Chameleon - A City of London Thriller (16 page)

“
It’s OK,
Don. The staff are the happiest I have ever seen them and I don’t
really run the company day to day anyway.”

The next
thirty minutes were spent with Don passing papers to Gil,
explaining what each meant in layman’s terms, Gil nodding and
signing without hesitation. By the time the meeting had ended, the
Chameleon’s tenure in her day job at Celebrato Greeting Cards was
coming to an end.

***

Two hours
later Gillian Davis, known as Gil to her friends and as the
Chameleon to no-one, sat in front of a video camera, surrounded by
her head office staff and watched by the Celebrato Production staff
by a live link to Warrington.

With a level
of emotion that surprised even her, she explained how together they
had all helped turn a failing company into a success. She openly
admitted that her relative youth and inexperience had meant that
she had relied on everyone to work together to make the company
work.

There were
tears in many eyes, including her own, as she explained the terms
of the sale and why she had felt it necessary to stand down at this
particular moment. Gil then wished them luck and thanked them for a
loyalty that meant there had not been a single resignation on her
watch.

Andrew Glenn
was due to reply for the staff and to pay tribute to their retiring
Chief Executive when he was put off his stride by the reaction from
the Warrington site. Two or three workers began to sing ‘for she’s
a jolly good fellow’ and by the time they got to the end of the
first line everyone at Warrington and in London had joined
in.

Tears were
streaming freely down Gil’s cheeks in a way that she had never
known before; she had to put her flat hand to her chest to control
her imminent sobbing. What was she doing? She had allowed these
people to get to her. Get a grip, she told herself firmly; it’s a
business. Gil was just regaining control of her emotions as the
strains of the song died away, and then a young man in a Celebrato
polo shirt appeared on the large screen in London. In a strong
Lancashire accent he spoke across the ether directly to
Gil.

“
A year ago I
was unemployed and I didn’t really care. My girlfriend had no
respect for me, even though she never said so. I was drinking my
time away, doing nowt, and then the CEO of a card company comes
into the Job Centre and talks to us about improving ourselves and
offering us the chance with a new job.” He paused.

“
Miss Davis,
me Mum, Dad and girlfriend are well pleased with me these days, and
I think I have you to thank for that.” He finished, and there were
shouts of ‘Hear! Hear!’ before the camera pulled back to reveal a
human-sized Celebrato Greeting Card signed by everyone. The
dedication read: “We love you and will always remember
you.”

Suddenly
everything Gil had achieved or done paled into insignificance
against this heartfelt and emotional tribute. She felt like the
Grinch when he discovered that his heart had grown two sizes. The
Chameleon fizzled away and Gillian Davis stood in her place, one
hundred percent soppy woman, one hundred percent disappointed not
to have realised before this moment where she had been most
appreciated.

Chapter
24

Hokobu
Incident Room, Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 4pm

Sergeant Scott
had worked with DCI Coombes for almost two years, and he was used
to his moods, mostly bad. The DCI was one of the last of the old
style detectives who often found himself fuming at the political
decisions of his uniformed superiors.

Just a few
months ago they had worked on a case with Dee Conrad of Vastrick
Security, a case which would have ended with a murdering,
blackmailing criminal escaping justice had it not been for some
nifty detective work and some unorthodox policing. One way or
another, the perpetrator got his comeuppance in the end.

Scott sat
facing Dee Conrad, who had recently married and was now Dee
Hammond. Sitting beside the attractive investigator was her
companion, Geordie, whose anxiety was clear. Scott was familiar
with Geordie, as he had taken the bodyguard’s statement on the day
of the Hokobus’ murders.

Coombes joined
the three of them on a telephone link from his home, where he was
suffering from suspected swine flu. His shaky voice was not helped
by the fact that the scratchy phone line and tabletop speaker made
him sound as if he was speaking from the other end of a long empty
corridor.

“
Come on,
then, Scott. Tell us what you’ve got. I can only promise you a few
minutes of lucidity,” Coombes moaned hoarsely.

“
That’s all I
can ever expect,” Scott muttered under his breath, and Dee and
Geordie smiled.

“
I heard
that, Scott. Now get on with it.”

“
OK. We have
some good news.” The others waited in anticipation as Scott brought
the relevant report to the top of his sheaf of papers. “The Scene
of Crime supervisor has just reported that they have found a
contact lens in between the seat and the backrest in the rear of
the Mercedes.”

“
Can they get
prints off a contact lens?” Dee asked, knowing that in the recent
past it had not been possible.

“
It might be
possible. If they can get the prescription from the lens we may be
able to use it to identify the owner and force a confession from a
suspect,” Coombes added.

“
Well,
there’s good news and bad news on that front. First, the bad news
is that the contact lens is not a prescription lens. It’s a
cosmetic lens. It changes eye colour to brown but it isn’t a
corrective lens. So, that isn’t so helpful, except that we can
assume that the wearer was not brown eyed. However, there is a
partial print with enough whorls and ridges to provide
comparison.”

“
Any hits on
the fingerprint database?” Coombes asked impatiently.

“
Yes, as a
matter of fact there is. We are fifty per cent sure that the
fingerprint belongs to a woman referred to as Miss AD, 34792 on the
MOD database. So she may be a soldier.”

“
Bloody hell.
Odds on she’s a spook, MI5, MI6 or someone else in the
inappropriately named Secret Intelligence Services.”

“
What makes
you think that?” Dee Interjected.

“
Well, Mrs
Hammond, if it was a serving soldier the fingerprint search would
have given us the full name immediately, as well as a photograph.
Also, the numbers given to service personnel are much longer and
are coded to give personal information to those in the know. A five
figure number is almost certainly a personnel code. We have those,
too; we use them when we log on to book annual leave and
such.”

“
I see. But
why would our own government want the Hokobus killed?”

Coombes
hesitated before answering.

“
Who knows?
Half the time they don’t know what they’re doing. They’re bloody
dangerous. Last year we had one of theirs turn up zipped up in a
suitcase and the Met spokesman had to go on record as saying it
looked like a suicide, because no-one at Thames House would tell us
a damn thing.”

The
conversation turned to how the police were going to persuade the
MOD, or whoever, to reveal the identity of the individual and put
them forward for questioning. Coombes was pessimistic.

“
The last
time an undercover operative turned up as a murder suspect, he was
kept in a room with a tribunal consisting of an Assistant Police
Commissioner, an MI5 team leader and a serving Army Brigadier. I
asked the questions via an audio link to the room and the suspect
answered to them, not me. If they deemed his answer as safe, and
not a threat to national security, he would answer the question
again for my benefit. Bloody farce.”

“
Who decides
whether the suspect stands trial, then?” Geordie asked.

“
The tribunal
will decide that, and the likelihood is it would be a military
court and the hearing would be
in
camera
. That means
in private
for your benefit, Scott,”
Coombes jibed as Scott scowled.

“
When will we
know whether they are going to offer up Miss AD for questioning,
Boss?”

“
It takes
time, Scott, and interminable bloody patience. Fact is, as a first
shot across our bows they will probably come back on Monday and say
they have questioned the individual and the operative offered a
reasonable explanation for the contact lens. They will also confirm
that the operative was away on assignment when the killings
happened and so could not have been responsible.”

“
What if
they’re lying, Boss?”

“
Bloody hell,
Scott! Were you born yesterday? Of course they’ll be lying. They
won’t even bother speaking to the operative unless the Commissioner
kicks up a fuss with the Home Secretary.”

Geordie’s face
was red with rage and Dee placed her hand on his arm to placate
him.

“
Terry, are
you saying that if this person turns out to be the killer she might
not even be tried?”

“
Dee, as we
are now obviously on first name terms, I’m not letting another
spook slip through the net. But don’t be surprised if the suspect
turns up dead at her own flat, with a written confession next to an
empty bottle of pills.”

“
Either way,”
Geordie added ominously. The others in the room looked in his
direction. His jaw was set in determination.

Chapter
25

MI5
Headquarters, Thames House, London, Friday 5pm.

Barry
Mitchinson was bemoaning his lot. He was sitting in a cubicle in
the middle of the office, with no window in sight. An air
conditioning and heating duct, placed to suit an entirely open plan
office, was sited directly above his head, a head almost free of
the encumbrance of hair thanks to male pattern baldness.

As a result,
he was always too hot in the winter and too cold in the summer. He
was actually sweating today, although that might be down to the
toothache. Barry had lost a filling last week and his NHS dentist
couldn’t see him until after the weekend.

The phone rang
and he picked it up. He tried not to sound bored. “Internal
Investigations.”

“
Hello, Mr
Mitchinson. The Director of Investigative Services is standing
beside me. He would like to see you now. He has a fifteen minute
window.”

“
Well,
actually, I was just going out of the door as you rang,” he lied,
“otherwise I’ll miss my train.”

“
Mmm,” the
Director’s PA intoned with apparent disinterest. “I’ll tell him you
are on your way, then, shall I?”

Barry was left
with a dialling tone. He slammed the receiver down.

“
Damn!” he
spat out venomously.

***

Maureen
Lassiter had been the Director’s PA during his entire professional
career; wherever he went, she went. She knew more about him than
his wife. In fact, his wife would sometimes ring the PA to ask her
what she should buy him for Christmas.

As Barry
Mitchinson entered the Director’s suite, Maureen stood up. Without
acknowledging his presence, she led him into the Director’s office
and wordlessly pointed him in the direction of a hard seat facing
the Director. Maureen closed the door behind them and sat on a
comfortable sofa under the famous painting of Wellington at
Waterloo. She flipped open her pad and looked at the poorly attired
Mitchinson, who was clearly on tenterhooks.

The Director
continued to write and did not look up. Barry was already sweating
from that damned air conditioning outlet and was aware that the
un-ironed check shirt he was wearing was now showing large damp
patches under the arms and on his back. Furthermore, his
unfashionable glasses had steamed up and he didn’t have anything to
polish them with. All this and it was literally freezing
outside.

Suddenly
realising that his sleeves were still rolled up, he began to unroll
them.

“
Don’t
bother, Mitchinson. I don’t think your tribute to Haute Couture can
be improved upon.” The Director looked across at Maureen Lassiter
and she returned the expected smile. “So, I was just wondering
whether you would like working in the post room.”

Barry looked
puzzled at the Director’s comment.

“
You see,
Mitchinson, since I took over this chair you have been demoted –
sorry, vertically reallocated, no less than three
times.”

Maureen winced
in the background. She knew what was coming. The Director
continued.

“
Now you are
sitting in the middle of a football field sized office with no
staff and the worst job in the building.”

“
Yes,
Director. I was meaning to ask about that.”

The stare from
the Director told the functionary that now was not the
time.

“
Two years
ago you had an office with a Thames view; you had a driver and one
of our famous expense accounts. Now you are a nobody, in an office
full of nobodies, snitching on his colleagues. Tell me, Barry, how
does Eloise feel about that?”