Under Suspicion (5 page)

We all sensed victory.

‘Well, perhaps you might like to book for something shorter and warmer, like
The Smoke that Thunders
. It’s a four-day journey in a
mokoro
dug-out down the Zambezi to the Victoria Falls, sleeping rough under the stars.’ She reached for the booklet
Health for Travellers
and flicked through the pages. ‘Let me see…U…V…W…Z. Zambia, Zimbabwe. Hmm…I have to warn you that there’s the risk of dengue haemorrhagic fever and—’

‘OK. As I said, I’m running late. I’ll let you know tomorrow.’ He stuffed the visa form into a pocket and hurried out.

We awarded her a spontaneous burst of applause.
Gerry leant over and switched on the intercom. ‘Star performance there, Jayne.’

I picked up my bag and made for the door.

‘Hold it a minute, Deborah.’ His voice was unexpectedly sharp.

I stopped.

‘That
tipo
had his eyes everywhere.’ He took off his glasses and polished the lenses. ‘He’s definitely a professional and dangerous. They’re checking you out. Let’s hope they’re satisfied. Be careful.’

Gerry’s warnings were to be taken very seriously indeed. I let myself out by the unobtrusive back door.

Of course, it’s always the same when you’re in a hurry. Lights at red, pedestrians surging over crossings, unusually heavy evening traffic…but at last I drove into the car park of the Alhambra. Dramatically spot-lit towers and minarets reared whiter than white against the dark night sky, floodlights probed fingers of colour skyward and soft blue lighting along the façade created mysterious pools of shadow.

By now I was far too late for the opening ceremony.
No problema
. My main objective was to seek out Vanheusen, see who his chums were tonight and engage in a little ferreting… I hurried across the marble floor of the foyer with its soaring arches, pillars, and jungle of greenery. An expanse of blue water shimmered in the rectangle formed at the meeting point of four interior courtyards. Other establishments might have their swim-up bars. The Alhambra’s pool went one step further. It was dotted with tiny ‘islands’, each with its clump of palm trees,
fringe of sand and a ‘feature’ such as a hammock or a driftwood shack.

If I found Mansell, I might find Vanheusen. No sign of either of them in the Casablanca courtyard, a place of plashing fountains, cascades spilling smoothly over mosaic ledges, and potted orange trees hung with tiny fairy lights. A few guests were conversing, wineglasses in hand, and a small orchestra was busily unpacking its instruments.

I collared a waiter in kaftan and fez who was arranging forks in precision lines on the buffet tables. ‘Excuse me. I’m looking for Señor Mansell.’

He repositioned a fork by a couple of millimetres. ‘Try the Marrakesh courtyard, señora.’

The Marrakesh was set out with open-sided tent pavilions. In each hung a pierced and fretted pottery oil lamp casting flickering shadows on little round tables and spindly chairs.

Ha ha ha haaaah
. A woman’s laugh, honed and practised, the tinkle of ice cubes in a crystal glass. Above the sounds of the orchestra tuning up in the adjoining courtyard, the musical notes of the designer laugh soared, hung for a moment, and fell to earth. It was elegant, stylish and totally artificial. I’d heard it before. Monique.

Like a retriever on the grouse moors, I homed in. Monique, Mansell and Vanheusen were seated, heads together in one of the tent pavilions, little oases of light in the encircling shadows. The links on Vanheusen’s
expensive wristwatch gleamed in the dim light of the oil lamps as he reached into his dinner jacket and drew out a folded sheaf of papers. What Gerry wanted was the exact nature of the connection between Mansell and Vanheusen, so a bit of casual eavesdropping might be very informative. They seemed pretty much engrossed. It should be safe enough for me to stroll by.

The pavilions nearest the group were as yet unoccupied by any of the couples drifting in from the Casablanca. A discreet flanking movement, tagging along behind a small group of new arrivals, and a couple of minutes later I was sitting in an adjacent pavilion, back turned, sipping a drink. On the way I’d seized a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray. An extra glass on the table would suggest an absent companion. Mission accomplished, I toasted the Alhambra in its own rather fine champagne and tuned in to the conversation going on next door.

Vanheusen was saying decisively, ‘…well, that’s agreed then.’

‘…need…we don’t want…’ Because of the background murmur, few words of Mansell’s reply were audible.

‘Yes, yes, I’ll see to it. Don’t worry. Monique will…’ The scrape of chairs being pushed back drowned out the rest.

Well, I hadn’t learnt much there, except that they were definitely discussing some kind of business deal.
Allowing them time to move away, I took a leisurely sip of my champagne. Couples wandered by, the men in dinner jackets or white tuxedos, the women in long gowns, the more daring in fashionable see-through dresses or diaphanous harem pants. I placed myself in the not-so-daring pants category, mazarine-blue silk with matching long-sleeved chemise.

Where was Vanheusen now? I stood up and caught a glimpse of him forging through the crowd in the direction of the Casablanca courtyard, but the other two were no longer with him. I scanned the shadowy figures promenading round the lake/pool to admire the ingenious islands with their sandy shores. Opposite the island with the shack, I could see Monique talking to Mansell, listening intently to him, apparently hanging on every word. I had to admit that the emerald green gown fitted her to perfection, emphasising her slender waist and ample curves. Green opals threaded through her piled-up hair complemented an opal choker necklace and a thin gold circlet round her wrist.

Using the crowd as cover I drifted closer, angling my approach so that I’d come up behind them. It would be worth eavesdropping for a couple of minutes. After that, I’d snoop around Vanheusen and see what he was up to…

They were four metres or so ahead of me now, but I didn’t dare close the gap. Their conversation – light conversation, nothing of interest – came in snatches,
drowned intermittently by the chatter of passing groups.

They stopped.

Half-turning away, I rummaged in my bag, making a show of glancing impatiently at my watch and staring in the direction of the Casablanca courtyard as if searching for somebody. When I looked again, they’d moved off, and were some distance ahead. I hurried to catch up.

‘…I quite understand your reservations. It’s all a matter of presentation, isn’t it? Exclusive will provide most of the funding, and you provide…’ Monique’s words faded frustratingly.

‘Risky. If it came out…’ Mansell put out a hand to steady her as she teetered close to the sparkling waters on those precariously high heels.

Her elegantly manicured hand rested lightly on his arm. ‘You’re right, it’s absolutely vital that
nobody
finds out about it…’

If they looked back and saw me… I was taking a risk, a calculated gamble, by moving up so close.

‘…On the plus side, this new venture of Vanheusen’s is a real gold mine. If the deal comes off, I’ll be able to afford another place like this. I’d make a few changes, of course. Back there, for instance—’

I sensed he was about to swing round. I turned on my heel and melted into the strolling crowds.

I took up my stance in the shadows of the Casablanca courtyard sipping a glass of champagne. What I’d just heard was interesting, but I didn’t have time to think it over as I’d just caught sight of Rudyard Scott. Only this morning, he had informed me rather brusquely that he wouldn’t be present at the official opening. The Grand Opening, like the Outing to the Moon, was apparently a frivolity that he didn’t have time for. But now here he was in close conversation with Vanheusen. Like myself, they were standing in the shadows, and I wouldn’t have noticed them if it hadn’t been for a sudden movement. Interesting to see his reaction if I went over to them and called out a breezy greeting on the lines of, ‘So you’ve made it, after all, Mr Scott’.

Nursing my half-full glass against the jutting elbows and suddenly turning shoulders of chatting groups, I weaved past the fountains and the potted orange trees hung with tiny fairy lights. Progress was slow, and I had just wormed my way into reasonable hailing distance, when someone clutched my arm.

‘Great atmosphere, isn’t it?’ Millie Prentice brushed back her tangle of auburn curls. ‘Just a mo.’ She lunged at a passing waiter’s tray of drinks. ‘This is my third glass of champers,’ she giggled, ‘and it won’t be my last. I must hand it to Mr V. He arranged all this, didn’t he? He’s not looking for a lady-love, trouble-and-strife wife, by any chance, is he?’ Another giggle, more inebriated than the last.

‘No, he didn’t, and no, he’s not,’ I said. ‘Jonathan Mansell, who owns the hotel, arranged all this. And as far as I know, Mr Vanheusen’s not looking for a partner, permanent or not.’ I didn’t add, ‘and certainly not an unsophisticated young woman who can’t hold her drink.’

‘Jon-a-than Man-sell,’ she rolled the syllables round her tongue, as if savouring a particularly tasty canapé. ‘No harm in getting acquainted, though.’ She stood on tiptoe to crane over the heads of the surrounding throng. ‘Can you see him?’ She teetered, threatening to slop the contents of her glass onto my expensive hired silk outfit.

I put out a supporting hand and steered her towards a currently unoccupied chaise longue. ‘Why don’t you lie in wait over here?’ And she would indeed soon be assuming a horizontal position if her champagne input continued at the same reckless rate. ‘I saw him down by the lake. He’ll be circulating among his guests all evening.’

That had given me an idea. With Mansell circulating for the next couple of hours, I could have a rake around his office – perhaps unearth something of interest. And since I knew the present whereabouts of Prentice and Scott, I could kill three birds with one stone and pay their rooms a visit too. I left Millie Prentice draped tipsily over the chaise longue and headed for the administrative wing.

The cool marbled expanse of the reception area
with its lacy plasterwork was almost deserted, apart from a courting couple in their own small world gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes, a porter loading the luggage of some new arrivals onto a large brass trolley, and an elegantly dressed woman walking towards the elevator. High-stepping behind her on twiggy legs was a tiny poodle, jet-black, pom-pom cut, lollipop tail perkily erect.

‘Cute,’ I thought. ‘Gorgonzola would have him for lunch.’

Gorgonzola… Her drug-detecting talent would be useful if I had her with me when I made that search of Mansell’s office. I was unlikely to get such a good opportunity again. I made some mental calculations. In ten minutes I could nip back to La Caleta, and hopefully there’d not be too much trouble getting her into the hated cat-carrier once I’d buckled on her working collar, training overcoming reluctance.

Gorgonzola had wined and dined, so to speak, and was in cooperative mood. Barely thirty minutes later I was once again walking across the foyer, the carrier half-concealed under a pashmina wrap, draped toga-style loosely over one shoulder and allowed to slide down my arm. The lovers on the enveloping sofa still had eyes only for each other, the porter was nowhere in sight and the staff behind the reception desk were chatting to each other or busy with paperwork and spared me hardly a glance.

I made my way to the ladies’ room beside one of
the first-floor lounges and released the catch on the carrier. G emerged yawning and, knowing it would annoy me, made a token display of independence by using one of the wooden legs of the two-seater chaise as an upmarket scratching post.

If one lady could lead a prancing poodle around the corridors, another could lead a creative cat. I was counting on the fact that in a five-star hotel, guests’ eccentric little foibles go unremarked. Trusting that Gorgonzola’s collar would look like some fancy pet accessory, I snapped on the lead, stowed the carrier discreetly under the chaise and together we sallied forth ready for action.

G enjoyed duty walks with her collar, and tail erect, tip twitching, she paraded along a corridor designed as an open-sided Moorish cloister. On my left, a wall of arches overlooked the Casablanca courtyard. On my right, electric candle sconces shed a soft light on the terracotta plaster and elongated the shadows of dwarf palms in gleaming brass pots.

In the elevator I pressed the button for floor four so there’d be no tell-tale 5 illuminated down in the foyer. From there, I took the stairs to the administration offices on the floor above. G and I ran lightly up the steps – underhand activity can usually be disguised by bold and confident actions, so no furtive tiptoeing. At the top I paused. The public corridors and the stairs had been comfortably, even brightly, lit, but up here at this time of night, there
was only subdued stand-by lighting separating pools of darkness. No candle sconces, no leafy palms in brass pots, no decorative windows, no windows at all, just a wide corridor lined with solid wooden doors. Last week when I’d engineered a daytime visit to the administration floor, the corridors had been well lit and anything but silent. A constant stream of people had moved between the various offices. There had been a buzz of activity – people talking, telephones ringing, photocopiers and printers chattering and humming. Now only the muted hum of the air-con broke the silence.

I wasn’t expecting to see the thin line of light beneath the door third along to my left, Mansell’s office. I wouldn’t have seen it at all if the corridor illumination had been brighter. Someone was working late, probably updating the files on the computers. Just my luck, best-laid schemes and all that…

G and I walked softly along and stopped outside Mansell’s office. On the other side of the door, I heard the rumble of a filing drawer being pulled open, the
clunk
as it shut, another rumble, another
clunk
. Then
click-click-click
, the sharp sound of heels crossing the office’s marble floor.

As a shadow broke the line of light at the foot of the door, I scooped G up and took half a dozen strides along the corridor. Putting her down, I took up position close to the wall in the pocket of darkness between the dim lights, a shadow amid the shadows
in my darkish blue outfit. As the door opened, I crouched down and half-turned away to conceal the white blob of my face. If the late-working employee came my way, I could pass myself off as a guest fussing over her pet. I heard the door close softly. The heels clicked their way towards the elevator and the stairs. I risked a look.

Millie Prentice
. As she passed under one of the lights there was no mistaking those unruly curls or that skimpy dress. In her brisk walk there was not a trace of the tipsy young woman that I’d left sprawled on the divan in the courtyard, no sign of intoxication at all.

The elevator doors closed silently behind her, and Gorgonzola and I were left alone. 5-4-3 the floor indicator flickered down, 2-1-0. I waited a few minutes to make sure that she wasn’t going to return. Then, courtesy of Gerry’s natty electronic device, Mansell’s office received its second unauthorised visitor of the evening. How had innocent-seeming Millie managed to gain entry? Something else to ponder.