them. “Some launch, I think. Can’t remember. Christ.” He looked down at his hand, the fork awkwardly balanced against the bandage. “This is sodding painful. There’s no way I’m trailing round Trondheim cathedral tomorrow, I’m going to the doctor to get this checked out and get some decent painkillers.”
After dinner finished, we took our coffee through to the lounge, and I found myself standing next to Owen White, both of us staring out the long window, into the fog. He nodded politely but seemed in no hurry to open the conversation. I tried to think what Rowan would do. Charm him? Or brush him off and go and talk to someone of more immediate use to Velocity? Archer, perhaps?
I glanced over my shoulder at Archer and saw that he was very, very drunk and had pinned Hanni into a corner of the room, her back to the window, his broad frame effectively blocking her exit. Hanni was holding a jug of coffee in one hand and was smiling politely but with a trace of wariness. She said something and gestured to the coffeepot, obviously as a way of taking her leave, but he laughed and put one heavy arm around her shoulders in a gesture of avuncular possession that made my flesh creep a little.
Hanni said something else that I didn’t catch, and then slipped out from under his grip with what looked like practiced dexterity. For a moment Archer’s face looked a mixture of foolishness and fury, but then he seemed to shrug it off and moved across to talk to Ben.
I turned back to Owen White with a sigh, though I was not sure whether it was a sigh of relief for Hanni, or resignation at my own reluctance to deal with unpleasant people, even for the sake of my career.
Owen, by contrast, seemed reassuringly harmless, though I realized, as I looked covertly at his profile in the reflection of the darkened, foggy window, that I had no real idea whether he would be of use to Velocity or not. Ben had said he was an investor, but White had kept himself to himself so much this voyage that I had no clear impression of what he actually did. Perhaps he would be the perfect angel investor for the group, if Velocity’s owner ever decided to go into some more profitable area. In any case, I had no desire to go across to the other side of the room.
“So, um,” I began awkwardly, “I feel slightly like we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Laura Blacklock. I’m a travel journalist.”
“Owen White,” he said simply, but there was no sense of dismissal in his tone, I got the impression that he was just a man of few words. He held out his hand, and I shook it clumsily with my left, which was holding a petit four, but seemed better than my right, which was holding a hot cup of coffee.
“So what brings you to the Aurora, Mr. White?”
“I work for an investment group,” he said, and took a long sip of his coffee. “Bullmer was, I think, hoping I’d recommend the Aurora as an investment opportunity.”
“But . . . from what you were saying to Tina, that won’t be the case?” I said cautiously, wondering if it was bad manners to admit overhearing, though I could hardly have helped it. He nodded, not seeming offended.
“That’s so. I must admit, it’s not really my area, but I was flattered to be asked and too venal to pass up the chance of a free trip. As I was saying to Tina, it’s a shame Solberg couldn’t make it.”
“He was supposed to have cabin ten, wasn’t he?” I asked. Owen White nodded. It occurred to me suddenly that I had no real idea of who the missing Solberg was, or why he hadn’t come. “Did you—I mean, do you know him? Solberg, I mean?”
“Yes, fairly well. We’re in the same area. He’s based in Norway, while my head office is back in London, but it’s a small world that we operate in. One gets to know all one’s competitors. It must be the same in travel journalism, I imagine.” He smiled as he popped a petit four in his mouth, and I smiled back, acknowledging the truth of his remark.
“So, if this is more his cup of tea, why didn’t he come?” I asked.
Owen White said nothing, and for a moment I wondered if I’d gone too far, been too