Under Suspicion (11 page)

Next morning, Gerry summoned me for a so-called brainstorming meeting, its real purpose to tell me the course of action he’d already decided on, and I was feeling decidedly peeved. Best-laid plans… I had intended to hang around in my office at Exclusive to be at hand while Mrs Knight was making her pre-emptive bid for El Sueño. I wanted, of course, to share in any rejoicing, but if the bid failed, as it undoubtedly would if there was some scam involved, perhaps I could learn something from the flurry of excuses.

Gerry smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper on the desk. ‘Re this note of Vanheusen’s to Devereux, time for a little brainstorming session, Deborah.

Monique, Important you clinch the deal with Mansell at my fancy dress barbecue for the Feast of the Three Kings. Make sure he’ ll accept the invitation. Keep it between the two of us.’

He chewed his lip thoughtfully, ‘Important, eh? What we need is…’

‘…to find out
why
it’s important,’ I supplied unhelpfully. I knew he would find this irritating, so I couldn’t resist.

When my response was met with a withering look, I creased my brows in a faux-puzzled frown. ‘What we need is…’ I allowed the pause to lengthen…

His chair creaked as he planted his elbows on his desk and peered at me over the bridge of his fingers. ‘What
I
need,’ Gerry’s voice oozed patience, ‘is for you to gatecrash Vanheusen’s barbecue and eavesdrop on Mansell and Monique’s little tête-à-tête.’

‘You mean, as uninvited guest, break through the tight security and creep up on them
unseen
?’

‘Exactly.’ He plucked off his glasses and waved them airily.

Gerry had set me a Mission Impossible, but there had been no point in protesting. He’d only have told me I’d soon think of something. And I had. That is why, on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, when everybody else seemed to be heading home for the holiday, I was on the Titsa bus speeding along the
autopista
, on a shopping expedition to Santa Cruz, eighty kilometres from Las Américas. My objective was Calle Rosa and the fancy-dress hire shop La Fiesta.

I stared out at the tufa landscape, its flatness broken only by mini
barranco
ravines winding their
way to a sea hazy with fine brown dust blown from the Sahara. As the bus passed the airport, a plane was floating down towards the end of the runway. Just over a month ago, I’d been up there looking down on the
autopista
…

Truth to tell, I was quite enjoying being a passenger rather than a driver. I’d been to Santa Cruz once before, but the
autopista
can be like a racetrack, and when you’re behind the wheel, your eyes are on the road or the mirror. There’s little opportunity to take more than the most cursory of glances at the fishing villages huddled above little coves of grey pebbles… the barren badlands…the silhouettes of banana leaves behind tracts of translucent white plastic…across a bay, pink and yellow high-rise apartments stacked up one on top of the other clinging to a cliff face.

At last the road curved down to Santa Cruz. In Gerry’s opinion it was a fine city with an interesting mix of buildings, but that was hard to believe as the bus sped past factory blocks, the gasometer-like Cepsa oil tanks, the ugly grey refinery and, barricading off the seafront, a wall of cargo containers straddled by loading-gantries.

As the bus waited for the lights to change before swinging into the bus station, I had a close-up view of the Auditorium, Calatrava’s architectural masterpiece, a gleaming white blend of the shells of Sydney Opera House and the curving, drooping nose of Concorde. From this low viewpoint the drooping
Concorde beak was a huge curving wave frozen in mid-descent. Sunlight glinted off the white ceramic surfaces intensifying the illusion. In a rainstorm, water would stream off those curves and pour off the end of that beak in a torrential cascade. After my little bit of shopping, I’d come back and inspect The Wave at closer quarters. I might even wait till dark and see it floodlit.

The lights turned to green, the bus moved forward and swung into the bus station. I consulted my map. Every capital city has a famous location – Piccadilly Circus, Times Square, Place de la Concorde – and in the case of Santa Cruz it’s the Plaza España. Nearby, off one of the pedestrianised
avenidas
, was Calle Rosa and La Fiesta dress hire. It wasn’t very far to walk, only about a kilometre, but the shops, normally open till late, would be closing early tonight – just how early would depend on the shopkeeper’s inclination. I folded the map and boarded one of the circulation buses that would take me to my objective in less than five minutes.

Narrow streets, tall buildings and lines of shady trees make for a welcome coolness in the height of summer. On a late afternoon in winter, when the sun is low in the sky, not much light can filter down, but La Fiesta was easy to spot. Its brightly lit windows were spilling pools of yellow over the surrounding pavement. Behind the glass, the Three Kings, richly attired, knelt in homage to a slightly bored Christ
Child. In other tableaux, a couple of pirates sat on a treasure chest, a matador flourished his pink cape and a Mexican bandit twirled magnificent mustachios at a group of gypsy flamenco dancers.
Costumes And Fancy Dress For All Occasions
. What I needed was an impenetrable disguise. I’d find it here…

Inside was an Aladdin’s cave of costumes – hanging from the ceiling, pinned to the walls, crammed on tightly packed rails.

‘Señora?’ A turbaned figure in flowing robes detached itself from a group of models and advanced towards me.

‘I’m not sure what I want…’

‘No problem.’ The Turban waved an expansive hand, ‘Here, we have costumes for the fiesta. And here,’ he gestured flamboyantly in the other direction, ‘we have costumes for all the times.’ His hand hovered over a virulent green frog. ‘The señora likes this? Or this?’ He held up a belly dancer’s costume complete with yashmak.

‘Er…nothing too eye-catching,’ I muttered.

‘Perhaps the señora will find something to suit among these.’ He indicated the fiesta rails. ‘I will leave you to look.’ He bustled off and merged once more with his stock.

I inspected the packed rail. Not the snowman, and certainly
not
that reindeer with the red nose. How about the Santa Claus outfit? I’d swelter a bit in the heat, but the beard would be a good disguise,
and there’d be sure to be other Santas, so I’d blend in nicely.

I looked round for the assistant, spied the turban, and carried over the Santa suit. ‘I think this might do. Can I try it on?’

He paused in his struggles to fold a bulky costume into a small box.
‘Probadores?’
He inclined his head towards changing rooms at the back of the shop.

I lugged the voluminous red robes into a cubicle and closed the curtain. The jolly figure of Father Christmas has a distinctively rounded silhouette. What had not occurred to me was that it would necessitate much blowing up of an enormous inflatable cushion and a good deal of poking and fiddling to secure it in the supplied harness.

Jangled and sweaty, I struggled into the webbing. Encumbered by all that bulk, I felt like a grotesquely inflated Michelin Man. I bent down to pick up the red robe that had slithered to the floor during my combat with the cushions.

It was then that I discovered a truth about the human anatomy – increase in circumference of waist equals decrease in reach of arm. My fingers scrabbled in mid-air, brushed tantalisingly close to the floor, but not close enough. I paused for a tactical overview. Should I lean forward at risk of toppling over? If I went down on my knees, I’d never get up again. After a moment’s thought, I sat on the flimsy stool, performed a nifty pincer movement on the robe with
my feet, str-e-e-tched forward over the bulge and –
success
. I pulled on the robe, fastened the broad black belt round my waist, and studied my reflection in the small wall mirror at the rear of the cubicle.

Ho, ho, ho! Not quite what I had envisaged. My exertions had caused the harness to work itself up. The round Father Christmas paunch had now transformed itself into a mound that outrivalled the fabled bosom of Mae West. In an outfit like this, I wouldn’t exactly go unnoticed, and in the unlikely event of getting close enough to Monique and Mansell to eavesdrop, I’d probably ruin everything by toppling over at their feet in a flurry of red and white. No, I’d have to—

A woman’s voice rang out from the front of the shop, ‘I’ve called to collect my outfit. You
have
completed the alterations?’

Murmur from sales assistant.

Monique
. There was no mistaking those assured, self-possessed tones. She mustn’t see me. I wanted no association between fancy dress and myself. People with secrets are more than a touch paranoid. What was she saying? I strained to hear.

‘I’ll just try it on…the changing rooms?’

Clack clack clack
of heels on the tiled floor. I snatched up the Father Christmas beard, hooked it firmly in position and was pulling down the inflated bosom to its proper position when Monique flung aside the cubicle curtains.

‘Ho, ho, ho!’ I chortled in the deepest tones I could muster. ‘
Feliz Navidad,
señora!’

‘Oh,’ she gave a startled squeak, ‘excuse me, señor.’ And with a muttered, ‘Can’t be doing with this unisex changing-room nonsense,’ she swished the curtains closed.

I could hear sounds of movement from the next cubicle.
Whump. Rustle. Clunk
of the stool. I’d better make a few dressing/undressing noises myself. I struggled out of the robe with accompanying grunts. What next? I pulled the rubber stopper out of the Santa cushion.
Ppfrrzzzzzz
. It deflated in an explosive fart.

I heard a scandalised, ‘Well
really
!’ The curtain rings rattled as Monique pulled them roughly aside.

In the process of tugging off the Santa beard, I stopped. What if she or Mansell chose costumes that hid their faces? How could I creep up on them if—? I jammed the beard firmly back into position and cautiously twitched aside the curtains.

In a long white dress that sparkled from head to foot, The Snow Queen was gazing appraisingly into a huge mirror on the end wall of the changing room. As she turned her head from side to side, her crown and earrings, crystal icicles, glittered and flashed sparks of light. In the outfit Monique looked devastatingly beautiful. Jonathan Mansell would be an easy prey, a pushover for any plans Vanheusen had for him. Slowly I let the cubicle curtain drop back into place. I sat there listening to the rustle of clothing as she changed
out of the costume. I heard her cubicle curtain swish open and the
clack clack
clack
of receding footsteps.

‘The señora has a problem?’ the Turban’s voice called.

I jumped up from the rickety stool and flung aside the curtains. ‘I’m sorry to have taken so long,’ I mumbled indistinctly through the thick whiskers still firmly fixed behind my ears. ‘I was trying to make this costume fit me, but it is far too big. You have a smaller size?’

He shook his head. ‘That is the last one we have. It is very popular nowadays for
fiestas de niños
. Perhaps the señora would like to look again?’ With a sweep of the arm worthy of a conductor inviting the audience to applaud his orchestra, he indicated the rows of racks.

I deposited Santa’s paunch and whiskers in his arms and went off to rummage through the remaining costumes. Twenty…thirty…fifty…I lost count of the costumes I examined and rejected.

‘Nothing suitable. Nothing at all,’ I sighed to the hovering assistant. ‘I’m afraid I’ll—’

Behind his head, pinned to the back wall, was a palm tree, its trunk topped by a mass of thick green fronds. ‘Just a minute.’ I pointed at it. ‘How about that?’

His eyebrows rose in mild surprise. ‘The señora doesn’t think that will be too eye-catching?’

‘Not at all,’ I said with conviction.

This morning Monique had been quite specific. ‘New Year’s Eve is no excuse for abandoning clients who might have a problem, so I expect you to be on duty as usual in the foyer.’

Clutching my bulky carrier bag I arrived back in Las Américas at quarter to eight. The Alhambra was only a short taxi ride away. Exactly on time I settled myself in the striped pavilion, ready for action, or more likely, inaction. The minutes ticked by…

What was Millie up to? Had she taken a break from digging up the dirt on Vanheusen? Was she at this moment dolling herself up for the hotel’s dinner-dance? More minutes plodded by…

I sat there twiddling my thumbs and casting covert glances at my carrier bag. I couldn’t wait to try on that palm tree costume. ‘One size fits all peoples,’ Turban had assured me, and I’d had to take that on trust as there’d been barely enough time to leg it back to the bus station. How difficult was it going to be to fasten the damn thing up? Was the trunk closed with zip, studs or Velcro strips? Hardly professional to be examining shopping if someone did turn up to consult me, and if the person happened to be Millie, something that would set that investigative nose of hers twitching.

But by the end of the hour, no one had turned up with a problem, pressing or otherwise – not even Herbert G Wainwright with a grouse or two.

Gradually I became aware of a flurry of activity at
reception. Behind the marble counter a room maid, white-faced and shaking, was clutching at the lapels of one of the receptionists. I shifted my chair for a better look. He was making an awkward attempt to calm her, but she buried her face in her hands sobbing hysterically. It was pretty obvious that something serious had happened. I saw him snatch up the telephone and speak rapidly into it.

Whatever was going on, it was a lot more interesting than staring at an almost deserted foyer or a carrier bag of shopping. The other receptionist darted into the office to emerge with a rather flustered night manager. The first inkling that the incident might be of more than a passing interest came when manager Pablo looked over to where I was sitting, said something to one of the receptionists, then hurried across the expanse of marble towards me. His body language spelt Trouble. It was the last thing I needed when I was looking forward to a bit of R&R. It
was
New Year’s Eve, after all. As I’ve said, HM Revenue & Customs never takes a holiday, but…