Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (24 page)

fifty-eight

Someone you
know
, Fallon
said.

With no appetite either for food or retail therapy, I idled in the direction of Cheltenham's very own Left Bank and centre of bohemia—the Bath Road—and bumped into Molly.

“Kim, you look dreadful.”

I supposed I did. My friends considered me crazy. I'd lost credibility at work. I'd lost faith in my own sense of morality and judgement. I planned a move to God knows where, to a place my face, no doubt, would be gawped at. I had no idea who my stalker was, other than it wasn't Stannard. No pressure.

Molly linked an arm through mine and propelled me in the direction of Morans eating house and wine bar. Grabbing a table for two, Molly ordered for both of us and over wine and food, and under Molly's merciless inquisition, I told her enough edited highlights to satisfy my friend's curiosity. Molly's eyes grew wider with each revelation.

“My God, you poor thing, how absolutely awful for you.”

“I'm selling up. I've got a viewing at the cottage tomorrow afternoon.”

Molly's shock translated to disapproval. “Do you think it wise to sell? You're quite safe there. After all, the nutter following you has no idea about your other home, your other life.”

What other life? “It's only a matter of time.”

Molly slipped out a lipstick and compact from her bag. “I'll have a word with Simon.”

“What about?”

“Your house sale, silly.”

“I've made up my mind, Moll, and I've appointed a local estate agent.”

“You can be so stubborn,” Molly said, applying a generous coat of lipstick. “You should listen to good advice.” She snapped the compact shut.

We paid and walked back through town together. Pausing to go our separate ways, Molly kissed me on both cheeks. “Sorry about Chris,” she said. “We never really—”

“I know,” I jumped in.

Molly threw an awkward smile, told me to take care, and left.

My heart flipped with surprise at finding Grant and Cunningham waiting for me back at the apartment.

“I didn't expect you to come round. A phone call would have been fine and erm … I've sorted things out.”

Grant's face was set like weathered granite. “Your sorting out has resulted in a complaint.”

“So you freely admit it?” Grant said, once we were inside.

“Yes.” No point in denial.

“You entered his property?”

I felt only a moment's contempt for the old lady who'd grassed me up. I was in no position to take the moral high road. “I went onto his land. I was fed up, frightened, and wanted to take the law into my own hands. I was wrong. I made a mistake,” I said, chastened.

Grant slowly shook his head in disbelief. “What if you'd been right? Do you realise the risk you were running?”

“I didn't think I had much to lose.” I bit my lip. The moment the words left my mouth, I knew it sounded spiky and wrong.

Grant glanced at Cunningham in irritation. He obviously took my comment as a direct criticism. “Has anything else happened, Miss Slade?”

“Nothing.” I could have told them about the threatening card and the bucket of rabid flesh, but it would only sound dubious in the current circumstances. They'd think I was making it up. Best to admit to what I'd done and take the rap. “What happens now? Do I receive an official caution?”

“Not this time.”

“Quid pro quo,” I said, referring to Grant's previous chat with Stannard.

“Consider this a reprimand,” he said, unmoved. “If anything else happens, you report it to us first. You do not try to take the law into your own hands. Got it?”

I nodded obediently.

Once they'd gone, I took a shower. Standing in the kitchen later, I opened a tin of tuna and mechanically ate the contents. When the phone rang around quarter to nine, I listened, heard the click, then the recorded message followed by the sound of breathing. I went over to the window and looked at people slipping by. The phone went several times, each time the caller staying on the line for around ten seconds, no more, no message left. I was no nearer to knowing his identity.

And he didn't give a damn.

Who the hell was it?

fifty-nine

I arrived at Cormorants
Reach
at midday. For an irrational moment, my heart swelled with hope as I imagined Chris standing at the entrance. But gone is gone, I reminded myself. Time to get a grip.

My feet halted almost before my body at the sight of the front door ajar. I pulled out my phone to call the police and cursed, not for the first time, the absence of a signal. Briefly looking around for something to use as a weapon, I stole back to the car. Opening the boot, I took out the jack, returned to the house, and eased the door gently open. It protested with a loud whine.

Grinding with nerves, I waited a beat then zipped across the living room floor, peered into the study, and moved soundlessly down the steps into the kitchen.

There, I saw him. He had his back to me. I swung the jack. He turned, eyes wide and white.

“Charlie,” I gasped. “What the bloody hell do you think you're playing at?”

He put both palms up. “Are you going to put that thing down?”

“Not yet.” I ground my jaw so hard I thought my teeth would crack.

“Simon asked me to look in.”

“Simon?” This was getting more bizarre by the second.

“He said you've got someone viewing your house this afternoon. He thought it would be a good idea if a bloke was with you.”

Molly must have told him. “Then why didn't you phone?”

“I didn't think it would be such a big deal. God, Kim, you don't seriously think …”

“Where's your car? Why isn't it in the drive?”

“Because,” he said, his voice loud, “I came in the Land Rover and the handbrake's not that clever. It's parked down at the creek where it won't roll away.”

Eyeing him, I backed off, awkwardly laying the jack down on the kitchen table. Charlie sat down hard on the nearest chair. I smelt the fresh tang of cow shit on his clothes.

“I think Simon had a point,” he snapped. “You need protecting from yourself.”

I glared at him. “You still haven't explained how the hell you got in.” Keys, I thought, Charlie would have had ample opportunity to “borrow” mine and get a copy made. My eyes travelled to the kitchen table.

He expelled an exasperated sigh. “The door was already open.”

“Impossible.” Deliberately, I let my gaze rest on the jack. Charlie picked up on it and scowled.

“Are you absolutely certain you locked it when you left? You do seem to be in a fair old state,” he added, his voice caustic.

“Which is why I'm very careful about my security,” I flashed. He locked eyes with me, as if saying
screw you
. “There's really no reason for you to stay,” I said haughtily. “The agent is accompanying the viewing.”

Charlie's face expressed a variety of emotions, mainly anger. “What the devil's got into you? I'm trying to help.”

“I don't need your help,” I bit back. “Or anyone else's.”

“If that's the way you feel about it.”
Ugly-faced
, he clambered to his feet.

Yes, I did. I didn't trust him. I didn't trust anyone anymore. They were all too damn close.

Charlie marched past. I followed him out. He suddenly turned, his weathered face very red and close to mine. “From what Simon's told me you're sailing pretty close to the wind. It won't bring Chris back, you know. He's gone for good. And I can't say as I blame him.”

The viewing was a pointless exercise. To be fair, the agent acted with suave sophistication, talking the cottage up, throwing in the odd amusing anecdote, using the right amount of carrot and stick. I guessed the viewers were a second marriage. The husband was old and dishevelled-looking in spite of the effort to dress in a trendy fashion—trousers with spanner pockets and a baseball hat; the wife was young, skittish and strident, as were their two little girls. Within minutes, the children were left to roam and wreck. While Mummy and Daddy amused themselves by comparing the small rooms with the
much larger
proportions of a property they'd seen earlier, I spent my time deterring Tamsin and Lily from throwing themselves into the creek.

“Why are you leaving such a glorious place?” the husband asked.

“Personal reasons,” I answered evasively.
Personal
covered every crisis under the sun. Chris had cited the same excuse, I remembered.

“That went well,” the agent said as we watched the family disappear in their powder blue Volvo.

I issued a brief, cynical smile. “They won't be back.” About to return to the cottage, I heard the crunch of tyre on gravel. I looked at the agent. “Did you schedule in someone else?”

He shook his head. I watched two men step out of a BMW and ran through the
stock-list
of possibilities—Jehovah's witnesses,
door-to
-door salesmen, lost tourists—and found myself coming up empty. Something in the way they approached chimed with a grim and distant memory of police officers on a mission.

The older of the two men—a lean, wiry individual with close-
cropped
sandy-coloured
hair—walked a couple of paces behind the other, his line of vision scoping the cottage and its surroundings with a professional eye. The younger—tall, blond, and with a heavier build—was, by contrast, entirely purposeful. His eyes locked on me with a kind of ruthless determination. He flashed a warrant card announcing he was Detective Sergeant Martin Hatchet. The older man gave a curt smile and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Malcolm Darke. Even in my surprised and tense state, I thought it odd that the man with the lower rank asked the first question.

“Are you Kim Slade?”

I nodded, a sudden sensation of dread crushing the centre of my chest. Hatchet eyeballed the estate agent.

“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

“I was on my way out,” the agent said, his expression one of febrile curiosity. I imagined he'd have a lot to gossip about in the office on his return. “Speak to you later, Miss Slade,” he threw over his shoulder with a little too much swagger.

My mind racing, I took them inside and showed them into the sitting room. I'd hoped that the business with Stannard was officially cleared up. Oh God, I thought, the Mallorys. Even so it seemed a ridiculous waste of police resources for two detectives to come all the way to Devon to charge me, or maybe these were local boys. I guessed they were going to do me for harassment. How paradoxical.

“I understand you lived with Christopher Beech,” Hatchet said.

Confused, I looked from one to the other. Darke's blue eyes remained steady though I could see, by the way Hatchet leant forward, my response carried significance. “We split up.”

Hatchet regarded Darke. I saw the tightening of the jaw. I could smell impending disaster. “What is this? Is he in some sort of trouble?”

“I'm afraid we have bad news for you, Miss Slade,” Darke said. “Christopher Beech is dead.”

sixty

Someone had done the
equivalent of chucking me onto a rollercoaster ride and thrusting the gear in reverse. After an initial, “Oh my God, oh God,” I was clean out of words. Body rigid, hands twisted, I tried to concentrate. Beads of sweat pocked my skin. My jaw ached.
I felt such an immediate, plunging depth of misery.

Suddenly, blood surged in my ears. Nausea enveloped me. I pitched forward. An arm shot out as my legs buckled and gravity took its toll. Later, someone, blurred and indistinct, placed a glass of water in my hand, and a mug of sugary tea. I took an eager sip. Time coalesced. Darke was talking and talking, his words far away and obscure, as though he were speaking from an underwater cavern.

“Are you feeling better?”

How could I answer a question like that? I sat and stared but saw absolutely nothing.

“His body was found by walkers yesterday,” he said gently.

“Walkers?”

“On the moor.”

“Dartmoor?”

“In a remote forested area, near Sittaford Tor.”

“I don't understand. What was he doing there?”

“That's what we're trying to find out.”

Spun out, I said, “Some kind of accident?” I tried to strike the hopeful note from my voice. Accident was comprehensible, something else wasn't.

Darke lowered his gaze. “I'm afraid not.”

I gasped. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Pain assailed me. Slow tears rolled down my face.

“He was found in his car. Some effort had been made to set it alight.”

Involuntarily, I gagged and clasped a hand to my neck, shielding the skin.
These are old burns,
I wanted to tell them.
These are unconnected to now.

“Probably as a means to cover the crime,” Darke explained.

“Lucky not to have set the woodland ablaze,” Hatchet added.

I felt as if they were both looking at my disfigurement. “How did he die?”

“Can't say,” Darke said. “There will be a
post-mortem
and lab reports.”

“And this happened yesterday?”

Hatchet and Darke exchanged glances. Darke answered, “Time of death is uncertain. There was some decomposition.”

I stared incredulously. Chris was never going to return, but this … I clutched the mug tightly with both hands. My nose streamed and the slow drum roll of tears increased. They splashed down my face. Darke handed me a tissue.

“We'll need to take a formal statement.”

“I understand.”

They waited as I made a not entirely successful attempt to pull myself together.

“So when did you last see him?” Hatchet asked too casually.

I frowned. So much had happened. “It's hard to say exactly. Must have been two weeks ago.” Was it? I honestly couldn't remember. “Yeah, a Monday morning,” I added more confidently. “I was on my way back to Cheltenham. If I look on the calendar, I can find the date.”

“Later will do. What were you doing in Cheltenham?”

“I work there. I'm a clinical psychologist.”

“And Christopher?” Darke interposed.

“Chris. Just Chris. Um, an English teacher.”

“Where?”

I wondered why he'd asked the question. Surely they'd discovered that already. Maybe it was a method of getting me to talk, to
cross-reference
facts.

“At the secondary school,” I said.

“How did Chris seem on that Monday?” Darke enquired.

I lowered my gaze. I didn't want to remember. Somehow I managed to force an answer. “He was pensive, thoughtful.”

“In what way?”

“I don't know.” Fresh tears pricked my eyes.

Hatchet made a note. It put me on edge. I wanted to slink away and dig a hole and hide in it.

“When did you speak to him last?”

“That morning before I left.” I looked from Darke to Hatchet. “I phoned him as usual when I arrived in Cheltenham but he didn't answer.”

Darke glanced around the room. “You phoned him here?”

“Yes, and I tried his mobile, but it was switched off. I was worried so I contacted the school and discovered he'd phoned to say he wouldn't be in.”

Hatched looked up. “When did he make the call?”

“The same day I left.”

“Any idea of time?”

“Before lessons, I presume.”

“But he didn't tell you of his intention?”

“No.”

“Was he ill?”

“Not that I knew of.”

Darke nodded for me to continue.

“So I came back,” I explained.

“When?”

I told him I'd come back to Devon on Tuesday.

“And that was unusual?” Hatchet's face was without expression, intimating that he was a
fact-gatherer
, pure and simple.

“Yes. I left several clients in the lurch.”

“Go on.”

“He wasn't here. He'd cleared out. He'd left me.”

Darke's eyebrows drew together. “Left you?” I nodded, unable to hold my distress at bay. He looked genuinely sorry. “Do you need a break?”

I shook my head, wiped my nose with furious irritation. “I want to help. I do, but I can't believe it's happened. I can't think who would do this to him.” Except, I could. Blood rushed through my head like a flash flood. Should I tell them? Would they believe me now that I'd been so utterly discredited by the police in Cheltenham?

“Take your time,” Darke said. “How long have you known Chris?”

“We'd been living together for almost four years.”

“What was he like?”

I looked at Hatchet, taken by surprise. I wanted to do the best by Chris, but it wasn't simple. I let out a breath, fudged the question. “He was very private.
Hard-working
,
well-liked
by colleagues.” God, it sounded like a reference.

“Friends?” Darke said.

“He didn't have a huge circle. My friends were his friends.” My nerves tightened. “There were people he went drinking with from school. His best mate's Andy Johnson, another teacher. Andy's known him longer than me.”

“It would be helpful if you could provide us with a list of associates,” Hatchet said, tapping the tip of the pen on his pad.

“Of course.”

“What about family?” Darke said.

I shook my head. “He was put into care. Spent much of his early life in foster homes.” My voice sounded halting, false and businesslike. I didn't want to tell them about his brush with criminality, the violent temper. He'd never used it on me so why should I?

Hatchet clicked his tongue. “Not what you'd call an idyllic upbringing.”

Darke threw him a reproachful look. “Did he have any enemies, Miss Slade?”

“None that I can think of.” I thought of Simon and Molly, Charlie and Claire, their barely concealed dislike. “Nobody close who'd want to kill him,” I stressed.

“He wasn't in debt or had any drink or drug problems?”

“No.”

In the briefest of silences, I sensed that they were regrouping.

“You say Chris left you,” Darke said.

“Yes.”

“The split, was it completely out of the blue?” He leant forward a fraction. His eyes looked black instead of blue, the pupils enormous. “Did you see it coming?”

“No, no, I didn't.” I briefly shut my eyes, braced for the inevitable.

“So you don't know why.” There was an upward inflection in Darke's voice.

I gathered the remains of my pride and looked straight at him. “He left me a note. There was another woman. He …” I stopped. In their eyes, they now had a motive. The increase in tension in the room was tangible. I could taste it and it tasted bitter. Nobody said anything for a moment.

“Do you have the note?” Hatchet said.

“I threw it in the creek.” To my own ears, I sounded dodgy.

“Have you got the pad it was written on?”

“It was typed on a computer. Chris had appalling handwriting,” I explained.

“But he signed it?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure it was his signature?”

“Yes.” Unmistakable.

“Do you have a computer here?” Hatchet's expression was penetrating.

“In the study, but Chris rarely used it. He had his own laptop for work.”

“Worth checking out,” Hatchet said to Darke who nodded.

“We'd like to search your home,” Hatchet told me. “It's standard procedure and entirely voluntary but if …”

“Yes.” They'd do it in any case. I rubbed the top of my arms although I wasn't cold.

“The identity of the other woman.” Darke dropped the remark delicately into the conversation.

I made eye contact with him. “Chris didn't say.” I wasn't sure why I used the truth to conceal a lie.

Darke returned my gaze with a searching expression, his eyes two black orbs. “You said on the morning you last saw Chris, he was troubled.”

“I said pensive.”

“Because of his extracurricular relationship?” Hatchet said, smart with it.

“I assume so.”

“And you had no idea?”

“I already said. None.”

Hatchet scribbled some more, head down. “Any idea what time you left the house that morning?”

“I was running late. I'd overslept. I suppose it must have been around half past seven. I don't really remember exactly.”

Scribble, scribble, scribble. “So you arrived in Cheltenham at what time?”

“Around quarter to twelve.”

Hatchet's eyes shot up to meet mine. “Four and a half hours?”

Looking into his face, I had the horrible realisation that this was a game changer.