Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (35 page)

ninety

“I need the knife,”
I said, pushing away the boxes stacked on the work surface, clearing a space.

“'Course you do, but not that one,” Andy said, sliding it out of my reach. “Way too small. This sharp enough for you?” He picked another out of the block. I trembled as he ran it down between my breasts before handing it to me. “I prefer a wider blade myself,” he said, eyes panther black. “Try anything, I'll bash his head in.” He jerked his chin in the direction of Stannard. “I'm sure the police will be happy to believe you killed him.”

I cut the meat, sliced the peppers, minced a clove of garlic. I tossed olive oil into a frying pan,
stir-frying
the lot until the peppers were almost translucent and the meat cooked. I added wine and seasoning, brought it to the boil, reducing the liquid to a dark, glossy sauce. In another pan I boiled Basmati rice, adding a stick of cinnamon and a twist of nutmeg. I made a green salad and tossed it in vinaigrette. I'd prepared it all a hundred times before. I did it without thought, hands working automatically, independent of my mind. He'd be expecting scalding water, a knife, or boiling hot food. All it took was one act to inflict maximum damage.

With one chance to shock and annihilate, I flicked my eyes right and left and caught sight of a packing box next to the kettle, the top open. I wondered whether Andy had clocked it, whether it occurred to him that I had a
kill-and
-burn weapon right in front of me. I focused my entire concentration on finding the right moment, the exact time, and all the while Andy kept talking, prattling, liking what he said and saying what he liked, a monologue of
self-congratulation
.

“You got me started, Slade. Did you know that? 'Course I didn't realise it at the time, but then when Chrissie came into my life …”

“The girl in Holmes Chapel?”

“Yeah, it was all going so well. Had her wound up a treat, but then,” he said, face darkening, “she went and fucked things up for me by topping herself. Never got the chance to make her mine, stupid bitch.”

“And the others?” I didn't want to stop him, had to keep him engaged. Once the conversation ceased, the violence began.

His features dissolved into a warm, smug glow. “I'd perfected the art by then. Really got them dancing to my tune. By the time I closed in for the kill, they were glad. Did I ever tell you about my selection process, Slade?”

“No,” I said, trying to prevent my teeth from chattering, my hands from shaking, desperate to keep him relaxed.

“See, every man and his dog is in the computer repairs business, but I offered exceptional rates, ads everywhere up and down the country.” He took a slurp of lager. “Then when I had a female punter, I'd check them out on the Internet—easy and as quick as sending an email—all those social networking sites, all those
self-aggrandising
work portals.”

“That's where you saw them,” I said, tumbling to it.

“The amazing power of technology,” he grinned. “Everyone leaves a communication footprint. Anita had her face pasted on Twitter—brave girl. Mel and Gaynor …”

“On work sites,” I filled in, hardly able to form the words.

“Neat, huh?”

I laid the table under his precise instruction. Tablecloth, knife, fork, peppermill, saltcellar. Each arranged just so. I served the food on a large white plate, side salad separate. Andy drew up a chair. He seemed to have forgotten about Stannard altogether. When he demanded more lager I played servile, humiliated, under his thumb, and went to the fridge. I took out a can, set it on the table. Catching sight of Stannard, I caught the gleam in his good eye, the tightening of his jaw, the wriggling motion of one hand.

Andy pulled back the tab and drank straight from the can, wiping his mouth. “Sit down, bitch.”

“I'll stand,” I said, defiant, blocking his view.

“Suit yourself.” He ate, gobbling quickly, a dribble of sauce running down his chin. His eyes never left mine, watching every flex of muscle, every expression.

“You won't get away with it. The police know I'm here. I'm expecting an officer at any moment. One sign of trouble and they'll be all over the place.”

“We'll see, or rather I will. This is very good, by the way,” Andy said, jabbing at the air with a fork. He looked down fractionally to shovel up another mouthful. I shifted stance, twisting towards Stannard, and caught the expression, the almost imperceptible nod. I'd no idea what he was planning, but I recognised that he was asking me to trust him. The man I'd never been able to trust.

“More?” I said to Andy.

“Yeah, that would be good.” I went to turn. “Don't move.
I'll
get it,” he said, shooting out of the chair. “Don't want you flinging any saucepans at me.”

Stannard, freed, struck like a viper. The rope flew over and looped around Andy's neck. I grabbed a saucepan and clouted the side of Andy's head. It sounded like a hefty paperweight dropped onto a ceramic worktop. The impact reverberated up my arm. Blood trickling from his temple, Andy thrashed and bucked like a fish on a line. Stannard clung on. I grabbed the phone, hit
speed-dial
, got through to the police, and raised the alarm.

Incomprehensibly, in that short passage of time, Andy had seized the advantage, Stannard fast losing his grip against the bigger and stronger man. Dropping the phone, I leapt at Andy, but a vicious jab with an elbow spun me across the floor and into the wall. I gasped as pain shot through my side and nausea gripped my internal organs. Another jab into Stannard's already battered body turned the tables. As he collapsed, Andy followed up with a swift kick to Stannard's head and then his back, connecting with a kidney. The rope was now looped around Stannard's neck and Andy hauled it tight.

“Does it turn you on watching a man die?” he leered.

Stannard's face went very red, the eyes bulged, a rattling sound ejected from his throat.

I leapt up, grabbed the blowtorch, hit the ignition, and came at Andy. The
oh-so
-pale skin blistered, bubbled, and peeled away, melting before my eyes, his hands raw flesh. Andy's screams ricocheted off the kitchen walls; Stannard scrambled away from him, as though he, and not I, were the source of heat.

Coughing and retching, Stannard pushed himself to one knee and staggered to his feet. With one hand on his throat, the other reached out to me and dragged me away from what I'd done, from what I'd been forced to do.

ninety-one

Stunned and hollow, we
emerged from the cottage like fleeing refugees from a massacre, the pain I'd inflicted horrendous and beyond comprehension.

We kept moving up the steep, narrow road towards Holset, Stannard urging me on, hauling me forward until, exhausted, I felt my lungs would pack up. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance. Eventually, where the road bent and widened, he allowed me to stop. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

There were two police cars and two ambulances. Darke and Hatchet got out and ran towards us.

“Andy Johnson's in the cottage,” I panted, dazed. “He's burnt. I burnt him,” I said quietly. “I did it.”

“He tried to kill both of us,” Stannard rasped, his voice a protest.

Darke instructed Hatchet to go to the cottage along with one of the ambulances. “You need medical attention,” he told Stannard and immediately signalled for help.

“I'll be all right,” Stannard croaked. He looked at me with desperate eyes. Andy was right in one sense. Stannard
was
obsessive.

“Go and get checked out, at least,” I told him.

“Won't I have to make a statement?” Stannard muttered to Darke.

“We can take it later.”

Stannard looked at me as if unwilling to let me out of his sight.

“Go on,” I told him.

With reluctance, he consented. Two paramedics in green uniforms approached and helped Stannard into an ambulance.

Darke took a call from Hatchet. I watched his face stiffen. When he was done he said, “Kim Slade, I'm arresting you for attempted murder.”

We went to the police station. Chadwick was summoned. I told my side of the story, repeated everything Josh Brodie had told me, pointing out Andy's fixation with disfigurement, and handed the photograph to Darke. “Chris took the picture that very last weekend, the day before I was due back at work. Andy must have taken the camera when he cleared the rest of Chris's things. Chris didn't have a lot of belongings. Andy may have destroyed them but I bet some of the items are at his house as trophies. You also need to check his camper van. According to Brodie, a camper van was sighted close to two of the abductions.”

Darke took the photograph gingerly, holding the edge between thumb and forefinger. He looked but didn't say anything.

“When are you speaking to Andy Johnson?” Chadwick asked.

“As soon as he's fit enough to talk. The burns to his face and hands are pretty severe. He may lose the sight in one eye.”

I lowered my head, mortified. “What if he doesn't confess? What if
he
presses charges against
me
?”

“Let's wait and see,” Chadwick said.

“We're going to recheck his alibi,” Darke said. “We're carrying out a search at his house. If your hunch is correct, it'll provide the evidence we need.”

ninety-two

The wait was interminable.
Finally, Darke, Fiona North at his side, broke the news.

“We've got him,” he announced, triumphant. “It didn't look good to start with but, once we'd found his secret hideaway in the attic, it proved plain sailing.”

Fiona was totally animated as if it were the most exciting thing to happen to her in years. “An entire wall covered in photographs, a shrine to you and the other women, his fixation unmistakable.”

“They're all dead, aren't they?” I said, suddenly bleak.

Fiona looked to Darke. “It doesn't bode well,” he admitted.

I thought about Ivan Lassiter, how he'd no longer be able to cling to the hope that his wife was still out there, alive and wanting to come home. I felt unspeakably sad for him.

“There were pictures of where you worked, your flat in Cheltenham, people you visited,” Fiona said. “And there were snaps of Kyle Stannard.”

“The real clincher came when we found Chris's belongings, including a bloodstained jacket,” Darke explained.

“What about the murder weapon?” I said.

“Not exactly the sort of thing we'd expect him to hang onto, but we'll keep looking.”

“And Kyle? How's he doing?”

“Discharged himself, gave a statement to the Boss, and went back home.”

“He's gone?” I said, perplexed.

Fiona rummaged in a large brown leather handbag and handed over an envelope. “He said to give you this.”

I'd screened my post for so long my first reaction was
Don't open it
.

“Aren't you going to read it?” Fiona said, expectant.

“Later.”

ninety-three

Secrets and guilt.

Kyle hadn't deserved his fate. He hadn't deserved to be plagued by flashbacks and nightmares and a face that repelled. I reread and folded up the letter again, slipping it into my jacket pocket.

Three days later, I was standing outside the Mathersons' home, a modern house that lay deep in the Welsh countryside. Set back from a winding road, it looked as if every brick, piece of gravel, and blade of grass was arranged for a purpose.

Frank Matherson opened the door. Instantly recognising me, his eyes turned to slits. “Why the hell are you here?”

“To talk,” I said, calmly taking a step forward.

“You've got to be joking. Have you any idea of the damage you've done?”

“What about the damage
you
did?”

Frank Matherson blinked twice. He looked as if someone had fired at him with a stun gun. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“No, you don't, which is why you're going to let me in so I can tell you.” Other men would have slammed the door in my face. Something in my determined manner got to him. He shrank back and stood aside. I marched in and turned left only because the door happened to be open. I found myself in a
sterile-looking
sitting room. Cushions plumped. No dust on the furniture. No marks on the carpet. No sign of homely clutter. The only sound was the low hum of anxiety and a mind on full load.

“Marie and Kirsten are out.” His eyes darted. In spite of his earlier bravado, he looked pathetic and afraid.

I didn't tell him that I already knew, that I'd watched and waited,
stalker-style
. “May I sit down?”

“I suppose so.”

Matherson sat down, too, or rather perched.

I eyeballed him. “I want
you
to talk about when Kirsten worked for Visage.”

He rested his big hands on his thick thighs as if to anchor them. “Do you have children, Miss Slade?”

“No, I don't.”

“Then you wouldn't understand.”

“I understand a father's grief.”

He met my eye and lowered his gaze. I think a part of him felt relief. His voice was husky when he spoke. “Kirsten was always special to me. She's my only daughter. My sons, Robert and Stephen, Kirsten's brothers, are fine young men, but it's a different type of relationship.

“I never wanted Kirsten to go into modelling. I hated the idea but Marie thought it too good an opportunity to miss. I suppose there was a bit of her that felt she'd liked to have been given the same opportunity.” He glanced at the floor. “Kirsten was striking, a
beautiful-looking
girl. Still is, to me,” he added, the fight gone from his voice. “It was all right in the beginning. I thought as long as Kirsten was enjoying it and it wasn't interfering with her school work it couldn't do any harm, might even give her some experience. I was right there,” he said mournfully.

“Kyle Stannard,” I said.

Frank Matherson's dark dolorous eyes fixed on me. “He raped my daughter.”

“And you couldn't forgive him.”

He gaped at me in disbelief. “Tell me a father who would.”

“What if I was to tell you that he didn't rape her?”

“That's not true.”

“But what if he didn't? What if it was a lie?”

“You've seen what's happened to Kirsten,” Matherson said, unyielding. “The rape changed her. She became anorexic. Stannard did that to her. He almost killed her.”

“If the rape was significant, why didn't you tell her GP when she first started to lose weight? Why didn't you inform Jim Copplestone? Why conceal it?”

Matherson stiffened. “Because we took care of it.”

“
We?
”

“
I
took care of it.”

“No, you didn't. You make a lot of noise, but at heart you're a coward. It's why you asked Robert and Stephen to administer the beating.”

Matherson pitched forward, rubbed his face with his hands. When he looked at me his eyes told me that he knew the game was up.

“It wasn't hard, was it?” I said, biting back my anger. “They felt as aggrieved as you. All you had to do was encourage them, pump them up. You made it look like a mugging that had gone wrong. It was easy because you knew Stannard, being the arrogant sod he was, would fight back. Maybe you were there to make sure they didn't go too far in their punishment. You didn't want Stannard dead. You wanted him maimed. You wanted to crush his spirit. Afterwards you arranged for the boys to go to Australia.”

He didn't answer. His hands kneaded the fabric of his trousers, coarse knuckles shining.

“Your daughter became sick because she buried a secret, a secret she and her mother have concealed for years.”

He looked at me sharply. “I don't understand what you're saying.”

“The rape was a story made up to discredit Stannard.” I let the thought hang and hook into his mind.

“Made up by whom?” His jaw jacked open. Spittle crouched in the corner of his mouth.

“Your wife.”

Matherson broke into an ugly smile. “That's a disgusting thing to say. Marie spent hours with Kirsten, slept in her room for months. She comforted her as only a mother can.”

“Did you ever speak to Kirsten?”

“It wasn't my place.”

“Why do you think Kirsten dropped the charges?”

“Because she couldn't face the ordeal of the witness box.”

“Because she knew it was a lie. She fell in love, Mr. Matherson. Yes, Stannard treated her the same way he treated all his women but he didn't rape her,” I said. “When he finished the relationship—a relationship your wife had encouraged from the start—Kirsten felt hurt and rejected and angry. It was easy for Marie to manipulate her. But your daughter is a fine young woman. She has a conscience. She knew that what she was being asked to do by her mother was wrong.”

Matherson put his hands to his face. “No,” he said wretchedly. “Marie's a good woman. She wouldn't make up a story like that. She wouldn't lie to me. Not for all this time.”

“She
had
to. You took the law into your own hands. You set your two sons on Stannard. If Marie told you the truth, you'd know that your sons had disfigured an innocent man.”

His face caved in with dismay.

“And Kirsten's had to bear the guilt of that ever since,” I finished quietly.

“Can't be,” he said in a frail and frightened voice.

There was a movement by the door. Kirsten stood in the entrance, her face wan, her eyes blazing with conviction. “It's true, Dad. She's telling the truth.”