A Death on the Ocean Wave

by Tim Heald

  CI have nothing to say for myself,’ said Tudor, ‘I simply don’t know what you’re talking about. And when you say ‘First Officer’ to whom are you referring?’

  ‘Angus Donaldson, of course. As well you know.’

  ‘Forgive me, Freddie,’ said Tudor in a friendly familiar fashion which was calculated to infuriate, ‘but Donaldson’s actual title is Staff Captain and he’s not in charge. The boss is Captain Hardy, the Master.’

  ‘The Master is, as you well know, indisposed. Not even I have been able to make contact with him. In view of this, er, indisposition Angus Donaldson is in charge whether he is First Officer or Staff Captain. Captain Donaldson has told me something of what appears to have taken place and was much relieved when I explained details of my former life and qualifications. From now on I am in charge and you can cease whatever activities you have been indulging in. From what I am able to glean from Captain Donaldson this is a case for the professionals.’

  ‘I’m not actually entirely certain about that,’ said Tudor. ‘With the greatest possible respect to your former life and all that I rather had the impression that you had retired and moved on to what might aptly be described as higher things.’

  ‘This is no time for facetiousness,’ said Grim, who never had time for facetiousness of any kind. ‘An attempt has been made to hijack this ship in the middle of the ocean and I understand there has also been an attempt at theft or robbery involving a stolen lifeboat and a mysterious vessel now vanished.’

  ‘The lifeboat I can assure you is safely recovered and back on board together with its cargo or whatever it was.’

  ‘Whatever it was indeed,’ said the former inspector, pouncing on the phrase as if it was a fugitive from justice that he was about to apprehend with a snap of his official handcuffs. ‘Whatever was it?’

  ‘I would have thought Captain Donaldson would have told you whatever it was if he had indeed entrusted the enquiry to you. I mean, I hate to pull rank and all that, but (a) the Captain who, as we all know is Sam Hardy, Master of the Duchess is in charge, and (b) I am already involved in this affair faute de mieux.’

  ‘Don’t try and bamboozle me with fancy frog phrases,’ said Grim. ‘I may not be a professor but that doesn’t make me stupid.’ But before this conversation could degenerate further they were interrupted. It was Mandy Goldslinger looking alarmed and dishevelled.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ she said breathlessly, ‘I need your help. Something’s happened.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘What do you mean “something’s happened”?’

  Tudor took Mandy Goldslinger by the elbow and pulled her out of earshot. He did not want Grim to overhear. Elizabeth was doing a good job of blocking the former policeman while attempting merely to seem flirty and ingratiating.

  ‘It’s your ring-leaderene,’ shouted Mandy, in a stage-shriek designed to rise above the wail of the waves and the sigh of the sea. ‘She’s escaped. Vanished. Done a bunk. She’s at large. Somewhere on board ship. Dangerous. Maybe armed.’

  ‘What?’ asked Tudor semi-rhetorically. ‘Tipperary Tatler? How so? Who let her out?’

  La Goldslinger sighed. ‘Classic cock-up,’ she said. ‘Your Irish captives asked for refreshment. The infinitely civilised British acquiesced. Jeez, you Brits. Cup of tea, Mr Bin Laden? Absolutely. Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong? No problem. Milk? Sugar? So that’s what happened. Little stewardess is sent in to the prisoners with a tray of tea and cucumber sandwiches. I speak metaphorically but only just. She is hit on head. Again, I speak metaphorically. Your friend the flame-haired temptress from Tipperary takes her outfit and exits left with a load of empties. Hey fucking presto she’s part of the crew. Every girl who carries a tray on board this ship is bog-Irish or fake Filipino. No one knows who they are. Your girl is just part of the herd.’

  ‘You’re telling me that the leader of a gang of international pirates has been captured and locked up only to be allowed to walk free without any let or hindrance?’

  ‘Seems about the size of it,’ said Mandy.

  ‘You mentioned tea,’ said Tudor glancing at his watch. ‘I could do with a cup. Maybe a cucumber sandwich.’ He glanced back at Grim. ‘In private.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Butler’s Pantry in ten minutes. I’ll make sure we have a quiet table to ourselves.’

  She left, presumably to arrange tea and Tudor returned to his long-suffering sidekick and the aggrieved Grim.

  ‘Look, Freddie,’ he said, laying an ingratiating hand on the ex-copper’s shoulder, ‘There really isn’t any need for you to be involved, not least because there’s nothing to be involved, as it were in.’ He laughed, aware that he was sounding donnish. ‘Naturally if there is anything to be involved in you’ll be the first person to be, well, involved. But right now there’s nothing whatever to worry about. I’ve been thinking about your sermon too. Very thought provoking if I may say so.’

  ‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways,’ said Grim. ‘Me, too. You’ll never know where I’ll turn up next or in what guise. Just like our Lord. He is everywhere and nowhere. Now you see Him; now you don’t. You would be well advised not to sup with the Devil even using a long spoon. Best, by far, to stay alongside your old pal Freddie.’

  Tudor had never noticed quite how yellow Freddie’s teeth were when he smiled. Nor how bad his breath. Perhaps the mouth had deteriorated since leaving the force.

  ‘I’ll think about it Freddie,’ he said, ‘but really, there’s no need for concern. Sam Hardy runs a tight ship. None of us will come to any harm while he’s in charge.’

  ‘Tight,’ said Freddie, ‘is the operative word. Sam Hardy is a drunk, as well you know. Ho, ho and a bottle of rum is not just a figure of speech in his case. Speaking as one who hasn’t touched a drop of the hard stuff since I went on the wagon many years ago I know of what I speak.’

  ‘Well...’ began Tudor, but Grim silenced him with a finger to his mouth.

  ‘Say no more,’ he said. ‘You know where to find me if you need professional help.’

  It was on the tip of Tudor’s tongue to say something clever and superior but he thought better of it and said nothing, simply stared out to sea for a moment, then said to the precocious Elizabeth, ‘Why don’t you ferret around while I have a cucumber sandwich and a cup of Earl Grey with la Goldslinger? I’ll see you in a cabin later.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, grinning. ‘We don’t have ferrets in Tasmania but I think I know what you’re saying. I’ll sniff around.’

  ‘Unobtrusively,’ he said.

  She smirked back at him. ‘Obtrusive? Moi? I’ll be discreet as the day is long. I’ll be virtually invisible. No one will have the first idea of what I’m doing.’

  ‘Not just a pretty face, are you?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ She was still smirking. ‘That’s exactly what I’ll be. Just a pretty face. Plus pert breasts, fine cheekbones, a neat bum, long legs and an almost tiny waist. Combine all those and everyone will think I’m here for ornament only. That’s the way of the world. I shall pass without notice.’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ Tudor spoke with feeling.

  They both went indoors, she, on a predatory prowl; he for a cuppa in the Butler’s Pantry.

  When he arrived he wondered, not for the first time, who was fooling who and why. What was the thinking behind a scene like this? Who had originally thought of the idea of taking the Ritz to sea? Whose bright idea was it to recreate the Palm Court complete with tinkling tea-cups and crustless egg sand-wiches and crustless cucumber sandwiches and crustless smoked salmon sandwiches, scones and strawberry jam and cream, miniature swiss rolls and miniature sausage rolls and minia-ture jam tarts and Dundee Cake. ‘Dundee Cake.’ He seemed to remember Cary Grant rolling the words off his tongue in some old Hitchcock movie just before biting into a slice of said cake and rolling that round his tongue instead of words. Come to that why wasn’t Cary Grant sitting at a table being charming to some old duck who was spending her la
te husband’s legacy? Or more likely yet, why wasn’t Cary Grant out on the dance floor schmoozing round with another elderly widow with money to spend on afternoon tea in the Butler’s Pantry? What was that story about Cary Grant? The one about the newspaper reporter who cabled the film star in connection with a feature he was writing and simply sent a message saying ‘How old Cary Grant?’ to which Grant replied, quick as a flash, ‘Old Cary Grant fine. How you?’ Palms. They even had palm trees weaving gently in the wind to the sounds of Strauss, or was it Offenbach being scratched out by the trio of young Latvians or Lithuanians from the conservatoire on some Baltic beach. And talking of Cary Grant, he recognized the fellow in the off-white linen suit shuffling round the dance floor and shouting into the hearing-aid of his blue-rinsed partner as he executed a nimble ‘one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three’ which would have more than passed muster at any thé dansant in any palais from Shanghai to Shoreham. It was Ambrose Perry, the gentleman host. There should have been ‘Let them eat cake,’ he muttered to himself: Battenburg, Pontefract, simnel, Victoria sponge, Dundee dammit. He could murder an eclair or what they used to call soap cakes at school in cricket matches when the headmaster’s wife did the honours with the huge chipped urn and the huge chipped tea-pots and...

  ‘Are you all right, sir? May I be of any assistance?’ It was a waiter in striped trousers and black jacket doing a passable imitation of a landlubber maitre d’ at the Ritz.

  ‘All right?’ said Tudor, aware that Mandy Goldslinger was waving at him from a far corner of the pantry where she had secured an isolated table for two in a secluded corner. It wasn’t quite screened off, but Ms Goldslinger’s haughty demeanour and icy stare was more than enough to repel boarders.

  ‘You looked, if I may say so, sir,’ said the waiter doing a plausible Jeeves imitation, ‘a little under the weather.’

  It was increasingly rare to find a genuine waiter on a cruise ship these days. Even the gentlemen hosts were more host-like than gentlemanly. Only the officer class were British. The other ranks were mostly all foreign. Tudor heard his inner voice saying these things and was horrified. He sounded like his father.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ said Tudor.

  ‘You still look a little green,’ said the waiter, ‘and feverish. I think you may be running a temperature. Perspiration on the brow. I hope we’re not about to be struck by one of those bugs. The Duchess has been bug-free for as long as I’ve been on board but, as you say, there’s always a first time.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ said Tudor. ‘Not to worry. Really.’

  ‘You kept repeating something about Dundee cake,’ said the waiter. ‘It’s not a standard item, but as you’re with Miss Goldslinger I’m sure some can be arranged. May I fetch you Dundee cake?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ said Tudor. ‘But water would be good. A glass of water.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. Sparkling or still? Ice? Lemon or lime?’

  ‘Just water, thanks. And, er... thanks.’

  He looked at the man suspiciously. He was too good to be true.

  ‘You all right?’ Mandy Goldslinger had changed into a curious tea-drinking outfit – a sort of black lamé cat-suit with a high collar. More Vegas than vicarage.

  ‘I’m fine. I wish people would stop suggesting otherwise.’

  ‘You don’t look fine. You look ill. Would you like brandy?’

  ‘The man’s bringing me water.’

  ‘The man’s Shane. Been with the ship for years. Queen of the Butler’s Pantry. He’s from Toowoomba in Queensland. Cute, eh? Surprised you hadn’t noticed him already.’

  ‘Must have been on shore leave whenever I’ve been on before,’ said Tudor.

  She poured Earl Grey from a silvery teapot.

  ‘This’ll put the hair back on your chest,’ she said. ‘Twining’s best. We had Sam Twining himself on board once, showing us how to do a proper brew. A lot depends on the water. We have special tea water just for the Pantry. Malvern I believe. Just like Her Majesty. Did you know that your Queen Elizabeth takes bottles of Malvern Water wherever she goes? Especially for brewing afternoon tea. We have royal authors on board regularly. That’s one thing they all agree on.’

  Tudor felt very tired. He put a hand to his head.

  ‘You don’t have to do a sales pitch for me, Mandy,’ he said, ‘I’ve read the brochure. I’ve heard Sam Hardy doing his spiel.’

  Her mood changed.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Sam,’ she said, sounding serious and almost human.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Shane of Toowoomba shimmered over with the glass of water which he deposited deftly on the table in text-book manner with the non-carrying hand crooked behind his back. He smiled synthetically. All very Butler’s Pantry, thought Tudor, still wondering at the incongruity of it all. The ship bumped, reminding him that they were still at sea.

  ‘I’m worried about Sam.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tudor. He was not in the mood to be helpful.

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘Sam and me.’ She now sounded coy, almost girlish. Tudor wondered if this was an act like everything else about her.

  ‘The truth is,’ she continued, ‘that Sam and me – Sam and I that is – we, the two of us, are an item. We’re an item. That is we, if you see what I mean. Sam and I are, like, together. We’re an item. Except that the company has a rule about members of crew you know, well, we have to pretend. When we’re on board together. Everyone’s been, well, you know, very British about us, but if the company found out one of us would have to go.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tudor, not really seeing. He would have been surprised by this revelation if he had been particularly interested but he wasn’t. He didn’t care about Mandy’s private life. Nor the Captain’s. He wasn’t really into private lives, he thought ruefully. Perhaps that was his problem.

  ‘So why are you worried?’ he asked, sipping his water.

  ‘Because I can’t find him. And I can’t get into his cabin. The lock’s been changed so my key doesn’t work.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Baltic strings were playing a polka. Tudor could imagine lads and lasses in some northern Tivoli strutting their stuff under the larches in summer dusk while an orchestra on a wooden nineteenth century bandstand oompahed out a number such as this. Ambrose Perry and his colleagues and partners did not, however, strut or trip the light fantastic. Instead they swayed gently and shuffled around the floor making sure their lady-passengers remained upright and followed them more or less in time to the music. It was, in its way, an impressive performance. Tudor thought of flying buttresses holding up an ancient abbey and was impressed enough by the metaphor to make a mental note to use it in a paper for a learned journal at some future date.

  ‘An item,’ he said. ‘You and Sam Hardy. The two of you.’

  Like royalty, he often, when nonplussed, repeated the remark just vouchsafed, if necessary more than once. It gave him valuable thinking time.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ms Goldslinger, dabbing at her mascara with a frilly handkerchief. ‘Sam and me. The two of us. An item.’

  Royal-speak was catching.

  On the far side of the dance floor Tudor could see Prince Abdullah and his harem. The Prince was not smoking as the Butler’s Pantry was a smoke-free zone. Instead he was glowering around a cucumber sandwich. The wives poured him tea, fed him food and generally fawned. Tudor wondered idly how many there were and whether they had particular duties or rosters – toenail-cutting wife, a nostril hair-removing wife, a Scotch-pouring wife. Their eyes sparkled from their almost-all concealing Muslim headdresses and their bodies shimmered seductively under their supposedly chaste robes. He’d be prepared to bet they owed more to Dior or St Laurent than a cut-price couturier in the souk back home.

  ‘So you’ve been having it off with the captain.’

  Tudor was aware he sounded indelicate.

  Mandy Goldslinger blushed to the roots of her hair – which did not exactly
match the unsplit ends. Time for a visit to the ship’s coiffeuse he thought to himself.

  ‘The physical side of things between Sam and myself is only part of the chemistry between us. We think of ourselves as human beings not like, you know, “sex toys”.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t mean to imply anything else. But let’s, as you say, cut to the chase. You haven’t seen Sam Hardy for a while and you can’t get into his cabin because it’s locked and the locks have been changed.’

  ‘Yup,’ she said.

  ‘So who’s in charge?’ he asked her, expecting her to answer ‘Angus Donaldson’ which, gratifyingly, she did.

  ‘So did he change the locks?’

  ‘Not personally, no. Angus isn’t a DIY person.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. Did he order the locks changed? Is he responsible for Sam’s disappearance?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ she said, looking disturbingly weepy. ‘In Sam’s absence Angus is the boss.’

  ‘Some people say that Angus is the boss whether Sam is around or not.’ Tudor tried not to sound uncharitable. ‘Sam is brilliant PR; great Captain Birdseye. Passengers adore him. He could read tide tables or Lloyd’s Log and they’d hang on his every word, but when it comes to actually sailing the ship one isn’t quite so sure. In a seafaring sense there are those who think old Sam is past his sell-by date.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ said Mandy indignantly. ‘He’s one of the great sailors as you know perfectly well. He still keeps a Troy on the Fowey River and he sails it himself whenever he can get down to Cornwall.’

  ‘Which isn’t often.’

  ‘He’s kept very busy. The Duchess isn’t the Duchess without him.’

  ‘Which is now.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I simply don’t know.’ She took a mouthful of thin China tea. ‘This isn’t like him. He’s never gone AWOL on a voyage before. Never in all the years I’ve known him.’