Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘I expect you’re wondering what the hell you’re doing here, Sergent-chef,’ Stevenson began. ‘Normally you’d be crawling around in some hole at the back end of the French-speaking world.’

  Mel said nothing. Being designated as a contract-not-renewed still hurt.

  ‘Very well,’ Stevenson continued. ‘Two reasons. The first is to advance the investigation into the death of your fiancé…’

  ‘What?’ Mel jerked her head forward.

  ‘…and the second is to draft you into my new investigation and enforcement unit.’

  All she could hear apart from a distant hum rising from the heavy traffic on the roundabout outside was the thudding of her heart. What the hell was this man’s interest in Gérard? That was a matter for the London police. After a moment or two, Stevenson tapped the tips of his fingers together.

  ‘The Met feel that you are not cooperating entirely with them and thought you would be more open to sharing if you were in a closed security environment where there would be few repercussions on your personal liberty.’

  ‘If I understand you correctly, sir, you think I have some covert knowledge that I’m hiding—’

  Stevenson leant across the desk.

  ‘I know you do.’

  She felt a flutter of fear in her stomach. This man was powerful, now her boss. But he couldn’t make her say anything. Could he?

  ‘Don’t you want to find out if his death was deliberate? And if so, who killed him?’ Stevenson leant back in his chair. ‘We have considerably more resources and flexibility in approach than any police force. If you cooperate, it’s all at your disposal.’

  Mel cleared her throat.

  ‘Who exactly is “we”? I mean, what is this new unit?’

  ‘The European Investigation and Regulation Service is a completely autonomous unit looking into ripples in civil society and, er, dealing with them. Although we sit in this building, we’re funded by a wide range of governments. The EU just pays the rent.’

  ‘Ripples?’

  ‘Disturbances, anomalies, hidden conspiracies and so on. And then we regulate them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s a phone call, a word dropped in an ear. Many will end up in a public criminal trial. Other times, it’s a more direct action, or even a permanent solution.’ His voice hardened. ‘The most important thing is to watch out for them. We have a daily input from intelligence sources and police forces across the globe and a group of analysts sifting through it. We have our own people, of course, to supplement this. And then we are forming a small multidisciplinary unit for when we need to take direct action. This is where you come in.’

  Mel swallowed. The warmth in the room became uncomfortable. She fingered the scarf at her neck.

  ‘Was Gérard one of those “ripples” you dealt with permanently?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. But he moved in circles with one and we were watching him. We rather hoped he would lead us to the centre. Pity.’

  A pity! Was that all this functionary could say? She couldn’t work with this hard-hearted man. Their eyes met.

  ‘That was insensitive of me,’ Stevenson said. ‘I apologise. But we’re sure he was involved in some way. And we need every tiny piece of information. You’re supposed to have a sharp brain as well as being an extremely effective soldier. I’m sure you will see the benefit of pooling our knowledge. You’d have complete immunity in respect of any actions you’ve taken.’

  ‘I—’

  A buzz on Stevenson’s desk saved Mel.

  ‘Your next visitor is here,’ Klara’s disembodied voice said.

  ‘Show him into 414, please.’

  Stevenson stood up and Mel immediately followed suit. Years of military training made it instinctive to stand in front of a superior. Ellis stood a second later and took a step forward, but Stevenson waved his fingers at his junior. ‘I shan’t need you this time, thank you, Mr Ellis. I’ll leave you to get on with your analysis.’ He smiled at Ellis in a friendly way, but the other man’s lips tightened for an instant before forming an answering smile.

  ‘Of course, Director.’ Ellis bobbed his head and made a beeline for the door. Stevenson waited until the door closed.

  ‘Mr Ellis has my full confidence,’ Stevenson added.

  ‘Yes, I see that,’ Mel replied.

  Stevenson shot her a glance, and waited, but Mel said nothing further. Stevenson was obviously the boss and reminded her of Colonel Vasseur – steel spine and complete focus. Ellis seemed friendlier; perhaps he would be a more approachable colleague.

  ‘Shall we?’ Stevenson ushered her out, along the corridor to a door with the number 414 on a small plastic plaque. He opened the door. In the room set out with a table and eight chairs a man was standing by the tall window, his back to them, and looking down and across the cityscape. He turned as they entered.

  McCracken.

  10

  Stevenson had lied. She was trapped. McCracken had come to arrest her. And there was no escape. She glanced back at the door. She could make it to the lift. No, there had to be fire stairs. She was on the fourth floor, so she’d be out the front door within a minute. She’d just shove Stevenson out of the way.

  Her fingers grasped her bag which had all her essentials – ID, passport, money, bank cards. She planted her feet flat on the thick carpet, her toes tensed and ready to give her body that essential spring.

  ‘Ah, you remember Sergeant McCracken, I’m sure.’ Stevenson’s voice almost drawled. ‘Ah, excuse me, he’s now Inspector McCracken, just assigned to us. You’ll be colleagues.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ Mel couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Surely you didn’t think he was here for any other reason?’

  Bastard. Stevenson had done that just to see her reaction. Dieu, this was a trap of another sort. McCracken gave her a steady look, mostly contemptuous, with a hint of satisfaction.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not thrilled about it either,’ he said. ‘But at least we’ll get at the truth now.’

  Stevenson sat and gestured McCracken to do the same. Mel was stuck and she knew it. If she didn’t help, she’d never learn why Gérard died. And Stevenson had said she’d be immune. But why did it have to be bloody McCracken? She let the strap of her bag slip off her shoulder into her hand and took a chair opposite McCracken.

  ‘Where shall I start?’ she said.

  * * *

  McCracken flexed his fingers, unaccustomed to pen and paper. He’d scribbled for nearly half an hour. This was ridiculous. They had to get some proper recording equipment in here, preferably with speech recognition software. He’d let her talk without interruption and had to admit that now she’d settled down she’d given a concise account.

  ‘You do realise you’ve contaminated a murder scene?’ he growled at her.

  ‘That’s why I wore plastic overshoes and surgical gloves. I made sure my body didn’t touch anything as I moved through the room. I didn’t want any of my DNA or clothing threads left there.’ She looked at McCracken. ‘I’m not that stupid, you know.’

  ‘Humph.’

  Stevenson stood. ‘I’ll take that number you found in the Gideon Bible and get our people to analyse it. In the meantime, Klara will organise international IDs for you and assign you a desk each, but you won’t be sitting at them for very long.’

  ‘Sir?’ Mel said.

  ‘You’ll be going back to London to work with Detective Constable Evans in Inspector McCracken’s former unit. You’ll also be learning some policing techniques and frameworks at their Ryton training college, mostly operational and investigating skills. Although different in different countries, the British system is a good place to start.’ Stevenson looked at her. ‘It’s only a familiarisation course lasting a week, but it will be intense, so not an easy ride.’

  McCracken snorted.

  ‘Don’t look so smug, Inspector. You’re going for a week at Heverlee.’

  Mel burst out laughing. Even Stevenson smil
ed.

  McCracken looked from one to the other.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like the pleasure of explaining to the inspector, Sergent-chef.’

  ‘It’s the Belgian Special Forces base and training camp. Good luck with that.’

  ‘Is that really necessary? I’ve been in some bundles in my time. I can handle myself okay.’ McCracken was grasping the back of the chair. Mel noted with interest, no, satisfaction, that the skin on the back of his hand was stretched and white, the bones pushing out. Was he afraid of a bit of hard training?

  ‘Absolutely,’ Stevenson said. ‘Make no mistake. We’re dealing with those who are too clever to be caught by usual methods, so powerful they can buy politicians and command more resources than a good number of small countries’ net worth. I cannot afford to have anything but the best and those best must be fit, resilient and sharp. Heverlee will give me their assessment whether you’re as good as your file says you are, Inspector. We have a little time in hand as the case in London has been downgraded to accidental death.’ McCracken opened his mouth to say something, but Stevenson held up his hand. ‘Your Superintendent Fredericks was very cooperative. The opposition may think we are focusing on other things. However, I need you both up to speed as quickly as possible.’

  He shook their hands and left the room.

  ‘Fuck me!’ McCracken said.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘No, nothing personal, mind.’ He looked Mel over from head to foot. She stuck her chin in the air. She turned away and looked out of the window, down to the roundabout filling up with lunchtime traffic.

  ‘You know something?’ she said still gazing down. ‘He didn’t react at all when I mentioned Associated Security Group. Twice.’

  * * *

  Just after five in the afternoon, Mel knocked at Stevenson’s door. He invited her to sit.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s relevant, sir, but I didn’t want to say anything in front of McCracken.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t know the background. I suspect it’s political.’

  Stevenson kept a neutral face and said nothing.

  ‘The night before he died, Gérard said he absolutely had to see his sister, Aimée, at the embassy.’ She shot a look at Stevenson. ‘I expect you know of her.’

  ‘I have indeed met Madame de Villiers – a charming and completely terrifying woman.’

  ‘She’s okay when you know her, but yes, very focused. Gérard wouldn’t say anything, but he was distracted. He said he was going to camp out at the embassy the next morning if necessary but whatever it was, it was very important.’

  ‘Very well, thank you for mentioning it. Anything else?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before.’

  ‘Mélisende, if I may?’ She nodded. ‘We are all going to have to learn to be frank and open with each other at all times. We can’t waste time playing games. You are going to have to bury your antagonism with Jeff McCracken and work professionally with him.’

  She felt warmth creeping up her neck but nodded and hoped McCracken was going to get the other half of that message.

  11

  Klara Dassell was as efficient as she appeared. The next day, along with an ID card and travel tickets for the following day, she gave Mel two keys and the address of a studio flat. Two months’ rent was paid; Klara handed her a completed debit form to sign for future rent payments from her salary. Mel checked out of the hotel and walked only a hundred yards to her new place. It looked as if it had been furnished by IKEA. The bed was shielded by a partition of a tasteful if soulless tall bookcase and two cupboard units in ‘genuine’ laminated birch. She explored the galley kitchen and small shower room but found no surprises.

  Her new home was on the first floor; each pivoted window had two secure locks. Even the door had been fitted with a five-lever deadlock, chain, peephole and bolts. Unusual, but she appreciated the level of security.

  She was hanging her unneeded uniform and other clothes in the matching birch wardrobe and sifting everything else into the chest of drawers when she heard a scratching on the window. Something flicked across the edge of her vision then disappeared. She ran to the kitchen, snatched the key from the worktop and twisted it in the two locks. She shoved the window open and leant out. A man in the platform of a cherry picker was rubbing hard at the main window.

  ‘Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Window cleaning, chérie.’ His accent was Belgian, but his voice a little too far up the food chain.

  ‘I don’t want the windows cleaned, now or in the future. Please stop and do not return.’

  ‘You can’t have dirty windows,’ he said.

  ‘Give me your company’s name and telephone number, please.’

  The self-confessed window cleaner didn’t reply but signalled to somebody below. Within a second, he was descending. Fast. He grabbed the rail to steady himself as the cage settled at the back of a white van.

  ‘Stop, stop,’ Mel shouted, but the man ignored her, only sending a worried glance up towards her. He jumped out of the cage and flung open the driver’s door. Another man appeared from the side and locked the cage. He knelt and grabbed the stabilising leg, his arm working like a wannabe bodybuilder’s as he unscrewed it.

  Mel tore out of her front door and ran down the stairs by the lift. She shot out of the entrance door of the building and veered left towards the white van. Its engine screamed as the driver revved it hard, then it belted off down the Boulevard de Waterloo before she could reach it. The cold seared Mel’s lungs. She coughed and looked on, helpless and angry. No way were they window cleaners. They’d targeted her flat. She searched the pavement for any sign of their presence. Nothing immediately obvious, but then she spotted something in the weak sunlight among the chewing gum spatter and cigarette butts. She knelt and picked up a tiny black plastic square with silver markings and a bare wire protruding.

  * * *

  ‘Unfortunate,’ Stevenson said. He twiddled the tiny square between his fingers. ‘I’m sure they won’t have left anything crass like fingerprints. Mr Ellis will trace the registration plate. There can’t be that many small cherry pickers around. Go back to the flat and I’ll send one of our people round to see if the window yields any clues.’

  A quiet young man with brown curly hair and spectacles called at Mel’s apartment an hour later; he showed a genuine ID and gave her the correct code phrase but she watched his every move as he opened his messenger bag full of bottles, bags and tape. He perched on a surveyor’s fold-up ladder, unlocked the window and pivoted the pane. He dusted and peeled marks on the window, humming a short piece of music then repeating it over and over again. Irritated, Mel retreated to the kitchen. In a cupboard, she found some coffee pods and made a cup of double strength. She pulled some of the other cupboard doors open; tins, bottles, cereals and dried goods and a loaf of sliced wholemeal bread. The freezer was packed with one-person meals. Had the efficient Klara organised this?

  ‘I’ve finished.’

  Mel jumped. She’d been brooding about the two men who had attempted to plant a listening device to her window. Were they connected to the ones who’d followed her to Strasbourg? She hadn’t heard the young CSI approach over the soft new carpet. Dieu, she had to sharpen up. She saw him out, secured the door, drew the blind across the window. In the silence, she pulled her case onto the bed and started packing for London.

  * * *

  Sleet hit the train windows and melted instantly as the train shot across the Belgian countryside, temporarily white from a dusting of snow. Mel hadn’t travelled by Eurostar for ages. As a family, they’d always taken the car ferry from Dieppe to Newhaven, or she and Susan on a shopping weekend had used the low-cost flights from Poitiers. Coming this far north and east for a simple Channel crossing had been impractical.

  Despite the heating, she huddled into her coat and pulled the scarf in round her neck. She concen
trated on entering numbers on her new super secure phone. Although she was keen to work actively on Gérard’s case with Detective Evans, she wasn’t happy about working with McCracken afterwards. And what exactly was her role in this EIRS? It sounded like a bunch of desk monkeys. But Stevenson had used the words ‘more direct action, or even a permanent solution’. Dieu, he didn’t expect her to terminate anybody, did he?

  She drew a pattern on the cold window with her finger. She’d only killed twice, once in self-defence overseas in Africa, the other time in a siege with terrorists in Paris. Her comrade-in-arms, Barceaux, had been the specialist sniper on both operations. He’d never shown any overt reaction when he’d eliminated the opposition; he’d just put himself through a bout of intensive physical training in the days afterwards. He said it was to make up for lying still so long. Mel thought it was for an altogether different reason.

  With a tiny whoosh, the train windows went black as they entered the Tunnel. Mel turned her attention back to her lunch tray.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Detective Evans was waiting in the arrivals concourse. She didn’t hold out her hand or show any other sign of welcome.

  Mel studied McCracken’s ‘mouse’. Evans stood squarely without fidgeting, as if she didn’t need to make her presence obvious. Her brown hair fell to the lobes of her ears in which gold star studs were fixed. She showed no trace of any emotion in her face and looked straight through Mel with pale hazel eyes.

  ‘Follow me please.’ Evans turned and without checking to see if Mel was behind her marched off towards the exit. She didn’t say a word as the anonymous steel grey saloon wound through the London traffic. At the Friars Green station, Evans showed Mel to the room that McCracken had owned for a few days. Mel pushed her case into the corner behind the desk.

  ‘We’ve booked you into a local hotel for the few days you are here. Please ask me for anything you need,’ Evans intoned in an almost robotic voice, while looking at the wall over Mel’s shoulder. She looked at her watch. ‘Case meeting in thirty minutes.’ She took a step towards the door. Mel shot her hand out.