Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  She grimaced at the thought of all the internal paperwork. She’d be here for days. That was Stevenson’s opinion as well, as he listened gravely to her report on secure link that evening back at the barracks.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Ellis never struck me as the gun type. He certainly had no licence or authorisation for one. Another charge to add to the list.’ His digital face looked squarely at her. ‘You did very well, Mélisende. The child was saved, and the mission accomplished. Ellis will face trial for so many charges he won’t be out for decades. The Belgians want him for terrorist bombing and the murder of Klara in Brussels.’

  ‘Will they apply to extradite him?’

  ‘Well, let’s get him to trial in the UK first.’ He paused. ‘You look tired, Mélisende. I’ll fill you in properly when you return, but be assured we will be keeping ourselves fully occupied until then with the paper mountain processing Fennington and Duchamps, let alone Ellis, and in placating the indomitable Madame de Villiers.’

  ‘Thank you, Director.’

  Her eyes prickled and she swallowed a yawn. The timer on the top of the screen said 11.02. Dieu, she’d been on the go since six that morning. She put the cursor on the red ‘Quit’ button, but Stevenson interrupted.

  ‘One last thing. We’ve also solved the mystery of why Ellis drove so slowly. It wasn’t only because he was trying to stay covert. Jeff discovered something so obvious we didn’t think to look. Although he had a few lessons as a young man, Ellis had never passed a driving test.’

  * * *

  Next morning, Mel dressed in her combat fatigues; she’d abandoned her civilian clothes in the quartermaster’s office in the hurry to get out on the operation. Some kind soul had brought her backpack to her guest room along with some olive T-shirts. She bound her hair up in a severe bun and perched the beret on her head. At the NCOs’ dining room, she breathed a sigh of relief when she tapped her mess number in. The colonel must have authorised its reactivation.

  Several colleagues greeted her at breakfast, surprised to see her. She brushed aside her ‘contract not renewed’ status as an administrative error.

  ‘Never trust the scribouillards,’ one sergeant said. ‘Surprised they find the paper to wipe their arses with.’

  They all burst out laughing and she relaxed into the familiar service bantering, picking up info about new electronic equipment, speculation about postings and moans about the quality of newly deployed personnel. Of course, there were a few new faces. But in the nature of their job, nobody asked her where she had been for the past few months.

  Colonel Vasseur assigned her a desk in a side room next to his assistant so she could tackle the mound of paperwork and local reports. Barceaux looked in halfway through the morning and asked her for a countersignature on his report for the gendarmerie. He looked round at the tiny room with its plain walls, old-fashioned heater gurgling away, then shut the door before settling himself in the chair on the other side of her desk.

  ‘So, have you missed us?’

  ‘Dieu, non. It was a relief to get away.’

  He laughed and she grinned back at him.

  ‘Seriously, what I’ve been doing is a bit strange, but interesting,’ Mel said. ‘And the people are very dedicated and professional.’

  ‘Bite my head off if it’s out of order, but have you got over your personal sadness?’

  She hesitated, trying to find a neutral way of telling him what a bastard Gérard had turned out to be.

  ‘That’s all behind me now. But thanks for asking.’ She signed and handed him the statement back. ‘Do I need to come and see your friend at the gendarmerie as a professional courtesy?’

  ‘No, he seems reasonably happy. He’d like to get rid of the Englishman as soon as possible, though. The guard detail at the hospital is a danger to his budget.’

  ‘As soon as the medics say he can travel, I’ll arrange it.’

  ‘Are you here for long?’ He stood and made for the door.

  ‘Not a clue. I’m waiting for an instruction from London.’

  * * *

  After lunch, Mel worked on the detailed report for Stevenson. Halfway through the afternoon, the colonel’s assistant knocked on the door.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Sergent-chef, but the guardhouse has rung through. There’s an English policeman who’s arrived wishing to see you. He’s from your department in London, he says. They’ve taken him to the reception point downstairs and ask you to attend.’

  Through the glazed door leading to the cream-painted hall, she watched McCracken for a couple of seconds. The only inhabitant apart from the soldier standing at his side, he was sitting on a padded bench next to the glazed service counter and glancing at paintings of former generals and famous battle scenes hung around the walls. His fingers were tapping one trouser leg. Mel smiled to herself. As she walked in, he turned and waved. She didn’t respond but made directly for him.

  ‘Inspector,’ she said, then nodded to the soldier who drew himself up to attention, then marched off in the direction of the main entrance.

  ‘That was very formal,’ McCracken said and raised his eyebrows. ‘Not happy to see me?’

  ‘It’s a military barracks. We do formal here.’ She smiled at him. ‘Of course I’m glad to see you. I’ll get you a visitor pass and present you to the colonel.’

  ‘Oh, do I have to?’

  ‘Yes, it’s only courtesy. It’s his unit.’

  ‘Are you okay? You sound a bit off.’

  ‘Yes, just tired. It’s peculiar being back here, even temporarily.’

  ‘Does it make you want to come back permanently?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He studied her face for a full minute.

  ‘Okay, but after we’ve done the intros, shall we go and see Ellis?’

  * * *

  Like all hospitals, the squat modern building smelt of cleaning fluid inside. Once their IDs were examined at the front desk, Mel and McCracken were directed to a side ward where a young gendarme was fidgeting from foot to foot and looking bored. She perked up when the visitors asked to see her charge and muttered into her radio. A middle-aged blue-uniformed man appeared a minute later from round the corner which led to the sortie de secours.

  ‘Nipped out for a crafty fag, I bet,’ murmured McCracken.

  ‘Shh.’ Mel frowned at him but agreed privately when she smelt the senior gendarme’s breath.

  ‘Do you want to see the doctor, Chef? So the prisoner can be discharged?’ he asked Mel, with a hopeful look on his face. She sympathised. Hospital watch must be one of the most boring jobs, but at least it was warm, indoors and had continuous access to a coffee machine. And Barceaux’s shot had made sure Ellis couldn’t bother them by trying to escape.

  ‘Yes, after I’ve talked to the patient. Will you call him or her, please?’ Mel opened the door to Ellis’s room and went in, followed by McCracken. Ellis looked pale but surprisingly composed. A protective cage in the bed held the sheet off his leg and his hand was engulfed by dressings and splint sticks. A line from a suspended bottle was attached to the back of his other hand. He opened his eyes.

  ‘Oh God, the toy soldier and her incubus.’

  ‘If you weren’t on the sick list, Ellis, I’d thump you for that.’

  ‘Fuck off, McCracken.’

  ‘Donald Lewis Ellis,’ McCracken responded, ‘I’m arresting you under Section 34 of the Terrorism Act 2006 for conspiracy to cause serious damage to an international governmental organisation and under the Money Laundering Control Act for engaging in transactions involving proceeds generated from illegal activities. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘That has no jurisdiction here.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Investigator des Pittones, a representative of EIRS, arrested you under French law. So you’ve already
been nicked.’ He waved a folded paper in front of Ellis. ‘European arrest warrant.’ He smirked. ‘You’re going home for a nice long stretch at Her Majesty’s pleasure, sunshine. And apart from murder and conspiracy, everybody wants to have you for driving through their countries without a licence.’

  ‘You think you’re so bloody superior, don’t you, McCracken?’ Ellis snapped at him.

  ‘Not particularly. But I do know right from wrong. And I know where I am in the world.’

  Mel glanced at him sharply. Did McCracken really know?

  ‘You’re just a nobody, just a jumped-up plod,’ Ellis said.

  ‘Ah, but I’m an honest nobody.’

  ‘You know what your colleagues say about you? What they really think?’

  ‘I don’t give a toss.’

  ‘Don’t you want recognition, promotion? To count?’

  ‘I can count just fine. And looking at my watch, it’s time for my tea.’ He went over to the door. Mel followed him but turned back to Ellis.

  ‘Tell me, Ellis,’ she said, ‘is that why you did all this? Just to be recognised? You’re educated, had a professional career and good, almost too good, interpersonal skills. Did you murder and maim, blackmail and inflict misery on people just to look like somebody bigger than you really are?’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ His eyes boiled. ‘We’re not all born with a silver spoon with hundreds of ancestors like you, nor a care-fuck-all like McCracken who’ll never leave the council estate in his head. At least I tried to make a mark on the world.’

  ‘That’s what you call it? You disgust me.’ A sour taste rose up her gullet, but she swallowed it down. ‘No, I’m wrong. If all this destruction was just a way to express the bitterness and hell of your tiny ego, then I feel truly sorry for you.’

  * * *

  That evening, and back in civvies, Mel took McCracken out to a quiet restaurant off the Grand’Rue. A fire flickered in an enormous chimney and the dark ceiling beams gave an intimate air.

  ‘You’re coming back on Thursday with Ellis?’ McCracken said.

  ‘God, yes, I’m going to watch the whole process of him going through trial and then being shut away. After that, I don’t know.’

  McCracken pulled a letter out of his pocket and gave it to Mel. Eyes Only Mélisende des Pittones.

  ‘Stevenson told me to give it to you in a quiet moment.’

  She opened it slowly, dreading what might be inside.

  * * *

  My dear Mélisende,

  I hope that by the time Jeff hands you this note you will have recovered from your recent exertions. We’ve uncovered the major aspects of the case and detained the main personalities, but I must confess that we have made no significant progress in discovering how Gérard Rohlbert died.

  The best theory the Met has is that Ellis’s operative Georgi Dobrev sedated you both, then killed Rohlbert by air embolism by injecting a large air bubble or bubbles into his heart. Dobrev was ex-Bulgarian State Security and this was one of their standard methods. We will, of course, be addressing this when we talk to Ellis.

  I know you accepted the secondment to the EIRS to find out about your fiancé, but I will release you if that is your earnest wish. However, I hope you will stay with us and come to Brussels when we move back next month.

  With best wishes,

  Patrick Stevenson

  If Dobrev had got into their hotel room and killed Gérard as they slept, how near death had she herself been? No wonder she’d felt groggy the two days afterwards. Mel laid the letter down and shuddered.

  McCracken took her hand.

  ‘Not bad news, I hope?’

  She handed him Stevenson’s letter and took a gulp of her wine.

  He read it, looked round at the other diners enjoying a quiet meal, then back at Mel.

  ‘Well? Are you going to come back?’

  Mel threw him an enigmatic smile. Being honest, she wasn’t sure herself at this moment. But she wasn’t going to tell McCracken that.

  Would you leave a review?

  I hope you enjoyed Double Identity which is the first in a new series of contemporary thrillers.

  If you did, I’d really appreciate it if you would write a few words of review on the site where you purchased this book.

  * * *

  Here’s the link:

  DOUBLE IDENTITY

  Reviews help books to feature more prominently on retailer sites and invite more readers to find out about Mel/Mélisende.

  Very many thanks!

  Acknowledgements

  Conn Iggulden, who said of INSURRECTIO, ‘You clearly have the knack for fast plotting tension. I kept coming back to see what happened next.’ He suggested I recast one of my alternative Roma Novan heroines as a member of a modern day European organisation and run the story as a crime thriller. So here it is.

  * * *

  The indefatigable Denise Barnes (a.k.a. novelist Molly Green), my critique writing partner of ten years, for casting her eagle eyes over the first version I dared to show anybody and giving all my work ‘brutal love’.

  * * *

  JJ Marsh, crime writer extraordinaire, who very kindly reads my scribbles and keeps giving me sensible marketing advice.

  * * *

  Jessica Bell Design for her patience and professionalism for designing the cover and fending off my wackier ideas.

  * * *

  Carol Turner, who has copy-edited several of my thrillers to date stories with firmness but friendliness, and knocked my commas into line.

  THE ROMA NOVA THRILLER SERIES

  * * *

  The Carina Mitela adventures

  INCEPTIO

  Early 21st century. Terrified after a kidnap attempt, New Yorker Karen Brown, has a harsh choice – being terminated by government enforcer Renschman or fleeing to Roma Nova, her dead mother's homeland in Europe. Founded sixteen hundred years ago by Roman exiles and ruled by women, it gives Karen safety, at a price. But Renschman follows and sets a trap she has no option but to enter.

  * * *

  CARINA – A novella

  Carina Mitela is still an inexperienced officer in the Praetorian Guard Special Forces of Roma Nova. Disgraced for a disciplinary offence, she is sent out of everybody's way to bring back a traitor from the Republic of Quebec. But when she discovers a conspiracy reaching into the highest levels of Roma Nova, what price is personal danger against fulfilling the mission?

  * * *

  PERFIDITAS

  Falsely accused of conspiracy, 21st century Praetorian Carina Mitela flees into the criminal underworld. Hunted by the security services and traitors alike, she struggles to save her beloved Roma Nova as well as her own life. Who is her ally and who her enemy? But the ultimate betrayal is waiting for her…

  * * *

  SUCCESSIO

  21st century Praetorian Carina Mitela’s attempt to resolve a past family indiscretion is spiralling into a nightmare. Convinced her beloved husband has deserted her, and with her enemy holding a gun to the imperial heir’s head, Carina has to make the hardest decision of her life.

  The Aurelia Mitela adventures

  AURELIA

  Late 1960s. Sent to Berlin to investigate silver smuggling, former Praetorian Aurelia Mitela barely escapes a near-lethal trap. Her old enemy is at the heart of all her troubles and she pursues him back home to Roma Nova but he strikes at her most vulnerable point – her young daughter.

  NEXUS – A novella

  Mid 1970s. Aurelia Mitela is serving as Roma Nova’s interim ambassador in London. Asked by a British colleague to find his missing son, Aurelia is sure he’ll turn up only a little worse for wear.

  But a spate of high-level killings pulls Aurelia away into a dangerous pan-European investigation and the killers threaten to terminate her life companion.

  But Aurelia is a Roma Novan – they never give up…

  INSURRECTIO

  Early 1980s. Caius Tellus, the charismatic leader of a risin
g nationalist movement, threatens to destroy Roma Nova.

  Aurelia Mitela, ex-Praetorian and imperial councillor, attempts to counter the growing fear and instability. But it may be too late to save Roma Nova from meltdown and herself from destruction by her lifelong enemy.…

  RETALIO

  Early 1980s Vienna. Aurelia Mitela chafes at her enforced exile. She barely escaped from her nemesis, Caius Tellus, who has grabbed power in Roma Nova.

  Aurelia is determined to liberate her homeland. But Caius’s manipulations have ensured that she is ostracised by her fellow exiles.

  Powerless and vulnerable, Aurelia fears she will never see Roma Nova again.

  ROMA NOVA EXTRA

  A collection of short stories

  Four historical and four present day and a little beyond

  A young tribune sent to a backwater in 370 AD for practising the wrong religion, his lonely sixty-fifth descendant labours in the 1980s to reconstruct her country. A Roma Novan imperial councillor attempting to stop the Norman invasion of England in 1066, her 21st century Praetorian descendant flounders as she searches for her own happiness.