Cold Grave (28 page)

Neck and shoulders aching, she slid her key into the slot and opened the door. Inside, Martin was hunched on the lounge in front of the fire. In his lap was her computer. The sight caught her by surprise. She wondered if he’d seen any of her personal emails.

‘Any luck?’

She shook her head and untied her jacket. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Annie, you have got to hear this.’

She flicked off her shoes by the door and joined him on the lounge. ‘Rachel’s telling the truth. A woman named Nuala McKenny went missing while at sea just over two years ago. The cruise line says they co-operated with police and that, according to staff who worked with her, Nuala was depressed over the break-up of a relationship. Suicide was the official cause of death. Blah, blah, blah, the cruise line regrets . . .’

It wouldn’t have been the first suicide over lost love. Maybe she had an undiagnosed depression before that. ‘Is there anything about the family’s response?’

‘They went public saying that Nuala was a happy, vibrant woman who had everything to live for. She was engaged to her high school sweetheart. The lovebirds had been together since they were twelve. The parents refused to believe she had been unfaithful. Last year they filed a wrongful death suit from Florida, and apparently there was a confidential settlement. Since then, I can’t find any articles or comments on blogs. But Annie, you’re not going to believe this. In four years alone, thirty-seven people have disappeared from cruise ships, never to be seen again.’

‘How is that be possible?’ If thirty-seven people had vanished, there would be an international furore. Surely.

Martin climbed over the back of the lounge and collected the bottle of wine. He refilled her glass from earlier in the evening and topped up his own.

‘There are multiple investigations. A group has even lobbied US Congress for better laws and protection for passengers. There are a lot of people angry at the way cruise lines manage the disappearances.’

Anya knew too well that people went missing every day in cities. In Australia, someone went missing every fifteen minutes, but ninety-five percent were found within a short period of time. Millions of people cruised each year, with one main difference. In the middle of the ocean, there was only one place to go. It was the perfect place to commit murder, and sexual assault, it seemed.

The note Mishka had delivered when posing as Nuala had said you were guaranteed to get away with rape and murder.

That meant a lot of victims and their families would have felt denied of justice. All it took was one vigilante to kill the Andersons on that yacht. Maybe the police needed to look beyond environmentalists.

Martin climbed back over the lounge, and handed Anya her glass.

‘A handful of those people disappeared on shore excursions. And some of the places cruises go have some dubious crime stats involving tourists. But the others . . . Here, let me show you.’

He pulled up a page from a victim’s association. ‘These are horrifying stories. Sometimes it’s a couple who just vanish. Everything is left in the cabins. No sign of a struggle, they just disappear . . . into thin air. A disturbing number of the missing people are young women travelling alone. One husband says his wife didn’t come back to the cabin after dinner, but people in nearby cabins heard them fighting earlier. She was never seen again.’

Domestic violence was so common, it was no surprise it occurred on holiday. In the dead of night, a body, or someone intoxicated or vulnerable, could be pushed over a railing or balcony without anyone knowing the truth. And if the body was never recovered, chances were charges would never be laid. Anya rubbed the back of her neck, wondering why Lilly was not thrown overboard.

Her idea of a happy family cruise was fast being shattered.

‘And there’s more. Do you know that the Anderson company doesn’t pay US corporate tax? They function as if they’re American but weasel out of tax.’

Anya knew cruise lines and ships were registered offshore. She had read that this company was multiple times the size of many iconic American businesses and could imagine the outcry if those companies were exempt from taxes.

‘The way I see it,’ Martin became more animated, ‘they fall under “Shipping” and all its rules and subsidies. According to the
New York News
, the industry spends hundreds of millions of dollars each year lobbying Congress to keep their status and limit restrictions on all aspects of the business.’

Martin had always loved thrillers and conspiracy movies. He had a spark in his eyes.

Shipping was struggling. The fishermen back home were affected by climate changes, pollution and areas becoming fished out. Cruise ships were more like floating hotels, and subject to the same seasonal influences as the hospitality industry. Only, unlike normal resorts, they could maintain bookings by relocating to better weather. No one subsidised local restaurants or hotels when business was slow. But that’s what the American people were, in effect, doing for the cruise lines.

If they were spending that much on lobbying it meant there was a lot more money at stake.

Anya’s temples throbbed. Mishka was missing. Carlos had been shot. There was no proof that the bowling shirt men were the last to have seen Lilly Chan alive. She still could have seen or heard something, and been left for dead by the spa.

FitzHarris was watching Anya for Mats Anderson, who happened to be the only surviving heir, apart from his father’s Russian bride and young daughter.

If Mishka was to be saved, someone had to find out what else FitzHarris was hiding.

27

Before breakfast Anya knocked on FitzHarris’s door. There was no answer and the door was locked. She checked nearby offices and found Laura and the captain in a meeting with William and other staff. Captain Burghoff stood to attention when he saw Anya. ‘Can we help you, Doctor?’

She contemplated telling him about Mishka’s disappearance but hesitated. She would need evidence of a cover-up in FitzHarris’s office if the captain was going to believe anything she had to say.

‘Sorry to interrupt. I don’t want to bother Fitz, but I think I left my camera in his office.’

Laura rolled her eyes. ‘Good luck finding it under all the paper. Do you need to see him?’

‘No, I just need to grab it,’ Anya reassured her.

‘He prefers old school security,’ Laura explained, handing over a metal key. ‘I need to stay here to document the minutes, but if you could drop it back when you’re done . . .’

Anya thanked her before hurrying down the corridor.

She knocked for the second time in five minutes. No answer.

Slowly, she unlocked the door and turned the handle. Without hesitating, she entered and locked the door behind her, bending the key inside the lock. If FitzHarris returned, it would buy her time while he tried his own key.

She picked up the phone and rang reception asking to speak to Laura. They quickly transferred the call and it was diverted to voicemail. Perfect.

‘Anya Crichton here, I’m locked inside Fitz’s office. I don’t know what happened, but the key is jammed inside the lock and won’t budge.’

She hung up and surveyed the room. The paperwork seemed to have multiplied since her last visit. Boxes of files were stacked on the chairs. She checked the fax. Nothing in the tray. She riffled through a wad of papers; it appeared everything was ordered. The cumulative effect created the mess. Manuals on security systems, alarms and safety equipment were furthest away from his side of the desk.

A file titled ‘Incident Reports’ was positioned closest to his chair. It was thick, and contained workers’ statements and medical notes. Documentation on Lilly Chan and Carlos were not in this folder.

She lifted a folder underneath, one marked ‘Anderson’, and opened it. In the corridor, the sound of a clunk stopped her. Someone was trying to open the door from the outside.

The phone rang, and she startled. It could be Laura ringing back. Lifting the receiver, she answered in a quiet voice.

‘You’re still there. This is why we did away with metal keys. A technician’s on his way, but it could be half an hour before he arrives.’

‘I think Fitz might be outside right now, trying to get in.’

‘I better tell him before he kicks the door in. He’s in just the mood to do it.’

Anya hung up, knowing she had a few minutes grace. She had not bargained on anyone kicking the door in, but assumed it was stronger than FitzHarris’s legs.

Inside the Anderson file, in chronological order, were tens of faxes. All from Mats, the surviving son. The first came six months ago and was effusive in its flattery of FitzHarris. It mentioned his diligence and attention to detail and waved the carrot of a bonus if the cruises continued to run smoothly. It was as if Mats were courting him.

There were no replies from FitzHarris. The correspondence in the file was all one way. She closed it and replaced the Incidents file on top. In the process, she bumped into a full coffee cup, splashing some onto the top of a tattered blue folder to the left of the others. She tried the top drawer for something to wipe it with and pulled out a crumpled napkin. She dabbed the coffee mark and hoped he wouldn’t notice, especially since there were other stains on the cover. This file wasn’t labelled but was positioned as if he were working on it.

There was a
thump
,
thump
at the door.

‘You have got to be kidding. You gave her the key?’

FitzHarris sounded livid. Laura’s voice was muffled, but was followed by audible expletives from Fitz.

‘Sorry about all the trouble, but I found my camera!’ she shouted, and the others became quiet.

Anya looked inside the blue folder. A headshot photo of a toddler with a cheeky grin was attached to an autopsy report. For a moment she thought it was a cruise victim, but there were two other pictures and reports. The three deceased had the same surname.

The medical examiner’s form deemed two deaths – the child and a woman – homicide. The adult male had been classed as a suicide. They all had lived in New York and died at the same address.

This had nothing to do with cruises. It was the family Laura had mentioned. The scene at which FitzHarris had been seriously injured.

Bang! Bang!
The banging grew louder. This time, the handle was rattled.

From Anya’s experience, deadlocks like the one on this door were designed so they could not be levered off or unscrewed. That meant the technician would have to drill through with multiple-sized bits to knock the pins out of place and disable the lock. That gave her enough time to search the office.

As if on cue, the first drill began.

Anya returned to the filing cabinet. So far there was nothing on Lilly or Carlos. She slid her hand beneath the suspended files and located an A4 envelope. It contained the boarding ID photos of her and Martin, along with a copy of their marriage certificate and date of divorce. Both of their work and home addresses were circled, along with a map of where Martin and Ben lived. It also contained the note that Nuala had delivered. The one supposedly misplaced when they had moved cabins.

She slid into Fitz’s chair, feeling as if she’d been kicked in the chest. FitzHarris had gone through all her possessions. She felt violated. If the lock wasn’t dismantled soon, she would try and kick it down herself.

Her mind tried to recall all of their conversations as her eyes fixed on the handwritten note.

Trust no one.

Palpitations pounded in her chest. Fear filled her. FitzHarris was working for Mats Anderson and being bribed to make problems go away, whatever that meant. He wasn’t an investigator, he was a fixer.

She had alerted him to an imposter on board. Now Mishka was missing.

Anya wondered if he was paid enough to commit murder.

28

Ten minutes later, the technician drilled the final piece in it, from the other side.

By now, Anya was perspiring, wondering what to do next. Surely enough people on board had seen her and knew her by now to protect her. FitzHarris would ruin his set-up if he harmed her. Even so, she would email her friend Ethan Rye in New York as soon as she got to her computer.