Nicci French - Beneath The Skin

“Who are you? Are you a journalist?”

“No. I’m like her. I mean I’ve been getting letters from the man who killed her.”

“Oh, God. I’m sorry. Nadia, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I do anything?”

“I thought we might meet.”

“Yes, of course. I’m still on holiday. I’m a teacher.”

“How about at her flat, then, at two?”

“Her flat?”

“I’m being shown round.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to see it.”

“Are you sure?” She sounded doubtful. Maybe she thought I was mad.

“I just wanted to find out about Zoe.”

“I’ll be there. This is weird. You’ve no idea.”

I had four hours before the appointment. A different woman police officer was here today. Bernice. I told her I wanted to go and visit a flat on Holloway Road just before two, and she didn’t even blink, just nodded impassively and made a mark in the notebook she carried around with her. Perhaps she didn’t know Zoe’s old address, or perhaps everybody was just getting bored waiting for something to happen. Then I had a long bath, washed my hair, soaked in the sudsy water until the skin on my fingers and toes softened and shriveled. I painted my toenails and put on a dress I’d hardly ever worn. I’d been saving it up for a special occasion, some glamorous party where I’d meet my next Mr. Right, but it seemed stupid to wait for that now. I might as well wear it for Zoe’s flat, for Louise and Guy. It was a lovely pale turquoise, tight-fitting with short sleeves and a scoop neck. I put on a necklace, some small earrings, a pair of sandals. I looked fresh and smart, as if I was about to go out to a summer party, drink champagne in some green garden. If only. I put on some lipstick to complete the picture.

At midday, Bernice came in and told me that two young men were here to see me. I peered out the hall window and saw Josh standing fidgeting at the doorway. Beside him stood someone with dark tousled hair, wearing a black cloth jacket. He was holding a packet of cigarettes in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other and smiling at the doorway I was going to appear in.

When, for a couple of elated hours, I had thought Morris was the killer, the face I had remembered had been a murderer’s face: cunning, his eyes dead, like shark’s eyes. Now I saw that he was boyish and handsome. He looked rather endearing as he arranged his smile for me, and held up his paper-wrapped bouquet.

“Come in, both of you.”

Josh muttered something and stumbled in, tripping over his undone laces. Morris held out the flowers.

“It should be me giving you flowers, to apologize for my suspicions,” I said. “But thanks; they’re lovely.” On an impulse I stretched up and kissed him on his cheek. Bernice closed the door behind us like a jailer.

“I hope you don’t mind me turning up like this,” said Morris, watching me as I filled a jug with water and stuck the flowers in.

“Hack thought we should all get together,” added Josh.

He was doing his restless prowl around the living room again, picking things up and putting them down, running his hands over objects.

“Sit down, Josh. You’re making me nervous. It’s good to see you both. It feels a bit odd.”

“What?”

“Come on, look at us.” I started to giggle wretchedly, and Josh, out of nervous politeness, joined in. Morris stared at us both, frowning.

“How can you laugh,” he asked when I’d stopped my hysterical chuckling, “when there’s someone out there who wants to kill you?”

“You should have seen me this morning. Or yesterday, when I discovered it wasn’t you after all. I hope you won’t take it the wrong way when I tell you that I really, really wanted it to be you.”

“Hope’s a cruel thing,” said Morris, nodding his head gravely.

I looked at Josh with concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine.”

He didn’t look fine at all; he looked dreadful, with a pallor that was almost green and bloodshot eyes. I stood up and steered him over to the sofa, pushed him back into its cushions.

“When did you last have something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m going to make you something to eat. Pasta maybe, if I’ve got any. Do you want some?” I asked Morris.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “Just rest there,” he said to Josh, giving him a small slap on his shoulder. “Gather your strength.”

Josh lolled back and closed his eyes. A pale smile spread over his face.

Morris chopped tomatoes. I found half a bag of pasta spirals. I poured them into a pan with a clatter and put the kettle on.

“Are you very scared?” he asked, just like Josh had done.

“It comes and goes,” I said. “I’m trying to stay strong.”

“That’s good,” he said, chopping away. “Are they helping you?”

“Who?”

“The police.”

“Sort of,” I said dismissively.

I didn’t want to get into all of that. I had found a tin of pitted black olives. When the pasta was ready, I tossed a handful over it and sprinkled some olive oil over the top. It looked rather minimalist and elegant. I should have Parmesan cheese and black pepper to finish it off, though. Never mind. Morris was still cutting the tomatoes very slowly and methodically, into tiny cubes.

“How do you imagine him?” he asked.

“I don’t,” I said, surprising myself by my firmness. “I think about the women. Zoe and Jenny.”

He scraped the tomatoes into a bowl.

“If there’s anything I can do,” he said. “Just ask.”

“Thanks,” I said. But not too encouragingly. I’ve got enough friends.

As we ate, I told Josh and Morris about my appointment to see round Zoe’s flat. Both of them looked appropriately dumbfounded by the idea.

“Why don’t you two come with me?” I asked suddenly, half regretting the suggestion as soon as I’d made it.

Josh shook his head. “Gloria’s taking all of us to meet her mother,” he said bitterly.

He seemed much better after his pasta, although all the olives were piled in a neat heap on the side of his plate.

“Yes,” said Morris with a smile. “I’ll come with you.”

“I’m meeting a friend of Zoe’s there as well,” I said. “A woman called Louise.”

“That’s funny,” Morris said.

“Why funny?”

Morris looked a bit taken aback.

“You’re getting to know people who knew Josh’s mother. And now people who knew Zoe. It seems strange.”

“Does it?” I said. “It seems like something I have to do.”

He murmured something that sounded like vague agreement. When he had finished his pasta, he stood up and fished a slim mobile phone out of his jacket pocket.

“Checking my messages,” he said. He stood by the window and pressed buttons on the phone and listened, frowning. “Shit,” he said eventually, buttoning up his jacket. “I’ve got an urgent call. I’ll have to skip the flat. Sorry. I feel awful about that, after promising to help you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He took my hand and squeezed it. Then he left. He liked me; I could tell he liked me. He’d liked me the first time he saw me, when he came round to mend my computer. Couldn’t he tell I was miles away from things like that now, so far away it seemed impossible that one day I would feel desire again?

Josh left soon after. I kissed his cheek at the doorway and tears welled up in his eyes.

“See you,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “Take care of yourself now.”

Then, before he slouched off up the road, he blurted out: “You first. I mean you take care of your self.”

Guy wore a chocolate brown suit, a Bart Simpson tie, and a large smile. He had very white teeth and a tan. He shook my hand firmly. He asked if he could call me Nadia and then kept saying my name, as if it was something he had learned at a course. As he unlocked the front door, a voice behind us said: