Under Suspicion (20 page)

So she had finally given up her dream of El Sueño. Just as well. Little old lady versus all that Vanheusen clout, no contest.

‘…for a couple of weeks, that is. The Reservation Contract runs only till the end of the month. As you said, dear, there’s always hope. So what do you think? Can I arrange with Mr Vanheusen to stay on at the Alhambra till then?’

‘
Not
a good idea,’ I said quickly.

‘Oh…I was so sure…’ Her face crumpled, her shoulders sagged. Inside the woolly cardigan, the chubby body seemed to slump.

Damn. Urgent retrieval of situation required. ‘Not a good idea to
tell
Mr Vanheusen anything, I mean.’

An all-terrain baby buggy was rapidly bearing down on us. I steered Victoria towards the next-in-line of Harley vehicles, an ugly Pontiac built like an armoured car, bulky metal visor reducing windscreen to a slit, bumper that would do credit to a bulldozer.

‘In property matters, Victoria, you have to play things close to the chest, never reveal your hand to the opposition. If the contract
does
fall through, and they know you’re out there waiting, they’ll bump up the price.’

I wasn’t giving her false hopes or being kind now to be cruel later. The way Operation Canary Creeper was progressing, there was a good chance that Vanheusen would be behind bars before the month was out. The
company’s assets would take some time to sort out, but perhaps a way could be found to…

A slow smile lit up her face. ‘So you
do
think it’s worth a try?’

‘I think that if you return home without giving this a go, you’ll
always
regret it. If you agree, we’ll leave Mr Vanheusen out of it and I’ll quietly arrange for you to stay on at the Alhambra.’

‘Nothing ventured, nothing won. That’s what my Jack always said. And…’ a whisper so soft, I had to strain to hear above the roar of a passing Titsa bus, ‘one day he won the Big One.’

She waved a hand in vague acknowledgement of another impatient
beep beep beeep
from her abandoned taxi. ‘
Momento, momento
.’ Leisurely, refusing to be rushed, she fished in her handbag and held out Exclusive’s invitation to the Farewell Cruise. ‘You’ll want this back, then. I’d been so looking forward to it, but I’d be an impostor, wouldn’t I?’

‘Victoria,’ I said, ‘playing things close to the chest means exactly that. Don’t change any arrangements that don’t have to be changed. The cruise will be going ahead, anyway, for Herbert. What’s one more passenger to a man like Mr Vanheusen? I think he can afford the expense, don’t you?’

Beeeeeeeeep
from the taxi. The engine revved to a high scream. ‘You come or no come, señora?’ Another ear-splitting rev.

‘I come, I come.’ She stuffed the card back into her
bag and scuttled across the road.

‘Remember,’ I called after her, ‘say nothing – not even to Herbert.’

Hand on the half-open door, she turned towards me. An eyelid drooped in a slow conspiratorial wink. ‘My lips are sealed, dear.’

Eight-twenty-five. I’d go in now. If you’ve ever been to Harley’s, you’ll know that it’s not exactly
quiet
– its cheerful bustle, conversation-drowning music and subdued lighting made it perfect for a clandestine rendezvous. I joined the small queue of those waiting to be shown to a table, giving me the chance to eyeball a monstrous, macho Harley Davidson on its circular dais, a sparkling chrome juggernaut, the very personification of power and speed aptly called The Beast.

‘Hi there, I’m Suzy.’ A girl in black T-shirt and black trousers rattled off the Harley greeting in an Australian twang. ‘Do you want to sit upstairs in the Sports Bar, or here in the restaurant? Smoking or non-smoking?’

‘Restaurant, non-smoking and over at the back.’ It was darker there.

With a deft movement she fielded a black and white booklet from the stack and turned to scan the tables. ‘Nothing free over there at the moment. ’Fraid we’re real busy tonight.’

She steered me towards
Sunset Blvd
, an alcove to
the right of a red neon sign flashing
WC
. Not as private as I’d hoped, considering it was adjacent to the flight path to the loo, but on second thoughts, possibly better – those heading in that direction would have their gaze fixed on the sign and their mind on the objective.

‘Why not have a lee-surely drink while you choose your meal?’ She thrust the black and white booklet into my hands, switched on a practised smile, and swept off.

I’d been thinking of an unadventurous,
bog-standard
beer. I scanned the drinks on offer. Harley’s Comfortable Screw, Benders Banshee, Bubblegum Shot, One Between the Sheets… Flaming Zombie, rum and fruit juice with a circle of flaming fire. Now that sounded intriguing. But regrettably, no. Nothing, alas, would be more likely to draw attention to my darkish corner than a circle of flaming fire.

‘Mind if I sit here?’ asked an American voice.

‘Sorry,’ I said, continuing to study the multicoloured pages of the drinks’ list, ‘seat’s taken.’

As if I hadn’t spoken, the female pulled back the chair and flopped down.

‘Excuse
me
! I just told you—’ I registered the spiky hair, the nose ring, the eyebrow stud, the cheeky grin. I had to hand it to Charlie. Nobody would associate her now with the stylishly fashionable young woman lounging in the Alhambra foyer or this morning’s
baseball-capped young fitness freak. And she’d engineered the meeting perfectly.

Suzy returned, pencil poised.

‘I’ll have a small beer,’ I said.

Gold nose ring glinting, Charlie ran her finger down the drinks’ list. ‘Make mine a Benders Banshee.’

Suzy put the pencil to work, handed over two menus, and headed back to the door. New customer, same smile.

‘Don’t you just love the decor? That traffic sign over there is a scream.’ Charlie dissolved in a fit of giggles.
‘Soft Shoulders. No standing at any time.’

‘Something come up, then?’ I asked as we flipped open our menus.

Charlie got down to business. ‘You may have noticed that after the little excitement of the fire alarm, Lisa and I were quite buddy-buddy?’

I nodded.

‘So, over a latte or two we shared confidences. I told her about my partner knocking me about and cheating on me with my best friend – and of how I got my revenge.’

I raised an eyebrow.

Charlie returned my look. ‘Tell ’em what they want to know. She looks like the kind of poor sod that guys take advantage of in that way.’

‘Result?’

‘Instant bonding. We cried on each other’s
shoulders and agreed to meet up again in the bar at Happy Hour. I wasn’t sure if she’d turn up, but she did. I launched her on a hot chocolate and brandy – I’d told the barman to make hers double strength – and after the second, the oyster opened up.’

‘And a pearl was inside?’

‘You bet. Gerry was like a cat with a dish of cream.’

‘Cats don’t like cream,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it’s bad for them.’

‘Figuratively speaking, pedant.’ She pretended to sulk. ‘You’re tarnishing my golden moment.’

‘Oh come on, Charlie, get on with it.’

Things were hotting up at Harley’s, and so were the decibels. She leant forward so that her head was close to mine. ‘Her “friend”, as she calls him, said he’d meet her at the Alhambra, but there’s been a change of plan. She’s to meet him tomorrow over in Gomera at Valle Gran Rey.’

‘If we knew which ferry…’ My plans for the Outing were fairly fluid. Places and times could be easily altered.

Charlie grinned triumphantly. ‘Found that out too. She’s taking the 0900 catamaran. Gerry’s instructions: you’ve to keep tabs on her, get as much as you can on the handover.’

Pale sunlight crept down the foothills of Teide, fingering dark outcrops and glinting off windows in the scattering of white houses high above the port. The
Hasta Luego
Outing to La Gomera was the final entertainment for Herbert Wainwright and Victoria before they flew home, with or without purchasing property from Exclusive. A lot of last-minute planning had been necessary to dovetail our itinerary with the mule’s arrival at the remote harbour of Valle Gran Rey. The resulting changes meant I’d be in big trouble with Wainwright when he discovered that we wouldn’t be making the scheduled visit to Columbus’s house and ‘The Spring That Baptised America’.

Talking of trouble, there he was, standing on the quay. With his Bermuda-length white shorts, thin hairless legs and knobbly knees, he reminded me of an ungainly stork dispossessed of its favourite chimney pot. He was looking pointedly from his wristwatch to the empty berth where our private-hire catamaran
should have been tied up. Quite lost on Herbert G Wainwright that special early morning feel to the air, the tang of salt and fish and the picturesque charm of the red and blue fishing boats dancing in the ruffled waters of the harbour.

He marched up to me. ‘I guess we’ve got a no-show here.’

‘No need to worry, Mr Wainwright. There’s our boat rounding the harbour mole. Now, about the – er, problem you brought to my attention on Monday.’ I cast a meaningful glance in the direction of the colourful
Puerto de la Naturaleza
mural on the harbour wall. ‘Mr Vanheusen has been updating me on how he’s dealing with it.’ I launched into a long and entirely fictitious account of meetings with the mayor, ending with, ‘You have his assurance that he’s making progress.’

Wainwright compressed his lips into a thin line. ‘I sure hope so. Nothing’s gonna be signed till I see results.’

Dear me, it looked like Exclusive was going to lose out on another deal, but I felt I was doing Wainwright a favour. Once the Vanheusen empire began to crumble – sooner rather than later, if Operation Canary Creeper came off – things would get pretty sticky for any investor.

I looked round for Victoria. There she was, XXL-size handbag swinging from one arm (‘for the shopping, dear’), cardigan tightly buttoned against
morning chill, lining up the approaching catamaran in the viewfinder of her cheap-and-cheerful disposable camera.

Wainwright shaded his eyes against the pale rays of the rising sun and studied the approaching ship. ‘Not exactly the
Queen Elizabeth,
is it?’

The heavy seas that had delayed the catamaran ferry were all too apparent after we left the shelter of Tenerife. Uneasily I eyed the paper sick-bag as a wave slammed against the side, lashing the window with a sheet of spray. The ship swooped, checked abruptly, swooped again. Moments later the unmistakable sound of breaking glass came from the direction of the bar. I looked to see how my clients were coping. Herbert Wainwright was gazing out at the white-caps flecking the unbroken expanse of blue. Not a complaint or whinge to be heard. Victoria was immersed in an illustrated guide to Gomera, oblivious, it seemed, to the lurching motion of the ship. I was the only one who was suffering.
Splat
on the window. Perhaps if I imagined myself riding these waves on a windsurfer, leaning out on the harness, the wind in my hair, the water frothing under the board… I stood up, body relaxed, knees flexing to the motion transmitted through the soles of my feet. That was better.

A violent right-angled turn sent me staggering sideways to collapse back into my seat. With a stomach-churning sea-saw motion, the horizon tipped violently sideways…and righted itself. Swoop. Lurch.

Just as it looked like nothing could save me from an ignominious resort to the sick-bag, the rolling suddenly eased. With that sharp turn, the catamaran was now running parallel to the shore. Flat brown hazy land sharpened into cloud-capped mountains and the reddish brown cliffs and white cubed houses of San Sebastian.

Click. Click. Click.
Captured for Victoria’s album were the red and white fishing boats pulled up on the black sand. ‘That line of palm trees. Doesn’t it remind you of Nice and the Promenade des Anglais?’
Click. Click. Click.

Misery-guts Wainwright morosely studied the grey cloud-cap that hung low over the green mountainous interior, dispatching exploratory wispy tendrils down towards the little town. ‘Looks like rain.’

A good moment for me to announce that change in the itinerary. ‘Luckily we’re not stopping in San Sebastian. We’re going round to the other side of the island.’

‘This here is San Sebastian and we’re not stopping? We’re
not
gonna be touring the Columbus house or the Spring? I’ve a bottle ready to fill.’

‘We’ll be stopping on our way back,’ I soothed. ‘It’ll be much quieter when all the other tours have gone.’

As the boat was obviously not putting into port, he had to be content with that.

Forty minutes later we arrived at Valle Gran Rey.
Engines throttled back, we slid into the small harbour crouched in the shelter of a towering red headland. At its foot the sea was tinged a vivid emerald green. A seagull soared, a white speck against the cliff’s shadowy mass. But the scenery hardly registered. My mind was on the mule. I’d be free to keep tabs on her once Victoria and Wainwright were on their way to the premises of Palm Honey Gomera.

As soon as I’d waved them off, I picked up the keys for a previously arranged rental car and parked it near the gates to the port, wheels to follow wheels if she got into a car. If I had to trail her on foot, strolling tourists would provide cover. To one side of the harbour was a small patch of beach strategically placed to give me a view of the jetty. From this safe distance I’d be able to see her arrive on the slower car ferry. I spread out a beach towel, disguised myself behind a large pair of sunglasses, and waited…

Not many passengers disembarked. A family with a toddler in a pushchair, an old woman dressed in black, three hikers with backpacks, a smart-suited businessman with briefcase, a group of cyclists. The old woman hobbled slowly along the quay. The family bundled toddler and pushchair into a waiting taxi. The businessman sat on a chair at the little harbour-side café and talked into his mobile phone. The hikers consulted their map and strode purposefully off in the direction of the town. The cyclists mounted their bikes and rode off, weaving in and out of the little
crowd of bystanders. There was no sign of the mule. My eyes scanned the jetty. Had she outsmarted us? Led Charlie up the garden path, created a smokescreen while she made contact somewhere else, sold us a pup? With a sigh, I concluded she had. I took off my floppy hat and started to fold up the towel.
There she was
, stepping onto the quay, a slight figure in white trousers, white shirt, carrying a pink shoulder bag. I crammed the towel into my bag, and by the time she approached the small café, I was sitting on the harbour wall two hundred metres away studying a guidebook. She passed the café without a glance. The rendezvous was not there.

At the gate to the port she stood for a moment looking about her. I lowered my head into the book and waited for her to make her move. After that moment’s hesitation, she set off briskly round the corner that led to the coast road, ignoring the narrow streets twisting upwards into the town. She’d have to be back to catch the last ferry at four o’clock, so the rendezvous would have to be within easy walking distance. That indicated somewhere on the coast road itself.

She was out of sight for the couple of minutes it took for me to get into the car and negotiate the light traffic and strolling pedestrians. If I lost her now… I relaxed. In the middle-distance the slim figure, that shocking-pink tote-bag swinging on shoulder, was striding along the wide pavement under a line
of jaunty shuttlecock palms. Ahead, the coastal promenade stretched arrow-straight to Calela, the next village. She’d be in sight all the way. I drew into the kerb.

The sea was a mass of turbulent white-caps. Close to the shore, lines of surf creamed and a long surfers’ wave swelled. I watched it rear, curl into a tube, and toss a mist of spindrift skywards before it thundered down onto the rocks in a flurry of foam. Moments later came the long roaring rumble of lava stones tumbling and dragging in the undertow.

She had almost reached the first houses of the village. It was time to make a move. I started up the engine and crept along as slowly as I dared, far enough back not to spook her, but close enough to see if she made a sudden dart into one of the premises she was passing. But she walked briskly on, straight through Calela, glancing neither to right nor left – nor behind. A woman with a mission.

I cut the engine. The road stretched ahead, the sea to the left, banana plantations and jagged mountains to the right. The rendezvous could only be at La Playa, that distant scatter of white buildings shining in the sun, a hamlet revamped as a mini-seaside resort where bronzed bodies and fishermen’s boats competed for space on the black stony beach. I calculated it would take Lisa a good fifteen minutes. No shade for her, no cover for me. By the time she reached La Playa, she’d be hot, tired and dusty from dodging on-coming
traffic. Her guard would be down. I’d go ahead of her and wait for her to arrive. She wouldn’t be suspicious of anyone sitting on the sea wall as she passed, or in one of those cafés, making short work of a cool San Miguel.

And that was exactly what I was now doing, sitting in a café, glass in hand, guidebook and map spread out on table, tracking the pink speck of her bag as she trudged towards the village. Her pace was not so brisk now, more of a plod. As I’d thought, heat and distance were taking its toll.

The promenade was busy with tourists strolling, sitting on the sea wall, eating at café tables. Too early to say if anyone was taking an interest in that eye-catching bag, as good as a placard round her neck, the ID for her contact. He or she would make a move only at the last moment. And so would I. I’d already paid for my beer, so I could move quickly if they went off together. And I’d chosen my table for its angle to the mirror that ran along the right-hand wall. If they came in here, I could do my Lady of Shalott act and watch them via the mirror. Be Prepared and Leave Options Open, as Gerry might say.

Lisa was closer now… But I still had a couple of minutes to fill with tourist-type action while I watched and waited. I pushed away the beer glass and flicked through the pages of the guidebook till I found the postcard I’d bought in the shop next door.
Having a wonderful time,
I scribbled, then, as if seeking
inspiration, gazed thoughtfully out at the street.

Lisa had arrived. She was twenty metres away, her back to the beach, eyes darting to left and right. I chewed at the end of the pen and added,
here in
Gomera
. I let my gaze travel aimlessly over the people in the street. Nobody had moved forward to greet her. She took a few hesitant steps to the right, then to the left. Inexperienced Lisa was attracting attention. I wrote a few more words on the postcard.
Spending the morning at La Playa
. She was still doing that little dance of indecision. I took a sip of beer and added,
Going to visit the pottery vill—

I half-glimpsed a sudden movement among the idle spectators sitting with their backs to me, legs dangling over the sea wall as they sized up the talent on the beach. A thickset man in a check shirt had swivelled round and half-vaulted onto the promenade.
John Sinclair.

I let the pen drop from my fingers and took cover by scrabbling for it under the table. I could see Lisa, or rather her white-trousered legs, one sandalled foot tapping the ground restlessly. A moment later, faded green trousers and black slip-ons came to a halt beside the sandals. A good vantage point this, but any longer down here would make
me
the focus of unwelcome attention.

I raised my head cautiously above the rim of the table. They were still talking, just outside the door. Seated again, head bowed, I applied the newly
retrieved pen to postcard.
Going to visit the pottery village where plan is to buy a big pot for the garden.
Head propped on hand, I risked a quick glance through spread fingers. They’d choose somewhere less public than a crowded promenade for the exchange, so nothing would yet have been handed over. Once they moved off, I’d follow. I swept postcard and pen into my bag.

When I looked up, they were standing just inside the door looking round for an empty table. Would Sinclair recognise me as the silly girl who’d accompanied Jason on
The Saucy Nancy
? He’d seen me only briefly at the start and end of the trip. Apart from that unfortunate throwing-up in the oil drum episode, I’d spent the time flat on my back in the cabin clutching a sick-bag. He’d been up on the con tower most of the time, and he’d had no reason, no reason at all, to be suspicious of the hare-brained girlfriend. Contrary to what Jason thought, you can’t fake that distinctive greenish pallor of seasickness. No, he wouldn’t remember me. Neither would Lisa, who’d seen me only briefly at the fire muster point. Nevertheless, I whipped on my sunglasses. Hide your eyes, hide your interest.

Two tables were empty, one within earshot, slightly in front and to my left. Ideal. The other, across the room, was further away and behind me, but visible in the mirror. Not so ideal. And that, sod’s law, was the one they chose. While their attention was on giving
a waiter their order, I flipped open my camera phone, laid it on the table as if waiting for a call, and lined it up on the mirror to ensure I would capture the exchange. Then to blend in with the surroundings, I applied myself once more to the postcard.
Don’t know how I’ll get a big pot back in the plane though!
When he made the exchange, I’d be ready.

‘The señora is finished?’ said a voice at my shoulder. The waiter gathered up my empty glass and wiped the table as an indication that I was expected to leave. The
bête noire
of a busy café is the lone postcard-writing customer who blocks a table at busy times.