Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (19 page)

forty-three

Sleep was so total,
so without dreams that, when I awoke early on Monday morning and reality kicked in, the realisation that Chris had left cut through me like a ragged blade through raw flesh.

When I swung my legs out of bed my stomach growled, my legs wobbled, and my throat felt sore and dry from too much booze.
Light-headed
, I tottered downstairs, stood in the kitchen, munched a slice of bread and butter with disinterest, and washed it down with fruit juice. Everything I did and everywhere I looked blared that I was single again.

Dressed in a pair of jeans and
T-shirt
, I collected several old removal boxes from the garage and started on the study. Books and papers not specific to my current work,
long-dead
flowers, all were whisked away. Moving on to the kitchen, I chucked out a couple of shrivelled apples from the fruit bowl. Opening a cupboard, I was shocked by the amount of gadgetry acquired. Milk frothers, slicing implements for every vegetable and fruit known to man, graters and separators, culinary machines, all came under close inspection. I
mentally split things into three piles: stuff to be junked, nonessentials to be packed away, items to leave where they were. More ruthless than I thought possible, it occurred to me that to do my job required a modicum of toughness. Hard to confront, there were times when my efforts failed, and young women died.

When Alexa rang at around ten thirty, I was less than my sparkling self. She made no pretence of pleasantries but launched straight in. I had to hand it to Chris, he was right about her obsessive nature.

“I can't see me ever having children.”

“With Brooks gone, you think there won't be time to meet someone else, is that what you mean?”

“Yes.” Her voice was small.

Join the club, I thought. “You can't know what the future holds.”

“It's unlikely, though, isn't it?”

“Women are leaving motherhood until much later these days.”

“Just my luck to miss the biological boat.”

“You could always adopt.”

“As a single parent?” The tone of her voice suggested that I had serious mental health issues. She was possibly right.

“Maybe that's not such a good idea.” I picked up a broken whisk and flung it into the junk pile. It landed with a satisfying crash.

“Not that Brooks need worry; he can have children whenever he wants.”

I burbled something neutral.

“There's something else,” she said. I waited for the punch line. In my experience, clients and people in general always saved the most significant points until last.

“What's that?”

“I feel haunted.”

“Is this connected to Gaynor?”

“How could she disappear into thin air?”

“Unfortunately, people do.” Against my will, I thought of Chris.

“Something bad must have happened to her.”

“The police never found a body, Alexa.”

“That's true, but I sense it.”

“Not everyone who goes missing dies.” I grimaced. I'd been through this with her many times. It was a circular argument that never went anywhere. Maybe it couldn't. “She might have walked out of her life to start another.” My heart skipped a beat. Isn't this what Chris had done—just like my mother?

“No,” Alexa said. “She's dead. I know it.”

A few minutes later, she signed off. Shaken, I went back to sorting. After an hour and a half of clatter and bang, I lost interest. In another fifteen minutes, the first of the estate agents were due to arrive. Scouring my address book, I picked up the phone and called a number I hadn't used in years.

“Professor Fallon?”

“Kim? What a lovely surprise.”

“I wondered if I could pay a visit?”

“We'd be delighted,” he said, unabashed by my sudden desire for contact. “Any particular time in mind?”

“I'm free from next weekend.”

“Pity, we're flying to Seville next Saturday for a fortnight's holiday. How are you fixed lunchtime?”

“Today, are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. I'll tell Iris straight away.”

Forewarned is forearmed, I thought.

forty-four

Bastard, Heather thought, throwing
the missive from Stannard's lawyers, passed on via her solicitors, onto the kitchen table. Apart from disliking the tone of the legalese, she felt fury at the number of points they wished to have clarification on, including the confirmation that the site be cleared of rubbish and gardening residue. She had a ton of the stuff and it would take several skips to remove it. Bearing in mind that Stannard was going to gut the place, it seemed a petty thing to request. Why couldn't it be lumped in with his debris? But the real stinger was the area directly outside the rear, where she occasionally parked the car. News to her, it belonged to the Highways Agency. Stannard and his legal dogs wanted her to sort it out to “save all possible future aggravation about boundaries and rights.” Quite what she was supposed to do about it, she hadn't a clue. Land Registry clearly stated that the parking area belonged to the property. According to Stannard's solicitors, it could be used by anyone. The letter seemed to imply that she, as the vendor, should come up with a deal with the Highways Agency—as if.

The simple alternative, as they put it, a reduction in price.

Outrage didn't cover her emotions. As for Fairweather, suspicion turned to conviction. He'd deliberately entrapped her. What was in it for him, she considered shrewdly, a backhander, perhaps? Picking up the phone, she contacted Damian Fairweather and explained the latest development.

“The problem, as I see it,” Fairweather said, “is that if you don't comply, Stannard will drop out.”

Good, she thought. “But you said there was another interested party.”

“You agreed, if you remember, to accept Stannard's offer.”

“That was before he started playing fast and loose,” she said. “It's not as if I've ever encountered a problem parking. We've always assumed that it was our right to use it exclusively. There are no yellow lines. And it's not as if it's the only parking space. There's plenty of room around the side of the house.”

“It's a question of privacy.”

How much privacy does he actually need, she thought. “He's got six bedrooms' worth of privacy to roll around in.”

“If Stannard changes his mind, anyone else interested in the house may also insist on a price reduction. I recognise you're incurring an additional loss of funds, but it might be worth your while to investigate.”

“Perhaps Mr. Stannard would like me to put a swimming pool in the garden,” she said tartly, “or maybe he would prefer a Victorian facade instead of the original Regency. The details are quite clear, Mr. Fairweather. The house already has a perfectly adequate form of parking. I've had no problems with boundaries, rights, or anything else in the past and …”

“I
do
appreciate where you're coming from,” Fairweather broke in, “I'm simply trying to get you into a situation of going forwards.”

God save me from meaningless lingo, she thought, crazed with frustration. All she wanted to do was sell the house, have her
face-lift
, and get on with her life. And there were all these bloody men standing in her way like checkpoint guards.

“Won't you at least consider the proposition?” Fairweather's voice was nothing short of wheedling.

“I'll look at it,” she said, her jaw stiff with indignation, “but I promise nothing.”

forty-five

Grand location, Miss Slade.

Three separate firms of estate agents with different profiles, but responses and tone the same: gushing and
gung-ho
. Who to choose, I wondered.

As a young lone female, I felt at a distinct disadvantage, talked at rather than talked to about anything from buoyant markets and profit margins to government policy. There was little consensus about the value of the property; the differential between the lowest and highest figure was in the region of fifty thousand pounds. Out of the three, I decided to select the Salcombe agency because they had more flair, seemed to have better contacts outside the West Country, with a particular handle on the London market. The clincher was an open sense of humour—not particularly sound business principles but good psychology.

Shortly after eleven, I was on the road. Traffic on the motorway was light though lanes on the opposite side of the carriageway, running into the West Country, were a mess of
five-mile
tailbacks. I drove without listening to either radio or CD and achieved a rare moment of stillness and calm.

Within spitting distance of Cheltenham, I came off the motorway early at Gloucester and doubled almost back on myself to the second capital of the Cotswolds, Cirencester.

Passing through a
semi-rural
hinterland of houses and light industry, the countryside became more undulating as I approached the pretty market town. A
heat-haze
of phantom mists, like forgotten Roman soldiers, shrouded the hills.

Parking in the main car park in the new part of town, a conglomeration of municipal seventies blocks of concrete, I walked into the main square, then crossed over and down a narrow street in the direction of the Bathurst estate. Set back from the road, the Fallons' Cotswold stone cottage, with its hanging baskets, crammed with flowers and weeping figs, brought a delighted smile to my face.

At the scrape of the latch on the
wrought-iron
gate, Robert Fallon opened the front door and ambled out to greet me. In his late sixties, a large man with soft benign features, he'd changed little since the days he'd lectured at Leicester University. Thinner on top, jowly, he still presented a commanding figure.

“Come inside out of the heat. Hope you don't mind eating salad. Iris thought it too hot for anything more substantial.”

“Sounds lovely.”

Sublimely cool inside, the Fallons' home smelt of geraniums. I gave Iris a homemade gift of peaches steeped in brandy.

Like her husband, Iris Fallon was well built. She had remarkably unwrinkled features and soft blue eyes that peered through tortoiseshell spectacles. Her mouth was small and dabbed with
peach-coloured
lipstick.

“You're looking well, Kim,” she said.

Unable to tell whether it was a genuine compliment, or an icebreaker, I pushed a smile.

Lunch was convivial, the conversation uncontroversial. Fallon listened with intensity when I spoke of my job in Cheltenham.

“Are you still involved in police work?” I'd wanted it to sound casual, but missed the mark.

“Not any more, my dear,” he said, meeting my eye. “My days of profiling are long over. Naturally, I still take a keen interest in criminology,” he added, as if he'd read the disappointment in my eyes.

After coffee, he suggested we took a stroll in the orchard.

“We can walk down to the river. It's quite pleasant in the shade.”

Iris tactfully said that she would stay to wash up, declining my offer of help.

The heat blasted us as we crossed the garden but once we were safely under a canopy of trees, the air felt fresher. This was my big moment. This was what I'd come for.

“What do you know about stalkers?”

“Stalking is still uncharted territory. There is research but, as usual, it's difficult to find funding.”

I pressed Fallon again.

“Why do you want to know?”

How eating disorders related to stalking was a fairly impossible sell. I looked straight ahead to better conceal the lie. “Academic interest.”

Fallon didn't change step, didn't miss a beat. “There are exceptions, yet most stalkers are men. They tend to be devious and extremely intelligent. Although the reasons for the behaviour are varied, there's one common theme.”

“What's that?”

“Rejection.”

I lowered my head.

“They fall roughly into three groups,” Fallon continued. “Former intimates who cannot accept that a relationship is over. The zealous type who's never met the object of his affection or has only come across her in passing, maybe a smile across a supermarket counter, or a brief exchange of conversation on the bus. Lastly, we have the deluded erotomaniac, who again has no prior relationship to his victim but is convinced that she's in love with him, or would be given the right circumstances. I don't need to tell you that human beings rarely fall neatly into any of these categories. There's some variation but, broadly speaking, that's the rough spec.”

“Any evidence of personality disorders, psychiatric problems, schizophrenia, for instance?”

“Some, but not exclusively. My advice to anyone who finds herself in the unfortunate position of being stalked is to go to the police. Whereas it used to be put on the same disinterested level as domestic violence, it's now being taken seriously.” He paused for a moment and turned towards me. “I take it we're talking about you, Kim.”

“It's not that serious.”

“Yet here we are having this discussion.”

We carried on walking. The ground was pitted and dry and difficult to cross. Eventually the path curved gracefully as it made its slow descent to the river.

“Do you know who it is?”

I told him about Stannard, about everything that had happened to me, including Chris leaving. I confessed my uncontrollable feelings of anger towards the world. He lightly touched my back with his hand in the way a mother guides a child forward through a busy street.

“Then you know how your stalker feels.”

I flashed him a sharp look. Fallon smiled. “It wasn't a vindication.”

River trout splashed in the shallows. The ground beneath my feet softened slightly.

“You're certain it's him?”

I stopped in my tracks. For the police and for my friends to doubt me was one thing, but this was Robert, my mentor, someone I respected. But even he was not infallible. “Surely, after all I've told you …” My voice tailed off into the lengthening silence.

“Strangers stalk celebrities. Ordinary folk are generally stalked by people they know.”

Chris leaving excluded him, didn't it? I wanted to ask the question but lost my nerve.

“At heart this is a power struggle,” Fallon said. “Throw into the mix that he's both unpredictable and a fantasist.”

“A fantasist?” I remembered Stannard's admission of daydreams.

“He wants you to be blank so that he can colour you in with all the attributes he finds attractive and appealing to him. He doesn't care if you crack up. It's a
turn-on
simply knowing that he can find ways to guarantee he's never out of your mind.”

I let out a small exhalation.

Fallon continued softly, “In
worst-case
scenarios, it can culminate in abduction, rape, torture, murder. The flipside of love is hate. But you know this already, don't you, Kim?”

I nodded, taken aback by his ability to see right through me. “You're not making me feel any better.”

When Fallon looked into my eyes his expression was grave. “I'm trying to make you see what you're up against.”

Something rough caught in the back of my throat. “There must be recognisable stages of behaviour.” It was like facing a terminal disease, each level signifying a critical escalation.

“The deadly stage is when he realises that he really can't have you.”

“And when will I know he's made the transition?”

“He'll up the ante without warning.”

And I will be prepared.

“You've come here to estimate your chances of success. Am I right?”

“I need to know if I can win.”

“Only if you involve the police; you can't do this on your own.”

It wasn't what I wanted to hear. Fallon sussed it. “Stannard, if that's who it is, presents you with the ultimate mind game and you're secretly fascinated by it …”

I almost stamped my foot. Hadn't Chris implied the same? “That's not true. I didn't seek this. I never encouraged it. I don't want it.”

“You regard him as a challenge,” Robert said, his voice stern.

“I've never run from anything in my life.”

“I understand that, my dear.”

Tears pricked my eyes. One trickled down my cheek. I pushed it away, hoping he hadn't noticed.

“
Don't
be seduced, Kim. If you go after your stalker in a blind attempt to convert him, you'll be playing straight into his hands. You already understand a little of what makes this man tick but always remember, in his eyes, he's doing nothing wrong. It's all quite rational within the context of his personality. He's really quite impervious to any form of deterrence. He enjoys what he's doing too much.”

“So where does that leave me?” To my annoyance, my voice came out as a pathetic cry. “Do I let him carry on? Do I change my life? Move away? What do I do? I can't stand by and do nothing
.
I
have
to stop him.” Crack him before he cracks me.

“Deep down, you know that's impossible. Has it occurred to you that maybe you want payback, not for what he's done, but for everything else that's gone wrong in your life?”

I was
open-mouthed
.

“You're a victim …”

“Oh Christ, Robert, not you as—”

He put up the flat of his hand. “… and you deserve to be listened to, but not by Stannard. Go back to the police. It's no longer regarded as a trivial offence. For all you know, he might have done it before.”

“Really? Is that possible?”

“In common with the serial killer, a man or woman doesn't become a stalker overnight. There are grades of behaviour as he or she feels his way.”

I swallowed hard. From the start, I was sure my stalker was male. Had I made the wrong call? Chris's words about Alexa reverberated:
She's practically stalking you.
No, it was absurd. Alexa was many things but she wasn't doing this to me.

“Take some leave, talk to a professional outside work. Don't, for God's sake, think that by talking to Stannard, or whoever your stalker is, he'll go away.”

Who said anything about talking to him, I thought? I wanted to put the wind up him, embarrass him, shame him, fucking terrify him.

We were right down by the river's edge now. It was surprisingly fast moving, the colour of oily khaki. I imagined lying down on the bank, sinking into the grass, listening to the water and the lazy splash of river life.

“Think of this as a window of opportunity,” Fallon said. “You've got a chance to let the police do something before it escalates.”

“Do what exactly?” I laughed with derision. “They've dealt with the matter. It's closed. If I go back now, they'll say I'm making a fuss.”

“Then talk to someone in higher authority; I could make some calls, pull strings.”

I thanked him but declined. Call me stubborn. “Just suppose I go back to the police,” I said, as if seriously considering the possibility, “and they nail him, then what?”

“The judiciary step in.” He glanced away. I was quick to pick up on it.

“And do what exactly? Take him off the streets for six months?”

“A judge can sentence up to five years.”

“But only if a stalker threatens violence. You know how it works, Robert. All Stannard has to do is appoint a
sharp-thinking
lawyer to defend his corner. Someone,” I said, my brain hooked on Gavin Chadwick, “who will state that his client is innocent and misunderstood so that an
out-of
-touch judge will feel sorry for him and allow him to continue.”

Fallon's response was late. “They're not all crusty old fools,” he said eventually.

And that's supposed to be a comfort?