Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘Oh. When it said I had to be “on site” at all times, I thought it meant during working hours and you would call me in at other times.’

  ‘That would be very inconvenient. Surely you have no objection?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  She hesitated for a moment. Although she’d had to fight her way out of that ‘test’ on her first visit to ASG, there was no proof Fennington had been behind the attempt to kill her at the motorway service station. She had to find out about Gérard’s involvement with Fennington. If she said no now, the door into ASG’s inner workings would slam in her face. Damn. And after all the effort she and the EIRS had made to set up her presence in Clapham.

  ‘No, of course not.’ How in hell was she going to make contact with the EIRS now? She wasn’t so naive as to think that Fennington’s security people wouldn’t be monitoring her calls and emails, at least for a while. Damn, she’d have to revert to dead drops. She prayed she would be able to find some gaps in Fennington’s schedule so she could slip out. But on the plus side, she’d be on site all the time she wasn’t driving and have plenty of time to search around while he was in his office.

  ‘Good,’ Fennington said and handed her a slip of paper. ‘This is the combination for the private lift to the apartment. Please memorise it.’

  A knock on the door and Gregory, now wearing a black suit and tie over a white shirt, came in. He nodded to Fennington then hovered by the door frame. She glanced at him. Not a trace of the hostility he’d thrown at Mel in the gym showed on his face. He didn’t say a word as they went down in the lift, nor during the twenty-minute journey in the ASG transit van to her Clapham flat. Gregory parked inside the zone bordered with white dashes, switched off the engine and lost himself in his phone.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ Mel said.

  ‘Take your time,’ he said, not looking up. ‘I got nothing else to do.’

  ‘You know it’s residents’ parking only.’

  He looked up.

  ‘You think the nice ladies and gentlemen who live here are going to give me any grief?’

  Mel looked up and down the street almost by instinct and saw somebody waving at her. As the figure came nearer, she saw it was Shanta from the sub-post office.

  ‘Hi,’ Shanta said cheerfully. Her eyes darted from Mel to Gregory. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, great,’ Mel replied. ‘Sorry, Shanta, I must get on.’ She turned and placed her foot on the first step leading up to the front door.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Shanta said. ‘I just wanted to let you know somebody came in enquiring about you earlier today. He said he wanted a driver. Fit looking. Didn’t look as if he needed one. A driver, I mean.’ She grinned at Mel who smiled back.

  ‘Just out of curiosity, what did he look like?’ Mel said.

  ‘Very dark hair, light eyes, grey. And he had a cheeky grin.’

  Dieu, it sounded like McCracken. Surely not.

  ‘Well, if he comes back, tell him I’ve got a permanent job now. You can take the ad off the board now. And thanks, Shanta.’

  * * *

  Mel worked quickly and methodically laying her clothes in her suitcase. Her toiletries still in her sponge bag went in her backpack with her make-up. She poured milk down the sink and chucked her other perishables in a bin bag which she threw in the wheelie bin outside behind the front railings. She glanced at Gregory. He was nodding at his phone, his head bent over, his eyes moving up and down the screen.

  Ten minutes later, she’d assembled her case, bulging backpack and a cardboard box in the hallway. She took a last look round, then pulled the flat door shut and locked it. After extending the case handle, she straightened up and turned towards the street door.

  A hand grasped one of her wrists and pulled it up behind her back. A second hand clamped her mouth.

  Gregory. It had to be. Bastard.

  She rammed her free elbow back into soft flesh. A grunt and the hand over her mouth fell back.

  ‘Oh, do give over,’ the voice spoke direct into her ear. She recognised it immediately. Bloody McCracken.

  ‘Va te faire foutre, espèce de con!’

  ‘I don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound very ladylike.’

  ‘Get the hell off me.’

  ‘Not if you’re going to go sweary on me. I knew you’d go all funny if I just tapped you on the shoulder. Calm down.’

  Mel took a deep breath in. Her heart was thudding with anger. And McCracken was still pressing on her. Heat rose up through her body.

  After a few seconds, he released her and leant back against the magnolia-painted wallpaper on the opposite side of the hallway. Mel spun round.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed at him. ‘And how do you know this address?’

  ‘You’re a good actress – you do the surly French piece very well – but I didn’t buy the way you left. You weren’t at your old flat, but I knew you’d turn up there sometime, so I waited. As soon as the key code was used, my phone beeped and I followed you here. Simple police work.’

  ‘I heard you’d been chatting up the girl in the post office.’

  ‘She just confirmed what I suspected.’

  ‘I have a new job now. You can bugger off.’

  ‘I noticed the boyfriend in the van outside. Gone over to the dark side or is this a put-up job by Stevenson?’ He searched her face, as if watching for reaction.

  ‘Director Stevenson and I found we had irreconcilable differences. It was made obvious that my services were no longer required.’ She stared back, daring him to argue. If Gregory came in and saw McCracken, her mission would be finished before it started.

  ‘The way you keep saying that sounds like lines you’ve learnt.’

  ‘Think what you like. Now, I have things to do.’

  ‘Wait,’ he said, and stretched his hand out towards her.

  She looked down at it.

  ‘Are you going to arrest me? Mr Fennington’s lawyer will be here within minutes.’

  McCracken dropped his hand.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. I just wanted to know you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m all right. Okay?’ Mel said.

  ‘Any messages?’

  ‘Who for?’ she retorted.

  * * *

  Caught in the evening rush hour, with the morose Gregory forcing his way through the traffic, just missing other vehicles by a bare centimetre or two, Mel had plenty of time to think about McCracken. Despite his coarse manner, there was no doubt he was a smart policeman; he’d found her. Had she been sloppy or was he really that good? And he’d sensed she wasn’t telling him the truth. But why had he come looking for her? Perhaps he was just a control freak.

  Gregory glanced at her but switched back to watching the traffic in the gloom. Red lights and headlights blinked and flashed in the rain. His eyes slid from side to side as if he were playing an online game and the taxis, buses and other cars were obstacles to overcome to go to the next level. Just after crossing Chelsea Bridge, Mel was thrown forward, the seat belt a tight restraint across her chest as Gregory nearly wrapped the front of the van round the offside back corner of a double-decker.

  ‘For God’s sake, Gregory, slow down! An extra five minutes won’t hurt.’

  He threw her a venomous look, but said nothing. He did hold back after that but tapped his finger rapidly on the steering wheel every time they were forced to stop. The garage door opened at the ASG office and he pulled into the middle.

  ‘Unload your stuff, then I can park.’ He pulled out his phone, obviously not going to help her. She took the lift to the third floor lobby and shuffled her things over to the door of the private lift. Karine Westbrook was bending over her desk logging off and looked up.

  ‘You’re back,’ she said.

  ‘As you can see,’ Mel replied. She just about stopped herself rolling her eyes. ‘Did you want to see me about anything in particular?’

  Karine shrugged her coat on.

  ‘No, I was waiting
for my brother so we can go home.’

  ‘Wait, Gregory’s your brother?’

  ‘Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Er, no,’ Mel lied. ‘Um, have a good evening and see you tomorrow.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Karine said over her shoulder as she stepped into the lift and vanished behind the closing steel doors.

  29

  Mel’s room in Fennington’s flat was one of eight; from her window the gold of floodlit buildings, Big Ben and the London Eye included, was impressive. Well, the Eye was garish in purple. Snakes of moving light, mostly red and white, flowed below between buildings. The walls of her room were tastefully neutral, the bed high, and the wardrobe large. She also had the luxury of a private bathroom with walk-in shower. A modern landscape in oil hung over her bed which was flanked by matching pale wood tables. A black glass vase of white flowers on a chest of drawers and a small table and office chair in the corner completed the sense of unreality. She’d stepped into an interior design studio.

  If Fennington owned the whole building and had converted this floor to such a high specification, he must be worth millions, no tens of millions. Andreas would no doubt have a detailed financial profile drawn up by now.

  She quickly unpacked and stowed her suitcase and bag in a corner of the wardrobe. She’d seen nobody else when she’d arrived in the open plan lounge, so she was startled by a knock at her bedroom door.

  A man in his forties, open-neck white shirt and dark grey suit trousers, smiled at her. He was as tanned as Fennington, or perhaps it was natural as his eyes and hair were both dark.

  ‘Glass of wine?’

  That was the best offer Mel had had all day.

  Back in the lounge area the man opened a large fridge behind the kitchen island, poured out two glasses of white and gestured towards the glazed-in balcony.

  ‘I’m Oliver Leigh, by the way.’

  She shook his outstretched hand.

  ‘Mélisende des Pittones. Pleased to meet you,’ Mel said, not quite sure about where things were going. ‘Are you a friend of Mr Fennington?’

  He laughed.

  ‘Oh dear, Roland didn’t tell you, did he? I’m his partner, civil partner. Nothing to do with his business, I assure you.’

  ‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry. Long day.’

  ‘So whereabouts in France do you come from?’ Oliver asked with a bright smile.

  * * *

  Mel woke the next day just before six, pulled up the blind and decided on a run. She’d go up to St James’s Park where she could be amongst trees. She left a note for Oliver and slipped her phone in her pocket. Her running shoes were still good, but she made a mental note to get a second pair if she was going to pound along hard pavements regularly. She made the park entrance in a few seconds over five minutes. Perhaps the second glass of wine hadn’t been such a good idea; she’d forgotten how much Brits poured in a single glass.

  She’d just reached Duck Island, halfway round the two-kilometre path, when her phone buzzed. She sprinted back to the entrance and then more carefully down Buckingham Palace Road, dodging between the early workers as they hurried along, umbrellas up against the drizzle. She glanced at her watch as she rode up in the private lift to the apartment. She’d only been out half an hour.

  ‘Ah, Mélisende,’ Roland Fennington smiled at her when she emerged from the lift. ‘How very healthy. And in the rain too.’ He was sitting opposite Oliver, a half-eaten croissant on his plate.

  ‘It’s only a bit of drizzle, really,’ she replied. ‘If you can give me a few minutes, I’ll shower and dress.’

  ‘You don’t need to leave before seven, so I’m sure you’ll have time for a cup of coffee.’ His words were full of concern, but she detected an edge of steel. Oliver gave Fennington a tiny shake of his head.

  Ten minutes later, Mel was back in the living area, grateful for the coffee and bowl of muesli Oliver put in front of her.

  ‘I am sorry to spring this on you,’ Fennington said. ‘I owe a business acquaintance a favour. He’s flying over from Canada on the red-eye for a family emergency. I’d like you to meet him at Heathrow and take him to a place on Edgware Road.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Fennington. What’s the address?’

  ‘Friars Green Police Station.’

  How Mel didn’t choke on her breakfast was a miracle. She took a long draught of her coffee to ease her throat.

  ‘Oliver is making up a flask and a breakfast pack for him which you will take with you. Wait until he has finished his business with the police and then bring him back here.’

  ‘Who am I meeting?’

  ‘Mr Louis Duchamps.’

  * * *

  For the first fifteen minutes, Mel concentrated on keeping the Mercedes safe as she wove her way up to the Brompton Oratory junction. Waiting to turn left she stared at the famous church and wondered if she ought to go to Mass one Sunday to sort out her soul. She’d never given religion much thought after she’d left home at eighteen. The green light scattered any further holy thoughts and she plunged into the Cromwell Road traffic. As she drove west and the A4 became the M4, she relaxed mentally; it was busy, but she was at least going the ‘wrong’ way as many others were battling into the city.

  Of course, Louis Duchamps had to be Billy’s father. What if Fennington had mentioned her by name to Louis? ‘I’ll send my driver, Mélisende, to pick you up. She speaks perfect French. In fact…’ And if Duchamps père dropped it into the conversation to Duchamps fils, she was cooked. But they wouldn’t talk about the hired help, would they?

  A red flash went by so close it almost kissed her paintwork, she swerved a few centimetres to the left in reaction and was rewarded by a loud blast to her left from a van too close to its lane line.

  Get a grip, Mel. You don’t want to be filling in insurance paperwork.

  She accelerated beyond the legal limit for a couple of minutes, then went back to 70 mph. An hour and a quarter after she’d left, she drove down the tunnel into the short-stay car park at Terminal 2. She checked the live flight info on her phone. The plane would land in ten minutes. Mel closed her eyes and let out a long sigh of relief. She gulped some water from the little blue bottle in her door pocket. It would take twenty to thirty minutes for Duchamps père to get through immigration and collect his luggage unless he only had carry-on. She studied his photo again. Startling how like Billy he was, but with grey in his curling hair and a pair of tortoiseshell-framed glasses on his nose.

  In the arrivals lounge, Mel waited along with other drivers. Fennington had said absolute discretion, so she carried no digital name board. But she was the only female driver.

  At last, arrivals with red maple leaf tags on their luggage started leaking through. She scanned the crowd of passengers. Some strode out, some hesitated, others searched for their friends, but one man in a navy coat carrying a messenger bag and pulling a small suitcase walked out as if he owned the world. His cold gaze locked onto Mel’s straight away. Her heart thudded and something inside her shrank. This was a corporate predator.

  Merde.

  ‘Roland Fennington’s driver?’ He spoke with a North American twang, but a heavy French accent. ‘He told me to look for a woman.’ He pushed the messenger bag at Mel and strode towards the door. They crossed over to the short-stay car park in silence. She led the way to the car and held the back door open for him. He left his case at the door and settled himself in the back.

  ‘Bag,’ he snapped.

  Internally, Mel had recovered enough to fume. So much for all Canadians being pleasant. But she handed him the messenger bag with a smile and a nod. She would not descend to his level. She pushed the suitcase’s retractable handle down and hefted the case into the boot.

  ‘Mr Fennington has sent a breakfast basket for you, sir. It’s in the covered wooden tray. A flask of coffee is in the door pocket.’

  Duchamps père grunted, flicked a finger at the basket cloth then ignored it.

  ‘Let’s get
going,’ he ordered and picked up his phone.

  Mel wove her way out of the airport and back onto the M4. Then she registered Duchamps was speaking French into his phone. Canadian French, accented, but perfectly understandable. She glanced in the mirror, he frowned back and flicked his fingers.

  ‘Partition,’ he growled. She pressed the button on the dashboard and a glass sheet slid up isolating her from the passenger seats.

  An hour later, Mel drew into the little road behind Friars Green. She’d tied her hair up in a standard military doughnut bun and placed a soft peaked cap on top, black like her suit and shoes. With sunglasses on, she hoped nobody near Friars Green would recognise her. She held the door open for Duchamps and pointed out the walkway to the entrance.

  ‘I’ll park up away from the traffic, only about five minutes away. Please call me when you’re ready and I’ll come back to this spot and pick you up.’

  He nodded and strode off, messenger bag in hand. Mel waited until he disappeared, then grabbed her own phone out of her inner suit pocket. She jabbed the speed dial for Andreas’s scrambler phone.

  ‘Andreas. Get me Stevenson. Stat.’

  ‘Yes?’ Stevenson.

  ‘I’ve just dropped off Billy Duchamps’s father, Louis. He’ll be through the door any second. Tell them to hold him in reception until I’ve given you my report.’

  She heard Stevenson’s voice giving an instruction, then he was back.

  ‘Sorry to order you about, Director, but it’s important.’

  ‘Don’t worry, just give me your report.’

  ‘I had to pick up Duchamps père at Heathrow this morning. He ordered me to activate the glass partition between the front and back, but it doesn’t cut all the sound. I don’t think he knows I understand French. He made two calls, the first to Mr Fennington. I could just hear him asking how deep Billy was in and telling Mr Fennington to destroy every piece of paper and email with Billy’s name on. Mr Fennington speaks good French – I heard him at the embassy reception. I got the impression that he wasn’t complying, as Duchamps started shouting at him. He calmed down after a while, but he wasn’t happy. Then Duchamps phoned somebody else but spoke slowly as if the other person wasn’t a native or even adequate French speaker. But he mentioned Brussels and recent events.’