Dead Calm (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (10 page)

Chapter Sixteen

They looked as stupid as sheep. No, they reminded him of a robot he’d had as a kid. The batteries used to die and his robot would stagger around like this lot. A band was playing and they danced just like his robot had. They laughed louder than necessary, kept silly grins plastered to their faces and drank too much. Being on a cruise, even a shit one like this, made them believe they were living the life of the jet set.

The music was shit too. Any minute now, Vera Lynn would walk on stage and start singing “We’ll Meet Again.” Worse, they’d all link arms and join in.

The band consisted of two guitarists, a bloke on keyboards and a drummer, none of them under fifty. One of the guitarists thought he was Freddie Mercury and, despite a beer gut hanging over tight trousers, strutted his stuff as he sang the old hits. He was complete shit. He was thrusting his pelvis and leering at any woman who glanced his way, no matter her age. Perhaps he’d get lucky with some unfortunate octogenarian. There were plenty of those on board.

One man was dancing with his wife. It was easy to tell they were married because he slid his hands down her arse and she swotted him away and scowled at him. No doubt she’d bloody begged him for it before they were married.

Drink was flowing freely. They’d all be staggering to their beds in the early hours and waking tomorrow with hangovers. Served them right.

He was only watching. And waiting.

His time would come. It was just a matter of watching, and waiting for the right moment.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out, glanced at the display and hit Reject. Fuck it. He wasn’t taking orders from anyone. Christ, he hadn’t had so much as a sniff of any cash yet.

He knew what he was doing without people issuing orders every five minutes. When the moment was right, he’d pounce.

Before then though, he had a little job to do in Dylan Scott’s cabin…

Chapter Seventeen

This was Bev’s first cruise but she was determined it wouldn’t be her last. She was loving every second of it. As soon as they were back home, she’d investigate cruises around the Med or the Caribbean.

This evening’s talent show had been a perfect example of how friendly everyone was and how determined they were to have fun. The few children on board had been involved, making it a lively family affair, and now, with the youngsters in bed and a band on stage, people looked set to dance until dawn.

Bev would have been dancing too, but she didn’t have a partner. All Dylan had to do was put on some smart clothes yet there was no sign of him. Typical.

Luke had returned to his cabin to listen to some decent music in peace, as he put it, and Vicky was keeping an eye on Freya.

Bev helped herself to a glass of wine from a passing waiter. Oh yes, this was the life. She couldn’t remember if she’d had two or three glasses, but she made a mental note not to have much more.

She turned and saw that man again. He was standing apart from the crowd, watching people, and something about him unnerved her. Their gazes collided and a shiver ran down Bev’s spine. He seemed almost to smile before he turned and walked away.

He was probably harmless. Maybe he was travelling alone and was too shy to start up a conversation with anyone. He was definitely an oddball, but perhaps it wasn’t his fault.

Talking of oddballs— “Hello, Bill, Maud. Isn’t this lovely? Have you been dancing?”

“We have, but no more.” Maud laughed. “We’re getting too old for this. It’s wonderful to see everyone enjoying themselves though, isn’t it? Isn’t Vicky with you?”

“She’s acting as unpaid babysitter.” Bev experienced a twinge of guilt although Vicky never seemed to mind. “There’s no need to worry though because I can’t stay up too late. She’ll come along later.”

Dylan’s mother could dance the night away. Easily. She never seemed to tire.

Maud chatted about how much she’d loved to dance as a teenager. It was funny but, when Maud was with him, Bill didn’t say a lot. Without her, he’d bore people to death within minutes but, around her, he was quiet and happy to let her do all the talking.

Jason, one of Vicky’s young smoking partners, approached them.

“Care to dance, Bev?”

He was late teens or maybe early twenties with a long fair ponytail. Bev was probably old enough to be his mother—the thought brought her up short. She
was
old enough to be his mother. Still, she wasn’t turning down the chance.

“I’d love to.” She gulped down her wine, put the glass on a table, offered her hand and walked with him to the centre of the dance floor.

“I thought you might need rescuing from Bill,” he said.

“He was fine. He’s not too bad when Maud’s with him. But, thanks. I appreciate the gesture.”

The band launched into a Status Quo song and as soon as Bev began moving to the fast tempo, she realised she must have had three glasses of wine. Four counting the last one. Her head was swimming.

“Where’s Vicky?” Jason leaned in to shout over the music. “Can’t she stand the pace?”

“Ha. You wait. She’ll dance you off your feet later.”

“She’s some woman, isn’t she?”

Oh yes, Vicky was some woman. She drove Dylan to despair, she’d never outgrow her hippie tendencies, never grow up, but Bev couldn’t think of anyone else she’d rather have for a mother-in-law.

The music finally stopped and Bev, the whole room spinning now, decided it was time she called it a night. She shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine. At least, she shouldn’t have drunk it so quickly.

“Vicky will be along soon,” she told Jason, “so make sure you save her a dance.”

“I will.”

Jason approached someone else, someone much closer to his own age, and Bev headed back to the cabins. Unless the ship had suddenly hit a rough patch, she really had drunk too much.

She was on the wrong blasted deck again. Not that it mattered, it just meant she had farther to walk. Or stagger. And she could check on Luke while she was here.

She knocked on his cabin door but there was no answer. “Luke?”

She knocked harder. Knowing him, he had music blasting out at ear-bleeding volume and couldn’t hear her.

She called again then tried the door. Much to her surprise, the slider had been engaged to prevent the door locking and it swung open. She flicked on the light. The cabin was empty. Why would he leave the door unlocked? More important, where the hell was he?

She remembered the man circling the dance floor, the oddball who’d smiled in that strange way, and a bubble of panic rose inside her.

Chapter Eighteen

Dylan stopped at the reception desk. “Excuse me, but could you tell me if a Vidar Freberg is on board?”

“One moment, please.” Looking grateful to have something to do, the young woman tapped at her keyboard and looked at the computer. “He is, yes. Would you like me to put a call out for him?”

“Would you? I’d be very grateful. Thank you.”

Her request, in Norwegian, rang out through the speakers.

“I’ve asked him to come here,” she told Dylan. “We shall see, yes?”

“Thank you.”

To pass a few minutes, Dylan inspected the notice board where passengers were informed of the ship’s itinerary and the various “fun” events provided for their entertainment. Just as he was beginning to think that Freberg wasn’t on board after all, that only his suitcase was enjoying the cruise, a man walked up to the desk.

Dylan used the few moments it took the receptionist to explain to give Freberg the once-over. Surprisingly, Dylan didn’t recognise him. By now, Dylan reckoned he’d glimpsed every passenger on this ship and, although most of them wouldn’t have stayed in his memory, this chap would. Once seen, never forgotten. Freberg was short, probably only about five feet two or three, and wore spectacles with thick lenses. Dark hair was thin, lank and greasy. His suit was old and shabby.

“Dylan Scott.” Giving him a broad smile, Dylan offered his hand. It was reluctantly shaken. “I wondered if I might have a word. Do you speak English?”

Freberg nodded, and again there was some reluctance. “What is this about?”

“Shall we have a seat?” Dylan walked away from the desk to the benches that offered a view of the darkness outside.

Freberg followed and sat beside Dylan. “Your name is Dylan Scott, you say?”

“That’s right.” Dylan wasn’t quite sure where to start. “I work in the chemical industry and I’m particularly interested in some test results that the Jorstads published. I saw a news report saying you believed those results to have been falsified.”

Freberg looked wary. Very wary. “That is correct,” he said.

“I see. What made you think that?”

“The results were returned and should have been published on first November. A delay came. The results weren’t published until early December. Why delay, I wonder?”

“That was when you were employed by the Jorstads?”

“That is correct.”

There was something Dickensian about Freberg. He sat with his knees pressed tight together, his shoulders hunched, and straggly eyebrows drawn together above his glasses.

“I believe I read that you were charged with assaulting one of the Jorstads, and that you spent a month in prison.”

“That is correct.”

“I see.” Christ, Freberg was hard work. “So why do you believe their results were falsified?”

“I know these things. One day, I shall have the proof.”

“You have no proof at all?”

“That is correct. I keep my eye on the Jorstads. Cannot trust them.”

“That’s why you’re here? On this ship?”

Freberg nodded.

“They had dealings with the woman who died,” Dylan said. “Did you know Hanna Larsen?”

“Yes. And I know Jorstads try to cheat her out of her property.”

“I thought they offered her a fair price for her land.”

“That is what
they
say.” Freberg tapped the side of his nose. “Mrs. Larsen didn’t agree. I keep my eye on the Jorstads. Cannot trust them.”

Freberg seemed harmless enough. Deranged, nerdy and weird, but harmless. He might stalk the Jorstads but he merely wanted to discredit them. He wanted facts and figures to prove his theories.

“Do they know you’re following them?” Dylan asked.

“Oh, yes. I tell them I won’t let them rest until I have the proof.”

Freberg was definitely harmless. And as the Jorstad brothers knew he was watching their every move, they were unlikely to murder Hanna Larsen in her bed.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Freberg.” Dylan rose to his feet. “Enjoy the rest of the journey.”

As he walked along the corridor in the direction of the evening’s entertainment, Dylan thought it odd that Freberg was keeping an eye on the Jorstads and yet he hadn’t seen him before. He’d spotted Sigurd and Mathias Jorstad several times but Freberg hadn’t been around. Odd.

He gave a groan as he reached the ballroom. It was heaving with couples dancing to old hits being played by an equally old band. He looked around, but he couldn’t see Bev.

He wandered over to where Maud and Bill Carr were sitting at a table. “You haven’t seen Bev, have you?”

“She was dancing with Jason just a couple of minutes ago.” Maud craned her neck to look. “Really, it was no more than two minutes ago. I’m sure she’s here somewhere.”

“No matter. I’ll find her. Thanks.” He wandered off and got himself a drink. He was about to step outside, thinking perhaps Bev had gone onto the deck, when he saw Jason.

“Were you dancing with Bev?” Dylan asked.

“I was, but she’s gone back to her cabin.” Jason added a smiling, “I think she was suffering from the effects of the wine.”

Oh, no. Bev sober was one thing, Bev drunk was something no man should have to endure. She was one of those weepy drunks who would burst into tears over the slightest thing. Anything, from a pet hamster that had died when she was five to a broken fingernail, could reduce her to hysterics.

“Thanks, Jason. I’d better go and find her.”

He was on his way when he saw the chef who’d allegedly had a ding-dong with Hanna Larsen. Dylan followed him into the kitchen.

The kitchen shouldn’t have come as a surprise because he knew there were a thousand hungry passengers on the ship, but it did. It was vast. And busy. So busy that no one seemed at all interested in a passenger walking through their midst. Even the bulk of the chef seemed diminished.

“Excuse me.” Dylan touched him on the shoulder.

The man stopped and turned around. “Yes?”

Damn, Dylan had forgotten the bloke’s name. What had Lloyd said it was? Gerry the chef?

“Is it Gerry?”

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering—I heard that Hanna Larsen, the late Hanna Larsen, had an argument with someone from the kitchen on the night she died. Do you have any idea who that was?”

“It was me.” Judging by his accent, Gerry hadn’t strayed far from England in his life. Born and raised in Birmingham, Dylan would guess. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. What was the problem?”

He put the tray he’d been carrying on a long metal drainer. “She dared to suggest that my cooking had given her indigestion.” He sucked in an angry breath. “She dared to suggest that the food wasn’t cooked properly.”

“Ah.” Dylan smiled his understanding. “I can’t say I’m surprised. When I met her, she was complaining about everything and everyone.”

The chef nodded. “She was a right royal pain.”

“You chased her, I believe?”

“I did.” He leaned in to Dylan. “And if the stress of a pissed-off chef chasing her with a cleaver finished her off, I’m glad. She was—evil.”

Dylan nodded, surprised by the other man’s strength of feeling.

“It was the final straw,” Gerry said. “She wanted soup, right? The first serving was too hot, the second too salty and the third was lukewarm. I then had to spend half an hour assuring her that, yes, the vegetables were bloody fresh before she’d touch the main course. She had dessert and only when she’d eaten enough to feed a family of six did she accuse me of giving her indigestion. Bloody woman.”

Hell hath no fury like a chef insulted.

“You won’t find anyone in this kitchen sorry that she’s dead,” Gerry said. “Bloody woman.”

Dylan could sympathise and he’d only met her once.

“What happened after you chased her?” he asked.

Gerry shrugged. “She stormed off to her cabin threatening to report me to the captain. As he hasn’t mentioned it, I assume she didn’t. She was probably waiting till morning.”

“And you didn’t see her again?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

Dylan ignored the question. “How did you hear she’d died?”

“Two passengers, businessmen, had asked for refreshments to be served at a meeting they were having with her.”

“Sigurd and Mathias Jorstad?”

The chef nodded. “The order was cancelled because—well, obviously, the meeting was no longer taking place.”

“Who cancelled the order?”

“I can’t remember. I seem to think it was Sigurd Jorstad.”

Two waiters came in with more trays laden with used plates and glasses.

“Sorry,” the chef said, “but I have work to do. Why all the questions?”

“I’m just curious. Well, I’ll leave you to your work. See you again, Gerry. Oh, and the food’s delicious. Everything has been perfect.”

Before the chef had more questions for him, Dylan strode out of the kitchen.

He was distracted again. There, talking to Bill and Maud Carr, was none other than Vidar Freberg. He didn’t know why that struck him as odd. On board ship, passengers had to learn to get along with each other, and there was no reason why Freberg and the Carrs shouldn’t pass the time of day. Except Freberg wasn’t particularly sociable.

Forgetting them for the moment, Dylan went back to his cabin. Freya was sound asleep, there was no sign of his wife, and his mother was looking extremely anxious.

“Have you found Luke?” she asked him.

“Luke? I’m looking for Bev. Why? What’s Luke doing?”

“I don’t know. Bev came, said she couldn’t find him and dashed off again. What’s going on, Dylan?”

“I don’t know.” His heart began an uneasy beat. Was this another warning? “I’ll go and find them.”

Bill Carr’s words came back to haunt him as he began a search of the ship. Steps led here, there and everywhere. At times, he had no idea which deck he was on. Walls were covered in modern works of art but he paid them no attention. The carpet, blue with red squares, began to blur before his eyes. A Norwegian woman, singing as she worked, polished the brass handrails.

He saw Bev at the exact moment she spotted him and she ran, somewhat drunkenly, right into his arms.

“I can’t find Luke. Dylan, I can’t find him.” A tear raced down her cheek. “He’s not in his cabin and I’ve searched every inch of this bloody ship. And there was a man.”

“What? What man?”

“I was on the dance floor and there was a man watching me. I didn’t like him. There was something—creepy about him.”

“Okay, calm down. Luke’s more than capable of taking care of himself.” Christ, he hoped he was. “What did this man look like? What was he doing?”

“He wasn’t doing anything. Just watching me. I saw him about three times and he was staring at me. He was—oh, I don’t know. Just average.” Two more tears fell.

“Okay. We’ll go to the reception and get them to put a call out for Luke. I’m sure he hasn’t gone far.” He didn’t like this one little bit. He’d had an uneasy feeling ever since he’d boarded this damn ship, or since he’d managed to convince himself there was a cold-blooded killer on board. Speeding cars and threatening emails had done nothing to help. “He’ll be fine.”