Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

freshening up, they met in the restaurant situated at the end of the parking lot. No sooner had they begun to share a bottle of Chablis and hot buffet of several meats, Yorkshire pudding, and a variety of vegetables than Ghislaine’s phone started to pulse. Tuck was on the end of the line.

Ghislaine explained to Stahmer that she was needed urgently and was to get herself on the next flight to Geneva. They finished the Chablis, and Stahmer ordered her a black cab taxi to Heathrow to catch the red eye to Switzerland.

The following morning, Stahmer went the short distance to the house of Christie’s parents. The dwelling was a typical suburban, semi detached house. It had neat lawns to the front, and a man older than his years was stooping down to weed the flower beds.

Stahmer introduced himself and was shepherded into the front room, which seemed smaller than he had first thought, but put this down to the forty-two inch HD television that took pride of place above the mantle.

Mrs Rooney had the appearance of a homemaker in her apron, which had speckles of flour over it; she had obviously been baking in the kitchen. Stahmer accepted the offer of English tea, and was delighted to try the scones she had just baked.

Stahmer did not want to interrupt, as Mr and Mrs Rooney first talked about their daughter, and then got out the photographs from when she was a baby, to the last images of her on stage on the Classical Canta Libra.

Stahmer probed whether she had made any enemies, maybe a jealous performer, but the Rooney’s assured him that she was loved by everyone. Not everyone, Stahmer thought.

Just as Stahmer feared it had been another wasted foray, a tall, handsome young boy of no more than fifteen appeared. He was introduced as Christie’s brother, and offered Stahmer his laptop.

“Christie e-mailed me every week. Maybe there is something in the e-mails,” he offered.

For the next hour, Stahmer read through the last three months of e-mails. Stahmer was a little uneasy; it was like reading a private diary, he thought. She obviously loved her brother very much, as she had laid out her highs, her lows, and some of her secrets, too.

The words struck him straight away; just one line, but one that stood out from the rest. It was the first significant clue he had had since interviewing all the families.

“The Grim Reaper is back. Every trip I have been on with him someone has gone missing or died, he is a jinx,” the sentence read.

No name, no hint of his identification, but a clue, nonetheless. Christie had been on the same ship with him more than once; more than likely a few times for her to make this remark. The Grim Reaper had joined the ship between September and October, otherwise why else would she note on it in her latest e-mail but not in prior e-mails? This was the first clue he had come across, not just after interviewing the parents of the deceased, but also the crew members. Maybe it was something, maybe it was nothing, but Stahmer’s intuition and radar were on high alert.

Don’t get overexcited, he thought. It is only a clue, not definitive. But he knew deep down inside that he had the one clue that could lead him to the killer of all those people aboard the lifeboat.

On leaving the Rooneys, he telephoned Fabienne, and was surprised to hear Ghislaine answering the phone.

“Translator, investigator, and now receptionist, Ghislaine? What gives?” he inquired.

“I know; Fabienne is involved with some crisis involving Cutler, and between us we’ll be coordinating. I’m to help out with translation and as you can hear, help with the routine matters in the office,” she replied.

“I know you’re both busy, but tell Fabienne I need her to check who came onto the ship between September and October prior to the explosion, and to cross-match everyone in that date range against ships and cruises that Christie Rooney has undertaken, and I need it fast.”

“You got something from the Rooney family?” Ghislaine asked.

“The Grim Reaper,” Stahmer replied.

For the next two hours, Stahmer sat in the café of a local superstore, drinking coffee, and doing the Times crossword as he waited with some impatience for the phone call that he knew would be coming. Finally, as he had one clue left to complete, his phone rang.

“Hello, Robert, it’s Fabienne.”

“Do you have some good news for me, Fabienne?” he asked directly, without his usual banter and greetings.

“Last night Speedy discounted all those at the lower end of the IQ range. At the same time, it was running an analysis of some information that Cutler asked me to run.”

“Cutler’s on a different case, Fabienne. I don’t quite understand.”

“I realize that, Robert, and would not bring it up, but the information you asked me to run this morning has generated a link,” Fabienne replied.

“Speedy analysed a greeting from Cutler’s sister’s murder. It was mistro, or matro. So, my beautiful program looked at profiles, names of the crew, witnesses, etc., and came up blank. Speedy has been set up to cross-reference all open cases against keywords, or offer some suggestions related to cruises, and it is eighty percent sure the word is Maestro.”

“Maestro,” confirmed Stahmer.

“Yes, and Speedy has checked all nicknames or names that are similar and again came up blank. But it did come up with a suggestion; that of a conductor, pianist, or choreographer. And guess what? When you asked this morning to check on staff members who had joined the ship in September and October, and again to cross-reference against past relationships between crew members and related cruises, it came up with one name,” she stated.

Stahmer’s heart began to beat harder. “What name?”

“There was also reference in the Werner tape to Elisa’s assailant