The Case of the Deadly Doppelgänger

by Lucy Banks

  “Tea and two sugars, love!” Mike called after her.

  Miss Wellbeloved guided Ribero to the threadbare sofa, then eased him gently down. “What happened?” she asked as she perched on the desk next to him. “I thought this job was an easy one?”

  “Ah!” Ribero exclaimed, throwing his hands theatrically upwards as though waging war against the ceiling itself. “This woman, she was a crazy old bat, yes?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Yes, I do. A crazy bat. Turns out this spirit she kept seeing was her dressing gown.”

  Mike snorted, then hastily transformed it into a cough.

  “How on earth can someone think their dressing gown is a spirit?” Miss Wellbeloved asked, frowning. “I mean, the two are rather different.”

  “Yes, one floats around a lot and makes a nuisance of itself, the other . . . er . . . doesn’t?” Kester added. Serena tittered loudly.

  “You would think so, yes?” Ribero continued as he swept his hands through his perfectly waxed hair. “But no, this silly woman, she thinks that her dressing gown is a ghost, so she goes to the effort of hiring a supernatural agency to get rid of it. What am I meant to do, eh?”

  “Take the dressing gown to the charity shop?” Mike suggested. “That should solve the problem.”

  “I suppose that means she won’t pay us?” Miss Wellbeloved said, rubbing her forehead.

  Ribero nodded. “Another afternoon wasted. I am sick of these false call-outs. They are driving me mad.”

  Pamela trundled out, a tray full of steaming mugs wobbling precariously in her hands. “Thought you’d all like a brew,” she said, presenting each mug like a trophy. “Nothing like a cup of tea or coffee to make you feel better.”

  Ribero grunted, then slurped morosely at his drink, glaring into space.

  Kester frowned. He could see how irritated his father was. Pent-up frustration oozed out of his pores like oil, marring his smooth, suave demeanour. Despite his age, Dr Ribero still remained a handsome man and retained much of his youthful Argentinian charm. But at present, he was starting to show his age, his frown creating deep furrows in his forehead and around his eyes.

  “That’s the third time-waster this month, isn’t it?” Kester commented as he sipped at his tea. He was disappointed to note that Pamela had only put one or two sugars in it, despite the fact that he himself had asked everyone to help him cut back a bit. Three or four sugars are so much more satisfying, he thought with a tinge of gloom. So far, his efforts to diet had failed to reduce his gut by any noticeable margin, though at times, his trousers did feel a little looser. Probably just hopeless optimism, he thought with a sigh.

  “Yes!” Ribero agreed. “You are right, three time-wasters! And here we are, an award-winning agency, dealing with this silliness! It is not right, no?”

  “We were only nominated for the award, we didn’t actually win,” Miss Wellbeloved corrected. “However,” she added hastily as she caught his stormy expression, “you’re absolutely right. Being nominated for a GhostCon award is no small thing, and we shouldn’t be expected to deal with mad women who think that their nightwear is supernatural.”

  “Right,” Ribero concluded with a mutinous nod. He looked around the office and eyed each of them in turn. “And what have you been doing while we have been working hard, eh?”

  “I’ve been working on our bid for the Dorchester job,” Serena said, clambering out of her seat. “Quite frankly, I don’t see how the government could resist. It’s open-bid, and I saw what Larry Higgins was charging. Extortionate as ever. Nearly as much as Infinite Enterprises, in fact.”

  “Bloody Larry Higgins,” Ribero muttered darkly. “I do not want to hear about the Higgins. You submit that bid and make sure we get the job, okay?”

  Serena nodded. “Consider it done,” she purred, crossing one leather-clad leg over the other as she folded herself back into the chair.

  “So, what have the rest of you been doing, eh?” Ribero enquired as he drained the dregs of his coffee with a loud smack of the lips. “Working hard? Winning new projects?”

  Miss Wellbeloved looked over at Mike and Kester, who both squirmed under her iron gaze.

  “Just doing a bit of research,” Kester squeaked, pointing at his laptop as though its mere presence would verify his claim.

  “No, you haven’t!” Serena squealed. “Unless ‘research’ constitutes seeing how many times you can get a scrunched-up bit of paper into the bin.”

  “That was only for a few minutes!” Kester snapped.

  “If by ‘a few minutes’ you mean twenty-seven minutes, then yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “My goodness, you were actually timing us?” Kester stared at her in disbelief. Serena made no reply, only nodded again with infuriating self-satisfaction. She really is a rotten git at times, he thought.

  “Hmm, that does not sound like research to me,” Dr Ribero commented, glancing at his son. “It sounds like you were doing the pillock thing, yes?”

  Kester paused, then hung his head in defeat. “Yes, I was doing the pillock thing,” he agreed before adding, “but Mike was too!”

  “Oh, cheers mate!”

  “Too much pillocking around and not enough work,” Ribero muttered, then rose to a standing position. Placing his hands on his hips, he awarded both of the young men with the full force of his thunderous South American glare. Kester and Mike quailed, shifting in their seats.

  “Well, I’m sure another job will come up soon,” Miss Wellbeloved said. She leaned over and patted Ribero on the arm. “There’s no point everyone getting cross, is there?”

  “Actually, here’s a new job that sounds quite interesting,” Serena announced, popping her head over the monitor. “And it’s quite local—over in Lyme Regis.”

  “Oh, I do like Lyme Regis,” Pamela chimed as she waved her mug in the air. “Lovely antiques centre. I always find a good bargain there.”

  “When did the job come in?” Mike asked, leaning over Serena and peering at the screen.

  “Only an hour ago, by the looks of it,” she replied. “It’s on the national list too, so it’s a good one.”

  “Good, I am done with the regional list for now,” Ribero said, giving his thigh a resounding slap to emphasise the point. “Too many ladies with dressing gowns, not enough real work. What is this job, Serena? Read the brief, please.”

  Serena cleared her throat, evidently pleased with the attention. They gathered around her like pigs at a trough, all eyes fixed on the screen.

  “It’s close to Marine Parade,” she began. “That’s right next to the beach, isn’t it?”

  “Oh wonderful, that’s close to the antiques centre,” Pamela said, clapping her hands. “Very convenient.”

  “Yes, yes, enough with the antiques!” Ribero snapped. “What is the case?”

  Serena narrowed her eyes. “Sounds rather vague,” she said. “Woman dead, husband claims that she saw herself before she died. Don’t know what that’s all about.”

  “Saw herself?” Miss Wellbeloved echoed. “What does that mean?”

  “That’s all it says. The husband was woken in the night, heard his wife saying she could see herself, then in the morning, he found her dead. Apparently, it’s the fourth time this has happened in the town—all four cases were within the last six months.”

  “What, did she spot herself in the mirror or something?” Mike said, giving his beard a thoughtful scratch.

  “I think if she’d merely seen herself in the mirror it wouldn’t be regarded as a supernatural case,” Miss Wellbeloved retorted. “It sounds like some sort of doppelgänger spirit to me.”

  “I am not so sure of that,” Ribero replied. “Doppelgängers don’t kill people.”

  Miss Wellbeloved nodded. “That’s true. They’re normally passive spirits.”

  “Hang on,�
�� Kester interrupted, putting his empty mug down. “Can someone please tell me what a doppelgänger is?”

  Miss Wellbeloved sighed. “Have you read the spirit encyclopaedia we gave you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Kester said defensively. “I’m a complete expert on poltergeists, banshees, nixies, and Grey Ladies now. I’ve just haven’t read the doppelgänger bit yet. I’ve heard the word before, but what is it?”

  “It is a German word. Your mother did not mention it, no?” Ribero asked.

  “No,” Kester said. “Just because mum was German, doesn’t mean she told me about spirits that happened to have German names, funnily enough.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Serena interrupted and slapped the desk hard. “Look, doppelgänger translates into two German words. ‘Doppel’ means double. ‘Gänger’ means goer or walker. So it’s a double-walker. A double of yourself. Get it?”

  “Like a spirit twin?”

  “Yes, that is right!” Ribero twinkled. He pounded Kester on the back and knocked his glasses askew. “A spirit twin. Just so.”

  Kester prodded his glasses up his nose before gazing at the screen. “So, there’s some evil twin spirit lurking around Lyme Regis, causing people to snuff it?”

  “Sounds like it,” Mike concluded. “Only thing is, have we got the capacity to cope with a killer spirit? That’s a bit above our level, isn’t it?”

  Dr Ribero swung his head around and fixed Mike with a tiger-like glare. “I do not see why not,” he barked. “We handled the Bloody Mary spirit, didn’t we? The case that we won an award for?”

  “Nominated, not won,” Miss Wellbeloved corrected.

  “I’d hardly say we handled it,” Mike retorted, massaging his shoulders. “Serena ended up in hospital and the rest of us were thrown around the room like beach-balls. I’ve still got problems with my neck after that.”

  Kester shuddered. He remembered the occasion well. The Bloody Mary had been his first real case: a vicious, ancient creature hidden in a Victorian portrait of a green-dressed lady, painted by a local artist named Robert Ransome. It had been a hair-raising experience, and he’d only just managed to get her through the spirit door in time. Rather more alarmingly, it was the first and only time that he’d managed to successfully use his talent as a door-opener to the spirit realm—and he was starting to think that he’d lost the ability to do it.

  “Let’s not forget Mike nearly burnt the house down,” Serena added.

  “Not this again,” Mike groaned. “Seriously woman, you love the fact that I accidentally singed their wallpaper a bit, don’t you?”

  “You didn’t just singe the wallpaper, their sofa ended up a pile of ashes after you’d finished with it. Not to mention their expensive Persian rug.”

  “Well, I had to get rid of the portrait somehow, didn’t I, smart-arse? While you were unconscious, some of us had work to do.”

  “That’s quite enough,” Miss Wellbeloved interrupted. She turned to Ribero, pursing her thin lips together so tightly that they formed a singular line. “Do you really think we can cope with a murderous spirit?” she asked. “Obviously, we haven’t read the full file yet, but the brief suggests this is a complex case.”

  “Ah, we will be fine,” Ribero breezed, grasping her by the shoulders. He smiled. “We will bid on it, bid nice and low, and hopefully we will win it, yes, Jennifer?”

  Miss Wellbeloved frowned. “If you say so,” she said with a watery smile of her own. “We should think strategically, though. I don’t want us getting into hot water again, we must keep building our reputation. And don’t bid too low,” she added hastily. “We need the money.”

  “You can guarantee whatever we bid, Larry Higgins will bid far higher,” Mike said.

  “Yes, but he’s still getting a lot of work,” Miss Wellbeloved said. “They’ve invested in an additional office; they’re doing very well indeed.”

  Ribero growled like a rabid dog. “Do not mention the Higgins in here!” he said, jabbing a finger in the air. “I am about to go for my afternoon siesta, and I do not want to dream of Higgins.” He turned, spinning on a polished heel, before looking over his shoulder at them all. “And when I wake up, I want to hear that you all have been working hard. None of this throwing the paper into the bin silliness, okay?”

  “He’s a bit late for his nap today, isn’t he?” Mike muttered as the door to Ribero’s private office clicked shut.

  Miss Wellbeloved gave a wry smile, then ushered them all back to their desks. “He needs his sleep,” she said. “He’s very tired at the moment. Serena, Pamela, can you prepare a bid for that doppelgänger job?”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea?” Pamela asked. “Much as I love Lyme Regis, I’m not so happy about trying to control a murdering spirit. It’s a bit out of my comfort zone.”

  Miss Wellbeloved sighed, then shrugged. “It’s what we’ve been told to do,” she said. “And Dr Ribero is right. We need the money. The more jobs the other supernatural agencies keep winning, the less we win. We need more regular work.” Walking to her desk, she paused and gave Kester a significant nod. “Besides,” she added, “we’ve got our very own spirit door-opener here. And that’s a big thing.”

  Kester slunk behind his camping table, trying to hide his concern. He knew that the others had high expectations of him. Since he’d managed to force the Bloody Mary back into the spirit world, the others looked upon his ability as the key to the agency’s survival.

  The dreadful thing is, he thought as he switched on his laptop to start researching doppelgängers, I don’t have any control over it. I’ve only seen the spirit door a handful of times, and I’ve only used it to get rid of a spirit once. I’m not even sure I can do it anymore.

  Ignoring the niggling worry, he buried himself in his research. If there was one thing guaranteed to soothe his nettled nerves, it was discovering facts. Kester loved nothing more than to root around in old texts or snoop around online to discover little-known websites.

  Browsing through a few sites, he swiftly found plenty of information on doppelgängers. Most of it was contradictory, as was often the way with the supernatural. Some sites seemed to suggest that the spirits were completely harmless. Others stated that they were harbingers of bad luck. They had a rich, fascinating history dating back to ancient Egyptian times, when they’d been referred to as ka, or spirit-doubles.

  In fact, Kester became so absorbed in his reading that he hardly noticed his father emerging from the office an hour and a half later, his traditional post-siesta cigarette simmering between his fingers.

  “Have you written up a bid for that job?” he barked at Serena, forgoing any niceties.

  “Certainly have,” Serena replied efficiently. She swung around on her chair and flexed her stilettoes. “Pamela and I got it sent over half an hour ago. Hopefully they’ll review all offers fairly quickly; it sounds like an urgent job.”

  “Good,” Ribero said with satisfaction. He smoothed down his moustache, which had puffed up into two alarming bushy brushes during his nap, then glanced at the clock. “We may as well close early today. Nothing else to do but wait, right?”

  “Excellent! Time for a pint!” Mike chimed, rubbing his hands together. “Who’s joining me?”

  “Are you buying?” Pamela said playfully as she squeezed herself out of her chair.

  “Certainly not.”

  “Oh, go on then. Where are you headed? The Fat Pig?” She eased herself into her brightly coloured coat, which was vaguely reminiscent of a garish circus tent.

  “Count me out, I’ve got work to carry on with this evening,” Serena said primly.

  “Not a problem, you weren’t counted in anyway,” Mike replied.

  “You might find you do better in your career if you worked more and drank less.”

  Mike scoffed loudly, then folded his arms across his chest—a pose
that made him look exactly like a Canadian lumberjack. “I’m writing a book on the best draught ales in the southwest. This is research.”

  “Getting so paralytic that you fall off a bar stool is not research, Mike.”

  Kester swung his satchel over his shoulder, nearly knocking over his precarious camping table in the process. His father sidled over to him, smoothly as a cheetah prowling the savannah.

  “We should get you a new desk, yes?”

  Kester gave the camping table a tentative prod. It gave a weak shudder in response. “That would be rather useful,” he replied with a grin.

  “I will walk back with you today,” Ribero continued. He reached over and plucked a piece of fluff off Kester’s collar. “We can chat, okay?”

  “Er . . . yes, of course,” Kester replied, wondering what his father wanted. Normally, Ribero avoided his house like the plague. Kester had moved into rented accommodation ten weeks ago, and now shared a home with two other people—a slightly mad woman with bright red hair called Daisy and a man with a penchant for tie-dyed shirts who referred to himself as “Pineapple”. Kester didn’t blame Ribero for not wanting to get on speaking terms with either of them. He wasn’t overly fond of talking with them himself, to be honest.

  “I’ll walk with you to the bus stop at the end of your road. I will not come in, though. I don’t like the cups of tea that you make. They taste of soap.”

  “That’s because Daisy always forgets to rinse the mugs properly,” Kester said apologetically as he trotted after his father. “I wouldn’t mind so much, but she also likes using that organic eucalyptus washing-up liquid, which tastes particularly vile.”

  Ribero snorted loudly to demonstrate his contempt for anyone who would choose to use organic eucalyptus washing-up liquid, then ushered Kester down the stairs and out into the brisk autumn air.

  “So, I want to talk to you about something serious,” Ribero began without any preamble.

  “Gosh.” Kester suddenly felt rather anxious. What have I done this time? he wondered irrationally. Did I accidentally mess up on a job without even realising it? It wouldn’t be the first time.