In the Panorama Lounge after dinner Alfredo the pianist sat behind his instrument, his head tilting back and forth in time to the music, his fingers dancing expertly up and down the keyboard, extracting the maximum feeling from every note he played. ‘Love Story’, ‘Lady in Red’, ‘The Way You Look Tonight’, ‘What a Wonderful World’ – the tunes were as predictable as they were schmaltzy. Every now and then a passenger would get to his or her feet, dodder over the blue carpet and lean down towards the Filipino’s ear with a suggestion for a tune, then drop a bank note into the outsized brandy glass that sat on the gleaming ebony lid of his Bechstein.
The bar was more crowded than Francis had yet seen it. Rather than be got down by the shocking events of last night, the guests seemed to have decided to live it up. Bolstered by five courses, a sorbet and petits fours, the unease that Francis had detected at the Neptune party had been replaced by a much more boisterous mood, one of backslapping and loud laughter.
But he wasn’t paying much attention to this rowdy conviviality, because he had at last got Carmen alone. The ‘hard thinking’ she had promised him had not been possible at the mixed table of eight they had ended up sitting at for dinner. Francis had spent half his meal listening to the life story of a construction magnate from Bolton, UK; the other half in conversation with Martha, a waxy-faced American who had been confined to her cabin for three days with the norovirus. ‘Not that I had it so bad,’ she said, ‘but Sean did. Oh, boy! My travelling companion,’ she added, nodding across the table to a handsome fellow who looked as if he’d been dipped in a vat of teak wood stain. She’d suffered less, she reckoned, because she took probiotics, as well as something called Digest Gold, which was really amazing for upset stomachs – Francis should get some. But the ‘confining thing’ was serious. She and Sean had had this letter from the captain, saying that if they were found outside their cabin – at all, while they were still ill – they would be put off at the next port. ‘It was like, really, heavy, but then’ – Martha cackled with laughter – ‘it had this typo right in the middle which made it ridiculous.’ But it had made them wonder. ‘I mean, how many other passengers are similarly imprisoned?’
‘So,’ Carmen asked him now. ‘Did you pick up anything useful over dinner?’
‘Some remedies for upset stomachs and an insight into the building industry in the north of England, but no, not much more than that.’
She laughed. ‘You’re a patient listener.’
‘So people tell me.’
‘They didn’t talk about the MOB?’ Despite the background din, she mouthed the acronym.
‘The woman on my left did. Eventually. But she was convinced Lauren had fallen off.’
‘That’s mostly what they think. An awful tragedy, but no more than that.’
‘The old boy on my right didn’t even mention it.’ Francis gestured round the room. ‘Less than twenty-four hours later, life seems to be carrying on much as normal.’
‘Or else people have just decided to make the most of things.’
There was a pause while they sipped their drinks and looked round at the partying passengers. Then Francis leaned forward. ‘So you really didn’t know about Gregoire and Hentie before that meeting?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Carmen insisted. ‘I’m not holding stuff back from you, mate, if that’s what you’re worrying about.’
‘Or from the captain, as far as I can see.’
‘What are you talking about? Gregoire’s supposed snog with Lauren again.’
‘Call me old fashioned, but if someone tells me something in confidence, I would keep it to myself.’
‘In this situation?’ Carmen cut in. ‘Where we’re trying to find out who killed a man? Possibly even a man and two women. Don’t you trust the captain?’
‘I’m not sure trust comes into it particularly. I don’t think that he’s involved, put it that way.’
‘Involved.’ She laughed. ‘The captain! That’s even crazier than your idea about Gregoire the serial killer.’
‘Is it? So why is he so protective of him then?’
‘Of Gregoire? He’s worked with him for ages, and he rates him. You often find that people in authority can’t countenance the idea of their favoured subordinates doing any wrong at all. Even trivial stuff.’
‘You could be right,’ Francis said. He sat in silence for a bit. ‘I suppose that’s it,’ he concluded.
‘Of course it is. What are you suggesting? That Gregoire and the captain are bumping off the passengers together and sharing the money?’
Francis laughed. ‘Before you came to find me, I was sitting in my cabin with a piece of paper trying to work out how any of these deaths could possibly be related. And I can’t say I was getting anywhere much. The only even half-likely suspects I have are Gregoire and Don. And Don has been in his cabin in a sedated state since Lauren went overboard.’
‘So what about Gregoire being involved with Hentie?’ Carmen asked. ‘Does that make him more – or less – of a suspect?’
‘It makes it less likely that he was involved with Lauren,’ Francis replied. ‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Which would make your friend Sadie a liar. With who knows what motives.’
‘It would. But if Gregoire is the killer, then Hentie would make an excellent accomplice. She can go anywhere, upstairs or downstairs. She has the perfect reason to be in any of her passengers’ rooms at any time. Mine included.’
‘Eve was on her corridor,’ said Carmen.
‘She was.’
‘Her motive presumably being the same as Gregoire’s. Money.’
‘I had a chat with her when she brought me a cup of tea earlier. Her ambition is to own a game farm in Namibia. I don’t imagine they come cheap.’
‘Depends what currency you’re buying in. The US dollar gets you thirteen South African rand these days. That’s why you get plenty of South Africans doing these jobs. Because they can earn a relative fortune …’
She tailed off. There was a hush in the bar. Sebastian was up by the piano, striking quite a pose in a knee-length cream kurta pyjama, decorated with a filigree of orange-gold, a purple scarf slung over one shoulder. Sebastian the glam serial killer, thought Francis for a moment; he certainly looked the part. Now he was asking everyone to be quiet please while his friend Alfredo sang ‘Nessun Dorma’.
‘We are listening here to a man who reached the finals of “The Philippines Have Got Talent”.’
This announcement was greeted by loud laughter. Alfredo gracefully bowed his head, as if this patronizing derision were a compliment. Sebastian’s face remained composed and serious, as he held out a straight arm towards Alfredo.
The chords rang out; and then, from this little smiling man, came a deep, rolling tenor that took everyone by surprise. By the time he’d reached the final lines, the Panorama Lounge was quiet. Women – and men – were dabbing at their eyes. On a banquette to the left, big Shirley was sobbing loudly, hubby Gerald rubbing her shoulders with his scrawny right hand.
All’alba vincerò!
Vincerò! Vincerò!
The last note, the sustained high A made famous by Pavarotti, faded into the pin-drop silence. Someone clapped. The bar broke into noisy applause.
‘The Filipinos have got talent!’ came an Australian shout.
Sebastian was weeping too. Next to him, Kurt was stony-faced.
‘May I?’
Francis looked up to see a familiar face. Klaus was in maximum twinkly mode tonight, dressed up in his navy blazer and a striped blue and crimson tie that looked as if it might belong to some English sports club or public school, rather than anything more European. He was clutching a large whisky.
‘Please,’ said Francis politely. He gestured at the empty seat next to his companion. ‘You know Carmen, I’m sure.’
‘Yes.’ Klaus nodded. ‘I have been on some little Zodiac expedition captained by you. And of course I heard your very interesting lecture on the pygmies of Cameroon.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carmen. ‘I hope you enjoyed it.’
‘I was particularly interested in their language having a totally different root from the Bantu peoples around them.’
‘Ubangian. Yes.’
‘This is one of the lesser known stories of this fascinating continent. How the Bantu superseded the indigenous peoples. Of course, further south it was the Khoi and the San who were wiped out. There’s not much left of them now either, except perhaps in the genes of the so-called Coloured people of the Cape.’
‘You know your history,’ Carmen said.
‘Just a little,’ Klaus replied smugly. Now he turned to Francis. ‘So, have you solved any of the mysteries yet? Found any murderous stowaways tucked away?’
‘No stowaways, that’s for sure,’ Francis replied. Carmen was looking puzzled; but it was hardly Francis’s fault, was it, that Klaus had such an unashamedly intrusive nature. ‘How about you?’ he added. ‘Have you got anything more to tell us?’
‘I think the drink has calmed the nerves of the guests a little,’ the German replied. ‘Although some of this laughter is a bit on the hysterical side. But nobody is going to be taking a lonely walk up on deck seven tonight, I don’t think. We may laugh and joke here in company, but we will be straight back to the cabin and locking the door. How is your stomach, by the way?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Francis.
‘Keep using the disinfectant gel. I would. Nobody is saying anything, but the norovirus is spreading. I see some familiar faces are not here tonight.’
‘Really? I thought it seemed rather crowded.’
‘It is. For the bar. Many of the diners have come through for a how-to-say nightcap. But there were fewer at dinner. I notice these things.’
‘You certainly do,’ said Francis, rolling his eyes discreetly at Carmen.
She half rose. ‘Another drink?’ she asked. ‘I’m getting one.’
The invitation had been to Francis, but Klaus was no slouch in saving himself a trip to the bar. ‘If you are offering,’ he said, ‘I vill have another visky. It’s a Scottish malt. Frederick knows which one.’
‘Frederick’s the barman?’
‘Of course. An old friend of mine. Though whether that’s his real name I have no idea.’ This last remark was made, it seemed, without irony.
‘OK then, why not,’ Francis said, smiling up at Carmen. ‘I’ll have another of these fine brandies. But just a small one, please.’
Once Carmen had gone, Klaus turned towards Francis with a conspiratorial smile. ‘So this attractive blonde lady is your Hastings, I think?’
‘Not quite Hastings,’ he replied. ‘A bit too bright for that.’
‘Perhaps you are her Hastings then,’ said Klaus, with a chuckle. ‘At any rate I notice your heads pushed together. What have you concluded?’
Francis gave him a blank smile. ‘Not very much at all. Though obviously if we had, it would have to stay confidential.’
Klaus was not to be so easily put off. ‘And have your collective thoughts been affected by this latest incident?’
Francis tried to look as if he had no idea what Klaus was talking about.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘It is lucky you are a writer,’ said Klaus, ‘and not an actor, because I don’t think you would have got far in that profession. We both know what we are talking about. The shocking murder of this crew fellow who saw poor Lauren go overboard.’
Who had told Klaus about this? Hadn’t the captain insisted that George’s death be kept entirely under wraps? In addition to being on chummy terms with barmen, how deep below deck did Klaus’s information network go?
‘You’re very well informed,’ Francis replied. There was little point in denial. Strange thought – maybe Klaus would be able to help?
‘Clearly this man saw something,’ said Klaus. ‘And by something, I mean someone, as mere things don’t go round doing random killings by themselves, do they? Do you have any idea who might have helped our glamorous lady friend over the railings?’
‘No.’
‘But you’ve spoken to his cabin mate?’
‘You seem to know as much as me, Klaus.’
‘And he told you he never got the chance to talk to his friend. So he wouldn’t know either. Do you really believe that?’
‘He seemed pretty adamant.’
‘Of course he would. If what his friend told him was that it was one of his bosses he saw, he’s probably running scared for his life. There’s no getting off this ship. Until the day after tomorrow, at least.’
‘No,’ Francis agreed. ‘Is that what you think? That it’s one of his bosses?’
‘I don’t know. This is one of the reasons I thought I would come over and have a chat with you. But one thing is worth considering: that a guest is less likely to know how to get around in that strange industrial area beyond the Crew Only doors.’
‘You sound as if you’ve been down there yourself, Klaus.’
‘Bear in mind that I admit to being an inquisitive man. Also that I have been on several cruises and occasionally – how should I put this? – when the weather is bad and the place is deserted, my curiosity overcomes me. Never, when my wife is with me, would I dream of stepping outside the hallowed luxury areas. But yes, sometimes when I am alone, I have explored. Though not far, because as you know, when we are at sea, those watertight doors are often locked and it really is a maze down there. Every corridor looks the same. One time I got seriously lost and thought I would never get back. Finally I found myself in the laundry, deep in the bottom of the hull, staffed by three Chinese I never saw before or again, even on those party nights at the end of the cruise when they bring out what they tell us is the whole crew to be paraded before us. One of these anonymous oriental gentlemen kindly showed me back to civilization.’
‘Do any of the other passengers have any clue about this latest death?’ Francis asked.
‘I have no idea. But then I have not had this conversation with any of them. To be honest, I doubt it. Even with the shock of this poor female who went overboard, most of them are just thinking about their next meal. Or their next excursion. Or what they can next complain about. The noise of trolleys in the corridors early in the morning. Some fixtures and fittings that are not as smart as they would like them to be. The food, which is not exactly what they are used to in New York or Los Angeles. The wind on the deck, even; I once heard one lady grumbling about that.’ He chuckled. ‘So you don’t have any suspects lined up?’ he added.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Klaus. I’m baffled.’
‘One of the more amusing aspects of this case, I think, is that there are plenty of our fellow guests who would love to murder their cabin companions. That young Sadie, for example, would happily finish off her aunt, given half a chance. Daphne, for all her gracious smiles, is always encouraging that demented husband of hers on to more and more exhausting excursions. Sometimes I look at the stern face of Kurt and wonder about his feelings for his talented younger boyfriend. And as for Gerald and his enormous wife, well, this hen-pecked individual is probably too cowed—’
He broke off, as Carmen was approaching with a small round tray containing the drinks. ‘But here is Hastings,’ he added. ‘With our sniv-ters.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘To be continued, as they say.’