Blood in the Water Oliver Davies (ereader that reads to you TXT) 📖

one. Only, with his son Mads currently on board, the choice of name does seem a bit unfortunate.”

I’d spent a few minutes reading up on Mads Nielsen, on our drive back to town. The youngest of four siblings, Mads had graduated with an MA from the University of the Arts in London at the age of twenty-five. In the eight years since then, he had been in charge of managing the Nielsens’ far from insignificant philanthropic endeavours; scholarships, arts and sports funding, and donations to worthy institutions. With an annual eight-figure budget to distribute, when converted into GBP, it was a job that required at least some of his attention, some of the time, although a team of staff at Nielsen International probably dealt with most of the research and all the paperwork for him. All he had to do was decide which proposals were getting the funding and how much they could have. Mads seemed to spend most of his time attending gala events, taking sporting holidays and giving the gossip rags something to talk about, with a succession of equally photogenic young men and women adorning his side.

I waited for Shay to spit out his punchline, and after a slight pause, he managed to say it with a straight face. “Herre Mads Nielsen is currently roaming the area on Grinder.” The little snicker that had been bursting to get out escaped.

Alright, that was pretty funny.

We reached the dock and walked along it towards the Nielsen family’s little floating palace. A pair of deck hands or guests, who knew, were sipping at tall, frosty glasses of something orange as they wiped desultory cloths over the gleaming railings and fittings, which were in no need of any further polishing. Neither of them would have looked out of place in a top tier fashion shoot.

“Good afternoon,” I said politely and exhibited my warrant card when they turned to look down at us as we reached the foot of the gangway. “I’m Inspector Keane. My colleague and I would like to speak with Herre Nielsen. Is he aboard?”

The tanned young man, who had the build of a serious tennis player, came down the gangway to look at the warrant card and then nodded.

“Moment, please. I get.” He returned to the deck, put his drink down and disappeared through a door to the main deck salon. His companion, a tall, willowy girl with a more ‘Scandinavian model’ look about her, stared at us curiously.

“Nice jacket,” she said in heavily accented English, staring at Shay interestedly.

“Thanks.” He turned to me. “I wonder if everyone on this thing looks like those two. What is this? His personal travelling seraglio?” He was careful to keep his voice low enough not to be overheard.

“Don’t assume,” I chided him with a grin. “It could all be perfectly innocent.”

Mads Nielsen appeared on deck then, garbed in spotless white trousers and a cream, cashmere sweater. Actually, I decided as I took in the sight of him, Shay was probably right. The photos I’d seen didn’t do him justice. He stared down at us curiously before walking over to stand by the head of the gangway, his short, golden hair artfully rumpled, unlike my black mop, which was all over the place, as usual.

“May I help you, gentlemen?” he asked pleasantly, allowing us a brief glimpse of white, perfect teeth as he favoured us with his luminous blue-eyed stare.

“Herre Nielsen? Inspector Keane, Sir. We’d like to speak to one of your employees.” I opened up my folder and held up a copy of our CCTV shot for him. He frowned, as if trying to place the face. “He was sent to pick up a whisky order for you, when you were docked here last Friday,” I said helpfully, nudging his memory for him. His tanned, handsome face cleared.

“Oh, him. Please do come aboard, Inspector, and your colleague too, of course.” We walked up the ramp, and he inspected my warrant card carefully, sparing a brief, curious glance for the hunched figure of my cousin. Clearly, Shay’s jacket was making more of an impression here than my off the peg suit. Mads led us into the main deck salon, whose design and furnishings would have put most five-star hotels to shame. “Take a seat, please.”

He leaned back on a pristine, cream coloured sofa and Shay and I took the opposite one.

“May I?” He extended a hand, and I passed the photo over. “Yes, I think that is him,” he decided. “Min, call the engineers up here, please.” I heard a familiar-sounding electronic bleep of acknowledgement as a speaker built into the low, clear-topped wooden table between us came to life.

“Calling the engineers to your current location,” an artificial female voice assured him. It didn’t surprise either of us. You only had to look at this boat to guess what kind of tech she’d be kitted out with. I’m not sure, but I think our mutually disinterested failure to react to his fancy smart table intrigued him a little.

“I could not help noticing that your identification says that you work with the Inverness police, Inspector Keane. May I ask what brings you to Stornoway?” Accented or not, his English was both cultured and excellent.

“You may, Sir. I was sent over to take charge of the investigation of the murder that occurred yesterday,” I told him coolly.

“Murder?” He sat up at that. “I was not aware, I’m afraid. That is an extremely rare occurrence here, is it not?” He glanced over at Shay. “And your colleague, Chief Inspector? He also has experience with serious crimes?” As my cousin wasn’t wearing either a uniform or a suit, that was a reasonable question for him to ask.

“One of our support team of civilian specialists, yes. I am delighted to have his assistance.” That aroused his curiosity, of course, but he was too polite to enquire further.

“And the man in the photograph? You have reason to think he can assist your investigation?”

I nodded. “Currently, he is the