Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (20 page)

forty-six

I parked down a
side street and arrived at the apartment block shortly after three thirty. Lizzie's door was resolutely shut. I contemplated the outcome of the discussions that had taken place behind it. No matter what Lizzie said, they'd sell. I couldn't blame them. As soon as Stannard moved in, I'd have to sell up too—unless I could coerce him to pull out.

Entering the flat, the stench hit me as if I'd been pushed head first into a cesspool. Suspicion wired me for sound. The main room crackled with noise—air vents opening and machinery humming. Reduced to its essence by the heat, the smell was sour, rotting and faecal.

Clapping a hand to my mouth, I searched for the one thing that was wrong, my eyes fixing on a thick dark fog of bluebottle flies. Beneath, parked on the hearth, was a large black plastic bucket, the sort that might be used for coal or cleaning the car. Placed with precision, painting directly above, framed by the fake marble mantelpiece, it sat squat and glowering. I approached warily, thumb and finger pinching my nostrils. The flies lifted as one and buzzed around my head in a frenzied cloud. Peering inside, my jaw tensed to stifle a cry that, had it been born, would have ricocheted throughout the building. Filled to the brim, festering in the heat, were glistening intestines, guts and flesh, blood and hair and shit. A single eye from a dead animal stared up from the surface, like a grim piece of conceptual art.

I sprinted to the bathroom, resisted the urge to be violently ill, and splashed my neck and face with water. I wanted to be rid of his games, his twisted calling cards, HIM. Wrapping a towel around the lower half of my face as if I was about to run through fire, I tore back into the sitting room, picked up the bucket and, dashing back to the bathroom, threw the contents down the lavatory, flushing it three times.

Then gaped,
open-mouthed
, at what I'd done.

Anything he sends, bag it,
Simon had told me in no uncertain terms, and in five fevered seconds I'd destroyed the best evidence I had, my instinct to wipe out the traces stronger than pragmatism. To do anything else had seemed unthinkable, and what was I supposed to do? Hang on to it?
Oh, excuse me, officer, I've just had a bucket of guts delivered.
Hysteria nibbling at my brain, I almost laughed out loud.

I shut down the heating, threw open all the windows, filled the bucket to the brim with hot water and disinfectant, and walked round, checking the points of entry for signs of
break-in
. There was no escaping the fact that someone had gained access to my flat. He'd already set a precedent by driving my car. He could easily walk in again, do what he liked, when he liked, only this time when I was there.

I left the apartment, walked quickly at first then, sure that I wasn't being followed, slowed down, sauntered almost, making sure that my movements did not betray my intention.

Cutting down an alley from Lypiatt Road, I crossed over into Tivoli and a short parade of shops that included two estate agents and a locksmith. Simmering anger gave in to eerie calm. Was it Stannard or, more creepily, was it someone else?

Hot on the heels of the guy fitting an alarm system, the locksmith promised to come out the next day. Next, I put calls through to Jim and to Bayshill, explaining that I was sorry but wouldn't be back until after the holiday. I didn't state that I was in Cheltenham.

“Any news on Chris?” Jim said.

“He's left me.”

“God, I'm so sorry.”

“No need.”

“It wasn't what I was expecting.”

What were you expecting? “It's fine.”

“So you're on your own?”

Prickling with suspicion and hating myself for it, I said, “No.”

“Good. This thing with Stannard …”

“Don't worry. He's back in the box.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” and I hung up.

Crossing back into town, I decided on a process of elimination and considered the weapons at my disposal, which were:

Observation: know the enemy.

Knowledge: find out everything about him.

But the most powerful trick in my armoury was one I'd studied for all my adult life. I knew its stressors and what drove it to breaking point. The human mind was indeed the deadliest weapon known to man.

forty-seven

Following up on Simon's
information, I went online and discovered that Stannard had once been a model for Quartz, a top-end London agency, that his home in Wellington Square was a Grade II detached villa, and that Stannard Property Developments was situated adjacent to the town hall in Imperial Square, one of a row of three-storey buildings with both residential and commercial use. With the address in my hand, I set off.

Late afternoon, Stannard HQ looked like any other set of offices in Cheltenham with fine ironwork and
Ionic-style
columns.

The large window fronting the building was open and, from the street, I could see a green leafy potted plant, the outline of a female form, and a desk with a computer monitor. It looked honest and respectable.

Shortly after five, Stannard and his trademark sunglasses emerged. From the municipal gardens opposite, I watched him pause and gather himself against the wall of heat before trotting down the stone steps and turning right into Oriel Road in the direction of the city centre. Brushing off the grass from my jeans, I stood up and followed.

Dropping back far enough so as not to seem conspicuous, letting my attention be caught every so often by a piece of architecture, I experienced a swell of power and wondered if Stannard felt that same thrill of excitement.

At no time did he look round or break pace, nothing to suggest he was suspicious. His destination was a bar off the high street near Cambray Place. I went into another on the opposite side of the square, ordered a soft drink, and took a window seat. An hour later, Stannard emerged and I took up the chase at a distance as he retraced his steps to the office, where he spent fifteen minutes pacing, small cigar in his mouth, phone stuck to his ear before picking up his
charcoal-grey
Maserati from a reserved area behind the block. I made a note of the registration and, with the sense of a job well done, cruised back to my flat.

A fermented, slightly sweet odour clung to the furnishings in spite of my efforts to eradicate it. Without the locks changed and the alarm system yet in place, I spent the night on high alert, mobile in hand, half of me waiting for a light shining underneath the door, the disturbance of air, the smell of another. I woke early, eyes grainy from lack of sleep.

At half past eight, the alarm was fitted and a guy with a
port-wine
stain on his face came to change the locks. I made him tea and we chatted, and I felt the fleeting comfort of having a human being to talk to about nothing in particular, nothing that mattered.

By quarter to ten, I was sitting in a
low-grade
car rental agency with a bloke called Bill booking a dark blue Ford Focus for the day. An hour later I'd parked four cars down from Stannard's beautiful vehicle, waiting for the great man to go out and about his business. Fifteen minutes later, my vigil was rewarded.

I pulled out of the parking lot and followed the Maserati as it headed through town towards Pittville, a leafy enclave with a park and lake and lovely houses. The centre was dense with traffic, aiding rather than impeding my progress; the much faster car could not escape the Focus. Eyes boring into the back of Stannard's head, I attempted to read his thoughts, wondering what his next move might be. He rarely, if at all, looked in his rearview mirror, which suited me.

After half a mile or so, we passed the Pump Room, a surviving spa building, tourist attraction and, with its green dome and colonnaded façade, prime example of Regency architecture. The road opened up and the Maserati surged forward with a
full-throttled
, sophisticated growl. From the direction in which we were travelling, I estimated Stannard was heading for Prestbury, the site of National Hunt Racing, but the Masa veered off, making a sharp left, picking up speed, powering along a straight piece of road as though the Grim Reaper sat in the driving seat. About to stick my foot down, I was cut off by a courier. A quick exchange of horns and hand gestures, and the Italian stallion had faded to a speck in the distance.

Facing a crossroads, no car in sight, not knowing which route to take, I tapped the steering wheel with frustration. To turn left would take me back towards town. Turn right, out of town altogether. Had Stannard clocked me? Had he deliberately led me astray?

He specialises in old houses, does them up, full architectural spec.

I pulled forward and onto the Evesham Road with its constellation of old properties, as polished and polite as a
middle-aged
handsome woman. Scanning the driveways and restricted parking spaces, my hopes thinned and faded. Depressed, I pulled over with the intention of getting out of the car and stretching my legs. That's when I noticed the
Property For Sale
sign half obscured by a neighbouring home's scaffolding, and Stannard's car parked in the drive. Called Rowanbank, the house, a fabulous specimen of faded glory, looked tired, the roof worn, the windows giving every appearance of throwing themselves out of the brickwork and into the overgrown borders.

Suppressing a whoop of triumph, I noted the agent and, revving up the Focus, made my way back to the centre. Dropping the car at the rental company, I returned to the place I called home.

Lizzie was coming out as I was going in. Her cheeks flashed the colour of fresh meat. I didn't need to ask for the decision. It was already clear.

“I've spoken to Pete. No dice, I'm afraid. We're desperate to sell. Sorry.” Lizzie's voice was like a guttering candle.

I nodded gravely. “When?”

“He wants an early completion.” Lizzie shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her face tight. “What will you do?”

“I'm working on it,” I said with a confident smile. “I don't blame you in the least. Better go. Stuff to do.” I spun on my heel, walked away, leaving Lizzie to the heat and the prospect of a new start.

Back in the flat, I picked up the phone and called Fairweather and Co. They weren't particularly helpful. “Rowanbank is already under offer,” the voice explained.

“That's not what the board says.”

“We haven't had a chance to change it yet.”

“But, until the property's sold, it's still up for grabs, isn't it?”

A disgruntled sigh coursed down the telephone wire. “An offer has been accepted by Mrs. Foley. To allow someone else to view at this delicate stage in the negotiations would be entirely improper.”

I was getting the impression that Stannard was quite an important fish.

“Thanks for being so candid,” I said, polite. I wondered what time would be best to catch Mrs. Foley at home.

forty-eight

Taking a deep breath,
I knocked on Heather Foley's front door the next morning a little after eleven thirty and stood back and waited. I felt supremely guilty for conning my way into the woman's home and reckoned I'd be given five minutes, tops, before being told to sling my hook. It was a risk worth taking.

A
handsome-looking
woman in her middle fifties,
wide-hipped
with an impressive décolletage, opened the door. Her polite smile broadened then narrowed into a grimace as the blue eyes
zoom-lensed
onto my neck and the injured side of my face. For a second or two, Mrs. Foley appeared unable to string a sentence together. Two words might have been written on her forehead:
freak show.

I took a step forward, threw a bright smile. “Hope I'm not too early.” I followed up with a firm handshake.

“No, not at all,” Mrs. Foley stammered. She gestured to me to enter, walked halfway down a cavernous hall, and turned on her heel as if she'd had second thoughts. “As I explained on the phone, Rowanbank
is
under offer …”

“But you said you're unhappy with the terms.”

Heather Foley ran a manicured hand through her tastefully tinted hair and seemed to crumple, suddenly weary and careworn. I was oddly reminded of my mother at the tearoom. “To tell the truth, I feel besieged, Miss Slade. It's not easy when you're a woman on your own.” A lost look entered her eyes. “It's difficult to find people to talk to, people one can trust, which is why I decided to let you view. Most unethical, of course, but then I'm not too sure either my estate agent or my prospective buyer are quite as scrupulous as they would have me believe.”

“You mean Mr. Stannard.”

Heather Foley blinked in surprise.

“I'm afraid I wasn't as honest as I should have been when I called,” I admitted, deciding to come clean. “I don't want to buy your house, Mrs. Foley. I want to talk to you about Kyle Stannard.”

I watched the woman's startled reaction. The mouth widened into an O, her head thrust forward, knees bent slightly. Hands clenched into fists. “What a damned cheek.”

“I couldn't agree with you more,” I said with cool.

Mrs. Foley's eyes narrowed. “Are you a police officer?”

“I'm a psychologist.”

“Now you've lost me.”

“Mr. Stannard is causing difficulties for both of us. From what you've said, I think we could help each other. Naturally, anything you say would be treated in the strictest confidence.”

Mrs. Foley gave me an appraising look, her face masked by uncertainty. “All right,” she said slowly. “You'd better come into the drawing room. I've a feeling I may need to sit down.”

“Call his bluff,” I said stoutly.

I'd spent the past hour listening to Heather Foley's story: her failed marriage, her loss of confidence, her desperate desire to rebuild her life, including her hope of a
face-lift
, and Stannard's miserable attempt to beat her down. Once she'd started unloading, she was unstoppable. I empathised with her deep loneliness. From the torrent of words it was clear that this was the first time the woman had opened up about her abrupt change of circumstances to anyone—so much easier to confide all to someone you're unlikely to see again.

“But he might back out.” Heather twisted her hands.

“He might, but you'll find someone else to buy the house, I promise you. If you're not entirely happy with Fairweathers, bin them. This is estate agent city. You could try one of a dozen other agents in town.” I immediately thought of Simon. “In any case, I think, from what you've said, Stannard really is interested. You say he wrote a card.”

“I've got it somewhere.” Heather left the room briefly, her sharp footsteps reverberating down the hall. I got up and looked out of the window, admiring the row of wonderfully appointed houses on the other side. With a little TLC, Rowanbank could be magnificent. I couldn't fault Stannard's taste or business acumen.

Heather reappeared, brandishing the postcard. A picture of a grand
double-fronted
house on the front, an address in Wellington Square and phone number printed on the blank side. The handwriting was in black pen, large and fluid, the content polite. I read it twice, salted it away, and handed the card back. “He definitely wants it.”

“But at a price,” Heather said with frustration.

“At
your
price. Don't let him play games with you. You've already come down forty thousand, which more than compensates for the difference of opinion with the Highways Agency. He's trying it on, taking advantage of the fact you're a woman on your own. Don't let him.”

Heather's eyes hardened. She sat up straight, bristling with new determination. “You're absolutely right. I'll speak to my lawyer today.”

“This is your home, your future, your game,” I insisted. “You set the rules.”

Heather beamed. Her eyes radiated fun and youthfulness. She patted me on the knee, an expression of “all girls together.”

“We must have a drink. I've got rather a nice Chardonnay chilling in the fridge.” She got up, smoothed the creases in her skirt, her face flushed with excitement, and took two steps. Without warning, her face briefly clouded, a look of worry invading her features. “I'm so sorry. I seem to have done all the talking. It's such a relief, you see. You don't mind, do you?”

“Not in the least and you have my word it won't go outside these four walls.”

“I suppose you're used to it, people's confessions, their anxieties. You never did say how Mr. Stannard upset you.”

I looked up at her squarely. “I think we could do with that drink first.”

I called Simon, explaining, without making any specific reference to Rowanbank, Stannard's method of operation.

“He's not doing anything illegal,” Simon pointed out.

“It's sharp practice.”

“Name of the game, I'm afraid.”

“Taking advantage of a vulnerable
middle-aged
woman?”

“
Happens all the time. She doesn't have to accept.” Simon sounded irritated. I wondered if I'd gone too far and cast a slur on his new profession. “In fact the vendor could be accused of encouraging gazumping,” he added. When a vendor accepts a higher offer after already agreeing to a sale price with a buyer, I registered. Simon was right, yet this was not what I wanted to hear. “I'm sure Stannard knows what he's about,” Simon continued. “His stepfather's Gerald Mallory.”

“Who?”

“The criminal defence lawyer.”

So that's what Stannard meant by
moving in lawyerly circles
. No wonder he felt invincible. “Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I didn't know before. You're still convinced Stannard's your stalker?”

I hesitated. Did Simon still have Chris in the frame or did he have an ulterior motive? I realised I should let Simon and Molly know that Chris had left, but fearing a similar reaction to Claire and Charlie's, I chickened out. Truth was, Stannard no longer seemed to be ticking quite so many boxes. “Maybe,” I said, evasive. “Where does Mr. Mallory hang out?”

“Works in London, though I think it's more
part-time
these days. He's got a huge pile near
Bourton-on
-
the-Water
, at Great Rissington.”

“What about Stannard's mother?”

“Haven't a clue.”

I wondered what had happened to Stannard's blood father. Simon jabbed through my thoughts.

“You're barking up the wrong tree, Kim.”

Means I'll have to look closer to home then, I thought, as I said
good-bye
.