Doppelganger (26 page)

He’d been lying, I was sure of
that. Lying, shifty and scared. Yet even if he had admitted that he had treated
Lamelle, all we’d know is that the man had been there, it wouldn’t give any
clue as to where he was now, so it hardly mattered.

Then things came clearer. I
thought back over his conversation, the way, for just a few seconds, his eyes
flicked backwards and forwards.

And I suddenly remembered that
just once, when Stu was talking about Dr Lamelle’s injuries, Dennis’s eyes
flicked upwards quickly, then down again.

Upwards
.

Why did he look upwards?

I closed my eyes to try and
think. Surely Dennis’s flat was on the top floor of the block. Or was it? I
remembered now that there’d been another, much shorter, flight of stairs
leading upwards, above Dennis’s lair.

Where did those steps lead to?

From what I could remember, the
stairs leading up from Hartby’s flat were battered and uncarpeted, the corridor
unpainted, as if that part of the house was derelict. There surely couldn’t be
another flat up there, could there?

There was only one way to find
out.

It was a long shot, but right now
anything was worth checking up on.

I’d seen the massive amount of
blood that Lamelle had lost in the seconds after the gun blew up, the spurting
pulses of it. It was obvious that even if he’d managed to get to someone who
could patch him up, he’d be on the point of collapse, hardly in any fit state
to go anywhere, and aware that if he went to hospital he’d be arrested. What
better solution than to lie low in a filthy nondescript flat, while the police
searched the highways and byways, expecting to find a man in flight or a dead
body?

The upstairs flat
.

I tiptoed upstairs to my spare
bedroom. Caroline was fast asleep, a smile on her face – she’d had most of a
bottle of wine while we’d been talking. Because of the medication the hospital
had given me, I hadn’t touched any alcohol, and the sleep earlier in the day
had refreshed me. She was sleeping so soundly that I couldn’t bear to wake her.
Besides, Dennis’s flat wasn’t far – I simply had to go round there, take a look
and satisfy myself, then I’d come back before she woke up.

I left a note for Caroline, telling
her that I had to go and check up on the flat that Stu and I had been to this
afternoon, and hoped she wouldn’t mind me borrowing her car. That I’d be back
within a couple of hours. I left her my spare front-door key. She was sharing
my house, I was using her car. That seemed right somehow, natural: it was a
good feeling.

Checking my watch, it said ten
o’clock in the evening. Outside the night was fresh and raw, and a fine drizzle
was falling. I breathed deeply, feeling the cold air fresh and sharp, clearing
the muzziness of my headache. I’d taken a big torch with me and wondered
briefly about a weapon, and settled for a heavy metal crowbar. But I wasn’t
planning on tackling Lamelle. Best plan was just to go and look, then call the
police if I found what I was hoping for. As I walked away towards Caroline’s
car, I wondered if I was doing the right thing.

Caroline’s Corsa was a small fast
vehicle, and after checking the map I found Dennis’s flat without difficulty
and parked a short distance away. As I walked through the communal entrance all
was silent and quiet. The door closed behind me, sealing me inside the
miserable squalid building, where faded dark wallpaper nudged the cracks in the
ceiling and the brown carpet was worn practically threadbare. I texted Stu to
tell him where I was, and that I’d let him know if I had any luck. I’d wondered
whether to ask him to come with me right now, but Stu had already done enough
to help me and it was late – this was, after all, just a whim on my part, and the
chances were that it would be a wild goose chase.

Climbing the stairs. The first
floor, then the second and third floor. There was dingy light from above until
I reached the fourth level, where the bare light bulb in the ceiling fitting
didn’t work. But my torch stabbed the gloom and I reached the door to Hartby’s
flat on the fifth. I waited and listened, but the flat was in darkness, no
sliver of light underneath the door, no sounds of a TV or Hi Fi from within.
For every door I passed, I noticed only a couple with a strip of yellow light
at the bottom. Most of the tenants were obviously either tucked up in bed, or
out. Hesitating outside Hartby’s door, I realised that I really didn’t want to
go up that stairway to the right that I remembered from earlier today. I’d had
more than enough confrontations during the past few weeks, and, frankly, the
prospect of coming up against Lamelle was something I’d much rather have
avoided.

And as I climbed the pokey dark
stairway, my stomach churned and I had a really bad feeling. But something
drove me on; I felt as if, after all the blunders I’d made so far, this was one
puzzle I had to solve on my own.

I turned and faced the final
flight of stairs that was virtually in pitch blackness. My torch spiked a
yellow path through the gloom, and I trod slowly, counting ten steps before the
turn, then another five, finally leading to another door. My foot broke through
a rotten floorboard, and I fell sideways, scrabbling against the wall. But I
managed to right myself, and tiptoed past the broken area. Something fast and
furry scurried across my foot, and I shivered in distaste. Then I was at the
top. The door in front of me was different from the others: there was no lock,
and when I tried the handle it gave. I pushed it open.

Stepping over the threshold, a
blast of drizzle and cold night air hit me in the face. Beneath my feet was
concrete, and a dim overhead galley light showed up the roof area.

So it was a mistake: this door
just led to the top of the building, accessible merely for maintenance
purposes. All around this murky, flat roof area was a low parapet wall. Yet
logic dictated if it had all been a roof area, access could only have been
through a trapdoor in the ceiling – this doorway itself had to have its own separate
canopy roof.

It was a large square area. As I
was about to go back from where I’d come, I saw that on the right a wall rose
up, and in this there was a door. So I’d been right all along, there was a
flat, if this dilapidated ruin could be described as such. It was a
single-storey hut, itself built onto part of the roof area. There was a window
beside the door, but no light shining through, nor were there any curtains.

Stepping back into the shadows, I
waited and watched. This miserable hovel looked forgotten and unoccupied,
judging from the windowsill’s peeling paintwork, and the fact that the door was
open a couple of inches. There was graffiti on the wall, spray-can painted
slogans and obscene pictures. The place had to be derelict and empty, yet I couldn’t
help remembering Hartby’s paleness when Stu and I had mentioned Lamelle’s
injuries, and his unmistakeable glance upwards, that only now made might make
sense. I heard the ping sound of my phone, and pulled it from my pocket to read
the text from Caroline:
you shouldn’t have gone without
me. Don’t go
in there alone. Text me the address and I’ll get a cab there and I’ll go in
with you. Wait outside! Love u. C u . Be careful.

I texted her back, typing the
address and saying:
but no need you come I’ll let you know ASAP. Back soon
Luv U2
.

I walked across until I was
outside the door to this, the topmost flat. The drizzle had turned into rain,
soaking into my jacket and blinding me. I hesitated. If Lamelle was in this
dilapidated wreck he was truly desperate, and was likely to stop at nothing.

No lights at all, apart from the
dim murky wash of the roof’s exterior security beam. I took off my shoes to
silence my footsteps. My stockinged feet were immersed in a puddle, and
instantly soaked. As gently as I could, I pushed the door inwards, heart
beating faster, praying for it not to squeak on unoiled hinges. It didn’t. Once
inside I strained to listen for any sounds.

Silence. I was in a narrow
hallway, the torch switched off, held in my left hand, the crowbar in my right.
I waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness, straining to see
shapes. Gradually outlines edged out of the blackness: an open door into a room
straight ahead. To the left another open door, and I could just make out the
outline of a fridge. So one of the other doors had to be to a bedroom.

Tiptoeing to this right-hand
door, I could see that it was open an inch.

Closing my eyes for a second and
trying to control my heartbeat, I concentrated on keeping absolutely still,
absolutely quiet. Straining to listen, I could just about make out the faint
sounds of someone breathing. The noise was coming from the other side of the
wall. Forcing myself on, I knelt down beside the bedroom door, bending to look
through the gap. All I could see was the carpet, a slice of wall and the corner
of a bed.

Praying for luck, I pushed the
door infinitesimally, hoping against hope that the sleeper in the room would
not notice. If he was asleep I was safe. If not...

Pushing the door again, very
slowly, another fraction. It was still no good. But more of the bed was now
visible.

Another inch did it.

There, lying asleep in the bed,
was Dr Roger Lamelle, mouth open, snoring gently, his heavily bandaged right
arm resting on the bedclothes.

All I had to do now was make my
exit without anyone knowing, and then call the police. I turned, heartbeat
drumming in my ears. Took one careful step at a time.

When my phone rang.

I ran back along the tiny
entranceway, back through the flat’s still-open door and out into the drizzle
of the night, hoping he hadn’t heard. I’d made it halfway across the rooftop
when I felt the blow to the back of my head that sent me sprawling.

I managed to get to my knees and
take a swing with the crowbar. It thumped into something soft and there was a
grunt of pain. Roger Lamelle fell back. I stood up and hit him again, missing
his face, but smashing into his collarbone. He grabbed the crowbar and pulled
it so hard that he wrenched it out of my hands. He took a swing, cracking me on
my upper arm, driving me back against the parapet wall. But during his next
one-handed swing I managed to grab it away from him, sending it spinning out
over the low barrier.

We were struggling beside the
periphery wall, and, before I knew what was happening, my back was to the open
air. He was pushing me backwards while I strained to resist. He was forcing me
further and further, kicking at my legs, desperately trying to knock them from
beneath me, so he could tip me out over the parapet and into sheer six-storey
drop. Lightheaded and terrified I felt my torso being pushed further and
further out over the brink, tipping. My feet were sliding across the floor,
while I tried and failed to grab a handhold.

Practically past the point of no
return. My head was so far back the blood was singing in my ears. With the last
dregs of my strength I managed to knock his hands away. I slid downwards and
sideways. Collapsed onto the asphalt surface.

Then we were both rolling around,
punching, kicking and biting. But in the end I was winning. I was on top,
kneeling on his chest, my fist drawn back to smack into his teeth. Which was
when I felt an arm around my neck from behind. Pulling tight, choking and
dragging me backwards to my feet. Lamelle staggered as he stood up, then kicked
me in the groin. His fingertips found my eyes, and he pressed down hard until I
saw stars. Soggy material was pressed against my mouth and I bit fiercely,
realising it had to be his attenuated hand. He screamed in pain and fell back.

“Get him downstairs,” ordered
Lamelle, standing about a foot away, letting his injured arm dangle. I noticed
he was wearing the clothes he’d worn when he’d tried to shoot me, the same
bloodstained shirt and dark trousers, obviously hadn’t changed to go to sleep.
I managed to turn round far enough to see ex-Doctor Dennis Hartby behind me,
his restraining grip surprisingly tight. I was dragged through the rooftop door
and down the two flights of stairs and into Hartby’s flat, Lamelle following us
inside.

Hartby lost no time in tying my
hands behind my back, and pushed me down into a wooden chair, tying my ankles
together. Lamelle watched, toying with a long vicious-looking kitchen knife. He
was panting, clearly out of breath.

“Well that’s it, Roger,” Hartby
said, standing up and walking away from me. “I did you a big favour and this is
how you repay me. You’ve outstayed your bloody welcome. Now I want you out.”

“What about him?” Lamelle said,
pointing to me with the blade of the knife.

“He’s your problem. I helped you
out just now because I didn’t want the police swarming all over the place. I
don’t know what you’ve done and I don’t want to know. But, for me, this is
where it ends. Now.”

Lamelle nodded. “Okay Dennis. But
the thing is, do you realise you’ve just assaulted this guy and he has reasons
for wanting me arrested?” He pointed towards me. “If you let him go he’ll tell
the police you helped me. They’ll come calling here, and you’ll be in the kind
of trouble you can’t talk your way out of. We have to get rid of him.”

“What are you talking about,
get
rid of him!
” Hartby was shouting, his hair dishevelled, his hands waving
around. “I don’t know what you’re mixed up in, but count me out of it. This man
came here uninvited, broke into the empty flat upstairs, so I quite rightly
subdued him. If he goes to the police, that’s what I’ll tell them, since that’s
exactly what happened. You go,
now.
I’ll keep him here for an hour, then
I’ll release him and he can do whatever he wants. You’ll have a head start.”

“Sorry Dennis, but I can’t let
that happen. Sure, I have to get away, but first he has to be silenced.”

Dennis glared at him. “Don’t be
so ridiculous. Just get out of here.
Now. Just go
.”

“Don’t let him go,” I said. “He’s
the Bible Killer. You’re protecting someone who’s murdered at least four
innocent women and is wanted for the attempted murder of another and for my
abduction and attempted murder. By now the police will have got enough evidence
to hold him for trial. Help me now, and I’ll speak up for you. But if you help
him escape you’ll be aiding and abetting a killer. That means a long custodial
sentence.”

“Oh God,” Hartby sat down, wiping
a hand across his eyes. “Why did I get involved in all this? I should have
insisted on calling an ambulance when you came here. I knew I should have done
that.”

“But you wanted the thousand quid
for the patch-up job.” Lamelle snarled.

“I wanted to save your life as a
stopgap until you could get proper help. You were bleeding to death.”

“And you were greedy.”

Dennis sat still, shaking his
head slowly. “If I’d known you were the animal whose been murdering all these
women I’d have gladly let you die.”

“Shut up and pull yourself
together.”

“I’ve never been more together in
my life.”

Dennis was surprisingly agile for
a heavy man, and he’d made it to the door within seconds, and we heard his
footsteps clattering down the stairs.

Lamelle ran after him. I
struggled to my feet and tried to shuffle after them, but I only made it
halfway across the room before I tripped and fell flat on my face, still
attached to the wooden chair. I heard Dennis’s scream, then a thumping sound.

Roger Lamelle came back, the
kitchen knife’s blade covered in blood. He went into the kitchen and rinsed it,
returning a moment later.

“Got a car here?”

I nodded.

“Good. Now, I’m going to untie
your feet and we’re going to walk downstairs, go to your car and you’re going
to drive me away. I’d like nothing better than to kill you now, but as you
see,” He held up his bandaged stump of hand. “I need a chauffeur.”

“That wound’s bleeding badly,” I
observed, as he sliced through the rope around my ankles. “Is it likely to get
infected?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ve heard that septicaemia can
kill you–”

He punched me in the face with
his good hand. Then held the knife against my throat. “So now you’re going to
get up slowly and walk in front of me, out of here and down the stairs.”

“You haven’t got a hope of
getting away. If you give up now, there’s a chance they could re-attach your
fingers.”

“Don’t be so bloody stupid!
What’s the point of having a functioning hand if I have to spend the rest of my
life in prison? Thanks to you they’ll have searched my house by now, I may even
have left DNA at the murder scenes – fact is I sometimes got so excited that I
got carried away – I was at the heights of erotic ecstasy. And I needed
release. I wanted to leave some physical token of myself beside those women. I
didn’t think precautions were necessary, because everything worked perfectly
due to the fact that no one had linked me to any of the murders, so how could
they ever match up my DNA? For God’s sake I was
above suspicion
until
you started interfering.”

“So you’re going to run forever.”

“It’s better than the
alternative. Besides, before I came to intercept you in Wales I took the
precaution of emptying my bank accounts into my secret Swiss account, just in
case something went wrong. And I’ve been working a rather clever scheme for
some time involving a hefty chunk of hospital finances I had control over, and
I’ve managed to channel several millions of NHS funds into my own accounts, as
a precaution against my needing to make a quick getaway like this. I simply
have to hide out, then get the money and I can buy false documents and get out
to Argentina or Brazil. And I happen to know a bit about prosthetic hands –
they can do amazing things these days, computer-controlled devices that can
almost mimic the real thing. I can never practise medicine again, but I’d
decided to retire anyway.”

“You can’t get away.”

“Slobodan Milosevic disappeared
for years, and an
army
was looking for him. He was a doctor too. Police
have limited resources, and a short memory. Plus I’m a chameleon, I can adapt
to any situation. And you forget, I was born lucky.”

It was difficult to walk with the
broad knife blade resting against my throat, Lamelle behind me. When we reached
the bulk of Dennis Hartby’s body I had to weave around it as best I could on
the narrow staircase. Lamelle quickly cut the bonds holding my hands behind my
back, seizing one arm and twisting upwards, and returning the butcher's knife
blade across my throat.

As we approached the entrance
lobby the door opened and Caroline entered. When she saw me coming, Lamelle’s
knife held against my throat, she screamed and ran forwards.

“No closer!” Lamelle yelled.

“Get back, Caroline,” I called,
my throat’s movement causing the blade to press into my neck. I worked out the
chances of reaching up with my one free hand, but knew that my throat would be
slit within a second if I tried. “He’ll cut my throat.”

“Yes I will do that, Caroline,”
Lamelle yelled. “Do as he says.”

As if in a trance she moved
slowly backwards out of the door and we followed.

Outside on the pavement, it had
stopped raining. It was completely deserted. Tears were forming in Caroline’s
eyes as she stared at the knife against my neck. I felt it bite into the flesh
once more.

“Where’s your car?” Lamelle
asked.

“Across here.”

“Wait a minute,” he said, eyeing
Caroline and talking to her. “I’ve had a better idea. You’re going to drive me
– not him.”

“No!” I protested.

The knife pressed harder.

“I make the decisions.
She
drives me
. You stay here. You won’t alert the police, because you know I
won’t hesitate to kill her if I see a police car on my tail.”

“Who’ll drive you then if you
kill her?”

“I’ll continue on foot. At least
I’ll be well away from here.”

“Yes.” Caroline stepped forward.
“Let him go. I’ll drive you. But if you use that knife on him I won’t.”

“But he’s the Bible Killer,” I
shouted desperately. “
He enjoys killing women!
”

“I’m driving you,” she said,
walking in front of me, and staring Lamelle in the eyes. “Let him go. I’ll do
whatever you want, but
let him go!
”

In that moment I realised she
knew what she was risking. She could easily have walked away, refused to drive
and let us go off, but she was tougher than that. And she was prepared to risk
her life for me.

“Caroline, run, run now, forget
about me – he won’t kill me yet, he needs someone to drive him–”

“I will kill you in a flash,
Jack. As you say, my chances of escape are diminishing by the minute and I may
as well go down in a blaze of glory.”

“I told you,” Caroline said
slowly, staring into the beast’s eyes. “If you kill him I won’t drive this car.
You’ll be stranded here on your own.”

Lights were going on in the flats
beside and above us, someone opened a window. A man was looking down at us,
calling over his shoulder. Behind us, I could hear footsteps running down the stairs
and calling up that there was a body. The police would be on their way in
minutes, and Roger Lamelle knew it.

There was nothing I could do to
stop them leaving. When we arrived at Caroline’s car, she took the keys from my
pocket, unlocked the doors and got in the driver’s seat, all the time watched
by Lamelle, who still held the knife to my throat. When she started the engine,
he opened the passenger door and kicked me forwards so I fell to my knees, and
then he leapt into the passenger seat. When I got to my feet and tried to grab
the door and stop it shutting, he kicked me in the face and slammed the door.
As the car roared off I caught a glimpse of the knife’s point pressed into the
side of her chest.

Kneeling in the gutter I knew
that I’d never see Caroline again. He’d taken her because he knew he was
finished, and he could enjoy the pleasure of one last killing.

I got to my feet. The car’s brake
lights were receding in the distance.

Then I remembered Hartby, whose
body was lying on the stairs.

It was a long shot, but it was a
chance. There was a row of cars parked in the road, any one of which might
belong to the late doctor.

So I ran back into the house,
ignoring the people who were standing ineffectually above, staring down,
calling out questions, glaring at me. I knelt beside Hartby’s body and felt in
his pocket, and pulled out a set of keys. There was a black fob, and a key
inscribed with the word Audi.

Back in the street. I pressed the
button on the black fob. At once a grey Audi’s hazard lights flashed twice and
there was the familiar click click of unlocking doors.

I raced round to the driver’s
door, jumped in, started the engine, pulled the automatic car’s gearbox into
drive and roared away.