Under Suspicion

by The Mulgray Twins

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Restlessly I tossed, turned and glowered at the triangular patch of sunlight edging across the ceiling above the bed…

  …Fragile little lady had been kept safely out of harm’s way by Jock The Minder. I’d gazed up at the dark sky, I’d stared at the sullen sea, I’d counted the twinkling lights of Los Cristianos. And then I’d done it all again. And again. All in teeth-gritting silence, you understand. I was missing out on the climax of Operation Softly-Softly, and there was nothing I could do about it, but I wasn’t going to whine, or pester, or plead, and give him the satisfaction of rapping out another, ‘Whisht, wumman.’

  I endured another hour of bobbing about in that bloody boat before that bloody Scot sprang into life, if that can accurately describe a slow straightening of the back, flexing of shoulders and stretching of arms. At long last, the engine spluttered and fired.

  I was sitting there, smugly giving myself a big pat on the back for all my iron self-control, when I realised that the distant harbour wall was slipping past from left to right, meaning that we were headed not for Los Cristianos but for the marina at Las Américas. All self-control evaporated in a flash.

  ‘Where the hell are we going?’ I screeched above the clatter of the engine.

  No reply.

  I seized the scope and tapped it sharply on the wheelhouse roof. That got his attention. His head snapped up.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I yelled. ‘The harbour mouth’s the other way.’

  To my fury, the dim glow from the binnacle betrayed an unmistakable upward twitch of his lips.

  Shanghaied. There was no other word for it.

  I’d only make a fool of myself by ranting and raving. It wouldn’t get me anywhere. Better to feign nonchalance, give an impression of lofty insouciance. With an exaggerated shrug I laced my hands behind my head and leant back against the nets, outwardly calm, inwardly fuming that Gerry had pulled a fast one to keep me happy and let me think I’d persuaded him.

  Well, I certainly wasn’t happy now. Most definitely not. And as soon as Jock set me ashore, I’d whizz back in a taxi to Los Cristianos. Samarkand Princess would be cordoned off, but I’d sidle up to a familiar face and blag my way on board. I hadn’t missed much, I consoled myself. They’d still be searching. Vanheusen didn’t believe in half measures and taking chances. He’d have that package well hidden. Yes, that’s what I’d do, blag my way on board. I could see, of course, that a confrontation between Vanheusen and myself wouldn’t be a good idea, but by then he’d have been hustled away. In police HQ he’d be throwing his weight about and summoning his smart lawyers. Well, for once he wouldn’t get his way. However high-powered his legal team was, they couldn’t get him off the hook once we’d located that stash of drugs.

  So, no tantrums from me when Berberecho nosed gently against the wooden pontoon in Las Américas marina. I merely smiled sweetly, dislodged a bit of cork wedged behind my ear, and untangled my boots from the tendril grip of the nets.

  ‘Your carriage awaits, lassie.’ With a jerk of his thumb, Jock indicated a sporty yellow blob of a car on the quayside.

  Gerry had relented and decided to give me a tiny piece of the action.

  ‘Thank you, my man,’ I said loftily, grand lady to lowly coachman.

  The car he’d sent was a squat Dinky toy of a car, ornamented on each side of the bonnet with impressive gill-like slits.

  The driver’s window slid smoothly down. Charlie’s white-blonde hair gleamed from the dark interior. ‘Hi, there, DJ, just hop in.’

  ‘Nice set of wheels. Suits you,’ I said as I folded myself double and closed the door behind me with a clunk.

  It might have suited the doll-like Charlie, but the interior was decidedly compact for anyone with long back or legs. In my dark green jeans and jacket, and with knees bent at an acute angle, I felt like an ungainly grasshopper.

  I clicked the seat belt, ‘To the action, chauffeur mine.’

  ‘Not tonight, D-J-os-ephine. Straight home and to bed for you.’ She gunned the engine and drove off in the opposite direction from Los Cristianos.

  Gerry had been one step ahead again.

  ‘Oh come on, Charlie, we’ve just got to be there when they find the evidence to nail that bastard.’

  She crunched a gear. ‘I hear, but I do not obey.’

  ‘Gerry owes it to me after all I’ve been through,’ I whined in an appeal to her softer side. I should have known that she didn’t have one.

  ‘Mmmm mmmmmm mmmmmmm,’ she hummed slowly, one hand off the wheel, arm sawing at imaginary violin. ‘Skip the sob stuff, Debs. You’ll have my mascara running in a minute.’

  I lapsed into a huffy silence, and bided my time. Sooner or later she’d have to slow down, stop at an intersection, and when she did, I’d be ready, out and running before she could do anything about it. I edged a hand towards the door handle.

  ‘Naughty, naughty! The door locks are on.’ I just hated that hint of a smirk in her voice. ‘Might as well accept what Gerry’s decreed, DJ.’

  She was right. I slumped back in my seat, wearier than I cared to admit.

  With the jarring lurch of an emergency stop, we pulled up outside my front door. ‘Doors to manual.’ Charlie deactivated the safety locks.

  I climbed stiffly out. ‘Buzz off home now, Charlie. Escort duties over.’ I expressed my high dudgeon by slamming the car door.

  The window slid down. ‘Not quite over, Debs. I’m on taxi-blocking patrol now.’ The window slid smoothly up. The engine cut out. Charlie and her yellow jalopy had taken root outside Calle Rafael Alberti, numero 2.

  Stymied.

  I flounced across the pavement. But to be absolutely truthful, after those hours crouched on hard wood and scratchy nets, a soft bed and pillow were suddenly very appealing.

  Fretting and fuming over the events of the past few hours did nothing to induce slumber. So here I was, a couple of hours later, still restlessly tossing and turning. At last I dozed off, but I found no respite in sleep…

  …I was at the wheel of Charlie’s yellow jalopy, on the roof a sign, Obedience School of Motoring.

  Gerry was sitting in the passenger seat with a large clipboard. ‘Take the next turn right.’

  I spun the wheel. The nose of the car turned left. A huge black cross appeared on the clipboard.

  ‘Failed, Deborah.’

  Perleep perleep perleep peep peep. Perleep perleep perleep peep peep. I surfaced groggily, totally disorientated for a second or two. What time was it? I struggled up on one elbow and peered at the alarm clock. 8.30. I’d been asleep for only two hours, for God’s sake. Across the room on the dresser my mobile perleeped again. It couldn’t be urgent. Probably Charlie, checking to see if I was still at home. Let her sweat. I sank down again and pulled the sheet over my head…

  …‘Checkmate.’ Gerry plunked down his queen. ‘I’ll give you…’ He nibbled at an earpiece of his glasses. ‘…0 out of 10 for reading my mind. Now let’s try it again.’ He reset the board, slid his pawn to K4, and set the timer going. ‘You’ve got one hour to make your move…’

  I fingered my pawn. The black hands of the timing-clock whizzed round. Perleep perleep perleep peep peep.

  He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Time up. Failed again, Deborah.’

  Perleep perleep perleep peep peep on and on and on.

  I tried ignoring it, tried the previous tactic of pulling the sheet over my head, stuffing my fingers in my ears. Utterly useless. Charlie wasn’t going to give up. I threw back the sheet. In three strides I crossed the room and snatched up the phone.

  ‘Stop arsing about, you stupid pillock, and let – me – sleep. S-l-e-e-p. Sleep.’

  Jayne’s calm voice said, ‘Take a grip, Deborah. We’ve a bit of an emergency here. I wouldn’t have disturbed you otherwise. I’m afraid both Tom and Dick have called in sick. I know it’s your day off, but we’d appreciate it if you could come in. We’re really desperate.’

  Tom and
Dick, the Department’s panic button. The coded message was, Report to the office prontissimo, asap, NOW. Whatever was going on, it was something major.

  ‘We-e-ll, just for you, Jayne,’ I said, now thoroughly awake. ‘But I’ll have to call a taxi. I’ve no wheels at the moment.’ I’d left my car at the Alhambra on Friday on the way to the Farewell Cruise and hadn’t had the chance to pick it up.

  ‘It’ll be quicker if I send someone, so don’t bother with the taxi. I knew I could rely on you, Debs. Thanks, see you.’ She rang off.

  There’d been an audible sigh of relief there. The unflappable Jayne losing her cool, I didn’t like it one little bit.

  I made a quick calculation – it would be fifteen minutes or so before my transport arrived. I’d just have time for a shower, a cup of tea, and—

  Bzzzzzzzz bzz bzzzzzzzz bzzzzzzz. Someone was at the door punching out the Department code. Had Jayne dispatched that car before she phoned me? Through the fisheye lens of the security viewer I saw Charlie’s blonde head, and in the background the Dinky toy yellow jalopy.

  ‘Must be a bit of a flap on,’ I said as I edged open the door just enough to allow her to sidle in. It wouldn’t do to startle any passing worthy of Calle Rafael Alberti with the way-out design of my psychedelic sleep-shirt.

  ‘Too right.’ She eyed my shirt thoughtfully. ‘No offence, DJ, but mutton dressed as lamb, wouldn’t you say?’ She disappeared into the kitchen. Above the sound of the kettle filling up, she called, ‘Action stations, girl! You’re needed. I know Gerry’s not in your good books, but he’ll be a guy up the creek without a paddle unless you can pull a rabbit out of the hat.’

  Effervescent Charlie spewing out tired old clichés was a sure sign of stress. Last night everything had seemed to be going nicely to plan. Whatever had thrown a spanner in the works, time was now obviously of the essence. Too bad about the shower – gone for a Burton in Charlie stress-speak – but at least by the sound of it, I’d be getting a nice strong cup of tea.

  ‘Ready in a jiffy,’ I called from the bedroom, flinging off the scorned sleep-shirt and pulling on an old T-shirt and pair of jeans.

  Charlie came in as I was sitting on the bed slipping my feet into canvas casuals. ‘Don’t say I’m not waiting on you hand and foot.’ She handed me a mug. ‘This’ll kick-start you, O Saviour of the Mission – not to mention of the Missionary.’

  I looked up at her blankly.

  ‘I’ll fill you in on the details on the way, but to wrap it up in a couple of sentences, we can’t find the drugs. Unless Gorgonzola comes up trumps, Vanheusen gets off scot-free, and Gerry’s for the high jump.’

  Beneath the chirpy exterior, she was pretty uptight. It was catching. I was tense myself now. I took a sip from the mug. Black coffee, not tea, but I gulped it down without protest.

  I locked the front door and followed Charlie to the car.

  ‘G’s not been flown off the island yet?’

  ‘No, no. You’ll rendezvous with her at the yacht.’

  For the second time in less than five hours, I folded myself grasshopper-like into the front seat of the yellow jalopy. ‘Go easy on the gas, Charlie.’

  She didn’t, of course. Shaken and stirred, I creaked out of the yellow hell-bubble and leant for support on the roof while I flexed my cramped legs.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Charlie was rummaging in her little bumbag. ‘You’ll need this.’ Solemn now, she thrust a police pass at me and jerked a thumb in the direction of Samarkand Princess. ‘You and Gorgonzola make a great team, DJ. You’ll find that needle in the haystack, I know you will.’ A Victory V gesture of the fingers, a gunning of the engine and the yellow blob departed in a cloud of dust.

  I didn’t share her confidence. I knew that, for hours, dogs and specialist teams had searched the white floating palace that was Vanheusen’s yacht, the four decks above the waterline, the spa complex, sun and sports areas, lounges, staterooms, bathrooms, crew quarters, galley kitchen, engine room – and hadn’t found the drugs. No doubt about it, the Department was in deep schtook.

  I found Gerry in the stunningly minimalist lounge. In time of stress he had resorted to the familiar, namely a swivel chair. As swivel chairs go, Vanheusen’s white leather state-of-the-art model was in a class of its own, programmable by hand control for speed of swivel, angle of back, height of foot-rest and appearance/disappearance of pop-out drinks tray. He brought me up to date on the progress of the search, or lack of it, absent-mindedly thumbing the control buttons like a set of worry beads.

  ‘So you see, at the present moment we’ve got nothing on him – though Friday’s little scheme to get rid of you might give us a useful holding charge, if necessary.’ He pressed a button and the chair swivelled slowly to the right. ‘Failure to report a distressed or endangered person to the coastguard, and/or go to help, is a breach of maritime regulations.’ Another button pressed, the chair swivelled left. ‘Even if we can’t produce proof that he tampered with the fin and was responsible for engineering the “accident”, even if he denies boardsailing with you, one thing is irrefutable. You were his passenger, you set off from his ship and you failed to return.’ The foot-rest elevated itself to the horizontal.

  ‘But this happened in Spanish waters—’

  ‘Aha, no problema…’ The chair back reclined to a comfortable angle.

  I fought down a wave of irritation. He was one step ahead of me yet again, but this wasn’t the time to bring up Jock and Charlie’s minder roles to keep me away from last night’s action. He popped out the drinks tray concealed in the armrest. ‘Yes, it’s still an open-and-shut breach of regulations.’ The tray slid smoothly back into its slot. ‘Our Maritime and Coastguard Agency enforces regulations for British ships anywhere in the world. So Vanheusen can be charged with breach of a 1998 regulation, number 1691, to be exact.’

  ‘And the penalty’s a whopping fine?’ My eyes roamed round the vast expanse of teak flooring, the stylishly extravagant white leather upholstery, the bar’s backlit shelves of connoisseur brands, the enormous plasma screen…not to mention that profligate forest of white orchids in the planter. ‘It would have to be pretty big to make a dent in the bastard’s finances.’

  The swivel chair zoomed upright. ‘It’s an indictable offence.’ He reached for the lighting control pad on the coffee table. ‘In the magistrates’ court the maximum fine’s £5000, chicken feed to a guy like Ambrose, but…’ The Milky Way of downlighters blushed rosy pink. ‘…in serious cases – and we have attempted murder here, or if we can’t prove that, deliberate abandonment of damsel in distress – it goes to Crown Court, and there…’ Fade up sunset red. ‘…penalty’s an unlimited fine, and/or two years in prison.’ Fade down to moonlight blue.

  For a short moment we sat there, wearing the laurels of victory, celebratory drum rolls in our ears.

  A tap at the door introduced grim reality in the shape of a uniformed policeman. ‘Señor Burnside, the second search with dogs has proved negative. Your orders?’

  The curtain came down on the lighting effects. Gerry stood up and stretched. ‘OK, action time, Deborah. You’ve always claimed that Gorgonzola could out-sniff any dog. Now prove it. The stuff’s got to be here.’

  Together we waited for Gorgonzola’s arrival. Everything was at stake reputation-wise for both the Gs. I’m not usually given to nerves, but for a search to have any chance of success I’d need Gorgonzola’s willing cooperation, and I suspected my reunion with her would be a little sticky. I was right. She made a point of registering her displeasure at being railroaded off in a fridge to be spoilt rotten by strangers. When I peered into the cat-carrier, she knew I was there, but all that was visible was a piqued ginger backside. A Bad Sign. Feathers definitely ruffled, so to speak. From past experience, I knew what was expected of me – self-abasement, pleading and coaxing and blatant bribery in the form of foodie inducements.

  ‘I’m afraid Gorgonzola’s in one of her moods, Gerry. She’ll snap out of it, but it usually take
s a little time. Maybe there’s something in Ambrose’s fridge that’ll speed things up.’

  There might very well be. But what I really wanted was to be alone when I launched into the obligatory softening-up routine. G was well aware that I found uttering prissy terms of endearment excruciatingly embarrassing, so that is exactly what she demanded on those occasions when I overstepped the mark.

  I’d better get it over before he came back. I unlatched the door of the cat-carrier. ‘I’m so, so sorry, G. You see…’

  Thankfully I’d got through the required coaxing-and-pleading by the time Gerry returned bearing Black Prince’s bone china bowl heaped high with the finest beluga caviar.

  I held the bowl enticingly close to the twitching tail in the carrier. ‘Caviar – for you, cariña mía.’

  Up till then, apart from the occasional flick of her tail, I might as well have been speaking to one of those realistic furry sleeping-cat ornaments. Now the ginger rump heaved, leg muscles stre-e-e-tched, and in a flurry of movement the rump was replaced by narrowed copper eyes, twitching whiskers and drooling jaws. At a strategic distance I set the bowl on the floor, tactfully but fatefully as it transpired, twitching it round to conceal the name of the owner, Black Prince. G emerged from the carrier and sat for a moment, eyes closed, nostrils scenting the air, like a wine buff nosing a glass of vintage rioja. It took her less than five minutes to polish off the lot. When she was sitting smugly washing her paws, I judged the time was right.

  ‘She’s ready now.’ I buckled on her working collar. ‘Where do you want us to start? In here?’

  Gerry nodded. ‘Might as well, though a dog has been through here twice and drawn a blank.’

  ‘C’mon, G, search.’ I released my hold on the collar and pointed at the long white dining table with its guard-of-honour of white leather chairs.

  She swished her tail in acknowledgement. Claws skittered across the teak flooring. She leapt effortlessly onto the highly polished table and gave a cursory sniff at the artistic centrepiece platter of lemons before descending to make a tunnelling run under the dining chairs. The bar received the same quick once-over, with a perfunctory glance upward at the illuminated shelves of bottles. No result.