One of Us Is Dead

31 Monday 3 October 2022

‘So how can I help you, gentlemen?’ Lance Sharpus-Jones asked insouciantly. ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and Detective Inspector Branson, if I’ve got your names right?’

The Eloise III crew member was a lot younger than Roy Grace had imagined — mid-twenties at the most. A public-school accent, a tanned I know I’m cool face beneath tight frizzy curls of straw-coloured hair, a puffa over a blue jumper, jeans and suede loafers, no socks. And plenty of attitude.

The relaxed way in which Sharpus-Jones sat opposite him and Glenn Branson, arms spread out across the backs of his chair and the one next to him, was a strong indicator to Grace of someone with nothing to hide. Nonetheless, he watched his eyes and body language carefully. ‘What did you have for breakfast?’ Grace asked.

The young man frowned, then laughed. But all Grace focused on was his eyes moving. They went left. He’d already seen, from the coffee that Sharpus-Jones was drinking, that he was right-handed. The eyes going left, in a right-handed person, meant they were going to the memory side of his brain, which indicated he might be telling the truth. If they’d gone right, to the construct side, it might indicate he was lying. Neither were foolproof but, along with other tell-tale signals of body language, in his experience they could be every bit as reliable as lie-detector tests.

‘A banana and an espresso,’ Sharpus-Jones said. ‘All I had time for. Otherwise I’d have stopped at a workmen’s cafe and had a full English.’

‘What was the name of your first pet?’ Grace continued.

He shook his head, bemused. ‘Is this some kind of bank security question?’

‘Did you have any pets, as a child?’ Grace asked, ignoring him.

‘Well, yes.’

‘What was the name of your first one?’

He looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes going left. ‘I named him Dunce,’ he said finally. ‘A Jack Russell cross with something. The stupidest dog on the planet — and the best.’

Grace gave Branson a faint nod, which he picked up on.

‘Lance,’ Branson said. ‘We appreciate you coming in. We’d like to ask you about the night that Rufus Rorke went overboard from the yacht Eloise III, as we understand you were the last person to see Mr Rorke alive.’

Lance Sharpus-Jones shook his head. ‘Seriously? This is all being raked up again? I thought it had been put to bed a long time ago — at the inquest, which was, what, eighteen months ago?’

‘Something has occurred that requires us to review the circumstances of Mr Rorke’s disappearance off the yacht,’ Grace said.

‘Something — what exactly?’

‘I’m afraid that’s all I can say at this stage, Lance. Could you tell us again what happened that night?’ Grace asked calmly, focused on his reply but also on his non-verbal cues.

He shrugged. ‘Sure. The plan had been that after we were clear of Bridgetown harbour and on course for Grenada, I would take over on the bridge for a four-hour watch from Richard Le Quesne. But because of the rough sea state, and he’s a very conscientious skipper, he stayed on at the helm. I was feeling a bit queasy — happens more than you’d think to a lot of yacht crew. I went to the stern to get some air and have a fag. As I stood there, suddenly Mr Rorke appeared, still dressed as if for dinner in a white jacket. He lurched towards me, and as the yacht rolled, he crashed right into me. He was very apologetic — and he reeked of booze.’

He paused to sip some coffee. ‘He stood leaning against the deck-rail and lit a fag himself, with some difficulty. The wind was strong and the boat was pitching and rolling crazily. I was about to go back inside, to give him privacy — we’re under instruction only to talk to our guests if they instigate the conversation, when I heard him retching. I glanced at him leaning over the rail, looking like he was about to puke, then turned and walked away, out of politeness.’

He sipped more of his mug of coffee. ‘I’d only gone a few steps when I heard a splash and scream for help. I turned and he just wasn’t there. Vanished. Gone.’

Grace saw genuine distress in his face. Sharpus-Jones wasn’t faking this.

‘For a moment I couldn’t believe it, I thought maybe he’d gone to the loo or something. But then I heard another cry from the sea just below me, and I realized he must have fallen overboard. I tried to see him, but it was ink black. I tried to remember the man-overboard procedure. Watch the spot, throw a lifebelt, shine a torch, then raise the alarm. I threw a lifebelt and a life raft into the water, grabbed a torch, but I couldn’t spot him. I heard one more shout — cry — but it was faint. I ran up to the bridge and the captain immediately turned the yacht around, while I put out a mayday, then radioed the coastguard. I then woke all the other crew members, got them up on deck with flashlights, looking out.’

He sat for a moment, looking like a ghost, as the memory flooded back. His voice cracked. ‘Oh God, I still wake up in the middle of the night, at least three times a week, wondering what I could have done differently that might have saved his life. I... I just — I—’

He was crying, Grace realized. He glanced at Branson, who gave him a nod. Enough.

After Sharpus-Jones had dabbed his eyes and calmed down, they thanked him, and told him they would be in touch if they needed anything more.

‘You don’t think I pushed him, do you, gentlemen?’ he asked, looking scared suddenly.

‘Did you push Rufus Rorke overboard, Lance?’ Grace asked, locked on his eyes again.

The young man opened his arms expansively and grinned again.

‘No, of course I didn’t... why... why would I have done?’

‘OK,’ Grace said. ‘Thank you, we’re grateful to you for coming in. We don’t think you pushed him, for one very simple reason. There is some evidence to indicate Rufus Rorke may not actually be dead.’

‘No fucking way!’

‘Anything you’d like to add to that?’ Grace pressed.

‘He went overboard. I’m one hundred per cent certain. As I said at the inquest, there is no way he could have still been on the yacht. And there is no way he could have survived in that sea. If he hadn’t been drowned by the waves, he would have been taken by sharks — as, from what I’ve heard, the evidence of the remains of his jacket showed.’ He was silent for a moment, then he asked, ‘Out of interest, why are you bringing all this up again? What’s making you think Mr Rorke is still alive? I’m telling you, man, there is no way he could have survived.’

‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you that, at this stage,’ Grace said. ‘All I can reiterate is evidence has come to light.’

Sharpus-Jones shook his head. ‘If he’s still alive, I’ll eat my yachting cap.’

‘I think we are done here,’ Branson said, closing his investigator’s notebook.