Cruising to Murder

by Mark McCrum

  Shirley and Gerald were next.

  ‘D’you mind sitting this side?’ Carmen asked Shirley tactfully. The craft sank several inches in the water, but she and Kurt were now balancing it beautifully.

  The last pair down the steps were Bruce and Candy. They took their places opposite Shirley and Gerald.

  ‘Hiya, folks!’ said Bruce, who clearly wasn’t going to be fazed by any hostility from the critical Brits.

  There was only Leo’s Zodiac to fill and then they were off. It was no surprise to Francis that Sadie had somehow engineered to be in that boat, up by the tiller in knee-length cut-off jeans and a flowery bikini top, surely not the ideal costume for a visit to a remote island village. And whatever Klaus thought, the devoted looks she was giving the driver of her little craft spoke volumes.

  The flotilla of seven boats raced across the gentle swell towards the low green line of the islands. Nobody spoke. It was enough just to feel the rushing sunlit air on your face and look out over the sea, shimmering silver-gold under the sun. The mother ship receded to a tiny silhouette, the island shore grew more distinct. Soon they were entering a channel between banks of mangroves: low, dusty green trees with their dense tangle of leafless brown stems just above the waterline. The boats slowed, the engines reverted to a purr, above which could now be heard the cries of circling birds. Damian’s paparazzo lens was out again. He half-stood, knees bent as he clicked away furiously at his visual prey.

  After twenty minutes or so they came round a corner to a muddy little beach below a tall tree with a thick trunk spreading out to branches which made for a shady canopy. In the sunlit foreground, a couple of long wooden canoes lay stranded, face down, on scattered stones.

  There was a welcoming committee of small boys, some squatting on the hulls of the boats, others standing on the beach. Most wore long trousers and T-shirts, a few had shorts, one pair a brilliant yellow. Some of the tinier ones had nothing but tight pants, above which belly buttons protruded on skinny frames. There were a couple of adults there too, to greet the expedition team. Francis wondered if they had mobile phones out here, or perhaps the whole visit had been set up this morning on Mike and Viktor’s recce.

  The guests disembarked, clambering over the sides of each inflatable and on to the stony mud along a portable landing stage made up of three or four low black plastic boxes.

  Carmen’s boat was fifth, and by that stage, the first groups of visitors had walked up past the big tree and on along a narrow path into the forest.

  Viktor and Mike stood in the shade, arms held out, pointing. ‘Welcome to Bijagos,’ Viktor was saying. ‘The village is two hundred yards up this track. Please be careful to stick to the paths and as always in Africa, keep an eye out for snakes. Our last boat out to the ship leaves in three hours, at five o’clock sharp, so make sure you’re back on the beach by then, as there is no arguing with the tide, and we wouldn’t want to leave you alone on the island. I have heard that the cooking isn’t at all bad, but not as delicious as that of Gregoire’s amazing team.’

  Dry brown leaves crunched beneath the well-shod feet of the guests as they filed inland, eyes down. In a bright clearing, butterflies swooped above tall yellow grass in the sunlit air. Just ahead, one of the boys was waiting for Francis’s group. He was naked bar a pair of grubby crimson briefs. He grinned broadly as he rolled a rusty steel hoop in front of him, turning every thirty yards or so to make sure his selected charges were keeping up with him.

  ‘I love these little characters,’ said Bruce to Francis. ‘Give him half a chance and he’d be running the country.’

  As they got closer to the village, they could hear the heavy rhythmic beat of drums. More boys with hoops appeared from left and right. One wore a crimson T-shirt on which was written: Junior Arctic Aviator – Snow Zone. Another had a portrait of Barack Obama on his chest, with the very faded strapline Yes, we can!.

  Suddenly they were there: in a wide clearing stood a series of mud brick rondavels, with conical roofs of low-hung, untrimmed thatch. At the centre of the hard-packed dry earth of the village floor was an enormous tree of who knew what antiquity. Branches as big as trunks spread up from its base, which had a diameter of twenty feet at least. This behemoth cast a wide circle of shade, dark at the centre, dappled with pools of sunlight towards the edge. A long line of teenaged girls was dancing round it in a loose circle, toyi-toying in that effortlessly rhythmic African way. They were wearing Western tops: T shirts or low-cut sleeveless. Their skirts made an African contrast: straw, in two tiers, dyed black, orange and purple, with shell necklaces hung loose around their shimmying waists. Some had bare feet, some colourful flip-flops. A number of the bigger girls also had anklets around their right legs; giant seed pods strung together. What did this signify? That they were already married, taken, promised?

  When all the guests had made it up to the village, there was a shout from Viktor. A presentation was now going to be made, he announced, to the – good God! – king, an even older man than the Togoan chief, with rheumy eyes and a sprinkle of white stubble. He was sitting on a low chair to one side of the clearing, extravagantly attired. On his head a patterned oval kofi was topped by a khaki felt cowboy hat, with feathers stuck into the leather headband, on which you could just still read the engraved legend Vegas. Below, he wore a baggy blue shirt, hung around with scarves and cloths of various bright colours. Next to him, on a mat on the ground, his queen was even more burdened down with fabric, swathed in what looked like a red and white tablecloth, with a patterned yellow and green blanket over her shoulder. Her eyes darted suspiciously from a smoother, younger face. On the top of her head, above a tightly-wound orange scarf, sat an upturned gourd. As in Togo, the king had a taller, younger, beefier henchman to one side, similarly wrapped in cloths and scarves. He wore a battered old pair of crimson Doc Martens and carried a stout stick.

  Viktor made a short speech, thanking the king and queen for allowing the Golden Adventurer’s guests to visit. The presentation was then made: one box containing colourful cloths (surely coals to Newcastle?), the second the inevitable pens and pads of paper. And this is what we bring you: not a digital camera or video, those magical white man’s machines we are all slung around with, but something simple for the children’s lessons. Which we must all approve of, of course, education surely being the thing. To lift you out of your colourful poverty and let you approach the elevated world we have called First. Did they even have a generator here? Francis wondered. Or would a gift digi soon run down and be left as a treasured but useless possession?

  A wild burst of drumming announced the resumption of the dancing. And now there were new characters, gleaming, muscled young men decked out in theatrical costumes. One wore a dome of reddish-brown straw on his head, from which protruded shiny – and real, it looked like – black horns. More straw circled his neck, with a couple of red and white scarves thrown in for good measure. Wrapped tightly round his bare arms were strips of patterned cloth and a trio of straw pom poms.

  Another had a big wooden shark’s fin strapped to his back. A cowhide apron was tied to his jiggling bottom over khaki shorts. Below were knee bandannas and elaborate straw anklets.

  Others appeared, in equally glorious assortments of straw, cloth, necklaces and other add-ons. One had a wooden model of a naked girl in a red bikini attached to his head. Another wore a full – and horned – cow’s head, with a mouth that served as a lookout for his eyes within. Another’s face was invisible behind a headdress of fluorescent green, which matched his skirt, but not his crimson Fly Emirates top.

  ‘And so,’ said a familiar voice in Francis’s ear, ‘ze whiteys stand around, wishing they had this much fun in their lives. But of course they do not. Not legitimately, anyway. The nearest they will get to it is some embarrassing dance at their daughter’s wedding.’

  It was Klaus, in khaki, with a fluorescent green money belt at his waist, his large excursion bag slung over his shoulder, a compact digi in his right han
d.

  ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘this is an interesting society here. Matriarchal. The women have real power in Guinea-Bissau. They propose marriage to their men by giving them some soup made of fish eyes, and then later if they want to divorce them, they can. These dancing boys here are all about to go off for initiation, which will take them seven years. By the time they get back, the wives they already have will be living with someone else, so they will take another one, and have a second family. If only it were so easy in the West.’

  Francis laughed. ‘How on earth d’you know all this, Klaus?’

  The German tapped his nose. ‘I do my research. No point in travelling if you don’t understand what you’re looking at. Not in my bible anyway.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Pretty frightening looking, some of these costumes, don’t you think?’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘But little do they realize that it is not they who are the frightening ones in this case. They are playing at killing. It is we who have the murderer among us.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I do.’

  Francis looked at him, at that smug but oddly nervous smile playing under the bushy white moustache; at the clear blue-grey eyes that radiated the confidence of a well-off professional but simultaneously craved your attention. Klaus prided himself on being dry and worldly, and after his long career as a surgeon, he had every reason to present himself in that way, but there was still a small boy in there who was trying to please.

  ‘You know who it is?’ Francis asked.

  ‘I have my suspicions.’

  ‘Which you want to share with me?’

  ‘Perhaps later. When we are back on the ship. Not here, I don’t think. Let sleeping hounds lie. If they are cornered, they might otherwise get savage. Don’t you think?’ He smiled. ‘And you?’

  ‘If and when I have solved this puzzle completely, I promise you will be the first to know.’

  ‘Can I believe that? Maybe you have already solved it.’

  ‘Maybe I have,’ Francis replied, looking levelly at him.

  ‘This I like,’ said Klaus. ‘The famous evasive English sense of humour.’

  The drumming around them had reached a crescendo. At the centre of the clearing the shark-man was throwing himself to the ground in a frenzy. One of the guys in straw had mock-stabbed him with his all-too-real spear, and now he was ‘dying’. Dust rose up in clouds, sunlit red-brown as it cleared the shadow. The surrounding circle of young women was hunched over, arms out before them, intense in their concentration as they moved their hips.

  Around them the guests took it all in in different ways. Many were following the action with their videos and cameras, trying to capture something of this extraordinary spectacle to take home to their families and friends and computers. Damian was diving around with his big lens like a man possessed. Sadie stood beside Leo, talking, laughing, clearly enjoying the scene without feeling the need to record it. Shirley, likewise, was living in the moment, doing her own crazy toyi-toyi with Gerald. Terminal illness, Francis thought, did nothing if not make you unselfconscious.

  Just beyond him, Francis noticed a familiar figure leaving the edge of the clearing, pacing away through the huts, looking round nervously from time to time.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, backing away. Klaus took no offence. He smiled and hoisted up his camera, before heading back into the fray. Francis walked nonchalantly away, past older women and men standing watching from between the thatched huts, wrinkled, bent, with just a tooth or two between them. He picked up speed as he went deeper into the village, catching glimpses through darkened doorways on each side of the different households inside: some cluttered, some as tidy and swept clean as a London show flat. Here and there, thin trails of smoke rose from ashy fires.

  He paced on, pretending to be taking photographs as he kept his object in clear view. Scrawny-looking hens clucked around, pecking madly at the dry ground; in front of one little homestead a skinny dog looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and yelped.

  Francis reached the far side of the village, where he lurked by a rondavel, watching and waiting. After five minutes or so, he continued through the undergrowth, under the canopy of tall trees, looking ahead to make sure nobody had spotted him coming, and behind to make sure that no one was following. The drumming was more distant out here, but still loud enough to cover the noise of his footsteps. He took care not to step on any dry branches or leaves that might give away his approach with a crackle or a rustle. At the same time, he kept a careful eye out for snakes. It was all very well to tread quietly, but he didn’t want to step on a sleeping puff adder.

  After a hundred yards or so he came upon them, sooner than he’d thought he would. The two women were right in front of him, across a small clearing, pressed up against another mighty tree, oblivious in their intimacy. He suddenly felt nervous, wondering what had led him to confirm his suspicions, his burning curiosity, dammit, now, here, of all places. In a very short time, if he didn’t duck down or retreat, this was going to upgrade to a confrontation, which could easily be postponed till later, back on the ship, when he would have supporters around him. Maybe, on second thoughts, he would do better to leave his showdown until then …

  He was about to back away when Carmen turned and saw him.

  ‘What the fuck!’ she cried.

  The little doctor looked up too, then pulled away from her girlfriend. She looked terrified.

  ‘I’m very sorry to interrupt,’ Francis said. ‘But I need to talk to you.’

  ‘What are you playing at?’ said Carmen, ‘following us out here like some peeping Tom?’

  ‘I’m sorry. But I think you know why—’

  ‘Do we?’

  The charm had gone; an unsmiling she-wolf was revealed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Francis; there was no going back now. ‘You’ve been very clever, covering your tracks, but I’m afraid I can’t pretend I don’t know any longer who murdered Eve. And then Lauren. And then the poor man who had the misfortune of seeing you with Lauren.’

  Carmen laughed, but it was a hollow rattle of a laugh. ‘You are – seriously – joking me. Where on earth do you get this mad idea from?’

  ‘I get this mad idea from the fact that Ray, whom we interviewed, was told by his cabin mate George that he’d seen someone with Lauren on the night she went overboard. And not just with her, throwing her over the edge. This person was young, strong, and blond. But no one he knew from staff or crew.’

  ‘So?’ said Carmen.

  ‘It was not Gregoire, as I’d originally thought. In any case, George would have known all the officers and cruise staff, uniformed as they are. But being very far below stairs he wasn’t perhaps aware of the distinction between a passenger and a member of the expedition staff who slept on the same corridor as the passengers.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Carmen, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Had Ray told me,’ Francis continued, ‘that George had seen Lauren pushed over by a little old lady with grey hair I would have had my work cut out. But there are no other young strong blonds on the ship. Apart from Mike – and I ruled him out some time ago. This also explained another problem I had, that a passenger couldn’t have done away with George, deep down on deck one, where no passengers, except possibly the adventurous German, Klaus, ever go.’

  ‘I don’t know where you think you’re going with this, mate,’ said Carmen. ‘But I had absolutely nothing to do with George’s death. For Christ’s sake, I was with you when he was murdered.’

  ‘Of course you were. Setting yourself up with a foolproof alibi. The murder was the work of your accomplice, also your girlfriend, the medical expert who knows all about poisons and carries the snake antivenoms with her on all expeditions. Wasn’t it, Alyssa?’

  The doctor’s dark eyes darted sideways at her companion. She wasn’t a great actress. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘What makes you think …? Th
is makes no sense at all.’

  ‘I’m afraid it makes perfect sense. That the doctor, who has access to all the drugs she could want or need, could find a way of sedating George, before injecting him with snake venom, through the single hole that I observed in his ankle.’

  Alyssa was doing her best to look outraged. ‘As I told you,’ she stuttered, ‘there were two incisions—’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Francis cut in. ‘I know an injection mark when I see one. More to the point, you were also responsible for kicking the whole sequence off by murdering Eve, whose only crime was to be rich and old and trusting. You told me yourself how much you liked her, Alyssa. What good friends you were. And she told me the same thing. How the staff were like family to her. You had been close for more than one cruise, hadn’t you? She was in the Antarctic at Christmas, and also in Greenland last summer. The caring doctor was on both those trips, looking after her elderly guests, making friends, lining up the next victim, one of the ones who would return.’

  ‘Francis, really,’ said Carmen, and now, with a brittle laugh, the charm had returned. ‘When we were working together, trying to solve this mystery for the captain, I thought you were pretty sharp. But now, mate, I’m sorry, you seem to have lost it. Yes, Alyssa and I are lovers, and I’m sure you understand why it’s easiest if we keep that relationship a secret. There’s always gossip on a ship – and although we are supposed to be living in the twenty-first century, a lot of the attitudes onboard are pretty unreconstructed. If all the crew knew we were a couple, it would impact on the way they treat us. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Francis. ‘That’s one of the reasons I wanted to speak to you alone.’

  ‘But that’s where it stops. Really. This idea that either of us is involved in all this is ridiculous. So please, go back to the village, see a bit more of the dancing. Then, when we return to the ship this evening we can review all the evidence and see where we’ve got to. Not that any of this is your problem any more, because as you may or may not know, the FBI are joining us in Dakar.’