Cold Pressed (13 page)

Maggie assumed a smile. "Better every day. Just trying
to get back into the swing of things."

"I'm very happy to hear that. And your timing is
perfect, because tomorrow we arrive in Rhodes. So much unforgettable history to
experience, you really shouldn't miss it. Could I invite you to the Captain’s
Table tomorrow evening?"

Rose stepped in. "We’re not yet up to braving the
dining-room, but thank you for the invitation. This evening, we're going to the
grill. Small steps, you see."

"I quite understand. The food at The Sizzling Grill is
delicious, incidentally. Kostas takes extraordinary pride in the freshness of
his selection. An asset to our team, who works hard and as you can see, plays
hard."

He gestured to the pool.

"That hairy one is a chef?" asked Maggie.

"Most certainly. But I can assure you he wears clothes
in the kitchen." The captain winked and departed.

Maggie watched him move along the deck, stopping to greet
the occasional passenger with a friendly observation. She could spot a poor
actor a mile off and his false bonhomie galled her. She turned to Rose.

"Similar heights, the captain and that chef. And I feel
sure as eggs is eggs, the man who threw Esther Crawford off the cliff had no
beard."

"The captain? Now, don’t get paranoid. He has to be
above suspicion. He spends all day and every day on board. Still, we can keep
our eyes peeled for lookalikes."

"Hmmm. I'm fed up with watching this lot and their
tomfoolery. Let's go up onto the observatory deck."

The way the world had tilted on its axis reminded
Maggie of September the eleventh, 2001. The shock of those attacks in America
changed how she looked at the world, and not for the better. Aircraft, usually
nothing more to her than noise or vapour trails, had taken on the form of
instruments of death. The rhetoric of 'terrorism' and 'war' left a manipulative
taste of political engineering in her mouth, but the images had made their
mark. September 11th changed the way she saw the world. The way she saw the
sky.

Two days ago, what she'd witnessed changed the way she saw
people. Now every smile hid a hint of ill intent and everyone wore a shadow.
Words like 'evil' floated like storm clouds through her mind. A crew member's
good manners in allowing them right of way on the steps appeared predatory; a
fellow passenger's comment on the weather rang an ominous note. Her nervous
system was yet to disable the alarms.

She and Rose leaned on the railing and gazed out at Crete.
As the evening darkened, lights sparked into life across the port of Heraklion.
Restaurateurs would be readying tables, bands tuning up, taxi drivers preparing
for a busy night. A peculiar sadness stole over Maggie. She wanted to rush down
the gangway and fling herself into the midst of it all, but at the same time
she was happy to hide, appreciating the ship’s protection, the distance from
real life. She sniffed, mostly in disgust at herself.

Rose inclined her head. "Funny how a view changes as
you get older. Here's you and me, standing here looking at a beautiful Greek
island. Look at all the others here, all gazing out at exactly the same place,
at exactly the same time. But I'll bet not one of us is seeing the same scene.
What are you seeing?"

"Life," said Maggie, without hesitation. "Or
rather other people's lives. I'm standing here, imagining how much fun they're
all having. I'm envious and a bit of me wants to hurry down there and join
them. And another part of me is saying 'Go home, old lady. Jigsaws and knitting
is all you're good for.' That's what I see. How about yourself?"

Rose's brow twitched, somewhere between concern and
annoyance but before she could speak, another voice interrupted.

"In which case, you should run down there this minute
and throw yourselves into the middle of the action. Which would be just the
thing to fill you with lust and life and mischief. For one thing, it would kick
all that 'too old' business into a cocked hat. The downside? You'd miss my show.
Which is something else to fill you with lust and life and mischief. Especially
lust."

The man was tanned, smiley and had eyes worthy of Frank
Sinatra. Maggie found herself smiling back.

"I recognise you. You're Toni Dean. 'The Man with the
Golden Voice'. I've seen your picture on those posters."

"Hush now. We don't talk about
those
posters." He darted a glance behind him. "Oh you mean the ones for
the show? Fair dos." His eyes danced with teasing fun. "As for the
Golden Voice, that wasn't my choice of marketing line. I wanted 'The Voice of
an Era'. See, I don't sing any of the modern stuff. All classics - Tony
Bennett, Dean Martin, Tom Jones, Howard Keel, Paul Anka, Bing Crosby... they
don't make 'em like that any more. Have you two charming ladies seen my
show?"

Rose’s expression brightened along with each name the man
quoted. "No, not yet. We've spent a lot of time ashore and haven’t had a
look at the entertainment. But we're just beginning to take advantage. Did you
say you'll be singing tonight?"

"Nine o'clock, The Empress Grand Ballroom. Consider it
a first step. Tonight, music and laughter. Tomorrow, another island and another
day. And Rhodes might be an inspiration. You'll feel brave enough to go
exploring and find an adventure!"

Maggie's smile was a weak effort, she knew, but she'd had
her fill of adventures. Rose’s response held far more enthusiasm.

"Nine o'clock, then. If we're still full of beans after
our dinner, we'll come and hear you sing."

“If you’re full of beans, don’t you come anywhere near me!”

Rose laughed, almost a giggle. “You know what I mean. See
you at the ballroom.”

He bowed like a typical showman. "Look forward to
seeing you there. And even if you don't make it, promise me you'll remember
this: You are never too old. If you feel like it, do it. That goes for jigsaws
or gigolos!" With a mock-shocked face, he waved and backed off towards the
steps.

After he'd descended from sight, Rose gave Maggie a nudge.

"What do you think? He's just like an old-fashioned
Redcoat, or one of those Saturday Night at the Palladium entertainers.
Old-school with the personal touch. It might be good fun."

"Yes. Exactly what I feel like tonight. Something
familiar and unthreatening. Not to mention an hour or so in the dark. I'm
game."

"Me too. Adventures can wait till tomorrow."

They linked arms and headed downstairs to The Sizzling
Grill.

Chapter 15

Chief Inspector Voulakis and Detective Chief Inspector
Hamilton. Her stiff, unsmiling, immaculate boss seemed worlds apart from this
amiable chap with his large belly, loosened tie and five o’clock shadow. He
carried a peculiar but not unpleasant scent about him, which Beatrice could
only associate with roast potatoes. Where Hamilton projected a judgemental
chill, this man radiated warmth and bonhomie. Hard to imagine as it was, the
two had been great pals for sixteen years, according to Nikos's voluble
superior.

He greeted Beatrice with a huge smile and shook her hand in
both of his. He showed surprisingly little interest in the details of the case
and accepted Beatrice's suggestion that she and Nikos Stephanakis should work
as a team without demur.

"Why not? If you are happy to share the role, who am I
to argue? I know this will be a great learning experience for Inspector
Stephanakis. I myself learned so much from working with Hamilton in that one
year alone. I will never forget how much I improved as a detective. You know,
we were two of the first officers to award an ASBO. They'd only just been
introduced and we used them to break up two hooligan firms associated with
Millwall FC. Ground-breaking work."

"I didn't know that, sir. Congratulations. Although I'd
say we no longer think of ASBOs as 'awards' these days."

The man's grin just grew wider. He sat back with his arms
behind his head. Beatrice looked away from the sweat patches and spotted a
leather cord around his wrist, threaded through a single blue bead.

"Ha! My English police vocabulary was never the best.
Yes, I am sure you will teach Stephanakis much. I wanted to send him to London,
you see, but secondments like mine are much harder to finance these days. This
will be the next best thing. I owe Hamilton yet another debt of gratitude for
sending you. How is he, by the way?"

"Very well, if a little bad-tempered. He expected me
back in London this week, but that is unlikely to happen now."

Voulakis burst into laughter, smacking his hand on the desk.
"His loss, my gain. He will never do me a favour again in his life. Tell
me, is he still a confirmed bachelor or has he found a lady friend yet?"

Beatrice hesitated. She abhorred rumours and speculation
about her colleagues' private lives, having seen first-hand how damaging it
could be. But as the two men had a personal connection, it might appear rude
not to pass an innocent comment.

"As far as I know, sir, DCI Hamilton prefers to remain
independent. But I am not the best informed on office gossip."

He sighed, shaking his head and gazing into the middle
distance. "Such a shame. You know, he is the reason I married my wife.
That's where I met her, in London! She was a second-generation Greek immigrant
and a neighbour of Hamilton's. He introduced us, thinking it would cheer me up
if I could speak Greek with someone. Cheer me up? I fell in love! Every time he
comes to visit, I try to find a nice woman for him, but it never works. You
know the expression, ‘he bats for the other side’? Well, that’s what my wife
thinks. But that is not the truth."

Despite herself, Beatrice's curiosity took the bait.
"Really, sir? Several of my colleagues would agree with your wife."

Voulakis folded his hands over his substantial stomach and
shook his head. "No. It's a sad story. He doesn't often talk about his
private life, but one night we drank a bottle of brandy, and he told me he'd
fallen in love. The lady was unavailable, unfortunately, but his feelings never
changed. Every time I ask him if he's met someone else, he says no one ever
comes close. Perhaps one day he will forget her and move on. It’s never too
late."

The temptation to snort arose, but Voulakis wore an
expression of such heartfelt sincerity, that Beatrice opted to change the
subject instead. How people love to extrapolate, turning a probable brush-off
into an operatic tragedy.

"Captain Jensson has offered both Inspector Stephanakis
and myself accommodation aboard for the rest of the investigation, as the ship
needs to proceed with its itinerary. Is that acceptable to you?"

Voulakis widened his eyes. "To me, yes, but
Stephanakis! What about your girlfriend?" He winked at Beatrice.
"She’s British as well, you know. Very romantic. She was his English
teacher and she fell madly in love with him."

Nikos rolled his eyes, but softened the gesture with a
smile. "Karen will understand the practical reasons for staying aboard.
And it's only for a few days."

"Perhaps not even that long," Beatrice said.
"I want to wrap this up quickly and return to Scotland Yard. But looking
at it realistically, we think have a serial killer on our hands, so we’ll need
to keep a close ear and an eye to the ground. So aboard the
Empress Louise
is where we should be."

"Are you going back tonight?" asked Voulakis, his
question apparently born of enthusiasm rather than supervisory rigour.

Nikos replied first. "No sir. We'll join the cruise
tomorrow. Tonight, I would like to prepare for a few days away and tomorrow DI
Stubbs will check out of her hotel. We both need some rest after last night and
I think a few hours away from the ship will do us good."

Tired, tetchy and a little claustrophobic, Beatrice looked
over at Nikos and mentally transmitted her gratitude.

It was quarter to five. The sun filled her hotel room
with butterscotch light and threw intersecting triangles across the tiled
floor. With every intention of explaining the reasons for her extended stay to
Matthew over the phone later that evening, Beatrice took a shower, drew the
curtains and lay on the sheets to get an hour's rest. She checked her phone and
picked up a voicemail.

“
Message for DI Stubbs. Dr Bruce of Beech Avenue Surgery,
Salisbury here. Bad news, I’m afraid. Beryl Hodges was buried on Friday. No
post-mortem carried out, but I did examine the body, at the family’s request.
Cause of death determined as asphyxia brought on by anaphylactic shock
exacerbated by asthma. The lady had suffered previous violent reactions to
shellfish, so in my estimation, that was what provoked the allergic response.
Hope this information is useful, call if any questions.”

Which brought her no closer to deciding if Hodges had been
killed deliberately or had made a mistake with her choice of starter. If the
woman had medication in her fridge to counter such a reaction, surely she’d be
extremely careful? In which case, how would someone make her eat the very thing
that might kill her? She imagined trying to poison someone with prawns,
recalled an episode of
Masterchef
involving fishcakes and her eyes
closed.

When she awoke, the clock said half past eight and her
stomach said dinner-time. She decided to go out for some food and call Matthew
on her return. Due to the time difference, he'd barely be home from work yet
and she needed a bit more practice on her breezy update.

The lobby, which had been awkwardly full of guests checking
in earlier, was now peaceful and almost empty as she made for the exit. She
handed her key to the receptionist, clearing her throat to disguise her
growling stomach.

"Good evening, Mrs Stubbs. Your visitor is waiting in
the bar."

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. "Sorry?"

"He said not to disturb you and he would wait until you
are ready. Through there."