Deception!
Elizabeth Ducie
A Chudleigh Phoenix Publications Book
Copyright © 2017 Elizabeth Ducie
Update February 2019
Cover design: Berni Stevens
The right of Elizabeth Ducie to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Licence Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
ISBN: 978-1-913020-01-9
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE (São Paulo, October 2005)
PART I
CHAPTER 1 (São Paulo, January 2007)
CHAPTER 2 (Two weeks earlier)
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
PART II
CHAPTER 7 (West Yorkshire, August 1955)
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10 (Cape Town, October 1955)
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13 (Cape Town, October 1956)
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16 (Cape Town, October 1960)
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19 (Cape Town, October 1960)
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22 (Johannesburg, October 1961)
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25 (Lourenço Marques, August 1967)
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28 (Lourenço Marques, September 1969)
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31 (Queen Katherine, out of Cape Town, October 1969)
CHAPTER 32
PART III
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ENJOYED THIS BOOK?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY ELIZABETH DUCIE
For the Sao Paulo team;
you made me feel at home.
PROLOGUE (São Paulo, October 2005)
It was a little after ten in the morning when he reached the square. The locals had all passed through on their way to work, while the tourists had yet to start arriving. For the moment he shared this central point in the old city with a handful of pigeons flying among the branches of the plane trees, and the old beggar from the favela who spent each day crouched in the shade of the monumental cathedral, preying on the guilt of the well-heeled visitors.
He threw his customary coin into the tin cup but didn’t smile or return the man’s greeting. He never smiled at him. He always made a gesture to help those less fortunate than himself, and the larger the audience, the bigger the gesture, but he believed there must be a reason why the old man was in such dire straits—and that somehow, he only had himself to blame.
He paused at a small doorway to the right of the cathedral steps and turned slowly, casually, in a full circle. His glance, hidden behind gold-framed sunglasses, took in every corner of the square, every place where an adversary or a spy might be hiding. He didn’t expect to see anyone—and he wasn’t disappointed—but it was a habit born of being on the run; a habit he was never likely to break.
He had to stoop slightly to enter the doorway. The interior was dim after the bright sunshine and he pulled off his sunglasses, blinking rapidly until gradually, the interior of the small café bar became clear. He snaked his way around the small round tables, pushing stools out of the way, to reach the counter at the back of the room.
In the evenings, this place was heaving with locals and tourists taking an aperitif before heading out to the restaurants for dinner. Then, the smells were of beer, wine and cigarettes. But this early in the day, he was alone. And there was a smell of coffee, good, fresh coffee, coming from the jug on the bar; and something else, warm, baked: croissants or maybe doughnuts. He felt his mouth water, as he knocked on the empty bar.
‘Good morning, Alvar.’
‘Good morning, Michael,’ came a voice from the back room. ‘Help yourself to coffee and I’ll have one too.’
He was well known in this bar; he took breakfast there most mornings and often returned in the evening too. Now he poured two tiny cups of the strong black coffee and carried one over to a table in the corner. Usually he would sit at the bar and chat with Alvar, turning over the latest news stories, putting the world to rights. But not today. Today he was expecting company. And this was one conversation he didn’t necessarily want to share.
He didn’t have long to wait. A shadow blocked out the square of sunshine showing through the doorway. The resemblance to his old friend and ally was striking. There was the same stooping gait, the same cautious look; and, when he spoke, the same Ukrainian accent.
‘Mr Hawkins?’ It was not really a question; Hawkins knew Stefano Mladov kept a picture of the pair of them on his dresser and all the family had heard the stories of the ‘good old days’ in Africa many times. Now he just inclined his head and pointed to the chair opposite him. At a twitch of his finger, Alvar brought across the coffee jug, another cup and a plate of warm doughnuts, then retired to his back room again.
‘Well?’ Just one word, but it held so many questions for him. The young man nodded.
‘I found her.’ Hawkins let out a long breath he’d not realised he was holding. It was not the end of the story; it was only the beginning, but at least it had begun.
‘She continued to live in Maputo, or Lourenço Marques as it was then, once you left. It seems life was hard and she had to make some difficult choices.’ Hawkins thought he detected just a hint of condemnation in the young man’s voice, but decided to ignore it. How could he hope to make him understand what it was like in Mozambique back in those days? ‘She became a waitress and then a prostitute. My father tried to help her, but she was very independent. He thinks she blamed him for your disappearance.’ The young man shrugged. ‘But then she managed to find herself a benefactor who set her up in an apartment. No more working on the streets and in doorways for her.’
‘But she can’t still be doing that; she must be in her sixties by now,’ Hawkins said.
The young man shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hawkins, but Grace Gove passed away twenty years ago.’
Hawkins said nothing but felt his shoulders slump. He was surprised at how the news affected him. It had been such a long time since he’d seen his first wife. As he left home that final morning, his lies tasted sour on his tongue and the hope in her face, tempered with just a touch of doubt, screamed out to him to turn back. To expect to be able to find her after all this time had been a long shot; to expect her to be happy to hear from him, an even longer one. He wasn’t even sure why he’d commissioned this search in the first place. Guilt? Hardly. Regret? Maybe. Loneliness? Not likely. He could get all the companionship he wanted from the women of São Paulo. So, no, he didn’t know why this had been so important to him; he just knew it was. But now it was over. He stood and held out his hand.
‘Thank you for everything you’ve done, Mikhail. Your father must be very proud of you. Give
him my best wishes.’ He gestured towards the back room. ‘Ask him for anything else you want. And have a good journey home.’
But the young man put his hand on Hawkins’ arm to stop him walking away.
‘Mr Hawkins, wait, there’s something more I must tell you.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a photograph which he held out. It was a landscape picture taken with a telephoto lens from a long way away. The sea was rolling in and the sun was starting to sink below the horizon. There was a single person on the beach, staring out to sea. Her face was turned away from the camera, but she appeared to be quite young. There was a hauteur about her and a real sense of being alone. He looked enquiringly at the young Ukrainian.
‘Her name is Mercy, Mr Hawkins, Mercy Gove. She’s thirty-five years old.’ He felt the breath catch in his throat and stared at the youth, saying nothing. ‘Grace had a child a few months after you left Mozambique. She’s your daughter, Mr Hawkins. And I know where she is, if you want to meet her.’
PART I
CHAPTER 1 (São Paulo, January 2007)
Suzanne Jones felt her stomach lurch as she watched the elderly white man walk across the grass and greet the young mixed race woman with a kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t a lover’s greeting; it was more familial: the greeting of an uncle to his niece or a father to his daughter. Charlie’s fingers were digging into her arm and Suzanne realised both of them were holding their breath.
‘I was right,’ hissed Charlie. ‘It’s Hawkins, isn’t it?’
‘Hush, Charlie, he’ll hear you; and if he looks this way, he’ll spot us.’
‘Relax, sis. In this get-up, even our own mother wouldn’t recognise us!’
In large floppy hats and sunglasses they’d been watching for more than an hour, hoping—maybe not even daring to hope—that Charlie’s hunch was right, and it looked like it was.
It was the Saturday of Marathon Weekend and although the main event wasn’t until the next day, there was a carnival atmosphere at the sports ground and quite a crowd had gathered to take part in the fun run and children’s races. In the mid-morning sunshine around twenty young people, mainly students by their clothing, were relaxing on the grass. One strummed a guitar and they hummed along to the tune. The woman had been sitting near the edge of the group, part of the crowd and yet seeming completely alone. They recognised Mercy Gove Hawkins from the picture Charlie had found in the race brochure. Suzanne had been sure the name was just a coincidence; wish fulfilment in fact. But as Charlie had pointed out, Hawkins might be a fairly common name back home, but here in Brazil it was rare.
Then, Mercy had uncoiled herself, stood and waved, a cool smile flitting across her face. The man walking towards her was clean-shaven, he wasn’t wearing glasses and his hair was a close-clipped sandy blond rather than his trademark grey mane, but Suzanne was sure she was looking at her former boss, Sir Fredrick Michaels, now living as Michael Hawkins. The official reports were wrong and Charlie was right. He had fled to Brazil and he was standing just a few metres away from them at this very moment.
Suzanne kept absolutely still as they watched the couple chatting, not wanting any sudden movements to give them away. As Charlie would have put it, they’d found their prey. And with Mercy being one of the local entrants in tomorrow’s marathon, they were fairly certain where he was going to be. For today, that was enough.
Hawkins looked at his watch and said something to Mercy. She nodded and the pair started walking towards the car park. Then Hawkins stopped and turned in a full circle, slowly scanning the crowd as though looking for someone. The Jones sisters froze. But his gaze slipped past them without pausing and when he’d completed his survey, he shrugged and continued on his way.
‘Okay, what now?’ asked Charlie. ‘Stay here or go back to the hotel? We’ve got some planning to do.’
‘Stay here for a bit, I think,’ said Suzanne. ‘I want to take a look around the sponsors’ marquee; see if I can pick up anything on Sunshine Supplements. After all, that’s why we’re supposed to be here, remember?’
‘Okay, I’m going to watch some of the children’s races. I’ll meet you outside the marquee in around an hour.’ Charlie gave a wave and wandered off in the direction of the main arena.
As Suzanne strolled across the grass towards the large yellow tent festooned with advertisements and logos, there was a shout followed by a roar of anger. Turning, she was in time to see two young men in running kit grappling with each other, tearing at hair, clothes, anything to get a hold, before they fell to the ground and disappeared from sight behind the rapidly growing crowd of spectators.
Suzanne pushed her way through the crush until she was able to get a clear view of the two young men rolling around on the grass, clutching at each other, pulling hair and trying to throw punches. One had blood pouring down his face from a gash on his scalp, while the other seemed to have taken a punch in the eye and was squinting through puffed up lids. Both men were wearing the colours of the Indian team. From all sides, people came running, attracted by the shouting. Charlie arrived at full pelt, followed moments later by Damien Bradley Smithson, their client, the man who had brought them to Brazil in the first place.
‘Suzanne, what’s going on?’ panted Charlie, ‘are you alright?’
‘Sure, I’m fine.’
‘What happened?’ asked Damien.
Suzanne shrugged.
‘I really have no idea. I was just walking past and heard the shouting. I don’t know what started it; when I looked, they were already going at it hammer and tongs.’
There was a bellow from behind them and a slim, neat little man forced his way through the crowd.
‘That’s Ravi, he’s a sort of unofficial coach for all the Indian runners,’ said Damien. ‘He’ll soon sort them out.’
The coach stood over the two men and shouted at them to stop. But they ignored him and carried on brawling. Ravi strode over to a nearby drinks table. Ignoring the young waitress, he grabbed a large pitcher of water. With a flick of his hand, he deposited the contents of the jug over the two athletes.
They both yelled in shock and stopped fighting, looking around them and blinking as though just waking up. Then they rolled apart and scrambled to their feet.
‘What happened?’ screamed Ravi, ‘What are you doing?’ But the two men just stood there panting and hanging their heads. Ravi pointed at the taller of the pair. ‘You, explain!’
‘I can’t, boss,’ came back the reply, so quietly it was almost a whisper. Suzanne moved closer to catch the rest of his words. ‘I don’t remember anything after bumping into Manfred here and shaking his hand to wish him luck.’
The other man nodded his head.
‘That’s the truth, Ravi. I don’t remember anything either.’
The two looked down at their feet like naughty schoolboys, seemingly oblivious to the sweat and blood trickling down their cheeks.
‘Well, you’ll need to come up with a better explanation than that,’ said Ravi. He grabbed each one by an arm and started to march them away. ‘You’ve let yourselves down and disgraced the entire Indian team. We’ll talk about this when you’ve got yourselves cleaned up.’
With the excitement dying down, the crowd gradually drifted away, back to the races or their drinks, leaving Suzanne, Charlie and Damien staring after the departing Indians. Damien turned to Suzanne.
‘Well, now you’ve seen it for yourself. This is what I’ve been observing for months, the reason I approached you in the first place: sudden unexplained violence, over as quickly as it starts and leaving everyone, including the main protagonists, confused as to the cause. Any thoughts?’
CHAPTER 2 (Two weeks earlier)
The call came in to the office, just off Vauxhall Bridge in London, as Charlie was briefing Suzanne on the parlous state of their finances.
‘It’s no good, Suzanne,’ she said, ‘either we get some more work soon, or we’re going to have to change our office arr
angements.’ Her sister had her head buried in the latest issue of GMP Review and didn’t move until Charlie rapped sharply on the desk. ‘Earth to Suzanne Jones!’
‘Sorry, Charlie, did you say something?’
‘I was bemoaning the state of our finances. We’ve not earned anything for a couple of months now.’
‘But we got all those fees from the project in Rome...’
‘Just about gone, I’m afraid.’
‘And the job in Russia?’
‘What, all three days of it? Sorry, that’s all gone too.’
‘Well, we’ve got those three proposals in for the European Union projects. We’ve a good chance of getting at least one of those—and they’re all due to kick off in the next couple of weeks.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Charlie said with an unladylike snort. ‘When do you ever remember one of those starting on time?’ She grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper, made yet another list of figures, then looked around the room, regretting what she was about to say, even before the words left her mouth.
‘I think we’re going to have to get rid of this office.’
As she expected, that got her sister’s attention. The tall blonde woman turned rapidly in her seat and held her hands up.
‘No, Charlie, we are NOT moving all this stuff back into my flat. You know what it was like when we first started the business; it took over everything. That’s why we rented this extra space in the first place.’
Charlie held her hands up in submission.
‘No, I’m not suggesting we do without an office altogether. But there are other buildings, other options, rather than an expensive space in one of the up and coming areas of the capital.’ She got up and went to stand at her sister’s side. ‘Look, sis, I know you love it here, but you’d still have your flat. It just means you’d have a slightly longer commute to work—and maybe,’ she went on with a laugh, ‘I could end up with a shorter one. There are loads of office buildings offering good deals over by Elephant and Castle.’
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