Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (32 page)

eighty-two

Ten minutes later, I
was tearing along the A38, the bike opened up enough to set my jeans on fire.

Alexa was right. Ivan Lassiter had picked up the phone and, halfway through my staggered pitch, told me he had absolutely nothing to say and hung up. I got the impression that he was an exhausted man rather than a guilty one, which is why I decided to see if a personal,
face-to
-face plea would persuade him. Realistically, I was running out of options.

I arrived in Exeter around seven in the evening. Ivan Lassiter lived in a large
historic-looking
building close to the university where he now taught. I looked up at the vast expanse of red brick and arched windows, solid and dependable, and prayed that my journey had not been in vain.

Parking in the visitors' slot, I sneaked in as a young foreign student came out and found myself in a vast communal hall with high ceilings and echoey
wood-panelled
walls adorned with portraits of eminent individuals. A wide staircase ran up two sides of the building. It
reminded me of school. Armed with only a name and number,
I took the right set of stairs, travelled to the third and highest floor, and rapped on the front door of Lassiter's apartment.

The door opened and in the entrance stood a
serious-looking
man with tinted spectacles, thick sideburns, and thin lips. Around Chris's height, he carried less weight, as if he devoured books instead of food. His clothes were rumpled, his trousers a flappy size too big and his neck, rearing up from his shirt collar, reminded me of an ostrich. Everything about him revealed that he was a man who lived alone and wished he didn't. From somewhere deep inside the room, I heard a snatch of Vaughn Williams.

“
Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis
,” I smiled.

Perplexed, he blinked and inclined his head. “Should I know you? Your voice …”

Shamelessly, I turned my less attractive side towards him. “I called you earlier. I understand why you don't wish to talk to me, and I really don't want to rake up the past, but I'm desperate. Will you help me? Please.”

He stood
stock-still
. We both did. I couldn't read the expression behind the lenses. When he asked me to step inside I realised I'd been holding my breath.

We sat down in a sitting room with terrific views over the city.

“How far have you travelled?” he said, glancing at my crash helmet.

I told him.

“You must be thirsty. Can I get you a drink?”

“Water would be lovely, thank you.”

While he was gone I looked around me. Everything was grey—the sofa, chairs, carpet and walls, even the
granite-topped
coffee table. I wondered if it had always been so. Had everything lost its lustre and colour when his wife disappeared? My gaze fell onto a framed photograph on the window ledge. I got up, crossed the room, and picked it up. It was a shot of a younger and more rounded Ivan. The woman with him was laughing. They both were. A palm tree behind them suggested that it was a holiday snap. I studied her face. She had lovely
hazel-coloured
eyes, a neat nose, and a mass of dark brown hair, but this was not what caught my attention. Briefly, and with a jag to my heart, I wondered if I were dreaming.

“That's Gaynor,” Ivan said, handing me a glass. Sweetly, he'd added ice and a slice of fresh lime.

“She's very pretty,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “and a gifted musician.”

“Professional?”

“No, she worked in medical research.” He took the photograph from me and placed it back on the sill. “Happier times,” he said, the shine gone from his voice.

We both sat back down and I took a deep drink.

“I'm afraid I only half listened to what you told me on the phone,” Ivan said. “Do you mind running through it all again?”

I first explained my connection to Alexa then started back at the beginning. I told him about my stalker, about Chris, about the police and my fears.

When I finished he leant back into the sofa, clasped his fingers together, and touched his chin, thoughtful. For the first time here was someone who understood and who'd listened to my story without either cynicism or disbelief. “And you think there's a link between what's happened to you and Gaynor's disappearance?”

“It's a long shot, I know.”

“Then why did the police turn up at my door yesterday? You're aware I had a visit?”

“That's what tipped me off. You see, Alexa never mentioned that Gaynor had been stalked.”

Ivan flashed a smile. “You know Alexa Gray well?”

“We went to school together.”

“How do you rate her?”

I paused, the complexities of Alexa's personality a diversion. “Well, she's a little highly strung …”

“Precisely. She really wasn't that close to Gaynor.”

“Oh, I see.” At least, I thought I did.

“She's the last person I'd mention stalking to.”

At least Alexa was telling the truth.

“What troubles me,” Ivan said, “is that the police mentioned it to you.”

“They had their reasons.” Although not the ones you might think, I thought.

“To be honest, I had a tough time convincing them myself.”

“That Gaynor was being stalked?”

He nodded. “Understandably, the police are
evidence-based
and not very adept at factoring random events into an investigation. So much of what happened to Gaynor could be explained away as fantasy or false memory or getting things muddled up. It didn't help that Gaynor wasn't keen to make a fuss and ditched anything that could have provided them with a lead. She thought if she ignored it, it would stop.”

A woman like me. “So they decided to withhold the information from the public?”

Ivan nodded.

“What form did the stalking take?”

“Her car was moved at work.” I did my best to keep my expression steady. “The phone would ring,” he continued. “If I picked up, the caller would hang up. If Gaynor picked up, he'd stay on the line. We did all the usual stuff, reported them as nuisance calls, tried to phone back but the calls were untraceable and the best the phone company could do was offer to change the number.”

“Did the police check out her phone records?”

“As part of the investigation, but they never managed to trace the caller.”

“Anything else?”

“She had gifts sent to her at work.”

“Cards, chocolates?”

Ivan nodded, twitched a smile. It seemed as if it was a relief for him, too, to talk to someone who'd experienced something of what his wife had suffered.

“And you never had a clue who it was?”

He pressed his hands to his face, tipping the spectacles up onto his head, and rubbed one eye. “No.” The glasses flicked back down. “The energy we expended trying to find out could have fuelled the grid for a month.”

“It turned your life upside down,” I murmured.

“You understand,” he said, his expression bleak.

“So what happened in the end?”

“She didn't come home.” He looked as mystified and hurt as he must have done at the time. “She went to work. We were supposed to be meeting for a drink and she never arrived.”

“I am very sorry.” Next, I needed to ask the
million-dollar
question. “Do you think the person stalking your wife abducted her?”

“I'm convinced of it.”

I fell into a respectful silence.

“We're into our second year. Deep down I know she's gone. But the only way I keep going is thinking she's alive, that we still have a life together. Does that make sense?”

I nodded sadly.

“That's why I couldn't cope with the press intrusion. Every time I had a knock at the door or a message shoved underneath it with invitations to sell my story, I knew we'd moved from missing wife to murder victim.”

“Is that why you moved?”

He nodded. “I still get the odd phone call, but with nothing like the same intensity.”

A light went on in my brain. “Did the local press in Bristol cover it?”

“
Bristol Evening News
. I even remember the guy's name, Josh Brodie. Why do you ask?”

“I'd like to talk to him.”

Anxiety etched Ivan's face. “Are you sure? Do you realise what you might unleash?”

Too late to worry about that. I smiled. “I'll take my chances. I don't suppose you happen to have his number?”

Reluctantly, Ivan agreed. “Give me a moment then.”

He disappeared and reappeared with a business card, which he handed me. I glanced at it, thanked him, and pocketed the card.

“One last thing, did Gaynor ever receive anything strange on her computer?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“I'm positive. It was mostly out of commission during that period. She had repeat problems with the hard drive, an absolute pain. The computer was constantly booked in for repair.”

“But the police did take a look at it?”

“I believe they did, yes.”

I couldn't think of anything else to say. “I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

I got up and Ivan walked me to the door. “Apologies for earlier. Will you let me know how you get on?” he said.

“I will.”

We both hovered awkwardly by the entrance, neither of us sure how to say
good-bye
. Impulsively, I stuck out my hand. “Thanks for relenting.”

Ivan's smile was ringed with sadness. “You reminded me of my wife. You struck a chord.”

eighty-three

I found a public
phone box and called Josh Brodie's mobile number. It rang and rang and I almost gave up, then a voice said “Yep,” and I pushed in some coins.

“Are you Josh Brodie?” I said.

“The one and same.” His raspy voice indicated a
twenty-a
-day habit. In the background I could hear the noise of glasses clinking, conversation at full throttle.

I explained who I was. “I've just spent the past hour with Ivan Lassiter. He—”

“Gaynor Lassiter's husband?”

“Yes.”

“Go on.”

“I've got information that might interest you.”

“Yeah?” The phone crackled. I assumed he was walking to somewhere quieter. “That's better,” he said.

“It would be best if we met.”

“Maybe,” he said, not sounding that committed. “Are you in Bristol?”

“Down the road, Exeter.”

“I don't have my diary on me.”

“What are you doing now?”

“I'm at an awards ceremony in town. Can't duck out, I'm afraid.”

I glanced at my watch. It was eight thirty. “I could be with you within the hour. How about afterwards?”

“That won't work for me. It could be an
all-nighter
.”

“Mr. Brodie, my boyfriend has been murdered. Gaynor Lassiter was being stalked and so am I. I think the same person who abducted her is out to get me.”

Noise on the phone told me that my time had run out. I scrabbled in my pocket and thrust another load of coins into the slot.

“Are you still there?” I felt perilously close to meltdown.

He didn't answer my question, but posed another. “I know this sounds strange, but have you got any marks on your face?”

“Will scars do?”

“Perfect,” he said. It was the same reason Ivan Lassiter had let me in his door. “Meet me at the Marriott on College Green as soon as you can. Ask for me at Reception. I'll brief them that I'm expecting you.”

eighty-four

I sped up the
stone steps to the hotel, a grand Victorian building, navigated my way past a group of smokers, and entered through a revolving door that opened out onto a wide foyer smelling of polish and fresh flowers. As I approached Reception, I heard a ripple of applause from deep within and, close by, the sound of a bar working at full belt. I gave my name, stated I was meeting Josh Brodie, and was asked to take a seat, which I did in an alcove by a window. Minutes later, a man I assumed to be Brodie strode towards me. His bowtie was undone James Bond style, and he had an eager look in his hangdog eyes. He was younger than I'd imagined, nearer forty than fifty. He had short dark hair spiked upright with gel. Incongruously, he wore trainers. Not a good look with a dinner suit.

I stood up to greet him. To my consternation, he crooked one finger under my chin to better examine my face, studying it as if it were a fine work of art. When I'd met with his approval, he invited me to sit down, which I did.

“Drink?” he said.

I shook my head. “I'm driving, but don't let me stop you.”

“No, I can wait.”

I cut straight to the chase. Josh was already halfway there with my story. All I had to do was fill in the detail. Like a true hack, he interrupted when he wasn't quite clear and went over a couple of things, like the computer image, presumably to verify exactly what it entailed. He also asked me about Stannard even though I'd discounted him.

“You've obviously followed the Bristol case,” I said finally. “What I need to know is whether there are any other similarities, something else I've missed, a seemingly minor detail—anything that connects me to Gaynor.”

He studied me for a moment, as if weighing something up, then took out a fresh pack of cigarettes and pulled off the wrapper.

“Mind if we go outside? I think better when I smoke.”

“Not a problem,” I said.

Fortunately, other smokers had left so it was just the two of us leaning over the spotlit stone balustrade. I waited patiently while Josh went through the ritual of lighting up. He took a deep drag and a thin stream of smoke puffed out into the night.

“Better,” he said, happy now. “How are the police dealing with it?'

I let out a giddy laugh. “They have me down for a murderer and believe I made up the stalking story to deflect the limelight.”

“I'm surprised they haven't banged you up.”

“It's only a matter of time.”

“Got a good lawyer?”

“I believe so.”

Josh took another drag. “What you have to remember is that the police hate linking cases, particularly if it involves another constabulary. It goes against their copperly DNA,” he added irreverently.

“I think I'd worked that out,” I said with a shaky laugh.

“They also won't make a connection between Gaynor Lassiter who disappears in Bristol, Chrissie Taylor who commits suicide in Holmes Chapel, Cheshire, Anita Finch in Birmingham and Melanie Simpson in Presteigne, Wales, both of whom vanished.”

My heartbeat didn't quicken. It pulsed at full tilt. “And were they stalked?”

“Can't confirm in the case of Melanie Simpson, although I think it likely.”

“And who was the first?”

“Chrissie.”

“And she screwed up the grand plan by killing herself,” I said thoughtfully.

“That's my guess.”

“How did she do it?”

“Pills. Died of a massive overdose.”

“When?”

“Eight years ago.”

Which means he's been improving his game for some time. “And what do you think bonds us together?” I knew, but I wanted Josh to spell it out.

“Every single victim had some kind of facial defect.”

The confirmation of what I most feared made me flush with heat then icy chill.

“Sick, huh?”

I nodded, rubbed the tops of my arms to stave off a shiver.

“Chrissie had badly scarred skin as a result of teenage acne,” Josh explained. “Anita had a
port-wine
stain on her right cheek; Melanie Simpson suffered from a rare skin condition. Gaynor …”

“A large birth mark.” I remembered the raised cluster of brownish marks on her face. Congenital nevi, at a guess.

Josh nodded. “And then there's …”

“Me,” I said. “Have you spoken to the police about your findings?”

“I gave up. Not enough evidence, apparently, and the families were not always supportive. Can't say as I blame them,” he said without rancour. “It must be torture.”

I was refreshingly surprised. I always thought journalists put the story ahead of sensitivities. “Are there any other similarities? You appeared to take an interest in the computer image.”

“In two cases, the girls had answered classified ads for computer recycling.”

“Which girls?”

“Chrissie and Melanie.”

And then there were Gaynor's computer repairs, I remembered. “What's your take on the perpetrator?”

“Someone who has the freedom to travel,” Josh said. “Could be a lorry driver, a sales representative, someone with plenty of time on his or her hands.”

I grimaced. “Her?”

“Statistically, it's more likely to be a male, I grant you. The victims are all female and disappearing folk is a masculine pursuit but, I don't know, it's such a weird one, maybe a woman is responsible. Women are more concerned with their appearance than men, aren't they?”

I lapsed into silence. Josh punctured my thoughts. “Would you let me interview you? We could strengthen your case.”

I was aghast. “I don't know. I haven't thought it through. It's not what I came here for.” Irritation crackled behind his eyes. As far as he was concerned, I was an exclusive and, now that I'd got what I came for, I flitted out of reach. Keen not to disappoint, I said, “Give me
twenty-four
hours to think about it.”

“Fair enough. What's your number?” I hesitated. The last thing I needed was a crime correspondent hounding me. “In case I think of anything else,” he said with a slack grin.

I relaxed, told him, and watched as he shambled back inside followed by a wispy trail of cigarette smoke.