Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (22 page)

fifty-three

The Visage Modelling Agency
lay behind a darkened glass exterior in smart SW7. I walked up and down the street several times, mentally cranking myself up to enter. By asking for help from an organisation whose ethos I viewed as pernicious to the majority of my clients, I was selling out. Worse, I'd actually taken special care with my appearance. It's not what you look like that counts, I'd robustly maintain to clients, it's who you are. Yeah, whatever.

The vibe inside was plush and luxurious. Soft,
caramel-coloured
leather chairs rested against dark walls decked with starlets. The silence intimidated. I'd expected a place crawling with life. Maybe the inner sanctum was more vibrant.

A
sultry-looking
black girl in her late twenties, poised and stately, flicked her gaze up from behind a smart iMac. She looked through me and, sharp and focused, stared at my neck with something close to disbelief. At least I had her attention.

I counterattacked with a smile. “I wonder if you can help me.” The girl responded by adopting a mask of impenetrability. I persisted. “You had a young model working for you a few years ago by the name of Kirsten Matherson.”

No change in expression. No reaction.

“She would have been about fourteen or fifteen.”

“I recall.”

“You knew her?”

“Are you from the press?” Dark eyes thinned.

“No.”

“Police?”

“No.”

“So you are?” The tone was desiccating.

“Kim Slade, I'm a clinical psychologist and I'm treating Kirsten.” I shuddered at the lie. If Jim had his way, I'd have nothing more to do with her ever again. Because of my folly there was the serious possibility that my career could be over. “Is it possible to talk to someone who knew her well?”

“You need to speak to Flick Sutherland.”

“Thank you.” I took a seat.

The girl resumed her duties. I waited, patient. She took out a pot of nail varnish and began to paint her nails. After a couple of minutes, she looked over at me. “Flick's no longer with the agency.”

I stood up and, fixing a smile to my mouth, said, “Any idea where I might find her?”

“No.” Lights off, nobody in, shutters down.

“It's important,” I said. “Kirsten's not at all well. She's in hospital right now. I could really do with some help here.”

Clearly unhappy with having pressure applied, she blew on her nails, which were a deep shade of emerald. “Flick left London a couple of years back.”

“And you've no idea where I can get hold of her?”

There was a fraction's hesitation.

“Please.”

The girl scowled, drew out a pad and scribbled a note. “Decided to get out of the rat race,” she explained, handing it to me.

I glanced at it, suppressed surprise, and pushed the note into my bag. “Thank you so much, I really appreciate this.”

The girl's expression slackened. “Is Kirsten really ill?” There was a tentative note of interest in her voice.

“She has anorexia. At the moment she's in hospital with her wrists slashed.” And it's my fault.

“Bastard!”

“Excuse me?”

“That bastard's to blame.” Her eyes gleamed with outrage.

“Who?”

“You don't know?”

“Know what?”

The girl's gaze travelled anxiously to the door. She leant over the desk, lowered her voice, as if afraid someone might hear. “Kirsten was raped.”

Astounded, my skin erupted with cold sweat.

The girl cocked an eyebrow. “Should help some with your therapy.”

“Raped by whom?” My voice sounded distant and detached from me.

“A male model; he worked for another agency.”

“You knew him?”

The girl shifted her gaze to the door again and shrugged. “Everyone knew him.”

I steeled myself, hardly able to get the words out. “Was his name Kyle Stannard?”

For the first time the girl looked me straight in the eye. “Yes,” she said.

I headed for Gloucester Road tube station in a daze. Stannard had raped Kirsten. Stannard had raped Kirsten. I murmured it over and over again. And Stannard, Kirsten's rapist, was stalking me. Fallon's words blasted through my head:
For all you know, he might have done it before … In worst-case scenarios, it can culminate in abduction, rape, torture, and murder.

Kirsten's rape would play a massive factor in triggering anorexia. But, wait, why no mention in Kirsten's notes? Why hadn't the clinicians been informed? It didn't stack. Neither did it make sense that the police hadn't uncovered this important fact in their dealings with Stannard—unless they took the
oh-so
-reasonable point of view that he'd paid for his crime and was unlikely to
re-offend
. But surely they had a duty to warn me? With Kirsten underage, wouldn't he also be on the sex offender's register? The only other explanation I could come up with was that the crime was never reported.

Stannard's assertion,
People do as I say,
assumed new clarity
.
At the time I'd believed it was said to threaten me, but maybe he spoke the truth. His stepfather, the eminent Gerald Mallory, was in a perfect position to provide legal protection.

I got off and made my way to Paddington train station. A nasal-
sounding announcement declared that the next train stopping off at Cheltenham was running late. Fed up, I went in search of a cup of tea, paid for it, and took it back to the platform and waited.

When I finally climbed on board the train, I pulled out the note handed to me and called Flick Sutherland. An articulate youngster, called Sky, informed me that her mother was out and was not expected back until late.

“Can I get her to call you?”

“She won't know who I am, but if she wouldn't mind. Can you tell her it's in connection with one of her models?” Thanking Sky, I left my number.

As soon as I got back, I checked the flat, poured a glass of wine and took a long swallow. Normally, I would have called Chris. Except Chris had gone. I took another pull of wine, briefly toyed with phoning Constable Grant, and just as quickly binned the idea. The cops were procedure merchants. They only dealt in hard evidence. Speculation, assumption, and rumour had no role to play.

But if Stannard raped Kirsten Matherson, people knew about it, and tomorrow I intended to find out exactly who they were.

fifty-four

In my experience, waitresses
and bar staff are invaluable funds of information. The staff at a local hostelry in Great Rissington proved no exception, the Mallorys' home swiftly located through a good-natured conversation with a genial barman.

I finished my Coke and stepped out into the car park. The sun was hot. Its rays, reflected from the Cotswold stone, bathed the village in a bright amber glow. I drove down a street, both sides bordered by pretty cottages and gabled houses, and out onto open road.

Oakridge House was some three and a half miles away, hidden by a long tarmac drive that shared a
right-of
-way with walkers and ramblers. I parked the car on a wide verge near the entrance and began the steep walk down.

Dense woodland flanked my right. Signs indicated public footpaths and wildlife, and stark warnings for dogs to be kept on leads at all times. To the left, the land gave way to rich pasture where a couple of dozen sheep grazed. At my approach, they scattered blindly.

The sun beat down upon my back. My head buzzed with heat and doubt. Had it really been such a good idea to come? I was there alone. Nobody walked pets. No mother with her children. No one taking the air. Perspiration gathered in the small of my back. Anyone could take me here in the undergrowth. Hurling the thought aside, I placed one foot in front of the other, kept going.

Roughly three quarters down the drive was a
stagnant-looking
lake, the surface a murky green scum. Winding around to the left and fenced by barbed wire, the way disappeared to a dirt track. There was no grass, only dense vegetation with little room for sunlight.

I kept to the main route, the drive wide enough to take a car. On either side, the cool green slipped away.

The entrance to Oakridge was marked by a fine set of gates. Open, they reclined against a bank of camellias and rhododendrons. I sneaked through, masking my arrival by staying close to the many bushes, flowering shrubs, and trees.

The house itself was not what I expected.
Colonial-looking
with a wooden veranda that would immediately betray the sound of intruders, it was large enough for a family and an army of servants. The upstairs room had white painted shutters fastened back against the outside wall. A gabled porch fronted the house and, as I drew near, I could see a flat green lawn with croquet hoops. The place exuded grandeur and fine living. The snapshot further jarred expectations. To my mind, stalkers like Stannard came from impoverished backgrounds. Falling prey to thinking in stereotypes, I recognised how stupid, mistaken, and ignorant I'd been. Neither breeding nor wealth insulated from personality disorders.

Skin suddenly clammy, I twisted around, screwing my eyes tight, scanning a line of trees and holding my breath until I thought I might burst. From somewhere I heard the distant sound of traffic. Turning, setting my face to the big house, a twig snapped and I let out a yelp of surprise.

“Impeccable timing,” Stannard announced, with a half smile. He wore tight jeans and an
open-neck
shirt. I glimpsed a dark line of hair squatting on his chest. Fit and physically powerful, he was close enough for me to smell his distinctive aftershave, close enough to kiss him. The sheer magnetism of his presence shook me.

“We're about to sit down for lunch,” he said. “I'm sure mother could squeeze in one more.”

“You're mad.” I felt annoyed for using such a loose and inadequate phrase to describe someone whom I suspected was psychotic.

“From where I'm standing, I'd say you're the crazy one.” He gave my arm a tug. “Come on, she won't bite. My stepfather's rather a grouch but I'm sure you'll charm him.”

I opened my lips in protest but my mouth went dry, and Stannard's hold was firm. He didn't say another word, but his intention was crystal clear. In his deluded way, he was taking me home to meet the parents. I don't know why but I stumbled forward. Stannard, meanwhile, kept up a steady stream of chatter about the house and its architecture.

A set of golf clubs adorned the hall together with a selection of umbrellas, walking sticks, and Wellington boots. A tall woman,
gazelle-like
, with classic bone structure, approached us. I estimated she was in her early sixties.

“This is Kim Slade, mother.”

The woman looked vacantly from me to Stannard to me again.

“Olivia Mallory,” she said. She did not extend a hand. Her mouth was a thin, disapproving line. I watched as the woman's deeply set eyes clamped onto my neck.

“She's my new friend,” Stannard explained, casting me a cold-
blooded look.

Olivia Mallory nodded apprehensively. “It's rather unexpected. Kyle didn't say you were coming.”

“What's this?” We all turned and followed the voice, which had travelled from an adjoining room. A large,
well-built
man stepped into the hall. Dressed in a pair of casual
tan-coloured
trousers and a
short-sleeved
shirt, he had thin, greying hair, heavily hooded blue eyes, and an angular jaw that was beginning to slacken and show the signs of age. The man took one look at me and paled. Undaunted, Stannard ran through the introductions for a second time. The air crackled with tension. Gerald Mallory shot out a hand. I minutely shook my head and pressed my arms to my side.

“This isn't what it seems,” I announced, my voice steely. The Mallorys viewed me as if I'd produced a gun. “Your son is stalking me.”

Olivia Mallory let out a shrill cry.

Defiant, I stared at Stannard. He stared back, not with alarm, but with astonishing confidence. I suddenly felt as if I'd walked blindly into an ambush. “He's been following me, sending me stuff, threatening me.”

“Then why are you here?” Gerald Mallory towered over me, the question asked in a forthright tone.

“Because I want it to stop.”

“How dare you!” Olivia Mallory burst out. “How dare you come to our home and make false allegations.”

“They're
not
false. Ask him,” I said, tipping my chin in Stannard's direction. Gerald Mallory traded a look with his stepson, who let out a languid sigh.

“It's all nonsense. There's clearly been a huge misunderstanding.”

“You call a pornographic image sent to my employers a misunderstanding?”

Mallory stepped in like a
smooth-talking
hostage negotiator talking down a hijacker. “If this is so, Miss Slade, then I suggest you go to the police.”

“Do you really want your stepson to go to jail?”

Olivia Mallory let out a dry sob. Visibly shaking, she cast her husband a crooning look that said,
For God's sake, do something. This woman is nothing
.

“Miss Slade,” Mallory said, stern edge to his voice, “think very carefully before you say something you may regret. Kyle has already spoken to me about you and your false allegations. As you're probably aware, making such serious claims and wasting police resources could land
you
in the dock.”

I reddened. They were obviously colluding with him. “So he's always been a good boy, has he? Always treated women and the girls in his life with respect and decency? What about Kirsten Matherson?”

Stannard's skin drained to the colour of
wood-ash
. A vein pulsed in Mallory's temple. Olivia Mallory's eyes shrank to twin pinpricks of hate.

“Are you going to let her stand there, Gerald?”

Mallory took a step towards me. “I think it's time you left.”

I stood my ground. I wasn't finished yet. “Your stepson raped Kirsten Matherson and now she's starving herself to death.”

“You stupid little bitch,” Olivia Mallory snarled.

“Mother.” Stannard's expression remained grim. He looked genuinely shaken.

“She was the start of it all,” Olivia Mallory continued. “If it hadn't been for her and her pathetic lies—”

“
Her
lies?” I said. “Why is it that everyone, other than your precious son, is lying?”

“My son,” Olivia gasped. “My son was beautiful, really beautiful. He was the best, at the
top-end
of his career, but that
money-grabbing
trollop came along to spoil—”

“Olivia,” Mallory warned, but she was gone, lost in recrimination and rage.

“Look at him,” she screamed. “His face is ruined, his career destroyed, and now you come along with your filthy accusations. I'll see you in hell before you hurt my boy.” The slap came hard and fast across my face. Cheek stinging, midgasp, I caught Stannard's expression of dismay and shock.

Gerald Mallory put an arm around his wife. “Get out,” he ordered, “and don't come back.”

I stumbled from the house and ran at
break-neck
speed down the drive. All I could hear were Olivia Mallory's screams smashing against my ears.