Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘Salut, Chef,’ a deep voice said. A tall figure, face almost hidden by green and brown netting over his helmet, sidled into the burnt-out building where Mel was catching her breath.

  ‘Barceaux. What the hell are you doing here?’ she said.

  He grinned. ‘Come for a little refresher.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ Caporal-chef Barceaux was one of the best snipers in her emergency unit, probably one of the best in the French Army.

  ‘Failed my last surprise fitness test.’ He grinned, the skin round his blue eyes crinkling. ‘I’d been on a bender with a few of my old friends. Completely rat-arsed.’

  Before he could elaborate, a ball of fire erupted out of the window of the next building. They clapped hands over their ears and ducked, bracing for the inevitable wave of heat.

  ‘Jésus, that was loud!’ Mel cried out. ‘Let’s move.’

  She grabbed her HK416 rifle and with Barceaux wove back and forth over the scrub for a kilometre, reaching the small copse at the centre of the exercise ground. Mel estimated they had five minutes in hand. Still, best not to be too cocky.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking of?’ she hissed at him. ‘You know you’re on call twenty-four seven.’

  He scanned round and when he faced Mel again his face was a picture of misery. ‘Went home to the village on a quick twelve-hour pass and found my bastard cousin all over Aline on the sofa. She had her knickers off and you can guess the rest.’

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ Mel said and pressed her hand on his shoulder. ‘Did you explain all that to the boss?’

  ‘That’s why he sent me here instead of chucking me out stat. Told me to get my act together.’ He glanced at her. ‘You?’

  ‘Trying to edge my way back in. Tell you later.’

  He chuckled.

  She flicked her hand at him. ‘Right then, let’s show these kids how it’s done.’

  * * *

  ‘Congratulations, Sergent-chef des Pittones,’ the captain said as they stood in ranks at the end of the exercise. ‘You and Caporal-chef Barceaux have the exercise honours. But I would expect that of such experienced soldiers.’

  Mel stood straight and immobile at the side of the three ranks, but in her mind rolled her eyes at the faint praise.

  In the mixed mess bar afterwards, she bought Barceaux a beer.

  ‘So, are you clear to go back now?’ she said.

  ‘Probably, but it won’t be the same. Can’t see any alternative. What use is there for a sniper in Civvy Street?’ He set his glass down. ‘I thought we were saving up to get married. She obviously wasn’t serious about it. What about you?’

  ‘If they’ll have me.’

  He chuckled. ‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. After today’s little test, they’ll be mental not to.’

  The next morning, Mel dressed in her newly pressed beige service jacket and skirt. She’d thrown all her kit into her car boot just in case, but she’d hardly ever worn the indoor uniform with all its badges and insignia. She would have felt far more comfortable in her field combats and boots, but for once she conformed to headquarters regulations. What had happened to her? Had Gérard’s death knocked the rebellion out of her?

  Mel tapped at the door of the colonel’s secretary and was ushered in almost immediately.

  ‘You look very correct this morning, Sergent-chef.’ Colonel Vasseur looked her up and down. Mel said nothing, so he continued. ‘Your field report indicates you’ve slotted back in as if you’d never been away.’ He glanced at her. ‘If you’re sure, I’ll get DRHAT to process the paperwork and let you know your start date.’

  * * *

  December in Poitou was mild this year, strangely so in these days before Christmas. Although the trees had shed the last of their leaves, they were so tall they cast giant shadows in the last of the evening light. Mel had known these old woods since she could walk.

  She wove in between the trunks, running steadily, breathing regularly. Now only a kilometre out, she upped her speed at each step. Some seconds later, she was only five hundred metres to the house. She took several quick breaths, gathered herself mentally and launched herself into a final sprint. She was breathing so heavily she didn’t hear him approach.

  As she hit the ground, she rolled almost by instinct. She was back on her feet in a second and launched herself at the figure in the shadows. This time she felled him. Her knee in his back, her forearm across his throat. She grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm to the middle of his back.

  ‘Espèce de salaud! Talk!’ she shouted into his ear.

  ‘Bloody hell, woman,’ he gasped. ‘Don’t break my neck.’

  English.

  ‘Whoever you are, you’re trespassing. We’re going to the house now and I’m going to call the police.’

  ‘I am the police.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘McCracken,’ he said. ‘Met a few days ago.’

  The bastard. She tightened her grip on his throat. He grunted.

  ‘Well, you’re nobody here,’ she retorted. ‘And you can’t go around assaulting people in their homes.’

  ‘Let… me… up.’ He snatched his breath between each word. ‘Explain.’

  She waited a couple more seconds, then released him. She stood and watched him stagger to his feet. She kept out of arm’s reach as he brushed the dirt off his coat. He took a step forward. Mel put out her hand.

  ‘Stay where you are. Now what are you doing here and why the hell did you attack me?’

  ‘It wasn’t an attack, just a nudge to see if you were as good as your report says you are. I didn’t know you’d be such a pushover.’

  Mel was so incensed by his innuendo she couldn’t reply.

  He rubbed his neck. ‘I’ll give you this – you’re bloody quick.’

  She was trembling now, not with fear or reaction, but fury.

  ‘Get out! Get off my property. And don’t come back. If you try again, you’ll be taken out by ambulance. Now piss off.’

  She stood there, legs braced, arms crossed, eyes blazing.

  He shrugged, gave her a long look, then ambled off in the direction of the drive leading to the tall gates. She watched, thinking him impudent to saunter down the drive as if on a Sunday afternoon post-hangover stroll. She didn’t move until he had passed through the gates.

  7

  ‘Another, Mélisende?’

  ‘No, thanks, Papa. I’m fine.’

  The whole family had gathered to welcome Mel home. Her brother, Arnaud, had kissed her on both cheeks, then given her a hug with a whispered ‘So sorry’. His wife Hélène – slender, blonde and perfumed by Dior – greeted her in the same way, but not quite so warmly. Thierry, the eldest, pecked her on both cheeks, then stood there, fifteen and awkward in the blazer and trousers he wore once in a blue moon. He jerked his hand with a whispered ‘sorry’. The two young ones ran into her arms.

  Henri and Susan always changed for dinner, so Mel had fished a turquoise dress out of the back of her old armoire and tied her hair up. She’d found her grandmother’s pearls and some matching earrings and hoped to pass muster.

  At this moment, she was sipping a glass of Touraine and trying not to think of her bruising encounter with McCracken. What the hell had he wanted?

  The clang of a bell interrupted their pre-dinner conversation. Henri nodded to Arnaud who went to answer. He returned with the village mayor and the local commissaire de police. And in their wake, McCracken.

  ‘Good evening, Paul-Marie.’ Henri rose and shook hands with the mayor. He glanced toward the other two men.

  ‘Good evening, Monsieur le comte.’ The mayor looked embarrassed but gladly accepted the tumbler of whisky Arnaud handed him. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I am informed there is a police matter of urgency. Perhaps Monsieur le commissaire would like to explain, for I cannot understand what is so urgent.’

  Mel studied McCracken. He was looking round the ornate drawing room decked out with Christmas greenery. The tree
blazed with lights and reflecting coloured baubles. The tip almost touched the ceiling with its Fragonard panels.

  ‘Well?’ said Henri, his voice now chilly and his gaze fully on the policeman.

  ‘May I present Inspecteur McCracken of the London police?’ The commissaire looked at McCracken as if for inspiration. McCracken was now studying the rest of Mel’s family and said nothing. The commissaire ploughed on. ‘The inspecteur contacted us and has made a special journey to talk to your daughter about the recent death of her fiancé, Gérard Rohlbert.’

  ‘Perhaps, but why is it imperative to interrupt us during a family dinner?’

  ‘I apologise. I thought you would only be taking an aperitif at this hour.’

  Henri glanced round. Susan looked worried, Arnaud frowned, Hélène had gathered the younger children to her sides and looked speculatively at her sister-in-law. Thierry just gawped.

  ‘Very well,’ Henri switched to English. ‘Let us go into my study, Inspector. Give the commissaire a drink, Susan, and continue afterwards with dinner. There is no need for everybody’s evening to be spoiled.’ He held his hand out. ‘Come, Mélisende.’

  * * *

  ‘Now, Inspector, kindly explain why you need to talk to my daughter this precise moment.’ Henri sat behind his desk, relaxed, gracious, but his eyes alert. Mel took a chair to his right. Her thoughts were unprintable, but she sat silent while her father continued with his Louis XIV act.

  ‘I’d like to talk to her alone. Please.’ McCracken looked as if the last word had been torn out of him from a childhood memory.

  ‘No doubt, but as there is no lawyer present, I shall remain. Please proceed as if I were not here.’

  McCracken looked uncomfortable and shifted in his seat.

  ‘The case has taken on an extra dimension and I need to check some facts with Miss des Pittones. I’ve been asked to make a report to the head of organised crime and to a senior official at the Home Office tomorrow afternoon.’ He took out a notebook and glanced at Mel. ‘Did Mr Rohlbert ever discuss any political matters with you?’

  ‘Political? Gérard? He didn’t even vote in the last presidential election which was the highest turnout for years. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I can’t say, but it’s a line I’ve been asked to pursue.’

  ‘How am I to help with that if I don’t know why you’re asking?’

  ‘Let’s say not open politics but dealing with countries which may not be in alliance with ours. Or yours,’ he added.

  ‘You mean dodgy ones?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘I don’t know all his business contacts, but they were international. Gérard was interested in financial deals. He was a financial trader. That’s what he did. As long as they complied with the regulators, he didn’t care where the other side came from.’

  ‘I see.’ McCracken tapped his notebook with the blunt end of his pencil.

  ‘Are you suggesting he was trading illegally?’ Mel looked incredulous.

  ‘No comment.’

  Mel snorted. Henri frowned at her and she looked away, embarrassed to have reacted so inelegantly in front of her father.

  ‘We never received the list of friends and contacts I asked you for in London,’ McCracken continued.

  ‘Maître Clément said all requests should go through him care of the London embassy. I take his advice.’

  ‘That’s not helping our enquiry.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Touché,’ murmured McCracken. Mel shot a look of anger at him, but Henri gave a little smile.

  ‘I’ll go through the legal channels then, but will you return to London to help me? Surely you want to find out who killed your fiancé?’ Then he smiled at her. His face changed completely. The harsh lines of flesh over his cheekbones eased, the expression in his grey eyes softened and his lips parted to show pearl-coloured teeth. Mel caught her breath. McCracken looked like a normal, friendly human being. She swallowed.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she replied. ‘I’m waiting for my recall to the French Army. But please send your request in via Maître Clément. I’ll do my best.’

  McCracken’s face reverted to its usual hard expression. He stared at her for a few seconds, shrugged, then put his notebook away. He stood and shook hands with Mel’s father who went to find the mayor and the commissaire. As they waited in the hall, McCracken turned to Mel.

  ‘What did you find when you broke into my crime scene?’

  Mel took a quick breath.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, give over, I’m a copper. I know somebody broke in. She was very good, very professional. The two cameras were smeared to give a blurred image. We have a video of a blonde in a light coat in the mews. She walks differently from you, but I know it was you. You’re the only one with the skill and motive. So did you find anything?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She tipped her chin up, emphasising her long neck and strong jaw. ‘If you’re such a good copper, I suggest you apply your police techniques to finding the real culprit.’

  He took a step towards her, so close his clothing almost touched hers. His breath warmed her face, but she stood her ground.

  ‘Don’t think that I’ll leave it,’ he said in a quiet but tight voice. ‘You’re as guilty as hell. I’ll be back with an extradition warrant after all this nicey-nicey cooperation is done. Then I’ll throw the bloody book at you.’

  * * *

  The next few days, Mel spent time running, helping her mother in the garden, checking and preparing her military kit – anything to take her mind off McCracken’s visit. She knew he couldn’t pin the break-in on her; he was just trying to intimidate her. But he was more intelligent than he looked. Perhaps she should have delayed her application to rejoin the unit. A few days in London may have unearthed something. But then McCracken would arrest her and try his best to find her guilty. He was convinced she was to blame for Gérard’s death. Well, screw him.

  Sitting at the desk in her room, looking out of the tall window, she cupped her chin in her hand. She was waiting for her laptop to finish one of its infernal updates. She’d searched on Gérard’s name, his company’s websites, their blog. She’d emailed all their mutual friends and some of his business colleagues, asking carefully what he’d been doing, but apart from the messages of condolence, some bland, some so warm they made her cry, she’d learnt nothing. She entered that strange number from the Gideon Bible, 01.63.45.87.99, into Google – number non-existent. Perhaps she’d send it to McCracken and let him get on with it. It might get him off her case. She’d have to invent some reason for having it, but that wouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘Mel?’ Her mother stood at the bedroom door.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I was miles away.’

  ‘Do you know, you’re the only one who’s ever called me “Mum”. Arnaud has always said “Maman”, but you’re the more English of my children.’

  Mel rose and gave her a hug. Her mother felt warm and comforting even through her layers of jumper and cardigan.

  ‘Do you ever feel you’re still a foreigner, Mum?’

  ‘All the time, darling, but I’m okay with it. I love your father and always will. I have my family and my garden. The locals are all very polite and call me “Madame la comtesse”, but who knows what they really think?’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Mum. You do such a lot of charity stuff and make loads of appearances at boring local events. They love you for that.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Susan studied her daughter’s face. ‘I know Arnaud feels very French, but do you ever feel split? As if you’re two people?’

  ‘What a funny question! No, not really. I’m French here and sort of English over there. Apart from being able to speak English, I don’t think it has any impact on my life.’

  8

  Despite the high walls, the freezing December wind blew ruthlessly across the cemetery as the priest intoned prayers for burial. Fortunately
, Mel had brought her faux-fur shapka hat. Although it was large, it was black, but her now not-to-be mother-in-law had given it one look when Mel had entered the granite church for the funeral Mass and frowned. Madame Célestine Rohlbert, neat, tight and perfect in her black coat, shoes, prim felt cloche hat and gloves, was old school haute bourgeoisie; Mel swore that was where Aimée got her haughty bossiness from. But Célestine was the type that endured, thanks to an innate toughness.

  Gérard’s father had stood silent and crushed during the vigil last night, shaking hands and nodding in the candlelight, on automatic as people offered their condolences. Aimée stood at his elbow, encouraging him to take a sip of water every now and then. Célestine had voiced her disapproval that the burial was to be outside the family vault. The village priest had attempted to explain that it had been full since the 1960s, but she had just sniffed and looked down her sharp little nose at him.

  That same priest now intoned committal prayers, then with a glance at his patron, gave the signal to lower the coffin into the ground. Mel stared as Gérard disappeared into the deep hole. Her head spun. Nausea and emptiness threatened to overcome her. As she took a step back to regain her balance, she dropped her white rose in and watched the family file past.

  ‘Au revoir, mon cœur,’ she whispered. ‘Safe journey into the next world.’ The wind froze the tears on her cheeks before she could wipe them away. Winters in the Vosges, the home of the Rohlberts since the 1830s, were harsh. Mel took a few short breaths, determined not to break down in front of the other mourners.

  ‘Mélisende?’ Maurice Rohlbert, Gérard’s father, took her arm by the elbow and guided her away from the graveside. ‘Come. Walk with me back to the house.’

  She nodded, fearful to say a word. He stood upright now, a better colour in his face than yesterday evening, more like the powerful industrialist he was in real life. He gave her a sad little smile, tucked her arm in his and set off down the stonewall lined lane.