Cold Pressed (9 page)

She sat up with an intake of breath, her head muddled and
dizzy. A man was standing at the foot of her bed. He said something she didn't
catch. She reached for her spectacles but couldn’t locate them. Instead, she
knocked over her glass of water. He came closer.

"Don't touch me! Stay away!" Her voice sounded
muffled and querulous. "Who are you?"

Her words came out indistinctly. What with no teeth and her
sleeping tablet, even to her own ears she sounded drunk.

He spoke again. Although his voice was low, he sounded
polite and unthreatening. She made out the words 'Waitrose' and 'best regards'.
A crew member, perhaps, with some sort of delivery?

"Go away now. It’s not convenient." Her neck was
too weak to support her head. She rubbed at her eyes and forced herself to
focus. "Do you hear? You have to go. Goodnight."

Instead of retreating, he came closer. The light spilling
through the window illuminated his face. His smile seemed vaguely familiar. He
sat on the bed and she noticed his hands. He wore white medical gloves. An
orderly from the infirmary come to check on her progress? His smile faded as he
looked into her eyes. This time she heard him quite clearly, repeating her
words. "No. It's you that has to go. Goodnight."

In one swift move, he shoved her roughly back down on the
bed, while clasping his right hand over her nose and mouth. Her arm flew out
and hit the nightstand. Purely out of instinct, she grasped the cord of the
telephone. He loomed over her and pressed his knee onto her chest. Her lungs
convulsed, the impulse for air desperate. She writhed and kicked and twisted,
yanking the telephone to the floor. The crushing pressure on her chest
increased as she rained feeble blows on her attacker. White spots appeared in
her vision and she seemed to be falling, through the mattress, through the
floor, through the bowels of the ship, through the deep blackness of the sea,
down and down and down to where it was finally, truly dark.

Chapter 11

Chief Inspector Voulakis sounded pleased.

"
So tomorrow you can file the report? Accidental
death, unreliable witnesses, positive outcome of collaboration with London.
That is music to my ears!"

Nikos shifted the phone to his other ear as ran up two steps
at a time and unlocked his front door. Karen's singing reached him from the
kitchen, along with a delicious smell of roasting meat and rosemary.

"No promises, sir. But we've made a thorough
investigation. Doctors, witnesses, travelling companions, crew. Apart from one
lady's account, there's no evidence of foul play. Detective Stubbs is staying
on board tonight, but unless something turns up tomorrow morning, we’ll have no
choice but to close the case."

"
Excellent! Good work, Stephanakis. By the way, the
Scotland Yard detective. Stubbs. What's she like?"

"Smart. She's really easy to work with. It's actually
been a pleasure."

"
Enjoy it while you can. The next case is bound to
be a bastard. Come into the station tomorrow evening and we'll have a beer to
celebrate your first successful result! Have a good evening
."

Karen watched him from the kitchen doorway, her eyes curious
and a smile hovering in the wings. He replaced his phone in his jacket and put
his briefcase on the chair.

"So Inspector, how was your day?" Her voice was
husky. "Have you solved The Murder on the
Empress Louise
yet?"
She slipped her arms around his back and pulled him to her, tilting her face
for a kiss.

He obliged.

"This time tomorrow, my love, it will all be over.
Voulakis will be buying me beer and I'll be celebrating my first case not only
filed in Greek but also in English."

She hunched her shoulders with excitement and kissed him
again. "How's it going? Is the Scotland Yard woman being kind to you?
She’s not sexy, is she?" Her eyes narrowed in faux jealousy.

"She’s nice. She keeps reminding me that I'm in charge
and doesn't play power games like most of the men I’ve worked with. She doesn’t
even correct my English when I know I’m making mistakes.”

“Nice deflection. I asked you if she’s sexy. How old? What
does she look like?”

“No, I wouldn’t describe her as sexy. But I do like her as a
person. I’m not good at guessing ages. Mid fifties? She’s short, but very
upright and always alert, like a squirrel. Bright eyes and funny hair.”

“Oooh-kaaay. So now I’m picturing a rodent in a clown wig.”
Her arms circled his waist.

“Not exactly. I’ll find a photo on the Internet. It’s a pity
this case will be over so soon. I'm learning a lot from working with her. A few
more days would be perfect. Why is it British women always teach me so much?
Talking of which, how was your day?"

"Boring. The Director of Studies has increased class
sizes, my Proficiency group wants individual feedback and the receptionist has
got nits. Who cares?” She looked at him under her lashes. “My man is home. I’ve
put lamb and potatoes in the oven, but that will take another twenty minutes.
So why don't we go upstairs and I can continue your education?"

She led him by the hand up the narrow staircase. On the
landing, he caught sight of himself and his gleeful expression in the mirror.
It made him laugh.

Beatrice too was grinning into the mirror. Who'd have
thought the frumpy detective would scrub up so well? Despite having left all
her clothes, jewellery and most of her make-up at the hotel, the ship’s
housekeeping staff had come to the rescue. They proved priceless. A charming
lady checked her sizes and hurried off to the formal hire facility. Jensson was
not exaggerating – this really was a small, perfectly equipped town. From the
selection she delivered, Beatrice opted for a long black dress with a short
spangled jacket. Her assistant assessed the outfit, and went off to seek
jewels, shoes and a handbag. Meanwhile, the original lady made her an
appointment at one of the various hair salons for a blow-dry and make-up
session. In less than an hour, Beatrice was transformed into someone worthy of
the Captain's table.

She tore her eyes from the glittering stranger in the mirror
and looked around her cabin with some regret. It would be so indulgent to stay
here, order room service and lounge around on this wonderful bed, admiring
herself in the full-length mirror. But this five-star guest suite was thus
named because its occupants had guestly duties. And her host awaited. She gave
her reflection one last arch look, practised a gracious smile, picked up her
key card and ventured onto the deck.

Halfway down the staircase leading to the Grand Dining Room,
she hesitated. One could not fail to be impressed by the opulence. Chandeliers,
starched napkins, gilt pillars, flower arrangements, two tiers of balconies as
if it were a theatre, polished wood and the sparkle of crystal glassware
managed to be simultaneously enticing and forbidding. She wanted a second to
squeeze her eyes shut so she might imagine herself in the past, and also to
stifle a giggle.

"Good evening. I presume this is your first visit to
the Grand Dining Room? Most new arrivals need to stop at this point, if only to
decide on their own responses to such flamboyance. Some say awesome, others say
awful. Have you made up your mind?"

Beatrice recognised the man as the one who had given her
directions to the infirmary earlier that day, although he was now dressed in
black tie. It suited him. "Good evening. I'm not sure I have. I suppose
the one thing one cannot accuse them of is false advertising."

"Very true. I believe we're dining at the same table
tonight, unless my guess is wrong and you are not the police detective from
Scotland Yard."

"Yes, that's right. Beatrice Stubbs. Pleased to meet
you."

"Oscar Martins. Likewise. Did you find the infirmary in
the end?"

They shook hands and then he offered his arm in a curiously
old-fashioned gesture. Amused, Beatrice placed her hand on his forearm and they
proceeded down the steps.

"We did, thank you. Your directions were spot on. Lord
knows how long we would have been wandering about otherwise. This ship must be
full of lost souls trying to find their way home."

"A description uncomfortably close to the truth, I'd
say. Here we are. Good evening, Captain Jensson. By happenstance I met
Detective Stubbs on the staircase and took the liberty of escorting her."

At the circular table sat a middle-aged couple, a scowling
elderly lady, and between the captain and Dr Fraser, a pretty Japanese woman.

Captain Jensson stood to make the introductions. "Mr
and Mrs Simmonds from High Wycombe, Ms Ishii from Kyoto, Dr Fraser is our
senior medical practitioner and this is Mrs Bartholomew who lives in Boston.
Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like you to meet Mr Martins from Cambridge and Detective
Inspector Stubbs, who's just joined us from London."

Beatrice followed Oscar's example, nodding and smiling
around the table, with a general, 'Nice to meet you' before taking her seat. Mr
Simmonds, a bland-looking individual with wholly forgettable features, rubbed
his hands together.

"Lucky me. I get to sit next to Miss Marple. I've
always wanted to pick the brains of a lady detective."

Mrs Simmonds giggled. "Don't be naughty, Don."

Beatrice smiled. "And I'll be happy to share whatever
you'd like to know. With the obvious exception of the case I'm here to
investigate, of course."

A beat of silence, then the frowning lady spoke. "We
were all looking forward to hearing about your progress. It's the only topic of
conversation aboard. Surely you can share a few little tidbits amongst
friends?"

"It would be extremely unprofessional for a detective,
lady or otherwise, to discuss ongoing enquiries. So I'm afraid ‘tidbits’ are
off the menu tonight. But I understand we'll be dining on shellfish, Captain,
is that correct?"

Jensson picked up his cue and the conversation moved onto
the quality of Greek crustaceans. Ignoring the stony glares from at least three
of the party, Beatrice attempted to involve the Japanese woman in conversation,
but after extracting the information that Ms Ishii was a classical pianist, Mrs
Bartholomew interrupted.

"Detective Stubbs, why are you here?"

Before Beatrice could gather her thoughts, Dr Fraser jumped
in. "Good question. I think Captain Jensson over-reacted a wee bit. Even
if you do need to take an old lady's imagination seriously, I can't for the
life of me understand why you'd involve Scotland Yard. The local boys are
perfectly capable of digging about, finding nothing and recording a verdict of
accidental death. Waste of time and resources."

The first course arrived, an oval dish with tiny dabs of
baba ghanouj and hummus, punctuated by mini falafel and dolmas, decorated with
olives and a salad garnish. A waiter placed a basket of warm pitta bread
between each pair and began pouring the wine.

Jensson seemed at a loss as to whether to ignore or respond
to the physician’s comment and the party watched the waiter’s progress in
silence. Finally, as the captain's glass was filled, Oscar raised his.

"Regardless of why we're here, let's enjoy fine food
and good company. Cheers everyone!"

Beatrice, relieved at Oscar's gracious behaviour, lifted her
glass to join the others. The lines on Jensson's forehead smoothed. The
Bartholomew trout's did not but she toasted anyway. Timing was of the essence.
As soon as glasses were replaced on the table, like a crack team trained in the
art of diplomatic small talk, Oscar enquired as to the weather in Boston,
Jensson asked Ms Ishii's opinion of the string quartet and Beatrice turned to
her neighbour.

"So tell me, Mr Simmonds, what are house prices like in
High Wycombe?"

The seafood platter surpassed all expectations.
Shells, claws, the remnants of lemon wedges and well-used finger bowls littered
the table, while compliments poured forth in abundance. Their party began to
break up almost immediately. Dr Fraser was called to an emergency, Mrs Simmonds
wanted to get a good seat in the auditorium for the evening's Rat Pack
Repertoire and Ms Ishii excused herself, claiming further practice was required
for tomorrow's recital. Beatrice felt increasingly relaxed by each departure.
Oscar sat back to allow the waiting staff to clear his plate.

"My favourite kind of meal: varied, perfectly cooked,
reasonably healthy and incredibly messy. Tell me, do I have any scales stuck to
my face?"

Beatrice laughed. "Not that I can see, but the lighting
is subdued. It really was a feast, I agree. I'm very glad I stayed for dinner.
And I must remember to make a note of that wine."

"Indeed. Deceptively light, but it works its
magic." He glanced in the direction of Mrs Bartholomew, whose face was
flushed, but not softened as she bent the captain's ear.

Beatrice dropped her voice. "And I thought avoiding
icebergs would be the worst part of the poor man's job."

"Icebergs can take many forms. Now I'm going to respect
my waistline and decline dessert. However, an espresso and a digestif might
round off the evening rather well. I plan to head for the Club Room. No
entertainment other than some muffled Mahler, but they do decent coffee and
their collection of single malts could bring tears to your eyes. Would you like
to join me?"

"I would, but is that not terribly rude?" She
flicked her eyes towards the beleaguered captain.

"Captain Jensson? Detective Stubbs and I have enjoyed
ourselves enormously. Thank you for a truly memorable meal. We would like to
round the evening off with a little dancing. Could we tempt you and Mrs
Bartholomew to join us? The Kit Kat Club has an excellent jazz band."

"Thank you, Mr Martins, but I'm afraid my evening is
dedicated to the usual routine checks. But I hope you enjoy the music. I am a
big fan of jazz." Jensson looked genuinely regretful.