Suspects All !

by Helen Mulgray

  ‘… and so,’ I finished, ‘I was saved only because the lights came on and Senhora Porter-Browne gave me the kiss of life.’ I waited with some apprehension for the comandante’s reaction.

  Much to my surprise, she showed those perfect teeth in a congratulatory smile. ‘At last, Officer Sshmit, you must be doing something right.’ In the warm breeze from the open window the strelitzias in their tall blue vase nodded their agreement.

  ‘I am?’ I said puzzled. I’d expected her to treat the news of Wednesday’s incident with, at best, resigned impatience.

  She raised her eyes heavenward and sighed. ‘Why do I always have to explain things to you, Sshmit? I asked you to observe the suspects and uncover their secrets, peel away the layers of the onion. This latest attempt on your life can only mean that you are nearing the heart of the onion.’ She gave a short nod of satisfaction.

  The peeling of an onion is very often accompanied by tears, and so far the tears had mainly been mine. I tried to look pleased that I’d been the victim of a murderous attack.

  ‘Fourteen days ago you came to me with a list, Sshmit.’ An impatient blood-red fingernail tapped the desk. ‘Who is now at the top of that list?’

  I’d been expecting that question. As I sat in the garden yesterday afternoon with Gorgonzola, I’d had plenty of time to think about my list of suspects: Charles Mason was dead and whatever he might have done in the past could not have been responsible for this latest attempt on my life; Zara Porter-Browne, if she’d wanted to kill me, would not have saved me in the caves. She’d just have stood by and let me drown; as for David Grant, whatever he was up to with his plants, it had nothing to do with drugs. However, I might as well ask London to send information on what the criminally minded would find profitable about plants.

  ‘I’ve narrowed it down to two people,’ I said. ‘The widow, Dorothy Winterton, and the artist, Celia Haxby.’ I told her about Still life with Kipper and my thoughts about how Haxby could be passing off forgeries as genuine.

  She frowned. ‘There is one thing that is troubling me. If this Haxby has something to hide, is up to the no good, why would she invite you into her room where all these pictures are to be seen?’

  I didn’t meet her eye. ‘Well, er …’

  The comandante reached forward and picked thoughtfully at one of the strelitzias, shredding with a sharp fingernail first one silken orange petal, then another, till tattered strips of orange fluttered in the draught from the ceiling fan.

  ‘Perhaps the door was open when you passed along the corridor?’

  As if I hadn’t heard the question, I continued, ‘Of course, Haxby would have to have a “front”, an outwardly respectable gallery to sell the copies, but that wouldn’t be too difficult to set up.’

  The comandante attacked the remaining orange petals of the strelitzia with vigour. ‘This may be as you say, Sshmit, but what connection has this Haxby person with the murder of Gomes?’

  At least she was listening. With more confidence I continued, ‘I think there is a connection: Celia Haxby is always in the company of Dorothy Winterton who I have reason to think may be engaged in drug dealing. They seem to have very little in common but—’

  Her fingers beat an impatient tattoo on the desk. ‘You say that this Haxby has nothing in common with Winterton, so what keeps them together?’

  Surely her astute mind would have worked that out, but maybe this was just another little test? ‘If Haxby is making money from selling fake masterpieces and has set up a gallery to offer them to the public,’ I said, ‘and if Winterton is engaged in drug dealing, they’d be ideal business partners because such a gallery would be an easy way to launder money. On Tuesday they took the ferry to Porto Santo together. They knew I, too, was on the ferry, and gave me the slip—’

  ‘Slip?’ The comandante’s brow creased in a frown of incomprehension.

  ‘I couldn’t follow them, as I was held up by what I suspect was a prearranged incident.’ I hurried on before she could ask what that incident was. I didn’t want her to find out that, like a naïve greenhorn, I’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book – the spiked drink. ‘But I am sure that they were up to something they didn’t want me to know about.’ Suspecting that she was about to probe further into that prearranged incident, I produced my rabbit out of the hat. ‘What I did find out was that they transfer the drugs between Madeira and Porto Santo using a homemade mini-submarine made of plywood and fitted with a snorkel.’

  ‘Homemade?’ she snorted. ‘Snorkel? Is this your English humour, Sshmit?’ She gave a short mirthless laugh.

  ‘No, not at all, Comandante.’ I said coldly. I’d been so sure she’d see this as a breakthrough in the investigation. ‘Luís told me that his brother let it slip when he was drunk, and so, on my visit to Porto Santo—’

  ‘Drunk. Enough, Sshmit!’ She swept the little heap of shredded petals into the bin and flipped open the lid of the laptop on her desk. ‘I remind you that you now have only four days before I say adeus for ever.’

  I drove back along the Estrada Monumental seething at the comandante’s cavalier dismissal of my carefully thought-out conclusions. She might be treating it as mere conjecture and surmise; I was convinced my conclusions were right and that it all fitted in. But how was I going to get the proof with only four more days remaining before I was ignominiously shipped off and returned to sender?

  Forced to a halt opposite the dome of the casino by the usual tailback of traffic, I stared moodily at a fenced-off patch of waste ground where tangles of red and yellow nasturtiums and the tall purple spires of massaroco created nature’s own artwork among the tall grasses.

  I had only four more days. I made a sudden decision. I’d take digital photos of all the Haxby paintings, send them to London and get an expert opinion. I glanced in the mirror, made an illegal U-turn and shot back to the gingerbread house to collect my camera. At the Massaroco Hotel, Haxby and Winterton would be taking their lunch on the terrace. It had become quite a set routine. How could I make sure that they stayed on the terrace? If I was caught red-handed in Haxby’s room, it would be an ignominious send-off on the next plane, ending all chances of a successful outcome to the investigation.

  The hideous clang clank clang clank took some time to penetrate my thoughts. In the mirror, a flashing blue light signalled a police car on a mission. I smiled. It could only be Raimundo making the most of some traffic violation. Mine, as it turned out. As I slowed to let him pass, he made the internationally understood sign to pull in.

  ‘Senhora!’ A wave of tobacco and garlic engulfed me as he bent to lean his elbow on the window. ‘Senhora, you know it is illegal to make the turn on the Estrada Monumental. This is most serious offence.’ The stern expression was accompanied by the slow conspiratorial lowering of one eyelid.

  Encouraged, I smiled sweetly. ‘Sorry, Senhor Officer. But it is permitted to make such a turn if there is an emergency, is it not?’

  The bushy moustache twitched. ‘Of course. And do you need police assistance for this so serious emergency?’

  ‘No.’ Then as an idea formed, ‘… Er, yes indeed,’ I said. I needed an uninterrupted session with those paintings – and the solution to the problem had just presented itself.

  From my position of semi-concealment behind a large pot plant, a particularly fine specimen of an ornamental fig, I had a good view of the Massaroco reception desk and a splendidly severe-looking Raimundo Ribeiro standing beside it.

  A petulant, ‘Now what’s all this about?’ heralded the arrival of Winterton and Haxby. They moved into my line of vision, Dorothy leading the way and a disgruntled-looking Celia trailing behind.

  Raimundo whipped out his notebook and with a theatrical gesture flipped it open. I could see that he was relishing his role.

  ‘Senhora Winterton?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no hint of apprehension in her voice or expression.

  Had I been grasping at straws, my case against her, mere
wishful thinking?

  He consulted his notebook. ‘You are the driver of rental car?’

  I didn’t wait to hear more. I turned and walked quickly to the service stairs. A couple of minutes later, I was closing the door of room 316 behind me. Celia’s portable folding easel was standing ready for action beside the stacks of paintings. She’d been busy. There were now four pictures in each of the three stacks. I didn’t have time to photograph them individually, so I moved the easel to one side, propped the first four of the newly added paintings against the wall, and took a snap of the group.

  One of them was a landscape – but a very strange one: a melon-shaped moon and brown and purple clouds floated above greenish humps of hills, and what appeared to be a white oilrig was poised to take off from an orange mound.

  The couple of still lifes were in the rather naïve style she seemed to favour for this type of picture: two colourful jugs and a brown fish on a table; a cream vase with a green plate on a folded beige tablecloth, each object heavily outlined in black. I almost didn’t bother with three of the other paintings. One canvas looked as if it had been used to clean off a very wide brush: it was just a rectangle of red shading off to black.

  Some misfortune had befallen the other two works: in one, ugly white horizontal streaks splattered a scene of a white Indian canoe reflected in a green lake; the other had suffered serious water damage. What might have been trees in a yellow field with a background of purple hills or storm clouds had been reduced to black, brown and green watery splodges perhaps by one of the sudden torrential rainstorms that could occur at this time of year. Why would she keep something so obviously ruined? I never ignore unexpected departures from the normal. It was this that decided me to include these three in my photo gallery.

  I worked quickly, putting the photographed pictures back in position, careful to keep them in the order I’d found them. In a few minutes I’d finished. I stood for a moment, inspecting the room to make sure I’d left everything exactly as I’d found it. Satisfied, I put the digital camera back in my pocket and prepared to beat a circumspect retreat to my car.

  I nearly missed it: a piece of card sticking out of the drawer that formed part of the easel. Had it been there when I moved the easel to photograph the paintings? I was sure it hadn’t. I’d have noted it. To leave something out of place is the professional’s way of checking whether someone has been poking around. I gave the card a quick glance as I slipped it back through the sliding frame.

  Looking for original pieces by renowned contemporary artists?

  Find them in St. Ives, Cornwall, at Avant-Garde Art.

  All pictures carry a certificate of authentication.

  I took a photo of it and shoved the card back out of sight. I’d email the pictures and check up on that gallery as soon as I got back to the office. I’d told the comandante that I thought Haxby’s paintings were copies of valuable works of art. If London confirmed this, that should persuade her to take seriously my suspicions about Dorothy Winterton.

  My next port of call was Zara’s room on the next floor.

  I rapped loudly. ‘Ees room service!’

  No reply. I put my ear to the door. No telltale movements inside. A quick tour of her usual haunts – café bar, terrace, swimming pool – also drew a blank. From the café bar I phoned reception. Yes, the senhora had been given my message. Yes, the senhora had been seen early this morning. Who could forget the so-green hair? No, unfortunately, the present whereabouts of the senhora were not known.

  Was Zara deliberately avoiding me? More worryingly, was she at this very moment engaged in hot pursuit of her quarry? She hadn’t responded to my earlier message, so I could visualize her merely crumpling up and binning another on the same lines. I thought for a moment and scribbled down, Hi, Zara, Hold everything. I’ve a suspect under investigation. Must see you soonest. Debs. I went back to her room and pushed the note under her door. What I would say to her, if she contacted me, I hadn’t the faintest idea.

  When I left the Massaroco, Ribeiro’s old wreck had gone. I risked putting my foot down on the way back along the Estrada Monumental. The sands of time were running out.

  Screened by a clump of almond-scented oleander bushes, Zara Porter-Browne watched DJ’s car drive out of the car-park. With a satisfied smile she closed the paperback she’d been reading and stowed it in the little bag slung over her shoulder. Now was her chance, her first chance ever, to stand in the Nike trainers of investigators Kinsey Millhone and Stephanie Plum. Not that they were real people, of course, only the creations of ace crime novelists Grafton and Evanovich, but they were her kind of women, taking no crap from the likes of old witch Winterton and that bastard Mason.

  This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for to search Winterton’s room. The old bat and her equally obnoxious sidekick Haxby, slaves to routine, would be on the terrace feeding their faces. She’d spent yesterday afternoon working out how to get into Winterton’s room. A cinch for Millhone and Plum – they’d just pick the lock. Well, she had no picklock, wouldn’t know what one looked like, but she’d had a brill idea. The chambermaids always cleaned the bathroom before fixing the rest of the room and, while they were making the beds and sweeping the balcony, someone could slip into the bathroom unseen. Yes, sneak in, hide behind the shower curtain, that’s what Kinsey and Stephanie would do. She’d tried it out yesterday, getting unseen into her own room while the maids were in, and the scheme had worked a dream.

  She had it all worked out: if the maids caught her in the bathroom – no sweat. She’d flourish a notebook and be toting a pile of those boring excursion leaflets, just like Kinsey and Stephanie made use of an official-looking clipboard. She’d say she was from the Agençia making an inspection of the accommodation, looking for mouldy silicone in the shower.

  The only flaw in this grand master plan was that all too recognizable green hair of hers. But she’d fixed that too. She’d spent this morning in the hairdresser’s salon. Gone that trendy green, in its place – for a short time only – her normal mid-brown, swept up into a stylish French roll to impart a businesslike air.

  Preparations complete, she’d avoided all the places anyone – especially Debs – might look for her, and now that Debs had taken herself off, the coast was clear.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When Zara had made no effort to contact me by ten o’clock on Friday evening I wasn’t really surprised. The little madam had jammed her Sherlock Holmes hat firmly on her head and any blundering detective work of hers could have dangerous repercussions for us both. With Gorgonzola on my knee, I sat in the warm darkness of my veranda debating whether to go off, late though it was, to the Massaroco and find out exactly what she’d been up to.

  ‘Damage limitation, that’s what’s needed, eh, G?’ That had always been top priority for Gerry Burnside, Director of Operations on my previous assignment in Tenerife. I’d cooked up a storyline I hoped would convince her that she was completely on the wrong track: that the police had informed me they had a suspect under surveillance and didn’t want him alerted by anyone snooping around asking questions. But first I had to get hold of Zara.

  ‘Would this be the best time to catch someone who’s been avoiding me, or should I wait till tomorrow?’ As I eased forward on the chair, G’s sharp claws dug through the thin cotton of my trousers, indicating a firm intention to stay where she was. ‘You’re right, G. Better leave it till tomorrow. Tonight she might very well be living it up at some club or other.’ At crack of dawn I’d definitely catch her in her bed.

  But I didn’t. First light found me at the Massaroco, but there was no response to my persistent knocking on her door. No drowsy, ‘Whadyawant? Buzz off!’ No shuffling footsteps crossed the tiled floor. Of course! I should have remembered that Zara was one of those night birds that don’t return to the nest till well after dawn. That time I’d returned from the market and seen her draped elegantly over the rail of the Beatles Boat, the sun had been up for over a couple of h
ours. I stood back and pondered my next move.

  She wasn’t going to give me the slip this time. A frequent check of her room every half-hour should make sure of that. I wandered out to the terrace overlooking the gardens. Early as it was, the gardeners were already at work turning on sprinklers and brushing paths. On the far side of the extensive lawn I caught glimpses of a ponytailed jogger on one of the paths winding through the subtropical bushes. Nice to have the leisure, and the cash, to keep fit in a five-star setting.

  I consulted my watch. There’d be time to stroll round the gardens before checking Zara’s room again. I wandered round towards the back of the hotel where a particularly fine specimen of wisteria dipped mauve-blue petals into the dark waters of a small pond. A peaceful spot, no traffic hum, only the sharp clink clink clink of an unseen bird calling from deep within the branches of a tree.

  I was sitting on a nearby bench watching the reflections change as cat’s-paws of breeze ruffled the surface of the water, when I heard the slap slap of running feet approaching along the path behind. The feet slowed, labouring lungs gasped and wheezed. The seriously unfit jogger tottered past and with heaving sides collapsed over the small section of ornate railing that guarded the outflow of water from the pond. There was something familiar about the way that figure draped itself over the rail – ponytail, baseball cap, vest and running shorts, Nike trainers. Replace with curtain of long green hair, silk mini-tunic and strappy sandals – Zara. At last I’d find out what she’d been up to.

  I gripped her shoulder and turned her to face me. ‘Didn’t you get my note, Zara? Why didn’t you get in touch?’ I made no effort to hide my exasperation.

  ‘Oh, hi, Debs.’ Gasp. ‘You won’t believe how busy I’ve been.’ Gasp.