‘Can’t you do something to help?’ Gina asked me. She had managed to get away in the darkness but was upset and dishevelled. She was rubbing her wrists. ‘He’s your boss. You’re the deputy.’
It said nothing in my job description about rescuing the entertainments director from pirates. Unless it was in the small print.
‘I think it would only make matters worse if I interfered,’ I said. ‘This is one situation we are not trained for. Besides, I don’t know what I could do.’
‘I’ve got a gun,’ she said. ‘Do you want it?’
She said it in a matter-of-fact voice as if she were offering to lend me her mascara. I blinked rapidly.
‘You’ve got a gun? Is it loaded?’
‘Yes, sometimes I have … er, clients who become rather difficult. A gun soon sorts things out.’
I doubted if it would sort this out. I had never fired one, not even at a fun fair to win a teddy bear.
‘Where is it?’ I asked.
‘Tucked in my bra.’
‘How did you get it on board?’
‘You do ask a lot of questions, young lady. Do you want it or not?’
They had dragged Pierre under a spotlight. He looked dreadful, all dignity gone, suit ruined. There was a gag in his mouth, some dirty bit of cloth tied round his face.
‘Yes,’ I said, making up my mind. I had no idea what I was going to do or why I should rescue Pierre Arbour. He had been nothing but a pain in the rear.
‘I’ll slide behind this lifeboat and retrieve it for you. Where are you going to keep it?’ Gina sounded cheered, as if she was an extra in a movie.
‘Same place,’ I said.
*
The gun was cold against my skin. The shape of the gun gave me a funny-looking bustline but who was noticing in this situation? I wondered where Bruce Everton was and what he was doing. Surely he was the man to take charge? Surely he had dealt with hostage situations before?
Perhaps he was contacting some friendly naval base, asking for reinforcements. A couple of frigates might, at this instance, be speeding towards us, armed to the hilt.
‘Money, money, give us lots of money!’ the leader shrieked, waving his gun about. ‘We kill.’
And where was Edmund? In his office, drawing up some contingency plan, a basic get-out strategy in case of some unforeseen event?
A tracksuit did not seem the right gear for confronting these determined raiders, who were rapidly relieving our passengers of their worldly goods. But something had to be done fast for their sakes. There were faces I knew well, and they looked pale and distraught.
On the other side of the door I caught a glimpse of a cabin steward’s trolley. The steward must have been servicing the two luxury penthouse suites on this deck. On the carpeted floor lay a drawstring linen bag for dirty laundry. In seconds I darted in and took the bag.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and marched determinedly forward, pushing through the crowd to where the raiders were busy emptying handbags onto the deck. Lipsticks rolled in all directions, lace hankies were trodden into puddles.
‘Stop!’ I said loudly in my most commanding voice. Lots of stage voice projection. ‘Stop this at once. I have the money for the hostage.’
‘Money?’The leader slid forward out of the crowd. I couldn’t see much of him, only his eyes. ‘Much money?’
‘A lot of money. Stop,’ I said again. ‘Stay where you are.’ I thrust my hand out, palm forward. I had no intention of handing him the bag until Pierre was returned, in whatever shape he was now in. ‘Don’t move.’
‘Nice lady, give money now!’ he shouted, still moving forward.
I dropped the bag at my feet, whipped out the gun and held it two-handed, pointing it straight at him, with my feet apart, best television lady cop style. It was a small automatic with a pearl handle. I had no idea if the safety catch was on or off, nor did I have any idea how to release it.
‘No. Man first, money after.’ My English was rapidly descending to his level. He would not stop moving towards me. It was scary, and my mouth had gone dry. Several of the passengers had retreated, and the other raiders seemed to have become frozen. Maybe a domestic toting a gun was a novelty.
‘Money now!’ he shrieked.
I hadn’t intended to do it. A sort of unconscious reflex action took over. I stepped back and pulled the trigger, aiming not at him, but at the laundry bag. There was a sharp explosion, and bits of bag flew in all directions. It was obvious that a real bullet had been fired.
‘You next!’ I shouted, aiming directly at the leader.
He stopped.
It was at that moment that Captain Wellington came to the rescue. From all sides, crew poured onto the deck, armed with batons, safety nets and various heavy implements. The raiders took one look at the armed crew and leaped over the side, tumbling down their ladders to their speedboat, some of them still firing indiscriminately. Seamen hacked at the ladders attached to the side of the ship and they fell away. The speedboat’s engine began revving. One raider was caught in a safety net and pinioned down. Unfortunately, Pierre was also caught, sprawled, in a net. It was not one of his best evenings.
I was trembling, the gun still in my hand. Bruce Everton was hurrying through the crowd towards me, thrusting people aside. He was in his shirtsleeves, face grim and serious.
‘Casey,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? You were brilliant. But it was very stupid to pull a trick like that. Anything could have happened. You could have been shot.’
I nodded in agreement.
‘We knew what we were doing, but certainly you gave us the opportunity to catch them by surprise. The captain wants to thank you.’
‘Does he?’
‘Now give me the gun.’
I was holding my arm against my side. Bruce took the gun out of my stiff fingers. Then he noticed the blood oozing from between the fingers at my side.
‘I think I have been shot,’ I said.
Then I fainted.
19. At Sea
It would have been lovely to record that I fainted daintily into Bruce’s arms but I missed. I actually fainted onto the laundry bag. My last thought as I smelled a whiff of cordite was, would the hotel manager charge me for the ruined pillowcases?
One raider had been using a small-bore sawn-off shotgun, and the wound in my arm was made by a lead pellet, they told me later. It could have been worse. It had entered the fleshy part of my arm, leaving an abrasion ring and scorching.
I refused a stretcher, but they insisted on wheeling me down to the medical centre. Passengers cheered and clapped. Down among the casualties, all I wanted was a hot drink — preferably a strong coffee, no sugar.
‘Only water,’ said Judith Skinner, ruthlessly cutting away the sleeve of my favourite tracksuit. She was not a bit like Dr Samuel Mallory. He would have tried to save the garment. ‘In case I have to get the pellet out under an anaesthetic.’
‘Dig it out,’ I said, gritting my teeth. But she had already put a local injection into my arm and the area was going numb. She extracted the pellet with forceps and dropped it into a kidney tray. It made a clinking noise.
‘There’s a souvenir for you. Helen will put it in an envelope.’
‘I’ll have it mounted.’
‘Didn’t touch the bone, thank goodness,’ she went on. ‘It could have been nasty. A nice clean wound.’
‘Hardly felt it,’ I murmured.
‘Too busy being a heroine,’ she said.
‘I think Casey deserves a cup of tea,’ said Bruce. He had been at my side all through the procedure, giving silent moral support. ‘After what she’s been through.’
‘Water,’ said Dr Skinner. She’d fixed a saline drip into my other arm, so there was no way I could have held a cup. A nurse held some water to my lips. Try drinking when someone else holds the cup. My mouth seemed to be in the wrong place. It dribbled down my chin.
‘How about something stronger for Casey? Surely you have some medicin
al brandy? I could order champagne?’
‘First things first. And if you continue to annoy me, Chief Inspector, I shall have to ask you to leave the medical centre.’
She was a real Boudicca without the horses or the whip.
The medical centre was full. There were quite a few casualties, mainly passengers who had fallen on the wet decks or were in shock over the whole episode. Many were elderly with weak hearts. I was the only person who’d been shot, and as staff, I suppose I didn’t really count.
‘I’m OK now,’ I said. ‘A couple of paracetamols and a plaster, and I can go.’
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ said Judith. ‘You need stitching up and a decent sleep. And I’ve just the bed for you next door.’
‘Is Pierre all right? Is he injured?’
‘Only his pride. And I daresay that will recover pretty fast. In no time he will have seen off the raiders single-handed without losing the crease in his trousers.’
No love lost there, then. I let her boss me about and then she left my side to deal with the injured passengers. Bruce Everton also departed, mountain of reports to do, he said diplomatically. Helen gave me a short Conway blue cotton nightie to wear and put me to bed in Judith’s own cabin next door. It had twin beds.
‘So sorry,’ she said. ‘Change of plan. We need the private room in the medical centre for a lady who has broken her wrist rather badly. You’ll be comfortable here.’
‘Don’t worry. I quite understand. I’ll be fine.’
Suddenly, I was very tired. The day felt much longer than usual. Perhaps it had something to do with global warming and the earth’s orbit slowing down. A couple of extra hours had been tagged on. Don’t ask me where.
Judith’s cabin was a lot like mine, except that everything was the other way round. I fell asleep wondering where the bathroom was. I would be needing it very soon. I had drunk a lot of water.
I was missing Sam. He had always been so supportive, as well as such a dish. The busy medical centre had made me think of him and I would not have been surprised if he had walked in through the door. However, he walked into my dreams instead and I had to make do with that.
Aggressive voices broke in on my dream and it spiralled away in fragments. There was arguing outside the door. I recognized the defensive, carping voice immediately.
‘How was I to know what was going on? The noise was spoiling my speech of thanks and the audience was getting restless. And I was in the middle of fixing up a date with one of the singers in the girl group, the red-headed one.’
‘You were fixing up a date with one of the girls in the middle of a raid on our ship?’ It was Judith. She’d probably forgotten that I had been put to bed in her cabin. ‘Sometimes you are beyond belief, Pierre. Typical. You think of nothing but yourself. But then, you always have.’
She knew him. It sounded as if she knew him from some time back. I could tell from her words, from the tone of her voice. ‘I don’t know what my sister saw in you,’ she went on. ‘Dazzled by that Gallic charm, I suppose. Well, she’s well rid of you, and she knows it. You might have left her poorer than a church mouse but at least she’s happy.’
‘You were jealous,’ said Pierre, swiftly turning the tables. ‘You always were cheesed off because I preferred your younger sister, slim and gorgeous, to a dumpy sour-mouthed doctor. We used to laugh at you, the two of us, when we were in bed together, only a wall away from you. I expect you could hear us laughing.’
‘I could hear you snoring.’
‘Jealousy does funny things to people, especially ageing women.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Judith, with a short laugh. ‘You’re making it up. I can always tell when you are lying. A red light comes on in the middle of your forehead.’
It was not a pretty conversation. Both voices were unpleasant. They obviously disliked each other intensely.
I hoped they couldn’t hear me breathing. My breath sounded loud and rasping. I was all agog for more revelations about Pierre and Judith and the unknown sister. This might be a link to the deaths of Tracy Coleman and Lorna Fletcher. They had both died in the same way, garrotted by the same hand. Tracy had been deputy to Pierre. Lorna had a fear of open spaces, agoraphobia, and might have consulted Judith about her condition. Perhaps she needed some kind of medication to get as far as the dining room. It was like a dance, a minuet, with Pierre and Judith changing partners, coming close to sudden death, then parting again. Everything fuelled by their hatred of each other.
I would have made a note of this conversation, but I was practically armless, one arm professionally strapped up and the other sporting the saline drip. But I might be able to hold a pencil between my fingers at some uncomfortable angle.
It was complicated taking the whole saline drip apparatus along with me in the cabin, as I staggered over to Judith’s desk. She’d be bound to have a pen or pencil. I had both in mine. The drawer didn’t open easily. There seemed to be a roll of paper which had got caught in the runner.
I carefully eased it open. The voices had died away. Judith had gone back to her patients and Pierre had returned to his cabin to change and shower, and then I guessed he’d make straight for the nearest bar with his own story of the heroic hostage situation. He’d soon forget who got shot saving him. He’d lose no time in cashing in on the popularity stakes. The passengers would be generous in picking up the tab.
The rolls of paper uncurled on being released. I wasn’t going to read them, but there they were in my hands. They were copies of medical reports on Tracy Coleman and Lorna Fletcher. What were they doing here, in Judith’s desk drawer? Surely Lorna’s should be amongst the medical records in the medical centre? And Tracy had been employed by Conway. Her records should be at Head Office.
Judith’s cabin did not seem such a safe haven after all. Nor was my own. Where could I go, wearing a blue cotton nightie?
The choice was overwhelming. There was DCI Bruce Everton, chief engineer Daniel Webster and security officer Edmund Morgan, in order of preference. They would all give up a bed to me, I felt sure. I also felt sure that Judith would lend me her bathrobe in the circumstances. There was probably a good reason why she had the records, but I didn’t feel safe. I let myself out into the corridor, robe over my shoulders.
The corridors were bustling with passengers, coming and going, wearing odd assortments of clothes, so the bathrobe fitted in without any eyebrow lifting. Everyone was taking wet clothes to the laundry room or dry cleaners, both of which did a twenty-four-hour service. No one took any notice of me, all too busy swapping stories of their experiences.
‘One of the officers is making a list in the Cairo Lounge.’ Gina was broadcasting the good news. ‘I’ve told him everything I’ve lost. You should go and see him. And he’s got a box of jewellery that they have recovered.’
‘Yes, I will. I will. Thank you for telling me. They took my opal engagement ring. It was my mother’s. And my wedding ring and watch.’
‘How awful,’ Gina went on, talking as she walked. ‘Mine were diamonds. And a lot of them. Worth a pretty fortune. I’ll never see them again.’
But she had been shouting something quite different — that they were fakes — to the pirates. This was fishy. She was going to disclaim any recovered artificial diamonds when they were shown to her. She’d say her jewellery was real and was not amongst the recovered goods. She’d say it had gone overboard or was with the raiders. No doubt, they were fully insured.
Edmund’s cabin was in the officer’s quarters near the bridge. I’d not been there before, but it was part of his duties to give me sanctuary, wasn’t it? A cabin steward was hovering with a trolley full of towels. He was running late, no doubt delayed by the fracas on deck.
‘Can you let me into Edmund Morgan’s cabin, please?’ I asked, all sweetness and light. ‘He said I could wait here, as the medical centre is full of casualties,’ I said, the story running smoothly off my lips. It did not seem too much of a lie. Edmund would h
ave said it, that is, if he knew about it.
‘Of course, Miss Jones.’ The steward was all smiles. ‘You are brave lady, rescuing Monsieur Arbour from the raiders. And to be shot. You must rest. I shall bring you refreshments.’
‘That’s most kind,’ I said as he unlocked the cabin door. ‘But I am not hungry.’
‘You must eat. Build up strength.’
Edmund’s cabin was small but compact, with lots of dark polished wood, and tidy as a new pin. Apart from a few books and an alarm clock, it did not look occupied. The desk looked unused and housed only the notebook that he had filled on our information-gathering tour. I was not into peeking into the wardrobe or chest of drawers, but I did look into the bathroom. A disposable razor, a toothbrush and a bottle of Aramis aftershave. Expensive taste.
He’d said he was going to cross-reference every comment made in his notes. He did not appear to have made a start on it. The notes were a jumble.
I laid down on top of the bed, bone-weary. Even that short walk had worn me out. Yes, perhaps my strength did need building up. Two weeks’ recuperation in my flat in sunny Worthing was the answer, watching the long tide wash in and out, walking the pier and chatting to the anglers, going to a few concerts, a few films. It sounded idyllic and it was, even when it rained.
There was a knock on the door. I hesitated. ‘Who is it?’
‘Hasid, Miss Jones. With some refreshments.’
It was too good to be true. I could not resist opening the door and it was, thankfully, the steward wheeling a trolley. He smiled broadly.
‘Some small foods for you. From the Boulevard Café late buffet.’
‘How very kind. Thank you, Hasid. I really appreciate it.’
He brought in the trolley and parked it by the desk. ‘You eat now and sleep well. Goodnight, Miss Jones. I will shut door.’
He left as silently as he had appeared. The trolley was laden with delightful savoury canapés, soup in a thermos, coffee in a jug, cold milk, yogurt and a bowl of fruit. There was even a dish of little sweets, petit fours, including candied ginger which is good for seasickness.
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