Under Suspicion Page 6

  Using the crowd as cover I drifted closer, angling my approach so that I’d come up behind them. It would be worth eavesdropping for a couple of minutes. After that, I’d snoop around Vanheusen and see what he was up to…

  They were four metres or so ahead of me now, but I didn’t dare close the gap. Their conversation – light conversation, nothing of interest – came in snatches, drowned intermittently by the chatter of passing groups.

  They stopped.

  Half-turning away, I rummaged in my bag, making a show of glancing impatiently at my watch and staring in the direction of the Casablanca courtyard as if searching for somebody. When I looked again, they’d moved off, and were some distance ahead. I hurried to catch up.

  ‘…I quite understand your reservations. It’s all a matter of presentation, isn’t it? Exclusive will provide most of the funding, and you provide…’ Monique’s words faded frustratingly.

  ‘Risky. If it came out…’ Mansell put out a hand to steady her as she teetered close to the sparkling waters on those precariously high heels.

  Her elegantly manicured hand rested lightly on his arm. ‘You’re right, it’s absolutely vital that nobody finds out about it…’

  If they looked back and saw me… I was taking a risk, a calculated gamble, by moving up so close.

  ‘…On the plus side, this new venture of Vanheusen’s is a real gold mine. If the deal comes off, I’ll be able to afford another place like this. I’d make a few changes, of course. Back there, for instance—’

  I sensed he was about to swing round. I turned on my heel and melted into the strolling crowds.

  I took up my stance in the shadows of the Casablanca courtyard sipping a glass of champagne. What I’d just heard was interesting, but I didn’t have time to think it over as I’d just caught sight of Rudyard Scott. Only this morning, he had informed me rather brusquely that he wouldn’t be present at the official opening. The Grand Opening, like the Outing to the Moon, was apparently a frivolity that he didn’t have time for. But now here he was in close conversation with Vanheusen. Like myself, they were standing in the shadows, and I wouldn’t have noticed them if it hadn’t been for a sudden movement. Interesting to see his reaction if I went over to them and called out a breezy greeting on the lines of, ‘So you’ve made it, after all, Mr Scott’.

  Nursing my half-full glass against the jutting elbows and suddenly turning shoulders of chatting groups, I weaved past the fountains and the potted orange trees hung with tiny fairy lights. Progress was slow, and I had just wormed my way into reasonable hailing distance, when someone clutched my arm.

  ‘Great atmosphere, isn’t it?’ Millie Prentice brushed back her tangle of auburn curls. ‘Just a mo.’ She lunged at a passing waiter’s tray of drinks. ‘This is my third glass of champers,’ she giggled, ‘and it won’t be my last. I must hand it to Mr V. He arranged all this, didn’t he? He’s not looking for a lady-love, trouble-and-strife wife, by any chance, is he?’ Another giggle, more inebriated than the last.

  ‘No, he didn’t, and no, he’s not,’ I said. ‘Jonathan Mansell, who owns the hotel, arranged all this. And as far as I know, Mr Vanheusen’s not looking for a partner, permanent or not.’ I didn’t add, ‘and certainly not an unsophisticated young woman who can’t hold her drink.’

  ‘Jon-a-than Man-sell,’ she rolled the syllables round her tongue, as if savouring a particularly tasty canapé. ‘No harm in getting acquainted, though.’ She stood on tiptoe to crane over the heads of the surrounding throng. ‘Can you see him?’ She teetered, threatening to slop the contents of her glass onto my expensive hired silk outfit.

  I put out a supporting hand and steered her towards a currently unoccupied chaise longue. ‘Why don’t you lie in wait over here?’ And she would indeed soon be assuming a horizontal position if her champagne input continued at the same reckless rate. ‘I saw him down by the lake. He’ll be circulating among his guests all evening.’

  That had given me an idea. With Mansell circulating for the next couple of hours, I could have a rake around his office – perhaps unearth something of interest. And since I knew the present whereabouts of Prentice and Scott, I could kill three birds with one stone and pay their rooms a visit too. I left Millie Prentice draped tipsily over the chaise longue and headed for the administrative wing.

  The cool marbled expanse of the reception area with its lacy plasterwork was almost deserted, apart from a courting couple in their own small world gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes, a porter loading the luggage of some new arrivals onto a large brass trolley, and an elegantly dressed woman walking towards the elevator. High-stepping behind her on twiggy legs was a tiny poodle, jet-black, pom-pom cut, lollipop tail perkily erect.

  ‘Cute,’ I thought. ‘Gorgonzola would have him for lunch.’

  Gorgonzola… Her drug-detecting talent would be useful if I had her with me when I made that search of Mansell’s office. I was unlikely to get such a good opportunity again. I made some mental calculations. In ten minutes I could nip back to La Caleta, and hopefully there’d not be too much trouble getting her into the hated cat-carrier once I’d buckled on her working collar, training overcoming reluctance.

  Gorgonzola had wined and dined, so to speak, and was in cooperative mood. Barely thirty minutes later I was once again walking across the foyer, the carrier half-concealed under a pashmina wrap, draped toga-style loosely over one shoulder and allowed to slide down my arm. The lovers on the enveloping sofa still had eyes only for each other, the porter was nowhere in sight and the staff behind the reception desk were chatting to each other or busy with paperwork and spared me hardly a glance.

  I made my way to the ladies’ room beside one of the first-floor lounges and released the catch on the carrier. G emerged yawning and, knowing it would annoy me, made a token display of independence by using one of the wooden legs of the two-seater chaise as an upmarket scratching post.

  If one lady could lead a prancing poodle around the corridors, another could lead a creative cat. I was counting on the fact that in a five-star hotel, guests’ eccentric little foibles go unremarked. Trusting that Gorgonzola’s collar would look like some fancy pet accessory, I snapped on the lead, stowed the carrier discreetly under the chaise and together we sallied forth ready for action.

  G enjoyed duty walks with her collar, and tail erect, tip twitching, she paraded along a corridor designed as an open-sided Moorish cloister. On my left, a wall of arches overlooked the Casablanca courtyard. On my right, electric candle sconces shed a soft light on the terracotta plaster and elongated the shadows of dwarf palms in gleaming brass pots.

  In the elevator I pressed the button for floor four so there’d be no tell-tale 5 illuminated down in the foyer. From there, I took the stairs to the administration offices on the floor above. G and I ran lightly up the steps – underhand activity can usually be disguised by bold and confident actions, so no furtive tiptoeing. At the top I paused. The public corridors and the stairs had been comfortably, even brightly, lit, but up here at this time of night, there was only subdued stand-by lighting separating pools of darkness. No candle sconces, no leafy palms in brass pots, no decorative windows, no windows at all, just a wide corridor lined with solid wooden doors. Last week when I’d engineered a daytime visit to the administration floor, the corridors had been well lit and anything but silent. A constant stream of people had moved between the various offices. There had been a buzz of activity – people talking, telephones ringing, photocopiers and printers chattering and humming. Now only the muted hum of the air-con broke the silence.

  I wasn’t expecting to see the thin line of light beneath the door third along to my left, Mansell’s office. I wouldn’t have seen it at all if the corridor illumination had been brighter. Someone was working late, probably updating the files on the computers. Just my luck, best-laid schemes and all that…

  G and I walked softly along and stopped outside Mansell’s office. On the other side of the door, I heard the rumb
le of a filing drawer being pulled open, the clunk as it shut, another rumble, another clunk. Then click-click-click, the sharp sound of heels crossing the office’s marble floor.

  As a shadow broke the line of light at the foot of the door, I scooped G up and took half a dozen strides along the corridor. Putting her down, I took up position close to the wall in the pocket of darkness between the dim lights, a shadow amid the shadows in my darkish blue outfit. As the door opened, I crouched down and half-turned away to conceal the white blob of my face. If the late-working employee came my way, I could pass myself off as a guest fussing over her pet. I heard the door close softly. The heels clicked their way towards the elevator and the stairs. I risked a look.

  Millie Prentice. As she passed under one of the lights there was no mistaking those unruly curls or that skimpy dress. In her brisk walk there was not a trace of the tipsy young woman that I’d left sprawled on the divan in the courtyard, no sign of intoxication at all.

  The elevator doors closed silently behind her, and Gorgonzola and I were left alone. 5-4-3 the floor indicator flickered down, 2-1-0. I waited a few minutes to make sure that she wasn’t going to return. Then, courtesy of Gerry’s natty electronic device, Mansell’s office received its second unauthorised visitor of the evening. How had innocent-seeming Millie managed to gain entry? Something else to ponder.

  I left G to do her own ferreting while I tackled the desk and filing cabinet. Millie might have got something out of her little rummage-around, but I drew a blank. The papers I could access seemed to be above board. I hadn’t really expected anything else. Unless he was a very careless man, he’d have stowed away any obviously incriminating documents in that fireproof safe in the corner.

  ‘Time for us to make ourselves scarce, G,’ I said.

  Taking the elevator from the fifth floor had been careless of Millie. We professionals once again used the stairs, then took the lift down from the fourth floor to the ladies’ room. There was no trouble getting Gorgonzola into the cat-carrier, perhaps because she knew she was going home, and it wasn’t long before I was looking down into the Casablanca courtyard from the first floor arches. If Millie had returned to the chaise longue, I could take the chance of paying a visit to her room. I was in luck, she had. No longer the lolling, squiffy figure, she was now soberly upright in earnest conversation with Rudyard Scott. More food for thought, but not now. Gorgonzola, the natty device and I had those visits to make.

  In 307, Rudyard Scott’s room, I stuck a telephone card into the slot to operate the lights, and released G for an investigative roam-around while I did some snooping myself. On the floor of the wardrobe, sporting a shiny new padlock, lay the black airline case. Empty by the feel of it, but I’d take a look anyway. I reached into my pocket for my set of picklocks. Shit. They weren’t there. I’d discarded them in favour of that all-singing, all-dancing natty device of Gerry’s. If the money wasn’t in the airline case, was it stashed inside the safe? I pulled out my lipstick/camera. The close-up I took of the safe’s lock and the maker’s name might be useful if Gerry decided to send somebody to have a peek inside. We spent a few more minutes looking round, but as far as drugs or incriminating papers were concerned, G and I again drew a blank.

  ‘Nothing more for us here,’ I said ushering G ahead of me, and off we went along the corridor to 323, Millie’s room.

  With that laid-back attitude of hers, I’d somehow expected to find the room a bit of a tip – clothes, make-up items, tourist bumf, bits and bobs scattered about. To my surprise, there were few personal items on display – beside the bed an alarm clock displaying world times, on a small table an open book face down, a few toiletries neatly arranged on the bathroom shelf and a laptop plugged into the wall. That last item would be worth investigating – once I’d had a rummage through the suitcase wedged between the bedside table and the wall.

  I watched G stroll around for a moment, then swung the suitcase up onto the bed. If it was locked, I’d be scuppered again. But this time I was in luck, the open padlock hung loose. Any great expectations were soon dashed, however. The suitcase held only a plastic carrier bag of laundry and a sealed carton of cigarettes. Didn’t look promising, but I summoned Gorgonzola for a second opinion.

  ‘Anything, G?’

  Gorgonzola peered in, yawned, then headed for the cat-carrier in a pointed reminder that it was late and she wanted to go home.

  I was closing the case when a laminated card slithered out of a pocket in the lid. The word PRESS, the green NUJ logo, and Millie’s photo, name and membership number stared up at me. My heart sank. The last thing Operation Canary Creeper needed was a journalist stirring up murky waters, alerting Vanheusen and his mob that they were under investigation. Just how deep had she dug? If she hadn’t set a password on that laptop… I flipped it open, pressed the On button and waited.

  As I’d hoped, Millie had been careless. Without the security of a password, the machine powered straight up to the Windows desktop. I scanned the folder icons in My Documents. Vanheusen Dossier, now that was interesting…One click opened it. Drug Dealing, Exclusive Properties, Money Laundering, Tax Evasion, VAT Fraud. Millie’s investigations were spot on. I scented Trouble with a capital T. Gerry would not be happy.

  On the way back to La Caleta, I pondered the night’s interesting developments. I’d seen Rudyard Finbar Scott and Vanheusen in close conversation, though that was no proof that Scott’s money was for anything other than purchasing a property. We’d have our work cut out to prevent Millie Prentice from throwing a spanner into the works, but at least we could now remove her from our list of suspects. Best of all, I’d confirmed there was indeed a business connection between Vanheusen and Mansell. And that connection, from what I’d overheard, could very well be illegal.

  All in all, Operation Canary Creeper had made some progress. Yes, with a clear conscience I could submit an expenses chit for the hire of my mazarine blue silk outfit with its matching long-sleeved chemise.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days later, Vanheusen summoned me to his office on the pretext of finalising the details of the Donkey Safari Outing – and made the move I’d hoped he’d never make.

  ‘Before you go,’ he handed me back the folder, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Deborah.’ He leant back on the black hide sofa, his gaze wandering to the oil painting of Black Prince on the wall behind me. ‘Over the years I’ve amassed some interesting data on the Persian cat, felis persicus. Did you know that the Persians defeated the ancient Egyptians by using cats as weapons?’

  ‘Weapons?’ I had a vision of an ancestor of the Brute of Samarkand hurled from a giant sling, whizzing through the air, claws extended, to wrap himself round some hapless pharaoh’s head.

  His gaze switched back to me. ‘They tied cats to their shields, playing on the Egyptians’ reverence for the creatures. Knew they wouldn’t counter-attack in case they injured the animals. One of the earliest cases of psychological warfare, I suppose. Stylish, elegant, classic.’ He picked up the Lucie Rie pot from the black lacquered table and ran his finger round the rim. ‘I’m planning to write a book on felis persicus, so bring in a photograph of Persepolis Desert Sandstorm. I’d like to feature her.’ Friendly smile, scheming eyes. ‘When I have collected enough material, I’ll…’ He was silent for a moment, lost in thought.

  I summoned up an easy smile in return. ‘For a book, you said?’ A request of this sort had been on the cards, and I’d thought long and hard how to counter it. ‘My Persepolis in a book, that would be wonderful, Mr Vanheusen.’ Now for the planned regretful, ‘But I’m afraid I haven’t got a photo of her. You see, two years ago she was so frightened by a camera flash that she had to be sedated by the vet. And ever since then,’ I embroidered my fictitious tale with increasing enthusiasm, disappointment oozing from every word, ‘whenever she sees a camera so much as pointed in her direction, she rushes under the sofa and refuses to come out for hours.’ That should snooker a possib
le counter-proposal to take her picture without flash. I sat back, confident that I’d managed to head him off.

  He replaced the Lucie Rie pot on the side table and leant forward. ‘No problem, Deborah. We’ll set up a hidden camera here, in my office. I guarantee she’ll not notice a thing.’ He reached over to the diary on the table. ‘Now when can we fit her in?’

  Hell. I hadn’t anticipated this. How was I going to get out of producing moth-eaten Gorgonzola? I felt tiny beads of sweat forming on my hairline.

  ‘Shall we say after Christmas, the 28th?’ His pen poised over the entry.

  I played for time by making a show of consulting my diary. ‘No-o, I’ll be away. That’s the date of the Donkey Safari Outing.’ I tapped the folder on my lap.

  ‘Then, the day after?’

  ‘Yes, that should be all right.’ I waited till he’d written it down, confident that I’d found a way out. ‘Er…there’s one little difficulty, Mr Vanheusen. When I have to put Persepolis in her carrying box, she throws a positively diva tantrum,’ I said truthfully. ‘And it’s the same when I let her out…’

  An understanding nod. ‘It’s the same with The Prince.’

  ‘So, no carrying box. The hidden camera’s a good idea, but I’ll have to take the photo myself, at home.’

  ‘Well, we’ll give it a try.’ Reluctantly he closed the diary.

  I’d bought time.

  I turned into Calle Rafael Alberti and parked as usual opposite a patch of waste ground hedged by dusty oleanders. I’d overcome one hurdle but it would not be so easy to get my hands on a photo of a female red Persian that would fool Vanheusen. Top pedigree cats, like celebrities in any field, are instantly recognisable to devotees. The catch-22 of producing a photograph was that he’d be even more eager to see Persepolis Desert Sandstorm in the fur. That gleam in his eye made me certain of it.