Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (21 page)

forty-nine

I stood in the
gated square opposite Stannard's home the next morning, an elegant villa, with shutters and sash windows and three stone steps and painted balustrade to the teal-coloured front door. As soon as he left, I crossed over to take a closer look at his habitat.

The air was close and sticky and gave every indication that, once the mist lifted, the day would be swathed again in brilliant sunshine.

A bit nervous, I glanced around. A cat stretched in the morning sun. Nobody about. No noise of human endeavour, only the sound of birdsong. Emboldened, taking quick steps, I sped across the
herringbone-patterned
brick drive, trampled a border, and peered inside a downstairs window. With minimal furnishings, no ornaments or keepsakes, no paintings adorning the wall, the vibe was Spartan. Crossing to the other side of the front door, I peered into another room, which housed an ultramodern
glass-topped
table, eight chrome and
leather-backed
chairs, and a light wood sideboard. Functional. Practical. No soul.

I slipped across the drive towards a
wrought-iron
side gate. Taking a swift look over my shoulder, I clambered over and dropped heavily onto a paved cutout area that contained a Cheltenham wheeliebin.
Thick bushes and hedges formed a natural boundary with the property next door. Beyond, a walled garden was filled with borders, cascading rose bushes, and fruit trees laden with apples, plums, and pears.

A conservatory filled with rattan furniture jutted out from the main house. With double wooden doors obscuring the view further inside, I walked around the conservatory and tried the back door. Firmly locked, all windows closed.

Shielding my eyes with the flat of my hand, I squinted through a kitchen window, the glare of reflected sunshine temporarily distorting my vision and causing whiteout. I strained to focus. When I could finally see, breath exited my body in one great whoosh. Ahead were dozens of photographs, the cradle of his obsession. I expected to see my own image among them, but there was only one subject: Stannard. In black and white and colour. Stannard, as he once looked; Stannard, with his amazingly symmetrical features; Stannard, the beautiful. Shaken, I took a smart step back.

Something snagged my peripheral vision.

Heart rate quickening, I shot across the lawn and disappeared into a tangle of trees and jungle of hedge and shrubs, my gaze fixed on the apex of a roofline almost invisible from the house. The closer I got, pieces of an architectural jigsaw took shape and form—an upper elevation, stone, glass, wood—until a small, perfectly conceived stone
two-storey
detached coach house emerged out of the foliage.

What secrets did it hold?

Pressing my face to the glass, my jaw slackened. Strikingly, the room was empty; whitewashed walls bare apart from thee large framed photographic prints that stole my breath away. Oh God, I gasped, you really were
drop-dead
beautiful.

Deep in my groin, I felt a stir, a suppressed feeling of arousal that shook me to the core.

On the farthest wall, Stannard was
bare-chested
. Breathtakingly sexy, eyes narrowed, looking into the sun. A second print depicted a mean and moody Stannard leaning against the bonnet of a Jaguar convertible. By squeezing myself into the corner of the French window and twisting my head, I could make out the third: Stannard dressed in a suit, white
open-necked
shirt, head tilted back, throat exposed, mouth wide as if he were letting out a roar of laughter, his expression one of pure exhilaration. I could almost hear him and, in that sublime moment, I recognised his immense joy, his lust for life and blatant belief that he was invincible. It was like standing in a place of worship.

I lost all sense of time. Falling under his spell, I was transfixed.

fifty

Eventually, as though coming
out of a coma, I took to my heels. Shooting over the gate, feet landing sure and firm, I fled across the road, out of the square, to streets bustling with sound and humanity. Skirting Fairview, I raced back into the hurly-burly.

Losing Stannard was not so easy. My brain coruscated. Stannard and the camera, standing alone, solitary by nature, a guy who told the outside world that he was sexy, no pushover, fun. This was the nature of the man, the makeup of his identity.

All twisted and crushed.

He must have suffered a great deal, I thought, almost colliding with a woman with a pushchair. Ashamed for dwelling on his former glory like a ghoul and voyeur, I was as certain as I could be that I'd read Stannard wrong. Speculation followed by assumption equals one hell of a mistake.

A bony hand clamped onto my right elbow. I let out a tight squeal and whipped round. Out of breath, an elderly woman with
ruby-tinted
cheeks and a painted mouth that exceeded her natural
lip-line
drilled into me.

“You were snooping.”

“I don't know what you mean.” I tried to extract my elbow from her fearsome grip. The fingers, like talons, dug deeper.

“I watched you. You were prying.”

“I wasn't doing anything.”

“Explain that to the police.”

I froze. The old woman released her grasp, triumph in her eyes.

As I pounded through a crowd of shoppers, not looking back, her yell sounded over my head: “They're watching you.”

The shock of Kim Slade's revelation had blown Heather Foley way off course. Her only knowledge of stalking was gleaned from a story line in one of the soaps she regularly watched on television. The memory of Stannard in the cellar now spooked the life out of her. What exactly had he been planning to do down there?

Having been put in the strange position of meeting both parties, she could understand the theory of Stannard's creepy fixation with the young woman. It came down to appearances. Curiously, it had pulled her up short. Here she was, considering cosmetic surgery on a perfectly good face when these two youngsters had no such choice. While she was sympathetic to Kim Slade, and it had been a relief to talk to the young woman about her problems, she worried about what exactly she was getting into.

This aside, pressure from both Fairweather's and Stannard's lawyers had increased by the day. Less inclined to sit on the fence, it was time to take a stand and go for broke. Before she changed her mind, she picked up the phone and called Stannard's number. Within seconds, his secretary came on the line.

“He's rather tied up at the moment, Mrs. Foley. Can I help?”

“I'd prefer to speak to Mr. Stannard personally.”

“That might be difficult.”

“Can you tell me when he'll be free?”

“Hard to say. He really is dreadfully busy.”

We're all
dreadfully busy
, Heather thought with irritation.

“Is it connected to the sale of Rowanbank?” the secretary said. No, it's connected to his stalking activities, Heather thought cuttingly.
“Only I'm sure
your solicitor could sort it out.”

Long pause. Heather realised that she was being stonewalled. “I don't want to speak to my solicitor. I want to speak to Stannard,” she said, deliberately dropping his title.

Another pause. “I could pass on a message for you.” It sounded as though an enormous favour was being bestowed. Heather suppressed a fresh flush of irritation.

“I'd be most grateful. Could you say that I'm doing nothing about rubbish, or the parking area that, apparently, belongs to the Highways Agency. If Mr. Stannard is consequently no longer interested in purchasing the property, perhaps he'd be kind enough to let me know within the next
twenty-four
hours. After that, Rowanbank will no longer be on the market. Good day.”

fifty-one

Cathy viewed me with
surprise as I entered Ellerslie Lodge. “I thought you were in Devon.”

“Splitting my time,” I said. I needed hard information and there was only one person I could think of to supply it.

“Something wrong?” Cathy's expression pierced me.

I broke into a defensive smile. “No, not at all.”

She looked unconvinced.

“Had to pop back to collect something,” I said, bowling along, hoping that if I kept talking, the flimsiness of my excuse would stand up to scrutiny. “Is Kirsten around, only, as I'm passing, I'd like a quick word?”

Cathy's expression remained cautious. “I think so. Want me to go and see?”

I gave a
no-rush
, nonchalant shrug and waited. Minutes later, Cathy returned, Kirsten at her side, a look of sullen disdain on the girl's face.

“Sorry to drag you away, Kirsten, but I wondered if we could have a chat? We could sit outside on the lawn.” I looked to Cathy for approval. She gave a brief nod, her expression indecipherable.

Kirsten mumbled “whatever” and loped towards the door. She wore sunglasses and a long dress with flowing sleeves that concealed her bony limbs. I threw an awkward smile and followed. We walked on past a bush of
crimson-coloured
flowers and towards a neatly trimmed lawn where Kirsten plumped down on the grass.

“Thought you were away.” She drew her knees up to her chin, folded her arms, and fixed her gaze on the lawn.

“I am, sort of.” I knelt down opposite her. “How are you keeping?”

“All right.”

“The thing is, Kirsten, I need your help.”

The girl looked up slowly. It was impossible to read her eyes behind the shades.

“You must have met a lot of people when you were modelling—photographers,
make-up
artists, agents, other models.”

“Some.”

“Did you ever come across a male model by the name of Kyle Stannard?”

“No.”

“You're sure.”

“Means nothing to me.”

The words were clear, firm and loud. Kirsten's face showed no colour, no
give-away
facial tic.

“Maybe if I describe him to you.”

“Tall, dark, and handsome, like thousands of others.”

“So you
did
come across someone like him.”

“All the time.” Kirsten suppressed a yawn. I noticed the whiteness of the girl's knuckles, the way her hands twisted, as if separate from the rest of her. Brittle.

“This man was special,” I said, emphatic. “Stood out from the crowd. He had presence and charisma.”

Kirsten glanced away with a tight smile. “Have you any idea how many model agencies there are in London?”

“We're looking top end. Your notes state that you worked for Visage, one of the most select and successful modelling agencies in the country.” From a professional standpoint, what I was doing was unforgivable. I was breaking every ethical code, yet I stood to lose everything if I didn't find out and establish the truth. “He worked for Quartz. Are you sure you never came across him?”

“Positive.”

“He's not the sort of guy you'd forget. He has an aura about him. Still does even though he got his face kicked in.”

Alarm chased across the girl's features. That got to her, I thought, not understanding how. “He's not in the game any more. Works as a property developer in town.”

“Here?” Kirsten's limbs tensed. Her face pinched. “You know him then, this guy?”

“Kind of.”

She fell quiet. The air hummed with heat. She pulled up a clump of grass and pressed the blades between her fingers. “Did he say he knew me?”

“No.”

The aloof expression quickly resumed. I studied the girl's shrunken features and saw the
buttoned-down
misery in her expression. I'd hardly tapped the surface of what was going on in Kirsten's mind. But Kirsten
was
hiding something, and secrets required a high degree of mental agility to conceal.

“Kirsten, I want to help you. But you have to trust me too. I get the impression that you're holding out on me. There's something you're not telling, something you feel bad about, maybe something you haven't even told your parents.” Unethical in every aspect, I knew that not only had I crossed a line, I'd travelled a mile on the other side.

Kirsten wrenched up another handful of grass, her lips parted, and then she seemed to check herself and change her mind. She looked back at the Lodge. “There's nothing to tell and, if that's all, I'm due to see Jim. He doesn't like people being late.”

fifty-two

The phone rang as
I was thinking about preparing dinner. I picked up, Jim's voice at the other end of the line unusually frosty.

“I understand you came to see Kirsten this afternoon.”

“Yes, I did.”

“But you're on leave.”

“Yes. I—”

“Would you mind telling me what was discussed?”

“We talked about Visage.”

“The modelling agency she worked for?”

“That's right.”

“Why?”

“Because it has a bearing on her current condition.” I flushed at my own spin.

“We're all aware of that,” Jim said, terse. “And?” He persisted.

“I didn't get very far.”

“How far?”

“I think she's hiding something.”

“What exactly?” Jim's tone was highly critical. “Can you be specific?”

“I don't think the modelling agency was responsible for precipitating her weight loss.”

“Then what was?”

“That's what I'm not sure about.” I wanted to tell Jim about Stannard and the way Kirsten reacted, but I recognised that it would be seen in a bad light. The bald truth was that I'd exploited my professional position in an attempt to find out more. I'd broken a professional code of conduct. But I'd underestimated Jim's sleuthing abilities.

“This wouldn't be connected to you, by any chance?”

“No, I—”

“I don't know what went on this afternoon apart from the fact that you hounded Kirsten about Kyle Stannard.”

“Hounded?”

“What the hell did you think you were playing at?”

“Jim, please …”

“Whatever you said has had profound consequences.”

This brought me up short and I stopped digging. “What sort of consequences?”

“Kirsten slashed her wrists half an hour after you left.”

My heart somersaulted and leapt into my throat. “Oh my God, is she all right?”

“Fortunately, yes. Cathy got to her before she'd lost too much blood. She's in Cheltenham General in a fairly poor mental state. As you'd imagine, her parents are extremely concerned.”

“Jim, I'm so terribly sorry. I don't know what else to say. Do you want me to talk to the Mathersons?”

“Good God, no.”

“They have no idea I spoke to her?”

Jim deflected the question by asking another. “Why did you talk to her about Stannard?”

“I thought it might help,” I said lamely, “what with them both involved in the modelling business.”

“Help
you,
” he hissed in a withering tone. “If you have a problem, you go to the police, understand? You're supposed to be taking a break. You're supposed to be getting your act together.”

“That's not fair.”

“Neither is what you did this afternoon.” I fell silent, braced for the next body blow. “Christ knows what will happen. Did the word
ethics
ever cross your mind? What are you trying to do, throw your entire career away?”

“I'm sorry,” I said, mortified.

“I don't know what personal axe you have to grind, or how you think your situation has any bearing on Kirsten's, but don't you dare involve and interfere with my patients. Have you got that?” he barked.

“It won't happen again. Will you let me know how she is?”

“I think it best you stay off the case.” His voice was full of winter chill. “I'm sure that's what the Mathersons would want. There will have to be an internal inquiry.”

“I understand.” I felt bleak and guilty. Never in a million years did I ever imagine that I would breach the professional code for my own personal crusade, yet that was exactly what I'd done. “Will you be speaking to the team at Bayshill?”

“I've already been in touch.”

My stomach gave a queasy lurch. “What was the reaction?”

“The one you'd expect.” He cut the call.

I dropped down onto a chair.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. What a terrible mess, and all my creation. Poor Kirsten. My crass approach had probably set the girl back weeks or even months. Understandably, my reputation was sunk and my job was on the line, but, measured against what I'd done to Kirsten, it was of little consequence.

I tried to focus, to analyse what Kirsten had said, more importantly, to read what her silences signified.

Snippets of Stannard's conversation reverberated through my head.
Secrets and guilt.
But whose and what?

If their paths had crossed, and I was pretty sure they had, Kirsten would have been around fourteen or fifteen years old, Stannard anything between
twenty-five
and thirty. Kirsten, a naive and impressionable teenager; Stannard, forceful, controlling, and arrogant.

Now what? I'd wanted a conversation with Kirsten in the hope that it would rule out Stannard as my stalker. Instead, he seemed even more suspicious. Jim wanted an enquiry into my conduct, in the light of which Bayshill were bound to reconsider my contract. My stalker was still out there. Somewhere. And if not Stannard …

Families were the best repositories for secrets. Stannard's ancestral family home in Great Rissington might yet hold a clue, but first I was going to London. I owed Kirsten that much.