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 takes 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.
When she showed considerable interest in the planter of orchids, I could sense Gerry’s tension. An investigative paw created havoc among the fragile white blooms, but there was no follow-up crooning purr.
‘She’s not signalling a find,’ I said quickly, not wanting to build up hope. ‘I think Ambrose’s floral display must be harbouring some kind of wildlife.’
Proving me right, a large brown moth fluttered up, dislodged by a forehand swipe of her paw.
‘Over there, G. Search.’ I pointed at the long white couches, the sofa-equivalent of stretch-limos. It wasn’t likely that the dogs would have missed hollowed-out cushions or anything stuffed down between them, but on the off chance… We watched her scamper over the white leather, then head once more for Black Prince’s empty bowl.
‘That’s the only thing she’s interested in.’ Gerry’s voice was flat with disappointment.
A snuffle, a petulant nudge of bowl with nose, a hopeful scour with the tongue for any missed morsel and she stared up at us, Gorgonzola transmogrified into Oliver Twist.
‘Work, G,’ I said sharply, much mortified. Distraction from the search is ranked as a major shortcoming even in a trainee sniffer.
A tentative tap on the doorframe was followed by a hesitant cough. We turned to see a blue-uniformed, tubby policía officer holding up an expensive leather cat-carrier.
‘Problema, señor. Que vamos hacer con este gato?’
Through the carrier’s gold-gridded window, framed by a black halo of fur, glared the Brute of Samarkand’s baleful orange eyes.
‘Do with the cat?’ Gerry was momentarily puzzled.
‘Your first audience with Black Prince, Gerry.’ I hadn’t realised the animal was on the yacht.
Cats can recognise their own bowls. The orange eyes narrowed, targeting G who was holding down the bowl with a paw, while her nose energetically hoovered the interior.
Behind me I heard a gasp and a grunt of, ‘Hostia! Estáte quieto, cabrón!’ The Spanish equivalent of ‘Shit! Keep still, you bugger!’
I swung round. The sergeant’s short fat arms were struggling to encircle a cat-carrier that seemed to have developed a life of its own. I saw Gorgonzola look up, then unhurriedly sit back on her haunches ostentatiously licking her paw, a calculated pouring of oil on the flames, a deliberate goading beyond endurance of the owner of the bowl.
Gerry moved forward. ‘Cuidado, hombre!’
Too late. A snarling tsssh erupted from the carrier. It juddered and bounced. Tearing itself free from the policía’s arms, it thudded to the floor, the door-catch burst open and a spitting whirlwind of black fur rampaged out and rocketed towards the usurper.
I screamed. Gerry swore. The policeman’s fingers instinctively clasped the butt of his gun. Only Gorgonzola remained unfazed. Macho neighbourhood moggies, uppity trainee sniffer-dogs, hi-tech Robocat, all in their turn had been flattened by a lightening uppercut from her ginger paw. One second that paw was peacefully performing her postprandial ablutions, the next it had metamorphosed into a razor-sharp Edward Scissorhands-cum-Joe Louis weapon of war.
THWACK. Ill-prepared by a pampered life of caviar and cushions for this Shock-and-Awe-style attack, Black Prince staggered back, murderous hellcat rampage abruptly terminated.
THWACK. Hit the enemy before he can recover. Hit the enemy while he’s down. In the light breeze from the door, tufts of fine black fur wafted up like giant fluffy seeds from a freak dandelion.
‘Do something, somebody!’ I shrieked.
The sergeant shifted indecisively from foot to foot.
I grabbed the nearest thing to hand, one of the expensive orchids from the planter, and flung it at Black Prince. What I hadn’t realised was that the roots were encased in a plastic pot full of bark chips. Halfway through the trajectory, pot and plant parted company. The orchid nosedived to the deck, dirty wet fragments of bark showered down on pristine white leather, and the empty pot hurtled onward with increased velocity to torpedo Gorgonzola who was crouched to deliver the coup de grâce.
Miaooow. She cast a reproachful look in my direction.
‘Not too clever, Deborah. Whose side are you on?’ In two strides, Gerry was at the bar and reaching for the water jug.
Ptshhh. Taking advantage of G’s momentary lapse of attention, Black Prince pounced. Sharp teeth clamped down viciously on a moth-eaten ear.
With the fluid technique of a ten-pin bowler going for a strike, Gerry swung the litre jug with the full force of his arm. A mini curtain of water arced across the room.
Splattt.
In a trice, the menacing black puffball deflated to bedraggled black floor mop. For a couple of seconds Black Prince crouched dazed and dripping. Gorgonzola seized her chance. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Gerry flourished the jug in a victory salute. ‘Atta girl!’
Hchwaaa-a-a. Ambrose’s Treasure streaked for the open door.
‘Hostia!’ One second too late, the sergeant stuck out a boot to block Black Prince’s exit.
‘Shit!’ One second too late, I made a grab for Gorgonzola.
In a blur of black and ginger, they’d skedaddled, vamoosed, hopped it, done a bunk. Gone.
I beat both men out into the corridor. The oiled teak floor and whisper-grey walls lit by a double row of runway-style lights stretched ahead with no sign of cats.
‘That’s all we need,’ said Gerry at my shoulder. ‘Vanheusen’s prize moggie minus an eye, or panicked into jumping ship, “missing, believed drowned”. The lawyers will certainly have a field day.’ He took off his glasses and polished them. ‘Well, you’re the cat guru. How are we going to calm them down?’
‘They went that way.’ I pointed at the spatter of drips on the teak floor. ‘Wherever they are, they won’t be sitting quietly purring to each other, there’ll be one hell of a racket. We’ll track them down easily enough.’ I snatched up the cat-carrier and set off at a run. ‘If there’s any of that caviar left in the fridge, bring a couple of plates.’ Given the choice – caviar, or murder and mayhem – there’d be no contest.
As I hesitated at a T-junction, I heard behind me the heavy pounding of police-issue boots and the laboured breathing of the decidedly unfit policía.
I pointed to the open glass doors leading to the sundeck. ‘You go that way, but get some help. It is muy importante that these cats are recovered safely.’
He lumbered past, wafting the sharp tang of sweaty armpit.
To the left stretched a clone of the corridor where I was standing, the same teak floor, grey walls, runway-style double row of lights. As I ran past more doors, some ajar, I listened out for catty shouts and screams from within. No luck. I hesitated at the top of stairs with the arrowed notice Boat Launch and Sea Bathing. Had I heard a faint mew?
‘Gorgonzola?’ I called tentatively.
Only the low hum of air-conditioning, a muffled shout from out on deck, the slap of water on the hull.
But I was sure I hadn’t been mistaken. I’d heard something. Time to show who was boss. ‘Here, G. That’s an order.’
Air-conditioning hum, water slapping…
I said, louder, ‘An order, G.’
A mew, definitely a mew. Not the mew of a petulant, aggressive Black Prince. Not the mia-oow of G on the make, winsomely pleading I’m-a-poor-little-deserving-cat. But I’d heard something like it before…I couldn’t quite place it…
The sound must have come from one of the open doors I’d just passed. I glanced back. Gerry was half-running towards me from the T-junction, balancing two heaped plates of caviar with the exaggerated care of a competitor in an egg-and-spoon race.
‘Along here. I heard something, Gerry.’
In two strides I was peering in the nearest door. An engraved brass plate read Ambrose Vanheusen. The salon-cum-office area was fitted out with maple wood panelling, a gentleman’s-club-style desk, and green leather chairs and sofa – all very masculine. Across the room, through the half-open door, I could see more maple wood panelling and the foot of an oversized bed.
From the bedroom issued a loud, rumbling purrrrrr. Long, smug and self-satisfied. It was the victory cry of a cat triumphant, signifying an enemy dealt with. Dealt with to the victor’s satisfaction. Purrrrrr.
Again, just audible, I caught that weak mew. Sound triggers memories. Into my mind flashed the picture of four drowned kittens washed up against a riverbank, and a half-drowned Gorgonzola clinging desperately to the half-submerged log, a tiny mewing ball of ginger fur…
Through the hum of the air-conditioning, I heard a watery splosh, splattsplosh, followed a second later by that triumphant purrrrrr. Throat dry, heart pounding, I ran across to the open bedroom door. One glance took in ceiling spotlights blazing down on a rockery of small square pillows piled up on the oversized bed. Vanheusen seemed to be obsessed with brass. It was everywhere, gleaming against dark wood panelling: brass handles on drawers and side tables, brass covers on light switches, brass swivel arms on reading lights, more brass round the full-length mirror and on the picture-light over a portrait of Samarkand Black Prince sporting a flamboyant Champion of Champions rosette. Apart from a huge vase of flowers on a brass-bound chest, the whole ambience was, like the salon-cum-office, overpoweringly masculine.
No sign of either cat here, but from the en suite bathroom came an ominous splash splash mia-ow. Purrrrrr.
Behind me Gerry’s shoes brush-scuffed on the salon carpet. ‘Got ’em cornered have you, Deborah?’
I flung myself across the bedroom and into the bathroom, all dark wood cabinets, gold-plated taps, green marble. And more lights. Lights in the ceiling, lights above the mirrors, lights trained on the huge teak bath with the upward swooping ends of a Viking longship. Under the lights its silky sides glowed in shades of cinnamon, mocha and peat-brown, the bath of a confirmed sybarite. Last night’s raid must have rudely interrupted Vanheusen’s relaxing soak, for the heavy spicy scent from half-burnt aromatherapy candles hung heavy in the air, and the bath was still half full of water. On its broad rim crouched a triumphant Gorgonzola, couchant.
She was safe and sound. I drew a long breath and sagged against the doorpost, legs weak with relief.
‘What’s—?’ Gerry appeared at my shoulder in a whiff of fish.
From the depths of the bath came Mwwww shptt glupp. A sodden black blob was struggling to keep its nose and mouth above the surface, paws scrabbling ineffectually at the polished wooden sides. My God, Black Prince was drowning!
‘No-o-o-o-o!’ My shriek, magnified and distorted by all that marble, echoed round the room, feeding on itself as it bounced from wall to wall, an aural version of mirror-in-mirror reflections.
I hurled myself at the bath. Startled out of her schadenfreude spectator-role, Gorgonzola sprang down to the cream marble floor in perfect time to home in on the scatter of caviar jostled by my elbow from one of Gerry’s plates as I pushed myself off the doorpost.
I made a grab for the scruff of Black Prince’s neck as he sank and, in the role of deus ex machina, hoisted Ambrose’s moggy from his watery grave. I heard the clink of porcelain on marble top as Gerry hastily deposited Ambrose’s best china, and then he was swaddling Black Prince in a fluffy-towel straitjacket. He thrust the bundle into my arms. Two terrified orange eyes gazed into mine, a little black face enshawled in the expanse of white whimpered a mew. I rocked him gently and felt strangely maternal…
Gerry was studying the electronic touch-pad at the side of the bath. ‘Better get rid of all this water before the bugger dives in again. Let’s see…Spa jets, Whirlpool, Combination, Fill, Drain, Stop.’ He punched the Drain button. With a musical chord the bath waste-cover rose and the water flowed silently away to expose three rows of brass-mounted jets, at least thirty of them. With that lot powering away, the effect must be more of a maelstrom than whirlpool, not my idea of a relaxing soak.
He glanced at his watch and frowned. ‘All this has held us back. Time’s—’
‘I’m really sorry, Gerry. G knows when she’s wearing her collar that she’s on duty and focuses on the task. She’s not easily distracted…’
Both of us eyed Gorgonzola, now crouched on the marble-topped unit, nose in one of the plates.
‘I see what you mean.’ His tone was dry.
Miaow. My cradled bundle whined querulously.
‘There, there, there,’ I crooned, ‘you’re not such a big, bad cat after all.’
Gerry glowered at me. ‘I don’t have to remind you, do I, Deborah, that we’ve one hell of a crisis here? What we don’t need is another lawsuit, and over an effing pedigree cat at that. Quit buggering around, playing the bloody nursemaid. What I need is you and that moth-eaten shock-trooper of yours to start work. Right now.’
I wasn’t expecting him to lose his cool. That really got to me. Ignoring the slur on G, I looked round for somewhere to deposit my burden, somewhere secure. I made a rapid scan of the room…candelabra-stand of burnt-out aromatherapy candles…wicker towel basket. That would do. I turfed out most of the contents, replaced them with Black Prince, and fastened down the lid.
‘I need results.’ The crack in Gerry’s composure was opening into a fissure. His finger stabbed down on the bath’s electronic touch-pad, ‘And.’ Stab. ‘I need them.’ Stab. ‘Right now.’ Stab.
With a warning musical ping and a hum of motorised valves, the caps on the centre row of jets slid smoothly open. Gorgonzola paused in mid-munch, head raised enquiringly.
‘There’s no water in the bath, Gerry. You’ll ruin—’ I stopped. Tail high, G was stalking along the marble top, homing in on the quivering towel basket. ‘Gorgonzola! No!’
She really was trying to show me up. All office cred gone, I made a grab. Too slow and too late. With a soft thump she landed on the floor, sashayed nonchalantly round me, and sprang onto the edge of the bath. For a moment she balanced there, extending her claws experimentally, then leapt lightly down onto the rows of brass jets set in the bottom of the bath.
‘Can’t you keep her under control, Deborah? My God, she’s treating the bath as a £20k teak scratch-post!’
In spite of her alley-cat appearance, G was a creature of taste and sensitivity – except in the face of extreme provocation, of course. No way would she commit such an act of vandalism. She was padding along the middle row of jets, claws carefully sheathed.
I sprang to her defence. ‘Well really, that’s a bit—’
From her throat was coming a low crooning purr, the low crooning purr of the drug-detecting cat that has nosed out the Pot of Gold.
‘Got’im, Gorgonzo-laaa!’ I yelled.
Aaaaaaaaaa moaned back Ambrose’s marble fittings.
Aooooooooo mourned the wicker towel basket.