Free The Abigail Affair by Timothy Frost Page B

in New York.”
    “No excuse for abusing young women.” Whoops. That was risky.
    The man merely narrowed his eyes. “Ivan Krigov is incapable of that,” he said. “I have known him as a brother these many years. His bark is much worse than his bite, as the English say, I believe. Just do your job.”
    “Yes, sir,” Toby said, unconvinced. He turned back to his work.
    “How much more polishing do you have to do?” Walther said.
    “Down to there. All three rails and the uprights.” Was this man trying to reassure him, or what? It wasn’t working.
    Walther produced a paper packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and a lighter from his trousers, and lit up. Toby wished they wouldn’t all smoke in front of him. It made him twitch. “Nice to talk to you. See you later, Toby. I hope everything goes well for you and that you have no unpleasant surprises.” Ciggie in mouth, he pushed his John Lennon spectacles up his nose, turned on his heel, and was gone as silently as he had appeared.
    An hour passed uneventfully. Toby polished. He progressed slowly down the deck. This yacht must have a hundred miles of railing to clean , he thought. Already his back ached. The lower rail was the bummer. You had to either bend over, or squat down at deck level. Either posture was OK for a while, but not for hours at a stretch. He looked around. Nobody else in sight. He longed for a cigarette of his own and wondered where Julia was.
    He was now opposite the main sundeck. This, Julia had told him, featured a ten-metre, or about thirty-foot, swimming pool that disappeared when the Amelia was under way. As if in confirmation of this, there were sun loungers and umbrellas dotted around. There was even an area of fake grass with four putting holes, each with a red metal flag in it. Not in the best possible taste—it reminded him of the crazy golf course at the Butlin’s holiday camp in Minehead where they had all gone to a Blues Weekend a few years back.
    But the deck appeared to be solid teak, with no sign of a pool. He downed tools and crossed to where the pool should be. Ah, yes—he now saw a metal groove between the teak planking. That must be the join. It was a beautiful fit. Toby went back to the rail and leaned on it. He looked up and over his shoulder and realised with a start that he was in direct view of the bridge. He hoped no one had spotted him slacking, but if he polished a bit more (and faster) he would soon be far enough down the side of the deck to be out of sight. He picked up his polish and began edging down the rail, making bigger sweeps with the cloth, skimping on the work and virtually ignoring the lower rail, but what the hell.
    In ten minutes, using this ploy, he had worked himself down the railing to a position opposite a door into the service area—the same place he had arrived and first met Scott.
    Time to find Julia.
    He put his cleaning materials in the bucket, set it down by the rail and opened the door. He felt his heart rate pick up. Again he thought, what the hell. He had got away with attempting to flee the boat in the small hours, suffering no more than a twisted arm and a boot up the bum at the bottom of the gangway.
    He looked left and right. No one. He walked past Scott’s office. No problem to find Julia, assuming she was either in the galley, or the stillroom, or the laundry, or (unlikely) her own cabin.
    He came to the galley and peered through its glass window. It looked empty. The door was ajar. He sneaked in and poked his head round the shelves of pans.
    Nothing.
    No one.
    He swiftly decided on a change of plan. Facing him stood the giant stainless steel doors of the cold room—a walk-in fridge full of luxurious provisions, like a Harrods Food Hall in miniature. He had peeped into it the previous evening after clearing away the dinner things.
    He pulled the lever and opened the right-hand door. A light sprang up inside, just like a fridge. He put his head in and looked left and right like