Chameleon. Mark Burnell

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СКАЧАТЬ said nothing.

      ‘And then you stopped. About eighteen months ago, wasn’t it? No reason, no warning. Again, the question is, why?’

      Alexander. A man with no first name. A man she’d spent four years trying to forget.

      ‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ He took a packet of Rothmans out of his jacket pocket. ‘How unlike you.’

      Stephanie couldn’t help herself. ‘Fuck off.’

      She’d wanted to stay silent. Now, Alexander had his reaction. ‘That’s more like it.’

      She jabbed the gun against the bridge of his nose. ‘Get out.’

      ‘Are you familiar with the phrase “act in haste, repent at leisure”?’

      ‘Are you familiar with the phrase “I’m going to count to three”?’

      He didn’t even blink.

      ‘You rented this property through the Braun-Stahl agency in Munich. You bought your Peugeot from Yves Monteanu, a dental technician from St Raphael. Did you know that his father was a Romanian dissident? He used to publish an underground pamphlet in Bucharest each month. All through the seventies and into the eighties. A brave but foolish –’

      ‘One.’

      ‘No, I don’t suppose you did,’ Alexander concluded. ‘But that would be because you didn’t do as much research as we did. You know what we’re like, though, how thorough we are. For instance, I know that you rarely stray further than Entrecasteaux or Salernes. I know you have a checking account with Crédit Lyonnais that receives fifty thousand francs a month. Which seems a lot, considering the life you’re leading. Each month, it’s from a different source that vanishes as soon as the transaction’s complete. A neat trick – one day, you’ll have to explain it to me. I also know that you’re having a relationship with Laurent Masson, a car mechanic from Marseille. I assume you know that Masson has an ex-wife …’

      ‘Two.’

      ‘… but I wonder whether he’s told you about his criminal record.’ Stephanie was betrayed by her expression. ‘I didn’t think so.’ Alexander took his time, making a play out of plucking a cigarette from the packet. He tapped it on the lid. ‘He’s a car thief. Three convictions to his name. Last time out, he got four months inside. That was when his wife decided she’d had enough. She moved out. Took everything with her; furniture, carpets, curtains, the lot. You can imagine his surprise on the day of his release when he got back home. Mind you, it must have made it easier just to walk away … there being nothing to walk away from.’

      Stephanie increased the pressure of metal on skin.

      Alexander met her stare fully. ‘Three?’

      There was a moment where she could have done it. In her mind, there was nothing but static. It was fifty-fifty. She felt that Alexander sensed it too, yet he hadn’t backed down.

      She eased the safety on. ‘What are you doing here?’

      When she pulled the gun away, it left a pale, circular indentation over the bridge of his nose.

      ‘I guess Masson thought he’d come to a quiet little town like Salernes – or Entrecasteaux, for that matter – where nobody’d bother him. Where he could start to build a new life for himself. Just like you. Right?’

      There was a briefcase on the kitchen table. He opened it and produced an A4-sized manila envelope, which he handed to her.

      ‘Take a look.’

      Inside, there were about twenty photographs, half of them in black-and-white. The first was of a school playground, five girls in uniform, aged seven or eight. They were playing, laughing. From the grain of the print, Stephanie could tell that the photographer had used a zoom lens. For a few moments, the significance of the shot wasn’t apparent. But then she saw.

      It was the hair that fooled her. Brown and thick, it was almost waist-length. Four years ago, it had been cropped short. She was tall, too, taller than the girls around her. As a four-year-old, she’d been small for her age. Now, she’d caught up with her school friends and surged ahead. The facial features began to chime; Christopher’s nose, Jane’s eyes. The girl at the centre of the photograph was Polly, her niece.

      ‘I don’t believe you’ve ever seen Philip, have you? The last time you saw your sister-in-law she was pregnant with him. We were standing on the road overlooking Falstone Cemetery. Your family were burying you after your fatal car crash. Remember?’

      Stephanie ignored the barb. There were five photographs taken on a beach. Bamburgh, perhaps, or maybe Seahouses. Those were the beaches Stephanie’s parents had taken them to as children. They’d remained popular with Christopher and Jane and their children. She saw James and Polly running through ankle-deep surf, Christopher with his trousers rolled up to the knee, Philip on his shoulders, tiny hands in his hair. It looked like a windy day. As she remembered them, they always were. There was a golden retriever in two of the shots. She wanted to know if it was theirs but knew she couldn’t ask. The final photographs were taken at their home, overlooking Falstone; Christopher rounding up sheep in the field below the paddock, Jane captured in the bathroom window, unfastening her bra, unaware. Stephanie recognized an implied threat when she saw it.

      She put the prints on the table. ‘I imagine there’s a point to this.’

      ‘Been to Paris recently?’

      She said nothing.

      ‘What do you know about James Marshall?’

      ‘Never heard of him.’

      ‘How about Oleg Rogachev?’

      ‘No.’

      Alexander finally lit his cigarette. ‘Ever heard of a man named Koba?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Another Russian.’

      ‘I would never have guessed.’

      ‘Not even when you were Petra?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I have a proposition for you …’

      ‘Not a chance.’

      ‘You haven’t heard it yet.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.’

      ‘You will be. So why don’t you sit down and listen?’

      She remained standing.

      Alexander looked bored. ‘I’m not leaving until you hear me out.’

      ‘Then get on with it.’

      ‘You have no right to expect any leniency from me, you know. You belonged to Magenta House. You still do. The last four years count for nothing. You should bear that in mind when you consider my proposition, which is this: one job in two or three parts –’

      ‘No.’

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