Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (14 page)

thirty

Chris pulled me into
the shower. He kissed my mouth and held me as rivulets of water sprayed our faces. He ran his fingers over my breasts, touched my belly, reached down, and touched the soft flesh of my inner thigh, making me pulse with desire. He flattened me against the cool-tiled walls and, as he entered me, I felt Stannard's spell to be truly broken.

After we dressed, he suggested we pack up a picnic. “I'll organise it.”

I raised an eyebrow in amused surprise.

“I thought we'd have doorstep sandwiches and bottles of pop,” he teased. “You're not the only foodie round here, you know. Move over
Masterchef
.”

Inevitably, the conversation led back to Andy's latest squeeze. “What did you think of Jen?”

Chris let out a groan. “She was gruesome. Why on earth did you agree to a foursome?”

“I'd already batted her off twice. It was starting to look rude. I don't know how he manages to pick them. And that laugh.” I shivered.

“Don't you see, she's exactly Andy's type: no brains, big tits.”

“Sex without commitment.”

“Classic Andy,” Chris said. “I guess, from a purely physical point of view, she goes in and out in all the right places.”

“Should I be jealous?” I teased.

“Don't be silly.” His laugh was shaky, almost shy, and I laughed too.

We headed for Mill Bay on the Triumph, sea air in my face, the roar of the arrow sports exhaust in my ears. Predictably, the beach bustled with febrile activity. Despite this, something had shifted. I couldn't put my finger on it but my spirits soared. For the first time in a while, I was determined to hope.

“You okay?” Chris said, putting a protective arm around me.

I peered from underneath the brim of my sun hat. “I'm blissfully and deliriously happy. Let's head back to the coastal path. There's that rocky outcrop round the corner. It will be quieter.”

The rocks were black and shiny like overlapping mussel shells. The waves caught against them and sent up a fine saltspray. I could taste it on my skin. We inched along close to where cormorants perched and the land fell away to the sea below. I paddled my bare feet in a small natural pool edged with a thick, crusty layer of seaweed while Chris laid out the towels side by side. Stretching out, a hard layer of shale resting against the small of my back, I tipped my hat over my face, determined to extinguish all thought of the drive back to Cheltenham the following morning. I wanted to rest in the moment, be still and snuggled in our private world. Later, we ate. In spite of the heat, I was insanely hungry.

“God knows what Andy must have thought this morning.” I bit into a roll filled with lettuce and salami.

“Don't worry about him. He's almost part of the furniture.”

“I'm sure he'd be very flattered by that description.”

“Well, you know what I mean,” Chris grinned, chucking me a packet of crisps. “Andy is …”

“Andy,” I giggled.

An hour or so passed. Half asleep, euphoria dissipated, I felt perfectly serene and sorted.

When Chris announced he wanted to take a photograph of me I barely stirred.

“You know I hate having my picture taken,” I murmured lazily.

“Go on. I've only got one pic of you.”

“The one where I look wasted.” I'd been trying to avoid the flash. “You said you'd rip it up.”

“No,
you
said.” He laughed and playfully poked me in the ribs. “Go on, it won't take a moment. Look behind you and then turn back. That way it will look natural.”

I moved slowly, got up, pretending to do him a huge favour. “If you must.”

When he finished and we'd both stretched back out again, he said, “You never told me about your phone call with Alexa.”

“I didn't think you'd want to know.”

“If someone phones at that time, it has to be important.”

“Only to her.”

Chris crooked himself up on an elbow. “And?”

“Brooks has met someone else.”

“Oh.”

“Is that it?”

“What else can I say? Shit happens.” He lay back down.

I guess you're right, I thought, suddenly tense.

thirty-one

Olivia Mallory kissed her
son full on the mouth. Her hands rested on his shoulders and she held him away a little with concern. “You look tired, darling.”

Wearing his trademark sunglasses, Kyle Stannard tipped his head to one side. “I'm fine, mother. You worry too much.”

She let her hands drop, linked her arm through his, and walked him through to the sitting room where Gerald was waiting. The men exchanged restrained greetings. Gerald offered Kyle a glass of white wine. “Chilean sauvignon,” he said, as if it were something unusual.

At his mother's insistence, Kyle sat down in Gerald's favourite wingback chair. If Gerald was jealous, he didn't say so. He asked his stepson about business. Olivia excused herself to check on the meat's progress. As soon as the door closed, Gerald pushed himself forward in the chair, any pretence of civility gone.

“So what was it you wished to talk to me about?”

Kyle's mouth twitched. “There's this woman,” he began, pausing to remove a fruit fly from his glass, flicking its sodden body away between thumb and finger. “She's of interest to me. I don't really know her but, what I've seen, I respect … greatly.” He noted a tick pulse in Gerald's neck. No matter. “She's got a good mind,” he continued, “she could help me.”

Gerald frowned. “Help you? How?”

“I need
to talk to her. We share certain things in common.”

“Like what?”

“Scars.”

The pulse increased. Kyle watched with detached amusement.

“Is she married?” Gerald said.

His mind went blank. The thought had never occurred to him. “I don't think so.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“She alleges I've been calling her and sending her stuff. She even accused me of following her in the street.”

“Kyle, for God's sake, are you stalking her?”

He gave a short incredulous laugh. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Gerald opened his mouth, as if to speak, and closed it. He took a long swallow of wine.

“Anyway, I went to view this flat for sale in Montpellier,” Kyle continued. “Ground floor and smartly appointed. Before I knew what was happening, some copper picked me up and carted me off to the police station.”

“Jesus.” A spit of wine dropped onto Gerald's beautifully pressed shirt. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and inched forward in his chair. “Let me get this straight. What were the police doing there?”

Kyle hiked one shoulder. “Haven't a clue. They said she lived in the block.”

“She?”

“Keep up. The woman I told you about.”

“In the flat for sale?”

“No.” He frowned in irritation. “She lives in the one above.”

“And you didn't know?” Gerald's eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It's too much of a coincidence.”

“Coincidences, like accidents, happen.” Kyle thrust him a crooked smile and took a drink.

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you like.” He threw his stepfather a challenging look.

Gerald swallowed and drummed his fingers against the glass. “What did the police do?”

“Read me the riot act.”

“You denied it?”

“Of course I denied it,” he flashed with anger.

Gerald held his gaze. “They haven't charged you with anything?”

“No.”

“No caution?”

“No.”

Stony silence.

“I won't have your mother upset,” Gerald said eventually.

“That's why I'm talking to
you
and not
her
. The thing is, I don't know why this woman is saying these things. We happened to chance upon each other in the street the other day. She waved, beckoned to me.” His voice grew hard and malevolent. “I thought we could talk, and then she does something like that. It's as if she's playing games.”

“Then don't play.”

“It's not that simple. She can help me, and she's drawn to me. I
know
it.”

“In this country we have a Protection from Harassment Act and it has recently got more robust. However innocent your motive,” Gerald said, giving Kyle a bloodless stare, “you must forget about her. Forget about the flat, too. You stay away. Do I make myself plain? You've already been in trouble with the law.”

“I don't need reminding.”

“It seems to me you do,” Gerald said. “Whatever this woman's problem with you, it won't look good. You've got history.”

Kyle swept off his sunglasses, his eyes flat and cold. He knew that his stepfather could never bear to see the full extent of his disfigurement. “There was no evidence. The allegations were dropped.”

“No smoke without fire.”

Gerald drained his glass. Olivia appeared at the door. “Lunch is ready.” She beamed radiantly at both the men in her life and stretched out a hand to Kyle as if he were her
boy-toy
lover. Kyle got up and took it.

“You two seem to be getting on famously.” She gave Kyle's arm a tender squeeze. “Have I missed anything?”

thirty-two

At about four o'clock,
we walked back home and took another shower. This time I initiated sex. Full on. Blistering. Afterwards Chris insisted on cooking spaghetti. I watched as he chucked in butter, oil, and wine.

“Are you trying to give me a coronary?”

He turned and grinned. “I don't remember any complaints about the picnic, Miss Slade. Sit there, shut up, sip your drink, and look decorative. This is going to be fabulous, trust me.”

And it was. After we'd finished off a bottle of
plum-ripe
Merlot, we watched a film, an
action-adventure
with a high body count, guns blazing, tons of blood, and an implausible plot line, but hey, what did I care? It was the perfect distraction; I loved it.

We went to bed early and I fell asleep and dreamt about the dead. Guy was outside in the darkness, his face half lit in the green glow of a bonfire, boasting like a
latter-day
Abednego that he could walk through it and not be hurt. I tried to stop him, but he laughed and touched the flames with his hand.

I woke up with a jolt, perspiration exploding across my brow, sheets drenched, mind whirring with thoughts of my imminent return to Cheltenham. It took me an age to go back to sleep and, when I finally awoke, I'd overslept.

Darting out of bed, I hurriedly washed and dressed, and crept over to Chris to wish him a silent
good-bye
.

Standing in the
early-morning
light, watching an amber sun splay its first tentative rays across Chris's face, I bent down and kissed his mouth. He stirred and reached up, sliding a hand across the back of my head, his other moving my hair, exposing the scar tissue, tracing the ridge with a finger. His eyes were quite open now, studying me. It felt peculiar, as if he were viewing me for the last time, charting every line and contour, mapping me, recording every detail like a phrenologist, and committing me to memory. I tried to twist away—I was running hellishly late—but he held me fast. In other circumstances, his grasp would have felt deeply inappropriate. Something in his eyes, like an apology, troubled me.

“I have to go,” I said, awkward.

When he said
good-bye
it felt as if it were final.

thirty-three

I pulled into the
nearest gateway and cursed. Already late, I'd got stuck behind a tractor for three tortuous miles and then, pulling out of Loddiswell, and taking the twisty and slow-travelling lane that led to the A38, the car started handling badly. I knew immediately what was wrong: a puncture.

I scrambled out, feet hitting the dry, dusty earth, the hem of my skirt snagging on brambles. Cursing more, I examined the rear of the car and extent of the damage. The nearside tyre was blown. It was nothing short of a miracle that I'd managed to manoeuvre it successfully off the road. I guessed providence was looking after me, but now what? I hadn't changed a wheel in an age and didn't relish the prospect of broken nails, and dirt and oil on my clothes.

Changing a tyre was the first lesson my father taught me in a
bad-tempered
exchange after I'd passed my driving test; I'd only ever practiced once. I ran through the motions in my mind. Shove on the hazard lights. Put the car in first gear. Get out wheel nut spanner and lever off jacking point cover. Position jack. Turn the jackscrew clockwise to raise it. I once did this in forty minutes, but if the wheel nuts were too tightly fixed, or I had trouble unlocking them, it would take longer. I pulled out my phone and called Cathy.

“Sorry, I'm going to be late.”

Heather's head throbbed. It was all moving too swiftly and common sense dictated that it was not a good idea to have work done on her body at the same time as her face. The sleek-looking beauty representative parked in her sitting room begged to differ.

Heather noted the smooth and unlined skin, the plump cheeks, sculpted jawline and
platinum-blond
hair swept back in a style that would have challenged a younger woman. Only the neck and hands gave the game away, she thought, observing the creased skin.

After being shown a collection of before and after photographs, the conversation moved at a giddy pace.

“I'd advise a composite lift,” the woman said. “It means that all areas of the face—fat, muscles, and skin—are moved at the same time.”

Moved where, Heather quaked inside. Before she could comment, she was thrown another question.

“Do you have a date in mind?”

A date? Was it really that simple? Shouldn't they be discussing her medical history first? “Well …”

“Only we have an exclusive offer at the moment. What with people away on holidays, it's rather a dead time for us.”

“I see,” Heather said, cringing at such an unfortunate expression. “When do I get a chance to speak to the surgeon?”

This was met with a persuasive smile. “Mr. Self has a cancellation tomorrow morning.”

Heather fretted. If the surgeon was that good, surely he'd have a waiting list, or was this stroke of luck simply meant to be? She calculated how soon Stannard would take to complete the transaction. Somewhat to her surprise, she'd received a lovely card from him that morning in which he'd expressed delight with the house. News of an official offer was firmly promised, but when exactly?

“I'd like a little more time to consider,” Heather said, ignoring the audible click of the woman's tongue. “Is there any chance of an appointment at the end of the month?”

“I'll have to check with Mr. Self,” came back the
tight-lipped
reply. Heather couldn't help noticing that the woman's expression remained neutral no matter the emotion, which, according to her voice, shrieked irritation.

The woman gathered up the photographs. “If money's a problem, we could arrange financing.”

“That won't be necessary.”

She gave Heather a shrewd look. “It's common not to receive support from your nearest and dearest. Husbands and partners can be remarkably resistant to change in their wives and girlfriends. I've seen the same intransigence when women lose weight.” She lowered her voice to a confidential level. “It brings out the
green-eyed
monster. Husbands are frightened their wives are going to be attractive to other men.”

Heather broke into a hopeful smile.

I stared, absolutely floored. Chris was right and Grant was wrong. After the puncture on the way to work, this was turning into a really crap day.

The card had slipped through the net because Cathy thought it a birthday greeting.
Coffin-shaped
, black, there was no inscription. The design said it all. Looked like my stalker was in for the long haul. He'd rather destroy me than let go.

Telling myself to stop emoting and use my brain, I picked up the envelope and attempted to decipher the sorting office. Unfortunately, the postmark was blurred. All I knew was it was sent on Saturday, the day after Grant had spoken to Stannard.

Even with my professional experience, it wasn't always easy to predict human behaviour. But I'd so wanted to believe that Stannard would disappear from my life. Now what? Go back to the cops and complain? And what would they do? Stannard would only deny sending it. So I decided that if I could keep silent, stay safe, last out until Friday, I'd be all right. I could forget about my urban stalker and walk away for three whole weeks. If he tracked me down in Devon, he'd have both of us to deal with. The idea appealed. In the meantime, maybe I
would
think seriously about changing my job, changing the trajectory of my career. Even my existence? God, I thought, Kyle Stannard is doing his best to evict me from my life. Not a damn chance.

Jim stuck his head around the door. I stuffed the card away in a drawer and explained that the police had spoken to Stannard.

“That's a relief.”

I flicked a smile, muttered about punctures and running late. Undaunted, Jim loped in and perched on the edge of the desk. “I've come across numerous fascinating details.”

“Really? Look, Jim, I've got a number of …”

“Apparently most stalkers have a history of failed relationships. Stalking is their way of taking back control, their chief motivation one of anger. I'd always assumed sex to be the dominant theme,” he said, as if amazed by his lack of perspicacity. “Another interesting snippet is that it's not unusual for them to start late in life. You know the old adage, life begins at forty? Well, quite often so does stalking.”

I'd already worked out Stannard's age—
thirty-eight
, or thereabouts. “Quite often, you say?”

“Well, not exclusively, of course. There's always the exception to the rule when it comes to the human psyche.”

I resisted the urge to tell Jim that he was stating the bleeding obvious.

“And,” Jim said, working up to the finale, “stalkers will often rope in family members to defend their cause.”

I hoisted an eyebrow. Jim spotted the heightened interest. From the spellbound look on his face, he was revving up for another pronouncement. “From the little you told me, Stannard's not your stereotypical oddball. He's a guy who saw you as a potential confidante and, when you weren't interested, got uppity, his feelings of rejection a little extreme, I appreciate,” he said in answer to my exasperated expression. “I'm glad the police have sorted it so quickly. Apparently we're not that clever at curing the problem. Riveting stuff.” He smiled. “So, you're all right then?”

“Never better. Thank you,” I added, the pitch forced, a little too bright, a tad too upbeat. My smile made my face muscles hurt. I looked pointedly at my watch.

“God, is that the time?” he said, loping back out of the room.