‘Happy with that board, Deborah?’
I was indeed. It was not your usual hire board, battered and slightly dated. This should give that lean, mean racing board of his a bit of competition. And a nice touch, the red and black of my suit was an exact match for the sail.
‘Like it, eh? That sail’s a six metre. That do?’
‘Fine,’ I said.
The wind tugged impatiently at the sail as he slid the board into the water. I stepped on, lifted the rig and clipped the harness onto my buoyancy aid. I leant out and powered across the waves. Ya-hee-ee. Arms braced against the pull of the sail, legs flexing to transmit the wind force to the board, I heard nothing but the water bubbling and hissing under the tail. I forgot everything, lost myself in watery combat against the elements. Forgot about Vanheusen and his plans for Gorgonzola, forgot about Victoria Knight and El Sueño, forgot Gerry and the office behind the white door. Forgot Millie Prentice and her fate.
Exhilaration. The board was a living thing beneath my feet, gathering speed, planing across the breaking crests of a picture-postcard blue sea. I looked up at the black cat logo on the red sail and hummed the opening bars of ‘The Ride of the Valkyrie’. Alas, regardless of her doom, the foolish victim plays…
The shout came slightly behind and off to my right, words torn away by the wind. I turned my head and squinted across my shoulder. The yellow sail with its black cat logo was coming up fast, a welter of white foam beneath the raised nose of the board, the black-suited figure crouching to coax every knot of power from the rig. The wind seemed stronger now, but still within my capabilities. I’d make that new board of his work at it. I leant back and sheeted in.
Another shout, very close. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the nose of his board. Typical male, aggressively competitive, crowding me. I held my course. To obey the rules of the sea he’d have to veer away. He didn’t. Our boards were now less than a metre apart, the sea boiling and frothing between them. His yellow sail blotted out the sky, blotted up the wind. My board was losing power, slowing. Bastard, this was foul play, deliberate sabotage–
Without warning, rig and board spun violently into the wind, whipping the board out from under my feet. Standing on water is not one of my accomplishments. In the slow-motion sequence of nightmare, I hung in mid-air for interminable seconds, then fell backwards, still hooked into the rig.
My brain screamed, Punch at the harness release. In an unstoppable chain reaction, the sail collapsed on top of me, I hit the water, the mast cracked hard, very hard, against my head. Darkness.
I choked as a small wave broke over my face, cold, shocking me awake. Dazedly I tried to remember what had happened. It seemed important…I’d been windsurfing…and something had gone wrong. What? I’d fallen off the board. At least I wasn’t trapped under the sail. Concentrate, concentrate. Another wave reared, huge, towering, the white foam of its crest whipped off by the wind. Find that board. I kicked my way up the face of the wave, twisting round in a desperate attempt to spot the thin line of white board against all the white crests. Kick, twist, scan. There, a long way off, a glimpse of a big motor yacht.
As I sank down into the trough, memory returned – Vanheusen, the race, that rash manoeuvre of his, crowding me. Kick up to the top of the next wave, twist, scan. With a surge of relief I recognised the distinctive outline of Samarkand Princess. Where was testosterone man? Must have gone for the rescue boat. Down I went into the trough and back up again. The flat platform on the ship’s stern was just visible through the spray. Yes, the bows were turning – but not towards me, turning away. Down…up. Down… up. Each time I reached the crest, Samarkand Princess seemed further off, but I didn’t give up hope till it was only a black smudge on the horizon.
I bobbed up the waves and down the waves and took stock of my situation. Wishing wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I had to face it, things looked bad – miles from land, wind strengthening to Force 6, water cold, board lost. The outlook was one hundred per cent black. Then I recalled Gerry’s silver-lining speech. At that awful debriefing on Jason and Juanita he’d raised our morale when spirits were down. He’d spelt out the bleak facts – the bug on Saucy Nancy used against us, Juanita dead, Jason critical, fatal setback to Operation Canary Creeper. Everything as black as it could be. Then he’d fished in the top drawer of his desk and held up a black silk handkerchief.
‘Sums up the situation, eh? As black as this?’
We’d nodded. He’d flexed the elbow of his anglepoise desk lamp, and click. The black square was no longer entirely black, but shot with threads of silver and grey. ‘Juanita’s dead. That’s the black. The grey? Though Jason’s critical, he’s not dead, and we’re aware the opposition has discovered the bug on the boat. The silver is that now that we know how Vanheusen launders his cash, our tendrils will soon have a stranglehold on his little empire. Operation Canary Creeper is not in fact wilting, but alive and well. Endgame in sight.’
Could I find a silver lining in my present situation? Well…I could see the brown cone of Teide and the rounded shoulders of the upper slopes. That meant I knew the direction of land, and therefore knew the direction to swim. And that Force 6 wind was onshore, pushing me towards the land. The water was cold, but I was wearing a wetsuit, wasn’t I? That would ward off hypothermia for some time. Board lost? I hadn’t really looked, had I? I’d been too busy watching Samarkand Princess fleeing the scene.
On the crest of the next wave I lunged upwards like a basketball player aiming to score. Nothing ahead. Nothing, that is, but line after line of angry waves. Be systematic. Up the face of another roller. I swivelled a quarter-turn to the right. From the crest, another upward lunge. Nothing. Another quarter-turn. And another. 360o. I’d turned a full circle and hadn’t caught even a glimpse of the board. But it had to be close. The drag of the rig in the water would act as a sea-anchor. It couldn’t be far, couldn’t be…
I suppose it was the mix of adrenalin and rage that gave me the strength to repeat that upward lunge four, five, six times, I lost count…eyes searching the waves for that solid horizontal line among the flying spume and spindrift. Then, as I slid down into yet another trough, I glimpsed a flick of red. Upwind, four wave crests away, twenty metres. Not very far.
Head down, I thrust forward in a frantic splashing crawl-stroke till exhausted muscles shrieked a halt. Maybe in the next trough. No. If anything, the board was further off, no doubt about it. Another wave passed beneath me. I bobbed like a cork into the trough. It was time to face facts. My flailing arms were making no headway against that silver-lining Force 6 onshore wind. Without my buoyancy aid there’d be less wind resistance. I’d be lower in the water and that would give me a chance of reaching the board. I fumbled with the release, then stopped. Without the buoyancy aid I’d drown. My fingers dropped away from the buckle. A catch-22 situation all right.
Top of a wave again. The board was definitely further off. I faced the unpalatable truth that by not making a decision, I was in fact making one. In a few minutes the board would be too far away. I’d be too cold and weak to reach it. Stay with the board is the windsurfers’ maxim. Even if I couldn’t get the sail up in this wind, it was my only chance of making it to shore. And my only chance of being seen by a passing boat.
My fingers were already stiffening. It was difficult to press and pull the release buckle. Press. Press. Pull. The straps loosened. I didn’t feel the belt fall away, but the abrupt loss of buoyancy left me spluttering and coughing as my mouth filled with water.
Decision made, go for it. Head down, weary arms rising and falling, legs desperately kicking. On the wave crest, lift head to check direction, head down, slice through water, kick, kick, kick. Head up, head down, kick, kick, kick. Head up, head down, kick, kick, kick. Body a machine. No time to think. Every ounce of effort concentrated into action.
Pain jabbed through an arm as my hand smacked against something solid, but not hard enough to be the board. Treading water, I blinked to clear m
y eyes while the thinking part of my brain cranked slowly into gear. I’d bumped into the sail, still attached to the mast, semi-submerged, wallowing at an acute angle to the board. Well, my luck was in.
Next objective must be to hoist myself on board. I’d not much strength left, but leaning down on the mast would submerge it enough for me to float over it into the sail. I’d be halfway there… I put my hands on the mast, pushed down, wriggled forward. Success. I rolled over on my back and rested for a moment in the watery hammock formed by the sail. Halfway there… or halfway still to go. All a matter of perspective, really. The glass half-full is the glass half-empty. I stared up at the clouds scurrying across the sky, and debated this philosophical point. I’ve always been a sucker for oddball quotations like: Distance doesn’t matter. It’s only the first step that is difficult. Couldn’t remember who said that, though…
A wave broke over my face. Thspafh. I spat out a mouthful of salt water. What was I doing, lying here as if I’d all the time in the world? Must be sliding into hypothermia. I rolled over. A lunge, a desperate half-scrabble, half-slither, and I lay breathless and panting, sprawled along the length of the board. I’d made it.
With the board see-sawing up and down, it was too risky to sit up, so I took a firm grip of the foot-straps and lay husbanding my strength. Was it wishful thinking, or had the wind dropped just that little bit? Possibly… Spray was no longer whipping from the crests. But the wind was still far too strong to raise the sail with the uphaul. And I was now too weak to attempt a water start. I’d just have to wait it out…
No warmth now in the sun hovering just above the horizon…no warmth in this neoprene wetsuit… shivering, shivering…
The huge orange ball of the setting sun hesitated on the horizon as if reluctant to slide into the dark waters on the edge of the world. In the Alhambra’s Café Bar Oasis, the curved glass of the cupola flamed a molten copper, antiquing the fronds of the palms a dull mud-green. From the songbirds’ gilded cage burst a crescendo of twittering, strident above the murmur of conversation and slow tinkling notes of the piano. In a quiet corner, Victoria Knight pensively turned the fragile stem of the sherry glass in her plump fingers.
From behind the sharply pleated blue-green fronds of a particularly fine dwarf fan palm, Charlie watched her once again raise the glass to her lips, once again hesitate and set the drink down untouched. Charlie’s eyes narrowed. Never ignore placid middle-aged ladies behaving abnormally. Great oaks from little acorns grow. She owed her impressive record to picking up on little things like that. As if coming to a decision, Victoria reached down for her handbag and moved purposefully towards the foyer. Seconds later Charlie followed…
Two men and a woman in evening dress were standing near the lifts. An English voice, arrogantly self-assured trumpeted, ‘All set then?’
‘Fiona’s just coming. You know her. Takes a bloody hour to fix her hair.’ A loud braying laugh. ‘We’ll be up the creek if the show starts on time.’
Victoria Knight was standing beside the desk in the Exclusive pavilion tent, tugging at the locked drawer. Thwarted, her hand fell away. She straightened, looking around helplessly.
Get the approach right, Charlie thought, as she dodged round the southern counties threesome.
‘Mrs Knight, isn’t it?’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m a colleague of Deborah’s. We work together at Extreme Travel. Waiting for her, are you?’
‘That’s just it. She should be here. I’ve been looking out for her for two hours.’ Her fingers plucked anxiously at the buttons of her cardigan. ‘That’s why I thought if I could get hold of her travel agency’s phone number…find out if she’d been held up there…’ Her eyes scanned the foyer. ‘You see, today’s Farewell Outing was a trip on Samarkand Princess. When she missed lunch, I asked where she was, and Mr Vanheusen said she had decided to windsurf back… and…and…’ Her voice tailed off. ‘I’m so worried. You see, she’d never have gone off like that, without a word to Herbie and me.’
Alarm bells rang. ‘Let me get this straight. Deborah went off windsurfing, abandoning you and – er, Herbie, on Vanheusen’s yacht? Can you go over exactly what happened?’
Her plump fingers plucked at the soft wool of the cashmere cardigan. ‘Now, let’s see. I was in the Grecian Temple Spa, trying out of one those state-of-the-art Jacuzzis with different programmes – just like a fancy washing machine. You get a wonderful view of the waves, you know, through these huge windows, but they must take an awful lot of cleaning. Of course, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on outside, but I do seem to remember seeing two sails dashing about.’
‘Two sails?’
‘Yes, Deborah and Mr Vanheusen. Now let me get it right…’ Victoria closed her eyes for a moment in concentration. ‘She didn’t turn up for lunch, as I said. And when I asked where she was, he said they’d gone out together windsurfing, and she’d been enjoying herself so much that she’d decided to sail – I think that’s the right word – all the way back to Los Cristianos. I assumed she’d be joining up with us again at the harbour, didn’t think anything of it, until we arrived back, and she wasn’t there to meet us. I said to Mr Vanheusen, “Oh dear, perhaps she’s had an accident”, but he only laughed and said, “No, no, of course not. With that wind behind her, she’ll have got in hours ago, while we were still having lunch. Be back home now with her feet up. Anyway, she’s wearing a transponder” – he explained it’s a sort of radio device that sends out a distress signal – and Samarkand Princess would have picked it up if anything had happened.’
Nice one, Ambrose. Charlie could recognise a tall story even in fancy packaging. She fished in her pocket for her mobile phone.
Victoria Knight dropped her voice still further. ‘Keep it between ourselves, dear, but Herbie’s a touch self-centred. He moaned on about being left in the lurch, and hoping it wouldn’t be the same dereliction of duty tomorrow when she was due to take him to the airport. And Mr Vanheusen clapped him on the shoulder and said not to worry, that Monique would be taking him.’
Tying the bow on the fancy package, eh, Ambrose? It didn’t look good for DJ. Charlie’s fingers closed round the phone in her pocket.
‘Well, that satisfied Herbie. But I know Deborah would never let him leave without a word. She’d be here by now to say goodbye. And then…and then… just a few minutes ago, I had this awful thought.’ Victoria subsided suddenly into the carved wooden chair. ‘Clothes.’
‘Clothes?’ Charlie frowned. Her fingers relaxed their grip and the phone slid back into her pocket. The woman had seemed rational, but…
As if sensing that Charlie was measuring her for a straitjacket, Victoria leant forward, her words tumbling over each other in an effort to convince. ‘She wouldn’t have been windsurfing in that nice little outfit she was wearing, would she? She’d be wearing a swimming cozzie or one of these black rubbery suits. And she wouldn’t go off home in that. She’d want to change back into her own clothes, so she’d have had to wait for us.’ Victoria put her hand on Charlie’s arm, eyes pleading. ‘You do see what I mean, don’t you, dear?’
Indeed Charlie did. She pulled the phone from her pocket. ‘I think you’re right. But I’ll try giving her a ring at home, just in case…’
She punched in the number… ‘No reply.’ She gnawed thoughtfully at her lip. ‘I’ll try Extreme Travel… Hi, Jayne, it’s Charlie. I’m at the Alhambra. Deborah’s not called in, has she? Hmm…I’ve a Mrs Knight here. She’s been trying to get hold of Deborah for a couple of hours. They’ve been at a do on Vanheusen’s yacht and she’s a bit concerned. Seems Deborah went windsurfing with the boss man and hasn’t come back… Apparently, the wind was so good that she decided to give the rest of the party a miss and return under her own steam… Mmm, I think so too. OK, see you.’
She slipped the phone back into pocket. ‘Well, she’s not at the office. They’re a bit concerned too now, so they’re going to alert the coastguard. They’ll keep in touch and let me k
now as soon as there’s any news.’ For Victoria’s benefit she summoned up a reassuring smile. ‘Let’s slope off to the Café Bar Oasis and fill in the time with a coffee – or something stronger – and you can tell me all about that yacht. I’ve heard it’s absolutely fantastic inside…’
…I’d lost track of time. Trough, crest, trough, crest. Quite a soothing rhythm. From the top of the rollers land was visible, now purpled by dusk. The wind was less strong, the waves perceptibly smaller, but still too much for me to handle in my present state. Nothing else to do but lie here clutching the board and for the umpteenth time rerun that race with Vanheusen. Let’s see…I’d been concentrating on keeping distance between us. Then rig and board had gone into that sudden uncontrollable spin. Had the board’s long fin perhaps collided with a semi-submerged object? No…I’d have felt the shock.
Gradually I came round to the idea that it had all been planned. But how? The board had been sailing hard, zipping through the waves, with the fin under a lot of pressure… The fin, he’d sabotaged the fin. If it broke, there’d be an uncontrollable sideways swerve. And that’s exactly what had happened.
But had the fin broken? To find out one way or the other, I’d only have to reach down into the water. Keeping an arm in one of the foot-straps, I slid my fingers along the underside of the board. Instead of the long smooth profile of the fin, I felt a ragged, rough-edged stump. Stress failure or—? Numb fingertips aren’t the most sensitive of instruments. I stuck my fingers in my mouth for a couple of minutes to warm them up, and tried again. One edge was jaggedly uneven, the other rough but straight. Evidence that the fin had been sawn part-way through, just enough to weaken it if it came under stress – and Vanheusen’s macho challenge had made sure of that.
Under Suspicion Page 23