Under Suspicion Read online

  Just the opening I’d been angling for. ‘Tell me, Mrs Knight, did you come to Tenerife with the firm intention of buying a villa, price no object?’

  ‘Oh no, dear.’ She poured out another cup of strong English Breakfast tea. ‘At the money he’s asking, the property will have to be just right. I’ll know it if I see it.’ A faraway look came into her eyes as she sipped her tea. Just as I was pondering the best way to ask her directly about Rudyard Scott, she put down her cup and added, ‘But Mr Scott definitely made up his mind before he came.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, injecting surprise with that subtle underlying hint of doubt that makes the speaker rush to expand on what has just been said.

  ‘Yes, he’s got the cash ready to hand over.’

  ‘Well, it’s a good idea to have your finances in place if you intend to purchase property. Banks can take ages to transfer money.’ That should bring out what I wanted to hear. It did.

  ‘I mean cash as in “cash in hand”.’ Though the competition of the birdsong from the gilded cage made it unnecessary, she lowered her voice. ‘He’s come with bundles of notes.’

  ‘No! I can’t believe anyone would be so—’

  ‘That’s exactly what I think, but I’ve seen the money. When we arrived at the Alhambra, Mr Scott – he’s such an impatient person, you know – couldn’t wait for the luggage to be put on a trolley. He grabbed his small airline case from the porter’s hands and marched off to reception, leaving us all standing. So rude.’

  Mustn’t interrupt the flow. I sipped my tea.

  She eyed me over the rim of the cup. ‘I didn’t realise – and neither did he, obviously – that my case looked exactly the same as his. And who actually bothers to check labels on cabin baggage, dear?’ Victoria was enjoying telling her tale to a receptive listener. ‘When I got to my room and couldn’t open the combination lock of my airline case, I took it down to reception. They were so helpful when I told them that my heart pills were inside. The maintenance man came with lopper things that just sliced through the padlock. And off I went back to my room. And then, and then,’ her eyes grew round with recollected wonder, ‘I opened the case and saw all that money.’

  It’s a common money-laundering practice for a network of couriers to make frequent transfers of cash between Europe and the UK to avoid using the banking system with its restrictive financial controls. If Scott’s cash was in pounds sterling, he could be Vanheusen’s courier. I leant forward.

  ‘You mean it was full of euros?’

  ‘Oh no, dear. English notes! Definitely English notes. And definitely not mine! There was a label on the case, but the name was just a squiggle. I knew, though, it must belong to somebody staying at the hotel. “What a panic that poor person will be in,” I thought.’

  I nodded. I could well visualise Rudyard Scott’s panic when he realised he’d picked up the wrong case.

  ‘So I took the case straight back down to reception, and we were all standing looking at the money when the lift doors opened and Mr Scott came rushing out carrying an identical piece of luggage. Quite red-faced he was. He shouted, “That’s my case! Thank God you’ve found it!”’

  I raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘With all that money on view, just how did he prove that?’

  ‘That’s exactly what the receptionist asked – in a polite way, of course. So Mr Scott picked up the combination lock lying on the desk, fiddled with the numbers, and the hasp opened.’ She frowned. ‘I hope he’s put all that money in the hotel safe. I didn’t see what he did, I was only interested in rushing up to my room and getting out my heart pills.’

  We chatted on, but all I could really think of was the brownie points I’d earn from Gerry when I in turn told the story of Rudyard Finbar Scott and his bundles of notes.

  Gerry Burnside looked up from the tangle of papers on his desk. With his thin tanned face, straight black hair and brown eyes, he could pass for a Spaniard, and in fact when working on a case, often did.

  I flopped into the seat opposite him. ‘Anything new on writer Rudyard Finbar Scott?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve been making enquiries. There’s no record of him in the British Library, or with the Society of Authors. That only means, of course, that he’s not a published author.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s worth continuing to check him out,’ I said, feeling somewhat smug. ‘It seems he’s carrying a case full of money about with him.’ Like a dog that has deposited a slipper at his master’s feet, I sat back waiting for the pat on the head.

  Gerry didn’t appear to be quite as impressed as I’d expected. He leant back in his chair, clasped his fingers and slowly rotated his thumbs. ‘It’s probably to pay for that villa he’s going to buy from Vanheusen. In Spain it’s quite usual for people purchasing property to tote large sums of euros around in carrier bags. It’s a favoured way of beating the taxman.’

  He knew I’d wanted him to be impressed. I ground my teeth and counted to ten.

  I let the silence lengthen. Then I added, ‘In pounds sterling.’

  The thumbs stopped in mid-twiddle. ‘Well, now. That might make a difference.’ He leant forward, giving me his full attention. ‘Tell me what you’ve found out.’

  I told him about the mix-up with the suitcases, and had just congratulated myself on winning those brownie points, when he said, ‘There’s one big snag about your theory, I’m afraid, Deborah. If he’s a courier, why is he still hanging around here? Why hasn’t he just handed over the dough and scarpered?’

  He must have detected my chagrin – Gerry can read me like a book – for he switched on Mr Nice Guy. ‘But perhaps you’d like to know that the reception photo you spotted on Devereux’s desk has opened up a new line of enquiry. Jayne keeps our newspaper files and recognised one of the background faces as Jonathan Mansell, the owner of the Alhambra Hotel.’

  Gerry normally operated on a strict need-to-know basis as far as we operatives were concerned, so I recognised this piece of info as the dog’s pat on the head for delivering the slipper.

  From a folder on his desk he deftly extracted a page of newsprint and pushed it across the desk. Under the headline FIVE-STAR HOTEL TO OPEN FOR BUSINESS was a picture of white minarets and turrets against an impossibly blue sky, and an interior shot of soaring reception hall with its intricate lacy plasterwork, marble floor, gleaming brass urns and squashy sofas. Alongside a lengthy interview was a photograph of the owner, Jonathan Mansell.

  Gerry ran a hand through his hair. ‘So now we know that there’s social contact between Vanheusen and Mansell. And they also have business contacts because…’

  ‘Because Exclusive installs its clients in his hotel as part of the softening-up process…’ I said, feeling my way.

  He took off his glasses. ‘But is there also an illegal business connection between Vanheusen and Mansell? That’s what we have to find out.’ He chewed thoughtfully on one gold-edged earpiece.

  The opportunity presented itself two days later among the morning mail on my desk.

  Mr Jonathan Mansell has great pleasure in inviting Ms Deborah Smith of Exclusive Properties to the Official Grand Opening of the Alhambra Hotel on Thursday 20th December at 19.30.

  I traced the embossed black letters with a thoughtful finger. This might be the perfect chance to do a little digging. With that in mind, I got Gerry to issue me with a natty little device to deal with hotel electronic door locks.

  I was late for my rendezvous at the Alhambra. Best-laid schemes and all that. I’d had it all planned – give Gerry my daily report, go home in plenty of time to change, transform myself from ugly duckling into swan, as Gerry so flatteringly put it. But I’d reckoned without the persistent – suspiciously persistent – would-be traveller who came into the front shop.

  Jayne, our dumb-looking front-person, bored with the current window display, had that very morning swept it all away. Gone were the paddy fields in Vietnam. Gone the snows of Everest and K2, and the sailing ship battling its way through th
e Straits of Magellan. She’d replaced them with exhortations to suffer in more esoteric freezing hell-holes. Trek to the South Pole in the footsteps of Scott. Relive Shackleton’s Epic Winter Crossing of South Georgia. Spend the Winter Months in a Siberian Gulag. Cardboard models of icebergs sailed the windows of Extreme Travel amid huge heaps of polystyrene beads mimicking the snows of the Antarctic.

  Just as I was about to leave the inner office for home, the buzzer signalled someone coming into the shop from the street. Through the one-way mirror we watched a thin-faced man advance to Jayne’s desk. His beard and moustache were trimmed to a neat O, his hair cropped to be a mere shadow on his scalp.

  ‘Just a minute,’ I said to Gerry, ‘that’s the guy who broke into my apartment.’

  We sat back and watched with interest, confident that Jayne was well able to handle the situation. But this time she had to pull out all the stops. The hidden microphone relayed every gambit and counter-gambit in the battle of wits. It would have been most diverting if I hadn’t been desperate to get home to change into my glad rags for the Official Grand Opening.

  From the moment that he’d come in, his eyes had been making a thorough inspection of the office. He sat down on a chair and hitched it closer to Jayne’s desk. ‘Hi, doll, you’re looking at the twenty-first-century Shackleton of South Georgia. I want to book right now. How do I go about it?’

  ‘Just a minute, sir.’ Gunfire rattle of keyboard keys. ‘There’s a cruise that includes the opportunity of a crossing of South Georgia following Shackleton’s route, starting from Argentina in – oh, November. I’m sorry but you’ve missed it by a couple of weeks. It’s summer down there now and the ice has begun to melt, so I could try to book you on a supply ship.’

  ‘OK.’ His eyes swept the office again, scanning, assessing.

  Jayne was unfazed. ‘Right. Exactly how much time do you have at your disposal?’

  ‘Two months.’ He was now staring directly into the mirror.

  ‘Oh dear!’ She sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘The voyage by supply ship takes six weeks. The trek itself another… You do realise that the expedition is on foot, hauling your own supplies? And that you will be required to carry a 40 lb pack, pull a 200 lb sled, and be familiar with roped glacier travel, crevasse rescue, snow camping and usage of ice-axe and crampon?’

  ‘Oh.’ A perceptible lessening of enthusiasm.

  Jayne again consulted the screen. ‘The minimum number in the party is four, including the leader.’ A few more taps on the computer keys, then, ‘No one else has booked so far.’

  ‘I can’t believe that!’ He seized the monitor and whirled it round towards him. ‘Lemme see.’

  We tensed. Jayne smiled. We’d glimpsed an expertly designed web page. She had done her homework, left nothing to chance. Which, in our business, can mean the difference between life and death.

  ‘You see, no one.’ Jayne swivelled the monitor back towards herself. ‘But I can certainly put your name down. To ensure commitment, there is quite a large deposit, twenty per cent of the total. Non-returnable, I’m afraid. I suppose if they had just the minimum number and someone pulled out, it would be a bit of a disaster. Now the deadline for bookings is…in about three weeks, to allow the supply ship to return before the ice pack refreezes.’ She whirled the screen round towards him so that he could see. ‘Shall I put your name down?’ Another big bright smile.

  ‘Well…er…’ His eyes seemed to be appraising the locks on the white door. ‘How about the Scott trip then?’

  We were treated to a repeat performance of Jayne in action. The Scott trip was stymied by the discovery, in the small print, of a requirement for the possession of certificates in dog-sled handling and winter survival techniques such as igloo building.

  Edgily I looked at my watch. I might just make it to the Alhambra in time if I left in the next five minutes…

  Jayne was saying, ‘The Siberian Gulag? Yes, I’m sure we’ll be able to fix you up with that.’ She rummaged in a drawer and produced a form. ‘There’s just the visa to complete. We’ll have to send it off to the Embassy. But I’m afraid the Russians are a bit slow in processing them, four weeks is standard, so you might not get it back in time. The last application I sent in got lost, would you believe it? As there was no time to reapply, the unfortunate lady had to cancel her holiday.’ She poised the pen invitingly. ‘Now what was the name?’

  ‘Er…I’m running a bit late. I’ll fill in the form at home and bring it back tomorrow.’

  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.

  Chapter Six

  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.