Nicci French - Beneath The Skin

“It’s a bit like someone’s fallen in love with you,” she said then. “From afar. Like in a story. Or someone close to you. It might be somebody you’ve never seen before or someone you see every day. It would be useful if you could think about men you meet, if any of them act strangely, inappropriately, towards you.”

I gave a grunt.

“The boys, for a start,” I said.

“Maybe you could describe your life to me.”

“Oh dear, you mean a day in the life?”

“I want to get an idea of the things that are important to you.”

“This is ridiculous. You can’t catch somebody by finding out what I think about my life.” She waited, but this time I beat her at her own game. I just stared back. In the background, I could hear a great crash, as if somebody had dropped something heavy. Probably some oafish policeman.

“Do you spend a lot of time with your sons?”

“I’m their mother, aren’t I? Though sometimes I feel more like their unpaid chauffeur.”

“And your husband?”

“Clive is madly busy. He’s-” And then I stopped myself. I didn’t see why I should give this woman a detailed explanation of something I didn’t understand myself. “I hardly see him at the moment.”

“You’ve been married how long? Fifteen years?”

“Yes. Sixteen this autumn.” God, was it that long? I gave an involuntary sigh. “I was very young.”

“And would you describe it as a happy marriage, close?”

“I wouldn’t describe it to you at all.”

“Jenny.” She leaned forward in her chair and for one horrible moment I thought she was going to take hold of my hands in some touchy-feely way that would make me sick. “There is a man out there who says he wants to kill you. However ridiculous this sounds, we have to take it seriously.”

I shrugged.

“It’s a marriage,” I said. “I don’t know what you want me to say. We have our ups and downs, our silly squabbles, like everybody.”

“Have you told your husband about the letter?”

“The detective asked me to. I left a message at work; he’ll phone later.”

She looked at me as if she could see through me. It made me feel uncomfortable. There was a long pause.

“Jenny,” she said finally. “I know that one of the things that you feel, or will feel, is violated. And what’s worse is that some of our efforts to help you may feel like a violation as well. There are things I need to know about.” She looked around at the chaos of the house and gave her knowing smile again. “Think of me as like your surveyor going round the house looking for bits where the water might get in.”

“Tell me about it,” I said in mock bitterness.

She leaned forward again.

“Has your husband been faithful, Jenny?”

“What!”

She repeated the question, as if there was nothing strange about it.

I glared at her and felt my face going red. My head was starting to hurt. “I think you should ask him,” I said as coolly as I could.

She made a mark on her notepad.

“What about you?”

“Me?” I snorted. “Don’t be stupid. When on earth would I find time for an affair, even if I wanted one, unless it was with the gardener or the odd-job man or the tennis coach? I virtually never meet anybody else. Look, you say you are just doing your job and you have to ask about these things, but really, you’ve done it and now I just want to get on with my day, whatever is left of it, that is.”

“Do you find these questions intrusive?”

“Of course I do. I know it’s an unfashionable view, but I like to keep private things private.”

She stood up at last, but she wasn’t ready to leave quite yet.

“Jenny,” she said. I was irritated by the way she kept using my first name. I hadn’t told her she could. It felt like an insurance salesman keeping his foot in the door. “All I want, all any of us want, is to put a stop to this and get out of your life. If anything comes into your mind that seems significant in any way, let the police know or let me know. Let us decide what is or isn’t important. Don’t be embarrassed to tell us, will you?”

She almost seemed to be pleading with me. It made me feel better, more in control.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll put on my thinking cap.”

“Do that.” She turned to go. “And Jenny.”

“Yes.”

She hesitated, then thought better of it. “Nothing. Take care.”

Later, they all went-except that Stadler man, the one with the bedroom eyes. He told me they would be opening my mail in the morning, just to be on the safe side.

“No more nasty shocks for you,” he said, and gave me a smile that was perilously close to a leer. Honestly! I glared at him. “And,” he added, as if it was an afterthought, “we’re leaving a couple of police officers outside the house.”

“This is getting beyond a joke,” I said.

“Just a precaution,” he said soothingly, as if I were a horse. “And during the day there will be a woman officer who’ll be here most of the time.” He smiled. “Continuity for you.”

I opened my mouth to say something but couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t obscene, so I just glared.

“She’s here now. Hang on a minute.” He strode to the door and shouted: “Lynne! Lynne, can you come in here for a minute? Mrs. Hintlesham, this is Officer Burnett. Lynne, Mrs. Hintlesham.”

The woman was almost as small as me, but much younger, almost young enough to be my daughter, with light brown hair, pale lashes, and a birthmark on her left cheek that made her look as if she’d been smacked in the face just before she came in. She smiled at me but I didn’t smile back.

“I’ll try and keep out of your way,” she said.

“Do,” I snapped. I pointedly turned my back on her and Stadler until they had both left the room and I was blessedly alone again.

The kitchen was full of empty mugs, and there were a couple of cigarette butts by the back door. You would have thought the least they could do was clear up after themselves. I rang Clive again, but he still wasn’t available.

Lena brought Chris and Josh back. Harry was being dropped off by another mum after football practice. I told Josh, in vague and reassuring terms, about a stupid note and there being policemen outside. I thought he might be a bit alarmed, or impressed. But he just leaned against the kitchen door, chewed his lower lip, and shrugged before loping off to his bedroom with two peanut butter sandwiches and a tankard of milk; I don’t know where all the food goes.

I dread to think what he gets up to in his room. He closes the curtains and there’s loud music, and bleeps and shrieks from his dreadful computer games, and incense, probably to cover up the cigarettes he smuggles in. I make sure it’s always Mary who tidies up in there and changes his sheets. I don’t go in his room, I just shout through the door for him to do his homework, practice his saxophone, turn down the music, bring down his dirty washing. He’s grown up all of a sudden. His voice has broken, he’s got little pimples on his forehead, soft hair on his upper lip. And he’s so tall. Much taller than me. He’s got that odd, man’s smell about him, as well, underneath all the lotions and gels that he and his friends seem to wear nowadays. Not like when we were young.

Chris is too young to understand, of course; I didn’t say anything to him, just gave his squashy little body a hug. He’s my baby.

Then I drove to the reclamation center but it had just closed so I didn’t get the hooks, which was the last straw.

Clive rang to say he wouldn’t be home until late, so after Harry got back, and after I had put Chris to bed with a story, I had supper with Josh and Harry. Lasagne that I’d taken out of the freezer earlier, with peas, and for pudding ice cream with chocolate sauce. No one spoke much. I watched them shovel food down their throats as if it were fuel. I didn’t eat very much. It was too hot.