Suspects All !

by Helen Mulgray

  For the first time that night I saw him smile.

  The heavy black hands of the clock in the vet’s waiting room formed a perfect right-angle. At nine o’clock in the morning the room was as empty of patients as it had been just over twelve hours ago. Either the small domestic animals of Funchal were a particularly healthy breed, or Senhor Spinosa’s fees were particularly steep – I suspected the latter. I hummed a little tune to myself. Things were looking up. There’d been no summoning phone call in the night, or what remained of it after Luís had been driven off, and better still, the receptionist had greeted me this morning with a bright smile and the news that I could take G home with me after the vet had made a final examination.

  Yes, things were certainly looking up. Dead men tell no tales, they say, but through Luís, Roberto Gomes had spoken from the grave and another piece of the jigsaw had clicked into place. And as regards my coming trip to Porto Santo on Tuesday, I now had a definite lead to follow. On that small island, possible docking places for submarines, even mini ones, would be limited, very limited indeed.

  I gave a cheery wave to a faint reflection of myself in the glass of a black-framed diploma on the opposite wall. What made this waiting room rather depressing was the array of sober black-framed certificates. Cheerful pictures didn’t have a look-in as far as Senhor Spinosa was concerned. Perhaps he thought the sight of his qualifications would raise the spirits enough.

  I heard the door to the street open. Reflected in the glass of the diploma, a woman came in struggling under the weight of a heavy petcarrier. Senhor Spinosa had another client.

  She placed her burden carefully on the floor and subsided onto a chair. ‘Ooh, you are a weight, Blackie. I’ll have to see about putting you on a diet. No more cheese biccies for you.’

  I recognized the voice immediately. The woman with the cat-carrier was none other than Victoria Knight, the elderly widow I’d met on a previous case in Tenerife.

  I swung round. ‘Victoria! What are you doing here?’

  Her plump homely face broke into a beaming smile. ‘Fancy meeting you, Deborah. It’s lovely seeing you again.’

  I sat down beside her. ‘You haven’t given up that splendid house of yours, have you?’

  ‘Oh no, dear.’ She patted my hand. ‘I’ll never do that. I’m only over here for a few weeks’ holiday, swapping houses with an old friend. She said the Flower Festival was a good time to come and, of course, I brought dear Blackie with me.’

  I looked down at the pet-carrier. Blackie? She must mean Samarkand Black Prince. In Tenerife she’d offered to take care of the cat to save it from being sent to an animal sanctuary when its owner had been arrested and faced a long term of imprisonment.

  The door to the corridor opened and we both looked up.

  The veterinary nurse smiled at me. ‘Senhor Spinosa says your cat is ready to go home. But first he has some words to say, Senhora Smith.’

  I jumped up to follow her. ‘We’ve a lot to catch up on, Victoria. See you on my way out.’

  Gorgonzola was lying on the shiny metal examination table, eyes closed, a slump of ginger fur.

  ‘Come on, G,’ I said, gently tickling the back of her ears. ‘Time to go home.’

  She opened one eye and made a strangely human sound, halfway between a groan and a sob.

  ‘Do not worry, senhora.’ Spinosa sounded amused. ‘She is only feeling sorry for herself. She has been frightened and she is hungry. We have offered her food, but she would not eat. That is quite often the case when cats come in for treatment, but when they get home, the appetite returns.’

  I scooped her up. ‘No dreaded cat-carrier for you, G. It’s a taxi home for us.’

  Spinosa smiled. ‘This time your cat has been very lucky. Contact with lily pollen would be a very different matter. Ingestion is almost always fatal.’ He held open the door. ‘Ask the receptionist to phone for a taxi as you settle your account, Senhora Smith.’ His white teeth smiled an expensive smile. ‘And do not hesitate to contact me if there are any problems.’

  ‘There’d better not be any problems, G,’ I whispered into her fur. ‘This bill is going to make HMRC’s eyes water.’

  Victoria was still in the waiting room, empty pet-carrier at her feet. She was slowly stroking what appeared to be a thick, black, furry stole of the kind much favoured by Edwardian ladies. ‘There, there,’ she crooned, ‘soon be better.’

  ‘That just has to be Black Prince,’ I said as I approached.

  She gazed down fondly at the black Persian cat standing on her lap with its paws over her shoulder. ‘Of course it’s him, dear. I’d never leave Blackie behind. He’s such a highly strung cat. So insecure.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, looking down at the limp ginger bundle in my arms.

  Blackie, or Samarkand Black Prince to give him his pedigree name, had been an arrogant thug of a cat. In Tenerife, Gorgonzola had given him his come-uppance, transforming him into a timid shadow of his former self.

  Miaooow. Black Prince’s plaintive whine seemed to indicate that he had read my thoughts and was reliving that truly awful experience.

  ‘So-oon be better, dear.’ Victoria planted a kiss on his furry head. ‘Blackie’s got a small fishbone stuck in his mouth. I can’t get it out by myself, so….’ She turned her attention to Gorgonzola. ‘But you didn’t mention anything about having a cat when we were in Tenerife, Deborah. And a Persian too!’ She unhooked Prince’s paws from her shoulder and settled him on her lap. ‘Look, Blackie, a little friend. What do you say to that?’

  Prince’s long-drawn-out miaooooooow had a miraculously recuperative effect on Gorgonzola. She stirred, lifted her head, and stared with huge copper eyes in the direction of the mournful sound. I felt her stiffen. The hair on her body bristled and a loud vibrating purr, an exultant drum roll over a vanquished foe, rumbled from her throat.

  The black fluffy mound on Victoria’s lap imploded as Blackie attempted unsuccessfully to flatten himself into the folds of her skirt.

  ‘Don’t be a silly billy, Blackie. Deborah’s cat is just being friendly.’ She put her hands under him to gather him up, but he squirmed out of her grasp and vanished into the depths of the pet-carrier at her feet.

  I tightened my grip on G and slammed the carrier door shut with my foot. ‘Oh dear, she didn’t mean to frighten him,’ I lied. ‘He really is nervous, isn’t he? Perhaps you’d better let him stay where he is till you’re called. If somebody comes in to see the vet, we don’t want him running out onto the road.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s come over him.’ Puzzled, Victoria frowned down at the carrier.

  I wasn’t going to enlighten her. Blackie was recalling all too clearly his near-death experience at the paws of Gorgonzola who was now lying smugly in my arms, mission accomplished, point made. Time to beat a hasty retreat while the going was good.

  ‘I’m filling-in here on a temporary basis with a travel agency,’ I said. ‘I’ll probably be going back to England on the 25th, but we must get together before I leave. If you give me your phone number, I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘That would be very nice, dear.’ She fished out a scrap of paper from her bag and scribbled down a phone number. ‘Come over and visit me and do bring your lovely cat.’

  As I’d expected, the wad of euros in my wallet came nowhere near the sum needed to settle the hefty bill for Senhor Spinosa’s professional services. While the receptionist processed my credit card, I stroked a contentedly purring Gorgonzola and thought what a small world it was. It would be good to see Victoria Knight again and catch up on how she was doing. But one thing for sure, I’d be going alone. G would not be accompanying me on that visit.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I’d hoped to keep well out of the way of David Grant, Exotic Cut Flower Exporter, and to that end I’d phoned the Massaroco Hotel and arranged a different venue for my office hour. Any clients wishing to consult me, would find me, not in the café bar, but on the terrace. A note to that effe
ct had been put up on the Agençia de Viagens’ noticeboard. But, best laid plans and all that….

  David Grant could read too. And when I turned up on Monday, the first thing I heard as I strolled onto the terrace was the tinny rendition of Land of Hope and Glory from his mobile phone. Though his back was turned, I had clients to meet, so I didn’t have the option of ducking back into cover and scuttling away. I couldn’t avoid him for ever – I’d have to face him sometime. I just didn’t feel quite ready to do so after the emotional battering I’d taken over the weekend.

  I seated myself out of his immediate line of vision at a table under one of the green striped parasols and listened to him chatting away loudly on his mobile phone. I could only hope that the presence of clients might restrain him from making too much of a scene – or any scene at all. I opened my desk diary, laid out my pile of excursion leaflets and prayed for a client to come rushing up. If Dorothy Winterton was intending to come, she’d be here at ten o’clock sharp. But ten o’clock came and went. At five past, Grant’s loud monologue stopped with a breezy Ciao and I could feel my luck running out. I bent my head and gave a letter from the Agençia my full attention.

  A shadow fell across the page. A fist thumped down on the table, toppling the pile of leaflets. ‘What the f–– were you doing breaking into my shed, Smith?’

  My hand holding the letter jerked, demolishing what remained of the pile of leaflets and sending a couple fluttering to the ground. I looked up into his face contorted with rage. Should I bluster it out or cringe in abject apology? A series of half-formed replies flashed through my mind, but in the event I just sat there.

  He loomed over me and pushed his face close to mine. ‘Nothing to say, eh? Out on bail, are you? Well, I’ve got you and that ruffian of a cat of yours on videotape and no slick lawyer’s going to smart-talk you out of a prison sentence.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Grant, if you’re upset, but I was just curious, and after all, I didn’t do any damage.’ I summoned up a conciliatory smile.

  They say that a gentle answer turneth away wrath, but not in this case. A speck of froth appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Since your little escapade, madam, I’ve got myself a couple of Rottweilers and pit bulls. They roam free and if you come anywhere near my property again, they’ll tear you to pieces.’ There was no mistaking the menace in his voice. ‘Cat or human, it’s all the same to them. And, let me tell you, I won’t be responding to any screams.’ From the expression on his face he seemed to be enjoying the image of bloody, mangled flesh.

  A voice cut in. ‘Wow, Dave, what have you got in that orchid farm of yours – the crown jewels?’ Neither of us had noticed the approach of Zara Porter-Browne.

  The effect of her words was dramatic. It was as if she’d thrown a bucket of icy water over him.

  He blinked, snarled, ‘Bloody sights, I’ve—’ The torrent of abuse spluttered to a halt. He took a deep breath, then his arm scythed across the table, sweeping desk diary, leaflets and letter onto the tiled floor. He surveyed his handiwork with some satisfaction, then without a backward glance, stomped off.

  Zara tossed her green locks. ‘Gawd, Deborah, what the shit did he mean by that?’

  With some effort I laughed it off. ‘He was probably referring to what would be left when his Rottweilers and pit bulls had finished with me.’

  She helped me pick up my scattered papers, but like a pit bull herself, wasn’t going to let the subject go. ‘What did you do to bring that on, Debs?’ She pulled up a chair, leant her elbows on the table and prepared to hang on my every word.

  Damn. How was I going to get rid of her before another client came along? And how was I going to stop her recounting the whole incident with much embellishment to all and sundry?

  I giggled. ‘Took you in, did we? Genuine audience reaction! Great! Dave’s a leading light in the English Church Dramatic Society. They’re putting on a play, a Victorian melodrama, and one of the cast has broken a leg, so I’ve been asked to stand in – only a minor part, luckily, because I’m no great shakes at acting. We were just taking the chance of a quick rehearsal.’ I can be quite inventive in an emergency.

  Her look of eager anticipation faded. ‘Oh, bugger. And here was me thinking I’d come on a piece of the action at last. This dump is so shittishly boring.’ She slumped in the chair like a wax candle melting under a hot sun.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint, Zara.’ This time my giggle was genuine. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘Sitting around here is driving me up the wall.’ She pouted moodily. ‘The place is full of old biddies and arty crafty types. At least when Chaz was around, I’d someone to talk to – or fight with,’ she added as an afterthought. Signs of grief for the deceased Mason were conspicuous by their absence. ‘C’mon, Debs, hit me with a tour that’s not mind-numbingly bo-o-ring. None of those crappy garden visits, thank you.’

  ‘What about the toboggan run from Monte?’ I shoved one of the retrieved leaflets over to her.

  ‘Been there, done it, got the straw hat.’ She brightened, ‘Yeah, that was all right. When that truck came straight at us on a bend, the old gent beside me nearly wet himself.’ Her howl of mirth rang round the deserted terrace.

  ‘Well, how about Wednesday’s excursion to the São Vicente caves? They’re old volcanic pipes. Not a flower in sight,’ I said, hiding my amusement.

  ‘Pipes?’

  ‘They’re tunnels left by lava flowing to the sea. It says here’ – I waved the leaflet – ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Of course, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s quite dramatic, in its way.’ I consulted the leaflet again. ‘Walk the path opened by fiery magma four hundred thousand years ago.’

  Zara shrugged unenthusiastically. ‘Anything’s better than sitting around here, I suppose. OK, count me in.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,’ I said, jotting her name down in the desk diary. ‘The Agençia agency told me this morning that there were only a few places left, so I’ll send in your name right away.’

  She slouched off in search of a drink and I went off in search of a phone in a David Grant-free zone.

  ‘Senhora Smith here. The São Vicente caves on Wednesday, I’ve a booking in the name of—’

  Before I had the chance to finish, Senhora Rosa Carvalho at the Agençia snapped, ‘Where on earth have you been, Deborah? I’ve been trying to get in touch, but the barman said there wasn’t an office hour meeting in the café bar today.’

  It hadn’t occurred to me that the location of the office hour would be of any interest to the Agençia. ‘That’s because I’m holding it on the terrace,’ I said, with a bit of an edge to the words. ‘I was told there might be competing noise from work being carried out in the café bar.’

  In a more conciliatory tone she said, ‘Well, I’m glad I’ve got hold of you at last. Ana’s just had word that her father has died suddenly, so she has to fly home to Portugal. I know it’s short notice, but I need someone to stand in for Wednesday, so I’m afraid I’ll have to call on you to take the Wednesday excursion to the São Vicente caves.’

  I put the phone down. Bugger, as Zara would have said. Well, look on the bright side – I wasn’t being called in on Tuesday, so the Porto Santo investigative trip was still on. If I found confirmatory evidence of Luís’s submarine story, Wednesday would have been the day to follow it up, but that couldn’t be helped. Strings had been pulled to get me this job and I didn’t feel I could wriggle out of a reasonable request just on the off-chance that I’d discover something in Porto Santo.

  For the second time that day, I pinned up a notice.

  Cancellation of office hour on Wednesday 19th. Please note: my day off is Tuesday this week. If you need help or advice on any of these days, hotel reception will contact Agençia de Viagens on your behalf.

  Celia’s voice boomed from behind me, ‘I say, that’s a bit rich. Tuesday and Wednesday. Two days without help and advice.’

  I
closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Rarely had Celia come to an office hour seeking advice and help. She’d usually gone her own way, made her own plans for her painting excursions.

  I swung round, hoping an apologetic smile would hide my irritation. ‘I’m really sorry about that, but I’ve just learnt that I have to stand in for a colleague and escort the trip to the São Vicente caves, a wholeday excursion. So that’s the reason there’ll be no office hour that day.’

  ‘Hmph.’ A snort of disapproval. ‘If there’s no one available, that’s just when something occurs that needs sorting out.’ She flounced off in a swirl of blue and green smock.

  Unlike Gorgonzola who likes to prowl the night, I hate getting up in the dark, but to catch the Porto Santo ferry I had no choice. Just after 7 a.m. I left her curled up warm and cosy on my duvet, and caught a taxi down to the harbour. Out to sea, a faint glimmer in the sky was heralding dawn, though on the dark mass of mountains round the bay the strings and clusters of streetlights still sparkled brightly.

  Under the glare of powerful floodlights on the quayside it was already day. Iceberg-white, the side of the ferry towered above an organized chaos: cars and lorries rumbled into the hold; taxis arrived and departed; passengers searched in pockets, struggled with suitcases, hugged their last minute farewells. I pushed my way to where an official was electronically validating tickets, and while I waited, scanned the milling crowds for Dorothy and Celia. There was no sign of them. Hoping that they hadn’t aborted whatever little scheme they had in mind, I made my way up the gangway and into the exclusive comfort of the leather armchairs, buffet and bar of the first class lounge. The semi-circle of plate glass windows showed a sky already lightening to a pale purple-grey. The houses on the encircling hills were now clearly visible, orange streetlights dulled to ochre. A short while later, the soft vibration of idling engines strengthened and the worn stones of the old fort guarding the harbour slid past.