Under Suspicion Page 2

  The hand-shake was cool, the smile perfunctory. ‘Welcome to Exclusive (Tenerife), Deborah.’

  Was there a faint note of hostility? I didn’t care. I’d surmounted the first hurdle. I was in.

  Half an hour later, as the electric gates to the grounds of the Vanheusen estate swung silently shut behind my car, I hummed a little tune. Operation Canary Creeper was up and running. The groundwork of the past couple of weeks had paid off – those dawn-to-dusk explorations on foot and in 4x4 of the island’s most spectacular locations, tucked away, unvisited, unseen, unknown to the madding tourist crowd in their air-conditioned coaches. I’d been able to enthuse from first-hand experience when Vanheusen had asked me what ideas I had for the entertainment of clients between their scheduled inspections of his luxury properties. But it was that last-minute inspiration of the cat hairs which had proved to be the trump card. I was returning to report success.

  A flicker of unease pricked the bubble of my self-satisfaction. The hum triumphant faltered and died, withered on the date palm, so to speak. ‘You must show me a picture of Persepolis sometime, Ms Smith,’ Vanheusen had said. At the time it had seemed a polite response to my compliments, one cat owner to another, but now I could detect a hidden agenda. A good red Persian is extremely rare, a female even rarer. I’d glimpsed the covetous gleam in his eyes. Had I introduced a wild card, a factor I couldn’t control?

  Pooooop pooooooooop. An impatient blare from a tour coach with protruding mirrors like the eye-stalks of a gigantic insect interrupted this rather unpleasant train of thought. Oh well, sufficient unto the day. Qué sera sera. Negotiating the rush hour traffic clogging the main route through Las Américas was enough to think about.

  The Control Centre for Operation Canary Creeper was tucked away in one of the back streets of the old town. Perhaps ‘old town’ was a bit of a misnomer. Gone the fishermen’s cottages, elbowed aside by hotels and balconied apartments. Gone, too, the evocative plaintive mewing of seagulls on the lookout for edible scraps, drowned now by the roar of the ride-on street vacuum hoovering up cigarette ends, drink cans and leaflets.

  HM Revenue & Customs in the guise of Extreme Travel Agency was sandwiched between a laundry and a solicitor’s office, one of three nondescript shops in a slightly seedy back street of drab entryphone doorways. So it wasn’t exactly hidden away. It wasn’t exactly conspicuous either, just another tourist agency among the many in Los Cristianos. An agency specialising in exotic holidays and personalised packages. Few stopped to look in the windows at the posters of emerald paddy fields in Vietnam, the eternal snows of Everest and K2, or a sailing ship battling its way through icy mast-high seas in the Straits of Magellan. Even fewer pushed open the door and made enquiries. Which gave Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs ample time to carry out their clandestine activities. It was perfect cover for their investigations into British national Vanheusen’s undercover activities.

  In the chic minimal outer office – desk, telephone, fax machine, neatly stacked brochures – there was nothing to excite curiosity in even the most suspicious of minds. But there were those who would have been very interested indeed in what lay behind that plain white door at the back of the room. Stored behind the steel frontage of innocent-looking grey filing cabinets were the latest satellite communication systems and surveillance devices.

  Parking at this time of day was not a problem, and I drew into the kerb right outside. The small notice on the outer door of Extreme Travel announced Closed 1300 till 1700. Untrue. HM Revenue & Customs never closes. Indeed, we’re at our most active when others sleep. As I inserted my key in the lock and opened the door, the muted sound of a buzzer gave warning of my arrival, but I knew I’d been on camera from the moment my car had nosed into the street. In our line of work there can never be too much security. I dumped the bulky Exclusive folder on a chair and idly studied myself in the large rectangular mirror covering most of the wall behind the desk. That mirror was in fact a window fitted with one-way glass. I brushed my jacket, tweaked my collar and ran a hand through my hair. Finally I gave myself a small approving smile. It signalled that I was sure I hadn’t been followed, was not under observation; in other words, that I was clean. Any doubts about security and I’d have frowned, and the door would have remained locked.

  When I heard the distinctive click of levered locks being activated, I gathered up the Exclusive folder and took it with me into the secret domain behind the plain white door.

  ‘Operation Canary Creeper up and running,’ I said. ‘Thanks to Gorgonzola.’

  ‘So the cat hairs did the trick, then.’ Case officer Gerry Burnside nodded approvingly, ‘Clever of you. Now that you’ve sneaked your foot inside the door, let’s hear your first impressions.’

  ‘Cosy little set-up Vanheusen’s got.’ I sat down and pushed the folder across the desk. ‘Luxury villa, all marble and exotic hardwoods. Extensive grounds – palm trees, exotic plants, manicured lawns and bougainvillea everywhere. High security throughout, of course – multiple locks on his office door, electronic gates and video surveillance of the corridors and grounds. According to Monique Devereux, his PA Leisure, dogs are loose at night.’

  ‘How far is she in Vanheusen’s confidence, would you say?’

  ‘I’ll be able to tell you after Monday. I’m to report for a week’s training in company methods.’ I flipped open the folder. ‘The Exclusive approach is simple really. It’s an appeal to vanity by flattering clients that they are part of a very select bunch. Look at this.’ I stabbed a finger down on the Exclusive marketing catchphrase in bold centimetre-high type, repeated on every page. If you have to ask who we are, you’re not one of us! ‘It’s The Emperor’s clothes story – vanity clouds the judgement. Stops awkward questions. Interesting, eh?’

  Gerry took the folder from me and thumbed through the pages.

  ‘The guy’s spent millions on this set-up, most of it drug money. Has to be.’ He looked up. ‘For the first time we’ve a good chance of nailing him. But now you’ve become “one of them”, Deborah, you’ll have to tread very carefully. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

  Chapter Two

  I let myself out through the plain white door and drove back home with something more pressing on my mind than Gerry’s warning – this morning’s confrontation with my feline colleague Gorgonzola, alias Persepolis Desert Sandstorm.

  How did a cat come to be on the payroll of HM Revenue & Customs? Late one autumn afternoon several years ago I found her as a kitten clinging to an old log in the river, the only survivor of a drowned litter. I couldn’t just abandon her and leave her to die. The combination of round-the-clock intensive care and her stubborn fighting spirit cemented the bond between us.

  ‘You can stay here, Kitten, till I find you a good home,’ I told her.

  At that time I worked from home for HM Revenue & Customs, training young dogs to assess their potential to sniff out drugs. I kept her out of the way of the dogs at first, but she soon showed she could take care of herself. Kitten stayed.

  Kitten’s career with Revenue & Customs began the day I chose a few crumbs of smelly ripe cheese as my lure to train the dogs. While I was collecting the dogs from their kennels, she sneaked into the lounge, tracked down the crumbs and ate them. All that was left of my test was a single crumb on her whiskers. I changed her name to Gorgonzola, an allusion to the cheese, and allowed her to join the dogs in their sniffing games. Her sense of smell and intelligence were outstanding. She passed the training with flying colours. Later, when I began undercover work for Revenue & Customs, she made the ideal undercover drug-detector.

  As I said, I was feeling guilty about what I’d done this morning. A trust betrayed is not easily forgiven. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Gorgonzola’s reproachful gaze. In an attempt to postpone the inevitable, I drove home by the most roundabout way.

  Home, for the duration of Operation Canary Creeper, was a rented house in the little village of La Caleta. Alas, the tentacles of La
s Américas had crept westward along the pink granite promenade, slithered over the intervening headlands and a couple of ravine barrancos to lay siege to the quaint old houses, narrow alleys and the picturesque micro harbour.

  The Department had installed me in Calle Rafael Alberti, numero 2, in a smart cream bungalow accessorised with olive wood Canarian-style balcony, motorised louvred shutters and elegant double-tiered pantiled roof. Stylish, comfortable, soulless. In my planter window-boxes the red poinsettias drooped, shamefaced that the developers had grafted this modern structure onto the end of a row of traditional fishermen’s cottages. Their white walls, simple dark green shutters, white-painted flat corrugated roofs and tapering smoke-blackened chimneys had a naïve stylishness of their own. All had heavy wooden doors with a centrally placed door handle in the shape of a large bronze ball. My neighbour, old Jesús Domingo, had added his own personal touch. His shutters were the same dark green as the rest of the terrace, but his walls were washed a faded salmon pink. His sun-bleached front door of rough wooden boards and diagonal bracing strut had not been upgraded to ‘fancy’ panelling. It remained as it always had been.

  Would Gorgonzola have forgiven me for this morning’s sneaky snatch ’n’ grab? If she was there to welcome me, I’d know she had. Her favourite spot was under the shade of the magenta bougainvillea that climbed one cream-washed wall and sent exploratory fingers over a shaky wooden framework that in my more grandiose moments I referred to as my pergola.

  At the rear, all our houses had a patch of ground enclosed by a neat lava wall. ‘Garden’ might be too complimentary a term for these plots. They ranged from a free-for-all of euphorbia and prickly pear, to neighbour Jesús’s colourful oil can garden. His scarlet and pink geraniums were potted up in old olive oil cans painted a cheerful vivid blue. Flowerpot cans were perched on every surface – window ledges, back step, even hanging from the rickety fence itself. There was barely room for the old wooden seat on which he sat in the warm evenings crooning the plaintive melancholy notes of a haunting madrelena. Under the impression that a male suitor was serenading her, Gorgonzola would stretch out in a seductive manner and lie there purring softly to herself.

  Tonight I’d make a point of sending in a special request for one of Jesús’s madrelenas. That and a plateful of her favourite tuna chunks should help to erase the painful memories. I unlatched the back gate. When you know you’re in the wrong, body language is important. So no hung head, dragging feet or faltering step. Honeyed tones, simpering smiles were also out. G would treat all that with the contempt it deserved. I paused at the rickety fence separating my plot from Jesús’s garden and made a show of sniffing at the scentless geranium flowers in their oil can pots, while taking the opportunity to slide a covert sideways glance at the shade under the magenta bougainvillea.

  No cat purring in welcome. No cat with lips drawn into a thin line of displeasure. But on the old cushion that she’d commandeered as her day-bed, I detected a shallow depression and a drool mark, still wet. I’d been blackballed, cold-shouldered, handed the frozen furry mitt, given the stiff-legged brush-off. In a word, scorned. It was time to grovel. Outside the open pantry window I rummaged in my bag for the house keys and prepared to raise the white flag of surrender. Total abasement would be the order of the day.

  For three days after the ‘rape of the hair’ episode, I was subjected to accusing looks and tail clamped firmly round her feet, Oscar-winning performances every one. Usually Gorgonzola didn’t bear a grudge for long, but on this occasion I had to abase myself for a record length of time. I could tell that her heart was gradually softening, however, and that she’d soon relent and give me that toothy Cheshire Cat grin. I’d soon be restored to favour. Just as well. Those last three days I’d had enough critical glances and disapproving mutters from Monique Devereux.

  Vanheusen’s PA in charge of Leisure had not one, but two spacious rooms in her office suite. The outer office, my domain, was large and airy and furnished in modern minimalist style, all matt black leather furniture with skinny chrome tubular legs. Three walls were white, with white ceiling and white marble floor. The facing wall was a vivid red, inset with a huge yellow rectangle enclosing a smaller blue one. When I was at my desk I felt I was working inside a Mondrian painting. The desk itself stood on a large rug of the same bright red. The only other patches of colour were a yellow desk lamp and blue telephone. Adjustable blinds screened the large picture window, filtering the strong sunlight and imparting a shady coolness. An unobtrusive door gave access to the PA Leisure’s office, antechamber to Vanheusen’s inner sanctum, with all its secrets. Was she part and parcel of Vanheusen’s money-laundering set-up? I wasn’t sure.

  One thing I was sure of by the middle of week one – she and I would never get along. That faint antagonism towards me that I had detected at our first meeting had become more noticeable, a complication I hadn’t foreseen. The tension between us wasn’t just a case of two people not hitting it off. There was something else behind it. And if I didn’t suss it out soon, it could well jeopardise the success of Operation Canary Creeper.

  I made the decision to bring things to a head, lance the boil, so to speak. I took the opportunity to tackle her when she summoned me to go over Exclusive’s procedure for meeting and greeting new clients at the airport.

  As she handed me a sheaf of instructions, I said, ‘I’m really anxious to do well, but I’ve a feeling that something about my work isn’t pleasing you, Monique.’

  I wasn’t prepared for the dam to break. She suddenly burst out with, ‘I’ve no idea why Mr Vanheusen chose you. He had as good as promised my cousin Ashley the post, you know.’ One of the photographs on her desk showed herself and another woman sitting on the patio of a smart-looking villa. She turned it so I could see it better. ‘That’s Ashley. To be frank, I’d much prefer her to be my assistant.’

  I’d unwittingly given her cause to dislike me, and that was worrying.

  Next morning, I sat on the edge of the bed and covertly studied Gorgonzola as she prepared to launch into her wake-up exercises. Her tail, only a trifle more moth-eaten than before, swung lazily back and forth. I’d been forgiven.

  I spelt out what was in my mind. ‘I feel she’s keeping tabs on me. But it’s only because Monique’s looking for an excuse to sack me and make way for Cousin Ashley, don’t you think, G?’

  The joint and muscle-loosening stretches of her front legs came to a momentary halt. An ear twitched in my direction.

  Encouraged, I added, ‘Is that all it is, eh?’

  The wake-up exercises recommenced. G dug her claws into the bedroom rug and, eyes closed, slowly and thoughtfully hollowed her back in an arch.

  ‘Or have I aroused her suspicions in some way?’

  Back legs stre-e-tched out in turn.

  ‘Well, what do you think, G?’

  Her eyes narrowed to a slit. I was treated to a long ya-a-wn. The jury was out. It’s not the right moment to ask questions when a cat is in the middle of its limbering-up routine.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. Is that what you’re saying?’ I gave her a quick caress and locked the apartment door.

  Meeting and greeting, it seemed, was an important part of the Exclusive softening-up experience. My first assignment was to collect new clients from the airport and install them in the Alhambra, a newly opened five-star hotel, designed as a Moorish palace – plashing fountains, marble floors, mosaic tiles, white lattice-work and minarets, all that sort of thing.

  A white chauffeur-driven limousine was waiting for me beside the designer grove of palm trees in the Alhambra’s Moroccan-themed car park. I leant back against the mint green leather upholstery and ran through the meeting and greeting routine. The countryside swept past. This morning, the scattering of mountain villages on the foothills of Teide were wrapped in a blanket of low cloud, but ahead and to my left, the sun rising over the sea fingered the little houses of the fishing village of Los Abrigos, just visible beyond the white ra
dar dome at the end of the runway.

  Clutching the Exclusive logo, I took up position at the Arrivals barrier. While I waited, I thought about Bill Gardener. I hadn’t even met him. Too cocky by half, they said. Was that why he’d slipped up? Just how had Vanheusen’s mob got onto him? He’d met his death two days after he’d reported he was on the verge of a breakthrough for Operation Canary Creeper. Had his cover already been blown, the information, whatever it was, planted solely to mislead him? I didn’t need warnings to be careful…

  First a trickle, then a mass of people surged towards me through the Arrivals door. I scanned the faces as I held aloft the clipboard with its silvered Exclusive lettering. According to Gardener, cash was being couriered to Vanheusen by clients coming on inspection visits. I had no way of knowing if I was about to meet and greet one of those couriers. Victoria Knight, Millie Prentice, Rudyard Scott, Herbert G Wainwright. Just a list of names. Could be any of them. Or none. There was nothing to help me.

  A man in his early forties carrying an airline cabin case broke away from the stream of people and headed purposefully in my direction. A large black suitcase on a strap trailed at his heels like an obedient retriever. They came to a halt in front of me.

  ‘Welcome to Tenerife, Mr…?’

  ‘The name’s Scott. Rudyard Finbar Scott. Writer.’ He paused expectantly, ready to field the cry of recognition.

  The pause lengthened as I searched for a suitable phrase that would convey a ‘Gosh! Wow! Can I have your autograph?’ reaction – and yet cover up the fact that I’d never heard of him. That thin face with its high-domed forehead had not featured in any of the publicity photographs I’d come across.