Counterfeit!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  ‘I’m sorry, Popsy,’ he said when her whine had come to an end, ‘I got pulled into another surprise farewell—and it went on a bit longer than I anticipated. But I’m nearly finished; I’ll be away from here in an hour or so.’

  ‘But we’re supposed to be at Carlina’s by seven! You’ll never get home in time. It’s really too bad, Frederick—you know how much I’ve looked forward to this evening. And Carlina’s put so much effort into this dinner party.’ He closed his eyes and took a deep but silent breath. Then he smiled again—a genuine smile this time, as he realised with a jolt this might be the last conversation he ever had with Pauline—and that he wasn’t going to have to sit through another of his daughter’s stress-ridden dinner parties.

  ‘Popsy, why don’t you go on over yourself? I’ll get Hodges to pick you up. He’s not assigned to me any longer, but I’m sure he won’t mind doing me one last favour. It’s not a black tie do, and I’ve got my car here, so I can come direct from the office and meet you there. How does that sound?’

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone then his wife spoke again.

  ‘Well, so long as you promise to leave as soon as you can,’ she said. He could hear the struggle in her voice: to continue moaning at him, or to accept the offer of a chauffeur-driven car one last time.

  ‘And just remember, Popsy,’ he went on, ‘this is the end of it. After this evening, we’ll never have one of these conversations again. Tomorrow is the start…’

  ‘…of the rest of our lives,’ she completed the sentence for him, her voice softening. After she’d rung off, he stared at the receiver for a long time before shaking his head and exhaling sharply. Then he did a final round of the office, checking every drawer was empty of personal effects and papers. He ran his hand under the desk, pulled out a small key, opened, emptied and relocked the hidden panel disguised in the leg of the hand-made bookcase. The only thing in there was a cream, embossed envelope addressed to his wife, which he dropped into his briefcase before snapping it shut. With a final look around the room where he’d spent so much time in the past five years, he clicked off the light and pulled the door sharply closed behind him.

  The journey out of London was the usual Thursday night stop-start crawl. He pulled over just once, to drop the cream envelope into a post box on the Commercial Road. Then, once he got through the Blackwall Tunnel and reached the A2, the traffic eased off and he was able to put his foot down. He glanced in the mirror occasionally, checking there were no police cars on his tail. Getting a speeding ticket at this point was fairly irrelevant, but he didn’t want to risk being delayed. He had an appointment to keep.

  When he reached the end of the M2, he pulled off the motorway and took the Margate road. By the time he’d passed the airfield, the traffic was much lighter and his was the only car to turn off towards Dumpton Gap. It was quite dark by now, but he wanted to make absolutely sure he was on his own. Nothing and nobody was going to get in his way tonight. He parked the car in the last car park—deserted apart from a Ford Mondeo and one old Mini that looked like it had been dumped. It certainly isn’t going to be moving anywhere on just three wheels, he thought as he drove past. He switched off the lights and sat in the darkness for ten minutes, until he was certain he was completely alone.

  Finally he left the car, collecting his briefcase and laptop from the back seat, before locking the vehicle and dropping the key over the sea wall. Shivering in the cool spring air, he took off his jacket, folded it neatly and placed it on the bench overlooking the bay; he slipped off his highly-polished loafers and left them on the bench as well, placing his briefcase, laptop and mobile on top of them. Then Sir Frederick Michaels, recently retired Director of the International Health Forum turned and, in his stockinged feet, walked away.

  His disappearance might have gone unremarked for hours if it wasn’t for Deirdre and Mikey, a courting couple, driven out into the night by two large noisy families, and seeking some peace and quiet in the ‘Love Shack’ as the abandoned Mini had come to be known by the local teenagers. When they arrived, they were too wrapped up in each other to notice the Rover parked on the other side of the car park, but once their passion abated, they became curious. Who would be walking on the beach at this time of night, especially as the tide was nearly full and the strip of accessible sand was shrinking by the minute? They tiptoed across the car-park, poised to run if the vehicle was occupied or if anything seemed amiss.

  Finding the briefcase and clothing was not what they expected, and Mikey made a crack about ‘maybe someone’s topped themselves’.

  ‘You don’t think…, Mikey, you don’t really think it’s someone who’s gone over the edge, do you?’ whispered Deidre, gripping her boyfriend’s arm. He cleared his throat and shook his head, although he kept casting glances to the sea wall, against which the waves were pounding in the darkness. At that precise moment the mobile phone on the bench started to ring, making them both jump. Deirdre nudged Mikey in the ribs.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘answer it!’

  ‘Not likely,’ he said, backing away. ‘It might be a trap.’

  ‘A trap? How could it be a trap?’

  ‘Well, it might be someone who’s set this up to see how honest people are—you know, like that You’ve Been Framed programme on the telly.’

  ‘Out here? At night? Don’t be daft.’ But the phone had stopped ringing by then.

  ‘Look,’ said Mikey, ‘let’s head back into town and see if your Joey’s in the pub. He’ll know what to do.’ The phone started ringing again, its shrill tone cutting across the darkness and making them jump once more. Fifteen minutes later, they found Deirdre’s brother, Joey, enjoying a quiet pint in the Flying Catfish.

  It had been a bit of a shock to the family when Joey decided to join the Force, and there were some conversations his siblings just couldn’t have with him these days, but PCSO Joey Lynch was doing well since he’d joined up six months ago. And, although he didn’t realise it when his sister walked through the door of the pub, he was about to get involved in the largest case his division had seen in a long time.

  Pauline, Lady Frederick Michaels, was beginning to regret the second vodka and tonic her son-in-law had served her—but that didn’t stop her accepting a third one, although she put it down untouched when her daughter came back in from the kitchen.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Carlina darling,’ she said, ‘I have no idea where he’s got to. I am so angry with him!’ She screwed a tissue into a tiny ball between her hands and bit her lip to stop herself from crying. Carlina was looking very cross—and she didn’t like it when her daughter got cross—she was so like her father in many ways. Carlina glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and then back at her mother.

  ‘It really is too bad of him, Ma, I spent bloody ages preparing that beef Wellington—and it’s going to be ruined.’ She glanced across at her husband who was mixing himself another drink. ‘Paul, if Dad’s not here in ten minutes, we’re starting without him. Can you call the others in?’

  ‘Sweetheart, it’s your father’s retirement dinner party; you can’t possibly…’ But maybe recognising the fixed position of his wife’s lips, he shrugged and strolled over to the French doors where the remaining guests were shivering on the terrace, supposedly admiring the garden while letting the family members deal with the non-appearance of the guest of honour in private.

  Two hours, five courses and some rather stilted conversations later, Pauline had had enough. She wasn’t going to sit and endure the pitying glances of the guests any longer.

  ‘Darling, I think I’ll go up, if that’s okay,’ she said, dropping her napkin on the table and retrieving her handbag from under her chair. ‘Do excuse me, everyone, won’t you?’

  Everyone around the table looked at her and there was a chorus of reassurance beginning to roll her way, when her mobile rang—and things got a lot worse than even the evening’s dinner party had suggested.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and g
entlemen, this is your captain speaking.’ The clipped voice coming over the tannoy boomed slightly in the First Class cabin until the steward adjusted the volume. ‘Welcome to flight 249 to Rio de Janeiro. I can confirm that all the luggage is loaded, the hold is closed and we’re cleared for take-off. Once we’ve reached our cruising altitude, I’ll tell you a bit more about the flight, but for now, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Senior Steward Rachel Moss and her team.’

  The clean-shaven tall man with close-cropped hair, sitting in seat 1A, pulled his phone from his pocket and checked it was switched off. He knew no-one would be trying to reach him—certainly not on this number—but it was inconceivable to travel without one these days. He stroked the skin above his top lip with his thumb and first finger—in just the same way that men with moustaches do. The violet of his eyes was startling; in fact, when he’d first seen the contact lenses, he’d wondered if they were a little too bright, but he knew he would soon get used to them.

  At check-in, they’d been surprised that he only had one small piece of hand luggage. His fellow passengers were mostly travelling with multiple bags, both in the hold and in the cabin. But he’d just shrugged and flashed a smile at the very attractive young woman behind the desk.

  ‘I travel light,’ he said. He might have gone on: ‘That’s the beauty of making a new start. You don’t have to take any of your baggage with you.’ But although he’d always believed in speaking his mind, this would have been too risky. There would be plenty of other young women to impress when he reached his destination.

  ‘Mr Hawkins.’ The steward was standing next to his seat with a bottle of champagne in her hand. ‘Can I get you a top-up, sir?’

  ‘I rather think you can, honey,’ he replied, the faint Afrikaans burr coming easily to his lips, ‘yes, you certainly can.’

  And as the Boeing 777 made a final turn across the city of London before heading westward across the Atlantic, Michael Hawkins raised his glass and silently toasted the life he was leaving behind.

  35: ENGLAND; APR 2005

  As Charlie took her usual shortcut across the park at the end of her daily run, she was thinking about Sir Frederick and wondering how they were going to prove he was behind the counterfeiting operation; she was so engrossed, she didn’t notice the slim dark-haired woman sitting on the bench until she stood up and softly said her name.

  ‘Hello, Charlie.’ Charlie stopped dead in surprise, then flung her arms wide.

  ‘Annie; sweetie, it’s great to see you.’ She pulled the young woman into her arms and hugged her. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she whispered. ‘How did you know where to find me?’

  ‘I phoned Suzanne’s office and she told me you would be heading back to the flat about now.’

  Charlie pulled Annie even closer, but there was no response and she felt her girlfriend, her partner or ex-partner—she wasn’t quite sure which it was—trembling.

  ‘Annie, what’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘How touching! I do love a good reconciliation scene.’ The voice was sneering, menacing—and heavily accented. Charlie spun around to find Sandro standing behind the bench. He must have been hiding in the bushes waiting for her to arrive. But how had he known she would be there? She looked back at Annie, realising why she had been trembling. Annie’s face crumpled and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  ‘Charlie, I’m so sorry; he made me do it…’ she whispered. Charlie shook her head and gave Annie another squeeze.

  ‘Don’t worry; it’s not your fault, love. I’ll sort this.’ Then taking a deep breath, she turned once more and faced their former boss.

  ‘Hello, Sandro,’ she said. ‘What a surprise. I’d like to say it’s a pleasure to see you—but I’d be lying!’

  ‘And you’d never lie to me, now would you, Charlie? Cheat me, steal from me, maybe, but lie to me—never.’

  ‘It wasn’t stealing! You owed us at least that amount in wages—and our passports belong to us.’

  Sandro waved his hands dismissively.

  ‘Maybe you’re right—although you certainly robbed me of all my staff—and right in the middle of high season, too. But I’m not talking about money or your papers. There’s something much more important that you’ve taken from me.’

  Charlie wondered if bluffing would work.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Sandro.’ The Greek took a rapid step forward, grabbed Charlie by the neck and dragged her towards him across the bench. Annie gave a squeal of distress. No, Charlie thought, bluffing wasn’t going to work.

  ‘My book; I’m talking about the book you took from the safe—as you well know.’

  ‘Oh, that tatty old notebook; I threw that away,’ she said, gasping for breath as his fingers tightened around her windpipe.

  ‘I don’t think so! That’s not what your little bitch told me!’

  Charlie’s heart sank. She hadn’t mentioned the notebook to Annie, but she’d obviously seen her hide it safely away in her rucksack on the train. Somewhere, in the distance, Charlie heard the church bells start to chime the quarter hour. She needed to gain time—just a little bit of time would do.

  ‘Okay, Sandro, I admit I still have it—although what it means, I have no idea. It’s all Greek to me, so to speak!’ He obviously wasn’t impressed with her humour, any more than her bluffing. ‘Let me up and we can talk about this in a civilised manner.’

  The pressure on her neck ceased immediately. Charlie wasn’t surprised. In the two months they’d worked for Sandro, she’d heard him use his tongue to bully everyone he could—but she’d never seen him get physical with anyone. He’d always hinted that he had ‘others to do that sort of thing for him!’ She straightened up and deliberately brushed herself down, smoothing back her hair and giving Annie what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  ‘Thank you, Sandro. There’s no reason why we can’t be civilised about this, now is there?’ Sandro stirred and took another step towards her. She shook her head but stepped backwards quickly. ‘The thing is, I don’t have the book, but I do know where it is,’ she went on quickly, hoping to stall him. ‘As I’m between homes at the moment, I gave it to a friend of mine to look after.’

  ‘And where will we find this friend of yours?’

  ‘Actually, I’m expecting her very soon. We’re both visiting my sister Suzanne this evening. It’s Friday night, curry night.’ She crossed her fingers, hoping Annie hadn’t told Sandro she was actually staying with Suzanne. ‘Why don’t we have a coffee while we’re waiting—or maybe you’d prefer a drink, Sandro—it’s just about ouzo time, isn’t it. We could pop into the pub.’

  But Sandro shook his head. ‘We’ll wait here!’ he said and sat himself on the bench, folding his arms and staring at the two women. Charlie reached out for Annie’s hand and squeezed her fingers gently. Initially there was no reaction, but then, to her relief, she felt a faint pressure in return. Annie looked up at her and smiled a watery smile.

  It seemed like forever to Charlie, but eventually, a black Daimler turned into the street, nosed quietly along to the apartment block and stopped.

  ‘Ah, here she is now,’ said Charlie. ‘And Suzanne’s with her. Do come and meet them.’ Pulling Annie along behind her and leaving Sandro to follow in their wake, Charlie ran across the road, just as Suzanne and Francine got out of the car. ‘Hello, ladies. I’ve got an old friend from Greece I’d like you to meet. And, Francine, I think your friend in the driving seat would like to meet him too.’

  Francine looked surprised, but then nodded and spoke quietly into the car. The driver’s door opened and Little Andy got out. Charlie gave him a brief salute then turned back to Sandro.

  ‘Okay, now this,’ she said, pointing to Suzanne, ‘is my sister. She works for the IHF—that’s the International Health Forum. She’s recently come back from single-handedly sorting out a major counterfeiting operation in Africa.’ Suzanne looked like she was about to object to this exaggeration, but Charlie just winked a
t her and carried on, ‘there’s no need for modesty, sis.’ Then she turned towards Francine. ‘Now you probably recognise this lady, even from your short time in this country. No? Well you soon will. Let me introduce The Honourable Francine Matheson, Member of Parliament and Parliamentary Undersecretary in the Department for International Development. Going places, is our friend Francine.’ She turned and indicated the driver ‘and this good man is Little Andy. You can see we go in for a fair amount of irony in our nicknames over here.’ She stretched up on tiptoes to pat the man on his massive shoulder. ‘We reckon Andy here could give Sly Stallone a run for his money; a regular Rocky is our Little Andy in his spare time.’ Finally she turned back to Sandro, whose mouth had dropped open at the sight of the car, and who was looking more uncomfortable by the minute.

  ‘And this, ladies and gentleman, is Sandro. You may have heard me mention him. He’s the little shit that we—and several other naive young women—worked for in Crete. He withheld our wages to stop us leaving his employment. He kept our passports in the safe to stop us leaving Greece. And now he’s come over to our country, threatened my Annie and tried to attack me—in search of a little black book that he seems to think is important.’

  ‘Not the black book that—’ said Suzanne.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Suzanne,’ replied her sister, crossing her fingers once more and hoping Francine would realise where she was going with this, ‘the black book I gave to our favourite MP for safe keeping.’ There was a pause, and then Francine gave a start.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Sandro,’ she said. ‘I haven’t looked at your book. It’s locked safely away—and will remain there so long as nothing happens to make me take it out and examine it closely.’

  ‘And by nothing happens, she means no harm coming to me, to Annie, to Kitty,’ there was a hiss from Annie, and Charlie really wished she hadn’t mentioned Kitty, ‘or to any of the other girls that escaped that day.’