Under Suspicion (6 page)

I left G to do her own ferreting while I tackled the desk and filing cabinet. Millie might have got something out of her little rummage-around, but I drew a blank. The papers I could access seemed to be above board. I hadn’t really expected anything else. Unless he was a very careless man, he’d have stowed away any obviously incriminating documents in that fireproof safe in the corner.

‘Time for us to make ourselves scarce, G,’ I said.

Taking the elevator from the fifth floor had been careless of Millie. We professionals once again used the stairs, then took the lift down from the fourth floor to the ladies’ room. There was no trouble getting Gorgonzola into the cat-carrier, perhaps because she knew she was going home, and it wasn’t long before I was looking down into the Casablanca courtyard from the first floor arches. If Millie had returned to the chaise longue, I could take the chance of paying a visit to her room. I was in luck, she had. No longer the lolling, squiffy figure, she was now soberly upright in earnest conversation with Rudyard Scott. More food for thought, but not now. Gorgonzola, the natty device and I had those visits to make.

In 307, Rudyard Scott’s room, I stuck a telephone card into the slot to operate the lights, and released G for an investigative roam-around while I did some snooping myself. On the floor of the wardrobe, sporting a shiny new padlock, lay the black airline case. Empty by the feel of it, but I’d take a look anyway. I reached into my pocket for my set of picklocks.
Shit
. They weren’t there. I’d discarded them in favour of that all-singing, all-dancing natty device of Gerry’s. If the money wasn’t in the airline case, was it stashed inside the safe? I pulled out my lipstick/camera. The close-up I took of the safe’s lock and the maker’s name might be useful if Gerry decided to send somebody to have a peek inside. We spent a few more minutes
looking round, but as far as drugs or incriminating papers were concerned, G and I again drew a blank.

‘Nothing more for us here,’ I said ushering G ahead of me, and off we went along the corridor to 323, Millie’s room.

With that laid-back attitude of hers, I’d somehow expected to find the room a bit of a tip – clothes, make-up items, tourist bumf, bits and bobs scattered about. To my surprise, there were few personal items on display – beside the bed an alarm clock displaying world times, on a small table an open book face down, a few toiletries neatly arranged on the bathroom shelf and a laptop plugged into the wall. That last item would be worth investigating – once I’d had a rummage through the suitcase wedged between the bedside table and the wall.

I watched G stroll around for a moment, then swung the suitcase up onto the bed. If it was locked, I’d be scuppered again. But this time I was in luck, the open padlock hung loose. Any great expectations were soon dashed, however. The suitcase held only a plastic carrier bag of laundry and a sealed carton of cigarettes. Didn’t look promising, but I summoned Gorgonzola for a second opinion.

‘Anything, G?’

Gorgonzola peered in, yawned, then headed for the cat-carrier in a pointed reminder that it was late and she wanted to go home.

I was closing the case when a laminated card
slithered out of a pocket in the lid. The word PRESS, the green NUJ logo, and Millie’s photo, name and membership number stared up at me. My heart sank. The last thing Operation Canary Creeper needed was a journalist stirring up murky waters, alerting Vanheusen and his mob that they were under investigation. Just how deep had she dug? If she hadn’t set a password on that laptop… I flipped it open, pressed the On button and waited.

As I’d hoped, Millie had been careless. Without the security of a password, the machine powered straight up to the Windows desktop. I scanned the folder icons in
My Documents. Vanheusen Dossier
, now
that
was interesting…One click opened it.
Drug Dealing, Exclusive Properties, Money Laundering, Tax Evasion, VAT Fraud
. Millie’s investigations were spot on. I scented Trouble with a capital T. Gerry would not be happy.

On the way back to La Caleta, I pondered the night’s interesting developments. I’d seen Rudyard Finbar Scott and Vanheusen in close conversation, though that was no
proof
that Scott’s money was for anything other than purchasing a property. We’d have our work cut out to prevent Millie Prentice from throwing a spanner into the works, but at least we could now remove her from our list of suspects. Best of all, I’d confirmed there was indeed a business connection between Vanheusen and Mansell. And
that connection, from what I’d overheard, could very well be illegal.

All in all, Operation Canary Creeper had made some progress. Yes, with a clear conscience I could submit an expenses chit for the hire of my mazarine blue silk outfit with its matching long-sleeved chemise.

Two days later, Vanheusen summoned me to his office on the pretext of finalising the details of the Donkey Safari Outing – and made the move I’d hoped he’d never make.

‘Before you go,’ he handed me back the folder, ‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Deborah.’ He leant back on the black hide sofa, his gaze wandering to the oil painting of Black Prince on the wall behind me. ‘Over the years I’ve amassed some interesting data on the Persian cat,
felis persicus.
Did you know that the Persians defeated the ancient Egyptians by using cats as weapons?’

‘Weapons?’ I had a vision of an ancestor of the Brute of Samarkand hurled from a giant sling, whizzing through the air, claws extended, to wrap himself round some hapless pharaoh’s head.

His gaze switched back to me. ‘They tied cats to their shields, playing on the Egyptians’ reverence for the creatures. Knew they wouldn’t counter-attack in
case they injured the animals. One of the earliest cases of psychological warfare, I suppose. Stylish, elegant, classic.’ He picked up the Lucie Rie pot from the black lacquered table and ran his finger round the rim. ‘I’m planning to write a book on
felis persicus
, so bring in a photograph of Persepolis Desert Sandstorm. I’d like to feature her.’ Friendly smile, scheming eyes. ‘When I have collected enough material, I’ll…’ He was silent for a moment, lost in thought.

I summoned up an easy smile in return. ‘For a book, you said?’ A request of this sort had been on the cards, and I’d thought long and hard how to counter it. ‘My Persepolis in a book, that would be
wonderful,
Mr Vanheusen.’ Now for the planned regretful, ‘But I’m afraid I haven’t got a photo of her. You see, two years ago she was so frightened by a camera flash that she had to be sedated by the vet. And ever since then,’ I embroidered my fictitious tale with increasing enthusiasm, disappointment oozing from every word, ‘whenever she sees a camera so much as
pointed
in her direction, she rushes under the sofa and refuses to come out for hours.’
That
should snooker a possible counter-proposal to take her picture without flash. I sat back, confident that I’d managed to head him off.

He replaced the Lucie Rie pot on the side table and leant forward. ‘No problem, Deborah. We’ll set up a hidden camera here, in my office. I guarantee she’ll not notice a thing.’ He reached over to the diary
on the table. ‘Now when can we fit her in?’

Hell
. I hadn’t anticipated
this
. How was I going to get out of producing moth-eaten Gorgonzola? I felt tiny beads of sweat forming on my hairline.

‘Shall we say after Christmas, the 28
^th
?’ His pen poised over the entry.

I played for time by making a show of consulting my diary. ‘No-o, I’ll be away. That’s the date of the Donkey Safari Outing.’ I tapped the folder on my lap.

‘Then, the day after?’

‘Yes, that should be all right.’ I waited till he’d written it down, confident that I’d found a way out. ‘Er…there’s one little difficulty, Mr Vanheusen. When I have to put Persepolis in her carrying box, she throws a positively diva tantrum,’ I said truthfully. ‘And it’s the same when I let her out…’

An understanding nod. ‘It’s the same with The Prince.’

‘So, no carrying box. The hidden camera’s a good idea, but I’ll have to take the photo myself, at home.’

‘Well, we’ll give it a try.’ Reluctantly he closed the diary.

I’d bought time.

I turned into Calle Rafael Alberti and parked as usual opposite a patch of waste ground hedged by dusty oleanders. I’d overcome one hurdle but it would not be so easy to get my hands on a photo of a female red
Persian that would fool Vanheusen. Top pedigree cats, like celebrities in any field, are instantly recognisable to devotees. The catch-22 of producing a photograph was that he’d be even more eager to see Persepolis Desert Sandstorm in the fur. That gleam in his eye made me certain of it.

This was the night for my weekly trudge round the
supermercado,
but I really didn’t have the energy for it. I decided to treat myself instead to a cool San Miguel on the bench under my pergola listening to something soothing and classical. The plaintive notes of ‘
Misa Criolla
’ would fit the bill. A tired brain churns out no solutions. I’d leave the problem of the photo till later in the hope that the answer might suggest itself.

After that beer, I’d continue the job I’d started yesterday. Jesús’s patio was vibrant with a colourful display of blue-painted olive oil tins and red and pink geraniums. My patio was dull in comparison and this had been niggling me for some time. I’d pick up the paintbrush and continue with the therapeutic painting of my flowerpots. Yesterday I had transformed three of my once dowdy pots with a coat of vivid blue or scarlet.

I’d got out of the car, and was just reaching in for my bag when I heard Jesús calling.

‘Señora-a-a, señora-a-a!’ Not a cheerful shout of greeting, but the wail of a harbinger of doom.

A hundred metres away on the pavement outside my house, my elderly neighbour was doing an odd
dance, his raised arms and shuffling feet a strange combination of Spanish flamenco and Scottish Highland fling. Once he had attracted my attention, he lowered his arms and commenced a hand-wringing routine guaranteed to make the blood run cold. My blood, anyway.

Something had happened to Gorgonzola. Run over? Dead, or at least severely injured. I flung myself across the road, narrowly avoiding the wheels of a speeding taxi.

‘
Qué pasa
, Jesús?’

‘Señora, señora, how can I sa-a-y.’ The hand wringing increased in intensity.

My throat constricted. ‘Just say it in Spanish, Jesús.’

‘No, no, señora. I know how to say in
Inglés,
but I do not
want
to say.’

‘Gorgonzola, has she been…’ I gripped his shoulder a little more roughly than I had intended.

The hand-wringing paused briefly. ‘The cat she is OK. Do not have worry about her. This morning I think she is looking a little sad, so I sing her one of my songs. After that she is happy. No, no, señora, that is not the trouble…’ His voice trailed away.

Gorgonzola was safe. That was all that mattered.

‘Has someone tried to break in again?’

‘
Si
, the back door…’ Jesús reverted to his native Catalan as he did in moments of crisis.

Overwhelmed by the torrent, I could only wait.
When he stopped to draw breath, I seized my opportunity. ‘You’ve lost me, Jesús. What exactly has happened?’

The bright eyes flashed in anger. ‘It is
los vándalos
. They have made a visit.’

‘Vandals?’

‘I show you.’ He seized me by the hand and led me through his house. In the kitchen he stopped. ‘You must get ready for big shock.’ He threw open the back door and pointed dramatically over the sea of red and pink geraniums.

My two tins of acrylic paint lay on their sides on the patio. From one snaked a stream of blue, from the other a ribbon of scarlet. When I’d left this morning, my kitchen door had been a faded nondescript brown. Now streaks and splashes of red and blue splattered the lower half. Gorgonzola sat directly in front of the defaced door, tail curled round feet, head on one side as if critically viewing a Jackson Pollock artwork.

I leant against Jesús’s doorpost, hysterical with relief, laughing till the tears ran down my cheeks.

‘Please, señora, it is not so very bad.’ He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, making sympathetic aerial patting motions. ‘I go to the
ferretería
and buy the paint remove. Then you see the door is good again, and if the vandals come for second time…’ He squared his bony shoulders and made a movement towards the paella pan hanging on its hook above the stove.

‘The vandal is still here,’ I managed to gasp out.

In a flash the pan was off the wall and being whirled dangerously close to my head. ‘
Dónde está,
where is he? I teach him lesson he never forget.’ He sprang forward.

‘No, no.
There’s
the vandal, Jesús.’ I pointed at G. ‘
She
painted the door.’

The paella pan wobbled in its orbit and crashed to earth, delivering a death blow to an already rickety fence post. Gorgonzola didn’t even turn her head. She was totally absorbed in contemplation of her masterpiece. Jesús stared at me with narrowed eyes. It was the wary look you would direct at a dangerous lunatic.

‘She’s done this kind of thing before, you know,’ I hastened to reassure him. ‘The first time it happened I was as shocked as you were. I was nearly in tears when I saw that she’d splashed paint all over somebody’s kitchen. But the owner of the kitchen said G was a rare Painting Cat and her Work of Art, as he called it, was worth thousands. He was
en éxtasis
, delighted, over the moon, as we say. Can you believe it, that old door is now worth—’

‘Señora!’ he grabbed my arm and pointed.

Gorgonzola had come to an artistic decision. She was delicately dipping a paw in the red paint. An upward leap, and
splat
! A finishing splodge was added to the masterwork.

I laughed. ‘In England when someone is discovered
doing something wrong, we say he – or she – is caught red-handed.’

The black eyes sparkled. ‘Not the red hand, the red foot, I think, señora.’

‘No gain without pain,’ I said later as I battled to remove the paint from G’s coat. It was always the same after one of her creative episodes. She hated the aftermath, her feet being dabbled in a bowl of water. ‘All great artists have suffered for their art,’ I added as she struggled to escape from my grasp.

After that little diversion, I certainly needed my bit of quiet relaxation on the patio, but it was not to be. In the warm dusk Jesús launched into a
madrelena
in honour of Gorgonzola The Artist. She at least was going to have her bit of relaxation. She lay down on her back, paws limp, eyes closed, head turned towards the sound.

Eeeee…aa…eee… Aaaah…aaa…eeee…
The notes quavered and hung in the still air.

As the sun sank into the sea beyond the harbour, I gazed at my technicolor back door and pondered the problem of her photograph. Despite what I’d said to Vanheusen, G was far from being a cameraphobe. On the contrary, when a lens was pointed in her direction, she would begin grooming herself in preparation for the Big Photo Opportunity. It would be easy enough, therefore, for me to take her picture. The problem was that in the photo her moth-eaten coat would be only too obvious. It
would be evident that my grandiose pedigree name for such a disreputable-looking cat was nothing but a flagrant attempt to deceive. I’d certainly lose the job I’d taken such pains to get.

At last, Jesús’s song creaked to a close. Furry paws twitched peevishly.

‘That was great, Jesús,’ I called. ‘So – so Spanish.
Muchas gracias
from Gorgonzola.’ I advanced to the fence and held out a can of San Miguel. ‘Thirsty work.
Aqui tiene
, here you are.’

‘
Gracias,
señora. Next time I compose new words in celebration of this so-clever cat.’

G signalled her appreciation with half-closed eyes and a deep reverberating purr.

He stepped over the paella-pan-felled post and peered down at her recumbent form. ‘It was easy to clean the feet? You not have to cut the hair?’

‘No, all I had to do was—’
Cut the hair. That was it
. He had given me the solution I had been looking for.

I planted a kiss on each leathery cheek. ‘What you’ve just said has given me a wonderful idea for the Day of Tricks next week.’

‘El Día de los Santos Inocentes?’ His eyes twinkled.

‘Yes, on Holy Innocents’ Day I’ll play a trick on a friend of mine. I’ll show him a photo of Gorgonzola sitting in front of the door, and say the tricksters have splashed paint over the door and
hacked pieces out of her coat.’ I giggled. ‘He’s never seen her, so it will be easy to fool him.’

December 28
^th
,
El Día de los Santos Inocentes
, April Fool’s Day Spanish style, would save Operation Canary Creeper. I could stall Vanheusen till then.