The Woman in Cabin 10(28)

“Really?” Nilsson’s voice was quiet, his question not skeptical, not mocking, just . . . uncomprehending. He sat down on the sofa, the springs squeaking beneath his bulk, and I sank onto the bed and put my face in my hands.

Because he was right. There was no way someone could have cleared the room. I didn’t know exactly how much time had elapsed between me calling Karla and Nilsson appearing at my door, but there was no way it was more than a few minutes. Five, seven at the outside. Probably not even that.

Whoever was in there might have had time to wipe the blood off the glass, but that was it. There was no way they could have emptied the entire cabin. What could they have done with the stuff? I would have heard if they had tipped it over the side. And there simply hadn’t been time for them to pack it up and take it down the corridor.

“Shit,” I said at last, into my hands. “Shit.”

“Miss Blacklock,” Nilsson said slowly, and I had a sudden premonition that I was not going to like his next question. “Miss Blacklock, how much did you have to drink last night?”

I looked up, letting him see my ravaged makeup and the fury in my sleep-bleared eyes.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I simply asked—”

There was no point in denying it. There were enough people who’d seen me at the dinner last night, knocking back champagne, then wine, then after-dinner shots, to blow a hole a mile wide in any claim that I was completely sober.

“Yes, I was drinking,” I said nastily. “But if you think that half a glass of wine turns me into some hysterical drunk who can’t tell reality from fantasy, you’ve got another think coming.”

He said nothing to that, but his gaze traveled to the bin beside the minibar, where a number of whiskey and gin miniatures and a considerably smaller quantity of tonic cans were stacked up.

There was a silence. Nilsson didn’t ram home his point, but he didn’t need to. Bastard room cleaners.

“I may have been drinking,” I said through clenched teeth, “but I wasn’t drunk. Not like that. I know what I saw. Why would I make it up?”

He seemed to accept that and nodded wearily.

“Very well, Miss Blacklock.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and I heard his blond stubble rasp against his palm. He was tired, and I noticed, suddenly and incongruously, that his uniform jacket was buttoned up askew, with an orphan buttonhole at the bottom. “Look, it is late, you are tired.”

“You’re tired,” I shot back with more than a touch of malice, but he only nodded, without rancor.

“Yes, I am tired. I think there is nothing we can do now until the morning.”

“A woman has been thrown—”

“There is no proof!” he said louder, his voice cutting over mine, and for the first time there was exasperation in his tone. “I’m sorry, Miss Blacklock,” he said more quietly. “I should not have contradicted you. But I don’t feel there is sufficient evidence to wake the other passengers at this point. Let us both get some sleep”—and you can sober up was the unspoken translation—“and we will try to resolve this in the morning. Perhaps if I take you to meet the ship’s staff we can track down this girl that you saw in the cabin. It is evident that she was not a passenger, correct?”

“She wasn’t at the dinner last night,” I admitted. “But what if she was a staff member? What if someone’s missing, and we’re wasting time in raising the alarm?”

“I’ll speak to the captain and the purser now, let them know the situation. But there are no staff members unaccounted for that I am aware of; if there were, someone would have noticed. This is a very small ship with a tight-knit crew. It would be hard for someone to go missing undetected, even for a few hours.”

“I just think—” I began, but he cut me off, politely and firmly this time.

“Miss Blacklock, I will not wake up sleeping staff and passengers for no good reason. I’m sorry. I will inform the captain and the purser and they will take whatever action they see fit. In the meantime, perhaps you could give me a description of the 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.