Faces in the Rain by Roland Perry Page B

Barclays and Visa and was an MCC member. There were even photos of my wife and family. The imaginary Charles Morten-Saunders – call me Charlie – had a gorgeous blonde wife, Emma, and two little girls, Davina and Allison. As I glanced at the photos, I recalled secret desires to find Emma, if she existed under that name.
    I found the rest of the paraphernalia for a complete identity transformation in a compact cosmetics box, and it included horn-rimmed spectacles, fortunately nowback in fashion, cosmetics, contact lenses, different hair dyes, and electric curlers. It brought back irritating memories of making the adaptations to Morten-Saunders without professional help, for it was imperative that no hairdresser knew of the change.
    I began the laborious job of turning into Charlie boy, who was a few years younger than me. The transition to the upper-middle-class, Westminster and Oxford-educated Morten-Saunders, deputy in charge of PC sales, Asia and Pacific, took twenty-five minutes. The main change was to shave off my beloved beard and put on the glasses and contact lenses, without worrying for the moment about hair dyes to colour out the wisps of grey at the temples.
    I was ready to go at eleven p.m., but the police were still outside. There was no alternative but to sleep the night in the bedroom adjoining the executive suite and set the alarm for five a.m.

ELEVEN
    T HEY WERE FOLLOWING me up the tower and there must have been thirty flights of stairs. I was exhausted and my heart was bursting. I had run out of bullets so my trusty Heckler was useless.
    The tower, which looked out over Melbourne, had exactly the same view as the top of the Rialto where I had met Hewitt. It was so narrow at the top that it bent.
    It was a case of jump or be caught.
    I crawled out on a ledge and the tower swayed. It was a long, long, way down to the ground which was hidden under a fog blanket. I looked round. Instead of the pursuers there was a revolving bar full of people having a good time. I knew some of those faces. There was Hewitt, Peggy, the French Consul and Danielle Mernet. Martine was there too. She wasn’t dead after all. Thank God for that! But I still had my problem. I called out but it was useless. I was nauseated. Heights weren’t my forte at the best of times. Damn it! The hooded pursuers werecrawling out on the ledge after me!
    Jump! Jump, you coward!
    The alarm went off and I sat up in bed.
    The police van had gone. I made myself breakfast, showered, dressed and drew up written instructions for Rachel that allowed for the fact that I might have to take a hurried business trip abroad.
    At seven thirty a.m. I left, overnight bag in hand, via the basement carpark and was on my way down Toorak Road. A police car swooped by, siren blaring. I found a taxi rank near Park Street but I still had the problem of where to hole up for a while. Hotels were out.
    As I waited for a taxi to pull up, another drove by. Cassie was in it. She didn’t see me. I told the driver to take me to Lawson Grove.
    When the taxi had backed out of sight, I stepped up to the wire door and fumbled round for the loose tile. Keys to the apartment were behind it.
    I let myself in and found a note for Cassie’s housekeeper, who cleaned the place once a week. Cassie was going with Walters to Paris after all. I had a place to hide for a couple of days.
    My first task was to ring my secretary.
    â€˜I got your note,’ Rachel said. ‘Is this to do with the police?’
    â€˜Afraid so, why?’
    â€˜They rang my home and said I had to let them know if you made contact. Of course I won’t.’
    â€˜Thanks, Rachel. I’ll phone again today if I get the chance. The phones will be monitored, so I’ll always be brief.’
    â€˜I don’t know what’s going on, Duncan,’ she said, ‘but I’ll support you.’
    â€˜All will be revealed soon,’ I said, sounding confident, even though I was