Free Beautiful Losers: A Novel of Suspense by Eve Seymour Page A

Montpellier. Built in a Regency style, including large, airy rooms and an ornate wrought-iron balcony, it was indistinguishable from originals that populated the town. I loved it for its grandeur and style even if parking was a nightmare. Instead of leaving the car at the Lodge as usual, I parked it on a meter nearby so that I could drive the short eight-mile journey to Gloucester for the phone-in later.
    As I went inside the stucco-columned entrance, I bowled into Lizzie, my downstairs neighbour, on her way out to work.
    â€œHiya! Any luck with the sale?”
    Lizzie smiled and tossed her butter-coloured hair over her shoulder. She had small feline features and a worryingly slight build. “We had a couple round at the weekend but I’m not sure if they were that interested. The fact that it’s a ground floor flat put them off. People worry about security. We’ve got more viewers lined up this week, so fingers crossed.”
    â€œAs long as they’re nice quiet types,” I teased.
    Lizzie shot a smile. “We’ll do our best to vet them.”
    I dashed upstairs, bubbly inside. I convinced myself that it was due to natural apprehension about the radio show. Deep inside, I knew that nerves underpinned my fear of entering the flat. Had there been any silent phone calls, any messages, any notes shoved under the door? Listening hard for the telltale beep of the answering machine, I let myself in; relief seeped out of me on seeing everything the way I’d last left it. To be really sure, I reclaimed my territory: through the narrow hall with its large gilt-framed mirror, into the sitting room and dining area with golden-coloured walls, silk drapes at the windows, elegant cream leather sofa.
    Sitting down, I glanced up at the limited edition print cresting the feature marble fireplace. Entitled Beautiful Losers, the work portrayed a tense drama played out between two men and a woman. Heavily atmospheric and sinister, it was a fine example of Jack Vettriano’s style. I often sat and mused upon the relationship between the man standing and the man who sat with a weary expression smoking a cigarette. And what was the exact nature of the relationship between the woman and the two men? Had they been lovers? What was going through their minds? And what type of man had left a dead animal pinned to my windscreen? What kind of person was vying in the most bizarre fashion for my attention?
    I ran a bath and chose what to wear. I often dressed casually for work and wore jeans. Pure psychology. With a young clientele, I didn’t want to “get down with the kids,” yet neither did I wish to come across as too far removed from them. But today I could dress in full authoritative mode even though unseen by the listening public. I decided on a peacock-blue sleeveless dress and high heels.
    On the point of sinking into a foamy layer of bubbles, the phone rang. My watch told me that it was before nine. Probably Chris checking that I’d arrived back safely. Stepping out, I grabbed my robe and padded through to the sitting room, leaving a trail of damp, soapy footprints. The answering machine kicked in as I reached out for the receiver, hand hovering, unsure whether to pick up. “Come on, Chris,” I muttered. Oh damn it, I thought, snatching up the phone.
    There was no familiar voice, nothing other than the faint noise of someone breathing. Instantly, my pulse rate stammered as though I’d popped amphetamines. My legs trembled and I felt mildly sick. In spite of an instinct to slam down the phone, I gathered up every bit of courage and forced my mouth open. The voice that emerged didn’t sound like mine.
    â€œLook, whoever you are, this isn’t going anywhere. I don’t know why you’re doing it, but it’s not welcomed. Go and talk to your GP or, if you’re embarrassed, you can phone a mental health line and a member of staff will find someone in your area to