Under Suspicion E-Book

The Mulgray Twins

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 438

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

When a Customs and Revenues Officer on the brink of exposing a huge money-laundering outfit is murdered in Tenerife, there is only one team capable of ensuring Operation Canary Creeper's continuance and success. DJ Smith must use all of her cunning and experience to trap the devious Ambrose Vanheusen; her greatest asset, however, comes in the moth-eaten shape of her Persian cat Gorgonzola, since Vanheusen's one weakness is his love of the breed.Going undercover as a PA for Vanheusen's company Exclusive, retailer of luxury homes and suspected front for darker purposes, DJ is in charge of organising excursions for the prospective purchasers - some are innocently enjoying their holidays, but are others complicit in Vanheusen's schemes. Pompous writer Rudyard Scott, elderly Victoria Knight...something about Millie Prentice doesn't seem to add up, and Deborah is instantly antagonistic towards the arrogant Herbert G. Wainwright III...Disguises, cat-fights and narrow escapes make "Under Suspicion" a fast-paced and funny return to DJ and Gorgonzola on their follow-up mission to No Suspicious Circumstances.

Leseprobe

Under Suspicion

THE MULGRAY TWINS

To Norman,whose mastery of wordswe cannot hope to emulate.

Contents

Title PageDedicationPreviewAcknowledgementsPrologueChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveEpilogueAdvertisementAbout the AuthorCopyright

Available from

ALLISON & BUSBY

In the DJ Smith and Gorgonzola series

No Suspicious Circumstances

Under Suspicion

Acknowledgements

Our thanks to Alanna Knight for her advice, support and friendship.

In research matters we are indebted to the following: Cherry and Ray Legg, whose expertise in windsurfing contributed a vital element of the plot; the Maritime and Coastguard Agency for advice on International Maritime Regulations; Norrie Wilson for electrical know-how essential to the plot; and Elizabeth Scott who continues to keep us right on matters feline.

For those readers interested in the phenomenon of cats that paint (or find the idea totally incredible), we refer you to the works of art in Why Cats Paint – atheory of feline aesthetics by Burton Silver and Heather Busch, published by Ten Speed Press, Toronto.

And thanks as always to our agent, Frances Hanna of Acacia House Publishing, Brantford, Ontario, for her ongoing endeavours for DJ Smith and Gorgonzola.

Prologue

12.30 p.m. Playa de las Américas, Tenerife, Canary Islands. In five minutes Bill Gardener, undercover agent for Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs, would be dead. The order had been given. At this very moment the killer was purposefully making his way towards him along the pink-tiled pavement of Geranium Walk.

Bill Gardener sipped thoughtfully at his beer. He’d taken quite a chance this morning in snatching a look at the files in Devereux’s office. It’d been a bit of a scary moment when Security had burst in, checking to find out why, on a holiday, somebody was in the office. He’d expected it, had his story ready. And he’d got away with it. But what he’d found had been disappointing, nothing out of the ordinary, just photos of sold properties, contracts, that sort of thing. It hadn’t been worth the risk of blowing his cover.

He finished his beer and watched the foam slide slowly down the empty glass. It was a couple of minutes after 12.30, and it must be 280C out there on the exposed pontoons of the marina. He hitched his chair further back into the shade. The sun danced on the ruffled blue water, flashed off windows in the serried ranks of moored cruisers and spotlighted the white hulls of bobbing powerboats.

Seagulls screeched and squabbled over pickings thrown from one of the deep-sea game-fishing boats tied up at its berth. He’d always fancied going after big fish like marlin – or Ambrose Vanheusen, if it came to that. Of course, it wasn’t just a case of dangling a baited hook. That’s what drew him. It was a battle of wits, the outguessing your opponent’s twists and turns – in other words, the thrill of the chase. When the team had cracked this case, he’d book himself on a game boat, have his photo taken with his catch, just like that lucky guy over there.

It was by sheer chance, a combination of his angle of view and the harsh lighting of the midday sun, that he connected the T-shirted crewman with the photos he’d seen in the files. The pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. He knew now how the money-laundering scam operated. He had to hand it to Vanheusen. That scheme of his was pretty neat, could have run for years without detection. It had taken months of planning for HMRC to set up the operation and plant him undercover in Vanheusen’s HQ. Now he, Bill Gardener, was about to bring home the goods. He reached out his hand for his camera phone, eyes still on the figure in the white T-shirt.

The thin blade of the spring-loaded knife reached its target. 12.35 p.m.

Chapter One

Jim Orr, senior investigating officer in Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs, for once looked ruffled. Nothing too obvious, but the signs were there in the way he fussily aligned and realigned the papers on his desk.

‘Sorry about the short notice, Deborah.’ He sounded weary. ‘Bit of an emergency in our Tenerife office. We’re sending you and your cat to help them out.’

‘So, it’s undercover in the sun for me, and a specialist drug-detection job for Gorgonzola, eh?’ I quipped. After my previous chilly assignment in the cold and mist of a Scottish summer, that sounded a bit of all right.

There was no answering smile. He broke the news about the murder of Bill Gardener. I opened my mouth to speak, but he hurried on. ‘With our carefully planted mole suddenly taken out, Operation Canary Creeper has ground to a halt. Many months of careful planning are about to go down the drain.’ He fell silent, mulling over the seriousness of the situation, softening me up for the request he was about to make. ‘Then I thought of your cat Gorgonzola. You see, Ambrose Vanheusen, the target of this money-laundering investigation, has an Achilles heel.’ His thumb riffled the corner of the stack of papers. ‘To be more exact, he has an obsession with that pedigree Persian cat of his. And that’s where your cat will come in.’

‘Well,’ I laughed, ‘G’s definitely a Persian, but as far as appearance goes…’

A short silence fell as we both called up a vision of the decidedly moth-eaten Gorgonzola.

‘Yes, well…’ He gave the stack of papers another quick riffle. ‘After Bill Gardener’s unfortunate er… we’re going to need a replacement mole inside Vanheusen’s organisation. In his last report, Gardener said that he was on the verge of being able to prove that large amounts of cash were being couriered to this man Vanheusen by clients on inspection visits to his various properties in Tenerife. So his company, Exclusive, is almost certainly a front for money-laundering. By happy coincidence, Exclusive has just advertised for an assistant PA Leisure. I’m hoping that your ownership of a Persian cat, together with your experience in client hospitality, will convince Vanheusen that you’re the one for the job. Interviews are set for the end of the month. How do you feel about it?’

‘Well, er…’

‘In view of Bill Gardener’s murder, we’re not instructing you to take this assignment in Tenerife, Deborah.’ His grey eyes regarded me steadily. ‘It’s entirely voluntary.’

A week later, as the plane made its final approach to Reina Sofia airport, I looked down on Tenerife, the scenario for Operation Canary Creeper. White fluffy clouds left their negative images on the surface of a sea rippled and silvered like frosted glass. Through the small window I could see the snow-capped peak of Mount Teide, the browns and greens of its jagged foothills, and nearer the coast, the shiny rectangles and rhomboids of plastic-roofed banana and tomato plantations. It seemed a paradise of year-round sunshine, warm seas, subtropical rainforest and savage lava moonscapes, all presided over by the dramatic cone of Teide.

But Eden had its serpent. That’s why Bill Gardener had come here. That was why I was here. Vanheusen’s current venture, the sale of luxury properties to wealthy clients, was almost certainly a money-laundering front for heroin and cocaine profits. On several occasions HM Revenue & Customs had come close to nailing him. And each time, fancy manoeuvres by his lawyers had got him off the hook. The Department had moved fast with the application for the post of assistant PA Leisure, complete with an armour-plated CV. Now it was all up to me.

In a last-minute attempt to find something that would give me the edge at that all-important interview, I flicked once more through the dossier on Vanheusen – police reports, newspaper cuttings, pages from a Sunday supplement. I pulled out the Lifestyle article and browsed through it for inspiration… All the usual stuff about the successful businessman… and a double-page photo captioned Ambrose Vanheusen relaxes in his Orangery. There was no sign of potted oranges, but the place was a jungle of exotic passion-flowers, pale blue plumbago and assorted unfamiliar tropical plants. The lacy fronds of a magnificent clump of tree ferns shaded a mass display of white moth orchids in antique pots – and a large black Persian cat lounging on a white velvet cushion. My prospective employer was sitting at a wrought-iron table. He was in his early thirties, mid-brown hair flecked with gold, beard and moustache closely trimmed. Except for those eyes, astute, calculating, pale against the tan of his skin, there was no sign that he was a twenty-first-century Al Capone, a smooth operator who’d run rings round both the Drug Enforcement Agency and the Fraud Squad.

Vanheusen’s obsession with his pedigree Persian cat was his weak point… How to bring up at the interview that I was a lover not only of cats but, in particular, of Persian cats? It would have to be done so subtly… I studied the picture again, seeking inspiration… The cat’s coat was thick, shiny and luxuriant, and against the white of the cushion very, very black. I glanced over to where Gorgonzola was lolling in post-breakfast slumber. Pure Persians come in a limited range of colours, a good red being one of the rarest. G scored there, but the texture of her coat left much to be desired. To be honest, everything to be desired. She’d inherited the characteristic Persian face, but her coat was fluffy only in patches. One of her parents had been a full-pedigreed Persian, no doubt about that. The other must have been a scruffy gingery creature. Even as a kitten she had looked moth-eaten – no amount of brushing had made any difference.

Which reminded me… I put aside the dossier and retrieved the grooming comb from the drawer. ‘C’mon, G, time for your morning brush.’

Before I’d finished speaking, she yawned, stretched and leapt lightly onto my knee. At the first stroke of the brush, her eyes closed. A slow rumbling purr vibrated in her throat. Perhaps at this very moment Ambrose Vanheusen’s cat was undergoing the same pleasurable ritual. While I worked on G’s tangles, my mind was teasing away at how I could plausibly introduce the subject of cats at the interview, but ten minutes later all I’d achieved was a brush clogged with ginger fluff.

I scratched her gently behind an ear. ‘OK, that’s your lot.’

No response. She sat there swaying gently as in a hypnotic trance, the opening gambit in what could often be a lengthy battle of wits. Something I wasn’t in the mood for today.

‘Gerroff, G.’ Before she could dig in her claws, I stood up.

She surrendered to the force of gravity with a half-hearted miaow of protest.

Game, set and match to DJ Smith. All very well, but the interview was getting close and I still hadn’t thought of anything. Abstractedly I picked at some stray fluff on my jeans. Fluff. Hairs, cat hairs. The very answer I’d been looking for. If there happened to be a few hairs from a red Persian on my jacket at the interview…long, silky, red hairs, guaranteed to make the owner of a black Persian salivate…

Gorgonzola’s reddest hairs – distinctively long and silky – were to be found at the end of her moth-eaten tail. Through narrowed eyes I gazed speculatively at her already recumbent form. Always a mind-reader, she twitched her whiskers, curled her tail round her and rested her chin proprietorially on its tip. Those hairs would have to be plucked. Cutting them would not give the natural effect I needed. Sensing my continued scrutiny, she opened one eye and shifted uneasily. The eye closed to a thin slit. A clear Do Not Disturb notice had been put up.

I tried bribery. I tried blandishments. All failed, even tuna chunks, her favourite. She merely sniffed suspiciously at the saucer and clasped her tail even more firmly to her. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it was then that I resorted to Unscrupulous Underhand Means, re-enactment of that eighteenth-century poem The Rape of the Lock, or in twenty-first-century parlance, The Snatching of the Hairs. I fetched G’s on-duty collar with its miniaturised transmitter. Once I’d fastened it round her neck, she stood expectantly, tail erect. I pounced. One quick yank and I’d got my hairs.

I’d expected the ear-piercing yo-ow-l of outrage. What I wasn’t prepared for was the stunned look of betrayal in her wide-open eyes. In a gingery blur she disappeared under the bed.

‘Sacrifice in the Line of Duty. Sorry, G,’ I muttered, overcome with guilt.

Long and silky and red, the stolen hairs clung tenaciously to the sleeve of my green linen jacket as if they’d been glued there. If the smiling man lounging on the black hide sofa realised that I’d planted them as part of the HMRC operation to infiltrate his organisation, it would undoubtedly cost me my life. Bill Gardener had come under suspicion and…

Everything about him and the room murmured wealth. From his expensive Armani suit and heavy gold watch-strap, to the white alpaca skins draping the two black hide sofas, from the brushed-steel chamber of a striking hole-in-the-wall fire where pale flames flickered over grey ceramic pebbles, to the dramatic red, blue and gold Howard Hodgson abstract, spectacular against black silk wall coverings. On a black lacquered table beside him, an ethereal white moth orchid floated out of an authentic Lucie Rie ceramic pot. Beside it, neatly arranged, were a laptop, a telephone and a leather-bound appointment diary, the only evidence that this room was an office rather than an art-lover’s salon.

‘As you must be aware,’ he flicked a microscopic speck of dust from a dark silk tie shot with muted iridescent colours, ‘the clients of Exclusive (Tenerife) are aristocratic, privileged, moneyed – the elite of society. So those who work for us must have special qualities too.’ After a stage-managed pause: ‘There have been many applicants for the position. But you, Ms Smith, have the X-factor, something which gives me confidence that you are indeed the right person to be personal assistant to my PA Leisure.’

‘Why, thank you, Mr Vanheusen.’ I was jubilant. Phase One of Operation Canary Creeper had been initiated. These people don’t play around, a cautionary voice said. One slip and…

‘All the applicants on the short list are intelligent, personable and experienced in the travel and holiday trade. However…’ His thumb caressed his upper lip. A moment’s silence hung between us.

I replaced a warm smile with a raised eyebrow.

‘However, only you have demonstrated that you are a lover of that prince of animals – felis catus persica, the Persian cat.’

‘How…how on earth do you know that?’ I widened my eyes in astonishment, careful not to overdo the surprise.

He grinned. ‘The evidence is there on your sleeve.’

Remember to look at the wrong arm. I studied my jacket, frowning as if in bewilderment.

A glint of amusement surfaced in those pale eyes. ‘I haven’t got psychic powers, Ms Smith.’

Thank God for that. From my repertoire of appropriate expressions I selected an uncertain smile.

‘Try the other sleeve.’

‘Ohhh…’ With a suitable intake of breath I brushed frantically in a doomed-to-failure attempt to remove the long red hairs.

‘I shouldn’t worry about it. Those cat hairs singled you out for the job.’

Things were going exactly as I had hoped. It had been a near certainty that he’d home in on those cat hairs. I summoned up an embarrassed little smile. ‘Do I take it, Mr Vanheusen, that you yourself are the owner of a Persian cat?’

‘His picture’s on the wall behind you, Ms Smith.’

I swivelled round to look. Glowering down at me with malevolent orange eyes from a satinised steel-framed oil painting was the fluffy black Persian cat featured in the dossier. A disagreeable bad-tempered mouth indicated that The Prince, like his owner, was nothing more or less than a beautifully groomed thug.

‘Samarkand Black Prince. Champion of Champions.’ Pride of ownership warmed his voice.

‘He’s wonderful!’ I breathed. ‘So sweet!’

I’d said just the right thing.

‘Most valuable – and most valued – cat in Tenerife,’ purred the owner of the Brute of Samarkand. He leant back. ‘And now, Ms Smith, tell me about your cat.’

I visualised moth-eaten Gorgonzola. She too was a Champion of Champions – as drug-detector for Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs in their war against heroin and cocaine.

‘I have to admit that she is not at all in the same league as The Prince.’ My voice carried a ring of unmistakable sincerity that I couldn’t have counterfeited if I’d tried. ‘Her name’s Persepolis Desert Sandstorm.’

He ran a finger thoughtfully over his lip, calculation lurking under those lowered lids. He reached over and pressed a keypad on the lacquered table. ‘Well, I think I’ve heard enough. Your background in travel and client hospitality is just what we’re looking for. I’d like you to start next week, if that’s convenient.’

I nodded, outwardly cool, inwardly elated. The couple of carefully arranged cat hairs had clinched it.

‘That’s settled then.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Monique, my PA Leisure, will set you right.’

The door opened. Tall, slim, elegant, Monique Devereux would not have been out of place in the salon of one of the leading European fashion houses. Jacket and skirt were impeccably cut, shoes manufactured from the softest leather, jewellery understated and expensive. It was power-dressing with an ultra-feminine slant. Her dark hair swept smoothly upwards in a stylish French roll, accentuating large brown eyes and perfect facial bone structure.

The hand-shake was cool, the smile perfunctory. ‘Welcome to Exclusive (Tenerife), Deborah.’

Was there a faint note of hostility? I didn’t care. I’d surmounted the first hurdle. I was in.

Half an hour later, as the electric gates to the grounds of the Vanheusen estate swung silently shut behind my car, I hummed a little tune. Operation Canary Creeper was up and running. The groundwork of the past couple of weeks had paid off – those dawn-to-dusk explorations on foot and in 4x4 of the island’s most spectacular locations, tucked away, unvisited, unseen, unknown to the madding tourist crowd in their air-conditioned coaches. I’d been able to enthuse from first-hand experience when Vanheusen had asked me what ideas I had for the entertainment of clients between their scheduled inspections of his luxury properties. But it was that last-minute inspiration of the cat hairs which had proved to be the trump card. I was returning to report success.

A flicker of unease pricked the bubble of my self-satisfaction. The hum triumphant faltered and died, withered on the date palm, so to speak. ‘You must show me a picture of Persepolis sometime, Ms Smith,’ Vanheusen had said. At the time it had seemed a polite response to my compliments, one cat owner to another, but now I could detect a hidden agenda. A good red Persian is extremely rare, a female even rarer. I’d glimpsed the covetous gleam in his eyes. Had I introduced a wild card, a factor I couldn’t control?

Pooooop pooooooooop. An impatient blare from a tour coach with protruding mirrors like the eye-stalks of a gigantic insect interrupted this rather unpleasant train of thought. Oh well, sufficient unto the day. Qué sera sera. Negotiating the rush hour traffic clogging the main route through Las Américas was enough to think about.

The Control Centre for Operation Canary Creeper was tucked away in one of the back streets of the old town. Perhaps ‘old town’ was a bit of a misnomer. Gone the fishermen’s cottages, elbowed aside by hotels and balconied apartments. Gone, too, the evocative plaintive mewing of seagulls on the lookout for edible scraps, drowned now by the roar of the ride-on street vacuum hoovering up cigarette ends, drink cans and leaflets.

HM Revenue & Customs in the guise of Extreme Travel Agency was sandwiched between a laundry and a solicitor’s office, one of three nondescript shops in a slightly seedy back street of drab entryphone doorways. So it wasn’t exactly hidden away. It wasn’t exactly conspicuous either, just another tourist agency among the many in Los Cristianos. An agency specialising in exotic holidays and personalised packages. Few stopped to look in the windows at the posters of emerald paddy fields in Vietnam, the eternal snows of Everest and K2, or a sailing ship battling its way through icy mast-high seas in the Straits of Magellan. Even fewer pushed open the door and made enquiries. Which gave Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs ample time to carry out their clandestine activities. It was perfect cover for their investigations into British national Vanheusen’s undercover activities.

In the chic minimal outer office – desk, telephone, fax machine, neatly stacked brochures – there was nothing to excite curiosity in even the most suspicious of minds. But there were those who would have been very interested indeed in what lay behind that plain white door at the back of the room. Stored behind the steel frontage of innocent-looking grey filing cabinets were the latest satellite communication systems and surveillance devices.

Parking at this time of day was not a problem, and I drew into the kerb right outside. The small notice on the outer door of Extreme Travel announced Closed 1300 till 1700. Untrue. HM Revenue & Customs never closes. Indeed, we’re at our most active when others sleep. As I inserted my key in the lock and opened the door, the muted sound of a buzzer gave warning of my arrival, but I knew I’d been on camera from the moment my car had nosed into the street. In our line of work there can never be too much security. I dumped the bulky Exclusive folder on a chair and idly studied myself in the large rectangular mirror covering most of the wall behind the desk. That mirror was in fact a window fitted with one-way glass. I brushed my jacket, tweaked my collar and ran a hand through my hair. Finally I gave myself a small approving smile. It signalled that I was sure I hadn’t been followed, was not under observation; in other words, that I was clean. Any doubts about security and I’d have frowned, and the door would have remained locked.

When I heard the distinctive click of levered locks being activated, I gathered up the Exclusive folder and took it with me into the secret domain behind the plain white door.

‘Operation Canary Creeper up and running,’ I said. ‘Thanks to Gorgonzola.’

‘So the cat hairs did the trick, then.’ Case officer Gerry Burnside nodded approvingly, ‘Clever of you. Now that you’ve sneaked your foot inside the door, let’s hear your first impressions.’

‘Cosy little set-up Vanheusen’s got.’ I sat down and pushed the folder across the desk. ‘Luxury villa, all marble and exotic hardwoods. Extensive grounds – palm trees, exotic plants, manicured lawns and bougainvillea everywhere. High security throughout, of course – multiple locks on his office door, electronic gates and video surveillance of the corridors and grounds. According to Monique Devereux, his PA Leisure, dogs are loose at night.’

‘How far is she in Vanheusen’s confidence, would you say?’

‘I’ll be able to tell you after Monday. I’m to report for a week’s training in company methods.’ I flipped open the folder. ‘The Exclusive approach is simple really. It’s an appeal to vanity by flattering clients that they are part of a very select bunch. Look at this.’ I stabbed a finger down on the Exclusive marketing catchphrase in bold centimetre-high type, repeated on every page. If you have to ask who we are, you’re not one of us! ‘It’s The Emperor’s clothes story – vanity clouds the judgement. Stops awkward questions. Interesting, eh?’

Gerry took the folder from me and thumbed through the pages.

‘The guy’s spent millions on this set-up, most of it drug money. Has to be.’ He looked up. ‘For the first time we’ve a good chance of nailing him. But now you’ve become “one of them”, Deborah, you’ll have to tread very carefully. I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

Chapter Two

I let myself out through the plain white door and drove back home with something more pressing on my mind than Gerry’s warning – this morning’s confrontation with my feline colleague Gorgonzola, alias Persepolis Desert Sandstorm.

How did a cat come to be on the payroll of HM Revenue & Customs? Late one autumn afternoon several years ago I found her as a kitten clinging to an old log in the river, the only survivor of a drowned litter. I couldn’t just abandon her and leave her to die. The combination of round-the-clock intensive care and her stubborn fighting spirit cemented the bond between us.

‘You can stay here, Kitten, till I find you a good home,’ I told her.

At that time I worked from home for HM Revenue & Customs, training young dogs to assess their potential to sniff out drugs. I kept her out of the way of the dogs at first, but she soon showed she could take care of herself. Kitten stayed.

Kitten’s career with Revenue & Customs began the day I chose a few crumbs of smelly ripe cheese as my lure to train the dogs. While I was collecting the dogs from their kennels, she sneaked into the lounge, tracked down the crumbs and ate them. All that was left of my test was a single crumb on her whiskers. I changed her name to Gorgonzola, an allusion to the cheese, and allowed her to join the dogs in their sniffing games. Her sense of smell and intelligence were outstanding. She passed the training with flying colours. Later, when I began undercover work for Revenue & Customs, she made the ideal undercover drug-detector.

As I said, I was feeling guilty about what I’d done this morning. A trust betrayed is not easily forgiven. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Gorgonzola’s reproachful gaze. In an attempt to postpone the inevitable, I drove home by the most roundabout way.

Home, for the duration of Operation Canary Creeper, was a rented house in the little village of La Caleta. Alas, the tentacles of Las Américas had crept westward along the pink granite promenade, slithered over the intervening headlands and a couple of ravine barrancos to lay siege to the quaint old houses, narrow alleys and the picturesque micro harbour.

The Department had installed me in Calle Rafael Alberti, numero 2, in a smart cream bungalow accessorised with olive wood Canarian-style balcony, motorised louvred shutters and elegant double-tiered pantiled roof. Stylish, comfortable, soulless. In my planter window-boxes the red poinsettias drooped, shamefaced that the developers had grafted this modern structure onto the end of a row of traditional fishermen’s cottages. Their white walls, simple dark green shutters, white-painted flat corrugated roofs and tapering smoke-blackened chimneys had a naïve stylishness of their own. All had heavy wooden doors with a centrally placed door handle in the shape of a large bronze ball. My neighbour, old Jesús Domingo, had added his own personal touch. His shutters were the same dark green as the rest of the terrace, but his walls were washed a faded salmon pink. His sun-bleached front door of rough wooden boards and diagonal bracing strut had not been upgraded to ‘fancy’ panelling. It remained as it always had been.

Would Gorgonzola have forgiven me for this morning’s sneaky snatch ’n’ grab? If she was there to welcome me, I’d know she had. Her favourite spot was under the shade of the magenta bougainvillea that climbed one cream-washed wall and sent exploratory fingers over a shaky wooden framework that in my more grandiose moments I referred to as my pergola.

At the rear, all our houses had a patch of ground enclosed by a neat lava wall. ‘Garden’ might be too complimentary a term for these plots. They ranged from a free-for-all of euphorbia and prickly pear, to neighbour Jesús’s colourful oil can garden. His scarlet and pink geraniums were potted up in old olive oil cans painted a cheerful vivid blue. Flowerpot cans were perched on every surface – window ledges, back step, even hanging from the rickety fence itself. There was barely room for the old wooden seat on which he sat in the warm evenings crooning the plaintive melancholy notes of a haunting madrelena. Under the impression that a male suitor was serenading her, Gorgonzola would stretch out in a seductive manner and lie there purring softly to herself.

Tonight I’d make a point of sending in a special request for one of Jesús’s madrelenas. That and a plateful of her favourite tuna chunks should help to erase the painful memories. I unlatched the back gate. When you know you’re in the wrong, body language is important. So no hung head, dragging feet or faltering step. Honeyed tones, simpering smiles were also out. G would treat all that with the contempt it deserved. I paused at the rickety fence separating my plot from Jesús’s garden and made a show of sniffing at the scentless geranium flowers in their oil can pots, while taking the opportunity to slide a covert sideways glance at the shade under the magenta bougainvillea.

No cat purring in welcome. No cat with lips drawn into a thin line of displeasure. But on the old cushion that she’d commandeered as her day-bed, I detected a shallow depression and a drool mark, still wet. I’d been blackballed, cold-shouldered, handed the frozen furry mitt, given the stiff-legged brush-off. In a word, scorned. It was time to grovel. Outside the open pantry window I rummaged in my bag for the house keys and prepared to raise the white flag of surrender. Total abasement would be the order of the day.

For three days after the ‘rape of the hair’ episode, I was subjected to accusing looks and tail clamped firmly round her feet, Oscar-winning performances every one. Usually Gorgonzola didn’t bear a grudge for long, but on this occasion I had to abase myself for a record length of time. I could tell that her heart was gradually softening, however, and that she’d soon relent and give me that toothy Cheshire Cat grin. I’d soon be restored to favour. Just as well. Those last three days I’d had enough critical glances and disapproving mutters from Monique Devereux.

Vanheusen’s PA in charge of Leisure had not one, but two spacious rooms in her office suite. The outer office, my domain, was large and airy and furnished in modern minimalist style, all matt black leather furniture with skinny chrome tubular legs. Three walls were white, with white ceiling and white marble floor. The facing wall was a vivid red, inset with a huge yellow rectangle enclosing a smaller blue one. When I was at my desk I felt I was working inside a Mondrian painting. The desk itself stood on a large rug of the same bright red. The only other patches of colour were a yellow desk lamp and blue telephone. Adjustable blinds screened the large picture window, filtering the strong sunlight and imparting a shady coolness. An unobtrusive door gave access to the PA Leisure’s office, antechamber to Vanheusen’s inner sanctum, with all its secrets. Was she part and parcel of Vanheusen’s money-laundering set-up? I wasn’t sure.

One thing I was sure of by the middle of week one – she and I would never get along. That faint antagonism towards me that I had detected at our first meeting had become more noticeable, a complication I hadn’t foreseen. The tension between us wasn’t just a case of two people not hitting it off. There was something else behind it. And if I didn’t suss it out soon, it could well jeopardise the success of Operation Canary Creeper.

I made the decision to bring things to a head, lance the boil, so to speak. I took the opportunity to tackle her when she summoned me to go over Exclusive’s procedure for meeting and greeting new clients at the airport.

As she handed me a sheaf of instructions, I said, ‘I’m really anxious to do well, but I’ve a feeling that something about my work isn’t pleasing you, Monique.’

I wasn’t prepared for the dam to break. She suddenly burst out with, ‘I’ve no idea why Mr Vanheusen chose you. He had as good as promised my cousin Ashley the post, you know.’ One of the photographs on her desk showed herself and another woman sitting on the patio of a smart-looking villa. She turned it so I could see it better. ‘That’s Ashley. To be frank, I’d much prefer her to be my assistant.’

I’d unwittingly given her cause to dislike me, and that was worrying.

Next morning, I sat on the edge of the bed and covertly studied Gorgonzola as she prepared to launch into her wake-up exercises. Her tail, only a trifle more moth-eaten than before, swung lazily back and forth. I’d been forgiven.

I spelt out what was in my mind. ‘I feel she’s keeping tabs on me. But it’s only because Monique’s looking for an excuse to sack me and make way for Cousin Ashley, don’t you think, G?’

The joint and muscle-loosening stretches of her front legs came to a momentary halt. An ear twitched in my direction.

Encouraged, I added, ‘Is that all it is, eh?’

The wake-up exercises recommenced. G dug her claws into the bedroom rug and, eyes closed, slowly and thoughtfully hollowed her back in an arch.

‘Or have I aroused her suspicions in some way?’

Back legs stre-e-tched out in turn.

‘Well, what do you think, G?’

Her eyes narrowed to a slit. I was treated to a long ya-a-wn. The jury was out. It’s not the right moment to ask questions when a cat is in the middle of its limbering-up routine.

‘We’ll just have to wait and see. Is that what you’re saying?’ I gave her a quick caress and locked the apartment door.

Meeting and greeting, it seemed, was an important part of the Exclusive softening-up experience. My first assignment was to collect new clients from the airport and install them in the Alhambra, a newly opened five-star hotel, designed as a Moorish palace – plashing fountains, marble floors, mosaic tiles, white lattice-work and minarets, all that sort of thing.

A white chauffeur-driven limousine was waiting for me beside the designer grove of palm trees in the Alhambra’s Moroccan-themed car park. I leant back against the mint green leather upholstery and ran through the meeting and greeting routine. The countryside swept past. This morning, the scattering of mountain villages on the foothills of Teide were wrapped in a blanket of low cloud, but ahead and to my left, the sun rising over the sea fingered the little houses of the fishing village of Los Abrigos, just visible beyond the white radar dome at the end of the runway.

Clutching the Exclusive logo, I took up position at the Arrivals barrier. While I waited, I thought about Bill Gardener. I hadn’t even met him. Too cocky by half, they said. Was that why he’d slipped up? Just how had Vanheusen’s mob got onto him? He’d met his death two days after he’d reported he was on the verge of a breakthrough for Operation Canary Creeper. Had his cover already been blown, the information, whatever it was, planted solely to mislead him? I didn’t need warnings to be careful…

First a trickle, then a mass of people surged towards me through the Arrivals door. I scanned the faces as I held aloft the clipboard with its silvered Exclusive lettering. According to Gardener, cash was being couriered to Vanheusen by clients coming on inspection visits. I had no way of knowing if I was about to meet and greet one of those couriers. Victoria Knight, Millie Prentice, Rudyard Scott, Herbert G Wainwright. Just a list of names. Could be any of them. Or none. There was nothing to help me.

A man in his early forties carrying an airline cabin case broke away from the stream of people and headed purposefully in my direction. A large black suitcase on a strap trailed at his heels like an obedient retriever. They came to a halt in front of me.

‘Welcome to Tenerife, Mr…?’

‘The name’s Scott. Rudyard Finbar Scott. Writer.’ He paused expectantly, ready to field the cry of recognition.

The pause lengthened as I searched for a suitable phrase that would convey a ‘Gosh! Wow! Can I have your autograph?’ reaction – and yet cover up the fact that I’d never heard of him. That thin face with its high-domed forehead had not featured in any of the publicity photographs I’d come across.

‘Wonderful to meet you at last, Mr Scott. I—’

I was saved from floundering on by the sudden arrival of a flustered lady pushing a laden airport trolley that seemed to have a mind of its own. ‘I’m Victoria Knight.’ She held out a perspiring hand.

Beautifully permed grey hair streaked with white swept back from a plump, homely face unadorned with make-up. Though her necklace of large pearls perfectly matched in size looked decidedly pricey, the engagement ring and wedding band on rough work-worn hands were simple and inexpensive. The cashmere cardigan that hung round her shoulders suggested wealth and class, but her manner was more favourite granny than haughty grande dame. Victoria Knight was a lady of intriguing contradictions.

‘It won’t take us long to get to the hotel, will it, love? I’m just longing for a cup of tea. That awful stuff they serve you on the plane may be brown, but it’s not tea, is it?’ The accent was northern, possibly Lancashire.

I reassured her and directed both of them to the waiting limousine. Two down, two to go.

‘Hi there!’ The woman’s voice came from behind me.

I turned round.

‘I saw your notice.’ She parked her trolley case. Friendly brown eyes smiled at me through round tortoiseshell glasses. ‘I’m Millie. Millie Prentice.’

She was in her late twenties, about the same age as myself. Shoulder-length auburn hair curling into unruly ringlets framed the freckled face with its pert upturned nose.

‘I’m really looking forward to seeing Exclusive in action – going round all those luxury villas, I mean. You know—’

She chattered on, but I was listening not to the words but to the subtext. Something about her body language didn’t quite tally with that casual breezy manner. I looked after her speculatively as she walked towards the waiting car.

The last name on my list, Herbert G Wainwright, had an American ring to it. I scanned the crowded concourse. A tall man was homing in on me. Rimless glasses flashed like little warning beacons as he elbowed his way through the milling tourists.

‘The name’s Wainwright. Herbert G Wainwright III. Where the heck’s the promised service?’ Magnified by the pebble lenses, his eyes were two huge question marks of irritation. I put him down immediately as a troublemaker.

I stared at the balding figure in front of me. ‘What exactly do you mean, Mr Wainwright?’

‘My bags. I’ve had to tote them from the baggage conveyor way back there.’ The thick lenses flashed impatiently. ‘I thought you guys collected them as part of the service.’ He unzipped a pocket in the back of a case, and pulled out the glossy Exclusive brochure. ‘Let me quote: Have your every need catered for while you search for your dream property in Tenerife.Leave everything to us.’ His eyes, now a twin-barrelled shotgun of accusation, had me lined up in their sights. ‘Guess I’m a victim of misrepresentation, ma’am.’

I glued a smile to my lips. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wainwright. I’ll phone the driver to come and help me with your luggage.’

Operation Canary Creeper was going to demand a lot in the way of self-control, I thought to myself as I trailed after the driver with one of Herbert G Wainwright III’s heavy suitcases.

I left the abominable Wainwright III and the other guests ensconced in their suites at the Alhambra and made my way back to Extreme Travel. Professionals like myself don’t make many mistakes. Those who do, end up dead. I should have been checking the rearview mirror. Instead, I was fuming over the spoilt, childish behaviour all too often indulged in by the ultra-rich, and I must admit that I allowed my guard to slip.

I parked on a vacant lot, a piece of about-to-become real estate, probably time-share, switched off the ignition and half-opened the door. On autopilot I glanced in the wing mirror. In my line of business you develop an instinct for when you’re under observation, though it’s nothing you can quite put your finger on or explain. That blue Peugeot with the star-shaped dent in its radiator, I’d seen it before, at the airport less than an hour ago, when I was trailing back to the limousine with Wainwright’s case. One of the case wheels had hit the raised corner of a paving slab. The heavy piece of luggage had almost wrenched itself out of my hand. I’d just managed to prevent it toppling onto the road right in front of the same Peugeot that was now parked two doors down from the Extreme Travel office. Coincidence? I didn’t think so. It was careless of them to deploy something so distinctive, but then I expect they’d counted on me driving straight off with the newly arrived clients, not lugging a bag around Arrivals.

I’d had the door half-open a fraction too long. A dead giveaway if there were hostile eyes in the blue Peugeot. I turned the hesitation into a sudden remembrance of something I needed from the glove compartment. Reaching over to the passenger seat, I flicked down the flap and rummaged for a moment or so. I pulled out a sheet of paper, and with it in one hand and the Exclusive folder in the other, clambered awkwardly out of the car. I balanced the folder on the car roof while I stuffed the piece of paper into my bag. Then I locked the car, and without even a glance at the Peugeot, walked briskly across the road and let myself into Extreme Travel.

I’d hit the office at siesta hours, so Jayne, the dumb-looking blonde who warded off any prospective client, was no longer on duty. From the other side of the mirror, I’d often admired her in action as the hidden microphone relayed her wide-ranging and inventive excuses for being unable to take a booking – floods in the Amazon basin, landslips in the Himalayas, border closings, termites causing sudden collapse of a Rest House – all little difficulties in far-flung places no one had heard of or cared about. There could be no checking up. For a particularly persistent client, she’d make a provisional booking, a booking that later had most regrettably to be cancelled.

On this occasion I had no coast-is-clear smiles for the mirror. Those behind the one-way glass would pick up the warning. Innocent activity is the best camouflage. I deposited the folder on the desk and busied myself finalising the details for my first Exclusive excursion. I had to make sure that everything ran like clockwork, for Monique would take a positive delight in reporting any incompetence to Vanheusen. And if he sacked me, Operation Canary Creeper would be back to square one.

Sunlight streamed through the rainbow logo on the plate-glass window, tinting the papers spread across the desk. I studied the checklist for tomorrow. Transport, Pick-up time, Journey time, Reservations at restaurants, Photo… A shadow fell across the papers. Someone had paused outside the window, but I didn’t look up. Whoever it was would be caught on camera. The shadow lingered, and moved past.

For another five minutes I continued to work on the wording for my Exclusive excursion. Monique had harped on ad infinitum that Exclusive’s leisure activities had to be seen to be different. So the term Excursion wouldn’t do at all. Trek sounded too physically demanding, and Expedition ditto. Jaunt? Cheap and nasty. I settled on Outing. That should give the right nuance – something special, something to look forward to… Finally satisfied, I stretched, yawned and tidied all the papers into a neat bundle. I slipped them inside the Exclusive folder and gathered up my bag.

As a signal to those in the inner office to run a check on the street outside, I frowningly inspected my lipstick in the big mirror and glanced at my watch.

‘That’s me for today. I’m off,’ I muttered as if to myself.

Then I let myself out.

Chapter Three

Next morning, I arrived early at Exclusive to finalise the details for my first Outing. To protect me from a takeover bid by Cousin Ashley, it was important to impress Vanheusen with my capabilities, so I’d put a lot of time into the planning. Hence the zappy title Outing to the Moon, in reality an excursion to the lava landscape of Mount Teide. Thanks to a bit of string-pulling by HM Revenue & Customs liaising at the highest levels with GRECO, the special unit set up by the Spanish authorities to combat big-money organised crime, I’d obtained special permission to cross the volcanic caldera on a route normally strictly off-limits to public vehicles.

The door to Monique’s office was ajar. From inside, silence. I took the folder containing the schedule from a drawer in my desk. I’d left nothing to chance, but perhaps I should skim over it again…

The blue telephone at my elbow buzzed. ‘I’m with Mr Vanheusen just now,’ Monique’s brisk voice announced. ‘Have those excursion details ready. I’ll be with you in about ten minutes.’

Ten minutes…at last the opportunity I’d been waiting for. In half that time I’d be able to have a good poke round her office. I’d passed through it, of course, on the way to my first interview with Vanheusen, but since then I’d caught only tantalising glimpses on the occasions when the PA Leisure had issued imperiously forth to deliver her latest instructions. I gathered up the Outing folder – a feeble excuse if I was caught, but better than nothing – and pushed open the door.

In complete contrast to the stark modernism of my office, hers could be described as stylish French Classical with the ambience of a drawing room. The desk was a spindly antique table, the filing cabinet hidden behind the gilded wooden doors of an armoire. At each of the two tall windows, pale eau-de-Nil curtaining swept down to floor and spread across the white marble in green pools. Her elegant chair upholstered in green suede leather was pushed back from her vacated desk/table. Neatly lined up on the top were intercom, green onyx telephone with matching onyx desk calendar and a couple of silver-framed photographs – Monique and Ashley, and Monique and Vanheusen, champagne glass in hand at some reception.

I laid down my folder on the chair, and picked up the Vanheusen photo. What interested me were the faces in the background. I didn’t recognise any of them, but it would be worth running them through Extreme Travel’s computer. From an inner pocket I whipped out a slim mirror-and-lipstick case; in fact, it was a mini all-singing, all-dancing camera supplied by the Department for just such golden opportunities. Seconds later, a digital copy was nestling on the camera’s memory card in my pocket. I repositioned the photo frame exactly as I had found it.

I made a quick survey of the other items on the tabletop, but saw nothing else of interest. No papers; drawers were locked. It was tempting, but too dangerous to plant a surveillance bug and risk its discovery in the regular security sweep. Was there anything else snoop-worthy? I nipped across to the armoire in the corner of the room. Its doors stood invitingly open, revealing cardboard box files labelled Brochures, Contacts, Contracts, Members, Properties, Promotions. Reluctantly I decided there wasn’t enough time even for a skim-through. Better to be safe than sorry. I turned away… Ten seconds later I was back in my own office, interconnecting door once more ajar.

From my desk I could see sprinklers sending their fine mists in whirling spirals over the manicured lawns of Vanheusen’s spare-no-expense exotic garden. A gardener was chopping at the yellowing frond of a palm tree, the wicker basket at his feet already overflowing with trimmings. I fingered the camera in my pocket. I’d definitely struck gold with that photograph. If our computer came up with a match for even one of those smudgy background faces, that could be the break the Department needed… I should have taken another couple of minutes to delve into that armoire, though. That was definitely a missed opportunity. The box labelled Members (Potential) would have contained the names of other targeted purchasers of Vanheusen properties, people like Wainwright, Scott, Prentice and Knight, who had first to be softened up by an Exclusive Outing.

The gardener flung the pieces of palm frond into his basket and began sweeping up stray clippings… I’d better get on with my tasks. I reached for the Outing folder. It wasn’t there. I’d taken it in with me to Monique’s office. I’d laid it down on her chair to take out the camera… Sick disbelief swept over me, followed by beads of sweat on the brow and an icy boulder in the pit of the stomach. All clichés, but that’s how it felt when I realised I’d just made the careless slip that would jeopardise months of careful planning. I’d spent barely four minutes checking out the room, but how long had I been sitting here gazing out the window like a fool? It might only be seconds before…

I flung myself through the interconnecting door, darted across the expanse of marble, snatched up the incriminating folder, and whirled on my heel. One, two, three strides. I was going to make it—

Behind me, I heard the click of the security lock on Vanheusen’s office door. No time to escape to the safety of my own office. To reach it would take three more strides, three more seconds, but I didn’t have them. A fleeing figure is obviously guilty of something. Vanheusen’s whole set-up showed that he was paranoid about security. When they searched me and found the camera…

There was only one option left. I must appear to be entering, not leaving. I whirled round, and stood a couple of metres into the room, folder held prominently in front of me. As the door to Vanheusen’s office opened, I was moving slowly in the direction of Monique’s desk. In the widening gap appeared the edge of a box file followed by a silk-clad shoulder, a pigskin shoe and Monique’s startled face.

‘Who gave you permission to enter my office?’ Her expression was glacial, her tone icy.

‘I’ve brought you the finalised itinerary for the Outing, Monique. I thought…I thought…’ I faltered, ‘that you wanted to see it in ten minutes. I hope that you’ll find—’ Was I injecting the right blend of uncertainty and apology? ‘I thought…’ My voice trailed away into silence. Tentatively, I held out the folder.

She made no move to take it from me. ‘That’s one of your faults, Deborah. You don’t listen. I said I’d be with you in ten minutes. Something entirely different.’ Her lips compressed into a thin line. ‘Go back to your office. I’ll be with you shortly.’

Like a reprimanded schoolgirl I crept out, closing the interconnecting door softly behind me. I sat down at my desk and, with hands that trembled slightly, spread out the contents of the Outing folder ready for Monique’s inspection. Had my act been convincing enough? Was she even now summoning Security? Would burly uniformed men burst through the door? Was I about to be thrown to the ground, handcuffed, body-searched? I dropped the lipstick/camera into the wastebasket and crumpled some paper on top of it.

I heard the sound of the interconnecting door opening quietly, the leisurely brush of feet on carpeting, the rustle of paper. Not Security. I didn’t look up.

‘If I could have your attention, Deborah.’