The camera phone in my pocket vibrated. I switched it on. Staring back at me from the screen was a thin face, dark shadows under the eyes, eyebrows mere smudges of colour against a sallow skin. The mule. I put the phone back in my pocket and shuffled the papers into a neat pile. Reflected in the Ali Baba urn, Charlie was putting down her paper and leisurely picking up her phone.
‘Engineer an encounter,’ Gerry had said to both of us. ‘Then you’ll be a familiar face for the lonely mule to latch onto when all and sundry are decanted from their rooms by an opportune fire alarm. With luck she’ll let slip something of importance.’
To engineer an encounter was easier said than done. One thing for sure, Charlie’s approach would be entirely different from mine. I’d be hovering near the reception desk when the mule checked in, go up in the lift with her, get chatting. If she was an experienced mule, she’d be relaxed and more receptive. I’d play it by ear.
There she was. Just coming through the plate-glass doors into the lobby, wheeling a small trolley case. The stylish cream linen suit did nothing for that sallow skin. I scraped back my chair and half-rose. I’d have to get into position to intercept her.
A shadow fell over my table. An all too familiar querulous voice whined, ‘Can I have a word with you, ma’am? Right now!’ The pinched features were flushed, the thick pebble lenses heliographing outrage.
Over Wainwright’s shoulder, I saw the mule pause uncertainly and look around, then move towards the reception desk. Short of shouldering him aside, there was no way I could get past him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlie spring into action. In one fluid movement she jumped up, dropping the pages of The Sun at the mule’s feet.
‘It’ll have to be stopped, I tell you.’ From his tone Herbert G Wainwright III meant business. He dragged a chair nearer the table and sat down. ‘If I could have your full attention, ma’am.’
Reluctantly, I dragged my eyes away from Charlie’s flustered attempts to gather up the scattered pages. Aided by the light breeze from the ceiling fans, she had successfully ensnared her quarry.
I tuned in one ear to Charlie’s giggled apologies and the mule’s startled response, switched on a professional smile and assigned the other ear to the Wainwright whinge.
‘All the way over here to Tenerife…about to spend good dollars on a luxury condo…a lot of dough involved…’
I polished my smile and let him drone on while I strained to hear Charlie’s conversation with the mule.
‘You’re English!’ Charlie’s voice had acquired a nasal twang. ‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Liverpool? You’re from Liverpool? Which part?’
Mumbled reply.
‘Fancy that. Lived there till I was ten. Bet it’s changed…’
Wainwright was wittering on, ‘…and Los Cristianos seemed so…but nobody clued me in about…’
I assumed an ‘I’m all ears’ expression, and focused on the scene in the foyer. Charlie rounded up the last wandering page and tucked it under her arm. ‘I’m staying here too. Name’s Charlie. See you around…’
I had to hand it to her, Charlie was a real pro.
‘…prancing about butt naked.’ Wainwright stopped abruptly.
I wrenched my attention back. ‘Naked?’
He nodded slowly, ‘Yeah, bare.’ I must have looked blank, for he added, ‘Nude.’
What was he talking about? ‘Nude,’ he’d said. Had there been cavortings in the plashing fountains of the Alhambra? Had a streaker accosted him in its splendid corridors? I played for safety. ‘Why that’s… that’s terrible. I really can’t believe it.’
He leant back in his chair. ‘Yeah, well, if Vanheusen thinks I’m into that kind of thing, he’s goofed up. And you can tell him so.’
‘I’ll certainly do that.’ I drew the writing pad towards me. ‘He likes serious complaints to be put in writing.’ I summoned up some soothing jargon. ‘So that it can be properly actioned.’ I poised my pen encouragingly. ‘So if you’ll just go over it from the beginning… You were…?’
‘In Los Cristianos, on the pier, waiting in line for a round-trip ticket to the little island out there. I wanted to see the place from where that guy Columbus made the trip to the US of A.’
I wrote: On the quayside at Los Cristianos en route to La Gomera. What on earth had this to do with Vanheusen and Exclusive? ‘Yes, and…?’
‘That quayside-wall billboard.’ He stopped.
Billboard? Quayside wall? He must mean the bright mural depicting fish – whale, dolphin, that kind of thing – and the huge multicoloured lettering Los Cristianos Puerto de la Naturaleza. Just like him to complain that it was gaudy, cheap-looking, an act of vandalism on age-old stone.
‘Yes?’ I prompted.
‘I asked the guy next in line what the ad meant, and he told me—’ He paused. ‘He told me that it said…’ He leant confidingly over the table and lowered his voice. ‘…Los Cristianos opens the door to nudism. Seems that they’re about to designate the main beach solely for the use of naturists.’
Trust Wainwright to be standing next to a joker. What Los Cristianos was touting was the Environment. Nature, not naturists. Luckily he took my strangled gurgle of mirth as a cry of horror.
He nodded. ‘I see we’re on the same wavelength. This sure changes things.’ The heliographs flashed annoyance. ‘I’d been seriously considering that penthouse condo, but looks like I’ll have to pull out now.’
My expression grave, I murmured, ‘I’m sure Mr Vanheusen will be most concerned. I’ll report this to him immediately. He has a lot of influence behind the scenes, and pressure can be brought. You can definitely put your mind at rest.’
The smoothing of Wainwright’s ruffled feathers took several more minutes. By the time I had leisure to look around again, there was no sign of either Charlie or the mule.
At 9.05 a.m. the next day, in accordance with Gerry’s briefing, I was sitting in the Exclusive striped pavilion apparently browsing through assorted papers. Guests at the Alhambra tended to favour late breakfasts, so there wasn’t much activity in the foyer – a small group waiting for their excursion bus, cameras and guidebooks at the ready, a family checking out and through the arched doorway leading to the Casablanca courtyard, an ear-phoned jogger making a slow circuit of the lake/pool, baseball cap shading eyes, slim brown legs powering a pair of designer trainers. In one minute’s time the fire alarm, courtesy of Gerry, would shatter this five-star tranquillity. There was no sign of Charlie. She’d likely be holed up in her room, a few doors down the corridor from the mule, savouring the luxury of the Alhambra’s crisp Sea Island cotton sheets, and sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea.
Twenty seconds to go.
Tweeeteeteeet tweeeteeteeet tweeeteeteeet. A strident twittering and chirping shattered the hush of the reception hall, as if thousands of invisible songbirds had burst out of the gilded cage in the Café Bar Oasis and were swooping and fluttering beneath the fretted arches and soaring ceilings. The staff switched smoothly into well-rehearsed fire-drill routine, interrupting the checkout and ushering the family and excursionists firmly towards the front entrance.
As they trooped out to the car park, I called over to the head of reception, ‘Check me off, Paco. I’m off to Muster Point D to reassure the Exclusive clients.’ I scooped up my papers and made for the fire assembly point.
If I hadn’t known where Point D was, I’d have located it by Wainwright’s whinging nasal drone, as hard on the ears as the twittering fire alarm. Pink skinny legs descending from the mass of soft terry towelling, long scrawny neck thrust belligerently forward, like an irate anaemic flamingo he was targeting the unfortunate employee in charge of the muster list.
‘You hear what I say, mister? If a guy’s liable to be dragged outta bed just after sun-up to hang about in a goddam parking lot, he expects to be issued with a decent robe.’
The Grouch could take care of himself. My real objective was Muster Point E. I sidled discreetly round the back of a small grou
p of guests, pausing only to have a quick word with Victoria Knight sitting placidly on one of the benches, face upturned to the warm sun.
Charlie should have latched onto the mule by now…And there was the mule, pale as ever, gazing nervously round as if the long arm of the law was about to reach out and seize her. But where was Charlie? Not among the twenty or thirty people gathered in small groups at Muster Point E, checking in their names or gazing speculatively at the windows of the Alhambra. Not among the late-risers coddled in Wainwright-maligned Alhambra bathrobes. Not beside the red-baseball-capped jogger, now sporting wraparound dark glasses, running on the spot to music on a CD player.
Well, it looked like it was up to me now. I took a step forward—
‘It’s me, it’s me, O Lord, jogging in the parking lot…’ sang the red-baseball-capped figure, trotting a nimble circle round me on those slim brown legs.
And indeed it was. Charlie had morphed again. Everything was under control. I allowed a couple of papers to flutter from my hand and chased them across the car park, catching them up at a nearby seat half-hidden by an almond-perfumed pink oleander. From there I could keep a discreet eye and ear on events.
‘Hey there, Scouser. Met yesterday, remember?’ Charlie’s grin was open and friendly.
She received a guarded smile in return.
‘Bit of a pain isn’t it, this fire alarm.’ A slow-motion jog round the mule. ‘Hope you don’t mind me nattering away like this.’ A fancy piece of jogging on the spot. Then, ‘I’m really cheesed off with all these false alarms. Same carry on last week from burnt toast in the kitchens. Somebody left a door open, the barman told me, and smoke drifted into the corridors.’ The jogging stopped as she fiddled with the CD player. ‘Bloody thing’s stopped working! Supposed to be jog proof too…’
I sat back as Charlie set to work demolishing the mule’s wall of reserve. By the time the bomberos arrived, she was on first-name terms with Lisa and they were engaged in animated discussion of pop bands and lead singers. As for me, I filled in the next half hour working on ideas for the Exclusive picnic.
The fire engine and its crew drove off. From Charlie an explosive, ‘At last! C’mon, Lisa, I’ll stand you a tall latte.’ In heated debate about the latest pop idol, they strolled off towards the Café Bar Oasis.
‘CU @ Harley’s 20.30.’ The text message had come in from the office half an hour ago. Probably from Jayne. Must be something important if it couldn’t wait till tomorrow’s briefing. Had there been a sudden development re the mule?
I got there with ten minutes in hand. The big American cars – Dodge, Buick, Pontiac – icons of a world long gone, chrome fenders gleaming, paintwork polished to a mirror finish, were lined up in a last beauty parade outside the glass portals of Harley’s restaurant/bar. Last in line, a battered military helicopter, dowdy Cinderella among these splendid dinosaurs, drooped its rotor blades sadly, as if cowed by the surrounding splendour. A chain and a couple of bouncers kept at bay a little group of gawkers, reinforcing the unwritten message: Admire, but do not touch.
Hands in pockets I strolled over to join the rubberneckers in front of a sage-green vintage two-seater with tiny rear window and Bonnie and Clyde-style upright boxy shape, all sharp lines and voluptuously rounded boot. To me, a car’s a car, useful to get from one place to another and I’ve never been much interested in models and marques. But I have to admit I was fascinated by the huge round bowls of headlights, running boards wide enough to serve as comfortable picnic seats, and the long bonnet slashed with vertical gills like the body of a powerful fish. I was not so taken with the spindly wire-spoke wheels. Two spares, one strapped on each side of the bonnet, suggested all-too-frequent mishaps. And as for that flimsy bumper, elegant but oh, so useless…
Brakes screeched behind me. I swung round to see a taxi stalled in the middle of the road, the rear door half open.
‘I thought it was you, dear.’ A cardigan-clad arm pushed the door fully open, a plump leg levered its owner out of the clutch of the pseudo-leather upholstery. ‘Just a momento, señor. I – come – back.’ Oblivious to the outbreak of hooting horns, Victoria stepped onto the pavement. ‘I saw you and just had to ask you now. You see, about El Sueño, I’ve decided there’s nothing I can do…’
So she had finally given up her dream of El Sueño. Just as well. Little old lady versus all that Vanheusen clout, no contest.
‘…for a couple of weeks, that is. The Reservation Contract runs only till the end of the month. As you said, dear, there’s always hope. So what do you think? Can I arrange with Mr Vanheusen to stay on at the Alhambra till then?’
‘Not a good idea,’ I said quickly.
‘Oh…I was so sure…’ Her face crumpled, her shoulders sagged. Inside the woolly cardigan, the chubby body seemed to slump.
Damn. Urgent retrieval of situation required. ‘Not a good idea to tell Mr Vanheusen anything, I mean.’
An all-terrain baby buggy was rapidly bearing down on us. I steered Victoria towards the next-in-line of Harley vehicles, an ugly Pontiac built like an armoured car, bulky metal visor reducing windscreen to a slit, bumper that would do credit to a bulldozer.
‘In property matters, Victoria, you have to play things close to the chest, never reveal your hand to the opposition. If the contract does fall through, and they know you’re out there waiting, they’ll bump up the price.’
I wasn’t giving her false hopes or being kind now to be cruel later. The way Operation Canary Creeper was progressing, there was a good chance that Vanheusen would be behind bars before the month was out. The company’s assets would take some time to sort out, but perhaps a way could be found to…
A slow smile lit up her face. ‘So you do think it’s worth a try?’
‘I think that if you return home without giving this a go, you’ll always regret it. If you agree, we’ll leave Mr Vanheusen out of it and I’ll quietly arrange for you to stay on at the Alhambra.’
‘Nothing ventured, nothing won. That’s what my Jack always said. And…’ a whisper so soft, I had to strain to hear above the roar of a passing Titsa bus, ‘one day he won the Big One.’
She waved a hand in vague acknowledgement of another impatient beep beep beeep from her abandoned taxi. ‘Momento, momento.’ Leisurely, refusing to be rushed, she fished in her handbag and held out Exclusive’s invitation to the Farewell Cruise. ‘You’ll want this back, then. I’d been so looking forward to it, but I’d be an impostor, wouldn’t I?’
‘Victoria,’ I said, ‘playing things close to the chest means exactly that. Don’t change any arrangements that don’t have to be changed. The cruise will be going ahead, anyway, for Herbert. What’s one more passenger to a man like Mr Vanheusen? I think he can afford the expense, don’t you?’
Beeeeeeeeep from the taxi. The engine revved to a high scream. ‘You come or no come, señora?’ Another ear-splitting rev.
‘I come, I come.’ She stuffed the card back into her bag and scuttled across the road.
‘Remember,’ I called after her, ‘say nothing – not even to Herbert.’
Hand on the half-open door, she turned towards me. An eyelid drooped in a slow conspiratorial wink. ‘My lips are sealed, dear.’
Eight-twenty-five. I’d go in now. If you’ve ever been to Harley’s, you’ll know that it’s not exactly quiet – its cheerful bustle, conversation-drowning music and subdued lighting made it perfect for a clandestine rendezvous. I joined the small queue of those waiting to be shown to a table, giving me the chance to eyeball a monstrous, macho Harley Davidson on its circular dais, a sparkling chrome juggernaut, the very personification of power and speed aptly called The Beast.
‘Hi there, I’m Suzy.’ A girl in black T-shirt and black trousers rattled off the Harley greeting in an Australian twang. ‘Do you want to sit upstairs in the Sports Bar, or here in the restaurant? Smoking or non-smoking?’
‘Restaurant, non-smoking and over at the back.’ It was darker there.
With
a deft movement she fielded a black and white booklet from the stack and turned to scan the tables. ‘Nothing free over there at the moment. ’Fraid we’re real busy tonight.’
She steered me towards Sunset Blvd, an alcove to the right of a red neon sign flashing WC. Not as private as I’d hoped, considering it was adjacent to the flight path to the loo, but on second thoughts, possibly better – those heading in that direction would have their gaze fixed on the sign and their mind on the objective.
‘Why not have a lee-surely drink while you choose your meal?’ She thrust the black and white booklet into my hands, switched on a practised smile, and swept off.
I’d been thinking of an unadventurous, bog-standard beer. I scanned the drinks on offer. Harley’s Comfortable Screw, Benders Banshee, Bubblegum Shot, One Between the Sheets… Flaming Zombie, rum and fruit juice with a circle of flaming fire. Now that sounded intriguing. But regrettably, no. Nothing, alas, would be more likely to draw attention to my darkish corner than a circle of flaming fire.
‘Mind if I sit here?’ asked an American voice.
‘Sorry,’ I said, continuing to study the multicoloured pages of the drinks’ list, ‘seat’s taken.’
As if I hadn’t spoken, the female pulled back the chair and flopped down.
‘Excuse me! I just told you—’ I registered the spiky hair, the nose ring, the eyebrow stud, the cheeky grin. I had to hand it to Charlie. Nobody would associate her now with the stylishly fashionable young woman lounging in the Alhambra foyer or this morning’s baseball-capped young fitness freak. And she’d engineered the meeting perfectly.
Suzy returned, pencil poised.
‘I’ll have a small beer,’ I said.
Gold nose ring glinting, Charlie ran her finger down the drinks’ list. ‘Make mine a Benders Banshee.’
Suzy put the pencil to work, handed over two menus, and headed back to the door. New customer, same smile.
Under Suspicion Page 20