What? ‘No, Lola, I didn’t know anything! Faking your own death and then leaving a pile of clothes is hardly normal behaviour.’ Fucking hell. I pause. ‘So it was you that wrote me that note? I thought it was from someone who’d seen me hit you!’

‘Yes it was me! I needed to get you out of your cabin so I could get myself in. I knew you’d wear some of my stuff if I left it for you, and that way, in case I’d missed anything – though I don’t think I have – if any evidence is found of me around the boat where it shouldn’t be, it can be put down to you wearing my old hoodies.’ She pauses. ‘Clever, huh?’

My head is spinning. ‘No. Not clever at all. I thought you’d killed yourself. I thought I was going down for manslaughter. And I don’t see … it all still seems pretty dangerous to me, Lola. It could all backfire on you, you know. On both of us.’

She waves her hand. ‘Point proved – I was right not to involve you from the start. You’d have refused to help and tried to talk me out of it. But it’s a great plan, and now that I’ve done the first bits, there’s nothing to be gained by you not getting involved. It’s foolproof.’

Can any plan which involves faking your own death really be foolproof? ‘But what happens now?’ I ask.

‘I’ll go back to my hiding place in the crew area. No one ever comes down. Why would they when they’re all living in the lap of luxury upstairs? All you need to do is bring me some food every other day or so. Rick was doing that but now obviously he can’t.’ She says this as dismissively as if he’s just left to go somewhere else, rather than him being unable to bring her food because she killed him in cold blood. ‘Then, when it’s time to disembark, you take me off in a suitcase, same way I came in.’

‘You came on in a suitcase?’

‘Yes! Well, a holdall, it was a better shape to fit into and I’ve still got it. Why so surprised? Look at me’ – she points from her head to her feet – ‘I’m a dancer. I’m tiny. And flexible.’

‘And then?’

‘Like I said! We hide out for a bit. Then we “meet”. Go somewhere else. And when the powers that be decide I’m officially dead, which given where I “fell” and the zero chance of survival shouldn’t be too long, you get a big payout and we buy a bar. Or I buy a bar, and you go to Monaco or somewhere flash and hook up with supermodels. Whatever we each want. The world is our oyster!’