Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘This is a desperate business,’ he said after a few minutes. ‘Especially just before Christmas. I feel particularly for Célestine. She would be dragged through hell before she admitted it, but Gérard was her favourite. I know you will grieve but try not to do so for too long. You’re a young woman – you’ll find comfort with another.’

  ‘No, never. I will never have that love again that Gérard and I shared.’

  Maurice stopped and gave her a steady look. ‘You’re upset now, but don’t close your heart. Find out what happened, let me know, then go and live your own life.’

  ‘Maurice, how can you be so sensible and logical at a time like this?’

  ‘I will see my son’s photo every day on my desk. I will follow Aimée’s career wishing both my children were rising to the top. I will see the splinter in my wife’s heart dig in deeper every day as she becomes more bitter and angry towards others. I will grieve for the rest of my life. Today, for you, for Aimée, for Célestine, I must be that sensible and logical person.’

  Mel pulled him to her and gave him a tight hug.

  ‘I swear I will find out what happened, Maurice. If somebody did murder him, I will destroy them.’

  ‘I just want to know why,’ he said. ‘I know he wasn’t always straightforward about money and he did some sharp deals.’ He glanced at her. ‘You were his redemption. He had found a purpose to his life. You gave him a great gift with your love.’

  ‘Dieu, you make me sound like the Holy Virgin, which I assure you I’m not.’

  ‘No, chérie, I know you have steel in you, even a ruthless streak, but also great compassion.’ He pressed her hand. They walked on in silence. Ten minutes later, they arrived at the tall, barred gates topped with finials that so many eighteenth- and nineteenth-century grand housebuilders loved. Unlike the fortified castles of the Vosges, these manors with their open lawns and tall slate roofs signified a more peaceful time, the time of industrialists like the Rohlberts.

  ‘Come and eat with us, Mélisende, and then go. Go and find his killers.’

  * * *

  Mel headed out after lunch; just over the hour to Strasbourg in the hire car, then two on the TGV to Paris. Two and a half hours after that she’d be in Poitiers, safe in her heartland. As she waited at the village’s only traffic light, she noticed a man and woman sitting in a black BMW parked at the opposite side of the road. Not an unusual car here in these borderlands – German makes were far more common than French ones – but they had several paper coffee cups piled up on the dashboard and empty sandwich wrappers as if they were on a stake-out. Strange.

  Dieu, I must stop being so paranoid.

  She pulled away in her Golf at the green light and glanced back. The BMW had vanished from the roadside. Perhaps they were just stopping for a break. She shrugged mentally and looked ahead. The road was good through the forest, but climbed before it dropped down to Strasbourg in the Rhine valley. The turbo engine would be working hard.

  Ten kilometres on, she spotted a black speck in her rear view mirror. She slowed by 10 kph. It came nearer, then receded. She went back up to 100 kph for five minutes, then cut to 80 kph. There it was, but bigger. And again, it faded. She had twenty-twenty vision. There was no mistake – the BMW was following her.

  She slowed down to 70 kph, a really irritatingly slow speed. Although a forest road in hilly country, there were plenty of long stretches for passing, but the driver of the car following her didn’t bite. She accelerated and by the time she entered the tunnel at Schirmeck, she realised she was stuck with them. Her car was locked and short of them ramming her, she was safe. On the dual carriageway sections, she raced along, joining the motorway that led straight on to the western edge of Strasbourg. The traffic was light and she parked the car opposite the bulbous glass frontage of the station. Dropping the keys and documents off at the rental office, Mel dived into the Boutique SNCF and bought her ticket.

  After buying a coffee, she scanned the wide station concourse but saw nobody watching her. It might have all been coincidence, but in her heart, she didn’t believe it. Who could be following her? And why? Not that idiot McCracken. He couldn’t afford to. Public police authorities were always cash strapped. Somebody Gérard had done business with? Or who had killed him?

  She clutched the warm cup of coffee tighter. Suddenly she felt colder than the winter around her.

  The train into the Paris Gare de l’Est was punctual for once as was her Poitiers train from Montparnasse. As she only had a carry-on, she took the metro between the two stations. While she was in open view in public, she would be safe; if she was truly being hunted, it would be the simplest thing for the opposition to use the classic taxi trick to snatch her.

  Once she was safely back in uniform with her personal Glock and an HK416 in her arms, she would feel a great deal more prepared to face any possible adversary.

  9

  Stevenson stood in the bay of his office window. It was the only uncluttered part of the floor not littered with cardboard boxes for the move to Brussels. As soon as the Christmas holidays were finished, he and they would be gone. The meeting with the Friars Green detective, McCracken, had led nowhere. But the detective was convinced Mélisende des Pittones was holding something back.

  Ellis, for all his over-cheerful, slightly officious manner, was proving to be a reasonably good analyst. Gérard Rohlbert was the link – no, had been the link. Mélisende des Pittones was their only lead. If she was being awkward, he could do something about that at this very moment. Always supposing the French hadn’t all left Paris for the holiday. He tapped on his secure smartphone.

  ‘Allo? Monsieur le ministre? Patrick Stevenson.’ A pause. ‘Yes, we started a few weeks ago. I have a request…’

  * * *

  Every day since she’d returned from her assessment with her former unit, Mel had watched for the moment when the hands of the gilded Delettrez clock on the mantelpiece approached half past eleven. It was the third of January now and she’d heard nothing. She went to the kitchen, grabbed the yellow-fobbed key off the row of key hooks and jogged down the drive to the tall gates. Through the gate bars, she’d watch the almost silent electric La Poste van glide up the narrow, metalled road. The same woman had delivered letters and parcels for much of Mel’s life.

  This morning, Marie-Anne pulled herself out of her yellow van and brandished a fistful of letters.

  ‘One for you, Mademoiselle Mélisende. From the minister himself.’

  Mel doubted it. She unlatched the gate and pulled it open. After the obligatory kissing of cheeks, and a signature for the letter sent by registered post, Mel took the letter.

  République Française, Ministre de l’Intérieur on the upper left edge of the envelope and addressed to Sergent-chef des Pittones. Marie-Anne leant over, excitement plain in her eyes, but Mel slipped it into her pocket.

  ‘Thank you, Marie-Anne. Don’t bother to put the rest in the box. I’ll take them. Bonne continuation.’ Thus dismissed and disappointed, the postwoman trudged back to her yellow van, executed a perfect three-point turn and disappeared into the fog.

  Dodging round Madame Blanc, the cook, as she prepared lunch, Mel made herself a coffee and settled on the pale green sofa in the drawing room. She glanced at the envelope. Somebody must have used the wrong one for her posting letter. It should have come from the defence ministry. Maybe it was some kind of extra security check on re-enlisting. She ripped it open.

  Good God, it was from the minister. No, one of his chief secretaries and copied to the defence minister and her colonel. She scanned the ten lines. She read it again. Her coffee went cold as she waited to be put through to her colonel.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergent-chef,’ he said. ‘I don’t know the reason either. I received the notice of your immediate transfer over the secure messaging net this morning direct from the defence minister’s office.’

  ‘Can they really do this, sir?’

  ‘We are all at the disposal of the republic,
Chef. I shall be sorry to lose you, of course, but it’s only a secondment. And as it’s overseas it counts twice towards your service. You’ll be out of contract in thirty months. One thing, though… I’ve been requested to mark your file as ‘Contract not renewed’ even though you will in reality remain on strength.’

  Contract not renewed. That’s what they put on soldiers’ files when they were chucked out for an infraction or had been court-martialled.

  ‘But, sir, my record is impeccable.’

  ‘No doubt the ministry has its reasons. Must be something to do with this cloak and dagger unit you’re joining. It’s not the first time we’ve been asked to provide false cover. Good luck anyway.’

  Her father was as puzzled as she was.

  ‘I’ve never heard of this European Investigation and Regulation Service.’ He frowned at the letter. ‘Sounds like a food inspection unit. It says it’s newly formed. As it’s located in Brussels, I suppose it’s something to do with the EU. Or maybe not. I’ll make a couple of calls.’

  Mel spent the afternoon packing. What would she need in Brussels? She threw in her trouser suit, some smart casual clothes as well as a spare pair of jeans, some shirts and jumpers along with the turquoise dress. She’d wear her long leather jacket to travel in.

  * * *

  Mel lugged her case off the train into the noise. She moved away quickly. The red and silver Thalys only stopped for five minutes in Brussels-Midi on its way north. People jostled to get out of the packed train. Mel had been amazed to have secured a seat immediately against the travel voucher she’d presented at Poitiers station; they were usually booked up weeks ahead.

  Downstairs in the long Brussels-Midi concourse, Mel spotted the walk through to the Metro. Twenty minutes later, she was back on the surface and checking into a discreet hotel near the Porte de Namur as instructed; an email from a man called Stevenson had arrived the day after she’d signed for her posting letter. His words were friendly, if formal. She’d find out tomorrow morning if he was the same in person.

  The restaurant staff were polite enough, but not particularly attentive. Out of habit she’d chosen a wall table facing out with a direct sightline to the door. Years of training had made her overcautious. She played with the sauté potatoes which left dribbles of fat on her plate. This new job sounded desk bound. Perhaps she wouldn’t have to watch her back so much. But she’d have to scope out a good training gym or she’d lose her edge within weeks.

  She poked at the last piece of chicken and glanced out of the window. A blue van with the name ‘Associated Security Group’ and a white ASG logo was waiting at the traffic lights. Unbelievable. The company whose van had thrown that high lux light through the mews hotel window while she was searching her and Gérard’s room. She was probably being paranoid again. They must be an international courier group or security provider. Probably necessary with all the big shots posted here in Brussels. She tapped at her phone. Why hadn’t she looked them up before? Damn, the signal was weak. She finished her food while the site loaded.

  Sipping her coffee, she scanned the information on the screen. ASG was based in Victoria, London, UK, operating worldwide. ‘Our mission is to assure our clients’ personal and corporate security at all times’ ran their logo on a high-end website. Smiling faces, serious faces, but no menacing faces. Their chief executive Roland Fennington had steel grey hair, a tanned face and perfect teeth. She’d look at the whole site when back at the hotel which had good Wi-Fi. But when she reached her room, travel tiredness hit her and the bed was more attractive than an Internet search.

  * * *

  Although bright the next morning, a bitterly cold wind picked at her face as she pounded the pavement slabs. Nothing much was happening at 6.30 on the route she’d taken. A newsagent was lugging plastic-sealed stacks of papers into his shop, a boulangerie served early customers and the aroma of coffee drifted out of the open door of a small bar along the street from her hotel.

  Once showered, dressed and in the hotel breakfast room, she savoured her own steaming drink, her elbows propped on the table. Declining the butter-laden viennoiserie, she fuelled herself with muesli, fruit and yoghurt. Thirty minutes later, one strap of her small backpack over her jacket shoulder, she set out for her new posting.

  When she arrived at the café, she rechecked the address, but according to the email, this was the right street and right number. Hardly what she expected. Was it some kind of test? She glanced up and down the street without moving her head but couldn’t see anybody watching her. The café looked traditional from the outside but inside it was as sterile as any modern coffee shop. She ordered green tea to calm her stomach and selected a high stool against the shallow bench running round the wall. She checked her phone for messages, but nothing new. She stirred her tea and waited.

  Eight minutes later, a man in his thirties, black hair, black skin and slender figure, came through the door. Mel watched him as he ambled towards the counter. He glanced around casually, but just for a split second his gaze stopped at her then continued. He laughed and joked with the barista, flashing his teeth with his good humour. Taking his mug, he wandered over to the stool next to hers.

  ‘Hi. Chilly this morning, isn’t it?’ His accent was pure metropolitan French no Brussels twang.

  ‘Only to be expected in January,’ she replied and went back to her phone. Being hit on at this time of the morning wasn’t in her plans.

  ‘When you’ve finished your tea, your lift is waiting outside.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The car to take you to your new job.’

  He was smiling as if he was simply flirting, but his eyes were serious.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Mel said and turned away.

  ‘You’re right to be cautious. Perhaps this will help.’ He slid a pale blue plastic card across the surface of the bench. Inspecteur Principal Willem Leroy. ‘I work with the CGI, the directorate of international police cooperation for the Belgian Federal Police. Mr Stevenson of the EIRS asked us to escort you with maximum discretion to his office. He doesn’t like his people using the front door where they can be easily spotted and photographed.’

  The plain Peugeot they rode in could have belonged to any middle-income family, but the windows’ tinting was darker. Leroy said nothing as they navigated the short distance to a large building – the EU Triangle Building where the EIRS was based. Mel recognised it from Google Earth. Leroy navigated the roundabout heaving with morning rush-hour cars, then drove along the side towards a service entrance. At a barrier five metres in, the security guards seemed to know Leroy, but they still scrutinised his credentials. Mel handed over her normal French ID card which the guard scanned in, waited, then nodded and handed it back.

  In the concrete-pillared garage, Leroy parked accurately between the white lines, jumped out and beckoned Mel to follow him. Upstairs, they emerged into a small reception area, staffed by an efficient-looking woman and a security guard who frowned. The tradesmen’s entrance, Mel thought, but the security was tight, as it should be with all the sensitive services here. She was asked to empty her bag of anything electronic and then pass it through the scanner. The security guard’s face had relaxed into expressionless, but the woman on the reception desk smiled as she handed Mel a visitor pass along with a speculative look. Leroy escorted her to a small lobby with a lift, said ‘Room 401 and good luck’ and left.

  The lift was full of people in beautiful tailoring which made Mel in her casual trouser suit feel out of place. Depressed by their perfection, she nevertheless made a mental note to search for some sharper clothes. She wriggled her shoulders. This posting was going to be hell.

  She escaped on the fourth floor and made her way along the blue-carpeted corridor to the designated room. She knocked on the solid wooden door and hearing nothing, pushed it open and went in. A blonde woman about her mother’s age looked up.

  ‘Can I help you? Oh, you must be Mélisende des Pittones. I recognise you now from your
file photo.’ She rose and extended her hand. ‘Klara Dassell, Mr Stevenson’s assistant,’ she chirped. Her hand was thin and wiry and her slender figure exuded energy. ‘Help yourself to coffee.’ She flicked her finger towards the machine in the corner. ‘He won’t be a moment.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Mel replied once Klara had stopped talking.

  The easy chairs were comfortable, the wood panelling bland; Klara’s desk held the standard office nest of computer, files and desk tidies. Her fixed telephone had a large unit under it. Scrambler. And a heavy duty digital one.

  The door opened and a man in his early fifties wearing another of those impeccable suits and a blue silk tie stood in the frame. His face, topped by wavy, undisciplined grey hair, was strong featured, almost severe, but now wore a smile.

  ‘Ah, Miss des Pittones. I’m Patrick Stevenson. Do come in.’

  His office was like any other, but Mel noted a tall cabinet in the corner with a digital optical lock, and a red LED from a camera blinking in the corner. Patrick Stevenson followed her glances.

  ‘Yes, we’re a little more security conscious than others in this building.’ He turned to another man standing at the side. ‘This is Mr Ellis who came with me from London.’

  The younger man, but not by much, gave Mel a cheerful enough smile. His light blue eyes were reflected by the shirt and tie worn under his mid-grey suit. Those eyes weren’t narrowed with concentration or anything as obvious as that, but Mel felt he was watching her intently. Perhaps it was part of an assessment. No, she wouldn’t be here if they were still considering her for the job.

  Stevenson sat down in his leather chair with the controlled ease of a man in charge of his muscles. He indicated the padded chair on the other side of his desk for Mel. Ellis slid onto a chair at the side of the room, out of her sight line.