Cold Pressed (10 page)

"Oh, of course. But how about you, Mrs
Bartholomew?"

"Dancing? In the middle of a meal? My doctor advises
nothing more strenuous after dinner than retiring to the couch since my
operation. I wonder if it's conducive to digestion at any age, to be honest.
No, I intend to withdraw to my cabin, order room service and enjoy my dessert
in peace. I bid you all a pleasant evening."

They all stood to say goodbye. Jensson's relief at Mrs
Bartholomew’s departure was almost visible. Almost. He shook their hands,
offered them a hint of a wry grin and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Beatrice faced Oscar. "And what if they'd said
yes?"

He shrugged. "We'd have been forced to go dancing. A
risk I was willing to take. It's been a while but I can still remember how to
lindy-hop. Come on now, you've been rescued. Let's make the most of it."

The Club Room, as promised, was a real haven from the
sensory assault of the Grand Dining-Room. Leather wingback chairs, wood
panelled walls, thick carpet, green velvet curtains, hidden spotlights and a
gleaming oak bar all combined to create the illusion of a traditional London
gentleman's club. Beatrice even fancied she could smell cigar smoke. A few
other people populated the place, the majority male and sitting alone with a
newspaper or mobile phone, with the occasional couple tucked away in one of the
booths. Oscar indicated a small table to their left.

"Ideally situated. Clear view of the bar, well
positioned to observe newcomers and high-backed chairs to protect us against
draughts."

A waiter, perfectly turned out in waistcoat and tie,
appeared at their side with a drinks menu as they seated themselves. Beatrice
opted for a decaffeinated coffee and chose a port wine from the extensive list.
Oscar didn't need the menu, but ordered a Macallan to go with his espresso. He
was evidently a familiar face, addressing the waiter by name, and nodding to a
pair of bespectacled gents as they’d entered. He settled back with a contented
smile and rested his gaze on her.

"So, let's hear a bit about Beatrice Stubbs. How long
have you been a 'Lady Detective'?"

She chuckled. "I shouldn't get so frosty about it,
really. Being called a lady detective is better than how my superior officer
usually refers to me, which is either a 'bloody woman' or a ‘stubborn old
coot’. Let's see, I've been a detective inspector for almost fifteen years
now."

"Oh, an inspector? Excuse me, I was unaware of your
full title. A detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Here, on a cruise ship,
in the Club Room. It's all a bit Cluedo, don’t you think?"

"Coupled with the suspicious death, I suppose it is.
I've never been on one of these ships before, so I’m finding it all rather an
adventure. But I get the impression you are quite the seasoned cruise
traveller."

"Your impression is correct, Detective Inspector. I am
a veteran of these trips and have been ever since I lost my wife seven years ago.
Ah, and here are the drinks. Thank you, Alex. While she was alive, we were
adventurers, exploring less-travelled paths and making discoveries. After she
died, adventuring seemed too much like hard work. I booked my first cruise with
the aim of having everything done for me. And although I found giving up all
freedom of choice too much to bear, I grew to like the itinerary being taken
out of my hands. So when we dock, I hire a car and go off and do my own thing.
But come back to join everyone again in the evening and sail onto the next
port. And I have met some fascinating people on board. Someone like yourself
would fall into that category."

Beatrice stirred a brown sugar lump into her coffee.
"Nice of you to say so. Tell me, what do you do when you're not sailing
the Mediterranean?"

"I'm a language historian, or a historical linguist,
I'm never quite sure which. Semi-retired, in that I do very little teaching
these days. But I publish in various journals and occasionally write articles
for magazines, while continuing the Sisyphean task of completing my book."

"Ooh, a writer! What's the book about?"

"You'll be surprised to know it's about the history of
language. Or to be precise, the death of it. I have previously completed two
modest volumes, one called
Stories of the Atlantic Arc
, all about the
linguistic connections between the Celts. The second was called
Mother
Tongue: The Word of God
, which explores the relationship between language
and religion. Hugely popular with insomniacs, apparently. Shall we toast? To
inspiration and resolution!"

"I'll drink to that," said Beatrice, and lifted
her tawny port towards the chandelier. The light in Oscar's laughing eyes
matched the colour perfectly. They chinked glasses and held each other's gaze
as they drank.
Nothing more than good manners
, she thought.

Velvety tones of sweet fat grapes danced on her tongue, a
hint of sherry wood teased her nose and a gentle warmth spread down her throat
and across her chest.

"Now that is an absolute jewel of a digestif. I only chose
it because I liked the name, but it's delicious. What was it called
again?"

Oscar checked the drinks menu. "Offley. Sounds more
Irish than Portuguese. Not a name you'd forget, in any case."

"Nor a taste. Somehow robust and delicate at the same
time."

A smile elevated Oscar's cheeks. "A charming
description!"

The young waiter hovered at the table, his demeanour
anxious. "So sorry to interrupt. Captain Jensson needs Detective Inspector
Stubbs urgently. He asked if you could meet him at Cabin C343. It’s on level
C3. Would you like someone to show you the way?"

Oscar stood and reached into his pocket. "No need,
Alex. I know C3 very well. I can escort the detective. Thank you and have a
good evening." He pressed a note into the young man's hand, drained his
whisky and gestured in the direction of the door. "After you, Detective
Inspector. The devil waits for no man. Or lady."

Chapter 12

Typical of his luck. Instead of a successful
conclusion and celebratory beers with the boss, Nikos was woken the wrong side
of midnight and instructed to get to the port, ready to meet the
Empress
Louise
. A second fatality had occurred during the sailing from Santorini.

This time there was no doubt. Maureen Hall had died a
violent death. The telephone had been yanked from the wall, a water glass
shattered on the floor and – a detail which emphasised the victim’s frailty – a
pair of senior citizen spectacles had been crushed underfoot. On first
inspection, the doctor confirmed the body showed all the signs of having been smothered.

Nikos withdrew from the sad scene in the little cabin,
leaving the forensics team to find what they could. At least Captain Jensson
had been smart enough to prevent anyone other than DI Stubbs from entering
after the initial discovery. She knew better than he did how to manage a crime
scene. Now that the body had been removed, the little room was filled with
people and light. He yawned as he turned the corner of the corridor, feeling
guilty as he did so, and found himself face to face with the two ladies who had
'witnessed' the death of Esther Crawford.

"Inspector...?"

"Ladies, you should be in bed. I can tell you nothing
at this stage."

The taller one interrupted. "You don't need to. Why
else would this corridor be filled with police and people so early in the
morning? We know someone is dead. Sheer common sense will tell you all this
fuss means it’s unlikely to be due to natural causes."

"I must ask you to vacate the corridor now. I am sorry
and I understand your concern, but until we find out what happened, it makes no
sense to talk about it. Do you understand why I must ask you to leave?"

The little lady from Scotland shook her head in regret.
"We'll let you do your job, Inspector. But please get to the bottom of
this. Something is very wrong here."

He bowed his head. "I am going to do my best."

Her friend looked at him intently. "Are you on your own
now? Did Detective Stubbs go back to Britain?"

"No, she's still here. It seems she will stay on a few
days if she can get permission. Please can I ask you now to return to your
cabins...?”

"... and lock the doors? Oh yes, we most certainly
will. Goodnight, officer, and good luck."

Nikos watched them walk away down the corridor, heads bent
in conversation.

They were right. Something was indeed very wrong here.

Maureen Hall. Seventy-four years old, a widow with one
daughter, born in Yorkshire and lived there all her life. Confined to her cabin
for the majority of the voyage due to illness. Travelling with two friends,
first cruise experience. No apparent connection to Esther Crawford or the
Hirondelles or anyone else aboard. Retired to her cabin after returning from an
excursion at 17.50, according to the key card records. No further activity
until another entry at 22.08. The telephone system indicated an attempted call
at 22.14, but no number was dialled. The ship's switchboard staff, geared to
anticipate the needs of its population, relayed the aborted call to the cabin
attendant service, who sent a member of housekeeping to check all was well.
Nina Sousa attended at 22.21. On receiving no reply, she returned to the staff
room to collect her access card and notify her line manager of her intention.
At 22.24, Maureen Hall's key card was replaced in the main socket which
controlled the cabin's electricity. When Ms Sousa returned and entered the
cabin at 22.31, she found the inhabitant deceased and evident signs of a
struggle.

Nikos sat on the bridge, watching the dawn break over
Heraklion, his home and a place he’d never seen before from this angle. The
liner had arrived three hours ago, after sending news of the sudden death of
Maureen Hall, to interrupt another night’s sleep. He hoped DI Stubbs would
achieve her aim in insisting the
Empress Louise
remain at anchor for
another twenty-four hours. She faced a formidable opponent in Jensson. A
company man, his concern was for the shareholders and stakeholders, should
their schedule be disrupted. The paying customers seemed of lesser importance.

Dr Weinberg delivered the ship's medical records for Maureen
Hall with a sombre greeting. Nikos appreciated it, not being one for small talk
at eight in the morning either. After the quiet Austrian had departed with an
equally curt farewell, he trawled through the details. Only two things the dead
women had in common: blood pressure problems – but in opposite directions; one
low, one high – and the fact they had both attended the ship’s infirmary.

He bought a coffee from the buffet counter and took it out
onto the deck. He needed some space to think. Wiltshire and Yorkshire. He
pulled up a map of Britain on his phone, but saw the two counties were
sufficiently far apart to make the geographical connection unlikely. He checked
records of elderly deaths in each, which was when he encountered the name of Dr
Harold Shipman.

The case rang a distant bell. The doctor who administered
fatal doses of painkilling drugs to elderly female patients. A serial killer of
250 people, infamous in Britain, well known around the world. Nikos looked at
the image and tried to imagine the motivation. None of the articles he skimmed
indicated the doctor had given any kind of explanation for his actions. A
twisted version of mercy killing, despite the fact so many of his
patient-victims were healthy and happy? The jewellery, the savings... was his motive
mercenary? Or born of altruism, a desire to save people from pain?

And here, on this peaceful, harmless cruise, why would
someone wish to end the lives of these particular women? Esther Crawford and
Maureen Hall led quiet lives, enjoying their retirement, until someone decided
their time was up. He made a note to check the beneficiaries of their wills and
ask the doctor a lot more questions about the death of Beryl Hodges.

Nikos sat back and watched early rays of sun cast long
shadows across the harbour. He slugged the remaining coffee from his cup and
thought back over the past two days.

Dr Fraser and his anger at everyone, including the police.
The coroner, Apostolou and his quick decision regarding the fall. The clear
resentment towards him and DI Stubbs from many of the staff on board. Jensson's
assertion that old people tend to die. Conspiracy theories were part of a
police inspector's job, but he still couldn't find the motive for any of these
men to commit murder. Older people, ladies in particular, were the life blood
of the cruise ship system, so killing them off would be senseless. Apostolou
took care of his elderly mother himself, so he would sympathise with the
hazards of old age.

He looked back at the expressionless face of Harold Shipman.
No, neither the doctor nor the captain could possibly be in the frame. Even as
he thought it, Nikos planned the investigation of both.

Beatrice Stubbs, despite her dramatically different
appearance, looked tired and irritable as she returned from the bridge. Nikos
was waiting for her outside her guest cabin, at her suggestion. The casino was
not an option and both were reluctant to use the captain's office.

She gave him a humourless jerk of the head in greeting as
she unlocked the door.

"What a bloody awful situation!" she said,
flinging her handbag onto the table. "Please make yourself at home,
Inspector, I'll just be a moment." She closed the door to the bedroom
section and Nikos stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching as the coastline
came to life and signs of activity began in the morning light. Somewhere over
there his beautiful girlfriend lay under a blue cotton sheet, her hair spread
over the pillow, soon to wake up alone.

A knock brought him back to the here and now. He opened the
door to a cabin attendant, who carried a tray of coffee and pastries. He
thanked the man and took it with a smile. Detective Stubbs might have spent a
sleepless, stressful night, but she was in no danger of losing her appetite.