Under Suspicion Page 10

  Tick tick tick tick tick. The ratchet on Jason’s giant reel whirled round with the sound of a Geiger counter gone mad. Zwing the line shot out as some monster of the deep made a dash for it.

  Jaime stood behind the chair shouting instructions. ‘Let him run, Hayson!’ His gloved hand reached over and locked the clutch. ‘Check, now.’

  The tip of the rod arched, dipped. The harness tightened. Steve danced about camcording for posterity the titanic struggle between man and fish. None of them had eyes for me. Certainly not Jason in his Hemingway role, braced legs and straining back, grunting with the effort. Nor Jaime, gazing astern at the leaping shape glimpsed dark against the boiling water churned up by its frenzied struggles. Nor Steve, eye glued to viewfinder zooming in on Jason’s gritted teeth and white-knuckled grip. That left Sinclair up on the con deck at the reins of his 300 horses, but hopefully all his attention would be on scanning the briny with that radar fish-finder for the next scaly victim.

  Excited shouts. ‘Cuidado! He going to jump!’

  ‘Wow! How big is that!’ Jason’s voice squeaky, ecstatic.

  Fighting back nausea, I slid off the banquette.

  ‘Clutch! Clutch! Clutch! He dive!’

  Ripping tickticktick of line streaking out.

  ‘Keep pressure, Hayson. When he come up, he come like bullet from gun.’

  A couple of tottering steps and I was at the hatch staring into the lower cabin, dim and shadowy in contrast to the glare from sun and sea. If challenged, I’d say I was looking for somewhere dark to lie down, somewhere away from that heaving horizon and blinding sunlight flashing and sparkling and stabbing at my brain.

  The boat lurched violently. I grabbed at the hatch frame and half-fell down the carpeted treads. Down below, the engine noise was very loud, the air heavy with the smell of hot diesel. I stood there, hand pressed to mouth as my hyper-sensitive stomach heaved in protest. Lucky Jason, out there in the fresh air enjoying himself. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. Not much headroom, hardly space to swing a cat – certainly not one of Gorgonzola’s proportions. On my right was a compact galley-sink and gleaming fridge, on the left, a smart red-cushioned bench and table. Directly in front of me I could just make out a narrow white door with the letters WC in shiny brass. No pictures. No clutter. No secure hiding place for the listening device in my pocket. No hiding place at all. Not even under the table that was designed to clip against the wall. When hinged up, it would reveal the underside. Where else could I conceal the bug? I had no luck with the two cupboards, one above and one below the sink. Both were locked.

  Down in the lower cabin the motion of the boat was horribly intensified, making it difficult to think. An undignified rush to that WC was on the cards… the smell of diesel…the noise… Precious minutes passed before it dawned that I would be wasting my time, that it would be useless to plant a bug here. We’d not pick up anything, the engine noise would drown all talk. I should have thought of that immediately. I would have thought of it, if I hadn’t been… Another crippling wave of nausea swept over me. My one thought was to get out of this claustrophobic hell, escape to the fresh air, lie down and close my eyes.

  I’d one foot on the lowest stair tread when the cabin above darkened. I caught a glimpse of the camcorder dangling by its strap. Steve.

  ‘Found the heads, doll?’

  Heads? In my woozy state, the word conjured up severed heads with staring eyes, dripping gore John-the-Baptist style. Vomiting imminent.

  ‘Bogs, WC, toilet,’ Steve spoke slowly and kindly as to an idiot. ‘Steady on, doll. You look as if you need to pay them another visit.’

  I smiled weakly, fighting to control the nausea.

  ‘Shame you’re not enjoying yourself. Just when your lad’s landed a big ’un too.’

  The thought of the glassy eyes and bloody gills of shark or barracuda gasping its last was the final straw. Steve moved hastily aside as I cleared the remaining steps with the agility and speed of an Olympic athlete and made it to the rail just in time.

  For the next couple of hours – it felt like days – I lay on the soft cushions of the smartly practical banquette in a haze of queasiness punctuated by dry retching, only intermittently aware of shouts and cries. Jason landing another prize catch, or losing it? I didn’t care.

  I must have fallen asleep. A hand on my shoulder was shaking me gently. Reluctantly I opened my eyes. Steve loomed over me.

  ‘You’ll be OK now, doll. We’re almost back at the marina.’

  The violent see-sawing did seem to have diminished to a skittish bobbing. Experimentally I sat up. I was definitely back in the land of the living. Through the side window I could see the palm-lined promenade and the regimented lines of sunbeds on Fañabe beach. In another five minutes I’d be able to say farewell to The Saucy Nancy.

  Five minutes. And my mission very much unaccomplished. Shit.

  Might there still be a chance? Sinclair was at the console speaking quietly into the radiotelephone, one hand lightly on the wheel. Out on deck, Steve was laughing and joking with Jason who was sprawled in the swivel chair, drink in hand. Jaime was sitting cross-legged at the cabin entrance chalking 30th December – Jason Weston and Day’s catch – Shark on a small blackboard.

  I propped one elbow on the back of the seat and let my eyes roam round. Here looked no more promising for bug planting than the cabin down below. One side was open to the deck, the rest a horseshoe of windows and banquette interrupted by the control fascia and access to the lower cabin. No ventilators, projections or handy crevices broke the smooth white expanse of roof above my head. The instrument console was the only possibility, but Sinclair was standing there. All in all, pretty hopeless. I was going to have to confess to Gerry that I’d failed.

  ‘Fantastic bit of action there, Debsy.’ Jason, hair tousled, shirt sweat-and-salt-stained, threw himself down beside me. ‘I hear you missed some of it. Pity. Never mind, Steve filmed it. Can’t wait to play it over tonight.’ He pulled my head down onto his shoulder. ‘And after that we’ll…’ He nuzzled softly into my ear, ‘Great acting back there, Debs. Especially that sicking-up. Stroke of genius.’

  I giggled coyly. ‘One of my little accomplishments,’ I murmured.

  ‘Mmmmm.’ The nuzzling lips inched downwards to the hollow at the base of my throat, lingered a moment, then made to continue downward.

  Damn him. He knew I couldn’t make a scene. Over the top of his head I could see the grey concrete blocks of the harbour mole sliding past.

  ‘Mmmmm.’ More nuzzling from Jason.

  Over his shoulder I could see Jaime and Steve opening a refrigerated cabinet and lifting out the fishy corpse, its toothy gaping mouth and glassy eye defiant even in death. With a light thump The Saucy Nancy nosed into her berth at the pontoon. I sat up abruptly.

  ‘Ouch!’ Lover Boy levered himself off me, fingering his lip.

  ‘What’s happening now, Jase?’ I enquired in a bright girly voice. ‘Get them away from the cabin,’ I hissed in his ear. ‘I need a couple of minutes.’

  Give him his due, you could always count on him in an emergency. He didn’t ask any questions, just shot me a quick glance and leapt to his feet.

  ‘Get my camera out of your bag, Debs. I want photos of me holding up my shark. All-male action pictures, so keep well back.’

  ‘Huh, holding a board and a dead fish, there’s not much action in that!’ I flounced petulantly towards the control console.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Debsy. I’ll make it up to you later.’

  I swung round. ‘Let me take the photo, Jase.’

  ‘No way, Debs! Last time you cut off my head, and the time before that the pic was so fuzzy it could have been taken underwater.’ He flung an arm round Sinclair’s shoulders and turned him so that his back was to the cabin. ‘C’mon, John, I want you beside me, and Jaime and Steve on either side of the board. We’ll find someone to take the picture.’

  Scowl pinned to my face, I leant against th
e fascia just vacated by Sinclair. I felt a pang of remorse for J’s sore lip. He’d just engineered as good an opportunity as I was going to get.

  He thrust the camera at a group of gawpers on the pontoon. ‘Anyone do me a favour? Take a few shots of me and my catch?’

  ‘Hey, fella, give it here.’ A floral-shirted arm reached out.

  Jason was taking a chance. This was Tenerife, not some crime-free Utopia. Floral Shirt could well make off with the camera. Now that would cause a handy diversion.

  ‘Thanks, pal. Now we’ll line up here, and if you can get the upper part of the boat in…’

  Jason would be able to string things along for perhaps a couple of minutes. That’s all the time I had.

  As soon as the line of backs screened me from view, I turned my attention to the instrument console. Dials set into smooth plastic…a couple of levers with red knobs…a small wooden-spoke wheel…panelling down to the floor. No gaps.

  A shout from the pontoon: ‘This camera working? Nothing’s happening when I press the button.’

  ‘Shit,’ from Jason, ‘forgot to switch it on. It’s that button on the top beside the viewfinder.’

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the row of backs. Jason’s arm was still round Sinclair’s broad shoulders, the group’s attention focused on the black staring eye of the camera. Once again I ran my fingers over the smooth plastic and metal of the console. Nothing loose. Nothing I could prise off. Hopeless. I turned and leant one arm nonchalantly on the wooden wheel.

  ‘One more shot. If the guy with the board could turn a little this way…’ Floral Shirt indicated with the wave of a brown hand. ‘Now the three of you grab onto that fish.’

  The shark was now horizontal, the end of its tail in the crook of Steve’s arm, the gunmetal grey head in the firm grasp of Jason, with Sinclair supporting the middle. Jaime was still holding the board with its chalked details, weight of catch now added.

  Surely there must be somewhere…

  ‘OK, fellas. Don’t move. Hold it ju-st there.’

  Seconds left…

  Something soft brushed against the top of my head as The Saucy Nancy lifted to the swell of a passing motor yacht. Hanging from the roof was a small dark object, a rubber mascot in the shape of Tenerife’s famous dragon tree.

  ‘OK. That’s it.’ Floral Shirt lowered the camera and held it out.

  Time up.

  As Sinclair released the shark and pushed back the brim of his red baseball cap, my fingers prised apart the mascot’s tangle of pliable green branches and pressed the thin disk of the bug deep inside. It would have to do.

  Chapter Eleven

  The debriefing session behind the white door of Extreme Travel offices lasted two hours. After Jason had waxed lyrical about my acting skills (why disabuse him?), Gerry had been fairly philosophical about the less than perfect hiding place for the bug. Bringing him up to date, my version took ten minutes; Jason’s account of the morning’s action, one hour. As I’d predicted, the swivel chair was commandeered for a blow-by-blow re-enactment of the epic struggle. The surreptitious doze I managed to snatch during the video replay was interrupted all too frequently by the intrepid fisherman’s excited yells, ‘There!’ ‘You see!’ ‘Wait for it!’…

  On my way home I checked my mobile’s voice mail to find Victoria Knight had left a message. I’ ll be in the Café Bar Oasis at the Alhambra till four p.m. Come and join me for afternoon tea. I was tempted to pass on it – after that nightmare boat trip this morning, a long siesta beckoned. But I’d jettisoned breakfast on The Saucy Nancy and lunch was long overdue, so the lure of cream scones and sticky cakes in the Café Bar Oasis was stronger than the call of siesta. Restoring one’s energy levels, I reminded myself, is important after a time of stress. If I turned left and back-tracked a bit, I’d arrive at the Alhambra in about five minutes, only a little later than Victoria’s four p.m. deadline…

  After the heat outside, the Café Bar Oasis was shady and refreshing. I pushed aside a palm frond and spotted Victoria at a table positioned to one side of the gilded cage. She was in the process of demolishing a fluffy-textured scone liberally spread with cream and strawberry jam. A waiter in uniform of white kaftan and fez was pouring tea from a large silver teapot.

  She looked up and waved. ‘Oh there you are, dear. I do trust you don’t mind me starting.’ The spoon plunged into the bowl of cream and adroitly transferred a dollop to the waiting scone, evidently a well-practised technique. ‘You see, I didn’t know if you would be able to come. But I’m so glad you have. Let me order more tea and another round of cream scones.’ She studied me solicitously. ‘You’re looking a trifle peaky, dear. I do feel guilty about intruding on your free time, but I really need your advice.’ With deft movements, she processed the remaining piece of scone.

  Matching pots of cream and jam, and a plate of golden brown scones arrived. As I tucked in, she chased the last few crumbs round her plate.

  ‘Yes, Deborah, I need your help.’ For a long moment she was silent.

  What could be bothering her? I paused, scone halfway to mouth. ‘Why, of course, Mrs Knight. That’s—’

  ‘Call me Victoria, dear.’ She folded and unfolded her napkin nervously. ‘Your advice, and another pair of eyes, that’s what I want. You see, on Friday Miss Devereux took me to the most beautiful houses. Of course, I was tempted at once. Who wouldn’t be? All so beautiful.’

  This didn’t sound too urgent. It was nothing that wouldn’t keep. The unworthy thought occurred to me that I could have been snoozing with Gorgonzola on my patio, as I’d intended. Still, the cream tea was more than adequate compensation. I munched away steadily while Victoria launched into a glowing description of the properties inspected.

  She broke off, eyeing my plate, empty now except for a smear of jam and cream. ‘Time for cakes, dear?’ She signalled to a waiter. A silver tray of cakes and pastries materialised as if by magic. ‘Don’t stand on ceremony, Deborah.’ She extracted from the pile a giant profiterole oozing cream and smothered in dark chocolate.

  Thou shalt not covet… My eyes searched the pile of assorted cakes.

  Reading my thoughts, she twirled the plate round. ‘There’s another one. Quite irresistible, aren’t they?’

  Further conversation went on hold.

  At last, Victoria pushed away her plate with a satisfied sigh. ‘Now I must tell you exactly what my problem is.’

  I sipped my tea and waited.

  ‘One of the villas Miss Devereux took me to today was absolutely wonderful. Perfect in every way. Just what I’ve been looking for. It’s the one featured on the cover of Exclusive’s portfolio. “Exclusive even for Exclusive”, I think it said.’

  ‘But, Victoria, that little bit of real estate is priced at £1 million.’

  ‘Yes, I know, dear. You’re wondering what an old woman like me will do with a place like that, and how I can afford it.’ She leant across the pillaged cake plate, her voice sinking to a whisper. ‘It’s for the children and grandchildren. And I can afford it. We won the lottery, Jack and I. We had great plans – a new house for us, and one each for the children. Three months later he was dead. A heart attack.’ Her voice trembled.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I patted her hand.

  ‘Thank you, dear.’ She blew her nose on an embroidered handkerchief, and smiled at me with watery eyes. ‘Of course, I made sure young Jack and Anne got their new houses, but I stayed on in the bungalow. No point in moving. My memories are there, and the neighbours are very good. But it’s lonely, and I said to myself, “Victoria, though money doesn’t buy happiness, it can help, if you use it in the right way.” Do you agree with me, dear?’

  I nodded.

  ‘So if I purchase a big place like the one I’ve just seen, I can stay in Tenerife and avoid the bad weather in England. And there will be plenty of room for the children and grandchildren to join me. No, money’s not the problem.’ Her face clouded.

  ‘But somethin
g else is?’ I prompted.

  Victoria leant forward. ‘There’s a deadline, you see. And it’s the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Deadline?’ I was puzzled.

  She ploughed on. ‘I was so excited. I told that nice Monique Devereux, “Yes, this is the one for me. I must have it.” Well, I thought she’d be delighted, but you know how you can sense that something’s wrong?’

  I nodded again, unwilling to say anything that might interrupt the flow.

  ‘It was the way she hesitated. She seemed a bit flustered. I believe in getting things out in the open, you know, so I asked her outright, “Is something the matter?” She was very apologetic. Said she’d no idea that I’d like the place so much that I’d consider buying. She’d only shown it to me because, after I’d seen the last of the villas, I said I’d a fancy to see the star property featured in the prospectus. And then she told me—’

  ‘Madam is finished?’ The enquiry hung over the table and encompassed us both.

  Silence fell between us. From the gilded cage the twitter of birdsong and the flutter of wings suddenly seemed very loud. While the waiter cleared away the plates, I thought about what she had said. Monique had seemed ‘flustered’. I had a hunch it would be well worth finding out why.

  Victoria broke into my thoughts: ‘I’ve ordered another pot of tea, dear, if that’s all right.’

  ‘About the villa,’ I hoped I sounded suitably casual, ‘what were you about to say?’

  ‘Miss Devereux told me…’ she paused, as if she was finding it difficult to put into words, ‘that I wouldn’t be able to buy the property.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ I was genuinely astonished. What could Vanheusen be up to? I had no doubt at all that Monique had been acting under his instructions. To turn down a sale of £1 million must mean that even more was at stake.

  ‘It seems that there’s an Offer to Buy contract on it. Someone’s offered to buy the property for £1 million and Mr Vanheusen is going to accept and sign the papers tomorrow.’ Victoria sighed. ‘I’m so disappointed. It’s silly, I know, but I’ve set my heart on having it.’