Under Suspicion

Title Page
Dedication
Preview
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
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About the Author
Copyright

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A
LLISON
& B
USBY

In the DJ Smith and Gorgonzola series

No Suspicious Circumstances

Under Suspicion

Our thanks to Alanna Knight for her advice, support and friendship.

In research matters we are indebted to the following: Cherry and Ray Legg, whose expertise in windsurfing contributed a vital element of the plot; the Maritime and Coastguard Agency for advice on International Maritime Regulations; Norrie Wilson for electrical know-how essential to the plot; and Elizabeth Scott who continues to keep us right on matters feline.

For those readers interested in the phenomenon of cats that paint (or find the idea totally incredible), we refer you to the works of art in
Why Cats Paint – a
theory of feline aesthetics
by Burton Silver and Heather Busch, published by Ten Speed Press, Toronto.

And thanks as always to our agent, Frances Hanna of Acacia House Publishing, Brantford, Ontario, for her ongoing endeavours for DJ Smith and Gorgonzola.

12.30 p.m. Playa de las Américas, Tenerife, Canary Islands. In five minutes Bill Gardener, undercover agent for Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs, would be dead. The order had been given. At this very moment the killer was purposefully making his way towards him along the pink-tiled pavement of Geranium Walk.

Bill Gardener sipped thoughtfully at his beer. He’d taken quite a chance this morning in snatching a look at the files in Devereux’s office. It’d been a bit of a scary moment when Security had burst in, checking to find out why, on a holiday, somebody was in the office. He’d expected it, had his story ready. And he’d got away with it. But what he’d found had been disappointing, nothing out of the ordinary, just photos of sold properties, contracts, that sort of thing. It hadn’t been worth the risk of blowing his cover.

He finished his beer and watched the foam slide slowly down the empty glass. It was a couple of
minutes after 12.30, and it must be 28
⁰
C out there on the exposed pontoons of the marina. He hitched his chair further back into the shade. The sun danced on the ruffled blue water, flashed off windows in the serried ranks of moored cruisers and spotlighted the white hulls of bobbing powerboats.

Seagulls screeched and squabbled over pickings thrown from one of the deep-sea game-fishing boats tied up at its berth. He’d always fancied going after big fish like marlin – or Ambrose Vanheusen, if it came to that. Of course, it wasn’t just a case of dangling a baited hook. That’s what drew him. It was a battle of wits, the outguessing your opponent’s twists and turns – in other words, the thrill of the chase. When the team had cracked this case, he’d book himself on a game boat, have his photo taken with his catch, just like that lucky guy over there.

It was by sheer chance, a combination of his angle of view and the harsh lighting of the midday sun, that he connected the T-shirted crewman with the photos he’d seen in the files. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. He knew now how the money-laundering scam operated. He had to hand it to Vanheusen. That scheme of his was pretty neat, could have run for years without detection. It had taken months of planning for HMRC to set up the operation and plant him undercover in Vanheusen’s HQ. Now he, Bill Gardener, was about to bring home the goods. He reached out his hand for his
camera phone, eyes still on the figure in the white T-shirt.

The thin blade of the spring-loaded knife reached its target. 12.35 p.m.

Jim Orr, senior investigating officer in Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs, for once looked ruffled. Nothing too obvious, but the signs were there in the way he fussily aligned and realigned the papers on his desk.

‘Sorry about the short notice, Deborah.’ He sounded weary. ‘Bit of an emergency in our Tenerife office. We’re sending you and your cat to help them out.’

‘So, it’s undercover in the sun for me, and a specialist drug-detection job for Gorgonzola, eh?’ I quipped. After my previous chilly assignment in the cold and mist of a Scottish summer, that sounded a bit of all right.

There was no answering smile. He broke the news about the murder of Bill Gardener. I opened my mouth to speak, but he hurried on. ‘With our carefully planted mole suddenly taken out, Operation Canary Creeper has ground to a halt. Many months of careful planning are about to go down the drain.’ He fell silent, mulling over the seriousness of the situation, softening me up for the request
he was about to make. ‘Then I thought of your cat Gorgonzola. You see, Ambrose Vanheusen, the target of this money-laundering investigation, has an Achilles heel.’ His thumb riffled the corner of the stack of papers. ‘To be more exact, he has an obsession with that pedigree Persian cat of his. And that’s where your cat will come in.’

‘Well,’ I laughed, ‘G’s definitely a Persian, but as far as
appearance
goes…’

A short silence fell as we both called up a vision of the decidedly moth-eaten Gorgonzola.

‘Yes, well…’ He gave the stack of papers another quick riffle. ‘After Bill Gardener’s unfortunate er… we’re going to need a replacement mole inside Vanheusen’s organisation. In his last report, Gardener said that he was on the verge of being able to prove that large amounts of cash were being couriered to this man Vanheusen by clients on inspection visits to his various properties in Tenerife. So his company, Exclusive, is almost certainly a front for money-laundering. By happy coincidence, Exclusive has just advertised for an assistant PA Leisure. I’m hoping that your ownership of a Persian cat, together with your experience in client hospitality, will convince Vanheusen that you’re the one for the job. Interviews are set for the end of the month. How do you feel about it?’

‘Well, er…’

‘In view of Bill Gardener’s murder, we’re not
instructing you to take this assignment in Tenerife, Deborah.’ His grey eyes regarded me steadily. ‘It’s entirely voluntary.’

A week later, as the plane made its final approach to Reina Sofia airport, I looked down on Tenerife, the scenario for Operation Canary Creeper. White fluffy clouds left their negative images on the surface of a sea rippled and silvered like frosted glass. Through the small window I could see the snow-capped peak of Mount Teide, the browns and greens of its jagged foothills, and nearer the coast, the shiny rectangles and rhomboids of plastic-roofed banana and tomato plantations. It seemed a paradise of year-round sunshine, warm seas, subtropical rainforest and savage lava moonscapes, all presided over by the dramatic cone of Teide.

But Eden had its serpent. That’s why Bill Gardener had come here. That was why I was here. Vanheusen’s current venture, the sale of luxury properties to wealthy clients, was almost certainly a money-laundering front for heroin and cocaine profits. On several occasions HM Revenue & Customs had come close to nailing him. And each time, fancy manoeuvres by his lawyers had got him off the hook. The Department had moved fast with the application for the post of assistant PA Leisure, complete with an armour-plated CV. Now it was all up to me.

In a last-minute attempt to find something that would give me the edge at that all-important interview, I flicked once more through the dossier on Vanheusen – police reports, newspaper cuttings, pages from a Sunday supplement. I pulled out the Lifestyle article and browsed through it for inspiration… All the usual stuff about the successful businessman… and a
double-page
photo captioned
Ambrose Vanheusen relaxes in his Orangery
. There was no sign of potted oranges, but the place was a jungle of exotic passion-flowers, pale blue plumbago and assorted unfamiliar tropical plants. The lacy fronds of a magnificent clump of tree ferns shaded a mass display of white moth orchids in antique pots – and a large black Persian cat lounging on a white velvet cushion. My prospective employer was sitting at a wrought-iron table. He was in his early thirties, mid-brown hair flecked with gold, beard and moustache closely trimmed. Except for those eyes, astute, calculating, pale against the tan of his skin, there was no sign that he was a twenty-first-century Al Capone, a smooth operator who’d run rings round both the Drug Enforcement Agency and the Fraud Squad.

Vanheusen’s obsession with his pedigree Persian cat was his weak point… How to bring up at the interview that I was a lover not only of cats but, in particular, of Persian cats? It would have to be done so subtly… I studied the picture again, seeking inspiration… The cat’s coat was thick, shiny and
luxuriant, and against the white of the cushion very, very black. I glanced over to where Gorgonzola was lolling in post-breakfast slumber. Pure Persians come in a limited range of colours, a good red being one of the rarest. G scored there, but the texture of
her
coat left much to be desired. To be honest,
everything
to be desired. She’d inherited the characteristic Persian face, but her coat was fluffy only in patches. One of her parents had been a full-pedigreed Persian, no doubt about that. The other must have been a scruffy gingery creature. Even as a kitten she had looked moth-eaten – no amount of brushing had made any difference.

Which reminded me… I put aside the dossier and retrieved the grooming comb from the drawer. ‘C’mon, G, time for your morning brush.’

Before I’d finished speaking, she yawned, stretched and leapt lightly onto my knee. At the first stroke of the brush, her eyes closed. A slow rumbling purr vibrated in her throat. Perhaps at this very moment Ambrose Vanheusen’s cat was undergoing the same pleasurable ritual. While I worked on G’s tangles, my mind was teasing away at how I could plausibly introduce the subject of cats at the interview, but ten minutes later all I’d achieved was a brush clogged with ginger fluff.

I scratched her gently behind an ear. ‘OK, that’s your lot.’

No response. She sat there swaying gently as in a
hypnotic trance, the opening gambit in what could often be a lengthy battle of wits. Something I wasn’t in the mood for today.

‘Gerroff, G.’ Before she could dig in her claws, I stood up.

She surrendered to the force of gravity with a half-hearted
miaow
of protest.

Game, set and match to DJ Smith. All very well, but the interview was getting close and I
still
hadn’t thought of anything. Abstractedly I picked at some stray fluff on my jeans. Fluff. Hairs, cat
hairs
. The very answer I’d been looking for. If there happened to be a few hairs from a red Persian on my jacket at the interview…long, silky, red hairs, guaranteed to make the owner of a black Persian salivate…

Gorgonzola’s reddest hairs – distinctively long and silky – were to be found at the end of her moth-eaten tail. Through narrowed eyes I gazed speculatively at her already recumbent form. Always a mind-reader, she twitched her whiskers, curled her tail round her and rested her chin proprietorially on its tip. Those hairs would have to be plucked. Cutting them would not give the natural effect I needed. Sensing my continued scrutiny, she opened one eye and shifted uneasily. The eye closed to a thin slit. A clear
Do Not Disturb
notice had been put up.

I tried bribery. I tried blandishments. All failed, even tuna chunks, her favourite. She merely sniffed suspiciously at the saucer and clasped her tail even
more firmly to her. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it was then that I resorted to Unscrupulous Underhand Means, re-enactment of that eighteenth-century poem
The Rape of the Lock
, or in twenty-first-century parlance,
The Snatching of the Hairs
. I fetched G’s on-duty collar with its miniaturised transmitter. Once I’d fastened it round her neck, she stood expectantly, tail erect. I pounced. One quick yank and I’d got my hairs.

I’d expected the ear-piercing
yo-ow-l
of outrage. What I wasn’t prepared for was the stunned look of betrayal in her wide-open eyes. In a gingery blur she disappeared under the bed.

‘Sacrifice in the Line of Duty. Sorry, G,’ I muttered, overcome with guilt.

Long and silky and red, the stolen hairs clung tenaciously to the sleeve of my green linen jacket as if they’d been glued there. If the smiling man lounging on the black hide sofa realised that I’d planted them as part of the HMRC operation to infiltrate his organisation, it would undoubtedly cost me my life. Bill Gardener had come under suspicion and…

Everything about him and the room murmured wealth. From his expensive Armani suit and heavy gold watch-strap, to the white alpaca skins draping the two black hide sofas, from the brushed-steel chamber of a striking hole-in-the-wall fire where pale flames flickered over grey ceramic pebbles, to the dramatic red, blue and gold Howard Hodgson
abstract, spectacular against black silk wall coverings. On a black lacquered table beside him, an ethereal white moth orchid floated out of an authentic Lucie Rie ceramic pot. Beside it, neatly arranged, were a laptop, a telephone and a leather-bound appointment diary, the only evidence that this room was an office rather than an art-lover’s salon.

‘As you must be aware,’ he flicked a microscopic speck of dust from a dark silk tie shot with muted iridescent colours, ‘the clients of Exclusive (Tenerife) are aristocratic, privileged, moneyed – the elite of society. So those who work for us must have special qualities too.’ After a stage-managed pause: ‘There have been many applicants for the position. But you, Ms Smith, have the X-factor, something which gives me confidence that you are indeed the right person to be personal assistant to my PA Leisure.’

‘Why, thank you, Mr Vanheusen.’ I was jubilant. Phase One of Operation Canary Creeper had been initiated.
These people don’t play around,
a cautionary voice said.
One slip and
…

‘All the applicants on the short list are intelligent, personable and experienced in the travel and holiday trade. However…’ His thumb caressed his upper lip. A moment’s silence hung between us.

I replaced a warm smile with a raised eyebrow.

‘However, only
you
have demonstrated that you are a lover of that prince of animals –
felis catus persica,
the Persian cat.’

‘How…how on earth do you know
that
?’ I widened my eyes in astonishment, careful not to overdo the surprise.

He grinned. ‘The evidence is there on your sleeve.’

Remember to look at the wrong arm
. I studied my jacket, frowning as if in bewilderment.

A glint of amusement surfaced in those pale eyes. ‘I haven’t got psychic powers, Ms Smith.’

Thank God for that. From my repertoire of appropriate expressions I selected an uncertain smile.

‘Try the other sleeve.’

‘Ohhh…’ With a suitable intake of breath I brushed frantically in a doomed-to-failure attempt to remove the long red hairs.

‘I shouldn’t worry about it. Those cat hairs singled you out for the job.’

Things were going exactly as I had hoped. It had been a near certainty that he’d home in on those cat hairs. I summoned up an embarrassed little smile. ‘Do I take it, Mr Vanheusen, that you yourself are the owner of a Persian cat?’

‘His picture’s on the wall behind you, Ms Smith.’

I swivelled round to look. Glowering down at me with malevolent orange eyes from a satinised steel-framed oil painting was the fluffy black Persian cat featured in the dossier. A disagreeable bad-tempered mouth indicated that The Prince, like
his owner, was nothing more or less than a beautifully groomed thug.

‘Samarkand Black Prince. Champion of Champions.’ Pride of ownership warmed his voice.

‘He’s wonderful!’ I breathed. ‘So
sweet
!’

I’d said just the right thing.

‘Most valuable – and most valued – cat in Tenerife,’ purred the owner of the Brute of Samarkand. He leant back. ‘And now, Ms Smith, tell me about
your
cat.’

I visualised moth-eaten Gorgonzola. She too was a Champion of Champions – as drug-detector for Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs in their war against heroin and cocaine.

‘I have to admit that she is not at all in the same league as The Prince.’ My voice carried a ring of unmistakable sincerity that I couldn’t have counterfeited if I’d tried. ‘Her name’s Persepolis Desert Sandstorm.’

He ran a finger thoughtfully over his lip, calculation lurking under those lowered lids. He reached over and pressed a keypad on the lacquered table. ‘Well, I think I’ve heard enough. Your background in travel and client hospitality is just what we’re looking for. I’d like you to start next week, if that’s convenient.’

I nodded, outwardly cool, inwardly elated. The couple of carefully arranged cat hairs had clinched it.

‘That’s settled then.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Monique, my PA Leisure, will set you right.’

The door opened. Tall, slim, elegant, Monique
Devereux would not have been out of place in the salon of one of the leading European fashion houses. Jacket and skirt were impeccably cut, shoes manufactured from the softest leather, jewellery understated and expensive. It was power-dressing with an ultra-feminine slant. Her dark hair swept smoothly upwards in a stylish French roll, accentuating large brown eyes and perfect facial bone structure.

The hand-shake was cool, the smile perfunctory. ‘Welcome to Exclusive (Tenerife), Deborah.’

Was there a faint note of hostility? I didn’t care. I’d surmounted the first hurdle. I was in.

Half an hour later, as the electric gates to the grounds of the Vanheusen estate swung silently shut behind my car, I hummed a little tune. Operation Canary Creeper was up and running. The groundwork of the past couple of weeks had paid off – those
dawn-to
-dusk explorations on foot and in 4x4 of the island’s most spectacular locations, tucked away, unvisited, unseen, unknown to the madding tourist crowd in their air-conditioned coaches. I’d been able to enthuse from first-hand experience when Vanheusen had asked me what ideas I had for the entertainment of clients between their scheduled inspections of his luxury properties. But it was that last-minute inspiration of the cat hairs which had proved to be the trump card. I was returning to report success.