Chapter 1
On the brightest, warmest day of the year so far, Emma Kennedy sank onto a bench in Hyde Park, threw back her head and soaked up some sunshine. She'd had a long morning of shopping in the most exclusive designer shops she could find in west London, and now it was time to rest her feet. She was trying to decide whether to have lunch before returning home, or to wait and eat with the others.
Suddenly her phone rang. Puzzled by the unknown number, she answered, "Hello?"
"Hello, this is Lesley's in Notting Hill. I believe you bought two dresses and a blouse from us earlier today?"
"Oh...yes..."
"I hope you don't mind me calling you, as you left your number for our monthly prize draw, but I think there's been a bit of a mix-up with your purchases. Can you confirm for me that you have a blue blouse, size 18 in your bag?"
Emma was almost offended. "Size 18? Er...I really doubt it..."
The woman laughed nervously. "I'm so sorry, but one of our other customers has returned to the shop with the same blouse in a size 10, which I think must be yours. You were being served at the same time, and we appear to have switched your bags."
Having quickly rummaged through her shopping, Emma realised that the shopkeeper was right. "I do have a size 18 – shall I bring it back?"
"Oh, that would be really wonderful. I do apologise for the confusion, madam."
"No problem," answered Emma. "I'll be there in about fifteen minutes."
On entering the shop she was greeted as if she was royalty.
"This is so good of you," gushed Lesley, the owner. She lowered her voice and went on, "I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't been able to come back right away. Our other, er, lady, was most insistent that she have the blouse this afternoon, and we didn't have another in her size." The woman turned and called to her assistant, "Rebecca, would you let Ms Stevenson know that her blouse is here."
Before Rebecca could reply, a brassy blonde woman in a business suit appeared from a changing room at the rear of the shop. "About time too!" she exploded, looking at her watch. "I've been here for more than an hour – if this is the kind of service you offer, I certainly won't be recommending you to any of my friends."
Emma quietly and unobtrusively exchanged bags with Lesley, gave her a sympathetic smile, and made for the door.
"You!" came the imperious voice, addressing Emma. "You need to be more careful about what you pick up. I could have called the police and had you arrested for theft, you know."
Rebecca looked mortified, but Lesley said, "I really cannot have that. This was a totally innocent mistake, and this lady has been kind enough to bring the blouse back as soon as I told her of the mix-up. Please be so good as to take it. And feel free to recommend that your friends don't come here; you won't be welcome back at any rate." With this, she opened the front door wide and extended Ms Stevenson's shopping bag to her. In high dudgeon, the woman snatched it and flounced out.
"Please accept my sincerest apologies," said Lesley, turning to Emma.
Emma shook her head and waved a hand in refusal. "Not at all," she replied. "You've nothing to apologise for. You're not responsible for what your customers do or say!"
"All the same, we'd like you to have these as a gesture of appreciation for your help and patience." Lesley produced some vouchers and Emma, for the sake of simplicity and because by now she was famished, thanked her and took them. She left quickly and hailed a taxi in the street outside the shop, relieved to be able to sit down and have that experience behind her. What a horror that Stevenson woman had been!
It was only after she had returned to the crew's penthouse, eaten lunch with Mickey and Sean (Albert and Ash were out on the recce) and begun to unpack her purchases that she could finally bring herself to take the offending blouse from its bag. She shook the creases out of it, and something light and small fluttered to the floor. It wasn't, as she expected, the receipt for the blue blouse, but for a very expensive dining table and chairs from a company called the "Scandinavian Furniture Emporium".
She sat down, her shopping spree forgotten, lost in thought as she reflected on the events of the day. A light tap on her door brought her back to the present, and she called, "Come in!"
"'Ello, Ems," Ash greeted her. "'Ow was the retail therapy?"
Emma hesitated and then said, "Great, up to a point."
"Oh?" Ash sat down on her sofa, folded his arms and looked expectantly at Emma, who recounted the story in all its gory detail. When she mentioned that Ms Stevenson seemed to have left another receipt in the bag, Ash's interest was piqued.
"Let's see it." He held out his hand.
"Why? Do you think it might be worth something?" asked Emma.
Ash scrutinised the till receipt with raised eyebrows. "She's certainly been splashing out, even more than you 'ave," he announced. "Mind if I keep this?"
"No, feel free." Emma got up and started hanging dresses and storing shoes in her wardrobe. Ash wandered through to the lounge, flicking the receipt thoughtfully between fingers and thumbs.
oooOOOooo
From across the street, Ash carefully observed the crowds of conference delegates arriving at the smart Docklands hotel, then checked his watch. If the mark was planning to attend this meeting, she was cutting it a bit fine. His hopes rose as a latecomer got out of a taxi, slammed the door, and stormed up to the entrance with a face like thunder. Some bystanders on the pavement cast her a wary glance, and a man leaving the building instantly regretted getting in Ms Stevenson's way as she barged through the revolving door and made for the registration point.
Ash followed at a discreet distance, blending in perfectly with the middle managers and council officials. He had eventually decided on a charcoal grey suit, lilac shirt and tie, and a goatee beard, plus a pair of Jasper Conran spectacles. He also sported a tasteful leather laptop case, which held not only the standard computer, but a miniature digital camera, some USB sticks, and other tools of the fixer's trade.
Having hung back until Stevenson moved through into the conference hall, Ash stepped up to the table where the delegates registered. A young red-haired woman smiled and said, "Welcome to the Annual Social Work Managers Conference, Mr...?"
Having skilfully scanned the upside-down name badges sitting unclaimed on the table, Ash was able to choose one that sounded about right. "Mark Donnelly," he replied, returning the smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Donnelly." The girl lifted his name-tag, and handed it to him along with a folder of conference materials. "The keynote session is about to start, so please make your way to the hall; I'm sure you won't want to miss that!"
"Definitely not, Kirsten," Ash replied warmly, as he noted the woman's name. "Thank you." With his badge attached to his lapel, he blended into the crowd, pleased to see that the suit he had selected was one of dozens of very similar outfits.
However, rather than go directly to where the meeting was being held, he made a quick detour to the gents' bathroom, where he locked himself in a cubicle and flushed the name card from his badge. He opened his case and produced a label-maker from his stock of gadgets, then used it to print out a new name-tag. The last thing he wanted was for the real Mark Donnelly to appear and spot his doppelgänger.
Very soon Ash was mingling once more, this time under the pseudonym of Neil Morland. Upon his return to the conference suite, he was able to spot Gabrielle Stevenson sitting fairly near the back of the hall, and as luck would have it there were some spare seats in the row behind her. Ash chose a seat slightly to her left, so that as she turned to see the podium on her right, she would be relatively unaware of anyone at her back.
The meeting had actually begun, and the chairwoman had already welcomed the delegates. Ash soon realised that Ms Stevenson had about as much intention of listening to the speakers or taking part in the proceedings as he had. Instead, she busied herself with form-filling and other paperwork, sent and received dozens of texts and e-mails on her BlackBerry, and generally seemed to be using the time to catch up on other business. Nobody came and spoke to her, although breaks in the conference were apparently seen as networking time by just about everyone else there. Ash capitalised on the situation. He knew this wasn't in the script, but he was a seasoned enough professional to know when to go for it. He leaned forward.
"Quite interesting so far, eh?" he began conversationally. He was rewarded with silence. He craned round and read her badge. "Gabrielle? Or should I call you Gaby?" Anything to provoke a reaction. It worked.
She whipped off her glasses and glared round at him. "Ms Stevenson to you, if you don't mind..." She looked at his name tag. "...Mr. Morland. I have no idea who you are or why you have chosen to speak to me, but I'd much prefer it if you pissed off and left me to get on with my work in peace." The glasses went back on again and she resumed her scribbling and checking of messages.
"Fair enough, sorry I asked," mumbled Ash contritely, and backed off. During their brief exchange he had managed to lift Stevenson's sizeable day planner from the seat beside her, using his folder as a cover. He retreated to the refreshment area in the hotel foyer where he stowed the contraband in his bag and helped himself to some vile coffee. He noticed, too late, that all the other cups had been abandoned after just a couple of sips. Ash followed suit, and decided it was time to leave as he heard an altercation across the lobby, where Kirsten was trying to convince a thin, scholarly-looking man that he couldn't possibly be Mark Donnelly.