The Red Room by Nicci French Read Free Book Online

this man who picked me and a friend up when we were going
up to the Drakensberg Mountains?"
She hadn't but we moved over to the sofa and she
did now. The full version, this time. It felt
soothing, Julie stretched out like a cat talking with
fond pleasure about these faraway dangers while
I took a sip of my drink every few 61
minutes, and outside the night came on very
slowly, like a game of Grandmother's Footsteps that
I could never win. And finally I looked up and
Julie was asleep, her drink still in her hand, her
brain having told her strong brown body that it was
in Thailand or Hong Kong, and that it was actually
three in the morning. I slid the glass from her
fingers and she murmured something unintelligible.
Then I fetched a duvet from the cupboard in my
bedroom and covered her with it, right up to her chin.
She gave a sigh and wrapped herself up in it like a
hamster in its nest. I couldn't help smiling at
the sight. This wanderer was already more comfortable in my
flat than I was.
I went into my bedroom and took off my
clothes. It had been the strangest day--frantic
with activity after so many weeks of convalescence.
My head buzzed with thoughts. My skin felt
cold and exposed, like a twig peeled of its
bark. I climbed into bed and pulled my own
duvet around me. I couldn't seem to get it
comfortably over me. I knew that it was square but
it felt as if it were lozenge-shaped and there always
seemed to be a bit of my body exposed. At
last I allowed myself to think of the girl found dead
by the canal. Lianne, that was her name, or the name
she had called herself. Just Lianne. A lost
girl with no real name. I would find out more about her
soon; tomorrow, perhaps. I had to sleep, so that my
brain would be clear for tomorrow. Tomorrow I had to see
Doll. I touched my scar. Closed my eyes.
She wasn't by the canal anymore,
obviously. Lianne with no last name. She would
be in a cold metal cabinet, filed away. I
felt, almost physically, the size of London
stretching around me in all directions. There were
bad things going on in some of those houses. But I
tried to convince myself that it didn't matter
statistically. Think of all the millions and
millions of houses in which good things were happening,
or nothing much at all beyond loneliness or
neglect. That was the really amazing statistic.
All those houses in which no serious harm was being
done. It didn't cheer me up but I fell
asleep anyway.
    5 63
    Michael Doll's bedsit was above a
dog-grooming parlor in Homerton, in a road
full of strange and dingy shops that always made me
wonder how they could possibly make any money.
There was a taxidermist, with a stuffed and faded
kingfisher staring with dull eyes out of the window. Who
had wanted to stuff a kingfisher? There was a clothes
shop selling flowery aprons and Crimplene
slacks with heel straps; an everything-under-l1
shop; a twenty-four-hour grocer, where dented
tins were stacked in pyramids on the shelves and a
fat man sat at the till picking his nose.
Number 24A. One of the windows was covered with a
billowing stretch of plastic. A light was on.
I turned to Furth. "You know it's not meant
to be this way round. You should be looking at the
case, and theorizing a suspect, not looking at a
suspect and seeing if he can be fitted into your
case. I'm only doing this because you've already
fucked up, sending your pretty Colette in with
her wires and flashing her slim legs."
"Of course, Kit," he replied blandly,
looking ahead down the grim street. "Are you
all right, though?"
"Fine." I wasn't going to tell him that
I'd been awake since three in the morning,
rehearsing for this moment.
As we got out of the car, I felt a spasm of
apprehension and clenched my fists. I had put
on a pair of black jeans, a long-sleeved
white T-shirt under an old suede jacket, which
hid my alarm. My hair was loosely tied
back. I wanted to look relaxed and
approachable, but