Cruising to Murder

by Mark McCrum

  ‘I’m very sorry to report, folks,’ he told the hushed guests, ‘that there has unfortunately had to be a change to the itinerary for tomorrow. We will not be stopping in Sierra Leone.’

  A public health warning had just yesterday been issued about a suspected new case of Ebola, he went on, as a gasp was heard in canon across the room. It was in a rural district, but there was no way that Goldencruise could now take the risk of docking at Freetown.

  ‘Though “dock”,’ Viktor continued, ‘is probably not the right word, as we usually anchor offshore and make landfall in the Zodiacs. I really am so sorry that we cannot do that tomorrow, because Sierra Leone is one of my favourite destinations. It’s very poor, yes. In fact, it ranks number 177 out of 187 in the UN human development index. But the spirit of the people is wonderful. Especially considering all they’ve been through in recent years.’

  ‘But we’re not going,’ heckled a passenger, ‘so why harp on about it?’

  The accent was Australian. Francis looked over to see Derek, with his lizard wife sitting loyally beside him, tonight in a frock of electric turquoise. Noelene’s mouth was a downward curve, highlighted crimson.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Viktor replied. ‘This is really not a situation we could have foreseen. As I said at the very start, when we set off from Cape Town, and again to those guests who joined us at Tema, Africa is always unexpected. That is part of the adventure we are on.’

  ‘Not much of an adventure if we’re stuck on this ship for another two days,’ Derek interrupted.

  ‘Once again, sir, I can only apologize. But these really are circumstances beyond our control.’

  The scheduled visit to Banana Island was also cancelled, Viktor continued, as that was just to the south of the Freetown peninsular and geographically part of Sierra Leone. The good news was, however, that the Golden Adventurer would be able to press on with the rest of the itinerary and stop, in just under twelve hours, ahead of schedule, at the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau.

  ‘Bijagos is a most beautiful and unspoilt area, and we will still be able to visit the traditional village that we have been to before, which I can promise you is more remote than anything you have yet seen, apart, perhaps, from the pygmies in the rainforests of Cameroon. Last year it was mentioned as the highlight of many of our guests’ trips. And because of the cancellation of Freetown, we can spend a little longer out there, and have plenty of time too for our birding trip in The Gambia. For those of you twitchers on board, and even the non-twitchers, the birding is spectacular on the Gambie River. Isn’t that right, Leo?’

  ‘It certainly is!’ cried the Nigerian, flashing a wide white smile, and holding up a balled fist.

  ‘So how do you know that there isn’t any Ebola in this Bijagos place?’ came an American voice. It was Candy, with Bruce beside her.

  Viktor replied with tact and patience, pointing out that the Bijagos Archipelago was three hundred kilometres north of Freetown and in any case well out to sea, and that there had been no incidence of Ebola at all, ever, on the mainland of Guinea-Bissau. But Candy was not happy. Nor Bruce. The strange mood of disbelief and frustration spread. On the one hand, the guests didn’t want to have the trips they had been looking forward to removed from the itinerary; on the other, they didn’t – absolutely did not – want to be exposed to anything even potentially dangerous. It was one thing to have a look at these exotic, impoverished societies close up; to take photos of the bizarre costumes and well-toned bodies; to enjoy the trees and flowers and birdlife and animals, the sumptuous empty coastline; and then to go home and boast about how adventurous you had been. It was another thing to risk being made ill.

  Had it been wise, Francis wondered, watching the protest as it got exponentially noisier, to keep this briefing until the formal cocktail hour? Many of the guests had been boozing all day. But that of course was one thing that Viktor could never say: ‘You were drinking margaritas in the spa pool this morning, wine at lunch, beers and more spirits in the sun all afternoon, and now you’re back on the cocktails. If I may respectfully suggest, sir, madam, you are arseholed.’

  Francis wasn’t really in the mood for dinner. There was part of him that wanted to retreat to his cabin, order a club sandwich, watch a film and please Hentie by finally opening his personal bottle of vintage champagne. But that needling curiosity of his won out. Even though he had pretty much given up on the idea of trying to help the ship’s authorities with their Operation Rising Star, he couldn’t resist hearing what the guests had to say. Were they all angry, or had the meeting just heard the most vocal? And how many of those were, under this surface discontent, suspicious? Did they believe Viktor? Had Klaus been telling tales? Apart from the MOB, how much else did they know?

  So he followed the shuffling couples out past the ever-smiling cocktail waiters and down to the restaurant at the back of deck four. There was a strong swell tonight, so progress was slow, as people used the gleaming brass rail to help them down the stairs, trying not to topple into each other, though inevitably this was happening too. Were they that much further out to sea, Francis wondered, or was there a storm coming?

  At the entrance to the restaurant, he waited alone in the queue that backed up from the maître’d’s welcome desk. Gregoire was standing to one side, looking box fresh in his white jacket, his four gold stripes gleaming on his shoulder. His smiles to the guests looked particularly insincere tonight, or was that just Francis’s imagining?

  ‘Nice to see you again, Tom.’ It was Henry Forbes-Harley, his childlike grin wreathing his face. As Daphne stepped forwards Francis held up a hand. There was really no need for her to correct the poor old fellow yet again.

  ‘And you, Henry,’ he replied.

  ‘So what d’you make of all of this then? Sudden resurgence of E-bo-la.’ He pronounced the ‘bo’ with mocking emphasis. ‘Sounds unlikely to me.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s kosha,’ Francis replied.

  ‘Who’s issuing the warning? The World Health Organization? I’m sure they’d have told us if it was. You want to know my opinion? I think it’s got something to do with this woman that fell off the ship. If she fell off. Who’s to say?’ He leaned in close to Francis. ‘A lot of people get fed up with their wives after a number of years.’

  ‘Henry!’ Daphne cut in. ‘We need to take our seats.’

  Henry rolled his eyes. ‘And where best to get shot of the old bitch than on a cruise ship?’ he went on, lowering his voice as he leant close to Francis. ‘The cruise line doesn’t give a damn what happens. As long as they get their money. They make you sign a piece of paper that shields them from class action lawsuits. Did you know that? Most of these idiots don’t even read the small print.’

  ‘Henry! Please, come along.’

  Henry winked at Francis and wagged a finger. ‘More to talk about, Tom. See you later in the bar?’

  Poor Henry. He had clearly been as sharp as a razor once upon a time. But no way would Daphne allow him up to the bar after dinner. It was five courses and then beddy-byes for him. He watched the old man and his wife being taken by Gregoire to join a table full of other septua-, octo- and possibly nonagenarians.

  ‘Mr Meadowes, sir,’ said James the head waiter. ‘Are you dining alone or would you like company tonight?’

  ‘Company, thank you.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  James led off across the crowded room. Over the far side, by a wall of curtained portholes, there was one place left at a table for seven; it was between Carmen and Sadie. Also at the table were Aunt Marion, Klaus, Leo and Colonel Joe.

  ‘Good evening, all,’ he said.

  Taking his seat, he smiled at Carmen, then turned to Sadie. Things might be awkward if he didn’t deal with her immediately. After all, the last time he had seen her, those elegantly varnished fingers of hers had been curled around his cock.

  ‘Hey,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Nice to see you, Sadie.’

  ‘I’m glad it is.
Sorry about last night. I was a bit tipsy.’

  Was it only last night? It felt like a week ago. Sadie, at any rate, seemed to have recovered her equilibrium. She was drinking, but not with the desperation, the abandon she’d displayed then. She seemed altogether calmer, more dignified.

  ‘We’re both grown-ups,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ She leant towards him and raised an eyebrow. ‘D’you believe this Ebola bollocks?’

  ‘You clearly don’t.’

  ‘The WHO declared the country free of the disease over a year ago. Why should there suddenly be a resurgence now?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s possible …?’

  ‘Possible, yes. But this is nothing to do with that. Goldencruise just don’t want even the slightest risk of meddling authority. Who knows what might happen during eight hours in port?’

  ‘But Freetown isn’t a port,’ Francis said, ‘from what I understand. They don’t even dock.’

  ‘If people are landing, customs officials still have to come on board. You only need one passenger – or crew member – to step out of line and say something and they could have a load of Sierra Leonean police pitching up. Trundling round the ship looking for evidence. Not letting the captain sail on. Can you imagine that?’

  She had no clue, Francis realized, that he’d seen her Facebook post. As long as he didn’t post anything new himself in the next couple of days, it was unlikely that she would remember they were now ‘friends’. Maybe she would post again. Paradoxically, he was more likely to learn what she was really thinking that way than by asking direct questions sitting right next to her.

  ‘So what do you reckon, Francis, to this Ebola story?’ It was Colonel Joe, his pudgy features crimson with excitement. He leaned forward over the table and took a hearty gulp of his Merlot.

  ‘I know vat I think,’ said Klaus, turning to Sadie with a courtly twinkle.

  But the colonel’s question had clearly been rhetorical. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he ploughed on. It was clear to him, he said, that the captain didn’t want any contact with the land for operational reasons. ‘This so-called new case all seems a bit convenient to me. Why didn’t we hear about it before? If I’d used a trick like that when I was in the military, to justify the cancelling of an operation, no one would have taken me seriously. These people think that because they’ve got a boatload of civvies they can get away with it. But I’m telling you, it’s hogwash. Hogwash,’ he said again, as if the repetition made it truer.

  Cue Carmen. She had been leaning forward waiting her turn. Starting a sentence of protest and getting cut off several times. Repeated ‘buts’ now ended with a ‘Colonel, please’.

  She had to defend the captain, she continued. With all due respect, this warning was for real. She had seen the printouts in the doctor’s office. Goldencruise was reluctantly doing what it had to do.

  Even as the conversation grew freer, the ship started to pitch. The waiters were doing a sterling job, balancing expertly on the rocking floor as they hurried back and forth with sorbets and main courses and puddings and cheese. A surreal sense of urgency had taken over. Could they get the five courses over and done with before it became impossible to serve any longer?

  It seemed that they could, though there was, right at the end of the meal, one mighty lurch that sent plates sliding across tablecloths, while several glasses toppled and spilt their contents. Excited shrieks followed; the immediate mayhem was providing a distraction from the deeper unease.

  Meanwhile, as Francis watched and listened to the general round-the-table badinage, it dawned on him that Sadie’s romantic interest had moved on to Leo. Whenever the Nigerian spoke, her eyes shone. If he was making a serious point, she hung, patiently, on his words; if he made a joke, she tittered loudly, a tinkling American counterpoint to his rumbling African laughter. How far things had gone, Francis couldn’t help but wonder. Whatever, he himself had clearly been left behind. The neediness that she had displayed towards him last night had vanished. God help him, but this easy poise made her attractive again, to the point where he was almost regretting his rapid exit from her room.

  When dinner was over, there was a general move towards the bar. The rough sea had encouraged the idea of a drink. Klaus was recommending brandy as a stomach settler. If Leo was up for a digestif, Sadie certainly was. As she followed the herpetologist up the circular stairwell, head tilted in to his, she was all but holding his hand. Aunt Marion stepped behind, in yellow suede shoes, a redundant chaperone.

  Francis decided to leave them all to it. Up on deck six he pushed open the solid metal door to the Whirlpool Bar with some difficulty. It slammed behind him, almost catching his fingers.

  Outside it was wild. The water in the central spa pool sloshed from side to side, splashing out on to the deck as it had when the ship had turned for the MOB. Francis paced carefully over to the rails at the back, held them tight against the wind, gusts so strong in his face it felt as if they could have thrown him toppling back on to the deck. The ship’s wake had vanished among the mighty blue-black waves. You could only glimpse the horizon here and there. High above, dancing through racing clouds, the moon was waning, but still all-but full. Its strong light picked out the foaming white crests like the T-shirts of dancers at a disco.

  Up on deck seven it was crazier. A propellor attached to a weather vane was turning so fast it seemed it should surely spin off. The orange covers of the lifeboats, though tightly tied, flapped madly. Francis clutched the rails and stared out. This was near where Lauren had stood. And yes, if you had wanted to end it, it would have been easy enough. To climb over. Hang for a moment in a final decision before letting go and plummeting down the long smooth side, past the three rows of lighted portholes and the black hull beneath. Perhaps that was all it had been. Suicide. Lauren should have waited for this weather.

  He jumped. There was a hand on his shoulder. He spun round. It was Ray, right in his face. He tensed himself. Is this the killer? He looked for a blade; sprung-loaded, he was ready to disarm him.

  But: ‘Sir! Sir!’ the crewman was yelling. ‘I must talk to you.’

  Ray pulled Francis over to the shelter of an oval funnel in the centre of the deck.

  ‘Yes. What?’ Francis shouted back. He kept his distance, watching the crewman closely, in case this was a trick.

  Ray leant in, till his mouth was right by Francis’s ear. ‘My friend did tell me something,’ he shouted. ‘George. George Dim-a-gi-ba.’

  ‘Yes, what? What did George tell you?’

  Francis’s words were swept away by the wind.

  ‘You must not tell captain.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Or first officer.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Or any – of – them. Please, sir. This just for you. I am scared.’

  Francis looked in the man’s face and saw that he was. He took his hands, held them firmly between his. Partly to reassure him, partly, still, yes, for safety. ‘OK. You can trust me,’ he yelled in his ear.

  ‘They will kill me. If they know what I know.’

  ‘Know – what?’

  ‘George did see – someone,’ Ray shouted back. ‘From up on lifeboat, sir. With drunk lady.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘He didn’t know, sir.’

  ‘A crew member – or a passenger?’

  ‘No one he knew from crew, sir. This man not in boiler suit uniform, sir. Nor staff uniform. He was in long trousers, sir. And shirt with flowers, George said.’

  ‘Shirt with flowers …’

  ‘Yes, sir. And not old, sir. Young and strong. With yellow hair. He tipped her.’

  ‘Tipped her?’

  ‘Over railings. Like that.’

  Ray gestured with both hands, an evocative circular movement.

  ‘OK,’ said Francis, nodding slowly. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir. That was all he said.’

  ‘He definitely said “yellow hair”?’<
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  ‘Yes, sir. Sorry for this, sir. I had to say to someone. But not to captain. Captain is angry if I say.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He would not like this story, sir. Better she went suicide. Easier for him. And the rest of them. And the big company. Who employ us. You understand.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Please, sir, don’t say I tell you.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  He was gone. Like a dark wraith, streaking through the shadows towards the Crew Only door at the far end. Francis saw a flash of electric light, as the door opened and closed, then he was alone in the blue-white moonlight.

  EIGHTEEN

  Bijagos Archipelago, Guinea-Bissau. Thursday 27 April.

  The ship pitched and tossed through the night. Francis pitched and tossed with it, wondering about young strong passengers with flowery shirts and ‘yellow hair’. If it were true that that’s what George had seen, and not some kind of mad Chinese whispers, this threw his previous theorizing right up in the air. Because what passenger – apart from Klaus – would have managed to get downstairs to bump off George? And Klaus was strong enough, sure, but young, certainly not; nor was he blond (unless he had come prepared with a wig).

  So who?

  Well, Don was a regular wearer of flowery shirts, but he was neither young nor blond. Francis had seen him once in the gym, but did this mean he was strong enough to tip poor Lauren over the edge in the firm way indicated? So how close had George been? Could he have been mistaken about the hair colour? Why mention it, if so?

  Who else? Brad and Damian were relatively young, and certainly strong, but neither were blond, and what in any case could possibly be their motive? They had never, to his knowledge, spoken to Eve, and were no more than drinking buddies with Lauren. The Australian with the lizard wife was another one who favoured flowery shirts, but his hair was white. Nor by any stretch of the imagination could you say he was young or strong. There were other guests Francis could eliminate. Henry Forbes-Harley was way too old – and white-haired too. Colonel Joe was bald. Neither would be seen dead in a flowery shirt.