Doppelganger

by Geoffrey West

“Please go on.”

  “I dunno as how I should, you know? Her dad, her uncle, they’re gangsters, you know? Like, they kill people without even stopping to think about it.”

  “I know. Frankly, that’s why I’m here. Sean Boyd wants to kill me.”

  I give Deirdre an abbreviated version of events, and she listened attentively, nodding every now and again.

  “Amanda was in a real jam, yeah?” she said at last. “Scared to tell her mum what was happening. Scared of her uncle. And then, when she thought she was pregnant, she went absolutely radio rental. She’d read about induced abortions, and how the drug her mum was taking might do the job. She thought that it was all her fault, like? Sean Boyd had told her that she’d tempted him. He is one evil piece of shit.”

  “I need to convince Dave Boyd of that.”

  “Won’t be easy.”

  “I don’t suppose you would come with me to talk to him?”

  “No way man!” She thought for a few moments. “Wait there.”

  She came back five minutes later with a mobile phone, an old model, in bright pink with a decoration of a white rabbit on the corner, the kind of phone a child might carry.

  “Amanda gave me her phone. There’s a picture she took on it when her uncle wasn’t looking. She wanted to show someone, but she didn’t know who to talk to. Here, let me show you.”

  She pressed the buttons and the screen came alive with a picture of Sean Boyd, naked, his penis furiously erect, and a smile on his face.

  “Can I borrow this?”

  “You can have it, man. I’ve only been keeping it all this time in the hope I could prove what he did to her. I didn’t trust the police not to lose it, know what I mean? You never know who knows who. But if you can give it to Dave Boyd, he might even recognise it as his daughter’s phone.”

  “And then he’ll know the truth.”

  She smiled, and the wide open frankness of her expression reminded me of her grandmother.

  “Thank you, Deirdre. I promise I’ll let you know what happens.”

  I phoned the hospital in Swansea. Lucy had regained consciousness and the signs were good.

  Chapter 15

  UNDER THE CARPET

  According to my research for Hero or Villain? Dave Boyd’s part of the Boyd brothers’ empire was operated from a carpet warehouse on an industrial estate in Sutton, Surrey. This was information I obviously couldn’t use in the book, needless to say, because Care for your Carpets was ostensibly a legitimate business, and, in fact, it was. The floor-covering retailer had a big showroom, vast stocks of floor materials in the warehouse and a team of self-employed fitters.

  Members of the public rarely stopped to wonder why bigger, more prosperous competitors went bust, when they were often able to undercut Care for your Carpets’ prices. The truth was, it didn’t matter if the books balanced or not: making a loss on this business could be set against the profits of their other legitimate businesses, besides which, stock could occasionally be bought for cash from foreign dealers, which was a brilliant way of disposing of ready ‘unaccounted for’ money gleaned from Dave Boyd’s more dubious activities. Money laundering, combined with a potential as a tax loss, made the carpet enterprise both convenient and lucrative.

  The coming confrontation was so terrifying that the best way of dealing with it was by not thinking about it at all. Just going there and getting it over with was all I could do. Nor would there be any point in seeing my gun-dealer friend and getting another firearm to protect myself: anyone lucky enough to be granted an audience with Dave Boyd was likely to be painstakingly frisked at the entrance. I didn’t know that much about Dave, it was Sean’s life that I’d studied in detail. However, I did know that while the brothers ran separate operations they had an uneasy alliance, but at various times in the past there’d been bad blood between them. But as far as I could gather, since Dave had come out of prison, they’d controlled their separate empires without stepping on each other’s toes.

  I parked on a yellow line behind the Care for your Carpets premises at six that evening.

  I hadn’t worked out a plan, and there was no way of knowing if Dave Boyd was there, or, if he was, if he’d agree to see me.

  The front of the building had a huge steel shutter that was already pulled down, but a hatch to one side had a door in it. A diminutive man in a shabby suit was backing out, a bunch of keys in his hands.

  “Sorry mate, we’re closed,” he said as I approached.

  “I’ve got an appointment with Dave Boyd,” I told him.

  “Mr Boyd?” He turned to look at me. He was a skinny individual, around forty, his dark brown hair receding from the front, and a network of frown lines working overtime along his forehead.

  “Is he in?”

  “I dunno. I don’t have nuffink to do with Mr Boyd’s other affairs, me, I just handle the carpet sales.”

  “But he is in charge?”

  “Yeah, but as I say, I don’t have nuffink to do with him, not as such.”

  “Can you call him?”

  “Have a heart mate, I was going home. He’s not the kind of guy you ring – he rings you when he wants you, not the other way around.”

  “One call, please. I’ve come a long way, and it’s very important.”

  “I thought you said as how you had an appointment?”

  “I have.”

  He shook his head gloomily and pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and made a call. I noticed how he stood up straighter as he spoke, more furrows grew along his forehead, and his mouth was a tight line of worry.

  “What’s your name, mate?” He turned towards me.

  “Albert Douglas.”

  Using the dead man’s name, the man his brother had murdered for allegedly raping Dave’s daughter, would be bound to get a reaction. I could only hope that Dave Boyd’s curiosity would get the better of him.

  It did.

  The small man disappeared gratefully after taking me inside and telling me to go up the stairs and into the office, which was the first door on the left. I hadn’t reached the top of the steps before two large men appeared. They met me at the top, grabbing an arm each and propelled me briskly into the room. As I’d expected, I was frisked for weapons.

  As big as his brother, Dave Boyd had a broad bald dome of a head and a generous mouth with lines at its corners, as if he was used to smiling a lot. He was wearing a dark grey suit, and the hands that projected from the crisp white shirt cuffs were huge, the knuckles scarred. As he opened his mouth I noticed there was a small gap between his front teeth, and the other incisors were large, white and sharp, giving him the appearance of a friendly Rottweiler.

  He wasn’t smiling today. His expression was murderous, in contrast to the blankly obedient poker faces of the two men either side of me.

  “So who the fuck are you, and why are you pretending to be that dirty fucking little nonce that hurt my daughter?” His voice was like a ton of gravel tumbling down a mountainside.

  I took a breath. “I’m Jack Lockwood. I’m writing a book about your brother. He’s got a contract out on me because he thinks I’m going to divulge the fact that he sexually assaulted your daughter Amanda, as a result of which she became pregnant and accidentally killed herself in an attempt to abort the foetus. I knew nothing about it until yesterday. But I’m telling you the truth now because it’s the only way I can think of to save my own life.”

  Dave Boyd’s face became almost puce with rage. He stood up, kicking his chair behind him so that it careered into the wall, and strode around the desk to stand in front of me, so that our faces were barely inches apart.

  He punched me in the stomach. His henchmen held my arms rigidly, keeping me upright, as I sagged almost to my knees, kept aloft by their arms alone. For a moment everything went black and a tidal wave of pain washed over me, as I retched helplessly, dangling forwards. After a few seconds the darkness that almost engulfed me receded and my vision cleared. I was hauled upright again. />
  He grabbed my shirt-front and shook me backwards and forwards until I was dizzy, then punched me in the mouth. I felt my lip split and tasted blood.

  “I heard those filthy rumours all right, but I knew they were all shite, invented by our enemies!”

  His face was so close that his spittle splashed my bloodied lips. “No one ever dared say it to my face, they knew what would happen. No wonder Sean wants to bury you. Reckon I’ll save him the trouble, you dirty foul-mouthed fucker!” Dave Boyd went back to his desk, opened a drawer, and took out a cut-throat razor. He opened out the blade and it flashed in the fluorescent light, a mirrored keen edge of shining blazing steel. “Sean told me as how there was some shitty little writer he’s been trying to bury. Before I kill you I think I’ll slice your dirty lying tongue out. Then I’ll cut through your windpipe, and rip open your carotid artery.”

  He put the razor down and took off his jacket and carefully rolled up his sleeves. Then walked towards me again.

  “I can prove it.” I tried to shout but my voice was nothing but a croak.

  “Course you can.” Dave Boyd’s knuckles were blanching as he gripped the razor’s ivory handle in his right hand and ran a fingertip along its edge, smiling to himself at the tiny nick he’d made and the release of a hairline ribbon of blood. I could smell my own sweat, mixed with the pungent aftershave of my guards, as they tightened their grip in preparation for my imminent surgery. My heartbeat was drumming in my ears. I tried to control my breathing.

  “Look in my right-hand jacket pocket. There’s Amanda’s phone – bright pink, with a rabbit on the front.”

  Boyd stopped walking. His face lost all expression. “Our Mandy’s phone? How do you know about that? She treasured that phone. It went missing. We never knew what happened to it.”

  “Her friend gave it to me today.”

  There was a pause. Boyd nodded to the man on my right to look in my pocket. As his hand withdrew, holding the pink phone, Boyd’s face registered shocked amazement.

  “Give it here.”

  Held in his vast fist, the child’s phone looked like an infant’s toy.

  “Look at the pictures.”

  He pressed the buttons. “Don’t work. Battery’s dead.”

  I closed my eyes in fury.

  Stupid stupid stupid! Why hadn’t I thought about it? Deirdre must have used the last of the phone’s power showing the image to me this morning.

  Wordlessly, Boyd shook his head slowly and walked across to a cupboard, opened it and rummaged around until he found a charger and plugged it in, then fixed the phone to the other end. There was silence while he fiddled with the buttons.

  From across the room I could see the screen come alive. Slowly he pressed the tiny keys, using the edge of his thumbnail. Sadly wistful, he wiped away tears, as he was obviously looking at the other pictures, the ones that were personal to the child, that would prove to him it was, without doubt, his daughter’s phone.

  I could hear him gasp when he’d come to the picture of his brother. I remembered it, the large grey-haired man, smirking and naked, his hairy pot belly above that vile engorged member.

  Dave Boyd swayed on his feet and closed his eyes. Tears were streaming down his face. He swiped the back of his fist across his eyes to dry them, sniffing loudly.

  After a long time, he unplugged the charger, walked back to the desk and carefully placed the phone in a drawer which he locked. Then he looked up at me and the guards, as if he’d forgotten we were there.

  “So what do you want?” he asked me.

  “To stay alive.”

  “Nothing else?” He glared at me. “You’re a writer or a journalist or summink, aren’t you? How do I know you’re not going to use this story after everything dies down and you’re off the hook?”

  “Because if anything concerning this business was ever printed without corroborative facts, you could sue the writer and the publishers, and you’d win.” I nodded towards his desk. “Remember, you’ve got the only proof of what happened. There’d also be no public interest in this kind of a story. And finally because I know that if I ever did a despicable thing like publicising any hint of what your brother did to your child, you’d undoubtedly kill me – with very good reason.”

  He stared at me for a long time, weighing things up. “Jack Lockwood. Name rings a bell. You write books about bent coppers, don’t you?”

  “Amongst other things.”

  “Had a look through one once. Seemed pretty fair. You seem straight.”

  “I don’t tell lies and I don’t invent facts. And I certainly don’t desecrate the memory of innocent children.”

  After a pause he nodded.

  “Get rid of him.” He said to the men holding me.

  “You mean?” The man beside me looked doubtful.

  “No, not that, you cretin. Just see him to the pavement. Shut up shop. And you, Jack!” He stared at me. “You done me a favour, I owe you. And I’ll see you straight. But get out of my sight and lie low for a couple of days. Sean’s contract on you don’t mean nothing now. I’ll sort things, but it’ll take a few days. Use your nous, yeah? Fuck off and bury yourself under a stone until all this dies down, get me?”

  “I get you.”

  He walked across to the far desk and unlocked a drawer, out of which he produced a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, a prize of gleaming silver steel with chunky wooden grips. He produced a box of shells and loaded the weapon, then handed the gun to me.

  “Used one before have you, writer boy?” Boyd asked me, staring me full in the eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “Get rid of it after a week, yeah? You won’t need it no longer than that.”

  “Sure.”

  “Doubt you’ll need it at all.”

  But he was wrong.

  * * * *

  As I drove away, heading back to Wales, I reflected that I really couldn’t trust Dave Boyd. The reality was, he would be far happier if I was dead, so that my knowledge of the truth behind his family tragedy was buried with me. There was a distinct possibility that he’d say nothing to his brother until I had been killed, and only then would he take fraternal reprisals. After having met Dave Boyd, the only thing I was sure about was that he believed the truth about what his brother had done, and he was going to deal with him summarily. As for his promise that I would be safe, it was a gamble. And relying on Dave Boyd’s decency and humanity was a gamble I was likely to lose.

  Anyway, all I could do was wait and hope that Dave would be as good as his word. At least he’d given me a gun to protect myself, which surely counted for something.

  I drove down to Brecon, reaching the hospital at ten that night.

  Lucy was sitting up in bed, still attached to wires and tubes. When she looked up at me, there was a coldness in her eyes that scared me.

  “Why have you come?” Her voice was hoarse, croaky. “Feeling guilty?”

  “Yes.” I sat down in the chair beside her bed.

  “Nothing’s changed. You wish you’d never met me. Okay Jack, that’s fair enough. I feel the same. You didn’t have to come.” She began to cry. “It’s only torturing me even more...”

  I took her hand. She tried to pull away. Her eyes looked weary and haggard, as if she needed sleep badly.

  “Listen, Lucy, I believe you.” I said urgently. “I believe you didn’t kill Aiden Caulfield.”

  “Nice pretence, Jack. I could almost think you meant it.”

  “I do. You didn’t kill him. And I’m going to help you prove it.”

  Still she wouldn’t look at me. “Why now? What has suddenly changed, Jack?”

  “I went to your flat. I found the file on the murders in Huddersfield and Nottingham. Stu managed to trace the boy Robert Althouse, found his name had been changed to Lamelle.”

  “Not good enough,” she whispered, staring straight ahead. “You didn’t believe me. You needed to check up on what I said.”

  “All right. Truth is,
I was terrified, do you blame me? When I found out you were Megan, my world slipped into orbit. Nothing made sense, nothing was rational.”

  She was crying. “You should have believed me. It’s not enough Jack...”

  “I know that.” I held her hand, squeezed it tightly, was grateful that she wasn’t pulling away. “I’ve been a bastard. I’ve treated you badly. But let me make things right now. Please. Please, please Lucy. I want to make things right. I want us to be together from now on.”

  The coldness in her eyes melted. “I wanted to tell you everything right at the start. But I was scared. Scared that if I told you the truth you couldn’t bear to be near me. That you would hate me. That you’d react exactly as you did react.”

  “At the moment we’re both under a lot of stress.” I told her about the failed attempt on my life at the manor, that I’d only escaped because I’d taken her to hospital. “I’m hoping that I’ve settled the Sean Boyd danger, but I can’t be sure of anything. Thing is, Stuart’s told the police about Dr Roger Lamelle. They’ll surely be able to find some evidence against him.”

  “They won’t. He’s always one step ahead. And, worst of all, I think he knows that I suspect him of the Bible Killings,” she said.

  “Tell me about the night Caroline was attacked.” I asked.

  “What Caroline told you was true. I was there.” She stared ahead, expressionlessly. “I couldn’t admit to it to the police, but I was there. I was determined to get him. All the years I’d suffered, and I knew beyond doubt that he was a killer, so having traced him to Canterbury I found a flat there, and then volunteered at the hospital as a way of following his movements. I followed him every night after work for a week. Drove after him, got to know his routine, where he went after work, where he lived, the places he stopped off on the way. That night was different. He drove along a different route. I suspected something might happen. I parked a long way behind his car, then crept out to see where he went.”

  “Did Lamelle see you?”

  “At the very last minute, when I rushed towards them to stop him strangling her, he saw someone of my size and build, but he may not have recognised me. I didn’t get too close – I didn’t need to, because Caroline managed to break free and run.”