The Woman in Cabin 10 (17 page)

“Oh, hello, Belhomme,” Ben said smoothly. He didn’t seem at all put out. “We were just talking about you.”

“So I heard.” Alexander drew level with us, panting slightly. Ben was right, I realized. The smallest exertion set him gasping breathlessly. “All good, I hope?”

“Of course,” Ben said. “We were just discussing dinner tonight. Lo was saying how knowledgeable you were about food.”

For a minute I couldn’t think of anything to say, stunned by how good a liar Ben had become since we were together. Or had he always been such a slick deceiver and I’d just never noticed?

Then I realized both Ben and Alexander were waiting for me to speak, and I stammered, “Oh, yes, remember, Alexander? You were telling me about fugu.”

“Of course.
Such
a thrill. I do think it’s one’s responsibility to wring every
ounce
of sensation out of life, don’t you? Otherwise, without that, it’s just a short, nasty, and brutal interlude until death.”

He gave a broad, slightly crocodile-like smile, and hoisted something beneath his arm. It was a book; a volume of Patricia Highsmith, I saw.

“Where are you off to?” Ben asked casually. “We’ve got a few hours free until dinner now, I think.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Alexander said confidentially. “But this color isn’t
entirely
natural.” He touched his—now that he mentioned it—rather walnut-colored cheek. “So I’m off to the spa for a little touch-up. My wife always says I look better with a color.”

“I didn’t know you were married,” I said, hoping my surprise wasn’t too evident in my voice. Alexander nodded.

“For my sins. Thirty-eight years this year. You get less for murder, I’m led to believe!”

He gave a slightly grating laugh, and I inwardly cringed. If he hadn’t heard what we were saying earlier, it was an odd remark. If he
had
heard, then it was in very poor taste indeed.

“Have a nice time in the spa,” I said at last, lamely. He smiled again.

“I will. See you at dinner!”

He was turning to go when I spoke, suddenly, compelled by an impetus I couldn’t quite dissect.

“Wait, Alexander—”

He turned, one eyebrow raised. I felt my courage falter, but I carried on.

“I—this is going to sound a little strange, but I heard some noises last night, coming from cabin ten, the one at the end of the ship. It’s supposed to be empty but there was a woman in it yesterday—only now we can’t track her down. Did you see or hear anything last night? A splash? Any other noise? Ben said you were up.”

“I was
indeed
up,” Alexander said dryly. “I have trouble sleeping—you do, you know, when you get to my age, and a new bed always makes the matter worse. So I slipped up on deck for a little midnight walkies. And on my way there and back I saw quite a few comings and goings. Our dear friend Tina had a little visit from our
very
attentive cabin crew. And that dishy Mr. Lederer was prowling round here at one stage. I don’t know
what
he was doing out of bounds. His cabin is at quite the other end of the ship. I did wonder if he might have been coming to see you . . . ?”

He cocked an eyebrow at me and I blushed furiously.

“No, definitely not. Could he have been going into cabin ten?”

“I didn’t see,” Alexander said regretfully. “I just caught a glimpse of him rounding the corner. On his way back to his cabin to establish an alibi for his crimes, perhaps?”

“What time did you see all this?” Ben asked. Alexander pursed his lips, thinking.

“Hmm . . . it must have been around four or four thirty, I think.”

I exchanged a glance with Ben. I had been woken up at 3:04. That meant that the sighting of Josef at four a.m. probably ruled out Tina—presumably he had been in her cabin all night. But Cole . . . what reason could he possibly have for being down at this end of the ship?

I thought again of his huge case of equipment being bumped up the gangway.

“And who was the woman I saw coming out of
your
cabin?” Alexander said, rather slyly, looking at Ben. Ben blinked.

“Sorry? Are you sure you have the right cabin?”

“Number eight, isn’t that right?”

“That’s mine”—Ben gave an uneasy laugh—“but I can assure you no one was in my cabin apart from me.”

“Is that so?” Alexander raised his eyebrow again, and then chuckled. “Well, if you say so. It
was
dark. Perhaps I mistook the cabin.” He hoisted his book under his arm again. “Well, if you have no further questions, my dears?”

“N-no . . .” I said, slightly reluctantly. “At least, not now. May I come and find you if I think of anything else?”

“Of course. In that case, adieu until dinner, when I shall emerge bronzed as a young Adonis, and basted as a Christmas turkey. Toodle pip . . .”

He puffed away, up the corridor. Ben and I watched as he rounded the corner.

“He’s the full package, isn’t he?” Ben said when he’d disappeared.

“He’s—he’s just so full-on. Do you think that character is all an act? Or is he really like that twenty-four/seven?”

“I have no idea. I suspect it started out as a bit of a pose, but it’s become second nature now.”

“And his wife—have you ever met her?”

“No. But apparently she really exists. She’s supposedly something of a dragon—daughter of a German count, and apparently quite the beauty in her day. They’ve got this incredible house in South Kensington, it’s full of original artworks—Rubens and Titians, utterly unbelievable stuff. It was featured in
Hello!
a while back and there were all these rumors that they were actually looted Nazi stuff and they got a tap on the shoulder from the IFAR, but I think that’s bollocks.”

“I can’t work out whether he said anything useful.” I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to scrub away the weariness that was starting to settle over me like a black cloud. “That stuff about Cole, that was weird, right?”

“Y-yes . . . I guess. But if it was around four, does that really help? And, to be honest, I’m starting to think that he’s maybe just making stuff up for effect. That thing about me having a girl in my cabin was pure bollocks. You
do
believe that, right?”

“I—” I felt a lump rise in my throat. I was so tired. I was
so
tired. But I couldn’t rest. Jesus, so much for this trip being the making of my career. If I carried on causing trouble like this I could end up with an address book full of enemies, not contacts. “Yes, of course,” I managed. Ben looked at me, as if trying to gauge whether I was telling the truth.

“Good,” he said at last. “Because, I swear, there was no one in my cabin. Unless someone got in while I was out, of course.”

“Do you think he heard us?” I asked, more to change the subject than because I wanted to know. “Before, I mean. The way he came round that corner—you wouldn’t think someone so big could creep up on you like that.”

Ben shrugged.

“I doubt it. I don’t think he’s the type to hold a grudge, anyway.”

I said nothing, but inwardly I wasn’t sure I agreed. Alexander struck me as
exactly
the type to hold a grudge, and enjoy holding it, too.

“What do you want to do now?” Ben asked. “Want me to come with you to find Bullmer?”

I shook my head. I needed to go back to my cabin, get some food inside me. And besides, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted Ben to come with me to see Lord Bullmer.

- CHAPTER 19 -

T
he door to my cabin was locked, but inside an open sandwich was resting on a room service tray on the dressing table, alongside a bottle of mineral water. It had been there some time, judging by the runnels of condensation on the side.

I wasn’t hungry, but I’d had nothing since breakfast, and most of that I’d thrown up, so I sat and forced myself to eat it. It was prawn and hard-boiled egg on heavy rye bread, and as I chewed it, I watched the sea rise and fall outside the window, its ceaseless movement echoing the restless thoughts that were running around inside my head.

Cole, Alexander, and Archer had actually been in the same room as that girl—I was almost sure of it. Her face had been turned away from the camera, and it was hard for me to remember the brief flash of features I’d seen through the open cabin door yesterday, but the jolt of recognition I had felt when I saw the picture had been like an electric shock—I
had
to hang on to that certainty.

Archer at least had an alibi—but I was beginning to realize that it was one that rested entirely on Ben’s evidence, and that he had his own reasons for wanting that room to be secure. And no matter how you spun it, he had deliberately lied to me. If it hadn’t been for Cole’s chance remark, I would never have known that Ben himself had left the cabin.

But Ben.
Ben?
Surely not. If I could trust anyone on board this boat it
had
to be him, right?

I wasn’t sure anymore.

I swallowed the final crust of bread, wiped my fingers on the napkin, and stood, feeling the rock and sway of the boat beneath me. While I’d eaten, a sea mist had crept in, and the room had become darker, so I switched on the light before checking my phone. There was nothing there—nothing from Judah, either. I refreshed, hoping without hope for an e-mail from someone, anyone. I didn’t dare think about Judah—about what his silence meant.

When the
CONNECTION FAILED
notification came up, I felt a shift in my stomach that was mingled fear and relief. Relief because it meant that perhaps, just perhaps, Judah had been trying to contact me. That his silence didn’t mean what I feared it might.

But fear because the longer the Internet was down, the more I was starting to think that someone was deliberately trying to stop me from accessing the Web. And that was starting to make me feel very worried indeed.

T
he door to suite 1, Nobel, was the same anonymous white wood as the rest of the cabin doors, but you could tell from the fact that it was by itself in the prow of the boat, with a blank expanse of corridor stretching away behind us, that it must be something pretty special.

I knocked, cautiously. I’m not sure what I expected—Richard Bullmer, or perhaps even a maid, neither would have surprised me. But I was thrown completely when the door opened and Anne Bullmer was standing there.

She had clearly been crying, her dark eyes rimmed with red and circled with deep shadows, and there were traces still on her gaunt cheeks.

I blinked, completely losing the thread of the carefully prepared request I’d rehearsed in my head. Phrases skittered through my mind, each more inappropriate and impossible than the other:
Are you okay? What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do?

I said none of them, just gulped.

“Yes?” she said, with a touch of defiance. She brought up a corner of her silk robe and wiped at her eyes, and then put her chin up. “Can I help you?”

I swallowed again, and then said, “I, yes, I hope so. I’m sorry for intruding, you must be tired after the spa morning.”

“Not particularly,” she said, rather shortly. I bit my lip. Maybe referring to her illness hadn’t been tactful.

“I was actually hoping to speak to your husband.”

“Richard? He’s busy, I’m afraid. Is it something I can help with?”

“I—I don’t think so,” I said awkwardly, and then wondered whether to make my excuses and leave, or stay and explain. I felt bad disturbing her, but it seemed equally wrong to knock and then leave so abruptly. Part of my discomfort was the tears—pulling me in two directions, to go and leave her to her private grief, to stay and offer comfort. But it was also because I found her gaunt, smooth face so unsettling. She seemed so unassailable in every other way. To see someone like Anne Bullmer, so privileged, with every advantage that money could buy—the latest medicine, the best doctors and treatments available—to see her fighting for her life like this, before our very eyes, was almost unbearable.

I wanted to run away, but that knowledge forced me to stand my ground.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said. “Perhaps it can wait until later? Can I tell him what it’s about?”

“I . . .” I twisted my fingers together. What could I possibly say? There was no way I was spilling my suspicions to this frail, haunted-looking woman. “I— He promised me an interview,” I said, remembering his throwaway words after dinner. It was kind of half-true, after all. “He told me to come to the cabin this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Her face cleared. “I am sorry. He must have forgotten. I think he’s gone to the hot tub with Lars and a few others. Hopefully you can catch him at dinner.”

I had no intention of waiting that long, but I didn’t say that, just nodded.

“Am I— Will we see you at dinner?” I asked, and cringed at the way I was stumbling over my words.
For God’s sake. She’s ill, not a leper.
She nodded.

“I hope so. I’m feeling a little better today. I get very tired, but it seems like a capitulation to let my body win too often.”

“Are you still undergoing treatment?” I asked. She shook her head, the soft silk scarf around her skull rustling as she did.

“Not at the moment. I’ve finished my last round of chemotherapy, for the moment, anyway. I’ll undergo radiotherapy when we get back, and then I suppose we’ll see.”

“Well, best of luck,” I said, and then winced at the way the innocent remark seemed to make her survival into a kind of game of chance. “And, um, thanks,” I finished.

“No problem at all.”

She shut the door and I turned to walk back towards the stairs to the upper deck, feeling my face burn with a kind of shame.

I
had never been to the hot tub, but I knew where it should be—on the top deck above the Lindgren Lounge, just outside the spa. I made my way up the thickly carpeted stairs towards the restaurant deck, expecting that feeling of light and space that I’d had before—but I’d forgotten the sea mist. When I got to the door that opened onto the deck, a wall of gray greeted me behind the glass, blanketing the ship in its folds so you could barely see from one end of the deck to the other, giving a strange, muffled feeling.

The mist had brought a chill to the air, fogging the hairs on my arms with drizzle, and as I stood uncertainly in the lee of the doorway, shivering and trying to get my bearings, I heard the long, mournful boom of a fog horn.

The whiteness made everything seem unfamiliar, and it took me a few minutes to work out where the stairs to the top deck were, but eventually I realized they must be to my right, further up towards the prow of the boat. I couldn’t imagine anyone enjoying a Jacuzzi in this weather, and for a moment I wondered if Anne Bullmer had been mistaken. But as I rounded the glassed-in tip of the restaurant I heard laughter and looked up to see lights glowing in the mist above my head, coming from the deck above. Seemingly there were people mad enough to strip down, even in this cold.

I wished I’d brought a coat, but there was no sense going back for one, so I wrapped my arms around myself and climbed the slippery vertiginous steps to the upper deck, following the sound of voices and laughter.

There was a glass screen halfway along the deck, and when I slipped round it, there they were—Lars, Chloe, Richard Bullmer, and Cole, seated around the edge of the most enormous Jacuzzi I’d ever seen. It must have been eight or ten feet across, and they were leaning back against the sides, with just their shoulders and heads showing, the steam rising so densely from the bubbling water that it was hard for a moment to see who was in there.

“Miss Blacklock!” Richard Bullmer called heartily, his voice carrying easily above the roaring of the jets. “Have you recovered from last night?”

He stuck out a tanned, muscular arm, steaming and goose-bumped in the cold air, and I shook his dripping hand and then wrapped my arms back around myself, feeling the warmth of his grip fade immediately and the chill of the wind on my now-damp hands.

“Come for a dip?” Chloe asked with a laugh, waving an inviting hand at the rolling cauldron of bubbles.

“Thanks”—I shook my head, trying not to shudder—“but it’s a bit cold.”

“It’s warmer in here, I can tell you!” Bullmer gave a wink. “Hot Jacuzzi, cold shower”—he indicated an open-sided shower to one side of the Jacuzzi, a vast rainwater shower rose poised above the tray. There was no temperature control, just a steel push button with a blue center, and the sight made me shudder involuntarily—“and then straight into the sauna,” he finished, jerking a thumb at a wooden cabin tucked behind the glass screen. Craning my head round I could see a glass door streaming with condensation, and through the trickling runnels, the red glow of a brazier. “Then rinse and repeat as many times as your heart can stand it.”

“It’s not really my cup of tea,” I said awkwardly.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Cole said. He grinned, showing his pointed incisors. “I have to say, jumping out of the sauna into the cold shower was a pretty incredible experience. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?”

I flinched.

“Thanks, but I think I won’t.”

“Suit yourself.” Chloe smiled. She stretched out a languorous arm, dripping water onto Cole’s camera, which was resting on the floor below, and picked up a frosted glass of champagne from a little table placed alongside the tub.

“Look . . .” I took my courage in both hands and spoke directly to Lord Bullmer, trying to ignore the watching, interested faces of the others. “Lord Bullmer—”

“Call me Richard,” he interrupted. I bit my lip and nodded, trying to keep my thoughts in order.

“Richard, I was hoping to talk to you about something, but I’m not sure if now is the right time. Could I come and see you later, in your cabin?”

“Why wait?” Bullmer shrugged. “One thing I’ve learned in business—now almost always
is
the right time. What feels like prudence is almost invariably cowardice—and someone else gets in there before you.”

“Well . . .” I said, and then stopped, unsure what to do. I really didn’t want to speak in front of the others. The “someone gets there before you” part certainly wasn’t reassuring.

“Have a glass of something,” Bullmer said. He pressed a button on the rim of the Jacuzzi and a girl appeared silently out of nowhere. It was Ulla.

“Yes, sir?” she said politely.

“Champagne, for Miss Blacklock.”

“Certainly, sir.” She melted away.

I took a deep breath. There was no alternative. No one could divert the boat except Bullmer, and if I didn’t do this now, I might never get the chance. Better to speak up, even with an audience, than risk . . . I pushed that thought away.

I opened my mouth.
Stop digging
hissed the voice inside my head, but I forced myself to speak.

“Lord Bullmer—”

“Richard.”

“Richard, I don’t know if you’ve spoken to your head of security, Johann Nilsson. Have you seen him today?”

“Nilsson? No.” Richard Bullmer frowned. “He reports to the captain, not to me. Why do you ask?”

“Well . . .” I began. But I was interrupted by Ulla appearing at my elbow with a tray, on which was a champagne glass and a bottle in a holder full of ice.

“Um, thanks,” I said uncertainly. I wasn’t sure I wanted to drink right now—not after Nilsson’s biting comments earlier, and on top of the hangover from last night—and it seemed an incongruous accompaniment to what I was about to say. But I felt again the impossibility of my position—I was Bullmer’s guest, and
Velocity
’s
representative, and I was supposed to be impressing all these people with my professionalism and dazzling them with my charm, and instead I was about to hurl the very worst of all possible accusations at his staff and guests. The least I could do was to accept his champagne with good grace.

I took the glass, sipping tentatively at it as I tried to get my thoughts in order. It was sour and made me shiver, and I almost pulled a face before realizing how rude that would appear to Bullmer.

“I— This is difficult.”

“Nilsson,” Bullmer prompted. “You were asking if I’d spoken to him.”

“Yes. Well, last night I had to phone him. I . . . I heard noises, coming from the cabin next to mine. Number ten,” I said, and then stopped.

Richard was listening, but so were the other three, rather avidly in Lars’s case. Well, since I didn’t have a choice, maybe I could turn that to my advantage. I cast a quick look round the circle of faces, trying to gauge their reactions, check for any trace of guilt or anxiety. Out of the three, Lars’s moist red lips were curled in a disbelieving skepticism, and Chloe’s green eyes were wide with frank curiosity. Only Cole was looking worried.

“Palmgren, yes,” Bullmer said. He was frowning, puzzled as to where this was leading. “I thought that one was empty. Solberg canceled, didn’t he?”

“I went to the veranda,” I said, gaining momentum. I glanced around the listeners again. “And when I looked out there was no one there, but there was blood on the glass safety barrier.”

“Good Lord,” Lars said. He was openly grinning now, not even trying to hide his disbelief. “It’s like something out of a novel.” Was he deliberately trying to undermine my account, throw me off-balance? Or was this just his normal manner? I couldn’t tell. “Go on,” he said, with something close to sarcasm. “I’m on tenterhooks to find how this turns out.”

“Your security guard let me in,” I said, my voice harder now, and speaking fast. “But the cabin was empty. And the blood on the glass had been—”

There was a chink and a splash, and I stopped.