Killer Cruise

by Dawn Brookes

  Now I’m worried.

  They finished their drinks, said goodnight to Bernard, and took a stroll around the upper decks. Sarah explained that security had confirmed the man fell from the front of deck sixteen, so Rachel suggested they visit the would-be crime scene. No-one on the bridge had seen the incident because they were relaxing while the ship remained docked.

  The deck appeared relatively quiet when they arrived as most of the action was occurring in the bars and lounges, although they encountered a few couples taking moonlight strolls. The sounds of distant music emanated from the ship’s decks, but the most striking sound, the one that Rachel loved, came from waves sloshing against the side of the ship. As they were at sea again, the enormous vessel was tunnelling her way through the waves, her path resulting in the crashing noise as the waves objected. It was the most beautiful thing about night-time cruising and more pronounced at the bow of the ship.

  “Oh, Sarah, look at the stars!” For a brief moment, they lost themselves in the beauty of the world around them. The water was pitch black and eerie beneath them, while the night sky above produced a glorious darkness, broken by the light from innumerable twinkling stars.

  “I love nights like this,” said Sarah. “They make me happy to be a cruise ship nurse. Sometimes I get to be wonderfully alone, in spite of the five thousand odd people on board. It makes me glad to be alive.”

  Another reference to life and death. Rachel felt anxiety about her friend. What could be making Sarah so morose? She needed to find out and help her.

  “I know what you mean – it is rather special.”

  Their reverie was interrupted by the sounds of laughter as a group emerged from a door behind them and headed off towards the stern.

  “I’d better show you where it all happened before you burst.”

  “Okay, thanks. Where do they say he fell from?”

  “Port side, bow.”

  Sarah led the way and Rachel followed. Port referred to the left-hand side of the ship when facing forward as frequently it was this side of the ship that docked against a port’s side. On this occasion, the ship had been docked starboard side in Copenhagen. No sign of what may have occurred just this morning jumped out at them. Rachel noticed a buoy tied to the rail and wondered if it had been thrown in the water after the man. A thought she dismissed as unlikely if they were looking at murder. Besides, she told herself, it came from a lower deck.

  Sarah answered her unasked question.

  “A buoy was thrown from deck twelve, not from here.”

  “It’s looking more and more like murder,” Rachel said thoughtfully.

  They snooped around, but it was obvious they were not going to find any evidence. Waverley would have already done a sweep of the whole area and interviewed anyone in the vicinity at the time of the incident. No scuff marks were visible on the railings where Venables was reported to have gone over.

  Rachel looked downwards and gasped, contemplating plunging into the depths from this height. She imagined that even if conscious, one might not survive such a fall. Looking at her watch, she realised it was after midnight and suddenly felt tired, but instead of saying goodnight, she turned to her friend and gently asked a question.

  “Sarah, is something else bothering you?”

  Sarah bit her lip, a sign of stress that Rachel recognised from their student days. She looked out to sea and Rachel watched the tears trickling down her cheeks.

  “You’ll think I’m silly,” she said quietly.

  Rachel joined her by the rail and put her arm around her. “Whatever is troubling you is not silly.”

  “Mum Skyped this morning to ask if they could have Pickles put down.” Tears were now flowing freely down her face, causing tracks to form through her light foundation. “He’s riddled with cancer and the vet said there’s no more she can do. It seems trivial in the light of the death of a man on board, but I can’t help it.”

  Rachel embraced her sobbing friend, who cried on her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry, Sarah, and it’s not trivial. Pickles has been part of your family for eighteen years.” Rachel remembered the little kitten being bought for her friend’s eighth birthday and how he’d looked so much like a jar of pickle that Sarah had hugged him and named him Pickles. The Bradshaw family often joked about how he was more like a dog than a cat – he lacked the independence and aloofness of some cats and followed Sarah around whenever she visited home.

  “They took him this afternoon,” Sarah sobbed into Rachel’s shoulder. There was little Rachel could say to console her friend. To Sarah, it was like losing a member of the family.

  Sarah eventually stopped crying and wiped her eyes. “At least I got to see him one more time via Skype. Mum had him sitting on her knee. She’ll be even more upset than I am, having looked after him since I’ve lived away for so long. Now I feel guilty for taking this job and not being there.”

  A chill developed in the night air as if it understood the significance of the moment. Sarah shivered.

  “Come on, let’s get you inside. I am truly sorry, Sarah. I’ll pray for you and your family tonight.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Rachel. I’m going to call it a night. I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

  Rachel watched her get into the lift at the front of the ship before walking towards the stern to make her way back to her own room.

  Poor Sarah, what a day!

  Chapter 7

  Mario brought tea and coffee through to Marjorie’s room where Rachel had joined the old lady on her extensive balcony. An early morning run around deck sixteen and forty-five minutes in the gym had left Rachel feeling invigorated. They had a sea day ahead so they could take their leisure.

  Marjorie looked tired and a little pale. Rachel hoped she wasn’t going down with anything.

  “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “Yes, dear, although I can’t say I slept well last night. One of those disturbed nights, I’m afraid.”

  “I had a message from Chief Waverley. He would like to speak to us this morning. Would you like me to ask him to come up here or shall we venture down to his office?”

  “Oh, make him come up here, it will give us home advantage.”

  “Okay, up here it is. Are you coming down for breakfast?”

  “No, I think I’ll eat out here on the balcony. You go off to the buffet, I know you prefer to eat there during the day.”

  “I’ll just call Waverley before I leave.”

  Waverley agreed to meet them in Marjorie’s room at 10am, giving Rachel time to shower, change out of her running gear and eat before he arrived. She made her way up to the buffet for breakfast before returning to Marjorie’s room to wait with the old lady, who looked more like her normal self again, for the security chief.

  At precisely 10am the expected knock came and Rachel opened the door. On close inspection, Waverley looked almost the same as he had done on her two previous cruises, tall with short greying hair, now thinning on top. A burly ex-navy officer, he had been chief of security for over a decade. But Rachel noticed some weight gain around the middle. His usually ruddy face appeared pallid beneath the tan, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well, and there were dark lines under his penetrating deep-brown eyes.

  “Chief Waverley, good to see you, please come in.”

  He followed Rachel outside to the balcony where Marjorie was enjoying the morning sun. Marjorie stood and invited him to sit down before doing so herself.

  “Thank you for seeing me, ladies.”

  A second knock followed and Mario entered with a flask of fresh coffee and biscuits.

  “I took the liberty of ordering coffee,” explained Marjorie.

  “Thank you.” Waverley blushed and coughed, and Rachel wondered if he might still be smarting from Marjorie’s barbs the day before.

  “I’ll try not to intrude on your day and won’t keep you too long. I’m interviewing all passengers and crew who witnessed the tragic event that took place yesterd
ay morning, and as Lady Snellthorpe indicated that you had both seen the man falling, I wanted to speak with you.”

  “What would you like to know?” asked Marjorie, clearly enjoying the chief’s discomfort.

  “Could you both describe what you remember about the incident?”

  Rachel explained what they had witnessed and how the man appeared to plummet into the sea like a brick from on high. “I’ve gone over it a lot and it looked to me like he was unconscious before he went in. Of course, if it was suicide he may have chosen to dive in like that, but it certainly didn’t strike me as a fall.”

  “Do you feel the same, Lady Snellthorpe?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do. The poor man didn’t cry out or anything, and I’m sure he would have done so if he’d fallen, unless of course he was so inebriated he didn’t realise what was happening. Judging by the man’s previous behaviour, intoxication wouldn’t be completely out of the question.”

  “I understand you met him in the Rat Pack bar the night before he died.”

  “I would say encountered, rather than met. We certainly weren’t introduced. The man was drunk and annoying Rachel, but she dealt with him quite admirably.” Marjorie snickered.

  “So I understand.” Waverley looked at Rachel admiringly. “Did he have any bruises to his face when you, erm, encountered him?”

  “No,” answered Rachel, “although he had a lot of makeup on which might have masked bruising. He didn’t appear to have any later either when Sarah and I watched the band play in the Culture Lounge. I did spot him arguing with the lead guitarist, though.”

  Waverley looked up from writing notes. “Do you have any idea what the argument was about? A few passengers mentioned seeing the two men argue but couldn’t recall any details.”

  “Venables shouted at the lead guitarist – I think it was him – accusing him of trying to take over as lead singer, followed by a rant about the rest of the band back-biting about him. I put it down to rivalry and paranoia. I only overheard them because Sarah had nipped into the ladies and I was waiting nearby. He then barged right through me – I’ve still got the bruise on my shoulder to show for it.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Marjorie, shocked. “Horrible man. He was a rather unpleasant fellow, Chief Waverley, but obviously I’m sorry that he is dead.”

  “You heard he’s dead, then? Sarah, I suppose.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Yes, he died in the ambulance before arriving at the hospital, a brain haemorrhage. There will be a post-mortem today, but initial examination does point to him being unconscious or semi-conscious when he entered the water.”

  “Do you know who wanted him dead?” asked Rachel.

  “There’s a queue of people. From what I can gather, the band often argued, but they’ve been together for eighteen years and the arguing happens to be part of who they are – totally harmless, according to Jimmy, their agent and manager who’s also on board. Mr Venables managed to upset a few of the passengers, mainly due to drink and a bit of unwelcome fraternising, although I can’t imagine a passenger killing him for that. To be honest, the entertainment manager was going to sack them yesterday morning, but then all this happened so she’s had to keep them on at my insistence.

  “My theory is a fight turned nasty, resulting in him ending up in the water. I haven’t ruled out a drink-induced accident or suicide either. No-one in the band seems to have a clear alibi for the time of the incident so that hasn’t helped narrow it down any.” Waverley paused before giving Rachel a firm stare. “I would thank you to keep out of this one, Miss Prince. Leave it to the security team. We know what we’re doing.”

  Marjorie made a choking sound and they both looked at her. Waverley looked concerned, but Rachel recognised from the twinkle in her eye that she was stifling a giggle.

  “No problem, Chief, Rachel and I will forget all about the incident,” she said sincerely.

  “Thank you. I will not take up any more of your time. Have a pleasant day, ladies.”

  Rachel escorted him to the door. He looked at her again. “I mean it, Rachel. Stay out of it.” He marched off down the corridor.

  Rachel re-joined Marjorie who was now guffawing, which made Rachel laugh too. Once they’d stopped laughing like a pair of teenagers, Marjorie sat up straight.

  “We need an action plan – first, let’s write down our list of suspects.”

  “Maybe we should take his advice and stay out of it.”

  “We should,” said Marjorie. “But we’re not going to, are we, dear?” A disappointed frown appeared on her face.

  “Well, I guess he might need our help, even if he doesn’t realise it,” sighed Rachel, cursing herself for ever having seen the man fall overboard in the first place. Carlos was not going to like it, but she couldn’t resist doing a little bit of undercover investigating. She nodded to Marjorie, having made up her mind.

  “Right then, who’s our chief suspect?” asked Marjorie, taking out a pen and notebook from her handbag.

  “The lead guitarist would have to be in the frame – he’s the one who argued with Venables in the club, and it seems like a deep-seated rivalry or jealousy existed between them. Jealousy is always a good motive.”

  Marjorie wrote in her book, and then said, “Jealousy and money. There’s also the agent.”

  “Or any of the other band members. We don’t have enough information about them. We need to track them down and poke around a bit. I’ll ask Sarah later for some more detail about the room brawl and who was involved in that. Bernard said a woman threatened him, but no-one knows who she is.” Rachel paused. “It’s interesting they still plan to perform, isn’t it?”

  “Typical of these entertainment types,” said Marjorie. “The Show Must Go On – wasn’t that a Queen song? Seems rather apt. It’s in their genetics, unless, of course, they really don’t care about the man’s death. He certainly seems to have had more enemies than friends, and from what we experienced of him, it’s not hard to imagine why.”

  “That might be right, but they’re a heartless group of people if it’s true. We’ll need to find out when they next perform and where.”

  Marjorie picked up the day’s copy of Coral News and scrolled through. “They’re doing two evening shows in the Culture Lounge, one at eight and one at eleven. They’re also doing a live show on the lido deck at two o’clock. Oh please, let’s go to that one – the noise will be more tolerable in the open air.”

  Rachel nodded agreement. “That gives us a few hours this morning. What would you like to do?”

  “There’s a quiz at eleven in the Sky View Lounge, would you be happy to accompany an old lady to that?”

  “Absolutely, let’s go.”

  They made their way up to deck sixteen and entered the Sky View, situated at the bow of the ship. It spread across the whole deck with spectacular views of the sea from full height windows that enfolded the room in a semicircle. A glitzy circular bar dominated the centre of the room. Marble-topped tables were scattered throughout and avid quizzers arriving early settled in their teams. Gentle music played in the background.

  Marjorie nudged Rachel. “Over there,” she whispered.

  Rachel looked over to the opposite side of the room from where they had entered and followed Marjorie’s gaze to where the members of the tribute band and their entourage were having an animated conversation. The two women made their way across the room to where the band was seated on a horseshoe sofa with two round tables in front of them, laden with drinks. The rest of the party sat on stools around the tables. Marjorie walked towards a table in close proximity, facing the horseshoe.

  “There’s room for two here, Rachel.”

  One of the men in the band looked up, but then ignored them as they sat on cushioned armchairs. A waiter came along and took their drinks order, Rachel asking for lemonade and Marjorie ordering tea.

  The three band members sat next to each other. Rachel recognised them from the show two nights ago. She pointed them out
to Marjorie.

  “The one on the left is the bass guitarist, alias John Deacon.”

  “He’s rather dashing, isn’t he?”

  Rachel had to agree, the tall muscular man, who she guessed at being in his late thirties, was the best looking of the bunch. With long brown thinly permed afro hair, he wore a denim shirt with cropped jeans showing off his muscular calves. He stood out among the contingent for his good looks, and also appeared quieter than the rest.

  “The one in the middle, doing most of the talking, is the lead guitarist, alias Brian May.”

  From what she could gather from the conversation, he was making frequent scathing and sarcastic remarks to the others. He was around six foot with long, wavy dark brown hair and bronzed skin, wearing jeans and ripped t-shirt exposing heavily tattooed arms and overly hairy chest.

  “That tan looks like it came out of a bottle, and do you think he takes hormones? That hair!” whispered Marjorie. Rachel laughed, but had to agree. “He seems as nasty as the other one, suits the Neanderthal appearance,” Marjorie continued as the man yelled at one of the waiters. “Uncouth, too – I haven’t heard language like that since boarding school.”

  “The guy on the right is the drummer, alias Roger Taylor, and I assume the man in the suit is the agent.” The drummer looked to be the oldest in the group, early fifties, Rachel thought. He had long crinkly greying hair, a grey moustache and wore horn-rimmed glasses. His shirt was open to the waist, displaying a smooth and shiny six pack.

  “My goodness, whatever cream he’s using on that chest, I want some.” Marjorie was clearly enjoying playing amateur detective and made notes in her notebook. “He’s the only one who doesn’t take the lookalike aspect too seriously, methinks. My observations lead me to suspect it’s either the uncouth one or the agent.”

  “If only it was as simple as identifying a murderer by their looks,” said Rachel. “The agent looks shifty, though. What’s he trying to do with that gum?”

  They looked at a pot-bellied man in his mid-forties with ash brown crew-cut hair who, despite wearing a smart white suit, still looked bedraggled. He wore a gold stud earring, a bright yellow shirt, and was chewing gum aggressively, doing battle with the substance in his mouth.