Nautical time: 12.33
50°27’ N, 17°59’ W
Speed: 23.4 knots, wind: 30 knots
Sea swell: 10 feet
Distance from Southampton: 630 nautical miles
‘Number 2186?’
The captain was massaging the back of his neck. The plaster on his nose was smaller and the rings around his eyes darker. If exhaustion could be traded on the stock market, Bonhoeffer would be one of the wealthiest men on the planet. His eyes had shrunk to the size of a five-cent coin and they didn’t seem to be helping much in the search for the right key card.
‘2186,’ Martin confirmed, surprised that they were looking for a cabin with this number on deck 3. They were outside a greyish-ginger door with no number in a side corridor that branched off from the entrance to the atrium. Bonhoeffer was now making his third attempt to slide a key card through the reader. He was holding a selection, the size of bank cards in a variety of colours, all of which had a hole in the upper right-hand corner and were threaded on a fine metal chain.
‘Don’t you have something like a skeleton key?’ Martin asked.
‘Not for the nest.’
‘The nest?’
‘As you can see, this isn’t a passenger cabin any more,’ Bonhoeffer said, his eyes on the missing number on the door. If you stood up close you could see the residue of glue with which it had originally been stuck.
‘So what is it?’ Martin asked.
‘A relic. Something like the Sultan’s appendix. After all, this lady is eight years old now and no longer the youngest in the industry. When she was launched, the expectation was that the demand for inner cabins would rise, but that was a mistake. Most people want a suite, or at least a cabin with a balcony. At a pinch they’ll take something overlooking the atrium. And nobody wants to be just above the waterline. That’s why six years ago we converted the ten lowest inner cabins on deck 3 into storerooms and offices.’
‘And a nest?’ Martin asked. Bonhoeffer nodded.
‘The number’s an in-joke, a play on numbers. When 2 become 1 and want a private d8, they can come here to have 6.’
He couldn’t help yawning and didn’t bother to put his hand in front of his mouth.
‘It’s forbidden for employees to have sex in their own cabins, and it’s not very practical either because most have to share with a colleague. But the crew have needs, especially on trips around the world. Of course the nest doesn’t exist officially, but we turn a blind eye when during their months at sea employees use this as a refuge for their tête-à-têtes, so long as they’re discreet about it.’
Bonhoeffer yawned again, a bigger one this time.
‘You ought to lie down. Or will your bad conscience prevent you from sleeping?’ Martin asked sarcastically.
Bonhoeffer had told him over the phone what had happened in the night. After his seizure-like collapse, the captain got Elena’s assistant doctor to bring him back to his room, where he’d slept right through an eight-hour search operation that, ‘as expected’, to use Bonhoeffer’s words, had failed to bring any results.
When, following the security call, the coastal station began to coordinate measures and a Royal Navy ship from the British fleet, on manoeuvres in the area, had arrived, there was no longer any reason for the Sultan to hang around in the middle of the ocean. Or to incur the wrath of the almost three thousand passengers still alive, who could saddle the owners with compensation demands for unreasonable delay.
Julia Stiller had suffered a nervous breakdown when the main engine started into life again and had been catapulted into a dreamless sleep by a sedative, from which she would awaken at some point in the captain’s cabin. Hundreds of nautical miles from her daughter. She’d actually wanted to change onto the navy vessel, but had been refused entry as an ‘unauthorised person’.
‘I don’t have a bad conscience,’ the captain protested. ‘We paused the journey to—’
‘For eight hours?’ Martin interrupted him. ‘Are you saying a child’s life isn’t worth any more than that?’ He laughed cynically.
Bonhoeffer took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily through puckered lips. It sounded like air escaping from a shrivelled balloon. Furious, he said, ‘A farewell letter, cyberbullying as a motive, no traces of violence or any other crime in the cabin, and even though no one could survive out there for an hour without a life vest the search goes on till the following morning. What do you expect?’
‘That for once you succeed in arriving at the destination with all your passengers.’
‘I could just as easily say you ought to have taken better care of your family. Have you ever googled suicide? There are forums where half the world exchanges ideas on the most effective ways of topping yourself. And do you know what’s right up there? Exactly. Cruises. Those twenty-three passengers per year who take a leap into the blue shelf. If every depressive with internet access decides to do train drivers a favour and book a cruise rather than throw themselves on the track, then don’t fucking well blame me!’
Now worked up, he slashed one of the cards at random through the slot and happened to get the right one. There was a click and a green light flashed.
‘I’m not responsible for this insanity,’ he barked, pushing on the handle. The door sprang open and they were immediately met by an unpleasant metallic smell.
‘Nor for this either?’ Martin asked. He pointed at the floor of the cabin.
They both stared speechlessly at the man at their feet, who’d been shot in the head.