Doppelganger (18 page)

Oh God. No. No!

“Paul, can you read me out the
rest of the information on the form?”

“Course, here we are Jack: Lisa
Alexandra Chilcott, born – I told you that bit – mother’s maiden name
O’Shaughnessy, father David Anthony Chilcott.”

I thanked him and hung up. Closed
my eyes.

But it didn’t matter. It didn’t
necessarily mean a thing. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop myself dialling the
number of Tyler McKay, the editor of
The Bargery Advertiser
, just to get
his take on it. The journalist who’d written the story must have had good
reason to suppose Lisa Chilcott had been Megan Foster.

“Oh hello Jack, you must be
psychic, I’d been meaning to call you,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yes. You haven’t finished your
book yet, have you?”

“No, why?”I remember that I’d
told him I wanted to get information about Lisa Chilcott for a book I was writing
about killers who committed suicide.

“Good, because I’m afraid I’ve
gone and led you up the garden path a bit, sorry about that. Thing is, that
story about Lisa Chilcott being the alter ego of Megan Foster wasn’t by Tony
Price at all. There was some cock-up with the bylines that week. In fact Tony
kicked up quite a stink about it, apparently, because it was actually written
by Kevin Till, one of our up-and-coming juniors of those days. We had to let
Kevin go not long afterwards because of a nasty legal tangle he got us involved
in because he hadn’t checked his facts.”

“So the Lisa story isn’t
reliable?”

“No, I’m sorry mate, it isn’t.
Doesn’t mean to say that Kevin didn’t get it right, of course, you’d best try
and check it out yourself if you can. But Kevin hadn’t been with us long, he
was all out to impress us, keen for promotion. And he certainly didn’t have a
reputation for checking things scrupulously.”

When I cut the connection I tried
to rationalise my thoughts.

Okay, so Lisa wasn’t Megan Foster.
Which meant that the likelihood was that Megan Foster was still alive
somewhere, living under another identity, presumably minding her own business
and keeping to the law, just as the authorities had planned. What did it prove?
What did it matter? It was a thousand miles away from Megan Foster being my
Lucy.

And yet
...

*
* * *

Much later, after I’d arrived at
Llantrissant Manor, Lucy phoned, telling me she’d been questioned by the police
about Caroline’s assertion that she’d seen her on the night she was attacked.
They’d been apologetic, explaining that although they were duty bound to check
out everything, however crazy it sounded, they’d never really taken Caroline’s
testimony seriously. This was because they considered that Caroline was still
confused about what had happened, and the hospital had told them that she was
suffering from a form of amnesia.

I worked alone at the Manor for
four days, then Lucy phoned, telling me in excitement that Judy, her shop-owner
friend, was out of hospital, and was going to take over the running of the shop
the following day, so that now she could come down to Wales to be with me.

I should have been thrilled, yet
for some reason I wasn’t. Next day I picked her up at Cardiff station: Lucy had
decided to leave her car in Canterbury. We drove back to Llantrissant with Lucy
chattering excitedly about the scenery. I couldn’t stop thinking about
Caroline, especially the things Caroline had said to me.

Although I was in love with her,
I was finding that Lucy wore me out: her constant anxieties and soul searching
always seemed so full-on. When I fell in love with her it was an instant thing,
something beyond my control, but now that I was spending more and more time
with her, I had the growing conviction that I was less and less sure I wanted a
permanent relationship with her.

During the next few days there
were little things that upset me. Such as the way she didn’t smile at the
postman when he delivered the letters in the morning, the way she just slammed
the door in his face. Her quick temper, the way she’d lash out with hurtful
words without even realising their effect. And she was pushing me to commit
myself, talking about setting up home together. She wanted us to find a house,
maybe in the spring, her plan was to tie it in to after the publication of
Hero
or Villain?
, and when I’d hopefully finished
The Bible Killer
.

That had been another bone of
contention. I’d had to tell her that I was writing a book about the murders and
she was furious about it, calling me an opportunist, someone who profited from
people’s heartache and misery. Our row had been bitter, but afterwards we’d
made up. She’d apologised for the things she’d said, but she just didn’t get
it. When someone’s made a hurtful remark it stays in your mind and festers.

She knew the danger I was in, yet
never once did she seem to take it seriously, just laughed it off, almost
blamed me for landing myself in the situation in the first place. Time and
again she said “Why did you get yourself into a situation like that?”
neglecting to realise that it was my job, or that things were as they were, and
it was too late to change them.

Ann had emailed, saying how
relieved she was that at last everything seemed to be working out properly.
There were still articles in the papers about the Bible Killer, but the furore
was beginning to die down. We just had to lie low for another few weeks, then
Hero
or Villain?
would be published and, presumably, I’d be off the hook with
Sean Boyd.

As if to underline my concerns
about my relationship with Lucy, at around three o’clock that afternoon the sky
turned dark, darker than I’ve ever known it, and the clouds looked evil. There
was an undeniable tension between Lucy and me. Despite her deliberately bright
forced chatter I felt wary, as if conversation with her was like walking on
eggshells.

The beginning of the end of my
world started when it began to rain. And rain. We’d finished lunch and were
wondering whether to go for a drive when the deluge began. It wasn’t like any
rain I’ve ever known before. There was a relentless stair-rod quality that I’ve
never experienced, as if the rain was thundering out of the sky with a
terrifying unreal intensity, and the speed and volume of the water’s fall was
scaring. I turned on the radio, and the local station said there were flood
warnings in place for our valley.

“Don’t look so worried,” Lucy
said, smiling, as we stood in the hallway, looking out of the open front door.
“This valley must have flooded before.”

“Sure. Ann went on about how when
it was built by the eccentric millionaire in the 1840s, everyone thought he was
mad to build in the valley, because it’s been known for flooding. But he raised
it up on high foundations about a couple of feet above ground, and reckoned
that would do the trick. Apparently a few years ago the water got higher than
the ground floor and they had to change all the carpets.”

“So the water might cover the
ground floor for an inch or so. It’s no big deal then. I guess we just go
upstairs if that happens.”

That was the theory, sure. But as
I looked out and saw most of the road and grass disappearing as I watched, it
looked as if a river was forming, and I felt a sickening terror at the pit of
my stomach. The new ‘sea’ was getting deeper, and already I could see that the
Land Rover’s wheels were almost covered up to halfway. If it rose above the
engine’s level the electrics would be waterlogged, and the computer management
system possibly wrecked. We were stuck here until the water level dropped,
which could be days. The only way out of Bryn-y-Gare Valley was on foot, and
climbing up the cliff road in this weather looked hardly feasible.

“What’s it matter?” Lucy said
reasonably, pulling me into her arms, and slamming the door. “Forget about it.
The car’s insured. The main thing is we’re together. We’re happy. We’ve got
food and warmth. We just sit tight and wait it out.”

“Noah’s Flood syndrome I
suppose,” I answered, stroking her hair, and feeling the warmth of her body and
the glowing fulfilment of the exciting thrill of her, trying to recapture my
feelings of when we’d first met. However, as I looked over her shoulder and
pictured the streaming sheets of water there was no stopping that awful feeling
of dread. “It’s just to see it arriving so fast. When the water starts coming
like this it’s terrifying. As if it’s never going to stop.”

“Heavens Jack, it’s me who’s
supposed to have all the hang-ups.” She frowned momentarily, and pulled herself
out of my arms to turn round, gazing out of the glass panel in the door.
“Actually I like it.” She shivered as she stared at the scene, before moving back.
“It seals us off in our own little cocoon. Nothing can come in and spoil things
for us. I feel safe. As if nothing bad can ever happen to me.”

“So all that stuff about being
convinced you’ll die before your thirty eighth birthday?”

“Gone.” She smiled and shook her
head. “Since I met you. I realise it’s just that I’ve just been insecure all
these years. All this time I’ve had the feeling that something or someone is
out to get me. But now I’ve got you, I don’t have that feeling any more. And
we’re going to be happy Jack, I just know we are. Now I’ve met you I’m never
ever going to let you go.”

But I wasn’t listening. I was
remembering about when I came here to Bryn-y-Gare Valley for the first time.
Alone driving the Discovery up the mountainside, to get to the pass in the
darkness, just before all my doubts about Lucy, a lifetime ago. And the local
farmer, Ken Gifford, who’d helped me. I’d run into Ken several times since and
I enjoyed his company. Indeed on some of my days at the Manor, chatting to Ken while
I was out for a walk was the high point of my lonely day.

“The thing is,” I said to Lucy,
“we’re not the only ones living in this valley. There’s an old guy who gave me
directions and helped me when I first came here. He lives along the road
somewhere, told me he had a cottage. I wonder if he’s all right.”

“He could be away from home, or
else, if he’s lived here a long time, he probably knows more about floods than
we do.”

“Yes, but the electricity’s not
likely to hold out, and we’ve got generators.”

“So might he.”

I nodded. “But apart from that,
we’re much better placed to withstand all this than he is. I think I ought to
go and see if he’s all right, offer for him and his wife to come here.”

“There’s no need!” Lucy said
forcefully, actually stamping her foot. Her sweet temper had vanished with the
frown’s arrival, and her mouth was set into a sulky pout. “For God’s sake, we
don’t
need
anyone else!
You shouldn’t go out in this!
”

“It’s not too bad at the moment.”

I’d made up my mind, and stood
up, trying to remember where my Wellington boots and raincoat were. “I’ll go
now and get back as quick as I can.”

“But look at the sky, it’s
practically black! And it gets dark in a couple of hours anyway,” Lucy said.
“There’s hardly any daylight left, and wading through this lot in the dark is
madness! Why can’t you phone him?”

“Phone was the first thing I
tried, but it’s dead. First casualty of the flood. And there’s no mobile signal
either – the water must have damaged the local mast. I’ll go now, and get back
as quick as I can.”

“Hell!” She chewed at her lower
lip. “What do we care about some old guy you don’t even know? I don’t want to
be stuck having to talk to a boring old couple for hours on end. Who gives a
damn about him?”

I felt anger rising up inside me.
Certainly I didn’t know Ken, I’d only met him a handful of times. But I’d
instinctively liked him, and I was determined to offer my help whether she
liked it or not.

“I didn’t like to say anything,
but I’m not feeling well, think that I’ve got that flu back again,” Lucy leaned
against the wall, passing a hand across her forehead. “Jack, listen, I’ve got a
really bad sore throat, and I’ve got these aches in my shoulders, you know?” A
tiny pulse throbbed on her forehead. “I really don’t want to be left on my
own.”

“It’s always about you, isn’t
it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You can never spare a thought
for anyone else.”

“So I’m selfish, am I? Well at
least it’s better than wanting to be everyone’s mate, smiling at total
strangers, the way you do.”

“What’s wrong with being
friendly?”

“There’s friendly, and being over
the top. That’s why you’re such a...”

“What?”

“All right! You’re
soft
,
Jack! You’re too trusting. Even though you write about vicious evil criminals,
and I know you can handle yourself in a fight, you’re still naïve about people.
You believe that most folk are nice and kind, you trust people, when you
shouldn’t. On the whole, human beings are shits. You’ve got to realise that
everyone is out for number one, and they don’t give a damn about you.”

“I’m going out to check that
Ken’s all right.”

“Please, Jack,
please don’t go
.
Don’t leave me.”

“I’ll be back within an hour.”

“Don’t go, Jack.
Please!
I’ve
got a really bad feeling about this. I know it’ll be a big mistake.”

She was right. But for reasons
neither of us could have guessed at.

Once I was outside, feeling the
full force of the rain pounding hard into my face, I wondered if I’d been
stubborn and stupid to have taken the decision. The swirling torrent was
already a flood by anyone’s standards, the water I was plunging though nearly
six inches deep, swirling and eddying as I walked, and hard to negotiate, like
wading through a swimming pool, oozing and sucking at each step, already
surging over the top of my Wellington boots and soaking my socks. The rain was
falling so hard it actually hurt my cheeks, such was the force of the water,
and all I could do was keep my head down and go forwards. My ‘storm proof’
flack jacket’s waterproofing was also compromised, so that icy water clawed at
my skin. And it was practically impossible to see through the misty torrent, as
if I was groping through an angry, dark, terrifying world of freezing streaming
water.

I remembered I’d seen Ken
Gifford’s cottage when I’d first arrived here in sunshine, and I recalled it
was only a few hundred yards down the road. I pictured the water getting as
deep as a couple of feet, then up to my waist. Would there be some kind of
tide, or water-borne currents that could sweep me away? I had no idea, nor did
I really want to dwell on the thought. It was better not to think too deeply,
just get on with what was in front of me.

After a while I saw Ken’s cottage
in the distance, and thanked heaven that I’d be there very soon. The rising
rock of the mountain was to my left, but to the right the road had now
completely disappeared, and without the rock to cling to I could easily have
become disorientated. Unable to get back to Llantrissant Manor.

Wading up what I assumed was
Ken’s front drive, I made it to his door. The builder of Ken’s cottage hadn’t
been so farsighted as those who had constructed Llantrissant Manor. Although
Ken’s ground floor was a foot higher than its surroundings, this was barely
enough to keep the flood at bay, and the water level was virtually up to his
top step.

He came to the door in response
to my knock.

“Hello, neighbour,” the old man
said warmly, peering out at me above his half glasses. He wore blue jeans and a
large blue sweater, and gumboots, the same as mine. “All set for the flood?”

“That’s what I came to ask you
about.” I replied entering his narrow hallway, shivering with the freezing ice
against my skin. “You’re very welcome to come up to the Manor – I think we’re
on slightly higher ground than you are.”

“That’s kind of you, but this is
nothing, happens most years.” He sounded calm and relaxed. “Ten years ago the
valley was flooded bloody nearly three feet deep, and it wasn’t much better
last year. We’re used to it, see? Just a question of shifting things upstairs
and staying put. Maureen and I did all that this morning, so we’ll just go up
and sit it out.”

“What if the electricity goes?”

“Candles. We’ve got plenty to
spare if you need any. We’ve even got a battery powered telly to pass the time.
Plus a camping stove for cooking, and we’ve already filled our water carriers.
You’d better do that, sometimes the tap water gets contaminated.”

“We will, I remember seeing some
in the cupboard. As for the candles, there’s no need thanks, we’re supposed to
have a backup generator.”

“Buggers, generators, work fine
when you test ‘em, then when you depend on them, sometimes they let you down.
Just take a few in case.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Course you didn’t, I know that.”
He took my arm and squeezed gently. “We
really
appreciate the offer. I
knew you were a nice bloke. Liked you the first time I met you, instinct you
might say. And to think you’ve made all this effort to came out in this bloody
awful weather because you wanted to help us out of a mess. The least we can do
in return is let you have a few essentials in case you need ’em.”

“Well if you’re sure.”

Ken thrust a dozen candles into a
carrier bag and handed them over, adding a large torch.

“Oh I almost forgot,” he said,
bustling away and returning with a brown paper parcel. “This arrived for you a
few weeks ago, kept meaning to give it to you, then I forgot. I’ll put it in
the bag.”

“Thanks.”

“You’d best get back before the
water gets any deeper.”

*
* * *

Getting back to the Manor was ten
times worse than leaving it. At one point I lost my footing, tripping on some
unseen object. Then I felt myself slipping, sucked down and down. I was lost
and panicking, with nothing beneath my feet, sinking fast until I was up to my
neck. I kicked and fought to swim sideways, then, thankfully, one foot found
purchase, and then I managed to climb onto solid ground, and force my way
forwards. The ground was apparently solid beneath my feet now, and it wasn’t
until I was a few yards away that I realised I must have fallen down a manhole
leading to the main drains – the surge of the water beneath would have lifted the
cover, leaving the hatch open so that I’d been sucked down into the sewer,
which was now at one with the floodwater. If I hadn’t managed to fight my way
out of the swirling vortex of water...

Then I saw the Manor in the
distance – probably no more than fifty yards but in the failing light and poor
visibility it looked much, much further. I fought on, desperate to reach it,
absurdly still clutching the bundle of candles against my chest.

By the time I made it up the
front steps I was panting with the effort, and desperately tired. Lucy met me
at the door, pulling me into the hallway, and I almost collapsed in front of
her. Her face was pale.

“Oh Jack, thank God you’re back.
I was so worried.”

She looked drained, and I could
see she was shivering.

“Are you worse?” I asked her.

She nodded, staggering slightly
and resting against the wall. “I’ve been sick a couple of times. Think it must
be the flu come back. I can’t stop shivering and now I’ve got a raging
temperature.
You shouldn’t have gone
. I told you I didn’t want to be on
my own.” She swayed slightly. “And I bet sodding Ken Gifford and his wife are
more prepared for this than we are, aren’t they?”

I nodded. The
sodding Ken
Gifford
annoyed me. He was a nice old man who’d showed me nothing but
kindness. “They even gave me some candles in case the generator doesn’t start.”

She wasn’t listening to me.
“Sometimes you’re
so damned stubborn
Jack, why can’t you take notice of
me? I hate that about you, I really hate it. You should have put me first. I’m
ill, and you left me on my own.”

“For God’s sake, you’re not a
child.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” She
was on the verge of tears. “I’ve been here on my own worrying and worrying
about you and scared to death that you were going to be drowned. And that’s all
the thanks I get!”

A wave of exhaustion washed over
me.

“Come on upstairs.” I tried to
ignore my own tiredness as I put my arm around her waist and helped her
upstairs to our bedroom, not caring about the wet footmarks on the stair
carpet.

“Sorry Jack, I shouldn’t be
snapping at you. I just feel so ghastly. Truth is I can hardly walk,” she
confessed, collapsing onto the bed. “Think I’ll just close my eyes for five
minutes. Try and get some rest.”

“Can I get you some aspirin or
ibuprofen?”

“I couldn’t keep anything down
just now. But can you cover me with some blankets please, love? I’m sorry for
what I said. I didn’t mean it, I was just so scared and lonely...”

“I know, I know, forget it.”

I was much more tired than I
realised, my near drowning had shaken me much more than I realised. When I got
back downstairs I managed to raise enough energy to strip off my clothes and
dry myself, changed into a clean dry shirt, socks, jeans and pullover, and
warmed myself up in front of the Aga in the kitchen. It was gas fired, more
convenient to operate than the solid fuel variety and, once the oven was on and
the door wide open, warmer than any heater I’ve ever come across before or
since. At least it looked as if, so far, the mains gas supplies were
unaffected.

Half an hour later I’d eaten a
bowl of soup with some of the French loaf Lucy had bought from the village, and
drunk two huge mugs of hot coffee, with plenty of sugar. My teeth had finally
stopped chattering, and the breakfast room, where I was sitting at the scrubbed
pine table, had a large picture window that looked out across the valley and
the hillside opposite, and as far as you could see there was a lake of water,
and it was still raining – oddly enough the panorama of the few twinkling
lights of the mountain glittering against the water was almost beautiful. I
felt contented and relieved, irritated for having made the journey, which
turned out to be unnecessary, but relieved it was over. Gazing out at the
landscape it was like being on an island in the sea, totally cut off from
everything.

That’s when I remembered the parcel
that Ken Gifford had given me.

I tipped out the sodden contents
of the carrier bag onto the table and dried the candles with a towel. The
parcel was soaked through, but after I’d opened up the package, the book inside
was miraculously dry, just the paper cover slightly damp and wrinkled at the
edges. From it arose that damp cardboard smell that took me back to my
schooldays. All along one edge, the pages were damp and wrinkled where the
water had crept inside.

With a surge of anger I
recognised Douglas Hosegood’s wretched
Shocking Killers
, the book that
had caused me so much misery.

Who the hell had sent me this?

Then I thought back to Douglas’s
frantic phone call on my answerphone, a couple of nights before he’d died. He’d
said he’d send something very urgent for me, and obviously Ann had given him
this address, and I’d left just after it had arrived and the postman had
delivered it to Ken to give to me, and he’d forgotten until now. Just as I’d
completely forgotten about it myself.

All past history now, I was
relieved to think. I planned to destroy my own copy of the damned book as soon
as I could, because of the misery it had caused me.

I had the almost uncontrollable
urge to tear this copy to pieces and chuck it out of the window so that it submerged
beneath the floodwater for ever.

But I didn’t.

I opened the front cover. Inside
was a note written in Douglas’s handwriting. The edges were damp and wrinkling,
but the body of text was readable, even though in one spot the ink had smudged
across the page:

Jack, believe me I wish I
didn’t have to tell you this, but you have to know. If you turn to chapter
three you’ll see that your Lucy, the girl whose picture you showed me, bears a
marked resemblance to the photo of Megan Foster as a child; I believe that’s
where you got your ‘déjà vu’ idea of having met her before somewhere. Of course
a child’s resemblance to an adult means nothing, apart from the fact that a
cleft in the chin like that is obviously extremely rare; and the face of a
child is different to that of an adult. But when I was writing the book I was
given a photo of Megan aged 19 by a family friend, but it was illegal for me to
reproduce it in the book, as it might have compromised her new identity. I’m
enclosing that photo. I’m sorry Jack, but I think you’ll agree that she does
bear an uncanny likeness to the photo of Lucy that you showed me.

Heart beating frantically, I
lifted the page to see a picture that was almost identical to that of my Lucy
staring back at me. Hair differently styled, fewer lines across her forehead.
But essentially the same face. I lifted it up, cast it to one side and went on
reading:

Of course there are
doppelgangers. People born so alike that you cannot tell their faces apart. I’d
hoped this was the case with Lucy. I even wondered about the possibility that
Megan Foster might have an identical twin sister – stranger things have
happened.

However, you told me that your
Lucy had the third finger of her left hand shorter than the rest, because of an
accident she had as a child. Megan Foster had that selfsame mutilation. This
fact was kept from the general public for obvious reasons, and I only learnt
about it during lengthy discussions with her relatives when I was researching
the book. Jack, you’ve got to agree, one coincidence is fair enough. But, I’m
sorry, two coincidences like that just can’t happen. I checked and double
checked. Your Lucy and Megan Foster would now be exactly the same age. Not only
that but tonight I phoned a contact who used to work in the Home Office.
Obviously he couldn’t tell me any details, he wasn’t supposed to say anything
at all, but since he was no longer employed by the Service he was able to
inform me, very reluctantly when I pressed him, that Megan Foster, under her
new identity, did go to college and studied carpentry after her release.
Apparently her status is a grey area: although she’s no longer considered a
danger to the public, apparently she’s still obliged to report to someone in
the Home Office whenever she moves or takes a new job, and the local police are
kept informed, on a need-to-know basis, of course – meaning perhaps only one
very senior officer in her new locality is informed of her presence, and this
is regarded, naturally, as top-secret information. My contact could not tell me
where she was living at present, and obviously couldn’t tell me her new name.
However, when I asked if she might be living in Canterbury he didn’t demur.

But I think we both know the
truth.

How much do you really know
about Lucy? What has she told you about her past?

Jack, you don’t know how hard
and how dreadful it is to write this letter to you. You know that all I’ve ever
wanted was your happiness. Maybe Lucy has told you about her secret identity,
maybe you’ve been able to forgive her for what she’s done, in which case ignore
this. Maybe there are extenuating circumstances that I don’t know about. And
the justice system isn’t foolproof, as we both know.