Cold Pressed (7 page)

Stephanakis met Beatrice's eyes. The four of them sat around
a small table in the infirmary lounge; Stephanakis taking notes, Maggie giving
her statement, Beatrice asking the questions and Rose Mason supporting her
friend and gently prodding her to remember the details.

Rose spoke. "That's what the police want to find out,
Maggie. So you have to help them as much as possible. Do you remember you told
me one of the crew had found her? You seemed very sure the man was from the
Empress
Louise
. Can you remember why you said that?"

"It was only an assumption. All I can remember is that
he was a lot taller than her and wore white. Or it could have been cream, I
suppose. The midday sun tends to bleach everything. I couldn’t tell you his
hair colour as he was wearing that hat they all wear. It looked like the white
uniform and because she seemed to know him, I thought he had to be a crew
member. But I definitely have no evidence for that and would want to make no
accusations."

Beatrice glanced at Stephanakis, with a slight twitch of her
eyebrow. He got the message and cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mrs
Campbell. Can you think of anything else about the man which might help us? Did
you see where he came from?"

"From below where we were sitting. But that's where all
the coaches park, so it doesn't really help, does it?"

Beatrice nodded her reassurance. "Do you mind if I ask
why you were up there? Why you chose to take a picnic off on your own?"

Maggie sniffed and jerked her head in the direction of Rose.
"Ask her."

Rose gave an embarrassed smile. "Cruises aren't really
my thing. I agreed to try it, as Maggie was so keen, but I am not enjoying the
experience, to be truthful. The whole thing feels a bit stage-managed. We
snatch every opportunity to go ashore and do our own thing. We try to escape
the coach tours, go in the opposite direction to the herd and avoid anything
that looks like a tourist spot. When we docked at Santorini, we hired a moped
and took a picnic up to the cliffs, deliberately choosing a spot where we could
appreciate the view, but no one else could see us. It sort of backfired this
time."

“You hired a moped?” Stephanakis asked, a note of disbelief
in his voice.

“Yes, I like scooters.” Rose’s face cleared. “They remind me
of the good old times on the south coast. I used to be a mod, back in the day.”

“Me too. Or at least I wanted to be. Never really had the
looks.” Beatrice shared a complicit smile with Rose, aware she was excluding
Stephanakis. The bond and trust with the witness came first. She could explain
to him later.

"Where did you get the picnic?" asked Stephanakis.

Maggie answered. "You can order them aboard and they
have it ready for just after the ship docks. All beautifully presented in a wee
hamper. They even remember the salt."

"And while you watched the man throw the woman through
your camera, Mrs Campbell, you didn’t take a photograph?”

“No. I wasn’t ready... I just watched.” Maggie pinched her
lips together.

“And you saw nothing at all, Mrs Mason?"

Rose shook her head. "No. I'm not sure if I should be
glad or sorry about that. Seeing how much it has traumatised Maggie, part of me
is relieved. But I also wish I could back her up with something more concrete
when people like that bully of a doctor make it clear they think she's
doolally. To answer your question, Inspector, no. I was packing away the picnic
and listening to her commentary. But I have no doubt whatsoever that Maggie saw
what she says she saw. She was not suffering from heatstroke, she wasn't tipsy
and she is in full possession of all her marbles."

The two women exchanged a look which made Beatrice soften.
But she had to state facts.

"Thanks for your testimony. I have to be honest and say
you are our only witnesses. Inspector Stephanakis has to find proof of what you
saw or the case will be deemed accidental death. The pathologist can find no
evidence of anything other than a fall. Circumstances suggest she wandered off
looking for birdlife and became disorientated and she suffered from a medical
condition which may have caused dizziness. Do you see why we have to explore
every last detail?"

They both nodded and reached for each other’s hands.

"I know reliving the incident is painful, but please,
think very hard once again and if you recall anything, give one of us a call. I
will be here tomorrow morning, but unless something turns up, I will have to
return to London. The Hellenic Police and I really would like to help you, but
we have less than twenty-four hours before this will be filed as an accident.
Inspector Stephanakis and I will give you our cards."

Back in the casino, her early start, the weight of
that cake, the quiet darkness of the casino and the futility of this case threw
a torpor over Beatrice. Maggie Campbell’s story was wholly convincing, but
without proof it was a non-starter as a case.

In several of the late-afternoon interviews, Beatrice
struggled to keep her eyes open. More of the coach trip passengers expressed
the same platitudes – couldn't believe it... lovely woman... eightieth
birthday... only spoken to her half an hour earlier. Why did that make a
difference? Why did people always express astonishment at how recently they had
communicated with the deceased? As if that phone call, chat in the supermarket,
hug before parting conveyed special protection for at least a fortnight.

These were strangers, wedging themselves into the centre of
events by dint of being a bystander. Or bysitter, as they had all been on the
same coach. They added nothing to the case but much to Beatrice’s misanthropy.

Last on the list were the final two Hirondelles. Miss Joyce
Milligan, the trip organiser, was the first in the chair. For eighty-one, the
woman was remarkable. Quick on her feet, if a little stooped, beady-eyed and
with a firm handshake. They progressed through the necessaries. Couldn't
believe it ... lovely woman... known her for over fifty years... eightieth
birthday... only spoken to her at breakfast... family informed. Saddest
Hirondelle cruise they'd ever had.

"Indeed, very sad. Especially, as you say, just after
celebrating eighty years of life. Do you know if Mrs Crawford’s low blood
pressure ever caused dizziness?”

“Not that I know of. She never mentioned anything like that.
I know she had poor circulation. Ten minutes in the pool and Esther used to go
blue. Esther Williams she was not. She had tablets from the ship’s doctor but
didn’t get on with them.”

“Can you tell me a little more about the Hirondelles? How
did you all meet and where does the name come from?"

Joyce looked confused for a second. "Oh, has no one
explained yet? Well, I have to confess the name was my idea. Most of us, not
all, were teachers at the Swallows Hall Academy in Wiltshire. Private girls'
school, long since turned into a conference centre. Headmistress for twenty-two
years, you know! Before I got the top job, I was originally the French
mistress. Doesn't take a detective to work out what 'swallows' is in French.”
She gave a wheezy laugh. “A gaggle of us became good friends whilst chaperoning
the girls on school trips. We had quite some adventures in those days. I could
tell you stories that would make your hair curl!"

“I can imagine.” Beatrice warmed to the infectious laugh.
"So you've been holidaying together for a long time then?"

"We have. Many of us never married, you see. And even
those who did rejoined the fold after their chaps died. It's a very special
kind of club. We take good care of each other. For many of us, we’re all we've
got."

The piercing truth of that shook Beatrice fully awake.
"I understand. And Esther..."

"Founding member. One of the original Swallows. Of all
of us, she was perhaps the healthiest and most full of life. This is why it's
so hard to believe. And coming so soon after Beryl, the whole group is
grief-stricken and shocked. I’m organising a memorial service for them both
because we have to celebrate our happy memories and all the good times we had
together. It will help us overcome our sadness now and find a way of coping
with future losses. I doubt I’m the only one who’s aware that at our age this
sort of situation will become more the norm. Every one we lose moves the rest
of us further up the queue."

Beatrice looked up from her notebook. "Beryl? Are you
saying another of your group died recently?"

"No one told you that either? Beryl Hodges passed away
not twenty-four hours after leaving port. Just after Esther’s eightieth
birthday party. I really don't know if poor Esther fell or was pushed but it’s
not the way I’d want to go. At least Beryl went peacefully in her sleep. I’ll
tell you one thing, Detective Inspector, this has been the unluckiest
Hirondelle holiday we’ve ever had.”

Chapter 8

Andros Metaxas couldn't speak Greek. The few phrases
he did know were delivered with no real attempt at an accent and he made
mistakes most school kids would ridicule. Nikos switched to English. It was
less painful.

"You're not actually Greek, are you?"

Andros held up his hands in mock surrender. "It's a
fair cop, guv."

Nikos frowned. The expression made no sense.

"Oh, come on. Don't look like that! The Brits and the
Yanks want the genuine article, your average Spiros from a village with olive
groves, a donkey and a couple of legends. They also want someone who speaks
English and understands their sense of humour. Ta-da! Andy Redmond becomes
Andros Metaxas and everyone's a winner."

The guy reminded Nikos of a TV presenter. Everything he said
was designed to raise a laugh or a round of applause. His long legs stretched
out in front of him, he leant back in his chair, projecting the image of
someone completely at ease.

Nikos kept his head down, writing nonsense notes in Greek,
and allowed his other senses to take over. Andy was a smoker. The scent of
tobacco mixed with something sweeter emanated from his leather jacket. His
ankles twitching against one another could indicate something as innocent as
nervous energy. Or not. Nikos looked at him, directly in the eyes. Bloodshot,
red-rimmed and constantly shifting. All useful information to be filed.

"Your nationality is not important in itself. Your
decision to create a false identity is significant, however. Is your boss aware
of this deception?"

Andy pulled an exaggerated expression of stupidity.
"Umm, duh, let's see. He has my passport so I guess he does. Listen, it's
part of the deal. The excursion staff, the waiters, the sports coaches, the
entertainers, we're all playing a role here. This is a pantomime. Glossy front,
cardboard back. Give the punters what they want and everyone goes home
happy."

"Not Esther Crawford. She goes home in a box."

Andy sat up in his chair. "The worst you can pin on me
regarding the old girl's fall is forgetting to do the head count when they got
back on the coach. When she took her tumble, I was trying to seat forty-six
grandmas in a Fira taverna. I have loads of witnesses."

Nikos's attention was distracted. At the other end of the
casino, Detective Stubbs gathered her things and escorted her most recent
interviewee to the door.

She came back to his table with a polite nod towards Andy.

“I have to go up to the bridge. I wonder if you could take
my last Hirondelle interviewee? Doreen Cashmore.” She placed a manila folder on
his table. “You’d better read that first.”

“Of course.”

She walked towards the door, then looked back and gave a
reassuring wave in his direction, although her expression was grim.

He turned back to the dopehead in front on him.

"Yes. The worst we can pin on you is causing the
premature death of an elderly woman by neglect. That roll call would have saved
her life. Whether your omission was due to laziness, incompetence or to mental
impairment as a result of consistent drug use is not for me to say."

Andy's eyes looked everywhere but at him. "Yeah right.
Classic police tactics. Try to stitch me up for drugs and make me the fall
guy..."

"Shut up, Andy." Nikos lowered his tone, but
maintained his emotionless expression. "I can ask a staff member to search
your cabin right now, and in less than five minutes, no 'stitch-up' would be
required. Please understand, that is not my objective. I am here to find out
what happened to Esther Crawford while she was under your supervision. Any
information you can provide will be useful."

Andy's TV persona slipped away and he hunched forward.
"Can I have a glass of water?"

According to the file Beatrice had given him, not
seven but eight Hirondelles had boarded the
Empress Louise
just over ten
days ago. Nikos wondered why no one had mentioned the name Beryl Hodges up to
now. The ladies ranged in age from seventy-seven to eighty-one, all active and
lively despite various infirmities. The unexpected departure of Mrs Hodges made
it seven and now there were six. As if the shock of losing two of their
companions wasn’t enough, one death was being investigated as murder.

Fear hung on Doreen Cashmore like a damp coat. One of the
youngest at seventy-seven, she told Nikos they had discussed abandoning the
cruise and flying home to England.

"My son says not to be so daft and enjoy my holiday,
but how can we enjoy ourselves when they’re not even cold? We’ll miss their
funerals and we’ve always been there for each other. A memorial service is a
nice idea, but it’s not the same. Any road, no one can relax without knowing
what really happened to poor Esther. Why would anyone want to harm her? She
wouldn’t hurt a fly."

"That's what we want to find out. It seems a silly
question, but can you think of any reason why someone might benefit from your
friend’s death? Would there be anything in her..." Nikos stalled,
searching for the word to describe the document. It wasn't testament, not
bequest, it was...