Under Suspicion (17 page)

They were sitting there in silence, staring at the floor or the wall or the ceiling. Nobody met my eye.

Only Gerry looked up as I stood in the doorway. ‘Sit down, DJ.’

He had never addressed me that way. My legs
folded beneath me and I sank into the nearest chair.

The cough as Gerry cleared his throat sounded shockingly loud. ‘Now that we’re all here—’

There was one seat still unoccupied.

‘Aren’t we going to wait for Jas—’ I stuttered to a halt.

The look on every face, Gerry’s expression, told me before he put it into words. ‘Jason’s fighting for his life. Critical.’

A voice behind me muttered, ‘And Juanita’s dead.’

I stared at Gerry. ‘What—? How—?’ My mouth was dry.

His lips were moving but somehow I wasn’t taking in what he was saying.

Jason, smooth-talking, opinionated, brash, arrogant…In spite of all his faults and our little spats, I was rather fond of him.

‘…Jason and Juanita…attacked…knifed…sea…’ Gerry’s voice was coming and going. A strange effect, as if someone was turning on and off a switch.

I ran my tongue over dry lips. ‘I can’t take it in.’

Gerry got up and went over to the coffee machine. ‘It’s been a bit of a shock for you – for all of us.’ He handed me a black coffee. ‘A fisherman, a guy called Joaquín Suárez, has a shack where the ravine from Masca widens into the cove. It seems that he’d hurt his back, so hadn’t gone out fishing last night. He heard shouts and a scream, and when he looked out he saw two men scrambling into an inflatable that shot off in
the direction of Los Gigantes. He’s had trouble before with local tearaways damaging his boat, so he went to investigate. He found Jason face down among the rocks.’ A long pause. ‘At our end, we knew something was wrong. We alerted the police launch standing by at Los Gigantes. Their searchlights found Juanita.’

I made myself ask, ‘What are Jason’s injuries?’

‘Massive blood loss from stab wounds to the back. Punctured lung.’ Another long pause. ‘Prognosis uncertain.’ He drained his coffee in one gulp. ‘Juanita didn’t stand a chance.’ He stared into his empty cup. ‘It was her first assignment.’

Juanita. I didn’t know her, had never met her. Her first assignment, he’d said. She’d have been young, keyed up, thrilled to be working with Jason – he had that effect on girls. Why did it seem worse that the dead colleague was young, at the start of her career? A dead colleague is a dead colleague, old or young. It could have been me.
Would
have been me, if I hadn’t drawn the line at Jason’s wandering hands.
I
had turned down the assignment – and Juanita was dead.

With an effort I concentrated on what Gerry was saying. ‘…attack pre-planned. They knew our operatives would be close by, observing. Which leads, I’m afraid, to only one conclusion. They’ve detected the bug on
The Saucy Nancy.
The whole bloody thing’s been a set-up.’

I glimpsed the depth of anger behind the calm
exterior. Gerry seldom let his feelings show.

‘Yes, looks like it was pre-planned.’ Jayne sounded tired. ‘The men must have been landed hours earlier, or come down the track from Masca. But how could they be sure that Jason and Juanita were the right people to target?’

‘They’d have made a hit on
anybody
who was lurking about, on the off chance they’d be lucky.’ Gerry tapped thoughtfully at his teeth with a pen. ‘But my guess is that they homed in on the signal from his mobile phone. He was reporting the arrival of the boat.’

I gulped down a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. That would be it. Nowadays any self-respecting crook has the latest, most sophisticated tracking and eavesdropping devices at his fingertips. Even if Jason hadn’t actually been making a call, radio signals from his switched-on mobile could have been used to pinpoint his position to within a few metres. Poor Jase. Poor Juanita.

Gerry leant forward, resting his interlocked fingers on the desk, the signal that he was about to launch into his what-I-am-about-to-say-is-disagreeable routine.

‘We mustn’t let this get to us. Forget Jason, it’s time to move on.’

Murmurs of protest.

He swept on, tone brisk, matter-of-fact. ‘The minuses of last night are obvious. Suggestions as to the plus points?’

Stunned silence.

‘OK, I’ll start.’ He leant back in his chair. ‘Jason’s not been able to tell us anything, but the fisherman Suárez said the two men he’d seen were definitely black, dark-skinned. And that means…?’

We thought about it.

‘It means,’ I said slowly, ‘that they weren’t the crew of
The Saucy Nancy
, and so…and so…they wouldn’t have recognised Jason.’

‘Good, Deborah. And that means…?’

Did he
have
to inflict his brain exercising on us at a time like this? I felt like screaming,
Just tell us, you
silly bastard.

I took a deep breath, pressed my lips firmly together, took another deep breath. ‘I
suppose
it means that I’m in the clear.’

‘Right.’ A twitch at the corners of his mouth registered and condoned that rebellious
suppose
.

Nobody else could come up with a plus point. Tactfully, Gerry didn’t recap on the minus points. The meeting broke up shortly afterwards. All
I
wanted was to get away, get into my car and drive. Drive away from everything, everybody.

‘Hold on a minute, Deborah.’

What did Gerry want now? Reluctantly I turned to face him.

‘It’ll be some time before Jason will be returning to his pad.’ The words
if ever
hung unspoken in the air. He slid a key over the desk. ‘I’d really appreciate
it if you’d go there and clear out the fridge and get rid of anything perishable from the cupboards. Make a note of any portable items of value and I’ll have them put into secure storage.’

Clearing the deceased’s house.

‘Anything else?’ My voice sounded brittle. Why was he asking
me
to do this? Why hadn’t he asked Jayne? Sometimes I hated Gerry.

He didn’t look at me, merely started doodling on a sheet of paper. ‘Oh, and perhaps you’d better turn off the water and switch off the electricity, so that’ll mean emptying the freezer.’

I got it now. It was his way of saying that he didn’t think Jason would make it. Preparing me.

From the parking bay outside Jason’s apartment, the distant tower blocks of Las Américas waded through a silvery haze, the hum from the busy
autopista
far below a reminder that everyday life goes on for those not caught up in tragic events. I stood there for – how long? I don’t know. At last I took a deep breath. It wasn’t that I felt an intruder while the owner was away, more that I couldn’t shake off the feeling I was about to enter a dead man’s apartment. I steeled myself to unlock the door and start erasing his presence.

Tentatively I pushed open the living room door. Jason wasn’t dead yet. He still had a chance. Hot sunshine streamed across the polished flooring
and ricocheted off the stark chrome furniture and modernist glass shelving. Laid out stiffly on one of the giant floor-cushions were the mortal remains of Robocat. Averting my eyes from this reminder of our last encounter, I flicked shut the vertical blinds.

In the kitchen, I set about emptying the fridge – milk down the drain, butter, cheese, eggs, a packet of bacon and half a loaf into a large black rubbish sack. I left the pack of San Miguel beers as a sort of talisman, amulet, rabbit’s foot, an offering to the gods for his return. There was no freezer to unload, just the fridge icebox containing an opened packet of peas and a half-empty tray of ice cubes. The fridge more or less emptied, I switched it off at the wall and left the door ajar. There’d be no mould or nasty smells when – if – Jason came home.

I made a quick survey of the kitchen. Worktops clear, apart from a couple of cups upside down in their saucers. I put them in the crockery cupboard and lugged the rubbish sack into the living room.

A folded newspaper lay on the coffee table. I added it to the sack… With the blinds closed and the bright sunlight cut out, the minimalist decor seemed bleak and soulless. Jason really was –
is
– obsessively neat, I thought. Nothing else to tidy up here, but there’d be bedding and laundry upstairs.

I was about to close the door when I caught a glint of silver under the sofa. I reached under the heavy piece of furniture and pulled out a fish-shaped piece
of metal with a faint, but unmistakably fishy, pong. The reverse was inscribed
A Robomeal for Robocat.
I laid it on the floor-cushion beside Brunhilda, gently closed the door behind me and made my way upstairs.

I’d never been in Jason’s bedroom, though every time we met he’d tried to lure me there. I’d imagined a giant waterbed, mirrors, that sort of thing. But it was all disappointingly ordinary, minimalist with an oriental slant. Two floor-to-ceiling black and gold banners hung on each side of the bed. Not to my taste, but rather striking against the rich red of the wall behind them. The rest of the room, with its white walls, black sheets, black cotton spread, had the same stark look as downstairs.

I bundled the bed linen and the contents of the laundry basket into a sheet and tied a giant knot. In a tall glass vase on the window sill was an amazingly realistic single white orchid, Jason’s seduction prop. I’d take it home with me as a reminder of our battles of wits.

I bumped the bulky laundry bundle down the stairs and left it in the hall ready for collection. All that was left to do was to dump that kitchen rubbish in the communal bin. I lugged the sack out to the front door and dropped it beside the services box. When it came to turning off the water and electricity, it felt horribly like switching off Jason’s life support system.

In the hall I hesitated, then on impulse went back to the living room and scooped up Brunhilda and her fishy meal. I closed the front door and turned away. That was it then. Nothing more to do. I’d the feeling that I wouldn’t be back.

My role in Operation Canary Creeper could very well be at an end now that I’d been cut off from my Trojan Horse role at Exclusive. An unsettling thought. The sun was hot on my back. I closed my eyes and let the stress and tension of the last two days seep away into the warm sand of the beach in front of the five-star Hotel Bahía del Duque. Masterly inactivity would be the order of the day… Here, no loud conversations in English, German or Russian, no tedious shouted discussions of last night’s football match, no raucous purveyors of doughnuts, pineapples and coconuts. The Duque’s five-star charges for sunbeds and umbrellas made sure of that. Here, the public beach had been groomed to meet the expectations of the super-rich. Shaded from the sun in blue-and-white tented pavilions, the Duque’s guests reclined on white-cushioned mattresses twice the thickness of any found elsewhere.

It was free of charge to lie on the sand, though.
I’d spread my towel beside the white-painted wooden pier that supported the Duque’s beach-café – not a cheap and cheerful
chiringuito
bar, but resplendently equipped with white tables and chairs and smartly uniformed waiters.

I let the sounds flow over me…distant cries of children playing in the waves…the clink of china from the café tables above my head…

Chairs scraped on the boards above me. A snippet of conversation drifted down ‘…wasn’t
my
fault. I don’t know why you keep going
on
about it. Yes, I
know
it was a bit of a disaster, but the trip wasn’t
my
idea—’

Somebody was having a bad day.

‘
Outing
, not trip. You can’t even get the word right.’ The words were hissed
sotto voce
.

Outing
. Like a drop of icy water on my back, the word jolted me wide awake.

‘How was I to know it was Booze Cruise night? The Outing was planned by that girl you sacked. Probably did it deliberately—’

‘Well, you
should
have known,’ snapped Monique’s voice. ‘It was
you
that chose Tuesday
and
you should have checked with me before booking.’ I could tell she was in a towering rage. ‘Our clients were exposed to drunks and—’

I mustn’t miss a word of this. I reached out for my T-shirt, wrapped it round my head and face as if to protect myself from the sun, and rolled over to prop
myself up against a wooden pier-support directly below the speakers.

‘The señoras wish to order?’

‘Two coffees. Black.’ Monique snapped out the words.

‘But, Nicky, you
know
I don’t like—’

‘Shut up, Ashley. You’ll need your coffee black when you hear what I’ve got to tell you.’ Monique swept on. ‘As I was saying, I have something unpleasant to tell you.’ I adjusted the T-shirt to free an ear.

‘Ambrose rang me this morning at my apartment. He was positively
incandescent
about that Sunset Outing fiasco of yours. I had to plead with him, Ashley, to let you stay on, to give you one last chance.’

‘
One
teeny complaint and the man—’ Outrage in Ashley’s every word.

‘Not one complaint, two.
Both
our clients voiced their displeasure. Mr Wainwright was particularly upset. I believe he phoned Ambrose at some unearthly hour to tell him so. I have to say, Ashley, that this all reflects badly on
me
. I recommended you, after all.’

‘Anyone can make a mistake, Nicky. What about the time when
you
—’ Her voice dropped to a low murmur.

A long silence, then the creak of wooden boards heralded the return of the waiter. ‘Your coffees, señoras.’

I heard the soft
chink chink
of china.

Another lo-o-ng silence. ‘But I thought—’ Ashley, on the defensive.

‘At Exclusive, you’re not being paid to think, Ashley, you’re being paid to
know
– and if you don’t know, you check. One more mistake,
one
more, and—’

With a sharp
chunk
cup forcibly hit saucer, the executioner’s axe hitting the block.

How long before Ashley again blotted her copybook? Three days? A week? Perhaps, after all, there was a chance that I’d see my office again…

The phone call came two days later.

‘I’ve got good news for you, Deborah. Mr Vanheusen has reconsidered your case, and is willing to reinstate you.’

‘Oh, Monique, that’s wonderful. Thank—’

‘You realise, of course, that I had to plead quite strongly on your behalf. Yes, quite strongly. In view of your cavalier attitude to following instructions on at least two occasions, it took some effort to convince him. However, he has agreed to give you one more chance. One more.’

Ashley had obviously messed up
her
chance.

‘Er…Ashley?’ I ventured.

‘Promotion.’ Monique moved smoothly and briskly on. ‘Before she left, Ashley was dealing with a somewhat unusual request from Mr Mansell. I’m
up to my eyes in work so I’m delegating it to you. Come in this afternoon and I’ll fill you in on the details…’

They were as hard as rocks, those velvet cushions on the over-carved chair, recently graced by Cousin A, so suddenly and mysteriously translated to higher things. For the second time I flipped through Exclusive’s photo-library of scenic shots. Jonathan Mansell’s requirements were
very
exacting – somewhere off the tourist track, somewhere special, somewhere the Alhambra could escort favoured guests. And the deadline was tomorrow. Had Ashley, unable to come up with a suggestion, thrown in the towel, or had a desperate Monique finally lost patience with her? I was getting pretty desperate myself. Seeking inspiration, I stared for a long time, chin on hand, at a picture of snow-capped Mount Teide…been there, done that… the reds and browns of the multi-hued caldera really did look like the surface of the moon…

I’d cracked it. The Lunar Landscape on the flank of Teide would be ideal – a star attraction, but not easily accessible even by car, and so, definitely off the tourist track, and definitely special. The Paisaje Lunar fitted Mansell’s requirements exactly. Those bizarre, wind-sculpted, creamy yellow columns would be a breathtaking sight against a blue sky. I’d drive him from Vilaflor to the small car park at the end of the Lomo Blanco, and from there we’d go on foot
through the pine trees and lava fields to the site itself. On the way I’d do my utmost to find out Mansell’s line on that proposed casino deal.

Vilaflor’s long main street was deserted except for a stray dog and a workman painting a wall. Across a narrow
barranco
a huddle of whitewashed houses with faded pantiled roofs slumbered in the pale sunshine.

I drew up the 4x4 outside a pavement café-bar guarded by a gnarled almond tree, its bare black branches sprinkled with delicate white flowers. I’d had an ulterior motive for putting a café on the itinerary sheet. While we sat drinking our coffee and gazing over patches of garden planted with vegetables and orange trees, I’d steer the conversation round to casinos. The opportunity came sooner than I dared hope.

Mansell looked up from his study of my Paisaje Lunar info sheet. ‘I laid it on the line to Vanheusen that I wasn’t going to waste time on an uninspired wine tasting in Icod when I’d plenty of teething troubles to sort out at the hotel. If this trip lives up to your description, it’ll be exactly what I had in mind, a day excursion to make the guests remember their stay at the Alhambra.’

I saw my opening. ‘You’ll need something special for evening entertainment, too, I suppose?’

‘I’ve got something in mind for that, but it’s still very much in the planning stage. Now, if the Paisaje
Lunar is to be part of the Alhambra experience, how would you suggest…’

Casino subject closed. Stymied.

At the wooden sign
Lomo Blanco
we left the smooth tarmac to bump along a beaten earth track with the pine-covered slopes of Teide on the left, and a sheer drop to the valley floor on the right. The sun was burning down from the bluest of skies and the heady scent of pine wafted on the wind – all spirit-lifting stuff, but not for me, for I couldn’t see any way of steering the conversation back to casinos in general, and the Alhambra’s casino in particular.

As I’d promised it would be, the Paisaje Lunar was spectacular. The crème caramel-coloured columns, carved and chiselled by the honing wind into fairytale towers, pillars and buttresses were framed against a cobalt blue sky. Mind-boggling, awe-inspiring, sensational.

Mansell got out his camera. ‘Fits the bill exactly, Deborah. You’ve hit the jackpot for me with this.’

But I hadn’t as far as Gerry was concerned. I was back to square one. I’d found out nothing.

It just shows that you should never give up hope. Forty-five minutes later when we got back in sight of the car park, Mansell gave me just the opening I needed.

‘Hope we don’t find the car’s been broken into.’

‘Oh, criminals are busy with
much
more lucrative
things back in Las Américas,’ I laughed. ‘The real money’s in drugs nowadays.’

He gave me a quizzical look. ‘You’re not speaking from experience, I hope?’

‘Only hearsay from Ramón, the guy I go out with.’ I pressed the remote to unlock the car. ‘According to him, drug barons launder their profits through clubs, fake time-shares and casinos.’ As I turned the key in the ignition, I added, ‘It seems that casinos are the prime target for dirty money. Cash flows through, and it’s impossible to check on where it comes from and where it goes. That’s Ramón’s job, to give businessmen advice on how to avoid being caught up in dodgy schemes.’

I left it at that. If Mansell asked me to contact ‘Ramón’, we’d know for sure that he was in the clear.