The Woman in Cabin 10(36)

With a sigh, I put the phone away in my pocket and surveyed the blueberries on my plate. The pancakes had been delicious, but my appetite was gone. It seemed impossible, surreal: I’d witnessed a murder—or had heard one at least—and yet here I was, trying to force down pancakes and coffee, while all the time there was a murderer walking free and there was nothing I could do.

Did they know they’d been heard and reported? With the noise I’d been making, and the questions I’d been asking all round the boat, if they didn’t last night, they did now.

The boat took another wave, broadside on, and I pushed the plate away and stood up.

“Is there anything else, Miss Blacklock?” Bjorn asked, and I jumped violently and swung around. He had appeared as if by magic from a door set into the paneling at the back of the room. It was almost impossible to see unless you knew it was there. Had he been there all that time, watching me? Was there some kind of spy hole?

I shook my head and did my best to smile as I walked across the slowly tilting floor.

“No, thank you, Bjorn. Thanks for all your help.”

“Have a wonderful morning. Do you have plans? If you haven’t tried it, the view from the deck-top hot tub is stunning.”

I had a sudden vision of myself, alone in the hot tub, a hand in latex gloves pushing me beneath the water . . .

I shook my head again.

“I’m supposed to be going to the spa, I think. But I might go for a lie-down in my cabin first. I’m very tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Of course.” He pronounced it like off course. “I completely understand. A little ara and ara is prescribed, perhaps!”

“Ara and ara?” I was puzzled.

“Is that not the expression? Ara and ara, rest and relaxion?”

“Oh!” I blushed. “Rest and relaxation. Yes, of course. Sorry—like I said, I’m so tired . . .” I was edging towards the door, my skin suddenly crawling at the thought of the unseen eyes that could be watching our conversation. At least in my cabin I could be sure of being alone.

“Enjoy your rest!”

“I will,” I said. I turned to go—and walked slap into a bleary-eyed Ben Howard.

“Blacklock!”

“Howard.”

“Last night . . .” he said awkwardly. I shook my head. I wasn’t about to have this conversation in front of the softly spoken Bjorn, who was smiling at the opposite side of the room.

“Let’s not go there,” I said curtly. “We were both drunk. Have you only just woken up?”

“Yeah.” He stifled a huge yawn. “After I left your cabin I bumped into Archer and we ended up playing poker with Lars and Richard Bullmer until stupid o’clock.”

“Oh.” I chewed my lip. “What time did you get to bed?”

“Christ knows. Four-ish, I think.”

“Only because . . .” I started. And then stopped. Nilsson did not believe me. I was getting to the point where I barely believed myself. But Ben . . . He would believe me—right?

I thought back to our time together, to how it ended . . . Suddenly I wasn’t so sure.

“Never mind,” I said shortly. “I’ll tell you later. Have your breakfast.”

“Are you all right?” he said as I turned to go. “You look terrible.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“No, I just mean—you look like you’ve barely slept.”

“I didn’t.” I was trying not to snap, but anxiety and exhaustion were making me more abrupt than I meant. Then, as the boat lurched over another wave, “I’m finding this sea a bit rough.”

“Yeah? I’m lucky, I never get seasick.” There was an irritating touch of smugness in his voice and I resisted the urge to snap back something short and sharp. “Never mind, we’ll be in Trondheim early tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” My voice must have betrayed my dismay, for he looked at me sharply.

“Yes. Why, what’s the matter?”

“I thought—I imagined, today . . .” I trailed off. He shrugged.

“It’s a long way, you know.”

“Never mind.” I needed to get back to my room, think this through—try to work out what I had and hadn’t seen. “I’m going to go back to my room—have a lie-down.”

“Sure. See you later, Blacklock,” Ben said. His tone was light. But his eyes, as he watched me walk away, were worried.


I thought I was heading for the stairs to the lower deck, but I must have taken a wrong turn because I ended up in the library—a tiny paneled version of a country-house library, complete with green-shaded reading lamps and tiered shelving, re-created on a miniature scale.

I sighed, and tried to work out where I’d gone wrong, and if there was a quicker route back than retracing my steps and facing Ben again. It seemed impossible to get lost on such a small boat, but there was something very confusing about the way the rooms were fitted together, like a locking puzzle designed to squeeze out every inch of empty space, and navigating the maze was made more complicated by the way the boat’s movement messed with my sense of direction.

It didn’t help that, unlike a ferry, there were no floor plans or maps, and minimal signage—I supposed to help the impression that this was a private home that you just happened to share with a load of rich people.