Doppelganger

by Geoffrey West

  Faster and faster. In the distance I could hear the sirens of police cars, just as I heard the next blast from the shotgun. We’d travelled a long way now, and they were still keeping up, closing the gap all the time.

  And then I remembered Danson’s Quarry. The place where I’d played as a child. Just up here to the right.

  The Saab crashed into my car again, the jolt sending me forwards. I unfastened the seatbelt and ducked down. A microsecond later, seeing the windscreen above my head splinter into fragments, glass droplets raining down like snow. Again I accelerated away, moving faster, managing to squeeze space between us. There was a loud clattering sound and a stream of sparks in my mirror. The following car’s bumper had torn partly free, and was dragging on the road.

  Had to keep my nerve. The turn off for Danson’s was along here somewhere.

  Then I saw it. The old blue factory building on the corner. Derelict windows like blank eye-sockets drawing me on. I took the left turn, Boyd’s car roaring up behind. I saw Sean Boyd take aim again. Ducked just before he fired. This time the scatter of lead went wild, tearing off my wing mirror.

  Not long now. The road swooped down into a dip, then climbed steeply. The car was flying. Upwards and on.

  I was dimly aware of flashing blue lights in the distance, and hearing the screaming sirens. They would know about Danson’s, surely? Everyone local knew about the old quarry. I could only hope that Sean Boyd did not.

  And there it was, up ahead. Innocent white picket fence. Not even a sturdy post to block the way. I waited until it was a moment before the last second. Then tore the wheel to the right. My car left the road. Crashed through a garden fence, churning up gravel, grass and mud in a tidal wave as I braked. When I finally stopped, my front wing had stopped one inch from the wall of the house.

  The Saab tried to make the turn, but couldn’t manage it in time. Just as I’d hoped. It couldn’t stop.

  As I pulled myself out of the car I watched the black vehicle hurtling on, veering sideways slightly, sparks flying, unable to halt before it crashed through the white fence, out of sight. I ran across to the cliff edge. In time to see the Saab come to rest on its side, twenty feet down on the rocks below.

  Smoke was billowing upwards from the wreck. But there was movement. It looked as if the passenger’s door was opening. From a long way behind I could hear police car sirens getting closer.

  The front windscreen was missing, and through the gap the front part of the man’s face appeared at the opening crack of the driver’s door, his body apparently squashed against the inflated airbag.

  I caught a glimpse of liquid pulsing from the fractured fuel line, the strong gasoline smell rising up towards me. It must have been a spark from something electrical that flashed the vapour alight.

  For a few seconds there was a sheen of yellow flame hovering above the wreck that the two men were escaping from. Then a loud popping noise.

  Behind me I could hear the police cars screeching to a halt. A door slammed.

  The flames leapt high, obliterating the driver’s wriggling torso and head. Tracking upwards and across the car’s chassis.

  “Get back mate, it’s going to blow!” yelled the policeman who’d arrived at that moment.

  Grabbing me around the waist he pulled me backwards. I caught sight of the wall of flame and heard the bang. The fire had reached the enclosed petrol in the tank, and the vapour inside had caught light. When the second explosion arrived, the eruption was as loud as a bomb, heat, sparks and ashes surging upwards like a wall. Showers of burning fragments blew upwards, well above where I was standing, landing like confetti on the grass. I can still remember the harsh choking stench of sizzling metal and meat, the singe as red-hot sparks branded my neck.

  * * * *

  “Tell me again.”

  DCI Fulford happened to be on duty the night they brought me in for questioning. It was unfortunate that the man who already disliked me was in charge of unravelling the aftermath of the death of one man and the disappearance of the other after their car plunged down onto the rocks of Danson’s Quarry.

  “Sean Boyd had threatened to kill me if I went on and wrote the book about him,” I explained for the third time. “You’ll have a record of when I reported his threats.”

  “Indeed we have sir,” Fulford replied, rubbing a hand through his tousled mane of jet-black hair. “But from eye witness accounts of my own officers, it seems you deliberately led the vehicle to the cliff edge in the hope he’d drive off it.”

  I said nothing.

  “Did you think we’d slap you on the back, say good on you mate, they were gangsters, you’ve done us all a wee favour? I tell you Dr Lockwood, however naïve you might be, it doesnae work like that.”

  “What exactly is the charge against me?”

  “Dangerous driving, driving without due care and attention, wilful damage to property. And possibly murder. Take your pick.”

  “Sean Boyd was firing at me with a pump-action shotgun.”

  “We know that.”

  “Well then.”

  “Well then what?”

  “I was being pursued by armed criminals who were firing at me, intent on killing me. In a state of blind panic I didn’t think where I was going. Just drove along at random, taking turns wherever I thought I had a chance of shaking them off. I ended up at Danson’s Quarry, but I didn’t mean to go there. When I realised where I was I made the turn off the road at the last minute.”

  “And that’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when my officer came up behind you, you were looking down at the wreck. Why was that?”

  “I was hoping to be able to try and rescue them.”

  He smiled and clapped his hands in mock salute. “Are you aware, Dr Lockwood, that when a car comes to grief and petrol pours out of the tank, in most cases, it simply just drains away.” The Scotsman made a waving gesture with his fingers. “It’s no always an instant inferno, it isnae like in the films. There’s always a wee bit of danger of course, that’s why the fire brigade arrive and hose it down, just in case a spark from the battery or from metal glancing against rock sets it off.”

  “So?”

  “It’s the petrol vapour that catches light, not the petrol itself. Of course, as I say, any spark could set it off. But in most cases it doesn’t.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. And the battery, as well as most of the places where an electric spark could come from would be under the bonnet, at the front of the vehicle.”

  “Yes?”

  “When a car is on its roof, the petrol pours out from the tank, as well as possibly the fuel lines if they ruptured. But most of it comes from the tank. So when a car has settled, on its side, we wouldn’t normally expect it to catch fire.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Unless someone dropped a lighter or a match into the leaking petrol.”

  “I doubt if a match would stay alight if it was dropped from above.”

  “Oh aye? Thought crossed your mind then?”

  “No. I’m just applying logic.”

  “Sean Boyd’s driver was very unlucky. From the position of the body, it looks as if he’d almost managed to climb free of the wreck.”

  “He nearly made it. What a shame.”

  “Dinna get smart with me, Lockwood.” Fulford leaned forward, fists clenched, eyes blazing, so close that I could smell his sweat. “And dinna imagine you’re above the law.” He eyed me for a long time, then glanced down at his notes. “Do you smoke?”

  “No.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yet we found a book of matches in your pocket.” He stared at me. “Planning to start smoking were you?”

  I sighed. “It belongs to a friend. She left it on the table and I picked it up.”

  “Did ye now? A rather less unlikely explanation might be that you had it with you to drop into the leaking petrol, in case it didn’t catch light. Or you set fire t
o a newspaper that you then dropped down onto the wreck.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Ask the officer who came up behind me. There was no time for that. Besides, how could I have known I was going to be ambushed?”

  “Mebbe you planned the whole thing?”

  I said nothing. There were a few moments of silence during which Fulford must have realised how crazy his premise sounded. “Which reminds me,” he went on. “Last Wednesday evening, two days ago, a man was shot to death in Carnell Street. A small-time gangster, a known associate of members of Sean Boyd’s circles.”

  “So?”

  “We did not find a weapon, or anything much to give us an idea of who might have been responsible. There was a Beretta handgun which had been fired recently, but the only handprints on it belonged to the deceased.”

  “Sounds like an underworld dispute,” I said.

  “In Canterbury? This isnae Brixton or Peckham in London, or Moss Side in Manchester, this is a peaceful cathedral town! The worst trouble we normally get is the university students getting pissed and fooling around. We’re not used to gang warfare.”

  “Times change.”

  “Which brings me back to my point. We found some CCTV footage of the moments before it happened. A man being pursued by this hired killer. The man was the same height and build as you.”

  I said nothing.

  “And the handgun belonging to the murdered man was found at the bottom of some steps leading to a cellar. Just below there we found some blood. A different blood group to that of the murdered guy.”

  Then I remembered: the wound to the back of my hand. I had bled quite a lot that night.

  “Would you have any objection to giving us a sample of your DNA, Mr Lockwood?”

  “None at all.” I had no choice. Refusal would have made me look even more guilty. All I could hope was that he’d been bluffing.

  After three hours they let me go, having taken a long detailed statement. The one good thing that happened afterwards was that the local garage was able to fix my car so it was driveable – the front wing was damaged, but the lights were repaired. I’d already contacted my motor insurance, and where I stood regarding costs for the damage to the house and its fence, I had no idea, but there was no point in worrying.

  As I pulled up outside my house I was on the point of exhaustion. Of course there was a risk going back to my house after what had happened, but Sean Boyd was hardly likely to attack me so soon again after the day’s occurrences. Besides, there were so many police in the area after the event, they would be crazy to strike again so soon. Maybe, at long last, they’d finally give up. There was a woman sitting in a car outside, and when I walked up the front path, she opened the door and got out.

  “Mr Lockwood?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Caroline Lawrence. Do you remember me?”

  I hadn’t seen Caroline, the woman whom I’d nearly run over when she was running away from the Bible Killer, since the night I’d been to the hospital on my abortive attempt to visit her, the night when I’d first met Lucy. It seemed like an eternity away.

  She was wearing a long brown coat with a fur collar. Her face was as I remembered it: fairly unremarkable except for very dark eyes, accentuated by mascara, beneath the fringe of silky blonde hair. Regular features, the nose slightly longer than you might expect, slightly pointed, and curiously attractive, though I’d not noticed before.

  In fact I would much rather have been on my own, so I could just go upstairs and crash out. The events of the last days had taken their toll, and I could barely keep my eyes open.

  “I’m sorry just to turn up like this, but I didn’t have your phone number,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe it’s not convenient.”

  “No, It’s nice of you to call. Come in, please. Are you fully recovered now?”

  “Yes, been out of hospital a few days now.”

  My sitting room was pretty basic: minimalist décor, white ceiling and walls and a dark wood timber floor, what’s more my single armchair didn’t match the sofa. I’d been meaning to change the ceiling light for something more modern, felt ashamed of the drably shaded pendant with its low wattage bulb, which now cast a miserable pall over the room, throwing shadows everywhere.

  “You live alone?” she asked, looking around.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  She smiled. “Everything looks clean and tidy, but there’s no woman’s touch. No flowers, no pretty pictures on the wall.”

  “I just sleep here, and use the other downstairs room as an office. Would you like a glass of wine?” I asked, remembering I had an open bottle in the fridge.

  “Yes please, as long as I’m not keeping you up.”

  “Let me take your coat.”

  The red dress hugged her figure and as she sat on the sofa the skirt rode up an inch above her knees. I moved the coffee table beside the sofa, poured wine for both of us and put the glasses there.

  Looking back on it, maybe it was a mistake to sit next to her on the sofa. It was a three-seater, so I sat at one end, leaving a space between us.

  “Jack, I really came because I wanted to thank you for what you did.” She reached across to the coffee table for her glass and took a sip of wine.

  “Honestly, anyone would have done–”

  “–I know. But if you hadn’t been driving along the road when you were, I’d have been done for. The hospital told me that my heart stopped just after it happened, and that you gave me artificial respiration in the middle of the road – you saved my life.”

  “Been a long time since I practised with a rubber dummy in my St John’s Ambulance training. I’ve never done it for real before – it was a tremendous thrill when you started breathing.”

  “Was I more fun than the rubber dummy?”

  I smiled at the joke, but to my surprise, she wasn’t smiling back. She looked at me for a long time. Then she inched closer to me and reached across and her hand touched my arm, just gently, tentatively, and she left it there. Caroline carefully tucked up her legs up beneath her, her eyes never leaving my face.

  “It feels so strange, sitting here with you,” Caroline said, her face reddening slightly. “Imagining what you did to me that night.”

  “I just did what–”

  “–anyone would have done. I know. Why do I keep saying ‘I know’?” She moved a fraction closer so we were almost touching, her hand moving against my chest. “But since then I’ve had these fantasies. It’s stupid of course. But I’ve had these fantasies of you kissing me again. Kissing me properly this time. I longed to know what it would feel like.”

  The way she was looking at me was almost mesmerising. A stray lock of hair had fallen across her eyes, and I found myself wanting to tease it away from her face with my fingers.

  “I got engaged six weeks ago,” she muttered breathlessly. “But since what happened I’ve decided I just don’t want to see Geoff any more. There’s something about you Jack, I don’t know what it is. Ever since I met you I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Geoff is nice enough, he’s lovely actually. But he’s just a boy. You’re a man. A real man. You’re different, you’re so special...”

  “No–”

  “Yes you are!” She put a finger to my lips. “Yes you are, Jack, you’re special. So so special...” Her face was within an inch of my own. I was aware of her hot breath on my cheek, the tang of fresh lipstick. It seemed wrong, mad, crazy, yet at the same time as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Yet I was in love with Lucy.

  Or was I?

  The truth was, ever since I’d found out who she really was, my feelings for Lucy had changed, but I couldn’t admit it, even to myself. Did I love her? Or was it the drama of it all that I’d been caught up in? I honestly couldn’t say.

  What’s more, Lucy hated me now. Ever since Lucy had spoken to her former admirer, who just happened to be a lesbian, she hated me and now she wanted nothing more to do with me. In fact she hoped that Sean B
oyd would kill me, she’d said so only this morning – and sure enough Boyd had almost succeeded, almost as if she’d wished it on me.

  It was all over between us...

  “I’ve broken off my engagement, Jack.” Caroline put her arms around my neck, was pressing her body close, whispering in my ear. “I don’t want Geoff. I want a man like you. Someone who can fight for me and who’ll look after me. I’ve been thinking about you all the time while I was lying there in hospital. Thinking about what it would be like to touch you and hold you, and feel you close. Hold me Jack, please, just hold me tight, that’s all I want you to do, nothing else. .”

  “Come on Caroline, this is crazy–”

  “What’s the harm?” Her lips touched my neck. “I want to be near you, Jack, I just want to be near you. That’s all. Nothing has to happen if you don’t want it to. I just want you to hold me.”

  I pulled away. “No, look, I’m sorry Caroline, let’s just stop there. I’ve got a girlfriend.”

  “Really? I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

  “Even if I hadn’t got a girlfriend, this is too sudden. It just feels wrong.”

  “Why? Don’t you like me?”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “And don’t you want to know me?” A tear formed at the corner of her eye. “No of course you don’t. Why should you?” The tears fell faster, smudging the mascara, as she sobbed quietly. “I’m sorry Jack, I’m embarrassing you, I’ve made such a fool of myself. You don’t fancy me, why on earth should you? I’m sorry, I feel such an idiot. I’ll just go and leave you in peace.”

  “No. Caroline, please–”

  “Have you got a tissue?” She sniffed, was trying to blink away tears. “I’m sorry, Jack, this is so pathetic, how you must despise me–”

  “Despise you? How can you possibly think that?” I traced a finger along her cheek, nudging away the tears, allowing it to stray down the side of her neck. “I think you’re wonderful.”