Beneath the Skin by Nicci French Read Free Book Online Page A

“Threatened with violence.”
    The discussion went on for quite a few minutes more, and after a conversation with a third party, inadequately masked by a hand over the receiver, she said that somebody would call round “in due course,” whatever that meant. I went from window to window, locking them when I could, fastening bolts. As if somebody was going to climb into a first-floor window in full view of Holloway Road. I didn’t switch on the TV or play music. I wanted to be able to hear anything. I just smoked cigarette after cigarette and sipped a beer.
    It was over an hour later that the doorbell rang. I walked down to the street door but didn’t open it.
    “Who’s there?”
    There was a muffled sound from behind the door.
    “What?”
    Another muffled sound. Awkwardly I pulled back the stiff-sprung opening of the letterbox and looked out. I saw dark blue cloth. I opened the door. There were two police officers. Their car was parked behind them.
    “Do you want to come in?”
    They didn’t reply but looked at each other and stepped forward. I led them up the stairs. Both of them took off their caps as they entered the house. I wondered if it was an ancient form of respect toward women. To make things worse, I get nervous around the police. I tried to remember if there was anything illegal in the flat, in the fridge or on the mantelpiece. I didn’t think so but my mind wasn’t working very efficiently, so I couldn’t be sure. I pointed to the letter on the table. Maybe I shouldn’t touch it. It might be evidence. One of the officers stepped forward and leaned over the table, reading it. It took him quite a long time. I saw he had a long Roman nose, with a lump where it met his head.
    “You’ve had another letter from this person?” he asked finally.
    “Yes, I got one a few days ago. On Wednesday, I think.”
    “Where is it?”
    I’d been waiting for this.
    “I threw it away,” I said, a bit guiltily, and then quickly started speaking before he could get cross with me. “I’m sorry. I know it was a stupid thing to do. I just got upset by it.”
    But the officer didn’t get cross. He didn’t seem worried at all. Or even especially interested.
    “Did you check the window?”
    “Yes. It was open.”
    “Can you show us?”
    I led them out of the room. They followed in rather a heavy sort of way, as if they were being asked to do too much for something so trivial.
    “The pub garden’s down there,” the other officer murmured, peering through the window. Roman Nose nodded. “He could’ve seen the window from down there.”
    They turned and walked back to the living room.
    “Can you think of anybody who might have sent this? Old boyfriend, someone at work, that sort of thing?”
    I took a deep breath and told them about the melon and the mail it had provoked. They both laughed.
    “That was you?” said Roman Nose rather cheerily. He turned to the other officer. “Danny was first at the scene at that one.” He turned back to me. “Nice one. We’ve got your picture up in the station. Quite a heroine you are to us.” He chuckled. “Watermelon, eh? Better than a truncheon any day.” There was crackling in his radio. He pressed a button and a voice said something that was unintelligible to me. “That’s all right. We’ll be along in a minute. See you there.” He looked back at me. “That’s it, then.”
    “What?”
    “You get your face in the paper, this sort of thing happens.”
    “But he’s broken in, he’s threatened me.”
    “You’re not from London, are you? What was your name again?”
    “Haratounian. Zoe Haratounian.”
    “Funny old name. Italian, is it?”
    “No.”
    “It’s just that there’s a lot of strange people about.”
    “But hasn’t he committed a crime?”
    Roman Nose shrugged.
    “Has anything been taken?” he asked.
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
    “Are there any signs of forced entry?”
    “Not that I could see.”
    He looked across at his