I suddenly thought of Henry Fellows. Had anyone seen him around? Edmund had said he was all right and had only been sleeping off a heavy night. I had almost forgotten all about him in my focus on Tracy Coleman and keeping Pierre off my back.
The captain spoke to Dr Skinner in a low voice and then went to talk to the distraught Mr Fletcher.
‘I don’t understand,’ John Fletcher said. ‘Lorna had no reason to take her own life. We were all joking and laughing at dinner and looking forward to the quiz. We’re the star table, you know. We nearly always win. This is just not like her. She’s a very confident, capable person, not upset or nervy at all.’
‘But she wasn’t at the quiz tonight?’
‘No, no, she said she had a headache. Very unlike Lorna. She’s not a headachy person. Never had one in her life before, as far as I can remember. I can’t believe this. It’s all unreal.’
Dr Skinner had closed the bathroom door so that she could make her first examination of the body. A few moments later, she returned and sat beside Mr Fletcher. Her face did not betray any emotion, but her voice had softened with sympathy.
‘Mr Fletcher. I’m really sorry. This is a big shock for you.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘I will need to make a further examination, Mr Fletcher. Although it does look as though it’s an act of suicide, it may be that she had an aneurysm and the pain was too much to bear.’
‘An aneurysm? That’s a clot or something, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the weakening of the wall of a blood vessel, usually in the brain, abdomen or chest. The rupture of the aneurysm, that is the breaking of the weakened wall, can be fatal and cause death. I should need to investigate.’
‘Do what you have to do,’ he said gruffly. ‘We have to find out why she did this needless thing.’
‘Would you like me to inform anyone at home?’
‘No, we don’t have any children. There’s no one.’
‘Then, when you feel more like it — not now, of course — we need to discuss any necessary arrangements.’
For a moment, he looked bewildered. ‘Arrangements?’
‘There are several options,’ Captain Wellington said swiftly. ‘But there’s no need to talk about them now. I suggest that the company of friends might help and a cup of tea, perhaps a walk round the deck.’
‘I’ll go back to the quiz,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask Mr MacDonald and Mr Sullivan to come and keep you company. Would that be all right?’
‘Not Ted Sullivan,’ said John Fletcher, with a sudden burst of anger. ‘Can’t bear the sight of the man. Just the MacDonalds, Angus and Fiona.’
*
It was not easy to go back to the quiz after seeing Lorna Fletcher’s body in the bathroom. I had to stand outside the lounge and take a couple of deep breaths. But the show must go on, the cruise must go on, life must go on. I put a small smile on my face and went into the lounge.
The corner table was empty, and the atmosphere was so heavy, you could have strung lights on it. The grapevine had started its tortuous means of finding out what had happened.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Something wrong, Miss Jones?’ someone asked.
I couldn’t pretend it was nothing. My face probably gave away my feelings. I had been trained as a dancer, not an actress.
‘An accident,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. Now, where were we? TV dance troupe. What’s next? Ah, yes. Questions on ancient Egypt.’
There was a general lightening of mood and a universal groan. ‘Not the pyramids again? How long did they take to build? The Great Pyramid of Cheops, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Same old questions.’
‘Some new questions, I promise you,’ I said, hoping that I was right. ‘When was the great period of pyramid-building?’
Dates were not the tops in their agendas, so I knew there would be some wild and woolly answers.
‘Which of the pyramids was the perfect place to celebrate the birth of the millennium?’
Blank looks. Now this floored them. I thought it would. Answer: the Great Pyramid of Giza.
*
We were on a northeasterly course towards the entrance of the Panama Canal, and towards our designated anchor position. There was quite a strong wind outside and it was getting stronger. It seemed we were in for a rough day at Fuerte Amador, the port for Panama City. Captain Wellington had said the weather was worsening.
Panama City was always a joy to visit. I’d been there before and it was a great place, so varied as the result of so many different civilizations making their home there. Would you expect to see castles and medieval ramparts in somewhere that sounded as new and as glamorous as Panama City? Their presence always came as a surprise.
I was trying to hold the quiz together despite the rising sound of the wind. Several women looked anxiously out the windows, but there was nothing to see.
But something was happening outside the lounge, some sort of commotion. John Fletcher came in, almost staggering. His face was red and he was dishevelled, not like his usual self.
‘Where’s that bastard?’ he was shouting. ‘Where’s that Ted Sullivan? I’m going to kill him.’
9. Panama City
The strong winds could not be helping Pierre’s delicate condition, whatever it was. He sent a handwritten note to the office to say that he was taking a few days’ sick leave. It was not addressed to me. I didn’t exist. The dame with no name.
I tried to find out more about the cleaning fluid, but Pierre had returned to his cabin and was not talking to anyone.
After a busy day, I gave myself permission to go ashore as an escort on the evening tour to Panama City. I’d seen it myself and loved the city, but I wanted to watch people’s reactions and their amazement as they discovered the three faces of the city.
Pierre’s illness was still undetermined. Dr Skinner had not been called to his cabin. Apparently, this was not unusual.
‘I’m afraid Monsieur Arbour has a variety of ailments to call upon,’ she told me over a quick cup of coffee in the Boulevard Café. Her eyes were twinkling again. ‘He’s got the three-day work syndrome.’
‘The three-day work syndrome? What’s that?’
‘Three days of work and then he has to take the rest of the week off. He should have my job.’
I had to laugh. Trawling through the paperwork and computer files had been an eye-opener. Pierre put himself down for very few events, apart from the nightly stage show. Occasionally, he did an afternoon interview if it involved talking to a celebrity on stage. Unless he regarded the daily circulating of the bars as work. In which case, he could probably clock up overtime.
Maybe he had his own bottle of cleaning fluid.
But this evening, it was the excursions team working overtime. They had to reschedule all the trips because the Aveline had lost its berth in the inner harbour. The weather had delayed our arrival, and a huge cargo ship had taken our slot. It was not long enough to take two vessels, so we were anchored outside and the tenders were lowered to take passengers on a rough ten-minute trip to the quayside.
The weather was deteriorating. Although it was a warm 29 degrees, the northeasterly wind was a ferocious force six to seven. For a while, I thought the whole programme might be cancelled. Stepping onto a rocking tender could be tricky. Sensible shoes were the order of the day. It still horrified me when I saw high heels or flip-flops worn for the roughest territory.
‘Don’t you have any trainers?’ I asked one woman, already staggering on four-inch stilettos. ‘It’s a bit rough out there.’
‘But these match my outfit.’
‘I don’t think the fish will notice.’ Oh dear, broken one of my ten commandments. ‘Just a joke,’ I added comfortingly. ‘The crew will help you.’
But she did go and change her whole outfit. She saw sense.
The tenders were being buffeted by the strong swell, and it looked like quite a few passengers were beg
inning to wish they had stayed on board and watched a film. A few opted out. I wore a light blue trouser suit so that I could be easily spotted as it grew dark and tied my hair back with a Conway silk scarf.
Ted Sullivan was in my group. John Fletcher had obviously not bumped him off yet. He was a swarthy individual with a mass of unruly dark hair and a five-o’clock designer shadow to match. He might have been in his late thirties or a well-preserved forty. His neck was slung with an array of straps of an expensive camera and video equipment. There was nothing aggressive about him.
He was accompanied by a vivacious silvery-blonde woman, apparently called Gina, who could have been any age from forty to sixty. She’d had her fair share of Botox. ‘I hope we get plenty of time for serious shopping,’ she trilled, patting a large gold shoulder bag. Her earrings were the size of saucers.
My coach tour wasn’t going to do any shopping, apart from Adelia’s souvenir shop, a compulsory comfort stop.
I was glad to get out of the tender and onto dry land. I had a good pair of sea legs, but not in a lurching bucket. It had been quite alarming.
‘That was a bit rough,’ said Ted Sullivan, grinning.
‘I like a bit of rough,’ said Gina.
I herded my group onto minibus twenty-one, counted heads, then we were driven downtown. It was a depressing sight: street after street of empty, tumbledown buildings, graffiti on the walls. The result of an earlier economic depression. The first city of Panama was completely destroyed by a pirate called Henry Morgan in 1671, when he set fire to the wooden township. It looked as if the pirates had made a second visit. Only one piece of original wall remained.
Next we reached the French Quarter: the white, stone colonial houses and embassies, the Margot Fonteyn theatre with its beautiful Roberto Lewis ceiling and gold and white balconies. It was a fairy-tale palace. We walked the Esteban Bridge, over the top of dungeons, gawped at the palatial social club for rich people and spotted the presidential police. A different world.
The contrast was difficult to absorb. But then Panama City was difficult to understand. It was a city cloaked in magic.
The colourful diablo rojo buses were a great hit, though confusing for the tourists who tried to use them. The drivers personalized them to commemorate great artists or singers or performers. But at first their routes remained a mystery.
All this grandeur grew during the construction of the Panama Canal, and the huge resulting influx of workers, the French engineers and their families.
‘Lovely, lovely,’ said Gina, the shopaholic. She bought armfuls at the souvenir shop, including a black lace shawl which she immediately draped over herself with stunning effect.
Our driver and guide, Pepe, took us through the city, filled with wall-to-wall white skyscrapers and eighty international banks. Eight-0. Even Donald Trump had built another Trump Tower here. It spelled money on every floor.
Lastly, we drove to the outskirts of the new city towards the old city, Old Panama or Casco Viejo, where the ruined cathedral dated back centuries. It was once a vast building in the shape of a cross. So many races, so many cultures, were all crowded into these acres of rough ground. We were treading on history. We saw what was left of the Bishop’s House, the old fort, the monastery and a tall bell tower that was open to the elements, but you could see a set of steep wooden spiral steps going right to the top.
I tried to imagine the medieval workmen’s task of building those steps, without modern scaffolding and machinery. The same pirates destroyed all this in 1519. These marauding pirates had a lot to answer for, but somehow the spirit of Panama survived.
It was beyond dusk by now and only the ruins were floodlit. There were dark areas of gloom to walk through with shifting shadows and trees. I hoped no one would fall on the rough ground. It was every escort’s nightmare, an injured passenger to get back to the ship, or worse, left behind at a foreign hospital. I wished I had brought a strong torch.
In spite of the gloom and potential danger, the atmosphere had a certain magic. It would have been the perfect place to stage a ballet. The moonlight was ethereal. Dancers could flit from the trees like moths in flimsy gossamer dresses. My mind was drifting back to my heady dancing days. Before I fell and my career came to a painful end. I could have danced here.
‘I can’t see a thing.’
‘Where are we? Ye Gods, it’s as black as night.’
‘It is night.’
‘This way, please. Follow me and Pepe. Be careful of the loose stones,’ I said. ‘Look where you are walking.’
‘Have we got time to go shopping now?’ It was Gina’s voice. I caught a glimpse of her silvery hair in the moonlight. ‘I’ve had enough of ruins, all these great lumps of old stone. They don’t mean a thing today.’
‘I don’t think any of the big shops are open now,’ I replied.
‘I thought this was going to be a late-night shopping tour.’
It was time to return to the ship. The Aveline would spend the night at anchor before traversing the Panama Canal tomorrow. But we had to be back at the quayside by ten forty-five p.m. to pick up a tender.
I took a head count, although it was not really necessary with a minibus. I knew where everyone was sitting. Four on the back seat, three couples to the left and three single seats to the right. There should be fourteen, including me, and I was sitting on a fold-down seat next to the driver.
Except that there weren’t. There were only thirteen.
‘Ted Sullivan is missing,’ I said swiftly.
‘But he was with me,’ said Gina. ‘All the time.’
‘Did he go off somewhere to take an extra photo? Did he say where he was going?’
‘No, no. He’d given up. His camera had jammed.’
Maybe Ted Sullivan had slipped behind a dark bush. It could happen. It had happened before. People got caught short and there were never enough loos in the right places. There were always queues.
‘We’ll wait a few minutes. Perhaps he’ll realize that we’ve all come back to the bus.’
‘We could go and look for him,’ two of the men offered.
‘No, no, but thank you for the offer. It’s better if we all stay together. I don’t want to lose you two as well.’
I made a note of the time. All tour escorts have to fill in a report of every incident. We waited five minutes and then I sent Pepe to look for Mr Sullivan. He fished out a cosh-sized torch from the boot, even though he knew every inch of the ground. He was anxious to find Mr Sullivan. It would show on his record if he was late back.
‘Are we going to miss the ship?’ Gina wailed.
‘No way,’ I said. ‘She’s spending the night at anchor outside the harbour. And the last tender will wait for us. That’s the blessing of our swipe cards. It will show up that the fourteen of us on bus twenty-one have not returned.’
‘They’ll probably think we’ve got a flat, or broken down.’
‘It’s getting cold,’ said another woman with a shiver.
It was indeed. Once the sun had gone, the temperature dropped rapidly. I was cold, too. My summer trouser suit was no protection against the night air. My toes were like ice, even in trainers. I needed a fleece and some socks. I took the scarf off my hair and tied it round my neck. It offered some warmth. I should have offered it to the woman who said she was cold, but it wasn’t in my ten commandments. Plus, she had a husband to keep her warm.
Pepe was returning across the car park, propping someone up. It was Ted Sullivan. But he was staggering and stumbling and hanging on to Pepe’s arm for help. I got out of the bus and ran to help.
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘I found him on the ground, groaning, almost unconscious. But he seems to be recovering. We’d better get him to the city hospital.’
‘Which is the nearest, the city hospital or the ship?’
‘The ship.’
‘Then we’ll go to the ship. We’ve all the medical facilities we need there. I’ll phone ahead for a me
dic to be standing by. If he needs hospital treatment, then he can be flown home.’
Gina shrieked when she saw him. ‘What’s the matter with Ted?’
‘We don’t know. But the sooner we get back to the ship, the better.’
We hauled Ted Sullivan aboard and shuffled seats so that he could lie across the back seat. Three people squashed up on two seats, and I sat on the floor. If I didn’t know better, I would have said Ted was drunk, but there had been no opportunity for surreptitious drinking. Even if he had carried a flask, Ted Sullivan had been with the group all the time, snapping away. I would have noticed any drinking.
Pepe drove fast. It was nerve-racking and my bottom was tingling from the bumps in the road by the time we reached the quayside. Sitting on the hard floor was no picnic. My back cringed with the effort of straightening up and getting out of the bus. I was as stiff as an old board.
Dr Skinner was waiting at the quayside, done up in waterproofs fastened up to her chin. She had a couple of extra crewmen with her and a stretcher.
‘What have we got here?’ she asked briskly.
‘I don’t really know,’ I said. ‘His name is Ted Sullivan. I would have said he’d been drinking, but there wasn’t an opportunity to drink. He was found unconscious on the ground, and groaning, but he has come round since. He’s very confused.’
‘Did he fall?’
‘No one saw him fall. He doesn’t look as if he’s had an accidental fall. No injuries, as far as I can tell. No blood, except a bruise on his forehead.’
She’d been examining him as we spoke.
She took a half-drunk bottle of mineral water from his pocket and sniffed it. Then she sniffed his breath.
‘We’d better get him to the medical centre,’ she said. ‘Is there a Mrs Sullivan with him?’
‘I don’t think so. A woman called Gina was with him, but I think she’s a shipboard friend.’
‘Mr Sullivan? Can you hear me? I’m Dr Skinner. Can you tell me what happened?’ She put her head close to his face.
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