“I’m looking for Elizabeth Lethbridge,” she announced to the first person she saw behind the counter, a young freckled boy who looked like he was in serious need of a break. Sweat trickled down his reddened face as he spooned out plate after plate of fish, trying to keep up with the endless queue of hungry people. “Elizabeth Lethbridge! It’s important.” The young man looked up, clocked her security uniform, thought for a second, and plonked down the plate he was about to charge.

“Mrs Lethbridge!” he called through an opening behind the counter. “Someone to see you.”

“Oi! You serving, or what?” A disgruntled man spat the words at the overworked server. The young man picked up the plate and carried on where he had left off.

Grace tried to see through the doorway, but there was no sign of anyone coming out. “Can you go and get her please? This is an important security matter.” She tried to sound stern and authoritative. It worked on the boy, but not his customer.

“He’s serving my lunch. You can wait,” the man grunted at her.

Grace looked him up and down. “It looks like you could skip lunch for a week or two and do just fine.”

“Why you cheeky—”

“Move along, sir, or I’ll have you cleaning toilets in the medical suite for the next month.”

“On what grounds?”

“Disrespecting a police officer.”

He laughed, a deep belly laugh. “You ain’t no copper, love. Not on this ship. Security guard, maybe, but not a copper. And you sure ain’t got no jurisdiction over me. Bloody yanks, thinking they’re in charge of the world.” He turned back to the server, but the boy had taken his chance to scarper. “Great, now look what you’ve done you silly bitch!”

Before he could stop her, Grace grabbed the man’s ration voucher from his tray, and read the name. “Joe Keller. Cabin 1024. I’m putting you down for twelve hours a week, toilet cleaning, in addition to whatever duties you currently perform. Fail to comply and you’ll find that this voucher will be refused for any further meals.” She slammed the paper back down on his tray.

“I take it you’re looking for me?” A dour woman with an ill-fitting chef’s hat stepped out of the doorway and addressed Grace in a booming voice that silenced Keller. She stood in a matronly manner, hands on hips, glaring at the security officer.

“Mrs Lethbridge, perhaps we could go somewhere private? I need to ask you some questions.”

“Come back later. We’re too busy now.”

“This won’t take long.”

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You were the one accusing one of my staff of nicking bottles of milk.”

Grace smiled as sweetly as she could manage. “I believe I already apologised for that misunderstanding.”

“I knew it. I never forget a face, me. I knew you were trouble the moment I saw you. Jumped-up police type, and American. Think you’re better than us.”

Grace drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, clenching her fingers into tight fists and stretching them again. “I was investigating a serious allegation—”

“Nonsense. You were poking your nose in where it weren’t warranted. That’s what you were doing. That’s why I complained to Max; got him to sort it out.”

Some of the people in the queue had stopped moving, listening in and gawping at the argument as the decibel level rose. Those behind began jostling and shoving, trying to see what the hold-up was. Grace realised she was in danger of letting things get out of hand.

“Mrs Lethbridge, I need to see the ration records. I’m coming through to the back now. If you don’t open the door, I will return with Max and we’ll see just where this ends up, shall we?”

The supervisor reflected on the ultimatum, before appearing to come to a decision. She jerked her head towards a door off to the left. By the time Grace reached it, it had been opened, allowing her into the rear of the service area. “Through ’ere,” Grace mumbled.

She led them through a huge preparation area, where food from the kitchens was brought down in bulk before being served, then into a tiny windowless office. Like most on the cruiser, it was sparsely furnished. A compact wood-effect desk with a single chair behind it, a filing cabinet, and a framed photo of the Spirit of Arcadia hanging on the wall. Lethbridge opened the filing cabinet.

“Which days?”

“The last week, please.”

The supervisor thumbed through some files, selected one, and dropped it onto the desk. The thick wad of paper inside spilled out, most falling to the floor in a mess. “Oops,” she said. “Well, I’ll leave you to go through that lot then. Like I said, we’re busy. Some of us have real work to do.” She stepped over the bulk of the paperwork and left Grace to begin her search for the Morans’ meal records.

• • •

The sun, which had been making an effort to break through the thick-grey-and black cloud, looked to have given up and gone into hiding once more. The murky sky only served to amplify the sense of foreboding as Stieg’s men slowly winched in the line connecting the tiny raft to the Spirit of Arcadia.

Jake and Martin looked on, standing back a little from the action. Stieg had always impressed upon them the dangers of a potential cable break. They stood as silently as the men working the winch.

The ship was still being carried forward by momentum, despite the power being cut. Its wake was greatly reduced, but as the inflatable drew closer, it bounced and danced across the ripples.

“How did he get out there without the prop-wash being a problem?” Jake asked, breaking the silence, but not the tension that hung thick in the air.

“He steered to the side, obviously,” Martin said, tutting.

“Right, of course. It’s just, I don’t see any oars in the raft. I assumed he hadn’t taken any.”

“Yeah, ’cause that makes sense, doesn’t it? Stieg’s a pro. He’s not going to go out without a way of getting back. If you have to make assumptions, try this one: the oars have gone wherever Stieg has gone.”

The raft was almost back with them. The last few metres were the most delicate. The fishing net was always deployed from the starboard side, as the Ambush was tethered to the port. Stieg had needed to board the raft though, and that meant using the tender platform on the port side. So the fishermen had to carefully manoeuvre the raft back between the two vessels. The Ambush had surfaced since they had cut the power, making the job at least a little easier. The men, dressed in thick wax jackets that they had found at Faslane, called to each other in clipped Swedish sentences. Jake didn’t need to speak the language to understand that the situation didn’t look good. One of them turned to him and shook his head.

The winch ground to a halt. Jake unfolded his arms and strode forwards, Martin following a step behind.

“No,” the fisherman said. “Not here.”

Jake leaned over the railing and stared down into the raft. It was, as he had thought, completely empty.

• • •

They met in a conference room on deck two, the last one that hadn’t been taken over by the school. It was used by the committee for their regular meetings and for their drop-in surgery sessions with the community. Jake was used to outpourings of emotion in that very room, most of it negative. Now he was among those professing shock and incomprehension at what had happened.

Nobody sat at the large oval table that filled most of the space. Instead, Jake, Martin and the two fishermen stood around uselessly, staring out of the windows. The ship was turning. Jake had ordered the manoeuvre, ignoring protocol which said that the committee must approve any change of route. There was no way they were going on without at least trying to find Stieg. They wouldn’t leave a man at sea. Coote could have stopped him, of course. Jake knew that. They were reliant on his nuclear reactor for power. He also knew that Coote would back him fully in front of the committee if they argued with him.