by Jean Chapman
‘Step outside,’ he said. ‘I don’t want my officers distracted.’
Once outside the door in the deserted corridor, the captain stopped. ‘You mentioned my second engineer,’ he said.
‘He played the part of Father Neptune, I understand.’
‘He always does,’ the captain replied.
Cannon handed him the post-it he had preserved in a small plastic bag. The two words were read and the bag returned to Cannon with a slow, questioning look.
‘Father Neptune was the only one near enough to have put this on my employer’s back.’
‘Your employer being the man who fell sideways at the ceremony?’ Captain Anders asked.
Cannon nodded then gave him the piece of paper with the two names of the Oslo police officers. ‘You can verify what I need to tell you by speaking to one of these men.’
‘Why are you concerned about my engineer?’
‘Why would your engineer wish to stick a frightener on the back of a passenger he does not know?’ Cannon said. ‘My fear is that your engineer was not the man in the green gloves and Neptune seaweed.’
‘Come back to the bridge,’ the captain said, cutting off Cannon’s supposition that his engineer might have been persuaded to allow someone else to play his part.
On the bridge the captain spoke directly down to his engine room. ‘Henrick, is he on duty?’
‘He should have been ten minutes ago,’ a tetchy voice replied. ‘Just sent a man to his quarters.’
‘I need to speak to him urgently,’ the captain said.
‘Aye, aye, Captain,’ the chief engineer answered, ‘and I’ll be speaking to him myself.’
Cannon made as if to leave, but the captain indicated a seat near one of the computer screens. ‘You can wait here,’ he said and Cannon made a fair guess that he was just taking precautions in case Cannon was any kind of crackpot. He was not risking a possible lunatic wandering around his ship creating havoc.
Minutes later the answer came that Henrick was not in his cabin, and that no one had seen him since he had gone to get into his Neptune outfit.
‘Set up a discreet search for the man,’ the captain ordered, taking out the paper on which Cannon had written the name of the Oslo police officers. ‘I need to do this in my cabin,’ he said to Cannon. He summoned his second-in-command, the officer who had admitted Cannon on to the bridge. ‘Look after Mr Cannon here, tell him a bit of how we operate this ship. I’m sure he’d be interested.’
Cannon had learned quite a lot about the screens all around the huge forward-looking windows of the bridge, how they showed not just the outside of the ship but the holds, how the temperature of each hold could be read. He felt there was not much left to chance when it came to the security and safety of the ship. He realized that the man actually steering the ship sat in a very comfortable-looking chair with a lever the size of one used to propel a wheelchair. He was questioning this when the captain came back.
‘Mr Cannon,’ he began with a more serious but understanding manner, ‘I think you should join your passengers wherever they are, and stay with them until we find our second engineer. In the meantime I am having our passenger list checked. There are quite a few people who have cruised with us before, plus a few Norwegians who are well known to us, so if there is anyone aboard for the sole purpose of harassing Mr Alexander Higham that will narrow the field a little.’
‘Pleased you’ve spoken to the police,’ Cannon said, ‘I didn’t want you to think I was another headcase.’
‘Well …’ Captain Anders sidled his head a little, shrugged, and for a second Cannon saw again the man who enjoyed a joke, relished putting ice down his passengers’ backs, but the disciplinarian quickly replaced him.
‘It’s been suggested that your party, which I understand includes your partner and Mr Higham’s daughter, relocate: your partner moving in with the daughter, and you moving in with Mr Higham. We have adjoining cabins on another deck and –’ he paused ‘– we shall have a police presence on the ship as soon as possible. This is likely to be at Tromsø when we dock there tomorrow afternoon. That will leave a day and a half before we reach Kirkenes, where I am told you may now all be disembarking.’
Cannon opened his mouth to say this was not what they had intended, but thought that could wait. There was another question he wanted to ask. ‘Have you found the Neptune outfit?’ he asked.
Captain Anders shook his head.
‘Where that’s found might give an idea who actually wore it,’ Cannon suggested, ‘and there’d be DNA on it.’.
‘I am hoping I will find my second engineer and be told that,’ Anders said, adding, tight-lipped, ‘Though the police are scrambling helicopters from Oslo in case my man has gone overboard.’
Cannon saw from his face that he thought there would be little hope of a happy outcome if that had happened.
‘The whole ship will be thoroughly searched?’ Cannon asked tentatively
‘It will take a time,’ Anders said. ‘A ship has many odd corners and angles. At this point I do not want to alarm all my passengers but you can be reassured that the last members of the crew are at this moment being informed of the serious situation. The cabin staff have already been detailed what to look out for and to report anything out of the ordinary in any of the cabins or elsewhere.’
Cannon itched to be part of the search but he did not know the ship. His job was to be with Higham, and he soon found himself escorted to a cabin on a deck below their superior suites. These were smaller but well appointed, no problem to share with an amicable partner, but Higham might be a different matter.
The post-it preserved in its plastic envelope had made him completely paranoid. He vowed he would not leave the new cabin until they docked at Kirkenes and he had full police protection.
Cannon found himself calculating just how many hours that would be. Perhaps if the police came aboard at Tromsø it was possible they might take Higham into protective custody from there.
One could only hope, he thought, as he watched Higham sighing and throwing himself in and out of chairs and on to the bed.
It was, Cannon thought, going to be hard work for them all before they reached Kirkenes.
The hours went slowly by, with all meals brought to the cabins. The Nordsol made four brief stops during the night. Each time Cannon was at their window to watch. He saw men in the black ‘Crew’ fleeces run in and out of lighted offices with packages, a forklift truck brought goods on board at the first stop, but nothing else. No one left the ship and did not return, and no one extra came aboard.
By early morning he began to feel like a caged animal and turned restlessly on the bed. He longed to be running on the beaches of Lincolnshire, to feel the keen east wind taking his breath, even for the rain to be pouring down – anything but this air-conditioned enclosed cabin.
Higham, who he had thought was asleep, suddenly said, ‘You’re not thinking of going anywhere?’
‘No, of course not,’ he answered, thinking perhaps it was from Alexander Higham his children inherited their artistic nature, naturally intuitive as to what was right, what was going on in other people’s minds.
‘Do you think Cathy and Liz are all right? I wonder if they’ve slept.’
‘They’ll be fine,’ Cannon was saying as their door was given two short, sharp, authoritative taps.
Cannon gestured for Higham to stay where he was as he went to the door. It was the older officer, the second-in-command.
Cannon opened the door and invited him inside.
‘Captain Anders requests your presence on the bridge,’ he said to Cannon, adding with some anxiety, ‘Now, sir, if you would.’
‘This early!’ Higham exclaimed. ‘It’s not light! Has something else happened?’
‘It’s all related to the first incident,’ the officer replied carefully, ‘and Captain Anders has asked me to stay outside the cabins until Mr Cannon returns.’
Cannon pulled on a tracksuit, went in
to the wash cubicle, made sure he had a pair of plastic gloves in his pocket and left the second officer to his new task.
So I’m having a run after all, he thought, as he made as much speed as he could up the rather grand curving staircases and along the corridors to the bridge.
He had no doubt whatsoever that there had been some significant incident, or find, for him to be sent for well before six in the morning.
Captain Anders, in dripping raincoat, stood waiting for him at the far end of the bridge. He came forward, running his hands distractedly through his hair. He was obviously a man with much on his mind, much to deal with.
There was no preamble. ‘I’ve made a thorough check on your background,’ he said. ‘In fact, the Oslo police department have spoken to one Detective Superintendent Robert Austin who cannot speak highly enough of you –’
‘Superintendent,’ Cannon interrupted, a smile coming to his lips as the name of his former sergeant in the Met was mentioned. ‘He’s been promoted again. Chief inspector the last I heard.’
The captain ignored the interruption. ‘So I would like you to come and take charge of a crime scene, until our police can come aboard at Tromsø.’
‘A crime scene?’ Cannon questioned, dread filling his heart once more. Surely not another innocent bystander in this affair?
‘You’ll see soon enough,’ he said as he unhooked another raincoat and gave it to Cannon. ‘You’ll need that,’ he added. ‘I’ll tell you as we go.’ He led the way off the bridge down an open set of steps towards the bow of the ship which had been lit up by a spotlight from the bridge.
‘We’ve found the Neptune outfit,’ he said grimly, ‘and my second engineer.’ He broke off as they reached the exposed area where the winches were housed, and ropes coiled ready for use in the many ports these ferry-boats called at on their strictly timed, fast-route service.
This deck, like everything Cannon had seen aboard, was tidy, orderly. It was also wet, cold and slippery, for though it was not raining at that moment the wind was whipping the sea spray up from a choppy sea, well dousing them every few seconds. The motion right at the bow of the ship was much more noticeable and Cannon had to hang on several times to keep his feet.
The captain led him to where there was a locker. Two crew members moved away along the rail as they approached.
‘This is not pretty,’ the captain warned as he put his hand to the lid.
‘It never is,’ Cannon muttered to himself, though all he could see when the lid was raised was rope, roughly thrown in unlike all those on deck, so meticulously coiled.
Cannon caught the smell first, that strange, almost dry, butchery smell of a lot of blood. Peering closer, he could see where it had soaked into and congealed on the lengths of rope that had fallen to the bottom of the locker, but he could see nothing more.
‘You have to …’ Anders reached in to lift the rope, but Cannon caught his arm.
‘No,’ he ordered, ‘let me.’
‘The men have already shown me,’ Anders shouted above a sudden great gust of wind and spray.
‘Even so,’ Cannon shouted back, pulling out the gloves. Anders caught his arm to steady him as an extra dip of the bow brought a wave in and over as high as the bridge windows above them, soaking them, and the open locker.
‘Get your men to hold the top, keep out as much water as we can,’ Cannon shouted as he bent down and into what he quickly realized was virtually the second engineer’s coffin.
Under the rope he lifted very carefully, he could see the wig, the trident, the green robe with seaweed stitched to it, and under that the drained, white face of a man loomed as if he was in truth underwater, but he would never come up from the deep any more, that was for sure. A deep, deep gash gaped right across the front of the throat.
‘Look out! Hold tight!’ one of the men trying to hold the locker lid warned.
‘The weather’s worsening!’ Anders shouted. ‘What do we do?’
‘Secure the locker,’ Cannon said. ‘Put a tarpaulin over it, lash it down as tight as you can.’
The men lifted their hands, acknowledging the task.
‘And …’ Cannon waved his hand to secure their attention and made a zipping motion across his mouth as the wind roared with ever greater force.
They nodded but both looked to the captain. At the top of the steps back on to the bridge, Anders paused. ‘All on the bridge know already, and the chief engineer,’ he said.
‘How long before we make our next stop?’ Cannon asked.
Anders looked at the islands they were passing between. ‘About forty-five minutes,’ he said.
‘And we’re there for?’
‘Arrive at 0600 hours, leave at 08.45,’ Anders said, adding, ‘No one usually goes ashore, we just pick up and offload a small amount of freight.’
‘Could your man stay with Higham?’ Cannon asked. ‘I need to be out and about, keeping an eye, and we need to talk to Oslo right away.’
Chapter 20
Cathy’s first thoughts were for her father when Cannon went to her cabin with the news.
‘I must … go to him,’ she said, and when Liz offered to go with her shook her head. ‘You stay here with John.’
‘I’d like to speak to Oslo,’ Cannon said when she had gone.
‘I’ll get us some coffee,’ Liz said, picking up the two thermos mugs, purchased on board for the purpose of fetching hot drinks whenever they wanted them from the cafeteria.
Liz paused momentarily outside the next cabin door. She could hear Cathy’s voice raised, sounding more like the parent calming a child than daughter trying to reassure a father.
By the time she had climbed the flight of stairs to the cafeteria deck, she was aware that some order must have been overheard, or some careless words spoken. There were so many more people around than usual at this time, people talking to each other in concerned little groups, some making their way towards the forward panoramic lounge, from which she guessed they might have a view of the bow and the locker John said had been battened down.
There was also a small queue around the coffee and tea bar, as folk picked out their favourite tea bags or coffee sachets. She waited behind a grey-haired old man in a wheelchair who was in turn behind a woman: the phrase ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ came immediately to Liz’s mind. It was a saying Alamat had learned and occasionally brought out at inconvenient moments – but it certainly applied here. The woman’s bleached hair was tied up in a vivid yellow and red scarf, and she wore an expensive tracksuit which would have looked good on someone thirty years younger and half the bodyweight. Liz had encountered her before, regaling those on surrounding loungers with tales of her very many cruises. Now she did have a captive audience, for unless the man ran at her with his wheelchair he could not turn away.
‘Something’s happened, you know, something serious. I’m going to take my coffee up to the bow and keep watch,’ she said. ‘My hubby says they have tied up one of the big locker things there and earlier on they had a spotlight on it from the bridge, a special light,’ she added triumphantly.
Liz lifted her eyebrows at the excitement in the woman’s voice.
‘Now let me get yours,’ she said and before the man could prevent her she had taken his mug and was waving a hand over the selection of packeted drinks. ‘Which do you prefer?’
‘I prefer, madam, to get it for myself,’ he said and, holding out his hand, demanded, ‘My mug, please.’
‘Oh! But …’ she began.
Liz, aware of others becoming impatient behind her, now stepped forward and picked up the woman’s mug. ‘There is a coffee here, who does that belong to?’
‘That’s mine,’ she said and took it from Liz.
‘Ah good, so if you would now step aside we can all get our drinks.’
‘Thank you,’ the man in the wheelchair said, and took his empty mug from the woman’s hand, threw an Earl Grey teabag into it, took three milks and pressed the boiling-water button, repea
ting ‘Thank you,’ then as he turned away, his mug balanced between his knees, he added, ‘Again.’
‘You must have helped him before?’ The next man in the queue, a fit-looking, handsome pensioner, said.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Liz said, putting the lid on her mug.
‘I was talking to him the other day, comes on these holidays on his own. Takes some pluck, and,’ he added conspiratorially, ‘I’ve also learned to keep well out of earshot of our champion cruiser.’
Liz laughed.
‘And by the way, I’ve heard the fuss is all about a stowaway.’
‘Really?’ she said.
‘So much for keeping things quiet,’ Cannon said as Liz related the incident. ‘I’m trying Toby again. I’ve already spoken to the Oslo inspector, who treated me with the utmost courtesy, by the way, and as I thought, the stop after Harstad …’
‘Tromsø,’ Liz supplied, ‘two o’clock this afternoon.’
He nodded. ‘There’s an airport and full facilities for dealing with a body and forensics, and they have arranged for a senior man to come aboard at Harstad, and we are to liaise with them.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, I told the Oslo chappie that you were my invaluable partner in the Met, and he’s obviously old-fashioned because he then went on to refer to you as my wife.’
‘Old-fashioned!’ she exclaimed, pushing his coffee at him. ‘So you are not proposing?’
‘Hardly seems the time,’ he was saying, when a tired-sounding voice at the other end of the phone repeated, ‘Hello, hello.’
‘Toby?’ he questioned.
‘John? Why this hour?’
Cannon told him all that had happened aboard the Nordsol. ‘Tell me as quickly as you can what you’ve found out. I need to be on watch when we dock.’
‘Certainly the facts of the car accident are true, and Professor Heaven did sustain massive head injuries. They did not think he would survive. I wish I had known, I would certainly have sought him out.’
Liz had moved to the window as the Nordsol sounded its horn.
‘I’ve visited the hospital where he was taken and met a ward sister who remembered him because he had no visitors all the time he was with them, and that was several months. She also remembered talking to him before he left about having a wig to hide his head scars.’ Toby paused. ‘I’m not sure there’s much else I can find out in the time I’ve left. I have a flight back tomorrow. I must be in Kirkenes when my colleagues arrive. There just seems no trace of the professor once he left hospital.’