girl you saw, and I can double-check the passenger manifest and arrange that all the off-duty staff members who match the description are in the staff restaurant for you to meet tomorrow after breakfast.”
“All right,” I said sulkily. I was beaten. I knew what I had seen, what I’d heard, but Nilsson was not budging, that much was plain. And what could I do, out here in the middle of the ocean?
“So,” he prompted. “She was how old, how tall? Was she Caucasian, Asian, black . . . ?”
“Late twenties,” I said. “About my height. White—very pale skin, in fact. She spoke English.”
“With an accent?” Nilsson put in. I shook my head.
“No, she was English—or if she wasn’t, she was completely bilingual. She had long, dark hair . . . I can’t remember what color eyes. Dark brown, I think. I’m not certain. Slimmish build . . . she was just—pretty. That’s all I remember.”
“Pretty?”
“Yes, pretty. You know? Nice features. Clear skin. She was wearing makeup. Lots of eye makeup. Oh—and she was wearing a Pink Floyd T-shirt.”
Nilsson wrote it all down solemnly and then rose, the springs squeaking in protest, or perhaps relief.
“Thank you, Miss Blacklock. And now I think we should both get some sleep.” He rubbed his face, looking for all the world like a big blond bear dragged out of hibernation.
“What time should I expect you tomorrow?”
“What time would suit you? Ten? Ten thirty?”
“Earlier,” I said. “I won’t sleep, not now.” I was buzzing, and I knew I would never get back to sleep.
“Well, my shift starts at eight. Is that too early?”
“That’s perfect,” I said firmly. He walked to the door, suppressing a yawn as he did, and I watched as he lumbered off along the corridor towards the stairs. Then I shut and double-locked the door, and went and lay on the bed, staring at the sea. The waves were dark and slick in the moonlight, heaving themselves up like the backs of whales, and then slipping back down, and I lay and felt the boat rise and fall with the swell.
I would never sleep. I knew that. Not with my blood ringing in my ears, and my heart beating in angry staccato thumps in my chest, I would never relax.
I was furious—but I was not sure why. Because a woman’s body was even now floating down into the black darkness of the North Sea, probably never to be found? Or was part of it something smaller, baser—the fact that Nilsson had not believed me?
Maybe he’s right, the nasty little voice in my head whispered. Pictures flitted across my mind’s eye—me, cowering in the shower because of a door blowing shut in the wind. Defending myself against a nonexistent intruder by attacking Judah. Are you completely sure? You’re not exactly the most reliable witness. And at the end of the day, what did you actually see?
I saw the blood, I told myself firmly. And a girl is missing. Explain that.
I switched the light out and drew the cover across myself, but I didn’t sleep. Instead, I lay on my side watching the sea, rising and falling with strange hypnotic silence outside the thick, stormproof panes. And I thought, There is a murderer on this boat. And no one knows but me.
- CHAPTER 12 -
“Miss Blacklock!” The knock came again, and I heard a passkey in the door, and the bang as the door itself opened a centimeter and the security chain pulled taut.
“Miss Blacklock, it’s Johann Nilsson. Are you okay? It’s eight o’clock. You asked me to call you?”
What? I struggled up onto my elbows, my head pounding with the effort. Why the hell had I asked to be called at eight o’clock?
“One sec!” I managed. My mouth was dry, as if I’d swallowed ashes, and I reached for the glass of water by my bed and choked some down. As I did, the memory of last night came flooding back.
The noise that had woken me in the night.
The blood on the veranda glass.
The body.
The splash . . .
I swung my legs out of bed and felt the boat shift and lurch beneath me, and I felt suddenly and violently nauseous.
I ran to the bathroom and just managed to get myself positioned over the bowl in time for the retching heave of last night’s dinner against clean white porcelain.
“Miss Blacklock?”
Go. Away.
The words didn’t make it out of my mouth, but maybe the sound of splashing vomit conveyed the sentiment, because the door shut, very