Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (27 page)

sixty-eight

On the surface the
cottage looked pretty much the same. No obvious evidence of disturbance. No paw-marks from sniffer-dogs. Only when I opened drawers and cupboards did I find things put back in the wrong place, or not put back at all. The boxes carefully packed in preparation for a move were unpacked, the computer gone. I couldn't imagine Jim Copplestone's reaction to the fact that I was now at the centre of a murder inquiry.

Fiona had left earlier, stating that she would pop in some time the following day, though she didn't specify when—a ploy no doubt to keep me on my toes. I thought about driving over to Claire and Charlie's but didn't have the energy, or at least that was the line I sold myself. Instead, I phoned Andy. He sounded flat and depressed. I invited him round, but he said Jen was popping in to see him. I didn't know whether this pleased him or not.

“I'm glad you've got company.”

“I feel bad for being horrible to her. She's trying her best to be supportive, but I wish she wouldn't fuss so much. I'm bloody drowning in caffeine.”

“She means well.”

“I know. She's a decent salt of the earth Devon girl.”

“Don't knock it.”

Neither of us spoke for a few seconds.

“So what's the latest?”

“I've given a statement. The police have searched the cottage.”

“What for?”

“It's standard procedure,” I said, skirting the
nitty-gritty
. “How about you, have the police called?”

“The
body-snatchers
arrived first thing this morning.”

“What?”

“Two coppers, Darke and Hatchet.”

So they'd visited before my interview. “What sort of questions did they ask?”

“They wanted to know when I'd last seen Chris. How he seemed. How we got on. How long we'd been mates. What I knew about his relationship with Carolla Dennison—precisely zilch. About you …”

I started. “About me?”

“It's all right,” Andy said, a trace of humour in his voice. “I didn't tell them you were a foot fetishist, or anything.”

I smiled.

“I answered stuff, really,” he said, vague. “Not sure I was that much help, to be honest.”

“And how are you feeling?”

Andy let out a sigh. “Dunno. Frozen, I guess. I haven't really taken it in. What about you?”

“Desolate.” Yet determined, if that were possible.

There was a bit of an awkward silence. A question needled the back of my mind. “Andy, did you speak to the cops about the stalking business?”

“Yeah, I did.”

Shit.

“Did I do the wrong thing?”

“It doesn't matter. They were going to find out sooner or later.” But I wish it were me who told them first.

sixty-nine

I cleaned, scrubbed, polished,
and hand-washed a pile of clothes that lay in a dirty heap in the spare bedroom, the standard woman's response to emotional turmoil. I lumped together the kitchen gadgetry and boxed it all up, stacking the cardboard containers side-by-side on the work surfaces. I changed sheets, moved round furniture, and tried to watch television. A police procedural flashed onto the screen—art imitating life. I switched it off, returned Molly's call, and got caught up in a three-way conversation, Simon perched in the study, Molly in the kitchen. Once the condolences were offered, I found myself on the end of an interrogation. Yes, the cops had paid a visit, asked lots of questions, the place had been searched, and I'd given a statement.

“Do they know about the stalker?” Simon said.

“It's irrelevant to the enquiry.”

“Did they say that?” I couldn't tell whether he was surprised, or something else.

“They acted it.”

“You know you're a bloody fool to go after Stannard.”

“Simon!” Molly burst in.

“Well, it puts her in a helluva bad light.”

“
Her
is quite aware of that,” I said, crestfallen.

“Sorry, Kim,” Molly said. “I'll kick him for you.”

It was lovely talking to Molly. I missed the familiarity, the rough and tumble.

“So do the cops have any idea who did it?” Simon asked, relentless.

“Yes, me.”

“Absurd,” Molly snorted. “You're having us on.” There was a nervous feathery ring to her voice.

“I wish I was. I had the motive. I had the opportunity.”

“But you couldn't …” Molly's voice faded.

“In theory, she could,” Simon said, frank and businesslike.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said with a jittery laugh.

“I'm simply stating that the police are only doing their job. They have to explore every possibility, every avenue.”

“Even if they're peering down a
cul-de
-sac and I'm at the end of it?”

Simon didn't offer any reassurance. “Who do you think it is?”

“It could have been the woman he was having a fling with,” Molly said.

I suppressed a sharp intake of breath. The thought had already crossed my mind. Could it be?

“A long shot, maybe,” Molly continued. “But
cherchez le femme,
I say.”

Simon didn't say anything at all.

seventy

Carolla Dennison.

Was it possible?

I half slept, part of my brain tuned to the sound of a latch dropping, the sigh of door against carpet, the noise of footsteps on the creaky stair. A tawny owl had taken up residence outside across the creek, hooting a warning. Foxes screamed in rapture. At last, plunging into the sleep of the unconscious, I was disturbed by a loud rapping at the door.

I stumbled out of bed, grabbed a robe, and went downstairs. Making sure the chain was secure, I opened the door a crack. Fiona North stood on the step with a large bag of shopping in her hand.

Dispirited, I let her in. Fiona looked more corporate in a
cream-coloured
short-sleeved
shirt and matching skirt. Her legs were shapely, smooth, and lightly tanned. The sandals looked Italian, not too high. Nice. I wondered anxiously whether the businesslike image came with a businesslike message.

“What time is it?” I asked, my words slurred with sleep.

“Time you were up.”

“Has something happened?” I was alert now, cued by the edge in Fiona's voice.

“Darke wants to see you.”

“Here?”

Fiona shook her head. Again, I ran through the pros and cons of having a lawyer. For a second time I ruled out the idea. In my head, appointing one made it seem as if I had something to hide, as if I were guilty.

“I'm not dressed or anything,” I protested. I hated anyone seeing me without my
make-up
on. It made me feel exposed and vulnerable.

“It's why I brought breakfast with me,” Fiona smiled, a checkmate expression on her face. She emptied the bag onto the kitchen table. Croissants, a pot of jam, butter, and a litre of fresh grapefruit juice spilled out. “You go and shower. I'll warm these up.”

I took longer than I needed. Over croissants and coffee, Fiona mentioned her current boyfriend. I spotted it as a
warm-up
to find out about any of my previous relationships. Sure enough, the question was slipped into the conversation. Glad to be one step ahead, I gave Fiona a brief resume, mainly because any past serious liaisons were few. After a while it dawned on me where Fiona was going with it; she wanted to explore if my disfigurement was a bar to members of the opposite sex. Failing to elicit an enlightening response, Fiona came straight out with it.

“I noticed you have a scar on your neck. How did you get it?”

Not subtle enough. “A childhood accident. I'll go and give my teeth a clean.” I smiled, firmly concluding the conversation.

We arrived at the police station shortly before half past ten. This time I was asked to take a seat in a lobby. Fiona said she'd be back later and disappeared. An elderly lady with a marked stoop came in to make a complaint. A
middle-aged
man handed in a driving licence that he'd found in a gutter.

Darke entered. He flashed a smile that looked more like a grimace. He invited me to follow him. I was shown into an incident room. This time there were more people. Hatchet was already seated. A young police officer stood by the door. I sat down and drew my chair close to the table rather than sitting isolated away from them. I wanted to create an impression of full cooperation and civic responsibility.

Darke went through his usual routine, stating those present and the time. He turned to me with a strained smile, which I found faintly worrying.

“The
post-mortem
report suggests that Chris suffered extensive head injuries. The damage caused by something heavy, maybe a hammer.”

“God,” I burst out. “So the fire was definitely a
cover-up
, a means to destroy evidence?”

“It would seem so. We've been trying to establish timelines. We know that friends of yours, the Lidstones, had dinner with you on the Saturday evening you were last in Devon with Chris. We're also aware that Andy Johnson popped in to see you the following Sunday morning. We know Chris made the call to school at seven fifty a.m. on Monday.”

“Shortly after I left.”

“Yes,” Darke agreed. “After that the trail goes cold. We can only conclude that you were the last person to see him alive.”

Instantly, I realised its significance. “What about Carolla Dennison, the woman he left me for?”

“He didn't, Kim.” Darke's voice was marshmallow soft.

“What do you mean?” I sensed that they were holding something back.

“Carolla was already in the States.”

“In America?” I said stupidly.

“Carolla Dennison boarded a flight to New York on the Saturday,” Hatchet stated, loud and slow, as though I were deaf. “She travelled alone and was already in the air by the time you sat down for your main course.”

So Chris never left with her, I thought incomprehensibly.

“There was no ticket registered in Chris's name either,” Hatchet added.

“Then why the note?” I said in angry confusion. “Why the hell did he tell me he was leaving with her?”

“Maybe he changed his mind,” Darke suggested.

“Or was using her as an excuse,” Hatchet said.

“But the affair,” I said.

“Depends how you define it. Carolla firmly denies they ever had a serious relationship.”

“You've spoken to her?'

“We have.”

“Sexual equals serious, doesn't it?”

Neither police officer responded. “Sexual tension. Her best friend said so. Everyone said so,” I flared.

Darke exchanged glances with Hatchet. “Where's the evidence? People gossip. You know what the place is like.”

Before I could respond, Hatchet said, “Were you jealous?”

You bet. “Maybe you should be asking her that question.”

Darke frowned. “Would you like to explain?”

“Maybe Carolla was stalking me.”

The lines in Darke's brow deepened. I could tell he simply didn't buy it.

Words like worms slithered inside the frontal lobes inside my brain. I'd no idea how many minutes passed, or if they were seconds. I was asked if I was prepared to continue. I agreed, although I would have preferred to request an adjournment.

Darke started speaking again. “At the moment we've got the date Chris was last seen and heard, and the date he was found dead. We need to narrow the gap. I don't know if you're aware of this but when a body is left outside in the heat, especially in the kind of temperature we've been enjoying at the moment, the rate of decomposition is difficult to gauge. To try and pin down a time of death, we brought in a specialist, an entomologist.”

Insects,
I registered with a shudder.

Darke kept talking, his voice strangely melodious, perfectly pitched, and a cover for the horror of what he was describing. “Scientific deduction points to the fact that Chris was killed at least a week before his body was found.”

Was that it, I wondered, had they delivered their final blow or was more in the offing?

More.

Hatchet took up the story. “We've spoken to PCs Cunningham and Grant at the Gloucestershire constabulary.”

Believing this to be good, I nodded.

“They say that the person stalking you was never identified.”

“That's correct.”

“But you had an idea who it was. Did you believe it to be Carolla Dennison?”

I shifted position. This was getting worse. I wished I'd never mentioned Carolla. “I thought it was someone else, actually. It turned out I was wrong, a dreadful mistake.”

“We know that,” Hatchet said briskly.

Darke thrust him a warning look and picked up the thread. “When we were downloading your computer we found the note from Chris to you.”

“My computer? But Chris never used it.” I looked from one stern face to the other, tumbling to exactly what they were thinking.

“We also found something else,” Darke said. “You remember the anonymous letter you received after your car was taken?”

I gripped the seat, anchoring myself, as if preparing for a tornado.

“We found that on your computer too.”

“But that's not possible. That would mean Chris was my stalker.”

“Or you wrote the letters yourself,” Hatchet said.

seventy-one

“That's plain ridiculous!”

“Which—Chris stalking, or you writing the letters?” Darke's voice was metallic.

“Both,” I said, with fury.

Hatchet pushed a sheet of paper towards me itemising the times and dates when the letters were written. I studied them, breaking into a thin smile, and pushed the sheet back.

“I can prove categorically that I was in Cheltenham. You can check with the Bayshill Clinic, check with the Lodge.”

“What are your technical skills like on a computer?” Hatchet said, unstinting.

“Not good enough for what you're suggesting.”

“Still doesn't rule Chris out,” Hatchet said doggedly.

“Yes, it does,” I insisted. I didn't know whether I felt relieved the spotlight had shifted from me, or not. “Psychologically it makes no sense.”

“A high proportion of stalkers are
ex-partners
.”

“The crucial word is
ex.
We were still together.”

Hatchet shrugged as if it made no difference. Darke opened his mouth to speak.

“Wait,” I said, brain electric. “The timeline.”

“What about it?”

“You say Chris died at least a week before he was found.”

“That's our working theory.”

“Then he couldn't have delivered a bucket of crap to my flat in Cheltenham. It was left
after
I had the note from Chris. Don't you see?” My heart roared with excitement.

“A bucket of crap?” Hatchet said, his eyebrows meeting in the middle.

“Flesh and faeces.”

“Flesh?” Hatchet's reaction was visceral. He paled, his disgust clear.

“Animal, not human,” I said pointedly.

“When was this?” Hatchet said, rallying.

“After I discovered Chris had bailed out.”

“Perhaps it was already there,” Hatchet said. “Perhaps he planted it.”

It was difficult not to eye him with disdain. “I think I'd have spotted it.”

“Because of decomposition, we only have an estimation of time of death,” Hatchet pounded back. “It's not absolutely certain.”

I glared at him. Hatchet's nasty tendency to
cherry-pick
bits of
so-called
evidence to suit his argument made it virtually impossible for me to counter his accusations.

“Did you report the incident?” Darke said.

I coloured up and confessed that I'd chucked the contents down the lavatory. They both looked at each other, the unspoken exchange revealing to me that they were dismissing it as an unlikely tale. Darke took hold of the reins of the conversation once more.

“As a psychologist you must be aware of the dynamics that govern relationships?”

“We all play games to a lesser or greater degree,” I said. “It doesn't necessarily mean we're dysfunctional.”

“But you'd concede that some guys can be controlling and manipulative.”

“So can some women.” I made direct eye contact to let Darke know that I had nothing to hide.

“What kind of a relationship did you have with Chris?”

“An equal one.” We both had emotional wreckage stuffed into our closets.

“Which one of you was more dominant?”

I locked eyes with his. “I've stated it was equal.”

Darke glanced away for a moment. “Your career is obviously important to you.”

“It is.”

“But you were prepared to jeopardise it.”

“No comment.” What the hell had they unearthed? Had Jim told them about Kirsten?

“Was Chris jealous of your work?”

Had there been an undercurrent? “No, absolutely not.”

“So he wasn't a jealous man?” Darke persevered.

“Not in the least.”

“Maybe he was plain bored,” Hatchet said, eyeing me with contempt.