Dead Calm (A Dylan Scott Mystery) (3 page)

“I don’t know.”

Did she have this straight? “You’re not saying—”

“I’m saying I don’t believe she had a heart attack, that’s all. There will be nothing but gossip circulating the ship. She was travelling alone so no one could claim to know her and yet they’re saying she’d had a heart condition for years. How would they know that?”

“I don’t know, but what business is it of yours?”

“Probably none. All the same, I’m going to see what I can find out—”

“Dylan, there are a thousand passengers on this ship—”

“Minus one.”

“Okay, so there are nine hundred and ninety-nine passengers on this ship. And every single one is enjoying the trip. That’s what people do, you know. They save up all year for their holiday, they look forward to it and, come hell or high water, they enjoy themselves. Why do you have to be so different? Let it rest. You’re on holiday. Besides, you can only go poking your nose into other people’s business when you’re asked to.”

“Who could ask me? Hanna Larsen? She’s dead. Possibly murdered in her bed.”

Bev shuddered. It really was worse knowing she’d died on the other side of the wall. “Of course she wasn’t murdered.”

Dylan merely shrugged in his infuriating have-it-your-way manner. She might still fancy him like mad, but he could annoy the hell out of her without even trying.

“That’s a ridiculous thing to say, Dylan. Completely ridiculous. Why would anyone murder an old woman? It’s crazy. And it would mean—”

“That there’s a killer on board.” Dylan nodded. “It would indeed.”

Chapter Four

Hanna fucking Larsen.

He threw cold water on his face, leaned against cool tiles of the toilet wall and dragged in some deep breaths. The ship had left Ålesund an hour ago and the sea was calm, but his head and stomach couldn’t have felt worse if they’d been thrashing around in the roughest ocean. With a groan, he pushed open the door and threw up in the toilet bowl again.

He flushed it and moved back to the basin to splash more cold water on his face.

“Shit!”

It was the smell making him sick. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly—old people, death or decay—but he couldn’t rid it from his nostrils and throat. He could still feel her fingers, crowlike, clawing into his arm.

Christ, she’d struggled. Despite being old and supposedly frail, she’d fought hard for her last breath. It felt like he’d had to hold that pillow over her face for hours, but he knew it could only have been minutes. Then—he swallowed on bile—then he’d had to lift that old lifeless head and put the pillow beneath it. He’d had to touch her skeletal arms and put them beneath the covers.

Her eyes, the eyes of the dead, had been wide and staring. Staring at him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The soap in the washrooms was supposed to have a citrus scent and, although he used it on his hands and face, all he could smell was death. Death and something else. The old bird must have shat herself or something.

He leaned back against the tiles, closed his eyes and forced himself to ignore his racing heart and breathe deeply. He must keep calm. There was nothing to fear.

Apart from a brief moment of panic when he’d thought he wouldn’t be able to return the master keycard to its rightful place in time, everything was all right. Well, all right given the fucking circumstances.

The door opened so suddenly that he almost cried out.

A man had come to use the facilities. “Are you all right?”

“Fine. Yes, fine, thanks.”

Before the bloke could see how badly he was shaking, and before he threw up again, he left the washroom and marched off. Act normal, he told himself.
Act normal.

He passed several people who took no notice of him at all. Perhaps he didn’t carry that cloying stench of death with him after all.

“Christ! Hanna fucking Larsen. By the light of the silvery fucking moon…”

Chapter Five

Dylan was alone. As soon as they’d finished dinner, Bev had gone back to the cabin so that his mum and Luke, who’d been acting as babysitters, could get some food. Dylan was finishing his coffee, watching the passengers and playing Spot the Killer.

“Do you mind?”

The voice was familiar. Dylan looked up, straight at the man responsible for his meeting Hanna Larsen in the first place. He’d intended to have another couple of drinks in the bar last night but this chap had been loud, full of his own importance, and very drunk. Rather than get involved, Dylan had headed back to his cabin and met Hanna Larsen.

“Not at all,” Dylan said. It was a lie.

“I don’t know about you but I like to socialise when I’m on holiday. One gets so little chance when working.” His companion put a cup of coffee on the table and sat opposite him. He patted his expanding waistline. “The food’s fantastic, isn’t it?”

“Delicious.”

“Have you done this before?”

His game of Spot the Killer was over. This chap was so busy making pointless small talk that he was more likely to be victim than killer. “No. My first time. You?”

“Not with this particular company, but my mother loves cruising this part of the world so we’ve travelled on the Hurtigruten Line many times. We make it an annual treat. Sorry.” He’d been about to take a sip of coffee, but he put down his cup and extended his hand. “Tom Jackson. Good to meet you.”

Dylan shook his hand. “Dylan Scott.”

Jackson was about the same age as Dylan. He was shorter and carried more weight though. Also, his hair was thinning. As companions went, this one made Dylan look pretty good, although he had an enthusiasm for socialising that Dylan couldn’t replicate.

Jackson was giving a whole new meaning to the word
prattle
when Dylan glanced across at the bar in time to see a willowy, sexy-as-hell blonde get off her stool and cross the room. She was heading their way. Dylan recognised her. Once seen never forgotten. Jackson had been talking to her last night. Lucky bastard.

She stopped by their table, leaned in close to Jackson and—well, Dylan wasn’t sure if she whispered or blew in Jackson’s ear. Either way, it was enough to send a scarlet rush of blood to Jackson’s cheeks.

With a smile on her full lips and a promise in her eyes, she turned away from them. They both watched her swaying hips until she was out of sight.

“I might be an old hand at this cruising lark,” Jackson said, the colour still staining his face, “but not all nights are as good as the last one.”

“Oh?”

“People relax on cruises, don’t they? They forget the real world and let their hair down.”

Dylan had no idea.

“They do,” Jackson said before Dylan could answer. “Anything goes, if you get my drift.” This was accompanied by a particularly unpleasant wink.

“That sounds like fun.” Surely to God he wasn’t saying that he got off with Miss Sex on Legs?

“One minute I was talking to Celina in the bar,” Jackson said, not bothering to lower his voice, “and the next she was taking me back to her cabin. Only on a cruise could I get a stunning twenty-five-year-old Norwegian chasing me.”

He sat back in his seat, waiting for Dylan to congratulate him. He’d have a long wait. Dylan was too shocked to utter a word.

“You know what they say about these Scandinavian women.” Jackson gave a sly chuckle. “It’s all true, believe me.”

“Really?” Lucky bastard. Lucky, lucky bastard.

“Oh, yes. Like you wouldn’t believe. I’ll tell you something else—”

Dylan was beginning to wonder if there was a normal person on board this ship. Hanna Larsen had been unbearable, Bill Carr was intent on sharing his enormous family tree with anyone forced to listen, Miss Norway was happy to shag an overweight, balding forty-year-old, and now Tom Jackson was intent on telling all.

“I work in television,” Jackson was saying, “and women find that a real turn-on.”

“Television? That’s interesting.” It wasn’t, but it was preferable to hearing about his sexual exploits. “What exactly do you do?”

“I have my own company in Spain,” Jackson explained.

“You live in Spain?”

“Yes, for the last—” Jackson broke off abruptly. He’d spotted something or someone over Dylan’s shoulder. Better company? Another sexy blonde? “Mum, I thought you were having an early night. You look so tired.”

The woman Jackson spoke to looked fairly normal but Dylan wouldn’t bet on it.

“Oh, for goodness sake, Tom. I’m not an invalid.” Rolling her eyes in exasperation, she added, “I hope you haven’t been boring this poor man.”

“Not at all,” Dylan said.

“Let me get you a coffee. Or would you prefer something stronger?” Jackson asked her.

His mother gave a hoot of laughter. “Shall I let you drink it for me too? Stop being such an old woman, Tom. The day I can’t get my own drink will be the day they put me in my box.” She dropped her handbag on the chair next to Tom’s and strode over to the bar.

There was something about her that reminded Dylan of his own mother. The two women were the same age, but other than that, no similarities leapt out at him and he’d bet Mrs. Jackson didn’t spend half her days stoned. His mother wore clothes that she’d bought at least twenty years ago whereas Mrs. Jackson dressed in smart designer clothes. Although his mother wore enough jewellery to sink the
Midnight Sun,
a fiver would have bought the lot. Mrs. Jackson favoured pearl earrings, a slim gold watch, a plain narrow wedding band and a diamond ring. Dylan would bet the pearls and the diamond were genuine.

“She’s in her seventies, but she won’t thank you for reminding her.” Jackson smiled fondly as his mother laughed with the girl serving the coffee. “She looked tired after all the travelling yesterday and she visited Ålesund today. I thought it might have been too much for her. It probably was, but she won’t admit to it.”

“Mothers can be tricky beasts. I’m travelling with mine. With my wife and children too.”

“A family holiday. That’s nice, isn’t it? When it comes down to it, family is the most important thing.”

Dylan couldn’t argue with that. Family was the most important thing, but he still couldn’t get excited about spending ten days on a ship with his. His wife and kids, yes. His mother, no. He loved the woman, but she drove him to the edge of insanity. She was too determined to grab life by the throat and choke every last bit of enjoyment from it. She’d slept her way round the world as a young woman and—

Perhaps that was unfair. Dylan had no idea how many men she’d slept with, but it was enough for her not to have the remotest idea who his father was. She’d often volunteered to tell him who his father
wasn’t,
but never seemed even slightly concerned that she didn’t have a clue who it actually was. Dylan had visions of holidaying in Turkey one day and coming across an ageing waiter who was a ringer for him.

Dylan and Jackson rose to their feet as Mrs. Jackson returned to the table with her coffee. She was one of those women who, without so much as a gesture, commanded gentlemanly behaviour.

“I haven’t introduced you,” Jackson said. “Mum, this is Dylan Scott. Dylan, my mother.”

“Call me Ruby,” she said, sitting down. “Everyone does. Good to meet you, Dylan.”

She took a reviving sip of black coffee as if, like Dylan, she couldn’t face the likes of Jackson without a caffeine fix.

They chatted about Norway and the ship’s facilities until Jackson made his apologies, promised his mother he’d meet her at her cabin in the morning, and left them alone.

“What a fusspot he is,” Ruby said when he was out of sight. “He believes he’s doing me a favour by coming on holiday with me, but, really, it’s the other way round. I’m the only person prepared to put up with him. He keeps telling me I look stressed—well, is it any wonder?”

That was exactly the sort of comment Dylan’s own mother would come out with.

“We’ve always travelled with Hurtigruten,” she said, “but we left it too late to book this year. I thought I’d escaped, but no. My daughter found this on one of those last-minute holiday internet sites and booked it as a treat for me.”

“Tom was saying he lives in Spain,” Dylan said. “Do you live there too?”

“Me? No, I’m happy in London. I’ve lived there all my life. What about you, Dylan?”

“I’m a Londoner, too. Shepherd’s Bush to be precise.”

She smiled. “I know it well. I love to get away and Norway is probably my favourite country, but I’d miss London. I like Spain too, although I wouldn’t want to live there. I certainly couldn’t live near Tom, but even if he didn’t live there, it wouldn’t appeal to me.” She nibbled at the chocolate that came with her coffee. “I suppose he bored you with tales of his TV company?”

“He didn’t, no.” He’d been too busy describing the athletic attributes of Scandinavian women.

“It’s all he thinks about.” She spoke with a hint of sadness in her voice. “But I suppose he can’t be blamed for that. It’s no secret that it’s not doing well. Nothing is, is it? The global economy is in a right old mess and many businesses are struggling. I’ve made Tom promise not to discuss it during this holiday, but I know he won’t be able to resist. In fact, it’s caused a bit of a frosty atmosphere between us.”

“Really?” The atmosphere had seemed anything but frosty.

“I’m afraid so.” She took a long, thoughtful sip of coffee. “Tom says I’m too old to understand how business works these days. He thinks I’m too set in my ways, that times have changed and I haven’t changed with them. Perhaps he’s right.”

“I tell my mother all that,” Dylan said, “and she takes not a blind bit of notice.”

Ruby laughed. “Good for her.”

She might be pleased to know that her son hadn’t been worrying about his business last night. He’d been too busy keeping his sexy blonde happy.

“Tom struggles to settle to anything,” she said. “He wanted to study business law at university but dropped out because it was too much like hard work. Then he joined the army but gave that up when he realised that seeing the world while dodging bombs and bullets wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Next he dabbled in computers. For the last couple of years, his TV company has been everything to him. I often wish he was more like his father,” she said, twisting the gold band round her finger. “Howard started from nothing and Tom forgets that. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. Fifty years ago, while I was busy making wedding plans, Howard bought a cheap terraced house at auction. He spent every spare minute renovating that place, such hard work, until he sold it at a good profit. We married, spent most of that profit on a house for ourselves, and then he bought another property and another. He worked long, hard hours, seven days a week.”

Howard—Howard Jackson? Surely not
the
Howard Jackson?

“Howard died five years ago,” she explained, “and the company was sold. It still uses the same name—perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Howard Jackson Properties?” One of the biggest construction companies in the UK?

“That’s it.”

There was no question that the pearls and diamond were real. Ruby Jackson must be worth a fortune.

“Anyway—” She brightened. “I’ve told Tom not to discuss business and I’m not even going to think about it. Instead I shall enjoy every minute of this cruise. And if I’ve made my son sound a real horror, I should add that I love him dearly. I love his sister too and I couldn’t live with her either. Laura’s totally different to Tom. She lives a quiet life in the Cotswolds, where she works as a teacher. People would describe her as the perfect daughter, but, boy, can she fuss. She’s very bossy too. I love my children, Dylan, but they both drive me to distraction. Just as they despair of me.”