“Are you very scared?” he asked, just like Josh had done.

“It comes and goes,” I said. “I’m trying to stay strong.”

“That’s good,” he said, chopping away. “Are they helping you?”

“Who?”

“The police.”

“Sort of,” I said dismissively.

I didn’t want to get into all of that. I had found a tin of pitted black olives. When the pasta was ready, I tossed a handful over it and sprinkled some olive oil over the top. It looked rather minimalist and elegant. I should have Parmesan cheese and black pepper to finish it off, though. Never mind. Morris was still cutting the tomatoes very slowly and methodically, into tiny cubes.

“How do you imagine him?” he asked.

“I don’t,” I said, surprising myself by my firmness. “I think about the women. Zoe and Jenny.”

He scraped the tomatoes into a bowl.

“If there’s anything I can do,” he said. “Just ask.”

“Thanks,” I said. But not too encouragingly. I’ve got enough friends.

As we ate, I told Josh and Morris about my appointment to see round Zoe’s flat. Both of them looked appropriately dumbfounded by the idea.

“Why don’t you two come with me?” I asked suddenly, half regretting the suggestion as soon as I’d made it.

Josh shook his head. “Gloria’s taking all of us to meet her mother,” he said bitterly.

He seemed much better after his pasta, although all the olives were piled in a neat heap on the side of his plate.

“Yes,” said Morris with a smile. “I’ll come with you.”

“I’m meeting a friend of Zoe’s there as well,” I said. “A woman called Louise.”

“That’s funny,” Morris said.

“Why funny?”

Morris looked a bit taken aback.

“You’re getting to know people who knew Josh’s mother. And now people who knew Zoe. It seems strange.”

“Does it?” I said. “It seems like something I have to do.”

He murmured something that sounded like vague agreement. When he had finished his pasta, he stood up and fished a slim mobile phone out of his jacket pocket.

“Checking my messages,” he said. He stood by the window and pressed buttons on the phone and listened, frowning. “Shit,” he said eventually, buttoning up his jacket. “I’ve got an urgent call. I’ll have to skip the flat. Sorry. I feel awful about that, after promising to help you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He took my hand and squeezed it. Then he left. He liked me; I could tell he liked me. He’d liked me the first time he saw me, when he came round to mend my computer. Couldn’t he tell I was miles away from things like that now, so far away it seemed impossible that one day I would feel desire again?

Josh left soon after. I kissed his cheek at the doorway and tears welled up in his eyes.

“See you,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “Take care of yourself now.”

Then, before he slouched off up the road, he blurted out: “You first. I mean you take care of yourself.”

EIGHTEEN

Guy wore a chocolate brown suit, a Bart Simpson tie, and a large smile. He had very white teeth and a tan. He shook my hand firmly. He asked if he could call me Nadia and then kept saying my name, as if it was something he had learned at a course. As he unlocked the front door, a voice behind us said:

“Nadia?”

I turned and saw a woman about my size, about my age. She was dressed in a sleeveless yellow top and a very red skirt, which was so short I could almost see the curve of her buttocks; her bare brown legs were strong and shapely. Her glossy brown hair was pulled back from her face in a ponytail; her lips were painted a red to match her skirt. She looked bright, alert, pugnacious. My spirits rose.

“Louise? I’m glad you came.”

She smiled reassuringly. Together we went into a dingy entrance hall and up the narrow stairs.

“This is the living room,” said Guy unnecessarily as we stepped into a cramped space, which smelled musty and unlived in. A pair of thin orange curtains were half drawn across the small windows, and I stepped forward and opened them. What a depressing little flat.

“Tell you what,” I said to Guy, “would it be all right if we just looked round it without you? You can wait outside.”

“Don’t you…?”

“No,” said Louise. Then, as he left, “Creep. Zoe couldn’t stand him. He asked her out. Kept hassling her.”

We smiled at each other sadly. I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. Zoe with the lovely smile lived here. Through that door, she died.

“I like the sound of her,” I said. “I wish-” I stopped.

“She was great,” said Louise. “I hate saying ‘was.’ The kids at the school adored her. Men were smitten too. There was something about her…”

“Yes?”

Louise was walking around looking with eyes that clearly saw things I couldn’t. When she talked it was almost to herself.

“She lost her mother when she was young, you know. And somehow she always seemed like that-like someone who didn’t have a mother. It made you feel protective towards her. Maybe that’s why…”

“What?”

“Who knows? Why does a woman get picked on?” She caught my eye.

“I’ve been wondering about that,” I said.

I walked round the room, looking: Nothing had been cleared away yet, although somebody had obviously tidied everything up. Books were neatly stacked on surfaces, a couple of pencils, a ruler and an eraser lay on top of a lined notebook on the small table by the window. I opened it up and there on the first page was a list of lesson ideas, neatly listed and numbered. Zoe’s handwriting: small looped letters, neat. On the wall was a framed page from a newspaper, with a picture of Zoe, surrounded by dozens of small children, holding a giant watermelon.

We went into the kitchen. Mugs stood on the draining board; some dead flowers drooped in a vase. A single bottle of white wine stood by the kettle. The fridge was open and gleamingly empty.

“Her aunt owns the flat now,” said Louise, as if I had asked her some questions about arrangements.

I picked up a calculator that was lying on the counter surface and idly pressed a few buttons, watched a sum appear on its screen.

“Was she terrified?”

“Yeah. She stayed at my place. She had been completely out of it, but she seemed calmer on that last day. She thought it was going to be all right. I was outside, you know.” Louise jerked her head toward the street. “Waiting on a double yellow line in my car along the road. I waited and I waited. Then I tooted the horn and waited some more and cursed her. Then I rang the doorbell. Finally I called the police.”

“So you didn’t see her body?”

Louise blinked at me.

“No,” she said eventually. “They would not let me see it. It was only later they brought me to look at the flat. I couldn’t believe it. She just got out of my car and said she wouldn’t be a minute.”

“Are you ladies all right in there?” called Guy from the stairwell.

“We won’t be long,” I shouted back.

Together we went through into her bedroom. The bed was stripped and a pile of sheets and pillowcases lay stacked on the chair. I opened the wardrobe. Her clothes were still there. She didn’t have many. Three pairs of shoes stood on the wardrobe floor. I put up a hand and fingered the cloth of a pale blue dress, a cotton jacket with an unstitched hem.

“Did you know Fred?” I asked.

“Sure. Very charming. Zoe was better off without him, though. He wasn’t exactly supportive. It was a relief to her when she finally told him it was over.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Briefly I closed my eyes and let myself see the photograph of her corpse, peaceful on the floor as if she had gone to sleep there. Maybe she didn’t suffer. I opened my eyes and there was Louise, looking at me with mild concern.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “What’s all this for?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I hoped I might learn something, but I’ve no idea what it would be. Maybe I’m just looking for Zoe.”