Free Dead Calm by Shirley Wells Page A

this far north. It’s good, though. Very bracing.” Calling himself a complete dickhead for describing this as bracing, Dylan looked up at a dark sky heavy with cloud. “I doubt we’ll see the northern lights tonight.”
    “Not a hope in hell.” Lloyd, despite having lived in England until a few weeks ago, considered himself an expert.
    Dylan turned slightly so that the hungry wind caught the back of his head instead of his face. “What’s new with you?”
    “Not a lot.”
    “I don’t suppose there’s any news from a postmortem on Hanna Larsen?”
    Lloyd shook his head. “We’re not expecting any. These things take ages.”
    Dylan knew all too well how slowly the wheels of bureaucracy turned in the UK, but he’d assumed the Scandinavian countries were ultra-efficient. “I suppose they do. You passed on my—concerns though, yes?”
    “Of course. I said I would, didn’t I?”
    “You did. Thanks.” Dylan would bet Lloyd hadn’t said anything to anyone. He might have joked about it with his colleagues, but he’d bet he hadn’t made his concerns official. “Who did you tell? The ship’s captain?”
    “What? Yeah.”
    He was lying. He hadn’t said a word about it.
    “Another woman was originally allocated Hanna Larsen’s cabin, you know,” Dylan said.
    “That’s right. The Larsen woman kicked up a fuss so we had to change. That happens all the time. But I wouldn’t really know anything about it. It’s not my job.”
    “I don’t suppose it is.” Dylan stamped his feet to keep frostbite at bay. “Hanna Larsen was due to meet someone while she was on board. Still, I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that either.”
    “I don’t. Sorry.” Lloyd flicked the butt of his cigarette for the wind to carry it away. “I’d better get back to work. Have you booked an alarm call if the northern lights are spotted?”
    “I have, yes. Thanks.” Bev had at least.
    “Okay, Dylan. Be seeing you.”
    Dylan was surprised Lloyd had remembered his name. “Good night, Taffy.”
    He supposed he could understand the Welshman’s reluctance to seek out his bosses and tell them that some crazy passenger thought Hanna Larsen had been murdered in her bed. Lloyd was a new recruit and, although he strode around the ship like an old hand, he was sure to be trying to impress. Sharing Dylan’s concerns would make him look naive and he’d spend the rest of the trip being the butt of his colleagues’ jokes.
    It didn’t matter. If Lloyd hadn’t mentioned his concerns to the ship’s hierarchy, Dylan would do it himself. First thing in the morning, he’d seek out the ship’s captain and have a chat with him.
    He went back inside and wandered aimlessly from lounge to bar to dining room. He saw no one he knew. He returned to the bar, bought himself a whisky and inspected his fellow drinkers. It seemed as if a new quota of passengers arrived every day. Dylan didn’t recognise a single face.
    Correction. He recognised the barman.
    Five minutes later, he recognised another passenger and his spirits sank. It was Bill Carr, the man who’d insisted on telling them how every member of his extended family had met their end.
    If he’d been quicker, he would have made his escape. As it was, Carr gave him a cheery smile, no doubt pleased to find someone to bore to death, and sat beside him.
    “I owe you a drink, Dylan. What are you having?”
    “That’s kind of you.” It was, but Dylan wasn’t sure a free drink was fair exchange for hearing about Carr’s dead relatives. Surprisingly, as far as Dylan knew, none had doused themselves in petrol and struck a match while Carr was talking. “I’m on whisky. Thank you.”
    “I’ll have the same.”
    When their drinks were in front of them, Carr, who always looked as if he was about to trek to the North Pole single-handed, patted his pockets. “I’ve left my camera in the cabin so what’s the betting we see the northern lights?”
    Dylan smiled and nodded.