The main party would park by Victoria station. McCracken would loiter just back from the ASG entrance with half a dozen officers, then call the rest in on her signal. She eased the Mercedes into the vehicle service entrance, locked it and with a false cheery wave to one of the messenger drivers, headed for the lift.
No sign of Karine Westbrook, but Harris, the head of security, was waiting as she stepped out onto Fennington’s office floor. Her heart rocketed. He was the one person at ASG who scared her. His face looked as solid as a piece of granite rock and the same texture. She’d seen his type with the expressionless eyes once before on a warlord who enjoyed smashing his gun barrel on people’s heads and firing a round through the victim’s skull straight into their brain.
‘Miss des Pittones.’ He stood up from the visitor chair and glanced at his watch. ‘Where’s Mr Fennington?’
‘He’s staying over with a friend up in Enfield. A Mr Mestre.’ She pocketed her car key. ‘He wants me to go back this evening to pick him up.’
Harris grunted.
‘You know something?’ he said. ‘I don’t buy that.’
‘Sorry?’
‘You might well be.’ He stood very close to her. Sweat dribbled down the back of her neck. She looked straight into his hard eyes.
‘Look, Mr Harris, I’m on my way to let Oliver know, so if you’ll excuse me.’
‘What’s wrong with phoning him?’
‘Oh, this is ridiculous. I’m not accountable to you.’ She had to get rid of him. McCracken would be getting edgy. She was two minutes overdue in giving the signal.
Mel went over to the private lift door. Harris came with her and put his arm across.
‘Please get out of my way,’ she said.
‘Or what?’
‘Look, Mr Harris, I need to go upstairs, report to Oliver, then I’ll come back downstairs and we can talk properly.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I’m sorry, but this is private access, residents only.’
‘I’m head of security. I go anywhere I like.’
‘In ASG, yes, but not in Mr Fennington’s private home.’
His pitted face didn’t budge a millimetre. How in hell could she get rid of him? It would all be over soon, but not unless she got upstairs. She could take him, she was sure, but the drones sitting at the desks the other side of the glass wall would raise the alarm.
‘Very well,’ she conceded. ‘But be prepared for Oliver to bite your head off.’ She knew very well Oliver wouldn’t do any such thing, but she had to deflect the stares coming through the glass. She shielded the digital keypad with her left hand and tapped the code in with the fingers of her right.
The doors swished open and Mel stepped in followed closely by Harris. She pressed the top floor button, then turned round with a smile and punched Harris in the gut. A fast, vicious chop to the back of his neck as he folded. She jabbed the lift stop button. Harris grunted and struggled up onto all fours. Mel stamped her foot down hard on his lower back, direct on his kidneys. He dropped spreadeagled. She crouched down and seized Harris’s ears, raised his head and slammed it down on the floor. He moaned and went out cold.
Working fast, she fished out two cable ties and yanked one round his ankles, the other on his wrists behind him. Her fingers on his neck. A slightly fast pulse. She restarted the lift. As it arrived in the apartment, she jumped out, jabbed in the stop code. The doors closed. Air seared her throat as she took great gulps and bent over.
‘Mel?’ Oliver was sitting at the dining table with an empty plate in front of him and watching the lunchtime news. He frowned at her. ‘Where’s Roland?’
‘Hello, Oliver. Would you excuse me? I need the loo. Be with you in a minute.’ She gave what she hoped was an embarrassed smile and coughed. He turned back to the news with a frown. Instead of going to her bathroom, she veered right.
As it led to the fire exit, the cupboard key was always kept in the keyhole. She turned it, easing the levers over slowly so it made no more noise than the click of central heating switching on. Door open, she crouched down and pulled the double bolts out and opened the hatch.
‘Now,’ she breathed into the mic in her sleeve cuff. She pushed the cupboard door to, but not quite closed, then slid into her room and bathroom. She flushed the lavatory, then sauntered out into the living area.
‘That’s a relief. No more takeaways for a while.’
Oliver switched off the television, stood and came over to her, a stern expression on his face.
‘Right. Now you can tell me where Roland is. He’s not answering his phone, which is unusual.’
‘Sit down, Oliver, I have something to tell you. Mr Fennington is perfectly safe. He had a meeting with Niccolò Mestre last night in a warehouse in north London. Unfortunately, there was an accident. Mestre is dead, Gregory Westbrook is in hospital with gunshot wounds. As is Mr Fennington.’
‘What?’ Oliver jumped up. ‘What the hell happened? Which hospital? God, I must go and see him. Now.’
‘No, he has a shoulder wound only, not serious. He can’t have visitors as he’s under arrest.’
‘What? What for? If you don’t tell me now, I’ll bloody well choke it out of you.’
Mel held her hand up, palm towards him.
‘I wouldn’t try,’ she said, her voice dry as a desert wind. ‘Now sit down, please. Police officers are in the building and have started to search the ASG offices. In a few minutes, they’re going to arrive here. I came first to reassure you about Mr Fennington.’
‘Reassure me – is that what you call it?’ He glared at her. ‘Are you one of them?’
Before Mel could answer, the crash of wood on wall interrupted them as the hatch cupboard door was flung open. In the next second, McCracken ran round the corner into the living area.
‘Police!’ he shouted and thrust out his hand with his warrant card. Oliver took a step back and grabbed the top of the nearest dining chair.
Mel whirled round.
‘Situation secured, Inspector,’ she said to McCracken and frowned at him.
McCracken scanned the open area of the apartment. ‘Clear elsewhere?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you get the lift working?’
‘Yes, of course. Oh, there’s a tied and bound security man called Harris in there. You might warn the troops who open the door on the office floor that he might be a little upset.’
* * *
‘I’m not saying anything without my solicitor present nor without seeing Roland.’ Oliver shifted his weight on the plastic moulded chair. He crossed his arms, eyes blazing across the table at McCracken.
‘You’re not in any position to make demands, Mr Leigh,’ McCracken retorted. ‘You’re here as an accessory to organised illicit financial trading, illegal gunrunning and a possible terrorist attack. You may be with us for a little while. Now we can keep this friendly and cooperative as my colleague would prefer, or we can go formal and have you remanded immediately in Belmarsh. Your choice.’
Oliver glanced at Mel. She hoped she wasn’t showing any emotion. Inside, she felt guilty as hell and wished she was anywhere but here in this sad, grey interview room in the sad, grey concrete of Friars Green station. But she had to separate herself from that. Perhaps McCracken had been right that she needed a break, but she was here now and had to get on with it.
‘Oliver, please be realistic,’ she said. ‘I know you want to support Mr Fennington, but you need to be free to do so. Cooperating with us now will enable us to confirm if you had a part in his business affairs or not. Please answer Inspector McCracken’s questions.’
‘Was he really involved in all those things?’ Oliver looked at her, almost pleading.
McCracken went to speak, but Mel laid her fingers on his arm.
‘There is no doubt about the illegal financial trading – we have paperwork to prove it. I was present last night when he was purchasing weapons that rightfully belong to the French government,�
� she said. ‘So yes. Plus he may even be connected to the terrorist attack in Brussels.’
‘Oh, God.’ He put his hands to his forehead and bowed his head, elbows resting on the table. After a moment, he looked up. ‘What do you want to know?’
* * *
‘He’s clean,’ McCracken conceded as they watched from the observation room while Oliver gave his statement, his solicitor by his side.
‘I told you he was,’ Mel said.
‘I s’pose he’s like any wife. It all comes as a big shock when the other half’s sleazy life comes out, so to speak.’
Mel bit her bottom lip. She knew exactly what Oliver was going through.
‘You are so un-PC,’ she shot back.
‘What? I thought you French were all in your face.’
‘We’re polite at least.’
‘Not from what I’ve heard.’
‘Have you ever been to France, apart from when you came harassing me?’
‘Done a day trip with the school when I was a kid and a stag night with one of the lads a couple of years ago.’
‘Bon Dieu! No wonder you’re so ignorant!’
‘Not much opportunity for poor kids to be anything else,’ he snapped back, a faint pink rising in his face.
Mel was mortified. What an unkind thing she’d said, however true.
‘I apologise. That was very rude of me – Jeff,’ she added.
‘Apology accepted – Mel,’ he replied, sarcasm coating his voice.
37
Mel caught Oliver in the public reception area just as he was leaving the station with his solicitor.
‘May I have a quick word, Oliver?’
‘I’ve given my statement. I have nothing further to say to you.’
‘Very well. I was going to discuss arrangements for you to see Mr Fennington, but if you don’t wish to, then so be it.’
‘I’m perfectly capable of going to the hospital myself.’
‘I’m sure you are, but you won’t get beyond the police guard, so it would be a pointless visit.’
She turned and put her hand up to the keypad to go back into the secure area.
‘Wait,’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘What do I have to do?’
‘Come with me.’
Mel led the way along walkways between the modern office towers under which nestled coffee shops and sandwich bars. They walked in silence for the first five minutes, but after crossing the bridge over the basin, Oliver stopped.
‘Let’s sit,’ he said without looking at her.
He left a good space between them. Mel waited.
‘Why were you spying on Roland?’
‘He was a person of interest.’
‘Why didn’t you just ask him? That would have been more honest.’
‘Are you really that naive, Oliver?’
‘He’s been good to me.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but engaging in criminal activities such as he has done is against the law. And he knew it was.’
‘You police always see things in black and white.’
‘No. Things are or are not legal – it’s that simple.’
‘Don’t you feel dirty, deceiving people?’
If only he knew. She stood up.
‘Come on, Oliver, or visiting hours will be over.’
At the hospital, she opened the door of Fennington’s room. Oliver nearly ran in. He gently folded Fennington into his arms. She closed the door quietly, nodded to the uniformed policeman outside and went to fetch coffee.
Fifteen minutes later, Oliver emerged, his shoulders drooping. He looked at Mel, looked away, then back at her. His normally warm toned skin was paler than usual, almost grey. She pulled him down to the only chair in the corridor and fetched him water from the machine.
‘He wants to see you,’ he said in a monotonous voice.
‘Stay here until I come out.’ She glanced at the policeman and looked sideways towards Oliver. The policeman nodded and moved nearer to him.
Mel went in and closed the door. Fennington was sitting up and looking abnormally cheerful. Falsely so, Mel thought. What the hell had he said to Oliver to upset him so much?
‘Ah, Mélisende. Thank you for bringing Oliver to see me. Appreciated. Now, I believe I’m leaving here tomorrow morning. Can you make me an appointment to see your supervisor?’
The nerve of the man. Where did he think he was?
‘You will be taken to the police station under appropriate escort and you will be processed like any other person arrested. There are no appointments.’
‘So hard. Oh dear. Well, I’ve thought about what you proposed and would like to discuss it with him. Or her, of course.’
‘Please be ready to leave straight after your breakfast,’ she replied without much warmth. ‘It will be a long day.’
* * *
She walked Oliver back through the wide vinyl-floored corridors of the hospital to the front entrance.
‘What did he say to upset you so much?’ she said.
‘He apologised for deceiving me. He never wanted to hurt me.’ He sniffed hard. ‘But he said you’d saved his life. Thank you.’ He looked down the street for a few moments before turning back to her.
‘Where will you go now?’ she asked.
‘Well, home.’ He frowned.
‘Forensics will still be going through it. The ASG building will be shut down for a while.’
‘Oh great, now I’m homeless.’
‘Have you any friends you can stay with?’
‘Yes, but I’ll go to a hotel. I’m not telling anybody about this.’
‘I’ll come with you. We need to have your address.’
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No, but we need to know where you are. And, Oliver, don’t even think about talking to the press.’
* * *
Back at Friars Green Mel sat at her allocated desk and hammered her keyboard. After producing several pages of single-space type, she had completed her report. She sent it to Stevenson, asking for comments before filing as definitive, then leant back and sighed.
‘Here, have this,’ McCracken said, and offered her a steaming cup of tea.
‘Lifesaver.’ She glanced round the room at the familiar faces as she sipped. ‘Where’s Mr Ellis, by the way? I thought he’d be sticking like glue to Mr Stevenson at this point. He loves knowing what’s going on. And he is the Director’s deputy.’
‘The boss put him on PR and “communications liaison”, whatever the fuck that means.’ McCracken snorted.
‘Not my strong suit either,’ she said. ‘Thinking about it, he’s personable enough, good-looking even, and he can put on the charm, so he’ll probably make a good job of that,’ Mel replied.
‘What? Not you as well? Bad enough some of the silly tarts in the office thinking he’s God’s gift.’
‘Oh, please!’
Mel was taken aback by the hard look McCracken gave her. Surely he didn’t think she would fall for Ellis’s charm?
‘Whatever,’ McCracken continued. ‘But he’s gone on leave now. Some family emergency.’ He rolled his eyes.
‘I know you don’t get on with him, but I think you’re being too harsh.’
‘A waste of office space in my opinion, so no great loss.’
‘And you always have an opinion, too, don’t you?’ Mel retorted.
* * *
Stevenson called a quick update meeting and they settled with the rest of the team round the large table. Mel was still going over the interviews with Fennington and Oliver in her mind, but she pulled her attention together as Patrick Stevenson outlined the schedule.
Forensics would continue processing Fennington’s office and apartment. The main task was taking Fennington’s and ASG’s records apart. Mel didn’t envy Joanna and Andreas that job; they’d taken files, towers, laptops, cabinets out to the Westway warehouse already. Their team would work through the night. Some of their workforce had been pulled b
ack by the stations who had loaned staff for analysing Duchamps’s material. But the earlier raid on Duchamps’s office would look minor in comparison to this one. However, EIRS had a long reach and Stevenson assured them other specialists, civilian if necessary, would be brought in. Mel and McCracken would go out to Westway first thing to see if there was any instant revelation before they tackled Fennington himself.
When the meeting broke up, and others went to their workstations, Mel felt at a loss. Where was she going to sleep? Not the office camp bed again.
‘Miss des Pittones?’
The tweedy woman from Gander Moore, Duchamps’s office manager, approached from the side. Barbara Winters. What on earth was she doing here?
‘You’re surprised, I can see. I’m working now for Director Stevenson. He was in a complete mess. Papers everywhere, dreadful ad hoc cabling, no systems or central records.’ She tutted. ‘I’ve contacted the people in the Brussels building and started to organise our move back there in a month’s time. But that’s by the by.’ She looked over the top of her red-rimmed spectacles at the sheet of paper in her hand. ‘From what I’ve heard, you need a good night’s sleep, young woman. Here’s the new code for your flat, the one in Knightsbridge you were in before you went on your operation. You should find some basics in the kitchen and the bed linen has been changed.’
Mel stared at the slightly officious but obviously efficient Ms Winters.
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’ Truth to tell, Mel could hardly remember the anonymous flat in the anonymous block. She stifled a yawn. She looked at her watch. It was only half seven.
‘You look dead on your feet. Want a lift?’ Jeff McCracken stood by the door.
‘Yes, to the nearest Marks & Sparks.’
He laughed and the sharp lines in his face fell away. The hard grey eyes took on a warmer blue tinge and the laughter had reached them.
An hour later, they made their way back to his parked car like any other couple doing late night shopping. Picking out food, wine, jumpers and knickers along with toothpaste and shampoo seemed a treat, a touch of normal life.
Double Identity Page 22
