Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (26 page)

sixty-five

Fiona North was not
what I expected. Slim, with blond hair that she wore clipped back into a low ponytail, she had baby-blue eyes and, in her casual trousers and shirt, looked about nineteen and too young to be delving into murder.

Barely eight in the morning, I scratched my head, wondering why on earth she needed to arrive so early. Maybe it was designed to catch me out. “Come in. I'm not fully functioning yet.”

“Don't worry. I'll make us a pot of tea, or would you prefer coffee?”

“Well, I …”

“I'll put the kettle on while you think about it,” North said, heading to the kitchen as if guided by a homing device. “How are you feeling, sleep all right?”

“No.” I sat down, studied the grain of the kitchen table, and listened to the clatter of someone else taking over my life.

North rested her back against the worktop. “We could have a word with your GP. Maybe he could prescribe something to help you sleep.”

I winced. I didn't like
we
. Neither did I like the fact that I felt as if I were sitting in
her
kitchen. “Thanks, but no, I'm not keen.”

The
baby-blue
eyes didn't waver. “I'm very sorry for your loss. You're understandably upset, deeply upset, but I'm here to help. Look on me as a bridge between you and the police side of things. If there's anything you want to tell me, or anything you don't understand, or something you wish to ask, then fire away. I want you to look on me as a friend. Call me Fiona, please.”

Mentally, I thought, spy. I nodded and forced a smile. “Fine.”

Fiona beamed, glad, it seemed, to have got the lowdown out of the way. “Tea or coffee then?”

I settled for coffee and expected a torrent of questions, or at least to be actively pumped for information. Instead we talked about Fiona's background and growing up years spent in Solihull. It's what I would call finessing. When I found myself talking about my own family, I realised that Fiona was smarter and more experienced than she looked.

“So you've not seen your mother since?” Fiona said.

“No.”

“You don't miss her?” Fiona's expression failed to conceal her fascination.

I looked at the wall. I missed the fact that I'd had nobody to shop with, to discuss clothes with, to talk to or confide in when I was growing up. Had my mother stuck around, I doubted I'd have been cast into a boarding school. I hoped that she might have defended me, stuck up for me, understood me. With her on my side, I suspected that my life would have turned out quite differently. Who knows, I might have escaped the perils of the bonfire. For me, the big heartache was that it didn't matter how many people were in the house, there was always one missing, always a grave sense of loss. I didn't say this. I gave Fiona a highly edited answer.

She listened, hand under her chin. She wasn't taking notes exactly, but I could see the information being stored behind those sweet little eyes, slotted in and measured against the evidence.

“It must have been difficult.”

“Let's not overstate it.”

“You must have felt lonely and rejected.”

Her observation didn't come close. As soon as the words left her mouth, I could almost see a light shine on in Fiona's head. She was making the link between the earlier abandonment of my mother and then my lover. Sharpened emotions and powerful feelings equal crime of passion. Added to my gaffe with Stannard, I felt practically convicted already.

“What will happen to Chris?” I asked, trying to shift the focus.

“There'll be an inquest. His body can't be released for burial yet because of the investigation.”

“Are they're still running tests?”

“There are certain procedures.”

I cleared my throat. “And what are the mechanics of the police investigation, or aren't I allowed to ask?”

Fiona flicked a reassuring smile. “We need to establish timelines.”

“You mean when Chris was last seen, time of death?”

Fiona nodded and took a sip of coffee. She moved gracefully, a bit like a Siamese cat.

“How do they establish that?”

“Forensics. Witness statements.
House-to
-house enquiries.”

“There are no houses. My nearest neighbour is the other side of the creek.” The fact that the vacationing population was in constant flux would hardly help.

Fiona looked at her watch. “You remember you're due at the police station at eleven?”

How could I forget? “No,” I said with the ghost of smile. “I haven't forgotten.”

“I could drive you there, if you like.”

“Well … erm …”

“Only the forensic team want to come and check out the cottage. If we leave soon,” Fiona said, pulling out a mobile phone, “they could be finished by the time we get back.”

I'm being hustled, I thought. I imagined a load of men in white
zipped-up
suits, kitted out with gloves and special footwear, poring through and ransacking my things. “All right,” I said, thinking it was better to get it over with. “Any idea where to kill a couple of hours?”
Kill.
I blushed.

Fiona gave me a
Doesn't matter
smile. “Lovely day for an amble along the beach.”

“But it will be packed with people.” Some I'd know, or would know me. I didn't relish the pitying looks, the
tongue-tied
words, and the suspicion.

“Not where we're going,” she grinned, almost playful.

I had to admit I rather liked her.

sixty-six

Fiona was right. High
brambly hedges, zigzagging road, no passing places or ice-cream vans—an unlikely place for the modern tourist.

She parked the car in one of only a dozen possible places and we got out and walked. It took ten minutes to reach the raised beach at Prawle Point. There, we found a family of adders sunning themselves on rocks.

Fiona very smoothly manoeuvred the conversation round to Chris. I saw it coming, watched the moves, the seeming indirectness, and rapidly readjusted my earlier take on the
baby-faced
liaison officer. This was one smart individual.

In answer to her questions, I told her the truth. Why not? If Fiona were sophisticated, she'd recognise that no relationship is perfect, that there are flaws beneath even the most successful partnerships. I didn't play down Chris's moods, his ability to irritate others, his mercurial manner.

“Did he make enemies?” Fiona probed.

“No. But he didn't make friends easily either.” Except was that strictly true? Jo had given a different impression. What about all those people who phoned to express their sympathy?

“Apart from Andy?”

Good memory, I thought. She'd obviously been well briefed. “Andy's outgoing, happy, brash really. I guess it's a case of alter egos.”

“And there was no one from Chris's past?”

“It's possible,” I said, reflective. “Before coming to Devon he'd worked in London in an
inner-city
school where teachers were regularly threatened by parents and pupils. I guess it might be a line of enquiry worth looking into.”

“And the other woman?”

“That's also worth investigation.” I attempted to suppress a strong streak of jealousy.

Shortly after half past eleven, Fiona drove me to the police station in Kingsbridge. Set back from the road, it looked neither unprepossessing nor extraordinary, simply a rural cop shop in a market town.

Darke greeted and thanked me for coming. Wearing a navy lightweight suit, pale blue shirt, and red tie, he looked more official than the day before. I wasn't sure if it flagged something up, whether I was going to be treated less as a victim more as a suspect. My scant knowledge of police interview techniques based on television dramas meant I worried that I might be in for an aggressive line of questioning. As it turned out, I had nothing to fear. Not at first.

After submitting to a voluntary DNA test by giving a simple mouth swab, I was taken into a bleak, sparse interview room with moulded plastic chairs. It reminded me of consulting rooms in poorly funded regional hospitals. Darke explained the proceedings while waiting for Hatchet to join us. I was told the identity of those present. Under
caution, and the interview recorded, I was asked to run through much the same ground covered the day before. Darke smiled sympathetically. It occurred to me that he wanted to be liked and trusted, which wasn't that difficult. He gave the impression that we were working together, part of a team, although I'd stop short of suggesting that he was batting for me. I didn't feel threatened, which was why I decided to expand one of my answers. I took a deep breath. If I didn't tell them now, they'd find out later and then it would look even spookier.

“Yesterday, when you asked me about Chris's state of mind, I said that he was pensive.”

Hatchet jumped in. “Because of the other woman.” Darke's reproving look connected and glanced off his police colleague.

“Because I was being stalked.”

Darke did his best to look
matter-of
-fact. His eyes gave him away. They shone.

“The police in Cheltenham know all about it,” I said. “If you talk to PCs Grant and Cunningham, they can fill you in.”

“This person stalking you,” Darke began.

“I don't know who it is but, don't you see, the person stalking me could be Chris's murderer.” I looked at both of them, waiting for them to make the link.

Hatchet exchanged a look with Darke who shrugged.

“Have you experienced problems in Devon?”

“Well, no.”

“So whoever was stalking you in Cheltenham knew nothing of your life here?”

“I don't know. Assume nothing, surely?”

There was a brief silence, broken by Darke. “Thanks for being so candid.”

Is that it? No more questions? No new leads? Cold assailed me in spite of the stuffiness of the room. Was it possible that I was suffering from false memory syndrome? Had I made everything up, my disordered home life with my dad and brothers included? I pressed my hands underneath my thighs, dug the nails into the soft flesh to prove to myself that I was real, that I existed.

Darke stroked his chin, casual. “Does the name Carolla Dennison mean anything to you?”

I struggled to recover and keep my gaze steady. “She's a games teacher at the school where Chris worked.”

“Have you met?”

“Once, maybe twice.”

“Did you suspect that she was the other woman?”

“Suspect, yes, but—”

“You didn't mention her
yesterday
,” Hatchet said with heavy emphasis. His blue eyes felt as if they were boring into me, unearthing buried secrets from my mind. “You didn't tell Fiona of your suspicion,” he added, his voice laced with accusation.

“It was only supposition. I didn't know for a fact.” I blindly wondered whether Jo Sharpe had told the police of my visit. If she had, oh my goodness …

“Didn't you?”

“No,” I lied.

“And
now
you know,” Hatchet said slowly, “how do you feel?”

I looked from one to the other. I was tempted to say
murderous
to see how they'd respond. “Betrayed,” I said.

“Betrayed by Chris, too,” Darke said intently.

“But not enough to kill him, if that's what you're driving at.”

sixty-seven

I had the motive.
Because of that silly puncture, I had the opportunity. And they'd caught me in a lie. If Fiona knew what line of questioning they were taking, I thought as I staggered out of the interview room, she kept her cards close to her chest. All Fiona asked with an eager smile was whether I was ready to leave. Had the time come to get a lawyer?

“Did it go all right?” Fiona said when we were back in the car.

“Mostly.” My voice was flat, drained of expression.

Fiona gave me a quick sideways glance. “What do you want to do now?”

Prove I'm innocent. Find Chris's murderer. Nail him. “Will they be finished at the cottage?”

“Probably not.”

I put a hand to my face. I felt dirty. My hair needed washing. God, I was tired to my bones. “What exactly are they looking for?”

“Forensic evidence, any clues to Chris's plans, people he was going to meet, that kind of thing.”

I scrunched myself up in the seat, trying to make myself as small and inconspicuous as possible. Nothing was said for the next mile. I didn't even register in which direction we were driving. Too busy dwelling on the fact that the police seemed unsurprised by my disclosure. Had they already done their homework? Had they already discounted my theory? If the police weren't going to make the connection between Chris's murderer and my stalker, I'd have to do it for them.

“You should eat,” Fiona pronounced.

“I'm not hungry.”

“But I am.”

She pulled up outside the Church House Inn at Stokenham. The place was rammed inside and out with couples with
shiny-faced
toddlers, families wading through seafood platters and Ploughmans, and gaggles of teenagers larking about, stuffing down chips. I dodged a swarm of wasps attracted by shoals of sticky empty glasses. Somehow Fiona managed to commandeer a small table under an apple tree, set back from the rest of the diners.

Ten minutes later, I had a glass of white wine in my hand, Fiona a soft drink, “Since I'm driving,” she explained.

And on the job, I thought, taking a tentative sip with a discerning smile. Perhaps the alcohol was a base method to loosen my tongue. I half closed my eyes, tipped my face to the sky, letting the sunshine fall on the good side. Might as well come out with it. “They think I did it.” I opened my eyes and looked straight at Fiona to better gauge her reaction.

Fiona took a drink. “They have to pursue all lines of enquiry, Kim. You're only a strand.”

“More like a thick piece of rope.”

The blue eyes suddenly went very pale, very cool. “Did you do it?”

“No.”

Fiona waited. I held her gaze. “You're bound to feel under the spotlight,” she said with a level look. “Unfortunately, nearest and dearest always come in for special scrutiny. It's a sad fact that most murders are committed by people we know.”

“Then why not investigate the other woman?”

Fiona shrugged. No quickening of interest.

“What about the guy stalking me?” I locked on, read the same vapid expression in her eyes, and smiled. “I get it. You don't believe my story.”

“It's not about belief. It's about evidence.”

I frowned. “What aren't you telling me?”

“Nothing.” Fiona's face had a closed expression.

I took another cautious sip of wine. “So how did you get into all this?”

“All what?”

“The police.”

“By accident.” Fiona's features loosened. A smile hovered on her lips. This was easier terrain for her, her expression intimated. “After my degree I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. There were several avenues I could have taken but none of them felt quite right. On a whim, I applied for the police service. They were having a major drive on recruiting graduates at the time. It seemed like an attractive package. There were incentives.”

“
Fast-tracking
?”

“
Uh-huh
.”

“So what was your degree in?”

Fiona smiled sweetly. “Psychology.”