Chapter 11

11

MONDAY LUNCHTIME

At half past twelve, we were waiting on the jetty as instructed when a sleek, highly polished wooden launch purred up to collect us. It was driven by Christopher, the deckhand from the Regal Princess , and alongside him was Anna's friend, Tamsin, whose face I immediately recognised from the previous day. She was the very good-looking woman who had been sitting between Edgar Beaumont, my number one suspect with the vague Welsh accent, and the serious lawyer type, Neil Vaughan.

She didn't immediately recognise me but when she did, Anna gave her the interpreter story and she appeared to buy it. We stepped down into the launch and took seats on comfortable, red, velvet cushions. Oscar looked longingly at the cushions but had to settle for the floor, from where he was soon happily sniffing the breeze as we set off. While Anna and Tamsin carried on catching up, I reflected on what I might now be able to find out. I had phoned the lieutenant to tell him about the chance lunch invitation and he'd agreed that it was a very good opportunity to talk to the four suspects who might or might not have been the voices I'd heard in Lucca. At the same time, it would give me the opportunity to get a bit of inside information on the people on board.

Although the crew of the mystery boat and/or Heather's boyfriend – or more correctly, her former boyfriend now – were still the most likely candidates for Jerome Van der Groot's murder, there still remained a question over whether he might in fact have been killed by somebody on the Regal Princess . In particular, I wanted to do my best to identify the voices I'd overheard in Lucca, but I was also interested to know the dynamics of the group. Why were they all here? Had this been intended as a very swish business meeting or had Van der Groot simply been trying to say thank you to some loyal colleagues by taking them on an all-expenses-paid cruise? Had there been any arguments? Had there maybe even been a bit of bed-hopping going on that could have aroused jealousy?

It promised to be an interesting couple of hours.

We boarded the yacht by the rear platform as before and it was clear that this was the watersports centre as well as being the main access to the vessel. A grey rubber dinghy with a little outboard motor was moored to one side and I wondered if this was similar to the one that had conveyed the murder victim on his ill-fated last voyage. As far as I knew, that one was still being investigated by Forensics. A kayak and a couple of jet skis were lying on the low-level deck that protruded from the hull barely a few feet above the waterline. Alongside the jet skis, I spotted the man with the American accent I'd heard while I'd been listening in to the lieutenant's questions around the lunch table yesterday. He was wearing a wetsuit and looked as if he'd just been out on the water. With him was one of the female guests, whose face I recognised but I couldn't remember her name. She was also wearing a wetsuit and was in the process of being helped out of scuba-diving gear by a female deckhand. Clearly, the Regal Princess offered more than limitless alcohol.

Anna and I followed Tamsin up to the deck above and I kept a good grip on Oscar's lead when he clapped eyes on the swimming pool. Given half a chance, he would have belly-flopped in and splashed the three people sitting on the edge of the pool with their feet in the water. This little group consisted of two men and a woman. The woman sitting between the two men, wearing a light-blue swimming costume, was Susie Upton, and her companions were the same two who had been flanking her at the lunch table the previous day: Martin Grey, the Liverpudlian comic, and the muscleman whose name I knew to be Adam Phillips but whom I had already mentally christened Mr Muscle. Interestingly, Martin Grey's hand was resting on Susie Upton's thigh. When she set eyes on Oscar, she jumped to her feet very nimbly and came around to give him an effusive greeting. His tail started wagging immediately; he likes it when women make a fuss of him – and who can blame him?

Tamsin introduced Anna and me and repeated my interpreter cover story, which, again, appeared to be accepted at face value. We chatted idly about the weather, Labradors and the beauty of Portofino, but Susie made no reference to the murder investigation. However, a few moments later, we were joined by the guy with the muscles and his first question after being introduced to me was, ‘Have the police caught Jerome's murderer yet?'

I shrugged. ‘I've no idea. The lieutenant told me they've managed to get a police interpreter to help out now. I was just an emergency fill-in yesterday.'

He seemed to accept the fact that I no longer had any involvement with the investigation, but it was clear from what he said next that the murder had been the main topic of conversation here on the yacht ever since the previous day. ‘What I can't understand is why the police think it was murder. Isn't it much more likely that Jerome just fell over the side of the little dinghy and drowned? He'd had a real skinful by that time of night, so it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that he might have fallen in. You should have seen the state he was in – not just drunk, but absolutely furious. He wasn't behaving rationally. Anybody could see that.'

I'd been listening carefully to him and had to admit that his southern English accent might indeed have been the voice I'd heard plotting – or at least letting off steam – at the restaurant in Lucca. I still couldn't be sure, but mentally I put a little tick alongside his name. From what he'd just said, it was clear that the news that Van der Groot had been stabbed before drowning hadn't percolated through, and I certainly wasn't going to tell them, so I continued to plead ignorance. ‘I don't know the details but, from what the lieutenant said, there could be no doubt that it was murder. What was Jerome Van der Groot so angry about?'

Before Mr Muscle could answer, a familiar voice cut in, this time sounding decidedly prickly.

‘Just internal company stuff. It wouldn't mean anything to you.' Martin Grey had also come across to join us. He stopped short of telling me to mind my own business, but the implication was clear. I had to admit that he looked good in his swimming trunks – and he knew it. His muscle tone was perfect – although his muscles bulged far less than the man alongside him – and his all-over tan was flawless. He made no attempt to approach Oscar, who glanced at him and then ignored him. He has a canine sixth sense about which humans are dog friendly and which aren't.

I took the hint and just shrugged my shoulders. ‘Who knows? Certainly too much alcohol and a ride in a little dinghy in the middle of the night doesn't strike me as a very good mix.'

Leaving them there, Anna and I followed Tamsin up the next flight of stairs to the saloon, where we found half a dozen people standing around with glasses in their hands. After making the introductions and relaying my cover story, Tamsin led us across to a well-stocked bar where a female member of staff was standing. She was wearing the regulation Regal Princess polo shirt and her name tag indicated that she was called Vanessa. She gave us a friendly smile and asked what we'd like to drink. As usual, Anna opted for a Campari spritz and, for once, I asked for the same. I'm normally a beer drinker at this kind of event, but somehow on a multimillion-dollar yacht in the bay of Portofino, it seemed only right and proper to be drinking something a bit more sophisticated. I smiled to myself. At least I hadn't gone the whole hog and asked for a vodka Martini, shaken not stirred.

While Anna and Tamsin chatted about historical matters, I wandered about and looked around, Oscar sniffing everything he came to. Fortunately, he soon broke the ice with the other people, and I found myself drawn into conversation with them. As before, they asked about the investigation and I gave them the same story – saying that it was nothing to do with me. When they realised that I couldn't shed any light on police business, their topic of conversation very quickly gravitated back to company affairs, and I listened closely while at the same time trying to appear only casually interested.

It quickly emerged that roughly half of the people on this cruise were performers, mainly comedy actors, while the other half came from the production or administrative side of the company. I don't know what I'd been expecting from a bunch of comedians – maybe non-stop jokes and banter – but the mood was sombre. Mind you, it was hardly surprising that under the circumstances, nobody felt much like laughing.

The good news was that both of the men who'd been sitting at the far end of yesterday's lunch table were here now and I concentrated as much on how they were speaking as on what they were saying. It very quickly became clear that Billy Webster, today wearing a different – but equally voluminous – T-shirt, this time advertising his own UK Tour 2019, had either been indulging liberally in the open bar this morning or he was still drunk from the night before. He didn't say very much, but what he did say was liberally laced with fruity expletives that would have scandalised a sailor. In essence, he was asking all and sundry, as well as the heavens, to explain why he'd managed to find himself on a boat with a murderer. I could understand his concern, although I would probably have expressed it a bit less colourfully.

Alongside him was Doug Kingsley, his stubbly chin indicating that he had probably just rolled out of bed. Today's T-shirt bore the slogan: EDUCATION IS IMPORTANT BUT COMEDY IS IMPORTANTER . I listened carefully to his voice and Webster's but, annoyingly, I was unable to make a positive voice ID for either of them. In the end, all I could do was leave them on the list of possibles alongside Adam Phillips, AKA Mr Muscle.

The previous day, I had mentally pigeonholed Mr Muscle as being in his thirties but, close up, he might even have been a few years older. When I queried his position in the company, it came as something of a surprise to be told that he was in Accounts. Somehow, I had imagined him as being a daredevil TV presenter abseiling down cliff faces and white water rafting in the Rocky Mountains. Interestingly, although he was bulging with impressive muscles, he wasn't very tall and, compared to Kingsley, I wondered just how tough he might prove to be in a fight. Still, I told myself, I had no desire to get involved in a fight and I assumed the same would apply to most of the people here. Apart, of course, from the person who had murdered Jerome Van der Groot.

Ten minutes later, we were joined by Susie Upton, now changed out of her costume into a tight top and an even shorter skirt than Heather had been wearing. Without make-up, she was looking a little more like her real age, but there was no question that she was a very good-looking woman who wasn't afraid to put herself on display. I thought it might be interesting to study her relationship with the equally beautiful and considerably younger Tamsin Taylor and I noticed that they almost ignored each other. Tamsin was still chatting happily to Anna about the Medici so, after a few moments hovering near them, Susie went over to the bar and ordered herself a gin and tonic. Either Vanessa at the bar was naturally generous with her employer's supply of alcohol or she knew Susie of old, because I was amazed to see her half fill a tall glass with gin before adding ice and a slice of lemon and passing it across the counter, accompanied by a little bottle of tonic. Susie tipped barely half the tonic into the glass and turned towards me, treating me – or more probably Oscar – to a beaming smile.

‘So, you live here in Italy, do you, Dan? How wonderful. If I didn't have to be in London for my job, I'd love to settle over here, probably to Tuscany.'

I smiled back while Oscar went over and rested his head against her knee. ‘That's where I live, just outside Florence, and I love it.'

‘What is it you do, Dan?'

Over coffee in a harbourside café this morning, Anna and I had been discussing what my answer to this question should be and we had come to the conclusion that it was probably best to avoid mentioning my work as a private investigator – at least at first. Instead, I told Susie about my literary ambitions. ‘I'm a writer. I write detective stories set in Italy.' This was in fact quite true as my first book, Death Amid the Vines , had come out this spring and was selling well. My second book had already been delivered to the publisher and would be coming out in the late autumn.

Her smile grew even broader. ‘How exciting! Do tell me about it, won't you?'

I gave her a brief synopsis of the first book and she looked absolutely fascinated, producing a series of oohs and aahs. Of course, I told myself, to showbiz people, hyperbole was everything, so I probably shouldn't count on her going out and buying herself a copy as soon as she got back to the UK. Still, I had to admit that she was easy to talk to.

A few minutes later, the atmosphere abruptly changed. I felt a tap on my shoulder and found myself confronted by Martin Grey, now also changed out of his swimming kit into a smart designer polo shirt and shorts. He was looking far less friendly than Susie Upton, and Oscar must have sensed it as well because he ostentatiously turned away and padded across to the other side of me, staying well out of the comedian's way.

‘Chief Inspector Armstrong, pray tell me why we've suddenly managed to find ourselves with a private investigator in our midst?' The Liverpool accent easily lends itself to a threatening tone and, from his belligerent expression, it was clear he was playing to the gallery. The chatter around us died away as I suddenly became the centre of attention. Grey must have noted an expression of surprise on my face because he held up his phone and shook it gently in front of me. ‘Mr Google had quite a lot to say about you, Chief Inspector, but it didn't say why you're here, so do tell. We'd love to know what you're investigating.'

Fortunately, I'd come across any number of difficult characters in my time and I knew that the best way to handle them was to stand up to them. I gave him an innocent smile in response. ‘That's easy, Mr Grey, the answer's nothing. I'm no longer in the police force and I'm not here in an official capacity. I'm just having a few days' holiday with my girlfriend.'

‘That sounds like a load of bull to me.' He looked out around the faces of the rest of the group. ‘Are you convinced?'

If he'd been expecting a rousing show of support, he was to be disappointed. Nobody said anything, although I could tell they were at the very least curious to know why I was here. Encouraged by this, I turned the question back on Grey. ‘Like I say, I'm just having a few days off and I'm only here because Anna knows Tamsin. The last thing I want is to intrude on your holiday so if you'd prefer me to leave, that's fine by me, but before I go, please, do tell me, is there something I should be investigating here?'

He was good. He almost showed no reaction, but there was just a fleeting millisecond when I felt sure I saw something on his face – maybe guilt or at least disquiet – before he collected himself and shook his head.

‘Apart from Billy's liver and Susie's knickers, there's nothing around her that needs going into.'

Before I could reply, I felt a hand on my arm as Susie Upton mounted a show of support. ‘Martin, for the love of God, can't you just behave for once? Dan's here with Anna and she's here because Tamsin asked her to be here. It doesn't matter whether he's a private investigator or a lion tamer. His job has nothing to do with you. Just because Jerome's gone doesn't mean that you call the shots. Behave yourself and let everybody else have a good time, even if you want to be an old grouch.'

‘Susie, Susie, Susie, calm down, calm down.' His tone and his manner were dismissive and I could feel the tension rising in Susie through her hand on my arm. Unperturbed, he carried on. ‘There's no need to be so frickin' defensive. I was just asking the gentleman if he was currently involved in an investigation. What's the harm in that?'

‘Martin, you're an ass.' I was mildly surprised at her mild choice of language, but the insult must have hit home all the same. For a moment or two, his assumed air of bonhomie slipped and there was a real edge to his voice when he responded.

‘And you're a slut.'

This time, I actually heard a couple of sharp intakes of breath among the others but Susie just gave my arm a squeeze and looked up at me. ‘I think it's time for lunch, don't you, Dan? Let's go and make sure we get a seat a long way away from him. Being near him would make me lose my appetite.'

There was no need for her to specify to whom she was referring. Clearly, there was no love lost between the two actors, but I had been surprised by the venom attached to his accusation. Whether her insult or his far stronger response had any basis in fact was something I would have dearly loved to find out.