He burbled on, ‘If you could just help me out on how cats react—’
‘Oh Jase,’ I interrupted, ‘you’ve not let her escape out into the garden, have you? If she gets through the hedge—’
‘It’s OK, Debs. Don’t panic. I’ve got her trained and—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snapped. ‘You can’t train a kitten just like that.’
‘What d’you bet? I tell you what,’ he smiled complacently, ‘if you’re wrong, you give me another kiss under the mistletoe, a proper one.’
‘If she comes the first time you call, I’ll give you two kisses.’ I flung myself down on the sofa. ‘Right. I’m ready to be amazed.’ I folded my arms.
He took up position behind the sofa. ‘Here, Brunhilda-a-a.’ He gave a short whistle.
From the garden came a long-drawn-out mi-aa-ow. That didn’t sound like a kitten to me, more like a full-grown cat.
‘Here she comes,’ Jason crowed.
A shadow broke the shaft of sunlight at the French doors, a shadow with strangely distorted square head and stumpy ears. Funny the tricks light plays. You’d think—
Aaaaargh, I screamed, unable to help myself. I’d expected a cute little kitten, all big eyes and fluff, but framed in the doorway stood a hideous plastic and metal creature with huge blank Darth Vader eyes.
‘Gotcha!’ Jason chortled. ‘Say hi, Brunhilda.’
The beast emitted a deep rolling purr and bounded forwards. I tried to spring up, but Jason’s hand on my shoulder pressed me down.
‘Just watch this demo, Debsy.’ He jabbed at buttons on a handheld remote control.
It sat. It lay down. It rolled over. It stood up, tail swishing gently from side to side.
‘Realistic or what, eh? Sixteen built-in motors. Object sensors. Voice recognition,’ he drooled.
Pathetic. A grown man regressing to second childhood, playing with a gadget that was, despite its cyber wrapping, little more than a battery toy.
‘Great, isn’t she, Debs! What else would you like to see her do?’
Lie down and die, I was tempted to blurt out. But it was the season of goodwill, after all. He was like a child showing off his favourite Christmas present. I couldn’t bring myself to crush him with a sour remark.
‘We-e-ll,’ I said, ‘what about—’ For the second time that day a feline shadow broke the sunlight path across the polished floor. Paused. Edged forward. Gorgonzola’s gingery head was peering inquisitively round the frame of the French door. This was going to be interesting. ‘Well – what does she do if she meets another cat?’
Oblivious to the new arrival, Jason was studying the control unit. ‘I’m keeping her indoors so that’s not likely to happen, but I think this would be the natural response.’
He punched a couple of buttons. Brunhilda’s head lowered, her back arched and her tail shot vertically up. He jabbed more buttons.
Tssssss. Brunhilda’s angry spitting hiss was pretty convincing.
Gorgonzola obviously thought so too. There was an answering Tssssss from the direction of the French doors. G stood silhouetted against the sun, eyes narrowed, tufty coat bristling. Tssssss. Slowly, deliberately, she advanced, stiff-legged and menacing.
Jason was standing open-mouthed. I was the first to break the stunned silence.
‘Gosh, look, Jase, it’s like a rerun of the standoff in High Noon.’
He rallied. ‘Better get hold of that mog of yours prontissimo, Debs. Brunhilda’ll zap her one and polish her off.’
He could be right. I’d half-risen when Gorgonzola sprang forward with an ear-piercing yowl. A blur of movement, a savage swipe of her paw, and Brunhilda clattered onto her side and slid along the floor. Whirrrr. There was an ominous grinding and the acrid smell of overheated circuit boards. The four metal legs waved feebly, and were still.
Another howl, this time from Jason. ‘That scruffy brute of yours has trashed Brunhilda.’ He jabbed desperately at buttons on the control. ‘I’ll never forgive you, Debs.’
I didn’t think it politic to remind him that he had invited me over. An odd growling came from G’s throat as she circled the prostrate heap of metal. I scooped up my still-spitting bundle of fur and fled. At least this little incident had erased from his memory that rash promise of mine.
‘Two kisses. What an escape, G,’ I muttered into her moth-eaten ear.
Gerry’s debriefing session was scheduled for 5 p.m. I just had time to deposit Gorgonzola back home and make a quick call at Exclusive’s offices to inform Monique about Rudyard Scott and Millie Prentice. Had Vanheusen confided in her? Was she in any way involved? Her reaction to the news should tell me.
‘Dead?’ There was no doubt that Monique’s surprise was genuine.
‘I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘Mr Scott died of a heart attack, it seems. The maid found him in his room on New Year’s Eve.’
She crumpled up a piece of paper and tossed it into the bin. ‘Well, really. Most unfortunate.’
It was unclear whether she was expressing regret for the untimely demise of a fellow human being, or for the loss to Exclusive’s coffers from the considerable expenditure on discounted flights and hotel accommodation. I watched as she opened a file on the computer and deleted Rudyard Scott’s name from the current list of clients.
I cleared my throat. ‘Er, I’m afraid there’s more bad news.’
She frowned irritably. ‘What next?’
‘Millie Prentice has—’
‘A born troublemaker!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t tell me she’s upset Mr Wainwright with that pushy manner and those tiresome questions of hers?’
‘She’s packed her bags and gone.’
‘I knew she wasn’t really interested in purchasing! Just in it for the free holiday. Some people have no scruples. No scruples at all.’
Monique tapped savagely at the keyboard. Millie joined Rudyard Finbar Scott in the electronic graveyard of the recycle bin.
I timed my arrival at the Extreme Travel office precisely, not late for the follow-up briefing, but the last to arrive. That way I calculated that I could choose a chair as far as possible from any murderous glances cast by the owner of the deceased Brunhilda.
Gerry glanced pointedly at his watch. ‘There you are, Deborah. We’re about to start.’
‘Sorry, Gerry. I had to get treatment for Gorgonzola.’ ‘Treatment’ was sufficiently vague to cover all sorts of medical intervention on G’s behalf – including the actual one of Jesús sitting amongst his geraniums wailing his soothing madrelena.
‘Treatment?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘She’s out of sorts. Nervous prostration.’ I subsided into the only vacant chair.
A snort came from immediately behind me, and Jason’s voice muttered in my ear, ‘Not as prostrated as Brunhilda. You owe me, DJ.’
Did he mean the two kisses or the 2000 euros he’d no doubt paid for Robocat? Either way, tough. ‘No way, Jason!’ I hissed. ‘What about G’s therapy bills? She’s still quite traumatised by that—’
‘If I could have your attention?’ Rebuke administered, Gerry powered up the computer. Steve’s chubby face smiled out at us from the plasma screen. ‘I think we all know Steve Jenks of The Saucy Nancy.’ Dissolve to man in pinstripe suit pointing at the brass nameplate of the villa. ‘And now, Señor José Gálvez with an address in Madrid, proud owner of El Paraíso. Comments?’
There was a moment or two of silence before audience reaction on the lines of ‘Definitely the same guy’.
Simultaneously, a whistle of surprise from Jason. ‘Hey, that’s Jenks.’
Gerry leant back in his chair. ‘I think we’ve established one spurious purchaser. And if one is a sham, I think we can assume there will be others.’ He jabbed the keyboard. In quick succession, up came the pics of El Sueño, Elysium, La Paz, Mon Repos, Shangri-la, Spanish Idyll and Valhalla, their owners smiling broadly for the camera. ‘Thoughts on any of these?’
General murmurs, but this time, no observations
.
I mentally flicked through the photos. ‘Could you bring up Shangri-la again, Gerry.’
In front of the villa stood a couple, the man’s arm encircling the woman’s shoulders as if claiming possession of her as well as the house. I stared at her face, trying to visualise it without the sunglasses. Most people take them off for a photo. Maybe she’d just forgotten, or perhaps she wanted to conceal her identity…
‘I think…’ I said slowly. ‘I’m not sure…but she could be…Monique’s cousin, Ashley.’
‘Well, I think we are on the right lines there.’ Gerry made a note on his pad. ‘I’ll get some mugshots made up. You’ll find them in your pigeon-hole tomorrow, Jason. Check them out against Vanheusen’s known associates.’
He tapped a key, and El Sueño materialised on the wall-screen. ‘Would you like to say something, Deborah?’
‘Not much to add to my report, I’m afraid. I didn’t find out anything more on my nocturnal visit to the office, but…’ For the benefit of the others I recapped on the story of Mrs Knight and the Reservation Contract.
‘I think we can assume there is no Reservation Contract. Now, what we have to ask ourselves is: why is it worth more than £1.5 million to keep this particular villa off the market?’ Gerry’s gaze swept our faces. ‘Any ideas?’
An invitation to exercise our brains. Much furrowing of brows, stroking of chins, chewing of lips.
Jayne cleared her throat. ‘Can we see the other properties again?’
El Paraíso, Elysium, La Paz, Mon Repos, Shangri-la, Spanish Idyll, Valhalla paraded before us once more.
She narrowed her eyes, appraising. ‘It’s just struck me that all these photos are taken from exactly the same elevation and viewpoint. Reminds me of the backdrop of a photographic studio…’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Same place, just the props changed?’ said a voice from behind me. ‘That urn of geraniums exchanged for the classical statue? The door colours and styles are different, but it’s easy enough to replace a door.’
‘Even easier to alter things digitally.’ Jason always went for the high-tech angle.
I leant forward. ‘Zoom in on the nameplate, Gerry.’
‘We know they’re different.’ Jason, still ruffled, was having a dig.
I ignored him. ‘That top screw on the right-hand side. The dome cap’s missing. I caught my sleeve on it.’
Flick to Elysium. Missing dome cap, same position.
Gerry pressed more keys. ‘We’ll just check the other nameplates… Ye-es, conclusive, I think.’ He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched back in his chair. ‘Thank you everyone. A very productive session. We’ve just sussed out how he’s laundering the money – by fictitious sales of the same villa. Now all we’ve got to do is to connect that money to drug trafficking.’
As I prepared to leave the meeting I was on a high. My little piece of nightwork had moved things on considerably. Even Jason managed to summon up half-hearted congratulations before he rushed off – presumably to resurrect Robocat. The high lasted for all of thirty seconds. Just as I had my hand on the interconnecting door to the outer office, Gerry ambushed me.
‘A moment, Deborah. You’ll have the plans in place to gatecrash Mansell and Monique’s little tête-à-tête at the barbecue on Saturday?’
Truth to tell, I was feeling quite nervous about the matter. It hadn’t been easy to come up with a strategy to break through Vanheusen’s tight security. Even a palm tree would have to present its invitation for scrutiny by hard-eyed men.
‘Oh, yes. I’ve a date with Destiny,’ I said enigmatically.
With some pleasure I saw a tightening of his teeth on the plastic of his glasses. He liked to be the cryptic one. He chewed an earpiece thoughtfully. Then, ‘Action Plan to me by 10 a.m. Friday.’
Chapter Fifteen
Monique splayed out her fingers on the polished surface of her desk and studied the long, glittering nail extensions. ‘Good, aren’t they?’ she said. Little sparks of refracted light shimmered and danced with every movement of her fingers.
Well, whatever they were good for, it certainly wasn’t for picking up telephone receivers or pressing buttons. Was that why I had been summoned from my desk in the outer office?
‘Wow, they’re wonderful,’ I said and meant it. ‘Flutter your fingers again.’ Silvery light twinkled and flashed. I must be careful not to betray any knowledge of the Snow Queen costume. ‘Is this something to do with your outfit for the barbecue tonight?’
This was greeted with a cagey smile. ‘You’ll have to wait and see – oh, but of course, you won’t be there.’
Oh, but I would. Eavesdropping, hoping to find out why Vanheusen rated her assignation with Jonathan Mansell important enough to be kept under wraps. Perhaps too, I’d suss out how deeply Monique herself was involved in the money-laundering scheme. She was probably just a minor cog, as I was sure she’d been kept in the dark about this week’s two murders. I hadn’t made up my mind about Mansell, either. Innocent dupe of Vanheusen’s mob, or fellow-criminal?
‘Well, is it yes or no?’ She was waiting impatiently with raised eyebrows for a reply to some question I hadn’t heard.
‘Er…yes,’ I hazarded.
She frowned. That hadn’t been the right answer.
‘I mean no. Definitely not.’
‘Well, you’ve taken it better than I expected.’ She sounded surprised. What had she said? What had I agreed to?
With a metaphorical bow and scrape in my tone, I asked, ‘Monique, could I possibly ask you to repeat—’
Buzz Buzz…Buzz Buzz…
Her icicled fingers hovered for a moment over the telephone on her desk. With a tut of annoyance, she motioned for me to press the loudspeaker button. ‘Mr Vanheusen’s office.’
The tinny whine was unmistakable. ‘I understand Mr Vanheusen is holding a costume barbecue tonight. I’ve checked with the desk clerk but no invite’s been left under the name of Wainwright. I’m not one to bellyache, but it seems that somebody’s goofed.’
Her tone was soothing and sympathetic. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wainwright, if you’ve been misinformed.’ She shot me an acid glance. ‘You see, the barbecue is for employees and business associates only. It’s Mr Vanheusen’s expression of appreciation for the service they’ve given in the past year.’
A spluttering bleat signalled Wainwright dissatisfaction.
‘It’s disappointing, I know, Mr Wainwright. I quite understand. I’ll instruct Deborah to arrange a complimentary dinner with a bottle of cava. If you—’
A querulous, ‘Where?’ spiralled from the handset.
‘At an establishment of your choice, of course, Mr Wainright.’ Again her tone was sweetness and light, her expression thunderous.
The Grouch grumbled acquiescence.
She disconnected and leant back in her chair. ‘I think I dealt with that screw-up of yours rather well, don’t you?’
I nodded. Whoever had screwed-up it hadn’t been me, but I certainly wasn’t going to make things worse by arguing. ‘You handled that expertly, Monique.’ Praise where praise was due, after all.
Her frown of censure faded. I took advantage of the moment.
‘Er, would you mind going over what we were discussing. It’ll help me to understand it all a little better.’
Instant frost descended. With the tip of one of the nail extensions, she flicked shut her desk diary and pushed back her chair.
‘There’s nothing to understand,’ she snapped. ‘To deal with any emergencies, you are on duty tonight and tomorrow. You had Christmas off so you can’t expect the Three Kings festival as well. Especially as, when I asked you a moment ago, you said you had definitely not made any arrangements for that period.’ She seized her handbag. ‘So that’s settled then. I don’t expect to hear any more about it. Now, I’m off to have a bath. Then it’s the hairdresser. And I’ll need at least an hour to fit my costume before the limousine comes.’ She swept out. ‘Don’t forget that
reservation for Mr Wainwright,’ drifted back along the corridor.
On duty tonight. Stuck here in the office.
How the hell could I do my little eavesdropping act if I was tied to my post for the duration of the Three Kings celebrations? I stared blankly at the empty doorway. As Shakespeare put it:
That is a step
On which I must fall down, or else o’er-leap
For in my way it lies…
I did as I was told. Virtuously I stayed on duty at my desk planning the next Outing. But only till 7 p.m. And I didn’t forget about that reservation for The Grouch. In the end, he grudgingly took up my suggestion to dine at one of the small, exclusive and prohibitively expensive eating establishments in Las Américas.
At a few minutes to seven I finished setting up the answering machine and pressed Play. I’m sorry. The Exclusive office is closed for the holiday. If your call is urgent, please telephone Carmella at Viajes Extreme, Las Américas 922…
Carmella, alias the resourceful Jayne. I’d have to erase that message before Monique arrived at the office in the morning or I’d be fired. And that would spell the end of Operation Canary Creeper.
Darkness was already falling as I shut the office door quietly behind me. Ten minutes later the yellow lights of the distant marina winked conspiratorially as I drew up in the darkest corner of the car park on the cliff-top promenade. No other cars were parked nearby as yet, but snatches of conversation and laughter drifted across from the brightly illuminated steps to the beach two hundred metres away.
I bundled the unwieldy palm tree costume under my arm and headed for an unlit path zigzagging steeply down to the beach. Even in the dark the start of this unofficial shortcut was easy enough to find, marked as it was by a clump of straggly bushes silhouetted against the paler night sky. I stopped and listened… Only the frrusssh of waves breaking gently on the beach below.
Under Suspicion Page 15