Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  ‘You don’t have to go out of your way, you know,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t see you struggling on the Tube with this lot.’ He jerked his head backward towards the bags of clothes and food on the rear seat.

  ‘Well, perhaps I went a bit mad, knowing I had transport.’

  She tapped in the gate code and he helped her upstairs with the bags. He looked round the flat, opening each room to check nobody was there.

  ‘Are you expecting to find someone or are you being paranoid?’ But she smiled.

  ‘Habit, I s’pose. Right, pick you up at seven sharp tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You don’t want a glass of wine, or some coffee or something?’

  Why on earth had she said that?

  He looked at her speculatively.

  ‘As a thank you, I mean.’ She felt heat rising up her neck.

  He gave her a long look and eventually said, ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  * * *

  After preparing and eating a quick ready meal during which time she kept the television on in an effort to divert her mind, she ran a quick bath. Afterwards, she lay in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. She’d made a complete fool of herself. Why had she asked McCracken to stay for a drink? He would have thought she was making a pass at him. How was she going to face him in the morning? She turned over and buried her head in the pillow. He’d given her such a look. Had he been thinking of accepting? As Oliver had said, it never worked between colleagues. Dieu, what was she thinking? Her and Jeff McCracken. No, absolument non.

  38

  Mel slept well. She usually did; it was all those years in the army. But she didn’t feel particularly refreshed. True to his word, Jeff McCracken appeared at seven on the dot. She scarcely said a word beyond ‘yes’ and ‘okay’ on the drive out to Westway and fiddled with her phone for most of the twenty minutes.

  The same high security gate, two guards and camera perched on top of the gatehouse surveying the access road; not the exact same individuals, but the studied slowness as they checked Mel’s and McCracken’s passes was the same.

  Mel shivered as she climbed out of the car. A cold March wind blew across the open concrete courtyard. Inside, through the heavy swing doors the hall was full of rows of tables and monitors now, but a good third of the chairs were unoccupied.

  ‘S’pose it’s a bit early.’ McCracken looked at his watch.

  ‘No, Andreas is over there.’ She touched his arm, then withdrew her hand sharply, but he looked round instantly. ‘Tell me,’ she continued. ‘Why did you make him dress up as an idiot for my contact meeting?’

  ‘Just a joke. I didn’t know it was you he was meeting.’

  ‘Really?’

  He grinned. ‘Well, it didn’t take a genius to work it out.’

  ‘Huh! If you ever go to Wiesbaden, I’ll tell him to put you in lederhosen. See how you like that.’

  She waved her hand at Holzmann.

  ‘Hello, Mélisende. Inspector.’ Beyond that correct greeting, he mostly ignored McCracken and addressed his comments to Mel. Perhaps Andreas hadn’t appreciated the joke. ‘Documents and material are still arriving. This morning’s work is to catalogue and sift everything. Three of ASG’s senior managers were arrested in the office raid but refuse to say anything without Fennington’s permission. They are all at Friars Green. Maybe you would be able to persuade them to cooperate. Nothing leaps out at present, but I will message you as soon as anything relevant appears. As you know, it’s all about fitting the pieces together.’ He looked at Mel. ‘May I have a private word, Mélisende?’

  McCracken shrugged and walked off, his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Anything wrong, Andreas?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not permitted to delete the email from Rohlbert to Fennington that contains the, ah, unkind reference to you.’

  Dieu.

  ‘Why not? There wasn’t anything special in it.’

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s the only piece of hard evidence that Rohlbert completed the deals and confirmed it to Fennington. I asked Mr Stevenson, but he said no.’

  ‘Oh, hell. That means it’ll go with the evidence bundle and everybody will see it.’ She felt sick.

  He took her arm and guided her to a chair. Crouching down beside her, he took her hand.

  ‘Look, Mélisende, everybody knows that’s not the real you. Try to forget it.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what McCracken will say if he sees it.’

  ‘Does that matter so much?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She jumped up. ‘He thinks the worst of me anyway. It’ll be just one more thing.’

  * * *

  At Friars Green, Stevenson gave them the briefing for questioning Fennington. He would only step in when Fennington was at the point of conceding.

  ‘I think, Mélisende, that you will have the best shot at getting him to talk. He seems to genuinely like you. Jeff can intervene as “bad cop”. You have the briefing file. Questions?’

  ‘No, sir, but I’m a little worried about my lack of experience.’ She was also acutely aware that most of the team would be watching in the observation room.

  ‘Think of it as a hearing for one of your junior soldiers who is before you for a disciplinary. Ask only one thing at a time and just keep asking until he gives you an answer. Jeff will support you.’

  Mel was finding it difficult sitting close to ‘Jeff’; the last thing she wanted was his so-called support. She read the papers again. The questions were straightforward; the answers would be a great deal more complicated.

  They walked in silence and McCracken opened the door to the interview room where Fennington had been left waiting for fifteen minutes. The uniformed constable left and, under Fennington’s gaze, the two of them sat opposite him.

  ‘So kind of you to join me, Mélisende,’ Fennington said, almost drawling.

  ‘Mr Fennington,’ snapped McCracken, ‘we’ve agreed to speak to you informally about information you may or may not have that could help us with an investigation. You were arrested for illegal financial trading and unlicensed arms dealing. Those charges will stand. Please treat this opportunity with the respect it deserves. Investigator des Pittones is a member of the European Investigation and Regulation Service, a law enforcement body with considerable reach and powers. I suggest you listen to what she has to say.’

  Fennington raised one eyebrow but said nothing.

  ‘Mr Fennington,’ Mel started, ‘please tell us about your financial dealings with Gérard Rohlbert.’

  ‘Ah, your fiancé. What a regrettable event. He was a very efficient young man. He carried out some trades for me from time to time.’

  ‘What kind of trades?’

  ‘In a wide spread of sectors, ones in which he had good contacts.’

  ‘We have all your records which we can cross-check so it would be helpful if you would specify so we can identify exactly which ones you mean.’

  Fennington smiled like the cat in Alice in Wonderland.

  ‘Then you can make a list from my records. If you can access them.’

  ‘I’m sure we will. In the meantime, I will leave you with writing materials and you will list them, please, before we talk next.’ She thrust a pad and two pens towards him.

  ‘Now please tell us about the transactions between Guillaume Duchamps of Gander Moore Associates and ASG Schweiz.’

  Fennington paused for a moment.

  ‘You have been a busy girl, Mélisende.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Mr Fennington. Only by being frank will you hope to have your time in prison reduced.’

  He sighed and cracked his knuckles.

  ‘I needed some funds transferred and young Duchamps obliged.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The usual reason – money. He was a gambler, you know. He just couldn’t keep his fingers in his pockets.’

  ‘And in this connection, what was so essential that you had to recover from Guillaume Duchamps’s father?’ />
  Fennington looked down at the table, then back at her. His face was tinged with pink. ‘That is an entirely personal matter.’

  ‘Oh, really? I’d like to hear it.’

  ‘He had proof of an indiscretion of mine as a young man. You know yourself what an unpleasant individual he is. He would stop at very little to use it at an awkward moment. By assisting him with his son, I retrieved that evidence.’

  ‘Me driving him around and you accommodating for a few hours was sufficient? What kind of indiscretion? Sexual?’

  ‘Really, Mélisende! No, a financial matter.’ He waved his hand around. ‘Not that it matters any longer after this.’

  ‘I see. We’ll leave it for now but may come back to it.’

  ‘This is all irrelevant. I have information to trade and I wish to start that now.’

  ‘Unless you give us a great deal more than these vague answers, we’re not even near that point.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Firstly, you can sign this letter authorising your three senior managers to cooperate with us fully, including giving us the ASG protocols and passwords.’

  ‘And give you more information that might incriminate me further? I think not.’

  Mel gathered up her papers and stood.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘We’re done here.’ She looked at McCracken. ‘You can start processing the paperwork, Inspector. We’ll leave Mr Fennington to think about how he’s going to pass the next thirty years in a top security prison. I’m sure the harsh regime will suit him down to the ground.’

  * * *

  ‘Christ, woman.’ McCracken paced up and down the corridor outside. He patted his pockets. ‘Damn, I forgot. I’ve given up.’ He stopped and faced her. ‘That’s a hell of a gamble you’re taking.’

  Mel agreed, but no way was she going to admit it to McCracken.

  ‘He’s too clever to accept at first bid,’ she said. ‘He’s a seasoned businessman. Like my father. He never, ever agrees to anything at a first meeting.’

  ‘Huh!’

  Stevenson emerged from the obs room and joined them. ‘Risky, but you know the man, Mélisende.’

  ‘We need to get that authorisation letter first, sir. Andreas says it would unlock so much.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Stevenson, I think we should leave him to contemplate things for a while,’ Mel said. ‘No food, no drink.’

  ‘Very well, but keep an eye on the time. Although the hospital time doesn’t count, we only have a certain number of hours before he has to be charged. I think we have enough on illegal trading, but if we can get into his systems, that would be far more helpful. Of course, the gunrunning charge is completely solid, but I would rather like to see if he can take us further into this rats’ nest surrounding the bombing.’

  Mel studied him.

  ‘You’re very concerned about that, aren’t you?’

  ‘They killed Klara so they must stand trial for her murder. But it’s not just a physical office. I had to fight hard to get the EIRS set up in the first place, especially against the Home Office permanent secretary here – the chief civil servant at the British interior ministry,’ he added when she looked puzzled.

  ‘That’s Mr Ellis’s brother-in-law?’

  ‘Yes. I think that’s why Ellis was assigned to me – to keep an eye on us.’ He gave both of them a sharp look. ‘And that opinion stays between the three of us.’

  39

  McCracken and another officer questioned Fennington’s managers again. One man and the woman were surprisingly loyal, but the third one, a skinny, nervy young man called Poole, was scared stiff by the persistent questioning.

  Mel watched McCracken from the observation room. Under that irritating manner he was very skilled at getting Poole to the point.

  ‘You’re in a very vulnerable position, you know. Fennington can’t protect you. He’s going away for years.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m just a desk man. I usually do small stuff – secure transfers and logistics. I’ve only been filling in, temporarily, until they get a new head of department.’

  ‘How old are you?’ McCracken sounded sympathetic, like an older brother.

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Well, if you go on like this, you may not be out before you’re forty.’

  ‘God.’ Poole glanced at the other detective by McCracken’s side, then back at McCracken. ‘I knew something wasn’t right when I overheard the other two arguing about some Swiss thing. I’m sure they’re trading on their own account. They’re not supposed to. They shut me out every bloody time I asked.’

  From his unhappy face, Mel could tell he knew his job at ASG was finished. She was sure he didn’t want to face a charge of conspiracy and being an accessory to illegal trading. McCracken waited. After a further three minutes, Poole grabbed the paper pad. He glanced at McCracken, then started writing.

  McCracken left him to continue under the supervision of his colleague. He was grinning as he entered the observation room as if he’d won that week’s lottery.

  ‘Result!’

  ‘What?’ Mel frowned at him.

  ‘Your German friend is going to smile at me for once. I’ve just got him an assistant who can reveal the secrets of the universe. Well, Fennington’s universe.’

  * * *

  McCracken sat with Poole in front of the screens in the conference room with Andreas on the remote link from Westway. Mel stood behind the two chairs and watched as Poole’s flying fingers logged into the ASG system. Spreadsheets, trading and logistics software, personnel and supplies, reports, databases flickered in front of their eyes. Andreas fired questions at the nervous young man for the next hour. Poole’s eyes were fixed on the screens, but Mel could see his neck muscles tightening and his shoulders hunching progressively. She called for a break and gave Poole a mug of coffee. Andreas wanted Poole out at Westway immediately for at least two weeks, budget permitting.

  ‘Well done, son,’ McCracken said to Poole. ‘Don’t look like a rabbit too bloody scared to crap. I think you may have got yourself a new job.’

  * * *

  An hour after they’d sent Poole off to Andreas in a police car, Mel suggested to McCracken that they talk to Fennington again.

  ‘He’s been left to twiddle his fingers for nearly two hours and he’s a man who is normally always busy with something, so he should be more receptive. Why don’t you go first, Jeff?’

  He gave her a strange look.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re very good at coaxing them along but you give no quarter.’

  ‘Are you saying something nice about me?’

  She flushed.

  ‘I’ve come to realise you’re not a complete idiot,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m overwhelmed.’

  She clutched her papers to her chest, took a deep breath and reached for the handle of the interview room door.

  ‘Mel! Stop!’ One of the detectives on the investigation team was hurrying along the corridor and waving a printed sheet at her. ‘You’ve had a flash message from German Andy. I mean, Andreas out at Westway.’

  Please come out here immediately. I need to speak to you face to face before you interview Fennington again.

  * * *

  ‘What’s so important, then?’ McCracken said as soon as they reached Andreas’s table twenty-five minutes later.

  ‘Read this.’ He gave them a sheet each. Mel sank onto a chair opposite Andreas and read methodically; McCracken scanned it quickly, looked away, his eyes on the distance, then reread it more slowly.

  ‘What you have there is a list which was password-protected in the personnel records database.’

  ‘Why is this interesting?’ Mel said.

  ‘It’s a numerically indexed list of pseudonyms and email addresses. We’ve only done a few cross-checks but some correspondence you took from Fennington’s personal laptop is to and from these pseudonyms.’

&nb
sp; ‘But his laptop wasn’t connected to the Internet when I saw it in the apartment,’ Mel said.

  ‘Ah, but it is once enabled by a second password.’ Andreas’s eyes were gleaming.

  ‘Where does this take us?’

  ‘All of these pseudonyms had at least one email exchange, but three addresses, especially one of them, have over ten each. The biggest one twenty-seven emails.’

  ‘Have you identified these people?’

  ‘One of them.’ Andreas looked away from Mel. Her heart sank. She knew what was coming. ‘Gérard Rohlbert. We cross-checked it with his laptop.’ Andreas turned to her. ‘Sorry.’ She nodded.

  ‘But the personal one to Fennington came from Gérard,’ she said. ‘It had his name on the “From” line.’

  ‘Yes, that’s an anomaly. But for us a vital one.’

  ‘And the two others?’

  ‘From the context, one must be Billy Duchamps.’

  ‘No surprise there,’ McCracken chimed in. ‘Who’s the third, the one with the most contacts?’

  ‘He or she calls themselves the “Immigrant”. We don’t have any idea who it is. They could be Eastern European, Russian mafia, Middle East terrorist masquerading as an asylum seeker, or none of these. You need to ask Fennington.’

  * * *

  ‘Now, Mr Fennington, I hope you haven’t had too boring a day.’

  ‘Don’t take that sarcastic tone with me, young man.’ Fennington tapped his fingers on the plastic-topped table which gave back a dull echo.

  ‘We’ve been doing a little checking and cross-referencing,’ McCracken said in a cheerful, almost smug tone. ‘One of your managers has been very helpful. Completely voluntary, of course, but I imagine he didn’t want to spend the next fifteen years in prison.’

  Fennington shrugged, but the tapping stopped.

  ‘Now we’re into your system, we’re making very good progress,’ McCracken said. Mel slid a printout across the table to Fennington. ‘For instance,’ McCracken continued, ‘we find this list of pseudonyms and email addresses very interesting.’