Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  * * *

  ‘Excellent news.’ Patrick Stevenson was smiling.

  Mel slipped into his office to hear the tail end of McCracken’s oral report of Holzmann and Joanna’s findings. ‘I’ll talk to Kriminalkommissar Holzmann and we’ll issue the paperwork to start the process with the Swiss.’ He looked at McCracken. ‘Write that up, Jeff, for the file, then can you wrap up Duchamps’s partners. Duchamps himself will have to stay with us for a little while. Now, I need a private word with Mélisende.’

  Stevenson waited until the door was closed and clicked on the light music programme on his phone again.

  ‘Now it’s even more urgent we get into Fennington’s organisation. Are you prepared to go?’

  ‘Yes, I think I must.’ Really, she had little option.

  ‘I’m going to put it about that your services have been terminated with the EIRS just in case Mr Fennington is more efficient than we think.’

  Not again, Mel thought. They’d soon run out of organisations she’d apparently been dismissed from.

  ‘Your contact will be through Andreas Holzmann. Use the standard protocols – physical dead drop and secure messaging. Piggyback where you can or use a public access point.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Sorry, you do know what to do.’ He gave her a conspiratorial smile. ‘We have a studio flat rented in your name that appears to date back six weeks to the beginning of January when you came back from France after Christmas. Actually, it’s the ground floor of a safe house in Clapham we own through a third party. I suggest you move there as soon as possible and leave it a few days before you contact Fennington. Use the local shops and the takeaway and make yourself obvious.’ He fiddled around in a file. ‘Where’s the blasted key? Must be in the other room.’ He lifted another folder off his desk, then spotted a key and fob just under the steel fold of his desktop computer stand. He looked at her. ‘I’ve tried to poach one of the civilian clerks here to organise all this stuff, but they’re short. You don’t happen to have come across a good admin on your travels, do you?’

  * * *

  Mel put on a sullen face as she trudged along the corridor from Stevenson’s office. She ignored one of the police officers who was working in the conference room as she made her way to her desk. She pulled a flat-pack archive box from the shrink-wrapped heap in the corner, assembled it and began throwing her personal items in; a tiny clock, her pens and pencil, note block, ruler and photos, plus a spare pair of trainers, a half-finished packet of biscuits and a small tub of hand cream.

  ‘What are you doing?’ McCracken frowned at her.

  She rolled her eyes at him but said nothing. He caught her wrist. She looked down at his fingers and felt the warmth rising. He didn’t let go.

  ‘Stop. Now tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Nothing. I’m going. That’s it.’

  ‘What do you mean “going”?’

  ‘“Services no longer required”, as they say.’

  ‘What? Just when we’re getting somewhere? Have you pissed off Stevenson?’

  ‘Not discussing it.’

  ‘Not that stupid complaint with Robbins?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said or are you deaf as well?’ Her voice rose. Heads turned their way.

  McCracken released her wrist. He searched her face.

  ‘Are you trying to pick an argument with me?’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Not the hardest thing to do,’ she shot back.

  ‘Have it your own way.’ He raised his own voice. ‘Good bloody riddance. I’m sure we’ll survive. Close the door on your way out.’

  27

  The terraced Victorian building just off the Old Town in Clapham looked like any London suburban street. Mel let out a deep breath and trotted up the short flight of steps. Four flats, names shielded by plastic covered strips by a medley of bell pushes. Hers had ‘Pitton’ scrawled on it. Inside, it was clean but old-fashioned. The grandiose architraves witnessed another more financially confident age. She dumped her cardboard box and backpack on the bed in her room, then went out shopping. Milk, basic groceries and a scalding hot pack of fish and chips later, she let herself back in and drew the curtains.

  Half an hour later, her hair gathered up under a woollen hat, she made her way back to the secure flat where she’d been living after her return from the police college. It was in a renovated fifties block and small, but Knightsbridge was convenient for Friars Green. To her relief, the key codes still worked on the building and the flat doors; Stevenson hadn’t cancelled them. She packed her clothes and toiletries, not that there were that many. She’d always travelled light.

  Next day, Mel pinned a card printed with ‘Driver/personal security – work wanted’ on the noticeboard of the convenience store. She added the number of the new phone Stevenson had given her. The curled corners of most of the other cards testified to how long they’d been there, so she creased hers to match.

  ‘Don’t expect anything, love. Nobody looks at them.’ The young Asian woman walled in by the double glass of the post office counter gave Mel a pitying look. ‘Dunno why Dad leaves that board there. I keep telling him to make it an interactive screen. Still…’ She shrugged, then looked at Mel speculatively. ‘You don’t fancy some post office work?’

  ‘Er, no thanks. Not my thing,’ Mel replied.

  ‘Haven’t seen you much around here.’

  ‘I moved in at the beginning of the year, but I’ve been out looking for permanent work most of the time between odd driving and courier jobs.’

  ‘Driving? Isn’t that more guys’ work?’

  ‘No, I enjoy it, and the pay’s not bad.’

  ‘I’ll keep an ear out,’ the young woman said. ‘I know most people round here. I wish I didn’t.’ She sighed. ‘I’m Shanta by the way.’ Mel had seen that from her name badge but said nothing. She just smiled at her new friend. She was sure that Shanta would waste no time in telling all those people she wished she didn’t know every detail of her encounter with Mel.

  After a couple of days, during which she’d bought cold cure from the pharmacy, wine from the off-licence and chatted to the postman, Mel reckoned she was reasonably dug in locally. She’d even exchanged hellos with others on Sunday morning when she jogged round the Common. Shouts from the Sunday footballers and kids running around contrasted with strolling couples, muffled up with bobble hats and thick scarves.

  Just after 8.15 on Monday morning, she sat at her little table and tapped on Fennington’s number in her contacts list.

  ‘Hello?’ To her surprise, it was Roland Fennington himself.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Fennington. I didn’t expect you to answer your own phone.’

  ‘Who? Ah! Mademoiselle des Pittones, I think. Well, this is my private line. Are you speaking from home in la belle France?’

  ‘No, I’m still in London.’

  ‘Oh. Why is that?’

  ‘Family problem,’ she snapped. ‘Sorry. A little tense in that respect.’

  ‘Dear me. How trying. Now what can I do for you?’

  ‘I was a little abrupt the other day, and rude. I apologise. But I was provoked.’

  ‘Unfortunate. I fear Gregory was a little heavy-handed. Well now, that’s all in the past.’ A pause. His voice faded as he said ‘Yes, we’ll leave as soon as I finish this call’ to somebody else in the room. ‘Charming as it is talking to you, I must go. Gregory isn’t the best driver in the world, so I allow additional time when he takes me to meetings.’

  ‘I may be able to help. Is that job still open?’

  A pause.

  ‘But I am, and I quote, “the last person in the world” you’d work for.’

  ‘I need a job,’ Mel replied, not quite gritting her teeth. ‘Of course, it depends on the pay,’ she added.

  Fennington laughed. ‘How practical the French are.’ His voice hardened. ‘You would also be performing some protection services, but you are undoubtedly qualified in that respect. Come a
nd see me later this morning. Shall we say eleven o’clock?’

  * * *

  Five minutes early, Mel pushed the tinted glass door into the Associated Security Group office block in Victoria and entered the small oak-lined lobby. She fed her small backpack through the same scanner as on her last visit. This time, once she’d stepped through the scanner arch, she was greeted by a young black woman, neat and precise in a sharp suit. She looked Mel up and down.

  ‘I’m Karine Westbrook, Mr Fennington’s private secretary. We need to sign you in. Thumbprint and digital signature, please.’ She pointed to a tablet the receptionist placed on the counter. Seconds later, a printer behind the receptionist’s desk coughed out a card with Mel’s name and a barcode. The receptionist handed it to her without a smile. Ms Westbrook turned on her heel and set off for the lift, not bothering to check if Mel was following or not. Obviously, the accent here was on the efficient and charmless, Mel concluded.

  On the third floor, Westbrook walked through a thick carpeted open area with a large L-shaped workstation opposite two smaller desks, all three unoccupied. To the side, behind a large plate-glass panel, ran several banks of grey steel and wood-topped workstations duly kitted out with shirt-and-tie-wearing workers. Beyond the larger workstation in the open area was a panelled wood door. Westbrook knocked and walked into a large office with floor-to-ceiling strengthened windows. Or maybe they were merely triple glazed. At a plain Nordic birch desk, Roland Fennington tapped a few keystrokes, jabbed a final key then looked up. He rose, a hand outstretched and full smile on show.

  ‘Coffee, please, Karine,’ he said, keeping his eyes on Mel. Still holding Mel’s hand, he drew her towards a group of easy chairs. ‘Now tell me exactly why you need this job.’

  ‘You were right. I need something to do.’

  ‘Now tell me the real reason.’

  Mel shifted in her seat. It was soft and comfortable, but she was trying to buy time.

  ‘I have to ask myself,’ Fennington continued, ‘why a young woman from a prosperous aristocratic family who probably received a bonus when she left the French Army needs to earn her keep. I also wonder why she isn’t living in the bosom of her family in a comfortable chateau in a delightful part of France waiting for a genteel opportunity to come up.’

  His blue eyes hardened, and the smile had faded when Mel looked up.

  ‘I—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve fallen out with my father. He… he was displeased with me when I was thrown out— I mean, left the army.’

  ‘Now why was that?’

  ‘Services no longer required,’ Mel said to the floor.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Incompatibility with the command values of the national army,’ she trotted out.

  ‘Don’t fence with me, Mélisende. I’ve been round the block so many times, I have my own private lane.’

  ‘Shortly after I re-joined after Gérard’s funeral, I had the temerity to put the colonel’s son on a charge for neglect of duty. He should have been chucked out in disgrace. I was asked to drop it to a minor disciplinary.’ She sent a private prayer le bon Dieu to forgive her for blackening Colonel Vasseur’s character. ‘I refused, so I was out.’ Her eyes were full of fire and anger. ‘After ten exemplary years. Well, stuff them.’ Her hands balled into tight fists. After a few moments she released them. ‘Sorry. But it still hurts.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘My father is old school. He said I’d disgraced my name. No des Pittones had ever been dismissed from public service. He told me to take myself off until I had redeemed myself.’ She closed her eyes for an instant. ‘Dieu! I thought he’d understand. My mistake.’ She turned back to Fennington. ‘I received no leaving bonus from the army and I have no other income. My mother sends me some of her personal money, but I can’t sponge off her. My future husband is dead; Aimée can’t give me a job with the embassy with my new ineligibility status, so I’m on my own.’

  Would he believe her story? He was studying her face but said nothing. Perhaps he was trying to unnerve her. She crossed her arms.

  ‘That doesn’t mean I’m stuck so badly I have to take your job,’ she said. ‘There are plenty of opportunities in the security industry. I’m sure I could get a licence. However, I’m listening to what you have to propose.’ She’d nearly gone into French. She took a deep breath as if to calm herself.

  ‘Brava! Of course, I have looked into your background. I would be foolish to do anything else. Your regiment was very offhand when we enquired, so I concluded there’d been a problem. And we know you haven’t been home for months. Let me explain what I need.’

  * * *

  Three hours later, Mel signed a contract with the Associated Security Group as a driver/personal security officer answerable only to Fennington. Downstairs, the head of security, a dour man called Harris, issued her with a personal Glock and watched as she shot some clusters in the small indoor range. She was surprised to be given a gun licence immediately. Surely that wasn’t legal in the UK? But she said nothing, just made a note to inform EIRS.

  She’d been assigned a desk in the open area in front of Fennington’s office opposite the taciturn Ms Westbrook. After a lunch brought to her at her desk by a junior, she investigated the basement gym and discovered Gregory, the disgruntled bodyguard, sparring with his colleague.

  Mel watched as the two black men circled. Gregory was tall and broad, probably around a hundred kilograms including a thin layer of fat which could have been worked off with some regular running. For a big man, he was agile. He glanced up as she approached the ropes and shot her an angry look. He struck his sparring partner a heavy blow. The other man staggered back and held up his hands. Their training bout was over.

  Gregory removed his helmet and face guard to reveal a bandaged nose. He walked to the edge of the ring then crouched down and slipped under the ropes onto the floor of the gym. He didn’t say anything for a moment or two, just looked Mel up and down. He hooked his mouthguard out, shook it and stuffed it in the pocket of his sweatpants.

  ‘I’ll be watching you. I don’t know why the boss wants you. This ain’t the place for amateur girlies.’

  ‘Good thing I’m not then.’

  ‘You trying to be clever?’

  ‘I don’t have to try.’

  ‘You want to get in there and prove that, bitch?’

  Mel laughed. Gregory’s sparring partner and two other men previously exercising on the machines had stopped to watch them.

  ‘I don’t need to prove anything, Gregory. You know that. Isn’t twice beaten enough for you? How’s the nose, by the way?’

  He grasped the ropes and shook them.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he said. His voice was tight with anger. ‘You keep out of my way.’

  ‘I’ll be doing my job,’ Mel snapped back. ‘You try to make some attempt at doing yours, whatever that is now.’

  28

  Back upstairs, she studied Roland Fennington’s schedule. Some meetings were local, others in Europe and another in three days’ time in the US. She filled in time planning routes and movements to ensure his journeys would be secure. She had nothing particular to do after that, so she walked from floor to floor and familiarised herself with the building, especially the stairs and access doors. Unlike many straightforward courier firms, the ASG office was much more than a counter for receiving parcels. Garages at street level had space for six vehicles; one ASG liveried transit and two civilian cars, one Mercedes, the other a Golf, were neatly parked behind yellow lines. Presumably, larger vehicles were stationed at a depot or warehouse away from the West End. A packing department and post room occupied part of the first floor; it smelt of coffee, cardboard dust and human bad breath. Opposite was a door marked ‘Training’; inside was the lobby with the three doors leading to the room she’d escaped from on her first visit. A new blackout blind had been fitted, she noticed.

  The second floor had its own mini-reception with an unsmiling
male receptionist. Behind him was a panel marked with ‘Security solutions for your business and personal lives’. Mel gave him a tight smile and felt him watching her intently as she walked up the corridor. Some door signs said ‘Personnel’ or ‘Interview Room’; all had card readers on their handles. The third floor was full of office workers, contained in rows and cubicles.

  Her pass enabled her to go everywhere, except the top floor for which there was a separate lift only accessed from the third floor.

  ‘He lives up there,’ Karine said when Mel queried it.

  ‘What? Over the shop?’ Mel said. ‘I would have thought he’d have a luxurious estate somewhere.’

  ‘He prefers to stay on site. Only a few people have access.’ She glanced at her watch then looked across to Mel with half-closed eyes. ‘Mr Fennington has scheduled another meeting with you in twenty minutes. Had you noticed?’

  ‘Yes, I saw it on my calendar,’ Mel answered. She’d already synched it with her phone but didn’t want to press the point with this snooty woman. ‘I’d still like to check the roof. Is there another way up?’

  ‘No, that’s off limits.’

  ‘So how do the comms engineers and maintenance people get up there?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Mr Fennington.’

  Ten minutes later, Fennington himself strolled into the open area.

  ‘If you’re ready, Mélisende, shall we start early?’

  Inside his sanctum, he sat at his desk and gestured for her to take the employee’s chair on the other side.

  ‘I hope you’ve found your way round and are settling in. I’ve asked Gregory to drive you over to your flat and collect your things. You’ll need to give notice on your lease, of course.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘I need my driver on-call twenty-four seven, so I’ve allocated you a room in my apartment upstairs.’ He frowned. ‘Didn’t you realise that? It was in your contract.’