Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘Better than moping around in the flat, isn’t it?’ Oliver said.

  ‘Infinitely.’ She should have been snooping round Fennington’s study, but as that would have been impossible with Oliver around, she gave herself up to the joyous and relaxed atmosphere. Then she saw a tall, dark-haired figure with a frown on his face. Surely not. Not even McCracken could have known she’d be here. She looped her arm through Oliver’s. His eyebrow went up in surprise, but she pulled him sideways towards the opposite edge of the market and said, ‘Let’s grab a coffee somewhere.’

  Sitting by a light blue half-panelled wall with seaside murals, they sipped organic coffee and munched on pretentious ‘homemade’ cookies that Mel thought looked as if they’d come from Tesco’s Finest range. But no sign of McCracken. And anyway, what did it matter? Perhaps he lived near here. It would have been perfectly natural to come here on a Sunday, wouldn’t it? But she knew he would have dismissed the high-octane atmosphere as ‘poncey’ and for tourists only. She smiled to herself as she imagined him saying that.

  ‘Feel better?’ Oliver interrupted her.

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry. I needed some carbs.’

  ‘You tough types!’ He made a mock sigh.

  Mel bought a turquoise patterned jacket for herself and a silk scarf for Aimée. A leisurely Sunday in the early spring sunshine with a charming and amusing man like Oliver was an unexpected pleasure. Tomorrow, she would go back to digging out Fennington’s secrets.

  ‘What time do you start in the morning?’ she said to Oliver as they walked back. ‘I might go for an early run up in Hyde Park, so don’t worry if I’m not at breakfast.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not working tomorrow. I thought I’d do a couple of admin things then go for a pub lunch. Care to join me?’

  Merde.

  * * *

  The Monday lunch with Oliver was a pleasant enough interlude, but Mel wanted to keep busy to stop herself from thinking how gullible she’d been about Gérard. Oliver looked dug in with a book for the afternoon so she decided to check her official desktop for any messages and pick up any traffic alerts for the next week. She had to find, no, make another opportunity to search Fennington’s computer. The financial sheets she’d sent Andreas seemed so routine.

  And although she could scarcely admit it to herself, she wanted to see if there was anything else about Gérard. At the same time, she dreaded finding anything.

  As the doors of the private lift hissed open on Fennington’s office floor, Mel was more than surprised to see Gregory Westbrook, his hands braced over the front of his sister’s workstation and making some point forcibly. Karine sat back in her chair as if fending off her brother’s words. She glanced over at the private lift doors and her eyes widened. Within a second, the expression on her face had reset to the usual neutral and cool. Gregory looked over at Mel, straightened up and advanced on her.

  ‘You.’ He jabbed his index finger at her. ‘I told you to go. I don’t tell people a second time.’

  ‘I hope you don’t try to run me over a second time, Gregory,’ Mel retorted. Karine stared at Gregory. ‘Oh, didn’t you tell your sister?’ Mel added in a saccharine voice.

  She sat down at her desk and logged on as if it was a normal day. Fennington had a business meeting tomorrow at 9 p.m. and she was scheduled to drive. She frowned. He must have slotted that in when she’d been out of the office. She ignored Gregory, keeping her gaze fixed on her screen, but when he started striding around, she watched him covertly as he panned around, then turned back to his sister.

  ‘Don’t say you wasn’t warned,’ he shouted at her. Karine winced, but Gregory was already marching towards the office lift. Just before he stepped in, he turned round and gave Mel the finger.

  ‘Charming,’ she murmured, then turned back to her screen.

  * * *

  Mel wove gently in and out of the Tuesday morning traffic along the M4 while Fennington dozed in the back of the Mercedes. His red-eye flight had been on time, but he’d looked shattered and dejected as he emerged into the arrivals lounge. He’d said very little as they’d walked to the car park and closed his eyes as soon as he was in the car. At the ASG building, she’d pulled into the garage, gliding over the security ramp as carefully as she could. He was still asleep. She opened the back passenger door and tapped his shoulder.

  ‘Mm?’ He opened his eyes and sat up. ‘Oh, thank you, Mélisende. Help me upstairs with my things, then tell Karine no calls or interruptions for the rest of the day.’

  With nothing else to do, she checked tonight’s route for roadworks, potential pinch points and secure parking. Unusually, Fennington had marked the appointment with a double asterisk which meant she was to go armed. That would be the first time since she’d started working for him. She’d also pack an extendable nightstick and an ankle knife. Perhaps it was over the top, but she’d learnt in her special forces days that you couldn’t have too many weapons when you were potentially going into harm’s way.

  34

  Mel released the magazine from her Glock, raked the slide to clear the last round from the chamber and showed it to the security man acting as range supervisor who nodded. She checked the magazine was full, reinserted it and pulled the slider back. Now she was ready, not for the jungle or an urban hostage incident, but for an evening business meeting. Still, that was what Fennington required. On the way out, she collected and loaded a second magazine. Glock safely back in her waist holster, she made her way up to the apartment. She was a good hour early for their departure.

  ‘Ah, Mélisende.’ Fennington looked considerably fresher than he had this morning. ‘We have a few minutes. Come into my office. Please leave your weapon in the lockbox in the cupboard.’

  She made the Glock safe, then followed him in. He closed the door and turned the latch. Mel scanned the room for any danger. She disliked being locked in but didn’t react.

  ‘As you see, the decor is a little different from the rest of the apartment. Surprised?’

  ‘It’s… it’s quite a change. Very traditional.’ Her eyes rested on the paintings, praying there wasn’t a secret camera concealed in one of them that she hadn’t spotted when she’d searched before.

  ‘You haven’t been in here before?’ Now he was studying her intently.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare, but it’s so unexpected. No, I haven’t,’ she lied.

  ‘The strange thing is that I noticed some of my things had been moved.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mel knew she hadn’t been careless. Not only had she taken care not to touch anything but the laptop, but she’d also taken a photo of the whole desk before she’d even opened the laptop lid. Even in her upset state, she knew she’d double-checked against the photo before she’d left.

  ‘Oliver doesn’t come in here,’ Fennington continued. ‘He thinks it’s all too fussy and old hat. You’re the only other one with access.’

  She laid her hand on her chest and looked straight at him. ‘I swear on my heart that I haven’t moved anything in here.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Don’t you have a housekeeper, or at least a cleaner? They could have moved things.’

  ‘Not at the weekend, I think.’

  Somebody had set her up. And it didn’t take a Mensa member to work out who. ‘Has anybody ever had access before?’

  ‘We change the code every time somebody ceases to have duties here. Gregory was the last one.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Gregory is a little upset about me working so closely with you. He feels usurped.’

  ‘Gregory does as he’s told. He’s never indicated he has a grievance.’

  ‘Well, he tried to run me over on Friday evening after threatening me. In fact, that’s the second time he’s threatened me. May I play you a recording?’ She undid her suit jacket and reached slowly into the inside pocket for her phone.

  Fennington listened carefully. He frowned. Mel switched to video and showed him the van
driving away. The number plate was clear.

  ‘I’ve checked the plate – I have a source – it’s registered to Gregory,’ Mel added.

  Fennington said nothing. He picked up the handset on his retro desk phone, pressed a button inside the finger wheel.

  ‘Harris? Find Gregory Westbrook and bring him to my office immediately. He is not, repeat not to leave this building.’ Fennington looked at Mel who mouthed ‘sister’. ‘And the same for Karine Westbrook. Call me the minute you have them.’

  Mel perched on one of the old-fashioned crimson covered armchairs while Fennington tapped away on the laptop.

  The phone shrilled through the silence five minutes later.

  ‘Yes?’ Fennington snapped into the phone. He stood completely still as he listened. ‘I see. We’ll be down immediately’. He replaced the handset and beckoned Mel to accompany him. He pointed to the lockbox. Mel strapped on her holster and quickly checked the Glock as they waited for the private lift doors to open.

  Harris, the tall but slim head of security at ASG, stood in the open area in front of Fennington’s office. The offices to the side were dark apart from odd red and green miniature LEDs shining through the tall glass panels. Only a desk light gave any illumination in the whole area. Apparently otherwise relaxed, the only movement from Harris was when his eyes flickered in his solemn face as Mel and Fennington approached. A second, younger figure in an equally anonymous coat and identical crew cut stood behind and to the side of him. They looked like a pair of religious street evangelists. Karine Westbrook, already in her coat to go home, looked with wide, anxious eyes from Harris to Fennington.

  ‘Gregory?’ said Fennington.

  Harris shook his head. ‘No sign of him since yesterday.’

  ‘Where is he, Karine?’ Fennington said.

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Fennington.’ She glanced at Mel. ‘He hasn’t been home or in touch since… since his conversation with her.’

  ‘Mr Harris is going to ask you for all of Gregory’s associates, haunts, clubs and so on. You can cooperate fully, or you can collect your P45.’

  ‘But I haven’t done anything wrong!’

  ‘No, and it’s unfair and I would be sorry to lose you,’ Fennington replied. ‘But that’s how the world works.’

  She slumped in her chair but shot Mel a poisonous look. The two security men closed in on Karine, sitting close, but not quite touching. The younger one started tapping on his tablet while Harris gazed steadily at her.

  ‘Let’s get on,’ Fennington said abruptly and jerked his head at Mel.

  * * *

  Winding her way north-west through Camden Town, Holloway and Finsbury Park, Mel was still puzzled about their destination. She’d plumbed in the coordinates in the car’s satnav, but she couldn’t visualise Tottenham Hale except as a railway station. She’d changed there to the Tube network on the way from Stansted Airport occasionally, but that was just platform to platform. What she’d glimpsed of the outside hadn’t convinced her it qualified as a beau quartier of outer London. And according to Google Maps, the warehouse was in a derelict industrial estate, not the smooth Mr Fennington’s usual hangout. She patted her pocket. The collapsed steel nightstick was small, only the length of her phone, and with a pocket clip it resembled a fat pen. But when extended, it gave her forty centimetres of advantage.

  An hour and twenty-five minutes after they’d left, she passed the blue and yellow IKEA store and wound through the brightly lit retail park. But soon it deteriorated into a forlorn wasteland of semi-derelict warehouses from the 1960s. From the residual mounds of rubble and bleak empty concrete bases, many had already been demolished. Chicken wire, some holed and bent, other parts intact, surrounded them while one or two buildings were adorned with ‘To Let’ or ‘For Sale’ notices. Mel stopped at the junction leading to the street of half a dozen industrial units. The only light came from a single bulkhead lamp over the entrance to the building they were aiming for – No. 5.

  ‘I’ll just turn round, Mr Fennington, in case we need to make a fast exit. In fact, as it’s not raining or anything, would you mind if we parked in the lee of the building over there and walked in?’ She indicated an older boarded-up Victorian building, possibly a former pub. ‘It’s not directly visible from number five.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We’re a bit early, so I’ll go and have a quick look to see who’s around.’

  ‘Very well. It’s a discreet meeting and apparently perfectly safe, but I respect your judgement.’

  Mel slipped off her suit jacket and shrugged on her longer leather one, but left it unbuttoned. She nudged the driver’s door to, making a light click. Crossing over to the first building in the row, she hugged the wall and advanced steadily. No. 5 was a faded white-painted brick building with corrugated cladding. A wide vehicle entrance was shuttered, with a hasp for attaching it to a metal staple in the ground. But it wasn’t secured. To the left, a standard office entrance and two windows beyond that, but no light was visible. Mel looked up to the double window at first-storey height. No light, but she caught a quick movement. So there was a gallery or an upstairs office inside.

  Round the back of the row she tugged the part derelict wire fencing to make a hole large enough to pass through. She crouched on the concrete and listened. Nothing. A distant hum of traffic. The floodlights from the retail park seemed to shine in a different world. She edged along the back of the first four units but was blocked by a wall at the fifth one. Anybody watching out of the back window near the top of No. 5 would see if she climbed over.

  Back at the Mercedes, Mel took a sip of water and reported to Fennington.

  ‘I can’t see any people or cars, but the vehicle entrance is unlocked. Do you want me to do a closer recce?’

  ‘No, let’s just go,’ he said. ‘Your weapon is just a precaution. I don’t expect it to be anything more than a discreet business meeting.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I will go first,’ she said.

  Mel knocked on the office door. Her reward was the light of a torch thrust full in her face. She blinked for an instant, stepped back and pulled Fennington to one side. The door slammed closed.

  ‘I think we should leave now,’ she said.

  ‘That’s not your decision.’

  ‘No, but that’s my extremely strong recommendation. That was hardly the action of a business greeter.’

  ‘These are rather informal people, so we’re going ahead.’

  ‘As you wish, but please wait until I’m inside and can let you know it’s safe.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Mel stood square in front of the door, arched her back, bent her right leg up and slammed her foot into the lock area. It gave immediately and she barrelled in, swerving hard left. She scanned the space. A figure lay groaning on the floor behind the door. Mel ignored it. To the right was a heavy-duty black four-by-four. Ahead, standing by a low bench and an upturned wooden packing case with an open messenger bag, were two men, one in a wool coat open to show a suit and tie, the other, a black man in jeans and jacket. Gregory.

  Putain.

  The two turned as one. Even under the dull lights hanging from the warehouse roof, Mel recognised the taller financier she’d met at Aimée’s reception. Mestre. Something Mestre. Nicolas. No, he was Italian, so Niccolò. She was in the dark, so he wouldn’t have recognised her. But Gregory knew her.

  ‘French bitch. What do you want?’

  ‘Good evening, Gregory,’ Mel drawled with more bravado than she felt. ‘Not a pleasure to see you again. We wondered where you’d run off to.’

  Gregory took a step forward, but Mestre put his arm out.

  ‘Is Fennington here?’ Mestre said.

  ‘Mr Fennington is waiting outside,’ Mel replied. ‘Is it safe for him to come in? If you can keep your new boy in check, I will escort him in. If not, we’ll be on our way.’

  ‘Of course it is safe,’ Mestre replied. He gave a wide smile. ‘We are civilised businessmen. Please, tell him to come in.�
��

  ‘Very well. And will you tell your doorkeeper who thinks he is creeping up silently behind me that if he touches me, he will be spending the rest of tonight in casualty.’

  Mestre tipped his chin up and shouted ‘Mario, fratello, qui!’ as if to a dog.

  A dark-haired younger man limped by Mel. He half turned and gave her the finger. She ignored him, went back to the door and opened it. Fennington strode in, and Mel followed him keeping within a metre and a half behind and slightly to the side of him.

  ‘Roland,’ Mestre said, but didn’t shake hands.

  ‘Niccolò.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to introduce your, er, forceful companion?’

  ‘No, she’s my driver. That is all. Now, are we here for business?’

  ‘Of course. Come, I will show you the merchandise.’

  Gregory went to move with Mestre. Fennington stopped and looked at him.

  ‘Please tell your monkey to step back, Niccolò. I can’t bear the smell of treachery.’

  ‘He can stand by the benches with Mario and Wonder Woman.’ The two principals walked over to a stack of long packing crates and murmured to each other. Mel was trying to hear, but she was concentrating on Gregory and Mario. She kept the benches between them and her hands free, her weight on the balls of her toes. Gregory stared at her, but she wouldn’t break. From the way he was standing he didn’t look as if he was carrying, but she had to stay ready.

  Fennington walked around the long wooden crates. He shone the torch from his phone on the rough wood. Mel recognised the markings immediately – the telltale ‘RF’ stamp and the type mark. They were a batch of the HK416 assault rifles destined to be the new standard issue for the French Army. She’d used one on a mission two months before joining EIRS.

  Putain.

  Was Fennington dealing in arms, then? She shivered.

  Keep it together, Mel.

  Fennington leant in and lifted out a cloth-encased bundle. He turned and beckoned to Mel to join them.