by Mark McCrum
Gregoire was young, strong, and yes, undeniably, blond. Francis had never seen him in a flowery shirt, but that was not to say he didn’t wear one off-duty. Ditto Viktor. But neither of them were passengers. Was it possible that George, who operated way below stairs, could have mistaken them for guests? Or not known they were staff? Mike also fitted the description, but could Francis see that nice, easy, straightforward young man as a murderer? In one of his books, he might well have been, because he was so above suspicion. But in life as it really was? No. Surely not. And if so, why? Why, why, why?
Eventually he fell asleep, waking some time later with the persistent sting of a full bladder. The moonlight was still shining through the half-drawn curtains, but the sea seemed to have calmed a little. Just a gentle rocking motion now. He swung his legs out of bed, pulled back the curtains, and looked out. The waves were half, a third of the size of earlier. The white crests fewer. The storm had passed; or else they had steamed through it.
He eventually found the light switch for the little bathroom. He peed carefully into the rocking bowl, watching his tired features in the mirror. A restful cruise, with plenty of time to think and write. Pah!
He woke his sleeping laptop and clicked on to an Internet session to check his emails. As yet, nothing from the Supreme Court of New South Wales. Nor any of the American probate repositories. Well, what had he expected? An immediate response?
He returned to the smooth, starched sheets. Hentie’s little flannel rabbit was beside him on the pillow. He held it tight, like a child, to calm his racing mind.
When he woke again the light from outside was pink on the curtains. It was the rumble of the anchor going down that had disturbed him. He got out of bed and looked out, to see the huge red disc of the sun perched an inch above the horizon, surrounded by a flaming trail of crimson and yellow clouds. It was almost six forty-five a.m. He checked his email again, but there was nothing new except junk.
At seven thirty the parasols were already up on the Whirlpool Bar deck and John-since-1972 was standing ready to serve breakfast in his cream blazer. Two others had beaten Francis to it. Mike, who smiled and waved; and – well, well – Don, who didn’t. The old man was wearing his trademark dark blue baseball cap, and under that … a beautiful flowery shirt. This one had yellow blooms and twining green leaves on a background as blue as the sky.
Beyond, the sea was sunlit and totally calm. On the starboard side of the ship, towards the horizon, there was land. Long, low-lying islands, bleached to a pale green in this shimmeringly bright sunlight. The jungle vegetation petered out into rocky points strung with the tiny silhouettes of palm trees.
Francis went inside to fetch his starter: white melon, yellow banana, purple passion fruit, orange paw-paw. He ordered coffee and an omelette-with-everything.
He sliced his fruit into little cubes and forked these up one by one into his mouth. Over the deck Don was tackling what looked like a full English breakfast: sausages, eggs, bacon, the works. Was there an equivalent in the good ol’ US of A? The full American? Without looking too obviously in his direction, Francis watched the old man’s mouth working, that baggy jaw chewing carefully, eyes down. What was that face? A man who had murdered his rich, neurotic partner and had – so far – got away with it? Or a man who was stoically consumed with grief for the bright, beautiful younger woman he had loved from the first time he had seen her?
It was brave of him to come out and sit in a public place where he was bound, if he stayed, to be offered sympathy, if not asked questions. On the other hand, perhaps he’d had enough of being cooped up in his cabin. Perhaps he’d decided he would join today’s excursion and to hell with it. For a collector of remote places, Bijagos was surely up there. An archipelago in a country that few outside West Africa had ever heard of. Guinea-Bissau.
‘Morning Francis!’ It was Mike, holding a mug of tea. ‘Looking foward to Bijagos?’ He gestured towards the distant land mass.
‘I am.’
‘It’ll be good to get our feet back on dry land. That was quite a storm last night.’
‘It all seemed over very quickly.’
‘We powered through it. As our captain likes to. It was heading south anyway. Lucky we didn’t try and stop at Freetown, as it happened. With waves like that we’d probably not even have made landfall.’
‘And today. When do we disembark?’
‘That’ll depend on the tide. We’ll be sending out a recce soon to have a look at the state of the channels. We need a high tide to get all the way up there. Should be OK with this full moon. Means it’s springing. But you never know until you have a look. The mud may have shifted since last year. Anything’s possible out here.’
Mike sat down and leaned forward. ‘I see you’ve got company,’ he said quietly.
Francis made a warning face. ‘I expect there’ll be plenty of others out soon.’
‘I meant …’
‘I know what you meant,’ said Francis. ‘Tra la la la,’ he sang. ‘Tell me more about Bijagos.’
Mike took his point. ‘You’ll love it,’ he said. ‘It’s an awesome place.’
‘What’s an awesome place?’ It was Carmen, with a heaped bowl of muesli.
‘Bijagos, of course,’ said Mike.
‘Awesome is actually the word, mate,’ she said, sitting down. ‘I think of everywhere on this cruise, it was my favourite destination last year.’
‘Mine, too,’ said Mike. ‘Apart, maybe, from the pygmies.’
‘Maybe I’m too close to them,’ Carmen said. ‘You know, there’s unspoilt Africa and unspoilt Africa. For whatever reason, there’s no sense of envy out here in Bijagos. The villagers are genuinely pleased to see us. To welcome us as strangers. In lots of places in the undeveloped world you take out a digital camera and people give you a scowl.’
‘They’ve had too many visitors,’ said Mike. ‘The novelty’s worn off.’
‘Perhaps they just want a bit of what we’ve got,’ said Francis, ‘if we’re going to come and gawp at them, like they’re animals in a zoo.’
‘Totally get that,’ said Mike.
‘But here,’ Carmen said, ‘as you’ll see later, they’re lining up to have their picture taken. Children mostly, but adults too. And when they see themselves on your little screen they’re thrilled. Leaping up and down with excitement. But it’s not as if they want us to give them the cameras. Or even send them the pictures. Though I happen to know that Leo has brought a special present this year.’
‘I’ve seen it,’ said Mike. ‘Brilliant.’
‘In addition to the usual pens and notepads,’ Carmen explained to Francis, ‘they’re getting a collection of laminated portraits, from photos that Leo took last year.’
‘Nice touch,’ said Francis. Across the deck, Don had finished his breakfast. Francis watched him stop to say something to John-since-1972. Then he turned and made his way along the outside gangway, his left hand gripping the rail as he walked.
‘The old man’s gone,’ said Mike. ‘D’you think he’ll dare to show his face again?’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’ said Carmen.
‘Isn’t he, like, the chief suspect?’
‘Mike!’ said Carmen. ‘Lauren was his partner of many years. He’s shocked and grieving.’
‘Shocked that he’s suddenly come into so much money,’ laughed Mike. ‘Hasn’t he? Everyone knows the story now. “Chumba Chumba Cha-Cha.” How many squillions has that made over the years? I’m surprised the captain hasn’t stuck him in the ship’s jail.’
‘Mike, this is very loose talk,’ said Carmen. ‘Nobody knows what happened to Lauren.’
The young man shrugged and got to his feet. ‘They can have a pretty good guess,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a recce to be getting on with.’ He headed over to the steps down to the back of the deck below, where the Zodiacs were kept. ‘Laters!’ he called cheerily.
Francis waited for him to be out of earshot. ‘So Mike has no idea about Eve?’
he said.
‘Luckily not. Nor about George. Christ knows what he’d be saying if he did. There’s a good reason for not briefing all the expedition staff about everything.’
For a moment Francis wondered if he should tell Carmen about Ray, George and the young, blond passenger with the flowery shirt. At one level, it would be good to share. But he didn’t trust her not to immediately pass on whatever he said to Viktor, Alexei and the captain. And that would in no way be fair to poor Ray, who for whatever misguided reason had trusted him, and him alone, with his precious and dangerous secret.
‘Did you manage to sleep OK?’ she asked.
‘Yes, pretty well, thanks.’
‘You’re not one to get seasick?’
‘No. I’m lucky like that.’
‘Me neither. I’m not sure I could do this job if I did. Some of the passengers suffer dreadfully.’
This desultory exchange petered off into silence. There was no doubt that a certain caginess had descended between them.
‘So how long is the expedition today?’ Francis asked.
‘Because of the tides we can only stop for two or three hours. Which is a shame. But that’s all part of the experience. It’s intense.’
‘And then it’s on to the Gambia. And the remarkable birdwatching.’
‘Yes. Leo will be in his element.’
‘And finally Dakar. Where the FBI and the Bahamian police will be waiting. What are you and the captain planning to tell them?’
Carmen laughed out loud; then looked at him levelly, the lines around her eyes crinkling with amusement.
‘Are you still upset with me?’
‘No. Not particularly. I just got the strong feeling, I suppose, that you’d got what you wanted from me.’
‘What exactly did I do wrong, mate? I told Viktor that we’d got nothing out of Ray. He knew we were interviewing him. He was bound to ask, and I was bound to answer.’
‘Did you have to share our reservations with him?’
‘About Ray? Why not?’
‘And with the captain too?’
‘I don’t understand you, Francis. We’re all in this together.’
‘I thought you’d agreed with me that it was possible that Viktor or the captain were maybe part of the puzzle.’
‘Ah, come off it! Viktor may be many things: a philanderer, a man who thinks he is cleverer and more interesting than he is, the possessor of a dodgy ponytail, but he’s not a murderer. Nor is the captain.’
‘Or his surly sidekick?’
‘Come off it. The security officer as the murderer, that would be novel. No, he’s just a useless stooge. Anyway, how do I know that you’re sharing every last observation or speculation you have with me?’
‘You don’t,’ said Francis, with a somewhat forced laugh.
‘Good morning. I hope I am not interrupting some important pow-wow?’
It was Klaus. For once Francis was glad to see the German. He was carrying a plate of salami and cheese and a cup of black coffee.
‘Good German breakfast,’ Francis observed.
Carmen had got to her feet. ‘I’ll see you later, Francis. On the boats.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Klaus. ‘I am looking forward greatly to our little excursion. I have been feeling a bit – how-to-say – boxed up on this ship. Wondering if I was ever going to put foot on dry land again.’
He followed Carmen’s sashaying backside with his eyes. ‘Such a pity,’ he said, turning back towards Francis with that familiar provocative glint in his eye.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you. What’s a pity?’
‘That Hastings bats – as you say with your vunderful English cricketing metaphor – for the other side.’
Francis eyeballed him. ‘You mean …’
‘She’s of the Sapphic persuasion. Her island is Lesbos. I had wondered for a while, because even though I am fully aware I am past the age when I might attract the gentler sex with my physique, rather than my brain, I was not getting any vibrations from her at all, if you follow me. And even your flashing-eyed Jewish admirer was giving me the occasional frisson.’
‘Sadie?’
‘Of course.’
‘No longer my admirer. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed, Klaus, but she’s moved on.’
‘Has she? I don’t think so.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s playing the long game with you, my friend. Pretending to be enamoured of the Nigerian bird expert to excite a little envy in the English gentleman.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I am older than you. I am out of the game. I can see these things. He is too much of a how-to-say geek for her.’
‘So what makes you think Carmen …?’
‘As I say, I had my suspicions. And then, last night, I went for a breath of fresh air in that magnificent storm and I saw them.’
‘Them?’
‘Hastings and her girlfriend. There was no mistaking it, I’m afraid. Pressed up against a funnel at the back of deck seven. I don’t imagine they thought anyone else would be out there that late in that weather.’
‘Doing what?’
‘What lovers do. If I were less politically correct, I might have said that it would have been enjoyable to have been wedged between them.’
Klaus twinkled roguishly, but Francis wasn’t going to humour him. Even as he asked his next question, he knew the answer. ‘And who is this girlfriend?’
‘That pretty doctor. I don’t imagine her culture is particularly forgiving of her inclinations either. That may be one reason she likes to travel.’
NINETEEN
Early afternoon. The sun was glinting brilliantly on the water as the guests made their way down the steps from the Whirlpool Bar and on to the Zodiac area at the back of deck four. Some were in shorts, some in loose trousers, some in skirts. On their heads they wore everything from bog-standard baseball caps to Daphne’s magnificent floppy straw hat, which made her look as if she were going to a wedding in New England rather than a remote village on an island off Guinea-Bissau. They all had the tubelike grey lifejackets slung round their necks and tied tight around their waists. Most were also wearing or holding the little black Adventurer backpacks, which had a pocket on each side for a standard aluminium water bottle.
Francis was excited. He had returned from breakfast and his chat with Klaus to find an email waiting for him from the probate authorities in Illinois with a copy of the will he’d asked for attached. Once he’d read that, a busy morning had followed, as he’d chased around the Internet to pursue the hare that had now been unleashed. So well had things gone that he’d been tempted to skip the Bijagos outing and get his case completely watertight before taking his findings to a higher authority.
But a couple of hours wasn’t going to make that much difference, was it? Everyone on the expedition team had told him how amazing the archipelago was. They were landing on a remote island and then returning to ship, so no one was going anywhere. More important, in the informal atmosphere of the excursion he might get a chance to double-check his suspicions with the reality.
As they passed down the steps and along the deck the passengers’ identification cards were slid by another po-faced Asian crew member into a reader attached to a laptop. For a moment their grinning, solemn or perplexed mugshots filled the screen, then they were allowed through. For trips like this, Golden Adventurer counted them out and they counted them back. Just to make sure they didn’t leave anyone stranded in the jungle. As long as they were still alive, they were still valued customers.
The expedition team were waiting in the Zodiacs, which were grouped in a loose circle around the embarkation steps, which ended a couple of feet above the heaving surface of the sea. Mike, Carmen, Leo, Viktor and the others, each standing at the back of an inflatable, hand on the throttle of a powerful outboard motor. As each of these bobbing craft filled up and moved off, another came in to the steps where two wiry crew members in brown boiler suits were ready to help the next lot of guests o
n board.
There were about twelve to a boat. Francis found himself stepping down into Carmen’s Zodiac, just behind the redoubtable Daphne, who was as ever urging on her husband.
‘That’s it, Henry. Attaboy!’
Henry, meanwhile, had fixed Francis with that familiar look; of someone who has spotted, after a long while, an old and favourite friend.
‘Now you,’ he said, waving an enthusiastic finger. ‘Didn’t we meet you on the Antarctica cruise? At Christmas? Tom, wasn’t it?’
‘It’s Francis, honey,’ said Daphne. ‘Fran-ciss. He joined us on this cruise. Not the Antarctic. He wasn’t on the Antarctic cruise.’
‘Wasn’t he?’ Henry seemed taken aback. ‘We’ve met before,’ he said, ‘I’m sure of that.’
‘On this cruise, sweetheart. You met Francis on this cruise.’
‘Did I?’
The old man seemed cheered now. You had to hand it to Daphne. She was dutiful, devoted even with her constant corrections, though that understandable edge of impatience wasn’t far behind.
Others were bundling on. Sebastian in an embroidered African smock, long bell-bottomed maroon trousers and pale blue reef shoes; his stocky boyfriend neat in starched khaki beside him.
‘Good morning!’ the designer called in Daphne and Francis’s direction. ‘What a relief to be getting off the bloody vessel for a bit. I am so excited about this village.’ Kurt followed silently in his wake, his features impassive as ever. As he plonked his substantial backside on the fat plastic tube that made up the boat’s side, the whole craft rocked visibly.
Next up were Brad and Damian, in identical white singlets and blue shorts, which showed off their muscled physiques to fine effect.
‘Afternoon boys!’ called Sebastian.
‘Good afternoon, Sebastian,’ Brad returned, a little coolly.