Doppelganger (16 page)

But I was so miserable and
desperate that I knew sleep wouldn’t come. I rested for half an hour at the
service station and had two cups of coffee in the restaurant, feeling for a few
moments that maybe it would have been better if Sean Boyd’s hit man had
finished me off the night before last. Lucy was right: I’d always thought of
myself as having courage, but in this one important thing, my relationship with
the woman I thought that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, I had
behaved despicably.

Then I got back into the car, put
the seat back and tried to rest some more. However, I was wired and desperate
and weary – too weary to sleep. My thoughts just kept spinning round and round
in circles.

I was a writer who prided myself
on facing up to dangerous situations, yet I didn’t even have the nerve to
confront my girlfriend over something vitally important. There were plenty of
words for it: nerve, guts, courage, bottle. I could face an armed killer, but I
couldn’t tell the woman I loved what was on my mind.

Maybe that meant I didn’t really
love her?

And Sean Boyd was going to kill
me if he could. Lucy didn’t care – in fact she wanted me dead.

Of course, in view of the
contract I knew that was out on my life, in hindsight it was a ridiculous
mistake to drive back to my house in Canterbury, but right then I hardly cared
about my own safety, was just lost in misery. Everything had gone wrong, and
nothing in my life made sense. I just wanted to limp back home, to try and hide
and make some sense of all the mistakes I’d made in the past few days. And most
of all I wanted to see my house again, collect my post, return to some kind of
normality. My mobile rang and it was Ann Yates. Although I’d never confided in
her before, I did so now, telling her everything. She listened, interrupting
only now and again. She strongly advised me not to go back to Canterbury, but
to go straight down to Llantrissant Manor and into hiding, but I was adamant
that I wanted to nip back home quickly to collect some papers and see my house
again.

After Sean Boyd’s recent attempt
on my life, he was hardly likely to try again so soon, was he?

I drove right through the night,
must have pulled into another service station and dozed for a few hours, though
even now I can’t remember doing it. So when I reached the outskirts of
Canterbury it was 6am. The sun was high in the cerulean cloudless sky, one of
those rare winter days that feel like summer. My own road through the woods. My
house. I’d go inside, and perhaps I would, at last, be able to sleep properly
if I drank myself into oblivion first.

 Luckily, when I saw the big
black Saab parked at the end of the road, my sixth sense of preservation kicked
in.

Something was wrong
.

I made a turn and drove back and
returned a second time. I passed the Saab, moving slowly, keenly aware that I
might be driving into danger.

When I caught sight of my house,
that was when I knew I was in trouble. I caught movement behind the downstairs
net curtains.

I wasn’t imagining it. There was
someone in my front room.

And before I knew what was
happening I heard a shout from inside the house. Then I saw two men running
down my front drive towards my car.

One of them was Sean Boyd.

Boyd himself had clearly decided
that this time he was determined there were not going to be any mistakes. He
was handling my killing personally.

Stepping on the gas.

I roared down the steep road,
clipping the Saab’s front wing as I passed, then tore ahead onto the main road,
as I heard the other car’s engine start.

From the corner of my eye I saw
the black car catch me up effortlessly. I accelerated along the road, dialling
999 on my hands-free. In the nearside wing mirror I could see a rifle pointing
out from the side window of the other car. I heard the sharp crack of gunfire.

I shouted to the police operator
what was happening, and gave them my position, assuring her that there was a
firearm and it had already been discharged. Then I felt a crashing and a jerk,
as the Saab smashed into the back of my car, shunting me forwards. Another
gunshot. I felt a rush of air above my head as the rear windscreen blew out.

For a few moments I gunned the
accelerator, rocking backwards and forwards, desperately trying to break free
from the other car, but it felt like the tow ball must have jammed under the
Saab’s front bumper. I rammed the gear lever down to second gear, jerked up the
clutch and stamped on the gas, until with a jangling, tearing noise, I broke
free. Another gunshot. There was a sharp sting in my ear lobe and blood
spattered onto my chest.

I was accelerating fast, gaining
ground. And when I saw the narrow side turning I didn’t hesitate. Screeching
almost to a standstill, I made the turn at the last possible moment.

The black car followed. In my
wing mirror I saw smoke streaming into the sky as they braked for the turn. And
in the rear-view mirror I could see Sean Boyd in the passenger seat. His face
was flushed and murderous. His hands were pressing shells into the breech of a
pump-action shotgun: it was the kind of weapon that could, literally, tear your
head apart, or else virtually rip it off your shoulders.

Faster and faster. In the
distance I could hear the sirens of police cars, just as I heard the next blast
from the shotgun. We’d travelled a long way now, and they were still keeping
up, closing the gap all the time.

And then I remembered Danson’s
Quarry. The place where I’d played as a child. Just up here to the right.

The Saab crashed into my car
again, the jolt sending me forwards. I unfastened the seatbelt and ducked down.
A microsecond later, seeing the windscreen above my head splinter into
fragments, glass droplets raining down like snow. Again I accelerated away,
moving faster, managing to squeeze space between us. There was a loud
clattering sound and a stream of sparks in my mirror. The following car’s
bumper had torn partly free, and was dragging on the road.

Had to keep my nerve. The turn
off for Danson’s was along here somewhere.

Then I saw it. The old blue
factory building on the corner. Derelict windows like blank eye-sockets drawing
me on. I took the left turn, Boyd’s car roaring up behind. I saw Sean Boyd take
aim again. Ducked just before he fired. This time the scatter of lead went
wild, tearing off my wing mirror.

Not long now. The road swooped
down into a dip, then climbed steeply. The car was flying. Upwards and on.

I was dimly aware of flashing
blue lights in the distance, and hearing the screaming sirens. They would know
about Danson’s, surely? Everyone local knew about the old quarry. I could only
hope that Sean Boyd did not.

And there it was, up ahead.
Innocent white picket fence. Not even a sturdy post to block the way. I waited
until it was a moment before the last second. Then tore the wheel to the right.
My car left the road. Crashed through a garden fence, churning up gravel, grass
and mud in a tidal wave as I braked. When I finally stopped, my front wing had
stopped one inch from the wall of the house.

The Saab tried to make the turn,
but couldn’t manage it in time. Just as I’d hoped. It couldn’t stop.

As I pulled myself out of the car
I watched the black vehicle hurtling on, veering sideways slightly, sparks
flying, unable to halt before it crashed through the white fence, out of sight.
I ran across to the cliff edge. In time to see the Saab come to rest on its
side, twenty feet down on the rocks below.

Smoke was billowing upwards from
the wreck. But there was movement. It looked as if the passenger’s door was
opening. From a long way behind I could hear police car sirens getting closer.

The front windscreen was missing,
and through the gap the front part of the man’s face appeared at the opening
crack of the driver’s door, his body apparently squashed against the inflated
airbag.

I caught a glimpse of liquid
pulsing from the fractured fuel line, the strong gasoline smell rising up
towards me. It must have been a spark from something electrical that flashed
the vapour alight.

For a few seconds there was a
sheen of yellow flame hovering above the wreck that the two men were escaping
from. Then a loud popping noise.

Behind me I could hear the police
cars screeching to a halt. A door slammed.

The flames leapt high,
obliterating the driver’s wriggling torso and head. Tracking upwards and across
the car’s chassis.

“Get back mate, it’s going to
blow!” yelled the policeman who’d arrived at that moment.

Grabbing me around the waist he
pulled me backwards. I caught sight of the wall of flame and heard the bang.
The fire had reached the enclosed petrol in the tank, and the vapour inside had
caught light. When the second explosion arrived, the eruption was as loud as a
bomb, heat, sparks and ashes surging upwards like a wall. Showers of burning
fragments blew upwards, well above where I was standing, landing like confetti
on the grass. I can still remember the harsh choking stench of sizzling metal
and meat, the singe as red-hot sparks branded my neck.

*
* * *

“Tell me again.”

DCI Fulford happened to be on
duty the night they brought me in for questioning. It was unfortunate that the
man who already disliked me was in charge of unravelling the aftermath of the
death of one man and the disappearance of the other after their car plunged
down onto the rocks of Danson’s Quarry.

“Sean Boyd had threatened to kill
me if I went on and wrote the book about him,” I explained for the third time.
“You’ll have a record of when I reported his threats.”

“Indeed we have sir,” Fulford
replied, rubbing a hand through his tousled mane of jet-black hair. “But from
eye witness accounts of my own officers, it seems you deliberately led the
vehicle to the cliff edge in the hope he’d drive off it.”

I said nothing.

“Did you think we’d slap you on
the back, say good on you mate, they were gangsters, you’ve done us all a wee
favour? I tell you Dr Lockwood, however naïve you might be, it doesnae work
like that.”

“What exactly is the charge
against me?”

“Dangerous driving, driving
without due care and attention, wilful damage to property. And possibly murder.
Take your pick.”

“Sean Boyd was firing at me with
a pump-action shotgun.”

“We know that.”

“Well then.”

“Well then what?”

“I was being pursued by armed
criminals who were firing at me, intent on killing me. In a state of blind
panic I didn’t think where I was going. Just drove along at random, taking
turns wherever I thought I had a chance of shaking them off. I ended up at
Danson’s Quarry, but I didn’t mean to go there. When I realised where I was I
made the turn off the road at the last minute.”

“And that’s your story and you’re
sticking to it?”

“Yes.”

“And when my officer came up
behind you, you were looking down at the wreck. Why was that?”

“I was hoping to be able to try
and rescue them.”

He smiled and clapped his hands
in mock salute. “Are you aware, Dr Lockwood, that when a car comes to grief and
petrol pours out of the tank, in most cases, it simply just drains away.” The
Scotsman made a waving gesture with his fingers. “It’s no always an instant
inferno, it isnae like in the films. There’s always a wee bit of danger of
course, that’s why the fire brigade arrive and hose it down, just in case a
spark from the battery or from metal glancing against rock sets it off.”

“So?”

“It’s the
petrol vapour that
catches light, not the petrol itself
. Of course, as I say, any spark could
set it off. But in most cases it doesn’t.”

“Really?”

“Really. And the battery, as well
as most of the places where an electric spark could come from would be under
the bonnet, at the front of the vehicle.”

“Yes?”

“When a car is on its roof, the
petrol pours out from the tank, as well as possibly the fuel lines if they
ruptured. But most of it comes from the tank. So when a car has settled, on its
side, we wouldn’t normally expect it to catch fire.”

“Is that so?”

“Unless someone dropped a lighter
or a match into the leaking petrol.”

“I doubt if a match would stay
alight if it was dropped from above.”

“Oh aye? Thought crossed your
mind then?”

“No. I’m just applying logic.”

“Sean Boyd’s driver was very
unlucky. From the position of the body, it looks as if he’d almost managed to
climb free of the wreck.”

“He nearly made it. What a
shame.”

“Dinna get smart with me,
Lockwood.” Fulford leaned forward, fists clenched, eyes blazing, so close that
I could smell his sweat. “And dinna imagine you’re above the law.” He eyed me
for a long time, then glanced down at his notes. “Do you smoke?”

“No.”

He nodded slowly. “Yet we found a
book of matches in your pocket.” He stared at me. “Planning to start smoking
were you?”

I sighed. “It belongs to a
friend. She left it on the table and I picked it up.”

“Did ye now? A rather less
unlikely explanation might be that you had it with you to drop into the leaking
petrol, in case it didn’t catch light. Or you set fire to a newspaper that you
then dropped down onto the wreck.”

“That’s ridiculous. Ask the
officer who came up behind me. There was no time for that. Besides, how could I
have known I was going to be ambushed?”

“Mebbe you planned the whole
thing?”

I said nothing. There were a few
moments of silence during which Fulford must have realised how crazy his
premise sounded. “Which reminds me,” he went on. “Last Wednesday evening, two
days ago, a man was shot to death in Carnell Street. A small-time gangster, a
known associate of members of Sean Boyd’s circles.”

“So?”

“We did not find a weapon, or
anything much to give us an idea of who might have been responsible. There was
a Beretta handgun which had been fired recently, but the only handprints on it
belonged to the deceased.”

“Sounds like an underworld
dispute,” I said.

“In Canterbury? This isnae
Brixton or Peckham in London, or Moss Side in Manchester, this is a peaceful
cathedral town! The worst trouble we normally get is the university students
getting pissed and fooling around. We’re not used to gang warfare.”

“Times change.”

“Which brings me back to my
point. We found some CCTV footage of the moments before it happened. A man
being pursued by this hired killer. The man was the same height and build as
you.”

I said nothing.

“And the handgun belonging to the
murdered man was found at the bottom of some steps leading to a cellar. Just
below there we found some blood. A different blood group to that of the
murdered guy.”

Then I remembered: the wound to
the back of my hand. I had bled quite a lot that night.

“Would you have any objection to
giving us a sample of your DNA, Mr Lockwood?”

“None at all.” I had no choice.
Refusal would have made me look even more guilty. All I could hope was that
he’d been bluffing.

After three hours they let me go,
having taken a long detailed statement. The one good thing that happened
afterwards was that the local garage was able to fix my car so it was driveable
– the front wing was damaged, but the lights were repaired. I’d already
contacted my motor insurance, and where I stood regarding costs for the damage
to the house and its fence, I had no idea, but there was no point in worrying.

As I pulled up outside my house I
was on the point of exhaustion. Of course there was a risk going back to my
house after what had happened, but Sean Boyd was hardly likely to attack me so
soon again after the day’s occurrences. Besides, there were so many police in
the area after the event, they would be crazy to strike again so soon. Maybe,
at long last, they’d finally give up. There was a woman sitting in a car
outside, and when I walked up the front path, she opened the door and got out.

“Mr Lockwood?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“I’m Caroline Lawrence. Do you
remember me?”

I hadn’t seen Caroline, the woman
whom I’d nearly run over when she was running away from the Bible Killer, since
the night I’d been to the hospital on my abortive attempt to visit her, the
night when I’d first met Lucy. It seemed like an eternity away.

She was wearing a long brown coat
with a fur collar. Her face was as I remembered it: fairly unremarkable except
for very dark eyes, accentuated by mascara, beneath the fringe of silky blonde
hair. Regular features, the nose slightly longer than you might expect,
slightly pointed, and curiously attractive, though I’d not noticed before.