Doppelganger (2 page)

The man sitting behind the desk
looked up as I entered, putting aside a book he’d been leafing through. To my
surprise I recognised the front cover as that of one I’d written last year.
Unsafe
Convictions
had been an exposé of 15 cases that various police forces
across Britain had been involved in, where a number of convicted prisoners had
been released after appeals, or after police incompetence or, in some cases,
deliberate malpractice, had come to light.
Unsafe Convictions
had done
pretty well, almost squeaking into the bottom ranks of the nonfiction bestseller
lists, although True Crime as a genre has never had the mass appeal of fiction.
I’m also a Behavioural Investigative Adviser, a BIA – otherwise known as a
criminal profiler, a psychologist who’s called in to assist police in various
circumstances. BIAs are not always popular with the police, especially if they
write books that are in any way critical of the establishment.

“Take a seat, Dr Lockwood,” said
the lugubrious man, his poker face betraying no emotion. He was an overweight
character in a dark grey suit that appeared to be too small for his bulging
frame. He had receding jet-black hair and thick-lensed black-framed spectacles,
and the bulbous end of his red nose was pockmarked with a mesmerizing
pincushion of tiny holes. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fulford.”

“How’s the woman?”

“Recovering in hospital, I’m glad
to say.”

I felt the tension drain out of
me. I even smiled.

Fulford managed to ratchet down
the scowl. “The lassie’s out of intensive care, and is what they call ‘stable’
– generally meaning she’s in a bad way but there’s no danger she’ll die.” He
had a Scottish accent, sharp and wheedling as a creaky gate. I noticed his
prissy red lips, fat and blubbery, gurning and twisting as he talked. He exuded
an unpleasant aroma of minty aftershave that wafted across to me in waves.

“Had she been attacked?”

“Aye, so we believe.”

“You think she was running away
from someone?”

“Isnae for me to say. But I hope
you understand that my officers had no choice but to bring you in. They saw you
leaning over her body when they turned up, you looked awful rough, the woman
obviously a victim of an attack or simply run down in the road – well, I’m sure
you realise why we had to be on the safe side.”

“So am I in the clear?”

“We’ve thoroughly examined the
scene of where she was found. For the moment, let’s just say we’re satisfied
with your account of events.”

“Has she given you a statement?”

He frowned in irritation. “Nae so
far. The hospital say she might be able to talk by tonight.”

“Do you know how badly I hurt
her?”

“Dinnae push it, Dr Lockwood.
Although the conditions meant the skid marks were partially washed away, we’ve
more or less established that you weren’t speeding and we know you hadnae been
drinking. Let’s just agree that she ran out in front of your car, and we’re not
holding you responsible for her more serious injuries.” He paused. “At least
not at this stage.”

“So, the blow to her head?”

He stared at me, glowered again,
then his shoulders slumped as he relented slightly. “Preliminary findings are
that it was inflicted by a blunt instrument.”

“Not by falling backwards as a
result of being hit by my car?”

He nodded grudgingly. “Aye,
that’s what it looks like at present, but I must stress that we’re not
copper-bottom certain about anything so far. Now tell me, Dr Lockwood, are you
absolutely certain you didn’t see anyone running away from the scene?”

I shook my head. “I wish I had.
Do you think it was the Bible Killer?”

His mouth tightened into a line
of anger. “I’m not prepared to speculate. Nor should you. The team
investigating the Bible Killer murders have already got a fine and talented
BIA, in case you were tempted to offer your services.” He allowed himself a
patronising smirk. “If you did, I c’n assure you they’d tell you to Foxtrot
Oscar.”

The killings had started six
weeks ago. At five-thirty one sunny morning, a window cleaner had found the
naked and bloody body of a woman resting against a wall in a back alley in the
Martyrs Field part of the city. Anna Marie Molloy had been a prostitute, last
seen in one of the town’s public houses late the night before. Since then, all
the women in the city had taken extra care of their safety, but despite that
there’d been two other murders. In all three cases a small Bible had been left
on top of the victim’s chest, open at different places for each of them, as if
delivering some kind of message that some construed as decrying sexual
immorality. The press had immediately christened the murderer as the ‘Bible
Killer’ and the name had stuck. More disturbingly, Canterbury Cathedral’s
association with the murder of Thomas Becket in 1170 had also been referred to
in some of the notes pinned to victims. Thomas, a man who’d been canonised
after his death, had suffered an especially brutal end, attacked and killed in
Canterbury Cathedral itself. Several knights had followed him into the holy
building and, after trying to drag him outside, one of them had sliced the
crown of his head off with a sword. Blood and white brain matter had spilled
out, then another of the knights put his foot on Thomas’s neck and deliberately
spread the fluids from his shattered skull across the cathedral’s stone floor,
the ghastly materials staining it horrendously. Presumably as a way of
mimicking Thomas’s end, the Bible Killer had also visited this particularly
ghastly cruelty on all his victims so far, much to the delight of the
reporters, who had wallowed in the grizzly details.

“So am I free to go?”

“Certainly. In the circumstances
I’m sorry we had to keep you overnight.”

“No problem.”

“I’m glad you see things this
way, Dr Lockwood. Glad and, I admit, a wee bit surprised.”

Fulford closed my book, then
picked it up between a finger and thumb, a look of distaste on his face,
dangling it as if it was a sample from a sewage farm.

“Frankly, sir, I never in a
million years expected to find you so understanding about our necessary
procedures.” He paused and stared at the book, then back at me. “Because it’s
fairly obvious from what you write that you do not have a lot of time for the
forces of law and order in Britain. That you never miss a trick to try and
discredit us.”

“Look, I’m no anti-police
crusader, believe me. I’ve worked as a BIA and I’m still on the NPIA-approved
register. I’m on your side, Mr Fulford. Okay,
Unsafe Convictions
happened to be about incompetent police. But in other books I’ve written I give
praise to the police where it’s due.”

“But you dinnae find it’s due
very often, do you, sir? In this book you analyze the careers of a number of
officers who are either retired or dead, and find them ruefully wanting. In
The
Drugs War We Can’t Win
, you rake over the case of an ex-Chief
Superintendent who has been convicted of serious corruption.”

“You obviously enjoy my books.”

“Enjoyment does nae come into
it!” he snapped. “I read your books to try and keep in touch with public
opinion. What does an Oxford-university educated toff like you know about real
down-to-earth folk anyway?”

“For five years I worked as a
catch-hand builder’s labourer. You don’t get much more down-to-earth than
sharing a three-foot trench with sweating Irish navvies, or hodding bricks up scaffolding
when the skin of your hands is ripped raw. In my investigative work I try to be
as fair and honest as I can. I do meticulous research, personally interview
everybody who’s involved and do my utmost to be strictly neutral and unbiased.
All I try to do is to set the record straight for the sake of the innocent
victims. I don’t invent the facts.”

“But you twist ’em, do you not?
You highlight corrupt police practices. Regrettable instances, which in my
informed opinion, are
very rare indeed
. The average Joe reads a book
like this, and they leap to the conclusion that the British police force is at
best incompetent, at worst venal and corrupt. And so we lose even more backing
from the few decent folk who might once have been our supporters.”

“That isn’t my intention. As I’ve
said, I’ve also written books where I outline successful police investigations
and talented officers.”

I could see that Fulford wasn’t
going to listen to anything I had to say, and, between you and me, I didn’t
care a damn. Maybe he had a point, but I’d managed to carve out my own tiny
literary niche and I honestly felt I was doing something worthwhile. The harsh
facts are that people aren’t interested in obsequious biographies about noble
public figures and incorruptible police officers who have raised fortunes for
charity and never made mistakes. What they want to read are detailed accounts
about the lives and acts of vicious and disgusting serial killers, merciless
evil gangsters, the most depraved kind of perverts as well as corrupt law
enforcers. And that, like it or not, is my market.

“And once we catch the Bible
Killer, you’ll no doubt write a book about our mistakes leading to needless
deaths, just as you did in your book about the Yorkshire Ripper? Or mebbe
you’ll just wallow in the sensationalism of it, the horror and the gore, and
exploit the suffering of the poor victims.”

I took a breath. “I don’t exploit
anyone.”

“Do ye not?” he smirked, those
smarmy lips stretched like a pair of raw chipolata sausages. “Sure about that,
are ye?” He leaned forward, pursing his lips even more as his voice dropped to
a throaty mumble: “I’ll just bet some of your readers get their rocks off on
all those detailed descriptions of the blood and gore at crime scenes you’re so
good at. Something tells me you’ve an unhealthy interest in that side of
things.”

I stood up. “If you’ve finished
with me, perhaps I can leave?”

“And this is nae the first time
you’ve been involved in a car accident where you ran someone down, is it?”

I thought back to the rainy night
some years ago now when the man ran out in front of my vehicle and I couldn’t
stop.

“You killed Martin Gallica did ye
not?”

“I was cleared of any blame.”

“Aye, I know that. But there was
all that business where his sister killed herself, wasn’t there? She jumped off
the roof of a department store, did she not, Dr Lockwood? There was talk of you
being in the store at the time.”

“Can I go?”

“Aye you can.” He was all stiff
formality again. “Once again, sir, please accept my apologies for your inconvenience.”
He got to his feet and walked into the corridor with me, calling a constable to
escort me out.

*
* * *

A fresh-faced young officer had
brought my Discovery to the main road in front of the police station. After I’d
opened the door, tossed the plastic bag of my possessions onto the back seat
and was about to get in, a man pushed in front of me, thrusting a hand across
to slam the driver’s door. Stuart Billingham was a barrel-shaped character,
whose fringe of lank mud-coloured hair hung down across his eyes. He was
wearing a battered brown leather jacket over a white tee shirt with the words
GET IN THE GROOVE emblazoned in red. A dirty fuzz of designer stubble served to
accentuate his porcine features.

“I’ve gotta talk to you Jack,”
his mouth was a hard line, splitting his face, like a gash across a Halloween
pumpkin.

“No statement, Stuart. Not now.”

“Don’t want me to make guesses,
do you?” The sour scent of his breath washed over me as he leaned in close.
That was Stuart, a leaner inwards, a whisperer in your ear, an invader of
space. He thought that building such bridges of familiarity assured him of
cooperation to get a story and, to be fair, sometimes it worked with people who
didn’t already know him. I had a close-up of a blackhead on his chin, drowning
amongst the whiskers. “The editor wants me to put summat like
Ex-psychiatric
patient runs
down innocent woman
. You know that old bastard
Matthews. He’s been aching for a chance to stir some shit for you, and now he’s
gone and got  a sexy headline. But if I can get anything better I can squash
it.”

“Stuart, I’ve had a hell of a
night–”

“Believe me Jack, last thing I
want to do is rake up that stuff about your stay in St Michael’s, God knows.”
His northern accent grated on my ears as his brows knotted in concern. “If it
were up to me, I’d not mention it. But if I don’t do this piece, it’ll be that
arsehole Carter, and he’ll wallow in dredging up the nutcase angle. How long
ago was it you were an inpatient? Three years? Four? What did they call it?
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

“If you’d spent 48 hours tied to
a chair in a room with two corpses, and a killer periodically sticking a rusty
old Webley revolver in your mouth and pulling the trigger, you’d have had
mental problems too, believe me.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Me,
I’d have the screaming ab-dabs. No question about it, pal, your nerves must be
like razor bloody steel.”

Billingham, with his usual
crassness, had managed to stir up all the memories I most wanted to forget. I’d
been working as a BIA with a police team whose Senior Investigating Officer
didn’t like me, and I’d got a tip that we’d find our suspect at a particular
address in Bristol. Even though I’d phoned in the information and should have
waited for backup, I went in anyway, and backup never arrived. A couple of
years later I was exonerated, my reputation intact. But I’d had psychiatric
problems in the interim, necessitating a stay in a psychiatric hospital, St
Michael’s, a grim red-brick edifice of towers and echoing corridors on the
outer edges of Surrey.

“Come on, Jack, this is me, Stu,
you know I’m on your side. All I want is a juicy quote. Any truth in the rumour
that she was a victim of the Bible Killer?”