With a mark-up of up to a quarter of a million pounds sterling on a kilo of heroin, it wouldn’t take many mules to keep things ticking over. Gerry was onto something there.
Abruptly, he leant forward, planted his elbows on the desk, fingers interlocked, chin supported on thumbs, always a sign of him getting down to the nitty-gritty. ‘The plan is to put tabs on females that fit the mule profile when they arrive at Reina Sofia or Los Rodeos airports. We let them through to see who contacts them. What Operation Canary Creeper needs is to link that person with Vanheusen. And that’s where you ladies have a role.’
Charlie gave me an exaggerated wink. She must guess what he had in mind, which was more than I could, thanks to not paying attention a few minutes ago. Was he going to play cat and mouse again with his questions?
I relaxed when he continued with, ‘Let me expand on this. We all know the problem with keeping tabs on mules.’
Eager to be on the ball this time, I nodded brightly, as if mules and their problems were an open book.
‘And the problem is, Deborah?’
The swine. I didn’t have a clue. ‘To be sure that they’re “clean”, they’ll be under surveillance at the airport by their runners,’ I hazarded.
‘Er…right.’ He didn’t quite cover his surprise. ‘And there’s the time factor. The pattern is that they stay, at most, a couple of nights, and once they get to their room, they hole up there till the exchange is made.’
Charlie thrust an arm into the air and fluttered a hand for attention. The skimpy top parted company with the micro-skirt. The eyes of every man in the room targeted the gold ring glinting in her navel. ‘If they’re holed up, how are we—’
Gerry cleared his throat. ‘I’ve every confidence you’ll think of something, Charlie. As I was saying, if we knew in advance where they were booked in, we could have personnel,’ he glanced at Charlie and myself, ‘in place ready to strike up an acquaintance. But, till we get a breakthrough on one of those hotels—’ He broke off as a light flashed on his desk console. ‘Call coming through on the outside line, Jayne. Better take it.’ He leant back, stretched. ‘OK, everyone. That’s all for today. Right, Tomás, let’s go over how you propose to remove that bug.’
Jayne disappeared through the white door, and Tomás got up for his confab with Gerry.
I turned to Charlie. ‘Hi, I’m DJ. It’s Deborah on formal occasions when Gerry wants to lord it over me.’ My eyes strayed to the nose ring. ‘Forgive me for being personal, but did it—’
‘You’re asking about the ring? Everybody does. No, didn’t hurt a bit.’ She fiddled with it. ‘I’m seriously thinking of doing my lip next.’
I winced. ‘Won’t that make you somewhat memorable for undercover?’
‘Au contraire. They remember the girl with the nose ring.’ The fiddling fingers tweaked. ‘Without it I’m just one of the crowd. Voilà.’ She held up the ring.
I blinked. No hole, just a faint red mark on her nostril. Charlie the punk, now morphed into Charlie the modish teenager, all naïvety and innocence.
‘One of those clip-on things.’ She gave it a quick polish on her skimpy top. ‘Goes anywhere.’ She popped it onto her lower lip. ‘See?’
Over at the desk, the low murmur of the bug-removal confab hesitated, then resumed.
‘Wow!’ My admiration was genuine. Charlie had hidden depths.
Jayne’s voice came through the intercom. ‘Call for DJ. It’s Jonathan Mansell.’
With a thumbs-up to Charlie, I went out through the white door, and picked up the receiver.
‘I was hoping you’d be in the office.’ I detected a hesitant note in his voice. ‘That friend of yours, that you mentioned this morning. I was wondering…that is…I was thinking that he and I should have a talk.’
‘Do you want me to give him a call?’ I tried to inject the right degree of casualness into my voice. ‘You could meet at a bar.’
‘Great. Somewhere quiet, not too noisy.’
I laughed. ‘He’s not one for noise either. OK, I’ll see if I can get hold of him.’ That shouldn’t be too difficult. He wasn’t too far away, sitting at his desk on the other side of the white door. ‘I’ll call you back.’
I was smiling when I rejoined the others. ‘I think we may have the breakthrough you were looking for, Gerry,’ I said.
Chapter Nineteen
Los Abrigos was only a thirty minute drive from Las Américas – but it could have been on another planet. No massed hotels, shopping centres and crowds, just half a dozen tiny fishing boats bobbing in the little harbour, its dark waters streaked silver and gold by the lights from the circle of fish restaurants lining the quay. No loud music blaring from bars, no busy hum of passing traffic, only the slap slap of water on the harbour rocks, children’s cries from the narrow side streets, and in the warm night air the aroma of frying fish.
El Burro Perezoso, The Lazy Donkey, was an unpretentious bar tucked between two fish restaurants. It was the perfect place for a clandestine rendezvous: shadowy but not gloomy, busy but not crowded. Through the open doorway spilt out soft yellow lamplight, the murmur of voices and the deep dark chords of a guitar, lingering, dying…
A few weeks ago Jason had taken me there, hoping that I’d fall, first for the Canarian atmosphere of the place, then for him. And I had fallen – but only for the place, the ochre-washed walls, the dark beams, the simple wooden tables and the glazed tile floor. Wooden casks nestled on trestles behind the bar and golden-brown haunches of mummified ham hung on steel hooks from the low smoke-darkened ceiling.
I had an hour to savour all this with Gerry, alias Ramón, while waiting for Mansell. The cardinal rule for meetings of this kind is to arrive early, very early, and to keep a clear head. Another rule is to assume you’re being watched. So, for that hour we sat in cosy tête-à-tête, toying with a drink. The casual observer would see a couple gazing dreamily into each other’s eyes, whispering sweet nothings interspersed with long silences.
In reality we were playing a game of fiendish ingenuity devised by my drinking companion. Player one (decided on the discreet toss of a coin) quoted the first line of a poem. Player two had to provide the second line. Back to player one for the next line and so on till memory crashed. The fiendish part was that only the winner of the round was allowed to take a swallow of his (or her) drink. The occasional outbreak of a ‘lovers’ tiff’, when a dispute arose over the accuracy of a line, added an extra touch of authenticity for any observer.
Gerry’s glass was still three-quarters full, whereas mine was nearly empty. I’m pretty good at this, I thought smugly.
I took a winner’s sip of Rioja. ‘Your turn,’ I said, throwing my head back and laughing merrily, not just for the benefit of watching eyes.
He thought for a moment, then:
‘A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon…’
Easy. Robert Service was one of my favourite poets. I’d let him think he’d got me on the run. To give the poor guy hope, I frowned, then recited haltingly, ‘The kid that handles the…the…music-box…’ I paused as if searching for the words. ‘…was…was…’
He smiled, confident he’d got me. His hand closed round his glass in anticipation of victory.
‘…playing a ragtime tune,’ I finished. ‘Your turn.’
Realising that I’d been stringing him along, he said through gritted teeth:
‘Behind the bar, in a solo game—’
I pounced. ‘Mistake,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘It’s not Behind the bar. It’s Back of the bar.’ I drained my glass and pushed it forward for a fill up.
But he leant forward and said quietly, ‘No more game playing, Deborah. Back to business.’
I looked up. Mansell was threading his way through the tables towards us. I waved a greeting. Top marks that he’d dressed in faded denim shirt and jeans. In a local bar such as this, a smart business suit would have drawn all eyes to him – and to us. I squeezed Gerry’s hand affectio
nately and whispered, ‘The time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things.’
Mansell pulled up a chair at our table. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. There was a tailback on the motorway for nearly a kilometre at the turn-off to Los Abrigos.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ I smiled. ‘Gave us a chance to catch up. I haven’t seen Ramón for ages. Ramón Martinez, Jonathan Mansell.’
Gerry nodded a greeting, ‘Encantado,’ and signalled the waiter to bring another glass.
Introductions over, I sat back. It was up to Gerry now.
Under cover of filling Mansell’s glass, he leant across the table, voice low. ‘Señor, anything you need advice on, I’ll be happy to help.’
For some moments Mansell studied his wine. ‘It’s nothing definite.’ He swirled the liquid round the glass, ‘More a gut feeling. And—’ He looked up. ‘Something Deborah said set me thinking.’
‘Mmm?’ Gerry ran a finger round a wine splash on the table.
‘About a link between casinos and money-laundering…’ He trailed off and resumed the close inspection of his wine.
‘That is true, Señor Mansell.’ Gerry’s English was lightly accented. ‘The link is very strong. Not, claro, in every case. Some casinos are, as you say, above board. But for the drug barons, what could be easier than to hide the incomings and outgoings of their money under the cover of a casino?’ He gave a wry smile and shrugged his shoulders. ‘The more respectable the reputation of the casino, the better the cover.’
Mansell sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘Hmm.’
A long silence.
Through the open door I watched a fishing boat leaving the harbour, its wake a silvery razor slash on the dark skin of the ocean. On the roof of its dog-kennel-sized cabin, sat three ball-floats, gigantic oranges ferried into the night. The wheelhouse light winked, then as it rounded the mass of the mole, was abruptly extinguished. The putt putter of the engine faded…
The silence dragged on.
Gerry broke it. ‘A successful businessman, like yourself, señor, has already shown judgement and instinct. Trust that instinct.’
Mansell appeared to come to a decision. ‘You’re right.’ He finished off his glass in two quick gulps. ‘As a matter of fact, I have been approached with the proposal of a joint venture – the opening of a new casino in Las Américas as part of the Alhambra. It would be very profitable for the hotel. Very tempting, but…’
Gerry’s eyes held Mansell’s. ‘But you have doubts about the honesty of this business partner?’
‘Ye–es.’ A reluctant nod.
‘May I ask the name of this man?’
‘We–ell.’ His eyes flickered in my direction.
So he was embarrassed, or perhaps wary, about shopping Vanheusen in front of one of Vanheusen’s staff. Time for a discreet withdrawal to the loo. I gathered up my bag and headed in the direction of the señoras.
While slowly counting up to a hundred, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, renewed my make-up, combed my hair, adjusted an earring, examined my nails. Four minutes. Mansell might need longer, given his reluctance to take the final step and name names. Gerry wouldn’t want to rush things. I leant against the tiles, stared at myself in the mirror again, and sought inspiration on how to pass the time. Got it! A dramatic rendition of The Ballad of Dan M’Grew, declaimed at full volume to take full advantage of the acoustics.
‘A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon.’ I tossed back several imaginary drinks, and slapped several imaginary backs.
‘The kid that handles the music box was playing a ragtime tune.’ My fingers fluttered and danced over the marble basin surround.
‘Back of the bar, in a solo game sat Dangerous Dan McGrew.’ Triumphantly I slapped down the winning ace. Spades.
‘And watching his luck, was his light-o’-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.’ I struck a sultry pose, hand behind head, eyeing my reflection through lowered lids.
‘Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear.’ I gazed soulfully up at the bare round bulb of the ceiling light glowing softly above my head.
‘And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear.’ I cupped a hand to my ear. Nothing. Not even the drip of a tap. The heavy door cut off all sounds from the bar. I was alone in my silent white world.
‘With only the sound of the timber wolf… Aaaoooooooo…’
This went particularly well, the ululation echoing eerily round the tiles. So hauntingly atmospheric, indeed, that I threw back my head to let rip again.
‘Aaaooo—’
There’s only a certain amount of time you can spend in the Ladies before someone thinks you’ve passed out, or passed away, or are up to no good. A fierce, ‘Qué pasa?’ cut through the echoes.
The howl died in my throat. Peering round the door was a leathery brown face, beneath the face, a faded black dress, wrinkled stockings, tired old shoes.
I clutched my heart. ‘Madre de Dios! Oh my God, it is the water pipes!’ I pointed. ‘The pipes have frozen.’ Las tuberías se han helado was the only plumbing phrase I could summon up in this emergency.
Leaving the Lady of the Loo peering apprehensively at the piping, I swept up my bag and scuttled out. Had I given Gerry enough time? Surely by now he would have prised Vanheusen’s name out of Mansell.
In my absence things seemed to have gone well. As I approached, Mansell pushed back his chair. ‘You’ve given me some useful advice, Ramón, and quite a lot to think about. I’ll be in touch if there are any more developments.’
‘And you, señor, have told me much of interest.’ Gerry leant forward and draped an arm round my shoulders. ‘I think it better if we leave at different times, so Deborah and I will stay here. We’ve a little unfinished business of our own to attend to.’ He nuzzled my ear.
We watched him leave. ‘Jackpot,’ Gerry muttered.
Jackpot, eh? Sounded like it could be translated as breakthrough. On the strength of that, I went to the bar and ordered us two large gin and tonics – on expenses, of course.
I was right about the breakthrough. Gerry leant forward and murmured, ‘He told me all about Vanheusen’s plans for a casino in the Alhambra. I thought that was all I was going to get.’ He was positively purring with satisfaction. ‘But then I struck gold. Mansell said, “You’ve convinced me that Vanheusen’s dealings are distinctly shady. That’s set me wondering about a block reservation that Exclusive made a week ago.”’ Gerry clinked my glass in a toast. ‘Four rooms booked at the Alhambra till further notice.’
‘I don’t see why he’d think there was something odd about that,’ I said. After a glass of wine and the G&T, I was feeling pretty mellow. I thought I’d humour this drip drip of information.
‘Even at the time, Mansell thought it was a bit odd that they were the cheapest rooms available, bearing in mind that Vanheusen’s clients are rather well heeled.’ He waited.
I played along. ‘Well, could be Vanheusen was having a bit of a cash-flow problem.’
‘And that occupants of the rooms stayed only two days.’
I sipped thoughtfully at my drink. ‘They didn’t like the rooms?’
He winced. ‘You do like your little joke, Deborah.’
‘Oh come on, Gerry, hit me with it. I can’t stand the suspense.’
‘And that they were all single women.’
I couldn’t resist. ‘What? Not one of them was married? No wedding rings, eh?’
He sighed and hastily rephrased. ‘They were all women on their own.’
We clinked glasses again. The mules’ stables had been located.
Chapter Twenty
I stared in fascination at Charlie’s shirt, the front of which appeared to have been shredded by the claws of a hungry tiger. Her slim legs were encased in trousers of the finest pale blue suede, so tight she could have been poured into them. In a concession to the elegance of the marbled foyer of the Alhambra, she had transferred the gold
rings from nose to ears. Gone the aggressively spiked hair, in its place the chicest of styles, a smooth blonde cap. She was lounging on a cushioned divan with a clear view of the front entrance, apparently engrossed in the screaming headlines of The Sun.
In contrast to this gorgeous creature, I felt like a dowdy sparrow in the smart casuals of my visiting-the-Alhambra-on-behalf-of-Exclusive gear. No cushioned divan for me. I was seated, rather less comfortably, on a carved wooden chair in the striped pavilion. Each of us, in our different ways, merged into the background scene.
I tapped my pen thoughtfully on my teeth. I’d been here an hour with another three to go. I might as well use the time profitably by finalising the details of Wednesday’s Outing to Gomera. Victoria Knight and Herbert Wainwright would be going home in a few days’ time, so what could I rustle up that would be completely different from the usual run-of-the-mill excursion? Idly I contemplated one of the Alhambra’s gleaming brass urns, in its convex side a mini-reflection of the reception hall – intricate plasterwork, red carpet, Charlie on her sofa… I’d already hired a catamaran but, to give Victoria a boost after her disappointment over El Sueño, I’d arrange for sparkling cava, tapas perhaps and a folk group of Gomeran singers and dancers – all courtesy of Exclusive. Then, on the island itself, a demonstration of the making of the powerful palm honey liqueur and a little bottle to take home as a souvenir. Yes, Victoria would like that. Herbie Wainwright might not, but very little pleased him anyway.
Under Suspicion Page 19