Under Suspicion (21 page)

‘Ah, señor, I’ve been trying to order.’ I flashed him a winning smile. ‘Would you bring me a coffee?’ I slid a ten euro note over the table, adding the Spanish for ‘Keep the change’ and another smile, conveying
mucho
gratitude.

‘At once, señora.’ We’d come to an understanding. My observation post was safe.

But in these few vital moments, I’d almost missed the exchange. Sinclair was passing across a rolled-up magazine. Lisa’s hand had stretched out to take it. I reached forward to press the
capture
button.

‘The señora did not say if she wishes the coffee
con leche
.’

Shit, shit, shit
. The waiter was blocking the camera’s view of the mirror. It was essential to obtain photographic evidence of the handover, and I wasn’t going to get it. An apologetic, ‘Well you see, I was
busy ordering coffee and chatting up the waiter,’ wouldn’t go down too well with Gerry.

‘
Si, con leche
,’ I said and he moved aside.

The magazine had been withdrawn back onto Sinclair’s lap while a waiter manoeuvred plates, saucers and beer glasses into position on the stylish but somewhat bijou table. Saved. To my rescue had come a deus ex machina in the shape of their lunch order. The tension of the thwarted exchange was reflected in Sinclair’s set shoulders and Lisa’s unnaturally stiff pose and clenched hands.

In the mirror I watched the waiter slip the bill under the menu holder, swing the tray under his arm and turn to another table. Sinclair’s hand closed on the magazine. I reached forward and rested my finger lightly on the camera phone’s shutter button. The magazine changed hands.
Click
. Digital capture.

Lisa fumbled in the pink tote bag and pulled out a video cassette box…
click
…and dropped it on the floor. Her fingers closed over the box…
click
… She was levering herself upright… She stretched out a hand to Sinclair…
click
… The cassette case with its cover pic of snow-capped Teide and red poinsettias was being slipped into a pocket in the leg of Sinclair’s green trousers…
click
.

I punched a number into my mobile, texted, ‘
La
Playa Caf Blu tbl 4
’ and ‘
Go
’.

My coffee arrived. I sipped it slowly. Lisa was forking the last piece of lettuce into her mouth when
the unmarked car drew up outside. Seconds later four
Guardia Civil
officers sprinted through the open doorway and surrounded their table. No opportunity for Sinclair to get rid of that incriminating video case. No opportunity for Lisa to pocket the wad of banknotes and drop the magazine. It was one of the slickest snatches I’ve seen. In less than two minutes the
Guardia
scooped them up and drove off, blue flashing light now clamped to the car roof.

It seemed a pity to waste that postcard. I drew it towards me and added,
Gomera is very quiet. Nothing much ever happens here,
and addressed it to Jason.

My lunch with Victoria and Herbert G went rather well. Their evident overindulgence in palm honey liqueur, and my elation over this first real success for Operation Canary Creeper, cast a blissfully euphoric glow over our simple picnic on a secluded beach.

Next morning I was still on a high; you know how it is, humming away to myself in the Exclusive office, all life’s little difficulties surveyed through rose-tinted glasses. I could even find a touch of classical romanticism in the heavy brocades and ugly dark furniture inflicted by the late unlamented Cousin Ashley. Or view with equanimity this note from Monique.
Be a dear
, it cooed,
and dash off these invitations. Won’t take you a minute
. Attached were four pages of addresses.

Rose-tinted glasses still perched on nose – at least I wasn’t being asked to write them out by hand – I switched on the computer. While the mail-merge programme opened, I studied one of the invitations. Inscribed in gold lettering on red card were the words,
Ambrose Vanheusen invites you to the unveiling of the Art Work commissioned in honour of Samarkand Black Prince.

‘
Explain
!’ The words rang out like a pistol shot.

My arm collided with the stack of invitations, scattering the blood-red cards over the floor like the splatter from some dreadful massacre. Hands on hips, eyes narrowed, face flushed, Monique stood framed in the doorway, in her black silk shirt and black designer trousers the epitome of an avenging gunslinger making his entrance to a Wild West saloon.

‘I don’t know what you…’ I trailed off.

‘I – think – you – do, Deborah.’ Each word was rasped out. She strode forward, melodramatically planting both hands on the desk, arms straight. ‘Allow me to aid your memory, my dear.’ Her eyes bored into mine. ‘
Nudes
.’

It took a second or two to register that she was referring to Wainwright and the
Naturaleza
mural. I fought against an overpowering desire to giggle. Laughing would only make matters worse. Biting my lip, I gazed down at the desk.

‘You understand me, I see,’ she stood up, arms folded.

I nodded. ‘Mr Wainwright has—’

‘—has just told me he is not going to sign the contract for the luxury apartment in Los Cristianos. And when I asked him
why
,’ she took a deep breath, ‘he said something like, “Can’t take the risk of nudes on the beach in front of the condo” and said
you
knew all about it.’ The angry flush deepened. ‘
Well
?’ She didn’t pause for an answer. ‘I was right. Ambrose should
never
have hired you.’ Two fiery spots burnt
in her cheeks. ‘You were unreliable from the outset. And when it came to following instructions,
totally
unreliable…the nerve of gatecrashing a private party…thanks to your meddling we’ve now lost another client…’

Unstoppable. I let it all flow over me. I was heading for dismissal again, and this time there’d be no hope of reinstatement.

The fiery spots burnt brighter. ‘A lot of money is involved…and now that the casino project’s fallen through…’

I mustn’t make eye contact, mustn’t betray any interest in the casino.

‘…absolutely
central
to Ambrose’s plans. Without it—’

‘
Monique
.’ Vanheusen stood in the doorway, in his tone and expression an unspoken warning.

The ensuing silence crackled with tension.

Chwunk
. A car door closed in the courtyard below.

His suave mask slipped back into place. ‘Ah, Deborah, I see you’re dealing with the invitations. Leave them for a moment, will you? Monique can handle it.’ A sharp glance in her direction. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Deborah. We’ll have a little chat over coffee.’

Her lips compressed in a thin, angry line. It would be guerrilla warfare in the office from now on, if I escaped being sacked, that is. But as I followed
Vanheusen, I’d something more immediate on my mind. The subject of this little tête-à-tête could only be Persepolis Desert Sandstorm. And no matter how prettily packaged, it would be a demand, not a request. A demand for a mating with that thug of a cat of his, I was sure of it.

But during half an hour of pleasant chat about this and that, the subject wasn’t brought up at all.

‘Let’s cut out all this formality, Deborah,’ he’d said. ‘It’s Ambrose from now on.’ Liqueur bottle poised, his smile was warm. ‘A toast to The Prince and Persepolis?’

I left clutching my invitation to the Unveiling of the Art Work, an invitation personally presented by the manicured hand of Ambrose himself. Disturbingly there’d been no mention at all of mating our moggies. As I turned at the door to smile my farewell, he was sitting there, fingers interlaced, thumb thoughtfully stroking his upper lip, calculation in those pale eyes. That really set the alarm bells ringing.

It had, of course, been on the cards from the start of Operation Canary Creeper that Vanheusen might take too close an interest in Gorgonzola. That coffee tête-à-tête was definitely an amber alert.

The next day amber stepped up to red when Vanheusen made his move via a surprisingly cordial phone call from Monique.

It began with a warm, sisterly, ‘Ah, Deborah,
so glad to have caught you.’ Yesterday it had been daggers drawn, today it was best buddies. ‘Just to let you know that the venue for the farewell reception has been changed from the Alhambra to
Samarkand Princess
. The limousine will collect you and our guests from the Alhambra tomorrow at 11 a.m. Return from the yacht will be at about four.’

On the surface what she’d said seemed harmless enough. What alerted me was the sudden change of venue to Vanheusen’s yacht. There must be a hidden agenda. Once out at sea I’d be safely out of the way. Using a passkey they’d slide into Calle Rafael Alberti numero 2 with that plump little Reikimaster in tow. And Gorgonzola would be at their mercy. That velvety voice, those caressing hands, would oh-so-expertly lure her into a carrier. I could visualise it all. I’d return to an empty house with no signs of forced entry. It would appear that G had strayed or wandered off. That would be their plan, or something like it.

It was time to set in motion the prearranged measures for Gorgonzola’s early departure. I stared into her copper eyes and wondered how she would cope. She hated flying. Up to now I had always been there to pick her up within an hour of the plane landing, but this time… And then, accustomed as she was to home comforts, HMRC’s kennels were no place for a cat, especially a cat of sensibilities… She stirred uneasily under my scrutiny, head lowered, pupils contracting to vertical slits.

If Vanheusen got his hands on her, he’d soon discover that she was no use for breeding. In a cold rage, he would turn his attention to me. He’d want information out of me, so there’d be no quick breaking of the neck or dashing out of brains for G – or for Deborah Smith. Those manicured hands would go to work on
her
. And he’d know just the way to do it. I would be forced to listen to her cries. Look into those pain-filled, pleading eyes while…

I picked up my mobile and rang Extreme Travel.

‘Hi, Jayne. It’s Debs. About the cheese I was delegated to buy for the party…I’ll be tied up all day tomorrow at Exclusive’s farewell reception. Could you collect it for me? Tomorrow, about ten? That’s great. Owe you one.’ A prearranged coded message for G to be removed to safety and repatriated to the UK.

But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I’d have to concoct a story to explain her disappearance to Vanheusen. Lost, stolen, strayed? I stared thoughtfully at Gorgonzola. She could be run over while I was away all day on the yacht, the corpse collected by La Caleta Cleansing’s Rapid Response squad. And I’d find it easy enough to act distraught. I’d only have to picture Vanheusen’s torturing hands.

‘C’mon, G,’ I said, gathering her up in my arms. ‘Last chance to listen to a
madrelena
from Jesús before you go.

Next morning, at ten o’clock, a white van bearing the logo
Electrodomésticos
drew up outside my door. Two burly men in green overalls heaved onto a trolley a large cardboard carton, contents one new under-
worktop-size
three-star refrigerator. The battered fridge they wheeled out five minutes later contained a wicker cat-carrier, contents one hopping-mad red Persian cat.

‘Oooh.’ Victoria was wide-eyed, her mouth an O of astonishment. ‘When you said “yacht”, I thought you meant one of those little things with sails. I don’t mind telling you, dear, that I thought it was all going to be a bit uncomfortable. Not to mention cold.’ She fingered the buttons of her cashmere cardigan. ‘I needn’t have worried, need I, Herbie?’

A grunt from Wainwright. His eyes flicked from the white four-decker ship to the lavishly illustrated leaflet in his hand. ‘Nothing chintzy about this guy Vanheusen. Getta hold of this…
58,000-gallon
fuel tank.
Seems it can barrel from the South Pole to the Arctic without gassing up.’

‘Why on earth would anyone want to do that, Herbie? All those shopping opportunities missed. Now
this
is more like it.’ Her finger stabbed down on the picture of an indoor pool decorated in Greek temple style. ‘This is what
I
call luxury.
A 12-seater spa pool with a hundred massage jets.
Oooh, lovely.’

He didn’t seem to have heard. ‘There’s a tackle room with fifty fishing rods—’

‘And for those who want to build up an appetite for lunch, a couple of jet skis and three sailboards,’ said Vanheusen’s voice from above our heads. He was leaning on the rail, the very image of the millionaire playboy, tanned skin, glints of gold in his hair, casual white outfit no doubt costing the earth. His eyes rested on me. ‘Yours to try out, Deborah. You told me the other day you were into windsurfing.’

Mr Affability himself. Well, why wouldn’t he be? Once we set sail his men would swoop on G. By this evening Persepolis Desert Sandstorm would be his.

During coffee, held on the after-deck patio, we kept fairly close to the coast. Vanheusen pointed out landmarks and played Mine Genial Host to perfection, like all conmen, a master of psychology. Within quarter of an hour he’d subtly pinpointed our interests, smoothly playing each of us, reeling in and letting us run, till he’d hooked us all on some splendid offering on the yacht. Half an hour later, in the Spa Suite Jacuzzi, a hundred watery fingers were massaging a blissful Victoria. In the tackle room Herbert Wainwright was in his element sizing up each rod, assessing the balance – and finding a reason to reject.

As for me, I was now lolling on one of the white suede sofas, listening to the concealed hi-fi system softly playing Beethoven’s
Romance No.2 in F,
surround-sound of course. Alone. Vanheusen had retreated to his cabin to take an urgent business call.
I could make a pretty good guess as to who would be on the other end.

Lolling on the sofa, like Brer Rabbit I was ‘lying low and saying nothing’ – but thinking a lot. Before I had experienced the sybaritic pleasures of
Samarkand
Princess
, I’d always had it in my mind that a life on the ocean wave wasn’t for me. I’d thought of it as cold, often wet, and all too frequently nausea-inducing, to be endured rather than enjoyed. Now here I was in a lounge stunning in its stark minimalism, sipping champagne, allowing myself one glass only, of course. An exploratory toe confirmed that the polished teak floor was the real thing, not laminate. The walls were a shadowy-white, sea-mist grey, I suppose you’d call it, if you wanted to keep the marine ambience. The soft white leather sofas were ever so stylish but impracticably low-backed. A Milky Way of downlighters sparkled on the ceiling. I’m a sucker for new technology – except, as you will have gathered, of the boys’ toys kind – so I resisted for a full thirty seconds before stretching out a hand to the lighting touch-pad on the white marble coffee table, buttons variously labelled fade up,
fade down, moonlight blue, dawn pink, forest-glade green
. I pressed
forest-glade green
. Very restful…the crystalline-white petals of that ostentatiously extravagant planter of moth orchids were now a luminous aquamarine; that artistic plate of yellow lemons had magicked into a plate of limes. With all these lighting effects there’d
be no need to change the decor or accessories. Maybe Tomás could fix me up something similar in Calle Rafael Alberti…

I closed my eyes and envisaged Vanheusen in his suite, hunched over a large-scale map of La Caleta, inching his Reiki-master marker ever closer to Calle Rafael Alberti, numero 2.

‘Pleasant dreams?’

I opened my eyes. He was lounging on the sofa across from me, thumb thoughtfully stroking his upper lip in that strangely unsettling gesture.

‘Mmm,’ I said, smiling inwardly at the thought of G’s bowl of Cat Snax left prominently in the kitchen, and the thugs sitting there impatiently waiting for her. He’d be wondering why that ‘mission accomplished’ call hadn’t come. The smile reached my lips. ‘Just abandoning myself to the life of luxury, er…Ambrose.’

He laughed. ‘Not much life in a one-day visit. A long weekend, now…’ His eyes measured me for his bed.

I set the empty glass down on the side table. ‘You’re forgetting I’ve a cat to look after. What would Persepolis do while… No, I couldn’t leave her.’ Perhaps that was a mistake. He’d be bound to offer G and me joint accommodation on board,
plus
a personal audience with Black Prince.

‘I think you’ll find that you won’t—’ He stopped. His turn for the secret smile? ‘Well, the offer stands.
If you’re ready, I’ll show you the rest of the yacht. You’ll see what you’ll be missing…’

And, much as I disliked the man, I had to hand it to him. The modern furnishings were of the highest quality, nothing standard, or off even the most expensive peg. Everything had been specially commissioned, from flower vases to cushion covers, from carpets to bathroom taps. I would never, of course, admit to Gerry and Jason that I’d been impressed. In arguments with them I’d dismissed boats like this as no better than glorified floating caravans, cramped and hot. But Vanheusen’s yacht was designer boutique, spa, private island hotel, all rolled into one – guest apartments and bathrooms to die for, and a state-of-the-art thalassotherapy suite, a marvel of mirrored ceilings and picture windows, sea-green tiling and miniature palms in terracotta pots. I’d have lingered, open-mouthed like some country yokel, but he whisked me through them all with an airy wave of his hand.