by Fiona Leitch
“Nice…” he said, nodding approvingly as I posed, flashing a bit of leg. “But don’t forget this.”
He handed me a gun. I knew it was only a toy but it still felt cold, heavy and realistic. I pointed it at my reflection and he laughed.
“That is the first thing everyone does when they get given a gun,” he said. “Everyone does the stance. Even in the Army. Although it’s a bit different with an assault weapon…” He held up his own hand gun and we stood side by side, admiring ourselves.
“Bonnie and Clyde…” I said. “It kind of suits us, doesn’t it?” Our eyes met in the mirror for a moment, then we both lowered our guns, letting our arms hang by our sides.
“Shall we go?” said Will.
We made our way to the Pearl - all the murder mystery dinners were being held there, which was slightly disappointing as there were several other restaurants on board that I liked the look of. But then I wasn’t paying for it, so I wasn’t going to complain. The room was pretty full and Harvey and Michael were already there at the restaurant bar, dressed as Batman and Robin. Sylvia and Heather were with them, dressed up as Agnetha and Anni-Frid from ABBA, in courageously short glam rock tunics and knee high boots. Heather looked like she’d already been at the bar for some time and was quite happy in her outfit, but every now and then Sylvia tugged at the hem of her dress, trying to pull it down.
“Wow, ladies, you are rocking those outfits!” I said, making a point of looking Sylvia up and down admiringly. “You’ve got the legs for it.” She smiled at me gratefully.
“Ahem!” Michael cleared his throat and gestured to himself and the other half of the Dynamic Duo.
“You’ve got nice legs too,” I said, placatingly. “But those outfits are so tight I can see what you had for lunch.”
“I told you,” said Harvey. Will laughed and clapped him on the back as I reached for one of the glasses of champagne lined up on the bar. Michael sidled up to me and murmured quietly.
“We ran into that bitch Louise earlier, when we were picking up the costumes,” he said. “She said Harvey should be dressing up as Fatman, not Batman. He was really upset.”
“Oh no!” I said, mortified that I might have inadvertently added to Harvey’s misery.
“There was no need for it, the cow,” said Michael. “We weren’t even talking to her and she just took it upon herself to insult him.”
Will, bless him, had heard our conversation. He offered Harvey a glass of champagne and said, “Of course, you can pull off a costume like that. I couldn’t, I’m much too flabby.” Which was completely untrue but a really nice thing to say. Harvey smiled broadly and Michael looked relieved.
“Oh he’s a keeper,” he whispered to me, and I nodded proudly. My husband is such a sweetheart.
Zoé scooted across the room to join us, draped in a nun’s habit and severe-looking wimple. I was surprised that she’d chosen such a loose-fitting and unflattering outfit, but then if she was recovering from a broken heart (which seemed likely, from what she’d said earlier) perhaps she wasn’t ready to start putting herself out there yet.
“Ooh, Bonnie and Clyde! That’s perfect!” she squealed. “You both look really untrustworthy.”
I laughed. “Thank you, Sister Zoé. I think.”
I looked around at the other diners. Mr and Mrs Too Innocent were there, him dressed in lederhosen and her looking like a menopausal Heidi. Among the other guests we had the Queen (complete with toy Corgi), a bloke in a white tux who kept going round saying ‘the name’s Bond, Jame-sh Bond’ in a terrible Sean Connery voice, Freddie Krueger (I didn’t fancy his chances using the cutlery at dinner, but then again maybe he wouldn’t need it), and a Jamaican Marilyn Monroe who looked completely wrong but absolutely gorgeous at the same time. As I watched, an elderly, hearing impaired fairy godmother shuffled in on the arm of a downtrodden and rather dowdy Cinderella, who looked like she would kill for a glass slipper and a pumpkin coach if it meant she could get some time on her own. I felt a brief pang of sympathy and thanked my lucky stars that my mum was an incredibly spritely 80 year old with a massive circle of friends and a better social life than mine, who’d told me several times that if she ever became a burden I was to pack her off to a nursing home stat (to which I always replied that she needn’t worry, I bloody would).
Zoé looked around and then spoke to me in that annoyingly loud confidential whisper of hers. “No sign of Joel and Louise,” she said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully.
Heather harrummphed at the mention of Louise; it seemed to be a Pavlovian response.
“With any luck the murderer’s struck again and we won’t have to put up with her slobbering all over him,” she said, and we all laughed.
The Chief Purser, who was dressed as a rhinestone-spangled cowgirl with a massive blonde Dolly Parton wig, entered looking harassed. I guessed the Captain had probably had a few choice words with her about the leaked photos, and felt a pang of sympathy for her. She looked longingly at the champagne on the bar, then asked for a tonic water. She took a long pull at her drink, but it clearly wasn’t having the desired effect.
“Is everyone here?” she said, looking around.
“Not yet,” said Zoé, looking at me meaningfully. I ignored her. We all knew what was going to happen; Joel and Louise were obviously holding on so they would be the last ones in and could make a grand entrance.
The door of the Pearl opened, letting in noise from the dining room of the Excelsior beyond it, and we all turned to look; only to see a surprised looking Karl, who was no doubt wondering why we were all staring at him. He smiled awkwardly and scuttled over to the Chief Purser.
“We’re not late, are we?” Everybody’s eyes swivelled back to the doorway, where Louise was posing. Joel stood next to her, with an arrogant smile on his face; as well he might, because (of course) he looked gorgeous. Not that he had any effect on me any more, other than causing me to feel mildly irritated.
I’d expected them to come dressed in a couple’s costume - maybe as the world’s greatest lovers, like Maid Marian and Robin Hood, or Lancelot and Guinevere, or Donald Trump and his comb-over - but they weren’t, which led me to the conclusion again that this was a very new relationship. Joel was dressed in dark red trousers and a white military style tunic with gold piping and a gold sash; a regular Prince Charmless. Louise was draped in a long white sleeveless dress, with a gold belt and a large round metallic collar, both studded with gemstones in lapis blue. She wore a crown, a simple band around her head studded with more fake lapis lazuli. A long cape of the same deep turquoise blue hung down behind her, the ends attached to thick gold bangles at her wrists, so that it fanned out like wings as she stretched out her arms. Her eyes were outlined with thick black kohl.
“There’s never an asp when you need one, is there?” I muttered.
Louise went straight to her table and sat down, leaving Joel to get her a drink. He approached the bar, making for the exact spot I was standing in.
“Evening,” he said. “What have you come as?”
“Your mum,” I said. How could I always write great dialogue in my books yet be so rubbish at comebacks in real life? “What are you meant to be, the bell boy?”
“Prince Charming, actually.” He drew himself up, as if steeling himself against my reply. That surprised me. Surely he couldn’t really care what I said to him? Maybe he could. I cursed my complete inability to come up with a sarcastic comment to capitalise on this new knowledge, but there was nothing I could do.
“Don’t tell me - Liberace!” said Will, moving closer to grab another drink. I smirked. I could always rely on him.
Joel smiled thinly. “Yeah, something like that.” He picked up two glasses of champagne and turned away.
“Don’t hang around the lobby!” I called after him. “People will keep giving you luggage.”
“Ha ha,” he said, not turning around. Harvey held up a hand to me and we high-fived.
> Dinner began. The food was amazing, as it had been the night before, and I started to feel less miffed about not being able to try the other restaurants on board. Halfway through our main course we were interrupted by a burst of terrible music; some kind of awful gangster rap (the only music in the world I loathe), with an angry bloke shouting over the top:
Snitches, end up in ditches,
While the bitches, get all the riches…
“WHAT?!” cried the deaf fairy across the room, bewildered. Will and I smothered our giggles and the entire assembly of diners, staff and murder mystery players looked around as Zoé, blushing furiously, reached under her nun’s habit and pulled out her mobile phone.
“My ring tone,” she mumbled, looking incredibly embarrassed. I felt bad for her.
“That music is - interesting,” I said, trying to play it down and make a joke of it.
“My friend at work is always changing my ring tone for a laugh,” she said. “I don’t really like that sort of music…”
She fiddled with the phone and then tucked it back under her habit. The poor woman looked mortified. I patted her hand.
Between courses we wandered between tables, talking about the corpse in the library, and that led on to that old question: how do you get away with murder?
“Planning,” said Harvey firmly. “Lots of planning.” There was murmured agreement around the room.
“Oh, I don’t know…” I said. Louise scoffed.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “Of course you have to plan! You can’t just walk up to someone and bump ‘em off. You need an alibi.” Heather nodded reluctantly.
“Yes,” she said. “You need to get a murder weapon, then you need to know how to dispose of it, how to get in and out of his office without anyone seeing you, how to wipe the CCTV tapes, how to get rid of his body…” We all looked at her. She shrugged. “I can dream, can’t I?”
I laughed. “True. But I still think a crime of passion, an opportunist murder, can be easier to get away with. As long as you’re not a complete idiot.” I noticed Joel watching me closely and smiled evilly. “Obviously I’ve thought about how to kill someone… I’m talking from a writing perspective, of course. Will? What do you think?”
Will had just returned from the bar, bearing drinks for the two of us and Zoé.
“The problem with planning everything is, yes, you might be able to get rid of the body (for example), but if the police have even the slightest suspicion about you they will look at your bank statements, at CCTV footage around your home, they will track where your car and your mobile phone have been, and they will be able to prove that two days before the murder you went out and bought a machete and bleach and a very large suitcase, maybe some latex gloves… They will look at your search history and see that you Googled ‘remote woodland’ and looked up the place where the body was found. All of your planning is what will give you away.”
“Really?” Zoé looked fascinated. “But surely you’re more likely to get caught in the act, with an opportunist murder?” She was so caught up in the conversation that she absentmindedly picked up my drink, raised it to her mouth and then, realising it was my white wine, handed it to me with an “Oops! Sorry!” before reaching for her own orange juice. I smiled and discreetly put it back on the table, wishing I’d gone for a soft drink myself; I’d had too much wine already, and I didn’t think it would be a good look for one of the hosts to start throwing her arms around people and telling them she fancied a kebab.
Will thought about it (getting away with murder, not getting a kebab). “Not necessarily. The main thing is to not be seen, or if you are, to look like you should be there so no one really notices you. There have been several high profile crimes - burglary rather than murder - where the thieves walked straight in off the street in high vis jackets or uniforms, not making any attempt to sneak about, and everyone ignored them because they fitted in.”
Zoé looked thoughtful, and I wondered for a moment if she was planning to bump off her husband like Heather was. Nah, I thought. She was still at the broken hearted stage; she hadn’t got to red hot hatred and the desire for revenge yet.
“The other thing about planning,” said Will, “is that all the other people you’ve factored in won’t necessarily act the way you expect them to.” He smiled meaningfully at Heather. “So the guard at the reception desk might normally slope off for a coffee at 10.30 every morning, leaving the desk unmanned long enough for you to sneak in, but what happens if he gets stuck in traffic that day and is late, so he doesn’t go for his coffee? What happens if he’s done someone a favour and they get him one, so he doesn’t have to leave the desk? Then how do you get in?”
“You need to be able to think on your feet,” I said, and Will nodded.
We had dessert (Death by Chocolate, of course), then the Chief Purser announced a game; the one where you have a name on a Post It note stuck to your forehead, and you have to walk around asking everyone questions until you work out who you are. I walked around asking the usual questions - am I male or female? What colour is my hair? If I was a biscuit, would I be a Jammie Dodger or a Hobnob? - and it was all going well (I was convinced I was either Oprah Winfrey or the Pope at one point, but then I was quite drunk, despite leaving my wine untouched and starting on sparkling water), until I ran almost literally into Louise.
She did not look well. She was even paler than usual (native Mancunians aren’t naturally tanned) and staggering around. I took her arm to stop her falling over and guided her into a chair.
“I’m fine, I’m fine…” she said, but she clearly wasn’t. I looked around for Joel but he was talking to Harvey and Michael.
“You are not fine,” I said. “You need to call it a night. Where’s your cabin?”
“It’s just along the corridor,” she slurred, and I remembered that some of the suites were on the same level as this private dining room. She struggled to her feet, but she was swaying so badly that there was no way she would make it back on her own. I looked around for Karl, who had been helping out behind the bar, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sylvia was chatting with the Chief Purser, while Will was with the suspiciously innocent couple; he’d told me he was keeping an eye on them, because he was convinced they were the murderers. I sighed; it looked like I was escorting Louise back to her cabin.
I draped her arm around my shoulder and hauled her up.
“What are you doing?” Zoé was by my side in an instant, making me jump. I told her what I intended to do. “You can’t go, you’re one of the guests of honour,” she said. She gestured to another steward I didn’t know, who was lurking nearby. “We’ll do it. You stay here.”
The steward - a good looking blonde guy of about 30 - came over and helped pick up Louise without a word. I looked at them and grabbed Zoé’s arm before they left.
“Be discreet,” I said. She raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want this ending up on Twitter. No matter how much I dislike her.” Zoé looked at me, then smiled.
“Okay.” She turned and began to drag Louise out. I just hoped our mystery photographer wasn’t lurking under a nearby table.
Chapter 8
It took Joel about ten minutes to realise his lover had unceremoniously disappeared. He asked around, but Zoé had in fact been discreet enough to ensure that no one else knew where she’d gone. Eventually he approached me, sheepishly.
“Have you seen Louise?” he asked. I pondered for a moment.
“Tall skinny irritating woman, with a voice like Geoffrey Boycott on helium and an ego the size of Old Trafford? Yeah, I seen her…” He looked at me, exasperated, and I relented. “She’s not well, Zoé took her back to her cabin. Maybe you should go and check on her. I’m sure you know where it is.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I know where it is. It’s not as big as mine.”
“That figures,” I said, dismissively. We stood awkwardly for a moment. Then -
“Louise bloody Meyers thou
gh - ” “I’m sorry about Twitter - ”
I smiled thinly. “It was you who leaked the photos, then?”
“No! I don’t know who it was…” He didn’t look convincing, and to his credit he realised it. “I don’t know, but it might have been Louise. If I’d known she was going to do it I’d have stopped her.”
“You think she’d have listened to you?” I asked sceptically. He grinned.
“Not a bloody chance. But I should go and check on her.”
Five minutes later Joel and Zoé returned, chatting amicably. I looked over and she gave me a thumbs up, which I took to mean Louise had been safely delivered to her room and was sleeping it off.
I turned back to the game where Will had just worked out that he was Barak Obama, as the lights went out. I grabbed his arm and he whispered in my ear.
“Here we go…”
There was a commotion in the darkness - it was pitch black - and a sudden brief flash of light - no more than a sliver - appeared somewhere to the side of the room. Was it the door opening, somebody slipping outside? But that was on the other side of the room, wasn’t it? There were the sounds of a scuffle and chairs being knocked over, and a surprisingly authentic cry of fear, then a few muffled laughs. It was difficult to take it seriously, but the Chief Purser rallied magnificently.
“It’s okay, everybody!” she called, “Just stay where you are, and the lights will be back on in a minute.”
From nearby came a familiar noise -
Snitches, end up in ditches,
While the bitches, get all the riches.
- followed by a loud -
“WHAT?!”
Everyone laughed, the mood completely ruined. I could almost see Zoé’s red cheeks glowing in the darkness. The phone shut off abruptly but she didn’t speak and I felt bad for her; she must be so embarrassed.