Under Suspicion (12 page)

He stopped beside my table and stood there, one hand resting on the bright blue and white canvas of the pavilion. He cleared his throat, ‘Señora Smith, I have to tell you that one of your guests—’ He paused, seemingly at a loss for words.

It would be Wainwright, of course. He’d probably been abominably rude to the maid over some minor
dereliction of duty, everything blown up out of all proportion.

Pablo cleared his throat again, ‘One of your guests – the maid has just reported that…’ He tailed off and stood there in awkward silence.

Oh dear, a lot more serious than rudeness. Assault? Attempted rape? Somehow I couldn’t envisage Herbert G Wainwright as a lecherous Don Juan.

‘It is with heavy heart, señora,’ Pablo fiddled with his gold cufflinks, ‘that I give you the news. The maid has discovered one of your clients dead in the bedroom.’

Millie
. He must mean Millie. She’d asked one question too many, got onto something really important. A knife between the ribs like Bill Gardener – was that how it had been done?

‘Dead?’ I half-rose to my feet, mouth dry.

‘Unhappily so, señora. A heart attack, it appears.’

Unlikely to be Millie, then. Could it be Victoria Knight? At the time of the cabin case mix-up, she’d mentioned heart pills. Yes, must be her. I sank down into my seat again. Poor Victoria, the excitement of managing to buy El Sueño, or come to that, the disappointment of losing it, had been too much for her. All those dreams…

Pablo was looking at me, waiting for my response.

‘I’m sorry, the shock…I didn’t take in what you were saying just now.’

‘I quite understand, señora. The police will want a formal identification. I am asking if you will come to his room for this purpose.’

‘
His
. Did you say “his”? But I thought—’

‘
Perdón
that I do not make it clear. It is Señor Rudyard Scott that has sadly died in his room. We have sent for the doctor but, alas, there is nothing…
nada
. And as the death is not at all expected, the police will be coming also. They will come by the service stairs, so the guests are not made nervous.’

‘Of course, señor, if I can help in any way…’

I would shed no tears over the sudden demise of RF Scott, but the news of his death had given me a jolt nevertheless. Uppermost in my mind was the question: would the verdict be natural causes or not?

A stout dark-haired man carrying a metal attaché case came into the foyer and hurried towards the reception desk. After a brief consultation with a receptionist, he headed towards the lifts. The doors closed behind him.

‘
Gracias
, señora. The doctor has just arrived. Now, if you will be so good as to come with me, we will go up to Mr Scott.’

There was no sign of a police presence outside number 307, only a hotel employee standing beside the closed door.

‘
Un momento
, señora.’ Pablo tapped on the door and went in, closing it behind him.

I waited, mulling over the possibilities. Assuming
Scott’s death was not natural – he’d always appeared to be in rude health (in every sense) – how and why had he been killed? The maid had reported he’d died of a heart attack, but she hadn’t actually witnessed it. So cause of death was just a presumption… Obviously there were no outward signs of violence, but that didn’t rule out force being used.

The door opened and Pablo beckoned me forward. ‘There is nothing too upsetting, señora. Just take a look from the doorway to confirm that the man you see is Señor Scott.’

Rudyard Finbar Scott was stretched out in an armchair, legs crossed at the ankle, hands lightly clasped across his stomach. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly open. He could have been asleep. The doctor looked up from folding his stethoscope into his attaché case and gave me a nod of greeting.

‘Yes, this is Mr Scott,’ I said. ‘Can you tell me, doctor, when it happened? Er, how long has he been—?’

He snapped shut the clasps of the attaché case. ‘It is not possible to tell with certainty at this moment, señora, but rigor mortis is just beginning in the face and neck, so I would say between two and three hours.’

‘And he died of a heart attack? It’s all so unexpected, I just can’t believe it.’ And I didn’t.

Back in the corridor, out of earshot of the employee guarding the door, I phoned Gerry with the news.

‘Understood.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, deadpan. ‘Come in tomorrow.’ He ended the call.

I made my way slowly towards the lift, troubled that Rudyard Scott’s sudden demise seemed to have come as no surprise to Gerry whose moves were planned to the n
^th
degree, every possibility considered. To think of him as a spider sitting at the centre of a web of intrigue might not be too fanciful. Had the photo I’d taken of the lock on Scott’s safe enabled Gerry to arrange the disappearance of the money? Had I been instrumental in bringing about a murder, if that’s what it was? It was not a comfortable feeling.

I paused with my finger on the lift button, recollecting last Saturday’s office hour in the striped pavilion, and Wainwright’s voice, querulous, petulant, as he leant towards me. ‘So how come the same young lady fixed herself an invite to that classy boat?’ If Vanheusen had arranged Scott’s death, Millie could be in similar danger. I had to find some way of stopping her from boarding the yacht. Out at sea, there would be no witnesses, or none that would break silence. I’d check up on Millie now, and somehow work a warning into the conversation.

I rounded the curve of the corridor and pressed the bell outside the door of 323. There was no response. I rang again, longer. I tried knocking. I pressed my ear to the door. No muted sound of television or CD player, no sound at all. A quick glance both ways to make sure the coast was clear, a zap of Gerry’s
electronic picklock and I closed the door quietly behind me.

The room was in darkness. I slipped my telephone card into the empty lighting-key slot and flicked a light switch. The room had been stripped of all personal items. Gone was the alarm clock, the book, the laptop, the suitcase. I slid open the wardrobe door. No clothes. On the rail, only a cluster of wooden hangers. I pulled open the drawers, though I knew I wouldn’t find anything. Empty. Nothing of hers in the bathroom either, no toilet bag, no toothbrush, no shower gel.

The only evidence that Millie Prentice had ever been here was a bar of soap, its Alhambra crest smooth with use.

New Year’s Day, but Victoria Knight was not in festive mood. She stirred her coffee glumly. ‘I’m afraid my offer yesterday to Miss Devereux was turned down, dear,’ she sighed. ‘You see, they’d taken the house off the market less than half an hour before I arrived. A Reservation Contract I think Miss Devereux called it.’ Her spoon clinked on the cup as it made another couple of slow circuits.

So that’s how Vanheusen had wriggled out of accepting £1.5 million. Very neat.

‘She was most apologetic.’ Victoria gazed unseeingly at the Café Bar Oasis’s gilded cage with its twittering birds. ‘She explained it all, but, you know, I couldn’t really take it in. All I could think about was that lovely house. My House of Dreams, I’d called it. And now…’ She trailed off miserably and absent-mindedly dropped another sugar lump into her cup.

‘Did Monique say how long the house was to be off the market?’

‘How long?’ Victoria looked blank. ‘It won’t come back on sale again now.’ Her voice was dull and defeated.

She
was
taking it badly.

I couldn’t leave her feeling like that. ‘Probably not, Victoria, but things aren’t
completely
cut and dried.’ I dug the teaspoon into the mound of cream topping my cappuccino. ‘A Reservation Contract means that a prospective buyer pays a fee to take a house off the market for a set period, in order to have time to make legal searches etc. The sale doesn’t necessarily go ahead, you know.’

‘You mean,’ a catch in her voice, ‘there’s still a chance?’

A chance in a million, I thought. For reasons yet to be discovered, Vanheusen had no intention of selling. I was sure of it.

‘I don’t want to give you false hopes, Victoria. The sale
might
not go ahead, but that would only be if there’s something wrong with the property, or if there’s a legal difficulty involving ownership of the land.’

‘I suppose that’s a tiny ray of hope, dear. It was foolish at my age to get so carried away, to set my heart on something before finding out if it was possible.’ Her tone was resigned, but her sigh was evidence that she was finding it very hard indeed to accept that El Sueño would never be hers.

The silence between us lengthened.

Then she roused herself to take a sip of her lukewarm coffee. ‘Happy New Year, Deborah.’

I murmured a reply but there was nothing I could say that would bring comfort. Outside, the sun blazed down from the bluest of blue skies. It sashayed through the green glass cupola, boogied on the waters of the central fountain, capered on the gilded birdcage. But at our table, the outlook was grey, despondency reigned.

The war against crime is waged 365 days a year, and for me this New Year’s Day was no exception. No lying on the beach for me. I left a dejected Victoria Knight at the Café Bar Oasis and drove to Los Cristianos. After a second visit this morning to Millie’s room, this time accompanied by the manager, I’d another piece of disquieting news for Gerry.

Extreme Travel was outwardly deserted, slatted blinds down, staff still partying or recovering from last night’s festivities. Hung on the door was a typed notice, slightly askew:

Cerrado por la fiesta.
Closed for the holiday.

Feliz y Prospero Año
. Happy New Year.

Jayne did like her little touches. In the inner office, behind the white door, she’d be beavering away planning a new window display and researching appropriate pretexts for cancellation of dodgy bookings.

Always assume hidden eyes are watching. Slowly and morosely, as if a bit hung-over and disgruntled
at having to report for work on a holiday, I fished clumsily in my bag for the key, unlocked the outer door and locked it behind me. Dust motes danced in the bars of sunlight filtering through the blinds. On Jayne’s desk three pens were neatly arranged, the dust cover had been placed over the computer and the calendar left at December 31
^st
. Good practice, good reminder – eyes can peer through gaps in blinds. I flung my bag onto her chair, walked over to the mirror and squinted at my reflection. With one finger I pulled down a lower eyelid as if inspecting it for dissipation red-eye. Fat chance of that. With a relieved smile, I scooped up my bag and turned the handle of the white door.

I was met with ‘Happy New Year, Debs’, the
braaah
of party kazoos, the
pop
of a champagne cork. They were all wearing paper hats.

I reeled back. ‘
You bastards
. Carousing away while I was working.’

A howl of laughter.

I blinked. It was only then that I took in that in spite of the silly paper hats, there were no drinks in the hands of Gerry, Jason, Jayne and assorted others. No bottles, no champagne, no wine.

Pop
. Grinning, Jason removed a finger from his mouth.

‘Caught you there, Deb-or-ah.’ Jayne lassoed me with a paper streamer and blew a triumphant
braaah
on her kazoo.

Gerry took off his crumpled paper hat, folded it into a neat triangle and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

‘Bastards,’ I repeated, flinging myself into the seat in front of Gerry’s desk. ‘While you’ve been smart-arsing here, I’ve been putting my
life
at risk in the course of duty.’ I had their full attention now.

Startled, Jayne dropped the kazoo.

‘Killers. At the Café Bar Oasis.’ I paused, allowing the tension to build. ‘Their Blue Mountain cappuccinos are killers,’ I smirked. ‘That mound of high cholesterol cream…’

Gerry raised his eyes heavenward, Jason blew a derisive raspberry.

‘A variation on Death by Chocolate,’ Jayne muttered. ‘Yes please.’ She reached down and retrieved the kazoo.

Scores evened.

‘Time for serious business, guys,’ I said. ‘Millie’s sudden disappearance has taken a sinister turn, I’m afraid. As I told you last night, all her possessions had gone from her room. It was only this morning that I realised that the door of the safe in the wardrobe had been shut and was reading
closed
. I went back to the Alhambra and asked the manager to open the safe. We found a pile of euros – and this.’ I fished in my pocket, brought out Millie’s passport and dropped it on Gerry’s desk.

All eyes focused on the maroon passport. No one
said anything. There was no need. We all knew what it signified. A seasoned journalist doesn’t take herself off into the wide blue yonder leaving passport and cash in the hotel safe.

After a long moment, Gerry sighed.

‘Let me introduce Pilar who’s been keeping tabs on the comings and goings of Millie Prentice.’

A thin-faced girl standing beside the coffee machine stepped forward.

‘Monday’s report, if you please, Pilar.’

‘On Monday at 0800 the señora took a taxi to the harbour here. I follow her. She walk until she reach the boat of the name
Samarkand Princess.
’

Vanheusen’s yacht.

‘In five minutes the boat leaves the harbour. I note the time, 0825. I wait. The boat comes back at 1215. I watch. I see Señor Vanheusen leave, but the señora she does not leave. I wait till it is dark and there are no lights on the boat, but still the señora does not leave.’

Oh, Millie, Millie.

Another sigh from Gerry. ‘Difficult, probably impossible, to prove anything. He’d just say he landed her at Santa Cruz, where, no doubt, port records will have recorded his arrival.’

Oh yes. Vanheusen would have covered his tracks all right. Cold-blooded bastard. I knew we’d never see Millie again.

‘Thank you, Pilar. No need to stay. Off you go and enjoy the holiday.’

The door closed behind her. Once again, Gerry’s need-to-know policy was in action. What she didn’t know couldn’t be extorted.

After a moment he said, ‘OK, I’ll now bring you up to date on the late Rudyard Finbar Scott. I’ve a report here from forensics. It seems our man Ambrose has been quite a busy little bee.’

The note of levity shocked me. Vanheusen wasn’t the only cold-blooded bastard. At times Gerry ran him a close second. Millie had been a pain in the neck with those ill-timed investigations of hers, but he was brushing aside the fact that she was almost certainly
dead
.

‘
Gerry
, I really think that’s—’ Then I caught his eye and realised he had been deliberately provocative in order to sidetrack us from gloom and restore morale. ‘You mean he had something to do with Rudyard Scott’s death
too
?’ That death had looked natural enough to me, no evidence of a struggle, no sign of violence.

‘We all know that when someone dies from what appears to be a heart attack, death can actually be due to drug overdose. So it will not surprise you that the toxicologist has found…’ Gerry consulted a sheaf of papers, ‘…mono-acetylmorphine and morphine, a sure indication of the presence of heroin, also confirmed by…’ He glanced down at the sheaf of papers again. ‘…pulmonary oedema, that’s water in the lungs to us. Cause of death, a
massive overdose of heroin aggravated by alcohol.’

‘Heroin? But when G and I—’

‘Yes, eleven days ago you and the cat gave his room the all-clear for drugs, and so…’ He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with his pen.

‘Unless, of course, he had a stash of heroin in the safe?’ I looked pointedly at Gerry.

‘Nope,’ he said blandly.

From that answer it was clear to me that he’d ordered Scott’s safe to be opened and the money removed, with the express purpose of precipitating a reaction from Vanheusen. But had he anticipated such a violent outcome? I could detect no trace of guilt, no sign of regret, so I’d have to pass on that.

‘Are you with us, Deborah?’

Everyone was looking at me expectantly.

‘Er, no, that is to say, yes,’ I said.

‘I was inviting you to give us your ideas on Vanheusen’s villa scam. When you’re ready, Deborah.’ Reproof administered.

‘I was just mulling over Scott overdosing on heroin, when he had shown no sign of using drugs, no sign at all.’

‘Brownie point there, Deborah.’ Reproof withdrawn. He’d wanted us to exercise our brains, and I had. ‘With that in mind, I asked them to look for the method of ingestion. Which turned out to be…?’ A raised eyebrow invited us to exercise our brains again.

Injection? That seemed a bit too obvious for a ‘brain exercise’. Everyone else must have been thinking on similar lines, for no one ventured an answer.

Gerry smiled. ‘My bet is that he was plied with spirits – alcohol and heroin are a lethal combination. When he was well boozed up, they went in for the kill. At the post-mortem they found a single injection site – in the right shoulder. He’d have had to be a bloody contortionist to have done it himself.’

I hadn’t much cared for the late Rudyard Finbar Scott, but all the same…

‘Has that cleared things up, Deborah? OK, can we have those thoughts on how he works the villas?’

‘It’s definitely some kind of scam, but I haven’t sussed it out yet, except it seems to involve the villa El Sueño. I visited it with Mrs Knight two days ago because she wants to buy, and I learnt this morning that her offer of £1.5 million has been rejected. If Vanheusen is blocking the sale of the property, the stakes must be
more
than £1.5 million.’

‘I think you could be on to something there.’ Gerry peered over the top of his gold rims. ‘Now, those files in Monique’s office might throw some light…’

‘As everyone’s on holiday today, this would be the ideal opportunity to rake through them, but…’ I chewed at my lip thoughtfully.

‘But we don’t want anyone to know you’ve been there, though it would be easy enough for you to get in with your pass. So…?’

Oh, oh. He was into brain workout mode again.

I couldn’t resist a little Gerry-baiting. ‘So, while I lurk in the shadows, Jason will scale the wall, run through the high-security beam, wrestle with the pack of slavering dogs and have a starring role on their video surveillance cameras.’

‘Me superman, you Jayne…’ Jason drummed a tattoo on his chest.

‘No, she Deborah.
Me
Jayne.’ Jayne blew a soft raspberry on the kazoo.

Gerry didn’t deign a reply. He twitched the party hat out of his pocket and proceeded to pluck methodically at the tissue paper. When the hat had been reduced to a mound of pink shreds, he looked up.

‘So what we need,’ he stirred the mound with his forefinger, ‘is…?’ Resumption, as if uninterrupted, of brain workout mode.

I sighed and capitulated. ‘…for me to get in without anyone knowing about it.’

‘Exactly.’ He leant back in his chair.

‘And you’re going to tell me how.’ I made it a statement, not a question. But he wasn’t letting me off so easily.

‘Now who could call at Vanheusen’s house on New Year’s Day without rousing suspicion?’ He swivelled his chair to the right.

‘Wine merchant? Caterer? Vet?’ I hazarded.

He swivelled to the left, shook his head.

I was getting tired of this. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Plumber, electrician, the man to read the meter.’

‘Getting warm.’ He rewarded me with an encouraging smile.

‘Come
on
, Gerry. Nobody’s going to come to read the meter on New Year’s Day.’

‘Try one of your other suggestions, then.’

If I’d had a party hat to shred… I tossed a mental coin. ‘Electrician.’

‘Exactly. Vanheusen is about to experience a massive outage.’

‘A complete failure of the electric power? How will that get me in? His security equipment is certain to have its own supply.’

Gerry smiled. ‘Of course.’ He waited.

He didn’t expect
me
to be the electrician, did he? We’d get things done in a fraction of the time if
only
we didn’t have to go through this question-and-answer rigmarole
every
time.

‘I’ve got it,’ I said brightly. ‘I act as the electrician, put my hands in the main fuse box, bugger up his wiring, incinerate myself. And Jason, disguised as a paramedic, sneaks into Monique’s office while my crisped body is being carried out.’

A giggle from Jayne, a muffled snort from Jason. From Gerry nothing.

I broke the silence. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong.’