Counterfeit!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  ‘He didn’t hit me on the head or anything like that,’ she kept insisting. ‘I was standing in the hall and he shoved me out of the way as he came out of the bedroom. I fell against the corner of the telephone table and ended up on the floor, winding myself. By the time I got my breath back, he was gone.’

  ‘So you’d have got a good look at him, miss, would you?’ the young PC asked for the third time—and for the third time, Charlie shook her head and pulled a face.

  ‘I told you, it was dim in here and I didn’t have time to put the light on. He had dark clothes on and wore a hat pulled down over his face.’

  ‘Like a ski mask, would you say, miss?’

  ‘Er, yes, I guess so.’

  Suzanne was surprised at her sister, who was usually the more observant of the two, but put it down to shock and didn’t push the point. She hoped more details would come back to Charlie after a good night’s sleep.

  ‘I suppose the chances of you finding the guy who did this are very slim, aren’t they, Constable?’ said Suzanne as the PC tucked his notebook back into his pocket and pulled on his gloves. He went pink and seemed to be searching for the right words.

  ‘Well, officially, our clear-up rate is higher in this borough than in most other parts of London—and I’m supposed to reassure you that we will do everything we can to find the perpetrator and restore your stolen goods—’

  ‘—but in practice, when you have as little to go on as you have here... ‘ Charlie broke in,

  ‘and when, as far as I can tell, nothing’s actually been stolen... ‘ continued Suzanne,

  ‘then the chances are high that we will never know who did this and it will be closed and filed as an unsolved case,’ concluded the PC, ‘although you didn’t hear that from me, okay?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Suzanne said with a smile. ‘Let me see you out.’

  She double-locked the front door and also closed the doors to the kitchen and the bedroom. She knew she would have to do some tiding up later on, but for now she and Charlie just needed a few minutes peace and quiet. When she returned to the lounge, her sister was staring out of the window into the darkness, chewing on her thumb. Suzanne knew that look; she’d seen it many times as they’d grown up—always just before Charlie confessed to her parents something which she had hoped to keep hidden, but was about to come out anyway. She took her sister by the arm and pulled her gently over to the sofa.

  ‘Okay, sis, sit down and relax. It’s all over now.’ Charlie tried to resist her steering.

  ‘I was going to start tidying up the kitchen...’ but Suzanne pushed her back onto the seat and then sat beside her, holding her hand.

  ‘What is it, Charlie?’ she asked. ‘What is it you’re not telling me?’ Charlie stared at her silently and Suzanne thought she wasn’t going to get an answer, then her sister’s shoulders dropped and she let out a sigh.

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said, and Suzanne was startled to see tears welling in her sister’s eyes. Charlie never cried. This must be really serious. She waited for her to go on, stroking her hand. ‘I didn’t tell you everything that happened in Greece. And I wasn’t completely honest about why I’m here and not with Annie.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The guy who ran the bar, Sandro, was a real piece of work. Oh, he was nice enough when we arrived, but that soon changed. Once we were working there, he kept upping the number of hours, delaying payment of our wages—and threatening to sack us if we didn’t do what he asked. He could be really mean, too. He made Annie cry one day. I wanted to have it out with him, but she begged me not to, saying it would only make things worse.’ Suzanne stared at her sister in horror.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you just walk out?’

  ‘We had no money and nowhere else to go—and besides, he had our passports.’

  ‘What? How many times have I told you—?’

  ‘Yes, I know, sis, but when we first arrived, he said we needed to register with the local police as temporary workers, and offered to do it for us; but once we’d given him our passports, we never saw them again.’

  ‘So how...?’

  ‘Well, one day he had to go over to the mainland for a funeral. He told us he wouldn’t be back until the next morning and gave us a long list of things we needed to get done while he was away. Most of us were so subdued by then, we just did what he asked.’

  ‘One of the things I had to do was clean out his office. He was usually in there when I did it—and he would really gross me out, sitting and staring—or creeping up behind me and fondling my boobs. But, of course, this time, I was on my own. So I had a good look around, checked out the drawers on his desk, things like that.’

  ‘They were all unlocked?’

  ‘Well, yes, all except this tiny little one hidden underneath. I wouldn’t have seen it but I knocked a box of pencils off the top of the desk and had to crawl around picking them all up. It was behind a little flap to one side. So I grabbed a couple of paperclips and with a bit of jiggling, I soon had that mother open.’

  ‘Charlie, I don’t know where you get all these phrases from!’

  ‘Annie’s brother actually.’

  ‘Isn’t he in—’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right—he’s also the one who taught me the trick with the paper clips. Anyway, it was really disappointing to start with—it seemed completely empty. But when I ran my hand around the inside, I found a big old key sellotaped to the inside.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, the whole thing was very Sam Spade. Sandro had this little pencil moustache and slicked back black hair—looked like he came straight out of a black and white movie.’

  ‘So, this key...?’

  ‘Well, I guessed straight away what it was for. Sandro had this big old-fashioned safe hidden behind the drinks cabinet. I heard him tell Missy once that he didn’t hold with all this new-fangled electronics and would rather trust a good old-fashioned lock and key any day.’

  ‘Who’s Missy?’

  ‘His pet snake, who do you think?’

  ‘I beg your pardon? Did you say snake?’

  ‘God, you are so gullible, sis,’ Charlie said with a grin. Suzanne realised she must be feeling better. ‘Actually, he did have a pet snake, but her name was Gloria. Missy is his mother. Looks after him like he’s a little child; doesn’t seem to realise he’s virtually a slave owner (or if she does, she doesn’t care).’

  ‘So you opened the safe?’ Suzanne’s head was beginning to buzz.

  ‘And found all the passports—plus a load of Euros. I rounded up the others—there were seven of us at that time—we packed in about two minutes flat and then hightailed it down to the port. The beauty of the Greek Islands is there’s always a ferry passing by.’

  ‘So you got away from the island without detection?’

  ‘I think so. By the time Sandro got back the next morning, most of us were out of Greece; in fact Annie and I were on a train, halfway back to France.’

  ‘But, I don’t understand why Annie is so cross with you, then. After all, you saved everyone.’

  ‘Well, yes, but you see, we weren’t alone on the train. There was this young Irish girl called Kitty who sort of latched on to us, well, to me really. Annie had been jealous of her all along and wanted me to dump her once we got back to the mainland—but she was so sweet and innocent, I just couldn’t do that. There wasn’t anything going on, but Annie didn’t believe us and when we got back to London, she suggested we had a bit of time apart—to consider our futures, as she put it.’

  ‘And where’s Kitty now?’

  ‘Goodness knows. Probably gone back to Wexford—or maybe heading back to the Mediterranean and another unsuitable boss. I really don’t care.’ There was a note of cold in her sister’s voice that Suzanne wasn’t used to hearing. She decided to leave that side of the story for now, although she suspected there was more to it than her sister was willing to admit.

/>   ‘Okay, Charlie, so I get the bit about you grabbing the passports—and I can understand that this Sandro might be unhappy about the money, but surely he’s not going to send someone all the way across Europe just because of that?’

  ‘True, but he might do that for the book.’

  ‘Book? What book?’

  ‘There was this little leather-bound notebook at the bottom of the safe. I grabbed it by mistake really when I picked up the bundle of money. It wasn’t until we were on the train that I had a chance to look at it. It was all Greek to me,’ her cheeky grin was back again, ‘but it’s full of names, dates and numbers. I found my name and Annie’s too. I think it’s a record of all his girls. It’s also got other names and what look like phone numbers in it.’

  ‘So you think someone’s come looking for this little book? Where is it, by the way?’ There was a pause.

  ‘I threw it away,’ Charlie said eventually. ‘But yes, Suzanne, I do think someone’s looking for it. And the question is, would it be Sandro—or someone else—someone even more dangerous? And as they didn’t find it this time, are they going to come back for another look?’

  7: ENGLAND; OCT 2004

  Despite the activity of the previous evening, Suzanne was awake before six am the following day. There was no sign of movement from Charlie’s room as she tiptoed around the flat. Although the audience was going to be much smaller today than the one she’d addressed in Swaziland, there would be some senior people there. Logically, she knew that her choice of clothing would have no effect at all if she was unable to answer any of Sir Frederick’s trademark searching questions, but she still dressed with even more than her usual care.

  There had been a nip in the air for the past couple of days; the Indian summer appeared to be over, so Suzanne pulled from her wardrobe a slightly heavier than normal pair of black wool trousers and a black top.

  ‘Always create a column of colour’ a friend of hers had told her when she was setting up an image consultancy and had given Suzanne a free consultation. ‘You’ll be one of my guinea pigs,’ she’d said. Much of what she’d heard had gone in one ear and out of the other, but she had remembered the bit about the column of colour—and she always chose black, ever since her mother told her it was ‘very slimming, my dear.’ Looking at her rack of brightly coloured jackets, she rejected the red one—too intimidating for the audience which would mainly be men—and the pale yellow one—too insipid, too ‘little woman’. She finally opted for the short sleeved black and white check. Then after grabbing a coffee and a piece of wholemeal toast while scribbling a quick note to Charlie, she let herself quietly out of the flat.

  It was just gone seven when she arrived at the hospital administrative block and no-one was around apart from the night watchman who was sitting with his legs up on the reception desk, flicking through the Daily Mirror and humming tunelessly along to the music on his Walkman. He jumped up when Suzanne walked through the automatic doors.

  ‘Morning, Miss Jones; you’re very early today.’

  ‘Morning, Pete. Had a good night, have you?’

  ‘Can’t complain; just the usual—there was a drunk around midnight who tried to get in, but I’d locked up by then so he didn’t have any luck. Oh and there was a car hanging around earlier on. It kept driving around the block slowly, then it parked over there under the tree for ages. I walked over to the door and flashed my torch a couple of times, and then it sped off. Big thing, it was, a Hummer, I think. Apart from that, it’s been as quiet as the grave.’ He pushed his Walkman into his canvas haversack and picked up a mug from the desk. ‘I’m just going to put the kettle on—do you want a coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, Pete,’ Suzanne said, heading for the lift, ‘I’ve got a big presentation later on and I want to get my slides finished before everyone arrives.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to walk this morning. The lift’s been playing up, so I’ve shut it down and I’m waiting for maintenance to come and look at it.’

  ‘Good job I’m only on the third floor, then, isn’t it,’ she said and with a wave of her hand, she turned and headed for the imposing glass staircase in the centre of the foyer.

  By the time eleven o’clock arrived, Suzanne had prepared all her PowerPoint slides and reread her notes three times. Although Sir Frederick had said this was just an informal feedback session, she’d checked with his secretary and he’d invited all the staff of IHF to attend, and the conference room was already filling up when she arrived ten minutes early. She was taken aback, however, when her boss strolled in exactly one minute before she was due to start—accompanied by a short stocky woman who was leaning forward to hear what he was saying, hands clasped, royal consort fashion, behind her back.

  Francine Matheson was a familiar figure to most people; she appeared on the news frequently, and in at least half the weekend broadsheets each Sunday, especially since she’d taken on the role of Parliamentary Undersecretary in the Department for International Development following the last government reshuffle. She was known as a no-nonsense hardliner who didn’t suffer fools gladly—and her appointment had been greeted with some very public groans of dismay from the major overseas aid agencies. But Suzanne knew there was a softer side to this up-and-coming politician, if only one could find it.

  Once the last attendees were seated, Suzanne took to the stage and introduced her presentation with a few words of background and an overview of the team she’d been working with. She saw the guest roll her eyes and glance at her watch during this preamble, but she ignored this. Francine had always been impatient.

  ‘So, as you can see, it was a bit of a mixed bag,’ she concluded twenty minutes later. ‘The people on the ground really get it and know they need help. But we’re going to have problems with the politicians.’

  ‘Well, that won’t be a first,’ came a voice from the back of the room, to general laughter. Francine Matheson looked like she’d been sucking on a lemon.

  Sir Frederick stood up and addressed the room.

  ‘I’m sure we’re all grateful for the presentation Miss Jones has put together at such short notice. Does anyone have any questions?’

  A forest of hands went up and for the next fifteen minutes, there was a lively question and answer session. It was one quiet question right at the end that reminded Suzanne of something she’d not mentioned so far.

  ‘It seems to me that this is going to be a hearts and minds job. We’re going to have to win people over with emotion, rather than just facts.’ It was Simon, responsible for public relations at IHF. ‘Did you actually meet anyone who’s been affected by the counterfeit drugs? Do we have any case studies we can use in our publicity material?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did,’ Suzanne said slowly, ‘but I’m not sure we can use what she told us in publicity. It would be too dangerous for her.’ She went on to relate to the hushed audience the story of Sara Matsebula and her sister Ruth.’ She took a big chance talking to us,’ she concluded, ‘and I wouldn’t want her to come to harm because of anything we said or did.’

  Suzanne looked across at the front row where Francine Matheson was talking urgently to Sir Frederick, gesticulating wildly with her hand and shaking her head. He was nodding solemnly in agreement. Then he rose to his feet once more.

  ‘I think we’ve probably got as far as we can today,’ he said. ‘I’d like to once again thank Miss Jones, Suzanne, for her diligent work both during the trip and in preparing this presentation. We’ll wait until her final report is ready—middle of next week, did you say, Suzanne?—and then we’ll reconvene for a more detailed discussion.

  Suzanne hadn’t given any timescale for finishing the report and had hoped for a bit longer, as she’d got a huge pile of outstanding texts and emails to deal with—not to mention the clearing up still waiting for her back at the flat—but she recognised Sir Frederick’s question had been rhetorical, so she smiled and nodded her head.

  As everyone filed out of the conference room,
Suzanne collected her papers together and she was the last to leave. She found Sir Frederick waiting for her by the lift—which appeared to be working once more.

  ‘Ah, Suzanne, Francine Matheson had to leave for another appointment, but she asked me to thank you for your presentation and to say sorry she didn’t have time to stop and chat.’ He looked at her over the top of his glasses. ‘I didn’t realise you knew our aspiring leader?’ Suzanne nodded.

  ‘Yes, we were at school together,’ she said, ‘and we were quite friendly, after a bit of a rocky start, but we lost touch some years ago and I don’t think I’ve had a chat with Francine since we were in the sixth form!’

  ‘Even so, it doesn’t hurt to have a personal relationship with someone in her position.’ At that point the lift arrived and he stood back to usher her in. ‘If you’ve got a few minutes, come up and have coffee with me.’

  Suzanne rarely got inside Sir Frederick’s office—his secretary guarded him more jealously than any harem guard ever protected an Arabian princess—and she’d not been invited to take coffee with him since the day she was interviewed for this secondment more than twelve months ago. She sat staring out of the huge glass windows across the river to the Houses of Parliament, as he flicked through a pile of papers on his desk and his secretary poured the coffee. Then he sat with her and they chatted for a while, him asking questions about her early life and career path to date.

  ‘I like to get to know my people on a more personal level, if I can,’ he said. ‘We’re always so busy these days, the personal often gets lost in the public, don’t you agree?’ Then he looked at his watch. ‘However, I’m sorry, my dear, but we’re going to have to call this to a close. I’ve got a lunchtime appointment at the Club.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thanks for the coffee.’ Suzanne jumped up at once. But as she headed for the door, he spoke again.

  ‘Er, Miss Jones, Suzanne, I wouldn’t take this woman’s story about her sister too seriously, if I were you. There’s always someone willing to take advantage, you know.’