Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense (9 page)

eighteen

Alexa phoned ten minutes
before my working day got going. She raced straight to the point with no gear changes in between.

“Brooks has organised an entire media campaign against me.”

I blinked for two reasons. One, I had my own shit to deal with. Two, it didn't seem very likely. Brooks surely had better things to do with his time and, even on a cursory acquaintance, he didn't strike me as a vindictive sort.

She continued, “People are saying the most horrible things about me on Facebook and Twitter.”

“Then don't read them.”

“But these are supposed to be my friends.”

Adept at lowering the emotional temperature of my mostly teenage clients, I struggled with Alexa. “Anyone who stoops to such levels isn't your friend. Ignore them. Better still, delete them.”

“Does he hate me so much?” It came out like a wail. I had an image of ululating women in foreign climes.

“I'm sure he doesn't,” I said.

“But …”

“Alexa, I'm so sorry, but I have to go. I'm at work.”

“You'll call me when you get a chance?”

“Of course,” I said. No sooner than I'd cut the call, I received another.

“You must be in trouble.”

My stomach flipped. What had Simon told Phil? “Hi. Thanks for calling me.”

“I haven't heard from you or your lawyer in ten years,” Phil said.

I tried to laugh. It came out mangled. “Are you well?”

“What is it, Kim? I'm a busy guy, stuff going on.” His tone implied that he was doing fine until he heard I needed to speak to him. After the call from Stannard the previous night, the conversation with Phil seemed like a pointless waste of everyone's time, but now he'd phoned I thought I might as well cover all the bases. “Have you visited Cheltenham lately, or attempted to look me up?”

“Are you cracked? Why would I do that?”

“It doesn't matter, a
long-shot
.”

He let out a chill laugh. “You must be really in trouble.”

I privately agreed, said
good-bye
, and instructed the Bayshill receptionist to hold off all calls from anyone she didn't immediately recognise without first checking with me. I made the same arrangement with Cathy Whitcombe at Ellerslie Lodge.

During the morning I saw three clients. The hours passed with the same gait as a dying snail.

At lunchtime, Chris called. Giddy with relief, I told him about the
phone-in
. I told him about Kyle Stannard. I didn't tell him about
the
pornographic image.

“He's clearly kinked. Go to the police. They can do him for harassment.”

“He denies everything.”

“He threatened you.”

“But it will be my word against his. It's not as if I recorded the phone call.”

“Do it, Kim. It will frighten him off.”

“Will it?” Somehow I didn't think so.

“This is ludicrous,” he burst out. “If you do nothing it will continue. Now he's got his hooks into you, he's not going to go away.” Chris was silent for a moment. “Is anything else wrong?” There was a peculiar catch in his voice as if he expected trouble.

“Not really.”

“Something's up,” he said, wary.

“I've already messed up once this morning.” Twice, actually, but I wasn't going to mention Alexa's
cri de coeur.

“Oh?”

“I got Phil to phone me.”

“Okay.” He took it a lot better than I'd expected. “Why?” Chris said.

I pulled a face. I could hardly tell Chris about the IT connection. “Because he's nasty enough to pop back out of the woodwork.”

“Got you.”

“Anyway, it's not him,” I said briskly.

He thought for a moment. “Why not get Simon to find out about Stannard?”

“Like what?”

“Where he lives, what he's doing with his life.”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

His momentary silence gave the impression that he was cross with me for not agreeing to his suggestion.

“You're interested in him, aren't you?”

“Interested?” I said, bewildered.

“In Stannard.”

“That's rubbish. I don't give a damn about him.”

“But he intrigues you.”

“Don't tell me what I feel.” And don't suggest that I feel sorry for him. “Look, I have to go. I'll be late.”

Chris wasn't easily dismissed. “What are your movements for the rest of the day?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Keeping tabs.”

“I'm at work, Chris.”

Unsettled, I left the Bayshill Clinic and stepped outside onto a cement drive. It felt hotter than ever. The air tasted of diesel and petrol fumes. En route to the Lodge, I called Simon, told him I'd got nowhere with Phil and, reluctantly complying with Chris's suggestion, asked if he could put his soldierly skills to good use.

“You want me to check out Kyle Stannard?”

“I can hardly check him out myself. It would show unhealthy interest.”

“Damn right. Leave it with me. I'll do my best.”

I crossed the road, each step marred by my last conversation with Chris and the trepidation that something else was about to happen. What if my stalker had stuck something even more unspeakable on the windscreen?

I skirted the entrance to the Lodge and walked around the back to the parking bays, keen to get out of the burning sun. Jim's Morgan, highly polished in racing green, glinted in the strong sunlight. The Celica should have been next to it. Except there was no car; only empty space. I raced up and down, checking, running through events in my mind. Yes, I'd driven the car there after the
phone-in
. Yes, I'd parked it here, right here. But it was gone. Fear flared and expanded into anger.

I tore back inside and spoke to Cathy.

“Are you sure?” she said.

“You can't mislay several grand's worth of vehicle by accident.”

“True.”

“Cath, I'd be grateful if you didn't tell Jim. At least, not yet.”

She cast me a sympathetic look, paused a few moments to think, and then took charge. “You give the police a ring. I'll take a walk outside.” To be honest, I could have kissed her.

It took me five minutes to get through and explain my predicament. I was told I could expect someone to be with me later.

“How much later?”

“Can't really say, madam.”

“Will it be today?”

“Possibly not. I'm sorry, but we're dealing with a major incident. Could you give me a number we can call you on?” I gave my mobile number. Feeling frustrated enough to kick something, I sat down hard and rested my head in my hands. Stannard had taken a step too far. He had in effect committed a criminal act. I brightened. Hello, I thought, that was a good thing. Whereas before I had nothing really concrete to go on, now I could hand the police a solid piece of evidence and press charges.

The door to my office swished open and Cathy appeared. “Found it.”

“What? Where?”

“Good news: it's tucked under the shade of a plane tree. Bad news: it's parked on double yellow lines in Vittoria Walk and you've picked up a parking ticket.”

I gawped, mystified. “Is it all right?”

“No dents, no scratches, good as new.” Cathy looked at me uncertainly. “Are you sure you didn't leave it there? You've got a lot going on right now.”

I covered my true feelings by flashing a smile. “You're right. My mistake. What an idiot. Thanks, Cathy, you're a star. Would you like to ask Ellen to pop in?”

nineteen

The car was exactly
where Cathy said it was. No marks. No signs of abuse. Wondering madly if the vehicle might be booby-trapped, I crouched down and peered underneath, except I had no idea what I was looking for. Using the remote, I opened the driver door. Gingerly, I climbed inside, the soft lining of my stomach catching at the thought of Stannard sitting in my seat, his body on the pale grey leather, his hands on the steering wheel where mine rested. I examined the ashtray and glove compartment, searched for notes and gifts, but there was nothing. Even the air smelt undisturbed. There was no telltale scent of aftershave or cologne. How had he got hold of a key?

I drove back to the Lodge,
re-parked
the car, tore off the penalty notice, and returned to Montpellier on foot. The insane heat had died down. People were sitting in outdoor cafés and wine bars for early drinks. The streets felt relaxed. Adopting a siege mentality, I popped into a delicatessen and bought salami, Parma ham, a slab of waxy Gran Padano cheese,
purple-skinned
olives,
sun-dried
tomatoes, and artichokes marinated in olive oil, plus two bottles of Barolo and two bottles of
creamy-dry
sparkling white Prosecco. Minutes later, I was toeing open the door to the apartment, arms aching, chin resting protectively on the wine, my first thought to get the Prosecco chilled as quickly as possible. It wasn't until I'd stashed the food, and was coming out of the kitchen that I noticed the single typed
A4-sized
brown envelope on the floor poking out from underneath the door to the apartment. I stood anchored to the carpet. Had he descended while I was unloading shopping, or had it been there all along and I'd failed to spot it? From that distance I could make out that there was no stamp, no postal markings, only my name typed on the envelope in capitals. I didn't need to be an Einstein to work out that someone had delivered it by hand. And I had more than a rough idea who.

Wary, I picked it up and ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of white paper.

THANKS FOR THE LOAN OF YOUR GORGEOUS HEAP OF METAL. (I WAS TEMPTED TO SPEND THE NIGHT IN IT—ONLY JOKING!!) NO, REALLY IT WAS VERY GOOD OF YOU TO LET ME BORROW IT AND I JUST WANTED YOU TO KNOW THAT YOUR KINDNESS IS APPRECIATED. WHY ELSE WOULD I SEND YOU CHOCS—SORRY ABOUT ROLAND—MY IDEA OF A JOKE. TALKING OF WHICH, IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE YOU'D LIKE, SOMETHING MAYBE TO TURN YOU ON? YOU LOOK SO GOOD NAKED. HAVE A THINK BECAUSE I'M NOT ENTIRELY SURE WHAT YOUR TASTES ARE IN THAT DIRECTION. I HAVE MY OWN IDEAS, OF COURSE, BUT I DON'T WANT TO SPOIL OUR RELATIONSHIP BY OFFENDING YOU. DON'T WORRY ABOUT LETTING ME KNOW. I'M NEVER FAR AWAY AND,
ALTHOUGH I'M NO SHRINK, I CAN READ YOUR MIND.

Throwing the printed sheet of paper onto the coffee table, I scooped my keys back up and raced out of the flat. Taking the stairs two at a time, I tore off towards a small garage and
lock-up
in Lansdown, heart lifting at the sound of heavy rock signifying that they hadn't yet packed up for the day.

I stood for what seemed an age as a mechanic finished working on a
battered-looking
Vauxhall Cavalier, feet sticking out from underneath. Another young guy, an apprentice maybe, poked about in the innards of an Escort. Patches of oil spread over the ground,
rainbow-coloured
in the late afternoon sun.

My focus fell on scrap metal and tyres, monkey wrenches and jacks. Nobody paid me attention. Finally in frustration, I approached the mechanic buried underneath the Cavalier and tapped the sole of his heavy boot with one foot. The heels moved forward and a lined face popped out.

The guy rolled to one side then scrabbled to his feet, wiping oily hands on dark blue overalls. The top three buttons were undone, exposing an expanse of ghostly white skin. His head was shaved, pouched eyes narrowed to slits. Drink problem, I guessed.

Staring hard at me, he addressed the young guy. “You going to be there long, Mark?”

“Nah, almost done.”

“The bloke wants to collect in twenty minutes.” He looked me up and down and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. “Now what can I do you for?”

“I wondered if you could help me,” I started hesitantly.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

This wasn't quite the response I was after. I suppose showing up out of nowhere seemed strange. I cleared my throat, and began again. “My name's Kim Slade. I live over there,” I said, waving my hand in the general direction of home. No idea why I'd done that. He couldn't have looked more disinterested if he'd tried. “I'd like to pick your brains,” I said, getting to the point.

He let out a short earthy laugh. “Sounds nasty.” His hands shook when he lit up.

“The thing is, you see,” I burbled awkwardly, “someone moved my car.”

“Vehicle theft is pretty hot around here.”

“It wasn't stolen.”

“A joyrider?”

“Maybe,” I said, evasive. Admitting to it being taken and left a couple of streets from where I worked would sound plain weird.

“Out of interest, what sort of motor?”

“A Celica.”

“Nice. Do much damage?”

“That's the point. There's not a scratch on it, so how would a stranger get in, do you think?”

He blew out a big cloud of smoke, some of it gusting my way. “Was it alarmed?”

“Yes.”

“So he couldn't have run a wire inside and disconnected the central locking?”

“Not without creating a racket.”

“Then there's only one possibility.”

“What's that?” My voice quickened.

“He got in the same way as everyone else, darlin'. He had a set of keys.”

“But that's impossible.”

“You sure you didn't leave them in the ignition?”

“Of course not.”

“Amazing how many people do,” he snickered. “Isn't that right, Mark?” He looked across at the young apprentice.

“Yeah, too right.”

“Is there any way he could get a key cut?” I said to the older man.

“A skilled locksmith can rustle up a set of keys in less than an hour, but they generally need the car in place.”

“So the car has to be stolen first?”

“
Uh-huh
.”

He eyed me in a way I couldn't quite fathom, took a drag of his cigarette, narrowed his eyes against the smoke, and scuffed the ground with his boot. “Have you reported it?”

“Nothing to report.” I met his eye.

Two thin streams of smoke drifted out of his nostrils. “Villains in the old days would break into a car,
hot-wire
it, take it to a dodgy motor repair shop, and get the locksmith to pull out the ignition and check the serial number against the make and numbers listed in the car's manual. Once it's matched, he can work out the key specification. Now it's all more technological. Not half so easy.”

“And there's really no other way?”

He looked down, kicked the ground again, jettisoning a cloud
of dust.

“No,” he said
slow-eyed
, “not that I can think of.”