Cold Pressed (21 page)

“Food or free time?”

“Both.”

"I'll need your full name, Tsampika. I won't cause you
any problems, I’ll just check this out quietly."

She chewed her thumbnail and looked up at her brother.

Kostas lowered his brow. "I'll give you her name, but
know this. If you tell any senior management or anyone at all in HR, she'll
lose her job. Mine could be in danger, too."

"I will make sure your sister is not implicated in any
way and will keep my investigations general. I don't want to cause harm here. I
just want to stop someone killing the passengers."

He thanked Tsampika and wished the siblings goodnight. While
he waited for the elevator, Kostas caught him up. They rode in silence to the
entertainment deck.

Nikos spoke. "Kostas, you're an experienced cruise
veteran. In your view, is the person who’s targeting these women a passenger, a
member of staff or crew?"

Several seconds passed and the lift doors opened. They
stepped out onto the deck and Kostas paused.

"It’s not anyone on the crew. They all know these
people are our livelihood. Staff? Many of us could happily kill the occasional
passenger, of course, but how stupid would we be to bite the hand that feeds?
Passengers, I couldn’t say. In my experience of eighteen cruises, at least
fifty percent are borderline crazy."

"Thank you. I'll leave you now and I promise to be
discreet."

"That would be most welcome. Goodnight,
Inspector."

Nikos held out his right hand.

The chef shook it.

Backstage at the Ballroom was surprisingly shabby.
Worn carpets, peeling photographs of earlier performances, empty coffee cups
and labelled rails of costumes. Nikos knocked twice on Toni Dean's door but no
one answered. He tried the door, which was locked. The Stage Manager was
unconcerned.

"Gargling in the bathroom? Gone out for fresh air? He’s
a wanderer, that one. The entertainers spend so much time indoors in the dark,
soon as they get more than five minutes break, you'll usually find them on
deck. With Toni, he’s a free spirit. He’s a biker, you know. When we’re docked,
every chance he gets, he’s off out on his Harley. Couple of times he’s only
just made it back in time for the show. Gives me grey hairs, that one."

A pressure lifted. Subject to checks, the chef was simply a
loyal brother and the crooner relished a bit of freedom from routine. Not only
that, but Nikos was growing increasingly convinced the predator was a
passenger. He made a note on his phone: Oscar Martins – any history?

He ascended the stairs to the observation deck, scanning the
strolling passers-by for a man with a tan and extraordinarily white teeth. The
evening air, cool and fresh, energised him. Somehow, he felt secure. It had
taken a while, but he was now an inspector. He'd encountered Xanthou and risen
above any attempt at patronisation. Despite being promoted two years later than
his rival, he was working his first case with an experienced detective from
Scotland Yard, who treated him as an equal. Best of all, he'd got the girl.
Karen, his fantasy woman, had chosen him. Perhaps it was premature but the
world looked pretty good to Nikos Stephanakis.

A man was smoking at the end of the deck, looking out at the
island. Nikos approached, gauging the man a little short to be his target,
although the tuxedo looked familiar. As he approached, he spotted the goatee
beard, the paunch and the round glasses. Not Toni Dean, but Dr Weinberg. No
wonder he was hidden from sight. A doctor with a cigar?

“Good evening, Doctor.”

Weinberg acknowledged him with a half nod and continued his
contemplation of the city of Rhodes. "A man could never get tired of
Greece, I’m sure."

Nikos leant his arms on the rail beside him and tried to see
the view through foreign eyes. "Not sure. Give me another thirty
years."

Weinberg laughed, a gentle, restrained sound from one side
of his mouth, blowing smoke away in a considerate gesture. “To live here, in
the lap of the Gods, with history and beauty and knowledge surrounding you. You
are fortunate to be born Greek, Inspector.”

“Thank you. I think so. Though the general atmosphere, at
the moment, is not one of feeling lucky.”

“Are you referring to the situation on board or the morale
of Greece as a whole?”

“I was thinking about my country,” Nikos replied, preparing
his defences.

Weinberg exhaled downwind and fanned the smoke away with his
hand. “With good reason. The current climate is to be expected when austerity
measures weaken the vulnerable still further.”

Surprised, Nikos checked the doctor’s face for sarcasm.

The ship’s floodlights reflected in Weinberg’s glasses as he
turned to meet Nikos’s stare. “Oh yes, Inspector, I’m serious. I cannot claim
comprehensive knowledge, as my interest is medicine. But I follow the news in
my field. I know about the increase in HIV infections, the malaria outbreak,
the infant mortality rates and number of male suicides. What has happened to
Greek healthcare in the past five years is a retrograde step. This makes me
sad. Sad and very angry. You see, when I’m not working, I volunteer with
Médecins
Sans Frontières
, or used to.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I didn’t stop. But I had to stop working in Greece. My last
tour of duty was in Mozambique. Very different, but another beautiful country.”

“I don’t know it. Why can’t you work in Greece?”

The doctor extinguished his cigar. He used a small tin cup
complete with lid to dispose of all traces of his habit. “Some people,
including many members of the crew, blame Germany for the EU bailout
conditions. As an Austrian, I’m regarded as more or less German as well. The
accent, you see. So I am the enemy. Today, they had no choice. But I think both
the engineer and the chef would have preferred Nurse Bannerjee to me.”

“A chef? Was that Kostas, from The Sizzling Grill?”

“Correct. Broken finger. Easily set with a splint.”

Nikos's phone, switched to silent since entering the
ballroom, vibrated. He checked the screen. Number unknown.

"Excuse me, Doctor. I have to take this call. It was
good talking to you and I wish you a nice evening."

He walked across the deck and answered professionally.
"Stephanakis?"

"
Inspector Stephanakis, I'm sorry to disturb you.
This is Captain Jensson. Could you please join the emergency team in Deluxe
Cabin 254 on the Aegean Deck? It seems there has been another attack
."

Nikos began running and talking at the same time.

“On my way. Another of the Hirondelles?"

"
The lady in question is a member of the Hirondelle
party, but fortunately the attack was incomplete. An alarm alerted neighbouring
cabins and the man escaped before help arrived
."

"Where's DI Stubbs?"

"
Here. One moment. I will pass her the
telephone,"
Jensson said.

"
Nikos? Where are you?"

"On my way. Who did he attack? Doreen Cashmore?"
He rushed up the stairs to the next level.

"
No, because Doreen was in my room. He assaulted
Joyce Milligan. But she fought back. Her injuries look pretty nasty, but she’ll
survive. By God, I hope so. Nikos, listen. Doreen's spilled the beans and now I
know why. The only thing we don't know is who
."

Chapter 23

Dear Detective Inspector Stubbs

I am writing to you because I feel there is something
important you should be aware of regarding the Hirondelles and Swallows Hall. I
apologise for not talking to you earlier, but we thought it best not to speak
of the matter as it seemed irrelevant. However, recent circumstances have
convinced me that it is most definitely something the police need to know. Not
all my companions agree, which is why I am writing this letter rather than
coming to you in person.

When I secured a position as house mistress at Swallows
Hall in the winter of 1961, Joyce Milligan was Head. It was a prestigious
school and we were all proud of our reputation for academic standards and
propriety. It was the place for nice girls. Several of our pupils came from
important families and two of the girls’ fathers were MPs. In the spring of
1965, Eva Webber, a fifteen-year-old whose family were well-respected
landowners in Surrey, came to me with a problem. She was pregnant.

I consulted with Joyce immediately and we held a
teachers’ meeting to decide the best course of action. If the news became
public, it would be a disaster for all concerned. The girl would lose her good
name and stain that of her family. Parents the length and breadth of the
country would doubt Swallows Hall as an appropriate moral institution for their
daughters. The child was too young to marry and in any case refused to reveal
the identity of the father, who could and should have been prosecuted. As a
Church of England school, we could not consider terminating the pregnancy. Even
if we had, she was too far along.

We were lucky in one respect. The school hosted day girls
and boarders. Eva was one of the latter, which made it easier for us to keep
her condition quiet. We told her to write to her parents asking permission to
join summer school and stay over the holidays. I had the task of accompanying
the girl to the French Alps, to a sympathetic convent school where we used to
take our winter sports holidays. She spent the rest of her confinement there,
and as far as I could ascertain, maintained her education. In the meanwhile,
Joyce and Esther located a private adoption agency to find a family for the
baby.

Eva gave birth on the first day of July. Thankfully,
without complication. Although the nuns had experience in midwifery, several
other teachers and I travelled to Isère just in case. Joyce and Beryl took the
child back to England as quickly as possible to minimise upset for Eva.
Unfortunately, she had already formed a bond with her child. Removing the
little boy was a deeply upsetting experience all round. I remained with Eva
until she had recovered in both body and mind, then we returned to school and
tried to put the episode behind us.

It is my belief our actions brought a curse upon us and
we are being punished for what happened in 1965. Moreover, I believe that the
killing of Maureen Hall was a terrible error and it should have been me. I
became Mrs Cashmore in 1972. Before that, my name was Miss Doreen Hall.

Yours sincerely

Doreen Cashmore

Dr Weinberg would not be drawn on a prognosis until he
had seen the X-rays. Joyce had a suspected broken collarbone, and possibly a
broken rib, plus extensive bruising to her face as a result of her defensive
injuries. After consultation with the staff at Andreas Papandreou Hospital, it
was decided she would be better served by a smaller private clinic in Sgourou,
where security would be easier to arrange. Exhausted, frustrated and shaken,
Beatrice watched the ambulance leave and returned to the bridge.

At first glance, she assumed the man in conversation with
Nikos was one of the entertainers. Leather jacket, quiff and old-fashioned
sideburns. She picked up the tension as soon as she saw Nikos’s face.

“DI Stubbs, this is Inspector Xanthou from the South Aegean
Region of the Hellenic Police. Xanthou, this is Detective Inspector Stubbs of
Scotland Yard.”

The man’s eyebrows arched and despite being the same height
as her, he managed to look down his nose.

“Right.” He shook her hand with minimum effort and turned
away to continue speaking Greek.

Nikos interrupted. “Xanthou, this investigation is a
cooperative effort between the UK and Greek forces. So that everyone can
understand, we speak English.”

“Fine. I’ll repeat myself in English. I find it amazing that
two senior officers, supported by two of my own men, cannot protect five old
ladies. My resources are stretched to the limit, so I can’t offer you any more
assistance. This is a farce.”

Beatrice had an urge to giggle. A farce indeed. This
ridiculous bantam cock of a man, attempting pomposity while dressed as if he
were busking in a skiffle band.

“Pleased to meet you, Inspector Xanthou. I fear ‘five old
ladies’ is a serious underestimation of the task. This ship carries two
thousand passengers, all of whom deserve our protection. Your sergeants
understand that much and have patrolled the entire vessel. My suggestion, if
you’re in agreement, Inspector Stephanakis, is to entrust the protection of
Joyce Milligan to Inspector Xanthou, whilst we proceed with our investigation.
Let’s hope the South Aegean force can protect one old lady.” She faked a laugh
and prodded Xanthou’s shoulder, for no other reason than she knew he’d hate it.
“Excuse me gentlemen, I need to talk to Captain Jensson.”

By the time she’d finished discussing the logistics of
removing the Hirondelles with Jensson, Xanthou had left. Nikos stood outside,
talking on his mobile. When he saw her, he signalled for her to follow. He led
the way to the empty cafeteria and bought two coffees from the vending machine,
still conversing in Greek. They sat at a window table and he ended the call.

“Well?” he asked.

Beatrice cradled her coffee. “Jensson’s staff will book six
seats on a charter flight to London Gatwick for lunchtime today. Five
Hirondelles and myself. We’ll need an escort to the airport and specialised
transport for the ladies. From there, I’ll hand over to the Wiltshire police.
Can you arrange for a briefing room at Gatwick where I can talk to those
officers and any relatives we can get hold of?”

“You’re leaving?”

“No. Just ensuring the ladies get home safely, then I’ll be
back. Someone on this ship is our man and we are this close to finding him.”
She held up finger and thumb in a narrow pinch.

“You said Doreen Cashmore told you what all this is about.
You went to her cabin?"