Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  ‘Attentat.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘He didn’t use the word bombe that I could hear, but there’s only been one attack recently in Brussels. Maybe he was just discussing the news, but I heard him express regret that somebody was still alive. Then the traffic noise got worse and prevented me hearing more. I couldn’t catch a name, sorry, but he sounded disappointed.’

  ‘Well done, Mélisende. Excellent work. That will help enormously. But is it going to be safe for you? Fennington may drop it in casually that you’re bilingual.’

  ‘I’ll have to risk it. I still haven’t found anything concrete, but Fennington’s away in the US next week. He flies out Thursday. That’s my chance.’

  ‘When do you take Duchamps back?’

  ‘Supposedly tonight. His flight goes just after two thirty tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Be very careful and keep the lowest profile possible.’

  ‘I will. By the way, he isn’t the usual Canadian. He has the manners of a pig.’

  30

  Mel delivered Duchamps père to the ASG building just before the afternoon rush hour started and escorted him up to Fennington’s apartment. Oliver greeted him and showed him to a room, but Duchamps merely grunted and closed the door.

  ‘What a lovely man. Not,’ Oliver said to Mel in a low voice and rolled his eyes. ‘Apparently, Roland owed him a return favour, but I reckon this cancels it out. You look exhausted. Tea?’

  Mel clutched the mug as she perched on one of the high stools at the kitchen bar.

  ‘I shouldn’t really comment,’ she said. ‘But he’s not very friendly. Maybe he’s tired from the flight.’ She looked up at him. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Oliver, but I think I’ll grab a sandwich and get a couple of hours’ sleep. I have to be back at Heathrow at midnight.’

  ‘I’ll do you a hot snack. Roland will be up soon and he and Mr Grumpy will want some supper.’

  ‘Do you cook all the meals?’

  ‘Well, yes. I rather like pottering about in the kitchen after a shift of dealing with the train-travelling public.’

  * * *

  Mel’s alarm woke her just after ten. She had plenty of time before setting off for Heathrow with Duchamps, but she wanted to collect her thoughts. The man she was driving wasn’t only unpleasant, but possibly involved in the Brussels bomb attack. And who had he meant when he regretted somebody was still alive? Who was she kidding? He must have meant Patrick Stevenson. So both father and son were mixed up in this. Billy had been under pressure from somebody to smuggle part of the bomb into Stevenson’s office. And the only person who recognised the funny symbol on the note with Billy’s train tickets was Gérard, who was dead. She shook her head, then proceeded to dress and put her hair up.

  Fennington and Duchamps père were sitting opposite each other in the living area, the former with a neutral expression, the latter frowning. Neither was talking nor looking at the other. Oliver was fiddling around behind the kitchen bar. All three men looked up as soon as she came into their view. Mel could feel the tension in the room.

  ‘I’m a little early, Mr Fennington, but I’m going to pop down and check everything’s right with the car,’ she said, widening her vowels to sound more north Kent rather than North Kensington. Fennington’s eyes creased, but he said nothing.

  In the garages, she checked she had her bottle of water and a couple of blankets in the boot. She lifted the flap over the spare tyre well and extracted the jack handle. It was short and slim and fitted neatly into her driver’s side door pocket. Possibly overdoing it, but you never knew.

  Back upstairs, she walked into the flat and waited. Duchamps flung a newspaper he’d been flicking through onto the coffee table and stood. Fennington came up with him and held out his hand.

  ‘Bon voyage, Louis. I’m glad we could help.’ His tone was brisk rather than friendly. Mel concluded he was as pleased as she was to be getting rid of Duchamps. She picked up the suitcase Duchamps had left by the lift and went to follow him into the lift.

  ‘One moment,’ Fennington said. ‘Be sure to let me know when you are setting off to come back, young woman. There’s a frost and black ice warning tonight.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Was Fennington going soft?

  ‘I don’t want my Mercedes having to be towed out of a ditch.’

  No, he was more worried about his bloody car.

  Duchamps said nothing, not a word, as they drove west. He closed his eyes and seemed to be dozing. Mel relaxed once they were past the Chiswick flyover and set the cruise control. Traffic was light compared to daytime, but she still needed to watch the flashes of red tail lights, sometimes accompanied by the harsh orange of indicators blinking, as cars gunned in and out of lanes, desperate to win the race west.

  Then blue light burst into life behind her, flooding the interior of the Mercedes. Headlights flashing on and off, centimetres from her bumper. Dieu, it was her they meant. Typical. She slowed down as it came alongside and pulled over into the emergency lane.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’ Duchamps was awake. ‘Get back on the road.’

  ‘I can’t, sir. It’s the police.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t they have any criminals to catch?’

  A black-clad figure arrived at the driver’s door and tapped on the window. Mel pressed the window button and as the glass retracted, she found she was looking into the face of Joanna Evans who looked just as surprised to see her. Mel glanced backwards and saw another officer at the wheel of the police car, but the flashing light obscured their face.

  ‘Good evening,’ Joanna said, now wearing a neutral face. ‘May I see your licence, please?’

  Mel fished in the glovebox for her wallet. What the hell was Joanna doing here dressed up as a traffic cop?

  ‘Why have you stopped us, officer?’ Duchamps sounded impatient.

  ‘Just a routine check, sir,’ Joanna replied smoothly. She turned to Mel. ‘Do you realise your offside tail light isn’t working?’

  ‘Oh. It was fine when I checked it earlier this evening.’

  ‘Going far?’

  ‘I’m just taking my boss’s colleague to Terminal 2. We’ve only come from central London.’

  ‘Very well. I suggest you leave the car there and take the train back.’

  ‘I have spare bulbs in the boot. I’ll get somebody at the petrol station to fit one.’ Mel glanced at her watch. ‘If that’s everything, officer, I’d like to get going. My passenger has a plane to catch.’

  ‘Very well. But make sure your light’s working before you drive back.’ Joanna nodded to Duchamps, who ignored her, and left. Mel closed her eyes for a second.

  ‘Well, get going, you useless bitch,’ growled Duchamps as he watched out of the back window as Joanna got back in her car. ‘God knows why Fennington keeps you. It can’t be for fucking.’

  Mel gripped the steering wheel hard and bit her lip to prevent a retort. Duchamps then went on in strong Canadian French to give her his opinion on her appearance, competence and how he would ensure she never got another job ever again. Then he started railing against women in general and the only thing they were useful for. If he had time, he said, he would have shown her exactly what he meant.

  She gulped in relief when they reached the drop-off zone. She leapt out of the car, retrieved his case and stood in front of the supposed broken tail light. Duchamps grabbed the case and stalked off. Once sure he’d disappeared into the terminal, she flopped against the car. Her hands were trembling. Back in the car she pressed the central locking button and took a long gulp of water. What a vile man.

  A car drew up beside her. A knock on the window.

  Mel jumped, then sagged in relief. Joanna. She toggled the central locking button and opened the passenger door.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Joanna said. ‘I wasn’t quite sure how to play it when I saw it was you. Mr Stevenson said it was very confidential, but that I should stop the ca
r at all costs and check whoever was driving it was okay.’

  ‘I’ve just been subjected to the most intense load of misogynistic crap direct in my ear by a brutal bully,’ Mel said. ‘Yes, I’m wonderful.’ Then she smiled at Joanna. ‘But why are you following me?

  Joanna tapped on her tablet and handed it to Mel. ‘Read this. Mr Stevenson was most concerned when it came through.’

  Louis Maximilien Duchamps was a ‘person of interest’ known to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the FBI and the SEC financial regulator in New York. No charges had ever been brought. Several counts of workplace bullying and one of attempted rape had been unproven for lack of evidence.

  ‘God, he really is a charmer,’ Mel said.

  ‘Well, Mr Stevenson said to tell you that your info helped us deal with him today more robustly than we would otherwise have done. Actually, Billy Duchamps didn’t look very happy to see his father either.’

  ‘I don’t know how or why Mr Fennington knows him. I didn’t like him on sight. Gut feeling. I stayed out of the way as much as I could. I’ll try to find out more, but I get the impression Mr Fennington only helped him because of an obligation of some kind.’

  ‘Oh, it’s “Mr” Fennington now, is it?’

  ‘Well, I have to stay in character. Talking of which, I have to phone him before I start back.’

  ‘And I have to forget I ever saw you,’ Joanna replied then grinned at Mel.

  * * *

  ‘You’re sure the police didn’t want anything else?’ Fennington’s disembodied voice was crisp, even harsh in her ear.

  ‘No, nothing. The bulb must have blown on the way here. It’s now glowing a perfect red.’ Which wasn’t quite a complete lie.

  ‘Was Mr Duchamps’s behaviour correct?’

  Mel paused.

  ‘He was a little robust in his language.’

  ‘I see. Well, come back and we’ll talk in the morning. There’s something I should perhaps have told you about him.’

  31

  Next morning, Mel sat at the dark grey glass dining table sipping her coffee and watching Fennington as he spoke. He didn’t tell her anything that she hadn’t heard from Joanna, but she feigned shock at appropriate moments. Mel’s EIRS briefing on Fennington hadn’t mentioned gambling or even an interest in card playing, but he had the calm face for it. Only a slight tightening in the lines running down from his mouth to his chin betrayed the distaste of his words.

  ‘If you were a simple driver, I wouldn’t have tasked you with driving Duchamps, especially at night. I did hesitate, but I know you are an extremely capable young woman who can protect herself.’

  Mel’s fingers pressed harder round her coffee cup.

  ‘I could have assigned Gregory, but he’s gone home with two days’ leave in his pocket. My anxiety to discharge my debt to Duchamps exceeded everything else. If you were distressed, I apologise.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Fennington.’ She set her cup down. ‘In truth, I didn’t take to Mr Duchamps from the moment I met him yesterday morning. The worst that happened was that I had to listen to a stream of aggressive language.’ It had been in heavily accented French and she’d switched off after a while. In truth, Mel hadn’t heard such vicious invective even in the most stressful time in the army. But Fennington mustn’t think she lacked resilience.

  ‘Very well. My debt to him is discharged. I hope never to see him again.’ He checked his phone. ‘Today is more relaxed. Lunch in the City and nothing more until you take me to the airport tomorrow. After that, you are free until Tuesday morning when you collect me.’

  She nodded and tracked him until he disappeared into the lift. After a moment, she took her dishes over to the sink.

  ‘Are you really okay?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘It’s none of my business so tell me to stay out of it,’ Mel started. ‘I’m intrigued to know what hold Duchamps had over Mr Fennington.’

  ‘I keep out of Roland’s corporate stuff, but I know that when Duchamps gave him an envelope and he opened it, he looked mighty relieved.’ Oliver shot her a speculative look. ‘Was there a reason you asked?’

  ‘No, not at all. I was just surprised he knew a nasty piece of work like Duchamps.’ She smiled at him. ‘Sorry. Forget I mentioned it.’ Damn, Oliver was sharper than Mel thought. She had to get away before he probed further. ‘I’ll go and check today’s route for hold-ups. Then the garage. I don’t want any further run-ins with the police over dodgy bulbs.’

  * * *

  After she dropped Fennington off at Terminal 5 on Thursday, Mel returned to the flat and changed into jeans and T-shirt. Oliver was at work, so she had several uninterrupted hours to search the flat. She hadn’t dared bring a pair of standard issue latex gloves into the flat. She had no illusions that her luggage hadn’t been searched. In the bathroom, she took out a hair colouring kit she’d bought at the pharmacy and peeled the plastic gloves off the instruction sheet. They were transparent and she’d be unlucky if they were spotted on a security camera. She abandoned the tube of colourant and bottle of chemicals in the sink. Before slipping the flimsy gloves on, she rubbed liquid soap over her hands, working it into her fingertips so that the gloves would cling to every part of her hands. Grabbing her washing basket she went through to the small utility room and loaded clothes onto the longest possible wash, not quite three hours. She left the door open to let noise infiltrate the main area.

  First, the security system. To her surprise, it was fairly standard, but then there was no other way up to this floor except by private lift. In an emergency, there was a double-bolted hatch with a short ladder down to the emergency stairwell for the building, but it was in a locked cupboard, so not easy for any incoming burglar, even if they managed to get into the ASG building in the first place.

  Ironic that the security system only consisted of motion and temperature detectors, given the corporate nature of ASG. She couldn’t see a single camera and no telltale signs of hidden ones. Fennington probably disliked the idea of the control room spying on his private life and the sensors were more for safety. Taking a spray can of all-surface cleaner and a couple of dusters from the utility room, she started wiping surfaces and polishing in her room, then moved into the living area. She worked her way towards the door of Fennington’s study. No sign of tape or hairs between the door edge and the jamb, nor any magnetic contacts. Nor could she see any beam emitter or receptor.

  She flicked the corner of her duster against the handle, then glanced at the security system panel. No change. The hell with it. She took a deep breath and nudged the door open.

  It was like stepping into a different century. A large keyhole desk at the left with a carver chair, two Queen Anne chairs at angles to each other each side of an ornate low table, ceiling-to-floor rich red figured curtains at the windows and classical scenes in oils on the cream walls. Mel felt she was intruding on a private world as she stepped onto the dark blue and crimson carpet. Putting her surprise aside, she scanned the room and spotted a slim dark brown case on the desk with a thin wire disappearing down through a small hole in the top of the desk. A laptop. She opened it. Looping the cross she wore around her neck from under her shirt, she detached the lower part to reveal a hollow containing a miniscule plug-in. Holzmann said it would both decode most passwords and download data. She pushed it into the USB port and watched the screen.

  Numbers whirled across the screen. Andreas had said it shouldn’t trigger any remote alarm. Shouldn’t. Not a word she liked. After two minutes, the whirling stopped. USB DRIVE DISABLED flashed up on the screen. Hell. Then it started whirling again. She watched, fascinated. A set of new numbers started forming in a line. She fished for her phone. As soon as the sequence was complete, she took a photo.

  A vibration which became a hum. The lift. Somebody was using the private lift. It could only be Oliver.

  Putain.

  She snatched the mini USB key out of the laptop, pushed the off button, heart thudding for the two seconds until t
he screen turned black. She stuffed key, cap and plastic gloves into her jeans pocket and dived for the door. Using a valuable second, she pulled it shut carefully, then ran to the utility room. As she heard the lift doors open, she bent down to look at the washing machine control panel. She coughed to hide her ragged breath.

  She heard him dump shopping bags on the kitchen bar and in the next second, he stood at the open door to the utility room. Mel looked up at him.

  ‘Does it always take this long? Or have I used the wrong wash cycle?’

  * * *

  The next morning, Mel slipped down to her desk outside Fennington’s office to check for any official notices or emails. Karine Westbrook gave a single ‘Yes’ when Mel asked if her brother was enjoying his two days off. Mel shrugged. If the woman didn’t want to be friendly, her loss. But they were a strange sister and brother – one so prim, slim and proper, the other almost a stereotypical security man.

  Mel logged off and took the public lift down and made her way on the Tube to the West End shops. She found a newsagent with a post office counter and bought a women’s magazine which included a crossword, and a padded bag into which she slipped the now useless USB key. As she pushed the bag through the posting slot, destination Friars Green, she was relieved to get rid of it. If her things were searched again, the key at least wouldn’t betray her. She bought two more pairs of running shoes in a sports shop and some toiletries before making her way to the public gym and swimming pool on Vauxhall Bridge Road.