Toby wasn’t sure what he could do to make things worse, but he nodded numbly. Moments later, he heard footsteps and voices, and then Scott was in the doorway with Szczepanski.
“What happened here?” Scott said. He went over to the bunk, bent over the body and felt around for a pulse. “This woman is dead and has been for hours.”
Toby said, “I came to my cabin to sort out laundry and found Irina’s body dumped on my bed. I told you outside, I saw this girl last night in one of the guest cabins in this condition.”
“You told me you heard some squeals and came to the conclusion someone was being hurt. You didn’t say you saw anything.”
Toby cast his mind back. What had he said? He couldn’t remember. He decided to bluff it out. “Actually, sir, I said I saw this girl with her neck bent back and not moving.”
“You did not say any such thing. You said a crime had been committed and you were right enough. But you committed it, didn’t you? And you were trying to flee the ship to get away when I caught you.”
“Fair enough, I was trying to leave,” Toby said. “To call for assistance.”
“Liar. And what’s with the fishing line?” Scott asked. “Did you strangle her with that? Were you high on something?”
“I had nothing to do with this. You’ve set me up. And the only ones high were the Boss and his friends.”
Julia butted in, “Shouldn’t we call the Boss? It’s his guest lying there.”
“I’ll go get him,” Scott said. “Szczepanski, keep these two here until I get back. And make sure no one touches the body. This is a potential crime scene. Christ, why does the captain always go AWOL and leave me to pick up his pieces?” He left the cabin. Szczepanski stationed himself in the doorway.
While they waited, Toby tried to piece together a strategy to get himself out of the mess in which he had landed, but his brain refused to work. He’d had very little sleep for two days, and his ears rang with jet lag and exhaustion. Scared as he was, tiredness was starting to pull him down.
He didn’t dare speak to Julia with Szczepanski standing there. He shifted from foot to foot nervously.
The little tableau remained in place for a full ten minutes. Where was Krigov? Plotting his next move with Scott, most likely.
The ship rolled more gently now. They must be in deep, calm water. Toby realised how much land dwellers depended on the society around them. You never thought about it, but ashore, you were never more than a phone call away from an emergency response by authorities who would take over and knew what to do. Or you could call a friend or your parents.
Out here on the ocean, there were no ambulances and no cop cars, no mates to text on your cell phone, no passers-by to come to your aid, no Mum and Dad to top up your mobile. It was as Scott had said. The owner of a boat is the ultimate dictator in his own empire. Perhaps that was why so many ship’s captains went mad.
Toby jiggled from foot to foot. He needed to pee urgently now. “Keep still,” commanded Szczepanski. Toby pressed his legs together.
The waiting game continued for another five minutes, according to the digital readout on Toby’s watch, which he managed to glance at without raising his arm. Then more voices and footsteps became audible, and in another moment Krigov burst in, with Scott at his elbow.
The Russian oligarch surveyed the scene. There was complete silence and stillness for maybe a minute. Then the owner turned his balding head to Toby and said, so quietly that Toby could scarcely make out the words, “Did you do this, crewman?”
“No, sir,” Toby said. “I found the body and reported it in.”
“Correction, sir,” Scott said. “He called me from the telephone in this cabin and said everything was OK, and that he wanted a line to make an outside call on the satellite. The young lady must have been on the bed when he made the call. He was trying to summon up some sort of escape plan. I also found him in the early hours of the morning, climbing down the outside of the hull trying to escape. Luckily I apprehended him and brought him back. I’m afraid this young Englishman is not what he seems, but a cold-blooded killer.”
Toby protested, “It’s not like you’re making it out! I was the first to see the girl dead and I was trying to reach the authorities.”
“Szczepanski, restrain Mr Robinson, please,” Scott said. The tall crewman edged past the small crowd in the cabin and from his pocket produced two very large nylon cable clips. He seized Toby’s arms, twisted them behind his back, zipped on the clips, and then went on pulling until Toby cried out, “That’s too tight! You’ve cut my circulation off!”
“Lucky he didn’t cut your balls off, young man,” growled Krigov. “He may yet. I don’t want to hear from you again.”
“What are your instructions, sir?” Scott looked at Krigov.
“This crime took place before we sailed?” Krigov asked.
“As far as we can tell. My limited medical training suggests that this unfortunate lady has been dead for hours, judging by the lividity in the limbs and the rigor mortis.”
“I should have insisted that Natasha check on her,” Krigov said. “She said at breakfast that the girl was probably a little hung over.”
Toby could bear it no longer. “I demand that we return to port and that I am given access to a lawyer. I had nothing to do with this crime. You’re setting me up.”
Krigov said nothing, but nodded at Szczepanski, who advanced towards Toby and punched him hard in the solar plexus.
Pain shot through Toby’s abdomen. He collapsed, badly winded, on the edge of the bed, bumping into the corpse and unable to get up with his hands bound behind his back. Nobody made any move to help him. He slid to the floor and brought his knees up to his chest. He couldn’t help thinking about the man Krigov had punched, rupturing his spleen. He gagged and gasped for breath, but the air seemed to have been sucked out of his body.
While Toby lay there, face down on the cabin floor, he received a vicious kick in the ribs which sent new shockwaves of pain through him. It looked as if they were going to beat him up comprehensively. He tensed for the next assault. Sure enough, another well-aimed kick arrived. And then a third.
“That’s enough,” he dimly heard Scott say.
“I said, I don’t want to hear from you again,” came Krigov’s voice. Toby lay there and panted like a dog. His injuries, at first just a random, hurting sensation, started to come into focus. He was worried about his wrists, burning with pain from the cable clips which dug sharply into his flesh. But at least he was still breathing, although every gasping lungful burnt like fire in his chest. And there was moisture between his legs. Blood? No—he had wet himself a little when he was punched. Bummer.
“Sir. Your instructions.” Scott again. “Should we return to St Helen’s and call ahead for the police to meet us?”
“No. If we do that, the entire ship’s complement will be inconvenienced, and the
Amelia
is certain to be detained while they investigate and charge the Englishman. I cannot afford that. Besides, the young man is right. Although the evidence is powerful, we are leaping to a conclusion. I think we should conduct our own investigation. Then we can punish the culprit ourselves.”
Toby didn’t like the sound of that, but held his tongue. He needed to keep himself in one piece and with his head together to get out of this.
“What shall we do with the body?” Scott said. “Put it in the deep freeze?”
“No. We cannot keep her aboard. Take close-up photographs from all angles. Then arrange a burial at sea. You are quite within your rights to do so as the commanding officer. We do not have the means to store a cadaver. I will alert the girl’s employers.”
And pay them off to keep quiet
, Toby thought.
“Shall I call the captain in Miami and brief him?” Julia piped up. “He needs to know.”
“Good idea, Julia,” Krigov said. “Go and do that now.”
Atta boy
,
Julia,
thought Toby.
Get through to the outside world and maybe this madness will stop.
“What about the crewman?” Scott asked. “Lock him up?”
“Yes, take him to a storeroom and secure him while you get the other guests and crew together. Share this dreadful news with them and investigate the final hours of this unfortunate young lady. You will need to hear this young man’s defence at some point. We are civilised people and we will do the right thing.”
“Right you are, sir,” Scott said. “I’ll set everything up. But first I must return to the bridge. I left Timmins on the wheel.”
From where he lay, Toby could see only legs and feet. Julia had gone, on her telephone mission. Suddenly an unseen hand grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked him to a sitting position. Ski-Pants. The man was enjoying his duties. “Get up. Follow me,” he said in his thick Slavic accent. Toby squirmed around and got to his feet with difficulty. The others had left, and only he and Ski-Pants remained in his cabin. And the dead girl, of course.
His chest was on fire and he was starting to lose feeling in his hands.
“I need to pee,” he said. “Untie me and let me use the bathroom.”
“Seems like you already did,” Ski-Pants said. “No bathroom.” He grabbed Toby roughly by the arm and marched him to the door. They made their way through the ship to the linen store where Julia had given Toby his uniform. Ski-Pants opened the door and thrust Toby inside.
“Untie me, man, for the love of God!” cried Toby. “I can’t do anything in here.”
The man considered for a moment, then produced a Leatherman tool kit from a pouch on his belt. He selected the knife tool and sliced off the cable ties. Toby rubbed his wrists. They were red and deeply grooved from the restraints.
The door closed and once again Toby was trapped.
He was desperate to urinate and couldn’t wait another minute. He cast around for a suitable receptacle. The little room was shelved and racked from floor to ceiling, and packed with cardboard boxes. The labels announced these as sheets, pillowcases, towels and so on. Then there was the clothing—shorts, jackets, and shoes. There were no buckets or containers.
Toby considered for a moment, then reached up and pulled a heavy box of towels down on to the floor. He ripped off the tape and opened the box. The towels were white and fluffy and each had a little red
Amelia V
logo embroidered in the corner. He shifted the towels around and made a little well, then relieved himself gratefully into the centre.
The towels absorbed everything nicely. He pulled a fresh one over the top to disguise his handiwork, resealed the box and heaved it back on to its shelf. Somebody would have a nasty turn when they next opened it. Serve them all bloody well right.
He rubbed his wrists. The circulation was starting to return. He went to the door to see if there was any chance of forcing it open from the inside. Maybe there was an emergency release, as in the chill room. But he found nothing.
He pulled a box labelled as containing table napkins off a low shelf on to the floor and sat on it.
Now what?
Perhaps he could start a fire that would set off the ship’s alarms. They would have to let him out, if only to extinguish the flames. On the other hand, they might wait until he was asphyxiated before doing so. Toby had no wish to die at the age of twenty-two, and rejected this option.
In the movies, people trapped in this way would wait behind the door with a weapon and fight their way out. He cast around again, this time for anything that would serve this purpose. What about the urine-soaked towels? He could drop one on the head of the next person who came into the storeroom and escape in the ensuing confusion. But escape to where? It was a large yacht, but he wouldn’t be able to stow away for long. They would divide the yacht into sections, search them and seal off the hatches until they cornered him.
The only ally he could count on was Julia. And even she hadn’t actually done anything yet. Maybe she was all talk. Maybe she simply reported everything straight back to Scott and Krigov.
Think! Why had he been set up for the murder? And who had been involved? Someone had seen him in the galley and shut him in, giving them plenty of time to haul the dead girl to his cabin and do the business with the fishing line, which itself was a blatant frame-up. Scott had seen on his Sea School report that Toby was a keen angler. Scott, therefore, must have been involved in the plot to incriminate him. That was no big surprise.
So why, having staged such an elaborate set-up, had they not returned to shore and handed him over? Presumably for the reason Krigov had given, that the entire ship’s company would have been detained. And what was this kangaroo court they were setting up? Perhaps they were going to videotape a “trial” to exonerate themselves.
All of this led straight back to the question: what were they going to do with him? They didn’t want to hand him over to shore authorities, but they needed him as a scapegoat.
There were more questions than answers. Toby winced as he breathed in. Had Ski-Pants broken one of his ribs? His stomach was sore from the mighty punch he had received and his wrists also hurt badly. He was in no state to fight his way out of anything.
He almost felt like crying.
Then he spotted a small collapsible stepladder hanging on two hooks from the side of one of the shelving units, and had an idea. It might work, it might not, but it could hardly make his situation worse. He stood up and a bolt of pain shot through his chest. He bent double and breathed deeply, then stood up again. Not so bad now. He unhooked the ladder and set it up, then climbed it. He perched himself on the edge of the top shelf, leaned down and hauled up the ladder, then folded it and brought it on to the shelf with him. Luckily it was a lightweight aluminium jobbie.
Now to wait.
Chapter 9
An hour later and he was free, at least for the time being. He was down in the bowels of the ship, in a corridor he had never seen before. He looked up and around cautiously, scanning for security cameras.