Doppelganger Read Online Free Page A

let me see the injured
woman, but if I explained my involvement, there was a chance she might at least
be able tell me how Caroline was recovering.
    I walked out onto the corridor,
turning left for the doors above which it said ‘Edith Grendel Ward’. I
obediently washed my hands with the alcohol cleaner at the wall machine, then
pressed the button to open the ward doors and stepped through. At the end of
the line of beds I could see a policewoman was sitting beside one of them.
    No one stopped me approaching the
officer, and when I came closer she looked up enquiringly. I explained who I
was and why I was there. After phoning her sergeant and confirming my identity
she told me, unofficially, that the woman was out of danger, and would probably
be able to talk soon. Her job was to wait and report on anything she might say
when she first woke up. I thanked her and left, feeling relieved that things
had apparently worked out so well.
    Just as the lift doors were
almost closed I saw someone’s face appear in the gap. I levered them open, to
reveal a woman, her arms full of manila files.
    “Phew, thanks!” she said with a
friendly smile, stepping forward. “I want to get these back to Records before
they close – as it is I probably won’t make it.” She was wearing a dark blue
top and trousers, yet it didn’t match the uniforms of the nurses I’d seen so
far. The name badge fixed to her tunic said ‘Lucy Green’.
    “My pleasure.”
    And for some crazy reason I just
couldn’t help staring at her.
    Why?
    For a fraction of a second I felt
something like a bolt of electricity pass through my brain. Something, I didn’t
know what, was incredibly, almost scarily, familiar about her face. The someone
walking over my grave moment passed, but it unnerved me. There was a cleft
in her chin that I knew so well. That crease below her mouth, and also a
certain look in her eyes were from a face I’d already seen, but where from I
had absolutely no idea. I was shaken, but somehow excited at the same time. The
crazy sensation lasted a few seconds as I stared at her.
    She was studying me too.
    “Excuse me asking,” she said,
“but are you Jack Lockwood? The psychologist who writes books about crime?”
    “Yes.” Relief flooded through me.
“I know your face too, but I just can’t remember where we met.”
    “I’ve never met you, as far as I
know.” She regarded me seriously while the lift rattled in protest as it
started its downward journey. I was barely aware of the movement, I was still
lost in the strange sensation of staring at this woman who was having such a
bizarre effect on me.
    Lucy Green rearranged her grip on
the pile of folders, clutching them closer to her chest, causing the topmost
ones to slide forward and totter precariously. “I saw you on one of those late
night literary discussion programmes on BBC2 TV last year. I even read a bit of
one of your books.”
    “Which one?”
    She frowned, trying to remember.
“Can’t remember the title. Something about serial killers, I think. I just
looked at the opening chapter out of curiosity. It was certainly compulsive
reading, but way too grisly for my taste.”
    “Crime’s not your thing?”
    She shook her head. “Don’t mind a
bit of detective fiction, but not true crime. Scares me, I suppose. I always
want a happy ending, where the killer gets caught and the heroine escapes his
clutches. Life’s not always like that, is it? I don’t like facing that kind of
reality.” She gave a bitter smile but there was a wariness about it, as if she
was on the edge of saying something and then thought better of it.
    And there it was again, that
flutter of recognition .
    My new friend appeared to be in
her thirties, and her eyes were large and dark, her movements vivacious without
being over-the-top. She was attractive rather than beautiful, with neat, blonde,
tastefully-styled hair, a mouth that stretched into grimaces a little too much
and eyebrows that almost