Anouk closed her eyes. Counted something on her fingers.
11 + 3
is what she wrote directly below her drawing of the ship. Martin couldn’t make any sense of it.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t understand,’ he said.
He looked at his name, the drawing of the liner and the apparent sum.
Fourteen?
As the cabin numbers on the Sultan had four digits, this could only be a clue to a deck, if at all. Deck 14 was the pool with the waterslide, ice bar, driving range and jogging circuit.
‘What do you mean eleven plus three?’ he asked.
Her expression darkened. She seemed to be angry, as if his questioning was slowly getting on her nerves. Nonetheless she wrote again with the stylus:
My mama
‘Your mama?’ Martin asked, as if transfixed. ‘Do you know if she’s still alive?’
Anouk nodded sadly. A tear ran from her eye.
Martin could scarcely believe he’d obtained so much information from the girl in such a short time, even if he wasn’t able to pin most of it down.
‘I think we’d better have a little break,’ he said. Anouk looked exhausted. ‘Is there anything I can bring you?’ he asked.
The girl picked up the stylus one last time and wrote
Elena
beneath the drawing of the ship. Then she shoved her thumb back in her mouth and turned away from Martin, as if she wanted to make it absolutely clear that she had no more to tell him.
‘I’ll go and see if I can find her,’ Martin said, and was just about to go looking for the ship’s doctor when the alarm sounded again.
28
Naomi
‘I killed my best friend,’ Naomi Lamar had typed into the computer on the floor of her well-like prison.
Mel and I were ten years old and both of us were grounded because we’d been caught playing in the disused gravel pit yet again. We’d been forbidden to go there, you see. It was a weekday afternoon, our parents were at work and we both sneaked out even though we were grounded. We met – of course – at the gravel pit. It happened just before we had to leave to ensure we got back home before our parents. Mel wanted to slide down the northern slope on her plastic bag one last time. She was buried by a sand avalanche and disappeared. I screamed, called for help and dug with my bare hands, but couldn’t find her. She’d literally been swallowed up by the earth. I slunk home and didn’t dare tell my parents. Mel was found two days later and everyone assumed she’d slipped out of the house alone. I still think today that she died because of me and could have been saved if I’d raised the alarm. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.
She’d written this nine days ago and sent the computer up in the bucket. The hunger cramps in her stomach were unbearable, but a few hours later no food came, only the laptop with the spider’s answer:
‘That’s NOT the worst thing you’ve ever done.’
And right below it:
‘Every wrong answer will be punished.’
Two hours later came the bowl with the rice and the label: Spirometra mansoni.
She’d had to eat it. She would have starved to death otherwise. At the time Naomi reckoned that instant death was the worse of the two.
But it wasn’t.
To know that you were carrying a parasite – the nastiest sort of tapeworm – and were slowly being devoured from the inside, that was the worst thing that could happen to you.
Naomi was sure the spider knew this.
It wanted answers, a confession, and it would only get these if its victim’s survival instinct was broken.
Till now the thought of her daughter had kept Naomi alive. But now the horror beneath her skin that was gradually making its way to behind her eyeball was eliminating all desire to live.
‘What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?’
‘I’m so sorry, Anouk,’ Naomi whispered, taking hold of the computer. With fingers whose nails hadn’t been cut for weeks she typed her second confession:
‘I committed adultery. In the most despicable way possible. I had sex for money.’
She flipped shut the laptop, put it inside the bag and placed it in the bucket. She tugged several times on the rope and, as she scratched herself again until she bled, waited for the spider to pull it up, satisfied with her answer.
So finally she could die.
29
By now Martin was virtually the only person on deck where – appropriately enough for October – it had turned quite chilly. Everyone else in his evacuation group had hurried to leave the assembly point by the diving station once the thick grey clouds, which had gathered soon after the end of their emergency drill, started emptying themselves – fine drizzle, but enough to soak all clothes through.
Martin wasn’t bothered. He didn’t have a hairstyle to worry about and was wearing clothes that needed washing anyway. In comparison to how he felt at the moment, a cold might even be an improvement.
He felt terrible, although this wasn’t a consequence of his tiredness or the sea swell, which for true seadogs was probably no more than a bubble in a whirlpool. But Martin had reached the stage where he was going to ask the on-board pharmacy for Vomex.
As if responding to a telepathic command, Elena Beck joined him by the parapet. With a transparent rain cape over her head and uniform, she was wearing far more suitable clothing than him. In one hand she held a life jacket, in the other a black doctor’s bag, which looked coarse in her slim hand.
‘So here you are,’ she said, her gaze fixed in the distance.
Anyone who expected to gain an impression of the vast dimensions of the ocean on a transatlantic passage certainly got their money’s worth. Wherever you looked there was nothing but water. No land, no other boats. Just an endless, blue-black, choppy expanse. If the surface of the moon were liquid it would look just like this, Martin thought.
Some fancied they saw in the sea a symbol of the eternity and power of nature. All he saw in the waves was a damp grave.
‘I’ve tried calling you, but your phone’s off,’ Elena said. Martin pulled out his mobile and when he looked at the display he remembered.
Of course! Because of the recording. He’d deliberately set his phone so the recording of his ‘conversation’ with Anouk wouldn’t be interrupted by a call. But he hadn’t been able to block out the international alarm for emergency drills at sea (seven short sounds and one long one).
Each passenger had to participate in this exercise no later than twenty-four hours after boarding, so that they knew how the life jackets worked and where the lifeboats were. If in a number of areas the captain didn’t bother much about upholding maritime law, this was one regulation he stuck to rigidly. Martin switched his mobile off airplane mode and wiped the rain from his face. A disgruntled young couple, who must have been hoping for drier weather on their dream trip, pushed a double buggy with sleeping children past them. Elena waited until they were out of earshot before placing her doctor’s bag on a metal table in the covered section of the area where the diving instructors held their introductory class before their students leaped into the pool with scuba tanks and masks.
‘I’ve heard you had a lively discussion with my fiancé. I’m supposed to give you this.’ Elena opened the bag and took out a disc without a cover.
‘This is a CD-ROM with the passenger lists from the last five years,’ she said, pre-empting his question. ‘Plus a roll of on-board employees on all routes where a Passenger 23 was reported.’
‘What am I supposed to do with these?’
‘I asked Daniel the same question. He said he’d be surprised if you hadn’t started your research some time ago. You’ll find the Sultan’s floor and deck plans, all newspaper articles and press releases of every available missing-person case, as well as a cross-check with other liners.’
Martin’s fingers were tingling as he took the CD-ROM.
‘I’m supposed to tell you that the documents he’s assembled over t
he past few months are proof of his goodwill. And…’
At that moment their mobiles started to ring. Both of them.
They exchanged baffled glances and reached for their trouser pockets at the same time.
‘Shit!’ the doctor said, abandoning Martin, who had no idea who the long number on his display belonged to.
‘What’s wrong?’ he called after Elena, who stopped briefly by a swing door leading inside and turned around.
‘Anouk,’ she said. ‘We’ve directed her alarm to your mobile too, Dr Schwartz.’
*
Five minutes later Martin stepped from the steel-cased airlock into Hell’s Kitchen for the third time that day. As he crossed the entrance area of the quarantine station he watched Elena Beck slide her key card through the reader.
As he entered he was expecting another false alarm.
But then he wondered where all the blood had come from.
On Anouk’s bed.
On her body.
Everywhere.
30
‘Jesus Christ Almighty…’
Elena hurried to the bed, in front of which the girl was cowering on the floor, pressing her hand on her blood-soaked forearm. This had been bandaged before the emergency drill; now it lay on the floor like an unwound loo roll.
‘What happened, sweetie? What happened?’ the doctor cried, squatting beside the girl.
Elena was still partially in shock, but Martin had already identified the cause of the injury.
The blood was on the sheets, in Anouk’s face, on her arms, fingers and nightshirt. Martin even found some spots on the polished stainless steel cupboard on the wall beneath the television, which suggested that the blood must have spurted from an artery in a high trajectory.
‘Her artery’s been gashed,’ he said, then asked Elena where the disinfectant and fresh bandages were.
Judging by the colour in Anouk’s face it wasn’t as bad as it looked at first glance. Martin knew from experience that even small amounts of lost blood could create a godawful mess.
‘Her artery?’ Elena said in disbelief, pointing to the bathroom door. She told him a code, whose significance he only realised when he discovered the safe-like cabinet beneath the basin. The supplies were locked away for security.
Besides syringes, infusion needles, tubes, scissors and other items handy for committing suicide, Martin found the disinfectant spray and bandages he was looking for.
He brought them to Elena and watched her lift the child’s chin. Anouk kept her eyes closed. A small white dot stuck to the fluff on her upper lip. Some cotton wool or a bit of tissue.
Martin busily removed the bedclothes and shook them out. Then he lifted the mattress, took off the hygienic cover, but he didn’t find anything here either. No razor blade, no knife, no pencil.
‘You were the last one in here with her,’ Elena said reproachfully, after taking Anouk over to the leather sofa where she examined the girl’s arm. The blood started flowing again when the girl stopped pressing her hand on it, like raindrops spattering from a fir branch, and so Elena immediately applied a tourniquet.
‘Are you suggesting I egged her on when I was alone with her?’ Martin asked in anger.
‘No, of course not, but…’ The corners of Elena’s eyes were twitching nervously. ‘Who was it, sweetheart?’ She stroked Anouk’s cheek. ‘Who hurt you?’
No answer.
‘I know who did it,’ Martin whispered.
‘What? Who?’ Elena looked up at him.
‘She did it herself.’
‘I’m sorry? No! That’s impossible. Why on earth would she do anything like that?’
There are many possible reasons: she wants to relieve pressure, let the pain out from her body, feel that she’s alive…
‘At any rate she wasn’t trying to kill herself with these injuries,’ he said. Otherwise she wouldn’t have tried to secure her arm. Or pressed the worry button.
Everything suggested to him that although she’d deliberately cut herself, the depth of the wound wasn’t intentional.
‘How can it have happened?’ Elena asked distraught. ‘There aren’t any sharp objects here she could have got hold of. I swear I gave the cabin a thorough search after the incident with the pencils.’
The pencils. Exactly!
Martin waited until Elena had finished tying the tourniquet, then asked, ‘How many pieces of paper did you give her that day?’
She looked at him in horror.
‘I don’t know. I didn’t count.’
Mistake.
Big mistake.
Elena saw the contrition in Martin’s face and slapped her hand over her mouth.
‘You mean…’ She turned to Anouk. ‘Darling, please tell me. Did you cut yourself with a piece of paper?’
Anouk didn’t answer, but Martin was certain. When dealing with mentally disturbed patients you couldn’t be careful enough. During his time as a student he’d come across a sixteen-year-old who’d run the edge of a piece of paper across both eyes.
‘Did you keep one piece back?’ he said, trying to get through to Anouk. With success. She opened her eyelids. Although Martin wasn’t sure she recognised him, there could be no doubt about the fury radiating from her. She nodded and her eyes flashed angrily. Martin and Elena looked at each other meaningfully. ‘You ate the paper afterwards, didn’t you?’
That’s why there was a speck of white on her upper lip.
Pulp!
Anouk pressed her lips together mutely. She looked livid, probably because he’d got to the bottom of her secret so easily.
Martin fetched a wet towel from the bathroom to clean Anouk’s face, something she only reluctantly permitted.
In the cupboard below the television were fresh bedclothes, which Martin put on while Elena sorted out a nightshirt for Anouk. Together they took the girl, who looked weak but not in a critical condition, back to her bed.
Martin caught sight of the drawing computer on her bedside table. The screen was dark but a yellow LED light was lit, signalling that it was in standby mode. As Anouk sunk back into bed, he picked up the device and activated the display.
‘Wow!’ he exclaimed. The drawing Anouk must have done during the emergency drill was unbelievably detailed and accurate. A masterpiece which left no doubt that she was a highly talented child, at least in art.
Because he didn’t want to take the computer away from the girl, Martin fished his mobile from his pocket and photographed the screen. Then he left Anouk, who’d closed her eyes again and waited outside the cabin for Elena.
*
‘Anouk drew that?’ the doctor asked after she’d dressed the girl in a clean nightshirt and left the cabin too. ‘All by herself?’ She stared in disbelief at the picture on Martin’s mobile, showing a hole yawning murkily in the ground – a well perhaps – at the bottom of which you could see water shimmering darkly. The drawing also showed a rope that extended down the shaft to the water.
‘Is there anywhere here on the ship that looks roughly like this? A hole, a cavity or a bulkhead through which you can see the ocean?’ he asked Elena.
The doctor knitted her brow and bent her head sideways to look at the picture from a different angle. ‘Hmm,’ she said indecisively. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that. And, in general, cruise ships rarely have holes in their hulls when out at sea.’
Out at sea, Martin repeated in his head, and that gave him an idea.
Of course. When they’re out at sea. But what about when they’re not?
‘Which deck is the anchor room on?’ he asked excitedly.
‘Anchor? You mean…’
A hole, beneath it water, a rope, which could also be a chain.
‘Which deck?’ he urged her. ‘Please!’
Elena thought about it. ‘There are several,’ she said eventually. ‘As far as I know there’s one on deck 3. And another higher up, on deck 11, I think.’
11 + 3
The blood was pumping not
iceably faster in Martin’s veins. He glanced again at the image of the toy computer and said, ‘Maybe it’s just my imagination running wild. But it can’t do any harm if we take a look around the anchor room.’
31
‘Tiago Álvarez?’
Although it was no longer morning Yegor Kalinin was sitting on the sofa in his suite in dressing gown and leather slippers, tickling the neck of his Jack Russell terrier, Ikarus. Normally dogs and other pets were not permitted in the private rooms aboard the cruise liner, but the owner of the Sultan took no more heed of that than he did the smoking ban in the cabins. To the chagrin of his non-smoking wife, he’d had the smoke alarm deactivated in the bedroom.
‘This chap here?’
On the tinted glass table in front of Yegor was a colour printout with the personal details of the passenger his third security officer had just provided a report on, including a photo, itinerary, cabin number and the status of his bill. To date the Argentinian hadn’t made much effort to replenish the coffers of the cruise company. He had an inner cabin, never drank wine with his meals, didn’t join any on-shore excursions, and hadn’t bought a single souvenir in the shops on board.
‘That’s the bastard. I’m sure of it,’ Veith Jesper said.
‘And he was the one hiding behind the bed?’
‘It’s like I said. I saw him and then found his picture in the passenger files. There’s no doubt about it.’
Yegor eyed the twenty-three-year-old man suspiciously. ‘What were you doing in the cabin, anyway?’ he asked Veith, even though he already knew the answer.
Yegor couldn’t stand his nephew. He hadn’t been able to abide the boy’s cheesehead father, who his sister had insisted on marrying just because she’d let the loser get her up the duff while she was studying in Amsterdam.
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