‘No doubt, but I suspect you’ll be coming up against the powerful and connected in your work and sometimes a subtler approach may be required. Good media skills will be invaluable for this.’
Mel wasn’t sure whether she wanted to argue or just escape.
‘You’re probably cursing me under your breath at this precise moment, Pittones, but think about what I say.’
* * *
Driving back down the motorway towards London, Mel cursed, and out loud. Blake was talking rubbish, and anyway she’d passed the damned module. She hadn’t needed to use weasel words so far in her life and she wasn’t starting now. Then the reception in the London embassy flooded back. She’d tried to do it with those two financiers and got nowhere. The exchange with Roland Fennington had nearly got her killed. No, that softly, softly stuff wasn’t for her.
She drove the hire car back to the central depot in London, then took the Tube out to Highgate in north London. Checking that nobody was following her, she walked for ten minutes to a block of flats in the less fashionable part of the suburb. However, it was quiet, unassuming and crossed by wide tree-festooned avenues. Modern looking with beige and blue facade, the block was about ten storeys high with an external fire escape discreetly hidden in an inverted corner of the building at the rear. This was to be Mel’s stopover safe house. Joanna Evans had sent her the entry code for a second-floor flat. With any luck, nobody would attempt to smash through her window in the night.
As she microwaved lasagne she’d found in the freezer, she thought further about Blake’s words. Was she as clumsy and direct as he implied? At school, she’d been reprimanded for being impertinent, but had eventually settled on saying nothing unless provoked. In the military, quick and direct was the preferred form of speech. You didn’t have time to be charming in a live fire zone. And during the course exercise, the other students had been happy to follow her lead.
The microwave pinged. She took her meal and a glass of water into the living room and switched on the television to catch up on the news. They’d been too busy to snatch anything but the briefest headlines this last week. After she’d taken the first mouthful of the meat and pasta, she stopped eating.
In front of a hole gouged out of the Brussels Triangle Building the BBC reporter, restrained by the police cordon, was doing her best to comment neutrally. Mel could work out for herself that although very precise, surgical even, the explosion had been powerful. Curtains and blinds flapped in the breeze and the twisted remnants of steel window frames hung limply from the edge of the hole – Stevenson’s office. Mel saw the sheared-off perpendicular wall and broken legs of office chairs and drawer carcases open to the elements before the camera came back to the worried expression on the reporter’s face. ‘Has Brussels been the target again for terrorists?’ the woman asked earnestly.
* * *
‘Why the hell didn’t you call me?’ Mel shouted down the phone at Joanna Evans.
‘You were driving down the busiest motorway in the UK, that’s why. And it’s been manic here. We’ve initiated our emergency response plan, the government’s COBRA committee is meeting and the super is calling in all reserves to up security at all government buildings.’
‘I have to get back to Brussels now.’
‘No, you don’t. All commercial flights and trains there have been cancelled for the rest of the day. They reckon the overall building structure is okay and the impact zone has been checked for secondary devices. The blast wasn’t very wide, but the explosion was intense. Mr Stevenson is safe and on his way to London by military aircraft. Mr Ellis was in London anyway. But Mr Stevenson’s secretary… Unfortunately, she was in the office at the time.’
God. The chirpy, efficient Klara who had been so kind to her in a brisk way. What was she doing in the office on a Saturday morning? Mel put her palm up to her eye and pressed it. Who the hell were these people? At least McCracken was safe at Heverlee with the special forces troops.
Joanna’s voice broke in.
‘Please stay where you are until tomorrow morning. It’s secure, and to be honest, we have quite enough to do here for the next twelve hours.’
* * *
After binge watching the news channel until one in the morning when she decided the journos were just going round in a loop, Mel slept soundly until seven. Showered, breakfasted and sipping a cup of coffee in between tasks, she tidied up the flat, then closed the flat door behind her. The electronic squelch and red LED confirmed it had locked. Wheeling her bag behind her, she joined the steady flow of commuters towards the Tube station. On the platform, she collapsed the extended handle of her bag and grabbed it. A train arrived and waiting almost until the last minute, she stepped on, nearly crushing a disgruntled commuter’s toes. If anybody was following her, they’d have to have been damned quick to get on after her. At Kings Cross, she hopped onto a Circle line train to Edgware Road. She stepped out of the street entrance straight into freezing wind and rain.
Dieu, England.
She tucked her scarf more tightly into her neck and dived across the road. She trotted up the steps of Friars Green Police Station, eager to be out of the weather, but at the street door, bundled up and sheltering under the canopy, stood an armed policeman, something that hadn’t been there when she’d left. After he checked her ID, he grunted and took a step back so she could swipe her EIRS card to open the door. Inside, Mel had expected to see people rushing about, but it was deserted except for the desk sergeant who looked up with mild interest when she showed her ID again.
‘Where are they all?’
‘Out or resting. Bit busy last night.’ He buzzed her through the door at the side. ‘You know your way,’ he added.
Mel looped her lanyard over her neck and slid her EIRS card in the badge carrier. When she pushed open the door of her little office, she almost fell over a camp bed occupied by a bundle of blankets. She sidled up the long edge. Joanna Evans was fast asleep, her face pale and her lips parted. Mel crept out again, closing the door quietly. Now what? Well, she could report to Superintendent Fredericks, or at least her assistant.
‘Oh, yes,’ Kylie said and glanced at her screen. ‘Your Mr Stevenson’s here in Room B16. Conference room.’
In a room bordered on one side by large double-glazed windows and on the other by two doors with wood panelling in between, Patrick Stevenson hunched over a long table strewn with sheets of paper. He looked up over black-framed glasses from tapping on the keyboard of a laptop. Unusually, he wasn’t wearing his suit jacket; it was draped at an odd angle over the back of his chair. His expression was grim but relaxed a little when he saw Mel.
‘Well, I’m glad you’re in one piece.’
‘I’m so sorry about Klara. Had she been with you long?’
‘No, she transferred over from one of the EU directorates.’ He looked away. ‘She wanted a more exciting assignment. I’ve written a letter to her son, but I’ll go and see him as soon as I can.’
Mel sat on a chair opposite him. She’d lost comrades-in-arms twice. It was unspeakable. People always needed time for it to sink in that they would never see that person again. She doubted Stevenson would have that luxury at the moment.
‘I’ve sent for McCracken as well,’ he said. ‘Regular commercial transport will restart after lunch. I’m sorry to ask you to do something so mundane, but would you mind booking him a seat on the mid-afternoon train and emailing it to him?’
Mel fished her laptop out of her backpack. Both keyboards clacked, the only noise to break the silence until the whoosh of her outward email disturbed them.
‘I’ll find us some coffee,’ she said. Stevenson looked up, distracted, as if he’d been pulled out of another world, but nodded his thanks.
She came back to find two police officers lugging a large screen through the door. Inside, she could see Haines, the civilian facilities manager, supervising a crew putting in cables, desks and computer equipment. Joanna Evans, looking half-asleep, and another plain-clo
thes policewoman were hauling a triptych incident board along the corridor from the other direction.
Just in front of them Ellis was pointing with his finger, supervising the two women, then stepped in and helped them push the heavy panels through the doorway. He laughed and Joanna actually smiled back. Mel found that inappropriate in the circumstances. Or perhaps it was gallows humour. Ellis turned and spotted Mel. He came over with a wide smile.
‘All go, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Let me.’ He took the coffees from her hands and pushed open the door with his body. Mel caught a woody, resinous scent. For a moment, he searched her face, his eyes hard. Almost instantly, his friendly expression returned. Mel blinked, unsure of what she had just seen.
‘You’ve had quite the adventure yourself, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘And in Newport Pagnell. How romantic!’
She couldn’t have explained why, but if she’d still had the coffee, she would have been tempted to throw it over him. It would have been a waste but at least it would have drowned his strong aftershave. That was harsh of her, she admitted. Perhaps his uber-jolly attitude came from nerves. Ellis would have worked in nice clean offices until now with a quarrel over tea club money the worst direct conflict in his life. He’d probably never been close to operational death, let alone the threat of it.
‘Yes, a strange experience,’ she replied. ‘But the attack on the EIRS must have been a jolt for you, too.’
He said nothing but nodded. However, an hour later, she had to admit he had a good analytical brain. His work plan was clear with every task split into steps and resources.
Superintendent Fredericks slipped into the room just as Joanna Evans began to read out the situation report.
‘Brussels Police Judiciaire are attending with Inspector Leroy of the International Police Cooperation Directorate as liaison to us here. Forensics have examined fragments and soot deposits from materials burned during the explosion as well as surfaces slightly further away, such as rooftops and stationary vehicles. Remains of textiles are being processed for melting and solidifying characteristics. We know it was a very contained explosion. The epicentre is obvious from the annotated photographs.’ She looked round at the dozen people in the room, glanced at the incident board, then back at her notes. ‘“Surgical” is the word forensics use in their preliminary report. We’re hoping they’ll be able to come up with type and source of material, including detonators, tapes, wires, timers, switches, batteries, and so on. Fingerprints would be a bonus, but given the precise nature of the blast, it would be reasonable to conclude it’s professional, so unlikely.’
Fredericks frowned at Joanna Evans, perhaps for making such a leap, but Stevenson nodded.
‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘We have access to sufficient pooled databases to be able to identify, or at least rule out, some types of materials frequently used by individual terrorist organisations. While we’re waiting for the police to do their work locally, Mr Ellis will hand out assignments to process the information we have to hand. Make yourselves comfortable, ladies and gentlemen. You’ll be here for a while. And expect new input hourly.’
17
Just before five, Mel sat up, brought her shoulder blades towards each other, then relaxed. Dieu, her throat was parched. She glanced at the blue plastic bottle of water. No, she needed tea. She pitched her empty sandwich wrapper into the bin as she stood. She’d raid the biscuit barrel in the kitchen at the same time.
As the kettle came to the boil, a voice interrupted.
‘Put one in for me while you’re at it.’
She jumped. McCracken.
‘Don’t creep up on me like that!’
‘Just practising.’ He grinned at her.
‘Very funny.’ Still, she was surprisingly pleased to see him. His hair was shorter, the regulation one centimetre, the damned earring had gone and an indentation caused by continuously wearing a helmet had made a red mark across the skin of his forehead.
‘They pulled me off an exercise. I wondered why until I saw the bloody news. I’ll just dump my bag in my office—’
‘Actually, it’s my office, but go ahead.’
‘I knew you’d still be the same stuck-up cow.’ But this time he smiled to himself.
* * *
At one end of the conference room, three large screens ran CCTV footage captured from the three sides of the Triangle Building. In front of them, Mel blinked for the umpteenth time. McCracken, hunched at her side, snorted. He checked his watch: 8.20.
‘Right, let’s take a break,’ he said. ‘It’s not fresh compared to your neck of the woods, but outside we won’t be recycling the same twelve lots of germs. There’s a little park across the road. It’ll be closed, but we can nip over the fence.’
Stevenson looked up as they both rose. Mel flashed up the fingers of her right hand twice and he nodded. The corridor outside was quiet, broken only by the hum of a light on the blink and distant voices murmuring. Mel tugged the heavy outside door open, passing it to McCracken. He let it slam.
Traffic lights, car lights, thrumming of bus and lorry engines and the din of a twenty-four seven London clearway assaulted them. Give me a nice noisy jungle anytime, Mel thought. But this was a jungle of a different sort. McCracken waited for the green man, which surprised Mel, then he pulled her across the main road.
‘I can manage to cross the road, you know,’ she said, and pulled her arm away from his grip.
‘Yes, but you’re used to driving on the wrong side.’
‘Oh, please!’ She could only see his profile in the street lighting as they strode along, but she thought he was grinning. Again. The park gate was locked but the railings were low. Walking along the path inside, Mel stopped between two trees, closed her eyes to blank out the light and took a deep breath. It wasn’t home, but the damp, woody smell of bare branches was familiar.
‘You okay?’ McCracken’s voice broke in.
She nodded but didn’t open her eyes.
‘Well, come on then, don’t dawdle.’
‘We’re not on a route march.’ She opened her eyes and walked on. ‘By the way, how did you get on at Heverlee?’
‘They’re maniacs! Whoever said the Belgians were friendly and bland knew arse-all. Mind, the worst instructor was some German bastard on secondment. He wanted to fight the Second World War all over again.’
‘Yes, they are surprisingly tough. We used to train with them now and again.’
‘Oh?’
‘We always won, though.’ Her turn to grin at him.
* * *
At 10.30, the next shift arrived to analyse the CCTV yield and Mel went through her notes with them. They would go back yet another forty-eight hours. She and McCracken would go through the internal camera footage again in the morning. Stevenson had sent Joanna Evans home for a proper night’s rest, so Mel huddled under the blankets on her camp bed. She rubbed her eyes, knowing she shouldn’t. She’d have a proper shower in the morning. Maybe the night team would have something to report.
As she fidgeted to get comfortable, Mel kept seeing little figures in her mind’s eye strolling, striding or hurrying along the flagstones at the sides of the Triangle Building. Ditto the odd service van, watched and checked sometimes carefully, sometimes cursorily, by the security guards at the entrances, the big roundabout with cars hurtling themselves on it seemed so normal, almost boringly so, for a government building. What were they missing? She started counting off possibilities, each stranger than the next, but after a few minutes, her eyes closed and shut down her thoughts.
* * *
The staff shower occupied a single cubicle in each toilet block. Even at 6 a.m. the women’s one was occupied, plus somebody else was waiting. Mel knocked on the door of the other block and peered in. Empty. She dived in. She’d just soaped herself all over when somebody started whistling the Marseillaise. She ignored it. Rinsing, then a cursory towelling, she hurried to finish within five minutes. She wrapped the towel round her to cover the essentials an
d unhitched the plastic bag with her clothes from the hook. She pushed the door open to find two men waiting, one half-undressed. They smirked at each other.
‘There’s a ladies’ along the way,’ one ventured.
‘Yes, but there was a queue,’ Mel replied.
‘This is blokes only,’ the second man said.
‘There’s no sign on the door,’ Mel replied. ‘And I’ve only been five minutes.’ She stepped to one side to make for the door and the women’s toilet block so she could get dressed, but in the tight space nearly touched the second man’s arm.
‘Looking for more than just a wash, love?’ The second man’s hand stretched out to grab her breast. She slapped his hand down.
‘How dare you! Get out of my way.’ She stared him full in the face. ‘Now!’
‘Not up for a bit of fun? Thought French girls were always at it.’ His fingers clamped round her wrist and pulled her towards him.
Mel shot out her free hand and brought the side down on the bridge of the man’s nose. He shrieked, dropped his towel and bag and clasped his face. The other one looked shocked, then started forward. Mel held out her hand.
‘Not one step further. Now get out of my way, like I asked.’
‘You can’t do that,’ he protested.
‘I just did.’ She looked at the first one nursing his nose and the blood dribbling between his fingers. ‘I hope he knows how to wash himself properly. You never know with children.’
She pulled up her towel, covered herself and left, her dignity intact.
In the canteen, Mel bought a hot breakfast. Luckily, because Friars Green was a twenty-four-hour terrorist and serious crime hub, the canteen hadn’t been replaced by a self-service kitchen. But breakfast was the only hot meal of the day, so the tables were usually full. As she was handed her plate, she was crowded in by a couple of male officers in the queue, who jostled her arm. Mel was too quick for them and stepped aside, saving her breakfast. She snorted at their juvenile antics. But a uniformed woman officer waiting by the till invited her to join her group at a table.
Double Identity Page 10
