Read Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense Online

Authors: Eve Seymour

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Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (36 page)

BOOK: Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense
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ninety-four

We arranged to meet
on neutral territory in a nearby park a week later. Stannard was waiting by the entrance. For the first time ever, I was not afraid to see him. “You fled pretty smartly.”

“To convince you my interest is based purely on your professional expertise,” he said with a sideways look, unexpected amusement in his eyes. I broke into a laugh and he laughed with me. It seemed to catch on the breeze and ripple through the trees. It made me think of Stannard's photograph, his head tipped back, no cares in the world. How I wished I could turn back the clock for both of us.

“Shall we walk?” he said.

We followed a tarmac path, past a wooden hut and a group of lads playing football on the grass.

“Your letter,” I began.

“I wanted to put the record straight about Kirsten,” Stannard said. “I wasn't kind to her. She was very young and I took advantage. Sure, I was a bastard, but I never raped her.”

“I know.”

“But all those things you said and believed …”

“I didn't know the truth then. I was hopelessly wrong and I'm sorry. Has your mother recovered from my visit? She was extremely upset.”

“She wouldn't want to recover even if she could,” Stannard said with dry humour.

We carried on walking.

“You wrote about being mugged and the resulting flashbacks.”

“That's where I'd hope you'd come in.” His voice quickened. “You see, I've started remembering. Not in detail, not yet at any rate. With your skill—”

“The point is,” I interrupted him, “there are certain things you should know.”

He turned, apprehensive, as if he feared I was going to give him the
brush-off
again. I quickly cast around. “Shall we find somewhere to sit down?”

We found a bench underneath a weeping willow that overlooked a pond. A family of water rats darted from the undergrowth and plopped
belly-first
into the water.

I told him about my visit to the Mathersons. Stannard listened, sat quite still, face bowed. When I finished he remained silent. I asked him what he was going to do.

“I don't know.”

I viewed him with surprise.

“It doesn't change anything for me, does it?”

“I'm afraid not.”

He gave a heavy sigh, weary, as if all his efforts had come to nothing. “Kirsten's brothers would need to be extradited.”

“Shouldn't you at least attempt to bring them to justice?”

Stannard looked out across the surface of the pool. “Justice, or revenge, Kim? They're exiled. The family's split apart …”

“They have their freedom.”

“Do they?” His half smile was serene yet bittersweet. He sat and stared into the middle distance. “I've wanted to get to the bottom of it for so long that I never thought beyond. I couldn't remember anything about the attack and that's the bit that was bugging me. I was desperate to unlock the key. I never considered how I might feel, all my energy consumed by the need to remember, to find out the truth. And now I do, it doesn't help.” Wretched, he turned towards me. There was genuine pain in his eyes. “Perhaps by letting it go,” he said, “by losing, it will make me a better human being.”

I reached out and rested my hand on his. A better person than me, I thought. “I really think you should reconsider.”

“You don't understand.” He smiled sadly. “The life I had was taken away from me. I don't deny I mourn its loss. It's been,” he said, his voice halting, “a
life-changing
and sobering experience. It made me realise exactly how much we're judged for the way we look. I still have days when I can barely face the world, when I feel eaten up with bitterness for my condition, when I want to spit in the face of fortune. But I'd be a liar if I didn't admit that I'd had a good run, better than most. I squandered and abused most of it. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll,” he said, glib. “Once, I had it all.”

Unexpectedly, my eyes filled with tears. He seemed so unbearably alone. I blinked them back.

“You didn't deserve what happened to you, Kyle.”

“You don't believe in divine retribution?”

“No, I don't.”

We sat, not talking, watching a water rat poke its head out from underneath a bush, scurry across the path, and join its brothers.

“When did you start remembering?” I said, breaking the silence.

“After I'd watched that TV programme you were on.” He flashed a smile. “You became my Holy Grail.”

“You thought I could put the pieces together.”

“In a way, you did.”

“Then you don't need me anymore.” It seemed that everyone was leaving.

We got up and walked back across the park. “What will happen to Kirsten?” Stannard said.

“I have a sneaking feeling that she'll be all right. She's approaching nineteen now. Her parents can't put her in a clinic unless they invoke the Mental Health Act. I reckon she's stronger than all of them put together. Now that the secret's out, there's every chance she'll feel more in control of her life.”

“She could make a full recovery?”

“I'd say so.”

“And what about you?”

I looked at him with surprise. This was the man who appeared not to give a damn about anyone, who threatened and bullied to get what he wanted, and then I remembered the words of the women who'd known and loved him. Flick had described him as charming. Kirsten had said he was funny and wonderful. “I'll survive. I'll be fine.” One day, I thought.

“I wanted to thank you for what you did,” he said. “You saved my life.”

“We saved each other.”

We were back by the entrance.

“When do you move into the flat?” I said.

He laughed. “What a crap bit of coincidence
that
was. It's on hold at the moment. I've a large project on the Evesham Road that's swallowing up most of my time.”

Good for you, Mrs. Foley, I thought with an inner smile.

“Are you going ahead with the sale of your cottage?”

What was I supposed to do? Chris was gone. Andy had tried to destroy me. I didn't know where I belonged anymore. “Why? Are you interested in buying?” I said with a laugh.

“Maybe we could meet up for a drink or something,” he said uncertainly.

I flashed a warm smile. In my heart I thought it unlikely. Not knowing what to do next, I held out my hand, uncertain and strangely formal, part of me unwilling to simply say
good-bye
and walk away. Stannard stole the moment. He bent down, tipped my chin up, and kissed me once full on the lips.


Good-bye
, Kim.”

“Bye.” I shivered and turned to go.

“Kim?”

I turned back. “Yes?”

“Don't be sad.”

ninety-five

I tried hard not
to be.

There was talk about Andy pressing charges for grievous bodily harm but in the end nothing came of it. Chadwick kept me informed of legal proceedings. Darke stayed in touch on the police side. So did Fiona North, who informed me that Andy's mother had undergone an operation to correct a cleft palate in childhood, the scar remaining. I took small comfort from the fact that, as Andy had led me to believe, I had not “got him started.” Somewhere, deep down, his mother held the key to his Pandora's box of obsession. Specialist teams had been dispatched to Wales to search an old quarry, another to waste ground in the Midlands. Traces of Gaynor Lassiter's DNA had been found in Andy's camper van. Inexplicably, he refused to confess where he'd disposed of her body.

With Fiona's help, I organised Chris's funeral. He was buried at the same church as my father and brother. I invited everyone, including Alexa Gray, who looked in better shape than me, Ivan Lassiter, and Josh Brodie. My friends welcomed me back into the fold
like a conquering hero. After that, and with my suspension lifted, I immersed myself in work. I gave Josh the interview he'd asked for. The cottage refused to sell and I spent no time there. I made few plans.

One cold late October day when the light was still and clear, I was walking through the Suffolks. A woman's voice called my name. I turned and saw Heather Foley on the other side of the road, frantically waving. She had a man with her, one arm linked through his. He was portly,
grey-haired
, and
clean-shaven
. I crossed over.

“What a treat to spot you! I had to let you know our little plan worked,” Heather beamed. Her skin shimmered. There was an incredible radiance about her so that I wondered what kind of surgery she'd had. “Mr. Stannard phoned me back within twenty minutes of my
make-your
-
mind-up
call and apologised unreservedly. His lawyers were apparently at fault. Oh, forgive me, this is Des Overton,” Heather said, introducing us. He had kind eyes, I thought, and an honest and open face. “We haven't seen each other in years and we're having a splendid time,” Heather chattered, giving his arm a tender squeeze, utterly loved up, it seemed. Des returned the compliment with a look of undiluted adoration.

“I'm glad,” I smiled.

Heather dropped her voice. “I didn't bother with the
face-lift
.”

“You don't need it, darling,” Des said.

You've got him instead, I thought. When you're loved and liberated, happiness makes us all beautiful. Heather Foley was living proof.

“Are things all right with you, dear?”

“Yes, they are.”

“No more problems?”

“None.”

“Well, lovely to see you,” Heather said, giving Des's arm a tug. “Cheerio.”

I stopped off at a café and watched the faces of passersby. I studied the young and the old, the couples and the singles, the beautiful and the not so beautiful, as if trying to unlock the secret of their success. Stannard talked of losing as if it were something positive, something he could learn from, something that held the potential to make him a better human being. I guessed it was the old maxim about a glass half full rather than half empty. He'd taken me by surprise. I thought him too bitter and twisted by what had happened to see any light in the darkness. It was humbling. Maybe I could learn from him. Perhaps, if I stopped looking backwards, if I carried on going through the motions—getting up in the morning, going to work, tidying the flat, cooking dinners, accepting invitations instead of turning them down, allowing my friends to help me, asking for support when I needed it and treasuring the friendship of others, male and female alike—if I stopped searching for love, then I'd find happiness. I didn't have to add loss upon loss. I was once beautiful to the man I loved. There was no reason why I couldn't be beautiful again.

© Kenneth James Photography

About the Author

Eve Seymour (England) has published articles in
Devon Today
magazine and had a number of her short stories broadcast on BBC Radio Devon. She has also written seven thrillers.
Beautiful Losers
is her Midnight Ink debut. You can visit her at eveseymour.co.uk and eveseymour.wordpress.com.

BOOK: Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense
3.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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