A Mersey Mariner

Chapter 2-2

“Yes, I think so, thank you sir. So, these cargo liners are like maybe, one step up from a tramp steamer?”

“Well, I think you could class them as quite a bit better than that, Izzie. Some were so good they attracted the same passengers over and again, real customer loyalty.”

“And just how do you know all this stuff anyway?”

“Believe it or not, there was a documentary on the TV not long ago about them. Maria and I watched it together.”

“Ah, and how is the beautiful Doctor Ross?” Drake inquired of Ross's wife, a general practitioner in a local medical practice.

“She's well, thanks Izzie.”

“Good, now, let's get parked and find this launch.”

* * *

Ross and Drake both tried hard to suppress a grin as they arrived at the pier to find the police launch ready and waiting to carry them out to the Alexandra Rose. The constable who greeted them on the dockside and led them down the steps to the waiting launch had told them their travelling companions were already aboard.

It was the sight of William Nugent and Francis Lees that was the cause of their mirth. The pathologist and his assistant were seated side by side on the wooden thwart, the bench-like seat that traversed the deck of the little boat. Francis Lees, looking as cadaverous as ever, sat with his knees pressed tightly together, with his all-important camera bag resting on his lap. At his feet, another case rested, this one his well-worn sample case, used for short-term storage of any samples Nugent required from crime sites. Lees was staring straight ahead, and both detectives sensed his uncomfortable demeanour. Lees didn't like being on the water, for sure. Beside him sat his boss, Doctor William Nugent. The highly experienced and grossly overweight pathologist, surely a candidate for a heart attack before too long if his waistline continued at its current rate of expansion, appeared, in contrast to his assistant to be relishing his 'day out'. Despite the fog that restricted their vision enormously, Nugent's eyes were darting around, taking in the sights and probably the smells of his current surroundings. The Glaswegian doctor had a well renowned nose for scents of all varieties, being able to discern various aromas, common or rare with just a mere whiff of them reaching his olfactory senses. In short, the big man looked quite excited and completely unfazed by having to squeeze his bulk onto the narrow bench seat of the launch. Together, Nugent and Lees reminded Ross of the old acting pair, Peter Lorre and Sydney Greenstreet, who Ross always remembered from the film, The Maltese Falcon.

Seated opposite the pair on the other side of the launch was Miles Booker, the force's senior Crime Scene Investigator. Booker smiled as he saw Ross and Drake being helped into the launch by Constable Keys of the Port Police.

“Not the best of weather for a trip into the estuary, eh, Andy,” Booker commented by way of a greeting.

“Can't see past the front of the boat,” Ross agreed,

“That's the bow, sir. You should know that by now,” Drake interrupted.

“Yes, I know that,” said Ross. “Anyway,” he whispered as he sat next to Booker, “our medico friends look like they're out for a trip round the bay.”

“I heard that, Inspector Ross,” William Nugent said loudly from the other side of the boat.

“Good day to you, too, Doc,” said Ross, smiling. “I couldn't help noticing you and Francis there looking like a pair of tourists out for the day. You actually look like you're enjoying yourself for once.”

“Ah'm nay that miserable, surely,” the doctor replied, his Scottish accent rising to the fore as usual when he became annoyed or irritated.

“It has been known,” Ross replied. “And hello to you too, Francis. How's things?”

Lees looked at Ross with a look of trepidation on his face.

“I don't like boats,” he said, miserably.

“Aye, ye'll be fine once we get going,” Nugent said as he reached out and patted Lees firmly on the back, almost knocking his unfortunate assistant from his perch on the bench seat.

Right on cue, a loud growl came from below their feet as the boat's engine fired into life and a pall of smoke emanated from the exhausts at the rear, adding to the grey envelope of fog that surrounded the launch. Sergeant Alan Beswick stuck his head out of the small wheelhouse and called to Constable Keys.

“Cast off Malcolm.”

“Right you are Sarge,” Keys responded as he tossed the mooring rope at the front of the launch to a third officer who'd appeared like magic out of the fog. He repeated the exercise with the rear mooring rope and pushed the launch off from the dock.

Beswick spun the wheel and the launch swung round and moved away towards the centre of the river, its bow pointing downriver towards the estuary and the open sea. Satisfied he was clear of any obstacles he shouted to Ross and his companions.

“Welcome aboard folks. Sorry I couldn't speak to you as you came aboard, but I've been making sure I have the exact position of the Alexandra Rose locked in to the on-board computer. In this fog we could sail within a hundred yards of her and not see her at all, so we need to be dead sure of our heading.”

“That's reassuring,” Drake whispered in Ross's ear.

“I'm sure you've done this many times, Sergeant,” Ross said, encouragingly to the sergeant, who shook his head.

“Actually, only once before, sir. We don't often get called out in weather like this. The river's usually dead in thick fog such as this.”

“Well, this time, it's nae the Mersey that's dead, but someone on it,” Nugent spoke up, much to Ross's surprise.

“Was that your version of a joke, Doc?”

“Not at all, Inspector. Just a factual observation.”

“Of course it was,” Ross nodded his head as he spoke.

“It was close though,” said Izzie Drake, grinning.

“I'm surprised you have on-board computer technology, Sergeant,” she added.

“Nothing but the best for the River Police,” Beswick grinned. “Seriously though, we had to move with the times. We couldn't function on the Mersey without the latest navigation and communication aids, even in our humble little launch here. You'd be surprised just what Morse is capable of.”

“Morse?” Izzie queried.

“Yeah, you know, like in Inspector Morse,” Beswick grinned, referring to the famed fictional detective created by the author, Colin Dexter. “She might be slow, but she always gets there in the end.”

Keys joined his sergeant in a brief fit of laughter.

A sound that Ross felt resembled the sound of a parrot being strangled suddenly burst forth from the roof of the wheelhouse as Beswick turned on the launch's fog horn as she headed out into deeper water. Compared to the deep, resonating sound he might have expected from a ship's foghorn, the police launch's twin air horns just couldn't compare.

Can anyone actually hear that from more than twenty yards away?” he asked the sergeant in command of the boat.

“Don't worry, sir. No one's ever hit us yet,” Beswick replied.

Yet being the operative word, Drake thought, but didn't say.

The muffling effect of the fog ensured that no sounds carried from the shore and they all felt as though they were floating through a dense and impenetrable grey cloud. The fog also had the effect of dampening the usual sounds one might expect to hear while navigating the Mersey Estuary and even the waves had bowed in supplication to the damp grey monster, being little more than tiny undulations that barely caused the launch to sway as it plodded along towards its destination. Ross looked across to where poor Francis Lees looked increasingly pale and worried. Ross couldn't help smiling to himself. It was a standing joke among those members of his team who regularly came into contact with Lees that the man's complexion was so pale, he looked deader than some of the corpses he worked with as Nugent's assistant. If Francis Lees looked paler than usual, the poor man must be really suffering.

“Mr. Lees isn't looking too good,” he said quietly to William Nugent. Lees didn't appear to have heard Ross speaking about him.

“Don't worry about young Francis. He'll be fine once we board the big ship. He feels queasy just looking at the ripples on Stanley Park Lake,” referring to the lake in Liverpool's 111 acre Stanley Park, a regular gathering point for family outings and coarse fishermen.

It was Drake's turn to smile. 'Young' Francis had to be at least thirty-five years old. He'd worked with Nugent for quite some years and the word 'young' was a definite misnomer. At the same time, she felt a degree of sympathy for him in his current condition. Her thoughts turned to the recent case and the similar affliction of Sergeant Carole St. Clair of the Falmouth police. Only the precipitous use of anti-sea sickness tablets, motion sickness wrist bands and an efficacious concoction produced by the wardroom steward of H.M.S. Wyvern had enabled her to cope with her lack of sea legs. Looking closely, she could swear Lees was turning green.

The fog was unrelenting as the small police launch made slow but steady progress towards the Alexandra Rose and Miles Booker took the time to quiz Ross on just how much he knew about the case so far.

“Very little information so far, Miles,” Ross said, ensuring that William Nugent could hear him too. The pathologist needed the information as much as the Crime Scene Investigator. “All I know is that the body was found by one of the ship's officers when he was doing a tour of the passenger accommodation to inform the passengers of the potential delay in reaching port due to the fog. The ship's doctor was summoned. He carried out an examination of the man, a Portuguese national I'm told and was unable to determine cause of death. The man hadn't exhibited any signs of illness during the voyage, hadn't consulted the doctor for so much as a headache, and the body showed no signs of violence. That's about it, so far, I'm afraid.”

“So why call us then if there's no sign of violence or external cause of death?” Booker asked.

“Ship owner's policy in the case of unexplained death on board, apparently,” Ross replied. “Keeps them in the clear, avoiding law suits from irate families. A police investigation is mandatory.”

“I see, so what do we do when we get on board?”

“Doctor Nugent and Mr. Lees will make a preliminary examination of the body,” Nugent nodded as if to confirm this, “and once the doc has finished it will be up to you to determine as much as you can, given the obvious limitations. The cabin will be sealed once you and Doctor Nugent have done your stuff, and if a full forensic examination is deemed necessary we'll organise it as soon as we return to shore.”

After what seemed an interminable age, accompanied only by the strangled parrot impersonation produced by the police launch's foghorn, those on board at last heard another sound, a deeper, more resonant blaring sound that could only be the foghorn of another, larger ship.

Sergeant Beswick cut the throttles, instantly reducing the speed of Morse to little more than a crawl. Constable Keys appeared from the wheelhouse where he'd stood beside the sergeant for the majority of the journey and reached under the port side bench seat from where he produced a gaff, a long, wooden pole with a brass hook attached, in readiness, Ross assumed to grab onto any dangling mooring lines suspended from the deck of the ship they were approaching.

Suddenly the sound of the larger ship's foghorn blasted out again and those on board the launch guessed correctly that they were nearing their destination. The deep, sonorous 'barp' of the Alexandra Rose's foghorn were in stark contrast to the tin-whistle-like, shrill screech of the police launch's own warning call.

“Told you the GPS system would deliver us right on the button, Inspector,” said Beswick, proudly, as, like a massive ghostly apparition, the stern of the Alexandra Rose materialised, wraith-like from the thick, all enveloping fog, the words Alexandra Rose, Sydney, in bold royal blue lettering now clearly visible on her rear transom. Beswick expertly manoeuvred the police launch alongside the ship, which, to those on board the smaller boat, assumed gigantic proportions the closer they came to her hull. Beswick could be heard as he engaged in communication with the Alexandra Rose's bridge officer.

“Ready, Constable?” he shouted.

“Ready Sarge,” Keys replied.

“Cutting power now,” Beswick shouted as the launch drew up beside a metal gangway, comprising a stairway that had been lowered in readiness for their arrival from the ship's deck. The sound of the launch's engine died instantly, a few vibrations running through her deck as the last revolutions of her propeller shaft died away.

“All yours,” the sergeant called to Keys.

“Making fast now,” the constable shouted in return.

Keys expertly reached out with the gaff and using the hook on the end, he gained a hold of one side of the steeply sloping stairway and pulled the police launch closer until he was able to use ropes attached to the gangway to make the launch secure in seconds. Ross found himself impressed by the speed and professionalism displayed by his waterborne colleagues.

“There you go, folks,” Beswick announced. “You have the skipper's permission to board. His name's Gideon, by the way. I've identified you all to him as a matter of courtesy, so he knows who to expect when you get up there.”

“Aren't you coming with us?” Ross inquired.

“No sir. We'll remain here with Morse in case we're needed elsewhere while you're on board. If that happens, we'll notify the Alexandra Rose and return as soon as possible for you. We only have the one launch you see, sir, so we need to be ready for any other emergencies that might need our attention.”

“I understand, Sergeant Beswick,” Ross replied. “Thanks for getting us here safely. How will I call you if I need you? I hope I won't have to radio in to shore and have messages relayed back out here to you.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Beswick, handing Ross a small, hand-held radio transmitter. “This is tuned in to our frequency. Just push the button on the side to talk and remember to release it so you can hear my reply.”

“Thanks again,” said Ross. “Right everyone, let's go aboard and see what's what.”

“Looks a long way up,” Drake commented.

“A bit steep too,” Nugent added.

“Is it safe?” Lees spoke for only the second time that morning.

“Don't worry,” Beswick reassured them all. “Just pretend it's your stairs at home. You'll be on board in no time.”

“My stairs don't sway from side to side as I climb them,” Drake said as she placed a tentative foot on the wide metal platform at the bottom of the gangway, before beginning her negotiation of the steps that led to the ship's deck.

One by one, they followed Drake up the gangway, Ross helping Lees with his equipment cases, Nugent carrying his bag, and Miles Booker bringing up the rear with his own 'bag of tricks' as Ross always referred to it.

Two minutes after Constable Keys had tied them up to the gangway, the party of police and medical examiners found themselves standing on the deck of the Alexandra Rose.

As first officer, Patrick Neary welcomed them aboard as each stepped from the gangway onto the wooden deck of the ship, installed by the owners to give newly arriving passengers the 'feel' that passengers on the old ocean liners must have experienced when boarding ships like the Mauretania, or Titanic perhaps, Ross and Drake both shared a frisson of expectation as their adrenalin levels rose at the beginning of another case for the Murder Investigation Unit.