Beneath the Skin (10 page)

“Shall we talk to Stadler? Right, Detective Inspector Cameron Stadler. And Grace Schilling? . . . Can you give her a bell? And send an officer along with the file. Send Lynne—she’s good at this kind of thing. We’ll meet her there. . . . Right, see you later.”

Aldham put the phone away and turned to Pauline.

“Is it all right if Miss Haratounian comes with us for a while?”

“Of course,” Pauline said. She looked at me with a new concern. “Is everything all right?”

“It’ll be fine,” Aldham said. “We just need to go through some routine procedures.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to pick up Ellie’s art book. “All right?” he said.

It was quite a long drive across London. The permanent traffic jam was even worse on a Friday and a lorry had got stuck turning into a builder’s yard, and Aldham took a shortcut that got caught in a residential traffic system off the Ball’s Pond Road.

“Are we going to the police station?” I asked.

“Later, maybe,” he said, in between cursing other vehicles. “We’re seeing a woman who knows about psycho stuff like this.”

“What did you think of the drawing?”

“Some people, eh?”

But it wasn’t clear whether he was talking about the artist or an old woman crossing the road very slowly. I didn’t follow it up.

After almost an hour we drove along a residential street and arrived at what looked like a school but had a sign outside identifying it as the Welbeck Clinic. A female officer was sitting in reception reading a file. When she saw us she snapped it shut and came forward. She handed it to Aldham.

“You stay here,” he said to me. “Officer Burnett will stay with you.”

“Lynne,” she said to me with a reassuring smile. She had a purple birthmark on her cheek and big eyes. On another day, I would have liked the look of her.

I started to light another cigarette but this really was verboten, so Lynne and I stood out on the step and she had one of my cigarettes as well, like a good girl. She didn’t seem very used to it and kept coughing and spluttering. I think she did it to keep me company. And she didn’t speak, which was a relief. It was just ten minutes before Aldham emerged. With him was a tall woman in a long gray coat. She had blond hair tied up on her head casually. She was carrying a leather briefcase and a khaki canvas shoulder bag. She didn’t look all that much older than me. Early thirties maybe.

“Miss Haratounian, this is Dr. Schilling,” Aldham said.

We shook hands. She looked at me with narrowed eyes, as if I were an unusual specimen that had been brought in for examination.

“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I’m already late for a meeting, but I wanted a quick word.”

I suddenly felt crushed. I’d been driven across London to talk to a woman as she accelerated past me on the steps of a clinic.

“So what do you think?”

“I think this should be taken seriously.” She gave a sharp look across at Aldham. “Maybe it should have been taken seriously a bit more quickly.”

“But it could be a joke, couldn’t it?”

“It
is
a joke,” she said, and looked troubled.

“But he hasn’t done anything. I mean, he hasn’t done anything to hurt me physically.” In the face of her grave attention, I wanted to turn the whole thing back into a stupid prank.

“Exactly,” said Aldham, a bit too enthusiastically.

“The problem with that argument,” Schilling said, more to Aldham than to me, “is that . . .” She paused and collected herself. What had she been going to say? She swallowed. “It’s not much protection for Miss Haratounian.”

“Call me Zoe,” I said. “It’s less of a mouthful.”

“Zoe,” she said. “I want us to have a proper meeting on Monday morning to go over this in considerable detail. I’d like to see you here at nine o’clock.”

“I’ve got a job.”

“
This
is your job,” she said. “For the moment. I’ve got to go now but . . . That drawing, that really is your bedroom?”

“I’ve already said that.”

Dr. Schilling was fidgeting, moving from one foot to the other. If she had been a child in my class, I would have sent her to the lavatory.

“You’ve got a boyfriend, right?” she asked.

“Yes, Fred.”

“Do you live together?”

I forced a half smile. “He doesn’t spend the night.”

“What, never?”

“No.”

“This is a sexual relationship?”

“Yeah, we’ve gone all the way to ten or whatever it is, if that’s what you mean.”

She looked at Aldham.

“Talk to him.”

“If you’re thinking it might be Fred,” I said, “you can stop right now. Apart from the fact that it can’t be him, because, oh well, just because, you know.” She nodded, kind but quite unconvinced. “Well, he was away the night it must have happened. He was in the Dales, digging a garden with several other people. He didn’t come back till the following evening. I think you’ll find he’s even caught on camera by Yorkshire TV to prove it.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Yeah. One hundred percent.”

“Talk to him anyway,” she said to Aldham. Then to me: “I’ll see you on Monday, Zoe. I don’t want to panic you and it may well be nothing. But I think it would be a good idea if you didn’t spend the night alone at your flat for a while. Doug”—that must be Aldham—“look at her locks, all right? Bye, see you Monday.”

Aldham and I walked back to his car.

“That was . . . er, quick,” I said.

“Don’t worry about her,” Aldham said. “She’s ten percent bullshit and ninety percent covering her arse.”

“She said you should talk to Fred. You don’t want to do that, do you?”

“We’ve got to start somewhere.”

“Now?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He’s working on a garden.”

“
In
a garden, you mean.”

“No, Fred says he’s working
on
a garden. I think it’s meant to sound more artistic. Where are we now?”

“Hampstead.”

“I think he’s fairly nearby. He said north London.”

“Good. Do you know the address?”

“I could ring him on his mobile. But can’t it wait?”

“Please,” said Aldham, offering me his phone.

I found the number in my appointment book and started to dial.

“If you go and see him, can I talk to him first?”

Aldham looked disconcerted.

“What for?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Out of politeness maybe.”

I saw Fred before he saw me. He was at the far end of the long back garden of an amazingly grand house. He was moving sideways along a border with a trimmer that was suspended from his shoulders by straps. He was wearing a baseball cap with the peak backward, torn jeans, a white T-shirt, heavy work boots. He also had an eye visor and ear protectors, so that the only way I could make myself known to him was to tap him on the shoulder. He started slightly, even though I had rung ahead to warn him I was coming. He switched off the machine and unclipped the straps. He pulled off the visor and the ear protectors. He seemed dazed by the noise, even though it had stopped, and by the bright light. We were standing in bright sunshine by a border of lilies. Fred was soaked in sweat.

He stood back and stared at me in surprise and even anger. He’s one of those people, I thought, who like to keep everything in their separate compartments: Work and relationships were absolutely separate, like sex and sleep were. I’d leaked over. He wasn’t pleased.

“Hello,” he said, making the greeting into a question.

“Hello,” I said, kissing him, touching his wet cheek. “Sorry. They said they wanted to talk to you. I told them it wasn’t necessary.”

“Now?” he said warily. “We’re in the middle of a job. I can’t just stop.”

“That’s nothing to do with me,” I said. “I just wanted to say to you face-to-face that I was sorry you’re being dragged in.”

He seemed suddenly unyielding.

“What’s all the fuss about?”

I gave him a potted version of what had happened at school, but he didn’t seem to be taking it in. He was like one of those awful people at parties who glance over your shoulder at a better-looking girl over by the drinks. In this case Fred kept looking at Aldham, who was hovering over at the other end of the garden by the door into the house.

“And so she said I should stay away from my flat for the next few days.”

There was a pause and I looked at Fred. I waited for him to speak, to commiserate, to say that of course I could stay with him until all of this had been sorted out, if I would like to. I waited for him to put his arms round me and tell me everything was going to be all right and he was here for me. His face, under the sheen of his sweat, was like a mask. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking at all.

Then his eyes dropped to my breasts. I felt myself beginning to flush with humiliation and the first stirrings of a hot anger.

“I . . .” he began and then stopped, looking around. “All right. I’ll talk to them for a minute. Nothing to say, though.”

“Another thing,” I said, without even knowing I was going to. “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

That stopped his wandering, mildly lecherous eyes; his vague and disconnected air. He stared at me. I could see a vein throbbing in his temple, the muscles of his jaw clenching and unclenching.

“And why would that be, Zoe?” he said at last. His voice was icy.

“Maybe it’s not a good time,” I said.

He unstrapped the huge trimmer and laid it on the grass.

“Are you breaking off with me?”

“Yes.”

A flush spread over his handsome face. His eyes were completely cold. He looked me up and down, as if I were on display in a shop window and he was deciding whether he wanted to buy me or not. Then he allowed a little sneer to twitch at his mouth.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he said.

I looked at him, his sweaty face and bulging eyes.

“I’m scared,” I replied. “And I need help, and I’m not going to get it from you, am I?”

“You cunt,” he said. “You stuck-up cunt.”

I turned and walked away. I just wanted to get out of here, to be somewhere safe.

Her hair is hanging loose on her shoulders. It needs washing. The parting is dark, a bit greasy. She has aged in the past week. There are lines running from the wings of her nostrils to the corners of her mouth, dark shadows under her eyes, a faint crease in her brow as if she has been frowning for hours on end. Her skin is looking slightly unhealthy, pale and a bit grubby underneath the tan. No earrings today. She wears an old pair of cotton trousers, oatmeal I think you would call the color, and a white short-sleeved shirt. The trousers are loose on her and they need pressing. There is a button missing on the shirt. She chews the side of her middle finger on her right hand without realizing. She looks around a lot, eyes never resting on one person for more than a second. Sometimes she blinks, as if she is having trouble focusing. She smokes all the time, lighting one cigarette from another.

The feeling inside me is growing. When I am ready, I will know. I will know when she is ready. It is like love; you just know. There is nothing more certain. Certainty fills me up, it makes me strong and purposeful. She gets weaker and smaller. I look at her and I think to myself, I did this.

I banged at the door. Why didn’t she come? Oh please come quickly, now. I couldn’t breathe. I knew I had to, everyone had to breathe, but when I tried, I couldn’t, not properly, though an unbearable pressure was growing in my chest. I took some shallow gasps, sounding as if I had been on a desperate crying jag. There was a tight band of pain round my head and everything was out of focus. Please help me, I couldn’t say, couldn’t shout. There was a boulder in my throat, in my lungs, stopping me from taking a breath. I couldn’t stand up any longer; everything was going blurred and gray-black. So I sank to my knees at the door.

“Zoe? Zoe! For chrissakes, Zoe, what’s happened?” Louise was on her knees beside me, wrapped in a towel and with wet hair. She had her arm around my shoulder and the towel was slipping away but she didn’t mind, darling Louise, and she didn’t mind that people were passing and giving us very strange looks and probably crossing the road to avoid us. I tried to speak, but I couldn’t get any words out, just a strange, stuttering sound.

She took me in her arms and rocked me. Nobody had done that to me since Mum had died. I was like a little girl again, and someone else was taking care of me at last. Oh, how I’d missed that; how I’d missed having a mother. She was whispering things that didn’t make sense, and telling me that everything was going to be all right, everything was going to be just fine, there, there, sssh, that’s right. She was telling me to breathe in and out, calmly. In and out. Gradually I started to be able to breathe once more. But I couldn’t talk yet. Just whimper, like a baby. I felt warm tears slide under my closed lids, onto my hot cheeks. I never wanted to move, not ever again. My limbs felt heavy, too heavy to stir. I could sleep now.

Louise lifted me to my feet, holding her towel round her with one hand. She led me up the stairs into her flat and sat me on the sofa and sat beside me.

“It was a panic attack,” she said. “That’s all, Zoe.”

The panic was gone, but I was left with the fear. It was like being in a cold shadow, I said to Louise. It was like looking off the edge of a tall building, so tall that I couldn’t see the bottom.

I wanted to curl up, sleep until it was over. I wanted someone else to take charge and make everything all right again. I wanted to go put my hands over my ears and close my eyes and it would all go away.

One day, said Louise, trying to be reassuring, you’ll look back on all this and it will be something horrible that happened and went away. You’ll be able to turn it into a story that you tell people about yourself. I didn’t believe her; I didn’t believe it would ever go away. The world had become a different place for me.

I stayed with Louise at her flat in Dalston, near the market. There was nowhere else for me to go. She was my friend and I trusted her and while she was around, small and sturdy and kind, I felt less scared. Nothing would happen to me while Louise was with me.