Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (23 page)

fifty-five

I spent the rest
of the weekend wrestling my conscience. I badly needed to hear Kirsten's version of events, but contact was impossible. Attempting to stay in the loop, I called Cathy on Sunday morning to get an update, only to be told in wintry tones that Kirsten was
comfortable
.

On Monday, Alexa called. It went something like:

“Hi, Kim, which solicitor did you use for your divorce?”

I told her.

“Was she any good?”

I scratched my nose. “I couldn't really say. She did the job, but it wasn't complicated.”

“I need someone with killer instinct.”

“Do you?”

“I intend to clean Brooks out.”

“Then I can't really help you—sorry.”

With more pressing matters on her agenda, Alexa said
good-bye
. Part of me was relieved. If Alexa found a legal henchman to do her bidding, maybe she'd phone me less often.

Turning things over in my mind, I plucked up enough courage to risk ridicule and phoned PC Grant. He wasn't immediately available but I was assured he'd call back. I was making coffee when my entry phone rang. It was Jim. Oh shit, I thought, pressing the buzzer.

I let him in feeling like a
sixteen-year
-old capitulating to a parent after an almighty row. He looked grave and sad, and I feared the worst. I showed him into the sitting room. He examined my face in a way I recognised.

“If you've come about Kirsten, I can explain.”

“It's not about Kirsten. It's about Kyle Stannard.”

My chest tightened. Jim loosened the collar of his shirt. I noticed he was wearing a tie. It made him look strange and official. I invited him to sit down.

“When you told me that he was stalking you, you had my support and my sympathy,” Jim began. “We were all behind you.”

Were
, I registered, picking up on the change of tense.

“Only now things are less straightforward. I've received a formal complaint from Gerald and Olivia Mallory. They came to see me first thing this morning. They maintain that you've been stalking their son.”

“That's simply not true.”

Jim continued, steadfast. “They say you followed him to their house and made a scene there on Saturday. They've threatened to go to the police.”

It was all I could do not to put my head in my hands and let out a long low moan.

“I've managed to deter them for the time being, although I can't give you any guarantees. Mallory is a QC. He's not going to take this lying down. I take it from your silence that it's true.”

I nodded, briefly dumb. Could I trust Jim? That was the big one. Finally, taking a chance, I said, “Jim?”

“Yes, Kim.”

“Would you like coffee?”

He broke into a daft smile. “Long story?”

“Interminable.”

I told him everything. He listened intently. His expression stiffened when I confessed to following Stannard. When I told him about the rape, his eyes widened, then narrowed.

“Nothing more than vicious gossip and allegations.”

“But what if it's true?”

“Where's your proof?”

“Kirsten Matherson.”

Jim's laugh was hard and hollow. “Now I really think you've lost the plot. Has it ever occurred to you that what you were doing was wrong?”

“Yes.”

“That you might be mistaken?”

“Yes.” I now recognised that I wasn't infallible. I harboured doubts. Had the receptionist fallen prey to malicious gossip?

“Well then,” Jim said.

“But everything leads back to him. Everywhere I look, he's there with his irritating logic, his compulsion to grab my attention. My life was fine until Kyle Stannard came along to jinx it.”

Jim took both my hands in his. “Chris would have left without Stannard's interference, Kim.”

I drew away. I couldn't disagree. “What about Kirsten?” I said.

He gave me a level look. “Something as massive as this would be in her notes.”

“You're really not convinced?”

Jim waited a beat. “The truth is, I don't know.”

A
nd neither did I. Not for certain. I could be looking at two entirely separate issues. What I needed were hard, incontrovertible facts. Noting the time, I wondered when Grant would return my call.

“In any case,” Jim continued, “Kirsten's treatment is academic. The Mathersons want to move her back home as soon as possible.”

I was despondent. The Mathersons lived on the wrong side of the Welsh borders, far away from an inpatient eating disorder unit. What would become of her? “How did you leave it with the Mallorys?”

“I promised to reprimand you, which I'm now doing. The real problem, Kim, is that the Mallorys have a point. Whether or not Stannard is your stalker, you've handed it to him on a plate.”

I gave a sober nod of agreement.

fifty-six

The estate agents called
me shortly after Jim left to inform me of a viewing scheduled for the following afternoon. I was asked whether or not I'd be at home.

“I'll be there,” I said, an uncomfortable pull on my heartstrings; it was still a home of sorts. I'd no sooner put down the phone than it rang again. Taking precautions, I waited for the answering service to collect the call. It was Flick Sutherland sounding as though she was calling from a party—loud music, people laughing, the clatter of glass and cutlery. I picked up.

“Sorry,” Flick said, in a throaty
mid-Atlantic
drawl. “It's the kids. They've got their friends round, celebrating break and all that. Turn the music down, someone,” she blared, half deafening me.

The volume decreased a little. “Sky said you're some kind of shrink.”

I explained my credentials.

“You don't say. I went to a therapist once. Best thing I ever did. Helped me get in touch with myself. The real me.” The music erupted again. “For Chrissakes,” the real me roared, the
ear-splitting
crash of breaking glass resonating down the phone line. This time the music died down to a low bass burble. Unfazed, Flick said, “How can I help?”

“I need to talk about one of your girls.”

“I'm no longer in the business, honey.”

“That's not relevant.”

“Okay, shoot.”

“Kirsten Matherson.”

I heard a match being struck, the sound of lungs pulling on a cigarette. “What about her?” The zip had bounced out of Flick's voice.

“What's your connection?”

“I scouted her. What's yours?”

“Kirsten Matherson's one of my clients.”

“Let me guess, eating disorder.”

“Anorexia, unfortunately.”

“No surprise with a mom like that.”

Flick had my undivided attention. I waited for her to expand.

“She was always pushing the girl, nagging her, putting her up for any and every job. Kirsten had quite a look, popular at the time. Her mom wanted her to ride the wave while she had it. She insisted on as many castings as could be humanly fitted into a day.”

“And Kyle Stannard?”

Flick's lungs drew heavily on the cigarette. I could almost taste the nicotine on my tongue.

“He was gorgeous and unique with good looks that last a lifetime. I'd have slept with him myself if I hadn't been pregnant.”

I didn't need to muffle my surprise. After seeing those photographs in his house, I got it. “Tell me about him.”

“He had the three Fs: flash, fun, fucking great in the sack—or so I have it on good authority. I lost count of the times girls cried on my shoulder because of Kyle. He was too damned charming for his own good.”

Charming?
“Did he have a temper, a bad side?”

“Sure, he was bad,” Flick gave a throaty laugh. “He had an exotic lifestyle with a taste for cocaine and young women.”

“Underage girls?”

“Not knowingly,” Flick said, as though it wasn't that big a deal. “Hey, we girlies love that bad boy stuff, don't we? It's kind of intoxicating and wild. Truth is, Kyle had a love 'em and leave 'em philosophy that ruffled lots of little feathers.”

I wondered uneasily whether the receptionist at Visage was one of them. “But was there a nasty side to him?” I no longer felt as sure-
footed. With every revelation, I was sucked a little deeper into Stannard's world.

“He was a perfectionist so he was quite capable of throwing a tantrum, but I never believed that stuff about him and Kirsten.”

“You mean the rape.”

“The
alleged
rape,” Flick corrected me. “Kyle was the pinnacle of Marie Matherson's career plan for her daughter. That woman offered Kirsten to him like a sacrifice to the gods.”

My heart thudded against my rib cage. “But she was only fourteen or fifteen.”

“And looked a lot older.”

“So what are you saying—that it was encouraged, it was consensual?”

I heard Flick exhaling. “Who knows what goes on behind closed doors? All I can tell you is that there was a lot of chatter, rumours flying around but, at the end of the day, the case was dropped.”

“It never went to court?”

“Damn right.”

“And afterwards?”

“Plain tragic.”

“You mean Kyle?”

“Must have been seven or eight months afterwards,” Flick said, sombre now. “Kyle was walking down the street at night and got jumped by muggers. They stole his wallet and watch. He put up a fight and they smashed his face in. Last thing I heard, he was having reconstructive surgery. I left London not long afterwards, moved to Cornwall.”

“Because of what happened?”

“Nah, I had my own demons to flee.”

We all have those.

fifty-seven

Georgia wasn't keen. I
couldn't blame her. Risking everything, I'd be finished if we were caught. By implication, Georgia would bear a heavy share of responsibility.

“I only want ten minutes,” I said. “Ten minutes when I can talk without her parents coming in and blowing me out.”

“Remember what happened last time?”

“You'll be there. You can monitor it.”

“What about Jim?”

“He won't know unless you tell him.”

Georgia stuck her hands in her pockets and said nothing—default position for the exasperated.

“Kirsten's in denial,” I pointed out, “and it's not going to go away. She can will herself to starve but she can't will away the past. She won't get better unless she confronts it.”

“That's your professional opinion?”

“Yes.”

Georgia shook her head. “Insight isn't always a cure, as well you know. It's too risky.”

“So is doing nothing.”

Stony silence.

“Please, Georgia.”

“Kim, this is about you,” she hissed. “It sure as hell isn't about Kirsten.”

“It's about both of us. Come on, Georgia, my career's on the line, but Kirsten's life is in the balance.”

Georgia's face darkened. She looked at the wall then looked back at me. “You really reckon this Flick woman knows what she's talking about?”

“I do.”

“Ten minutes?” Georgia said at last.

“Tops.” I beamed. “And thank you.”

“Don't thank me.” Georgia glowered. “This is probably the most stupid decision I've ever made in my life. Meet me at the entrance in an hour.”

Kirsten Matherson, bandaged arms resting in her lap, sat on a wicker chair, her face tilted towards a window revealing a thoughtfully arranged garden. Entranced by sparrows taking a water-bath in an ornamental trough, she didn't move as we entered the room.

Georgia took up a position by the door like a sentry. She spoke first, gently reminding Kirsten of my visit. Kirsten gave an imperceptible nod as I sat down next to her.

“I'm so very sorry for what happened,” I began. “I never meant to upset you.” A faint smile played on the girl's bloodless lips. “Are you feeling better?” I asked.

“A bit.”

“All right if we talk about stuff?”

Kirsten's bony shoulders relaxed. “I guess.”

“Your parents are right to be angry,” I said.

“It's my dad. He's protective of me.”

“As all good fathers should be,” Georgia cut in lightly, catching my eye.

Kirsten twitched a smile. “Yeah,” she said, dreamy.

“Tell me about him,” I said.

The girl shrugged. “He's great. He's a bit strict, but he looks after me and my mum,” she said,
big-eyed
. “They both want the best for me.”

“And you've got two older brothers, Robert and Stephen, that's right, isn't it?”

Kirsten braced. “What about them?”

“Nothing. I have two of my own.” I smiled. Always would have to my mind, despite the fact that Guy was dead. “Sometimes it's a pain being the only girl, don't you think?”

“I suppose. I don't see much of them,” Kirsten said briskly. “They're working out in Australia.”

“Visit much?”

“Once, not lately.” A sudden, hunted look appeared on the girl's face. Her limbs tensed, shoulders straightened.

“Are you getting tired, Kirsten?” Georgia broke in, throwing me a warning look.

“A little.”

“One last thing, and I know it's hard,” I said, avoiding Georgia's furious expression. “We talked about Kyle, remember?” I held my breath in an agony of frustration. “You knew him, didn't you?”

Kirsten looked past me to a faraway point that only she could see. “How is he?”

“He's fine.”

“I'm glad.”

Georgia traded a baffled glance with me.

“Can you tell me what really happened?” I said softly.

“I fell in love.”

“With Kyle?”

Kirsten nodded.

“And he broke it off?”

“He broke my heart.” Kirsten's eyes glistened.

So that was it. I wished I could put my arms around her and give her a hug. “And then what?”

“It was my mother's idea.” Kirsten's expression was pleading. “I knew it was wrong but I was so hurt, so broken. You've no idea what he was like. He was funny and wonderful and kind. When I was with him I felt like a princess.” She spoke as if her voice had harnessed all the energy from her body. “All the other girls were jealous of me. Then …” She stumbled, big tears in her eyes. “When he told me it was over, I thought I'd die. You've no idea how it feels to be crushed and rejected.”

I smiled sadly, laid a hand on Kirsten's arm, and recalled Flick's account of Marie Matherson's ambitions for her daughter—ambitions that were thwarted. “So your mother came up with the rape story?”

Georgia's eyes shot wide with surprise. Kirsten looked down, licked the corner of her mouth. “It seemed a good idea at the time,” she said unconvincingly. “I didn't know what would happen. My mother made me promise not to breathe a word, especially not to my dad.”

“What was his reaction to the alleged rape?”

“He went ballistic. There was so much pain in the house. I felt swept along by it. Will I get into trouble?”

“No,” Georgia cut in. “This isn't your fault.”

Kirsten twisted her hands. She looked anguished. “Once you make up a lie, you need another to back it up. I kept changing my story to keep ahead of the game. In the end it was my word against Kyle's.”

Your lie against his truth, I realised with a jolt.

“There was no physical evidence,” Kirsten shivered, “and it got more
and more difficult. The police warned me what might happen in the witness box and I thought then that, no matter what my mother said, I couldn't go through with it. Not for my sake but for his. The worst that could happen was that Kyle could be done for underage sex. In the end, I refused to press charges, and the case was dropped.”

“But mud sticks,” I said.

“Yes.” And with deep sadness in her voice, she added, “And my dad never forgave him.”

I left the hospital. The thread of evidence on which I'd tugged had unravelled and exposed a grave mistake. Mine. No wonder the Mallorys were furious.

But now I more than sensed that Stannard was innocent of stalking me because Stannard had not raped Kirsten.

I replayed events in my head, thinking back to the time I hung back outside the bookstore. I'd raised my hand to get a signal for my phone. Was that what Stannard mistook for a wave? His cold denials, his justified horror at yet another false allegation, and I'd been deaf, dumb, and blind to them.

I didn't doubt that Stannard had been all of the things Flick Sutherland
described. And yes, he'd bugged me, pursued me with relentlessness, eager to talk out his fears and obsessions, but he was not the man who'd turned my life
upside-down
. This was a guy who'd been set up, his reputation destroyed and then, when life was returning to normal, thugs had mercilessly beaten him up. Life had indeed dealt him a bad hand of cards and, as I considered this, I discovered that, although he'd complicated my life to a terrible degree, my compassion for him and my empathy with him ran deep. How could I have behaved in such a morally bankrupt way?

It left
wide-open
one last question: If I was so
off-beam
, so out of whack, who was the real scary bastard?