The Case of the Deadly Doppelgänger

by Lucy Banks

  “Your parents did not call you Pineapple. What’s your real name?”

  “I was born free of a name, like all humans, right? You feel me?”

  “Nope, not in the slightest. What name’s on your birth certificate?”

  Daisy leaned over and placed a hand on Mike’s arm. “Mike, he’s Pineapple. We’re all okay with that. Let’s leave it.”

  He grunted, then flicked her hand like a horse’s tail batting off a fly. “You’re not much better,” he growled. “Honestly, Kester, how did you end up living with a flower and a fruit?”

  Kester grinned. “My name’s not much better.”

  “So, go on,” Mike persisted. “What’s your real name, Pineapple? Tell me now, or I’ll slowly pour your pineapple drink down the back of that lovely neon top.” He raised the glass, tilting it precariously in the air over Pineapple’s jiggling topknot.

  “Dude, this isn’t cool. It’s creating bad vibes when we should be having good times, right?”

  A splash of juice descended. Pineapple yelped.

  “Not cool! Not cool! Kester, tell him to stop!”

  Kester sighed. “Mike, pack it in.”

  Mike grinned, then sent another dribble of sticky juice directly into Pineapple’s hair. “Come on.”

  Pineapple shrieked, then he muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that? Speak up!” Another splash. Pineapple writhed like a day-glo jellyfish.

  “I said, it’s Percy!”

  Mike’s roar managed to momentarily silence the throngs of people around them. “Percy? You’re actually called Percy?”

  Pineapple nodded miserably, straightening his hair, which was now sagging soggily to one side.

  “Like, short for Percival?”

  “It is, actually, yeah. Happy now?”

  Mike roared again and slammed his fist on the table. “Massively so! I didn’t even know people were called Percival any more. That’s amazing, that is.” He draped an arm over Pineapple’s slumped shoulders and pulled him closer. “I like you a whole lot more now, Percy.”

  Anya shook her head in disbelief. “Is he always like this?”

  Kester nodded. “When beer is involved, yes. That’s when it helps to have Serena around—to keep him in check.”

  “Hey,” Mike reeled around and batted Kester’s shoulder in protest. “I do not need that woman to keep me in check, thank you very much.”

  “Serena, that’s your girlfriend, right?” Pineapple asked, face still pressed tight against Mike’s rather sweaty checked shirt.

  “She’s not his girlfriend!” Daisy squeaked.

  “Too bloody right she’s not,” Mike said. He shook his head vigorously. “That woman is a perpetual thorn up my backside, I can tell you.”

  “He really likes her,” Kester whispered to Anya, who giggled.

  “I assure you that I do not,” Mike barked, poking Kester in the centre of his chest. “If Serena were to leave the company tomorrow, it wouldn’t bother me one bit.”

  “It sounds like the gentleman doth protest too much.” Anya grinned, then ducked out of the way as Mike reeled across in her direction.

  “There’s no dothing or protesting or anything like what you just said.” Mike slumped in his seat like a petulant toddler. “Serena is a right pain in the bum, and that’s the end of it. She’s like Satan himself, sent to fetch me down to hell, every working day of my life.”

  Kester started to laugh, then suddenly gasped. He sat up straight, mouth open. “Say that again, Mike.”

  Mike winced, then burped. “Which bit?”

  “The last bit.”

  “What, that she’s Satan, sent to fetch me—”

  “That’s it!” Kester thrust his drink down onto the table, eyes shining. “That’s the connection! Fetch! Mike, you’re a genius!”

  Mike pulled a face and shrugged at the others. “I have literally no idea what you’re talking about, mate. I mean, I am a genius, that’s true, but—”

  “That’s what the link between the killings in Lyme Regis is! The word fetch!” Kester exclaimed. “Xena Sunningdale said that her husband said something about being fetched before he died. Mr Baxter said it too, about his wife. That must mean—” He paused suddenly, remembering where he was and who he was with. His mouth clamped shut as abruptly as it had opened. The others looked at him in amazement.

  “Excuse me?” Anya said with a quizzical look.

  “Um.” Kester looked desperately around for inspiration. “Er, yes. That must mean . . .” Come on, brain, think! he commanded himself. You’ve been told countless times not to blow your cover about the supernatural! Finally, he came up with something passable. “That means it’s an interesting theory for those deaths in Lyme Regis, that we read about in the paper. Right, Mike?”

  Mike looked confused, looked around at the others, then winked. “Ah yes. Yes, that story we read in the newspaper the other day. Don’t know why you’d choose to bring that up now.” He gave Kester a meaningful nod. “It’s not like it’s any relevance to us, is it?”

  Kester shook his head. He was buzzing with excitement but also horribly aware he’d said far too much in front of the others, who were all looking at him as though he’d gone completely insane.

  “How about another drink?” Mike suggested, nodding several times at Daisy, who pretended not to notice.

  “You finished the last one in under a minute!” Anya said. She looked down at her own glass, which was still full.

  “That’s why I always line them up, you see,” Mike explained with a devoted rub of the stomach. “You can’t just buy one drink at a time. That’s a schoolboy error, that is.”

  Kester’s pocket started vibrating, and he patted down his phone, nearly managing to throw it into his drink in the process. He was glad of the diversion and hoped he hadn’t revealed too much in front of his housemates and Anya.

  “It’s Miss Wellbeloved,” he said, showing the screen to Mike. “What the hell do you think she wants?”

  “Probably a wild night out with all of us,” Mike drawled, completely ignoring Daisy, who kept sidling closer to him with alarming desperation.

  Or maybe something’s wrong with Dad, Kester thought as he clambered to his feet. He clicked the screen, pressing the phone to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  A tinny mutter was all he could make out above the noise. He flapped at the others, then started to weave through the crowds to the front door. “Hang on, I can’t hear you,” he shouted, narrowly avoiding being elbowed by a couple of students playing pool. Leaping outside, he pushed the door firmly shut and braced himself against the cold evening air. “Right, we can talk now. What’s up? Is Dad okay?”

  “Yes, of course your father’s fine.” Miss Wellbeloved’s familiar clipped tones rattled down the line. “However, the agency isn’t.”

  Kester sighed and leaned against the brick wall. “What’s the problem?” This had better be good, given you’re calling me on a Friday evening, he silently added. He wondered if now would be a good time to tell her about his realisation about the word “fetch,” but suspected it might not be, judging by the tone of her voice.

  “There’s been another murder.”

  “What, in Lyme Regis?”

  “Yes, of course in Lyme Regis, Kester! Where did you think? It was Denzil Powers this time.”

  Kester looked longingly through the window. Through the crowds, he could just make out Mike, cuddling against Anya in a rather over-friendly way. He’s just drunk, he told himself. Don’t start getting silly about it.

  “Well?” The single word cut into his ear like a knife through butter.

  “Well what?” Kester stuttered.

  “Did you just hear what I said?”

  “Which bit?”

  There was an explosive noise on t
he other end of the phone, which Kester presumed was Miss Wellbeloved practically combusting in frustration.

  “Please listen to me, Kester. Larry Higgins has just been on the phone, in an absolute state, because Curtis Philpot has threatened to pull us off the case. You remember Mr Philpot? The government official who we met at Larry’s office? As in the very important Mr Philpot?”

  Kester massaged his forehead. He remembered the spindly-limbed man well, with his PowerPoint presentations and huge case files. Across the road, a group of teens bellowed uproariously, nudging each other playfully as they headed into town. He envied their carefree attitude. Why can’t I ever just enjoy a night out with mates? he wondered, then realised it was because, until recently, he hadn’t had any mates.

  “I don’t really see what I can do about it,” he said slowly, easing out each word like a dog-owner pacifying a particularly unpredictable Rottweiler.

  “Larry has insisted we meet this weekend, to come up with an emergency plan.”

  “Why can’t you and Dad go?” Kester asked as he thrust his hands into his pockets, the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder. “It’s his agency after all.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Come on, Kester. I think we both know that you need to take a more active part in things from now on.”

  Why does this feel like it’s suddenly my responsibility? he thought, feeling rather like a deer about to get hit by a lorry. I only found out about the agency a few months ago, and now they’re ready to palm all the pressure directly on my shoulders!

  “Kester, are you able to come along tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know!” he shouted. An old man leaning against the wall next to him jumped and nearly dropped his cigarette. Kester pressed his lips together. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound annoyed. It’s just, this is a Friday night, and I already spend enough time worrying about this Lyme Regis case as it is without it eating into my weekend too.”

  Miss Wellbeloved paused.

  “I do understand,” she said finally. “But you had the choice, Kester. You chose to become a part of the team. And you surely know by now, this isn’t like other jobs. This isn’t a nine-to-five that you can just walk away from.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I realised that. Fine, okay. I’ll make sure I come tomorrow. Do you want me to tell Mike?”

  “Why, is he with you?”

  Kester looked through the window. Mike was easy to spot this time, given that he was standing on the table and appeared to be singing. He winced.

  “Yep, he’s with me. What state he’ll be in tomorrow, I have no idea.”

  “Well, he needs to be there, stinking hangover or no stinking hangover.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  “Thank you, Kester. I’ll let you get back to your evening.”

  He nodded. “Miss Wellbeloved?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I think I might have had a bit of a breakthrough, but I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

  He thought he detected a sniff from Miss Wellbeloved..

  “I’m glad one of us has some optimism left. Goodbye, Kester.”

  He pocketed his phone, then glanced up at the full moon, which looked unnaturally bright against the black sky. So much for the nice lie-in tomorrow, he thought glumly. Now I’d better go and rescue my girlfriend from Mike.

  Chapter 12: The Emergency Meeting

  The following morning, they gathered in the office car park, their huddled bodies casting long shadows in the wintry sunlight. No one looked particularly pleased to be there, especially Mike.

  “Why sodding Lyme Regis again?” he moaned as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Although the morning breeze was pleasantly fresh, he looked rather green, and the pong of stale alcohol billowed from his shirt. Kester guessed that he’d probably only stopped drinking about four hours ago, if not less. He certainly hadn’t bothered to get changed.

  “We needed somewhere to meet up quickly,” Miss Wellbeloved replied, nostrils flaring in horror at the sight of him. “And it was the only place Larry could find on short notice.”

  “Plus, it’s a lot less far to travel than Southampton, so it’s not all bad,” Serena added as she tapped her nails against the van door. “Shall we get going?”

  “No Ribero as per usual then?” Mike asked, clambering into the driving seat. Miss Wellbeloved extended a finger, curled it over his shirt collar, then hoisted him firmly out again.

  “No, Dr Ribero won’t be joining us,” she muttered. “And there’s absolutely no chance that you’re driving the van in this state.”

  Serena nudged Mike out of the way, then slid into the driver’s seat. They set off along the silent road, each lost in their own private thoughts for most of the journey. Kester stared out of the window, musing on the latest murder. It was deeply frustrating, not to mention worrying. We warned the government, he thought, tracing a finger through the condensation on the glass. They were meant to be protecting Denzil Powers. It was them who let him down, not us. He personally felt that they’d done quite well with the case so far, and uncovered a lot of useful information. So why does the government seem intent on blaming us for everything that goes wrong?

  “You’ve got a dark face on you this morning, my lovely,” Pamela chirruped as she leant over from the backseat. “Whatever’s the matter?”

  “Didn’t sleep well.” Kester craned round, neck cracking uncomfortably as he did so. “And I’m not really in the mood for a meet-up with Higgins, to be honest.”

  Pamela rolled down the window, leaning out like a dog enjoying the wind. “Ah, but it’s a nice fresh day,” she chuckled. “Get a bit of air, that’ll wake you up.”

  “Kester?” Miss Wellbeloved wound down her own window, making the temperature in the van even more glacial. “You said you had a breakthrough last night. What was it? Lord knows we could do with some good news.”

  Kester brightened. “Yes, I did, but I haven’t had a chance to look into it yet. It was something Mike said in the pub, actually.”

  “What did I say?” groaned Mike, who was holding his head in his hands and looking distinctly queasy.

  “You made some comment about Serena being like Satan, fetching you down to hell—”

  “Oh, thank you very much!” Serena snapped and thrust the van angrily into a lower gear as they lurched up the hill. “Nice to know you were saying lovely things behind my back.”

  “Go on, Kester,” Miss Wellbeloved pressed.

  “Well,” he continued, “it was that word, you see. Fetch. Mr Baxter, Deirdre’s husband, said something about his wife being fetched, do you remember? Xena Sunningdale, the tarot-card reader—she made a similar comment about Earnest. Mike’s comment just reminded me of it.”

  “A fetch!” Pamela exclaimed loudly, prodding Miss Wellbeloved on the back. “Gosh, why didn’t that occur to us before?”

  Miss Wellbeloved nodded. “Exactly what I was thinking. My goodness. It could be. It’s a possibility, I suppose.”

  “A what?” Kester looked from face to face, bemused.

  “A fetch is similar to a doppelgänger,” Miss Wellbeloved explained. “But far rarer. And we never get them down here. Ever.”

  Kester felt baffled. “What’s the difference between a doppelgänger and a fetch then?”

  “Fetches thrive on fetching humans to their death.” Pamela beamed, giving him a wink. “They appear as a human double, just like a doppelgänger. Not much is known about them, actually. Some are perfectly innocent and focus on fetching people who were due to die anyway. Others have more malevolent intentions.”

  “I’ve got to say, it does add up nicely,” Miss Wellbeloved said slowly, thinking it over. “Good detective work, Kester.”

  “Yes, but the problem is,” Serena interrupted, “fetches only live in Irela
nd, don’t they? There’s no chance one would end up down here.”

  Miss Wellbeloved scratched her head. “That is true. Ireland mostly, but occasionally Scotland too. And they’re formidable spirits. Very intelligent shapeshifters. It’s highly unlikely that one would have accidentally got lost and ended up here. They’re extremely attached to their homelands.”

  “But it’s certainly worth keeping in mind, eh?” Pamela said brightly. “After all, if it’s a fetch, we’ve got a clear motivation here, haven’t we? It’s doing what it does best—fetching people to their deaths.”

  “Oh, can you stop talking about death?” Mike moaned, curling up into a ball. “I feel like I could die at any moment.”

  “Ten beers and six vodka shots will do that,” Kester commented. Mike’s face went a worrying shade of grey, and he clamped both hands over his mouth.

  They rolled into the hotel car park in Lyme Regis about an hour later. It was a dour, gravelly car park with a distinct aura of neglect, which happened to match the accompanying building perfectly. Kester glanced up, and any residual optimism that he might have felt swiftly faded.

  “They call this a hotel?” he said, raising an eyebrow. It’s not even a nice hotel, he thought. In fact, it’s about as ugly a hotel as you can get. Are they sure it’s not actually a prison?

  “As I said, it was the only location Larry could book on short notice,” Miss Wellbeloved explained as she scooped up her handbag. “So we’d best make the most of it. Come on.”

  Serena gingerly stepped out of the van, studying the building with deep distaste. “Not exactly the Ritz, is it?”

  Kester grimaced. The plastic sign over the entrance was hanging off its hinges, and the mottled curtains clung stickily to the windows. It might once have been nice forty or fifty years ago, but Kester was willing to bet the exterior hadn’t been cleaned since. They reluctantly tugged open the front door and were instantly hit with the scent of damp carpets and mould.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man behind the reception desk looked not a day under eighty-five, with crepe-paper wrinkles that cascaded down his face before arriving at a flabby stop at his shirt collar. Looking up, his rheumy eyes studied each of them in turn, then returned slowly to his newspaper.