Under Suspicion Read online

  This was the night for my weekly trudge round the supermercado, but I really didn’t have the energy for it. I decided to treat myself instead to a cool San Miguel on the bench under my pergola listening to something soothing and classical. The plaintive notes of ‘Misa Criolla’ would fit the bill. A tired brain churns out no solutions. I’d leave the problem of the photo till later in the hope that the answer might suggest itself.

  After that beer, I’d continue the job I’d started yesterday. Jesús’s patio was vibrant with a colourful display of blue-painted olive oil tins and red and pink geraniums. My patio was dull in comparison and this had been niggling me for some time. I’d pick up the paintbrush and continue with the therapeutic painting of my flowerpots. Yesterday I had transformed three of my once dowdy pots with a coat of vivid blue or scarlet.

  I’d got out of the car, and was just reaching in for my bag when I heard Jesús calling.

  ‘Señora-a-a, señora-a-a!’ Not a cheerful shout of greeting, but the wail of a harbinger of doom.

  A hundred metres away on the pavement outside my house, my elderly neighbour was doing an odd dance, his raised arms and shuffling feet a strange combination of Spanish flamenco and Scottish Highland fling. Once he had attracted my attention, he lowered his arms and commenced a hand-wringing routine guaranteed to make the blood run cold. My blood, anyway.

  Something had happened to Gorgonzola. Run over? Dead, or at least severely injured. I flung myself across the road, narrowly avoiding the wheels of a speeding taxi.

  ‘Qué pasa, Jesús?’

  ‘Señora, señora, how can I sa-a-y.’ The hand wringing increased in intensity.

  My throat constricted. ‘Just say it in Spanish, Jesús.’

  ‘No, no, señora. I know how to say in Inglés, but I do not want to say.’

  ‘Gorgonzola, has she been…’ I gripped his shoulder a little more roughly than I had intended.

  The hand-wringing paused briefly. ‘The cat she is OK. Do not have worry about her. This morning I think she is looking a little sad, so I sing her one of my songs. After that she is happy. No, no, señora, that is not the trouble…’ His voice trailed away.

  Gorgonzola was safe. That was all that mattered.

  ‘Has someone tried to break in again?’

  ‘Si, the back door…’ Jesús reverted to his native Catalan as he did in moments of crisis.

  Overwhelmed by the torrent, I could only wait. When he stopped to draw breath, I seized my opportunity. ‘You’ve lost me, Jesús. What exactly has happened?’

  The bright eyes flashed in anger. ‘It is los vándalos. They have made a visit.’

  ‘Vandals?’

  ‘I show you.’ He seized me by the hand and led me through his house. In the kitchen he stopped. ‘You must get ready for big shock.’ He threw open the back door and pointed dramatically over the sea of red and pink geraniums.

  My two tins of acrylic paint lay on their sides on the patio. From one snaked a stream of blue, from the other a ribbon of scarlet. When I’d left this morning, my kitchen door had been a faded nondescript brown. Now streaks and splashes of red and blue splattered the lower half. Gorgonzola sat directly in front of the defaced door, tail curled round feet, head on one side as if critically viewing a Jackson Pollock artwork.

  I leant against Jesús’s doorpost, hysterical with relief, laughing till the tears ran down my cheeks.

  ‘Please, señora, it is not so very bad.’ He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, making sympathetic aerial patting motions. ‘I go to the ferretería and buy the paint remove. Then you see the door is good again, and if the vandals come for second time…’ He squared his bony shoulders and made a movement towards the paella pan hanging on its hook above the stove.

  ‘The vandal is still here,’ I managed to gasp out.

  In a flash the pan was off the wall and being whirled dangerously close to my head. ‘Dónde está, where is he? I teach him lesson he never forget.’ He sprang forward.

  ‘No, no. There’s the vandal, Jesús.’ I pointed at G. ‘She painted the door.’

  The paella pan wobbled in its orbit and crashed to earth, delivering a death blow to an already rickety fence post. Gorgonzola didn’t even turn her head. She was totally absorbed in contemplation of her masterpiece. Jesús stared at me with narrowed eyes. It was the wary look you would direct at a dangerous lunatic.

  ‘She’s done this kind of thing before, you know,’ I hastened to reassure him. ‘The first time it happened I was as shocked as you were. I was nearly in tears when I saw that she’d splashed paint all over somebody’s kitchen. But the owner of the kitchen said G was a rare Painting Cat and her Work of Art, as he called it, was worth thousands. He was en éxtasis, delighted, over the moon, as we say. Can you believe it, that old door is now worth—’

  ‘Señora!’ he grabbed my arm and pointed.

  Gorgonzola had come to an artistic decision. She was delicately dipping a paw in the red paint. An upward leap, and splat! A finishing splodge was added to the masterwork.

  I laughed. ‘In England when someone is discovered doing something wrong, we say he – or she – is caught red-handed.’

  The black eyes sparkled. ‘Not the red hand, the red foot, I think, señora.’

  ‘No gain without pain,’ I said later as I battled to remove the paint from G’s coat. It was always the same after one of her creative episodes. She hated the aftermath, her feet being dabbled in a bowl of water. ‘All great artists have suffered for their art,’ I added as she struggled to escape from my grasp.

  After that little diversion, I certainly needed my bit of quiet relaxation on the patio, but it was not to be. In the warm dusk Jesús launched into a madrelena in honour of Gorgonzola The Artist. She at least was going to have her bit of relaxation. She lay down on her back, paws limp, eyes closed, head turned towards the sound.

  Eeeee…aa…eee… Aaaah…aaa…eeee… The notes quavered and hung in the still air.

  As the sun sank into the sea beyond the harbour, I gazed at my technicolor back door and pondered the problem of her photograph. Despite what I’d said to Vanheusen, G was far from being a cameraphobe. On the contrary, when a lens was pointed in her direction, she would begin grooming herself in preparation for the Big Photo Opportunity. It would be easy enough, therefore, for me to take her picture. The problem was that in the photo her moth-eaten coat would be only too obvious. It would be evident that my grandiose pedigree name for such a disreputable-looking cat was nothing but a flagrant attempt to deceive. I’d certainly lose the job I’d taken such pains to get.

  At last, Jesús’s song creaked to a close. Furry paws twitched peevishly.

  ‘That was great, Jesús,’ I called. ‘So – so Spanish. Muchas gracias from Gorgonzola.’ I advanced to the fence and held out a can of San Miguel. ‘Thirsty work. Aqui tiene, here you are.’

  ‘Gracias, señora. Next time I compose new words in celebration of this so-clever cat.’

  G signalled her appreciation with half-closed eyes and a deep reverberating purr.

  He stepped over the paella-pan-felled post and peered down at her recumbent form. ‘It was easy to clean the feet? You not have to cut the hair?’

  ‘No, all I had to do was—’ Cut the hair. That was it. He had given me the solution I had been looking for.

  I planted a kiss on each leathery cheek. ‘What you’ve just said has given me a wonderful idea for the Day of Tricks next week.’

  ‘El Día de los Santos Inocentes?’ His eyes twinkled.

  ‘Yes, on Holy Innocents’ Day I’ll play a trick on a friend of mine. I’ll show him a photo of Gorgonzola sitting in front of the door, and say the tricksters have splashed paint over the door and hacked pieces out of her coat.’ I giggled. ‘He’s never seen her, so it will be easy to fool him.’

  December 28th, El Día de los Santos Inocentes, April Fool’s Day Spanish style, would save Operation Canary Creeper. I could stall Vanheusen till then.

  Chapt
er Eight

  On the morning of the Donkey Safari, Monique swept into my office sporting an elegant pair of white linen slacks topped by a black silk designer shirt. Flimsy high-heeled sandals in black suede completed the outfit. An enamelled gold badge pinning down a silk neckerchief proclaimed her status as PA Leisure.

  She eyed my clean, serviceable and definitely non-designer jeans and cotton shirt with undisguised disapproval.

  ‘My dear Deborah, you’ll have to smarten yourself up a bit. Our clients expect a little more class. A piece of advice. One should always dress up for an occasion, not down. However, today, n’ importe. Ambrose has decided that I should take your place as leader on today’s Outing.’

  ‘But, Monique—’

  She held up a hand to silence further protest.

  ‘It’s more important that you make a start on sending out the invitations to Ambrose’s Three Kings Party on the 6th. They’ll have to be posted tomorrow. You’ll find the boxes of invitation cards and envelopes over there.’

  From behind her back she produced a wide-brimmed floppy hat of the type seen at garden parties attended by the Queen and, whipping a mirror out of her shoulder bag, stared at her reflection.

  She flicked the brim of the hat upwards. ‘Jon phoned me this morning. Now there’s somebody who recognises experience and quality when he sees it. Ambrose has arranged for him to sample this Exclusive Outing, to see if he can recommend it to his hotel guests.’ She made a few minor and unnecessary adjustments to the brim. ‘That’s the reason an experienced person such as myself has to be in charge.’ She picked up the Outing folder and glanced at the typewritten list. ‘I expect all our clients will be taking advantage of our free excursion.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Only Victoria Knight and Herbert Wainwright are on the list. I see that you’ve failed to interest both Mr Scott and Miss Prentice.’

  I’d a good idea why Rudyard Scott was keeping himself to himself. A courier has no interest in socialising for the sake of it. ‘He said he’s at a critical stage of his writing,’ I lied.

  As for Millie, a journalist has a one-track mind. She hadn’t bothered to show any interest in the Donkey Safari. She’d already pumped Wainwright and Mrs Knight for all the info they had on Exclusive and Vanheusen. But whatever her alternative plans had been, they’d had to be put on hold. At this very minute she was being warned off at police HQ.

  ‘Miss Prentice told me she—’

  Fortunately, Monique was not interested. A final twitch to the already perfectly arranged hat, a slight adjustment to the genuine Louis Vuitton bag on her shoulder and out she swept.

  I converted a snort of laughter into a cough. The donkey ranch was situated in the hills above Santiago del Teide in the west of the island, remote from motorways, grandiose hotels and boutiques. In a landscape of gnarled almond trees, dry-stone terraces and rust-brown volcanic soil, a fashion model riding a donkey would be as bizarre a figure as Don Quixote.

  I thought about what she’d said. That reference to Mansell as ‘Jon’ suggested a degree of intimacy. Had she taken a fancy to him, or was she latching onto him as part of a Vanheusen master plan? And how was Millie reacting to being warned off? I’d a feeling that young lady wouldn’t easily be dissuaded from pursuing her investigations. If I got stuck into the pile of invitation envelopes, I’d have time to nip down to Extreme Travel to find out.

  By quarter past twelve I’d twenty envelopes left to address. I reached into the card box for the final batch of invitations and grabbed a handful. As I dumped them on the desk, a piece of paper fluttered onto the floor. I picked it up and recognised Vanheusen’s flamboyant handwriting.

  Monique, make sure Mansell will accept the invitation to the Three Kings fancy dress barbecue. You should be able to clinch the deal then. AV

  Again mention of a deal. Associating with a crook didn’t necessarily mean Mansell was one himself, so could we use him as a Trojan Horse? I’d have to find a way of attending the barbecue, invited guest or not. I tucked the note in amongst the remaining cards in the box. Monique just might come looking for it.

  Jayne was turning the notice on the door to Closed when I arrived at the office a few minutes after one o’clock.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you today, Debs?’ She raised her eyebrows in enquiry.

  ‘It’s OK, not an emergency. Monique took over the Donkey Safari and landed me with the office chores. She won’t be back till late this afternoon, so I thought I’d slip away to see how things turned out with Millie.’

  As she locked the door behind me, I heard her mutter, ‘Trouble that one. Trouble with a capital T.’

  Gerry looked up as I entered the inner office.

  ‘So how did it go then?’ I said, knowing the microphone had picked up my exchange with Jayne.

  ‘The lady’s not for turning. A senior officer came down from Santa Cruz and interviewed her at the Police HQ here.’ He slotted a disk into the machine on his desk and pressed play.

  The screen showed Millie in a sparsely furnished interview room sitting at a table opposite two men, one a uniformed policeman, the other a civilian with an air of authority. Judging from her compressed lips, things were not going well.

  The plain-clothes man leant forward. ‘I’m asking you once again, Señora Prentice, to cease your investigations on this island and return to England.’

  Millie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Getting too near the truth, am I? You don’t want anybody digging up the dirt, washing your dirty linen in public, is that it?’

  Gerry stopped the machine. ‘Just a sample of how it went… She refused to back off. Trotted out the old catchphrases: Freedom of the Press, Public’s Right to Know, and all that.’ He sighed.

  ‘There’s something more?’ I prompted.

  He leant forward. ‘After half an hour she flounced out. See for yourself.’

  A furious Millie was leaning forward across the table. ‘Let me get this clear, Comandante. You are telling me to pack my bags and return to England. You are asking me to bin three months of investigation and research. And what are you offering in return?’ Her voice rose. ‘Nothing, Comandante. Nothing.’ She leapt to her feet, sending her chair toppling to the floor. ‘All this stinks of a cover-up. And the next copy I file will expose how you tried to gag me. Just you wait…’

  The screen faded to grey as he switched off.

  ‘If she plays that card, she’ll torpedo the whole operation.’ He fell silent. It wasn’t like Gerry to be at a loss.

  ‘She might just think better of it,’ I ventured. ‘After all, an exposé would scupper her own investigations too.’

  He shook his head. ‘To make someone like that back down would take a miracle.’

  ‘Or a Millie-kill,’ I punned.

  He didn’t smile.

  Millie wasn’t the only one to fly off the handle that day. When I dropped in at the Alhambra on my way back to Exclusive, Rudyard Finbar Scott was blowing his top in a spectacular way.

  ‘I’ve been robbed!’ His angry shout echoed round the marble expanse of the foyer.

  Heads turned, couples halted in their tracks, their conversations killed stone dead.

  ‘I’m telling you I’ve been robbed, damn you, robbed!’ He leant over the reception desk, and brought the flat of his hand crashing down on the leather surface with a report like a gunshot. ‘That safe wasn’t jemmied open. Somebody had a master key and used it. It’s been an inside job, no two ways about it.’ Thwack. His hand crashed down again.

  Though I’d been half-prepared for it, it made me jump. The manager, hastily summoned, was making soothing noises, but I wasn’t really paying much attention…

  Had a master key been used? A week ago I’d taken that photo of the safe and its lock. And given it to Gerry. Could he have arranged…? Yes, that was just the way his devious mind worked. If Rudyard Scott was a courier, failure to deliver his cash could well be a death sentence. And there was a very good chance that in his panic he might prov
ide the evidence we needed against Vanheusen and his organisation…

  Unnoticed, I slipped away.

  ‘You’ll never guess what’s happened,’ I said. ‘Rudyard Scott’s just made one helluva scene in the foyer of the Alhambra.’

  Gerry raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm?’

  I eyed him narrowly. He didn’t seem at all surprised. I’d been right in thinking he’d brought in a safe-cracker. There’d be a snowball’s chance in hell of getting him to come clean, though. I’d have a go, anyway.

  ‘Yes, really upset. “Really” as in incandescent.’

  ‘Let me guess.’ He tilted his chair and frowning, inspected the ceiling. After a moment, he transferred his gaze back to me. ‘Upset because the room maid binned the manuscript of his latest novel. Nothing left except the title page.’

  Damn Gerry and his doling out of info only on a need-to-know basis. He wasn’t going to tell me. I accepted defeat.

  ‘If,’ I said, studying my fingernails, ‘someone has opened the safe and taken the money, what do you think Scott’s next move will be?’

  ‘Or Vanheusen’s? We’ll just have to wait and see.’ Gerry wandered over to the coffee machine. ‘Coffee, Deborah?’

  I made it back to the Exclusive office barely ten minutes before a dusty and dishevelled Monique swept in.

  ‘How was your day, Monique?’ It was pretty obvious just how her day had gone, but I thought I’d ask anyway.

  ‘It’s fortunate Ambrose put me in charge. I had to handle one or two difficult situations, believe me. And nothing but dirt and dust. I’m flaked out. Bloody donkeys.’ She scowled and held up the Garden Party hat, now redesigned by a ragged circular bite out of the brim. ‘Ruined! Shit, Shit, Shit!’