The Case of the Deadly Doppelgänger

by Lucy Banks

  Grumbling under his breath, he stormed into the local store. Woe betide them if they don’t have bacon, he thought vengefully and glowered in the direction of the chilled cabinet. I may just strangle someone if they don’t have bacon.

  He peered at the selection of meats, trying not to meet the eye of the person standing close by, who, judging by the ominous parka hood draped over their face, was clearly some sort of petty criminal.

  “My goodness, you look like you are about to kill someone!”

  Kester looked up. He recognised the voice, though he wasn’t sure where from. A slender hand emerged from the thick parka sleeve, pulling the hood back and releasing a smooth fountain of dirty-blonde hair.

  She smiled. “Remember me?”

  Kester reddened, then grinned sheepishly. “Yes, of course,” he replied, trying not to notice how pretty she was, despite the geeky black-rimmed glasses sitting on her nose. “You’re Anya from the library,” he said, remembering their last encounter a few months before. They’d met when he had been researching the Bloody Mary case, and, even more importantly, she hadn’t seemed to notice either his bespectacled gawkishness or sizeable belly. “Are you still working there?”

  She nodded, then waved a bottle of cheap gin in his direction. “Yes, that’s right, I cannot believe you remember my name! That is so nice!”

  He felt his face turn from pink to a humiliating shade of puce. “Yes, I do remember, you were very helpful,” he said. He also remembered, with deep embarrassment, bumping into her by the river and thinking that her pet ferret had been a rat.

  “So, who are you going to kill?” she asked, gesturing at the chilled cabinet. “The cocktail sausages? The ham?”

  “My housemate actually,” Kester replied with a wry chuckle. “He ate the last of my bacon.”

  “Oh, that is not fair,” she replied seriously. “Where I come from, if someone takes your bacon, you’re free to . . . how do you say? Castrate them. That’s right.”

  Kester laughed nervously. “I take it that’s not true.”

  Anya laughed loudly. “No, don’t worry, it’s not true. Denmark is very civilised, we don’t go around cutting off private parts. But bacon is a big deal.” She reached inside the cabinet, pulled out a packet and presented it to him. “Here you go. Danish bacon. Only the best!”

  Kester took it from her, laughing. “Yes, you’re probably right. Always nice to meet a fellow connoisseur of fine cured meats.”

  Her eyes twinkled in the artificial light, bright as miniature stars. “Yes. We should meet up for a bacon sandwich sometime, don’t you think?”

  Oh, my goodness, has she actually just asked me out on a date? Kester thought with an alarming blend of excitement and heart-stopping panic. Surely not. She’s probably doing another strange Scandinavian joke. He looked down at the floor awkwardly, caught sight of his damp trousers, which looked more horrifically like he’d wet himself than he’d imagined, and quickly twisted his legs together.

  “Well, what do you think?” Anya said, giving him the full wattage of her dazzling smile, complete with endearingly gappy front teeth. “I know a place in town that does a great fried breakfast.”

  “Well . . . yes. I mean, yes, that would be lovely.”

  “We can talk about books more,” she said enthusiastically. “You’re like me, I can tell, you love books, right?”

  “I certainly do,” Kester replied, daring to smile. “Okay then. Er . . . when did you want to meet?”

  Anya delved into her pocket and pulled out a battered mobile phone. “Tell me your number, I’ll give you a call? That’s easiest.”

  “Oh yes, quite so,” Kester replied, trying to look as casual as possible even though his heart was thumping uncomfortably against his ribs. Is this really happening? he wondered and glanced down at his bacon in disbelief. Or am I hallucinating because I’ve had such an awful day that I’ve passed out somewhere? Am I actually lying on the pavement outside, getting soggy, and dreaming all of this?

  “So?”

  “So what?” he spluttered, snapped out of his reverie.

  “What’s your number?”

  Oh Christ, what is my number? Kester thought with panic. In the anxiety and excitement of the moment, he couldn’t remember any of it. And he’d left his phone at home, stuffed into the pocket of his suit jacket.

  She waited patiently. “Does it begin with 07?” she suggested with a giggle.

  Come on, you cursed brain, remember it! Kester reprimanded himself. Trust his memory to let him down at a moment like this. He’d always suspected that his mind was plotting against him, ensuring that he’d never ever get a girlfriend, and now he had conclusive proof.

  Finally, he managed to remember it and choked it out in a rush, in case he forgot it again. Anya grinned, then popped her phone back into her coat. She shook her bottle of gin in his direction.

  “I’d better go and pay for this,” she said, winking. “I need it, after the day I had today.”

  “Oh yes, and er . . . I need my bacon.” He jiggled the packet enthusiastically in the air, then promptly lowered it, feeling idiotic.

  He returned home feeling distinctly happier than he had been when he left it. Even the thought of his irritating housemates couldn’t dampen his spirits. After all, he thought, not even noticing the cold, I’ve just been asked out on a date. Or at least, I’ve been asked to go to a café with a member of the opposite sex, which is closer to a date than any other incident in my life thus far.

  To his relief, the house was quiet, suggesting that the others had already left for their rave. He sighed with satisfaction, relishing the prospect of a night in front of the television. Just him, the bacon sandwich, a glass of wine, and a good documentary. Perfect.

  A dull buzzing pulled his attention to his suit jacket, which was still hanging on the bannister. It took him a while to realise that it was his phone, still left on silent after the meeting at Larry Higgins’s agency.

  Gosh, she’s keen! he thought with a gleefulness that verged on self-satisfaction. Hastily, he fished his phone out just before the vibrating stopped.

  “Oh.” The screen indicated that it was his father, not Anya. Kester tried not to feel disappointed and quickly hit redial. “Hello Dad, what’s up? Bit late for you to be calling, isn’t it?”

  A strange sputtering noise wafted eerily through the phone like a pitiful ancient bullfrog croaking out a final chorus.

  “Dad?” Kester repeated uncertainly.

  “You must . . . you must . . .”

  Kester’s eyes widened. “God, Dad, are you alright?”

  An abrupt stampede of dry coughs echoed through the receiver. Kester waited, bacon temporarily forgotten.

  “Kester?”

  “Yes, I’m still here. What’s the matter? You sound awful.”

  “I need you. Need you here, my boy. Please, come now.”

  Kester scratched his head. “How can I get there? I don’t drive, do I?”

  “Taxi, silly boy!”

  Kester felt himself brighten a little. If his father could still summon up the energy to insult him, he couldn’t be that ill.

  “I haven’t got any money, apart from two pound fifty in my pocket.”

  His father tutted indignantly. “I will pay, then! Just come soon. Come now. Please.”

  The line went dead. Kester gawped aimlessly at the hallway mirror, caught sight of his reflection, and wondered, not for the first time, whether or not his father was actually, really his father after all. There wasn’t much of a resemblance, either in appearance or temperament. Dr Ribero was all fire and energy, with leonine sleekness and ageing elegance. Kester was rather more like a slightly overstuffed rag doll with affable features, wispy hair, and a perpetual look of worry on his face.

  “Marvellous,” he muttered sarcastically, then phoned for a taxi cab. S
o much for the bacon, he thought, rolling his eyes at the kitchen. Looks like I’ll be going hungry tonight.

  It took twenty minutes for the cab to arrive and a further twenty minutes to get across to the other side of the city. By the time they pulled up at his father’s ranch, Kester was more than ready to get out, especially given the driver’s tendency to grumble about every aspect of the journey.

  “What a bloody awful track to drive down. Nearly bleedin’ sent me off into the ditch, it did.” The taxi driver rapped at the meter, which indicated £9.60 was owing. “I should charge extra for havin’ to clean muck off me vehicle. You didn’t say it was in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that,” Kester said as he scrambled out of the car. “Blame my father for living out here.”

  The taxi driver shook his head belligerently. “Hurry up and get the cash then,” he muttered, peering up at the property. “Strange gaff your dad’s got, ain’t he? Like a ranch or something. Looks like it should be in the Wild West.”

  “Yes, he’s Argentinian,” Kester explained, then he exited the car and ran up to the front door. He didn’t think he could endure much more of the driver’s moaning, especially after the day he’d had.

  He rapped as forcefully as he could.

  “Ah, what took you so long?” Ribero threw open the door, resplendent in his red velvet smoking jacket and stripy pyjama bottoms. He looked over at the taxi. “That’s a very dirty car. We should pay him less, right?”

  “No, we shouldn’t,” Kester said firmly and clicked his fingers impatiently at the leather wallet in his father’s fist. “He needs £9.60.”

  “How much?” Ribero squawked, eyeing the taxi with suspicion. “That is daytime robbery, yes?”

  “Not really, it’s about the going rate,” Kester retorted, a wave of tiredness suddenly coming over him. He really didn’t have time for any of this, and he was feeling even more put out now he could see that his father wasn’t actually ill at all. What exactly has he dragged me up here for? he wondered. Was he just wanting someone to offload to? Did he want details about the Larry Higgins meeting? Either way, Kester wasn’t terribly enthused by the prospect.

  Still muttering, his father marched down the drive like a knight about to do battle. He swooped down to the window of the taxi, then exchanged terse words with the driver, which Kester couldn’t quite hear. With a screech of tyres on gravel, the car suddenly reversed, leaving Ribero shouting angrily in Spanish and shaking his fist.

  “What happened?” Kester asked reluctantly, massaging his temples.

  “That man, he told me that he has no change for ten-pound note. I told him that is a criminal offence. So, he starts to swear at me, then drives off like a little Cockney coward.”

  “Oh well,” Kester rationalised, as he pulled his father gently by the sleeve. “Let’s not get too upset about forty pence. Shall we go inside?”

  Dr Ribero nodded crossly and padded down the hallway, slippers swooshing across the polished wooden floorboards. The wall lamps cast an inviting amber glow, almost like sunlight, and, despite himself, Kester suddenly felt rather glad he’d come. I wish my house was a little bit more like this, he thought as he followed his father into the kitchen. And less like a horrible bedsit with no heating.

  “Well?” he began, as he leant against the fridge. “Why did you want me to come over tonight?”

  His father gave a dramatic sigh, then sank down by the breakfast bar and poured himself a large glass of Merlot.

  “It is too awful,” he said finally and waved his glass ominously in the air to emphasise the point.

  “What is?”

  “Everything.”

  With this existentialist declaration, Ribero sank down against the wall, clutching his head with the desperation of a man trying to stop his brains falling out of his skull.

  “Everything, as in working with Larry Higgins?” Kester guessed as he helped himself to a glass.

  “As in the Higgins. As in the Agency. As in everything.”

  “And how can I help with that?” Kester didn’t mean to sound curt, but he failed to see the point of being dragged over here, only to hear his father spout forth about the injustice of the world.

  Ribero pursed his lips together, then clicked his fingers at his cigarette case, which Kester dutifully slid across to him. With expert speed, Ribero pushed a cigarette into his silver holder, lit it with a single flick of his lighter, and inhaled deeply. He pointed its glowing tip directly at his son.

  “You can help,” he said seriously. “In fact, Kester, it is only you who can help. You, and you alone. You see?”

  “No, not really.”

  “You are the next generation, yes?”

  Kester wasn’t quite sure where the conversation was going, and furthermore, he wasn’t convinced he wanted to go along with it.

  “Ye-es,” he said slowly, raising his glass to his lips and taking a fortifying gulp. As ever, it was excellent wine, though Kester now knew not to expect anything less than good quality Argentinian booze at his father’s house.

  “So, it is up to you to step to the mark, right?”

  “I thought I had been stepping to the mark,” Kester replied testily. “I thought that was why I went to the meeting today, to represent you in front of Larry Higgins?”

  Ribero winced and drew heavily on his cigarette. The smoke tendrilled gently out of his nostrils like two sinewy trails of evening mist. “Ah, yes,” he acknowledged. “But I mean more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, who will take my place when I am done?”

  “Done doing what?”

  “Done with the job, silly boy!” Ribero snapped, pressing his index finger against the wooden surface of the breakfast bar. “Done with life. I am an old man now. Who will take on the agency after me, eh?”

  Kester frowned. “Not me, I hope.”

  “Yes, you, I hope!” Ribero barked, pummelling the table for emphasis. “Why not you?”

  “I’m only twenty-two; I don’t think I’d be a terribly good candidate for managing an agency. Not to mention the fact that your entire business is based around the supernatural, and I’m scared of ghosts.”

  “Ah,” Ribero shushed, waving his hand dismissively. “You are not scared of them anymore. And you should be more scared of me getting angry because you won’t take your place in the family business.”

  “Actually,” Kester replied, choosing his words carefully, “it’s Miss Wellbeloved’s family business really, isn’t it? I mean, her father owned it, and her grandfather and . . .” He faltered to a stop, quailing under his father’s indignant glare.

  “But it is the Ribero business now. And you are a Ribero, yes?”

  “I’m not though, am I? I’ve got Mum’s surname. Always have had.”

  Ribero snorted with the skulking ferocity of a bull, then poured himself another sizeable glass of wine, which he quaffed with alarming speed. He wiped his lips, slammed the glass on the table, then directed an accusing finger in his son’s direction.

  “You may be called Kester Lanner, but you are a Ribero by birth.”

  “Nope, it definitely says Lanner on my birth certificate.”

  “That is paper!” Ribero exclaimed, cheeks reddening. “I am talking blood. Thick, rich Argentinian blood that runs through your body, yes?”

  Kester looked down at the puny blue veins of his wrists. It didn’t look terribly Argentinian to him. “I suppose so,” he said hesitantly. “But what does that matter? I’d make a useless manager of the agency. I don’t really know the first thing about running a business, much less dealing with spirits.”

  Ribero grinned suddenly and held a triumphant finger in the air. Kester felt his stomach sink. With a mouth full of gleaming teeth, his father looked uncomfortably like a great white shark about to chow down on a littl
e fish. He watched with growing alarm as Dr Ribero rummaged in the drawer next to him until he found what he was looking for.

  “So, if you don’t know how to run a supernatural business, you learn, right?”

  Oh no, Kester thought, following the huge brochure in his father’s hands as it was slapped loudly in front of him. You cannot be serious.

  He looked down at the front cover.

  “The SSFE?” he read aloud, frowning. Then his eyes travelled to the line below. “Ah. I see. The School of Supernatural Further Education. Hmm.”

  “That is where I got my qualification,” his father declared, then prodded it several times, just in case Kester hadn’t noticed the front cover. “It is the highest ranking school in the world for supernatural education. I have already picked the right course for you, okay?”

  No, not really, Kester thought, opening the brochure and skimming through the contents. Apart from the obvious ghostly slant to the prospectus, it looked much like any other university brochure, full of smiling, smug-looking students reading various books and pointing at attractive buildings.

  “I can’t go here,” Kester said finally as he closed the brochure. “Firstly, why would they let me in, given I’ve only been doing this supernatural lark for five minutes? And secondly, it’s in London. I don’t want to go to London.”

  Dr Ribero rolled his eyes extravagantly, stubbing out his cigarette with a hiss. “This is not the Middle Ages, Kester. This is the twenty-first century! The age of the internet. You learn online, like everyone else does.”

  “Oh,” Kester said. He took a breath, then opened the brochure again. “Well, I suppose that’s a bit different.”

  “And you like doing the academic stuff, right?”

  “Yes, I do like doing the academic stuff.”

  “See?” his father concluded, leaping on the vague sign of enthusiasm. “You would love it. And then you will be ready to take over the agency. And everyone is a winner.”

  Kester scrunched his nose and looked thoughtfully into the distance. “None of these courses sound terribly useful though,” he said, flicking through the index. “I mean, an MA in Poltergeist Studies? A BSc in Spirit Communication and Negotiation? How’s that going to help with the agency?”