Under Suspicion (25 page)

The swivel chair zoomed upright. ‘It’s an indictable offence.’ He reached for the lighting control pad on the coffee table. ‘In the magistrates’ court the maximum fine’s £5000, chicken feed to a guy like Ambrose, but…’ The Milky Way of downlighters blushed rosy pink. ‘…in serious cases – and we have attempted murder here, or if we can’t prove that,
deliberate
abandonment of damsel in distress – it goes to Crown Court, and
there
…’ Fade up sunset red. ‘…penalty’s an unlimited fine, and/or two years in prison.’ Fade down to moonlight blue.

For a short moment we sat there, wearing the laurels of victory, celebratory drum rolls in our ears.

A tap at the door introduced grim reality in the shape of a uniformed policeman. ‘Señor Burnside, the second search with dogs has proved negative. Your orders?’

The curtain came down on the lighting effects. Gerry stood up and stretched. ‘OK, action time, Deborah. You’ve always claimed that Gorgonzola could out-sniff any dog. Now prove it. The stuff’s got to be here.’

Together we waited for Gorgonzola’s arrival. Everything was at stake reputation-wise for both the Gs. I’m not usually given to nerves, but for a search to have any chance of success I’d need Gorgonzola’s willing cooperation, and I suspected my reunion with her would be a little sticky. I was right. She made a point of registering her displeasure at being railroaded
off in a fridge to be spoilt rotten by strangers. When I peered into the cat-carrier, she knew I was there, but all that was visible was a piqued ginger backside. A Bad Sign. Feathers definitely ruffled, so to speak. From past experience, I knew what was expected of me – self-abasement, pleading and coaxing and blatant bribery in the form of foodie inducements.

‘I’m afraid Gorgonzola’s in one of her moods, Gerry. She’ll snap out of it, but it usually takes a little time. Maybe there’s something in Ambrose’s fridge that’ll speed things up.’

There might very well be. But what I really wanted was to be alone when I launched into the obligatory softening-up routine. G was well aware that I found uttering prissy terms of endearment excruciatingly embarrassing, so that is exactly what she demanded on those occasions when I overstepped the mark.

I’d better get it over before he came back. I unlatched the door of the cat-carrier. ‘I’m
so, so
sorry, G. You see…’

Thankfully I’d got through the required
coaxing-and
-pleading by the time Gerry returned bearing Black Prince’s bone china bowl heaped high with the finest beluga caviar.

I held the bowl enticingly close to the twitching tail in the carrier. ‘Caviar – for you,
cariña mía.
’

Up till then, apart from the occasional flick of her tail, I might as well have been speaking to one of those realistic furry sleeping-cat ornaments. Now
the ginger rump heaved, leg muscles stre-e-e-tched, and in a flurry of movement the rump was replaced by narrowed copper eyes, twitching whiskers and drooling jaws. At a strategic distance I set the bowl on the floor, tactfully but fatefully as it transpired, twitching it round to conceal the name of the owner, Black Prince. G emerged from the carrier and sat for a moment, eyes closed, nostrils scenting the air, like a wine buff nosing a glass of vintage rioja. It took her less than five minutes to polish off the lot. When she was sitting smugly washing her paws, I judged the time was right.

‘She’s ready now.’ I buckled on her working collar. ‘Where do you want us to start? In here?’

Gerry nodded. ‘Might as well, though a dog has been through here twice and drawn a blank.’

‘C’mon, G, search.’ I released my hold on the collar and pointed at the long white dining table with its guard-of-honour of white leather chairs.

She swished her tail in acknowledgement. Claws skittered across the teak flooring. She leapt effortlessly onto the highly polished table and gave a cursory sniff at the artistic centrepiece platter of lemons before descending to make a tunnelling run under the dining chairs. The bar received the same quick once-over, with a perfunctory glance upward at the illuminated shelves of bottles. No result.

When she showed considerable interest in the planter of orchids, I could sense Gerry’s tension. An
investigative paw created havoc among the fragile white blooms, but there was no follow-up crooning purr.

‘She’s not signalling a find,’ I said quickly, not wanting to build up hope. ‘I think Ambrose’s floral display must be harbouring some kind of wildlife.’

Proving me right, a large brown moth fluttered up, dislodged by a forehand swipe of her paw.

‘Over there, G. Search.’ I pointed at the long white couches, the sofa-equivalent of stretch-limos. It wasn’t likely that the dogs would have missed hollowed-out cushions or anything stuffed down between them, but on the off chance… We watched her scamper over the white leather, then head once more for Black Prince’s empty bowl.

‘That’s the only thing she’s interested in.’ Gerry’s voice was flat with disappointment.

A snuffle, a petulant nudge of bowl with nose, a hopeful scour with the tongue for any missed morsel and she stared up at us, Gorgonzola transmogrified into Oliver Twist.

‘Work, G,’ I said sharply, much mortified. Distraction from the search is ranked as a major shortcoming even in a trainee sniffer.

A tentative tap on the doorframe was followed by a hesitant cough. We turned to see a blue-uniformed, tubby
policía
officer holding up an expensive leather cat-carrier.

‘
Problema, señor. Que vamos hacer con este gato?
’

Through the carrier’s gold-gridded window, framed by a black halo of fur, glared the Brute of Samarkand’s baleful orange eyes.

‘Do with the cat?’ Gerry was momentarily puzzled.

‘Your first audience with Black Prince, Gerry.’ I hadn’t realised the animal was on the yacht.

Cats can recognise their own bowls. The orange eyes narrowed, targeting G who was holding down the bowl with a paw, while her nose energetically hoovered the interior.

Behind me I heard a gasp and a grunt of, ‘
Hostia
!
Estáte quieto, cabrón
!’ The Spanish equivalent of ‘Shit! Keep still, you bugger!’

I swung round. The sergeant’s short fat arms were struggling to encircle a cat-carrier that seemed to have developed a life of its own. I saw Gorgonzola look up, then unhurriedly sit back on her haunches ostentatiously licking her paw, a calculated pouring of oil on the flames, a deliberate goading beyond endurance of the owner of the bowl.

Gerry moved forward. ‘
Cuidado, hombre!
’

Too late. A snarling
tsssh
erupted from the carrier. It juddered and bounced. Tearing itself free from the
policía’s
arms, it thudded to the floor, the door-catch burst open and a spitting whirlwind of black fur rampaged out and rocketed towards the usurper.

I screamed. Gerry swore. The policeman’s fingers instinctively clasped the butt of his gun. Only
Gorgonzola remained unfazed. Macho neighbourhood moggies, uppity trainee sniffer-dogs, hi-tech Robocat, all in their turn had been flattened by a lightening uppercut from her ginger paw. One second that paw was peacefully performing her postprandial ablutions, the next it had metamorphosed into a razor-sharp Edward Scissorhands-cum-Joe Louis weapon of war.

THWACK
. Ill-prepared by a pampered life of caviar and cushions for this Shock-and-Awe-style attack, Black Prince staggered back, murderous hellcat rampage abruptly terminated.

THWACK
. Hit the enemy before he can recover. Hit the enemy while he’s down. In the light breeze from the door, tufts of fine black fur wafted up like giant fluffy seeds from a freak dandelion.

‘Do something, somebody!’ I shrieked.

The sergeant shifted indecisively from foot to foot.

I grabbed the nearest thing to hand, one of the expensive orchids from the planter, and flung it at Black Prince. What I hadn’t realised was that the roots were encased in a plastic pot full of bark chips. Halfway through the trajectory, pot and plant parted company. The orchid nosedived to the deck, dirty wet fragments of bark showered down on pristine white leather, and the empty pot hurtled onward with increased velocity to torpedo Gorgonzola who was crouched to deliver the
coup de grâce.

Miaooow
. She cast a reproachful look in my direction.

‘Not too clever, Deborah. Whose side are you on?’ In two strides, Gerry was at the bar and reaching for the water jug.

Ptshhh
. Taking advantage of G’s momentary lapse of attention, Black Prince pounced. Sharp teeth clamped down viciously on a moth-eaten ear.

With the fluid technique of a ten-pin bowler going for a strike, Gerry swung the litre jug with the full force of his arm. A mini curtain of water arced across the room.

Splattt
.

In a trice, the menacing black puffball deflated to bedraggled black floor mop. For a couple of seconds Black Prince crouched dazed and dripping. Gorgonzola seized her chance.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Gerry flourished the jug in a victory salute. ‘Atta girl!’

Hchwaaa-a-a
. Ambrose’s Treasure streaked for the open door.

‘
Hostia
!’ One second too late, the sergeant stuck out a boot to block Black Prince’s exit.

‘Shit!’ One second too late, I made a grab for Gorgonzola.

In a blur of black and ginger, they’d skedaddled, vamoosed, hopped it, done a bunk. Gone.

I beat both men out into the corridor. The oiled teak floor and whisper-grey walls lit by a double row of runway-style lights stretched ahead with no sign of cats.

‘That’s all we need,’ said Gerry at my shoulder. ‘Vanheusen’s prize moggie minus an eye, or panicked into jumping ship, “missing, believed drowned”. The lawyers will certainly have a field day.’ He took off his glasses and polished them. ‘Well, you’re the cat guru. How are we going to calm them down?’

‘They went that way.’ I pointed at the spatter of drips on the teak floor. ‘Wherever they are, they won’t be sitting quietly purring to each other, there’ll be one hell of a racket. We’ll track them down easily enough.’ I snatched up the cat-carrier and set off at a run. ‘If there’s any of that caviar left in the fridge, bring a couple of plates.’ Given the choice – caviar, or murder and mayhem – there’d be no contest.

As I hesitated at a T-junction, I heard behind me the heavy pounding of police-issue boots and the laboured breathing of the decidedly unfit
policía
.

I pointed to the open glass doors leading to the sundeck. ‘You go that way, but get some help. It is
muy importante
that these cats are recovered safely.’

He lumbered past, wafting the sharp tang of sweaty armpit.

To the left stretched a clone of the corridor where I was standing, the same teak floor, grey walls, runway-style double row of lights. As I ran past more doors, some ajar, I listened out for catty shouts and screams from within. No luck. I hesitated at the top of stairs with the arrowed notice
Boat Launch and Sea Bathing
. Had I heard a faint mew?

‘Gorgonzola?’ I called tentatively.

Only the low hum of air-conditioning, a muffled shout from out on deck, the slap of water on the hull.

But I was sure I hadn’t been mistaken. I’d heard something. Time to show who was boss. ‘Here, G. That’s an
order
.’

Air-conditioning hum, water slapping…

I said, louder, ‘An
order
, G.’

A mew, definitely a mew. Not the mew of a petulant, aggressive Black Prince. Not the
mia-oow
of G on the make, winsomely pleading I’m-a-poor-little-deserving-cat. But I’d heard something like it before…I couldn’t quite place it…

The sound
must
have come from one of the open doors I’d just passed. I glanced back. Gerry was half-running towards me from the T-junction, balancing two heaped plates of caviar with the exaggerated care of a competitor in an egg-and-spoon race.

‘Along here. I heard something, Gerry.’

In two strides I was peering in the nearest door. An engraved brass plate read
Ambrose Vanheusen.
The salon-cum-office area was fitted out with maple wood panelling, a gentleman’s-club-style desk, and green leather chairs and sofa – all very masculine. Across the room, through the half-open door, I could see more maple wood panelling and the foot of an oversized bed.

‘Gorgonzola?’

From the bedroom issued a loud, rumbling
purrrrrr
. Long, smug and self-satisfied. It was the victory cry of a cat triumphant, signifying an enemy dealt with. Dealt with to the victor’s satisfaction.
Purrrrrr
.

Again, just audible, I caught that weak mew. Sound triggers memories. Into my mind flashed the picture of four drowned kittens washed up against a riverbank, and a half-drowned Gorgonzola clinging desperately to the half-submerged log, a tiny mewing ball of ginger fur…

Through the hum of the air-conditioning, I heard a watery
splosh, splattsplosh
, followed a second later by that triumphant
purrrrrr
. Throat dry, heart pounding, I ran across to the open bedroom door. One glance took in ceiling spotlights blazing down on a rockery of small square pillows piled up on the oversized bed. Vanheusen seemed to be obsessed with brass. It was everywhere, gleaming against dark wood panelling: brass handles on drawers and side tables, brass covers on light switches, brass swivel arms on reading lights, more brass round the full-length mirror and on the picture-light over a portrait of Samarkand Black Prince sporting a flamboyant Champion of Champions rosette. Apart from a huge vase of flowers on a brass-bound chest, the whole ambience was, like the salon-cum-office, overpoweringly masculine.

No sign of either cat here, but from the en suite
bathroom came an ominous
splash splash mia-ow.
Purrrrrr.

Behind me Gerry’s shoes brush-scuffed on the salon carpet. ‘Got ’em cornered have you, Deborah?’

I flung myself across the bedroom and into the bathroom, all dark wood cabinets, gold-plated taps, green marble. And more lights. Lights in the ceiling, lights above the mirrors, lights trained on the huge teak bath with the upward swooping ends of a Viking longship. Under the lights its silky sides glowed in shades of cinnamon, mocha and peat-brown, the bath of a confirmed sybarite. Last night’s raid must have rudely interrupted Vanheusen’s relaxing soak, for the heavy spicy scent from half-burnt aromatherapy candles hung heavy in the air, and the bath was still half full of water. On its broad rim crouched a triumphant Gorgonzola,
couchant
.