I am fully expecting neither Heracles or the police ever to get to the bottom of what really happened. With so many of us on board that night, it’s not like they can interview two thousand crew and six thousand or so passengers. And the day after Lola went missing, we docked, and most of the people on board went their separate ways. It would have been impossible to keep everyone in place long enough to question everyone. And they’d have needed interpreters, because a lot of them didn’t even speak English. Plus, as we were out at sea when it happened, in international waters and with no body, it’s possible there won’t even be an inquest. Like the crew and the passengers, the police will move on quickly and Lola will soon be forgotten, probably by everyone except me.

It doesn’t happen often, people going missing from the ships. And the cruise companies don’t shout about it when it does. On the rare occasions it hits the papers, it’s usually because whoever went over has a family who is desperate to know what happened to their loved one and has made a big fuss. They write to MPs and embassies, they set up Facebook groups and GoFundMe campaigns, some of them even employ private detectives. But even when all that goes on, there are rarely any definite answers found. That’s what I’m hoping for. Lola is gone. The full truth coming out won’t help anyone. Not her, and definitely not me.

At the end of the day, I go back to my suite and run myself a bath. It’s a two-storey suite with one of those free-standing baths for two people with jacuzzi jets on the upper floor. It takes ages to fill but it’s worth it. When I’m not working, there’s very little else to do as I’m hardly in the mood for drinking in the bar with the others, so I like to spin out these mundane activities for as long as possible. I tend to lie in the bath and look at the stars through the glass wall, then I get out and wrap myself in a huge fluffy robe and maybe watch a film on the enormous TV in the living room. Or I wallow in the water even longer and watch something on the smaller TV in the bathroom, though sometimes the steam makes it tricky. I’ve nicked some of the ‘suite-level’ toiletries from the supply cupboard; they’re nicer than the bog-standard ones they shove into cattle class – not that we’re supposed to be using those either, but whatever. It’s the little things that help me get through the days. As I ease myself into the hot, scented water tonight, I think of Lola’s lifeless body in the cold and churning ocean and can’t help but let out a sob.