Southtrap

Wegger went over to the corpse. Before I could stop him he had reached down and tested the knife with his hand.

'It's firm — into his neck vertebrae, I'd say.'

'Take your bloody hands off that knife!' I rapped out. 'What in hell d'you think you're doing?'

He swung round on me and appeared to go into a half-crouch, as if ready to jump me. Then I realized that he'd stooped to the body. His eyes were burning in the shadow of his cap-peak.

When he spoke his voice was completely at odds with the rest of him. It was like that first time on the dockside when I suspected him of sucking up to me.

'I'm sorry, sir. I never gave it a thought. I only wanted to see…'

Handling the knife was the sort of thoughtless action one could take in the stress of the moment. Outwardly, he'd shown no nerve-reaction to the sight of the body.

But I'd learned already that Wegger was more complex than he appeared on the surface.

'Forget it,' I retorted brusquely. 'Where's Petersen?'

Petersen asked me to give you this.' Wegger handed me my thick off-white sweater with a fisherman's collar. 'He's cleaning up the mess he made in your cabin.'

'What did he tell you?'

'Nothing — except that you wanted me urgently, and there was a dead man.'

'No one else hear?'

'No,' Wegger answered. 'But you can't keep anything like this dark for long. It'll be all over the ship by morning.'

He was right, of course.

'What are you going to do about him?'

That was the hurdle my mind had jibbed at a little while back. What I decided about Holdgate would also determine the fate of the Quest's cruise. Linn had come to me to make her decision after her father's death; now, deep down, I wanted to be with her when I made mine over Holdgate. It was a captain's decision — and there are times when a captain can be more alone than an albatross riding the West Wind Drift.

'I sent Petersen to wake the TV cameraman and bring his flash gear,' I replied obliquely. 'I want the body photographed as I found it.'

'I thought Petersen found it,' he remarked in an odd voice.

'A manner of speaking. He called me immediately.'

Wegger went on. 'How do you know that, sir? I mean, with murder one has to look at every aspect.'

'Petersen was in no state to do anything but what he did,' I answered. 'It was purely a reflex action. He called me. I sent him for you.'

'You didn't question him?' he persisted. 'I mean, did he see anyone around? In here, perhaps?'

It didn't need Wegger's remarks to tell me that I had to be suspicious of Petersen, and of his apparent concern for my safety.

'He was in no shape to be cross-questioned,' I said. 'That will come.'

'Have you searched the place, sir? The murderer could still be close by.'

The place is as bare as a nude show,' I replied. Try the body, if you care to. He's been dead some time, I'd guess.'

'Good.'

'What the devil do you mean, good?'

He patted the Luger and said levelly, 'I mean, then we don't have to start fine-combing the ship.'

I've done that once today — with you and MacFie.'

Wegger gave a slight shrug. 'How long would you estimate he's been dead?'

'An hour — two hours, maybe. I can't say. I'm not a doctor. He's scarcely warm.'

That would make it after I'd taken over the bridge at eight,' he said.

Was he talking his way into an alibi? There wasn't any need. The bridge men could prove or disprove of anything he said! If I could not trust even my own first officer… I jerked my thoughts together. I wasn't a detective. My function was the safety of the ship.

And all those who travel in her.

The way Holdgate's head rolled from side to side reminded me that there was at least one person whom I had failed.

The thought goaded me. 'What's keeping Petersen, for Chrissake?'

Wegger remained collected. 'He was very ashamed of what he did to your cabin.'

'Blast my cabin. I want the photographer.'

'He said he wouldn't be long.'

A silence fell between us. But the ship wasn't silent.

The creaks a vessel gives when the seas start to work up and tax her fabric were all around. The Quest was flexing her sea muscles after their flaccid stay in port, although the swells weren't really anything yet. A squall with a spatter of rain brought new noises from seams and beams. If the wind veered south-west from its present quarter, which was west with a touch of north in it, those squalls would throw themselves at the Quest with relentless savagery, armed with hail, ice and snow and the knock-down punch of a Force 10 gale.

There was a ragged clatter against the door. Petersen knocking. Wegger jerked round, more nervously than his outward appearance would have led me to expect.

I held the door before admitting Petersen and the photographer. The latter's hair was tousled and he wore a leather jacket with a fur collar, shortie pyjama pants and furry ankle-length slippers.

I addressed him. 'Before you come in, I must warn you that there's something very unpleasant in here. That's why I sent for you. It's an emergency and I require pictures for the record. What's your name?'

'Brunton. John Brunton.'

His brown eyes were bright and alive with no trace of sleep in them.

'I was a press photographer before I went ecological,' he replied. 'I once saw a stiff they'd found in a river. He'd been there two weeks. He'd been strangled with a length of barbed wire. That cured my stomach for keeps.'

This isn't all that bad.'

I let them in. Petersen still kept his eyes averted.

Brunton's eyes — like those of Miss Auchinleck's penguins — seemed to work independently on either side of his head. One took in the body, and the other the rest of the scientific gear. They appeared to be assessing camera angles and the situation all at once.

'I want pictures for the record and the police,' I told him. 'I'll also require a sworn statement from you later.'

'Any particular angle?'

'If you've done police work you'll know better than I do.' Brunton licked the connection of his electric flash, plugged it in, and got to work. The place sparkled with quick flashes.

He half-knelt, half-crouched by the corpse and called back to me, 'Close-ups of the knife too?'

Wegger said unnecessarily, 'It's very hard in — right through his neck, I'd say.'

Brunton rolled the eye not focusing the viewfinder at me. The glance was a mixture of query and surprise.

My mind was already leaping on ahead — postmortem, court processes, being put through the hoop by some smart-alec lawyer. Brunton's questions smacked home a pressing problem which I'd thrust to the back of my mind. What did I intend to do with the body? Take it back to land? Bury it at sea?

The thought rattled me and I retorted. 'He didn't put it there himself. The whole lot of us on this ship are going to be put through the mill of a murder hearing. There'll be thousands of questions asked.'

Brunton pushed his lens within inches of the dead face.

'Odd sort of design on the knife,' he said.

'Killer whale,' I replied.

Brunton went on working the trigger. 'Could narrow the field of suspects considerably. Not everyone packs a Weapon like that.'

I hadn't thought of that one — yet.

'What about his hands?' asked Brunton.

'What about them?'

'Want me to take 'em close-up also?'

'Why?'

'Right one's clenched. You may want to open the fingers.'

Petersen made a gurgling noise and walked over to the opposite side. Wegger stood watching, completely expressionless.

'I'll log that fact later,' I said. 'Will you help me, Number One?'