THURSDAY'S ORCHID (16 page)

He was expecting too much. They would be talking about it until late into the night. He turned to one of the officers. “Cheng, see that two of the crew stand watch over the bow area. I don’t want anybody up past the number two hatch until after I’ve had a chance to make
an inspection in the morning. And tell whoever goes on watch not to touch or move anything either – and tell them to keep well clear of the blood!”

It was a bit late to start issuing orders. There must have been at least fifteen people milling around the body as we had lifted it on to the stretcher. The crew’s heavy boots would have scuffed out any clues the captain hoped to find.

I started to move away, but he called out to me: “Mr. Rider, would you stay for a few minutes please.”

He sat down on the only chair in the cabin while I looked around for something to sit on, finally perching my backside on a corner of the chest of drawers. Neither of us wanted to sit on the bunk with Pete lying there under the blanket. He scratched his chin, fastened a couple of buttons on his shirt and looked towards the porthole.

“The damn ghouls would be out there soaking up the blood for a souvenir, given half the chance,” he muttered. “Why the bloody hell did this have to happen? I’ll have to make a full report; take statements and everything. If the bloody authorities find out the entire bloody crew were wandering all round the damn corpse there’ll be hell to pay!”

He sprang up from the chair and glared at me. “Bloody passengers! Nothing but bloody trouble. Jesus Christ! Fancy wandering around the decks on a dark,
wet night! What the hell did he think he was doing? Stupid bastard.”

He didn’t give a damn about Pete. All he was upset about was the amount of trouble this was going to cause him. My fist was clenched and my backside was half-way up off the chest of drawers when he caught the look in my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “You probably think I’m callous. Well, maybe I am, but running a ship like this hardens you to many things. I’ve had a long day, not to mention a hell of an argument with the chief engineer, and a dozen other things which have gone wrong as well.”

So, he had his troubles. We all did.

He asked me what had happened and how I had come to find the body. I gave him most of the details, omitting all reference to the marks on the parka and those on Pete’s neck. I kept quiet about the conversation we’d had concerning the girl in Cairns. That was personal. Pete wouldn’t have wanted them to know. I let him believe that it was strictly alcohol, compounded by seasickness.

I considered telling him that it looked like murder. With a bit of luck we might be able to establish whether any member of the crew had not been where he should have been at the time of the killing, but all that could do would be to warn the killer.

No, the only thing to do was to keep quiet. The sooner the captain came to the conclusion I was trying to paint, so much the better. He already believed it to be the staggerings of a drunken fool, so let him continue to believe it. Besides, if the killer didn’t know whether I knew the truth or not it might give me those few seconds advantage should he try again. Not that I thought he would try again. One death could be explained as an unfortunate accident. Two would be fetching gullibility a little too far.

But I wasn’t taking any chances.

All the way back to my cabin I kept stopping, listening for footsteps following mine, and keeping well clear of dark alcoves. I made sure the cabin door was securely locked. It had been locked whilst we had gone ashore in Cairns and that hadn’t stopped the bastard from searching my things. The flimsy lock wouldn’t have kept an honest person out. It could be sprung with a screwdriver without the slightest sound being made.

I propped the desk chair under the door handle and leaned the water jug into the back of the chair. It wouldn’t stop an intruder, but at least I would hear the mongrel. Not that I was expecting him to come sneaking in so soon after he had killed Pete, but it was better to be safe than dead.

Lying on my bunk in the dark I tried again to figure out why the killer, or killers – there didn’t have to be just the one – wanted me out of the way. I hadn’t pried into anything. I had kept well away from the wool. If I had gone down into the hold checking out the bales I could probably have understood it. But there was no way anybody could connect me with the cargo, even if they knew what was hidden away in the middle of each bale.

It was a mystery and yet it had happened, so there had to be a reason. And there was a reason; the only one th
ere could be: the marijuana.

Who could the killer be working for? He couldn’t be a freelance operator, because there was no way he coul
d have found out about the marijuana. Besides, one man couldn’t handle the amount we were shipping. There had to be an organization behind it. But which?

Could it be Nick?
He had sounded worried when I spoke to him in Cairns. Was he worried that he was sending me to my death? No, he always sounded like that. And why kill me on the ship? He could have done it at any one of a hundred places and not waited until I was on board the ship; unless I was intended to go overboard and simply disappear. No, it wasn’t Nick’s style.

Sure, I was in for a share of the profits, but my share was small compared to the amount he was mak
ing. Killing me would be stupid and could jeopardise the whole project. For all he knew, I could have protected myself in some way; left a signed statement or some such thing.

There was no way it could have been Nick. He still needed me, now more than ever.

The only other person was Tek. And that didn’t make sense either; for much the same reasons. Besides, it had been his idea that I go along and baby-sit the cargo. It would have been much easier for him to have me murdered in some back street in Singapore. If Tek wanted to steal the cargo it would be simpler to take delivery in Singapore and refuse payment. There wouldn’t have been a lot that we could have done about it. If both the cargo and I disappeared in transit, the result would be the same. It would be the end of any further dealings as far as Nick would be concerned. He wouldn’t trust Tek again, nor the system. And Tek wanted the relationship to continue. There were too many millions of dollars involved.

There had to be some third party, some unknown organization. And that was the worst part. They knew all about me, what I was doing and where I was going. They had the edge and I was completely in the dark. Well, perhaps not completely. I did know something.

I knew that somebody wanted me dead.

Ten

I slept uneasily that night, if I slept at all. It seemed that at every creak of the ship I was out of the bunk and facing the cabin door;
but I must have finally fallen asleep during the early hours of the morning. I awoke, surprised at seeing the sunlight streaming through the open porthole. From now on it would be screwed down tight and the curtain drawn across.

Normally I was an early riser, except when I had been drinking heavily; which was exactly
how I felt at that moment – drained, empty, alone.

The faces at the breakfast table were downcast. Nobody likes a death at sea. Come to that, nobody likes a death at any time. It makes us realise how vulnerable we all are, and a death at sea is an omen of bad luck.

No-one said a word as I walked in. All conversation stopped. I received a nod from one of the officers, but the rest just looked at me with sullen faces. The two wives present kept their heads bent down to the table. It seemed to me as though each person was laying the whole of the blame on my shoulders.

The captain looked up from his breakfast as I sat down. “Morning,” he mumbled through a mouthful of cornflakes
, a dribble of milk escaping from one corner of his mouth. He wiped his chin. “I thought we might hold an enquiry at ten o’clock this morning. Would that suit you?” I ignored his sarcasm.

“You’re the captain,” I replied, throwing it straight back at him. “You’re the one that makes certain the ship runs like clockwork – without any little problems.” If he wanted to be smart with me, so be it. “Whatever you say goes. It’s got nothing to do with me. I’m only a passenger on this ship. Pete was a friend that I’d made on board; that’s all.”

I didn’t want anybody getting the idea that I had any interest in the affair, other than as a friend of the deceased. I was just the poor bastard who had found him. This report would go direct to the authorities in Singapore as soon as we docked and I could do without embarrassing questions on my arrival. I didn’t want anybody poking around and finding out that pressure had been used to get me on the ship in the first place. I wasn’t interested in avenging Pete’s death or of bringing his killer to justice. If I got the chance I would knock the bastard off, but I wasn’t going to prejudice anything by doing so. What I wanted was the identity of the killer; and finding out exactly what information he had, and the names of those behind him.

The fire
smouldering in Flint’s eyes pulsated as he fought to hold his temper back.

“Yes, Mr. Rider,” he snapped. “I am in charge. The ship comes first, then the crew. You come last. From now on, keep out of my way, and the crew’s, until we reach Singapore!”

For a few seconds it was touch and go as I half expected him to fly across the table and grab me by the throat. But I had been ready for him, my right hand gripping the bottom of the back of the chair and my weight on both feet, ready to spring up and sweep the chair around at his head. It wasn’t necessary. He had made up his mind. He would save me for later.

He turned and addressed the gathering. “We’ll hold the enquiry here in the saloon. Ten o’clock this morning. I don’t think it will be necessary to bring the body along. We can make an examination later on, in the cabin.”

He moved on to his bacon and eggs. Some of the others had pushed theirs aside.

“Mr. Rider,” he continued. “I want you and the first officer to meet me up by the bow as soon as you have both finished eating.” The first officer nodded his agreement and
silently went on with his breakfast. “We’ll carry out an inspection of the area and take a few photographs.” He thought for a minute and then turned to the first officer. “
First
, find someone with a camera. There should be one somewhere on the ship. And bring some paper and pencils.”

He downed his coffee
. Breakfast was over. “Right, I’ll see you both down there in ten minutes.” And with that he strode out.

We weren’t the only ones inspecting the scene. It seemed that everybody who didn’t have a job to do was up on the foredeck, looking down at the bloodstains on the steel plating, totally ignoring the captain’s order that nobody was to venture past the number two hatch. A couple of the crew were down on their haunches, fingers touching the dried blood. I could see why the captain had called them morbid. There was even one of the women looking down at the stain, holding tight to her husband as though the spectre of death might suddenly spring up and carry her away.

The few slack ropes that were supposed to have cordoned off the area were removed as we approached. Flint scowled at the assembly, waited as they backed off a few paces and then pointed to the deck. “Right, Mr. Rider. Show us exactly where he was lying.”

The rain through the night had managed to wash a lot of the blo
od away, but the outline was still visible. I pointed to the stain. “Well, Captain. As you’ll recall from last night, his head was right here where the stain is.”

I didn’t want to be treated as the
star witness. I wanted it made clear from the outset that Flint had seen nearly as much as I had; and so had half the ship’s complement for that matter. But on the other hand I didn’t want to be seen as uncooperative. I swept my arm round to the steel rungs. “And his body was stretched out from the bottom of the ladder. He was lying on his chest, with his head twisted towards the left-hand side of the ship.”

“Towards the port-side bulwark,” Flint interjected, pointing in the direction of the left-hand side of the ship.

“Yes.” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “He was facing the port-side bulwark, if that’s the proper name for it.”

“And that was all, nothing more?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, non-committal. “As far as I can recall.”

“What about his hands and arms? Was he holding anything?”

“No,” I replied. “There was nothing in his hands.” And then I realised I hadn’t seen his hands, at least not clearly. His arms had been under his body, stretched backwards, with his hands more or less beneath his thighs. “Captain, I think his arms were under his chest, although one of them might have been stretched out in front of him. Yes, that’s it. One arm was out in front. I distinctly remember now. It probably slid forward when he tried to break the fall.”

It was a blatant lie and I hoped that nobody caught me out on it, but even if they did, I could plead a bad memory – and shock.

Pete must have been unconscious when he was flung down towards the deck; if not already dead. There was no way he could have tried to break his fall. But if they realised where his hands had been they would know he didn’t simply trip over the top step and crash to his death. And there was no way I wanted them to find that out.

As I pointed out the
position of the body and limbs the first officer made a few chalk marks on the deck. When he had finished he straightened up and glanced over at the captain. “Sir, it’s a pity we didn’t take a couple of photographs last night. It would have made everything a lot easier.”

Flint didn’t say a word
. What could he say? He hadn’t been thinking too straight the previous evening: hauled from his bunk with more than one glass of whisky under his belt. He glared at me, as though it was me who had come up with the criticism. Then he spun to the officer and let fly. “As far as I know,
First
, there isn’t a bloody flash-camera on board!”

He hadn’t even thought to ask if there was one. Even so, he could have covered the area with a tarpaulin and rigged deck lights.

“Mr. Rider,” he asked. “Did you see him fall, or hear him cry out?” We were back to the cross-examination.

“No. I didn’t see it happen and I didn’t hear a thing. He must have fallen while I was still in my cabin getting my jacket.”

I didn’t mention the metallic sound I had heard. That was between me and the killer.

And that was the finish of the questions for the time being. The first officer got out his pencils and ruler, sat
down on the deck, and proceeded to draw pictures. Somebody produced a camera and took a few photographs of the bloodstains, the ladder, and the general area.

When they had finished getting all of the details of the scene together we moved back to the saloon; or rather the captain, the first officer and I did. The rest
of the spectators stayed on deck, taking in the gruesome details.

The remainder of the so-called enquiry was as tedious as the inspection on deck had been. The captain took down my statement in longhand, making certain he included every single detail, covering the entire episode from the time of our departure from the lounge after dinner the previous evening, to the time I had raced back and told the others that Pete ha
d fallen. When the statement was finished I read it through and signed at the bottom. The first officer witnessed my signature.

The whole of the ship’s complement was brought in one by one. Each was asked i
f he had seen or heard anything; the answer always in the negative.

I looked for a guilty face and trembling hands, but knew he would be too good for that. Besides, the use of an interpreter gave the bas
tard plenty of time to frame his answers.

I was convinced that it had to be one of the crew and not one of the officers. Those of the officers who hadn’t been on duty
had been in the lounge at the time. The only person missing was one of the wives, and she claimed to have been in her cabin most of the evening. She was the one clutching her husband’s arm as we had all gathered around to view the scene. I didn’t see her as the killer. She was also the one Pete claimed had been giving him the eye.

The enquiry, if you could call it that,
lasted for most of the day; with only a break for lunch.

It was a miserable meal. I had never seen so many plates returned to the galley with their contents just stirred about. The
y all sat in morbid fascination: whispered conversations, eyes downcast, with every now and then a quick glance in my direction.

I was anxious to get my parka back. I wanted to have a better look at the stain; and to destroy the evidence; but the captain wasn’t having any of it. Nothing was to be removed from the body. It wasn’t to be cleaned. It wasn’t to be touched. The corpse had to be kept in the same condition it had been in at the moment of death.

I cursed under my breath and tried to convince Flint otherwise, but he was firm. He wouldn’t even let me check through the pockets to see if any of my things were still there. I had to get rid of the stain. It was the only thing that pointed to foul play, the only thing that could burst the incident wide open.

I was fairly certain what had made the mark on the back of the hood. It looked and felt like dried grease, but with a distinct odour of paint. The grease had been dry. It had to be some object that had been covered in grease at one time and either been left lying near fresh paint, or part of it had been painted. It had to be light enough to lift and swing against a man’s neck
; but heavy enough to knock him out, or kill him.

I wandered up towards the bow section. There was nothing I could see that had recently been painted. And when I thought further, I realised I hadn’t
seen anybody using paint since shortly after leaving Adelaide.

It was puzzling. I strolled up onto the fore
-deck and down around the hatch-coamings, but there was nothing that seemed obvious. I ambled back up along the right-hand side of the vessel, the starboard side. Suddenly the faint smell of paint reached my nostrils, then teasingly disappeared only to reappear a moment later; and then I had it. It had been in front of me all the time, staring me in the face.

The paint
locker: the compartment under the foredeck where all the paint and other bits and pieces of deck maintenance equipment were stored. The smell hadn’t come from the stain on the jacket! It had come from the paint locker.

When we came down to inspect the scene of the accident during the morning, the door had been open. At least, I think it had been. But I was almost certain that it had been closed the previous night.

But if it hadn’t been open at the time Pete was killed, then how had the smell of paint reached my nostrils? And then I recalled the metallic sound that clanged in the night as I prowled the deck looking for Pete. It was where the killer had been hiding. He must have heard me calling to Pete and ducked into the paint locker, closing the heavy door behind him in a panic and failing to stop it banging. The bastard had been there the whole time I had been bending over Pete. If he’d had any guts he would have come out and finished me off there and then. It told me something. It told me he wasn’t brave enough to face a man. He was the type who had to sneak up from behind.

As soon as I
had raced off for help he would have made good his escape, once again closing the door. And that’s where the weapon would be, unless he had tossed it overboard. But I didn’t think he would have done that. He might be seen with it in his hand; certain proof that he was the killer. No, he would have dropped it in some cluttered corner where he thought it wouldn’t be found.

It might still be in the paint locker
. He wouldn’t have had a chance to go back and get rid of it over the side. I would search the locker that evening, as soon as everyone had settled down for the night.