Under Suspicion (8 page)

‘That photo – I think we might have turned up something.’

‘Photo?’ I said blankly. The only one that sprang to mind was the photo of ‘traumatised’ Gorgonzola that had so wrung Vanheusen’s heart. ‘What? G sitting in front of her artwork door?’

Gerry shook his head impatiently. ‘No, no.’

He shoved in front of me the photograph of Monique and Vanheusen clutching champagne glasses at some reception. Truth was, I’d pushed that little foray into Monique’s sanctum to the back of my mind.

‘We’ve run the faces in the background through the computer and come up with a match on one of them.’ He pulled off his glasses and gnawed at an earpiece. ‘A bit fuzzy, a difficult job. The lab boys had to do some enlarging and enhancing. But it’s him, no mistake.’ He reinstalled the glasses on his nose.

‘Well, just who
is
Mr X, then?’ I said. Gerry could be so exasperating.

‘Didn’t I say? Thought I had.’ He leant back in his chair, knowing that little fib would irritate me even more. ‘It’s John Sinclair. Owner of
The Saucy Nancy
.’

The Saucy Nancy
was perhaps one of the biggest, and undoubtedly the fastest, of the game-fishing boats based in Puerto Colon, Las Américas’s expensive marina. I don’t take much interest in that kind of thing, preferring the power and beauty of living tuna and marlin to dead bones and skin.

Gerry rummaged in the pile of papers on his desk, pulled out last month’s copy of the
Tenerife News
, and shoved the paper across the desk in my direction.

A grainy black and white pic showed a proud angler standing beside a very dead marlin suspended by its tail from a gantry at the stern of a game-fishing boat. The caption read,
The Old Man and the Fish! Eighty-year-old hooks a big ’un on
The Saucy Nancy.

Gerry stabbed a finger down on the skipper, a stocky man in jeans and a tartan shirt. ‘That’s Sinclair.’

‘So, apart from being at the same party as Vanheusen,’ I said, ‘what have we got on him?’

Gerry dumped a folder on top of the newspaper. ‘Plenty. Back in the UK he ran a used-car dealership that specialised in hiring out camper vans. Nothing luxurious, just a cooker, mini-fridge, seats convertible into bunks. Throw in a tent and you’ve got the perfect cheap family holiday. Tour the Continent, drive down to the south of France or Spain, hop over to Morocco
for a couple of days. Nice little earner.’

I thumbed idly through the folder. ‘Not much of a profit in that, by the time you take wear and tear on tyres and engine into account. Unless, of course,’ I looked up, ‘they brought back a holiday souvenir or two?’

‘Getting close.’ He pushed back his chair and went over to the coffee machine. ‘Try looking at page 24.’

‘Oh come on, Gerry.’ I took the cup he was holding out. ‘Life’s too short. Just tell me.’

That was another of his annoying habits. He’d feed you dribs and drabs of information to see if you could forward-guess what he was about to reveal. He called it
exercising the brain
. ‘A brain workout is just as important as a body workout,’ he’d say piously when his victim griped about it.

He sighed in surrender. He really hated it when cheated out of the full question–answer routine. ‘Souvenir in the form of white powder, Class A type. The punters were dupes. They
really
thought they were getting a bargain holiday, especially when he offered an extra few days in Morocco as a freebie, see round the kasbah etc. And while they were busy haggling in the souk, the local boys would be busy stashing the dope in secret compartments in the van.’

I sipped at the coffee. Not enough milk. ‘Nobody ever ask awkward questions?’

‘Why should they?’ He perched on the corner of his desk. Off came the glasses, twirl, twirl. ‘None so
blind as those who don’t
want
to see.’

I took another sip and gave up on the coffee. Time to earn a few Brownie points. ‘Let me guess. We knew about this pretty soon – couldn’t miss a stream of camper vans going from A to B. We let it run, though. All masterly inactivity to catch Mr Big.’

‘Right.’ Another twirl of the long-suffering glasses. ‘But last year he suddenly ups sticks and comes over here. Whether he got wind that we were breathing down his neck, or somebody made him an offer he couldn’t refuse…Now he’s doing pretty well, too well. Big boat, big car, big house, big spender. So what – or who – is bankrolling him?’

He hitched himself off the corner of the desk and slid into his seat. He peered over the bridge of his fingers, elbows planted on desk, fingers interlocked, chin supported on thumbs. Oh, oh, bad sign. I recognised the ritual. An unpleasant assignment was coming up and heading in my direction.

‘That photo was taken last New Year in Vanheusen’s house at a private party. So why did Sinclair get an invite? That’s where—’ He shot me a probing glance.

‘—where I come in.’ I finished the sentence for him.

He nodded. ‘I want you to plant a bug. On that boat of his.’

It all
sounded
straightforward. But the bridged-finger ritual signalled a hidden snag. Whatever it was, I knew I wasn’t going to like it. I sighed heavily. Blood
sports of the fishy kind went very much against the grain as far as I was concerned.

‘On a game-fishing boat? You’re not asking me to take rod in hand and murder a fish, are you?’

His ‘No, no, no’ was said a little too quickly. ‘You can leave that to your partner.’ The look he gave me was decidedly shifty. ‘All you’ll have to do is find a good position for the bug. Simple really.’

‘Partner?’ There was an edge to my voice. He knew I liked to work alone.

‘Someone to do the dirty work with rod and line.’ He spread his hands in a gesture of innocence.

‘I see. So I’m to be cast in the role of empty-headed girlfriend of—?’

I sensed a quickening of interest from the operator at the communications console.

Off came the specs. Nibble, nibble on the earpiece. ‘—of the best man for the job. The
only
man for the job.’ He studiously avoided my eye.

It couldn’t be. It must be.

‘
Jason
. You’re not trying to tell me that my partner will be Jason Weston?’

‘Now don’t get on your high horse, Deborah. I know you two don’t get on, but we need someone who’s done a bit of game-fishing. An English guy with an English girlfriend. Perfect.’

Silence. I glowered. He nibbled. In a sudden flurry of activity, the console operator busied herself flicking switches and twiddling dials.

Handsome, smooth-talking Jason had been on the team in Tenerife a month or two longer than I had. His cover as a time-share tout fitted his personality like a second skin – all those golden opportunities to chat up personable young things. The fact that they were usually accompanied by husbands or boyfriends was a challenge he couldn’t resist. Harmless enough perhaps, but what really set me at loggerheads with Jason Weston was his arrogant belief that males have an innate superiority in judgement and intelligence over females. Whenever our paths crossed, his
me Tarzan, you Jane
approach made me see red.

But Gerry was right, of course. The overbearing, arrogant Weston
was
the only one on the team that fitted the bill. I gave in.

‘OK. But
only
if he keeps his opinions – and his hands – to himself.’

‘Atta girl. Smith and Weston, the perfect team.’ Gerry beamed, relieved that the expected fireworks had failed to materialise. ‘I’ll arrange a little get-together so that you can decide how to play it.’

Jason’s red convertible swung into the kerb and screeched to a stop with a loud and flamboyant fanfare on the horn. One tanned arm snaked across and released the door catch.

‘Really, Jason, there’s no need for all
that
.’ I stepped primly in and snapped the seat belt closed.

‘C’mon, Debs, don’t be a wet. Only a bit of fun.’
He gunned the engine, and we shot off with a G-force that pinned me to the seat.

‘Business only, Jason. No hands. That’s the deal,’ I managed through gritted teeth.

‘OK, OK, OK, Debsy. You know me. Man of my word.’ One hand caressed my thigh, the other spun the wheel and we executed a corner in approved racing skid.

‘We won’t get there if you don’t slow down.’ Coolly, I removed the hand from my thigh and, as a forceful reminder, shoved between us the thick wad of newspaper I had brought with me for just such a purpose.

‘Point taken, Debsy.’ He slowed to what he considered a sedate crawl. The slipstream ruffled his blond hair, James Dean style.

‘This guy Sinclair. Reckon he has an eye for the girls, eh?’ A calculating leer in my direction.

I heightened my newspaper Berlin Wall. ‘If you mean I’m to seduce him while you plant the bug, forget it.
I
plant it while
you
in your Hemingway role grab his attention.’ I couldn’t resist a dig. ‘You weren’t just shooting Gerry a line? You
have
actually
done
some game-fishing?’

His size-fourteen trainer stamped heavily on the brake pedal, sending me lurching forward against the restraint of the seat belt.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve made more than my fair share of record catches.’

‘Girls or fish?’ I murmured
sotto voce
.

Revvv. Swoosh.

‘Only joking,’ I said hastily. I’d forgotten how touchy he was about his image. If we were to work as a team I’d have to smooth things over a bit, give him the feeling he was running the show. ‘OK, truce, Jase. You decide how we’re going to play it.’

Revvv Swoosh.
He indulged in another spot of ego-bolstering cutting-in and carving-up. I closed my eyes.

‘Enjoying this are you, Debs?’

‘Mmmm.’ I hoped he’d take my soft moan of terror as an appreciative murmur.

‘Now, Deborah mine, a bit of strategic thinking here – if I
act
the novice needing help, his attention will be on
me
and that will give you more time to—’

Braaaah
. He blasted from his path a poor unfortunate ditherer.

From the parking lot on top of the two storeys of shops and restaurants bordering the Puerto Colon marina, an iron Columbus points tirelessly with outstretched arm to the empty horizon, and beyond it, America. We stood shoulder to shoulder with Columbus and looked down on lines of white boats moored to parallel lines of pontoons. Those
pontones
fingered their way to the centre of the basin to service the floating caravans of the rich and mega-rich. In the stiff breeze the ruffled water sparkled and glittered in the bright sunlight,
and a metallic
clink clink
of rigging drifted up from a forest of masts. A powerboat was backing slowly into a narrow space between two cruisers, accompanied by much waving of arms, shouting and frenzied repositioning of fluorescent orange buffers. I was all for lingering to watch,
schadenfreude
on my part, I have to admit, but action-man Jason was already bounding down the steps to the quay.

‘Right then, Debsy, just follow my lead. And remember – act the adoring girlfriend.’

‘Yes, master.’ I touched an imaginary forelock as I trailed in his wake. Any adoration from
this
girlfriend wasn’t going to be much in evidence. I intended to retire into the cabin with a convenient attack of
mal de mer
soon after we hit the open sea.

At quayside level the marina is a bit of a disappointment. Turn your back on the palm trees planted in pairs along the quayside, that sparkling sea and those bobbing boats, and all you see is yet another
centro comercial
– beachwear, luggage, shoes, karaoke bars, restaurants, and since it’s a marina, offices for booking water sports or excursions to spot the whales and dolphins.

The rhythmic beat of calypso music pounded from the open windows of the Club Nautico as I scurried after Jason down a long narrow pontoon, past a line of cost-an-arm-and-a-leg cabin cruisers with their glass patio doors, sun-bleached sundeck and chrome ladder up to awning-covered bridge. The long curving
fishing rods jutting up either side of the cabin made
The Saucy Nancy
easy to pick out among the lines of tethered boats. The Lord and Master was pushing his way through a line of tourists filtering from the pontoon onto the gangway of a whale-watching catamaran. I’d just caught up with him when he suddenly stopped dead.

‘Wowee! Getta load of that!’ His eyes were devouring the vast expanse of bronzed flesh revealed by the mini shorts and a strapless top of a scantily clad girl lolling on the net slung between the two hulls of the catamaran.

I flung an arm round his shoulders, crushed him to me, and with my mouth close to his ear muttered, ‘True to form, Jase, but Sinclair’s watching us.’

Never one to waste an opportunity, Jason twisted his head to nuzzle at my cheek.
Crackkk.
Something jabbed me just above the eye as the black iridium lenses of his designer Full Metal Jacket sunglasses tangled with my chain-store Polaroids.

‘Ouch!’ I hissed. ‘Bloody well get those hormones of yours under control, Weston.’

He wasn’t listening. Casanova’s attention had been re-routed to an anxious examination of his poser wraparound shades. ‘These lenses are pretty special…’ He moistened a finger and rubbed at a lens. ‘
Shit!
Scratched!’

I smiled, not just for public consumption. ‘File them as “injured in the course of duty”,’ I whispered,
and linked an arm through his. ‘Come
on
. He’s looking at us.’

‘Only bought them last week. They’re useless now.’ He jammed them into his pocket. ‘You should really be more careful, Debsy. That’s the trouble with you women…’

‘Mr Weston?’ Sinclair had stepped over the game boat’s low rail and was bearing down on us. He was wearing the same outfit as in the newspaper photo Gerry had shown me, with the addition this time of a red baseball cap and a pair of dark designer glasses (unscratched). What the photo couldn’t reveal was his peculiar walk – a slightly rolling gait, deck shoes planted firmly, as if clamping to a heaving deck. All part of the Old Salt act. Only a year ago those feet had been treading the concrete pavements of north London.