Under Suspicion (4 page)

Wainwright’s jaded yawn was true to form. ‘Our Grand Canyon beats the hell out of this. Now
t
hat
’s sure something you…’

I didn’t hear any more, for I’d just caught a snatch of Millie’s conversation with Victoria.

‘…so,’ Millie was saying, ‘Rudyard Scott’s definitely going to buy a Vanheusen property?’

‘Oh yes,’ Victoria lowered her voice, ‘he’s got an airline cabin case positively stuffed with notes. I don’t think that’s
at all
wise, do you? I mean—’ She broke off to point at a clump of spiky silver plants shimmering in the haze of heat amid the hedgehog
mounds of dusty green
retama.
‘Ooh, what’s that over there, Deborah? They look just like giant quill pens.’

While I launched into a description of the life cycle of the
tajinaste
flower, my mind was working on how I could reopen that most interesting conversation… It would have to be on another occasion. Some instinct deterred me from revealing any interest in Rudyard Scott in the presence of Millie Prentice. I was more convinced than ever that there was something that didn’t quite add up about that young woman.

As I drove home, I was still trying to work out the best way of asking Victoria about Rudyard Scott’s case of cash. Where the road dips down to La Caleta, it passes close to the sea. On impulse, I parked the car at the top of the path that slopes down to the pebble beach and its little bar, El Chiringuito. I’d watch the sunset and down a
barraquito
, a layer of condensed milk followed by a dash of liqueur topped with coffee and a froth of milk, the concoction served in a tiny glass, with an optional twist of sugar and a biscuit. It was a favourite way for me to relax after work.

At this time of day the rows of white sun-loungers on the artificial beach were unoccupied. Only a handful of people stood at the bar or sat under sea-grass parasols at the small tables. I ordered my
barraquito,
carried it to the table at the end of the boardwalk where the pebble bank shelved steeply into the sea, and sat idly watching a ship sail silently and imperceptibly along the tightrope of the horizon
towards La Gomera, this evening a faint grey smudge through the haze. I found it surprisingly calming to contemplate the vast emptiness of the Atlantic Ocean stretching unbroken to the far shores of America.

As light faded from the sky, I sat there sipping the warm sweet liquid and listening to the murmur of
Blanca Navidad
from the sound system set on the roof of the bar. I let my mind mull over the problems facing Operation Canary Creeper and the possible significance of Rudyard Finbar Scott’s stash of cash, and what lay behind Millie Prentice’s behaviour… in the background the rhythmic
slursh
of the waves and the soft
rrrrr
of pebbles as large as ostrich eggs rumbling in the undertow like distant thunder. The amber rays of sunset brushed the surface of the stones at the top of the pebble bank, gilding them and throwing them into sharp relief. It caught the tops of the waves, turning the sea into a sheet of rippling molten glass. The lights of the fish restaurants began to twinkle on the dark headland behind La Caleta…

A burst of laughter from the bar broke the spell. I spooned up the last trace of the
barraquito,
pushed back my chair and stood up. A rainbow of colour now washed the horizon where the sun had vanished – terracotta melting to ochre, yellow, pale green. The sky overhead was an inverted indigo bowl. Gomera had gone, hidden behind a band of cloud. The tensions of Operation Canary Creeper, too, had faded…

But that mental rosy glow vanished the instant
I inserted my key in the lock of my front door and realised I’d had an uninvited visitor. He or she had been somewhat amateurish, for the lock had only been turned once. Something I never do. For extra security I always make a point of locking
à double clef.

If someone
was
still inside, I didn’t want to be stabbed or bludgeoned. To give the intruder a chance to get out, I rattled the key noisily in the lock, and as I pushed the door open, launched into the opening bars of ‘
Viva España’. ‘Oh, I’m off to sunny Spain
…’ I listened for the sound of anyone legging it out the back door. Nothing.

But it didn’t mean that there wasn’t someone there. In my line of business you never take anything for granted. So, for the ears of anyone still lurking inside, I gave an exclamation of annoyance and said loudly, ‘Damn, I’ve left the cat food in the car.’

Leaving the door ajar, I retreated along the polished stone pavements of Calle Rafael Alberti to where I’d parked. I didn’t look round. If anyone wanted to exit by my front door, he or she was welcome. I’d rather that than be attacked by a panicking intruder who didn’t know enough to make an escape via the rear of the house.

I opened the boot and emptied a stack of tourist maps out of a carrier bag, replacing them with the heavy car jack, a useful weapon to whack into an attacker’s guts. Swinging the makeshift weapon
casually from one hand, I made my way back to my front door.

I crashed the door back against the wall with a violence calculated to flatten anyone standing behind it. No bashed body, only cracked and broken plaster. Sunlight poured through the open door and sent my shadow ahead of me as I crept down the hall, car jack at the ready. The door to the bedroom was closed. I flung it open with my left hand, thrusting the carrier bag viciously forward with my right. Nobody behind that door either. Feeling more than a little foolish, I returned to the hall.

It was only then that I noticed the position of the bathroom door. I always leave both it and the small grilled window wide open to clear any condensation after my morning shower. Now the door was barely ajar. Could a gust of wind have caught it and blown it shut? But today had been particularly hot and airless – there’d been no wind of any kind, let alone gusts strong enough to move a heavy door. Perhaps Gorgonzola prowling round the empty house had pushed it shut? No way. She was quite capable of pushing
open
a door with one meaty paw, but she couldn’t have closed it behind her.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Some primitive instinct told me that I was not alone, that there was someone else in the house. I held my breath, listening for the scrape of foot on floor, the noisy breathing of someone as jittery as myself… Not
a sound. But then, an intruder wouldn’t be jittery. Professional intruders never were.
His
breathing would be calm, measured, under control.

I took a firmer grip on the car jack in the carrier bag and moved silently forward. I’d put out my hand to slam the bathroom door back on its hinges, when common sense belatedly kicked in. Though I’d completed the obligatory course in unarmed combat and had a good chance of holding my own against a violent assailant, there was always the possibility of serious injury. The person who had broken in might merely be a common thief, but if he
was
one of Vanheusen’s heavies, my expertise in unarmed combat would only lead to further questions and confirm their suspicions. The best course of action would be to beat a strategic retreat, pretending that I hadn’t noticed anything amiss. After all, a lot of care had been taken to leave no sign of entry. Whoever was behind this hadn’t wanted me to know that I was under investigation.

But was it too late, had I already blown it? Crashing the doors against the walls would have signalled to the intruder that I knew someone was there, and now, after this lengthy silence, he’d know for certain. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to give the impression that I had no suspicions. But if I was going to think of something, it would have to be fast. Nothing came to mind. Heart pounding, palms sweating, I started to edge back down the hall. I’d just have to make a
bolt for it and let the intruder make a getaway. I took another step backward.

A shadow joined mine on the terracotta tiles of my hall floor. Somebody was standing in the doorway blocking my escape.
Trapped
. I whirled round, car jack at the ready to ward off the anticipated blow.

I let my arm fall to my side. No hoodlum. Only my neighbour Jesús inspecting the chunks of plaster broken off the wall by the door handle.

‘
Qué pasa, señora
? I hear big noise and I think something is wrong.’

I put my finger to my lips miming silence, and pointed at the bathroom door.

‘Oh hello, Jesús,’ I said loudly. ‘Sorry if that banging of the doors disturbed you. What a
hell
of a day I’ve had. Rude clients, unreasonable demands from the boss, and then I was held up in a traffic jam. By the time I got home, I was in such a bad mood that I took it out on the doors.’

All the time I was speaking, I was moving down the hall to safety. I grabbed his arm and steered him out onto the doorstep.

‘Someone has broken in, and I think he’s still here,’ I hissed into his ear.

‘
Un ladrón
!’ he breathed, eyes bright with excitement.

I mouthed, ‘We get the
policía.’

He nodded.

For the benefit of the listener in the bathroom, I
said loudly, ‘What I need now is a drink, Jesús. Make me one of your famous
barraquitos,
and I’ll tell you all about my terrible day.’

I slammed the front door hard enough to indicate to the intruder that we had gone. Judging by the patter of falling plaster, the Department was in for an expensive bill.

‘But, señora,’ Jesús whispered anxiously, ‘you forget that I no have
teléfono.
You have
teléfono móvil
to call
policía
?’

I nodded, again miming silence, and we scurried into his house. When Jesús’s door had closed behind us, I flattened myself against the wall next to the window.

‘The man will not just sit there waiting for the police to come and arrest him, Jesús. He’ll leave very quickly. What we need for the police is a good description.’

‘I look at back, señora.’ He scuttled away.

From this angle I had a clear view of the street and a partial view of my doorway. I was banking on the fact that the intruder would want to make a quick escape instead of wasting precious time picking the secure lock on the back door. Anyone leaving would pass into my field of vision.

I waited… I pictured the intruder listening, listening, then slowly, slowly pushing open the bathroom door. Just when I’d decided I must have got it all wrong, I saw my front door open. Someone
walked confidently past Jesús’s window, a thin-faced man, beard and moustache trimmed to a neat O round his lips, hair cropped so short as to be a mere shadow on his scalp. He didn’t draw attention to himself by moving quickly. A professional. I lost sight of him as he turned in the direction of the harbour. But I’d know him again.

‘He’s gone, Jesús,’ I called, ‘but I got a good look at him. It’s safe for me to go back now.’

There was a loud
clang
from the kitchen, and my neighbour appeared in the doorway brandishing an enormous fire-blackened paella pan.

‘I will come with you, señora. Perhaps you have another
ladrón
in the
cocina
.’

I didn’t think it likely that there’d be anyone else still lurking in the kitchen, but it was somehow reassuring to have moral support from the paella pan and its wiry owner.

‘If there is anyone there, Señora Smith,’ he flourished the pan, ‘I will seek him out and deal with him. Have no fear. I will save you.’

I hid a smile. I owed him his moment of glory.

Together we entered my house and moved along the hall. The kitchen door was closed, indicating that the clandestine visitor had been there too. Like the bathroom door, that door was always left open so that Gorgonzola could make her way to the cool bathroom for her siesta if the kitchen became too hot. G
should
be all right, I told myself. She knew to make a quick
exit through the barred pantry window if there were any unauthorised callers.

‘I go first, señora.’ Slowly, slowly, he turned the handle. Then he flung the door open.’
Te pillé,
gotcha!’

BOING
. The flat of the pan crashed down on the wooden table.

‘If you hiding in here, you better come out,’ he quavered, ‘or it be the worse for you!’

‘No one’s here now,’ I said to forestall another deafening assault on the kitchen furniture.

With some reluctance, he let his arm drop to his side. ‘I have frighten the trouser off him!’ He showed his two remaining teeth in a gummy grin of triumph.

‘You are a hero, Jesús,’ I said putting an arm round his bony shoulders. ‘
Muchas gracias
.’ I planted a kiss on his leathery cheek.

‘
De nada, señora
.’ His thin chest swelled with pride. ‘You have more trouble, I come again and—’ The paella pan scythed through the air, narrowly missing the overhead light.

He shuffled briskly down the hall to the front door. A farewell flourish of the culinary anti-burglar device gouged a large chip out of the woodwork. The paella pan had notched up its first victory against crime.

The back door was still securely locked. I inserted the key and went out onto the patio. A break-in is an occupational hazard in my line of work, but I always
find it disturbing because I have the secret fear of coming home to find Gorgonzola brutally battered. This time, though, there was no nightmare scenario, no bloodied ginger body lying on the kitchen floor. The odds were that this had been a routine security check on a new employee. I wasn’t too worried. The intruder wouldn’t have found anything to connect me to my undercover work. That was kept safely behind the white door in the Extreme Travel office. And G’s working collar with its radio transmitter didn’t look anything out of the ordinary. I stretched out on the bench beneath my pergola. Gorgonzola would show up soon. When she saw me, she would know it was safe to return. Now I had time to relax.

The palms of the Café Bar Oasis soared five metres up towards a green-tinted cupola. As the rays of the sun angled through the curved glass, their branches swayed in the cool, temperature-controlled air, casting restful green shadows on the starched white tablecloths below. In the centre, under the cupola, a huge gilded cage was home to tiny songbirds twittering and chirping a musical accompaniment to the muted hum of conversation.

Victoria Knight selected a strawberry tart and handed me the plate of cakes. ‘I did so enjoy yesterday’s Outing. I do hope there’s going to be another one before Christmas.’

‘That’s what I’ve come to discuss with you.’ Untrue. I’d really come to find out more about Rudyard Scott’s hoard of cash. I bit into my choice, a squishy chocolate éclair. ‘Delicious,’ I murmured.

After a pause while we demolished our respective cakes, I brought the conversation neatly round to villas
and their purchase. ‘With the villa visits there won’t be enough time to fit in another Outing before Christmas. I just want to check that you’ll be free on the 27
^th
.’

‘Let me see.’ She produced her diary and flicked through it. ‘Miss Devereux will be taking me to the first villa tomorrow, and to another one on the 21
^st
. Then there’s a gap over Christmas.’ She turned the page. ‘The next villa appointment is on Friday the 28
^th
.’

Just the opening I’d been angling for. ‘Tell me, Mrs Knight, did you come to Tenerife with the firm intention of buying a villa, price no object?’

‘Oh no, dear.’ She poured out another cup of strong English Breakfast tea. ‘At the money he’s asking, the property will have to be just right. I’ll know it if I see it.’ A faraway look came into her eyes as she sipped her tea. Just as I was pondering the best way to ask her directly about Rudyard Scott, she put down her cup and added, ‘But Mr Scott definitely made up
his
mind before he came.’

‘Really?’ I said, injecting surprise with that subtle underlying hint of doubt that makes the speaker rush to expand on what has just been said.

‘Yes, he’s got the cash ready to hand over.’

‘Well, it’s a good idea to have your finances in place if you intend to purchase property. Banks can take ages to transfer money.’ That should bring out what I wanted to hear. It did.

‘I mean cash as in “cash in hand”.’ Though the competition of the birdsong from the gilded cage
made it unnecessary, she lowered her voice. ‘He’s come with
bundles
of notes.’

‘No! I can’t believe anyone would be so—’

‘That’s exactly what I think, but I’ve seen the money. When we arrived at the Alhambra, Mr Scott – he’s such an impatient person, you know – couldn’t wait for the luggage to be put on a trolley. He grabbed his small airline case from the porter’s hands and marched off to reception, leaving us all standing. So rude.’

Mustn’t interrupt the flow. I sipped my tea.

She eyed me over the rim of the cup. ‘I didn’t realise – and neither did he, obviously – that
my
case looked exactly the same as his. And who actually bothers to check labels on cabin baggage, dear?’ Victoria was enjoying telling her tale to a receptive listener. ‘When I got to my room and couldn’t open the combination lock of my airline case, I took it down to reception. They were
so
helpful when I told them that my heart pills were inside. The maintenance man came with lopper things that just sliced through the padlock. And off I went back to my room. And then, and then,’ her eyes grew round with recollected wonder, ‘I opened the case and saw all that money.’

It’s a common money-laundering practice for a network of couriers to make frequent transfers of cash between Europe and the UK to avoid using the banking system with its restrictive financial controls. If Scott’s cash was in pounds sterling, he could be Vanheusen’s courier. I leant forward.

‘You mean it was full of
euros
?’

‘Oh no, dear. English notes! Definitely English notes. And definitely not mine! There was a label on the case, but the name was just a squiggle. I knew, though, it must belong to somebody staying at the hotel. “What a panic that poor person will be in,” I thought.’

I nodded. I could well visualise Rudyard Scott’s panic when he realised he’d picked up the wrong case.

‘So I took the case straight back down to reception, and we were all standing looking at the money when the lift doors opened and Mr Scott came rushing out carrying an identical piece of luggage. Quite red-faced he was. He shouted, “That’s
my
case! Thank God you’ve found it!”’

I raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘With all that money on view, just how did he prove that?’

‘That’s exactly what the receptionist asked – in a polite way, of course. So Mr Scott picked up the combination lock lying on the desk, fiddled with the numbers, and the hasp opened.’ She frowned. ‘I hope he’s put all that money in the hotel safe. I didn’t see what he did, I was only interested in rushing up to my room and getting out my heart pills.’

We chatted on, but all I could really think of was the brownie points I’d earn from Gerry when I in turn told the story of Rudyard Finbar Scott and his bundles of notes.

Gerry Burnside looked up from the tangle of papers on his desk. With his thin tanned face, straight black hair and brown eyes, he could pass for a Spaniard, and in fact when working on a case, often did.

I flopped into the seat opposite him. ‘Anything new on writer Rudyard Finbar Scott?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve been making enquiries. There’s no record of him in the British Library, or with the Society of Authors. That only means, of course, that he’s not a
published
author.’

‘Well, I think it’s worth continuing to check him out,’ I said, feeling somewhat smug. ‘It seems he’s carrying a case full of money about with him.’ Like a dog that has deposited a slipper at his master’s feet, I sat back waiting for the pat on the head.

Gerry didn’t appear to be quite as impressed as I’d expected. He leant back in his chair, clasped his fingers and slowly rotated his thumbs. ‘It’s probably to pay for that villa he’s going to buy from Vanheusen. In Spain it’s quite usual for people purchasing property to tote large sums of euros around in carrier bags. It’s a favoured way of beating the taxman.’

He knew I’d wanted him to be impressed. I ground my teeth and counted to ten.

I let the silence lengthen. Then I added, ‘In pounds sterling.’

The thumbs stopped in mid-twiddle. ‘Well, now.
That
might make a difference.’ He leant forward,
giving me his full attention. ‘Tell me what you’ve found out.’

I told him about the mix-up with the suitcases, and had just congratulated myself on winning those brownie points, when he said, ‘There’s one big snag about your theory, I’m afraid, Deborah. If he’s a courier, why is he still hanging around here? Why hasn’t he just handed over the dough and scarpered?’

He must have detected my chagrin – Gerry can read me like a book – for he switched on Mr Nice Guy. ‘But perhaps you’d like to know that the reception photo you spotted on Devereux’s desk has opened up a new line of enquiry. Jayne keeps our newspaper files and recognised one of the background faces as Jonathan Mansell, the owner of the Alhambra Hotel.’

Gerry normally operated on a strict need-to-know basis as far as we operatives were concerned, so I recognised this piece of info as the dog’s pat on the head for delivering the slipper.

From a folder on his desk he deftly extracted a page of newsprint and pushed it across the desk. Under the headline FIVE-STAR HOTEL TO OPEN FOR BUSINESS was a picture of white minarets and turrets against an impossibly blue sky, and an interior shot of soaring reception hall with its intricate lacy plasterwork, marble floor, gleaming brass urns and squashy sofas. Alongside a lengthy interview was a photograph of the owner, Jonathan Mansell.

Gerry ran a hand through his hair. ‘So now we
know that there’s social contact between Vanheusen and Mansell. And they also have business contacts because…’

‘Because Exclusive installs its clients in his hotel as part of the softening-up process…’ I said, feeling my way.

He took off his glasses. ‘But is there also an
illegal
business connection between Vanheusen and Mansell? That’s what we have to find out.’ He chewed thoughtfully on one gold-edged earpiece.

The opportunity presented itself two days later among the morning mail on my desk.

Mr Jonathan Mansell has great pleasure in inviting Ms Deborah Smith of Exclusive Properties to the Official Grand Opening of the Alhambra Hotel on Thursday 20
^th
December at 19.30.

I traced the embossed black letters with a thoughtful finger. This might be the perfect chance to do a little digging. With that in mind, I got Gerry to issue me with a natty little device to deal with hotel electronic door locks.

I was late for my rendezvous at the Alhambra.
Best-laid
schemes and all that. I’d had it all planned – give Gerry my daily report, go home in plenty of time to change, transform myself from ugly duckling into swan, as Gerry so flatteringly put it. But I’d reckoned without the persistent – suspiciously persistent –
would-be traveller who came into the front shop.

Jayne, our dumb-looking front-person, bored with the current window display, had that very morning swept it all away. Gone were the paddy fields in Vietnam. Gone the snows of Everest and K2, and the sailing ship battling its way through the Straits of Magellan. She’d replaced them with exhortations to suffer in more esoteric freezing hell-holes.
Trek to the South Pole in the footsteps of Scott. Relive Shackleton’s Epic Winter Crossing of South Georgia. Spend the Winter Months in a Siberian Gulag.
Cardboard models of icebergs sailed the windows of Extreme Travel amid huge heaps of polystyrene beads mimicking the snows of the Antarctic.

Just as I was about to leave the inner office for home, the buzzer signalled someone coming into the shop from the street. Through the one-way mirror we watched a thin-faced man advance to Jayne’s desk. His beard and moustache were trimmed to a neat O, his hair cropped to be a mere shadow on his scalp.

‘Just a minute,’ I said to Gerry, ‘that’s the guy who broke into my apartment.’

We sat back and watched with interest, confident that Jayne was well able to handle the situation. But this time she had to pull out all the stops. The hidden microphone relayed every gambit and counter-gambit in the battle of wits. It would have been most diverting if I hadn’t been desperate to get home to change into my glad rags for the Official Grand Opening.

From the moment that he’d come in, his eyes had been making a thorough inspection of the office. He sat down on a chair and hitched it closer to Jayne’s desk. ‘Hi, doll, you’re looking at the twenty-first-century Shackleton of South Georgia. I want to book right now. How do I go about it?’

‘Just a minute, sir.’ Gunfire rattle of keyboard keys. ‘There’s a cruise that includes the opportunity of a crossing of South Georgia following Shackleton’s route, starting from Argentina in – oh, November. I’m sorry but you’ve missed it by a couple of weeks. It’s summer down there now and the ice has begun to melt, so I
could
try to book you on a supply ship.’

‘OK.’ His eyes swept the office again, scanning, assessing.

Jayne was unfazed. ‘Right. Exactly how much time do you have at your disposal?’

‘Two months.’ He was now staring directly into the mirror.

‘Oh dear!’ She sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘The voyage by supply ship takes six weeks. The trek itself another… You
do
realise that the expedition is on foot, hauling your own supplies? And that you will be required to carry a 40 lb pack, pull a 200 lb sled, and be familiar with roped glacier travel, crevasse rescue, snow camping and usage of ice-axe and crampon?’

‘Oh.’ A perceptible lessening of enthusiasm.

Jayne again consulted the screen. ‘The minimum
number in the party is four, including the leader.’ A few more taps on the computer keys, then, ‘No one else has booked so far.’

‘I can’t believe that!’ He seized the monitor and whirled it round towards him. ‘Lemme see.’

We tensed. Jayne smiled. We’d glimpsed an expertly designed web page. She had done her homework, left nothing to chance. Which, in our business, can mean the difference between life and death.

‘You see, no one.’ Jayne swivelled the monitor back towards herself. ‘But I can certainly put your name down. To ensure commitment, there is quite a large deposit, twenty per cent of the total. Non-returnable, I’m afraid. I suppose if they had just the minimum number and someone pulled out, it
would
be a bit of a disaster. Now the deadline for bookings is…in about three weeks, to allow the supply ship to return before the ice pack refreezes.’ She whirled the screen round towards him so that he could see. ‘Shall I put your name down?’ Another big bright smile.

‘Well…er…’ His eyes seemed to be appraising the locks on the white door. ‘How about the Scott trip then?’

We were treated to a repeat performance of Jayne in action. The Scott trip was stymied by the discovery, in the small print, of a requirement for the possession of certificates in dog-sled handling and winter survival techniques such as igloo building.

Edgily I looked at my watch. I might just make
it to the Alhambra in time if I left in the next five minutes…

Jayne was saying, ‘The Siberian Gulag? Yes, I’m
sure
we’ll be able to fix you up with that.’ She rummaged in a drawer and produced a form. ‘There’s just the visa to complete. We’ll have to send it off to the Embassy. But I’m afraid the Russians are a bit slow in processing them, four weeks is standard, so you might not get it back in time. The last application I sent in got lost, would you believe it? As there was no time to reapply, the unfortunate lady had to cancel her holiday.’ She poised the pen invitingly. ‘Now what was the name?’

‘Er…I’m running a bit late. I’ll fill in the form at home and bring it back tomorrow.’