I felt a sinking in my stomach. I’d read accounts of investigations on boats registered to the Bahamas and so on—one solitary policeman dispatched from the island to do a cursory report and get the issue off his desk as quickly as possible—and that, only where there was a clear sign of someone gone missing. What would happen in this case, where the only evidence that the girl had even existed was long gone?

Still, I felt better for having spoken to Richard Bullmer. At least he seemed to believe me, to take my story seriously, unlike Nilsson.

He held out his hand, taking his leave, and as his piercing blue eyes met mine, he smiled, almost for the first time. It was a curiously asymmetric smile that pulled up one side of his face more than the other, but it suited him, and there was something wryly sympathetic about it.

“There’s one other thing you should know,” I said abruptly. Bullmer’s eyebrows went up, and he dropped his hand.

“Yes?”

“I . . .” I swallowed. I didn’t want to say this, but if he was going to speak to Nilsson, it would come out anyway. It would be better coming from me. “I was drinking, the night before . . . before it happened. And I also take antidepressants. I have done so for several years, since I was about twenty-five. I—I had a breakdown. And Nilsson—I think he felt . . .” I swallowed again. Bullmer’s eyebrows rose even higher.

“Are you saying that Nilsson threw doubt on your story because you take medication for depression?”

The bluntness of his words made me cringe, but I nodded.

“Not in so many words—but yes. He made a comment about medication not mixing well with alcohol and I think he thought . . .”

Bullmer said nothing, he just regarded me impassively, and I found my words tumbling out, almost as if I were trying to defend Nilsson.

“It’s just that I was burgled, before I came on board the ship. There was a man—he came into my flat and attacked me. Nilsson found out about it and I think that he felt, well, not that I’d made it up, but that I . . . might have overreacted.”

“I’m deeply ashamed that a member of this boat’s staff made you feel that way,” Bullmer said. He took my hand, holding it in a viselike grip. “Please believe me, Miss Blacklock, I take your account with the utmost seriousness.”

“Thanks,” I said, but that one small word didn’t do justice to the relief that someone, someone finally believed me. And not just someone—Richard Bullmer, the Aurora’s owner. If anyone had the power to get this sorted, it was him.

As I walked back to my cabin, I pressed my hands to my eyes, feeling them sting with tiredness, and then I felt in my pocket for my mobile to check the time. Almost five. Where had the time gone?

Automatically I opened up my e-mails and forced a refresh—but there was still no connection and I felt a pang of unease. Surely, surely this outage had gone on too long? I should have mentioned it to Bullmer, but it was too late now. He had gone—slipping into one of those unsettling concealed exits behind a screen, presumably to talk to the captain or radio land.

What if Jude had e-mailed? Rung, even, though I doubted we’d be close enough to land yet for a signal. Was he still ignoring me? For a minute I had a sharp flash of his hands on my back, my face against his chest, the feel of his warm T-shirt beneath my cheek, and it hit me with such force that I almost staggered beneath the weight of longing for his presence.

We would be in Trondheim tomorrow, at least. No one could prevent me from accessing the Internet then.

“Lo!” said a voice from behind me, and I turned to see Ben walking along the narrow corridor. He wasn’t a big man, but he seemed to fill it entirely, an Alice in Wonderland trick of the perspective that made the corridor seem to shrink down to nothing and Ben grow bigger and bigger as he came nearer.

“Ben,” I said, trying to make my voice convincingly cheerful.

“How did it go?” He began to walk alongside me towards our cabins. “Did you see Bullmer?”

“Yes . . . I think it went okay. He seemed to believe me, anyway.” I didn’t say what I had started thinking after Richard left, which was that he had not got as far as he had by showing all the cards in his hand. I’d come out of the meeting feeling confident and appeased, but as I ran back through his words, I realized he hadn’t promised anything; in fact, he hadn’t really said anything that could be quoted out of context as unqualified support for my story. There had been a lot of if this is true . . . and if what you say . . . nothing very concrete, when you came down to it.

“Great news,” Ben said. “Is he diverting the boat?”

“I don’t know. He seemed to think it wouldn’t make any difference to divert now, that we’d do better to push on to Trondheim and get there as early as possible tomorrow.”

We had reached our cabins, and I pulled my room key out of my pocket.

“God, I hope this dinner isn’t another eight-course one tonight,” I said wearily as I unlocked and opened my door. “I want to get enough sleep to be coherent for the police in Trondheim tomorrow.

“That’s still your plan, then?” Ben asked. He leaned his hand on the doorframe, effectively preventing me from either leaving or closing the door, though I assumed it wasn’t that calculated.

“Yes. As soon as the boat docks I’m going there.”

“Doesn’t it depend on what the captain says about the boat’s position?”

“Probably. I think Bullmer’s speaking to him about it now. But regardless, I want to get this on record with someone official, even if they can’t investigate.” The sooner my words were down in some official file, the safer I’d feel.

“Fair enough,” Ben said easily. “Well, whatever happens tomorrow, you’ve got a clean slate with the police. Stick to the facts—be clear and unemotional, like you sound like you were with Bullmer. They’ll believe you. You’ve got no reason to lie.” He dropped his arm and took a step back. “You know where I am if you need me, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I gave him a tired smile and was about to shut the door when he put his hand back on the frame so that I couldn’t shut it without trapping his fingers.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said casually. “Did you hear about Cole?”

“His hand?” I’d almost forgotten, but it came back to me now with shocking vividness, the slow drip of blood on to the decking, Chloe’s greenish face. “Poor guy. Will he need stitches?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not just that. He managed to knock his camera into the hot tub at the same time—he’s beside himself, says he can’t understand how he came to leave it so close to the edge.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. He reckons the lens will be okay, but says the body and the SD card’s fucked.”

I felt the room shift and move a little, as if everything were going in and out of perspective, and I had a prickling flash of the photo of the girl on the little screen—a photo that was most likely gone forever now.

“Hey,” Ben said with a laugh, “no need to look so doom-laden! He’ll have insurance, I’m sure. It’s just a shame about the shots. He was showing them to us over lunch. He had some great pics, there was a lovely one of you from last night.” He stopped and put out a hand to touch my chin. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I jerked my head away from him and then tried to force a convincing smile. “I’m just—I don’t think I’d go on a cruise again, it’s really not suiting me . . . you know . . . the sea . . . the kind of hemmed-in-ness of it all. I really just want to get to Trondheim now.”

My heart was hammering, and I couldn’t wait for Ben to get his hand off the door and leave. I needed to get my head together—needed to work this out.

“Do you . . . mind?” I nodded at Ben’s hand, still resting on the doorframe, and he gave an easy laugh and straightened up.

“Sure! Sorry, I shouldn’t be gabbing. You probably want to dress for dinner . . . right?”

“Right,” I said. My voice sounded high and false. Ben moved his hand, and I closed the door with an apologetic smile.