Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (7 page)

thirteen

“As already stated, eating
disorders are not about food.”

“But isn't that a contradiction?” Imogen Kulp, an American presenter, had a businesslike manner and
machine-gun
delivery. “If you're a sufferer the whole focus is on food, surely?”

“Only in so far as it's symptomatic of the disorder,” I explained. “The weight loss is what catches our eye. To an outsider or a loved one who's in the agonising position of watching a young woman starve herself, the food issue appears to be the root cause.”

“So anorexia's not a slimming disease?” Kulp said.

“Too blunt a description. It's what's going on in the sufferer's mind that's the crux of the problem. The restriction of food is a genuine expression of chaos.”

Kulp addressed the listeners, “We will, of course, be giving out a list of contact numbers for those seeking help, or you can visit our website for information after the programme. Right, we have another caller on the line. Kyle Stannard wishes to pick up on the issue of body image. What's your question, Kyle?”

“How does your expert feel about the use of plastic surgery to correct conditions like body dysmorphic disorder?”

Kulp pulled a face. “I fear this is going outside our sphere of discussion.” She looked meaningfully at me. I spread both my hands, deferring to her greater experience. In return Kulp raised one eyebrow and smiled. I touched my mouth, gesturing that I was prepared to take the call. Kulp nodded for me to go ahead, a silent moment of conspiracy between us that made me fleetingly wonder why I had such a ridiculous,
closely-guarded
hang-up
about “the sisterhood.”

“BDD, as it's known, has certain similarities with eating disorders but exists within a field of its own. For the listener, I should explain that sufferers have an obsessive preoccupation with an imagined defect in appearance, most usually on the face. It's very distressing and the condition can persist for years. Patients literally feel repulsive.”

“And surgery?” the caller said.

“Preliminary clinical reports suggest that surgery does not benefit patients. Either the patient remains focused on the perceived defect or they simply move on to another physical feature. So, no, I'm not in favour of it.”

“Not in any circumstances?”

Kulp drew a finger underneath her throat. I raised both eyebrows in a
Let me just wrap this up
gesture. “It's true that plastic surgeons can significantly improve the lives of those injured in road accidents or suffering from serious burns, but—”

“Are you speaking from a personal perspective?”

I mentally skidded to a halt. He might as well have pressed needles into my eyes.

“You've had plastic surgery, haven't you?” the caller persisted.

Kulp registered surprise, shut down the fader, and cut the caller off. She pushed a glass of water in my direction. “Maybe plastic surgery would be an interesting area for discussion on another occasion, Kyle,” she said, her voice as smooth as warm caramel. “Just to remind you, folks, we have Kim Slade, a clinical psychologist specialising in eating disorders, on the line. We're standing by, ready and waiting to take your calls.”

The rest of the
phone-in
took place in a haze. I went onto autopilot, reeling off facts and statistics, promoting Ellerslie Lodge, recommending forms of treatment and various organisations and associations. The whole time my brain snagged on the sole male caller: Kyle Stannard. He'd talked for such a short interval, yet I remembered every nuance of his voice. Low in timbre, precise, educated, without distinguishing accent. I estimated he was in his thirties. He didn't sound weird. On the contrary, he seemed lucid and rational, but his remark about my face set off alarm bells.
Was it him? My stalker? Was Kyle Stannard his real name?

Kulp wrapped up the programme. “That's all we have time for. Our thanks to Kim Slade for joining us this morning. It's
twenty-nine
minutes past midday.” The programme faded out to the sound of Roy Orbison's “Pretty Woman.”

“That went well. Pity about the bozo. We're usually a little better at screening them out, but you did good. You okay?” She shuffled some papers.

“Fine,” I said, distinctly unsteady.

“Say,” Kulp said, looking straight at me, ghoulish fascination in her eyes, “how
did
you get that scar on your face?”

fourteen

On the short journey
from Gloucester to Cheltenham, I stuck my foot down, the gears meshing as the car powered along a nice straight stretch, making the muscles in the small of my back vibrate.

People were rarely so direct. Of those bold enough to ask, I'd witnessed every type of reaction, from shock to repulsion. Special camouflaging
make-up
had improved dramatically, but it was never entirely successful. Sometimes people came straight out with it, as Imogen Kulp had done. Sometimes I found myself taking the initiative by getting the subject of my scars out of the way so that I could move on. I'd largely come to terms with the fact that people were curious, and I'd discovered that, by adopting a dismissive tone, the questioner felt less awkward. If I made out that my injury was no big deal, they tended to do the same. But if pressed, as sometimes happened, I always gave the same answer: An accident when I was little.

I overtook three cars at warp speed. However much I tried to lose myself, I couldn't shake off the growing sensation of rage. I felt infected by it. Attempting to grab a slice of perspective, I persuaded myself that it was only human to focus on stuff that goes bump in the night, to meet imaginary terror coming from the opposite direction, but no amount of psychological trickery helped. Despite my determination not to be fazed, I found myself checking the rearview mirror, wary of any vehicle following too closely, flinching as a
black-clad
motorbike rider roared past. Every lucid argument I could come up with turned to fine sand in my hands. I felt hunted.

Driving into Cheltenham's
one-way
system, my mind clamped onto Kyle Stannard. Whoever he was, he had a certain amount of knowledge about what I did and who I was.

Time to find out about him.

fifteen

Kyle Stannard, one of
the highest paid international male models, critically injured in street brawl
.

Male model for Quartz Agency rushed to London hospital with serious facial injuries
.

Was Kyle Stannard singled out for his good looks? Police are looking into …

I stared at the straplines and the photographs of him in his prime and felt something inside wither. With a cold and outwardly calm voice, I pressed the intercom, signalling my readiness for the next client.

That evening, I went out to friends for dinner. The Flemings lived in what had once been a tumbled-down house in leafy Pittville, the place previously split into flats and let to students. The day Molly had dragged me along to view, it was a mess of crumbling plaster, nicotine-coloured walls, rusted ironwork, damp, mould, and woodworm. Anyone else would have been deterred. Not Molly.

She kissed me exuberantly on both cheeks. Dark and flashing, with a temperament to match, she had the
held-together
stance of a Flamenco dancer. We stood in an elegant hallway, the floor Harlequin patterned in black and white. Sunshine from a declining sun bounced off a single chandelier. The staircase, which was wide and thickly carpeted, seemed to stretch up to the heavens. I handed Molly a bottle of wine.

“Thought we'd eat in the courtyard,” she said, “go on through. Simon's already out there fixing the drinks.”

I walked into an extravagantly
bohemian-styled
sitting room where a pair of bronze African figurines flanked the marbled Victorian fireplace. French windows opened out onto stone steps that led down to a tiny, enclosed courtyard where hanging figs adorned one wall. Simon, his back to me, was engaged in easing a cork from a bottle. On hearing my tread, he turned and flashed a brilliant smile of greeting. As blond as his wife was dark, he had deep
smoky-blue
eyes, good looks and, a former paratrooper and fitness fan, a strong and athletic body.

Following a satisfying pop, he filled three glasses and handed one to me.

“So how's life in Civvy Street?” The bubbles prickled my nose. I stifled a sneeze.

“Plenty of cut and thrust,” he joked, a mesh of lines crinkling the corners of his eyes.

Simon's career had been chequered since leaving the armed forces. He'd recently joined a firm of
up-market
estate agents.

“Molly will be pleased,” I said. She'd always worried about the inherent dangers of army life.

“Yeah,” Simon said with little enthusiasm.

“Still finding it difficult to adjust?” Once, in an intoxicated moment, he'd described himself as a killing machine. Not much scope in civilian life for people like him, he'd told me. I'd thought little of it at the time. Now …

“
So-so
,” he said with a grin. “What about you? How's things?”

“I'm fine—all good.”

“And Chris?” Simon was polite, the tone casual, but the way in which his eyes fixed on mine, the way his hand gripped his glass suggested that he felt anything but indifference. He and Molly had met Chris twice on one of Chris's rare forays to Cheltenham. They'd got on superficially, though I sensed that there had been no great meeting of minds. I had to admit that Chris wasn't especially easygoing. His complexity was one of the things that attracted me.

“He's well, thanks.”

There was a pause, a few beats too long. I opened my mouth to plug the gap. Simon was already ahead of me. “Kim, are you sure you're all right?”

Was it that obvious? Was I going to spend the rest of the evening lying to two of my oldest friends? Cornered, I took the plunge. “There's something I want to talk to you about.”

Simon fixed his full magnetic gaze upon me. I cleared my throat. “I suppose,” I said, with cool, “I've got a problem.”

“How tantalising,” Molly exclaimed, scooping up a glass and joining us.

“Do tell.”

So I did.

“Basically, you're being stalked.”

We'd eaten
silvery-skinned
sardines with oregano followed by luscious lemon chicken cooked with sherry and fat bulbs of garlic served on a bed of fragrant saffron rice. Simon's cold observation elicited a protest from Molly.

“A bit strong, isn't it? I mean, in some ways, it's rather flattering.”

We both looked at Molly as though she'd offered to take all her clothes off and run down the Promenade singing “Rule Britannia.”

“Well, I'd find it exciting to have an unknown admirer.” Molly's lips curved into a generous smile and she ran the tip of a painted fingernail along her husband's arm.

“A heavy breather, a guy who doesn't have the balls to make anything other than anonymous contact? A dead rat?” I said.

“The rat is probably some kid's idea of a prank,” she flashed.

I quelled a response. Hadn't I used the same duff explanation to Jim and Chris?

“C'mon, Molly, you know better than that,” Simon said. “Going back to the radio
phone-in
, Kim. Do you think it was him?”

“I wasn't certain this morning. After checking out Stannard, I'm prepared to suspend disbelief.” A picture of him blazed in front of my eyes. He bucked the current trend for androgynous
heroin-chic
; there was nothing skeletal and offset about his features. With
film-star
good looks, he was the kind of man who, whether eighteen or eighty, would remain handsome. “The fact he was injured explains the connection,” I said.

“It doesn't mean he and the stalker are one and the same,” Molly pointed out.

“Agreed, but, clinically speaking, he ticks the right boxes.”

“Why didn't Stannard cloak himself in anonymity then?”

I couldn't answer. Simon stroked his chin. “What does Chris think?”

He didn't know about the latest development, but I didn't tell Molly and Simon this. “That I should go to the police.”

“He's right.”

“Georgia said the same.”

“Then get on and do it,” Simon said.

“What else does Chris say?” Molly glanced at Simon in a way that made me suddenly defensive. “I mean how does he
feel
about it?” she added.

“Upset, annoyed, concerned.” I didn't say he was edgy, that it was starting to turn our relationship
upside-down
.

Molly touched me lightly on the back. “Couldn't he come up and stay with you, sweetie?”

“He has a job, Molly.”

Molly arched an eyebrow. “What about those fantastically long holidays he gets?”

“They're not that long,” I said, chippy. I didn't add that it was almost impossible to winkle him out of Devon. In almost four years, he'd stayed at the Cheltenham flat no more than a dozen times. “Anyway, I go back every weekend and, in a couple of weeks, I'm taking
a break.”

Nobody spoke for a moment. Molly got up to change the CD.

“It's important you report it, Kim,” Simon said. “I don't understand why you are so reluctant.”

Because it's like saying: Hey, you've got me. I'm afraid. You win. Any adversity in my life, I'd overcome in my own way, on my own terms. And what would the police do about it? In spite of legal changes, it took time for law to filter through and translate into action. It would more likely be a case of take a statement, make enquiries, and see you later. There was also a more obvious reason.

“Stalkers are pretty resistant to changing behaviour,” I said. “It may make matters worse.”

“How?”

“It will wind him up,” Molly said as though Simon were being dim.

I agreed. “Engagement and recognition runs the risk of giving him the attention he craves.” I have to find another way, I thought darkly. I have to slide into his slipstream and channel him away; to somewhere he can't hurt me.

Simon was adamant. “That's no reason to hold back.”

“I'm with Kim,” Molly said. “If you think this bloke's a really serious proposition, then I say leave well alone.”

“It's not as if I'm a celebrity or a politician, or anyone in the public eye, for God's sake,” I said, appealing to the line of least resistance, which, in this case, was Molly.

Simon rested a hand on mine. His felt warm and clammy. “You don't have to be. I'm sure your bosses will understand, if that's what's bothering you.” He gave me a sympathetic smile.

It wasn't. Well, not much it wasn't. “If I bring this out in the open, I'm playing into the guy's hands. I'll be feeding his sense of
self-importance
.”

“Treat him like a
two-year
-old throwing a tantrum,” Molly said, heading off a furious look from Simon. I couldn't tell whether it was because Simon disagreed, or because she'd touched on a raw subject. The likelihood of the Flemings ever having children of their own was a rare possibility.

“Ignore him?” Simon flashed, his jaw set.

Caught in domestic crossfire, I topped up everyone's glass. Molly, who'd fallen silent, looked pensive. “You don't think it's Phil, do you?”

“He had crossed my mind,” I confessed, “but why pop up now, out of the blue?”

“
Ex-husbands
are usually top of the list.” There was a cold edge to Simon's voice. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

“Are you still in contact?” I was astonished. It had never occurred to me that Simon might still be in touch.

“On and off.” He looked suddenly sheepish. “The odd telephone call, nothing more.”

“What's he up to these days?” I wanted it to sound casual. It sounded anything but.

“IT Consultancy and stuff,” he added vaguely.

“Last thing I heard, he was working in Canada.”

“He's back in the UK.”

I did my best to hide my shock. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Not exactly, but I can track him down.” Simon's eyes had turned a pale and dangerous shade of cobalt. I instantly saw what Simon meant about him being a killing machine.

“I don't know,” I said, part of me uncomfortable with the prospect of Simon pulling strings on my behalf, the other part bewildered.

“Think about it.” Simon raised his glass, took a drink. “In the meantime, keep everything this guy sends, dead animals included. He hasn't sent you shit or dirty needles?”

“Simon!” Molly burst out.

“Has he?” Simon persisted, ignoring his wife.

“No,” I replied.

“Good. Anything you receive, bag it. Keep a note of times when you think you're being followed,
drive-bys
, anything out of the ordinary. Let your phone pick up all your calls and get a new unlisted number for anyone else to make contact. Has he called you on your mobile?”

“No.”

“When he does, change it.”

“
When?
”

“Keep a phone with you at all times, especially at night, and make sure you use your entry phone. Does the flat have an alarm system?”

I shook my head.

“Have one installed or get a big dog.”

“Don't be daft, Simon. I—”

“And get a personal alarm for yourself. They make a hell of a racket and can buy valuable time in a tricky situation. If you think you're being followed in the car, drive to your nearest police station. Whatever you do, don't drive home or to a friend's house.”

My head felt full of clay. Simon's advice made absolute sense, but I couldn't help think a bit of him was getting off on it. “This sounds so extreme.”

“They're basic precautions. If he gives up and goes away, that's great, but you can't afford to take that gamble. In the meantime you have to reclaim control by taking steps to protect yourself. Do you understand?”

I nodded. Control was good. Control equalled survival.

Molly threw me a solicitous look. Turning to her husband, she said, “What if that fails?”

Simon smiled with a salute of his glass. “I hear Devon's a jolly nice place to live.”

Later, Simon accompanied me home. We walked companionably,
arm-in
-arm, the route lit by streetlight and the glow of distant shop fronts.

He was in his element. “You need to be on the alert for anything different, anything out of place, something that doesn't feel right.”

“How will I know?” Drink had loosened my defences.

“You're the psychologist.” Simon laughed lightly. “You're paid to pick up on things.”

It wasn't the same. I was accustomed to working in a controlled environment. My clients, whether they admitted it or not, welcomed, or at least were open to help. It was a partnership, psychologist and client working together. By contrast, my stalker knew a great deal about me. He knew where I lived, what I did for a living, where I worked. So how was that for
one-sided
? This freak had entered my life and latched on with the tenacity of an incurable disease.

But that was going to change.

We rounded a corner and crossed the road. Regency buildings towered impressively in the moonlight; ironically, the large police station was only a stone's throw away.

“I'll be all right now,” I said, meaning it, my fiercely independent and maverick streak coming to the fore.

Lizzie's place was suffused in a comforting glow and the main entrance lit up with spotlight, but Simon insisted on seeing me to my door. “Another tip,” he said as we went inside the communal hallway. “Always opt for the stairs. Wherever you are, you don't want to get stuck in a lift with Mr. Creepy.”

Mr. Creepy
. I snuffed out the soubriquet as I snapped on the bedroom light. Staying alert was second nature to Simon; soon it would be second nature to me. I realised that I had to wise up and wise up quickly.