'What are they playing?' she said.
'I think it's a tune called Yesterday.' Simpers responded.
Isn't that a Beatles song?'
'Yes, it is,' replied Simpers before continuing, 'released in 1965 I think.'
'Sorry, a bit before my time, I'm afraid, but I still like it.'
Simpers winced at the put down. At least he thought it was a put down.
'Look, look, we're moving,' said Pippa.
Simpers gazed down against his better judgement. He had to lean over the railing at quite an angle to see the widening gap between dockside and ship. Simpers saw a vortex of churning water just to his right as the bow thrusters worked at full tilt to push the giant vessel from its mooring. So that's why ships don't need tugs anymore, he thought.
As the minutes passed, the ship glided into the centre of the shipping channel. The band played Rod Stewart's We Are Sailing as the press of passengers behind Simpers and Pippa grew more intense. Dozens became pinned against the railing, unable to move. Flags and party poppers filled the air as the throng celebrated the ship's departure and waved at no one in particular on the dock side.
Simpers felt uncomfortable. He preferred to be in control of events, not an immobile bystander. The swirling water below, and sideways movement from the ship, triggered his vertigo. Disorientated as he now was, the detective became aware of a hand moving between Pippa and him. Still unable to move he sensed the hand moving beyond his midriff. He glanced down to see a man's hand sliding back a security bolt that held a small section of railing in front of Pippa and him secure.
A split second later, Simpers winced as Pippa let out a high pitched scream inches from his pallid cheeks.
At the same time, he sensed that she was moving forward. She turned to him, grabbing at his arm as she continued her fall.
'Please, help me.' Pippa had a look of horror on her face as she tried to come to terms with what was happening
He made a grab for her, but realised he too was moving. Simpers grabbed hold of the railing with his right hand, which stopped his fall. Pippa was not so fortunate and she disappeared from sight.
'Get back… back, everyone.'
His authoritative command did the trick as passengers obeyed his order. Some woman screamed when they saw the gap in the ships railing. Others caught hold of their children to keep them from danger.
He realised that Pippa had somehow managed to hold on as it swung outward on its hinges. She had clasped her arms around the bottom set of rails in a last desperate attempt to survive certain death. Below, the water still convulsed from the pulsating bow thrusters.
Simpers made a grab for the panic stricken woman.
'Here, grab my hand, Pippa, you're OK. Concentrate. Just look at me. I've got you.'
'No, no, I can't let go,' Pippa replied. 'I'm scared.'
'Trust me. Grab my hand and let go of the rail.'
'Simpers, what in God's name is going on?'
The Deputy Captain grasped the situation immediately. He made a grab for Pippa. At the same time, Simpers' positioned his hand under her right shoulder.
'OK, we've got you, let go of the railing,' commanded the Deputy Captain.
Pippa didn't take her eyes off Simpers as she loosened her grip on the section of railing. Simpers saw the irony. The railing that had almost caused her death, in the end, saved it.
Immediate danger over, Simpers realised that the noise and movement of people around him had stopped. In fact apart from a few shocked crew members, they were the only people on that part of the deck. While he and Cross had been busy retrieving the young woman, the crew had cleared passengers from the scene. Instead, they faced a bank of camera phones pointed at them by passengers. Their owners peered over the tiered decks that sloped upwards and away from the stern of the ship. The detective felt like a hapless prisoner fed to the lions in some ancient coliseum.
Simpers and the Deputy Captain tried their best to calm Pippa down and reassure her she was safe. As they did so, maintenance staff busied themselves inspecting the section of railing that had swung open.
'How could that happen, Deputy Captain,' said Simpers with ill disguised rage in his voice.
'The simple answer is, it shouldn't have,' replied Cross. 'There are access points at regular intervals along the railing on both sides of the ship. These are in case of emergency, so that we can get passengers into lifeboats double-quick.'
'But,' he continued, 'each of those gates has a security lock to keep it in position. Only designated crew have the key. The problem is, the lock to the gate you both leaned against was missing.'
'How could that be. You're not telling me that those gates aren't checked before a member of the public gets anywhere near them, are you?'
'No. Our pre-departure checks include a full walk-by inspection of every gate. They get checked around the clock. You were unfortunate in just happening to rest against a gate where the lock, for whatever reason, was absent.'
'I don't believe in that sort of bad luck… or coincidence,' interjected Simpers.
'…Or,' the Deputy Captain continued, 'you have to face the fact that someone wishes you ill. And also knows you are on board. In such a scenario, it seems they attempted to get rid of you – or the young lady.'
'I think we can rule the latter out, but you do realise what you are implying don't you?' Simpers replied.
'Yes, it's likely a member of the crew did it.'
'One of eight hundred,' Simpers responded.
'Exactly,' replied Cross.
'But I still don't get how they…'
'Remember I said that the gates were there for evacuation of passengers in an emergency.'
'Yes, I do,' replied Simpers.
'The locks are made to open at speed. Anyone trained to remove them could do it in a second with their eyes closed.
'Or without having to see the lock – could they do it by feel?' said Simpers.
'Yes, they could,' replied the officer.
'Have you two quite finished.' Pippa's voice had now regained some of its former sparkle.
'Oh, dear, please do forgive us. Doctor, is Miss Wright-Morton fit enough to return to her cabin?' enquired the Deputy Captain as he acknowledged the medic’s arrival.
'Yes, sir. She's had a nasty experience, but she'll be fine. I recommend a little peace and quiet for a few hours so that she can recover.'
'How does that sound, Miss Wright-Morton,' asked the Deputy Captain.
'Anything is better than swinging on that thing,' replied Pippa as she prodded a finger at the now locked section of railing.
'Then let's get you to your cabin.'
'Oh, please don't worry yourself, Deputy Captain, you have a great deal to do. I am sure nice Mr Simpers here will get me there safe and sound. Talking of which, can you lend me your hand, my foot hurts like hell. Someone stood on it before I fell and it felt like a ton of bricks. I gave him a whack back on his leg but he didn't seem to notice one bit.'
The Deputy Captain glanced at Simpers with a glint in his eye and grinned. Simpers returned the glance with a 'you should know better' type of look.
Table for Six
On the stroke of 8.30pm, the ship's loudspeaker system announced second sitting for dinner was about to start.
Simpers meandered his way to the dining room. He was deep in thought until he saw sick-bags placed upside down at regular intervals behind all the handrails. Simpers concluded that the Commodore knew more than he said about the coming weather. After all, he had welcomed all aboard, commenting that the ship was well prepared for its journey. Also that passengers should enjoy all that the liner offered. Could that include the pleasure of nausea and projectile vomiting, the inspector mused.
'Good evening, sir, please may I see your seating card?'
Simpers did as requested by the rotund restaurant manager.
'OK, table thirty-three. Jerry will escort you to your table, please follow him.'
As Simpers gained sight of h
is new table companions he realised that he was the last to arrive. One of the two staff who would attend his every need saw him approach, a series of choreographed moves swung into action. Before he had chance to make contact with his chair, a well manicured hand gripped the seat back and pulled it from the table. The young man welcomed Simpers, gesturing for him to sit. As he did so, the chair slid forward and in an instant, an Egyptian cotton napkin settled across the policeman's lap. At the same time a chorus of voices from around the table welcomed their new guest.
So, Simpers thought. These were the people he was to spend the next two weeks with. This was not something he looked forward to, since he much preferred his own company. He most definitely did not enjoy meaningless chat about inconsequential subjects.
Never will so few, talk so much, about so little, Simpers thought. He felt a pang of guilt at having corrupted the stirring words of Winston Churchill. But that's how he felt.
Simpers began his introductions to his table companions. His efforts failed as the familiar 'bing-bong' of the ship's tannoy rang out.
'I'm pleased to let you know that we're now making good progress down the Sound. As you know, our first port of call will be the wonderful island of Madeira, and so we can look forward to three relaxing days at sea. Sea conditions are calm at the moment. That said, we expect things to become a little livelier as the evening progresses and we get into open waters. I would ask that you take care as you move around the ship later this evening. Do enjoy your dinner.'
The Commodore's words left Simpers with a twinge of unease. His mood darkened as he noticed several crew members securing all doors leading to the deck with rope ties.
He noticed two distinct groups of passengers. Those who had been through this sort of thing before hadn't seemed to take any notice of the Commodore's words, nor the rope tricks the crew were undertaking. Instead they were downing the first course of their meal with gusto.
The second group, to which Simpers belonged, hung on every word of the Commodore's epistle. They alternated their gaze from the tightening ropes around the doors, and the food before them, as if the latter was laced with poison.
Reality returned as the conversation between his table companions began to flow. Simpers consoled himself in that, at least for the moment, he couldn't feel any movement of the ship. Content that the food he had selected also appeared inert, he settled into his habit of people watching.
Simpers started with the Smeetons. They were in their early fifties and appeared comfortable in the environment of the ship. Jenny, the wife, had a trim figure and dressed with elegance. She displayed a distinct twinkle in her eyes and had, more than once, given Simpers a lingering glance.
Simpers hoped the occasional rub he experienced from her left leg was down to her appendage going into spasm. He did not wish to contemplate any other explanation. 'Other' bothered him. Ye gods, he thought, as if rough seas weren't enough to deal with, here was a woman with a twitchy eye and spasmodic leg to deal with. God knows what else she might be preparing to fling about, he thought.
Meanwhile the husband, Ken, spent his time and considerable verbal charms on Amelia Reynolds, a wealthy widow of world renowned American ventriloquist, Spike Reynolds. Simpers concluded the Smeetons enjoyed an open marriage.
Next to come under Simpers' scrutiny was Jonathan Stevens. He was a lone traveller in his late twenties with a hesitant demeanour. This, they were to learn, was his first cruise. The money for the trip came via a small inheritance from his mother. It turned out she had suffered a fatal run in with, as Jonathan explained, 'One of them green electric bin lorry things.'
Jonathan said his mother had failed to hear the lorry on its 'Alternative weekly waste collection. Or', he added, 'at least that's what the local council called it.'
Things wouldn't have been so bad, Jonathan explained, if the same bin wagon hadn't done for the family cat the week previous.
'Well, at least they will be together forever, now, Jonathan. That should give your mum some comfort, at least,' offered Ken Smeeton.
'No,' replied Jonathan as he looked at the bowl of orange and coriander soup in front of him, before taking a huge bite from his crusty cob. 'She couldn't stand cats.'
The Smeetons bit their lips and dusted the breadcrumbs Jonathan had shared with them. All efforts to stifle their laughter failed. The tortured results led to a banshee-like rhythm that defied musical convention.
Amelia Reynolds's fork, laden with Palma Ham, came to an abrupt halt as it hovered midway between her plate and mouth. She tried to make sense of the situation. Her response was to move her head to one side as a sign of empathy with Jonathan, before stuffing her helpless quarry into her ample mouth.
Simpers stared at the young man, lamenting what he had done to deserve his place in the parallel universe in which he now found himself. The detective's antidote to the situation was to feel for a pineapple chunk boiled sweet in his jacket pocket. He delighted in picking off the fluff using a covert one hand trick he had perfected at secondary school. He then placed the treat into his mouth, oblivious to the unorthodox mixture of sugary syrup and Caesar salad. Neither did he notice the amused look from his table companions.
Aware of the reaction his comment had provoked, Jonathan began to blush. He fidgeted in his seat and became more agitated by the second.
The awkwardness of the moment lifted when the table stewards arrived to clear the first course dishes. Minutes later they began to place the main course before each of their charges.
Just as the head steward reached over Jonathan to place a plate of finest sirloin steak, the young traveller's right arm shot up. It curled itself around the top of his head, before his left arm grabbed the offending limb, bringing it onto his lap. There followed a short Jekyll and Hyde tussle between his two hands as one tried to free itself from the other. Hyde prevailed.
At the same time, Jonathan spat out, 'Bollocks, fuck, you've got big tits.' His eyes reflected terror as he averted his gaze from Amelia. He raised a hand to his face as if trying to stuff the errant words back into his mouth.
The steward sidestepped Jonathan's flailing arm to place the dish in its assigned position and stepped back, without giving the slightest sign that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. He at no time made eye contact with Jonathan, or any other passenger.
Within seconds it was all over. Jonathan became calm and raised his eyes from their fixed position on the condiment set. He looked at each of his fellow guests in turn.
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I have a mild form of Tourette's that kicks in when I get too excited, nervous, or angry. My tics, I mean the swearing and jerking - that's what happens. It isn't anywhere near as bad as when I was nipper, but I still thought I ought to tell the cruise line about my condition. To be honest, I didn't think they would let me come on the holiday.'
At least, Simpers concluded, that explains why the stewards hadn't shown any reaction. It was because they had been briefed on his condition.
'You'll do for me, me darling. Don't you worry yourself one bit. You're amongst friends here. You know, we all have tics, every man-jack. It's just that for most of us, they don't show.' said Amelia. She had managed to break the tension with a supportive smile intended just for Jonathan. It also gave a clear signal to the others that she now considered Jonathan as her special friend.
'Anyway,' Amelia continued, 'you think people give you strange looks. When my darling husband died last year, he stipulated in his will that Prince Cedric here had to travel with me wherever I went. What do you think to that!'
As Amelia spoke, she pointed to an inert figure in the chair beside her. She took the opportunity to plump the cushions beneath the dummy so that its shoulders were just about at table height. At this point the furtive looks her table companions had been giving the stuffed figure broke out into open gawping.
'I don't mind a bit. The prince has been our ticket to fame and fortune,' Amelia explained. 'You know how the American's love an English a
ccent. Well, my clever American ventriloquist husband gave them what they wanted and it made us millions.'
'But I thought vaudeville had had its day in America,' commented Simpers.
'Yes, but he drew on the best of its traditions and brought it bang up to date. The prince here allowed my husband to say things about American politicians no news anchor would get away with. My husband, through the little one here, wasn't backwards at coming forward.'
Simpers was enjoying this, but didn't let it show. He aligned himself with the underdog and had an inane distrust of politicians. It also extended to chief constables and anyone who called themselves a 'community leader'.
'For heaven's sake, it's only a stupid doll,' Jenny Smeeton interjected.
'Yes, but I wonder how all those clever folk who found themselves rolling around the floor on live TV felt. You know, fighting off a rubber chicken with an enormous beak,' said the prince.
'You mean an emu, don't you?' offered Ken Smeeton. 'See, you remember – but it was still rubber and worked by a man with his hand up its backside!'
'No one's putting their hand up my arse,' said Jonathan.
The table fell silent. Four pairs of eyes now rested on the little prince, replete with court dress and an ermine trimmed coronet listing at a rakish angle. Amelia gave no reaction whatsoever. Instead looking straight ahead and continuing to chew on her veal cutlets as if nothing unusual at all had occurred.
'Now who's stupid,' continued the marionette, 'you're the one's listening to a puppet.'
Amelia's table companions tried hard not to show any signs of embarrassment.
Savouring the deliciousness of the situation, Amelia broke the silence. 'See, I told you my clever husband brought the act bang up to date. Not only was he the world's best at throwing his voice, he built the latest technology into this little guy and gave him his own voice.'
'Bloody hell, how does it work?' exclaimed Jonathan.
'Trade secret, young man, trade secret,' replied Amelia. She touched the side of her nose with a finger and winked at the young man.
Just then, a photographer appeared at Jenny Smeeton's side.
Diamond in the Blue: D.I. Simpers Investigates Page 6