Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘Well?’ Aimée’s sharp voice insisted. ‘Come on, Mélisende. Pull yourself together.’

  ‘God, Aimée. Leave me alone for a minute.’ Mel finished her drink in one swallow, ignoring the heat and pinch of the spirit. She set the glass down on the table with a thump, then dropped into an armchair. ‘Okay, this time, it was two days ago when I arrived. He said he had something serious he absolutely had to tell you, but he wouldn’t say what as he didn’t want to spoil our reunion.’

  ‘I see.’ Aimée reached for her phone and scrolled down the messages. She made a moue. ‘You’re right. Damn. What was that about? I thought it would be merely social. I’ve been working non-stop with scarcely time to breathe since the first secretary was recalled to Paris.’

  ‘Aimée,’ Mel stretched out her hand and touched the other woman’s forearm. ‘I thought Gérard and I had a future together. I’d finished my contract in the army, and—’ She gulped.

  Aimée handed her a handkerchief.

  ‘Well, you can stay here tonight. I’ll find you some things and a toothbrush.’ She stood. ‘Then I need to call Papa. That conversation may take time.’

  Mel undressed, slipped on the robe she found on the back of the bedroom door and made her way to the bathroom. In the mirror, she glanced at her face and looked away almost immediately, aghast at the haggard woman with straggly hair and muddy brown eyes in the reflection. Her pupils were tiny which was strange given the soft light. She looked as if she’d been out in the field for a month. She’d given up her structured military life three days ago. Her future with Gérard had all been mapped out. Now it had been ripped out.

  * * *

  A hand on her shoulder. Fingers digging in. She was being rocked none too gently.

  ‘Will you wake up! I thought you squaddies all leapt out of bed at six and went for a five-kilometre run before saying bonjour.’

  Aimée. Hell. Just as bossy as at school. Mel bet her staff all hated her. And feared her. Mel sat up and blinked. Seven o’clock, according to the gold carriage clock on the mantelpiece. She’d slept for nine solid hours. She pulled herself out of bed.

  ‘Give me a few minutes for a shower and I’ll be with you.’ She gave Aimée a steady look. ‘I don’t suppose you have a shirt and some underwear I could borrow?’

  At breakfast, Aimée outlined the schedule.

  ‘At nine sharp we will meet Laurent Clément. He’s an avocat at the appeal court in Nantes, but he’s ten months into a year’s sabbatical at Temple, Smith and Davis studying the English criminal law system. He will represent you. I’ve requested your civil record from the casier judiciare as an absolute priority and your military record from the DRHAT with the same urgency. I expect both in my inbox this morning. Can you list the dates of your visits to the UK in the past year and every meeting with Gérard in that time and email me them? We’ll print it out when we get to the embassy.’

  Mel listened and merely nodded. She’d refused Aimée’s offer of a sleeping pill last night; her mind had still been as foggy as if she’d already taken half a packet.

  * * *

  ‘I presume you were searched and they took bodily fluid and other samples at the police station? And you gave your permission – in writing?’ Laurent Clément asked.

  Mel looked at this grey-suited, bespectacled old-young man. He was another structured and precise one like Aimée.

  ‘I was too out of it and went along with what they asked. But it didn’t seem an unreasonable request. I can’t remember signing anything except something to do with my clothes.’

  He looked at her, then scribbled furiously.

  ‘Look, Maître Clément,’ Mel continued, ‘it’s all a bit surreal. I’m trying to remember it all.’

  Perhaps she had been foolish to have allowed herself to be processed in such a way, but she hadn’t felt inclined to fight it. Her energy and willpower had evaporated. And that truculent cop had been picking at her.

  ‘We can demand the documentation from this McCracken, then proceed from there,’ Clément said. ‘Please only answer any further questions when I am present.’

  Mel gave him a hard stare.

  ‘I understand,’ she replied. ‘But I want to know what the police are doing to find out how Gérard died and why.’

  ‘Aren’t you concerned for your own position?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Statistically, in suspicious circumstances it’s most often a close family member or partner who’s responsible for killing someone.’

  Mel caught her breath.

  ‘The police and prosecution service will focus on opportunity and your abilities, given your military competence and experience,’ he added.

  ‘But I had no motivation. None.’ Mel jumped up, nearly tipping the chair over. Her hand shot out in time to catch it.

  ‘There,’ the lawyer said. ‘You’ve just given me a perfect demonstration of how fast your reactions are. We can’t hide that ability, but we can downplay it. Which arm were you in, by the way?’

  ‘After time at the NCO school, I became an infantry specialist, then I was attached to GAOS on the intelligence side.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Groupement d’appui aux opérations spéciales,’ Mel replied.

  ‘Special forces? Bon Dieu!’ The lawyer’s passive expression slipped into one of horror. ‘Then we are in for a difficult time.’

  ‘My group was only tasked for rare and specific operations where a native English speaker was required.’

  ‘But you trained with them?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mel muttered.

  He shut his file cover and stood.

  ‘I don’t think I can help you with this. You need a gifted barrister from a top criminal practice to get you out of this. If they can.’

  3

  In the back of the car on the way to Friars Green Police Station an hour later, Mel wondered if this would be her last day as a free woman. Aimée persuaded, no, commanded, Maître Clément to stay as Mel’s representative, reminding him of the contacts and status he enjoyed due to being attached to the embassy. But he sat in the front with the driver as if to distance himself. He didn’t say a word to either of them.

  In the back, Mel leant over to Aimée and whispered, ‘I didn’t do it, you know.’

  ‘If I thought you had, I would have dropped you like a stone.’ Aimée gave Mel a cool look. ‘What the devil was Gérard up to? Who would want to kill an insignificant trader? It’s evidently a case of mistaken identity. A tragic accident.’

  ‘How can you talk like that, Aimée? You may not have been close, but he was your brother.’

  ‘Listen, there were eight years between us and he was either away at school or studying in Paris when I was growing up. He laughed at me, the little kid, and teased me most of the time.’ She touched the base of her neck. ‘I never really knew him well if I’m honest. He wasn’t especially interested in me even when I was older. So I concentrated on my career. Even more so after my divorce from Maxime.’

  Mel fidgeted in her borrowed suit; the skirt was too short for Mel’s metre-seventy-five height. On top of that, her feet pinched in Aimée’s loan shoes. But she felt far more prepared than yesterday, especially with her fair hair up in a formal pleat and her face made up. The embassy car pulled up in front of the concrete police station. With its brutal architecture, not softened by square fascia panels, it squatted like a nuclear bunker at the corner of the clearway. Mel shivered.

  ‘Look, take this cash, just in case,’ Aimée said and pushed a wad of notes into Mel’s hand. ‘I keep it to hand for emergencies. You can pay me back later.’

  Mel looked down at the bundle. There had to be several hundred pounds.

  ‘You think they may arrest me today and take me into custody?’

  ‘You never know how these things might go,’ Aimée replied. ‘Money always helps in these circumstances,’ she added, then looked away.

  Mel shoved the notes into the bag Aimée
had lent her. Despite her fear at Aimée’s words, she pulled herself up to her full height and walked up the steps confidently, ignoring the pinch from the tight shoes. She wasn’t going down like a sacrificial chicken. Whatever happened, today she was determined to find out how Gérard had died, and why.

  Aimée left after pleasantries with the superintendent and Mel and Clément were taken to the same interview room Mel had left only hours before. The woman detective, Evans, sat with a small pile of papers on the table. McCracken, by her side, glared at Mel.

  She sat up straight, half closed her eyes and looked directly back at him. Refreshed and her mind now clearer, she wasn’t going to put up with his nonsense. Nor, now he was in full lawyer mode, was Maître Clément. He demanded to see any documentation Mel had signed.

  ‘Did you interview my client under caution?’

  ‘Of course,’ McCracken said. ‘We follow procedure.’

  Clément turned to Mel.

  ‘Did you understand what that meant?’

  ‘No, I can’t remember them saying that.’

  ‘I see. So, Sergeant McCracken, you interviewed my client without her understanding she was under caution and what that meant.’ He wrote rapidly on his legal pad. ‘And do you now have reasonable grounds upon which to arrest her?’

  ‘We’re just interviewing her to establish the facts.’

  ‘My client has cooperated with you entirely voluntarily and I think you have the facts.’

  ‘Your client was on the scene when Gérard Rohlbert died. The door to the hotel room was locked.’

  ‘And there was no other means of entry?’

  ‘Are you being clever?’

  ‘No, Sergeant, I am merely asking you for your facts. Was there no window in this room?’

  Mel went to speak, but Clément shook his head.

  ‘Yes,’ mumbled McCracken. ‘Sash.’

  ‘Ah. And did you find it open?’

  ‘It was unlocked.’

  ‘So somebody could have entered the room while my client and Rohlbert were asleep. And the cause of death?’

  ‘Heart failure.’ McCracken threw a glance at Mel. ‘The preliminary report shows that we found a discarded syringe under the bed and the body had some strange markings in the chest area. Perhaps his death was brought on by his night-time exertions, fuelled by substance abuse.’

  Mel’s eyes blazed. How dared he suggest they’d been doing drugs? But she had to stay calm. She clamped her lips together and leant back, her fingers gripping the edges of the moulded plastic seat. Inside, she itched to strike the dirty smirk off the cop’s face.

  ‘However, we’re keeping an open mind,’ McCracken continued. ‘It’s unusual for a man of his age and apparent fitness to go like that. The post-mortem will reveal any substances.’

  ‘So the case is wide open,’ Clément stated. ‘Show me the preliminary report, please.’ He read the document then handed it to Mel. ‘There is nothing here to hold my client on, let alone arrest her.’ He put his spectacles back in their case, stood and nodded to Mel. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘We need an address here in the UK so we can contact your client.’ McCracken sounded desperate, as if he wanted to hold on to Mel under any circumstances.

  ‘Why?’ said Mel.

  ‘Because you’re a material witness.’ McCracken’s eyes were hard and grey.

  ‘Contact Madame de Villiers at the embassy, if you need to,’ said Clément as he escorted Mel out of the room.

  * * *

  After Laurent Clément shook her hand perfunctorily, glanced at his phone and hurried off, Mel stood at the bottom of the steps of the police station entrance. She clutched a paper bag with her handbag, phone and keys and a receipt for her clothes. She took a deep breath, then coughed hard. The diesel fumes from a double-decker had made a direct hit and brought her nausea back. But her first stop now was the hotel room to have a good look round.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, but the police haven’t released the room yet.’ The receptionist’s eyes looked over Mel’s shoulder and she smiled at two new arrivals behind Mel.

  ‘I made the booking until tomorrow morning,’ Mel said. ‘I’ve been released from the enquiry. Are you deliberately preventing me from going to the room I’ve paid for?’ With practice from parade ground commands, Mel raised her voice until every person in the lobby, one with his hand still in the drinks machine, turned to listen.

  ‘No, of course not.’ The receptionist glanced anxiously at Mel, saw her determined expression, then reached for a handset. ‘I’ll ring them upstairs.’

  * * *

  On the first floor, Mel’s room door was open. Two white-clad figures, hoods down and chatting, turned when she knocked on the door frame.

  ‘I’m Mélisende des Pittones.’ She went to lift the yellow and black tape across the entrance, but the woman held up her hand.

  ‘Stop. We’re not finished with the room. Sorry.’

  ‘I’ve come to check something.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask the boss when it’ll be released.’

  ‘You mean McCracken?’

  ‘No, Superintendent Fredericks. It’s a murder scene.’

  ‘Murder?’ Mel nearly choked. ‘What do you mean? McCracken told me just half an hour ago that it’s an open verdict.’

  The CSI glanced away, then back at Mel.

  ‘Call Superintendent Fredericks for me, please,’ Mel ordered.

  The CSI made a face, but Mel looked down her nose at her in the way she used to do at lazy recruits. The woman dropped her gaze and reached for her phone.

  Mel peered into the room, focusing on the window. She hadn’t noticed before, but it gave onto a narrow balcony with ironwork running round the edge. The room was only on the first floor, an easy climb for a trained operative. Hell. But who? How was it possible that Gérard could have annoyed somebody so much that they wanted him dead?

  ‘No go.’ The CSI tucked her phone away. ‘Sorry. The super won’t let you in nor release anything. We’ll let you know when.’ The woman CSI turned away, indifferent.

  Mel fumed as she left the hotel and stalked down the street. Thank God Aimée had given her that cash. The nearest M&S and Clarks, two of her mum’s favourite shops, provided relief from Aimée’s formal suit and pinching shoes. Now clad in jeans, trainers, a fresh shirt and light jacket, Mel felt more normal.

  But Mel had additional, far from normal, intentions. She had to get back into that room. In a sportswear shop, she added a pair of skinny black ski pants, hoodie and black running shoes – clothes that would make her near invisible and shoes that would make no noise.

  4

  ‘Well, we have the femme. Now we have to see if she’ll do the cherchez bit for us.’

  The light flooded through the Home Office window but stopped short of the desk of senior civil servant Patrick Stevenson; it didn’t shine anywhere near the other man who had just spoken. For the hundredth time, Stevenson wondered why Donald Ellis had been assigned to his staff. Ready with a smile and friendly handshake, Ellis wore his suit as if made for him alone. His rise to his current grade had been steady, if not particularly remarkable. Supposedly, his analytical and organisational skills were good, but Stevenson didn’t think he was that bright. More likely he was there because he was the deputy secretary’s brother-in-law. Stevenson scanned the panelled walls of his Whitehall office adorned with inoffensive landscape paintings.

  ‘It’s not quite that easy, Ellis,’ he said. ‘The local police can’t hold her and she’ll probably go back home to France.’

  ‘She may have been cleared by the superintendent running the case, sir, but the investigating officer isn’t so sure she’s as innocent as she looks.’

  ‘He has nothing to go on.’

  ‘They’ve retained her ID card so she can’t travel,’ Ellis said. ‘She’s stuck.’

  ‘Don’t be dense, Ellis. Her friend at the embassy will get the consular section to issue her with a passport.’ He looked at his jun
ior. ‘You haven’t met Madame de Villiers, have you? A formidable woman, believe me.’

  ‘Oh. Should I point that out to the investigating officer?’

  Stevenson gave Ellis a sardonic look.

  ‘I rather think he will have worked that one out for himself.’

  * * *

  McCracken stomped into Friars Green station. The coffee warming his hand was considerably milder than his mood. That bloody French woman, looking down her nose at him. He looked round the squad room.

  ‘Evans,’ he shouted at nowhere in particular. Her anxious face bobbed up from behind a computer screen at the side of the room. ‘What are you doing there?’ he said.

  ‘Confirming some background, Sergeant.’ She held a file out, her hand steady. She may be a little mouse, McCracken thought, but she was an efficient one.

  ‘Thanks.’ He plonked his coffee down on his desk. His rear didn’t even touch the seat before Kylie, the super’s admin assistant, popped her head round the office door.

  ‘Superintendent Fredericks wants to see you, Sergeant McCracken. Immediately.’

  McCracken eyed his coffee, sighed, but followed the woman down the corridor. Prim and proper in her walk, manner and clothing, he bet she’d never forgiven her parents for lumbering her with that name.

  ‘Sit down, Jeff,’ Superintendent Fredericks said as he closed her office door.

  Jeff?

  He was still clutching the file but was so surprised he didn’t immediately put it on her desk. God, what had happened now? Somebody in his family in a bad accident or died? His parents and sister were gone in that house fire years ago; the only one left was his brother in Australia and he hadn’t heard from him in years. Who else was there? No, she was smiling. She held out an envelope marked ‘Human Resources’, with his name, but the wrong rank.