Cold Pressed (18 page)

“Dr Fraser, you’re free to go now. I’d like you to stay in
Rhodes for the time being while I corroborate your story with Captain Jensson.
Please leave contact details and the name of your hotel with the desk clerk.
Thank you for your time. And good luck.”

Fraser stood up and held out his hand. “Thanks to you too.
I’ll be in touch. All the best.”

The sergeant escorted him out and Nikos collected his notes,
waiting for Xanthou’s big entrance and the dick-waving showdown, which could
only be seconds away. The door opened.

“Nikos Stephanakis! Good to see you again! How long has it
been, three years?”

Someone once told Xanthou he looked like John Travolta.
Nikos often wondered who it was, as he would like to hunt that person down and
punch them in the face. The most misguided statement ever, not least because it
was absurdly far from the truth. In full ignorance of the fact that Travolta
was at least half a metre taller, Xanthou had taken it to heart, growing
sideburns, combing back his hair and dyeing his eyebrows. Now, in jeans, black
shirt and denim jacket with the collar turned up, he looked like a low-rent
Elvis impersonator.

Nikos mentally rolled up his sleeves and donned his
superhero mask.

“Demetrius Xanthou. Two years, I think.” Neither man offered
his hand.

“Really? Feels longer. Congratulations, by the way. I hear
you finally made inspector.” (
ZAP!)

“Thanks. Yes, really pleased with my first case. Teamed with
a senior inspector from Scotland Yard.” (
ZIP!)

“So I hear. Having a woman as your boss? Very modern. How’s
Karen?” (
POW!)

“Great. Karen and I are a team, equal partners, in the same
way I’m working with DI Stubbs. Pretty effective together.” (
WHACK!
)

“Yeah. Which is why you need the help of the South Aegean
force. I have to get on, but if you can’t cope, you have my number. Give my
love to Karen. Wait, I have her email, I can do it myself! Those days, huh?
Happy memories.” (
KAPOW!
)

Xanthou was out the door before Nikos noticed his interview
notes were crumpled in his clenched fist.

He found an empty office, forced himself to relax and
called Beatrice. She answered on the first ring.

"
Nikos. Where are you?"

"Still at the station. I made sure Rose Mason and
Maggie Campbell checked in OK, and then interviewed Dr Fraser at the station.
Interesting outcome. He's addicted to prescription drugs. A painkiller called
OxyContin.”

“
I know it. Same sort as Vicodin and that has plenty of
fans. Yes, that explains some of his behaviour.”

“He functions, at a basic level, but got sacked from several
previous posts and it’s damaged his personal life. Jensson is an old friend, so
this position was a kindness and a last chance for Fraser.”

“
Wouldn’t painkiller addiction make him less mentally
adept?”
Beatrice asked.

“That’s what he said. When he’s had his fix, yes. When he
needs more, it makes him agitated and aggressive. Neither situation fits the
profile of the calm, well-planned serial killer we’re looking for. I’ll check
out his story, just in case.”

“
Yes, better had. Addicts can be very cunning. Still, his
planning and methods will have an entirely different target.”

“Exactly. I can’t see a motive either. I really don't
believe Fraser's connected. Did you talk to Doreen Cashmore?"

"
I've not been able to get her alone. The
Hirondelles are joined at the hip. But I got the results from your South Aegean
colleagues
." She conveyed the unexciting outcome of the crew
interviews. Nikos listened intently, occasionally asking for clarification and
making notes.

"OK, thanks. I agree with checking for connections and
testing those stories. I'm just going to Pathology for the forensic results on
Maureen Hall's cabin and the papers he touched in the casino. Then I'll be
back."

"
Let me know as soon as you get anything. Do you
have plans for dinner tonight? I thought we could chew over theories and a
steak at The Sizzling Grill
."

"Good idea. Let's talk to the stewards and the
communications officer before dinner, say hello to Kostas the chef, and then
attend the Rat Pack Revue. That way, we can cover all those alibis."

"
Sounds like quite a plan
,” said Beatrice. “
But
I've had my fill of crooners today, so might seek out Mrs Cashmore and leave
you to enjoy Ol' Blue Contact Lenses
."

“He certainly looks the part. So I'm interested to hear if
he can actually sing.”

“
He can sing, I’ll vouch for that. He did his bit at the
memorial service. Apart from his voice though, everything about the man is
fake, from tan to accent
.”

Nikos looked up at the police personnel board. Xanthou’s
face smirked back at him. “I know exactly what you mean."

As he left the station, he got a text message alert.
Karen.

Missing you.
Any news? How’s Xanthou? Kxxx

He stopped on a street corner to write back.

Miss you too.
Some progress. Still an arsehole. Nxxx

Chapter 20

The only hole in any of the alibis, at least so far,
seemed to be Kostas's assertion he had been in the kitchen all evening when
Beryl Hodges and Maureen Hall were killed. As
chef de cuisine
, he was
responsible for all dishes leaving the kitchen, and personally approved each
plate before it went through the swing doors. Yet service ended at 10pm,
leaving only desserts, supervised by the Pastry Chef. Kitchen staff turned
their attention to cleaning surfaces and storing unused food, while Kostas took
a break. According to the
commis chef
, he usually disappeared for half
an hour to forty minutes, returning to approve the standards of cleanliness.
Plenty of time for a cigarette, a drink or even a visit to an old lady's cabin.

Beatrice dawdled over her chocolate mousse and coffee,
chatting to her waiter and digesting her conversation with Nikos. His
assessment of motive was rather astute. Elderly women and sudden death usually
suggested money. Or less commonly, revenge. The absolute lack of forensic
evidence in Hall’s room and on the documentation in the casino had bothered
Beatrice more than she liked to let on. He’d worn gloves. There was nothing
haphazard about the way this man operated.

Nikos had left just before nine in order to catch the
opening number of the Rat Pack Revue. A wave of diners had departed around the
same time. A new batch descended shortly afterwards and Beatrice was reminded
of Jensson's words.

 You are given the impression of free will and endless
choices, but in reality, you are shuffled from one activity to the next and
gently parted from your cash at every opportunity while the message is
continually reinforced: you are having such a marvellous time!

The thought depressed her and she made Rorschach patterns on
her napkin with spilt coffee. A vampire bat, a cross of thorns, a broken heart...
my, she was morbid tonight. She paid the bill, left a generous tip and went in
search of Doreen Cashmore.

To her surprise, the cabin door was opened by Joyce
Milligan, who wore a lilac leisure suit and a hairnet.

"Detective Inspector Stubbs? You’re either here because
you’ve heard the rumours about my cocoa or you have arrested a suspect. Have
you got someone?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm sorry to disturb you so late, but
wanted to check all was well and have a quick word with Mrs Cashmore."

Joyce shook her head, like a horse refusing a jump.
"Not right now, Detective Inspector. She's had the most dreadful day. Poor
Doreen suffers with her nerves, you know. Under the circumstances, we thought a
milky drink and an early night best. I'll stay with her. We look out for each
other, you know."

Her huge hand, with bony, veined knuckles, rested on the
cabin wall. A relaxed posture, but one which also barred entry. Strangler's
hands, thought Beatrice.

"Of course. You’re very lucky to have each other.”

“And lucky to have you looking out for us. It was jolly
decent of you to come to the service today. We all feel better for having said
our goodbyes.”

“It was extremely touching. Your reading and Mr Dean’s
Sinatra both had me welling up.”

“He’s got a fine pair of tonsils, hasn’t he? I was quite
overcome by his generosity when he approached me and offered to sing. I’d never
have dared ask.”

“Ah, I thought it was all down to your powers of persuasion.
Give Mrs Cashmore my very best and I hope you both sleep well. Goodnight."

“Same to you, hope the bed bugs don’t bite.”

Beatrice returned to deck and stood watching the shore as
she considered the possibility the Hirondelle Hunter could be one of their own.
The idea was totally ridiculous. Joyce Milligan was eighty-one years old. The
sort who may well have wrestled bullocks in her youth, but nowadays, she was
nothing more than a protective mother hen.

Laughter rang out from a table at one of the bars on the
entertainment deck, generating a spike of envy in Beatrice. In one of her rare
sociable moods, she had no one to talk to. Nikos would not leave the show till
ten and then he would tail Kostas, so they'd agreed to debrief in the morning.
She could return to the cabin and call Matthew. Except she really didn't feel
like any more intensity. Her mind was all over the place and she had the urge
to do something. Her mother's voice whispered on the Mediterranean wind, 'The
Devil makes work for idle hands'. Beatrice hunched her shoulders against the
breeze and turned in the direction of her cabin. She’d watch some television,
empty her mind and take one of her pills, as several signs of rapid mood
cycling were in evidence.

Pills. The news of Dr Fraser’s addiction had sparked a
nagging concern, once again. James had assured her more times than she could
count that her mood stabilisers were not an addiction but a necessity. The
alternative, allowing her condition to dictate her life, was much more alarming
than taking one tablet a day. This she knew. This she understood. She fought a
daily battle with her thought processes and with the recurrent urge to miss a
day. Just to prove she could do without. It inevitably backfired and she’d
regret it, but the temptation to rebel, to revolt against what was best for her
returned again and again. Grow up, woman, she told herself. Get back to your
cabin, take your tablet and reattach your stabilisers.

As she ascended the stairs, she heard rapid footsteps from
the deck above and when she arrived at the top, she saw Oscar hurrying in her
direction.

"Quick! This way!" he hissed with some urgency. He
turned her around, guiding her by the elbow, and they trotted back down
together. At the bottom, he took another sharp angle, drawing her with him
until they were tucked side-by-side under the steps in a dark alcove. He
pressed himself back into the shadows and listened.

Deck lights between the rungs threw horizontal stripes
across his face, making her think of film noir and Humphrey Bogart. Beatrice
looked at him for an explanation and was just about to open her mouth when
Oscar boggled his eyes and pressed a finger to his lips.

An American woman's voice carried on the night air.
"... usually found in the Club Room after dinner. Well, if Mohammed won't
come to the mountain..."

"The Club Room? Wouldn't you need to be a member?"

"Perhaps. If so, we'll join. It's only a question of
greasing palms. Do you know, I found a concierge service in Boston..."

Two pairs of feet clanged down the metal steps and a rustle
of evening gowns brushed past their faces. The ladies proceeded, still talking,
across the deck below. Beatrice left Oscar in the shadows and tiptoed across to
the railings. Mrs Bartholomew and another woman marched towards double doors
diagonally opposite without a glance behind.

Beatrice looked over her shoulder and laughed to see Oscar
flattened against the wall. "What does she want with you?"

Oscar closed his eyes with a mock shudder. "She has
some 'totally awesome' family stories which really should be in my book. Or
maybe this material might merit a book all its own. I'd have to sign a
confidentiality agreement, blah, blah ... oh spare me, please. And now my
sacred retreat, The Club Room, is off limits. I always said there should be a
door policy. I am cut adrift."

"Don’t be so dramatic. There are plenty of other cafés
and bars to hide in. You’re spoilt for choice.”

"I beg to differ. For an old codger who desires good
conversation in a peaceful setting with a quiet glass of something elegant,
there are precious few."

Beatrice spoke without thinking. "The ship's guest
cabins each boast a substantial mini-bar, muted yet tasteful music and I was
quite fancying a nightcap. Or would our reputations be forever tarnished if we
were to withdraw unchaperoned?"

"My good lady! Let us make haste and to hell with the
rumours. Which way?"

Lamps lit, a bottle of red opened, a concerto wafting
from the speakers and Oscar relaxing in the armchair; the scene soothed
Beatrice. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the armchair diagonally opposite
him, so they both faced the panoramic window and the city, which from this
distance looked strung with fairy lights.

"Does that happen a lot?" she asked.

"Being pursued by women? All the time," he said,
with a regretful shake of his head.

She raised her glass. "Cheers. I meant the offer of
material for a book."

"Cheers. Oh, I say. That's fruity. Yes, sadly, all too
often people believe an apocryphal anecdote about their granny's comical
expressions is worthy of inclusion in a serious academic study on language.
I've fallen victim to this phenomenon so many times, I now flee at the first
warning signs. Mrs Bartholomew sent a summons for me to join her after dinner,
including the details I mentioned earlier. I politely declined, claiming a
prior engagement. But the woman is indefatigable. She made a bee line as soon
as she saw me down cutlery, and I had to quit the dining-room with unseemly
haste. I knew I should have gone ashore. It's always on the last leg of the
journey when one's fellow passengers become insufferable."