Doppelganger

Doppelganger

Second
of the Jack Lockwood Mysteries

By
Geoffrey David West

Text
copyright © 2013 Geoffrey David West

All
Rights Reserved

For
Olga with love

Cover
design by the talented designer Ian Scaife, of IS graphics, at
www.isgraphics.co.uk

Proofreading
by Julia Gibbs  (@ProofreadJulia on Twitter)

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Real events are
referred to, but related matters described here that are not in the public
domain are completely fictitious and bear no relation to anything that has
actually happened and are not in any way intended to suggest that the facts
known about the real events are incorrect in any way whatsoever. Likewise, real
people are referred to in passing, but no fictional character is intended to
bear any resemblance to anyone, living or dead, and if there are any accidental
similarities these are entirely coincidental.

Abandon the book Jack, or
we’ll kill you. This is your final warning
.

Sean Michael Boyd’s gravel-voiced
telephone threats still rang in my ears as I drove through the rainy October
darkness of the road through Healey’s Wood. Healey’s looming overhead branches
always engendered a cave-like sense of gloom and, as if this latest threat to
my life wasn’t stressful enough, too many late nights and tight deadlines were
making my eyelids feel like lead.

So when the woman dashed out in
front of my car I couldn’t stop in time. Just felt a jarring thump and I jerked
forward as the figure was flung from the bonnet, landing a yard in front of my
steaming front tyres. All I could see in my headlight beams was a heap of
crumpled clothing in the road, with an outflung hand and twitching fingers,
pointing skywards.

Adrenalin pumping, I opened the
door, breathing vaporised tyre and soggy woodland. The figure was moving, thank
goodness. At least it looked as if she was still alive.

Reaching across to grab my mobile
and switch on the hazard lights, I dialled 999 as I ran around the front of the
car.

“Ambulance. Yes. And police,” I
shouted as I knelt down beside the victim, registering her pain-wracked face,
the frantic effort to survive burning in her eyes. The renewed burst of driving
rain penetrated my shirt in seconds. “It’s Waldegrave Road, just at the start
of Healey’s Wood at Crenham, just off the A2 in the direction of Canterbury. I
passed a pub called the Saracen’s Head about half a mile back.”

“Got that, caller, someone’s on
their way now.”

The operator’s faraway voice
sounded so cool, so unbelievably calm.

“Look, just
get here
,
please, she’s badly hurt!”

“Can you tell me what her
injuries are?”

“No. I can’t see. I’m crouched
down in the middle of the road, sheltered from oncoming vehicles by my own car!
Please, just get here as soon as you can!”

“And what’s your name please,
caller?”

I dropped the phone and reached
for the woman’s fingers. I squeezed gently, realising that since her eyes were
barely open, she’d have no idea what was happening. She’d just be aware of the
rhythmic drumbeat of raindrops, water soaking her skin, and the
shoe-half-off-foot that was completely submerged in the roadside puddle. I had
to move her, but was it safe?

“Hang on, you’re okay, ambulance
is on its way,” I tried to reassure her. “Just lie still.”

The woman – she appeared to be in
her twenties – looked dazed, and there was blood matting her hair, a growing
pool that was spreading, the rivulets of crimson merging with the lakes of
rain. Had I knocked her backwards so she’d fallen and cracked the back of her
head? At least it looked as if she could move her arms and legs. I clung to the
knowledge that I hadn’t been speeding, and had almost been able to stop. But if
I hadn’t been so dog-tired, could I have halted the car in time?

The light coloured jacket of her
trouser suit was torn and stained with mud, the top ripped open at the front.
Her chest rose and fell, her breath was heaving ugly gasps.

“Don’t let him get me!” she
rasped, trying to struggle off the ground. “Please don’t let him–”

“Don’t worry, you’re safe,
please, just try to take it easy. Help is on the way–”

“Where is he?” She tried to move
her head, eyes alive with terror.

“He’s long gone, you’re okay, I
promise. It’s over now, and you’re safe, just try to lie still.”

I stopped talking when I realised
she’d stopped breathing.

Frantically, I racked my brains
to remember the first aid course I’d done twenty years ago.

Airway.

I laid her flat, tilted her head
upwards and opened her mouth. Kneeling astride her I bent down and closed my
lips over hers, pinched the victim’s nose and breathed hard into her lungs,
hoping something might happen.

It didn’t.

Chest compressions
?

Memories flooded back of a rubber
dummy and a lot of badinage while the first aid instructor tried to tell us
what to do, the dummy jerking alarmingly as its chest was depressed by our
incompetent fingers. I leaned over the woman’s chest, heel of one hand between
the cups of her bra, backed up by the other, fingers interlinked, and pressed
hard five times, praying for something to happen.

Nothing.

Mouth-to-mouth once more. I
almost choked, practically gagging as I couldn’t avoid swallowing my own blood,
reminding me of my injury from earlier in the evening. As I took my lips away
to breathe for the fourth time, the woman gave a gulp and a momentary jerk. An
indrawn breath. A choking sound.

And all at once I could hear
sirens behind us, then slamming doors, running feet.

I made way for the paramedics and
watched as they fastened a mask over her face, then fitted a spinal collar,
applying a dressing to the back of her head, attaching needles to her wrists,
radios alive with chatter, muttering medical gobbledygook to each other. I was
vaguely aware of a police car behind them. Hardly realising what I was doing, I
automatically scooped up my phone from the ground and put it in my pocket. In
between the medics’ frantic ministrations they asked me if I knew her name but
I just shook my head, and mumbled that she’d stopped breathing just now and I’d
administered CPR.

The police car’s occupants strode
slowly across to where I was shivering on my knees. “So what’s happened here?”
the nearest one asked me.

There was a lull in the rain at
last.

The policeman stared at me.

“She stumbled out in the middle
of the road. I couldn’t stop in time...”

“You’re saying that you’re
responsible for her injuries?”

“She must have been hurt
already.” I dragged myself to my feet, aching with the effort. “Her head was
bleeding. She said she’d been attacked. I think she must have been running away
from someone.”

“But you ran her over?”

“I couldn’t help it.”

The copper was frowning at me
with controlled menace as he took note of my dishevelled appearance, the
scruffy jeans and split-lipped face.

“Know the victim, do you?”

“Never seen her before.”

“Sure about that?”

“
Of course I’m sure
.”

“When we arrived you were
kneeling on top of her. Just what you were doing?”

“Giving her mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation. And once she came round, I was trying to reassure her.”

“And you’ve got no idea who she
is?”

As I shook my head, I tried to
see things from their point of view. Dangerous looking character who’s been
leaning across a helpless female who’s obviously been seriously injured. I
glanced across to where the paramedics were strapping the woman to a stretcher
and wheeling her towards the ambulance. “Look, mate,” I appealed to the
officer. “I swear I’ve never seen her before, and there was nothing I could do
to stop my car in time. I wasn’t even speeding. When I hit her it was a gentle
kind of bump, you know? Not a full-on crack, like as if I’d done real damage.
At least I hope...”

The ambulance was pulling away. I
thought back to the gang of Canterbury University students who’d been attacking
the man huddled in blankets on the pavement, a poor old guy who’d been minding
his own business, hunched up miserably under the stone canopy of the Westgate,
a medieval gatehouse in the city walls. I’d intervened, pulling the biggest man
away, but before I could retaliate he’d thumped his fist into my face, mashing
my lip, while the second youth had punched me in the stomach. Deprived of their
easy prey, the trio moved on, leaving me staggering against the ancient stone
structure, with an injured mouth, an aching gut and the stares of the bemused
rough-sleeper, who was barely aware what had been going on.

My thoughts came back to the
present as the other policeman approached, having been examining my car. “Do
you have any objections to taking a breathalyzer test, sir?” he asked politely,
holding up a rectangular box.

“N-not at all.”

But right now shock was kicking
in big time, making me behave erratically. I was unsteady on my feet. My hands
wouldn’t stop shaking. Light-headedness made me stutter.

And breathing into the
breathalyzer wasn’t easy. I tried three times, but the stress of rushing around
trying to help the victim meant I was still puffed out, couldn’t breathe deeply
enough to be able to give them a good enough sample.

“Would you mind accompanying us
to the station, please sir?” asked the nearest officer, all narrowed eyes and
exaggerated politeness.

“What about my car?”

“No one’s moving that until we
get a team down here to measure tyre marks and make a proper assessment of the
situation.”

I frowned and shook my head.
“Look, please believe me, I don’t drink and drive, ever!”

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Lockwood. Jack Lockwood.”

“Any identification?”

“Driving licence is at home, but
there’s something in my car.”

I went back to my Land Rover
Discovery and climbed inside, with the second policeman standing guard,
presumably in case I made a run for it. On the back seat I found the parcel,
out of which I extracted a copy of my latest book
Diary of a Killer
from
the batch of author copies that had arrived from the publishers that morning.

As I got into the back of the
police car I handed it over to the one who was in the driver’s seat, talking
into the car’s radio. He stared at the author picture at the back of the book,
then at me, and made no comment. The photo was instantly recognisable, albeit
touched up a bit, thanks to a bit of nifty Photoshop tweaking. Blond hair, the
break in my nose hardly noticeable, small scar on the chin, self-conscious
smile. A female reviewer had once referred to me as having ‘rugged good looks’,
but I think she was being generous.

The policeman’s colleague
returned and climbed in beside him, slamming the door and scattering droplets.
I noticed the beads of water on the newcomer’s sandy eyebrows. Then he found a
notebook and pen, leaning across the front seat to talk to me. “Right then Mr
Lockwood, perhaps you’d like to tell us what happened here?”

“I was driving along and she
suddenly ran out right in front of me. I braked to a stop, thought I felt the
front of the car hit her. Then I called the emergency services.”

I could see they didn’t believe a
word of it.

“You say she looked as if she’d
been attacked. How badly was she hurt?”

“Looked serious to me.” Images
were flooding back. “There was blood in her hair, as if she’d been hit with
something.”

“But you knocked her down?”

“I couldn’t help it.”

“Was she able to say anything?”

“Yes,” I suddenly remembered with
relief. “Yes! she said  something like ‘Don’t let him get me’. She was afraid
of someone.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No.”

“Her words were,
Don’t let him
get me?
”

“Right.”

*
* * *

By the early morning I’d managed
to catch a couple of hours’ sleep in my prison cell in Bellevue Road Police
Station, Canterbury. This was on the edges of the beautiful cathedral town,
beyond the Roman city walls, not far from the university campus, a turning off
the North Holmes Road.

Luckily, I was alone. The white
paper suit they’d given me after taking away my clothes felt itchy and
disorienting. Already hardened to the worst of prison smells – predominantly
bad drains, urine and, occasionally, freshly-minted vomit – this one wasn’t as
bad as some I’ve been in, though up till now I’ve only ever entered as a
visitor.

How was the woman? I went on
hoping she’d be all right, wondering precisely what had happened to her. The
more I thought about it, the more it seemed as if she was probably terrified,
running for her life, so scared she’d not realised she was running onto a road.
The worst thing was, this wasn’t the first occasion when I’d been involved in a
car accident with a pedestrian. And last time it had happened there’d been a
very bad ending.

The breathalyzer test I’d given
at the station last night had returned negative, and my blood sample was yet to
be analyzed, but I knew that at least I was in the clear regarding drink
driving.

I’d already given them my
statement, and the name of my friend and solicitor, David Stuart, and I knew
that as soon as they’d contacted him I’d be able to put my side of things, and,
hopefully, be released. But of course David wouldn’t be in the office until
nine.

Daylight arrived, filtering down
through the tiny grating above my head, and ushered in the morning gaollhouse
noises of jangling keys, shouted commands, the jarring sounds of bodily
functions, whistles and snarled obscenities that echoed along the corridor. My
head ached from lack of sleep and worry.

It wasn’t until about ten o’clock
that a tired-looking constable brought in my clothes, neatly folded, and put
them on the bunk. He also gave me a cold cup of sour-milked tea, some dry toast
and a mumbled string of words I was too exhausted to take in. Half an hour
later, when I was dressed again, and was brushing toast crumbs from my shirt,
there was more key jangling as my cell door was opened and the same constable
asked if I’d accompany him.

He didn’t say much as we tramped
up the concrete steps, into a main reception area, and along corridors,
striking deep into the bowels of the gloomy building that smelt of floor polish
and peeling paint, touched up with the aroma of long-dead takeaways. The walls
were green, the floors were covered in tired grey linoleum, and most of the
office doors we passed were half open, showing men and women at desks staring
at computers or muttering miserably into phones. There was an incongruous yelp
of high-pitched laughter that escaped from somewhere, as shocking and sharp as
a needle-jab. Eventually we reached a door, where the constable knocked, heard
a ‘come in’, then  took me inside and left.