Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (30 page)

seventy-seven

I made another call.
It rang for an age. At last he answered. His voice sounded sleepy.

“Yeah?”

“Andy, it's me.”

A noise, like twanging bedsprings, echoed down the line. I mused on what I'd interrupted. “Sorry, is Jen with you?”

“Not anymore.”

I could almost hear him surface from postcoital unconsciousness. “I'll call back.”

“No, you're all right. What was it?”

“Carolla Dennison called me. Look, could we meet for a drink later?”

“We could, but I'm supposed to be seeing Jen.”

“Oh,” I said foolishly. “Never mind.”

“She can tag along. With the amount of time she spends in the Ladies, we could have the whole case wrapped up.”

“No, it's fine.”

“It's not fine. I'll put her off.”

“Don't do that.”

Andy was having none of it. “Shall I pick you up?”

“Probably better if I come under my own steam. Are you sure she won't mind?”

“'Course not.”

“Let's meet somewhere out of town,” I said.

“Suits me.”

“How about the Sloop—nine o' clock?”

“Great. See you then.”

I put down the receiver, went to get up, and stopped. I'd left the front door open to the large porch. I swore a shadow moved across the entrance. Fool, I cursed under my breath. After my walk I'd failed to take the most basic of precautions and now someone was inside the cottage. Someone uninvited. If it were a friend, they'd surely call out, but there was no sound other than someone moving about. I raced into the sitting room and grabbed the poker. The shadow moved.

Flattened against the wall, banking on the element of surprise, I listened and heard whoever it was quite clearly now. Footsteps and small shallow gasps punctuated the air. Mine. This was the someone who'd followed me, the someone who …

The door flew open. I lunged. Thrown face down upon the carpet, skidding across the pile, my cheeks burnt with friction, the poker tumbled from my grasp. Gripped by one wrist, I let out a terrific scream and lashed out. A hand released me almost immediately and I struck out hard with a fist.

“It's me. It's me, Simon,” he said, grabbing both my hands, pinning me down.

“Let go,” I struggled. “Get off me, you fucker.”

His arms fell to his sides. He shot back on his haunches and scrabbled to his feet. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Are you crazy?” I rolled onto my knees and, one hand flat on the floor, pushed upright. “What are you doing here?” I tried to blot out the intense pain in my arm, my stinging face. I didn't want to put a foot wrong. It seemed that this bloke, my friend, an
ex-soldier
, could quite easily kill me.

“I came to make sure you're all right.”

I gawped, bewildered. Like you instructed Charlie, I thought.

Simon suddenly paled. “Jesus, you think I came to hurt you.”

“You gave a damn fine impression.”

He spread his hands, brow furrowed, a hurt expression in his eyes. “Kim, surely you can't think that of me?”

Yep, I could. Whether or not I was right was another matter. Lately, anything was on the cards. “Like a drink?” Nice and easy.

“Good thinking.” He scoped the room in a professional manner.

I made a play of going through the motions, finding the bottle, locating the corkscrew, popping the cork at the same time as pinpointing my mobile phone. I also slipped out one of the new knives from the kitchen block, and slid it under a magazine, in case. Sly.

I handed Simon a glass and watched his eyes. This is an old friend, I reminded myself, taking a long swallow.
Someone close.

“So you're all right then?” He eyed me over the rim of his glass. I didn't care for it.

“Yes.”

“You haven't been harassed?”

“Do the police count?” I said, making a weak attempt at humour.

“That bad?”

“I've got nothing to measure it by. At least I've found a decent lawyer.”

“Sounds like a contradiction.”

I smiled clumsily and snatched at my drink. “Simon,” I said, treading with caution, “you did rather overreact.”

His eyes connected with mine. “Instinct. It's what I'm trained to do. I see someone coming at me with a knife …”

“A poker,” I corrected him.

He flashed a brilliant smile. “And off I go. Is your arm okay?”

“Badly bruised. It isn't broken, or anything.” I tried to reciprocate his smile. It probably came out as a grimace.

“Sorry.” He tugged at his drink.

“Is something wrong?”

Another smile. “Astute as always.”

Something fragile ripped inside me. I inched closer to the magazine.

“Things aren't working out, Kim.” His expression was straight and direct.

“No?” I measured the distance between me and my means of
self-defence
.

“Since leaving the regiment, my life seems to have lost all meaning. I know this sounds awful but your bit of bother, well, it's about the first time for a while I've actually felt alive.”

“And how does murder score on the excitement scale?”

He visibly cowered and hung his head in shame. “I'm really sorry, Kim, crass of me.”

Hot air escaped through my nostrils. My life has been turned
upside-down
. He finds it a
turn-on
. Terrific. I did my best to haul the conversation back on track.

“I thought you were doing fine. You seemed happy enough last time we spoke. Job going well …”

“Do I
look
like an estate agent?”

“No, no, not really,” I said, surprised by the sudden burst of aggression.

“Sorry.” He ran a hand over his stubbly chin. “Shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I didn't mean to be short, not with you of all people, not after everything you've been through.”

Is this him? Is this the real Simon or the one I don't know?

“Truth is I feel like a fish out of water. Doesn't matter what kind of a job I do in Civvy Street, it doesn't give me the same buzz.”

“It's bound to take time.”

He looked lost. “I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Not really.”

“Couldn't you get a job in security or protection, or something? There must be openings for someone with your expertise. Why don't you join the Territorials?”

“I'd love to, but it's not what Molly wants.”

“Have you discussed it with her?”

“There's nothing to discuss. Molly wants me in a safe job where my life's not on the line. She's never been more pleased than the day I came home for good. She'd feel so disappointed if she thought I was unhappy. The trouble is I'm addicted to chasing danger.”

First he attacks me, then he apologises. Now he seems suspicious as hell. “Does Molly know you're here?” I tried to make it sound casual, as if it were no big deal, either way.

“Sure.”

“Shouldn't we give her a call?”

“Go ahead.”

I crossed the floor and picked up the kitchen phone. If Simon had another agenda, he wouldn't be keen on me contacting his wife. Molly answered after two rings. “Is my lovely husband with you yet?”

“He is.” I kept my eyes firmly on Simon.

“Are you all right, Kim?”

I am now. “I guess so.”

“We're worried about you, honey. Simon thought you were such a freaking nutcase going after Stannard. He's concerned he might come looking for you—you obviously bring out my hubbie's protective instinct,” Molly said, clearly finding it endearing.

“Sweet,” I said with a fixed grin.

“You know Simon,” Molly said proudly, “he can't resist the lure of danger. I sometimes think he misses the old days. Shall I have a quick word with the lord and master?”

I gratefully passed the phone over.

“Hello, sweetie,” Simon said.

I retrieved my mobile, pretended to check a call, and punched the emergency number into contacts as a standby. Simon continued to chat with his wife and I watched and listened and, minutes later, ached inside. I didn't enjoy suspecting my closest friends.

After a couple of minutes Simon put down the phone and broke into a cheeky grin. “She says I mustn't lecture you.”

“Good for Molly. Have you eaten?”

“No, and I'm starving.”

While I cooked, Simon offered to check the security. “It's actually rather good,” he pronounced. “Water one side, good solid door on the other, and the locks are quite sturdy. The only problem you've got is that you're quite cut off should he manage to get in.”

We ate omelettes filled with bacon, mushrooms, and cheese, and a side salad of freshly picked sorrel and tomatoes. We talked about the old days, Simon's chequered career path, and his hopes for the future. One hour lapsed into another. I began to relax.

“Don't you have any sort of counselling or advice before you come out of the forces?” I said.

He gave a dull laugh. “The nearest you get to psychology is eight pints of lager followed by whisky chasers. Supper was lovely, by the way,” he said appreciatively. He stretched in a way that was faintly reminiscent of Chris.

“Coffee?”

“Please. Then I ought to be heading back. Is that your motor outside?”

“The Celica?”

“Nice heap of metal.”

“Yes …” I stopped, mind scrabbling for a mental foothold. I'd heard the phrase before. No, not heard,
seen
. “What did you say?”

“Your car. It's nice. We only ever see you on foot in Cheltenham.”

“That's not what you said.”

“Didn't I?”

“You called it a nice heap of metal.”

“I'm a
petrol-head
, remember?” Then he broke into a sudden, intoxicating smile. He put his hand on my bare arm. The palm felt warm, moist and greasy at the same time. I prickled with alarm. “You look like someone's walked over your grave.”

“I …”

“It's okay, Kim, you don't have to explain. Not to me.”

He left forty minutes later. “Don't waste energy worrying about me, will you?” he called, craning his head out of the car window as I hovered on the porch. “I'll figure it out. Maybe I'll take up flying, or extreme sports, or something.”

I
double-locked
the door, the smell of burning rubber all that was left of his Audi TT as it vanished from sight. Double shit—I'd forgotten all about Andy and it was now after midnight.

seventy-eight

I couldn't sleep, and
it wasn't the compressed heat, creaking doors, or the hooting owl. I got up, made tea, and took it upstairs. Creeping back into bed, I closed my eyes and lay ramrod still. My mind refused to shut up: Simon, heap of metal, stalker.

At some stage, I fell asleep.

The next morning I phoned Andy first thing but there was no reply. Feeling bad, I decided to brave the gossips and go into town. On my way out, the phone rang. The messaging service kicked in. It was Fiona North. I kept on walking.

Parking in the lower car park, I walked across the pedestrian crossing and past the newsagents and bumped straight into a now definitely
pregnant-looking
Claire. For once, she had no children with her.

“Hiya,” I said, grotesquely upbeat.

Claire smiled an awkward greeting. Her eyes glanced away as if she had something of more pressing importance. “I came in for a doctor's appointment,” she explained. “Thought I'd do some shopping.”

“Have you time for a coffee?”

Claire made a play of looking at her watch. I spotted the excuse already formulating on her lips. In desperation, I dropped all pretence.

“Please, Claire. I need a friend.”

Our eyes levelled. Claire's expression lightened into one of sympathy. “All right, but I really mustn't stay long.”

We went to an upstairs café with views over the town and sat at a corner table with a surface sticky with spilt drink, cake crumbs, leftover cups and plates. A waitress cleared away the debris and I ordered an espresso. Claire asked for herbal tea. When it arrived it looked like the contents of a goldfish bowl.

“I'm sorry I haven't been to see you,” I began hesitantly.

“S'okay, I understand.” Claire kept her eyes on the
pallid-looking
tea.

“Did Charlie mention our last meeting?”

Claire looked up, eyes flashing with rebuke. “Why do you always push people away who try to help you?”

“I shouldn't have bitten his head off,” I mumbled. “Bad habit. I'm sorry.”

“You threatened him.”

“Claire, I really didn't. I was frightened. He was in my home unannounced, for goodness sake. Oh my God.” I lowered my voice. “Is that what he told the police?”

Claire looked towards the door. I pressed the cup firmly to my lips. The coffee tasted bitter and stale.

“Everyone's talking about it,” Claire murmured. “They're saying …” Her voice faded.

“What are they saying?”

Claire shrugged and looked down. “I don't listen to gossip.”

“No smoke without fire, is that what you really think?”

Claire looked up. I wondered what she wasn't telling me and whom she was protecting.

I raced up the road to Andy's. Cutting through an alleyway near to the Nat West Bank, my phone trilled

“Did you get my message?” It was Fiona North.

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“Town.”

“That's handy. Did you come by car?”

No, I walked. It's only ten miles, after all, I thought with sarcasm. “Yes.”

“Can you meet me in half an hour? Bring the car.”

“Why?”

“We need to discuss things.”

Discuss what precisely? “Where?”

“At the police station.”

“Fine. I'll call my lawyer.” I cut the call and phoned Gavin on his mobile number, explaining the situation.

“Probably a new development,” he said with authority.

“She asked me to meet her in my car.”

“They want to search it.”

“Then they're wasting their time.”

Chadwick made no comment. “I'm in Totnes at the moment but I can drive straight over. Be with you in twenty minutes.”

I was certainly getting a royal service, I thought, as I knocked on Andy's door. With a sigh, I wondered how much it was costing.

Andy's face was without a trace of expression. He stood with his arms crossed, pissed off by the look of him.

“Sorry about last night,” I said. “Can I come in for a second?”

He opened the door wide. I stepped inside. Mess as usual. The only area that looked sane was the bit around the computer. The desk was tidy. Below, on the floor, were two piles of neatly stacked newspapers. I scanned the top copies, my eyes fixing on the headline blasting from the latest edition of the
Kingsbridge & Salcombe Gazette
:
Local Teacher Murdered.

“I should have phoned,” I said, wanting to go and pick it up and read it. Hang on, I thought, turning to him. “But then you didn't call me either.”

“I gave it until ten, figured you weren't coming, and called Jen. We had quite a good evening. So what happened?” His arms remained folded.

“Don't be mad at me.”

“I'm genuinely not.” He gurned and made me laugh with relief.

“It's rather complicated. The thing is I can't stop. I'm due at the cop shop. Look, how about dinner, my place this evening, by way of an apology. Bring Jen with you.”

He cracked a smile. His arms dropped to his side. “I can't do tonight.”

“Tomorrow?” If I hadn't been taken into custody, or whatever they did, by then.

“Cool. I'll let Jen know.”

“The truth is, Andy, I could do with you guys around.”

He looked concerned. “You haven't had any more trouble?”

“Not exactly, I'll explain tomorrow.”

“Shall we bring anything—wine, chocolates?”

“Either.” I'd been forgiven and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Hurtling back down Fore Street, I crossed the road, passed a pub, and stepped into the car park. The traffic was solid and it seemed to take forever to drive up the hill to the police station.

Fiona was waiting, along with Darke and a couple of other officers. They looked like a posse and, for a horrible moment, I feared I was under arrest.

I tipped up on the balls of my feet, furiously casting around the car park for Chadwick. There was no sign of him. Trying to look relaxed, I walked over and offered an easy smile.

Darke was courteous. “Thanks for coming in. This won't take long.”

“What won't?”

“Searching your car. DS North will run you back home later and collect you when we've finished with it.”

“Couldn't someone have told me rather than all this
cloak-and
-dagger stuff?”

It didn't amuse him. “There are other issues we want to discuss.”

“Issues?”

Darke looked evasive. “Things you should know.”

“But my lawyer isn't here yet.”

“We can wait.”

Then it really was serious, I thought. We waited for almost forty minutes. I handed over the keys and, in consternation, watched my car being loaded onto a
low-loader
. Fiona made small talk. Someone gave me a plastic cup of hot coffee that burnt my fingers and tasted vile.

Chadwick phoned. “My car's broken down—something to do with the alternator. I've got the tow guy with me now.”

“How long will you be?”

“Not entirely sure. What's the latest?”

“You were right. They've taken the car.”

“That it?”

“They've got new information.”

“No sign of the Super?”

“Haven't seen her.”

“Then I'd better speak to Darke.”

I called him over, explained, and handed him my phone. He took it. I could hear Chadwick's voice booming from the other end. Darke muttered an affirmative, turned on his heel, and walked off a little. Then he returned, a sheepish look on his face, and handed the phone back to me. Chadwick was still on the line.

“It's all good. Go and get some lunch. I'll be with you quick as I can.”

“Thank you.” I wasn't hungry.