by Fiona Leitch
Murder
Ahoy!
A Bella Tyson Mystery
By Fiona Leitch
Copyright © 2020 Fiona Leitch
The right of Fiona Leitch to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
Published in 2020 by Fiona Leitch
Apart from any use permitted under copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Prologue
“Where do you get your ideas from?”
I’ve been asked that question so many times in interviews over the years that these days I have a stock reply. People don’t really want to know the answer, because in reality it’s pretty boring. They’d rather you came up with some mystical old codswallop about Art and Truth and Unleashing Your Inner Creativity. I was interviewed by this New Age women’s journal once, and I managed to convince them that I go and sit in my garden at midnight in just my pants, listening to the susurration of the wind in the trees and the hoot of the barn owl as it hunted for sustenance, in the same way that I was spiritually hunting for my Vision. I would enjoy the evening breeze on my nipples, engage my Inner Core, and commune with the Earth Goddess until I felt the tingle of inspiration (or maybe cramp, due to engaging my Inner Core a bit too strenuously).
This is - and I can not stress this enough - bollocks. For starters, I live in London, and the only thing I’d be listening to if I sat in my garden at midnight would be the mange-ridden neighbourhood fox rifling through my bins; plus it’s really bloody difficult communing with the goddess when you’re under the Heathrow flightpath and your nipples are being nibbled (not in a sexy way) by gnats. And anyway, I’m normally in my jammies by 9, in bed by 10 and (if Will’s not too tired) rolling over to go to sleep by 11. Okay, 10.30. 10.15, at least.
“Where do you get your ideas from?” - like it’s a secret. Like there’s some clandestine, exclusive Writers’ Club where you’re inducted into The Ways of the Wordsmith. That way, if you’re one of these people who could definitely write a bestseller but don’t, it’s not because you’re not good enough, it’s because you don’t know the right people and you’re not part of the club. (There are myriad reasons why your book isn’t a bestseller, usually very little to do with you not being good enough and mostly to do with marketing, but definitely nothing to do with this mythical Writer’s Club. Which, by the way, if it existed, I definitely wouldn’t be invited to join.)
I get my ideas from the same place everyone else does. I see things on the telly or in the paper. Items on the news. This is how you get a slew of books and movies all on the same subject; everyone gets inspired by the same thing. NASA sends up a rover to explore Mars, and all of a sudden you get four thousand books and movies about trips to the red planet. Are they all the same? Not exactly. They won’t all have the protagonist surviving on potatoes grown in their own faecal matter (pootatoes?). Some will be more similar than others (there are only so many plots), but that doesn’t mean that they’ve copied or are even aware of each other.
Other times, of course, it’ll be something that happens to me on my travels. Like going to Venice and getting embroiled in a gruesome murder investigation. Or getting stuck on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic with the person you hate most in the entire world, and watching as the bodies start to pile up.
That sort of thing…
Some people say that the worst thing you can accuse a writer of is plagiarism, of purposely stealing someone else’s ideas and passing them off as their own.
This is also bollocks.
Chapter 1
It sometimes seems to me that the more successful I get as a writer, the less people actually want me to write. There are book tours and signings, of course, and some of the crime writing festivals are fun. I love meeting my readers. But then I get asked to do after dinner speeches at corporate Christmas parties (rubbish like ‘Harnessing the Killer Instinct in Business’); or give talks about ‘How to Write the Perfect Crime’ (there is no such thing as a ‘perfect’ crime, or if there is I don’t want to hear about it, because my characters always have to be able to solve them). I even got asked to do Celebrity Masterchef once and turned it down because quite frankly, God would not have invented Waitrose OR Uber Eats if She’d intended people to cook stuff from scratch. They got one of the Chuckle Brothers instead.
When people first started asking me to do stuff like that I always said yes. I didn’t particularly want to do any of it, but I thought it would be arrogant to turn people down when they were nice enough to think of little old me. I’ve got a lot better at saying ‘no’ over the years, but there are some things you just don’t turn down.
And this was one of them. A whole week on a fancy cruise liner, leading a team of amateur detectives in a murder mystery game every night, and being pampered in the luxurious surroundings during the day. I wasn’t sure how I would possibly manage…
“There you are! Thank God!” Susie waved and rushed over to me and Will. She had our tickets in her hand and a harassed expression on her face. Being my agent does that to you, apparently.
“We’re not late, are we?” asked Will, watching as the taxi driver took our suitcases from the boot of the car. Susie gestured over to a porter who was hovering nearby, who hurriedly loaded the luggage onto a trolley and disappeared into the cruise terminal at speed.
“Not quite,” said Susie, corralling us in the porter’s wake. “You’re cutting it fine as usual, though.”
“I just like to make an entrance,” I said, stopping to look up at the cruise ship in awe. The biggest ship I’d been on up to now was the Isle of Wight ferry, and the longest sea journey I’d had was a memorable (for all the wrong reasons) school trip to Dieppe in the 5th year of high school, when Sarah Wells had somehow managed to get her hands on some duty free vodka and puked up spectacularly all over the lower deck, and Miss Rogers the history teacher had had a nervous breakdown, thinking she’d left Lynda Benson behind in France when she was actually just hiding in the toilets having a fag. As you can probably tell, I didn’t go to Cheltenham Girls’ College.
“Holy shi - ” I started, gazing upwards at the architecturally impressive, gleaming white and basically fecking massive ship next to us. Will looked at me and smiled. I bit off the end of the word. “No swearing on the posh boat, I remember.”
“Come on!” said Susie, exasperated. Will and I exchanged amused looks and legged it after her.
We breezed thr
ough check-in and made our way through the terminal, onto the glass-covered gangway that led us up and onto the ship. Smiling crew members in spotless white uniforms lined the entrance, checking tickets and showing passengers where to go; despite Susie’s attack of the vapours, we weren’t the last people to board by any stretch of the imagination.
A sturdy but smartly dressed woman, whose gold pips on the shoulder of her white suit suggested a higher rank than that of her colleagues, stepped forward to greet us.
“Ms Tyson?” She spoke at a professionally discreet volume in a soft, Scottish burr, and I immediately warmed to her. She held her hand out to shake. “I’m Maureen O’Connor, the Chief Purser. Let me show you to your room.”
“Thank you,” I said, smiling. She gestured along the corridor in front of her and stood back to let us go first.
We made our way along the hallway. Everything was plush and opulent; the carpets were thick and soft under our feet, muffling the sounds of the passengers behind us, and the walls were lined with artwork and mirrors on a large scale. The ship had an almost 1930s, Art Deco feel of decadence about it, despite being less than 20 years old. It gleamed warmly, with walnut panelling and gilded statues. Even some of the crew were bronzed. A young man in an immaculate white polo shirt and trousers smiled at me with teeth that matched his clothing as he quietly rapped his knuckles on a door off the corridor; no one here would be so uncouth as to actually make a loud noise. I felt Susie’s earlier panic subside slightly; you couldn’t be stressed on a ship like this.
We took the lift up to deck 10, and made our way to the back of the ship (or aft or whatever you call it when you’re on a boat - the fat end, as opposed to the pointy bit at the front. I dunno, you look it up). We reached the end of the corridor and stopped as the Chief Purser took a key card from her pocket and swiped it. I turned and looked back along the corridor, surprised at how far it stretched ahead of me. This really was a fu - flipping big ship.
Behind me the door softly clicked open - everything on this ship was soft and discreet, it seemed, and I suspected I would stand out like a sore thumb - and again, the Purser stood back to let us in.
“Holy shi - shiz balls!” I cried, looking around at our home for the next week. It was bigger than half the places I’d lived in, let alone holidayed in. The flat I’d rented when I first left home, where I’d written my first novel on my nan’s ancient typewriter balanced on a couple of old milk crates, had been half the size of this cabin. The carpet was deep enough to lose a small child in. A soft, cream coloured sofa and armchair sat in front of a glass topped coffee table, laid with an ice bucket and bottle of champagne, glasses and a crystal-handled corkscrew. I was relieved to see that to one side of the room was a small kitchenette and dining area; I do like a nice cup of tea first thing in the morning - and last thing at night - and several times during the day - so I hate staying anywhere without a kettle and a fridge. The room was divided by a tall bookcase, with a large TV set in it, giving access either side to the bedroom. The bed was big enough for an entire harem - shame I hadn’t brought one with me - and the bedlinen was as crisp and white as newly-fallen snow. A padded gold silk headboard, studded with crystal buttons, and a matching gold and crystal chandelier gave it a feeling of expensive, tasteful luxury.
“Bloody hell!” said Will. I looked at him. He shrugged. “That’s not really a swear word, is it?”
The Chief Purser followed us into the room and drew back the gold shot taffeta curtains at the big glass doors to let in some more light, then turned and placed the key card on the coffee table.
“I think you’ll be comfortable in here,” she said. I laughed.
“We’ll manage, we’re used to roughing it,” I said. “It’s lovely, thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome,” said the Purser. “And may I say it’s a pleasure to have you and Mr Tyson on board. I’m a big fan of your work.”
I could hear Will muttering under his breath as he investigated the bathroom. “Mr Tyson my ars - armpit…”
I ignored him. “Thank you. We’re really looking forward to murdering someone on this cruise.”
The Purser laughed. “Between you and me, I’ve felt like that a few times on this ship myself! Please, take some time to settle in and then join us at the bar when you’re ready, I know the Captain would like to say hello before dinner. The steward will bring your luggage up presently.”
Susie grabbed the bottle of champagne and had already poured out three glasses before the Purser had finished closing the door behind her. “It would be rude not to,” she pointed out, noticing my expression. I laughed.
“And you’re never rude. There’s a drink for you here, Mr Tyson!” I called. Will joined us.
“Thank you, Mrs Carmichael.” I handed him the champagne flute and kissed him.
“I’m sorry. This is work, innit? Our next holiday will be as Mr and Mrs Carmichael, I promise.”
We looked around the beautiful, richly but tastefully decorated cabin again. I prodded the bed experimentally.
“Nice work,” said Susie, enviously. “Some of us have to go back to a tiny office in London for their work.”
“Yeah, it’s a hard life, innit?” I said, flopping (carefully, so as not to spill my drink) onto the bed. It was perfect; not too hard, but not too soft either - like floating on an orthopaedic cloud. “It’s a - ” I frowned and reached under the pillow, drawing out a slightly squashed but thankfully wrapped chocolate truffle. “It’s a shame you’re not coming with us. I’ll tell Peter and Mark that you said hello.”
“Peter and Mark?” asked Will.
“My fellow crime writers,” I said, my cheek bulging with chocolate (I can unwrap a truffle in less than 5 seconds. Years of practice). “Peter James and Mark Billingham. I told you, they’re hosting the cruise with us.”
Susie looked at me, guiltily. “Ah, yes, about that…” She took a gulp of champagne. The harassed expression was back, and clearly had nothing to do with us running late. “There’s been a bit of a change to the line up. Mark had to pull out at the very last minute. Family emergency.”
‘Oh, that’s a shame!” I said. “I haven’t seen him since Harrogate, two, maybe three years ago. Never mind. Peter - ”
“Yes, and so did Peter.” Susie knocked back her drink and set the glass down on the table, looking at her watch. “Look at the time, you’ll be sailing soon. I’d better go.”
“Not Peter too?” I was really disappointed now. I’d been looking forward to catching up with old friends. “Who’s taken their places?”
There was a knock on the cabin door. Will opened it to find the tanned young man with the ridiculously white teeth outside.
“The ship is getting ready to sail,” he said. He may have looked like a bronzed Adonis, but his accent was pure Liverpudlian scally. “Anyone not sailing needs to make their way back onto shore. Sorry.”
“That’s fine,” said Susie hastily, heading for the door. “I was just leaving.”
I followed her and gave her a hug before she could escape. “Thank you for getting me into this,” I said. “And Will, too. You are officially the best agent and friend a writer could have, ever. It’ll be like our honeymoon, only with a few murders thrown in for good measure. It’ll be fun!” I said lightly. Susie looked unconvinced.
“Hmm, yes, well we’ll see about that,” she said, then made a quick exit before I could ask her what she meant.
The steward with the white teeth came back five minutes later, accompanied by a porter with our luggage. He introduced himself as Karl and said that if we needed anything at all on the voyage, to let him know. As he shut the door behind him, Will pulled me into his arms and kissed me long and hard.
“Steady now, Mr Tyson,” I said. He laughed.
“I suppose I can put up with being a kept man if it means we get to go on trips like this,” he said, letting go and looking around the cabin again. I grabbed him and pulled him tow
ards me.
“Now don’t you go thinking you don’t have to earn your keep,” I said, reaching down to squeeze his bottom. He looked shocked.
“Mrs Carmichael! What would the Captain say?”
“I dunno, I wasn’t planning on telling him…”
Chapter 2
The ship sailed at 6.30pm. We did the whole standing-on-the-deck-waving-goodbye thing, even though there was no one seeing us off (Susie hadn’t waited, having a three hour drive back to London). We stood on our private balcony and waved at a group of people on the docks, who stared back at us clearly wondering who the hell we were and why we were waving at them.
We went back inside and threw ourselves on the bed in a fit of giggles. That’s one of the things I love so much about Will: his laugh. He’s got quite a deep, manly voice, and is so nicely spoken that he could read out the telephone directory and make it sound sexy (I do have a bit of a thing about posh boys, though), but when he really gets the giggles he goes all high pitched and sounds like a 14 year old whose testicles haven’t quite dropped yet. It’s not exactly a turn on, but it is really sweet and endearing and always makes me sigh and think, everything is just fine with my life. Sigh.
“How the - heck - did we end up here?” I said, still giggling. “I’m a university dropout from Croydon, but here I am in the penthouse cabin of the fanciest ship in the world, and I’m getting paid to be here!”
“You do have to work,” pointed out Will. He can be so sensible at times. I find that quite sexy, too. Sue me, I’m a weirdo. “Not that it’ll be particularly hard. The most difficult thing for you will be - ”
“Not swearing in front of the paying guests, I know!” I rolled over and propped myself up on an elbow to look at him. “I’m not a child, I can f-fudging well behave myself.”
“I was going to say, to not give the game away,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“I can’t give it away, can I? I don’t know whodunnit,” I said. He looked surprised.