The Red Room by Nicci French Page A

exactly use those words."
I frowned and he gave me his cocky grin again
and whistled through his teeth.
I tried to picture the scene to myself. When she
was found, she had been wearing a very short red
Lycra skirt, pulled up over her
buttocks. Her underpants had not been removed.
She had been wearing a purple cotton shirt with
no bra underneath. She had been wearing the clothes
when she died and they hadn't been removed
subsequently. The stabbings had been through the
shirt. On her left wrist she wore one of those
digital watches they give away 137
free at garages, and round her neck was a
tacky gilt locket in the shape of a broken
heart. It had curly pink writing on it:
"Best ..." Was someone, somewhere, wearing the other
half of the heart, bearing the legend, his... Friend"?
----
I rang up Poppy, my best friend. I
needed to hear a warm voice again.
"Kit! How's it gone, your first week
back?" In the background I could hear children
shrieking and yelling. Poppy was stirring something, the
chink of a spoon.
Only a week, I thought. Four days.
"Odd," I answered. "Very odd."
"I tried to ring you before. Some woman I
didn't know answered."
"Julie. Did you ever meet her years ago?
Maybe she was before your time. She's been away."
"Didn't she give you my message?" She
hadn't. "Who is she? Hang on--Megan!
Amy! Come and get your hot milk and honey!
Sorry. This Julie ..."
"She's been away, traveling round the world.
She's staying here. For a bit."
"Oh. Do you mind?"
"Not yet, not really."
"But are you all right? Oh, Christ, clear that
up now. Now! Get a cloth or something, it's
running everywhere."
"Do you have to go?"
"I think so. Call you back."
----
I'd bought food the previous day, including a
bag of fresh pasta, a jar of red pepper and
chili sauce and a couple of those bags of salad
that you don't have to wash. But they had disappeared. So
had the slice of lemon and ginger cheesecake.
There was almost nothing in the fridge except for a
couple of cartons of milk, some cream cheese
and--I lifted them up to make absolutely
sure--a pair of new black knickers, with their
price tag still attached.
I knocked on Julie's door. No
answer. I pushed it open. Clothes were flung
everywhere, including some of my own. There were jars of
cream and tubes of lipstick on the filing
cabinet, where she'd propped a mirror from the
bathroom. My slippers lay by her unmade
bed.
I didn't feel like going out to the 139
shops again--I was too tired--so I made myself
some toast and marmalade and a mug of cocoa. I
retrieved my slippers and put on my
dressing-gown. Then I got out my sketch-pad.
I sat at the table, taking small sips of
frothy hot chocolate, and I tried to draw
Lianne--not her face, though; her small
childish hands, with the nails chewed to the quick. Hands
are difficult, worse than feet or faces,
even. It's almost impossible to get the
proportions right. Fingers bulge out like bananas;
the thumb twists at an improbable angle.
I couldn't get it right, and after several
attempts I gave up. I was mildly bothered
by the black knickers in my fridge and the rain
slapping at my window and the itchy notion that I was
missing something.
    11
    Being busy brings its own adrenaline rush. That
morning, instead of lying in a hot bath until I
heard Julie leave, I took a quick shower and
washed my hair. I didn't bother to dry it, just
toweled it briskly then twisted it up. I
drank my coffee while I pulled on a
dress and sandals. Then, putting my car keys and
an apple in my bag, I managed to whisk out
past Julie, who sat at the kitchen table with a
mug of tea, looking as sleepy as a cat in a
puddle of sunlight. I drove straight to the
Welbeck and parked my car in its old place,
under the acacia tree. The morning was misty and
damp. No one else was there yet except a
cleaner, moving backwards over the lobby with a
vacuum cleaner.
In my office I pulled the door shut and
opened