Double Identity

by Alison Morton

  She manoeuvred the large square cushions from the sofa and with a spare duvet cover and blanket made a nest for herself on the floor. It exhausted her but she couldn’t sleep.

  How in hell was Gérard connected to Ellis? He’d never mentioned him or anybody much apart from Billy Duchamps. Gérard didn’t have much time for governments and had wished his sister had a ‘proper job’ in business instead of being a government diplomat, so how could he know a well-placed British civil servant like Ellis? Mel tried to push the next thought away, but it wouldn’t be tamped down. The only reason for the connection was if Gérard was implicated in something very illegal.

  Tears trickled from the outside corners of her eyes down the sides of her face. She gave a deep sigh and eventually fell asleep.

  * * *

  ‘Here.’

  Mel opened her eyes to see a pair of bare feet and legs. She sat up slowly, wincing at her sore arm. Then burst out laughing which turned into a cough. Jeff McCracken was wearing her eau de Nil silk robe. His hair was damp from the shower. She took in a quick, light breath. He smiled at her. She said nothing but took the steaming mug from him and a good swallow.

  ‘You didn’t need to go all tough and kip on the floor,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t in any fit state to do anything.’

  ‘No, you needed the rest.’ She tilted her head up. ‘And who says you’d have been given the chance?’ Her expression became more serious. ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘I’ll live.’ He searched her face. ‘You don’t look so good. Your arm bothering you?’

  ‘No, it’s all the stuff that happened. It won’t stop parading round in my head. I don’t think I slept very well. I accept that Gérard wasn’t as honourable as I thought. I also accept he’d been trading illegally, but I’m dreading finding out what he had to do with a murdering piece of shit like Ellis.’

  ‘Well, shift your arse and we’ll go into the office and make a start.’

  * * *

  Five officers were in the incident room when they arrived just after eight. Two were adding another panel to the whiteboard triptych and a third was holding a printout of a grinning Ellis ready to tape to it. And that’s all there was – no sightings, no questions, no theories.

  Mel headed for her desk and went back to complete her written report of Friday night. For another half hour, she and McCracken worked steadily in silence. After messaging her report to Stevenson and the team, she looked up to see McCracken standing in front of the board. One of the officers had now drawn lines between Donald Lewis Ellis, Roland Fennington and Gérard Aurélien Rohlbert. A line extended to Guillaume Duchamps from all three. From him, a short line to his father, Louis, and one from Louis to Fennington. Mel read the ten-line email from the RCMP; Louis had used a secure phone, totally encrypted. They’d added it to their file but had nothing further to contribute.

  ‘Unless Stevenson wants us to do anything else, we’d do well to go out to Westway and talk to Holzmann,’ McCracken said.

  ‘Will he be there today? It’s Sunday.’

  ‘In the middle of a major incident? He’d better be.’

  ‘People do have lives, you know.’

  ‘Nah, not Mr Superkraut.’

  * * *

  Mel greeted Andreas warmly. He insisted on her sitting in the most comfortable chair.

  ‘You should be at home resting, Mélisende, not chasing all over London,’ he said gravely.

  ‘We did get a driver to bring us here,’ she conceded.

  ‘Hm. Well, I read your report. We’ll go through everything again and start a new correlation model.’

  ‘Mr Stevenson thinks there’s a link between Gérard and Ellis. I don’t know why he came up with that theory.’ She knew she sounded almost petulant.

  ‘Well, we have connections from Fennington to Ellis, Fennington to Rohl— I mean, Gérard, and Duchamps to Fennington and Gérard. But we also need to know the exact nature of any links between young Duchamps to Ellis and Gérard to Ellis.’

  ‘We need to talk to young Duchamps again then,’ McCracken broke in. ‘Before we do, let’s take another look at that stuff we found in his safe.’

  ‘Of course. We scanned it all in after you interviewed him originally. You should be able to access it on the shared system. Obviously, we have the originals in our safe cupboard.’ He looked at McCracken and smiled. But the warmth he reserved for Mel was completely absent. ‘Some people prefer to work the old-fashioned way with the original hard copy.’ He shrugged.

  Before McCracken could shoot back a reply to Holzmann, Mel stood and laid her hand on McCracken’s arm.

  ‘Let’s use that table over there, Jeff.’ She pointed at a table in the far corner. ‘We can spread everything out.’

  ‘I’m going to deck him one day,’ McCracken muttered as they wove between the tables.

  ‘Don’t be too harsh on him. He’s a lovely man. He just thinks you’re rude and inconsiderate to me.’

  ‘What? I treat you like a colleague, not some china doll. And what business is it of his anyway?’

  ‘Leave it, please. We have more important things to do.’

  They sifted through the box file that one of Holzmann’s assistants brought them. On the top were some notes summarising the financial reports in the first envelope and the ‘loan’ agreement between Gérard and Billy Duchamps. McCracken picked up the third envelope containing the note Duchamps had kept that had come with the tickets for the Eurostar to Brussels.

  ‘Have you got the forensic report on these?’ he said.

  ‘The envelope was posted in London W1, part of the postmark is missing,’ Mel read out. ‘No fingerprints could be found on the envelope.’

  ‘Wore gloves, I expect. Clever. What about the note?’

  ‘The same,’ she replied. ‘Text printed on standard Epson printer with OEM toner. That probably covers half the printers in the world.’ She turned to the next sheet. ‘Bon Dieu.’ She stared at the sheet.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The graphologist’s report. The funny symbol on the note about the tickets – the series of loops and Greek letter with a minus one superimposed on the loops . She says she’s a puzzler and played around with it in case there was a hidden meaning. Her suggestion is a curveball idea and she hopes it’s not inappropriate.’

  ‘I’ll take inappropriate if it helps us,’ McCracken said.

  ‘She writes that a series of loops is a common symbol for electrical induction for which the capital letter L is used in formulae. And the Greek letter omega with a minus one Ω−1 signifies a siemens, a unit of conductivity commonly denoted as a capital S .’

  She turned to McCracken who was frowning .

  ‘Don’t you see?’ Mel almost shouted. ‘L S – Ellis.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ McCracken grabbed his phone, stabbed out a text to Stevenson. Mel quickly scanned the rest of the file but could see nothing else relevant. She picked it up and headed for Holzmann.

  ‘This has now become critical evidence,’ she said. ‘It proves one of your links – Ellis to Billy Duchamps. I think we may be able to go to court with this.’

  * * *

  Back at Friars Green, McCracken used Stevenson’s office to call for an immediate appointment at Belmarsh where Billy Duchamps had been remanded.

  ‘Give over, Inspector,’ the disembodied voice said. ‘It’s Sunday and we’re short-staffed today. Any chance it could wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I’m bringing a colleague, so you don’t need one of yours present.’

  ‘Okay, but make it after one thirty.’

  McCracken cut the call and turned to Mel.

  ‘You’ll need your ID, but this time leave your gun in Stevenson’s safe.’

  * * *

  No doubt the colour-blocked brick front and the glazed entrance doors of the prison were meant to look reassuring, but Mel couldn’t repress the feeling she was entering a lobster pot. A prison officer in white shirt and shapeless black trousers booked them in wit
h a minimum of words. He raised an eyebrow at Mel’s EIRS pass but seemed happier with her British passport. He tapped in the details on his keyboard. Surely her ID was at a high enough level, even in this enhanced security environment. The wait in silence for a response was oppressive. McCracken gave her an encouraging smile but also said nothing. Eventually, the clearance came through. McCracken took a clean pad and two pens through; Mel had a photocopy of a note in a C5 envelope, both of which she showed the prison officer. They deposited their keys, phones and coats in a locker. The long chain looped at the prison officer’s side clinked as he escorted them upstairs to a gallery with interview rooms.

  In a peculiar way, it was structured like an army barracks, but in this building, Mel felt none of the purpose, only suppressed violence and dissonance with normal values. It wasn’t just her skin that itched with discomfort; her nerves did as well.

  Through the glass panel at the side of the door, Mel saw Duchamps slumped in a plastic chair. He was staring down at the table.

  ‘Showtime,’ McCracken murmured as the prison officer opened the door for them.

  Duchamps looked up. Hope flitted across his face, then died. Perhaps it was McCracken’s grim face or Mel’s own neutral one. Or slipping back into the discomfort of being in such an alien environment.

  ‘Hello, Billy,’ McCracken said as they sat down opposite him. ‘I hope we haven’t interrupted your Sunday. We need a little chat to clear up a mystery.’ He pulled the small piece of paper out of Mel’s envelope. ‘You remember this note that came with the tickets for Brussels?’

  Duchamps looked away.

  ‘What about it?’ he said after a few moments.

  ‘You’re a clever bloke. Sharp, used to deciphering all that financial stuff. You must have done some basic physics at school. What do you think this squiggle at the end means?’

  Duchamps looked down.

  ‘Look at me, Billy.’ McCracken tapped the table with two of his fingers.

  Duchamps raised his head.

  ‘I—’ He shook his head violently and covered his face with his hands. McCracken waited and then started writing notes.

  ‘They can’t hurt you, Billy,’ Mel said. Undoubtedly, he was guilty of illegal money transfers and he had carried bomb-making material into the Triangle Building, but obviously under great pressure. He looked almost at breaking point. She felt sorry for him. ‘You’re well-guarded in here.’ She raised her eyebrows at McCracken and mouthed Fennington? at him. McCracken nodded. ‘We’ve arrested Roland Fennington,’ Mel continued. ‘And we’ve uncovered the other major conspirator, so you don’t need to protect anybody now.’

  Duchamps dropped his hands. And stared at her.

  ‘I know you – you’re Rohlbert’s girlfriend.’ He shrank back. ‘What are you doing here? Have you come to get me?’ Desperate for help, he shouted at McCracken, ‘You have to protect me.’

  ‘Calm down, Billy, she’s a cop like me. She just wants to know the truth.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘I think he’s busy today, so why don’t you tell me?’ McCracken said, playing with the pen.

  ‘That man. He’s called Ellis. I met him at a product launch. He invited me for a drink at his club, all super friendly. I thought he was going to put some business my way,’ Duchamps gabbled. ‘After a couple of rounds, he smiled at me and asked me to do some covert transactions. I said no, then he turned nasty and said he’d report my gambling debts to the financial authorities. I’d lose my trading licence. He made me do the trades for him.’ He glanced at Mel, then back at McCracken. ‘I think, no, I know it was that bastard Rohlbert who told him about me. He wanted out. Ellis was blackmailing him. Christ, he was blackmailing everybody. His fingers were everywhere. When Rohlbert saw that note in my safe, he went ballistic and told me he’d kill me if I ever showed it to anybody. He told me to destroy it and I told him to stuff it.’

  Mel blinked.

  Gérard would never have killed. Would he?

  McCracken was scribbling furiously; the black ballpoint ink smudged occasionally.

  ‘So you can confirm these squiggles mean Ellis?’ Mel said, her voice not quite steady.

  ‘Yes,’ Duchamps muttered. ‘Any idiot can work that out,’ he said with a flash of defiance. McCracken looked at him as if he wanted to incinerate him.

  ‘Why do you think Ellis was blackmailing Gérard?’ Mel asked quickly before McCracken lost it.

  ‘He got caught out laundering some funds through some offshore dodge for somebody the French government was interested in. Ellis found out. Rohlbert was trying to accumulate a pile of money fast.’ Duchamps jabbed his finger at Mel. ‘Because of you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that, Billy?’ McCracken’s voice was cold now.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He looked over McCracken’s shoulder and shifted in his seat.

  ‘I think you do, Billy,’ McCracken replied.

  ‘He said she wanted to get married. Couldn’t wait. Gagging for it, according to him.’ He seemed to find the courage to smirk at Mel. She looked back at Duchamps with as much contempt as she could muster through her anger. Duchamps looked away.

  ‘That wasn’t very polite, Billy,’ McCracken said. ‘I think you owe Investigator des Pittones an apology. Now.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Duchamps said to the table.

  ‘Look her in the face and say it,’ McCracken snapped.

  ‘Sorry,’ Duchamps repeated to Mel, his cheeks flushing red.

  ‘Now, you’ve been very helpful, Billy,’ McCracken continued. ‘I want you to read through this and tell me if I’ve got anything wrong.’

  Mel leant back and crossed her arms. McCracken seemed calmer and even looked out of the glass side panel at the prison officer outside in the corridor. He held up five fingers and the officer nodded.

  ‘Yes, you’ve got it all.’

  ‘Right. Now a nice little signature and print your name and add the date, then we’ve finished.’ McCracken gave him a friendly smile as he picked up the pad. ‘Well done, Billy. You’ve been very cooperative.’

  As they were about to open the door to go, McCracken turned.

  ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any idea who killed Rohlbert, do you?’

  47

  ‘I thought he was going to faint,’ Mel said as they walked back to the car park.

  ‘Yeah, he looked a bit peaky after that.’ He shrugged. ‘Too bad. He should’ve told us everything in that first interview.’

  ‘But we still don’t know how Gérard died, do we?’

  ‘It’s been left an open case.’

  She grabbed his sleeve. ‘Look, Jeff, I promised his father I’d find out. If Ellis is involved, then he’s mine.’

  ‘Whoa, Lara Croft. If Ellis is responsible, then once we catch him, it’ll go through due process and he’ll go to trial.’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t suggest anything else.’

  He threw her a look full of doubt.

  ‘I never know with you.’

  ‘I’m not as trigger happy as you think I am,’ she grumped.

  ‘Right.’

  * * *

  Back at Friars Green, McCracken wrote up his report and circulated it along with a typed version of Duchamps’s statement. Mel stared at her screen, attempting to catch up on Holzmann’s findings as he fed them into the system, but her mind was spinning and she was finding it difficult to take much in.

  So Gérard was trying to accumulate a sum of money so they could get married… She’d never asked him to do anything like that. They would have lived comfortably on her grandmother’s trust fund. Marie des Pittones had left her granddaughter a manoir that had been in desperate need of being brought out of the nineteenth century, but a lump of money to go with it. Grandmère said women should always have their own money. All Mel could remember of her was the smell of lavender, a crinkly smile, a frown when eight-year-old Mélisende was muddy from running around the riverbanks, and Frou-frou, her grandmother�
�s spoilt lapdog.

  Mel had never lived at the manoir as an adult but had used some of the money to modernise it. Her father had settled a tenant there years ago and Mel had absolutely no intention of changing anything. With the rental, her trust fund and Gérard’s earnings, she was going to live with him in Paris in a smart apartment in the seizième and enjoy a metropolitan lifestyle. Until children came along, anyway.

  She sucked her lips in. That was one future that had closed on a cold late November night. A loud siren went past and shook her back into the present.

  ‘Anybody there?’ A hand was waving in front of her eyes. ‘The boss is in and wants to see us.’ It was McCracken.

  Stevenson looked distracted as he waved them to chairs in front of his desk.

  ‘I’ve been to Tunbridge Wells to see Mrs Ellis. Poor woman. Bewildered is the word I’d use. She’s been staying with Ellis’s older sister just outside Milton Keynes to support her while the younger sister – the one married to the deputy secretary – was in her last days. But Ellis only visited twice as far as she can remember, and then afterwards for the funeral. All that compassionate leave was a sham. I suggested that after the police have interviewed her, she goes straight back to Milton Keynes for the moment as we were going to take her own home apart. She didn’t say a word as she handed me a set of house keys. We’ll also have to search both of Ellis’s sisters’ houses in due course.’

  ‘Won’t that cause you political problems? I mean for the EIRS?’ Mel asked. Stevenson’s face looked grimmer than before.

  ‘It will be extremely awkward and may finish the brother-in-law’s career. He’s already lost his wife, Ellis’s younger sister. But he was the one who insisted on Ellis being assigned to the EIRS. An unkind person would say poetic justice.’ He sighed. ‘It’s always the collateral damage people like Ellis wreak that annoys me most.’

  Mel gave Stevenson a summary of their interview with Duchamps and the connection to Ellis.