overboard, most of them are just thinking about their next meal. Or their next excursion. Or what they can next complain about. The noise of trolleys in the corridors early in the morning. Some fixtures and fittings that are not as smart as they would like them to be. The food, which is not exactly what they are used to in New York or Los Angeles. The wind on the deck, even; I once heard one lady grumbling about that.’ He chuckled. ‘So you don’t have any suspects lined up?’ he added.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Klaus. I’m baffled.’
‘One of the more amusing aspects of this case, I think, is that there are plenty of our fellow guests who would love to murder their cabin companions. That young Sadie, for example, would happily finish off her aunt, given half a chance. Daphne, for all her gracious smiles, is always encouraging that demented husband of hers on to more and more exhausting excursions. Sometimes I look at the stern face of Kurt and wonder about his feelings for his talented younger boyfriend. And as for Gerald and his enormous wife, well, this hen-pecked individual is probably too cowed—’
He broke off, as Carmen was approaching with a small round tray containing the drinks. ‘But here is Hastings,’ he added. ‘With our sniv-ters.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘To be continued, as they say.’
SIXTEEN
Day at Sea. Wednesday 26 April.
There was another full day at sea, as the Golden Adventurer made its way on from Cote d’Ivoire and along the long, straight green coastline of Liberia. Was it just that there was nothing appropriately touristic for the passengers in the ports of Abidjan, San Pedro, Harper, Buchanan, Monrovia and their environs? Or perhaps there was a security issue? Maybe the police of these two countries had refused to play ball? Whatever, the next stop on the itinerary was Freetown, Sierra Leone, and that wouldn’t be reached until early tomorrow morning. For today the view was strictly waves, wake, horizon and the occasional wildlife: the gulls that flew in from the wider ocean to escort the ship; the flying fish that you could spot leaping from wave to wave, gleaming darts of silver; and every now and then, if you were lucky, something bigger – a shark, a school of dolphins.
Francis had woken early and taken a pre-breakfast walk up and around the top deck. Today was his lecture and he wanted to get his head in the right place. At seven fifteen a.m. the sun was already hot, though the breeze off the sea made it refreshingly cooler, especially in the long shadows behind the various big structures up there. What were they – funnels, satellite receiving stations, secret cabins? Glancing through the darkened windows of the fitness centre, he spotted a couple of familiar silhouettes pounding around on the machines: Brad and Damian keeping themselves in enviable shape. Out on the wide deck itself a procession of walkers in shorts or tracksuit bottoms and trainers were making their way round the edge of the ship in a loose oval. Two of these were the Australians he had met at the Neptune party, he realized, as they got closer.
‘G’day, Francis!’ shouted the bronzed male.
‘Er, good morning,’ he replied.
‘And moy name is?’
‘Uh,’ Francis began, embarrassed. Had this guy even introduced himself last night?
‘Derek. Why on earth should you remember that?’ He cackled. ‘This is Noelene, my wife. Gorgeous up here at this time, isn’t it? You should join us.’
‘Maybe I will.’
‘I mean right now, mate. Get your joggers on and get up here. Lose a couple of pounds before breakfast.’
Francis laughed. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’
‘“Maybe tomorrow.” You hear that, Noelene? Maybe tomorrow. This guy’s a joker.’
Francis escaped down the steps to the open tables at the back of deck six. John-since-1972 was standing waiting by the bar in his gleaming cream jacket and black bow tie.
‘Good morning, Mr Meadowes, sir. May I get you some tea or coffee this morning? An omelette-with-everything perhaps?’
You had to admire these guys. Not only were they relentlessly cheerful, they also remembered the names of all the passengers and exactly what they had ordered before, as if there really was nothing they would rather be doing than bringing you the breakfast you had forgotten you liked. Handy for the Alzheimer’s crowd, Francis thought irreverently, to have John-since-1972 on hand.
He chose a table right by the end rail. Below, you could see down to the stern of deck four, where the six Zodiacs were stored – big black inflatables with powerful outboard motors. A couple of guys in brown boiler suits were working on the two visible ones just below him, checking over the mechanics, getting everything ready for disembarkation tomorrow.
His omelette-with-everything arrived. ‘Everything’ was tiny squares of chopped ham, cooked slices of tomato and peppers, chewy strands of half-melted cheese. Francis had just started on this now familiar tasty dish when he was aware of a shadow next to him. He looked up to see Mike, the bearded Aussie marine biologist.
‘Shall I join you?’
‘Please,’ Francis gestured, his mouth full.
Mike sat opposite, then started to munch his way through his muesli.
‘You’ve not cruised before, have you?’
‘No,’ Francis replied.
‘How are you finding it all?’
‘Eventful.’ He wondered how much the expedition staff had been told; about everything that had gone on below deck, quite apart from his role as ad hoc private investigator. If even Klaus knew about George Bernard, surely Mike did too.
‘Certainly has been,’ Mike replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘You looking forward to Freetown tomorrow?’
‘I’ve no idea what to expect. But it’ll be good to get off the ship for a bit.’
‘It does all feel a bit stir crazy, doesn’t it? Everyone’s a bit on edge since the incident on Monday night.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Francis. ‘Have you been on a cruise where anything like that has happened before?’
‘Never an MOB, no. There was a death in Antarctica, and another one on the Kimberley cruise I did last April, but that’s only to be expected with this demographic.’ Mike gave the confident chuckle of a fit young man. ‘Not that MOBs are actually that unusual. There’s several a year worldwide. Just a couple of months ago there was some Chinese woman who went overboard during a Mediterranean cruise; there were even suspicions that the husband might have helped her.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not always passengers either. There was a young female crew member who went missing from a Norwegian ship in Alaska last summer. Then there was that woman from your country who vanished mysteriously off the coast of Mexico a few years ago. Rebecca somebody. It made big news at the time because she was only twenty-five and perfectly fit and cheerful and all that. There was no obvious reason why she might have done herself in.
‘For pass
engers,’ he continued, ‘sometimes it’s just some drunk falling over the rails, but often it’s weirder. There was some old bloke who threw himself off a ship in Tasmania last year after a nice dinner with his wife and some friends. Left a note saying he thought getting old was shit. Then there was an engaged couple who went over somewhere near Brisbane after a row. She went first, he tried to save her, neither of them survived.’
‘So what happened with this one, d’you think?’ Francis asked.
‘Who knows? That was some crazy lady. Always getting drunk and rowing with that husband of hers.’
‘I don’t think they were married.’
‘Boyfriend, whatever. Man friend, old geezer friend. Their behaviour became quite a feature of the Antarctica cruise at Christmas. We used to laugh about it. Though I guess it’s not so funny now.’
‘No,’ Francis agreed. ‘I was shocked. And also at the speed with which the ship turned round.’
‘They only go back because they’re required to by maritime law. But nobody really expects to find someone who’s gone overboard in the middle of the night on an ocean like this. It’s just too vast. And anyway, if she was drunk, she’d not have lasted that long. There’s plenty of sharks out there, too.’ Mike made a horrid little munching gesture with his right hand. ‘The truth is, it’s more of a formality. As well as a reassurance to the other passengers.’
‘Is that so?’ Francis topped up his coffee from the steel jug. ‘And when there’s just an ordinary death,’ he continued innocently, ‘as in Antarctica, is that something you expedition staff get to know about straight away?’
‘They tell us, yeah. Not always immediately. But the news kind of gets around.’
‘Or if you know the passenger personally, I guess you’d be aware.’
‘There is that.’
‘You didn’t know either of these people? In Antarctica … or Kimberley?’
‘Not, not really,’ Mike replied. ‘The guy in Antarctica was an American. Big fat tycoon type, didn’t look terribly healthy. Cruising on his own. I have to say it was hardly a surprise he karked it.’