Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (29 page)

seventy-five

I drove back in
the direction of Kingsbridge. It came down to behavioural psychology versus forensics. That's what I was up against.

It didn't matter that the stalking had stopped, and it didn't count that the stalking arena appeared to be in Cheltenham. That was only the playground in which the guy chose to amuse himself. Devon was the place he played hardball. He'd come. It was simply a question of when.

I parked the car in the bottom car park near Creeks End, a bar and café at the head of the estuary, and headed up Fore Street.

I should have felt at home, should have felt safe. This was my old stamping ground yet I was a stranger. Among the faces of tourists, of people I didn't know, many I did. Only a few came near. In the fruit and vegetable shop, close to the entrance to the Baptist Church, I was given a warm reception as always. Others outside crossed roads with paralysed expressions. Some watched. Some whispered. A few walked away. This wasn't paranoia; the air was thick with rumour. And I, not Chris, was at the centre of it.

Visibly irritated, her normally soft, flattering contours sharpened into lines, Fiona North was waiting by my car on my return.

“Where have you been? You can't take off without telling me. I've been trying to get hold of you.”

“Sorry, meeting with my brief,” I said, falling irresistibly into
cop-drama
jargon.

“You'd better give him another call,” Fiona said, grim. “Darke wants to see you. Now.”

I had visions of Chadwick stepping in every five minutes with either a cauterising remark or the immortal line, “My client is under no obligation to answer that question.” It didn't work like that.

There was no sign of Hatchet. Instead, they'd drafted in a
bottle-blond
female in a sharp suit and heels. “I'm Detective Superintendent Hayley Niven,” she said, shaking my hand. You didn't have to be a shrink to work out that the inquiry had stepped up a gear. I was glad I'd got Chadwick batting for me.

Niven ran through a rough summary of events as described by me on the morning I last saw Chris. I nodded my way through so comprehensively that I almost missed the trick question.

“So you didn't return for anything?” Niven said.

“No.”

Niven gave an easygoing smile. She had a large number of teeth crammed into a small mouth, an orthodontist's nightmare. “How did you feel about Chris breaking off the relationship?”

“As one would expect,” I replied evenly, “upset.”

“It must have been especially difficult believing that there was a third party involved.”

Here we go, I thought, a show of female solidarity to suss out whether my tears were for Chris or for myself. Aware of Darke and Niven looking at me, and the need to say something, I muttered in agreement.

“It would be natural for you to feel angry,” Niven said with false sympathy.

“I wasn't—not with Chris, at any rate.”

“But you
were
angry?” Niven leant forward a little. Her eyes were
cold-rolled
steel. I met her gaze, knowing that I was being given a
get-out
clause. I could write the script.
Perfectly normal to feel anger and betrayal in the circumstances. Quite understand how you lost your temper and lashed out.
Except, I didn't.

“I was deeply upset. There's a difference,” I said as evenly as I could.

Niven gave me an acid stare. “I see your cottage is on the market. Is that a recent decision?”

It would be easy enough to check with the estate agents. “As I already told DI Darke, yes.”

“Rather sudden, isn't it?”

“It's not unusual to make a hasty decision after a traumatic event.”

Niven raised an eyebrow. “Traumatic?”

“Divorce, bereavement, losing one's job can all be classed as
life-changing
events, as can the break up of a major relationship, with or without marriage.”

Niven smiled agreement, glanced down at her notes. “You've been married before, I see.”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“It didn't work out.”

“And did you wish to marry Chris?” Niven inclined her head in a grotesquely coquettish fashion.

“It was never discussed.”

“But was marriage something you …”

“I fail to see where this is leading,” Chadwick intervened, his voice piercing the air like an arrow in flight. “I would remind you that my client has already covered similar ground in an earlier interview.”

Niven fixed him with a
cold-blooded
look. “I'm merely suggesting—”

“That I was distraught enough to kill him,” I said with horrible calm.

“And were you?” Niven locked eyes with mine.

“I was not.”

Darke shuffled. Niven waited. Chadwick tapped a finger on the table. First round over.

“For the last couple of months”—Niven smiled, adopting a more solicitous tone—“you were under a great deal of pressure.”

I didn't say yes or no.

“Could you tell us about the period of time during which you allege you were stalked?”

“I've already given a detailed account to the police in Cheltenham.”

“We'd like to hear it again from you.”

I gave as full a picture as possible.

“When was the last time you were harassed?”

I appealed to Chadwick. “I've already been through this.”

“It will help clarify things for me,” Niven said with a cool smile, as if she was asking me to do her a favour. Chadwick conceded with a small wave of his hand.

“When someone left a bucket of crap in my flat.”

Niven remained unfazed,
stone-faced
. “Yet you failed to mention this particularly abhorrent incident to the police in Gloucestershire.” She looked down at her clipboard. “It says here that you received
a number of silent phone calls, a pornographic image was sent to a computer at work, and that your car was moved.”

“Yes.”

“Why no mention of the bucket? Seems a very odd thing to forget,” Niven said, looking up.

“I didn't forget. I wasn't sure of the response, that's all.”

Niven locked eyes again. I felt myself automatically colour up. “We have reason to believe that Chris was killed in another location, his body dumped later the same day at Sittaford Tor. Forensics suggest Chris was killed by several blows to the head,” she continued effortlessly. “He sustained no defence wounds and, from the trajectory of the injuries, the blows were delivered from behind.”

I felt Chadwick bristle beside me. I maintained eye contact with Niven. “By someone taller than me.”

“How do you know?”

I addressed Darke. “How tall are you?”

“Er …
six-two
?”

“Stand up.”

Darke looked at Niven, seeking permission. She let out a weary sigh and motioned for him to stand. I stood up behind him. Niven described the action for the benefit of the tape. I made a fist and reached up. “Even with a hammer in my hand, my blows would have fallen on top of your shoulders, or neck. To hit Chris, I'd have had to be standing on a box.” I sat back down.

Niven issued a smug smile. “Unless he was sitting or bending.”

“No doubt your lab team will be able to confirm,” Chadwick said. I did my best not to appear rattled.

“They already have,” Niven said. “He was bending over.”

Chadwick asked for a break. Stunned, I nodded, then, as if I'd snapped out of a hypnotist's trance, demanded, “Where?”

Niven flashed confusion.

“Where was he bending over?” I persisted.

“We thought you could answer that.”

“I'm afraid I can't.”

“Can't or won't?”

Anger balled in my stomach. I swallowed, did my utmost to control my voice and stop it from shaking. “You've done a search of the cottage. What did
you
find?” I looked from Niven to Darke, seconds grinding. The air crackled. I could hear Chadwick breathing fast in anticipation beside me.

Niven forced a thin smile. “We found nothing, Miss Slade. Nothing at all.”

seventy-six

Fiona offered to take
me back. I declined

Afterwards I stood with Chadwick. He looked pleased with himself, sly even, though I couldn't think why. As the hunted, it was me who'd made the running.

“Forensics is playing in your favour,” he said, with a self-
congratulatory smile. “They've got nothing on you, Kim. No bloodstains at the cottage. No DNA under the victim's fingernails.”

The victim? It's Chris, I wanted to cry. “They'll keep on trying,” I said with heavy resignation. “Like the argument on WMDs, it may prove impossible to obtain the evidence but, as far as they're concerned, it doesn't mean it's not there.” I wondered how long it would be before they commandeered my car. I asked Gavin.

“Does it worry you?” His look was penetrating.

“Of course not.”

He visibly relaxed. “To be honest, they can afford to take their time. Bloodstains are not easy to remove. Obviously, if you make any attempt to clean the inside of your car, or sell it, the police are going to pay you very serious attention.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I said, sober.

He inclined towards me in a confidential tone. “I gather there are other lines of enquiry.” Did he really know or was he making a presumption? “They certainly don't have anything near enough to charge you with,” he assured me.

I drove back to Cormorants Reach. It was hard to describe my feelings of relief. I couldn't bear the place I'd known as home to be a violent scene of death. It would have been a gross violation.

I ran back to the point in the conversation when Niven talked of third parties, meaning the other woman. In the drab light of the interview room, it seemed like a possible lead. Was there an outside chance that Chris played both Carolla Dennison and me for fools? Had there been
another
woman? An obscure thought flittered into my mind and flittered back out again. Deep down, I felt I was within reach of something, yet I couldn't quite catch hold of it.

The house phone was already ringing as I crossed the drive. Immediately on alert, I charged for the door, thrust the key in the lock, threw it open, and listened hard to the recorded message. On hearing Jim's voice, I snatched up the receiver. He ran through a standard
How are you bearing up and everyone sends their best
routine. Once that was over, he told me about the visit he'd received from the police.

“They're checking you out.”

I wondered what Jim had told them. “That's what they're supposed to do,” I said mildly.

“It would seem they have an agenda.”

“In their eyes, I had the motive and opportunity.”

I hoped he'd protest strongly. He didn't. He asked if they'd found the murder weapon.

“Not that I know of.”

“Let's hope they do,” he said. “It might put you in the clear.”

Might?
“Only if it has a big label attached to it saying this was not handled by Kim Slade.” Pathetically, I tried to sound funny. He gave a snort of mirth, which he quickly stifled.

“Jim, what's the news on Kirsten?”

“She's gone home. No lasting physical damage.” He lowered his voice. “You have enough to worry about without piling on any more. About coming back to work,” he said briskly.

“Yes?”

“Unfortunately, the press have got hold of the story and that's not good for the clients.”

“I'm sorry. I should have anticipated …”

“We, therefore, think it appropriate to suspend you.”

My world turned several shades darker. “For how long?”

“Can't say.”

I went for a walk to clear my head. Following the road to Mill Bay beach, I crossed the car park and meandered up a narrow, secluded track flanked by fields and woodland. The air smelt earthy, a hint of autumn in the summer sun. I tried very hard to be lost in the moment and enjoy my surroundings. I didn't want to speculate, to guess what Jim was really thinking, to fog my already overloaded brain with thoughts of hammers and motives and people.

From nowhere, I heard the definitive sound of a branch cracking behind me. I stopped walking and turned round, expecting to see a man with a dog, a couple hand in hand, a family returning, hot and sweaty and
bad-tempered
, from a day on the beach; but no one was there. I peered through the trees. “Who's there?” No reply.

I turned back and hurried on.

Had he come?

Was he here?

In Devon?

No longer a beautiful piece of scenery, the leafy track joined a farm trail. By the time I reached it, my muscles screamed, nerve endings on fire. Rather than cross and rejoin the woods, I took the wider and longer route out onto the road and passed through Rickham. That way, there were houses and more chance of being seen by a random driver or farmer ploughing a field.

Back inside the cottage, I searched the downstairs and upstairs rooms, took a shower, dressed, and poured a cold drink. It took mental strength to resist paranoia. Trees
did
make a noise, breeze or no breeze. Twigs snapped. Could have been a stoat or a fox. He would come all right, but not yet. The timing was off.

Cooler at the front of the house when the sun moved around, I opened the door and sat on the step, legs stretched out. When the phone rang, it didn't freak me. I refused to let it. I got up slowly and with determination and walked into the study.

“Hi, is that Kim Slade?” The voice was breathy, female, Trans-
Atlantic.

“It is.”

“This is Carolla Dennison.”

I reached for a chair and sat down with a thump. “I appreciate the call.”

“I shouldn't really be talking to you. It's not allowed,” Carolla rushed on. “But I wanted you to know how sorry I am.”

I prickled. For what exactly?

“When Jo told me I felt so bad.”

Did she realise that every time she opened her mouth, something rotten slid out?

“I, or rather we … oh dear, I don't know how to describe what happened.”

“What exactly are you trying to say?” I said, contained.

“Chris and me, it wasn't what you think.”

That's what Jo said, I recalled. Seemed like the pals were reading from the same script. “Look, Carolla, I don't know why you phoned.”
Spare me the bleeding heart routine
was what I really wanted to say. “I don't need protecting. I don't want my sensibilities respected. I simply want to know whether you're aware of anyone approaching Chris, anyone odd, anyone you noticed hanging around and he didn't.”

“No,” Carolla said. “Can't say I did.”

“Are you absolutely certain? Did he mention anything that was strange, an incident, something not quite right?”

She seemed to think about it. “No,” she said, finally. “He never mentioned anything like that.”

“Right,” I said, in a way guaranteed to finish the call.

“I thought you'd want to know the truth,” Carolla said.

“What truth?”

“About us, about our fling.”

I felt as if someone had shot me. I'll be all right, I told myself. A fling was nothing, sex without love, that's all. Happened all the time.

“We only slept with each other half a dozen times.”

Only?
“Why are you telling me this? What the fuck do you want—absolution?”

“I don't blame you for being angry. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was ruthless in trying to take him off you. I bombarded him with texts and messages, pretty much
stalked
the poor guy, even after he'd finished it.” Had I not been sitting down, my legs would have buckled. “And, yeah, he got tempted to run away, but in the end Chris broke it off.”

“And that's supposed to make me feel better?” I was rabid with rage and pain. “He broke off with me too, and it was your fault.”

“But he said he couldn't give you up,” Carolla said in astonishment.

My brain felt full of porridge. Nothing made sense. “Did he ever tell you that he was leaving me?”

“No way.”

“He never said he wanted to go away with you and start a new life?”

She hesitated. My heart creased with pain. “In the first flush of lust, sure he did,” she said. “Later, no.”

“And you told the police this?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ever talk about another woman?”

“Are you crazy? He adored you. And do you have any idea the kind of hours the guy worked?”

“So there was no room for anyone else in his life other than you and me?” I had to be absolutely certain.

“Only you.”