Under Suspicion Read online

He nodded. ‘I want you to plant a bug. On that boat of his.’

  It all sounded straightforward. But the bridged-finger ritual signalled a hidden snag. Whatever it was, I knew I wasn’t going to like it. I sighed heavily. Blood sports of the fishy kind went very much against the grain as far as I was concerned.

  ‘On a game-fishing boat? You’re not asking me to take rod in hand and murder a fish, are you?’

  His ‘No, no, no’ was said a little too quickly. ‘You can leave that to your partner.’ The look he gave me was decidedly shifty. ‘All you’ll have to do is find a good position for the bug. Simple really.’

  ‘Partner?’ There was an edge to my voice. He knew I liked to work alone.

  ‘Someone to do the dirty work with rod and line.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of innocence.

  ‘I see. So I’m to be cast in the role of empty-headed girlfriend of—?’

  I sensed a quickening of interest from the operator at the communications console.

  Off came the specs. Nibble, nibble on the earpiece. ‘—of the best man for the job. The only man for the job.’ He studiously avoided my eye.

  It couldn’t be. It must be.

  ‘Jason. You’re not trying to tell me that my partner will be Jason Weston?’

  ‘Now don’t get on your high horse, Deborah. I know you two don’t get on, but we need someone who’s done a bit of game-fishing. An English guy with an English girlfriend. Perfect.’

  Silence. I glowered. He nibbled. In a sudden flurry of activity, the console operator busied herself flicking switches and twiddling dials.

  Handsome, smooth-talking Jason had been on the team in Tenerife a month or two longer than I had. His cover as a time-share tout fitted his personality like a second skin – all those golden opportunities to chat up personable young things. The fact that they were usually accompanied by husbands or boyfriends was a challenge he couldn’t resist. Harmless enough perhaps, but what really set me at loggerheads with Jason Weston was his arrogant belief that males have an innate superiority in judgement and intelligence over females. Whenever our paths crossed, his me Tarzan, you Jane approach made me see red.

  But Gerry was right, of course. The overbearing, arrogant Weston was the only one on the team that fitted the bill. I gave in.

  ‘OK. But only if he keeps his opinions – and his hands – to himself.’

  ‘Atta girl. Smith and Weston, the perfect team.’ Gerry beamed, relieved that the expected fireworks had failed to materialise. ‘I’ll arrange a little get-together so that you can decide how to play it.’

  Jason’s red convertible swung into the kerb and screeched to a stop with a loud and flamboyant fanfare on the horn. One tanned arm snaked across and released the door catch.

  ‘Really, Jason, there’s no need for all that.’ I stepped primly in and snapped the seat belt closed.

  ‘C’mon, Debs, don’t be a wet. Only a bit of fun.’ He gunned the engine, and we shot off with a G-force that pinned me to the seat.

  ‘Business only, Jason. No hands. That’s the deal,’ I managed through gritted teeth.

  ‘OK, OK, OK, Debsy. You know me. Man of my word.’ One hand caressed my thigh, the other spun the wheel and we executed a corner in approved racing skid.

  ‘We won’t get there if you don’t slow down.’ Coolly, I removed the hand from my thigh and, as a forceful reminder, shoved between us the thick wad of newspaper I had brought with me for just such a purpose.

  ‘Point taken, Debsy.’ He slowed to what he considered a sedate crawl. The slipstream ruffled his blond hair, James Dean style.

  ‘This guy Sinclair. Reckon he has an eye for the girls, eh?’ A calculating leer in my direction.

  I heightened my newspaper Berlin Wall. ‘If you mean I’m to seduce him while you plant the bug, forget it. I plant it while you in your Hemingway role grab his attention.’ I couldn’t resist a dig. ‘You weren’t just shooting Gerry a line? You have actually done some game-fishing?’

  His size-fourteen trainer stamped heavily on the brake pedal, sending me lurching forward against the restraint of the seat belt.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve made more than my fair share of record catches.’

  ‘Girls or fish?’ I murmured sotto voce.

  Revvv. Swoosh.

  ‘Only joking,’ I said hastily. I’d forgotten how touchy he was about his image. If we were to work as a team I’d have to smooth things over a bit, give him the feeling he was running the show. ‘OK, truce, Jase. You decide how we’re going to play it.’

  Revvv Swoosh. He indulged in another spot of ego-bolstering cutting-in and carving-up. I closed my eyes.

  ‘Enjoying this are you, Debs?’

  ‘Mmmm.’ I hoped he’d take my soft moan of terror as an appreciative murmur.

  ‘Now, Deborah mine, a bit of strategic thinking here – if I act the novice needing help, his attention will be on me and that will give you more time to—’

  Braaaah. He blasted from his path a poor unfortunate ditherer.

  From the parking lot on top of the two storeys of shops and restaurants bordering the Puerto Colon marina, an iron Columbus points tirelessly with outstretched arm to the empty horizon, and beyond it, America. We stood shoulder to shoulder with Columbus and looked down on lines of white boats moored to parallel lines of pontoons. Those pontones fingered their way to the centre of the basin to service the floating caravans of the rich and mega-rich. In the stiff breeze the ruffled water sparkled and glittered in the bright sunlight, and a metallic clink clink of rigging drifted up from a forest of masts. A powerboat was backing slowly into a narrow space between two cruisers, accompanied by much waving of arms, shouting and frenzied repositioning of fluorescent orange buffers. I was all for lingering to watch, schadenfreude on my part, I have to admit, but action-man Jason was already bounding down the steps to the quay.

  ‘Right then, Debsy, just follow my lead. And remember – act the adoring girlfriend.’

  ‘Yes, master.’ I touched an imaginary forelock as I trailed in his wake. Any adoration from this girlfriend wasn’t going to be much in evidence. I intended to retire into the cabin with a convenient attack of mal de mer soon after we hit the open sea.

  At quayside level the marina is a bit of a disappointment. Turn your back on the palm trees planted in pairs along the quayside, that sparkling sea and those bobbing boats, and all you see is yet another centro comercial – beachwear, luggage, shoes, karaoke bars, restaurants, and since it’s a marina, offices for booking water sports or excursions to spot the whales and dolphins.

  The rhythmic beat of calypso music pounded from the open windows of the Club Nautico as I scurried after Jason down a long narrow pontoon, past a line of cost-an-arm-and-a-leg cabin cruisers with their glass patio doors, sun-bleached sundeck and chrome ladder up to awning-covered bridge. The long curving fishing rods jutting up either side of the cabin made The Saucy Nancy easy to pick out among the lines of tethered boats. The Lord and Master was pushing his way through a line of tourists filtering from the pontoon onto the gangway of a whale-watching catamaran. I’d just caught up with him when he suddenly stopped dead.

  ‘Wowee! Getta load of that!’ His eyes were devouring the vast expanse of bronzed flesh revealed by the mini shorts and a strapless top of a scantily clad girl lolling on the net slung between the two hulls of the catamaran.

  I flung an arm round his shoulders, crushed him to me, and with my mouth close to his ear muttered, ‘True to form, Jase, but Sinclair’s watching us.’

  Never one to waste an opportunity, Jason twisted his head to nuzzle at my cheek. Crackkk. Something jabbed me just above the eye as the black iridium lenses of his designer Full Metal Jacket sunglasses tangled with my chain-store Polaroids.

  ‘Ouch!’ I hissed. ‘Bloody well get those hormones of yours under control, Weston.’

  He wasn’t listening. Casanova’s attention had been re-routed to an anxious examination of his poser wraparo
und shades. ‘These lenses are pretty special…’ He moistened a finger and rubbed at a lens. ‘Shit! Scratched!’

  I smiled, not just for public consumption. ‘File them as “injured in the course of duty”,’ I whispered, and linked an arm through his. ‘Come on. He’s looking at us.’

  ‘Only bought them last week. They’re useless now.’ He jammed them into his pocket. ‘You should really be more careful, Debsy. That’s the trouble with you women…’

  ‘Mr Weston?’ Sinclair had stepped over the game boat’s low rail and was bearing down on us. He was wearing the same outfit as in the newspaper photo Gerry had shown me, with the addition this time of a red baseball cap and a pair of dark designer glasses (unscratched). What the photo couldn’t reveal was his peculiar walk – a slightly rolling gait, deck shoes planted firmly, as if clamping to a heaving deck. All part of the Old Salt act. Only a year ago those feet had been treading the concrete pavements of north London.

  ‘Hi there, skipper,’ hollered Jason the Young Sporting Blade. ‘I’m Jase. This here’s Debsy.’ The arm round my waist gave an affectionate squeeze, eliciting a silly giggle from me. ‘Dragged her along for the fun.’

  Sinclair’s eyes swept over me and dismissed what he saw.

  Jason clambered over the low side rail. ‘Marlin or tuna today, what d’you reckon?’

  I’d done a little bit of research. The marlin/tuna season ended last month. Had he slipped up, or was it a carefully considered master stroke that would confirm his role as a dilettante poser?

  ‘Never know your luck.’ Sinclair’s reply was slick, diplomatic. ‘But you’re more likely to hook a barracuda or a shark.’ Well fielded. Avoided lies and didn’t show the client up. He put a hand on the rail and vaulted expertly onto the white plastic deck-boarding.

  Time to reinforce my image. ‘Jaaaase, help me!’ I put a tentative sandal on the low gunwale and pressed. The boat shifted and tilted under my weight. ‘Ooooh,’ I wailed.

  ‘Honestly, Debs, you are a bit of a wet.’ Jason took my arm and heaved me on board. Boys together, a shared glance with Sinclair said it all. His ingrained attitude to females, as normal as breathing, was now being given carte blanche, in the call of duty, of course. United in their male superiority, they clambered up the short ladder to the con deck above the cockpit and went into a huddle over the bank of dials.

  Abandoned to my own devices, I edged along the narrow space between shiny chrome rail and cabin wall, making for the tiny triangle of deck in front of the curtained saloon. Gingerly I lowered myself onto the smooth whiteness, settled my brightly coloured cotton bag beside me and leant back against the glass, eyes closed, face tilted to the warm rays of the sun, top buttons of shirt seductively undone à la Saint Tropez fashion model…

  ‘Can’t stay there, doll.’ A voice from overhead intruded on the peaceful slap of water against the hull.

  Lazily I opened my eyes and lazily closed them again. ‘Why not?’ I practised a spoilt super-model pout.

  ‘’S a bit rough outside the land shadow,’ the voice continued, indifferent to my charms. ‘When we hit them bigger waves out there, you’ll get a good soaking. Might even be washed overboard.’ A hoarse chuckle. ‘Be a bit of a bummer for your amigo if you turned up on the end of his line, eh?’

  Let him think he’d spooked me. ‘Eeek.’ With the squawk of alarm he’d anticipated, I scrambled to my feet.

  Grinning down at me from the upper con deck was a chubby-faced man, close-cropped head, broad square shoulders, square shovels of hands. A jerk of his thumb indicated that I’d find a seat inside. Obediently this little lady gathered up her beach bag and scuttled to her appointed place in the main-deck cabin.

  There I readopted the recumbent Saint Tropez pose against the clotted-cream-shade, smartly practical, faux leather upholstery. Set in teak woodwork with brass inlay was an impressive instrument panel, a duplicate of the one on the con deck above. With VHF radiotelephone, satellite Global Positioning equipment and radar screen, The Saucy Nancy was well equipped for her operations, legitimate or otherwise. Speaking of operations – that black swivel chair out on the rear deck with its straps, harness and footboard looked uncomfortably like something out of a primitive reference book for nineteenth-century surgeons. Well, I was leaving everything in that area to Jason. The epic struggle between man and fish would go unobserved by DJ Smith. I’d be below feigning seasickness and sussing out the best place to plant the bug. Not that I would escape the tedium of a virtual-reality demonstration when we were back in the office. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist using that swivel chair of Gerry’s for a rerun.

  Jason’s voice drifted down from the con deck. ‘300 hp Turbo Diesels, Debsy!’ The ladder creaked and his designer trainers came into view, followed by his legs, tanned with a fuzz of blond hair and his expensively casual pale blue Bermuda shorts.

  He flopped down onto the cushions beside me. ‘Did you hear that, Debs? 300 horses. With that power—’

  ‘Oh, Ja-ase, stop going on about those stupid engines.’ I yawned theatrically. It wasn’t hard. That sort of thing bored me rigid. ‘When are they going to serve the free drinks?’

  ‘How should I know? Just like a woman to ask something like that.’ His injured look wasn’t faked. ‘Once we get going, I suppose.’

  ‘But we are moving, Jase.’ I abruptly abandoned the Saint Tropez pose. ‘Ooooh, there’s nobody at the controls. Where are the crew?’ My voice rose in a squeak of panic. ‘We’ve been cast adrift.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Debs.’ With the slightest hint of an appreciative wink, he pushed me back onto the seat. ‘John’s up there steering from the con deck. Once we’re out of the harbour, Steve and Jaime will select the lures for the sea conditions and set up the outrigger and stern lines.’

  The male mind seems more than a little obsessed with such technicalities. I’d have to sidetrack Jason to stop him trotting out all those boring details.

  A bald head poked through the hatchway leading to the lower cabin. A small diamond-shaped scar on his temple showed pink against the swarthy skin. The crewman’s gaze was directed at my Lord and Master. ‘When we pass entrance of the marina, el capitan come to talk with you about the choosing of the lures.’ The head withdrew.

  ‘Jaime, I presume,’ I muttered. ‘Well, Jase,’ I raised my voice to carrying-level, ‘while you’re confabbing with el capitan, I’ll have a chance to get into my book.’ From the depths of my striped beach bag I plucked a fat tome. Pointedly, I held it up in front of me, flicked it open and began to read.

  From the other side of the book barrier came, ‘I get the message, Debsy.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, reading on.

  ‘Romance, glamour, seismic sex…’ His finger traced the words on the front cover. ‘If you’re looking for that, Debs, I’m ready when you are.’

  ‘Oooh, Jase!’ I dropped the book, snuggled up to him and pulled his head down to mine. ‘Fat chance, asshole,’ I murmured into his ear. ‘You’re on duty, remember.’

  ‘Of course, I don’t mean now, Debs.’ He lolled back against the soft leather, arms spread wide. ‘You’ll just have to control yourself.’ Leaning forward he nuzzled my ear…

  When the low thrum of those 300 horsepower engines changed to a throaty roar, I knew I was going to be in trouble. We’d cleared the artificial mole that protects the marina, and The Saucy Nancy began to act – well, saucily. Out here, away from shelter of the land, the waves were disconcertingly large and flecked with white-caps. I eyed them uneasily. It’s funny, I’m a pretty good windsurfer and waves, even big ones, are something to be enjoyed, skimmed over, treated as an exciting challenge. But it’s entirely different matter when I meet these waves as a passenger on a boat. Perhaps it’s something to do with not being in control. And the powerful Saucy Nancy was already challenging the waves head-on, with predictable effects on my stomach. But I mustn’t let Jason suspect. I’d never hear the end of it. He’d always be bringing it up. Bringing it up…
My stomach gave a queasy lurch. I closed my eyes to shut out the oscillating horizon…

  ‘I can see you’re beginning to relax and enjoy yourself, Debs.’ Jason’s voice was just audible above the roar of the engines. ‘We’re about to set the outriggers and the stern lines. Want to join us?’

  ‘No thanks, Jase. I’m fine as I am.’ From my recumbent position I had a mercifully restricted view of the stern and creaming wake. Just then, The Saucy Nancy’s sleek bows sliced into a wave, checked, pointed skywards and, in a whirling kaleidoscope of blues and greens as sky met sea, raced on. If I really concentrated, maybe – just maybe – I could restrain the urge to puke…

  After what seemed an age, the roar of the engines died to a slow rumble. I opened my eyes. The boat seemed to be more or less stationary. I eased myself into a more vertical position and tested for queasiness – on the Q scale, perhaps 4. Out on deck, Jason was bent over an oil drum stirring it with a stick, while Steve and Jaime were setting out rods at intervals round the sides of the boat.

  ‘What are you doing, Jase?’ I called.

  ‘Come and see, Debsy. I’m making dinner for our shark.’

  Some kind of fish stew? I really should have known better and stayed where I was, but curiosity overruled better judgement. It was cool and shady in the cabin. Out on deck, the glare and the heat delivered a knockout punch. I tottered across to where he was standing, put my arm round his waist, and peered into the drum. ‘Let me see—’

  An overwhelming stench rocketed the Q scale to 10, triggering an unstoppable retching from my stomach muscles. This morning’s breakfast enriched the fishy slurry.

  ‘Debsy!’ His anguished scream rose above the cry of circling seagulls.

  In disgrace, I slunk off to the sanctuary of the cabin once more…

  ‘Strike!’ The shout percolated a queasy half-slumber.

  ‘Go for it, hombre!’

  ‘Ya-hee!’ Jason, exultant.

  Cautiously I opened an eye and levered myself upright. Through the open doorway, I could see Jason harnessed into the swivel chair, feet braced, arms straining to hold the bowed rod. The crew were grouped at the stern collecting in the other rods in well-rehearsed action.