Martin stood, walked around the winch and squatted down. Here he was at least a couple of metres closer to the bag-like object stuck to the last visible link of the anchor chain. Lying flat on the ground, he tried to squeeze himself on the cold floor beneath the metal reel.
Hopeless.
Either he was too broad or the gap too narrow. He felt like he had that time as a child when a marble rolled under the cupboard and, with his short arms, he hadn’t been able to grab anything but fluff and dust.
‘Shall I try?’ he heard Elena ask behind him.
He looked up to her and nodded. ‘Maybe you’ll have more luck.’ At any rate she was considerably more petite than he was.
The doctor took off her jacket and blouse, beneath which she wore a white, sleeveless man’s shirt. Before lying on the ground she took off her jewellery, a chain with an oak-leaf pendant and a silver charm bracelet, which she wore on her right arm alongside her diving watch.
‘Phew, couldn’t get any tighter,’ she said as she lay on her stomach. She turned her head sideways, pressing her ear to the ground. ‘Nor any louder.’ She inched forwards to the target that Bonhoeffer’s torch was illuminating from the side.
‘A little bit to the right,’ Martin guided her, as from her position Elena couldn’t see a thing.
Finally her fingers were touching the chain. ‘Really does feel like a plastic bag,’ the doctor said, picking at it with her thumb and forefinger. ‘But I can’t work it loose.’
‘Stuck fast,’ Bonhoeffer declared. Martin, too, now saw the adhesive strip with which the bag was affixed to the link of the chain. A good tug would be enough to remove it, but Elena needed to crawl further under the platform.
‘I’m getting a cramp,’ she moaned.
Martin tried to encourage her. ‘You’ll do it. Just a few centimetres more. That’s it, excellent…’
Now the doctor was able to get her whole fist around the bag.
A large wave slapped against the ship, which sounded as if a twenty-metre carpet were being beaten against the hull. The Sultan listed sideways, sending the chain moving a few centimetres as well.
‘This thing can’t go down on its own, can it?’ Elena asked with warranted concern. If the lock was disengaged she’d be yanked along with the chain. ‘I don’t want to end up as anchor grease.’
Bonhoeffer shouted something about her not having to worry, but Elena had already detached the plastic bag and was scrabbling backwards beneath the platform. When she emerged again, the side of her face that had been in contact with the floor had an oily, black trace.
‘It feels slippery,’ the doctor said, standing up.
With her arm outstretched she held the bag as far away from her body as possible, as if she were putting something revolting in the dustbin. ‘Like there’s jelly in it.’
She walked past the anchor winch and over to a green crate where she lay the bag on a hard plastic lid.
‘That may be evidence,’ Martin said. ‘We ought to open it in a sealed container.’
Under an extractor. With safety goggles.
Elena wasn’t listening to him. She might be a good doctor, but she had no idea of the basics of crime scene work. With nimble fingers she tore off the adhesive strip which the bag was tied with before Martin could intervene. Fortunately his fear proved unfounded; there was no combustion. And yet Elena recoiled as if a splinter had flown into her face.
‘Good God!’ she panted, turning away with a hand over her mouth.
Martin could understand her reaction, as well as that of the captain, who stared in disgust at the bag and its contents, which now poured out unimpeded over the lid of the crate. Maggots. Hundreds of them wreathed and coiled as if plugged in to the mains.
‘That’s fucking disgusting!’ Bonhoeffer cursed, stamping on the first of them that had already fallen off the edge to the floor. He grabbed his work mobile and asked someone at the other end to send a cleaner.
Martin moved a little closer and opened the bag to get a better look inside.
Well, well.
The maggots were not the only contents.
With the tips of his fingers he pulled out a laminated, rectangular piece of paper and wiped the insects off it.
‘A postcard?’ the captain asked.
Part of one at least.
It was part of an advertising postcard that was distributed for free in every cabin. It was just a torn-off edge, but big enough to see that the image on the front was an aerial picture of the Sultan.
Martin turned the card over.
THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GO STICKING YOUR NOSE IN EVERYWHERE…
He read out the message that had been scrawled in block capitals. It was in English and written with a black biro that was starting to run out of ink.
‘What happens?’ Bonhoeffer asked. ‘What does the bastard mean by that?’
‘Oh, fuck,’ Martin said as if paralysed by shock. He’d turned around to ask Elena’s opinion. The answer to Bonhoeffer’s question was literally written on her face.
‘Jesus Christ, Elena, what’s wrong with you?’ the captain screamed. He too had turned to his fiancée and noticed her disfigurement. The doctor’s face had completely swollen: cheeks, brow, lips. It looked as if her face were about to burst. You couldn’t make out her eyes any more, only the tips of her lashes stuck out of the swollen bulges.
THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU GO STICKING YOUR NOSE IN EVERYWHERE…
The entire sight of her was ghastly, but worst of all were the swellings on the right-hand side of her face, where she’d come into contact with the grease.
‘Elena, darling, say something, please!’ Bonhoeffer cried, beside himself with worry. But Martin realised that the doctor, who was grabbing her throat and choking, was no longer capable. After her eyes, lips and cheeks, now her windpipe seemed to be swelling too.