Page 48 of Deep Blue Lies

FORTY-SEVEN

“So, you want the spiel, or did Dominic already give it you?”

“Um. Who’s Dominic?” I reply.

“The guy who picked you up. What’d he tell you about us?”

“Oh. Not much.”

Simon laughs. “Right. Man of few words, our Dom.” He lifts his eyebrows playfully, they’re bleached blond from the sun. He takes a deep breath, then begins.

“She’s ninety-five metres long, that’s three-hundred-twelve feet, if you like it old style.

Four decks above water, one below. Fifteen-and-a-half-metres beam – that’s your width – with a draught of four-point-three metres, meaning we can get her in surprisingly close to the shore for such a big beast.” Again the eyebrows go up.

“Cruising speed of fourteen knots, max speed twenty, and a range of six-thousand-five-hundred nautical miles, so we’re transatlantic capable.

We have a crew of anywhere between thirty to forty and typically won’t take more than eighteen guests, since we just have the nine staterooms.” Simon smiles sarcastically at this.

“You could fit more in at a push.” He sees me looking around.

You could fit a hundred just on this deck.

“She was built in Germany, by Lürssen Yachts. Launched in 2010, but refitted a few years ago. Heated marble floors, Italian furniture, gold accenting, you name it, it’s here.

We have floor-to-ceiling windows, glass-bottomed jacuzzi, fully fitted gym, spa, steam room and sauna.

Cinema room – one-hundred-sixty-inch screen,” – the eyebrows go up again – “plus there’s a whisky bar and a walk-in humidor.

” He pauses at this, cocking his head on one side and falling quiet suddenly. I fall right into the trap.

“What’s a humidor?”

“I so hoped you’d ask. OK, picture this, because I’m sure you have this problem most days.

You’re sitting there smoking your thousand-dollar hand-rolled Cuban cigars, but they don’t taste exactly right?

You know what I mean? A little too moist, you can’t quite get the notes of sweatshop-poverty?

What you need is a temperature and humidity-controlled room to store them in. That’s a humidor.”

“And you have one?”

“Lined with the finest Spanish cedarwood. We very much do.” He chuckles.

“Then we have the beach club. Tender garage has two speedboats and all the toys. I’m talking sea bobs, foiling boards, e-surfboards – you ever try one of those?

” He pauses until I shake my head. “Then we have a retractable swim platform, jet skis – obviously – and…” – he grins again – “my favourite Bond-villain touch, the mini sub.”

“You’re joking.”

“Uh huh. Seats four comfortably, six if you know each other well. Goes down to a thousand feet. Not that I’m going in it.” He smiles as he watches my reaction. “I prefer to be on the water, not under it.” He waves a breezy hand towards the deck behind me.

“There’s a few other bits and bobs. Helipad, bulletproof glass of course, twin panic-rooms, just in case you’re panicking too much to find the first one when we get attacked – if we get attacked – forgive me, you’ve had a long trip and I didn’t offer refreshments.

What can I get you, tea, coffee, glass of wine?

What’s your poison? We can feed you too, if you’re hungry? Got a hell of a chef, let me tell you.”

“Um,” I glance around. “OK? A coffee would be good.”

“Excellent choice.” There’s a walkie-talkie radio on the table, and he picks it up, pressing the button, then mouths at me, how do you take it?

I ask for a cappuccino and he snaps his fingers, leaving one pointing at me as he relays the request.

“Have a seat,” Simon says, taking one of the sofas that face each other over a low table. I take the other.

“So you’re Karen Whitaker’s daughter?” he says, shaking his head a little in apparent disbelief.

“You look like her.” His eyes narrow, as if evaluating this after he’s said it.

“At least, you’re pretty, like she was.” He sits back and props his arms comfortably along the cushions of the sofa.

Meanwhile the elevator opens and a white-uniformed steward steps out, carrying a tray with our drinks.

It’s not John, though he’s dressed the same.

The man puts the tray down on the table between us, adjusting the silver jar of sugar so that it’s not touching the cups.

Then he gives a subtle nod to Simon. He doesn’t look at me.

“Cheers, Terry,” Simon says, not looking at the man as he stirs in a spoonful of sugar and sits back again on the sofa. Terry leaves.

“So. Ava. What exactly do you think I can help with?”

As crazy as all this is, I have thought about what I’m going to say on the bus ride here. So I launch into my explanation now.

“Like I said in my email, I’m trying to learn about the circumstances around my birth, and maybe even discover who my father is. I know that you and Karen…were friends…just before the Aegean Dream Resort closed. I wondered if you could tell me anything about that time.”

Simon doesn’t answer at once. When he picked up his coffee he kept the spoon, and he stirs it again now, watching me.

“One thing first. You say you’re looking for your father, is there any part of you that thinks that would be me?”

I feel my heart rate jump. I have sort-of considered it, but not really, the dates don’t match up and…there are plenty of other candidates. But I don’t get a chance to think any more, as he goes on.

“Because I’m pretty certain I’m not. We were – young and careless in some regards, but not in that one. Plus I saw Karen a year after Alythos, in London, and she didn’t have a kid.”

“No. I don’t think that.” I feel my cheeks heating up. “I don’t really know what you might be able to tell me. It’s just confusing.”

“And Karen won’t tell you? Who your dad is?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know why not. It’s like there’s some big secret. Something she doesn’t want to face.”

Simon stops stirring at this, just for a moment, then he nods. “That figures. I guess.”

I don’t understand this, but I don’t question it.

“How’d you find out about me? She tell you?”

“No. I…” I don’t know if this is a good idea, but I say it anyway. “I found her diary. She kept it the whole time she was working at the Aegean Dream Resort. Right up until it closed.” I don’t tell him where I got it, and he doesn’t ask. He’s thoughtful though.

“And she mentions me?”

“A bit, yes. She says you were…together in the summer of 2001. Up until the murders. I don’t know what happened after that, because the diary stops just before.”

He studies me a second.

“Just before?”

“The last entry is the day before the murders.”

He seems to process this.

“And when were you born?”

That question’s hard to answer, in the circumstances, but I do my best. “My date of birth is May 20 2001. A month before.”

Simon pulls a face, like I can’t have that right. Then he turns away. He stares at the sleek, interior wall of the yacht, but he doesn’t seem to see it. He’s motionless for just a second too long, and I see the tension in his jaw. Then he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face .

“Alright,” he says in the end. “OK. I understand why you’re trying to figure that one out.”

I don’t know what to say to this. I feel almost foolish that I don’t know these basic things about myself. But there’s something about his reaction, like this surprises him, but not in the way I expected it to.

“Mum doesn’t mention…” I go on. “In the diary, she doesn’t say she was pregnant.

She doesn’t give birth on the day I was supposed to be born.

” It sounds so strange saying this out loud, it sounds like a secret I should be keeping.

But if I don’t ask these questions I’ll never know.

“I know this sounds crazy, but was she? Pregnant, I mean? Could she have been?”

Simon laughs out loud at this, showing teeth that look too white.

When he regains his composure he leans forward, putting the cup back on the table.

“No. There’s no way your mum was pregnant at the ADR. Not when I was with her.

You don’t have to worry about that.” He watches me again, his blue eyes probing into mine.

I sort of do though.

“She also mentioned,” I say, picking up my cup, “this one time, when she’d been drinking.” I take a sip of my coffee, trying to build up to this. “That maybe my birthday wasn’t my birthday. That maybe it was really later.”

Simon cocks his head at this, then gives a crooked grin. “Well, I guess that explains it. Mystery solved.” I don’t know if he’s joking and meaning the opposite. I’m still confused.

“Except – I don’t know when. Nor why she would lie about my birthday. My passport has the date of birth I know.” I take a breath. “I think that’s what I was hoping you might be able to help with. That you might know something about it?”

Simon shakes his head, then goes further, letting the action merge into a somewhat offhand shrug. “No. Nope. Sorry. I’ve no idea.”

I feel frustrated, but I can’t give up yet.

“You said you saw her in London, after the ADR closed. What was that about, did she say anything then that…I don’t know, might help me?”

He pauses a moment, but shakes his head again. “I was just between jobs. I thought I’d look her up, see if there was still anything between us.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “You know, romantically. But there wasn’t. Not for either of us.”

“This is a crazy question, I know,” I press him. “But are you sure she didn’t have a baby? Could she have had one, but not with her when you met?”

“I suppose that’s possible. It seems unlikely, and I don’t see why she’d hide it.

But… how would I know?” He seems to have tired of the topic, and his eyes go to my cup, now empty.

“How about we have that tour? Have you been on a boat like this before?” He jumps up, before I have time to answer.

He takes my cup from me and puts it down.

“Don’t worry about that, Terry’s got it. The man lives to clean up.”