Damned by Logic (9 page)

‘Yes.'

She sighed as she turned her PC back on and shrugged off her jacket. She texted her mother to say she would be home late.

DC Smaithe braked the car to a halt by the side of the large trailer from which stores were, via a long mobile conveyor, being loaded aboard the
Helios
. He picked up the envelope in which was the faxed photograph of Melanie's head and shoulders, walked over to the gangway and up to the entrance of the deck.

‘Crew boarding pass, please,' said the crew member on watch.

‘Detective Constable Smaithe.'

‘Like to prove it?' He was less polite now that he knew this wasn't a fellow crewman.

Smaithe produced his warrant card. The seaman briefly studied it. ‘Has the mate finally cut the Old Man's throat?'

‘Wouldn't be my problem if he had. Are the crew aboard?'

‘Half of 'em are on leave.'

‘For how long?'

‘Won't be back until the day before we sail.'

‘Shit! ... Still, I can have a word with those who are aboard. Who'll organize that for me?'

‘Better have a word with the purser.'

He was given instructions, but lost his way amongst the complications of decks, alleyways and cross-alleyways, was hot and bothered by the time he reached the large working space in which were three men in uniform, one with white between gold bars of rank on his shoulders.

‘What is it this time?' the purser asked mournfully after Smaithe had introduced himself. The lines in his face suggested many years spent listening to groundless complaints from passengers. ‘A mother complaining her daughter was seduced by one of the crew?'

‘That often happens?' enquired Smaithe, with interest.

‘The complaints or the seductions? Depends on warm weather, calm sea and cocktails.' All four men shared a smile at that, DC Smaithe rather wishing he was booked on a cruise.

‘I need to find out if any of the crew remembers one of the passengers on the last voyage.'

‘Male or female passenger?'

‘Female, but no complaining mother. Can you round up crew members so as I can show 'em a photo and ask if anyone recognizes her?'

‘Half the hands are away on leave.'

‘The bloke on the gangway told me, but I'm an optimist and reckon there's someone here now who can help.'

‘What's this in aid of?'

‘One of the passengers who was on your last trip has been murdered.'

‘Here, are you talking about the poor woman who was sliced up?'

‘That's right.'

‘Can't be one of our lads ... but I'll do what I can to get things organized,' the purser offered helpfully and made to dial a number on a nearby phone.

‘By the way,' DC Smaithe asked tentatively, ‘is there any chance of getting a quick meal?'

‘Catering staff might come up with something,' the purser suggested.

‘Champagne and caviar for starters?' Smaithe asked with a grin. He was rather enjoying this on-board experience so far; accommodating crew, he thought.

‘You'll be lucky if it's sausages and mash. And there's no booze.'

‘Doesn't sound like the wonderful life a cruise is supposed to be.'

‘It never is.'

Three hours later, Fred Hellan, one of the bar stewards, entered the cabin in which Smaithe was questioning the staff.

‘Grab a seat,' Smaithe said.

Hellan sat.

‘Have you been told what I'm after?'

‘My mate says you're trying to find out about a woman passenger on the last cruise.'

‘That's right. So have a look at this photo and see if she brings back any memories.'

Hellan studied the photo. ‘At first look, she doesn't. Her hair's done very different and she looks older in this yet ... I reckon I saw her.'

‘Second impressions can be sound, so tell me about her.'

‘Didn't make one look and whistle. Mind you, that's not to say one didn't look. Know your way around and you'd reckon she'd make a bed rock in double quick time. That's why he was around all the time.'

‘Who was?' Smaithe looked up from his notebook, pen poised to put a cross by this man's name, along with all the other previous unproductive interviews.

‘The guy who was always in a hurry to get her rocking.'

‘Any idea who he was?'

‘No.'

‘A passenger?'

‘If he'd been one of the officers on the make, he wouldn't have brought her into the bar.'

‘D'you know his name?'

‘No.'

‘Which cabin was his?'

‘No idea.'

‘Can you describe him?'

‘Not really.'

‘Was he tall?'

‘Kind of normal, I'd say.'

‘Colour of hair?'

‘Reckon it was brown. Though now I think about it, maybe it was black.'

‘Any unusual features?'

‘Here, why you asking? Thought it was her you were interested in.'

‘He may help us.'

‘You mean, he did her in?'

‘Can't say. Was he fat?'

‘Like you.'

‘Thin. Was he clean-shaven?'

‘The kind of bloke who always shaves.'

‘Did he have a moustache or beard?'

‘No.'

‘Were his ears close to the head or more apart?'

‘You don't seem to understand,' Hellan said resentfully. ‘Passengers drink hard so I'm having to work hard and there ain't time to look at ears.'

‘Of course, but sometimes a person has an unusual physical feature which one notices, even if one does not realize that at the time.'

Hellan's expression suggested to Smaithe that he should not complicate matters; Hellan might be expert at judging a passenger's tipping possibilities, but otherwise his mind was not particularly sharp.

‘Did he walk normally or with a limp?' Smaithe suggested, trying to spark some kind of recollection.

‘Wouldn't know.'

Frithton's CID, Smaithe thought, would probably not be pleased to learn Melanie's partner was of ordinary height, build and appearance.

‘Is that all, then? Got to get below to do some checking.' Hallan was obviously bored by this interview and wasn't going to bother taxing his memory any further.

‘Sure. Thanks for your help.' DC Smaithe barely looked up from his notebook as he gestured for the man to go.

‘Taffy was a nice bloke for a passenger,' he commented as he stood. ‘Never bellyached when I couldn't serve quick because of all the others.'

‘Who's Taffy?'

‘Been asking about him since I got here, ain't you?' Hallan gave the policeman a confused look before he walked out shaking his head.

Later, Hellan told another crew member that the police were dumber than the old girl sewn up in canvas they'd dropped over the side two voyages back.

I
n Belinda's email inbox was, she noticed as she sat down and shook her mouse into life, an urgent email report. She read it. How to use a couple of hundred words to say little of consequence. The description of Melanie's companion on the
Helios
, provided by a crew member, named him Taffy, but that was all.

She went along to the detective inspector's office. ‘Re the
Helios
, sir.' She handed Glover the printed out email; he much preferred to hold pages rather than rely on words on a screen.

‘They've taken their time.' He read. ‘Was the interviewer a cadet with only a month's training?' It was tradition that the staff of other forces were incompetent. ‘His name was Taffy. Very relevant! Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief ... How does it go on?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You sound as if I'm offending your political correctness.'

‘My father is Welsh.'

‘I'll try and think of a derogatory English rhyme to even things up ... Sergeant Frick is organizing the questioning of people living near Sudely Woods to find out if they can come up with something. You'd best join him.'

She crossed to the door, opened it.

‘Didn't Taffy steal a leg of beef?' he called out.

She closed the door behind herself with unnecessary force.

Ansell drove into the forecourt, once a small front garden, parked in front of the garage of number thirty-four. He locked the car, crossed to the front door, stepped inside. Eileen was talking to someone in the sitting room. He identified Helen. An angular woman in body and thought.

He went straight up the stairs to the third bedroom which he used as an office, sat at the desk and began to work on papers he had brought home. He hoped he'd got away with it, but sighed when it turned out he had not.

‘David,' Eileen called out. ‘Come on down.'

‘I've work which has to be finished yesterday,' he called from the top of the landing.

Moments later, having sat back down at his desk, the third tread from the landing squeaked, warning him she would soon be with him. He picked up a ballpoint, moved a sheet of paper in front of himself and starting writing.

She entered. ‘Doesn't matter how much work, you can show Helen a little friendliness and say hello.'

‘I'm sorry, but ...'

‘She'll be hurt if she thinks you can't be bothered to see her.'

He chose a lie she might accept. ‘She's more than sensible enough to understand that work comes before pleasure.'

‘That's being silly. What is supposed to be so urgent?'

‘Getting things ready for my trip to Oxford.'

‘When's that?'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘You've never mentioned this.' Her tone had a frosty edge to it and the lines deepened around the rim of her eyes.

‘Because I only learned about it this morning,' he offered nonchalantly.

‘I think you're lying.'

‘I'm sorry you believe that's possible.' Ansell feigned an interest in the piece of paper in front of him as her tone grew more aggressive.

‘You're going to see her. The woman on the ship.'

The reference to Melanie startled him and he nearly said, with angry bitterness, that this was now very unlikely considering she seemed to have decided not to see him again. ‘Eileen, the only time I had any contact with a female on the ship was when there was a dance.'

‘And you danced with her.'

‘Being charitable, with a couple of middle-aged ladies who lacked partners.'

‘She gave you that monkey.'

‘Barbary ape.'

‘That's right, be pedantic. Babs says you're always trying to be smart.'

‘How could she judge?'

‘If you go to Oxford to see her, I won't be here when you return.'

‘Is that a threat or a promise?'

‘You ... you ...'

‘How about “bastard”?'

She left.

Before the cruise, before he had met Melanie, he had never bothered to argue with Eileen, believing the only reasonable response was silence to deaden her words. Having dined with Aphrodite, he had lost the art of silence and he felt liberated by finally saying what he actually thought to the woman's face.

Belinda drove up the muddy farm track, stopped in front of the farm shed into which a man had just walked. She put on brightly coloured wellington boots, entered an eight standing milking parlour. The man she had seen earlier was cleaning the floor of the pìt with hose and squeegee. He moved so he could see her between two milking points. ‘I'm not buying.'

‘I'm not selling.' With an interest in the countryside, she was not surprised by his sour comment; farmers, betrayed by governments, had to work all hours of the day to make less than the average wage. ‘I'm Detective Constable Draper. Have you a minute or two to spare?'

He propped the squeegee against the wall of the pit, twisted the hose muzzle to stop the flow of water, climbed up to ground level. ‘Sorry, thought you was from the co-op, trying to sell. I'm Len Fuller.'

‘How are things going?'

‘Like one expects when they're importing cheap milk from the Continent. Are you here about the woman who lived in that cottage near here?'

‘That's right.'

‘Was she as cut about as the paper said?'

‘Worse.'

‘Have you found the bugger what did it?'

‘Not yet, which is why I'm having a word with anyone who might be able to help us name him.'

‘Ain't much good talking to me.'

‘You may know something which can help us.'

After a while, he said, ‘Then you'd best come along.'

They went into the end section of the shed in which was a hoist and crusher, bags of barley, and several square bales of hay. Fuller moved a bale for her to sit on, another for himself.

‘Did you know Melanie Caine?' she asked.

‘Talked to her when I saw her, but that weren't so often.'

‘Did she ever say anything about herself? You know, what she did, did she travel a lot, have many friends, all that.'

‘Just had a chat. She'd ask how the cows was doing, was they milking well.'

‘Was she friendly with someone in the area who'd have known her quite well?'

‘There's Mavis, lives next to Cloverdean Cottage. She knows more about others than they knows themself.'

She smiled. ‘There's always someone like that in a village. You'll have heard the cottage was broken into and turned upside down?'

‘Aye.'

‘Is there any talk of who might have done that?'

‘No.'

‘Must have caused a lot of noise.'

‘Likely, but the place is on its own and with woods around three sides, sound wasn't going far.'

Further conversation failed to provide any information of value. Belinda thanked him for his help, reassured him they'd identify the person responsible for murdering Melanie and make certain he was jailed for life.

She drove the half mile to Cloverdean Cottage, a small, rock-built, single-floor house, surrounded on three sides by woodland. Fuller was right, sound would have been muffled. She walked along the road to a clapboard bungalow.