The Woman in Cabin 10 (11 page)

“I’m looking for a girl,” I said, knowing I was being abrupt, but too shaken to be more polite. “Dark-haired, about my age or a bit younger. Pretty, with pale skin. She didn’t have an accent—she was either English or completely bilingual.”

“I’m sorry,” Jansson said regretfully, and he did look sorry. “I don’t think any of my staff fit that description, though you are welcome to take a walk around and see if any of them are the girl you are looking for. I have only two female staff members and neither speak very good English. Jameela is over by the serving hatch, and Ingrid is on salads, behind the grill station there. But neither of them fit your description. Perhaps one of the stewards or waiting staff?”

I craned my head to see the two women he indicated, and saw that he was right. Neither was remotely like the girl I’d seen. Although she had her head bowed and her body hunched away from me, I was certain that Jameela was the Asian woman I’d seen in the cabin as we came down. She was Pakistani or Bangladeshi, I thought—and absolutely tiny, probably not even five feet tall. Ingrid, on the other hand, was Scandinavian and at least two hundred pounds, plus she had a good six inches on me. As I looked at her she put her hands on her hips, squaring up to me almost aggressively, although I knew it was unfair to think that—it was her height that made the gesture seem threatening.

“Never mind,” I said. “Sorry for disturbing you.”

“
Tack
, Otto,” Nilsson said, and then made a joke in Swedish that set Otto laughing. He patted Nilsson on the back and said something that made Nilsson guffaw in return, a great belly laugh that set his stomach shaking. He raised his hand to the rest of the crew. “
Hejdå!
” he called, and then ushered me out into the corridor.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said over his shoulder, as he led the way towards the stairs. “The official language of the boat is English and it’s policy that we don’t speak other languages in front of our English guests, but I thought under the circumstances . . .” He trailed off and I nodded.

“It’s fine. Better that everyone was comfortable and understood what they were being asked properly.”

We were passing the crew’s cabins again, and as we passed the few open doors I glanced in, shocked afresh at the dinginess of the cramped quarters. I couldn’t imagine spending week after week, month after month, in the windowless confines. Perhaps Nilsson felt my silence at his back, for he spoke again.

“They’re a little small, aren’t they? But there’s only a dozen or so staff on the boat, excluding the sailing crew, so we don’t need much space. And I can tell you, they are better than much of the accommodation on rival ships.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was not that it was the space itself that shocked but the contrast with the light, airy rooms above. In truth the rooms were no worse than plenty of cross-channel ferries I’d traveled on; in fact they were more spacious than some. But it was the graphic illustration of the gap between the haves and have-nots that was upsetting, a modern upstairs-downstairs in action.

“Does everyone share?” I asked, as we passed a darkened cabin where someone was getting dressed with the door ajar, while their bunkmate snored. Nilsson shook his head.

“The junior staff share cabins, the cleaners and the younger stewards and so on, but all the senior staff have their own.”

We had reached the staircase that led to the upper deck and I made my way slowly up, following Nilsson’s wide back, and holding on to the grab rails as the ship heaved and tipped. Nilsson opened the dividing door that separated the guest part of the ship from the workers and then turned to me, as he shut the door behind us both.

“I’m sorry that did not work out so well,” he said. “I had hoped that one of the girls would be the woman you saw, and put your mind at rest.”

“Look . . .” I rubbed my face, feeling the roughness of the healing scar on my cheek, and the pressure headache that was beginning to build. “Look, I’m not sure—”

“Let’s press on and speak to Eva,” Nilsson said firmly. And he turned and led the way along the corridor towards yet another set of stairs.

The ship heaved itself up another crest, and down in the trough, and I swallowed against the gush of spit in my mouth and felt the cold clamminess of sweat on my spine, beneath my shirt. For a moment I almost considered ducking back to my cabin. It wasn’t only my head—I had work to do—I still had to finish reading the press pack, and I needed to make a start on the piece Rowan would be expecting when I got back. I was horribly conscious that Ben, Tina, Alexander, and all the others were probably already making notes, filing pieces, googling Bullmer, and sorting out press shots.

But then I steeled myself. If I wanted Nilsson to take me seriously I had to go through with this. And as much as I wanted to climb the ladder at
Velocity
, some things were more important.

W
e found Eva in the spa reception, which was a beautiful, tranquil room on the upper deck, almost all glass, with long curtains that floated in the cool breeze from the open door. The glass walls looked out onto the deck, the light almost searingly bright after the beige warren of dimly lit rooms below decks.

A striking dark-haired woman in her forties with wide gold hoops in her ears looked up as Nilsson and I entered.

“Johann!” she said pleasantly. “What can I do for you? And this must be . . . ?”

“Lo Blacklock,” I said, holding out my hand. I felt instantly better out of the claustrophobic confines of the staff quarters, the clammy nausea retreating in the sea breeze.

“Good morning, Ms. Blacklock,” she said, smiling. I shook her hand, her grip firm, her fingers bony but strong. Her English was astonishingly good—almost as good as the girl in the cabin’s had been, but it wasn’t her. She was much too old, her carefully moisturized skin still betraying that slight weathering of a complexion that had seen a little too much sun. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was looking for someone, and the girls below decks suggested it might be you, but it’s not.”

“Miss Blacklock saw a woman last night,” Nilsson put in. “In the cabin next to hers. She was in her twenties, with long dark hair and pale skin. Miss Blacklock heard some noises that made her concerned, and we were trying to ascertain if it was a member of staff.”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t me,” Eva said, but quite kindly. There was no trace of the slightly tribal defensiveness the girls downstairs had betrayed. She gave a little laugh. “If I’m being honest, it’s a long time since I was in my twenties. Have you spoken to the stewardesses? Hanni and Birgitta both have dark hair and are around that age. And so does Ulla.”

“Yes, we’ve spoken to them,” Nilsson said. “And we’re on our way to see Ulla now.”

“She’s not in any trouble,” I said. “The woman, I mean. I’m worried for her. If you can think of anyone it might be . . .”

“I’m sorry not to be able to help,” Eva said. She spoke directly to me, and she did look sorry, the most genuinely concerned of any of the people I had spoken to so far. There was a little frown between her beautifully plucked brows. “I really am. If I hear anything . . .”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Thanks, Eva,” Nilsson repeated, and turned to go.

“You’re welcome,” Eva said. She walked us to the door. “I look forward to seeing you later, Ms. Blacklock.”

“Later?”

“At eleven a.m. It is the ladies’ spa experience—in your press schedule?”

“Thanks,” I said. “See you then.” And as I turned to leave I thought, guiltily, of the unread pages of the press pack back in my cabin, and wondered what else I might have missed.

W
e left the spa via the exit to the deck, and as the door swung back, it was wrenched out of my hand by the strong breeze, banging sharply against a rubber stand put there for the purpose. Nilsson closed it behind me, and I moved to the ship’s rail, shivering in the wind.

“Are you cold?” Nilsson shouted, above the roar of the wind and the noise of the engines. I shook my head.

“No, I mean, yes, I am, but I need the fresh air.”

“Are you still feeling unwell?”

“Not out here. But my head’s aching.”

I stood, holding on to the cold painted iron of the railing, and leaned out, looking down, past the glass-walled balconies of the cabins aft, down at the creaming waves at the ship’s wake, and the great dark expanse farther out, unimaginably deep and cold. I thought of the fathoms and fathoms of swirling blackness beneath us, of the darkness and silence below, and how something—someone—might fall for days through those black depths, to rest at last on a lightless seabed.

I thought of the girl the night before, how easy it would be for someone—Nilsson, Eva, anyone—to just walk up behind me, give me a gentle push . . .

I shuddered.

What
had
happened? I couldn’t have imagined it. The scream, and the splash maybe. But not the blood. I couldn’t have imagined that.

I took a huge lungful of the clean North Sea air, turned around, and smiled determinedly at Nilsson, shaking my hair back, where the wind had whipped it across my face.

“So whereabouts are we?”

“International waters,” Nilsson said. “On our way to Trondheim, I believe.”

“Trondheim?” I tried to think back to the bits of the press pack I’d actually read. “I thought we were going to Bergen first.”

“A change of plan, perhaps. I know that Lord Bullmer is very much hoping that you will all get a glimpse of the northern lights. Perhaps there are particularly good conditions tonight so he wanted to hasten north. Or it might have been a suggestion of the captain; there may be climatic reasons why it’s better to do the trip that way round. We have no fixed itinerary. We are very much able to cater to the whims of our passengers. It may be that someone at dinner last night was particularly anxious to see Trondheim.”

“What’s in Trondheim?”

“Trondheim itself? Well, there is a famous cathedral. And parts of the city are very attractive. But it’s mainly the fjords. That and the fact that the city is of course much farther north than Bergen, so there’s a better chance of seeing the aurora. But it might be that we have to go farther north still, to Bodø or even Tromsø. At this time of year, it’s still uncertain.”

“I see.” For some reason his words unsettled me. It was one thing to feel yourself part of an organized, itinerized trip. It was quite another to realize you were a helpless passenger with someone else at the wheel.

“Miss Blacklock—”

“Call me Lo,” I interrupted. “Please.”

“Lo, then.” Nilsson’s broad, comfortable face looked pained, something troubled in his teddy-bear expression. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t believe you, Lo, but in the cold light of day—”

“Am I still sure?” I finished. He nodded. I sighed, a little unhappily, thinking back to my doubts of the night before and the way Nilsson’s unspoken question echoed the unpleasant little nagging voice at the back of my skull. I twisted my fingers in the cloth of my top before I spoke. “The truth is, I don’t know. It was late, and you’re right, I had been drinking—I could have been mistaken about the scream and the splash. Even the blood—I guess it
could
have been a trick of the light, although I’m pretty sure of what I saw. But the woman in the cabin—there’s no way I could have imagined her. I just couldn’t. I
saw
her, I
spoke
to her. If she’s not here—not on the ship, I mean—then where is she?”

There was a long silence.

“Well, we haven’t spoken to Ulla,” he said at last. “From your description, I’m not sure it’s her, but we should rule it out at least.” He drew out his staff radio and began tapping at the buttons. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a coffee, so perhaps we could ask her to meet us in the passenger dining room.”

T
he breakfast room was the same room we had eaten dinner in last night, but the two large tables had been broken up into half a dozen smaller ones, and when Nilsson pushed open the door, no one was there apart from a young waiter with corn-colored hair swept into a side parting. He came forward to greet me with a smile.

“Miss Blacklock? Are you ready for breakfast?”

“Yes, please,” I said vaguely, looking around the room. “Where should I sit?”

“Anywhere you like.” He waved a hand at the empty tables. “Most of the other guests have chosen to breakfast in their cabins. Perhaps by the window? Can I bring you tea, coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” I said. “Milk, no sugar.”

“And a cup for me, please, Bjorn,” Nilsson said. And then, over Bjorn’s shoulder, “Ah, hello, Ulla.”

I turned to see a stunningly beautiful girl with a heavy black bun walking across the dining room to our table.

“Hello, Johann,” she said. Her singsong accent clinched the matter, but I was sure, even before she spoke, that she wasn’t the girl in the cabin. She was singularly beautiful, her skin against her black hair as white and clear as porcelain. The girl in the cabin had been vividly good-looking, but not that delicate, classical loveliness, like a Renaissance painting. Also Ulla must have been nearly six feet. The girl in the cabin had been around my height, nowhere near Ulla’s. Nilsson gave me a questioning look, but I shook my head.

Bjorn returned with two cups on a tray and a menu for me, and Nilsson cleared his throat.

“Won’t you have a cup with us, Ulla?”

“Thank you,” she said, shaking her head so that her heavy bun swayed at the nape of her neck. “I’ve had breakfast already today, but I’ll sit for a moment.”

She slipped onto a chair opposite and looked at us both, smiling expectantly. Nilsson coughed again.

“Miss Blacklock, this is Ulla. She’s the stewardess for the forward cabins, so the Bullmers, the Jenssens, Cole Lederer, and Owen White. Ulla, Miss Blacklock is looking for a girl who she saw yesterday and is anxious to trace. She’s not on the passenger list, so we are thinking she may be a member of staff, but we have had no luck in finding her. Miss Blacklock, do you want to describe the girl you saw?”