Free Doppelganger by Geoffrey West Page B

in the miniature things,
crouching down or kneeling to get up close, as if they longed to shrink down
and join the dolls. There was one German woman with a hair lip and a rasping
voice, who caressed the dolls as if they were her babies. She made my flesh
creep.
    On the following morning, Monday,
I realised that making some attempt to contact the police investigation team in
the Incident Room at Cowley Road station, was something I’d been putting off
ever since my talk with Ann, my editor at Truecrime, but now I realised I
couldn’t put it off any longer. Obviously no one was going to let me into the
actual room or see any of the evidence, but I had a few friends amongst the
Canterbury police, and, with any luck if I hung around outside the station I
might catch sight of someone I knew, and I could ask a few subtle questions.
    The police station was of tired
red bricks, a ‘30s building on the outskirts of town. It was one of those
‘arsehole’ stations (police slang) for a place where nobody wants to work.
Cowley Road station was sandwiched between two big council housing estates
where the most usual crimes were drug related, and domestic violence was a
routine event.
    But I discovered that the
Incident Room wasn’t in the station building at all, but in a large mobile
caravan in the car park belonging to the Cowley Industrial Estate, across the
road. The part of the car park where the large caravan was parked was in the
far corner, clear of other vehicles, and an empty crisp packet and a page from
a newspaper were wafted along by the breeze as I waited around and wondered
what to do.
    Then I had my first bit of luck
of the day. Dave Parsons, a PC I’d been friendly with some years ago, came out
of the caravan and hailed me.
    “Hello Jack, what are you doing
here?”
    “Hoping for a bit of news. I’m
writing a book about the Bible Killer, and I want to get something hot from
your team.”
    “You cheeky fucker!”
    “I love you too, Dave!”
    “You got some balls, I give you
that. You know DCI Fulford’s leading the investigation?”
    “Is he?” I pictured the Scottish
character who’d interviewed me after I’d run down Caroline Lawrence. “I met him
the other day.”
    “Then you know what a bastard he
is.”
    “Who else is on your team?”
    “The BIA is Millie Vee – ever
come across her?”
    “I worked with her a while ago.”
I groaned inwardly.
    “Fulford’s wetting himself with
excitement to have got Millie. She’s on loan from the hospital psychiatric
wing, s’posed to be highly academic, wrote a brilliant paper for her doctorate.
Her boss is that psychiatrist who’s often on TV, Roger Lamelle, written loads
of books, always being interviewed. Fulford reckons our Millie is the dog’s
bollocks, she’ll crack the whole thing for us.”
    “Umph.” I glowered.
    “I take it you’re not a fan of
Millicent Veitch?”
    “Do you like her?”
    Dave shrugged. “How can you like
a person who looks at you as if you were the shit on her shoe unless you’re a
rank above Sergeant?”
    “She hasn’t changed then.” I
nodded.
    “And there’s something loathsome
about a workaholic, too, don’t you reckon? One o’ them types that’s always on
the phone, jabbering away, or burrowing through papers, and she’d rather shave
her arse in public than crack a smile. But Fulford can’t get enough of her, and
she’s got plenty of time for him too.”
    “Can you tell me anything about
the case, Dave? Off the record?”
    “’Course I can’t, you mad prick!
Talk to the Press Office.”
    “I don’t want squeaky-clean press
releases Dave. I want more than that: details, facts, names, gossip.”
    “Well you can whistle for them,
mate, I’m not risking losing my pension.”
    “So what are you doing here?”
    The woman’s voice from behind
made me turn suddenly, and Dave stepped smartly away and vanished from view.
    Millicent Veitch had an excellent
psychology degree and a PhD, and was making a name