Hathaway closed the cabin door softly behind himself. Paolo had been asleep when he got to their room, and the peaceful expression on his face told James that it was a valuable rest. And there had been a tray of dishes outside the cabin door in the corridor, so Paolo had eaten, too. Relieved, he had written a quick note and left it by Paolo's eyeglasses: "P – I'm back on the case! Sorry about all my grumping this morning. Hope you're feeling better. Text me when you get this! J."
Now he hurried to get back to officers' quarters, taking the stairs two at a time. Faster than waiting for the lifts, and it was only a couple decks up. But when he arrived on the deck where the bridge was, he saw white-uniformed officers leaning over the port-side railing, shouting excitedly to each other. Even before he got any closer, his keen ears caught, "Man overboard!" Two officers flew past him, almost clearing the entire flight of steps in one bound. Hathaway rushed to the side of the ship and looked over.
Below, he could see other heads popping out over the railings and out of windows to see what was happening. No alarm had been raised, but unquestionably, word had spread fast. Now he saw that the two officers had lowered the small launch at the back of the lower deck, and as soon as it hit the water, they gunned the motor, shooting the little boat over to where a body floated, face down. A woman, Hathaway thought, from the body shape, but with the clothes billowing in the swells, it was hard to tell.
He changed course and hurried to the Master's quarters, knocked, and let himself in without waiting for an answer. Sitting at the desk across from the officer he was interviewing, Lewis looked up, startled. He immediately understood that something was wrong, and before the younger inspector could speak, he was on his feet and pulling on his jacket. As he hurried after Hathaway, he was given the explanation for the rush. They lined up at the railing with the other officers and members of the crew and watched as the rescue boat was hauled back aboard. The two officers were no longer hurrying, and the body lay motionless under a blanket. Lewis touched Hathaway's arm and cocked his head toward where the little tender-boat was being secured.
Hathaway was off like a shot, racing to intercept the body as it was brought from the boat. The ship's medic was there, too, but the expression on his face showed he already understood there was nothing he would be able to do.
And indeed, there was not. They put the body – still wrapped – on the gurney the medic had brought, and they wheeled it to the medical suite, where there was an exam room. The doctor pulled back the blanket and looked at the victim's face. Even Hathaway knew who she was, and her name sprang to his lips: "Sophie Palmer." The other men nodded in assent. Hathaway took immediate control of the situation.
"Go get Captain Palmer," he ordered the medic. "And be as discreet as you can. Don't tell him she's dead. Just keep repeating, 'They have her in my office.' Understood?" The doctor nodded, took a breath, and then went out.
James turned to the two officers. "Now, what happened? Who saw her first?"
One of the officers stepped forward. "I saw her first. Second Officer Thomas Hillerman, Sir," he added in response to the question that sprang to James's lips. "I was looking over the side, and suddenly, she fell into the water. From one of the decks below me. I can't be sure which. I mean, she just fell. It was weird. And then she didn't move. I just grabbed Tony and took off to launch the tender without waiting for orders."
Hathaway studied Hillerman. He was young, not more than 22 or 23, and almost as tall as Hathaway, breathing hard from the exertion and excitement despite his wiry build. "Weird, why weird?"
Hillerman pursed his lips. "Well, it's hard for people to just fall overboard. Especially if the ship isn't moving. The railings are high enough that people have to climb up to be able to get enough of their body mass on the wrong side of the railing." James could see him reviewing his mental video of what he had seen. "It was like someone pitched her over the railing, y'know? Like you'd throw over a sack of potatoes."
Hathaway patted his pockets absently and then glanced from one officer to the other. "Excuse me, do either of you have a cigarette? No? Can you . . ." He fixed his eyes on the other officer, presumably 'Tony'. "Can you find me one from anyone? And a light."
"Sure, yeah, I know some people . . ." Tony hustled off as James looked after him appreciatively.
"Must be great, working so closely with these people. I've met several of the officers and crew on this ship, and it reminds me of the police academy, where you learn how to really work as a team, how to trust each other with your backs." His eyes snapped to Hillerman, gauging his response.
The young officer grinned genially, finally now having recovered his breath. "Yeah, it's great." But then his smile crooked a little. "Well, it's not all great. Some of the people are real jerks and you're stuck working with them or maybe even rooming with them, if you're not an officer. And a lot of the Guest Services crew act like they're peers with us officers, but that's not the case. The officers are all serious about being mariners. We want to learn how to sail a ship and to move up in the ranks. The crew, they're mostly here as a way to travel the world without paying for it. One big party to them, this." He looked disgusted.
"The officers, they aren't into partying?"
He thought a moment before speaking. Hathaway was pretty sure that, as the adrenaline rush in his blood cooled down, the young man's guard was being raised and doors were closing on his true thoughts. "Look, we work hard on this boat. Some like to party hard, too. But I think everyone understands what is at stake and what our real responsibilities are when we're under sail. There isn't a bunch I'd rather be with in heavy seas or gale-force winds."
Ah, the loyalty card. Hathaway knew the interview was as good as over. He smiled understandingly. "The police force is the same way. You might want to strangle the guy working next to you, but you'd fight for him like a tiger against a common adversary."
At that moment, Tony returned with a cigarette and a cheap, disposable lighter. He looked back and forth between James and Hillerman, instinctively sensing that sides were being drawn. Knowing he'd get no further useful information out of either sailor, James merely jotted down his details, asked if there was anything he'd seen that struck him as odd (predictably, there wasn't), and dismissed them both.
He realized he was moving trancelike toward the covered corpse, and he slipped on another pair of latex gloves. Pulling the blanket back halfway, he studied the body. He was no medical examiner, obviously, but he'd seen more than his share of corpses. They were never beautiful, never, despite what romantic writers might say to the contrary. And he knew the telltale signs of drowning.
Mrs. Palmer's corpse did not bear those signs. Instead, she had bruising around her throat that strongly suggested strangulation by ligature. But he would need Dr. Hobson's confirmation to make it official.
There was a knock on the door, and DI Lewis peeked around the opening. "Just you?"
Hathaway nodded, and Lewis approached the cadaver, his eyebrows raised questioningly at his former sergeant. The younger DI dipped his head respectfully, indicating he was speaking of the dead. "Mrs. Sophie Palmer, I recognize her. Death by strangulation."
Robbie nodded sagely. "Not a death by misfortune, then." No surprise in his voice. "Well, I suppose we need Laura back here." He pulled out his mobile and tapped it, turning on speakerphone. An answer came blazing back at him before he had any chance to ask a question.
"No, I'm not done, Robbie! Not even started! Trying to get anything done here with this Italian bureaucracy is insanity on depressants – nothing doing, at half the speed it usually takes to get nothing done!"
Lewis gaped at his phone, then put it in private-talk mode. "Erm, Luv, I wasn't ringing you to push on the first corpse, I'm ringing you about the second."
He held the device an inch or so from his ear in case of another explosion, but it wasn't necessary. Laura simply gave a long, tired sigh. "It's never just one with you boys, is it?"
Keeping his smile out of his voice, "Yes, there's been a second murder. It's clearly strangulation by ligature, with the body thrown into the sea to try to make it look like drowning. We amateur pathologists I think have got that much ascertained." But, Luv . . . we do need your official okay on the crime scene before we can send her over to you."
"I have to get going on Captain Franklin, Robbie! They've given me an excellent assistant, but she's not legally qualified to do it herself." He could hear her exasperation, and he was aware that she already knew what his response would be.
Ten seconds of complete silence. Hathaway counted them off in his head, surprised at how much longer it felt, as the senior detective waited, hoping he had successfully sweet-talked his partner.
And the eventual response was as chilled as ice: "Send me a transport. Don't ask me for time-frames."
"Battisti's already on his way to collect you, Laura."
When the call was completed, Robbie gave a long exhale, clearing his lungs. His eyes connected with James's. "Right. Where're we at, Inspector?"
Hathaway realized Robbie was making it clear who was in charge of the investigation. He snapped to attention.
"Well, we had decided to interview the deck officers. And although we know Mrs. Palmer was threatened with death by waitress Olivia, who also might have had a motive for killing Captain Franklin if he in fact he failed to return her amorous attentions, I suggest we stick with the original plan and continue with the officers, as planned."
0 - 0 - 0
Jean Innocent rang off from the latest phone call from Italy. But she had to admit, Lewis was right. It was an English investigation, and they needed English officers. He and Hathaway were swamped, trying to do the whole thing themselves. It slowed them down, having to conduct the most basic questioning – the cruise-ship equivalent of door-to-door – while at the same time needing to resolve the case ASAP. Pressure from The Company was mounting. They needed boots on the pavement, so to speak.
She sighed, and pressed some buttons on her phone. When her call was answered, she said simply, "Lizzie, I need you to come see me. How would you like to go to Italy?"
