Doppelganger (11 page)

“How did he die?” I asked.

“In a motorcycle accident.”

“So,” I continued, “Wendy’s
friend who died recently, this spy, left her some documents that constituted
evidence that Princess Diana’s death was caused deliberately by some
clandestine government agency?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re saying that even
though she was killed in the same way as the Bible Killer kills his victims,
that she was, in fact, murdered by the secret services?”

“Yes. It’s a happy coincidence
for them that there’s a serial killer on the loose. They made use of that
fact.”

“Come on Mr Grylls, that’s not
very likely, is it?” Stuart said. “If all that you’re saying is true, why would
they need to kill Wendy? Why didn’t they just burgle her flat and get hold of
these papers? That would arouse a lot less suspicion.”

“They don’t like loose ends. And
killing people is what they’re good at. There’s another little known fact:
shortly before Princess Diana’s death, the precise details of a plan to
assassinate Slobodan Milosevic by MI6 became known. The choice of a tunnel for
the venue
and
the blinding light
and
the motorbike all matched
the method used when Princess Diana was targeted, only a few weeks afterwards.”

We sat in silence for a few
moments. I had finished my food, as had Stuart. Julian started talking again,
and I wondered how soon we could tactfully get away. I’d had enough. I was
tired, under a lot of stress, and this crazy conspiracy theory was something
that just didn’t ring true to me. Conspiracy theorists are always rock-certain
about their facts, and very often those facts are skewed, altered or even
invented by people who aren’t in a position to know the truth. Besides, Julian,
with his tidy appearance, perfect enunciation and eager-to-appear-rational
manner had ‘obsessive crank’ written all over him. He spoke breathlessly, with
the speed of light, and grief for his dead friend Wendy was, in my opinion,
making him talk irrationally.

Julian Grylls went on talking for
another hour, during which Stuart made his excuses and went home, and I
eventually managed to get away. As I left him alone at the table, lost, sad and
on the edge of despair, I wondered if the poor guy was heading for a breakdown.
I knew the signs, for I’d been there myself. But there was nothing I could do
to help him, it was hard enough sorting out my own problems.

After I got home, I drove round
to
Mad about the Book
, hoping I might catch Lucy at home. I knocked on
her door, but there was no reply.

Just then my phone rang.

“Jack?” I recognised Lucy’s
voice. “I’ve just got your messages and texts. I’m just recovering from the
worst bout of flu I’ve ever had. Couldn’t possibly travel back to Canterbury.
Think I’ve slept solidly for a day and a-half. Are you still in Wales?”

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, then 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.