Murder Ahoy!

by Fiona Leitch

  “We should probably go and say hello to Captain Birdseye over there,” he said. Louise looked put out for a second, then she smiled seductively at him.

  “I wonder if he’s got a spare captain’s hat?” she said. “I’d love to see you in one of those…” She stroked his arm, gazing up at him, and sang in a low, breathy voice. “You can leave your hat on…”

  Joel laughed, but even he looked a bit surprised, and I got the impression that however close Louise was trying to make them look, the relationship was so new it was practically box fresh and probably still had the sticky price label on it somewhere. I wouldn’t have put it past Joel to try and make me jealous, but I was surprised that Louise - actually, no I wasn’t surprised, I wouldn’t have put anything past her as she so clearly hated my guts.

  “That woman so clearly hates my guts,” I said, as they left us.

  “I get the feeling it’s mutual,” said Will. I nodded vehemently. “So what started it off?”

  I’d met bloody Louise bloody Meyers on a writers’ panel at the Harrogate Crime Writing Festival. In her 30 years on this planet she’d managed to write two half-arsed crime novels and one ‘real life’ memoir about her terrible childhood, charting her rags to riches rise to, well, mediocrity. I had 18 years and 15 books on her, and an army of loyal readers, and she really should not have bothered me as much as she did - but she did. She’d written about her life of poverty and crime in t’back streets of Manchester, emphasising how humble and grateful she was for the life she had now whilst also banging on and on and on about how much she’d suffered. Every time you thought she’d hit peak suffering, no, something else would come up on social media about how she’d been bullied or abused or gaslit or rejected by her parents or something, until she’d built an entire career on her own victimhood. Self pity appeared to sell a lot of books, too.

  So we’d both been guests on a panel entitled ‘Using Genre to Subvert Societal Norms’ (yes, I know exactly how that sounds, but there were actually some good points to be made). It was all going swimmingly until bloody Louise piped up.

  “Of course,” she said, “all of this means bugger all if you’re writing from the working class stand point. Agents and publishers say they want diverse voices but they don’t take you seriously if you went to an ordinary working class comprehensive.”

  Seriously? I looked at her. “I went to a state school and it hasn’t stopped me.”

  “Yeah, but then you were in London - ”

  “London’s not just Harrods and the Houses of Parliament, is it? I went to the same sort of school as you did. Most of the people in this room did. I didn’t spend my adolescence conjugating Latin verbs and playing lacrosse, I bunked off and went shoplifting in the Whitgift Centre.” The audience laughed and Louise shot a deadly look at me, but I was in full swing now.

  “I wasn’t part of some mythical Bloomsbury-esque Croydon Set, there wasn’t any South London Writers’ Salon. Class has got nothing to do with anything.”

  “You can’t say there’s no snobbery,” Louise protested. “When I wrote my first two novels, no one would even look at them because I didn’t ‘fit’.” I groaned, but she carried on. “I pitched them both to agents and they just weren’t interested once they ‘eard my accent and realised I ‘adn’t gone t’right university,” she said, dropping Hs left, right and centre as her accent got stronger, whether on purpose to make a point or because she’d been suppressing it. I’d noticed in the past that she seemed to be simultaneously proud of her background whilst also having a massive chip on her shoulder about it, but it was quite amusing to see it in action.

  “Do you know how many people in the industry have asked me if I have a degree?” I said. “None. Literally no one cares.”

  “Well I suppose back in your day there wasn’t so much pressure on women to make something of themselves academically,” she sneered. Back in my day?! I was momentarily speechless. Believe me when I say that doesn’t happen very often (yeah, I know, you believe me). “It’s different now, women are expected to contribute. I’ve ‘ad to work twice as ‘ard as them with degrees.”

  The panel Chair, a well-known TV presenter who was currently looking like they wished they were anywhere but here, gazed at me pleadingly. Please calm it down.

  I took a deep breath and prepared to be magnanimous, for the sake of the Chair, but then she delivered the killer blow.

  “In your day women were expected to just stay at home and look after the children.” She looked me up and down. “If you could keep ‘old of your man long enough to ‘ave them, of course.”

  I was so hurt and angry that for a moment I seriously considered leaping up and bitchslapping her in the kidneys (why I thought of her kidneys I don’t really know, but I was so angry I wasn’t worried about making sense.) But instead I took another deep breath and smiled thinly at her.

  “You’re right, Louise, you have worked hard. Well done,” I said shortly. She looked at me, suddenly suspicious. “Everyone, a round of applause for Louise, for rising above all her obvious social disadvantages.” I clapped sarcastically. And, after a few seconds, so did everyone else, albeit less sarcastically and more hesitantly.

  It wasn’t at all awkward.

  Will looked at me, a shocked but sympathetic expression on his face.

  “Ooh…” he said.

  “I know, I should have risen above it,” I said.

  “No, you should have bitchslapped her in the kidneys,” he said. “God I love it when you’re violent.”

  “Pervert. Anyway she spent the rest of the panel making snide remarks about my age and toy boys.” Will glanced involuntarily over towards Joel, then dragged his eyes back to me. I sighed. “I’d just found out that he was cheating on me with someone twenty years younger. It was kind of an open secret, the sort everybody else knows before you do. She found my weak spot and tortured me with it.”

  “It looks like she’s still trying to torture you with it,” said Will, watching me as I watched Louise pout and flutter and paw at Joel and do everything except drop to her knees and get to work on his little fella right there and then in front of the Chief Purser. Will put his hand on my arm and I turned to him, uncomfortably aware of how closely I’d been scrutinising them. He stared into my eyes, suddenly intense. “But it won’t work now, will it? Because you don’t care about him any more.”

  OH MY GOD I was such a bit - female dog. I took Will’s face in my hands and kissed him hard on the lips.

  “You know what? It actually isn’t working, because I don’t give a sh - ” I hesitated. He grinned.

  “You can say it for emphasis if you want to.”

  “Good. I really don’t give a shit about Joel any more. I look at him, and I look at you, and you’re the one who makes my heart beat faster.”

  Will smiled. “I am glad about that. Because if you still loved him, I’d have to push him overboard.”

  I laughed. Sort of. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.

  Chapter 4

  The Captain tapped his wine glass - which only contained water, by the looks of it - and said a few words to welcome everybody to the murder mystery cruise. Then we all sat down to an amazing dinner.

  As I tucked into a plate of tiger prawns braised in a black truffle broth with hand made squid ink noodles (I suffer so hard for my art!), I looked around the room at my group of amateur detectives.

  There were four tables arranged around the intimate dining room, each one seating between four and six diners including the team leaders, myself, Joel, Maureen the Chief Purser and bloody Louise. At my table were Will and the honeymooning couple we had met earlier, Harvey and Michael, the two man-hating/hunting besties, Sylvia and Heather, and Zoé, a single lady in her mid-30s who excitedly introduced herself as my biggest fan, ‘but not in a creepy way’. Yeah, right… I made a mental note to make sure we locked the cabin door that night.

  Zoé was enthusiastic and excited, but she was sw
eet and harmless. She also didn’t seem like the typical cruise goer, and as she talked about her job in a book shop I wondered how she’d managed to afford this trip; the cruise on its own was expensive enough, and the murder mystery game had been a hot ticket that hadn’t come cheap… I didn’t have to wonder for long though.

  “I couldn’t believe it when they told me I’d won!” trilled Zoé.

  “Won?”

  “This trip. The book shop I work at - they put the names of all their top salespeople into a raffle and this trip was the prize.” She tried to look modest but failed miserably; she was obviously quite proud of herself. “I was the top salesperson out of all their branches in the South West.”

  “Wow!” I said. “That’s brilliant. What a generous prize, too.”

  “Yes,” she said, her smile fading slightly. “It was meant to be for two, but my husband - ” She stopped abruptly, looking down at the plate in front of her. The rest of us exchanged uncomfortable looks. Sylvia, who was sitting next to her, patted her on the hand.

  “Never mind, love, we’ll make sure you have a lovely time anyway,” she said, and we all murmured in agreement. I picked up the bottle of wine in front of me and reached across to refill her glass.

  “Here’s to my team of amateur detectives,” I said. I stood up and raised my glass. “Leave no stone unturned, no suspect unquestioned, and most of all, no glass of wine undrunk!”

  The diners laughed and raised their glasses too. I sipped carefully at my drink - I’d already had too much champagne, and as I rarely drink there was a real danger that if I had much more, I would suddenly find myself dancing on the table singing ‘Joleene’ with my massive pants on my head. Or, equally (maybe more) likely, someone else’s pants on my head. And I was saving that particular treat for the last night of the cruise…

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Zoé knock back her whole glass of wine in one, and I thought to myself, there’s one unhappy lady, right there.

  The rest of the evening passed without much incident. I went around the other tables during the next couple of courses, talking to the rest of the amateur detectives. There was a lovely Indian couple, celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary, who clearly adored each other; a Jamaican lady, who was loud and funny and gorgeous, while her husband was tall, skinny and possibly The Whitest Man In The World™; and an elderly lady who made out she was deaf (shouting WHAAAAT?? every time her harrassed daughter spoke to her) but who could hear perfectly well whenever alcohol was mentioned. The nondescript couple we’d met in the bar earlier were on the Chief Purser’s team, being (if it were possible) even more bland and forgettable, and I instantly marked them down as suspicious; they were being too normal, and when I mentioned it to Will, he thought so too.

  “They’re trying too hard to blend into the background,” he said. “They’re clearly homicidal maniacs. He’s going to kill her for her life insurance.”

  I shook my head. “Nah, my money is on her bumping him off for shagging his secretary.” Will looked thoughtful for a moment, watching them discreetly as they ate.

  “He’s definitely guilty of something,” I said. “Look how attentive he is - he’s pouring her more wine without her even asking - maybe you’re right, he’s going to get her pissed and push her off the top deck.”

  “But I’m attentive to you, my love,” protested Will. “He might just adore her, the way I adore you.” We watched them again for a moment, then shared a look. “Nah!” We both laughed.

  “God, we’re nasty, suspicious people aren’t we?” I said.

  “I really hope they are actors and not just on holiday,” said Will.

  I managed to ignore both Joel and bloody Louise, even though her voice was loud and shrill and really carried across the entire room. Several times I saw Harvey and Michael exchange looks at the sound of her cackling.

  “I hate to be a bitch, but oh my god!” muttered Harvey. “I’ve not heard so much fake laughter since your brother’s best man speech at the wedding.”

  Michael shuddered. “I still have nightmares about that speech. That laugh just brings it all back.” He saw me looking at them and gave a rueful smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t speak ill of one of your fellow writers - ”

  “Don’t hold back on my account,” I said. Zoé laughed.

  “You don’t follow Bella on Twitter, then,” she said. “She hates her.”

  I cringed. “No, no, we just have a - complicated relationship.”

  “Hates her,” said Zoé again, grinning. I laughed.

  “Stop it, you’ll get me into trouble! I’m a professional, you know…”

  Heather - who up to now had been concentrating on clearing her plates of food and finding the bottom of her wine glass, over and over again - looked over at bloody Louise and harrumphed disdainfully.

  “By ‘eck as like, I’m not as good looking as I think I am, am I?” she said, in a perfect rendering of Louise’s nasal Northern drawl. We all laughed. “She reminds me of my husband’s - sorry, ex-husband’s - secretary. She wanted a raise and he gave her one, alright. He gave her several.” She drained her wine glass again and stared at it morosely. “He’s probably giving her one as we speak.”

  “Okay!” said Sylvia brightly. “I think we might head back to our cabin now…”

  Dinner and hosting duties done for the night, Will and I decided to take a walk around the deck. The Captain had already told us there would be no murders until the next night, so we determined to make the most of this little bit of free time.

  Land was already far behind us, with the only lights visible out to sea from the container ships that plied the same route as us between the US and Europe. But the darkness meant that the stars overhead were bright and felt closer, somehow, than they did on land. Hand in hand we strolled along the deck towards the bow, or the pointy bit at the front, as us naval types call it.

  “What’s the betting there’s a queue of passengers right at the front, re-enacting that bit out of Titanic?” I said, and Will laughed.

  “I thought you’d want to do that,” he said.

  “God no,” I said. “But you can paint me like one of your French girls if you like.”

  “Can’t we just have sex?”

  “Oh alright then…”

  We stopped at the sight of a queue of couples at the bow and laughed, then walked on until we found a quiet spot. This ship was so huge that even with so many passengers (most of whom, admittedly, were inside as it was a chilly evening) - even with 2000 other people on board, not to mention the staff, we could still find a private corner to ourselves. I nestled into Will, marvelling as ever at how well we fitted together physically; I had always gone for taller men (like Joel, who was 6’2”), but Will was actually the perfect size. When we hugged, my head fitted snugly into the curve between his head and his shoulder, and we could snog standing up for hours without me getting a crick in my neck. Which is more important than you might think.

  He took my hands, threading his fingers through mine, and pulled me closer. His lips searched for mine and we kissed, gently, tenderly. I breathed in the scent of him - a combination of aftershave, soap, and an indefinable fragrance that was just Essence of Will. His cheek felt smooth and warm against mine. I felt almost dizzy with the unaccustomed champagne, the cold night air and the rush of happiness that went through me as I stood there with him. I am so lucky, I thought. Nothing can ruin this cruise, not even Joel and Louise.

  But I was about to be proved spectacularly wrong.

  Chapter 5

  I woke up the next morning after the best night’s sleep I’d had in ages. The gentle rocking motion of the ship, combined with the alcohol and the sea air, had left me dead to the world the moment my head hit the pillow.

  I looked up at the ceiling, enjoying the feel of the soft, crisp bed linen on my skin (my duvet cover never feels like that) and the pale golden sunlight filtering through the curtains. At this time of year sunshine was
never guaranteed, but the last two days had been beautiful in that slightly melancholic way that only late summer/early autumn can be, even out here at sea. I turned to look at Will, but he was still out for the count; after taking a sabbatical from Interpol after the events in Venice, he was losing the habit of getting up for work in the mornings and learning to sleep in.

  Wake up and kiss me, I thought, staring hard at his peacefully sleeping face; but he didn’t. I tried again, glaring harder - still nothing. I toyed with the idea of waking him up, but it was early and we didn’t need to be awake at this time, so I let him sleep.

  I reached out to the bedside table for my phone. I may be approaching the menopause but I am a complete bloody millennial when it comes to my phone. I read on it, I Google stuff constantly, I’m all over social media like an ill-fitting suit, and occasionally I even text people. The one thing I never do is actually ring anybody, apart from Will and, once a year at Christmas, my sister Megan (who is just as bad as me at talking on the phone and prefers to communicate via the medium of selfies on Facebook).

  I switched my phone on and immediately 8000 (give or take) notifications pinged, making Will murmur in his sleep but still not wake up. I hurriedly turned the volume down.

  Approximately 95% of those 8000 (give or take) notifications were from Twitter. Although, as far as I could remember, I hadn’t posted anything on there for the last couple of days. I opened it up and scrolled down to find out what was happening.

  I nearly dropped the phone.

  Staring up at me from the screen was a photograph of Joel the bastard unfaithful ex-husband and bloody Louise bloody Meyers, hand in hand at the bar last night. He had a big fat smug grin on his irritatingly gorgeous face, while she gazed up at him adoringly. The photo was part of a post shared by one of the less-scrupulous British tabloids (which makes it sound like some of them actually have scruples). The headline above it was, ‘Jilted Joel finds love again with lovely Louise’. And someone had been ‘kind’ enough to tag me, so every time someone commented on it, I got another ping on my phone. There were a lot of comments. A LOT.