Under Suspicion (7 page)

On the morning of the Donkey Safari, Monique swept into my office sporting an elegant pair of white linen slacks topped by a black silk designer shirt. Flimsy high-heeled sandals in black suede completed the outfit. An enamelled gold badge pinning down a silk neckerchief proclaimed her status as PA Leisure.

She eyed my clean, serviceable and definitely
non-designer
jeans and cotton shirt with undisguised disapproval.

‘My dear Deborah, you’ll have to smarten yourself up a bit. Our clients expect a little more class. A piece of advice. One should always dress
up
for an occasion, not
down.
However, today,
n’ importe
. Ambrose has decided that I should take your place as leader on today’s Outing.’

‘But, Monique—’

She held up a hand to silence further protest.

‘It’s more important that you make a start on sending out the invitations to Ambrose’s Three Kings
Party on the 6
^th
. They’ll have to be posted tomorrow. You’ll find the boxes of invitation cards and envelopes over there.’

From behind her back she produced a
wide-brimmed
floppy hat of the type seen at garden parties attended by the Queen and, whipping a mirror out of her shoulder bag, stared at her reflection.

She flicked the brim of the hat upwards. ‘Jon phoned me this morning. Now
there’s
somebody who recognises experience and quality when he sees it. Ambrose has arranged for him to sample this Exclusive Outing, to see if he can recommend it to his hotel guests.’ She made a few minor and unnecessary adjustments to the brim. ‘That’s the reason an experienced person such as
myself
has to be in charge.’ She picked up the Outing folder and glanced at the typewritten list. ‘I expect all our clients will be taking advantage of our free excursion.’

‘Well—’

‘Only Victoria Knight and Herbert Wainwright are on the list. I see that you’ve failed to interest both Mr Scott and Miss Prentice.’

I’d a good idea why Rudyard Scott was keeping himself to himself. A courier has no interest in socialising for the sake of it. ‘He said he’s at a critical stage of his writing,’ I lied.

As for Millie, a journalist has a one-track mind. She hadn’t bothered to show any interest in the Donkey Safari. She’d already pumped Wainwright
and Mrs Knight for all the info they had on Exclusive and Vanheusen. But whatever her alternative plans had been, they’d had to be put on hold. At this very minute she was being warned off at police HQ.

‘Miss Prentice told me she—’

Fortunately, Monique was not interested. A final twitch to the already perfectly arranged hat, a slight adjustment to the genuine Louis Vuitton bag on her shoulder and out she swept.

I converted a snort of laughter into a cough. The donkey ranch was situated in the hills above Santiago del Teide in the west of the island, remote from motorways, grandiose hotels and boutiques. In a landscape of gnarled almond trees, dry-stone terraces and rust-brown volcanic soil, a fashion model riding a donkey would be as bizarre a figure as Don Quixote.

I thought about what she’d said. That reference to Mansell as ‘Jon’ suggested a degree of intimacy. Had she taken a fancy to him, or was she latching onto him as part of a Vanheusen master plan? And how was Millie reacting to being warned off? I’d a feeling
that
young lady wouldn’t easily be dissuaded from pursuing her investigations. If I got stuck into the pile of invitation envelopes, I’d have time to nip down to Extreme Travel to find out.

By quarter past twelve I’d twenty envelopes left to address. I reached into the card box for the final batch of invitations and grabbed a handful. As I dumped them on the desk, a piece of paper fluttered onto
the floor. I picked it up and recognised Vanheusen’s flamboyant handwriting.

Monique, make sure Mansell will accept the invitation to the Three Kings fancy dress barbecue. You should be able to clinch the deal then. AV

Again mention of a deal. Associating with a crook didn’t necessarily mean Mansell was one himself, so could we use him as a Trojan Horse? I’d have to find a way of attending the barbecue, invited guest or not. I tucked the note in amongst the remaining cards in the box. Monique just might come looking for it.

Jayne was turning the notice on the door to
Closed
when I arrived at the office a few minutes after one o’clock.

‘Didn’t expect to see you today, Debs?’ She raised her eyebrows in enquiry.

‘It’s OK, not an emergency. Monique took over the Donkey Safari and landed me with the office chores. She won’t be back till late this afternoon, so I thought I’d slip away to see how things turned out with Millie.’

As she locked the door behind me, I heard her mutter, ‘Trouble that one. Trouble with a capital T.’

Gerry looked up as I entered the inner office.

‘So how did it go then?’ I said, knowing the microphone had picked up my exchange with Jayne.

‘The lady’s not for turning. A senior officer came down from Santa Cruz and interviewed her at the
Police HQ here.’ He slotted a disk into the machine on his desk and pressed
play
.

The screen showed Millie in a sparsely furnished interview room sitting at a table opposite two men, one a uniformed policeman, the other a civilian with an air of authority. Judging from her compressed lips, things were not going well.

The plain-clothes man leant forward. ‘I’m asking you once again, Señora Prentice, to cease your investigations on this island and return to England.’

Millie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Getting too near the truth, am I? You don’t want anybody digging up the dirt, washing your dirty linen in public, is that it?’

Gerry stopped the machine. ‘Just a sample of how it went… She refused to back off. Trotted out the old catchphrases: Freedom of the Press, Public’s Right to Know, and all that.’ He sighed.

‘There’s something more?’ I prompted.

He leant forward. ‘After half an hour she flounced out. See for yourself.’

A furious Millie was leaning forward across the table. ‘Let me get this clear, Comandante. You are telling me to pack my bags and return to England. You are asking me to bin three months of investigation and research. And what are you offering in return?’ Her voice rose. ‘Nothing, Comandante.
Nothing
.’ She leapt to her feet, sending her chair toppling to the floor. ‘All this stinks of a cover-up. And the next copy I file will expose how you tried to gag me. Just you wait…’

The screen faded to grey as he switched off.

‘If she plays that card, she’ll torpedo the whole operation.’ He fell silent. It wasn’t like Gerry to be at a loss.

‘She
might
just think better of it,’ I ventured. ‘After all, an exposé would scupper her own investigations too.’

He shook his head. ‘To make someone like that back down would take a miracle.’

‘Or a Millie-kill,’ I punned.

He didn’t smile.

Millie wasn’t the only one to fly off the handle that day. When I dropped in at the Alhambra on my way back to Exclusive, Rudyard Finbar Scott was blowing his top in a spectacular way.

‘I’ve been robbed!’ His angry shout echoed round the marble expanse of the foyer.

Heads turned, couples halted in their tracks, their conversations killed stone dead.

‘I’m telling you I’ve been robbed, damn you, robbed!’ He leant over the reception desk, and brought the flat of his hand crashing down on the leather surface with a report like a gunshot. ‘That safe wasn’t jemmied open. Somebody had a master key and used it. It’s been an inside job, no two ways about it.’
Thwack.
His hand crashed down again.

Though I’d been half-prepared for it, it made me jump. The manager, hastily summoned, was making
soothing noises, but I wasn’t really paying much attention…

Had
a master key been used? A week ago I’d taken that photo of the safe and its lock. And given it to Gerry. Could he have arranged…? Yes, that was just the way his devious mind worked. If Rudyard Scott
was
a courier, failure to deliver his cash could well be a death sentence. And there was a very good chance that in his panic he might provide the evidence we needed against Vanheusen and his organisation…

Unnoticed, I slipped away.

‘You’ll never guess what’s happened,’ I said. ‘Rudyard Scott’s just made one helluva scene in the foyer of the Alhambra.’

Gerry raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm?’

I eyed him narrowly. He didn’t seem at all surprised. I’d been right in thinking he’d brought in a safe-cracker. There’d be a snowball’s chance in hell of getting him to come clean, though. I’d have a go, anyway.

‘Yes,
really
upset. “Really” as in incandescent.’

‘Let me guess.’ He tilted his chair and frowning, inspected the ceiling. After a moment, he transferred his gaze back to me. ‘Upset because the room maid binned the manuscript of his latest novel. Nothing left except the title page.’

Damn Gerry and his doling out of info only on a need-to-know basis. He wasn’t going to tell me. I accepted defeat.

‘
If
,’ I said, studying my fingernails, ‘someone
has
opened the safe and taken the money, what do you think Scott’s next move will be?’

‘Or Vanheusen’s? We’ll just have to wait and see.’ Gerry wandered over to the coffee machine. ‘Coffee, Deborah?’

I made it back to the Exclusive office barely ten minutes before a dusty and dishevelled Monique swept in.

‘How was your day, Monique?’ It was pretty obvious just how her day had gone, but I thought I’d ask anyway.

‘It’s fortunate Ambrose put
me
in charge. I had to handle one or two difficult situations, believe me. And nothing but dirt and dust. I’m flaked out.
Bloody
donkeys.’ She scowled and held up the Garden Party hat, now redesigned by a ragged circular bite out of the brim. ‘Ruined!
Shit, Shit, Shit!
’

She turned away and limped towards her office. One glance at her rigid back made me wonder if I’d get the chance to organise any more outings. The Donkey Safari had been somewhat of a disaster as far as she had been concerned. And who was going to get the blame? Me. Not Vanheusen who had ordered her to take over. I could imagine her relating the whole sorry tale to my rival, Cousin Ashley – a lady no doubt cast in the same mould as herself.

Before the door closed behind her she snapped,
‘On a
properly
organised Outing, Deborah,
nothing
would have gone wrong.’

She’d be in a better mood tomorrow when the first of the villa inspection visits would give her the chance to launch into her hard-sell sales pitch describing the site and attributes of the properties available for purchase. Two of the four prospective purchasers had been on today’s softening-up Outing. The other two obviously had no intention of buying. They might give the whole thing a miss, even though that would flout the conditions of the Exclusive holiday offer. Scott, I guessed, would be too occupied trying to track down his missing cash to go through the charade of villa tours. Freckle-faced Millie was more of an unknown quantity. She was a pain, but I didn’t want to see her dead. Might she have thought better of her outburst at police HQ and been warned off – or would she turn up intent on ferreting out secrets, full of questions, and set alarm bells ringing?

The answer came almost immediately. The phone on my desk buzzed.

‘Hi, it’s Millie Prentice here. I’m scheduled for villa visits tomorrow. Are they morning or afternoon?’

Buzzz
from Monique’s office. Vanheusen was ready to see me. It was the summons I had been waiting for. In preparation, I’d stood for quite a time in front of the bathroom mirror cultivating an appropriate look for the role of distraught victim of
los vándalos
– a subtle blend of anguish and suppressed rage – hand run through hair, moist eyes, judicious use of blusher, that sort of thing.

Monique was sitting at her desk/table buffing her long fingernails. She seemed to have recovered from the fraught experience of the Donkey Safari and be in a better mood, buoyed up no doubt by the prospect of cash registers ringing from yesterday’s villa inspections.

Without looking up she said, ‘Do you know, Deborah, I think you overreached yourself organising such a gruelling Outing. Yes, it was a little
too
fatiguing.’

When I didn’t reply, she glanced at me curiously.
‘Something wrong?’ She raised a cool eyebrow. ‘If I may say so, you’re looking a
soupçon distrait
this morning.’

So, I’d passed the audition.

‘It’s my cat. She’s—’ I broke off, as though overwhelmed with emotion.

‘Lost, stolen, strayed –’ She spread out her fingers, studying the burgundy nail enamel for almost imperceptible flaws, ‘– dead?’

‘Oh no, Monique. Not
quite
as bad as that. But bad enough.’ I launched into a trial run of my tale. ‘I arrived home yesterday to find—’ Dramatic pause. ‘My cat—’

‘Don’t tell me,’ she didn’t try to hide a moue of distaste, ‘the creature sicked up all over the bed, went berserk and shredded the curtains and the place stank of cat pee. Messy, destructive beasts, cats.’

On a par with donkeys, I suppose. ‘Oh no,’ I protested, ‘Persepolis has never done anything like that.’

Always a first time, her look said.

‘Yesterday, Holy Innocents’ Day, practical jokers splashed paint all over my back door. And…and… then they caught Persepolis and cut lumps out of her coat. You should have seen the state they left her in. I’ve got a photo here somewhere.’ I zipped open my shoulder bag and began to rake.

Stifling a yawn that plainly said, ‘Don’t bother,’ she leant across the spindly table that served her as
a desk and switched on the computer. The screen lit up,
Enter password
. Automatically she began to type it in.

M-O

If I stopped talking, she’d sense my interest, be on her guard.

‘Of course, it was all my own fault,’ I babbled on. ‘I shouldn’t have left those paint tins on the patio.’

N-I

‘But I don’t want to keep Mr Vanheusen waiting. I’ll tell you about it later.’

K-A

Monika.

I’m amazed how careless people are about security – even those who should know better. The musical note of the boot-up sounded behind me as I made my way across the expanse of carpet to Vanheusen’s office. Would the photo of G in my bag get me off the hook?

He was standing at the huge plate-glass window overlooking the gardens. He didn’t shift his gaze from the scene outside as he beckoned me over.

‘You’re just in time to see the finishing touches being put to the kinetic sculpture I’ve commissioned in honour of Black Prince.’

Down below in the garden a group of workmen were removing the covering from around a three-metre-high bronze tree. In the fork of the tree crouched a life-sized black cat, paw outstretched. A
mini cloud of iridescent metal butterflies shimmered and trembled just out of reach.

‘Wonderful!’ I breathed. ‘You’d think that cat was alive.’

‘Carved from obsidian. Without flaw. Each measurement exact. Now,’ he turned away from the window, ‘what I’ve been waiting for – that photograph of Persepolis. Did you—?’

I switched on my previously tested-on-Monique anguished look.

‘Oh, Mr Vanheusen, something simply
awful
’s happened to her.’

His smile faded.

‘Yesterday,’ I rushed on, ‘when I got back from the office, my door was absolutely covered with paint. Then I found,’ I swallowed hard, ‘that – that – someone had cut lumps out of her coat. Holy Innocents’ Day pranksters going too far, I think…’ I trailed off.

‘But the cat’s not been injured?’ The concern seemed genuine. It almost made me warm to him.

‘No, she’s not injured, but she had
such
a beautiful coat. So long and silky. Now just look at her.’

I delved for the photo and thrust it into his hands. There she was, moth-eaten Gorgonzola, sitting in front of her work of art – namely my rainbow-splattered back door. She was staring into the camera, eyes wide with shock-horror. Out of camera shot, I had strategically placed a large basin of soapy water and the hated sponge used on the occasions she had to be
subjected to the torture of a
bath
.

‘
Christ!
’ Vanheusen collapsed onto a sofa as if I had crept up behind him and suddenly kicked him behind the knee. ‘That poor cat’s been traumatised.
Outrageous
.’ He leapt up, strode over to the side table, and flicked the telephone-intercom. ‘Monique, get me Roberto.’

A wave of the hand indicated that I should sit down. He propped the photo against the Lucie Rie bowl, the better to study the tortured look that G was so expert at assuming.

‘After an experience like that, Persepolis needs urgent treatment. Psychological damage
ruins
show and breeding potential.’

A bubble of laughter welled up inside me. I converted it into a long sigh. She certainly had potential. But not in either of those departments. Gorgonzola as Show Champion, Gorgonzola as Mother,
no way
.

The intercom buzzed. ‘Roberto on the line for you, Mr Vanheusen.’

He picked up the photo and studied it as he spoke. ‘Roberto, I’ve a cat that needs your services. Bad case of trauma… No, no, thankfully not Black Prince… Soon as possible. This afternoon would be fine… Not here, familiar surroundings would be better. At…?’ He looked at me enquiringly.

‘Calle Rafael Alberti, numero 2, La Caleta.’

I hid my unease. Was this Roberto a vet – and
what treatment would he give a perfectly healthy cat? Treatment there would be, I was sure of it, justification for his no doubt exorbitant private charges.

‘Good, that’s arranged then.
Adiós
.’ He regarded me with satisfaction. ‘Roberto will commence treatment on Persepolis this afternoon. At 3 o’clock.’

‘Treatment?’ I panicked. Now I wasn’t acting. ‘Injections? I don’t— She’ll be even more—’

‘No, no, no. Nothing like that.’ He was grinning. ‘Something much more effective. What Persepolis requires is the healing hands of a Reikimaster. Roberto, I can assure you, is one of the best in the business. Now, if you’ll forgive me…’ He wandered over to the window.

I left him in silent contemplation of his kinetic Black Prince.

And so it was that the Reikimaster came to Calle Rafael Alberti, numero 2. When I opened the door to him, I expected to see someone enveloped in an indefinable air of mystery, someone not exactly muffled in black cloak and sombrero, a Zorro-like figure as in the old ad for Sandeman’s Port, but at least someone tall and commanding. Roberto was small, fat and ordinary. Unimpressive. Until he spoke to G.

‘Come to me,
pequeña gata
.’ His voice was deep, soft, velvety, caressing.

The effect on Gorgonzola was startling. She’d been eyeing this stranger suspiciously from the top of the
refrigerator. Now she took a flying leap, landed with a light thump at his feet, and twined herself round his legs, tail erect, purring loudly.

‘
Ca-r-r-r-issima
,’ he purred in return, ‘how much you have suffered. Your so beautiful hair, it has been much despoiled.’

His voice…so soothing, so tender, so warm…so hypnotic. Any minute now there’d be two besotted females wrapped dreamily round his calves.

‘So now we have to relax for the treatment.’ He extricated himself carefully from G’s clutches and made his way over to the table. ‘Señora, please bring the soft blanket or the small fur carpet for her to lie on when I am making the music.’

It’s hot in Tenerife. Not the sort of place you need thick or furry furnishings, but I did the best I could with a thin blanket from the top shelf of the wardrobe. Roberto nodded approval as I folded it into a Gorgonzola-sized rectangle and laid it on the wood of the table.

‘
A
aaaah…ee…aaah…
’ He let out a long-drawn-out
madrelena
wail.

G sprang onto the improvised bed and flopped down, eyes closed.

‘
Aah…eee…eee…aaaah…
’ The sound undulated, soared to the ceiling and ricocheted softly off the walls.

In
madrelena
-receiving mode she turned on her back, paws limp.

‘So,
carissima
, you are ready to receive the healing power.’ With a quiet smile of satisfaction, he lightly clasped her face in his chubby hands.

‘She doesn’t like—’ I stopped, my warning cut short by a loud rumbling purr. There had been no explosive reaction. No angry spitting and hissing. No frantic squirming from the hated imprisoning grasp.

From then on I kept my mouth shut, a silent and curious observer. Roberto’s hands moved to her chest, then to her belly. As she lay there emitting a series of gentle ladylike snores, the
madrelena
faded to a barely audible croon.

‘So now she will sleep. She will feel much better.’ He stepped back from the table. ‘The healing energy it was flowing into her. I feel the heat in my hands.’

‘It was very good of Mr Vanheusen to send you,’ I said as I prepared to show him out.

He looked at me gravely. ‘Mr Vanheusen always takes great care of his cats. They are to him like sons and daughters.’

I gazed down at G’s recumbent form.
Mr Vanheusen always takes great care of his cats
. I didn’t like the implication one little bit.

I left Gorgonzola to sleep off the ministrations of the Reikimaster and headed for the Alhambra and the ‘office’ allocated to clientele seeking information
or help from Exclusive. In keeping with the exotic ambience, this was no plain desk screened off by potted palms, but a stylish table set in a striped open-sided tent modelled on the pavilions depicted in Moorish manuscripts. As I approached across the foyer, my heart sank. I’d spotted the stringy figure seated bolt upright in the client chair.

Even before I’d sat down Herbert G Wainwright launched into a long-winded tale about the villas he’d inspected. ‘…class establishments but…too isolated… not my style at all…none of them…’

I let him drone on. I nodded or
tsk tsked
at appropriate moments, but I was only half-listening. I was thinking about Millie’s behaviour on her inspection tour of the villas. Had she been wise and adopted a softly-softly approach? Or had she drawn attention to herself by firing a barrage of probing questions that positively shrieked, ‘I’m sussing you out’? She’d probably have watched her step at first, but if she’d sensed she was onto something…

‘…that Millie Prentice should…’ The name leapt out of Wainwright’s tedious monologue.

Damn,
what had I missed? I leant forward. ‘I think the point you’re making deserves looking into, Mr Wainwright. Would you go over that again so I can make a note of it?’ I poised my pen invitingly over my notepad.

‘Sure I will. She has no interest in buying a villa, told me so herself. So how come that same young
lady fixed herself an invite to that classy boat of Vanheusen’s? Yep, she’s pulled a fast one there.’

Oh Millie, I thought, I really do hope you know what you’re doing.