I brought her up to speed with my news and finished the call. I was tired and muzzy from the long drive and the fear that the victim could have been Lucy. More than anything else I just wanted to crash out, but I knew that it was dangerous to go back to my house, which was probably being watched by Sean Boyd’s people right at this moment. And I was aware that around any corner someone could be waiting for me with a gun or a knife. I still carried the Glock automatic pistol with me, tucked as unobtrusively as I could in my waistband. That night I stayed at Stuart’s flat: anything to avoid the danger of being at home.
* * * *
Next day I travelled to Paris for Douglas Hosegood’s funeral. As funerals go, it could have been worse. It was in a church on the outskirts of the city, and it was sad to see that not many of the mutual friends I’d known had turned up. When I said my goodbyes to Cecile afterwards there wasn’t much to say, and she appeared to have aged twenty years since I’d last seen her. Afterwards, I took a taxi, asking the driver to go through the Alma tunnel, the place where Princess Diana had died in the car crash, that Julian Grylls had waxed so lyrical about. There was nothing much to see, the taxi driver didn’t even comment when I asked where exactly the accident had happened in my primitive French. He just shrugged and muttered something, pointing when we passed one of the central concrete pillars. Afterwards I remembered: it was the thirteenth pillar. I thought back to Julian Grylls’s words, his absolute conviction that his girlfriend had been murdered to suppress proof she had about the cause of Princess Diana’s death. I shivered, deeply miserable, aware that powerful people are capable of doing astonishing things, and there’s virtually nothing ordinary folk can do to stop them. I wasn’t convinced that the charismatic Princess had met her end by foul means, but I kept an open mind. And I had to admit that the evidence Julian referred to was pretty compelling. However, there were probably many other viewpoints, many other facts that I didn’t know about, that would undoubtedly convince me that Diana’s accident was nothing but a tragic, unavoidable accident, caused partially by confusion and disorganisation, made worse by the relentless paparazzi, following the car on motorbikes, pressing Henri Paul to drive too fast and make disastrous decisions. I just didn’t know. And, since it was all so far in the past and the fairytale Princess whom everyone had loved was irrevocably dead, I didn’t really care why she’d died. Nothing could bring her back to life.
* * * *
A couple of days later I went up to London to keep my appointment with Ann, to explain a few bits and pieces about the text of Hero or Villain? She seemed wary, distracted about something.
It was 6pm and the last few days had been a lot of stress for me. My relationship with my editor, Ann Yates, as I’ve said, was a personal one, we were friends, but nothing more than that, apart from the bizarre sexual encounter we’d had, which I explained earlier. But I had never got round to telling her about Lucy, for when I spoke to Ann there was normally only time for business. As usual her office was dark and gloomy, the lights dim and subdued as she sat opposite me at the huge, leather-topped desk. We’d discussed the final points about Hero or Villain?, and, once the last detail was settled she closed the file and leaned back in her seat and stretched.
“God, Jack, I’m tired,” she said. “I may as well tell you something. Harry and I are going ahead with the divorce.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”
“No need. I’m delighted about it. I’m free at last. Goodness knows how I managed to stick it for so long. He’s agreed to move out of the house. Now our son Peter is at university, there’s no need to keep up the pretence. It’s all very civilised. I’ve agreed to take out a mortgage to buy him out.”
“I see.”
Ann looked up at me and gave a tentative smile. “You know that afternoon that we made love?”
The statement was so out of the blue I was stunned. “Yes.”
“Well I’ve never forgotten it. Frankly, Jack, I don’t want to shock you, but do you know, that was the best sex I’ve had for years. I just wanted you to be aware that if you ever want to pick up where we left off...”
I hadn’t got a clue what to say.
“I’ve been thinking about it. I’m not saying I want some hole-in-corner affair, Jack, heaven forbid. Fact is, I’ve always liked you. Liked you a lot. This is so hard for me to say, but I wondered if, perhaps, well, if you might like to come to dinner with me sometime?”
Her eyes held a kind of longing, and I was even more confused.
“Sorry Ann. I like you. I just never thought...”
“Okay, no need to spell it out,” she said, shaking her head and giving an embarrassed laugh. “No problem. I’ll never mention it again. I’m sorry to have embarrassed you.”
“No, Ann, please, you haven’t...” I struggled to find the right words. “Believe me, I like you very much, I always have. And I think you’re tremendously attractive. It’s just that I’ve met someone. And, frankly, I’m crazy about her.”
“When?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“After what happened between us?”
“Yes. Oh yes! Definitely after what happened. I’m sorry Ann. I’m really flattered that you should...”
“Shut up Jack, you’re embarrassing both of us.” She smiled briefly. “Let’s just forget about it, shall we?”
“Sure. But, Ann, I hope we’ll stay friends.”
“Of course.”
* * * *
I decided to have a meal in the pub across the road from the office, rather than drive straight back to Canterbury. What Ann had said had surprised and flattered me. She was a few years older than me, but undoubtedly attractive, and I did like her very much. But, even if I hadn’t already met Lucy, I couldn’t envisage being happy as Ann’s lover. There was something cold and somehow unapproachable about her, and I really never had thought of her as a potential girlfriend, and never could.
I was about to leave, when a mid-forties man with a florid face and a wide open double-breasted suit came across to me.
“Jack?” he said. “It is Jack, isn't it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Harry Yates. Ann’s husband. Soon to be ex-husband. We met at Truecrime’s Christmas party last year.”
“Oh hi, yes, I remember you now.” Politeness made me tell the lie. Coarse features, blunt manner, average appearance. The type of character you see on buses and trains every day.
Harry swayed slightly. His flushed face and slurred words indicated that he’d already had quite a few drinks.
“Mind if I join you?” he slurred, plonking himself at my table and taking a sip from his glass of amber liquid.
“No, but I really should be–”
“Need someone to talk to. Fact is Ann and I are getting divorced. Twenty years we’ve been together, and she wants rid of me. I think she’s seeing someone else. Is it you?”
“Me? No.”
“You bastard, I know it is! She told me about it. She told me about your affair.”
“It wasn’t an affair.”
“What was it then? A quickie in the office?”
“No. Look, it was nothing, It meant nothing. It was a mistake. Hasn’t she told you it was a mistake?”
He shook his head. “I ought to fucking well kill you!” He got out of his seat and grabbed my lapels, swaying with drunkenness. He pulled me to my feet and lurched forwards, so that I stumbled into a table, knocking glasses flying to the floor. I pushed his hands away.
Blind fury took over and he took a swing at me, catching me on the jaw. I retaliated with a right hook that lifted him off his feet, and he fell backwards. Two large guys approached, abruptly pulling us both to our feet and dragging us out onto the street.
“Just fuck off!” yelled Harry, stumbling as he walked away from me. “If I see you again I’ll...”
* * * *
I got back home to Canterbury late, and after a restless night, stayed in bed till noon, th
en decided to drive into Canterbury and take another look at the shop below Lucy’s flat, since bookshops have always interested me. I wandered into Mad about the Book, fascinated for a second time by the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, the narrow warrens where you could walk, the untidy chaos that seemed so welcoming to someone who loved books, as I did. I was admiring the row of Malcolm Saville originals, their paper covers undamaged, the 1950s artist’s impression of male children in grey shorts and females in pretty dresses, or ‘tomboy style’ jeans, against a backdrop of pine trees or mountains. Seated at the desk at the far end of the room was an elderly man with a neatly trimmed white beard, frowning at a computer screen.
“Oh hello, Jack.” Archie, the proprietor whom Lucy had introduced me to, looked up, peering over the top of half-glasses. “Is Lucy coming home soon?”
“She was supposed to be coming yesterday, but had to cancel.”
“Lucy explained that you’d changed your mind about the book you phoned me to order. Not to worry.”
“The book I ordered?”
“Shocking Killers by Douglas Hosegood?”
I remembered about losing Douglas’s book and phoning Archie to ask if he could find another copy. “That’s right. Have you had any luck?”
Archie looked confused. “Well, as a matter of fact I have, but Lucy said you’d changed your mind, so I was going to send it back to the dealer.”
“No, please, there’s some kind of misunderstanding. I do want the book.”
“Really? Oh good, that’s fine then. Strange, Lucy was most insistent that you didn’t want it. I think she said you'd found your own copy and didn’t need it.”
Why on earth would she say that, I wondered?
He bent down to a lower shelf and produced a copy of the book that was so familiar to me. “My friend in Hay-on-Wye let us have it at a good price, actually.”
“Great.”
* * * *
I went to see Stuart and discussed his latest findings about the case, then returned to my house in the early evening. Somehow it seemed fitting to look at Douglas’s book so soon after he’d died. It was a mystery why Lucy had told the bookshop owner I didn’t want him to trace it, but I imagined there’d be some reasonable explanation, though I couldn’t imagine what it might be. I still felt wretchedly tired and my eyes kept closing of their own accord. I’d just glance through the book before having something to eat and going back to bed.
Idly I flicked through the pages without thinking. I switched on the television, taking no notice of the game show on screen. I turned over each leaf in turn, my mind ticking over in neutral, as I remembered Douglas’s writing style, and the various cases, most of which I’d almost forgotten. Then, on page thirty six, something caught my eye.
I turned back to the page and looked again.
I felt the prickle of hair standing up at the back of my neck. And a chill cold freezing feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It was a black-and-white photo of a little girl. I gulped and stared, mesmerised. It was a child’s face, the face of a little girl of around eight years old. Yet her eyes, her nose, the set of her mouth and the strange cleft in her chin were unmistakable. God it couldn’t be!
The image in front of me was the absolute image of my Lucy. The same face as Lucy’s only as she must have looked as a child.
Terrified now, I found the magnifying glass I kept in a drawer and scanned the picture, searching frantically for differences.
Try as I might, there was just something in her expression, as well as her facial features, that seemed to me unmistakeable. Yet the picture was old, lacking definition. What a crazy coincidence.
Who was she? I turned back to the beginning of the chapter.
The photo was that of Megan Foster, taken when she was nine years old.
The child in the picture, who looked exactly like a younger version of the woman I was in love with, had been convicted of strangling a younger child in 1981.
Chapter 6
DOPPELGANGER
I closed my eyes, then opened them again.
Terror was making my heart beat so fast it felt as if it was going to burst out of my chest.
It couldn’t be.
It couldn’t be!
Then with frightening clarity I somehow knew that this had to be where I’d seen her face before. All those romantic fantasies I’d luxuriated in, about having known her face before I’d met her, how it was a portent that we were meant to be together, a sort of déjà vu that I had wallowed in. Was this the real explanation? That because of the horrendousness of her crime, the face of this child murderer had lodged somewhere deep in my subconscious and Lucy’s image had triggered the memory?
And Douglas. I remember that when I’d shown him the picture of her, he, too, said he’d felt as if he’d seen her somewhere before.
No.
It couldn’t possibly be. Lucy was a normal, lovely person. This face in front of me, although it looked like a miniature version of Lucy, couldn’t possibly be her. They say that everyone has a double, don’t they? There’s a German word doppelganger, that even describes it.
Of course, that was it. That had to be it. My heartbeat eased. I tried to think rationally. However similar the face of the child and the woman might be, there couldn’t possibly be a connection. Why should there be one?
My Lucy was Lucy Green, a girl who’d grown up in the village of Chorton Hardy, near St Albans in Hertfordshire, whose parents had both died years ago. She’d left home when she went to university, left her course and retrained as a woodworker, then as a master carpenter. She’d lived first in Edinburgh, then Cambridge, and now she was living in Canterbury. It was all eminently verifiable.
But a small voice at the back of my mind that I didn’t want to hear, kept saying, yes, all those things are true for Lucy Green. But Megan Foster had killed a child. And for all the world my Lucy and Megan Foster looked like one and the same person. Cleft in the chin. Soulful dark eyes. The way she had of staring at you as if she was looking deep into your soul...
I dismissed the idea. And yet, the other part of my rational mind reminded me that I knew next to nothing about the woman I was in love with. Whenever I’d asked about her past life she’d talked about her upbringing in Hertfordshire, but she’d soon shied away from the subject, not wanting to dwell on the past. She’d told me that she had no other living relatives.
I had to know the truth, and I had to find out right now, beyond any doubt. What on earth had happened to Megan Foster since 1981, when the picture I was staring at had been taken? Surely she’d have been locked up for years and years, perhaps was behind bars somewhere right now, and I could relax, knowing that my Lucy’s only crime was unwittingly being Megan Foster’s doppelganger.
My fingers were trembling, but I managed to switch on the computer, and type the name into Google, pressing return and hoping against hope there’d be nothing. After a second the screen came alive. Megan Foster, a child behaviour therapist in Northampton. The Megan Foster fracture clinic in Barnsley. Megan Foster the novelist. Three Megan Fosters, and not one of them was the diabolical monster I’d been reading about. And then halfway down the second page I found the entry I didn’t want to find. The date was 1992, and it was a snippet from The Times newspaper. I clicked on the link, praying there was some mistake.
RELEASE OF CHILD KILLER, MEGAN FOSTER
Questions were asked today in the House of Commons as to the decision by the Home Secretary to release the child murderer Megan Foster, eleven years after she was first detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. The Home Secretary stated that psychiatric assessments from prominent experts showed that during her incarceration she had changed and now no longer posed a threat to society. The Mental Health Tribunal, led by Sir Rodney Harington QC, concluded that Megan Foster should be released and given a new identity and monitored by the social services and other government agencies, allowing her out, effectively on probation, for the rest of her life. Accordingly s
he was given a new identity and released on August 31, 1992. Her mother, her only living relative, said that Megan, now 19, would probably settle down to life abroad, most likely somewhere within the EEC. Sir Rodney stated that he had no hesitation in following the four leading consultant psychiatrists’ opinions that Ms Foster could effectively wipe the slate clean and was young enough to begin her life afresh. For obvious reasons her new identity is to be kept top secret forever.
To be kept top secret forever.
1992. Eighteen years ago. Making her exactly the same age as my Lucy: thirty-seven. And allowing plenty of time for her to go to university, train for a career, live in different places, establish a history. To be another person entirely.
My mind was racing with thoughts so terrifying I couldn’t allow them to form. There had to be some other explanation. What was I basing all this on, anyway?
A photograph.
Nothing more substantial than an old grainy photograph.
And yet, now the thought had entered my mind, it wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard I tried to get rid of it. How much did I know about Lucy, anyway? If you didn’t want to compete in the jobs market, and were likely to have difficulties giving references from previous employers, and to be asked awkward questions about your past, being self employed was the most logical kind of employment to have. And making dolls’ houses and furniture for dolls’ houses was the kind of job requiring patience and skill, work that you necessarily had to do alone.
And a lawyer had once explained to me a quirk of the judicial system, whereby you could murder someone, get sentenced to 16 years imprisonment, serve half of it, and be released. Yet if you pleaded diminished responsibility, and spent time in a secure hospital for a murder done because a psychiatric illness caused you to act as you did, you were effectively never actually free, but always subject to scrutiny from the authorities, in fact on probation for the rest of your life.
Doppelganger Page 10