Doppelganger (21 page)

We waited in silence for a few
minutes.

“You do know what happens to
people that Sean Boyd’s finished with?” I said.

“He forgets about them, I should
think.”

“No, he
deals
with them.
He never leaves a loose end. You’ll be involved in my murder, and he won’t know
but what you’ll be arrested one day, and grass on him. He’ll close your mouth
permanently once he’s used you.”

“Shut up, Lockwood.”

“Am I worrying you?”

“I said
shut up!
” He moved
closer, slicing the air with his knife, the lights from the chandelier
reflected as a sparkle from its gleaming blade.

He froze when he heard the noise
of a car pulling up outside and doors opening and slamming. Footsteps outside,
then a crash on the door knocker.

“Answer the door, Ann,” he
ordered, still watching me.

“No.”

“I told you to answer the door!”

“Answer the fucking door
yourself, you bastard!”

He turned towards her. I used the
seconds his gaze left mine to close the gap between us. Grabbed his
knife-wielding hand by the wrist and pushed it upwards. Squeezing as tightly as
I could. In the hallway I could hear loud crashing sounds: Boyd’s men were
obviously smashing the door with a sledge hammer.

I whacked his wrist against the
mantelpiece, and, with a shriek, he dropped the knife. I got a right hook into
his face. Felt the sharp agony in my hand on impact. Then the crunch of his
nose, and wallowed in the gratifying spurt of blood. He kicked me in the groin,
just as we heard the door to the room being attacked. Staggering backwards, I
sprawled. Long enough for him to pick up the knife again and run towards me,
aiming it at my stomach.

The razor-sharp blade came within
an inch of me, then stopped. For a moment I didn’t realise what was happening.
Until I saw that Ann was crouched down behind him.

For a moment he staggered. Then
he stumbled and fell forwards, another butcher’s knife, presumably from the
same set that he’d selected from himself, was embedded in his back. Blood was
already streaming across the blade and handle. He held his hands out for a few
seconds, as if he was pleading for something. Then fell forwards on his face,
his blood pulsing out in a steady stream, soaking into the maroon carpet.

The crashes against the door were
getting louder, and I heard the splintering timber. Ahead were French windows
and the back garden. I raced towards them and opened one, pulling Ann by the
hand.

Racing to the bottom of the lawn,
there was a vegetable patch, then a fence. I helped her over it, into the
narrow alleyway. Through a gap in the fence I stole a glance back towards the
house, to see three men piling out of Ann’s back door into the garden.

We ran up the alley to the main
road, then along, past the houses. Behind us we could hear our pursuers’
footsteps, racing along. We’d reached a large Victorian building that looked
like part of a hospital or a school, and I vaulted over the wall, helping Ann
to do the same.

“Who are you?” said a bemused
character in some kind of company uniform. “This is private property.”

“Can you call the police?” Ann
asked.

*
* * *

I was at the police station in
Hampstead for several hours, answering questions, and Ann was taken away
somewhere separately. Since I was planning to tell the truth, and I assumed she
would do the same, our stories were going to match. I could only hope that her
lawyer could persuade them that she’d attacked her husband in self defence.

There was extremely good news
later on. It appeared that the first police on the scene had detected signs of
life in Harry, and the following paramedics had managed to save his life. Now,
after a long operation, it looked as if he was going to recover from Ann’s stab
wound: she wasn’t facing a charge of murder. When they let me go, I got a taxi
to where my car was parked and drove home. I’d phoned the hospital, and it transpired
that Lucy was still in a coma, but there was a slight improvement.

*
* * *

Before Lucy had been taken to
hospital, I’d had the presence of mind to take the keys out of her handbag
before chucking it into the car, in case the hospital needed to know if she was
on any other medication, or needed any other details that it might contain. At
the time I just did it instinctively, but now I was glad I’d done so. I’d left
the handbag with the hospital, to return to her, but since I had the keys I
decided to go to her flat in Canterbury, intending to fetch any belongings she
might want. It now struck me as a good idea to take a good look at her home, in
the hope I might be able to find some insight into her secret life.

Now back in Canterbury, I found
that Lucy’s road was just as I’d remembered it: the same cars parked there, the
bookshop window full of the latest bestsellers, the adverts for the church
bring-and-buy sale. The narrow red door tucked in beside
Mad about the Book
’s
plate glass window. One of the Yale keys opened up the door to the narrow
staircase then, once I’d climbed them, I unlocked the three separate fastenings
to her flat entrance and let myself inside.

Her sanctum looked much the same.
The faint smell of her perfume, overlaid with the incense she’d been so fond
of.

After half an hour I’d found what
I was looking for in her study. In the large bottom right-hand drawer of her
desk was a file, stuffed full of old newspaper cuttings. I laid them out on the
desk.

Nottingham killer strikes
again
, was the headline, detailing the killing of a young girl, that
apparently was linked to other, more recent killings in the town, the date
being 1996. Another yellowing newspaper cutting referred to a murder, one of
several of murders of women in Huddersfield. There was no apparent link that I
could think of unless, as I dreaded, the most horrendous one possible: that
Lucy had murdered people in various towns she’d lived in, and had preserved the
publicity surrounding her actions.

That’s when I heard someone come
through the door behind me.

I made it into the front room in
seconds, ready to attack. But the thin, sober-suited fortyish man with the
rimless glasses and the receding hairline looked about  as threatening as a
guinea pig. His fists were not raised, he wasn’t pointing a weapon. In fact he
was backing away as I charged towards him.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“Forgive me!” He held his hands
up in appeasement. “Since the door was open I saw no harm in coming inside.” He
blinked behind the spectacle lenses, and gave a tentative smile.

“Are you a friend of Lucy’s?”

He nodded. “In a manner of
speaking. We understand that she’s in hospital.”

“Who’s we?”

He coughed awkwardly. “I really
can’t say.”

Suddenly things fell into place.
Douglas’s note, in which he’d explained that released prisoners, such as Lucy,
were forever monitored by someone attached to one of the government
departments, presumably the Home Office, or the Probation Service, in addition
to being brought to the attention of a high ranking officer in the county
police force where they were living. The hospital presumably had contacted the
local police to find out if there were any next of kin to be informed about
Lucy’s suicide attempt, and a report of the incident must have been passed to
someone higher up.

“And you are Mr Lockwood?” he
asked.

“How do you know my name?”

Again, he shook his head self
deprecatingly. “Again, I fear, I can’t tell you that.”

Then I realised, of course, why
he knew my name. Lucy would have been obliged to tell him she had a boyfriend,
just as she’d have been obliged to tell him everything significant about her
life. That was all part of the deal hammered out on her release. After she’d
given my name I’d have been watched, photographs taken, my background checked
out perhaps. This Home Office, or Probation Service, man would know exactly
what I looked like.

“Mr Lockwood.” He looked worried,
frowning in concern and fiddling with the frames of his glasses that he now
held in his hand. “This is embarrassing for both of us. If you’re concerned
about my presence here in any way, please feel free to call a number I can give
you. The police will be able to reassure you that I mean no harm.”

I nodded. “I know that Lucy’s
real name is Megan Foster.”

He adjusted his head slightly,
tilting the forehead forwards in an affirmative gesture. “I didn’t tell you
that. But if Lucy has seen fit to illuminate you about certain aspects of her
life, then, frankly it certainly makes things much simpler for both of us. I
came here today because we needed to make sure that Lucy’s flat was secure,
that no one was going to break in to try and steal something here which might
have compromised her identity. You’ve no idea of the depths that journalists
will stoop to. On the other hand, given your profession, perhaps you have.”

“Listen,” I said, coming closer
to him. “I can make an informed guess as to who you work for and why you’re
here. Please can I ask you something? Something very important to me?”

He nodded, replacing his glasses
and looking like a benign owl.

“Yesterday, after Lucy had told
me her true identity, she said something else. She told me that she’s been
locked up for the murder, but that it was a miscarriage of justice. That she
never killed Aiden Caulfield, someone else did it. Do you think that’s a
possibility?”

My owlish friend sighed in
exasperation. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we’ve heard all this many times
before. I can see why she would have tried to persuade you that’s the case,
that it’s all some grand miscarriage of justice. But,” he shrugged, “I’m afraid
there is simply no question of doubting the facts.”

“I only found out the truth for
certain yesterday. I confronted her with it and she tried to kill herself.
That’s why she’s in hospital.”

He frowned. “Then I’m sorry. I
really am. However, people in Lucy’s position are often under an intolerable
amount of stress. Sometimes it just gets too much.”

“And do you think she could still
be dangerous?”

He shook his head, his mouth set
in a firm hard line. “Listen to me, Mr Lockwood. I’ve been Lucy’s handler for
three years now, and I’ve got to know her pretty well. If it’s any consolation,
I honestly think she’s a decent person. Nothing underhand, nothing
unwholesome
about her, like there is about some of our clients. Furthermore I can
promise you that if we had any concerns whatsoever that she might do something
similar again, the terms of her release under license would be instantly revoked.
That’s why we’ve kept a careful watch on her, discreetly of course. She did
something when she was a child. Something truly terrible, most might say
unforgivable
.
But nothing can undo it, and if you can find it in your heart to forgive her...
After all we all do things we regret in life. We all deserve a second chance.”

“Aiden Caulfield had no second
chance.”

“True.” He looked around and
turned towards the door. “No, he didn’t.” He stepped away. “Well I’m glad to
say all’s well. I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Wait, please,” I asked him,
grabbing his arm. “You’ve known her quite some time, longer than I have. Why do
you think she’s so scared all the time? The triple locks on the door, the fear
that she’s going to be attacked, the idea that she’ll die before her thirty eighth
birthday? What is it she’s scared of?”

The man shrugged. “I’m no
psychiatrist, Mr Lockwood, just a junior civil servant, doing my job as
conscientiously as I can.” He looked at me and smiled. “But at the end of the
day it is just a job. For you, of course, if you and Lucy are – or were – an
item, you obviously want answers. And I can’t give them. I’m truly very sorry.”
He gently disengaged himself from me and walked away. He paused at the door,
then turned back. “Mr Lockwood, may I ask you something? Something that is
really none of my business?”

“Sure.”

“Are you going to end your
relationship with her?”

“I haven’t decided.”

He nodded seriously. “Well
whatever you do, I honestly wish you the very best of luck. Both of you.”

*
* * *

I badly needed to talk to Stuart.
My best friend had the knack of clear thinking, something that I definitely
lacked at the moment.

Stu’s flat was as untidy as ever.
Socks and dirty shirts were strewn across the living room floor, while the
sounds of Primal Scream bounced around the walls.

“Sit down mate, you look like
shit.”

He turned off the music, and
chucked a few items out of the way to clear the sofa, before sitting down
opposite me on the dark brown carpet.

I told him everything that had
happened, and he nodded slowly. He told me that the Bible Killer had struck
again. This time it was a housewife out in Kiveton Park in South Anston, on the
south eastern edge of the city in the early morning.

A surge of relief washed over me.
It proved that, at least, the worst of my fears: that Lucy might have been the
Bible Killer, was unfounded.

“You know it’s a right funny
thing,” Stu said, tilting the bottle of Becks into his mouth and wiping the
foam from his mouth with his wrist. “What was the name of the boy Lucy says was
responsible for killing Aiden Caulfield?”

“Robert, Robert Althouse.”

“Althouse. And what town was the
school in?”

“Nottingham.”

“And the last thing Lucy said to
you was that there was much more she wanted to tell you, but you wouldn’t
listen at the time?”

“That’s right. And I found this
file at her flat.”

I handed it across and Stuart
leafed through the articles slowly, making notes on a pad of paper in front of
him.

Then he switched on his laptop
and logged into the site he uses to trace marriage, birth and death
certificates. “Right. Robert Althouse was nine in 1982, so he was born in 1973.
Ah, here we are, Robert James Althouse. Got the father’s name and the mum’s
name.”

“Where’s all this leading, Stuart?”

“Don’t know yet. I’m just
following a hunch.”

After an hour he’d discovered
that Robert Roger Althouse’s father, Richard, had died in 1985, and his mother
had subsequently married a man called William Lamelle a year later.

William Lamelle
.

I felt the beginnings of
excitement as a new idea formed in my mind.

“So the boy would be twelve in
1985 when his father died, and thirteen when his mother remarried. Reasonable
to suppose that the boy had been adopted, and taken the stepfather’s name.”

“Robert Lamelle,” I said. “My
God.
Roger
Lamelle is the name of the psychiatrist at the hospital.
Millicent Veitch’s boss.”

“And lots of people use their
middle first name and drop the first,” Stuart said, warming to his idea. “Just
suppose for a minute that Lucy was telling you the truth. She’s spent half a
lifetime in institutions, more or less had her life destroyed because of the
actions of someone else. What if she was following our mate Dr Lamelle’s
career, because she was determined to get even with him for what he did?
Supposing she followed him to Hollamby Hospital because she wanted to get
revenge somehow.”

“How she must hate him.”

“She knew that as a child he’d
killed someone, and let her take the blame. She
also knew
that he’d
trained to be a doctor, and a doctor’s career is pretty easy to follow,
especially that of a psychiatrist, their career is public knowledge. It
wouldn’t take me long to discover just where he’s been practising for the past
ten years. I’m just wondering,” Stuart mused, “what if she were determined to
prove what he’d done? What if she were threatening the bugger?”

“No one believed her when she was
convicted. Why would anyone believe her now?”

“And of course she couldn’t
openly accuse him of anything without revealing who she was,” Stuart said. “And
I’d guess she’s always been doing her utmost to keep that secret. However,
she’d hate him. She’d want to damage him as much as she possibly could.”

“What if,” I said, “she thought
he was still killing people? After all, there’s a killer at large in Canterbury
right now. And he was a child killer. Perhaps he’s a serial killer, a maniac,
someone who kills for no motive, simply for the sake of it.”

“I’ve often heard it said, that a
qualified doctor decides to train to be a psychiatrist because he wants to
understand his own mental problems,” Stuart muttered almost to himself.

“I’ve just thought of something
else. Millicent Veitch would probably discuss the case with him, dissect every
new finding the police team uncovered. After every killing he’d be one step
ahead of the police.”

For most of the rest of the night
we dug around the internet, and in the morning I phoned my detective friend,
who hunted databases that we  had no access to.

Dr Roger Lamelle had trained at
St George’s, University of London, acquiring his qualification in general
medicine, Bachelor of Medicine, and Bachelor of Surgery (BMBS) in 1995. Two
years later he’d finished his foundation training then, in 2003 he got his
MRCPsych, his qualification as a psychiatrist.

By the end of the morning, Stuart
had discovered that the locality of Dr Lamelle’s various hospital posts over
the past few years mirrored the places where the murders, outlined in Lucy’s
old newspaper articles, had taken place. I left it to Stuart to phone his
police contact with our new information. There was no way either of us could
tackle Lamelle individually, but if the police were prepared to believe our
story, they might make the requisite checks. Since it was assumed that the
Bible Killer had kept part of the scalp of each of his victims, finding
anything of that nature in premises to which the man had access would be
tantamount to proof.

*
* * *

The following day, after a few
hours of near-dead sleep on Stu’s filthy sofa, I’d reached the conclusion that
there was only one way that I was ever going to get clear of Sean Boyd’s
clutches. I had to take the initiative. I had to defy Sean, the older Boyd
brother, call his bluff by doing the very thing he was determined to stop me
doing. I had to tell his brother Dave the truth about what had happened to his
daughter. Of course, he wouldn’t believe anything I said, so the challenge was
to find a way of convincing him. Apart from as a means of saving my own skin,
the man had a right to know the truth. Even if I did convince him that his
brother had impregnated his daughter, there was no guarantee that Dave Boyd
might spare my life either – he would also want the story suppressed. However,
stirring up fraternal rivalry looked to be about my only hope of survival.

Stuart’s research last night –
I’d been too worn out to think when he’d begun surfing the internet – had
indicated that during 2002, Dave Boyd’s wife and children had been living in
Hackney, East London, at 158 Morningside Mansions, in the Dalston Manor Road.
They didn’t live there any more – on Dave’s release from prison the family
moved to a much more salubrious house in Chelmsford, Essex, somewhere ‘far away
from the unhappy memories’, as Dave’s wife, Marion, had said. Last night, in
the island of clarity between sleep and wakefulness, I’d tried to work out what
to do, how, if it was possible, I could find a way to substantiate Ann’s
assertion, made by long-dead Lenny Scott, that Sean Boyd had sexually molested
and impregnated his own twelve-year-old niece Amanda. Ironically it was the
first I’d ever heard of the possibility, yet Boyd had been so convinced that I
knew some vague rumour concerning the child’s death that he was intent on
killing me to shut me up. Now, to save my own life, I was going to do my utmost
to tell Dave Boyd what he had a right to know anyway.