Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (4 page)

six

The desperation in Alexa's
voice was plain to hear.

“He was my rock, Kim, what am I going to do without him?”

Survive, I thought. That's what we all do. “You'll find a way,” I said. “I know it looks bleak at the moment, but you'll come through this.”

“Will I?”

“I promise. Take it one step at a time.”

“It's just that—” Alexa broke off and broke down. My heart swelled.
I knew exactly what she was thinking and where we were going. I waited until her tears subsided enough for me to be heard.

“When bad things happen to us,” I began softly, “we tend to think about and dwell on other unhappy events. Sometimes it's difficult to separate them out.”

“I know you're right,” she gulped.

“But what happened to your friend has nothing to do with Brooks wanting to divorce you.”

“First Gaynor,” Alexa cried, “and now this.”

“It's incredibly tough on you.”

“And Brooks was wonderful when …” Her voice trailed off again.

“I know.” I thought about Alexa's missing friend. How can a woman simply disappear?

Another torrent of tears followed. I fell silent and let her cry. When she finally calmed down I said, “What's your folks' reaction?”

“My dad wants to kill him. My mother's more concerned about how I'm going to survive financially. She really liked Brooks.” She added bitterly, “She thinks it's all my fault.”

“Surely not?”

Alexa gave a dry laugh. “My mother thought he was a good catch.”

“Look, I've got some holiday coming up …”

“No, you've got your own life, Kim.”

“Don't be soft. It's fine. I'll come and see you as soon as I'm free. In the meantime, be kind to yourself, and remember what I said, find yourself a decent lawyer.”

I returned to the bedroom. Chris looked up, hurriedly switched off his mobile, and put it on the bedside table.

“A
late-night
call?” I climbed wearily back into bed.

“A text from a supply teacher.”

“On a Friday night? Must be conscientious.”

He flicked a dismissive smile. “Nothing important. So what did Alexa want?”

I snuggled up to Chris and gave him edited highlights.

“You can't get involved,” he said.

“Too late for that.”

“You hardly know her.”

“C'mon, Chris, that's not quite true.”

“If you hadn't allowed yourself to be bullied into a school reunion at that vile institution your father sent you to, your paths would never have crossed.”

Chris was right. Secretly, I'd agreed to go because I thought it would bring about some kind of closure for me. It hadn't, but Alexa and I had stayed in touch. Twice we'd hooked up as a foursome for dinner, me and Chris and Alexa and Brooks. Neither occasion had been a success. The first time I'd ended up rabbiting with Alexa about our miserable school days. Brooks, a hedge fund manager, had been more involved with a conversation on his mobile phone than a conversation with Chris. The second time was a disaster.

“I can't turn my back on her,” I said evenly.

Chris let out a sigh.

“What?” I said, drawing apart from him a little.

“You don't have to pick up every waif and stray.”

“I don't.” I flinched at the defensive note in my voice.

Responding to it, Chris suddenly smiled. “I'm not having a go at you.”

“Good,” I said, softening.

“It's what makes you quite adorable.”

“Keep going,” I laughed, tucking myself in under his shoulder again, resting my head against his warm naked chest.

“Quite honestly, I'm not that surprised Brooks has decided to head for the hills,” Chris said.

“No?”

“You have to admit Alexa is one hell of a
high-maintenance
woman.”

“Highly strung, perhaps, but she's had a rough few years.”

“Don't remind me,” Chris said. “That last dinner we had with them was a bloody nightmare.”

I remembered. Alexa had got drunk and treated us to a full misery memoir. It hadn't felt like dinner, more like a heavy session in the consulting room.

Chris was still talking. “She's needy and
self-obsessed
. Take that business with her friend.”

“What of it?”

“Has it ever occurred to you that Alexa could be making the whole thing up?”

“You can't exactly fake someone's disappearance. The woman's been missing for over a year.”

“You can if they never existed in the first place.”

I drew away. “She's not a fantasist, Chris. She talked to the police as part of their investigation. Even Brooks confirmed it.”

“Okay,” Chris conceded, “but she didn't have to lay it on quite so thick. It wasn't as if the police had her down for a suspect. The missing woman wasn't even a close friend. Honestly, Kim, I don't think I've ever met such a drama queen and now she's clinging on to you like a drowning man to flotsam.”

“Me, flotsam?” I grinned, trying to lighten the moment.

“I'm serious, Kim. It's positively spooky. She's practically stalking you.”

I froze, stayed absolutely still, as if an imaginary line had been crossed. Was it simply an unfortunate arrangement of words, or was Chris inferring that Alexa posed a personal threat to me? His arms felt hard as concrete. Chris was first to break the silence.

“I didn't mean …”

“I know you didn't.”

“Any more calls?” He seemed deliberately casual. I glanced up, sensing where the conversation was heading and feeling powerless to prevent it.

“No.”

Underneath me, the muscles in his stomach relaxed.

“Chris,” I said, running an index finger across his chest. “There have been a couple of developments.”

seven

I expected a spate
of interruptions, a list of questions, noise. I'd have put money on Chris exploding in anger.

“It's probably harmless. Someone having a laugh.” Even to my ears, my voice sounded thin and unconvincing. In spite of what I knew, I didn't want Chris to believe that I was at risk. “There haven't been any threats,” I pointed out, catching the too enthusiastic note in my voice.

Chris's continued silence zapped my confidence.

“Okay,” I backed down, “the mirror
was
a bit cranky.”

“And the rat?”

“Unconnected, I'm sure of it. Okay, okay,” I said, caving in under Chris's stare. “A prank in bad taste.” I willed us both to believe it.

He finally fell asleep with his back facing me. I wrapped my arms around him, hoping that he didn't fall into the twilight zone of waking nightmares. Sometime in the early hours I found myself on my stomach, Chris lying on his back awake beside me, gazing up at the play of moonlight on the ceiling. I wondered whether he was thinking back to the childhood he never had, the home he never slept in, the mother and father significant only for their absence in his life. Sometimes he came across as detached. Not cold exactly, but as if he wished to keep himself
boxed-in
from the outside world. It wasn't that unusual. Often people fled to Devon to escape from something. Recently, when he was unaware of me watching him, I'd noticed a haunted look in his expression. Oddly enough, I'd caught it again that evening, when I'd returned from talking to Alexa and he'd put his phone away.

I jacked myself up on one elbow and kissed the corner of his mouth, running my fingers down his flanks, his body weakening as he rolled over on top of me. Whenever I couldn't touch him in other ways, I could always reach him with intimacy.

The next morning I woke feeling good, so good that when “Gimme Shelter” blazed onto the radio as I made early morning tea, I couldn't stop myself from dancing.

“Look at you, Slade,” Chris said, shambling into the kitchen, hair sticking up. “What a mover.”

I grabbed him by the hand and together we laughed and flailed around, hips twisting, me
lip-synching
until the track stopped.

“I love the fact you aren't what you seem,” he said, as I poured boiling water into two mugs and over a couple of tea bags.

“Who is?” I said.

Later, we decided to have brunch in Salcombe. The sun floated high above, its rays squinting through the trees as we followed the coastal road from Goodshelter creek to the palatial homes that studded the hillside at Mill Bay. A strong smell of seaweed scented the air.
Heat-haze
settled on the land above the water. There was no breeze though the familiar noise of clanking halyards filled the creek.

By the time we reached where the road split, the top route leading back up towards Holset and Gara Rock, Chris was talking about getting a new car.

“I fancy something more sporty.”

“Anything in mind?”

“Alfa Romeo.”

“Which one?”

“Something that more than keeps up with yours—the Brera.”

“Sports coupe,” I smiled appreciatively. “Colour?”

Chris burst out laughing.

“Colour's important,” I teased. “At least I showed some interest in the model.”

“Black.”

“A nightmare to keep clean.”

“But very sexy.” He gave my arm a delicious squeeze.

We took the narrow lower route to the ferry and could hardly move for people and boats with trailers and yapping dogs. Women with deep tans, discreet tattoos, and expensive hairstyles talked in superior accents and brandished their
designer-clad
children as though they were Olympic medals. Men brayed into mobile phones. Adolescent girls and boys walked four abreast, yelling beautifully articulated obscenities and screeching with laughter before romping off across the burning sand. It set me thinking. Who were these people? What did they do when they weren't having fun? Where did they live when they abandoned their summer nests? I swallowed hard. The noise and chaos grated on my senses. The beach suddenly felt a very unsafe place to be. Apart from the carcinogenic rays of the sun, the hidden dangers of the water, the lethal mesh of fisherman's lines extending along the shore, it was the perfect spot for abduction. No CCTV. Swathes of open ground. Easy prey. Concealed by the crowd, nobody would notice.

“Are you all right, Kim?” Chris's eyes expressed concern. I flicked a smile. “I thought I'd lost you there for a moment,” he said.

“Admiring the view.” I grabbed his hand. “Daydreaming.”

eight

The queue for the
ferry stretched back almost the length of the jetty. We crossed sand the texture of muscovado sugar and took our turn, me leaning into Chris, basking in the sunshine, desperate to shake off my unexpected fit of nerves.

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in the bleached wood interior of a café, devouring
American-style
muffins, poached eggs, and cappuccinos. Andy Johnson, Chris's best friend and another teacher at the community college, popped in to join us. He sported a mop of
ash-blond
curly hair that hung, leonine, over his forehead. With his big, slightly spatula nose and wide mouth, often as not, drawn back in a big grin, he looked like a jolly rugby player. His
blue-green
eyes reminded me of the
ever-changing
colours of the creek outside the cottage.

“So how's life in Chelters? You must find us yokels a bit dull by comparison.” Never one to resist poking fun, Andy exchanged his Devonian accent for
cut-glass
Home Counties.

I wiped crumbs from my chin and leant in close to Andy's large happy face. “I'm more Devonian than you are,” I grinned, prodding his thick chest with a finger. “You're practically a grockle.”

Andy had to laugh at that. His family had moved to Plymouth from Cheshire. Mine were born and bred in the South Hams. Well, kind of, I thought, if I didn't include my enforced incarceration in an
all-girls
boarding school.

Retreating to a favourite and irritating tack, Andy said, “Must be weird leading separate lives.”

“Leave it out,” Chris smiled dismissively.

Andy flicked me a cheeky smile. For an unnerving second, something in the gesture reminded me of my brother Guy. I stuck out my tongue. Undeterred, Andy continued, “I don't understand why you two don't get on, do the decent thing and tie the knot.”

“We're perfectly happy as we are, thanks.” I laughed, but in truth I felt a bit defensive. “I get to do my thing. Chris gets to do his. And we have a fantastic time together. It's perfect.”

“Must be a stressor getting your stories straight,” Andy joked, taking a deep slurp of coffee. A layer of foam coated his upper lip.

“Fuck off, Andy.” Chris's accompanying smile lacked warmth, I thought.

“It's about trust,” I said, catching the prim note in my voice and hating it, not least because trust remained my weak spot. When you're nine years old and your dad pops you on his knee and warns you never to trust anyone in case they hurt you, it has an effect—even when your adult brain tells you it's bollocks.

I glanced warily at Chris. The thought of him playing away had never crossed my mind, for which, I supposed, I was a tad naive. A
good-looking
guy, working in an environment with a number of
attractive women, he must get tempted. Devon was no different to any other place except that its peculiar geography and social structure provided a particularly rich playground for inappropriate liaisons.

“Anyway, how's your love life these days?” I asked Andy, trying to shift the spotlight.

“Sweet, as it happens.”

“Go on. What's her name?”

“Jen.” Enthusiasm lighted his features. “She's a sports instructor at Totnes Leisure Centre.”

“And?” Chris said. “What's she like?”

A dreamy look stole over Andy's face. “She's got a lovely arse.”

I burst out laughing.

“What kind of a statement is that?” Chris said.

“A bloke's,” I said with a dry smile. The backdrop to conversation at home during the blissfully long school holidays was football, cars, and women—especially women.

Andy looked at both of us with a wolfish grin. “Her hair's kind of light brown—”

“He always goes for light brown,” Chris interjected, taking a drink.

“You're right,” I said, remembering a number of Andy's old flames. He picked up and dumped girls with the same alacrity public officials awarded themselves fat pensions.

“And brownish eyes,” Andy continued.

“When do we get to meet her?” I said.

“Give the poor girl a chance. I don't want you two lovebirds frightening her off.”

The discussion descended into general gossip, something for which Andy had a natural talent, and chat about films, Chris's big passion.

“They've got a rare
late-night
showing of
Red Cliff
at the local cinema next week,” Chris said. “I'm hoping to catch it.”

Andy looked quizzical. “Never heard of it.”

“Chinese epic
big-budget
movie costing around forty million pounds to make.”

“Bloody hell,” Andy said. “Is it subtitled?”

I maintained a straight face. “Didn't you know Chris is fluent in Mandarin?”

“What?” Andy's mouth gaped open.

“Gotcha,” I said, letting out a gale of laughter. “Of course it's subtitled, you fool.”

“
Ha-bloody
-ha.” Andy punched the top of my arm. “So what's it about, Chris?”

“The last days of the Han dynasty and the struggle for power. Basically, it's a war film.”

“Right up my alley,” I said.

“You're just fucking weird, Slade,” Andy snorted. “Women aren't supposed to like all that
action-adventure
, blood, and guts stuff.”

Chris and I exchanged a conspiratorial smile. “You need to get out more, mate.” He grinned.

At Andy's suggestion, we agreed to continue the conversation at the Fortescue, a pub popular with locals and yachties alike.

“You two go on ahead,” I said. “I want to pick up goodies for tonight.”

“Tonight?” Chris said.

“Claire and Charlie's. Dinner, remember?”

His face briefly clouded. “Of course,” he said, thumping his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Stupid of me.” He forced a smile.

“You okay with it?” I flashed with anxiety. I couldn't possibly change the arrangement now.

“Sure,” he said bullishly. “No problem.”

I sauntered slowly in the direction of Island Street, nodding and smiling to people I knew, stopping briefly to talk to a local musician. Devon, or to be more specific the South Hams, had not only become a refuge for ordinary people, but a chosen sanctuary for the cool and trendy. Pop stars, actors, and the new breed of celebrity had moved
and set up camp in droves. It often didn't take them long to move back.

After buying chocolate truffles and cheese from a local deli, I went to the pub. Packed and sweaty, the bar enveloped in a boozy glow, there was no sign of Andy or Chris, so I ordered a tonic water with lots of ice, swiped a spare newspaper from the bar, and sat down near a window. Chris appeared a few minutes later.

“Where's Andy?” I asked.

“Had to go.”

“Where?”

“Aveton Gifford. Jen phoned. Not sure what the problem is.”

“Must be keen if he can pass on a pint of beer. Is he bringing her here?”

“Didn't say.”

“Think she's a keeper?”

“God, Kim, that's jumping the gun. Let's hope she lasts longer than the last one. Are you all right for a drink?”

I lifted my glass, gesturing that it was full. Chris pushed his way to the bar, ordered a pint of Directors Best Bitter, and settled himself back down.

“What time are we expected tonight?” he said.

“Seven thirty or eight.”

“Know who else is going?” He viewed me over the rim of his pint. It was asked as a casual aside, but I knew that the question carried hidden meaning. Chris was not what you'd describe as a social animal. Ever the shrink, I put it down to his fractured upbringing.

“Haven't a clue.”

He didn't say anything. I leant forward, squeezed his knee. “Relax, it will be fine.”

He flashed a smile, as if grateful for the reassurance, and taking out his phone, checked it.

“Are you expecting a message?” I said.

He slipped it back into his pocket. “No.”

“Right,” I said, perplexed.

It wasn't long before he became lost in thought, hunched over his beer, unreachable. A gloomy look had taken up residence. “What are you going to do, Kim?”

So we were back to that again. For a few moments in time I'd blissfully forgotten. I took a sip of my drink to give me time to think. “I don't know who's responsible,” I said, at last, meeting Chris's brooding expression. “It's not as if I've been assaulted. I haven't even been spoken to.”

“And the phone calls?”

I didn't answer.

“He left a fucking dead rat on your car.”

I flinched, caught the startled expressions of a couple at the next table, and flashed an apologetic smile.

“I don't like it,” Chris muttered. “It feels all wrong. It feels dangerous.”

“At least the focus appears to be in Cheltenham, not here.”

“Because whoever's doing it thinks that's where your world is,” Chris said. “Could it be someone connected to work?”

I felt a pinch of alarm, my mind immediately fixing on Jim Copplestone. He
was
a flirt. He'd half frightened me out of my wits the way he'd crept up on me. But wasn't it too obvious? And in any case, I really couldn't believe it. Jim would never take such a risk. His reputation was at stake. He had too much to lose.

“Perhaps it's someone who's seen you,” Chris said, “a client maybe, or a parent of a client. Someone who knows what you do.”

“Is that why you're opposed to the radio
phone-in
?”

“I'm not against it, but you have to admit it puts you in the spotlight. Maybe that's how this creep hooked onto you in the first place.”

“The TV thing?”

He nodded. “Honestly, I think you should go to the police. They take that kind of thing seriously now. The new laws mean much heavier penalties.”

“No.” My fervour took me by surprise. “What I mean,” I added with a tentative smile, “is that they don't have enough to work with.”

“So you're going to wait until they do?” Chris's voice had reached a higher pitch.

My mind turned to quicksand. “I don't …”

He reached across and covered my hand with his. “You can give them records of times and dates.”

“Funny, that's what Georgia said.”

“You spoke to Georgia?”

“Well, yeah.”

Chris stroked his chin, meditative.

“Is that a problem?”

“You should be careful who you discuss this with.”

“Oh come on. We trained together. We go back years. She's a good friend.”

“I know,” he said, “but the fewer people in the loop, the better.”

I wasn't sure about his logic and let it go. He glanced away. With the sun streaming through the window, his skin looked bleached of colour. He tapped a finger on the table. “It's vital you find out who it is.”

I downed my drink and made a silent vow. My face, my life. I have to stop him.