Cold Pressed (2 page)

Maggie eyed the pinkish gloopy substance, the consistency of
tapioca. "I might when I’ve finished my egg. Not all the other passengers
are that bad. Mr and Mrs Emerson are pleasant enough. And that language fella,
when he pokes his head out of his shell, can be entertaining on occasion."

She bit into her egg and absorbed the panorama, assessing
photographic compositions with professional enthusiasm and an amateur eye.
Rose's cornflower-print dress seemed to complement the colours, but looked
incongruous amongst the scrubby flora of a Greek hillside. Her straw hat shaded
her eyes and the 1950s sunglasses hid her expression. But Maggie could tell
perfectly well Rose’s eyes were smiling.

"Mrs Make-The-Best-Of-It is at it again.” Despite her
best efforts, Rose couldn’t quite manage to make her voice sound stern. “You
and I both know that a cruise is not our sort of holiday. We're trapped on a
tub with people we'd actively avoid in everyday circumstances, fed at regular
intervals and provided with something laughably called entertainment. On
reaching dry land, we're dragged around a historic site in an air-conditioned
coach, often sitting directly behind an incontinent nonagenarian and only let
out for a three-minute photo opportunity. Maggie, I'm not being ungrateful and
I'm happy to try anything once, but can we agree that despite our advancing
years, we are still women of independent minds?"

Maggie wiped her fingers and picked up the camera as she
considered her response. She caught several shots of the bay, zoomed in on a
yacht then turned to her left to see what compositions the harbour might yield.
Low white houses tumbled in Lego formation towards the sea, but the ridge hid
all the port activity from view. In the distance, impossible to overlook, lay
the
Empress Louise
, docked at the distant ferry port. She shook her head
at the breathtaking scale of the thing. How something so vast could float
around the world, operating with unfailing efficiency, still awed her.

She rounded on Rose with more theatre than passion. “How
many years have we been holidaying together? Don’t answer that, I can’t
remember either. How many of those holidays would have been anywhere but
Brittany, Cornwall and Ireland, had it been left to you?”

Rose sniffed. “I have one word to say to you – Tenerife.”

“Agreed.” Maggie swallowed some iced tea. “A mistake you’ll
never let me forget. Neither will I let you forget the time we sailed along the
Dalmatian Coast. Or the whales we saw in the Azores. Or that funny little place
at the top of Capri.”

 “Yes, yes, I can see what you’re doing. Sea, boats,
adventures and some exceptional memories. This is not the same. In Croatia, we
went off the beaten track. We made our own discoveries. Took our own stupid
risks. A cruise ship offers no opportunity for... well, no opportunity for
individuality. Yes, I admit I’m too old for camel-trekking, but holidays are
supposed to make me feel younger than I am. This cruise makes me feel
decrepit.”

"You're being a snob, Rose. I'm sorry, but you are. As
soon as I mentioned the C-word, you got all superior and made your mind up you
would hate it. Well, I'm enjoying myself. I find the other passengers a
curiosity and the only thing spoiling my fun is your moaning. So stick that in
your pipe and smoke it."

Rose made a point of swivelling her entire torso towards
Maggie. A hard stare, no doubt. Maggie kept her eye glued to the lens. She retracted
the zoom from the ship to the sliver of bay visible below.

"And you're not being precisely the opposite? Dazzled
by a 1920s mirage of charming bejewelled society folk doing the Charleston in
the ballroom. Whereas the reality is bingo, aquarobics, whatever they are,
dubious tribute bands and a desperate crowd of blue-rinsers colluding in the
myth that... what are you looking at?"

Maggie didn't answer, twisting the magnification so she
could pick out more detail in the middle distance. The vantage point, halfway
up the cliff and beloved of coach parties, was empty. All the tourists had
left, heading for the town's many restaurants for lunch. But one had come
adrift.

An elderly lady wandered along the cliff path towards the
car park. Her movements were irregular and she seemed disorientated or
suffering from the heat. Maggie sat up straighter. They could scramble down
there in minutes and help the poor old dear.

"Maggie? What is it? You look like a meerkat. Maggie
Campbell, I’m talking to you!"

"There's someone down there. An old lady. I can't be
sure at this distance, but it looks like one of the Hirondelles."

"I doubt it. Their coach passed us on our way up, so by
now they've been herded into a local taverna to be force-fed moussaka. Why do
you say it’s one of them?"

"Same outfit. Blue blazer, white skirt, you know.
Whoever it is, she looks distressed. We should help."

"Let me see. Where are the binoculars?"

Below, a second figure appeared and strode across the car
park, heading towards the pensioner. He wore the classic white and blue-trimmed
uniform of the ship's crew and reached out a hand to the woman.

"It's all right. One of the crew has found her. You'd
think they'd do a head count before driving off. She shouldn't be wandering
around alone at her age. He needs to get her out of the sun."

The pair were walking slowly back in the direction of the
car park.

"Are you done, Maggie? Only I'll cover this lot up, I
think."

Maggie took her attention from the camera to see Rose wave a
hand at the abandoned tomato salad, shooing away flies which immediately
resettled elsewhere on the picnic.

"Yes, best had." Maggie returned her attention to
the couple in the distance, who had stopped to look out over the cliff.

The man was pointing along the coast, in the direction of
the
Empress Louise
. While the little woman faced the ocean, he turned,
apparently scanning the path in both directions.

"He should take her back and stop messing about; you
can see she's had too much sun. Very irresponsible."

"Enough of your rubber-necking and help me put this lot
away. Then I suggest a ten-minute snooze to aid the digestion." Plastic
lids snapped and greaseproof paper rustled, but Maggie's gaze was fixed on the
brilliantly white path and the mismatched pair facing the sea. As she watched,
the man lifted the woman, scooping one arm under her knees and bringing the
other up to catch her shoulders. A gesture almost playful in its gallantry. He
stood that way for several seconds, holding her in his arms as he glanced
behind him once again. Then he swung her backwards and with all his force
forwards, releasing her frail form out over the cliff.

The woman fell in silence, with a few jerky movements like a
puppet. The man remained at the cliff edge. Then, as if hearing some inaudible
starter gun, he ran towards the car park and disappeared from sight.

Maggie sat frozen, her mind an uncomprehending loop.
I
just saw... I couldn’t have seen... he didn’t... he did...
A sound like a
chainsaw ripped through the silence and broke her petrifaction. Too late, she
pressed the shutter and burst into tears.

Chapter 3

Nikos Stephanakis had wet trousers. The police
speedboat had made a sharp turn as they approached the port of Athinos, hitting
a wave broadside and spraying the solitary passenger down his left leg. Nikos
gritted his teeth and pulled out his handkerchief. The irony was that if he'd
still been in uniform, it wouldn't have shown. Wet black trousers look the same
as dry black trousers. But his casual chinos were now beige on one leg and brown
on the other. Could have been worse. At least it wasn't his crotch.

He got to his feet, hoping the sun and wind would hasten the
drying process, but the boat had already begun to slow as they entered the
harbour. And there, dwarfing every other vessel, loomed the
Empress Louise
.
His eyes ranged across the expanse of white, drawn up and up towards the
bridge. He squinted into the brightness, despite his police sunglasses. The
speedboat drew closer and Nikos couldn't help but be impressed by the scale of
the thing. A floating skyscraper. As the police boat nosed up to the quay, the
liner's shadow fell over them. Nikos couldn't even see the top deck without
craning his neck back as far as it would go.

In all the time he'd been with the Hellenic Police, he'd
never actually set foot on one of these. He saw them every day, moored out in
the bay, or like this one, a leviathan docked at the quayside. Like everyone
else, he disguised his curiosity as contempt. Now, for his first assignment, he
was entitled to board this sparkling, bustling world and ask all the questions
he'd ever wanted.

A uniformed crew member checked his ID and motioned him up
the gangway, with the assurance that someone would meet him at the top. A group
of older women passed him on his way up. Some smiled, some greeted him with a
quavering 'Good morning'. He responded in kind and for the first time, his
enthusiasm for the case and his new role faltered. English. Ninety percent of
the passengers were from the UK, and with an international crew the lingua
franca could only be English. After two years living with a native speaker, his
English was fluent and comfortable in the bar or when advising victims of petty
crime. But at murder enquiry level? He sent a quick prayer to the Virgin –
please let none of them be from Scotland.

When he and his guide arrived at the bridge after a
long and confusing journey through the ship, the captain was on the phone. The
huge room, which resembled an air traffic control centre, hummed with activity.
Like a small boy, Nikos gazed around him, itching to ask questions about the
consoles, screens and various items of equipment. The captain finished his
phone call and swivelled his chair to face them.

"Captain Jensson, this is Inspector Stephanakis from
the Hellenic Police, Cretan Region."

Nikos held out his hand to the huge Swede as he rose to his
feet. The man was easily two metres tall, and to Nikos's surprise, wore no
uniform cap or traditional captain’s beard.

"Good morning, Inspector, and thank you for coming. I'm
sorry to drag you all the way from Heraklion, but under the circumstances, I
had no choice. Please, come through and I can bring you up to date."

Nikos smiled. So far, the captain’s slow, clear English
posed no problems. Maybe the language was nothing to worry about after all. He
followed the man into an inner office with a desk, leather chairs and an
old-fashioned globe. Sunken spotlights cast pools of warm light around the room
and vast windows afforded a panoramic view out to sea. A delicate scent emanated
from a vase of lilies standing on a column by the door.

"Rough trip?" asked the captain, with a glance at
Nikos’s trousers. "Would you like some tea?"

"Bad driver. Yes, please. No milk." The small talk
came automatically, but details of sudden death were a different matter.

Nikos opened his briefcase and withdrew the file as Jensson
spoke into the intercom to order refreshments. Behind the captain's head hung a
beautiful antique map, showing the two hemispheres surrounded by angels and
exotic birds, with golden lettering in Latin. He soaked it all in, recalling
his own grey office, with its strip lighting and plastic chairs, perfumed by
coffee breath and sweaty shirts.

“So Inspector Stephanakis, how should we begin?”

"Can we start with the deceased? What can you tell
me?"

"Esther Crawford, from Shaftesbury in Wiltshire,
England. She was eighty years old. I don't know all our guests’ ages with such
precision, but she celebrated her birthday on our first day at sea. Part of a
group called the Hirondelles, who apparently holiday together every year. She
seemed very pleasant, and certainly active for her age."

"And the fall?"

"The ladies joined a tour of the island this morning.
We offer a variety of excursions and they opted, as a group, for the pottery
and sightseeing. It seems Ms Crawford became separated from the others and
either fell, or according to one witness, was thrown from a cliff."

A knock at the door signalled a crisply dressed steward, who
placed a tea tray on the desk, complete with an assortment of biscuits. Jensson
waited until he had left before continuing.

"Your job will be to establish which of those it
was." He rotated the teapot and poured the honey-coloured liquid into the
first cup.

"Of course. Can I ask your opinion? Do you think it possible
that someone threw her?"

Jensson stopped pouring and looked directly at Nikos.
"No. I think it was a sad accident. The ladies who claim they saw a murder
are a little over-imaginative. Not to influence your investigation at all, but
I think it unlikely they can be sure of what happened. The distance, their
age... to be honest, Inspector, I think we're wasting your time. But I am
forced to take them seriously and report their statement. It's unfortunate, as
I say. But having captained twelve of these cruises – this is my thirteenth – I
notice old people have a tendency to die. Few as spectacularly as Mrs Crawford,
thankfully."

Nikos took the tea from the captain. An unusual perfume
wafted from the cup, but the taste was delicate. He took the opportunity of a
pause to formulate his next question.

“Your thirteenth cruise? So you are not superstitious?”

Jensson shook his head. “Like most modern sailors, I believe
there’s no room for superstition at sea. Having said that, many of our
passengers and certain elements of the crew feel differently. So it’s a piece
of information I have not made public. To all intents and purposes, this is my
twelfth. For the second time.”

"I understand. This morning’s excursion – were there
any men on the trip?"