Under Suspicion (19 page)

I stared in fascination at Charlie’s shirt, the front of which appeared to have been shredded by the claws of a hungry tiger. Her slim legs were encased in trousers of the finest pale blue suede, so tight she could have been poured into them. In a concession to the elegance of the marbled foyer of the Alhambra, she had transferred the gold rings from nose to ears. Gone the aggressively spiked hair, in its place the chicest of styles, a smooth blonde cap. She was lounging on a cushioned divan with a clear view of the front entrance, apparently engrossed in the screaming headlines of
The Sun
.

In contrast to this gorgeous creature, I felt like a dowdy sparrow in the smart casuals of my visiting-
the-Alhambra
-on-behalf-of-Exclusive gear. No cushioned divan for me. I was seated, rather less comfortably, on a carved wooden chair in the striped pavilion. Each of us, in our different ways, merged into the background scene.

I tapped my pen thoughtfully on my teeth. I’d been here an hour with another three to go. I might as well use the time profitably by finalising the details of Wednesday’s Outing to Gomera. Victoria Knight and Herbert Wainwright would be going home in a few days’ time, so what could I rustle up that would be completely different from the usual run-of-the-mill excursion? Idly I contemplated one of the Alhambra’s gleaming brass urns, in its convex side a mini-reflection of the reception hall – intricate plasterwork, red carpet, Charlie on her sofa… I’d already hired a catamaran but, to give Victoria a boost after her disappointment over El Sueño, I’d arrange for sparkling cava, tapas perhaps and a folk group of Gomeran singers and dancers – all courtesy of Exclusive. Then, on the island itself, a demonstration of the making of the powerful palm honey liqueur and a little bottle to take home as a souvenir. Yes, Victoria would like that. Herbie Wainwright might not, but very little pleased him anyway.

The camera phone in my pocket vibrated. I switched it on. Staring back at me from the screen was a thin face, dark shadows under the eyes, eyebrows mere smudges of colour against a sallow skin. The mule. I put the phone back in my pocket and shuffled the papers into a neat pile. Reflected in the Ali Baba urn, Charlie was putting down her paper and leisurely picking up her phone.

‘Engineer an encounter,’ Gerry had said to both of us. ‘Then you’ll be a familiar face for the lonely mule to latch onto when all and sundry are decanted from their rooms by an opportune fire alarm. With luck she’ll let slip something of importance.’

To engineer an encounter was easier said than done. One thing for sure, Charlie’s approach would be entirely different from mine. I’d be hovering near the reception desk when the mule checked in, go up in the lift with her, get chatting. If she was an experienced mule, she’d be relaxed and more receptive. I’d play it by ear.

There she was. Just coming through the plate-glass doors into the lobby, wheeling a small trolley case. The stylish cream linen suit did nothing for that sallow skin. I scraped back my chair and half-rose. I’d have to get into position to intercept her.

A shadow fell over my table. An all too familiar querulous voice whined, ‘Can I have a word with you, ma’am? Right now!’ The pinched features were flushed, the thick pebble lenses heliographing outrage.

Over Wainwright’s shoulder, I saw the mule pause uncertainly and look around, then move towards the reception desk. Short of shouldering him aside, there was no way I could get past him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlie spring into action. In one fluid movement she jumped up, dropping the pages of
The Sun
at the mule’s feet.

‘It’ll have to be stopped, I tell you.’ From his tone Herbert G Wainwright III meant business. He dragged a chair nearer the table and sat down. ‘
If
I could have your full attention, ma’am.’

Reluctantly, I dragged my eyes away from Charlie’s flustered attempts to gather up the scattered pages. Aided by the light breeze from the ceiling fans, she had successfully ensnared her quarry.

I tuned in one ear to Charlie’s giggled apologies and the mule’s startled response, switched on a professional smile and assigned the other ear to the Wainwright whinge.

‘All the way over here to Tenerife…about to spend good dollars on a luxury condo…a lot of dough involved…’

I polished my smile and let him drone on while I strained to hear Charlie’s conversation with the mule.

‘You’re English!’ Charlie’s voice had acquired a nasal twang. ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Liverpool? You’re from Liverpool? Which part?’

Mumbled reply.

‘Fancy that. Lived there till I was ten. Bet it’s changed…’

Wainwright was wittering on, ‘…and Los Cristianos seemed so…but nobody clued me in about…’

I assumed an ‘I’m all ears’ expression, and focused on the scene in the foyer. Charlie rounded up the last
wandering page and tucked it under her arm. ‘I’m staying here too. Name’s Charlie. See you around…’

I had to hand it to her, Charlie was a real pro.

‘…prancing about butt naked.’ Wainwright stopped abruptly.

I wrenched my attention back.
‘Naked?’

He nodded slowly, ‘Yeah, bare.’ I must have looked blank, for he added, ‘Nude.’

What
was
he talking about? ‘Nude,’ he’d said. Had there been cavortings in the plashing fountains of the Alhambra? Had a streaker accosted him in its splendid corridors? I played for safety. ‘Why that’s… that’s
terrible
. I really can’t believe it.’

He leant back in his chair. ‘Yeah, well, if Vanheusen thinks I’m into that kind of thing, he’s goofed up. And you can tell him so.’

‘I’ll certainly do that.’ I drew the writing pad towards me. ‘He likes serious complaints to be put in writing.’ I summoned up some soothing jargon. ‘So that it can be properly actioned.’ I poised my pen encouragingly. ‘So if you’ll just go over it from the beginning… You were…?’

‘In Los Cristianos, on the pier, waiting in line for a round-trip ticket to the little island out there. I wanted to see the place from where that guy Columbus made the trip to the US of A.’

I wrote:
On the quayside at Los Cristianos en route
to La Gomera
. What on earth had this to do with Vanheusen and Exclusive? ‘Yes, and…?’

‘That quayside-wall billboard.’ He stopped.

Billboard? Quayside wall? He must mean the bright mural depicting fish – whale, dolphin, that kind of thing – and the huge multicoloured lettering
Los Cristianos Puerto de la Naturaleza
. Just like him to complain that it was gaudy, cheap-looking, an act of vandalism on age-old stone.

‘Yes?’ I prompted.

‘I asked the guy next in line what the ad meant, and he told me—’ He paused. ‘He told me that it said…’ He leant confidingly over the table and lowered his voice. ‘…Los Cristianos opens the door to
nudism
. Seems that they’re about to designate the main beach solely for the use of
naturists
.’

Trust Wainwright to be standing next to a joker. What Los Cristianos was touting was the Environment. Nature, not naturists. Luckily he took my strangled gurgle of mirth as a cry of horror.

He nodded. ‘I see we’re on the same wavelength. This sure changes things.’ The heliographs flashed annoyance. ‘I’d been seriously considering that penthouse condo, but looks like I’ll have to pull out now.’

My expression grave, I murmured, ‘I’m sure Mr Vanheusen will be
most
concerned. I’ll report this to him immediately. He has a lot of influence behind the scenes, and pressure can be brought. You can definitely put your mind at rest.’

The smoothing of Wainwright’s ruffled feathers
took several more minutes. By the time I had leisure to look around again, there was no sign of either Charlie or the mule.

At 9.05 a.m. the next day, in accordance with Gerry’s briefing, I was sitting in the Exclusive striped pavilion apparently browsing through assorted papers. Guests at the Alhambra tended to favour late breakfasts, so there wasn’t much activity in the foyer – a small group waiting for their excursion bus, cameras and guidebooks at the ready, a family checking out and through the arched doorway leading to the Casablanca courtyard, an ear-phoned jogger making a slow circuit of the lake/pool, baseball cap shading eyes, slim brown legs powering a pair of designer trainers. In one minute’s time the fire alarm, courtesy of Gerry, would shatter this five-star tranquillity. There was no sign of Charlie. She’d likely be holed up in her room, a few doors down the corridor from the mule, savouring the luxury of the Alhambra’s crisp Sea Island cotton sheets, and sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea.

Twenty seconds to go.

Tweeeteeteeet tweeeteeteeet tweeeteeteeet
. A strident twittering and chirping shattered the hush of the reception hall, as if thousands of invisible songbirds had burst out of the gilded cage in the Café Bar Oasis and were swooping and fluttering beneath the fretted arches and soaring ceilings. The staff switched
smoothly into well-rehearsed fire-drill routine, interrupting the checkout and ushering the family and excursionists firmly towards the front entrance.

As they trooped out to the car park, I called over to the head of reception, ‘Check me off, Paco. I’m off to Muster Point D to reassure the Exclusive clients.’ I scooped up my papers and made for the fire assembly point.

If I hadn’t known where Point D was, I’d have located it by Wainwright’s whinging nasal drone, as hard on the ears as the twittering fire alarm. Pink skinny legs descending from the mass of soft terry towelling, long scrawny neck thrust belligerently forward, like an irate anaemic flamingo he was targeting the unfortunate employee in charge of the muster list.

‘You hear what I say, mister? If a guy’s liable to be dragged outta bed just after sun-up to hang about in a goddam parking lot, he expects to be issued with a decent robe.’

The Grouch could take care of himself. My real objective was Muster Point E. I sidled discreetly round the back of a small group of guests, pausing only to have a quick word with Victoria Knight sitting placidly on one of the benches, face upturned to the warm sun.

Charlie should have latched onto the mule by now…And there was the mule, pale as ever, gazing nervously round as if the long arm of the law was
about to reach out and seize her. But where
was
Charlie? Not among the twenty or thirty people gathered in small groups at Muster Point E, checking in their names or gazing speculatively at the windows of the Alhambra. Not among the late-risers coddled in Wainwright-maligned Alhambra bathrobes. Not beside the red-baseball-capped jogger, now sporting wraparound dark glasses, running on the spot to music on a CD player.

Well, it looked like it was up to me now. I took a step forward—

‘It’s me, it’s me, O Lord, jogging in the parking lot…’
sang the red-baseball-capped figure, trotting a nimble circle round me on those slim brown legs.

And indeed it was. Charlie had morphed again. Everything was under control. I allowed a couple of papers to flutter from my hand and chased them across the car park, catching them up at a nearby seat half-hidden by an almond-perfumed pink oleander. From there I could keep a discreet eye and ear on events.

‘Hey there, Scouser. Met yesterday, remember?’ Charlie’s grin was open and friendly.

She received a guarded smile in return.

‘Bit of a pain isn’t it, this fire alarm.’ A slow-motion jog round the mule. ‘Hope you don’t mind me nattering away like this.’ A fancy piece of jogging on the spot. Then, ‘I’m really cheesed off with all these false alarms. Same carry on last week from burnt
toast in the kitchens. Somebody left a door open, the barman told me, and smoke drifted into the corridors.’ The jogging stopped as she fiddled with the CD player. ‘Bloody thing’s stopped working! Supposed to be jog proof too…’

I sat back as Charlie set to work demolishing the mule’s wall of reserve. By the time the
bomberos
arrived, she was on first-name terms with Lisa and they were engaged in animated discussion of pop bands and lead singers. As for me, I filled in the next half hour working on ideas for the Exclusive picnic.

The fire engine and its crew drove off. From Charlie an explosive, ‘At
last
! C’mon, Lisa, I’ll stand you a tall latte.’ In heated debate about the latest pop idol, they strolled off towards the Café Bar Oasis.

‘CU @ Harley’s 20.30.’ The text message had come in from the office half an hour ago. Probably from Jayne. Must be something important if it couldn’t wait till tomorrow’s briefing. Had there been a sudden development re the mule?

I got there with ten minutes in hand. The big American cars – Dodge, Buick, Pontiac – icons of a world long gone, chrome fenders gleaming, paintwork polished to a mirror finish, were lined up in a last beauty parade outside the glass portals of Harley’s restaurant/bar. Last in line, a battered military helicopter, dowdy Cinderella among these splendid dinosaurs, drooped its rotor blades sadly,
as if cowed by the surrounding splendour. A chain and a couple of bouncers kept at bay a little group of gawkers, reinforcing the unwritten message:
Admire, but do not touch.

Hands in pockets I strolled over to join the rubberneckers in front of a sage-green vintage two-seater with tiny rear window and Bonnie and Clyde-style upright boxy shape, all sharp lines and voluptuously rounded boot. To me, a car’s a car, useful to get from one place to another and I’ve never been much interested in models and marques. But I have to admit I was fascinated by the huge round bowls of headlights, running boards wide enough to serve as comfortable picnic seats, and the long bonnet slashed with vertical gills like the body of a powerful fish. I was not so taken with the spindly wire-spoke wheels.
Two
spares, one strapped on each side of the bonnet, suggested all-too-frequent mishaps. And as for that flimsy bumper, elegant but oh, so useless…

Brakes screeched behind me. I swung round to see a taxi stalled in the middle of the road, the rear door half open.

‘I
thought
it was you, dear.’ A cardigan-clad arm pushed the door fully open, a plump leg levered its owner out of the clutch of the pseudo-leather upholstery. ‘Just a
momento
, señor. I – come – back.’ Oblivious to the outbreak of hooting horns, Victoria stepped onto the pavement. ‘I saw you and just
had
to ask you
now
. You see, about El Sueño,
I’ve decided there’s nothing I can do…’