Dead Calm by Shirley Wells Page B

was with him, Bill didn’t say a lot. Without her, he’d bore people to death within minutes but, around her, he was quiet and happy to let her do all the talking.
    Jason, one of Vicky’s young smoking partners, approached them.
    “Care to dance, Bev?”
    He was late teens or maybe early twenties with a long fair ponytail. Bev was probably old enough to be his mother—the thought brought her up short. She was old enough to be his mother. Still, she wasn’t turning down the chance.
    “I’d love to.” She gulped down her wine, put the glass on a table, offered her hand and walked with him to the centre of the dance floor.
    “I thought you might need rescuing from Bill,” he said.
    “He was fine. He’s not too bad when Maud’s with him. But, thanks. I appreciate the gesture.”
    The band launched into a Status Quo song and as soon as Bev began moving to the fast tempo, she realised she must have had three glasses of wine. Four counting the last one. Her head was swimming.
    “Where’s Vicky?” Jason leaned in to shout over the music. “Can’t she stand the pace?”
    “Ha. You wait. She’ll dance you off your feet later.”
    “She’s some woman, isn’t she?”
    Oh yes, Vicky was some woman. She drove Dylan to despair, she’d never outgrow her hippie tendencies, never grow up, but Bev couldn’t think of anyone else she’d rather have for a mother-in-law.
    The music finally stopped and Bev, the whole room spinning now, decided it was time she called it a night. She shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine. At least, she shouldn’t have drunk it so quickly.
    “Vicky will be along soon,” she told Jason, “so make sure you save her a dance.”
    “I will.”
    Jason approached someone else, someone much closer to his own age, and Bev headed back to the cabins. Unless the ship had suddenly hit a rough patch, she really had drunk too much.
    She was on the wrong blasted deck again. Not that it mattered, it just meant she had farther to walk. Or stagger. And she could check on Luke while she was here.
    She knocked on his cabin door but there was no answer. “Luke?”
    She knocked harder. Knowing him, he had music blasting out at ear-bleeding volume and couldn’t hear her.
    She called again then tried the door. Much to her surprise, the slider had been engaged to prevent the door locking and it swung open. She flicked on the light. The cabin was empty. Why would he leave the door unlocked? More important, where the hell was he?
    She remembered the man circling the dance floor, the oddball who’d smiled in that strange way, and a bubble of panic rose inside her.

Chapter Eighteen
    Dylan stopped at the reception desk. “Excuse me, but could you tell me if a Vidar Freberg is on board?”
    “One moment, please.” Looking grateful to have something to do, the young woman tapped at her keyboard and looked at the computer. “He is, yes. Would you like me to put a call out for him?”
    “Would you? I’d be very grateful. Thank you.”
    Her request, in Norwegian, rang out through the speakers.
    “I’ve asked him to come here,” she told Dylan. “We shall see, yes?”
    “Thank you.”
    To pass a few minutes, Dylan inspected the notice board where passengers were informed of the ship’s itinerary and the various “fun” events provided for their entertainment. Just as he was beginning to think that Freberg wasn’t on board after all, that only his suitcase was enjoying the cruise, a man walked up to the desk.
    Dylan used the few moments it took the receptionist to explain to give Freberg the once-over. Surprisingly, Dylan didn’t recognise him. By now, Dylan reckoned he’d glimpsed every passenger on this ship and, although most of them wouldn’t have stayed in his memory, this chap would. Once seen, never forgotten. Freberg was short, probably only about five feet two or three, and wore spectacles with thick lenses. Dark hair was thin, lank and greasy. His suit was old and shabby.
    “Dylan