Beneath the Skin by Nicci French Read Free Book Online

Occasionally Nick asked questions that I had now become used to.
    “Why are you moving?”
    Did he think he could trap an old hand like me so easily?
    “I want to move closer to my work,” I said, falsely.
    He looked out the window.
    “Is the traffic a problem?” he asked.
    “I’ve never thought about it,” I said. That was laying it on a bit thick. At least he didn’t laugh. I placed the envelope on the table. Unopened. “It’s handy for the shops.”
    He put his hands in his pockets and stood in the middle of my living room as if he were rehearsing being the owner. He looked like the squire of a very small estate indeed.
    “You’re not from London,” he said.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “You don’t sound like it,” he said. “I’m trying to place you. With your name you should be Armenian. But you don’t sound Armenian. Not that I know what Armenians sound like. Maybe they all sound like you.”
    I felt oddly sensitive when people looking around the flat turned personal as if we were all going to be good friends, but I couldn’t help smiling.
    “I grew up in a village near Sheffield.”
    “Different from London.”
    “Yeah.”
    There was a pause for mutual thought.
    “I’d like to think about this,” Nick said with an earnest expression. “Would it be all right if I came back and had another look sometime?”
    I was dubious about whether it was specifically the flat he was interested in, but it didn’t bother me too much. Even a crumb of enthusiasm was something.
    “Fine,” I said.
    “Can I ring you or do I need to go through the estate agent?”
    “Whatever,” I said. “I’m at work quite a lot.”
    “What do you do?”
    “I’m a teacher in a primary school.”
    “That’s great,” he said. “All those holidays.”
    I forced a smile.
    “Your number,” he said. “Can you give it to me?”
    I told him and he typed it into what looked like a chunky pocket calculator.
    “Good to meet you, erm . . . ?”
    “Zoe.”
    “Zoe.”
    I heard him trip down the stairs two at a time and I was left alone with my letter. I pretended to myself to be casual about it for a bit. I made myself an instant coffee and lit a cigarette. Then I opened it and spread it out on the table before me:
Dear Zoe.
    I may be wrong, but I think you aren’t as scared as I mean you to be. As you know, I’m looking at you. Maybe I’m looking at you as you read this.
    It was stupid but I glanced up and around, as if I might catch someone next to me.
As I said before, what I’m really interested in is looking at you from the inside, the bits of you that you’ll never see but I will.
    Maybe it’s that you feel secure in your horrible little flat that you can’t sell. You’re not secure. For example: your back window. It’s easy to climb up on the shed in the yard behind and then through it. You should put a proper lock on it. The one you’ve got at the moment is too easy. That’s why I left it open. Go and look.
    P.S. You look happy when you’re asleep. Being dead is only like being asleep forever.
    I put the paper back on the table. I walked across the room and out onto the landing. Sure enough the window that looked down on the garden I wasn’t allowed to go into was raised a couple of feet. I shivered. I almost felt that there was a chill in the flat, like in a cellar, though I knew it was a clammy hot evening. I went back into the living room and sat by the phone. I wanted to be sick. But was it an emergency? Was it anything?
    I compromised. I looked up the nearest police station in the phone book and phoned it. I had a slightly complicated conversation with a woman at the desk, who seemed to be looking for excuses to put the phone down. I said there had been a break-in and she asked what had been stolen and what damage had been done. I said no damage and I wasn’t sure what had been stolen.
    “Is this a police matter?” the voice asked wearily.
    “I’ve been threatened,” I said.