Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  After an hour sweating in the gym, she found the pool water soothing. She glided back and forth in the roped-off lane, ignoring the strong chlorine and kids screeching and floundering under their teachers’ instructions. Mel had learnt to swim at home in the small lake, dodging her brother and friends’ attempts at horseplay, something that had stood her in good stead crossing rivers in hostile parts of the French-speaking world. Now in this noisy but clean and civilised place, that seemed a million kilometres away. What was she achieving sneaking around people’s computers? And not getting very far doing it.

  After thirty lengths, she gave up and treated herself to a hot chocolate in the gym café. Seating herself on an easy chair near the coffee table, she browsed the women’s lifestyle magazine she’d bought, flicking the pages back and forth. She finished her drink and just before she left slipped her magazine into the pile of motoring and outdoors glossies.

  Half an hour later she didn’t see a tall blond man come in, order a coffee and casually pick up a couple of magazines to while away the time. Nor Andreas Holzmann’s smile as he found the number scribbled in the margin of the crossword page of a women’s magazine. Mel knew he’d keep to protocol when he texted her from a phone with a supermarket SIM card; EIRS had bought a selection to replace those destroyed in the bombing.

  As she arrived back at the flat, Mel’s phone pinged. How’s the new job going? Do you fancy going for a drink sometime? Andy.

  She tapped in, Sure. Didn’t know you were back in London. Tonight? Black Horse, say 7.30. Oliver was staying in so she’d have no chance of making another search. Not that she could download anything if she did.

  32

  A tall man with black hair and moustache and wearing dark red chinos and a navy cashmere jumper was lounging at the bar in the gloom of the Black Horse, talking loudly to another man dressed in the same preppy way. Mel dismissed them, then looked round for Andreas.

  ‘Darling!’ The black-haired man shouted out and waved at her. Mel stared, but as he turned so his face was lit by the frosted light over the bar, she saw Andreas’s blue eyes. She gave a weak smile and raised her hand halfway. Why was he disguised as a daddy’s boy?

  ‘Hi Andy. Hope I’m not late.’

  ‘Not a bit, my sweet. Dry white?’

  Mel nodded. ‘I’ll grab a table, shall I?’

  After a couple of minutes, Andreas came over with the drinks and a fatuous grin. They sat side by side on a padded bench. Under the gesture of flicking a strand of hair behind her ear, Mel whispered, ‘Why are you dressed up like that?’

  ‘Our mutual friend’s idea. He was deeply curious about why I needed a disguise, but I told him it was to help out on a training exercise for a junior.’ He grinned, but said, ‘Not sure I like being a brainless English toff.’

  Mel fumed. Bloody McCracken. He didn’t like the way she was on good terms with Andreas Holzmann. Tough. The German was polite, friendly and respectful. A million miles from McCracken. Mel snorted but quickly turned it into a cough.

  ‘Anyway, cheers!’ he said loudly. ‘Followed?’ he whispered quickly.

  She shook her head slowly as if despairing of his behaviour.

  ‘But let’s be very careful,’ she whispered back.

  ‘How’s the new job going?’ he said in a loud voice.

  ‘Very well, I—’

  ‘Guess who I saw the other day? Old Potter. Looked very intellectual with his new specs.’ Andreas laid his arm along the top of the bench behind her and wittered on in almost accentless English for some minutes while Mel nodded now and again. All the time she scanned the bar and the slightly raised seating area where food was being served and tracked anybody who came close as they struggled through the crowd past them on the way to the loo. As the pub filled up it became harder and harder.

  ‘I don’t think we have company,’ she said. ‘If we do, they’re very skilled.’

  Andreas laughed loudly, then as he recovered, whispered, ‘Password looks good. But I can’t access anything remotely. He must leave it unconnected to the Internet.’

  Mel nodded. She threw her hands up as if making a point to her companion and whispered back, ‘USB drive’s disabled.’

  Andreas chuckled as if she’d made a great joke, but murmured to her, ‘You’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.’

  ‘You don’t say!’ Mel said loudly and finished her wine. She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I have to be going now, Andy.’

  ‘Oh really? I thought we might have a spot of dinner. Do stay.’

  ‘No, I can’t. I’m not really dressed for dinner.’ She waved at her jeans, then stood and bent down to give him a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s been lovely hearing your news, but I have an early start tomorrow.’ She turned, tapped the nearest person on the shoulder to begin weaving in between bodies to get to the frosted glass panelled door.

  Mel paused on the step of the noisy pub, glad to be out of the Friday evening jostling. She inhaled the cooler air gladly, even though it was full of the usual hydrocarbons. Should she stretch her legs and walk or take the easy option of a taxi? It wasn’t raining, so the walk won. She nearly missed the shadow of a movement to her left side as it flitted down the darkened side street.

  Okay. Either I’m being paranoid, or somebody is tailing me.

  She walked to the Tube station, an old-style one with the name in tiles over an arched entrance. She trotted down the metal-edged stairs, then the second her foot hit the bottom step, swerved to the right and flattened herself against the supporting wall and watched through the iron safety rails. A familiar bulky figure followed down the steps. Gregory.

  He scanned the crowded ticket hall anxiously. Mel kept her back to the wall and shuffled out of his sightline, then ran back up the stairs. She flipped her jacket hood over her hair and set off down the road. Gregory would have nothing to report. Andreas was well disguised and she’d been open about going out for a drink with a friend. Five minutes more and she’d be in Buckingham Palace Road. She checked the street map on her phone.

  A dark transit van braked at her side. The door was thrust open.

  ‘Get in.’ Gregory’s eyes stared out of the darkness of the transit in contrast to the light shining from offices reinforced by the street lighting, taxis and buses. She couldn’t see a thing in the van. Instinctively, she knew it would be dangerous for her to step inside. As a precaution she half turned, swiped her phone and tapped voice record.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I prefer to walk.’

  ‘Get in or you’ll regret it.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘I know what you’re up to.’ His voice was full of resentment. ‘You won’t get away with it.’

  He couldn’t possibly know.

  ‘Are you drunk, Gregory? You shouldn’t be driving in that state.’

  He jumped out of the van, slammed the door with an almighty thud and was on the pavement in a second. He lunged for her throat, but she was too quick and jumped sideways.

  ‘Don’t even try it,’ Mel cried out and thrust her open palm towards him. One or two people turned for a few moments, but hurried on, not wanting to be involved. ‘What exactly is your problem with me, Gregory?’

  ‘You think you’re so smart, don’t you? I used to drive Fennington around and be his security. Now he’s got a fancy blond bitch to smirk at his friends, I’m down to being the errand boy. You’ve taken my respect.’

  ‘Well, that’s some speech. Mr Fennington asked me to join ASG and I accepted. You’ll have to take it up with him.’

  Gregory moved towards her until his coat touched her palm, but she kept her hand there, keeping him at arm’s length.

  ‘No. You’re going to resign,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Or your fancy boyfriend might have an accident.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Even if Gregory could manage to trace him, Andreas could look after himself.

  ‘You think?’ Gregory retorte
d. ‘Or p’raps your nice mum in France. Easy to get there these days.’

  A red rush of anger and fear rolled up through Mel. She stuck her face in Gregory’s to within a centimetre. His breath smelt of almonds, and strangely, oranges.

  ‘If you get within fifty kilometres of my mother, or any of my family or friends, I will tear you apart,’ Mel said in a voice colder than the Arctic. ‘Your sister won’t be able to find enough pieces to bury. Get it?’

  His eyes flickered, but he didn’t back off.

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ he said. But his voice was less certain than before.

  ‘I don’t want to scare anybody, Gregory. But I react badly to threats. So don’t threaten me.’

  ‘We ain’t finished.’

  ‘I rather think you are.’ Mel watched as he stomped back to the driver’s side of his van, wrenched the door open and jumped in. Mel started off in the direction of the ASG building. Behind her the van reversed several metres fast. Mel heard the brakes screech. In the next second, she heard the engine revving hard, its headlights bouncing off the railings to her side. She looked over her shoulder. The van mounted the kerb and was barrelling towards her. No side streets to escape down, only a solid terrace of converted brick houses.

  One doorway. One chance. But she had to run towards the van.

  The instant before the van would have hit her, she leapt up the three steps and flattened herself against the door. The van thundered by. She caught sight of Gregory, his face twisted and shaking his fist at her. The van veered off the pavement, catching its wing on a solid Victorian lamp post. A screech of metal on metal, then it belted off down the road, shooting the red lights. Mel whipped out her phone and videoed the retreating van.

  She jogged back to the ASG building, her heart hammering. She jabbed the door code into the system, ran in but slowed down enough to walk through the lobby and the security archway. The after-hours guard gave her a funny look but didn’t bestir himself from the reception desk. She fretted as the lift car travelled upwards. When it stopped at the top office floor, she scanned the carpeted lobby area, but only the hum of electrical equipment pierced the silence. No human breathing or movement. She strode over to the private lift and punched in the code. The instant the doors slid open, she jumped in.

  When she tumbled out, she sank down on the floor and covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Mel?’ Oliver looked away from the television. ‘Are you okay?’

  She looked up, then pulled herself to her feet.

  ‘Yes, sorry. What a wimp!’ She smiled at him, but her stomach was wobbling along with her nerves.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Somebody tried to run me down. I’m just having a physical reaction. It’s the adrenaline dispersal. Take no notice.’ She took some short sharp breaths.

  ‘God! Come and sit down. Did you get their number plate?’

  ‘Better than that, I can prove exactly who it was.’

  33

  Mel sat at breakfast with Oliver at seven the next morning. Outside it was a clear morning but crisp with a line of frost on the outside balcony rail. Oliver glanced at his watch and spooned his cereal a little too quickly.

  ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ Mel said.

  ‘Now I’m trembling.’ But his brown eyes shone with amusement.

  ‘I just wondered why you still worked as you have all this with Mr Fennington.’ She waved her hand round to take in the apartment.

  Oliver laughed.

  ‘How old-fashioned of you, Mel. Would you ask if I was a woman?’

  She flushed. ‘I didn’t mean to be offensive. Sorry.’

  ‘None taken. But I can’t sit around and just look pretty. Before I met Roland, I was a personnel consultant. Now I manage a customer service team at a railway company. One of us is on duty at all times.’ He set his coffee cup down and stood up. ‘The public are, let’s say, challenging but infinitely amusing. And when one of my people comes to me with a positive result he or she is bursting to tell me about, then that’s so rewarding.’

  ‘You didn’t think to work at ASG?’

  ‘No.’ He wasn’t smiling now. ‘Think how intolerable it would be if Roland and I came into conflict at work, then took it home. It would alter everything. Relationships with work colleagues always end badly.’

  * * *

  Mel tidied up, read the newspaper and checked her messages on her phone. Half an hour after Oliver had left, she decided she had a clear shot at Fennington’s office. Plastic gloves on her hands, she switched on the television in the living area at low volume then slipped into the office. The laptop fired up and she entered the password.

  First, Fennington’s address book; it was surprisingly short – only three screens to photograph. Next, email, which could possibly have interesting attachments…

  Gérard.

  There were emails between Fennington and Gérard. Mel covered her mouth with her hand and tasted plastic. How the hell did Gérard know Fennington? She opened the first message, subject line ‘Offshore’. Hardly a word of it made sense; it was mostly figures. It had been sent ten days before Gérard’s death. The attachments were equally technical. She snapped the lot with her phone. She moved on to the next and the next. Then came one headed ‘My future’ only two days before his death.

  * * *

  Roland,

  This is to say thanks very much for inviting me to participate in this series of deals. All the transfers are now complete. In a way, I regret bowing out, but there’d be the devil to pay if M finds out. She’s a great fuck, but prim and proper, a ‘posh totty’ as they say here. Her old man is well connected, so let me know if you want any business introductions. He’ll make them for his princess. And once she’s got a few kids to keep her occupied, I’ll be back in the market, so let’s keep in contact.

  Best regards,

  Gérard

  * * *

  No. She jerked back. Her phone dropped on the floor. Her hand was clamped so hard over her mouth, she could hardly breathe. Cold, even colder than Gérard’s body on that terrible November morning, crawled through her. She blinked and read the email again. She stretched out her hand towards the screen. It was shaking.

  The buzz of a helicopter passing by outside roused her. She crouched down to retrieve her phone from the crimson carpet but stood up too quickly. Her head swam. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

  Get a grip, Mélisende. Just get on with the damned photos. That’s why you’re here. Forget that connard.

  She swallowed hard. Her eyes prickled, but tears didn’t come. Leaving DNA traces here from her tears would be incredibly stupid, her logical mind insisted. But Gérard…

  Almost on automatic, she snapped that email, then others without paying much attention. The dull repetition tamped down her despair. But the anger inside her was growing. She found a second layer of emails from other sources and randomly photographed them. Then she deleted her search history. Would it be any use? Was anything now?

  * * *

  The bathwater was verging on lukewarm, the skin on her hands swollen and wrinkled like an ancient washerwoman’s. She pushed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. When Gérard died, she thought her heart had broken, but this betrayal was worse. A sour smell rose up her gullet, but she swallowed it down. To write to a stranger like Fennington in that way. Dieu. And to speak about using her father like that. But worst of all he couldn’t have loved her. He only wanted her connections and regular sex. The bastard.

  She dried herself off and pulled the towelling robe tight around her. Despite the warmth of the apartment, she shivered. She lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. A nap would settle her. Then it hit her. She’d sent photos of all the documents to Andreas. All of them including Gérard’s horrible email. She grabbed her phone. Thank God it wasn’t McCracken at the other end.

  Andreas, please delete the personal one from Gérard Rohlbert to Roland Fennington at the beginning of November. In ag
ony.

  She pressed the send arrow, wiped every message from her phone, then helped herself to a bottle of white from the fridge. She filled the largest glass she could find and back in her bedroom drank deep.

  * * *

  A knock on the door roused her from a dozing state. She opened her eyes immediately but her head was throbbing. Gérard’s betrayal came flooding back. She covered her face with her forearm. A second knock. She climbed out of bed and opened the door.

  ‘Oh. Sorry, did I disturb you?’ Oliver stood there with a cup of tea.

  ‘No, that’s fine.’ She forced herself to sound normal. ‘Just being lazy. Give me a couple of minutes.’

  She swallowed a couple of painkillers, followed by the tea, then dressed quickly and pulled a brush through her tangled hair. As she tugged hard against the knots, she wondered if Oliver knew about Gérard. Probably not, but how was she going to face Fennington now?

  Oliver said little but made supper and selected a far-fetched comedy space adventure film which suited Mel’s bruised soul perfectly. Nobody fell in love, nobody died and nobody was betrayed. Shielded from the world outside by the beige floor-to-ceiling curtains blocking out the London panorama, Mel felt calmer. She doubted she’d trust anybody again as she had Gérard. She just wouldn’t let anybody get that close again.

  Sunday morning, Oliver took her to Old Spitalfields Market. Victorian brickwork and opened gates greeted them, then they walked into the enormous hall where ornate but sturdy roof girders stretched between grey columns. Every type of cooking smell assaulted them: warm pastry, roasting poultry, herbs, tomatoes, cinnamon, coffee, lemons. The hall brimmed with colour and music. Mel touched cut velvet jackets, bright turquoise tunics, chic cutting-edge designer dresses, boots, belts and bags. One stall sold bowlers, top hats and panamas in many colours overseen by a solemn, immaculately dressed middle-aged man who looked like an usher at a wedding.