"Of course not," he said, coolly. "You don't have to believe me, but I'm not vengeful. I wouldn't know how to prove that to you, so you'll just have to take my word for it. In reference to being repulsive, I would like to point out that it's a subjective term, not everyone is repulsed by the same thing. Although in my case, it seems an adequate description." Another journalist interrupted with a question meant to get them on another tack, but Dylan would have none of it. "No, no. I'm speaking with this young lady. Please, go on."
"At least we agree on one point," Carol informed him. "Do you expect us to believe that this case against your old boss isn't to seek revenge against someone who didn't promote you when you were a nobody?"
"Exactly. You've understood it to perfection. You're an excellent reporter. The rest of the herd here should take a leaf out of your book. "
"You spent twenty years in that company."
"Nineteen and a half."
"Excuse me."
"Excused." Dylan seemed to be enjoying himself as he watched Carol trying not to lose her temper. "Do you feel all right? We can continue this on another occasion, if you don't feel up to it."
She ignored this comment. "In all that time, your boss promoted many employees, several of whom had started working after you did. And that included the colleague your ex-wife left you for. And you're trying to tell us that this ridiculous claim hasn't been made out of revenge?"
"The claim isn't ridiculous," Dylan said, seemingly offended. "But the rest of your assertion is thoroughly correct."
"How can you deny that it isn't ridiculous?"
"It's a claim for damages. He punched me."
"You hit him first."
"He insulted me."
"That is the least important thing in this affair and you know it."
The conversation was turning vicious. Both of them were talking as if they were alone, ignoring the crowd of journalists around them, feverishly writing every word down.
"You caused the punch and the insults. You went to see your old boss with the intention of provoking a fight. Isn't that so?"
"Not at all," Dylan replied. "I only wanted to demonstrate, by giving him a present, what working for him for twenty years meant to me. I only wanted to deliver it with all my respect, but he took it the wrong way, lost his rag. When he insulted me, everything took a turn for the worse and now the judge will have to decide if my claim is justified or not."
"A present?" Carol said horrified. Dylan would have to be the devil himself to classify what he had given his ex-boss as a present. "Is that what you call it, a present?"
"At least that's how I would like it to appear in your articles. Gift would also be acceptable."
Carol couldn't believe what she was hearing, couldn't believe that someone like Dylan Blair really existed. "This is repulsive."
"Think it through," he advised her. "Everyone is aware of my fortune. If I wanted to hurt my ex-boss, I could have bought the company and fired him, for example."
"Just one more question," Carol said, keen to finish up. It was obvious that Dylan wasn't going to talk seriously. But first she wanted to find out the only thing that hadn't been explained about the whole pitiful affair. "Earlier, you said you had no chance of winning the case. You know you're going to lose. Then why go ahead with it?"
Dylan seemed surprised. "Really? You still don't understand, do you? I'm doing this for the millions of people who can't do the same. Those out there, trapped in their jobs, who can't fight back. At least, it will console them to know that someone can."
"In which case you could have just delivered the gift and not gone on with the claim. That way you wouldn't lose," she advised him.
"No, I can see you don't get it." He looked at her with pity. "I'm rich, the cost of the case doesn't matter to me. But tell me, dear, what good does it serve to shit on the table of my old boss, wipe my arse and punch him, if nobody hears about it?"
# # #
The memory of previous unpleasant visits made Lance Norwood smell the hostile stench of the mortuary a lot earlier than it actually penetrated his nasal cavity. The atmosphere was always heavy and he felt dizzy as soon as he set foot in that foul site. He'd been there on numerous occasions on police matters, but had managed to keep it to a minimum, delegating the work to others. This time, too, he'd tried to get out of it, but Aidan had sworn that he wouldn't tell him anything about the investigation if he waited in the car. Curiosity had triumphed.
"Did you have to bring him?" Fletcher protested. "I only called you."
"Equally pleased to see you, Fletcher," Lance concurred.
They were in a large room full of metal stretchers with black body bags on top. Each one had a zipper and, to Lance's horror, they were all open. One of the ceiling lights was flickering overhead.
Lance had no idea how anyone could work as a pathologist. It had to be the reason for Fletcher's bad moods. He'd spent half his life in this horrid place sticking his nose into rotting flesh.
"He wouldn't let me come alone. He gets scared without me. Don't worry about him." Aidan Zack stopped looking Lance's way. "Lance, stop being stupid and take that off."
"Not on your life," Lance informed him, hanging on to the face mask that covered his face. "If I breathe any more of this filthy air, I'll finish up as twisted as your old friend here. Keep back!" he yelled as Aidan tried to pull it off.
"Idiot," Aidan said, "frightened by a few little black bags."
"You should've left him in your car," Fletcher suggested. "He'd be more likely to pick up an infection there. I'll try and pretend he's not here."
Fletcher couldn't stomach Lance and had no trouble letting him know it, which didn't surprise Lance too much. No one hated this place as much as he did. Just like no one loved it as much as Fletcher. For him it was a temple.
"Aidan, I've analysed James White's blood, as you asked me to, and compared it with William Black's. Surprising result to say the least," he said, zipping up Black's bag.
"Are they brothers? Or related?"
"More than that," the pathologist answered. "They're identical."
"You mean they're twins?"
"No. Absolutely identical. More than twins are. Their DNA is an exact copy."
"Maybe Aidan's a bit thick," Lance said, his voice muffled under the face mask. "But I know twins have the same DNA. They come from the same egg, don't they?"
Fletcher complimented him. "Very good, expert. Then, you'd know that twins aren't identical, wouldn't you? There are many factors involved in their development. And as adults there are several differences."
"But their DNA is still the same," Lance insisted.
"Not like you're imagining it to be. If you close the mouth under that mask, I'll explain it to you."
Aidan looked angrily at Lance.
Fletcher continued. "The DNA of twins is the same, just as Doctor Lance Norwood informed us. But their chemical characteristics are different. It's one of the reasons that, for example, the fingerprints of twins are different. But that's not the case here. Everything, I repeat everything, is exactly the same. I did the test twice just to make sure. Genetically, it's impossible to separate them."
Aidan was intrigued. "How is that possible?"
"I haven't got the least idea. It's without precedent and, as far as I know, impossible. They're totally identical to such a point that I can't even explain why the eyes and hair are a different colour. After studying William's head in detail, I was inclined to think that if this James is the true owner of the DNA that I've studied, he would have to exist in William's body. He must have dyed his hair and be wearing contact lenses."
"The hair didn't look dyed," Aidan recalled. "It looked natural enough, but then again I didn't pay that much attention to it. Let's go through this step by step. If I understand this correctly, these two dwarves are genetically identical. A fact which you maintain is impossible. Is that right?"
"Correct," Fletcher confirmed. "It's like they were two toys made by the s
ame manufacturer."
"There must be an explanation," Aidan said. "Could they be clones?"
"We've got the same problem there," the pathologist explained. "If we take your DNA and clone you, we'd start from the same point. But the clone would grow up in a different environment. His genes would be the same, but there would be chemical distinctions. Never mind that when he gets to your age, you'd be ninety years old."
"Take your speculative marks. Ready, set…" Lance interrupted, not to be left out. "Has someone invented a method so that the clone would grow instantly to the same age as the man cloned?"
"Considering that argument," Fletcher said. "The clone's mind wouldn't develop. It wouldn't have experiences. It would be like creating someone with an amnesia that we've never seen before. He wouldn't be developed emotionally either. He wouldn't know how to talk."
"Then the only explanation that makes this work is that someone has copied another person in every aspect. Mentally, physically, emotionally," Aidan said. "Somebody has developed a method of making exact copies of a human being. Is that what you're trying to tell me?"
"It's completely absurd, but I can't find any other way of justifying the DNA results, unless you can think of anything better."
Silence consumed them, as they tried to assimilate the impossible conclusions involved.
Lance had nothing to offer, and neither did Aidan. It was hard enough to swallow that someone had invented a human photocopying machine, without them having their names changed so that they could start fighting. A simple look at the pathologist was enough to verify that he couldn't believe it either. But there was no other way of explaining it.
"Perhaps there's another explanation," Lance said, breaking the silence. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Fletcher, seeing as I haven't studied genetics, but could the samples be identical because you used the same sample twice?"
Fletcher's face twisted on hearing the comment. Lance went on. "No problem, we all make mistakes. I understand, old man. At your age, the neurons are fewer and further between, never mind this filthy air that you've been breathing in for more than twenty years. Really, it's lucky that–"
"Shut up, Lance!" Aidan yelled.
Fletcher exploded, spitting insults at Lance. It took Aidan several minutes to calm him down. Lance, on the other hand, looked satisfied. He'd touched the old man's nerve.
"I need to think," Aidan said. "There must be a logical explanation and I have yet to find it."
"To tell you the truth, I can't think of one," Lance advised him.
"We already know that, dumbo," Fletcher said. "I don't know how the delinquency rate hasn't gone up with you out there patrolling the streets."
"Enough," Aidan snapped, the telephone interrupting his fury. "Yes… We're there now. But we're working on a case… Give it to someone else… check with the Inspector. He'll confirm we're busy. Wait… wait a minute. Who is it…? His name doesn't mean anything. What's his surname? OK, we'll look into it," Aidan said, hanging up. The others looked at him. "We're going to the floor above. They've just brought Earl White's body in."
* * * * *
CHAPTER 9
"This is a disgrace," James White cursed, kicking the traffic light, which he regretted straight away as a shot of pain ran up his leg. The kick had been too hard and he was angry with himself for not checking his fury. He began to curse some more and limped towards a shop window and slumped against it. The pedestrians gave the madman a wide berth as he sat down on the ground and ran his hand through his blond hair, staring across the street. Luck hadn't been on his side lately, and now it was interfering with one of his basic pleasures. He gave the problem some thought for a few seconds as the pain left his bruised foot and a solution came to him.
His blue eyes flashed. He got up and took a parking ticket off the windscreen of a car. He ripped a scrap off the printed paper and scribbled a few lines, then began studying the crowd of pedestrians filing down the street. He studied their faces, like a hunter would his prey, and soon saw someone who pleased him.
"Hey, you!" he called out, approaching a youth who looked like a student, waiting to cross at the lights. "I want to talk to you, man. Hey, don't look like that."
The student was confused. "Do I know you?"
"No, but I want to ask you a favour. Nothing complicated at this time of the day."
The young man frowned, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and turned round, ready to cross the street.
"It'll only take two minutes of your time and I'll pay you for it," James informed him.
The mention of money made him follow James a few paces along the pavement. "What is it?"
"It couldn't be any simpler. See that shop over there," James said, pointing across the street. "I want you to go–"
"I don't understand. What's this all about?"
"I can't go over there myself, that's all," James White said, thinking that he would've liked nothing more than to cross the street in person, instead of putting his trust in this hairy teenager. But what choice did he have? He was trapped in this new world and couldn't break free. He'd already had to give up the rendezvous with his dream nurse and couldn't brook any more disappointments, at least not today. But he couldn't explain that to the student, couldn't explain it to anyone, really. Quite frankly, he'd had enough.
"And why can't you cross over?" the youth asked, starting to find the whole thing ridiculous. "I can help you across if that's your problem."
"Very funny, friend. Listen, I want you to take this across," he explained, giving him the scrap of paper.
The youth read it and his eyebrows arched.
"I'll pay you well," James White told him, pulling a wad of notes out of his pocket.
"Do you need three? Isn't one enough?"
"Still, the jokes keep coming. OK, I like you," he said, taking a few of the notes out of the wad and putting them in the student's hand. "There's enough there to buy them. Bring them back here and I'll give you a good tip. If you hurry up, I might even give you a bonus."
"OK, weirdo. I'll be back to see how generous you really are."
"Good decision. I'll wait for you in that park there, on the bench seat."
# # #
As soon as the stretcher hit the ground, someone pushed it hard to one side. The ambulance driver spun around to confront the aggressor without having seen who had pushed it away. His jaw dropped when he saw the two metres of unfriendly bone and muscle in front of him.
"I'm DI Aidan Zack. I'm taking charge of the body," Aidan informed the ambulance driver, flashing his badge.
"I can't let you do that," the ambulance driver said. "Only authorized personnel from the mortuary–"
Aidan was looking at the zipper on the bag, not paying the slightest attention to what the driver was saying. His impatience to find out if Earl White looked the same as James and William was burning him up inside. The thought of a knife through the plastic had already shot through his head.
"I'll take over," Fletcher said, joining them with Lance Norwood in tow. Aidan had beaten them to the ambulance with his long strides. "Don't worry about them, they're police."
The driver gave them a dubious glance, but ceded to Fletcher's authority. He shrugged his shoulders and got back into the ambulance.
Lance was excited. "Well, is he the same?"
"I don't know. I can't unzip this bastard of a bag."
"Get out of the way," Fletcher ordered, pushing him aside. "The first thing is to get the body inside."
Aidan wasn't pleased about that.
"Just a quick look then."
Lance felt satisfied with that decision. He took off the oxygen mask. He preferred to examine the body there instead of going into that hell of a place again. Aidan and he bent over the stretcher. Fletcher opened the zip slowly and revealed the face of Earl White. Not knowing why, Lance felt slight disappointment when it became clear that the man under the black plastic didn't look like William at all. The face was much broader, the features were no
t the same, and the neck and part of the shoulder revealed that the man was much taller and ten times stronger than William. He must have done bodybuilding, a lot of it, Lance thought. He was wearing an elegant white suit.
All of a sudden, Aidan gasped with astonishment. Just when Fletcher was about to close the zip, Aidan stopped him and looked at the body anxiously. Lance looked at his partner, confused. He tried unsuccessfully to guess what had drawn Aidan's attention. He hated that sensation: Aidan knew something he didn't.
"I don't know what you are looking at," Lance said. "But you can be sure he doesn't look like William."
"I know him."
"Could you explain that?" Fletcher asked.
"Well, I don't know him personally." Aidan closed the zip. Fletcher waved his hand and two assistants took the body away. "This man's name is Earl White. OK, last night I met Earl Black."
"You're kidding me," Lance exclaimed. "You've forgotten to have your pills. Or you've mixed them up!"
"Listen, it's true. Carol can confirm it. She was with me when I met him…"
"That reminds me that you haven't told me yet what happened yesterday. I left you with this twenty-eight-year-old stunner. I did the right thing leaving you alone, didn't I?"
"Lance, stop kidding me," Aidan said in a grave tone. Lance grasped the meaning at once and nodded. "Yesterday I was with Carol in a bar. She went to the toilet and suddenly a man appeared there out of the blue. He was identical to the one we just saw, except for the colour of his eyes, hair and suit, which were black. His name was Earl Black. Carol can confirm that. She is a reporter, a friend of ours," he explained to Fletcher.
"The twenty-eight-year-old one?" the pathologist asked.
"What's wrong with the two of you?" Aidan replied in a bad mood. "God, I'm trying to work–"
"It's just hit me," Lance said, snapping his fingers. "This guy, Earl Black, is a goalkeeper. He disappeared from the stadium in the middle of a match, just when the other team was shooting a penalty, and appeared in the bar. I don't know if they lost the match because–"
The Big Ben mystery Page 9
