“I have to warn you that if you proceed there can be no turning back. Your interest in Celebrato ends tomorrow once the money is transferred, as will your job as MD.”

“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.