But right at this moment—with Nilsson probably even now shooting holes in my story to the captain—my career didn’t seem as important. If anything, I should be quizzing her, working out her whereabouts last night. After all, Ben had been playing poker with Lars, Archer, and Bullmer, which left a comparatively small pool of people who could have been in the cabin next to mine. Was Tina strong enough to push a woman overboard? I eyed her covertly as she began to hobble across the salt-sprayed deck toward the door, her narrow heels skidding slightly on the painted metal deck. She was greyhound thin, more sinew than muscle, but I could imagine there would be a wiry strength in her arms, and the picture Rowan had painted was of a woman whose ruthlessness more than compensated for her physical size.
“So how about you?” I said as I followed her towards the door. “Did you have a good time last night?”
She stopped abruptly at that, the heavy door held in one hand, her fingers clenched on the metal, the tendons on the back of her hand standing out like iron cables. She turned to stare at me.
“What did you say?” Her neck was thrust forward like a velociraptor’s, her eyes boring into me.
“I—” I stopped, taken aback by the ferocity of her response. “I didn’t—I was just wondering . . .”
“Well, I suggest you stop wondering, and keep your insinuations to yourself. A clever girl like you knows better than to make enemies in this business.”
Then she let go of the door and let it slam shut behind her.
I stood on deck, staring blankly after her retreating back through the salt-misted door, and wondering what on earth had just happened.
I shook my head and pulled myself together. There was no point in trying to figure it out now. I should be back in the cabin, preserving the one bit of evidence I had left.
I had locked the door before I left with Nilsson but I realized, as I made my way carefully down the stairs to the cabin deck and saw the cleaners pulling their vacuums after them, their trolleys piled with towels and linens, that I had forgotten to put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign.
Inside, the suite had been valeted to within an inch of its life. The sink had been polished. The windows cleaned of salt spray. Even my dirty clothes had magically disappeared. The torn evening dress was also gone.
But I wasn’t interested in any of it. Instead, I went straight to the bathroom, to the neat ranks of makeup and cleansers on the vanity surface.
Where was it?
I pushed aside the lipstick and gloss, the toothpaste, moisturizer, eye makeup remover, half-used blister pack of pills . . . but it wasn’t there. No flash of pink and green leaped out at me. Under the counter, then—in the bin.
I went through to the main bedroom, opening drawers one after another, hunting under chairs. Where was it? Where was it?
But I knew the answer, even as I sank to the bed, head in my hands. It was gone. The tube of mascara—my one link to the missing girl—was gone.
Saturday, 26 September
Harringay Echo website
LONDON TOURIST MISSING FROM NORWEGIAN CRUISE VESSEL
Friends and relatives of missing Londoner Laura Blacklock are said to be growing “increasingly concerned” about her safety. Blacklock (32), who resides in West Grove in Harringay, was reported missing by her partner, Judah Lewis (35), during a holiday aboard the exclusive tourist ship the Aurora Borealis.
Mr. Lewis, who was not with Miss Blacklock on board, reported that he had become concerned after Miss Blacklock did not return messages on board the cruise liner, and when attempts to contact her failed.
A spokesperson for the Aurora Borealis, whose maiden voyage left Hull last Sunday, confirmed that Blacklock had not been seen since a planned trip to Trondheim on Tuesday, 22 September, but the company said that it had been initially assumed that she had decided to curtail her trip. It was only when Miss Blacklock failed to return to the UK on Friday and her partner raised the alarm that they became aware that her departure had not been planned.
Pamela Crew, the missing woman’s mother, said that it was extremely out of character for her daughter not to have made contact, and appealed for anyone who might have seen Miss Blacklock, also known as Lo, to come forward.
- CHAPTER 14 -
I tried not to let the panic overwhelm me.
Someone had been in my room.
Someone who knew.
Someone who knew what I’d seen, and what I’d heard, and what I’d said.
The minibar had been restocked, and I longed with a sudden visceral sharpness for a drink, but I shoved the thought aside and began to pace the cabin, which had seemed so large yesterday and now seemed to be closing in on me.
Someone had been in here. But who?
The urge to scream, to run away, to hide under the bed and never come out, was almost overwhelming, but there was no escape—not until we reached Trondheim.
The realization jolted my thoughts out of their rat-run and I stood, my hands on the dressing table, my shoulders bowed, looking at my white, gaunt face in the mirror. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep. There were deep circles of exhaustion under my eyes, but it was something in my eyes themselves that made me pause—a look of fear, like an animal run to ground.
A whining roar came from the corridor, and I remembered, with a jolt, the cleaners valeting the rooms. I took a deep breath and stood straighter, shaking my hair back over my shoulder. Then I opened the door and put my head out into the corridor, where the hum of the vacuum cleaner still buzzed. Iwona, the Polish woman I had been introduced to downstairs, was cleaning Ben’s cabin just up the corridor, the door wide-open.
“Excuse me!” I called, but she didn’t hear. I ventured closer. “Excuse me!”
She jumped and turned around, her hand on her heart.
“Excuse!” she said, breathlessly, putting her foot down on the switch to silence the hoover. She was wearing the dark blue uniform all the rest of the cleaners wore, her heavy features pink with exertion. “I am startle.”
“I’m sorry,” I said penitently. “I didn’t mean to shock you. I wanted to ask—did you clean my room?”
“Yes, I did already. Something is not clean?”
“It’s not that. It’s very clean—beautiful, in fact. It’s just that I wondered—did you see a mascara?”
“Mass—?” She shook her head, but not meaning no, her expression was uncomprehending. “What it is?”
“Mascara. For your eyes—like this.” I mimed putting it on, and her face cleared.
“Ah! Yes, I know,” she said, and said something that sounded like toosh do resh. I had no idea if this was Polish for mascara or I put it in the bin, but I nodded vigorously.
“Yes, yes, in a pink-and-green tube. Like—” I pulled out my phone, meaning to google Maybelline, but the Wi-Fi still wasn’t working. “Oh, damn, never mind. But it’s pink and green. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, I see last night when I clean.”
Shit.
“But not this morning?”
“No.” She shook her head, her face troubled. “Is not in bathroom?”
“No.”
“I am sorry. I did not see. I can to ask Karla, stewardess, if possible to, um . . . how say . . . to buy new—”
Her floundering words and worried expression made me realize, suddenly, what this must seem like—a madwoman half-accusing a cleaner of stealing a used mascara. I shook my head, put out my hand to her arm.
“I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter. Please don’t worry.”
“But yes, it matter!”
“No, honestly. It was probably me. I expect I left it in a pocket.”
But I knew the truth. The mascara was gone.
Back in the cabin I double-locked the door and put the chain across, then I picked up the phone, pressed 0, and asked to be put through to Nilsson. There was a long piped-music delay, and a woman who sounded like Camilla Lidman came back on the line.
“Miss Blacklock? Thank you for holding. I’ll put you through.”
There was a click and a crackle, and then a man’s deep voice came on the line.
“Hello?” It was Nilsson. “Johann Nilsson speaking. Can I help you?”
“The mascara is gone,” I said without preamble. There was a pause; I could feel him sorting through his mental filing cabinet of notes. “The mascara,” I said impatiently. “The one I told you about last night—that the woman in cabin ten gave to me. This proves my point, can’t you see?”