Under Suspicion Page 4

  I’d only had a moment, but it was enough. At the bottom of the page he was reading was the unmistakable flamboyant signature of Ambrose Vanheusen. It might mean nothing, but Rudyard Finbar Scott would merit further investigation. I’d ask the office to dig into his background.

  When the 4x4 people-carrier drew up punctually at the Alhambra next morning, I put Monique’s training into practice and launched into the approved Exclusive meeting and greeting routine.

  ‘Welcome aboard your shuttle to the moon, or rather, to the National Park of Mount Teide, the nearest likeness on earth to a lunar landscape.’ Hammer home the exclusivity, Monique had said, so I did, positively bludgeoning them with it. ‘We’ll be driving on a road normally closed to tourist vehicles, a concession granted by the National Park authorities only to Exclusive clients.’

  I got the reactions I’d expected from two of them – a sceptical sniff from Wainwright, a clap of the hands and an exclamation of delight from Victoria. But Millie’s abstracted, ‘Beam me up, Debbie!’ with an accompanying wave of her tortoiseshell glasses was just a little too delayed, as if her mind had been on something else – a little odd in view of her enthusiasm yesterday. It pays to take note of little things like that.

  The road to Teide climbed slowly through the sprawl of new-build Italian-style terracotta villas complete with white balustrades and classical pediments, a sprawl that oozed out from the core of Las Américas and Los Cristianos as relentlessly as molten lava. Where the new-build ended, infrastructure for the next phase – tarmac, pavements, lamp standards – lay ready, cutting a brutal swathe through the toasted brown landscape of volcanic outcrops, cinders, cactus and euphorbia scrub.

  The road twisted and turned up through villages with whitewashed walls and red pantiled roofs. Here, a roofless sandy-walled finca crumbled back into a landscape of prickly pear and grey-green spiky aloes. There, low dry-stone walls enclosed small fields of tiny Canarian potatoes and rows of gnarled, arthritic vines hugged the stony ground seeking shelter against the elements.

  Above the village of Vilaflor, the air and vegetation became suddenly alpine. The road clawed its way up through pine trees with deeply fissured grey trunks and long, silky needles tufted like chimney sweeps’ brushes. A thin metal barrier was the only protection against a drop of a thousand metres to the hazy coastal plain below.

  The road twisted for the last time, and suddenly the cone of Teide rose majestically out of a dark choppy sea of chocolate, russet and hazel-brown lava, fuzzed here and there with the dusty eau-de-Nil green of retama bushes. Straight ahead, a jagged ridge of lava broke the skyline.

  Though Millie Prentice muttered, ‘Gosh, isn’t that just something,’ I had the distinct impression that the scenery held no real interest for her. In unguarded moments she’d looked decidedly bored. Why had she come? Why had she not made her excuses like Rudyard Scott?

  After a private champagne breakfast at the Parador, we drove into the protected zone of the Cañadas and stopped in a patch of shade cast by a tortured outcrop peppered with rounded cavities like a gigantic chunk of Emmental cheese. From it a dark sea of lava rippled out till it washed against the distant wall of the encircling caldera at Teide’s base. Above us towered yellow, ochre and brown cliffs spiking a cobalt blue sky. Undercover work sometimes has its compensations…

  Wainwright’s jaded yawn was true to form. ‘Our Grand Canyon beats the hell out of this. Now that’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.

  Chapter Four

  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 becaus
e 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.

  Chapter Five

  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 27th.’

  ‘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 21st. Then there’s a gap over Christmas.’ She turned the page. ‘The next villa appointment is on Friday the 28th.’