‘Why on earth have we stopped?’
Martin confronted the captain just as he was about to leave his cabin to go up to the bridge.
After he’d finally managed to get rid of his unwelcome visitors (Shahla was visibly pleased to be able to leave, whereas Gerlinde had only wheeled out of his suite under protest) he’d briefly lain on his bed, but quickly realised that he wouldn’t get any peace while the ship wasn’t moving forwards.
Because the generators had been switched off, the stabilisers weren’t working either. Each wave that slapped against the ship’s side sounded twice as loud, and the rolling and pitching of the liner were more pronounced than ever.
‘Maintenance,’ Bonhoeffer said, his hand already on the handle of the door that concealed the narrow private staircase to the bridge.
Martin didn’t believe a word. ‘Maintenance? In the middle of the night?’
Before leaving his cabin he’d thrown on a few clothes he’d bought yesterday in the on-board shop. As he hadn’t intended to stay on the Sultan, he’d boarded only with a change of socks and pants. Now he was wearing a grey, old-style polo shirt with the cruise line’s emblem and a pair of black jeans that he had to turn up as they were much too long. But he hadn’t bought himself another pair of shoes, which is why he was now standing beside the captain barefoot. It was only thanks to his quick reactions that he’d avoided being soaked through again. On the way to see Bonhoeffer he’d almost crashed into a drunk passenger staggering out of the ship’s disco on deck 11, carrying a neon drink that glowed in the dark.
‘I’ve really got my hands full at the moment,’ Bonhoeffer said in an attempt to get rid of him. ‘I have to…’ The captain let his hand slide off the doorknob and made a weary gesture mid-sentence as if all efforts would be in vain. ‘What the hell, I’ve got to make an announcement anyhow; you might as well hear it from me first.’
‘Another Passenger 23?’ Martin speculated.
Bonhoeffer nodded. The deep bags beneath his eyes looked as if they’d been made up. He pinched the bridge of his nose, which now was only covered with a thick plaster. ‘Lisa Stiller, fifteen years old, from Berlin. We’re showing her picture on the on-board television, just in case someone’s seen her. She’s a victim of cyberbullying and she left a farewell note.’
‘When?’ Martin turned his arm to look at the watch on his wrist, and even that movement pulled painfully on his shoulder muscles. On the other hand, his toothache and headache had both gone for the time being.
‘When did she probably go overboard? Mother and daughter had dinner till 21.44, then the two of them retired to their cabins. According to the computer log Lisa last used her key card at 21.59.’
Leaving a window of three hours at most.
In that time the Sultan would have done a good fifty nautical miles.
‘What do the security cameras say?’
‘Nothing.’
Bonhoeffer raised both hands like a boxer trying to fend off a blow to the head. ‘No, it’s not the same as with your family,’ he whispered, even though there was nobody in the vicinity. ‘We have a recording of the girl spraying a camera lens with black paint. That was at 21.52. She must have known the precise location of the camera covering her balcony.’
Bonhoeffer spoke with an animation that went beyond the normal degree of professional sympathy. The captain wanted to turn away again, but Martin held him back.
‘What’s happening now?’ he asked.
‘We’ve stopped the ship and we’re searching the sea from the bridge with floodlights and telescopes. At the same time ten of my men are combing all the public areas and we’re soon going to start with the announcements. I don’t hold out much hope.’ He told Martin that both the door to the corridor and the partition door between Lisa’s and her mother’s cabin had been bolted from the inside, unlike the balcony door that had stood wide open.
‘Mother and daughter were travelling without the father?’
The captain nodded.
A parent travelling alone, a child vanishing.
A pattern was gradually emerging, although Martin couldn’t tell what picture it was forming. Either he was standing too far away from the screen with the answer, or too close to it.
‘Where’s the mother now?’ he asked Bonhoeffer.
‘Julia Stiller’s…’ The captain looked as if he’d just had a flash of inspiration. ‘Good idea,’ he said excitedly and fished a key card from the breast pocket of his shirt. He nodded at the door.
‘She’s waiting in my cabin. Talk to her. She could use a psychologist.’