Cruising to Murder Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Titles by Mark McCrum

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  What had just …

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Acknowledgements

  Titles by Mark McCrum

  Non-fiction

  HAPPY SAD LAND

  NO WORRIES

  THE CRAIC

  CASTAWAY

  ROBBIE WILLIAMS: SOMEBODY SOMEDAY

  GOING DUTCH IN BEIJING

  WALKING WITH THE WOUNDED

  Fiction

  THE FESTIVAL MURDERS *

  * available from Severn House

  CRUISING TO MURDER

  Mark McCrum

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  Copyright © 2018 by Mark McCrum.

  The right of Mark McCrum to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8807-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-934-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-989-3 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ‘It is not known precisely how often crimes occur on cruise vessels or exactly how many people have disappeared during ocean voyages because cruise line companies do not make comprehensive, crime-related data readily available to the public.’

  Finding 8, Sec 2, Cruise Vessel Safety and Security Act 2010, USA

  ‘We have got archaic laws going back to the days of Captain Cook … we don’t allow it to happen in the airline industry, [so] why are we allowing the lawlessness so much in the cruise industry …’

  Mark Brimble, Australian campaigner for cruise ship safety, recipient of the Order of Australia medal, January 2016

  ‘Do your little bit of good where you are. It’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.’

  Desmond Tutu

  What had just happened? She was gasping for air, choking out saltwater, pain in her chest – oh God, such pain. A big wave slapped her from the side and now she was swallowing more. No, she wasn’t going under. Wasn’t. She struck out with her arms, strong swimmer that she was, but she could hardly move them for the stabbing agony. She had broken something hitting the water. Cracked a rib, must have done.

  She remembered the sea racing up towards her: black, glittering with moonlight. She remembered screaming, at the top of her voice, all the way down.

  Then nothing. She spluttered as she gulped the warm air. She tried to yell again, but she could hardly hear herself against the noisy waves. It didn’t matter anyway. The ship was far away now. A little silhouette coming in and out of view, a few tiny lights showing.

  How had she got here? Drunk, yes, she had been that, all evening she’d been drinking. Cocktails, wine, brandy, champagne, on and on till she tipped over, as always, into stupid oblivion. But she hadn’t fallen, she was sure of that. She had been holding the rails, looking out at the silver path beneath the moon, when she had felt that sudden push from behind. Hoist, more like. Firm hands on her waist, flip, that thump of her head on the ship’s side, and then suddenly nothing … but the long, terrifying plunge.

  So who, who had done that to her? And why? Because she’d had her suspicions about Eve? And Rising Star? That had to be it. She should never have asked those questions. She should have said more to Don …

  Useless speculations raced through her brain as she fought to stay on the surface, hyperventilating as she floundered in the huge swell. They would see her. No. They would turn back and rescue her. No. A lifebuoy would be dropped. No.

  The choking had stopped. She was going down, a beautiful woman in a gold cocktail dress, sinking into the depths like a scuba diver without a BCD.

  Under the water, no longer trying to breathe, she opened her eyes. The moonlight was still strong, shining through the turquoise sea from the shimmering surface above her. She was flooded with memories. Her mother, Luisa, gone when she was a little girl, just a mass of dark hair and a white dress in a green garden. Father Jorge, playing his guitar to her, ever nimble fingers, that silly little song, ‘Chumba chumba cha-cha’, how that had defined her life, taken it over really. And then when he was gone, so suddenly … boys … men … beautiful Diego, all those nights of sobbing. Papita in his white suit, making her laugh again.

  Even under water she was crying for her lost life, salt tears into the salt sea.

  So this is how I die.

  ONE

  Tema, Ghana. Friday 21 April.

  ‘Oh, yes, that rotting shark, dis-gus-ting!’ the large Englishwoman was all but shouting. Despite the rattling of the minibus, Francis couldn’t help listening as she swapped stories with the two tanned American guys sitting opposite her. They were discussing unpleasant local delicacies from around the world. The shark was what they insisted on giving you in Iceland; washed down with this ‘local firewater’ that ‘kind of took the taste away but then again didn’t’.

  Cue laughter. But had she ever been to Malaysia and tried Durian fruit? asked the younger American. ‘Oh my gad, the smell of it! It’s like a gym sock.’

  ‘What did that guy in Taiping say, Damian?’ the other replied. ‘That after you’d eaten it your breath smelt like you’d been French kissing your dead grandmother.’

  The Americans were chortling, but the Englishwoman wasn’t to be outdone.

  ‘You remember those widgetty grubs we were offered at Uluru, Gerald?’ she said, turning to her companion, a skinny fellow with a trim grey goatee. ‘So gross, weren’t they?’

  ‘We didn’t eat them, Shirley,’ he pointed out.

  ‘We just couldn’t,’ she admitted. She had three, if not four chins, wobbling below a face like a pink blancmange. Trying not to stare at her, Francis found himself wondering what she might have looked like w
hen she and Gerald were young. She had a dainty nose buried in there somewhere, and intense, rather beautiful pale blue eyes.

  ‘Ooh-loo-roo,’ asked Damian, ‘where’s that?’

  ‘In Australia. Haven’t you been? It’s the most sacred Aboriginal site in the world.’

  ‘You mean, like, Ayer’s Ruck?’

  ‘The Aborigines call it Uluru,’ Shirley replied, a tad self-righteously, but she clearly wasn’t going to spoil her fun new friendship over a matter of parochial PC. As the Americans fought back with turkey testicles in Hong Kong and deep-fried guinea pig in Argentina, Francis tuned out. Through the tinted windows, under the cloudless cobalt sky, was the here and now of Africa; to each side of the potholed coast road, stalls on the orange earth, selling everything from bananas to motorcycle tyres. Happy Corner Shop Bar. In God We Trust Butcher. There was one ramshackle outlet that had fifty identical Pepsi bottles for sale. Women, swathed in colourful robes, walked languorously through the late-morning heat, carrying their goods and shopping on their heads; on individual braided topknots was balanced everything from a huge white enamel bowl full of pineapples to a teetering pile of black bin bags.

  Over the other side of the coach, the competitive travel-boasting had advanced from delicacies to destinations. The worn tarmac coast road had degenerated to a rutted dirt track, so Francis strained to hear over the bumping and clattering. The Americans were now enthusing about Burma: ‘… temples laid out on the plain … totally awesome … you can take a balloon at dawn.’ Shirley fought back with Georgia: ‘Not the American one, the Caucasus … stunning frescoes … you just walk in.’ But Brad and Damian had been in Antarctica which had been amazing: ‘… Like, armies of penguins … you have no idea how huge the icebergs …’

  But – oh no – Shirley had been to Chernobyl. ‘They only let you in for two hours. And you have to wash all your clothes afterwards. But it’s extraordinary. Incredibly spooky. Wasn’t it, Gerald?’

  Brad and Damian couldn’t top Chernobyl, but they didn’t have to, because suddenly the minibus had turned on to smooth cement and they were into Tema docks, driving past tall stacks of oblong containers in red, rust-brown, pale blue, grey – MAERSK, MOL, CGM stencilled on their corrugated sides. Assorted vessels were moored up along the quay. Gulls swooped and squawked among tall masts. The fresh, salty tang of the ocean was mixed with the industrial whiff of engine oil. At one end, dominating the rest, was the gleaming bulk of a cruise liner.

  ‘That’s our ship!’ Shirley cried, stating the obvious excitedly.

  The minibus came to a halt in its shadow. Francis had been told that the Golden Adventurer was not large. Indeed, one of its merits, the PR people back in London had stressed, was that it was comparatively nimble, could go to places that more sizeable cruise ships could not. But to Francis, as he stepped out and stood looking up at it, it seemed substantial enough, with its five long rows of windows above the waterline. Portholes in the black hull, then above the encircling red line, where every surface was a gleaming white, small, round-cornered square windows, then much bigger ones, with sliding doors and slim, flush balconies, then another layer with a surrounding walkway. Above that, tall white railings circled the open-top deck, which bristled with masts and funnels and satellite dishes.

  As the new arrivals got out and gathered in a loose gaggle on the quay, a silver Mercedes drew up beside them. The front door swung open and a uniformed chauffeur sprang out, ran round and opened the left rear door, from which disgorged an elderly woman in a large and floppy straw hat, a dark-blue silk knee-length dress, navy tights and tan leather espadrille wedges. The old fellow that followed her, helped out by the chauffeur, was correspondingly dapper: blue blazer over checked grey trousers, shiny brown brogues, Panama hat. He smiled round at the waiting group and then followed his urgently beckoning partner over to the narrow gangway that led steeply up to the walkway three decks above.

  At the foot of this stood a Filipino crew member in a crisp white shirt and pressed dark trousers.

  ‘This way, please, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, grinning as he gestured upwards.

  As the others stepped on to it, one by one, the gangway wobbled visibly. Big Shirley looked terrified, holding tight to the rails as she manoeuvred herself carefully to the top, where there were more smiling staff to take her hands and pull her on board. A fresh-faced blonde with her hair up stood with a circular silver tray holding flutes of champagne. Another stockier greeter, with tight brown curls and a rather tense smile, offered flannels from a neat pile. Francis took one, gratefully. It was cool on his skin, delicately scented. Sandalwood, he rather thought.

  ‘Sparkling apple juice?’ asked the blonde. ‘Or a Bellini?’

  Why not? It was after noon already and Francis had woken early in his unfamiliar hotel room. He took a Bellini and waited in line as the newcomers handed over their passports and were registered at a desk in a gloomy reception area with patterned blue and gold wallpaper and deep blue carpets. The elegant elderly couple – she still in the hat – were being given the royal treatment by a handsome fellow with four-stripe epaulettes on his white shirt and thick blond hair swept back from his forehead.

  ‘So good to see you again, Mr and Mrs Forbes-Are-lee …’

  His accent was almost cornily French, while Mrs Forbes-Harley was American, from somewhere on the East Coast, Francis thought; distinctly refained anyway.

  ‘And you, Gregoire. How have you been keeping?’

  After a minute or so of this, as Gregoire moved seamlessly on to a little old lady with a grey bun, Mrs Forbes-Harley turned round to take in Francis. Close up, her lipstick gleamed a deep maroon against the wrinkly brown crepe of the surrounding skin. Her coiffed blue-grey curls trembled as she smiled, revealing incongruous but magnificent white teeth.

  ‘They treat you so well on this ship,’ she said. ‘This is our seventh time. We love it. I’m Daphne, by the way.’

  ‘Francis,’ said Francis, taking her extended hand.

  ‘Good to meet you, Francis. And where do you hail from?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘London, England? Oh, we love London. Brown’s Hotel in Piccadilly, d’you know it?’ She pronounced it as if ‘a dilly’ were some kind of exotic flower. ‘It’s one of our favourite hidey holes.’ She gestured at her companion. ‘This is my husband, Henry.’

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ said the old man, vaguely. Then he focused and smiled charmingly. ‘It’s Tom, isn’t it?’

  Daphne gave Francis an apologetic moue. ‘You – haven’t – met – him, Henry,’ she said slowly, as if speaking to a small child.

  The old man looked taken aback. ‘Don’t we know each other?’ He paused, as if retrieving some distant memory. ‘From Antarctica?’

  ‘No, honey. Francis is new on this ship. We’ve never seen him before.’ She switched on a thousand-volt smile. ‘Are you travelling on your own, Francis?’

  ‘I am.’

  He could have told her that he was a crime writer and had been invited to lecture; and that in return Goldencruise had offered him the ten days for free. But he decided to enjoy being a man of mystery, for the time being at least. What was he? Newly divorced? An inveterate single? Gay? Wealthy, obviously.

  ‘Do please consider us to be your friends,’ said Daphne.

  Now Gregoire was making an announcement: about the cabins, which were, he said, in the final stages of preparation, and would be ready for occupation immediately after lunch. ‘So please, feel free to go on up to the restaurant, one deck above us ’ere, which is now open.’

  With remarkable speed the passengers got moving. Francis heard the rising crescendo of Shirley’s laugh dwindling away down the corridor.

  He stayed where he was, taking a seat on a blue velveteen banquette, sipping his Bellini, noting that the peach juice was mixed with real champagne. No half-measures in this luxury zone. Below, on the quay, a few final bits and pieces were being loaded on to the ship; square crates hauled up on
tense, quivering blue nylon ropes to the open top deck above. Urgent shouts accompanied the work; but none of them, thankfully, were for Francis.

  He was glad to be away; to have escaped, even if only briefly, the pressures and distractions of his life in London. Not to mention the demise of his latest relationship, with the stimulating, sexy, but in the end impossibly solipsistic Chloe G—. What had happened to him? The temporary fame that had settled on him after he, a mere B-list crime writer, had solved the ‘litfest murders’ of Mold-on-Wold had led him to a strange place. For an autumn and a spring, he had found himself lionized. In public, there were requests to appear on TV and radio shows, to contribute his thoughts to this or that desperate rag: Of what quality in yourself are you most proud? What advice do you have for an aspiring writer? Has your colour ever held you back? Wine or beer? Steak or sushi? In private, there were invitations to little dinners in London suburbs, where he was often seated next to a suitable ‘single’ female, generally equally put out to be so obviously matchmade. On the couple of occasions he had followed up these thoughtful introductions of his married friends, he had found that things were not as simple as they seemed and there was a present or past attachment lurking. Chloe had been one such. In her late thirties, allegedly looking for someone to settle down with but in reality hung up on another, older man who had messed her around for years. In the end it had been easier not to try and compete; to back out and put a stop to intimacy and its complications. At least for a while. Back to lonely but straightforward celibacy.

  After ten minutes or so, Francis got to his feet and followed the others through, out of the reception area and into a central landing from where circular stairs went up and down. He passed a young man with a bushy blond beard peering into a cupboard with a torch. Up one floor at the entrance to the restaurant, a maître’d in black tie was waiting to receive him. Another Filipino, another clean white smile. James said the name tag on his lapel.