Under Suspicion (3 page)

I stared at the balding figure in front of me. ‘What exactly do you mean, Mr Wainwright?’

‘My bags. I’ve had to tote them from the baggage conveyor way back there.’ The thick lenses flashed impatiently. ‘I thought you guys collected them as part of the service.’ He unzipped a pocket in the
back of a case, and pulled out the glossy
Exclusive
brochure. ‘Let me quote:
Have your every need catered for while you search for your dream property in Tenerife.
Leave everything to us.
’ His eyes, now a twin-barrelled shotgun of accusation, had me lined up in their sights. ‘Guess I’m a victim of misrepresentation, ma’am.’

I glued a smile to my lips. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wainwright. I’ll phone the driver to come and help me with your luggage.’

Operation Canary Creeper was going to demand
a lot
in the way of self-control, I thought to myself as I trailed after the driver with one of Herbert G Wainwright III’s heavy suitcases.

I left the abominable Wainwright III and the other guests ensconced in their suites at the Alhambra and made my way back to Extreme Travel. Professionals like myself don’t make many mistakes. Those who do, end up dead. I should have been checking the rearview mirror. Instead, I was fuming over the spoilt, childish behaviour all too often indulged in by the ultra-rich, and I must admit that I allowed my guard to slip.

I parked on a vacant lot, a piece of about-to-become real estate, probably time-share, switched off the ignition and half-opened the door. On autopilot I glanced in the wing mirror. In my line of business you develop an instinct for when you’re under observation, though it’s nothing you can quite put your finger on or explain. That blue Peugeot with the
star-shaped dent in its radiator, I’d seen it before, at the airport less than an hour ago, when I was trailing back to the limousine with Wainwright’s case. One of the case wheels had hit the raised corner of a paving slab. The heavy piece of luggage had almost wrenched itself out of my hand. I’d just managed to prevent it toppling onto the road right in front of the same Peugeot that was now parked two doors down from the Extreme Travel office. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. It was careless of them to deploy something so distinctive, but then I expect they’d counted on me driving straight off with the newly arrived clients, not lugging a bag around Arrivals.

I’d had the door half-open a fraction too long. A dead giveaway if there were hostile eyes in the blue Peugeot. I turned the hesitation into a sudden remembrance of something I needed from the glove compartment. Reaching over to the passenger seat, I flicked down the flap and rummaged for a moment or so. I pulled out a sheet of paper, and with it in one hand and the Exclusive folder in the other, clambered awkwardly out of the car. I balanced the folder on the car roof while I stuffed the piece of paper into my bag. Then I locked the car, and without even a glance at the Peugeot, walked briskly across the road and let myself into Extreme Travel.

I’d hit the office at siesta hours, so Jayne, the
dumb-looking
blonde who warded off any prospective client, was no longer on duty. From the other side of the
mirror, I’d often admired her in action as the hidden microphone relayed her wide-ranging and inventive excuses for being unable to take a booking – floods in the Amazon basin, landslips in the Himalayas, border closings, termites causing sudden collapse of a Rest House – all little difficulties in far-flung places no one had heard of or cared about. There could be no checking up. For a particularly persistent client, she’d make a provisional booking, a booking that later had most regrettably to be cancelled.

On this occasion I had no coast-is-clear smiles for the mirror. Those behind the one-way glass would pick up the warning. Innocent activity is the best camouflage. I deposited the folder on the desk and busied myself finalising the details for my first Exclusive excursion. I had to make sure that everything ran like clockwork, for Monique would take a positive delight in reporting any incompetence to Vanheusen. And if he sacked me, Operation Canary Creeper would be back to square one.

Sunlight streamed through the rainbow logo on the plate-glass window, tinting the papers spread across the desk. I studied the checklist for tomorrow.
Transport, Pick-up time, Journey time, Reservations at restaurants, Photo
… A shadow fell across the papers. Someone had paused outside the window, but I didn’t look up. Whoever it was would be caught on camera. The shadow lingered, and moved past.

For another five minutes I continued to work on
the wording for my Exclusive excursion. Monique had harped on ad infinitum that Exclusive’s leisure activities had to be
seen
to be different. So the term
Excursion
wouldn’t do at all.
Trek
sounded too physically demanding, and
Expedition
ditto.
Jaunt?
Cheap and nasty. I settled on
Outing
. That should give the right nuance – something special, something to look forward to… Finally satisfied, I stretched, yawned and tidied all the papers into a neat bundle. I slipped them inside the Exclusive folder and gathered up my bag.

As a signal to those in the inner office to run a check on the street outside, I frowningly inspected my lipstick in the big mirror and glanced at my watch.

‘That’s me for today. I’m off,’ I muttered as if to myself.

Then I let myself out.

Next morning, I arrived early at Exclusive to finalise the details for my first Outing. To protect me from a takeover bid by Cousin Ashley, it was important to impress Vanheusen with my capabilities, so I’d put a lot of time into the planning. Hence the zappy title
Outing to the Moon
, in reality an excursion to the lava landscape of Mount Teide. Thanks to a bit of string-pulling by HM Revenue & Customs liaising at the highest levels with GRECO, the special unit set up by the Spanish authorities to combat big-money organised crime, I’d obtained special permission to cross the volcanic caldera on a route normally strictly off-limits to public vehicles.

The door to Monique’s office was ajar. From inside, silence. I took the folder containing the schedule from a drawer in my desk. I’d left nothing to chance, but perhaps I should skim over it again…

The blue telephone at my elbow buzzed. ‘I’m with Mr Vanheusen just now,’ Monique’s brisk voice
announced. ‘Have those excursion details ready. I’ll be with you in about ten minutes.’

Ten minutes…at last the opportunity I’d been waiting for. In half that time I’d be able to have a good poke round her office. I’d passed through it, of course, on the way to my first interview with Vanheusen, but since then I’d caught only tantalising glimpses on the occasions when the PA Leisure had issued imperiously forth to deliver her latest instructions. I gathered up the Outing folder – a feeble excuse if I was caught, but better than nothing – and pushed open the door.

In complete contrast to the stark modernism of my office, hers could be described as stylish French Classical with the ambience of a drawing room. The desk was a spindly antique table, the filing cabinet hidden behind the gilded wooden doors of an armoire. At each of the two tall windows, pale eau-de-Nil curtaining swept down to floor and spread across the white marble in green pools. Her elegant chair upholstered in green suede leather was pushed back from her vacated desk/table. Neatly lined up on the top were intercom, green onyx telephone with matching onyx desk calendar and a couple of silver-framed photographs – Monique and Ashley, and Monique and Vanheusen, champagne glass in hand at some reception.

I laid down my folder on the chair, and picked up the Vanheusen photo. What interested me were the faces in the background. I didn’t recognise any of
them, but it would be worth running them through Extreme Travel’s computer. From an inner pocket I whipped out a slim mirror-and-lipstick case; in fact, it was a mini all-singing, all-dancing camera supplied by the Department for just such golden opportunities. Seconds later, a digital copy was nestling on the camera’s memory card in my pocket. I repositioned the photo frame exactly as I had found it.

I made a quick survey of the other items on the tabletop, but saw nothing else of interest. No papers; drawers were locked. It was tempting, but too dangerous to plant a surveillance bug and risk its discovery in the regular security sweep. Was there anything else snoop-worthy? I nipped across to the armoire in the corner of the room. Its doors stood invitingly open, revealing cardboard box files labelled
Brochures, Contacts, Contracts, Members, Properties, Promotions
. Reluctantly I decided there wasn’t enough time even for a skim-through. Better to be safe than sorry. I turned away… Ten seconds later I was back in my own office, interconnecting door once more ajar.

From my desk I could see sprinklers sending their fine mists in whirling spirals over the manicured lawns of Vanheusen’s spare-no-expense exotic garden. A gardener was chopping at the yellowing frond of a palm tree, the wicker basket at his feet already overflowing with trimmings. I fingered the camera in my pocket. I’d definitely struck gold with that photograph. If our computer came up with a match
for even one of those smudgy background faces, that could be the break the Department needed… I
should
have taken another couple of minutes to delve into that armoire, though. That was definitely a missed opportunity. The box labelled
Members (Potential)
would have contained the names of other targeted purchasers of Vanheusen properties, people like Wainwright, Scott, Prentice and Knight, who had first to be softened up by an Exclusive Outing.

The gardener flung the pieces of palm frond into his basket and began sweeping up stray clippings… I’d better get on with
my
tasks. I reached for the Outing folder.
It wasn’t there.
I’d taken it in with me to Monique’s office. I’d laid it down on her chair to take out the camera… Sick disbelief swept over me, followed by beads of sweat on the brow and an icy boulder in the pit of the stomach. All clichés, but that’s how it felt when I realised I’d just made the careless slip that would jeopardise months of careful planning. I’d spent barely four minutes checking out the room, but how long had I been sitting here gazing out the window like a fool? It might only be seconds before…

I flung myself through the interconnecting door, darted across the expanse of marble, snatched up the incriminating folder, and whirled on my heel. One, two, three strides. I was going to make it—

Behind me, I heard the click of the security lock on Vanheusen’s office door. No time to escape to
the safety of my own office. To reach it would take three more strides, three more seconds, but I didn’t have them. A fleeing figure is obviously guilty of something. Vanheusen’s whole set-up showed that he was paranoid about security. When they searched me and found the camera…

There was only one option left. I must appear to be entering, not leaving. I whirled round, and stood a couple of metres into the room, folder held prominently in front of me. As the door to Vanheusen’s office opened, I was moving slowly in the direction of Monique’s desk. In the widening gap appeared the edge of a box file followed by a silk-clad shoulder, a pigskin shoe and Monique’s startled face.

‘Who gave you permission to enter my office?’ Her expression was glacial, her tone icy.

‘I’ve brought you the finalised itinerary for the Outing, Monique. I thought…I thought…’ I faltered, ‘that you wanted to see it in ten minutes. I hope that you’ll find—’ Was I injecting the right blend of uncertainty and apology? ‘I thought…’ My voice trailed away into silence. Tentatively, I held out the folder.

She made no move to take it from me. ‘That’s one of your faults, Deborah. You don’t listen. I said I’d be
with you
in ten minutes. Something
entirely
different.’ Her lips compressed into a thin line. ‘Go back to your office. I’ll be
with you
shortly.’

Like a reprimanded schoolgirl I crept out, closing
the interconnecting door softly behind me. I sat down at my desk and, with hands that trembled slightly, spread out the contents of the Outing folder ready for Monique’s inspection. Had my act been convincing enough? Was she even now summoning Security? Would burly uniformed men burst through the door? Was I about to be thrown to the ground, handcuffed, body-searched? I dropped the lipstick/camera into the wastebasket and crumpled some paper on top of it.

I heard the sound of the interconnecting door opening quietly, the leisurely brush of feet on carpeting, the rustle of paper. Not Security. I didn’t look up.

‘
If
I could have your attention, Deborah.’

There was still a degree of frost in Monique’s voice, but I had obviously prostrated myself enough to appease her. As I hoped, she was putting down my intrusion to misplaced zeal.

‘I’m sorry, Monique, I didn’t hear you come in.’ I indicated the papers on the desk. ‘I was just rechecking all the details for the Outing. I do
so
want my first one to be a success.’

A long red fingernail rested on the last name on the Outing list. ‘Take that Mr J Hambleton off.
He
’s not one of Exclusive’s new arrivals. Miguel at reception put him on the list because he rang from the Alhambra, but he’s
definitely
not one of us. Rules are rules, and necessary for the efficient running of an organisation – only
our
guests on
our
excursions,
otherwise they wouldn’t be
exclusive.
See to it now.’ She swept back into her lair, leaving me staring at the closed door.

Monique in pompous mode was a nasty sight and I felt a sneaking sympathy for Mr Hambleton, whoever he was. There would have been plenty of room in the people-carrier for him. Why had she been so angry when she’d found me in her office? It seemed a bit over the top. Was there something she didn’t want me to see? It made me all the more determined to have another rake round when I got the opportunity. Thoughtfully, I fished in the wastebasket and retrieved the lipstick/camera.

The Exclusive schedule had been carefully designed to soften up clients before they were exposed to the hard sell of the villas in Vanheusen’s portfolio.

When I asked Victoria Knight if she would like to come on the Outing, she was certainly in receptive mood. ‘
Outing to the Moon
with champagne breakfast? How intriguing! Where
could
we be going?’

‘The car will pick you up outside the Alhambra at eight o’clock tomorrow morning for the trip to—’

She held up a hand. ‘Now, don’t tell me any more details. I love surprises. But, just one thing – will I need my cardigan?’

When I tracked down Millie Prentice on a
sun-lounger
beside the pool, she was just as enthusiastic. ‘
Outing to the Moon
. Sounds great. Where are we
really going? I take it we don’t need spacesuits.’

Even grouchy Herbert G Wainwright said, though somewhat grudgingly, that he’d give it a go. He probably felt that otherwise he would be missing out on what he’d paid for. So it was somewhat of a surprise that when I buttonholed Rudyard Finbar Scott in the Café Bar Oasis he turned me down flat.

‘I’m a writer. This is a working holiday for me. We writers can’t afford to indulge in frivolous distractions.’ He barely glanced up from the sheaf of papers on the table. ‘It’s essential to focus, you know, on the task in hand.’

That presented me with the opportunity for a little gentle probing as most people like to talk about themselves. ‘And what exactly are you working on just now, Mr Scott?’

To my surprise, the reply was brusque to the point of rudeness. ‘We writers prefer not to talk about work in progress. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll get back to my notes.’ He started thumbing through his papers.

‘I quite understand, Mr Scott,’ I said. ‘I’ll take your name off the list.’

While my hand was drawing a line through his name, my eyes were squinting over the top of my clipboard to decipher the upside-down handwriting. I’ve found this skill invaluable on many occasions.

He looked up impatiently. ‘Yes, was there anything else?’

I’d only had a moment, but it was enough.
At the bottom of the page he was reading was the unmistakable flamboyant signature of Ambrose Vanheusen. It might mean nothing, but Rudyard Finbar Scott would merit further investigation. I’d ask the office to dig into his background.

When the 4x4 people-carrier drew up punctually at the Alhambra next morning, I put Monique’s training into practice and launched into the approved Exclusive meeting and greeting routine.

‘Welcome aboard your shuttle to the moon, or rather, to the National Park of Mount Teide, the nearest likeness on earth to a lunar landscape.’ Hammer home the exclusivity, Monique had said, so I did, positively bludgeoning them with it. ‘We’ll be driving on a road normally closed to tourist vehicles, a concession granted by the National Park authorities
only
to Exclusive clients.’

I got the reactions I’d expected from two of them – a sceptical sniff from Wainwright, a clap of the hands and an exclamation of delight from Victoria. But Millie’s abstracted, ‘Beam me up, Debbie!’ with an accompanying wave of her tortoiseshell glasses was just a little too delayed, as if her mind had been on something else – a little odd in view of her enthusiasm yesterday. It pays to take note of little things like that.

The road to Teide climbed slowly through the sprawl of new-build Italian-style terracotta villas complete
with white balustrades and classical pediments, a sprawl that oozed out from the core of Las Américas and Los Cristianos as relentlessly as molten lava. Where the new-build ended, infrastructure for the next phase – tarmac, pavements, lamp standards – lay ready, cutting a brutal swathe through the toasted brown landscape of volcanic outcrops, cinders, cactus and euphorbia scrub.

The road twisted and turned up through villages with whitewashed walls and red pantiled roofs. Here, a roofless sandy-walled
finca
crumbled back into a landscape of prickly pear and grey-green spiky aloes. There, low dry-stone walls enclosed small fields of tiny Canarian potatoes and rows of gnarled, arthritic vines hugged the stony ground seeking shelter against the elements.

Above the village of Vilaflor, the air and vegetation became suddenly alpine. The road clawed its way up through pine trees with deeply fissured grey trunks and long, silky needles tufted like chimney sweeps’ brushes. A thin metal barrier was the only protection against a drop of a thousand metres to the hazy coastal plain below.

The road twisted for the last time, and suddenly the cone of Teide rose majestically out of a dark choppy sea of chocolate, russet and hazel-brown lava, fuzzed here and there with the dusty eau-de-Nil green of
retama
bushes. Straight ahead, a jagged ridge of lava broke the skyline.

Though Millie Prentice muttered, ‘Gosh, isn’t that just something,’ I had the distinct impression that the scenery held no real interest for her. In unguarded moments she’d looked decidedly bored. Why had she come? Why had she not made her excuses like Rudyard Scott?

After a private champagne breakfast at the Parador, we drove into the protected zone of the Cañadas and stopped in a patch of shade cast by a tortured outcrop peppered with rounded cavities like a gigantic chunk of Emmental cheese. From it a dark sea of lava rippled out till it washed against the distant wall of the encircling caldera at Teide’s base. Above us towered yellow, ochre and brown cliffs spiking a cobalt blue sky. Undercover work sometimes has its compensations…