CHAPTER ONE

It had been five years since I’d last seen Sal.

I was confined to a bed in the Star Amethyst’s crew hospital after being plucked from a pitching life raft in the middle of the Gulf of Alaska. Our ship, the Star Sapphire—sister to the Amethyst—had just gone down, surrendering herself to the sea after a raging fire had spared her the indignity of a knacker’s yard in India.

Sal was the captain’s secretary; I was the nightly entertainment in the TopDeck Lounge—Jason Davey, performing all your vocal and instrumental favourites, eight ‘til late.

When the Amethyst had docked in Vancouver two days later, releasing the Sapphire’s rescued passengers and crew to a scoop-hungry media, we’d parted ways with promises to stay in touch. And we had, for a while. But Sal wasn’t into Facebook or Twitter. She stayed aboard the Amethyst while I left the sea and went travelling. Our texts became less and less frequent until we remembered each other only on our birthdays and at Christmas.

And now, all of a sudden, here she was at the Blue Devil, five years older, her hair betraying little threads of silver, her figure still attractive but reminding me more of my mum than the love of my life—which was what Sal had been, albeit on a hopelessly platonic level, when we’d been shipmates on the Alaska run.

I have a regular gig at the club, playing guitar in a four-piece jazz combo. It was Saturday night and it was late—past 3 a.m. We’d just come offstage and were settling in to a post-show round of drinks before heading home.

I couldn’t believe it when Sal turned up at our table.

We hugged and kissed and I introduced her to my band.

“Rudy, Ken and Dave,” I said. “Sally Jones. The main reason I ran away to sea.”

Rudy, Ken and Dave knew all about my maritime history, but I always suspected they doubted some of my saltier tales. Having Sal show up in person provided an instant boost to my credibility.

“Drums, sax and keyboards,” Sal acknowledged, sitting down. “Hello. I enjoyed your show.”

“And we absolutely enjoyed having you enjoy us,” Rudy replied, ever the congenial host. “Something from the bar?”

“Thanks. A glass of Pinot Noir would be lovely.”

“Some things never change,” I said. “Are you still aboard the Amethyst?”

“God no. I finally came ashore. I’ve been the Assistant Manager at the Crestone for the past six months.”

“Marble Arch?” I guessed. “Big. New. Four stars?”

“Five, Jase, if you don’t mind.”

Her outrage was entirely fabricated. Sal was no corporate hack and never had been, even when, as the Sapphire’s top manager, her job had involved daily communication with StarSea Admin in Southampton.

“I always knew you’d land on your feet,” I said.

“It’s not a precise fit. But it’s better than sitting in a stuffy office juggling entries in some lazy executive’s personal calendar. I’ve found it difficult to…settle.”

I understood. All of us who’ve shared a career at sea have the same affliction. We can’t get used to a life that isn’t in motion, to views that always look out over the same roads, the same gardens, the same never-changing lamp posts. We crave the unforeseen and thrive on the unexpected.

“Anyway,” she said, “ship’s captains don’t need secretaries anymore. Everything’s digital. They were talking about phasing my job out when I disembarked. It was one of the reasons I knew it was time to go.”

Rudy returned with her wine—very generously poured—and a glass bowl filled with the last of that evening’s savoury bar snacks.

“I read about your brilliant detective work tracking down Ben Quigley.”

Ben was a musical legend. He’d dropped off the face of the earth a few years earlier and I’d been asked to try and find him by my son, Dom, who was studying film production at university and wanted to do a documentary about him for his course.

I’d eventually located him in northern Canada. And after I’d brought him back to London we’d both attracted a certain amount of media attention. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t enjoyed being in the spotlight.

“Thanks,” I said.

“The thing is, Jase, I was wondering if you’d consider helping me with something. Actually, it’s not for me. It’s for someone I met aboard the Amethyst when we were doing our Mediterranean itinerary a few years ago. She was…‘working’. And there was a complaint. I had to have her escorted off the ship.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Never a dull moment at sea,” Ken remarked.

“Never a dull moment just outside our front door, mate,” Dave replied, dryly.

The Blue Devil’s in Soho, which used to be wicked and sleazy and forbidden. Its dodgy reputation is much diminished now, with many of its historical buildings demolished or on their way to the wrecker’s ball. The area’s re-inventing itself behind builders’ hoardings promising vibrant new shops, chic restaurants and slick glass-walled offices. You can still catch glimpses of the past, though. Especially, as Dave said, just around the corner from our neon marquee.

“Holly Medford,” Sal said. “She was quite reasonable about it. Though understandably disappointed. More, I think, because it meant she was going to miss Venice than anything to do with lost earnings.”

We’d rarely been without our ‘working girls’ at sea, though the higher-class ones tended to avoid the Sapphire because she was old and creaky and decidedly unglamorous. Wealthier punters usually went for the newer and larger vessels. And ships’ officers tended to turn a blind eye unless the ladies caught Security’s attention. They were usually discreet, confidently self-employed, and, as far as I could tell, mostly in it for the perks: the opportunity to earn a shitload of money while they casually cruised the world.

“Rules are rules,” I said, philosophically, well aware of how often the rule about Rules was routinely disregarded.

“Anyway, Jase, she remembered me. I’ve no idea how she found me but perhaps she spotted me in connection with the hotel. I’ve been doing quite a bit of PR lately so my name and face are out there. She rang me and took me into her confidence. She was in a terrible state. I couldn’t refuse.”

“What’s her problem?”

“She’s borrowed some money to pay off a debt.”

“And…?” I prompted.

“She was working at Cha-Cha’s.”

Cha-Cha’s is a lap-dancing club, around the corner and one street over from the Blue Devil. Its website advertises discretion, relaxation and fun, all-night fully-nude performers, a VIP room and private booths.

“Seems a bit of a come down after Servicing at Sea.”

“Well, exactly. But I suppose the freelance market ashore wasn’t everything she anticipated. So, to try and make some more money she’d decided to start working as an escort at a club called Moonlight Desires instead. She’d made arrangements to meet the man she owed the money to at Cha-Cha’s. She had it stashed in her locker but when she came back after her shift, it was gone. Along with one of her G-strings.”

“And you immediately thought of me,” I said.

Sal laughed. So did Rudy. Ken and Dave. They knew me too well.

“I am serious, though, Jase. She’s terrified. She owes this man a significant amount of cash and I have the impression he’s not someone you’d ever want to cross. She’s had to go into hiding.”

“Why didn’t she report it to the police?”

“She did. But the loan wasn’t exactly above-board. And she’s a sex worker. They wouldn’t give her the time of day.”

“What is it you want me to do?”

“I thought perhaps you’d be able to find out who took it. And get it back.”

“I’m not a proper PI, Sal. And I’d have no idea how to even begin to investigate a theft.”

“I know that, Jase. But I know you, and how you have a sort-of instinct for getting to the bottom of things—”

“A somewhat appropriate recommendation,” I said, “given the circumstances of the theft…”

Another laugh around the table.

“I can pay you,” Sal said.

“I could never accept money from you, Sal. And I honestly don’t think I can actually do anything. The cash is long gone. Along with the thief.”

“Sleep on it,” Sal suggested. “You’d be doing me—and Holly— a great favour.”

“Ships that pass in the night and all that,” I said. “Like recovering alcoholics and Masons.”

“Seawater’s thicker than blood,” she agreed, sipping her wine.