Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (10 page)

twenty

Sparkling white wine seemed
the most inappropriate drink—this was hardly a celebration—but I opened a bottle anyway and poured a glass. Someone had stolen my keys. Only one person held another set: Chris.

Glugging steadily, I picked up the letter and flopped down with it on the sofa. Unlike the
pasted-together
note attached to the chocolates, the script was more specific, the thrust personal, sexual and delusional, the language familiar. A stranger reading it could be forgiven for thinking that there was a preexisting relationship.

Shit.

There must be some kind of mistake. Chris wouldn't do something like that. Didn't stack up with the Chris I knew. But what about the one I didn't? I suddenly recalled an evening not long after he'd moved in. We'd both had far too much to drink.

“So what happened?” I said.

“I was taken into care when I was five.”

“Do you remember your parents?”

“I remember my dad. He beat the hell out of me.” Chris spoke in cool tones. I recognised the device—his way of distancing himself from the violence. Accustomed to muting my own responses, I still struggled to conceal my dismay.

“And what about your mum?”

“Drunk, or incapable, or frightened—take your pick.”

Jesus, I thought. “Horrible for you,” I said.

He took another drink. “I was lucky. I got farmed out to foster parents. They were nice people.”

I flooded with warm relief for him. “That's good.”

“Yeah,” he said almost dreamy before a dark cloud appeared to cross his field of vision.

“And?” I pressed.

“I fucked up.”

I frowned.

Chris looked me square in the eye. “I had a temper, like my dad. They couldn't cope. Five years later, I was back in the system.”

I ran my fingers through my hair. So that explained the petty vandalism. Such a familiar story; such a sad waste.

“In common with most youngsters, I got ejected when I was eighteen,” Chris continued. “Told to go and stand on my own two feet.”

“But by then you'd already been taken under Mr. H.'s wing, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris smiled. “My guardian angel, a bit like you, in fact.”

So that's when Chris's return to the land of the living began. Plenty of youngsters went off the rails and became
well-adjusted
adults, I reminded myself, which meant that Chris was innocent and had taken no part in moving my car. Deliberate, a classic piece of manipulation, Stannard had to be behind the Houdini trick. How he'd got hold of my keys I hadn't yet worked out.

I finished my drink, helped myself to another even though I knew it wasn't a great idea, sat back down, and took a deep swallow. Immediately, my mobile phone blared. Fired up with booze, I picked it up, spoiling for a fight.

“Hello, is that Kim Slade?”

“Yes,” I snapped, “and before you utter another word—”

“It's Police Constable Cunningham. I understand you reported a missing vehicle this morning.”

I sat up straight. Making a conscious effort to formulate the words in my brain before they poured out of my mouth, I said, “It's been found.”

“Oh good,” he said, in a way that suggested he was keen to cut the call and avoid a mountain of paperwork.

“Thing is,” I said, “I'm being stalked.”

twenty-one

Telling the police was
every bit as bad as I'd expected. It was like climbing a mountain with a Steinway grand piano strapped to my back.

PC Paul Cunningham had an open and trusting face, like a cherub. The accompanying officer was an altogether different proposition: older, short hair the colour of mercury fillings, his face and manner worldly. He had a firm handshake and introduced himself as PC David Grant.

I invited them to sit down. They sat opposite me. Grant took out a notebook. Cunningham told me to take my time. It was the sort of thing I might say to a client. It felt strange to be on the receiving end. Having exchanged the wine for water, I took a sip and began to speak. I believed that once I got going, it would be easy. It wasn't. At the mention of the pornographic image, a host of questions ensued. I couldn't imagine what it must be like to be a rape victim.

Cunningham sucked the end of his pen and addressed Grant. “Posted from a site, do you reckon?”

“Then dumped.”

“Dumped?” I said.

“Taken down. Technology now means that someone can send anonymous emails that
self-destruct
in
twenty-four
hours. Gives us no time to trace the source, let alone the person behind an obscene image. Have you received any personally abusive emails?”

I shook my head.

They fired more questions. When I'd finished, the cops did a recap.

“You're a psychologist,” Grant said, scribbling a note.

“I know what you're thinking, but I've never met this guy professionally or in any other capacity.”

“Stannard?”

“Yes.”

Grant looked perplexed. “Then how come you're sure it's him?”

I looked from one to the other. “Of course it's him. He's the guy who called the
phone-in
. He pestered me at home. He was very clear about not taking no for an answer.”

“But he denied sending the image,” Grant stressed.

“Because he's lying.”

Both men exchanged glances.

“Look, I'm not trying to stitch the evidence together.” I flicked a nervous smile. “However you look at it, Stannard's the only rogue element. My life was going along nice and smoothly until this random stranger crossed my path. What are you suggesting, that it's someone I know?” I stared at them incredulously. Out of nowhere, a voice inside whispered Chris's name.

“We're not suggesting anything,” Grant said. “We're simply asking questions.”

I did my level best not to visibly bristle. I didn't quite pull it off.

“You'll know that to take and move someone's car without damaging it is no mean feat,” Grant pushed back. “How did this man you allege you've never met get hold of the keys?”

“Maybe he has contacts, a friendly locksmith, I don't know.” I felt as if I had a wet mattress where my brain should be. I knew I wasn't making sense and yet felt incapable of clarity. All at once I felt about eight years old, trying to stand my ground against my father.

“Any sign of
break-in
here?” Cunningham glanced around the room.

I shook my head.

“And Stannard hasn't made direct contact with you since you told him you wouldn't meet?”

“No.”

“And that was yesterday?”

“Last night, yes.”

His expression suggested it wasn't much to go on. Heat spread up my neck and marched across my scalp.

“Can I see the letter again?” Grant asked.

I showed it to him, watching his face for a response. He gave a brief nod and looked at Cunningham. Excluded, I found it impossible to read either of their expressions.

“Unsigned,” Cunningham said.

“Does it make a difference? He's hardly going to sign it ‘yours truly', is he?” I said with a forced bright smile. “It's Stannard, I'm sure of it.”

Cunningham's face bore the mark of diplomacy. “He looks a fair possibility from what you've told us.”

Hurrah.

“Have you shown the note to anyone else?” Grant asked.

“No.”

“We could try to lift prints off it.” Cunningham said to his colleague. He appeared to float the idea in an abstract way.

“Wouldn't hold your breath. If he's smart, he'll have worn gloves.”

“Run tests on the car?”

Grant pulled a face. “Techs have got a lot on and he's unlikely to be on our database.”

My dismay turned to frustration. “Can you be sure of that?”

Grant shrugged. “Could put in a call, I guess,” he said as if to appease me, “but can't promise anything. Means your car will be out of commission.”

I smiled again. I really wanted to get them onside. “Is there a way you can track where the paper came from?”

Cunningham shook his head slowly. “It's
bog-standard
photocopier paper. It could have come from any number of computers.”

I ran my fingers absently through my hair. “Might you get someone to profile the text?”

“'Fraid not. We don't have the resources on site,” Grant said. “Cuts to funding, and suchlike,” he added with a withering look. He waited a beat, his look thoughtful. “The letter suggests you already have a relationship.”

“That's what he wants you to think.” Come on, guys. Funding has nothing to do with brain function, does it? I looked at them imploringly. “How about you track Stannard down and pay him a visit?”

Neither looked convinced. Grant spoke, “If he lives outside Gloucestershire, we'll have to alert another constabulary.”

“Oh,” I said, taken aback.

“The image you received at work, can you print it out?”

“I deleted it. Emptied the trash too,” I murmured, aware that my own brain function could seem compromised.

Grant held my gaze in a vise. “Chocolates?”

I chewed my lip. “I threw them away, and the note with it, but I've still got the mirror,” I added, triumphant. “It's in my desk at the clinic.”

“Not much to go on.”

“No,” I said, spirits momentarily crushed. Did they think I was making it all up? For a brief, insane moment, I wondered if I were delusional.

Cunningham waved the letter. “Can we keep this?”

I consented with an eager nod.

“You say you split your time between Devon and Cheltenham?”

“I work here but drive down every weekend.”

“And nothing's happened there?”

“No.”

“Interesting.” Grant interjected. I smiled.
Interesting
was good. “Do you have a boyfriend or partner, Miss Slade?”

“He lives in Devon.”

“Name?”

I told him.

“What's he do for a living?”

“Chris is a teacher.” I wondered what they were thinking, how they were slotting the disparate pieces together. Would they try to force Chris into the jigsaw? Should
I
be forcing Chris into the picture?

“And how long have you been together?”

“Over three years, nearly four.”

“No previous relationships that might be tied to what's happening now?” Grant's look was steady. They definitely weren't buying the Stannard theory.

“I was married and divorced ten years ago. My
ex-husband
, who I never see, is not part of this.”

“Are you sure?”

“I've already spoken to him.”

“Better have his name,” Cunningham said breezily.

“Is it strictly necessary?”

“To be on the safe side.”

I gave it.

“Do you use social networking sites, Twitter, Facebook, and so on?”

I shook my head. I recognised the dangers. Besides, the eternal pursuit of
moi
didn't do it for me.

“Anything else you've missed?” Grant said.

“Nothing I can think of. But there's something I wanted to ask you.”

“Fire away.”

“Can you stop it?”

Cunningham looked to Grant, who let out a breath.

“It depends on how fixated he is, doesn't it?” I said, grim.

“Worse case scenario, it can go on for years.”

“I see.” I should have felt undone. Couldn't afford to let that happen.

“If we have enough evidence, we can put him in prison for a substantial period of time, which gives you a reprieve, but it won't necessarily stop him in the long term,” Grant said.

“I appreciate your honesty. And what are the chances of him turning nasty?”

Cunningham again looked to Grant. I waited expectantly.

“Most stalkers are not physically abusive. There's an increased tendency towards extreme violence in cases where celebrities are involved …”

“Mark Chapman and John Hinkley,” I cut in.

“And stalkers who've had a previous sexual relationship with their victims,
ex-boyfriends
and husbands, for instance.”

“So the chance of me being open to attack is small?”

“If it's a stranger,” Grant said, “though there are exceptions.” Again, the straight look. “It's a pity you didn't save the pornographic image.”

There was a note of censure in his voice. Again, I considered whether
they could take the computer and let loose a
high-tech
team on it, but as nobody suggested it, I wasn't keen to press the point. To be charitable, given the little they had to go on, I understood their caution.

“We take this sort of thing very seriously,” Cunningham said, sensitive to my frustration, “and rest assured that your complaint will be fully investigated.” He ran through the same list of precautions as Simon, adding that I should alert neighbours, friends, and people I worked with to what was going on if only to act as witnesses should something happen. “The more detail the better. Any more email messages, print out a hard copy and do not delete the original. Keep notes of anything you see or hear and try to alter your daily routines where possible.”

“That's going to be difficult.”

“Under no circumstances should you meet Stannard, or anyone else you suspect,” Cunningham emphasised. “Don't pick up the phone—ever—before checking the caller number. Get a male to leave a recorded message on your main line along the lines that you can't come to the phone at the moment.”

“Don't say you're not at home, as that might leave you vulnerable,” Grant added. “If by accident you pick up and it's him, keep calm. Don't engage. If you come face to face with your stalker, don't confront him, but walk away, preferably to the nearest crowded area. If you're in fear of immediate threat, call us.”

He said that they would give me a log number to quote so that, if I needed to alert them to any fresh developments, my call would come straight through. “We'll take a quick look round the flat, check your security, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all.”

I watched as they examined the windows and doors, paying particular attention to the
wrought-iron
balcony.

“It looks pretty secure,” Cunningham said. “But you could do with a proper alarm system.”

Mirroring Simon's advice, I remembered.

“How long have you lived here?” Grant said.

“Six years.”

He looked around admiringly and turned his attention to the painting. “I see you're a fan of Vettriano.”

“I like the drama, the suggestion of tangled relationships, the thought that you're not quite sure what's going on beneath the surface.”

“Art imitating life.”

“Yes,” I agreed, uneasily meeting the unwavering expression in his eyes. I walked with them to the door. “Is this a common problem?”

Grant answered. “Stalking is one of the
fastest-growing
crimes.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Access, opportunity, and the explosion in communication technology and social networking,” he said. “Whether it's press and the power of the telephoto lens, or a public eager to know the latest, we all think we can have a slice of other people's lives. We regard it as our right. I'm afraid you're in good company. There are a lot of victims out there.”

I flinched. “I'm no victim.”

Grant looked at me with a cool grey stare. “I'm afraid you are, Miss Slade. You'd better learn to accept it. It might save your life.”