Under Suspicion (14 page)

Perhaps I’d be luckier with
Properties Sold
. More photos of expensive villas, all in the same architectural style as El Sueño, but with enough little differences to individualise them. Vanheusen knew what would appeal to the ultra-rich. If you have a winning formula, stick to it. At each front entrance, new owners smiled proudly. In one of the photos a rotund gent in pinstripe suit pointed possessively at the brass nameplate as if to boast,
Yes, it’s mine
! Behind him, carved double doors stood invitingly ajar. Señor José Gálvez, with an address in Madrid, was now the proud owner of El Paraíso – a Spanish name for a Spanish owner. For Mrs Knight, would El Sueño have been anglicised to The Dream?

I thumbed quickly through the rest of the photos. El Paraíso, El Sueño, Elysium, La Paz, Mon Repos, Shangri-la, Spanish Idyll, Valhalla. Attractive names with a subliminal appeal to the prospective buyer.

My brain had been ticking away as I looked at those pictures and something wasn’t right. Something important. Something…I flicked through the file
pockets again. El Paraíso, El Sueño, Elysium, La Paz, Mon Repos, Shangri-la, Spanish Idyll, Valhalla…

I closed my eyes and emptied my mind. Like a bubble of gas rising to the surface of a black pool, a thought floated up from my subconscious, fleeting, half-formed… That photo of the proprietorial Señor Gálvez… I pulled it out of its plastic pocket and held it closer to the light. Those broad shoulders, hands like shovels… Without that bushy moustache he could be… I plucked a page from the file and held it at right angles to his face, covering the upper lip.
Steve
, chubby-faced crewman on
The Saucy Nancy,
stared up at me.

Well, well. If
one
of Vanheusen’s property purchasers was phoney, that might mean that all the purchasers… No time to work it out now. I carried the
Properties Sold
folder over to Monique’s desk, slipped the digital camera from my pocket and, carefully avoiding any entanglements with the onyx calendar and silver-framed photo, went to work.

Five minutes later I pushed the box back into its place in the cupboard. It might be advisable to copy the
Properties for Sale
folder as well… Finished. Twenty minutes left. I’d have to leave in fifteen. I surveyed the other files:
Brochures, Contracts, Members, Promotions,
and flipped quickly through
Contracts
. No significant info there – just legal forms.
Members
, however, should yield names that could be followed up by surveillance and interviews. I carried the contents over to the desk
and took pictures of the lot.

By the time I’d tidied everything away and locked the cupboard, I’d overrun my time. I’d left myself only three minutes to get to the bottom of the stairs – barely enough. It took ten seconds to skirt Monique’s antique table, carefully avoiding those ambushing curtains, and another few precious seconds to slowly,
slowly
, open the door a crack. I checked for the camera light. Off. Wait…
Wait
…It couldn’t be more than another nineteen seconds, but when time was running out… Sixteen precious seconds lost before the red light winked on, another ten as the camera taped. Then I was off along the moonlit corridor, through the service door, and taking the stairs two at a time. Down. Down. Eyes focused on the next step. As each foot hit the centre of the tread, a whisper of sound. The last turn of the stairs, and I’d sixty seconds before Tomás finished fiddling in the innards of the consumer unit, turned the lights back on, and came up from the basement. I’d make it.

Sixty seconds to safety. One minute. I peered through the gap between the door edge and the jamb. Standing with his back to me was a guard flicking ash from the top of his cigarette.

Bloody fool
to have left things so late.

As I stood there, the lights on the stairs to the basement came on. I heard Tomás saying, ‘The fault
was
at pole. And now that’s this end rechecked. You’ll radio the gate to let me out?’

A grunt of assent and a shadow moved on the wall, coming up the basement steps. If I stayed where I was, discovery was imminent and I’d no way to get rid of my camera with its incriminating images. If I made a dash for the shrubbery, there might be an opportunity later to get into the van while they were searching the bushes… Not an option. If I escaped a bullet in the back, there were the dogs.

I nipped back up round the curve of the service stairs. And there I sat, listening to Tomás go out to the van, close the doors and with a cheerful
‘Adíos, hombres’
and revving of engine, drive off. If they checked the stair… I rose to my feet. Fight or flight? I didn’t fancy my chances either way.

A guard’s voice, ‘That’s put our schedule way out. We should have checked the building half an hour ago.’

‘
Mierda
to that! Just rerun the cameras and—’ The heavy outside door banged shut.

Sitting on the stairs with the red-hot evidence of what I’d been up to burning a hole in my pocket, I wasn’t
totally
desperate. I had to hand it to Gerry, Gerry Belt-and-Braces Burnside. Every operation had to have the fail-safe factor built in at the planning stage. So my present predicament had actually been catered for – if I didn’t make it back to the van in time, he’d factored in another opportunity for me to get out. When Tomás discovered that I was not in the van, he would return. How long would I have to wait?
It would take, say, five minutes for him to drive out of the grounds and check the van at a safe distance from the Vanheusen estate. He should be back in ten minutes. It’s funny how time’s relative. It whizzes along or creeps like a snail, passes in a flash or lasts a lifetime. The leaden minutes dragged on…

I spent them trying to figure out Vanheusen’s property scam. It was easy to see how payments from phoney house purchasers could be used to launder drug profits. But these eight properties must have cost him a fortune, so why did he turn down Victoria’s £1.5 million? And why was he so keen to sell to that mystery bidder for
less
than she was offering?

I was still tossing ideas to and fro when I heard the squeal of brakes. Tomás? I leapt up. This was my only chance and I mustn’t blow it. I heard the outer door opening. Somebody flicked a switch and the stair was flooded with light.

Tomás’s voice was loud and clear. ‘Like I said, I’d fixed the fault at the pole. But I’ve just had a radio message from HQ that a switch has tripped at the substation. I’ve got to check that there’s not going to be an overload here. Sorry, guys, more than my job’s worth if your boss is blacked out again tonight, eh?’

Ribald comment from one of the guards.

Tomás again, ‘Artificial surge, that’s what we need. Then I’ll know if the fuse I put in is heavy enough to withstand that fault at the substation. I’ll need to check the consumer unit for something with a load,
probably those security floods. So one of you head for your control panel, and if the other comes with me, he’ll be able to radio what to switch on and off.

Boots scraped on the basement stairs, then silence. I crept down and peered out of the door. If either guard came back, I’d be in full view. The night air was cool on my face. Over to the right, frogs rasped softly. I could see the van just a couple of metres away, back doors invitingly ajar.

The security lights along the back of the building went out.

Two strides, and my hand was on the van, tugging at the doors. It took only seconds to scramble over the tailgate and pull the doors shut, but not completely shut. An observant guard might notice that, and anyway, I needed the interior light to pick my way over the jumble of equipment. I climbed into the tool-locker, sank down into my metal coffin, and lowered the lid with all the relief of an Unquiet Soul returning to its grave in the churchyard at the first glimmer of light in the sky.

‘So you see, G, it’s all very fishy.’

Gorgonzola’s eyes narrowed. Up to now, she’d been showing very little interest in my account of Steve’s translation from lowly deckhand to millionaire owner of El Paraíso.

‘Of course,’ I added thoughtfully, ‘he
could
be a Spanish grandee who’s lost all his cash at the casino, and be hiding from his creditors – masquerading as a cheerful Cockney chappie aboard
The Saucy Nancy.
Yes, it’s all very fishy, don’t you think?’

With a wide toothy yawn she jumped off the bed and stalked away in the direction of her food bowl, tail stiffly upright. G was bored with the subject, and she wasn’t the only one.

I closed my eyes and pulled the sheet up over my head to shut out the sunlight that was poking intrusive fingers through the thin curtains. After that somewhat stressful nocturnal break-in at Exclusive’s offices I’d come back home looking forward to a well-earned
sleep, and I was going to have it. Gerry had my initial report and the photographs. Let him work it out.

Click…click…click
of claws on a metal bowl. An empty bowl.
Click…click…click…click
, the feline equivalent of drumming fingers. It was my own fault. I shouldn’t have used the word ‘fishy’ in my ruminative chat to G. I scrunched the sheet more tightly round my head and wedged a finger in the ear not buried in the pillow.

Whump
. A heavy body landed on the bed. A paw scraped gently but insistently. Through a gap in the sheet, I felt hot breath on my cheek.

‘Gerr-off, G. I’m trying to sleep.’ Just a ritual protest, useless, of course. I knew it, she knew it. When it came to a battle of wills, G won nine times out of ten.

I made a last appeal. ‘I’ve had no sleep,’ I whined.

The paw paused. I waited…and waited… Psychological warfare.

Muttering, I gave in and threw back the sheet. I heard a soft thud as paws hit floor. I swung my feet to the cool tiles and saw she was in position beside her bowl, knife and fork poised, so to speak. I abandoned any further thought of a lie-in.

After I’d fed her, I was feeling a little peckish myself. At least I didn’t have to call into Exclusive today. I’d make myself some breakfast, then snatch a couple of hours on the patio before the afternoon meeting with Gerry.

I’ve said before about best-laid plans… By the time I’d washed up the dishes, it was 9 a.m. and already the sun was hot. While I set up the sunbed under the shade of the pergola, G sat supervising on one of the remaining posts of Jesús’s rickety fence. Then we both stretched out to digest. Above my head, the papery magenta bracts of bougainvillea stirred in a light breeze, a tiny wisp of fluffy cloud drifted by. Warm and relaxed in the dappled shade, I let my mind drift… My eyes closed…

…Vanheusen’s tanned face smiled at me as he motioned Monique to open her black cylindrical handbag. ‘I think you’ll find it’s all there. £1 million for Persepolis Desert Sandstorm.’

She snapped open the catch and emptied out the contents. A blizzard of notes floated down and settled in a huge drift on his desk. From behind the mound came his disembodied voice, ‘When Persepolis mates with Samarkand Black Prince, the offspring will be unique. The world will beat a path to my door.’

I started stuffing the notes into my pocket.

‘One moment, Ms Smith. We have to take into consideration the bill for the Reikimaster, have we not? Monique, the handbag.’

With a soft whine the handbag morphed into a vacuum cleaner. Monique waved it over the pile of notes.
Shlooosh
. In a reverse motion replay, the drift of notes arched up and vanished into the black interior.

Perleep perleep perleep peep peep.
Vanheusen eyed
the ringing telephone. ‘That will be the new owner of El Sueño,’ he purred. ‘Why don’t you answer the phone?’ He reached for a stray note that had fluttered to the floor and placed it carefully in his wallet.

The identity of the mystery buyer was in my grasp. All I had to do was reach out – but my arm was held down as if by a heavy weight. I willed my hand to pick up the receiver.
Perleep perleep perleep peep peep.
Paralysed, I couldn’t move.
Perleep perleep perleep peep
peep
. I made a tremendous effort and wrenched my arm free…

With an indignant yowl Gorgonzola leapt off the sunbed. A faint
perleep perleep perleep peep peep
was coming through the open kitchen door.

I heard a discreet cough from the other side of the fence. Jesús’s bright eyes peered at me over an armful of empty olive cans. ‘
El teléfono
, señora.’

Only the Extreme Travel office knew my mobile number, and they’d only call if— I staggered up from my recumbent position. Rubbing my eyes, I ran to the kitchen and snatched up the phone from the kitchen table.

‘Yes?’

‘Hi, Debs. What kept you?’ Jason’s voice. ‘Care to come over to my pad? I’ve got something to show you.’

‘I was catching up on some sleep,’ I snarled. ‘This is not another of your variations on the theme of “Come and see my etchings”, is it? I’ve told you before, Jase, I don’t want your attentions. I have never wanted your
attentions. I
will
never want your attentions. Now bugger off.’ I ended the call and flung the phone onto a chair.

Perleep perleep perleep peep peep
. My first impulse was to pick the damn thing up and hurl it across the room, but if I trashed the phone or switched it off, the office wouldn’t be able to contact me. And Jason was quite capable of coming round and beating on my door.

I snatched up the phone again. ‘
Bugger
you, Jason,’ I howled. ‘Why don’t—’

Miaow
. That was unmistakably the sound of a cat. Then Jason pleading, ‘Don’t hang up, Debs. Fact is, I need your help.’

‘Help?’

‘Just listen.’ A piteous feline wailing sounded in my ear. ‘I’ve bought myself a kitten, Debs.’

‘Mmm,’ I said unenthusiastically. Feckless Jason with a cat was not a good idea.

‘I find this very difficult, Debsy. I’m begging. I’m on my knees. I don’t know how to look after it.
Please
come over.’

In the background I could hear
miaow, mi-aaa-ow.
If it had been Jason wailing, I would have been immune. His pleas would have fallen on deaf ears. And he knew it. I hesitated.

Miaow, mi-aaa-ow.

I weakened. ‘Just what do you expect me to do, Jase?’

‘Give me a few tips, that’s all, over a cup of coffee. It will make all the difference to me – and Brunhilda.’

‘Brunhilda?’ I squeaked.

‘Yes. She’s a sweet little thing. You’ll love her.’

A defenceless little kitten at the mercy of irresponsible Jason. How could I refuse a mission of mercy to a dumb animal? I refer, of course, to the cuddly kitten. And Gorgonzola loved a run in the car. I’d take her with me.

‘Come on, G,’ I said, ‘let’s go to the rescue of Brunhilda.’

Jason’s pad was in the nearby township of Adeje, only a short drive inland and upward from La Caleta. A few years ago it had been little more than an unremarkable village nestling in the foothills of Teide. Two twists of fate had plucked it from obscurity onto the tourist trail – first, the inhabitants’ culinary speciality, roast chicken smothered in garlic; and secondly, its position guarding the entrance to that rockily scenic ravine, the Barranco del Infierno. Alas, Adeje had become a victim of its own fame. No more could you wander along the
barranco
on a whim. Now if you wanted to trudge the rocky ledges high above the dried- up river bed amid an unfolding panorama of rust-brown lava crags, it was pay up and numbers restricted. Booking essential too at Restaurante Otello to sample that to-die-for garlic chicken and
the tiny wrinkled-skinned Canarian potatoes in piquant red mojo dip.

I’d asked Jason why he’d chosen to rent a pad in Adeje.

‘The
barranco
and the chicken,’ he’d said with a grin. ‘After walking the one, I can dine on the other.’

But I suspected the real reason was the fine choice of tapas bars and pavement cafés. Plastic furniture and red or green umbrellas sponsored by the manufacturers of soft drinks spilt out onto the pavement under the jacarandas that lined the main street. The cheap and cheerful plastic vied with shiny chrome tables and chairs in the more stylish and fashionable cafés. And for those with a preference for watering holes of a more traditional ambience, there were the wooden benches, high counters and dark smoky interiors of the working-men’s bars. I’d a bet on with Jason that there were more bars, restaurants and cafés here than any other kind of retail premises. When we’d nailed Vanheusen, perhaps we’d have time to stroll around to find out who was right.

Sandwiched between all those bars were shops, not one of them plate-glass superstores. Indeed, many of them didn’t have windows at all. You had to poke your head through their grilled doorways to find out what was on sale. But the long steep slope of Adeje’s high street held all the essentials of twenty-
first-century
life – furniture, spectacles, mobile phones, computer consumables, that sort of thing.

You can overlook the whole of Las Américas from the heights of Adeje. Gorgonzola and I sat for a moment on the low wall of the parking bay opposite his apartment, surveying the curve of the coastline with its fringe of beaches, the tall fingers of hotels, and the sun glinting on windscreens on the
autopista
below.

I scratched G’s ear. ‘Are you staying here to have a snooze in the sun, or are you coming to say
buenos
días
to Brunhilda?’

I was answered with a wide yawn.

‘Does that mean yes, or no, or maybe just a maybe?’

After a moment of indecision, she braced her front legs, stretched and flopped down in a gingery heap on the warm stone.

‘I’m disappointed in you, G,’ I said. ‘What about poor little Brunhilda? Where’s your maternal instinct?’

She flicked her tail dismissively. Eyes closed. Subject closed.

The place where Jason laid his head – and if he could, his latest girlfriend – was a duplex apartment with a huge terrace screened from public view by thick hibiscus and oleander hedging. I’m a snooper by nature, so I couldn’t resist applying an eye to a teeny gap where a branch had died. A white plastic lounger – wide enough for two – was unoccupied. On a small table was a glass of lager and a booklet, some sort
of manual. There was no sign of either Brunhilda or Jason.

His head appeared at an upstairs window. ‘Front door’s not locked, Debsy. Just let yourself in.’

I sprang back guiltily and scurried along to the front door.

He flung it open. In one hand was a clump of mistletoe. ‘Happy New Year, Debs.’

‘Happy N—’

His lips closed on mine. I allowed him five seconds, then pulled away.

‘
Feliz año
, Jason. Now, where’s that dear little kitty?’

‘She’s through here. You’ll love her. She’s absolutely fantastic.’ He ushered me into his minimalist living room, a den of black leather and chrome furniture, spotlit alcoves and glass shelving.

Through the open French doors, sunshine streamed across the polished hardwood flooring. Where was Brunhilda? I’d expected her to be patting a ball of paper, digging tiny claws into the sofa, or dozing on one of the giant floor-cushions.

He burbled on, ‘If you could just help me out on how cats react—’

‘Oh Jase,’ I interrupted, ‘you’ve not let her escape out into the garden, have you? If she gets through the hedge—’

‘It’s OK, Debs. Don’t panic. I’ve got her trained and—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snapped. ‘You can’t train a kitten just like that.’

‘What d’you bet? I tell you what,’ he smiled complacently, ‘if you’re wrong, you give me another kiss under the mistletoe, a proper one.’

‘If she comes the first time you call, I’ll give you
two
kisses.’ I flung myself down on the sofa. ‘Right. I’m ready to be amazed.’ I folded my arms.

He took up position behind the sofa. ‘Here, Brunhilda-a-a.’ He gave a short whistle.

From the garden came a long-drawn-out
mi-aa-ow
. That didn’t sound like a kitten to me, more like a full-grown cat.

‘Here she comes,’ Jason crowed.

A shadow broke the shaft of sunlight at the French doors, a shadow with strangely distorted square head and stumpy ears. Funny the tricks light plays. You’d think—

Aaaaargh
, I screamed, unable to help myself. I’d expected a cute little kitten, all big eyes and fluff, but framed in the doorway stood a hideous plastic and metal creature with huge blank Darth Vader eyes.

‘Gotcha!’ Jason chortled. ‘Say hi, Brunhilda.’

The beast emitted a deep rolling purr and bounded forwards. I tried to spring up, but Jason’s hand on my shoulder pressed me down.

‘Just watch this demo, Debsy.’ He jabbed at buttons on a handheld remote control.

It sat. It lay down. It rolled over. It stood up, tail swishing gently from side to side.

‘Realistic or what, eh? Sixteen built-in motors. Object sensors. Voice recognition,’ he drooled.

Pathetic. A grown man regressing to second childhood, playing with a gadget that was, despite its cyber wrapping, little more than a battery toy.

‘Great, isn’t she, Debs! What else would you like to see her do?’

Lie down and die, I was tempted to blurt out. But it
was
the season of goodwill, after all. He was like a child showing off his favourite Christmas present. I couldn’t bring myself to crush him with a sour remark.

‘We-e-ll,’ I said, ‘what about—’ For the second time that day a feline shadow broke the sunlight path across the polished floor. Paused. Edged forward. Gorgonzola’s gingery head was peering inquisitively round the frame of the French door. This was going to be interesting. ‘Well – what does she do if she meets another cat?’

Oblivious to the new arrival, Jason was studying the control unit. ‘I’m keeping her indoors so that’s not likely to happen, but I think this would be the natural response.’

He punched a couple of buttons. Brunhilda’s head lowered, her back arched and her tail shot vertically up. He jabbed more buttons.