Cold Grave (34 page)

‘Growing on me like tinea,’ Martin clarified.

34

Jasmine returned to her mother. She and Anya had played cards and charades with Ben for a couple of hours, before he had begged to visit his friends in the club before dinner. Wes was still programming his virus. It would take at least an hour more, he said.

Anya changed into exercise gear and headed out. Wes seemed engrossed in his new challenge and she suspected he wouldn’t move from the chair, or notice her absence. He had finished the pizza and fries and had a supply of fruit to last him until dinner.

The last thing she wanted was to exercise, but it was the best way to clear her head. Staying inside was becoming more claustrophobic, and the idea of getting blood pumping seemed the closest thing to escape for now.

The gym took up a large section at the aft, along with the spa and hairdressing facilities. Inside a gold-edged set of double doors, a water feature trickled away, and the sounds of the ocean drifted through speakers. Smiling staff in mint green asked her to fill in a disclaimer and medical form. After completing it, a young Scottish woman in a pantsuit showed her through to the change rooms and handed her a key on a toggle that could be worn around the neck.

On the key’s tag, in bold white, was the letter ‘S’. She was given a fresh towel to place on the exercise equipment and shown where bathrobes and spare towels were kept. Candles, smelling of lavender, flickered against the mirror as a flute and harp melody were piped overhead. The lockers were labelled by letter alone; ‘S’ was on the top row. To her disappointment, none had a number to correspond to twenty-four or twenty-nine, like the key Rachel had given her. From the size of it, it had to belong to a locker as well. Just not these ones.

‘Do the men’s lockers have letters as well?’

The woman nodded. ‘Believe it or not, people want their lucky number, or the number one, so we find letters solve that problem.’

Another dead end.

Anya locked her room key and bag with change of clothes inside and followed the escort to the gym. It had a full view of the ocean, and the dark mass of clouds. Dance music pounded more loudly than necessary, especially since there were only a handful of people exercising.

Inside, a young trainer rubbed the shoulders of a woman in her sixties as she used the lateral pulldown machine. ‘I can feel your arms strengthening with each repetition,’ he proclaimed.

‘Are staff always that hands-on?’ Anya asked her guide. The last thing she wanted was to be touched while she exercised. The point was to be alone and in her own head and body space.

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘He thinks he’ll get a bigger tip if he schmoozes them. Mind you, that ring and watch were from
very
grateful clients, if you know what I mean.’

From what Anya could tell, the older woman was enjoying the personal attention.

She decided on the treadmill and gently accelerated the pace and incline. Within minutes she was pounding along to her favourite tracks on her mp3 player. A little while later a couple of men entered her peripheral vision, over at the weights. She recognised one. Brian Peterson. The other had been with Lilly at the disco. Brian saw her and said something to his friend, who stopped flexing and extending oversized biceps to see.

Anya pretended not to notice them and checked the time. Ten minutes more to make it worthwhile. Part of her wanted to leave and avoid being anywhere near these men. They bullied men and women, and felt powerful in a group. Brian Peterson had looked like he would pass out when David FitzHarris mentioned a murder investigation but showed none of that vulnerability now.

Peterson left the gym, and she felt some relief at there being only one man remaining. His friend began triceps extensions with mini barbells. By the time she had finished, Peterson was nowhere in sight. Perspiring and fatigued, she headed for the showers.

It was easy to see why people raved about spa treatments. The four-headed water stream massaged her thighs, head, shoulders and back, warming and relaxing her tired muscles. The tension in her neck seemed to dissolve as the events of the last few days replayed in her mind. First Lilly, then Carlos, Jasmine and her violin, Rachel and Mishka. And Nuala, who died under suspicious circumstances but was written off as a suicide. Now Mishka was missing and she had asked a seventeen year old to hack into the cruise computer system to find out who had taken compromising photos of Lilly.

So much for a holiday. At least Ben was enjoying himself. She thought about how Martin suddenly seemed interested in her work and hadn’t harangued her about how much time she was spending helping the crew while on board. He was more insightful and understanding than ever. There was something he wasn’t letting on about his relationship with Nita, but it had to be serious for him to have mentioned a break. Anya had to admit she was enjoying being with him, more than when they were married. Then again, she had felt the same about Ethan in New York and he hadn’t been in touch since. She could have misjudged his intentions.

She forced herself to concentrate on the key Rachel had given her, and where it could lead. If they discovered the door it opened, there was a good chance they would find Mishka. The number two and four. Or was it two and nine? Somewhere on the ship had to be a door or locker marked twenty-four, or twenty-nine. But where?

She switched off the taps and wrapped herself in a thick, fluffy towel and picked up a spare. Bending at the waist and flipping her hair over, she towel-dried as much as possible and stepped into the slippers provided. With the key, she retrieved her belongings and quickly dressed back into jeans and a shirt. Mishka’s key was in her jacket pocket. When the attendant finished restocking towels, Anya was alone and compared Mishka’s key with the locker key. They were identical. Scanning the lockers was no help. There were twenty-four labelled ‘A’ to ‘X’.

She decided to check locker ‘X’, the last one. The key slid inside the lock but didn’t turn the mechanism. Frustrated, she shoved it back into her pocket. It was worth a try. Before leaving, she decided to blow-dry her hair with the dryer attached to the bench. Finger-combing her hair, as air blasted through her waves, she could see the lockers’ reflection. They were configured in a block four high and six along. She switched off the dryer and turned around.

Reaching into her pocket, her fingers found the key again. What if Mishka was a chess player? This time she tried the locker that was two across and four down. It didn’t fit. A pair of women entered and she waited while they discussed which restaurant they would try for dinner. Once they had changed into bathrobes, they left. Anya tried one more time. Four across and two down. The key slipped effortlessly into the ‘J’ lock. Anya held her breath and turned it to the right.

Click.

The door opened. She looked around. No one else was present.

Inside the locker was a pile of papers, five inches high. Some were stuffed inside bursting A4 envelopes. A number of CDs lay on top. She removed them and filled her backpack. Before closing it up again, she ran a hand around the inside walls. Stuck to the ceiling was a piece of paper, with a series of numbers on it. She carefully peeled it away and placed it on top of the other contents and zipped the bag up. The spa assistant entered with a woman in casual clothing, and showed her around the change room. Anya quickly locked the door again and shoved the key back in her pocket.

‘Did you have a good workout?’ the attendant enquired.

‘Yes, thanks.’ Anya headed for the exit.

Turning back into the corridor toward reception, she caught her breath. Blocking her path were five men, two dressed in bowling shirts.

35

‘Excuse me,’ Anya tried pushing through.

The men refused to let her pass.

‘Well, well. If it isn’t the lady who likes asking questions with the baboon from security.’

One pushed his shoulders back and pressed his chest against Anya’s. ‘Not getting any yourself so you turn into the fun police?’

The man beside him lowered his shorts and flopped out a circumcised penis. ‘Maybe you want a bit of this for yourself.’

Anya refused to react. These men were cowards and unlikely to risk hurting her in a public place. From what she had seen, Brian Peterson wasn’t brave on his own.

‘A bit of free medical advice.’ She squinted her eyes, as if straining for a view. ‘That looks like early syphilis. Hope you haven’t shared partners with anyone lately. And you should avoid sleeping with your wife until you’re clear.’

The man bent forward, trying to study himself, then snapped his penis back in its pants. His face was flushed.

‘The bitch just owned you.’ One of his friends laughed.

‘Shut up.’ He retreated to the change rooms.

‘Medical centre has a clinic,’ Anya said to the others. ‘You all might want to get checked.’

She swung the bag to her front, in part to protect the contents, but more to provide a barrier. She pushed forward.

‘Not so fast.’ The one with the biggest mouth held up an arm, blocking her path. He had been shown on the CCTV footage. Genny. The one who had assaulted Kandy on the corridor floor.

‘Are you following us?’

Anya pushed harder. ‘This may be a surprise, but you’re not the centre of the universe.’

‘Maybe she does want some action.’

‘Looks pretty strung up to me.’ Genny pushed her back and moved his face closer.

She could feel his tobacco breath on her face and tried not to gag. Still, she held his gaze.

‘I think she needs one . . . good . . . FUCK.’

The others snickered. Anya kept eye contact and did not flinch.

‘Problem is,’ she began, ‘I don’t see any real men here. Just a bunch of pathetic, petrified adolescents who drug young girls because it’s the only way any of them can get laid.’ She stepped back. ‘Does that mean you have to drug your wives and girlfriends, or wait until they are too drunk to refuse?’

Genny clenched his jaw and fist. ‘Shut your mouth or I’ll . . .’

Anya’s pulse pounded in her temples. If he hit her now, he would be locked in the ship’s brig until Fiji. She almost hoped he would.

‘How about we phone shore and ask them?’

The veins in Genny’s neck bulged and he swiftly lifted his elbow. Anya braced herself.

A trainer appeared from another door and Genny splayed his fingers, pretending to examine his nails.

‘Everything OK here?’ the trainer asked, biceps stretching short white sleeves.

Anya didn’t stop to complain. On the way back to the suite, she detoured through the shopping village and back through the reception area, to make sure that if anyone was following her they wouldn’t find out where she was staying. She doubted any of them had the computer skills Wes Meeks had used to find Jasmine’s cabin.

Inside, Martin was lying on the lounge reading a thriller. Wes didn’t even look up. Anya went upstairs and put the files in her bedroom safe then headed back down.

‘How’s it going?’

‘Still waiting for the programme to upload across the network. Shouldn’t be long now. There’s been another post to that page. Only this is from someone else. Night Rider 14.’

Anya moved over to see as Wes read aloud. ‘“You are one horny bitch. Let me know if you want me to . . .” Let’s just say he offers to have sex with her again.’

Martin stopped reading and popped his head over the lounge. ‘That could be anyone who knows her from before.’

Wes continued, ‘A few minutes later someone else posted, “If there are no pics, it didn’t happen.”’

Anya looked at the page onscreen. Another 200 people had approved of College Girl’s orgy comment. Anya couldn’t believe how many people sat glued to computers reading this tripe, waiting for another instalment, instead of living their own lives.

‘There’s something else I thought you should know. It isn’t good.’

Anya sighed. ‘Did you and Martin have an argument?’

‘Us? No way. Someone, sounds like a friend from school, set up a RIP site for Lilly Chan.’

That was one positive thing to come from social networking, the ability to post condolences from anywhere in the world. Although the ship felt like an alternate universe at times, they could still connect with the outside world.

‘Why isn’t it good?’