The Case of the Deadly Doppelgänger

by Lucy Banks

  “Oh, no,” said Ribero, rising to his feet with the severity of a seismic tectonic plate. “Oh no, no, no. No. Absolutely not. This is a joke, right, Serena? You are trying to be witty, yes?”

  “Er, no. I’m telling the truth. We’ve got to work with Larry Higgins.”

  Dr Ribero let out a noise that was the perfect hybrid of exploding steam train and hysterical hyena. He clasped his hair, then shook his head wildly. “Absolutely not!” he shouted suddenly, waving his umbrella into the air and nearly knocking down the ceiling light in the process. “There is no way on earth that I am working with the Higgins! Never!”

  He started to storm out of the shop, but he was bounced back like an elastic band by Miss Wellbeloved, who had nimbly grabbed him by the back of his coat.

  “Don’t be so silly,” she said crossly before pushing him firmly back down on the sofa. “You really do fly off the handle sometimes, don’t you?” She turned back to Serena, who was looking more nervous by the second. “What else did the email say?”

  Serena gulped. “Not much, really. Just that both tenders had been accepted, and that we were advised to speak directly to Larry Higgins to sort out a day we can meet and find out the details. Apparently, the case is quite a complex one—it was originally a regional, but it has been upgraded to a national, due to its severity.”

  “Hang on, if it was a regional, why didn’t we automatically get it?” Pamela asked. “Dorset is normally our area, isn’t it?”

  Miss Wellbeloved shrugged. “Who knows anymore?” she said with a mournful look. “Unless the case is actually here in Exeter, nothing seems guaranteed.”

  “Anyway, ladies, you are all missing the point, I think,” Ribero interrupted. “We will not be taking this job. There is no way I will ever work with Larry Higgins, and that is the end to it, okay?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Miss Wellbeloved snapped. “I would say it’s about time you got over this silly squabble you have with Larry. He’s a perfectly pleasant man.”

  “He has the personality of . . . how do you say it? A slug. That is it. A slug. He is a worm of a man.”

  “He looks a bit like a massive slug too, doesn’t he?” Mike added. “A bit like Jabba the Hutt. About as self-important too.”

  Miss Wellbeloved sighed. “Yes, thank you for that, Mike. There’s no denying Larry Higgins can be a little full of himself at times, but he’s really not a bad person. And this silly fight needs to come to an end. Honestly, you’ve been at war with him for decades, Julio!”

  Dr Ribero folded his arms furiously, looking rather like a tantrumming toddler, despite his greying hair and wrinkles.

  “Why do you hate him so much?” Kester asked. “Apart from him being like a slug and a worm, I mean.”

  Ribero snorted. Miss Wellbeloved sighed. “We were all at university together,” she explained. “Julio and Larry studied the same course. Dr Ribero is convinced that Larry Higgins stole his thesis idea; he hasn’t forgiven him since.”

  “He did steal my idea!” Ribero exploded as he slammed his fist against the sofa. “And he won the prize for most innovative student! That is why he has done so well, yes? On my idea! Mine! All his success, everything he has today, it was because he stole my idea, yes?”

  “Was it definitely yours?” Pamela asked doubtfully.

  Ribero fixed her with a glare so filled with righteous rage that she shrank visibly back into the sofa.

  “Well, don’t you think it’s finally time to let that go?” Miss Wellbeloved pressed on, ignoring his thunderous expression. “Given that it was decades ago?”

  “Never,” Ribero swore, placing his hand ardently to his heart. “I will never forgive that man.”

  “Sounds like you might have to,” Mike said chirpily as he leant over and poured himself another cup of tea. “If we actually want to get paid this month.”

  “It’s because of his second office in Southampton, I suspect,” Serena said seriously. “I did rather wonder if this would happen.”

  “If what would happen?” Ribero asked stormily.

  “If he’d start winning southwest business,” she replied simply.

  Ribero’s face darkened even further. Kester wagered that even if a thunder-god himself had descended from the skies at that very moment, they would have been intimidated by his father’s expression and chosen to give it a miss and head back instead.

  “Have you replied to the email yet?” Miss Wellbeloved asked.

  Serena shook her head. “I thought I’d better wait and see what you said first.”

  “Let’s reply to them saying we’ll get in touch with Larry Higgins first thing Monday.”

  “No!” wailed Dr Ribero, grabbing at Miss Wellbeloved’s arm so hard that she nearly wobbled off the sofa. “No, you would not be so cruel! Serena, tell me, have none of our other bids been accepted?”

  “Nope, just this one.”

  Ribero shook his fists at the ceiling, eyes rolling dramatically. “Madre de dios! Qué desastre!”

  “Oh dear, he’s slipped into Spanish,” Mike whispered to Kester over the noise. “That’s never a good sign.”

  “Shall I go and reply now?” Serena said loudly, struggling to make herself heard above the Spanish cursing.

  Miss Wellbeloved patted her encouragingly. “Yes, you go and do that. Thank you very much for being on the ball. This is good news. Really, it is.” She shot a disapproving look at Ribero before nodding at the others. “You can all head off if you like. We don’t want to take up any more of your precious weekend.”

  “Ah, I didn’t have anything on anyway,” Mike said. “Apart from watching films all day.”

  Kester eyed his father nervously—Ribero was now balling a velvet cushion between his hands like a wrestler squeezing the life out of his opponent.

  “Yeah, perhaps I’d better stick around for a bit, check he’s alright,” he said reluctantly.

  Miss Wellbeloved tutted. “Oh, he gets like this every so often, Kester. Don’t worry, he’ll run out of steam soon.”

  “Higgins! Que feo Ingles!”

  Mike chortled. “Doesn’t look like he’s running out any time soon.” He leaned over and patted Ribero’s arm comfortingly. “Don’t sweat it, mate. It might be nice meeting your old university chum anyway.”

  The howl of anguish that emanated from Ribero’s lips was only upstaged by the mugs falling over as he walloped the table’s surface.

  “Thanks for that, Mike,” Miss Wellbeloved said tightly. “Why don’t you boys head off? We’ll discuss this more on Monday morning.”

  “Bye Dad,” Kester said nervously with a little wiggle of his hand. His father whimpered in response, flopping back against the sofa like a man on a death sentence. Miss Wellbeloved nodded firmly towards the door, settling herself beside Ribero and trying to ignore the curious stares of the other people inside the café.

  “Well, that was a good bit of drama for a Saturday morning, wasn’t it?” Mike commented breezily as they stepped out on to the pavement. “Who would have thought it? Ribero and Higgins. On the same job. What a nightmare.”

  “Will it really be that bad?” Kester said doubtfully as he pulled his jacket tightly around him. A stiff wind blew against them as they made their way back up the steep hill.

  Mike glanced over, eyes twinkling dangerously. “Oh, yes,” he said with a bit more enthusiasm than the situation called for. “It’ll be bedlam. Just you wait ’til you meet that fat sod Higgins. See if he annoys you as much as he does the rest of us.”

  “I won’t have to meet him, will I?” Kester said nervously. “I mean, you’ll be the ones on the job, not me.”

  Mike chortled, then whacked him on the back, hard enough to make him wince. “Yeah right,” he sniggered. “Your dad has plans for you, and they don’t involve hiding in the office anymore. You’ve got to practice your sk
ills somewhere, haven’t you?”

  “But my skills are hiding in offices! That’s what I’m good at!”

  Mike leant over and nudged him playfully. “Not anymore, Kester. Not anymore.”

  Kester thought despondently about the tube of Pringles waiting for him at home. But even that didn’t help.

  It’s a worrying day when the thought of a nice salty snack can’t even make me feel better, he thought as he angrily kicked the nearest puddle. Could things get any worse?

  The water splashed over his other foot, soaking into his yellow sock and instantly filling his shoe with horrible cold dampness. Kester groaned.

  Chapter 4: The Murder of Meredith

  The front door was stuck again, no doubt because of the cold weather and sudden wet spell. Not to mention the stiff sea breeze, which carried with it the weighty stench of salt and seaweed. Meredith Saunders pressed a tweed-coated shoulder against the wood, sighed with exasperation before, finally, it gave in at the meagre pressure of her weight.

  “Frank?” she called as she threw her handbag over the bannister. “That door’s being difficult again. You’ll need to phone Charles, see if he can come over and have a look.”

  From the kitchen, she could make out her husband grunting something in response. A tinkle of metal against ceramic indicated that he’d just made himself a cup of tea.

  It would be ever so nice if he actually spoke from time to time, she thought grumpily, peeling off her coat and scarf. Since his hip operation, her husband, who’d been fairly quiet to begin with, had become positively taciturn. Surly even. Still, she couldn’t grumble. Despite her age, she was in good shape, and the brisk walk down to the seafront, despite being cold, had done her no end of good.

  “Saw David at the bakery,” she said while she wandered through to the kitchen. “He said to tell you that the next meeting is on Tuesday. Apparently, he’s got a guest speaker. Some ammonite expert or something.”

  Frank grunted again, sipping his tea. Meredith rolled her eyes.

  “Sally’s back at work,” she continued, trying hard not to be irritated by her husband, who was now tapping erratically at the countertop. “I told her it was far too soon after her treatment, but she said she couldn’t be away for long. What a trooper, eh?”

  The tapping paused for a second or two before continuing. She sighed, then reached to the fridge for the orange juice, though in truth, a gin and tonic would have gone down far better. However, it was only five in the afternoon, which really was a bit too early to start drinking.

  “Well,” she concluded finally as she poured herself a large glass. “I may go and have a bath. Warm up a little. You don’t want to eat yet, do you?”

  Frank shook his head, then gave her a little smile. She smiled in return, feeling a little less hostile towards him.

  “Fish and chips?” he suggested quietly.

  Meredith chuckled, patting her stomach. “Goodness me, any more batter and I’ll start to look like a deep-fried haddock, I think. We really should eat a few more vegetables.” Noticing Frank’s face falling, she quickly nodded. “But yes, fish and chips would be good, wouldn’t it? And let’s get the fire going too, it’s ever so cold in here.”

  “Peter Hopper called earlier,” her husband muttered as she went out into the hallway.

  “Oh, did he? I haven’t heard from him in a while,” she replied. In fact, she thought, suddenly feeling rather depressed, I haven’t heard from any of my friends in a while, since all the deaths. Peter had taken it all particularly badly; she missed his dry, northern sense of humour, not to mention the fortnightly meetings in the town hall. “Did he want me to call him back?”

  Her husband shrugged in response before returning to the kitchen.

  Meredith took her orange juice upstairs and started to run the bath. Stripping off her sweater and skirt, she tried hard to avoid looking at her unclothed figure in the mirror. I don’t need any more reason to feel glum about my old age, she thought wryly, dipping a toe tentatively in the water. At least if I don’t look, I can still pretend I have the taut figure of a twenty-year-old.

  Easing herself into the lavender-soaked water, she exhaled with pleasure. There was something so deeply satisfying about having a bath. She’d always been a water-lover, even from a young age, when her parents used to take her swimming at the local outdoor pool. It was hardly surprising she’d ended up living somewhere like Lyme Regis, surrounded by the sea. Closing her eyes, she leant back, relishing the moist steam against her face and the warmth as it penetrated her muscles.

  What a nice way to unwind after a walk, she thought dreamily, allowing her thoughts to drift. She’d been finding it increasingly difficult to remain cheery recently, especially after the deaths of her friends. Earnest Sunningdale. Edna Berry. Jürgen Kleinmann. And now Deirdre Baxter. All within six months. It’s almost as if they were all cursed, she thought with a shudder, then tutted at her own superstitious thoughts. Come on now, Meredith, she scolded herself. They were accidental, or health-related. Don’t start getting silly about it all. It’s just a dreadful coincidence that they all happened so soon after one another.

  She hadn’t been quite such good friends with Deirdre, though they’d known each other well enough as members of the same history club. Meredith had always found her rather flighty, not to mention a bit fanciful at times, with her strange ideas. Their neighbours, Mr and Mrs Biggins, had been great friends with Deirdre and Errol though and been terribly shaken up by her death. Mrs Biggins had even suggested, with a rather alarming gleam in her eye, that the recent spate of deaths had been supernatural, which had made Meredith chuckle a little. It was quite remarkable how often people liked to believe in such things, despite having no evidence whatsoever to support their beliefs. Still, it was a sad affair. Deirdre’s husband Errol hadn’t been out much, but on the rare occasion she’d spotted him, he’d looked very thin and tired.

  A breeze ran through the room. Meredith opened an eye, checking the window. The panes were original, and it wasn’t uncommon for the wind to creep through from time to time. She sighed, closed her eyes again, and sunk back into the water.

  Strange, she thought. The bath suddenly seems colder. Hastily, she turned on the tap again, allowing more hot water to fill the bath, and rested back against the cool ceramic surface, determined to relax. The water drifted warm tendrils around her thighs, then cooled again just as quickly.

  Good heavens, whatever is going on? Meredith opened her eyes again, suddenly alert. Someone was watching her. She was sure of it. She had that disconcerting sense of being observed and of something being undeniably, unaccountably wrong. Awkwardly, she swivelled in the bath, then cursed as her neck cracked uncomfortably.

  “Frank, is that you?” she called. Was her husband lurking outside the door? Why would he do such a thing? Only silence answered her, which seemed as deep and hostile as a tomb.

  Meredith frowned. It’s because I was thinking about what that silly Mrs Biggins said about the deaths, she thought, laughing out loud. Oh dear, don’t tell me I’ve become superstitious in my old age!

  She eased herself back down in the water, refusing to think on it anymore.

  Hello.

  Meredith’s eyes popped open, then widened. A scream rose in her throat, lodging itself like a stuck lozenge. There, perched at the other end of the roll-top bath, was herself. Or rather, a mirror image of herself, sitting in exactly the same position, completely nude, facing her.

  I said I didn’t want to see myself naked, Meredith thought irrationally with a hysterical snort of laughter. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, expecting to see nothing but an empty bath.

  I’m still here.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Meredith squeaked, rigid with fear. “Oh, my dear lord.”

  She looked at her other self with horror, examining every wrinkle, every damp wisp of grey hair, the
same wry grin that she gave herself in the mirror every morning. This isn’t real, she thought, desperately trying to get a grasp of reality. Come on, Meredith, old girl. Pull yourself together. This is not real.

  It is.

  Meredith screamed—a pitiful, dry wail that sounded like a drowning kitten. “What are you?” she croaked as she scrambled to climb from the bath. She slipped and fell painfully back into the water.

  I am you. Hello, Meredith.

  “You’re not me . . . it’s . . . not possible,” Meredith wheezed, pressing herself against the porcelain in terror. “I must be going mad.”

  Maybe you are. Or maybe not.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Meredith babbled, as she finally managed to get a good grasp on the side of the bath. “Frank! Frank, help me!”

  IT’S TOO LATE FOR THAT.

  “Frank!” she shrieked. Fighting to control her shaking limbs, she began to drag herself out of the bath. “Frank, please! There’s something in here; it’s pretending to be me!”

  To her relief, she heard vague footsteps, which padded quickly along the hallway downstairs before echoing flatly on the stairs. Thank goodness, he heard me, she thought, shaking and dripping wetness onto the black and white tiles.

  Turning, although every instinct told her not to, she faced her other self again. It grinned, an obscene gesture that contorted her mirror-features, making her twin look suddenly completely unlike her. Then, it began to shake. Initially, Meredith thought it was mimicking her own frightened quivering, and she edged slowly away from the bath, like a mouse trying to sneak unnoticed from a cat. Then, her other self began to shake harder, until it was positively vibrating.

  What the heck is it doing? she thought as she watched with horrified fascination. By now, it was shaking harder than her old washing machine on full spin, a dreadful blur that made her eyes ache to see it.

  “Stop it! Stop it now!” she shouted, biting her lip to hold back the tears.