Diamond in the Blue: D.I. Simpers Investigates (6 page)

'But I still don't get how they…'

'Remember I said that the gates were there for evacuation of passengers in an emergency.'

'Yes, I do,' replied Simpers.

'The locks are made to open at speed. Anyone trained to remove them could do it in a second with their eyes closed.

'Or without having to see the lock – could they do it by feel?' said Simpers.

'Yes, they could,' replied the officer.

'Have you two quite finished.' Pippa's voice had now regained some of its former sparkle.

'Oh, dear, please do forgive us. Doctor, is Miss Wright-Morton fit enough to return to her cabin?' enquired the Deputy Captain as he acknowledged the medic’s arrival.

'Yes, sir. She's had a nasty experience, but she'll be fine. I recommend a little peace and quiet for a few hours so that she can recover.'

'How does that sound, Miss Wright-Morton,' asked the Deputy Captain.

'Anything is better than swinging on that thing,' replied Pippa as she prodded a finger at the now locked section of railing.

'Then let's get you to your cabin.'

'Oh, please don't worry yourself, Deputy Captain, you have a great deal to do. I am sure nice Mr Simpers here will get me there safe and sound. Talking of which, can you lend me your hand, my foot hurts like hell. Someone stood on it before I fell and it felt like a ton of bricks. I gave him a whack back on his leg but he didn't seem to notice one bit.'

The Deputy Captain glanced at Simpers with a glint in his eye and grinned. Simpers returned the glance with a 'you should know better' type of look.

On the stroke of 8.30pm, the ship's loudspeaker system announced second sitting for dinner was about to start.

Simpers meandered his way to the dining room. He was deep in thought until he saw sick-bags placed upside down at regular intervals behind all the handrails. Simpers concluded that the Commodore knew more than he said about the coming weather. After all, he had welcomed all aboard, commenting that the ship was well prepared for its journey. Also that passengers should enjoy all that the liner offered. Could that include the pleasure of nausea and projectile vomiting, the inspector mused.

'Good evening, sir, please may I see your seating card?'

Simpers did as requested by the rotund restaurant manager.

'OK, table thirty-three. Jerry will escort you to your table, please follow him.'

As Simpers gained sight of his new table companions he realised that he was the last to arrive. One of the two staff who would attend his every need saw him approach, a series of choreographed moves swung into action. Before he had chance to make contact with his chair, a well manicured hand gripped the seat back and pulled it from the table. The young man welcomed Simpers, gesturing for him to sit. As he did so, the chair slid forward and in an instant, an Egyptian cotton napkin settled across the policeman's lap. At the same time a chorus of voices from around the table welcomed their new guest.

So, Simpers thought. These were the people he was to spend the next two weeks with. This was not something he looked forward to, since he much preferred his own company. He most definitely did not enjoy meaningless chat about inconsequential subjects.

Never will so few, talk so much, about so little, Simpers thought. He felt a pang of guilt at having corrupted the stirring words of Winston Churchill. But that's how he felt.

Simpers began his introductions to his table companions. His efforts failed as the familiar 'bing-bong' of the ship's tannoy rang out.

'I'm pleased to let you know that we're now making good progress down the Sound. As you know, our first port of call will be the wonderful island of Madeira, and so we can look forward to three relaxing days at sea. Sea conditions are calm at the moment. That said, we expect things to become a little livelier as the evening progresses and we get into open waters. I would ask that you take care as you move around the ship later this evening. Do enjoy your dinner.'

The Commodore's words left Simpers with a twinge of unease. His mood darkened as he noticed several crew members securing all doors leading to the deck with rope ties.

He noticed two distinct groups of passengers. Those who had been through this sort of thing before hadn't seemed to take any notice of the Commodore's words, nor the rope tricks the crew were undertaking. Instead they were downing the first course of their meal with gusto.

The second group, to which Simpers belonged, hung on every word of the Commodore's epistle. They alternated their gaze from the tightening ropes around the doors, and the food before them, as if the latter was laced with poison.

Reality returned as the conversation between his table companions began to flow. Simpers consoled himself in that, at least for the moment, he couldn't feel any movement of the ship. Content that the food he had selected also appeared inert, he settled into his habit of people watching.

Simpers started with the Smeetons. They were in their early fifties and appeared comfortable in the environment of the ship. Jenny, the wife, had a trim figure and dressed with elegance. She displayed a distinct twinkle in her eyes and had, more than once, given Simpers a lingering glance.

Simpers hoped the occasional rub he experienced from her left leg was down to her appendage going into spasm. He did not wish to contemplate any other explanation. 'Other' bothered him. Ye gods, he thought, as if rough seas weren't enough to deal with, here was a woman with a twitchy eye and spasmodic leg to deal with. God knows what else she might be preparing to fling about, he thought.

Meanwhile the husband, Ken, spent his time and considerable verbal charms on Amelia Reynolds, a wealthy widow of world renowned American ventriloquist, Spike Reynolds. Simpers concluded the Smeetons enjoyed an open marriage.

Next to come under Simpers' scrutiny was Jonathan Stevens. He was a lone traveller in his late twenties with a hesitant demeanour. This, they were to learn, was his first cruise. The money for the trip came via a small inheritance from his mother. It turned out she had suffered a fatal run in with, as Jonathan explained, 'One of them green electric bin lorry things.'

Jonathan said his mother had failed to hear the lorry on its 'Alternative weekly waste collection. Or', he added, 'at least that's what the local council called it.'

Things wouldn't have been so bad, Jonathan explained, if the same bin wagon hadn't done for the family cat the week previous.

'Well, at least they will be together forever, now, Jonathan. That should give your mum some comfort, at least,' offered Ken Smeeton.

'No,' replied Jonathan as he looked at the bowl of orange and coriander soup in front of him, before taking a huge bite from his crusty cob. 'She couldn't stand cats.'

The Smeetons bit their lips and dusted the breadcrumbs Jonathan had shared with them. All efforts to stifle their laughter failed. The tortured results led to a banshee-like rhythm that defied musical convention.

Amelia Reynolds's fork, laden with Palma Ham, came to an abrupt halt as it hovered midway between her plate and mouth. She tried to make sense of the situation. Her response was to move her head to one side as a sign of empathy with Jonathan, before stuffing her helpless quarry into her ample mouth.

Simpers stared at the young man, lamenting what he had done to deserve his place in the parallel universe in which he now found himself. The detective's antidote to the situation was to feel for a pineapple chunk boiled sweet in his jacket pocket. He delighted in picking off the fluff using a covert one hand trick he had perfected at secondary school. He then placed the treat into his mouth, oblivious to the unorthodox mixture of sugary syrup and Caesar salad. Neither did he notice the amused look from his table companions.

Aware of the reaction his comment had provoked, Jonathan began to blush. He fidgeted in his seat and became more agitated by the second.

The awkwardness of the moment lifted when the table stewards arrived to clear the first course dishes. Minutes later they began to place the main course before each of their charges.

Just as the head steward reached over Jonathan to place a plate of finest sirloin steak, the young traveller's right arm shot up. It curled itself around the top of his head, before his left arm grabbed the offending limb, bringing it onto his lap. There followed a short Jekyll and Hyde tussle between his two hands as one tried to free itself from the other. Hyde prevailed.

At the same time, Jonathan spat out, 'Bollocks, fuck, you've got big tits.' His eyes reflected terror as he averted his gaze from Amelia. He raised a hand to his face as if trying to stuff the errant words back into his mouth.

The steward sidestepped Jonathan's flailing arm to place the dish in its assigned position and stepped back, without giving the slightest sign that anything out of the ordinary had occurred. He at no time made eye contact with Jonathan, or any other passenger.

Within seconds it was all over. Jonathan became calm and raised his eyes from their fixed position on the condiment set. He looked at each of his fellow guests in turn.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I have a mild form of Tourette's that kicks in when I get too excited, nervous, or angry. My tics, I mean the swearing and jerking - that's what happens. It isn't anywhere near as bad as when I was nipper, but I still thought I ought to tell the cruise line about my condition. To be honest, I didn't think they would let me come on the holiday.'

At least, Simpers concluded, that explains why the stewards hadn't shown any reaction. It was because they had been briefed on his condition.

'You'll do for me, me darling. Don't you worry yourself one bit. You're amongst friends here. You know, we all have tics, every man-jack. It's just that for most of us, they don't show.' said Amelia. She had managed to break the tension with a supportive smile intended just for Jonathan. It also gave a clear signal to the others that she now considered Jonathan as her special friend.

'Anyway,' Amelia continued, 'you think people give you strange looks. When my darling husband died last year, he stipulated in his will that Prince Cedric here had to travel with me wherever I went. What do you think to that!'

As Amelia spoke, she pointed to an inert figure in the chair beside her. She took the opportunity to plump the cushions beneath the dummy so that its shoulders were just about at table height. At this point the furtive looks her table companions had been giving the stuffed figure broke out into open gawping.

'I don't mind a bit. The prince has been our ticket to fame and fortune,' Amelia explained. 'You know how the American's love an English accent. Well, my clever American ventriloquist husband gave them what they wanted and it made us millions.'

'But I thought vaudeville had had its day in America,' commented Simpers.

'Yes, but he drew on the best of its traditions and brought it bang up to date. The prince here allowed my husband to say things about American politicians no news anchor would get away with. My husband, through the little one here, wasn't backwards at coming forward.'

Simpers was enjoying this, but didn't let it show. He aligned himself with the underdog and had an inane distrust of politicians. It also extended to chief constables and anyone who called themselves a 'community leader'.

'For heaven's sake, it's only a stupid doll,' Jenny Smeeton interjected.

'Yes, but I wonder how all those clever folk who found themselves rolling around the floor on live TV felt. You know, fighting off a rubber chicken with an enormous beak,' said the prince.

'You mean an emu, don't you?' offered Ken Smeeton. 'See, you remember – but it was still rubber and worked by a man with his hand up its backside!'

'No one's putting their hand up my arse,' said Jonathan.

The table fell silent. Four pairs of eyes now rested on the little prince, replete with court dress and an ermine trimmed coronet listing at a rakish angle. Amelia gave no reaction whatsoever. Instead looking straight ahead and continuing to chew on her veal cutlets as if nothing unusual at all had occurred.

'Now who's stupid,' continued the marionette, 'you're the one's listening to a puppet.'

Amelia's table companions tried hard not to show any signs of embarrassment.

Savouring the deliciousness of the situation, Amelia broke the silence. 'See, I told you my clever husband brought the act bang up to date. Not only was he the world's best at throwing his voice, he built the latest technology into this little guy and gave him his own voice.'

'Bloody hell, how does it work?' exclaimed Jonathan.

'Trade secret, young man, trade secret,' replied Amelia. She touched the side of her nose with a finger and winked at the young man.

Just then, a photographer appeared at Jenny Smeeton's side.

'Now, who's for a photo? We have a great offer on this evening. Just £16.00 for a ten by eight including free souvenir cover.'

Before anyone could agree or demure, the man began snapping each of the new table companions in turn. As he did so, Jenny Smeeton turned her attention to Simpers.

'Now then, Mr Simpers, you never did get around to telling us your first name, did you?'

Simpers knew she wasn't going to let this one go.

'It's just Simpers. Everyone calls me Simpers,' he replied.

Jenny persisted. 'But that's daft; no one just goes by their surname – except for posh people who haven't grown out of their time at boarding school. Did you go to a boarding school, then?'

'With my accent. What do you think,' he said, while raising an eyebrow and slicing a carrot with undue harshness.

Yes, I can see, or rather hear, what you mean,' reflected Jenny. As she spoke, she played with the remains of some ratatouille on the side of her plate.

'You're not a policeman or in the army, are you? Officer types often use just their surnames, don't they.'

Simpers shot her the merest glance, but it was enough.

'Well, which is it? What on earth is a bobby doing afloat – I do hope you intend to make good use of my taxes.'

Simpers twitched. Twice in as many hours, ladies sharp enough to cut themselves on had rumbled him. This, because he favoured his surname. And then there had been the badge, of course. Perhaps, Simpers thought, if it's that easy to spot an English bloke abroad, it’s also easy to clock a copper.

'Now, that would be telling wouldn't it? Perhaps I'm a member of the SAS on a secret mission.'

'Are you?' replied Jenny.

Simpers was enjoying this. He felt more comfortable being in control of both the situation and conversation.

'Well, Mrs Smeeton. That's for you to find out isn't it? What I will say is this. People who get too close to me don't always think themselves that lucky, if you know what I mean.'

The more Simpers teased the woman, the more excited she seemed to become. Also, the rate at which her leg caressed Simpers' calf increased. He began to think a visit to the medical centre would ensue to treat his friction burns.