Nicci French - Beneath The Skin

“Oh Nadia,” he said.

I walked toward him. I had prepared myself for this moment for the whole day since I had talked to him on the phone. He reached his arms out toward me. I clenched my fist as hard as I could. When I was a foot away I looked him in the eyes and then, with all my strength, I punched him in the face.

He lifted his hands to his face. Was it in self-defense or to hit back? I stood with my chin up, almost daring him to strike. But then he lowered his hands and took a pace backward.

“What the fuck?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was cold. His eyes were cold. His handsome face looked heavy and stupid and vicious. I saw with satisfaction that blood trickled down from his nostril, where my ring had nicked it.

“I know, Detective Inspector Stadler.”

“What?”

“I know everything.”

“What are you going on about?”

“Did it turn you on?”

“What?” he said again. “What?” He wiped the blood away from his nose and examined his fingers.

“It did, didn’t it? It turned you on, thinking that you were fucking a woman who was going to die.”

“You’re hysterical,” he said, voice flat with contempt.

I jabbed him in the chest with a forefinger.

“Jennifer Hintlesham. Does that name ring any bells for you?”

His expression changed; the first glimmering of comprehension crept across his features.

“Nadia,” he said. He took a step toward me and put out his hand, as if I were a wild animal that needed coaxing. “Nadia, please.”

“Stay where you are, you… you.” I couldn’t find a word that was nasty enough. “What were you thinking ? How could you do that to me? Did you think of me dead?”

His face shut down.

“We told you we were taking the threat seriously,” he said blankly.

“You fucking hypocrite. You were fucking me there, in the bathroom, and on the floor there in the living room, and in my bed.”

“I didn’t notice you resisting.”

I slapped him across the cheek. I wanted to hurt him, mutilate him, pulverize him.

“I can’t believe it,” I said. “I can’t believe I did that with you.” I looked at him, disgusted. “A married man who gets turned on by having sex with someone he’s supposed to be protecting.”

“We are protecting you.”

I shocked myself then by bursting into tears.

“Nadia.” His voice was soft, with a hint of triumph in it. “Darling Nadia, I’m sorry. I hated not telling you.”

I felt his hand on me and it made me jump.

“Fuck off,” I screamed through my tears. “I’m not fucking crying because of you. I’m scared, don’t you see? I’m so scared I feel like there’s a great hole in my chest.”

“Nadia.”

“Shut up.” I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and blew my nose. Then I looked at my watch. “Lynne’s back in an hour. I need you to answer some questions. I’m going to wash my face.”

“Wait,” he said. “I won’t touch you, I promise, but can I just say that what happened between us, it wasn’t, I mean it’s not, I wouldn’t want anyone…” He ground to a halt and looked at me with an expression that was both obsequious and resentful. He was scared of me now.

In the bathroom I washed my hands and face, and cleaned my teeth. There was a nasty taste in my mouth. I watched myself in the mirror. I didn’t look any different from usual. How was it possible that I looked the same? I smiled and my reflection smiled back happily.

The heat had gone out of my hatred. I felt cold and calm and ghastly. Cameron seemed dulled too. We sat across the table from each other, like indifferent strangers. It seemed impossible that a couple of days ago he was holding my head between his hands as if I were the most adored object in the world, feeling for me beneath my clothes. I shuddered at the memory.

“How did you find out?” he asked.

“North London’s a small place,” I said. “Especially rich north London. I met the nanny, Lena.” He didn’t reply but I saw a slight nod of recognition. “She told me about the notes. And you. Are you sure they’re from the same person?”

He didn’t meet my eyes.

“Yes,” he said.

“He wrote letters to her, like the one he wrote to me, and then he killed her.”

“Yes.”

“But weren’t you guarding her?”

“We had been. There were complicating factors.”

“But he still got into the house and murdered her.”

“We weren’t exactly guarding her at that point.”

“Why not? Didn’t you take it seriously?”

“Not at all,” he replied, stung. “We took it very seriously, after all-” He stopped abruptly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nadia, you should understand that we are taking every precaution to protect you.”

“What? After all, what? Tell me.”

“We knew how serious the letters to Mrs. Hintlesham were,” he muttered, so quietly I had to strain to hear him.

“Why?” He caught my eye and then I realized. The new knowledge flooded over me so I could scarcely breathe. I stared at him. My voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “She wasn’t the first, was she?”

Cameron shook his head.

“Who else?”

“A young woman called Zoe Haratounian. She lived over in Holloway.”

“When?”

“Five weeks ago.”

“How?”

Cameron shook his head again. “Please, Nadia. Don’t. We’re looking after you. Trust us.”

I couldn’t suppress an ugly laugh.

“I know how you must be feeling, Nadia.”

I sank my head into my hands.

“No, you don’t,” I said. “I don’t know what I feel. How do you know?”

“What are you going to do?”

I lifted up my head and glared at him. He meant: Was I going to tell on him? What a baby; a cruel, vain baby.

“I’m going to live,” I said.

“Of course you are.” His voice was placatory and saccharine. He sounded like a doctor talking to a dying patient.

“You think I’m going to die, don’t you?”

“Not at all,” he said. “No way.”

“A madman,” I said. Fear rose in my throat, like bile. Blood roared in my ears. “A killer.”

The doorbell rang. Blushing, smiling, lying Lynne. Cameron said in a low voice: “Please don’t tell anyone about us.”

“Fuck off. I’m thinking.”

In a twisted way, I almost enjoyed my meeting with Lynne. She had tried to ask Cameron some technical questions about next week’s roster, but he was scarcely able to speak or catch her eye-or my eye. He just stroked his cheek lightly as if he was trying to detect with his fingertips whether there was a revealing mark where I’d hit him. Then he mumbled something about having to get away.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I said.

“What?” he said miserably.

“About arrangements,” I said.

He looked sharply at me, then gave a shrug and left. Almost with surprise, I found myself alone with Lynne. I hadn’t even thought of what I would say to her after speaking to Cameron.

“Want a drink?” I asked.

I’m not the sort of person who ever needs a drink, but God, I needed a drink.

“Tea would be great.”

So I bustled off and put the kettle on. I seemed to be always making tea for her, as if I was her grandmother. Just a mug and tea bag for her. In the back of a cupboard I found a bottle of whiskey that somebody had once bought in duty-free for me as a present. I splashed some into a tumbler and topped it up from the cold tap. We walked out into the garden. Although it was now the early evening, it was still fiercely hot.

“Cheers,” I said, clinking my whiskey against her mug and taking a sip of my drink, which stung the back of my throat and I could feel sizzling all the way down the inside of my body into my tummy. The garden was a disaster, of course, but just because it was so overgrown, it felt like a refuge from all that horrible stuff outside, which I could still hear: the traffic, music from a sound system in a flat along the road. We walked across to a corner where there was a plant that looked like a bush trying to become a tree. It was covered in cone-shaped clusters of purple flowers. White and brown butterflies were fluttering around it like tiny scraps of paper blown about by the wind.