She smiled. “Are you looking for a clue?” she asked.

“Stupid, aren’t I? Is anything missing?”

Louise looked around.

“The police wanted to know that. I couldn’t really tell. The only thing I noticed was that there was a wall hanging that Fred had given her. That was gone.”

“Yes,” I said. “I saw that in the file on the murder scene.”

“It seems a funny thing to steal. It can’t have been worth anything.”

“The police assumed that the killer used it to carry stuff away in.”

Louise looked puzzled. “Why not just use a plastic carrier bag from the kitchen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t suppose people are all that rational just after they’ve killed someone.”

“Anyway, she didn’t have that many things. Her aunt may have helped herself already. And the police will have removed stuff, of course. Mostly it looks just like I remember it. Dreary place, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“She hated it. Especially by the end. But it doesn’t give you any idea of what she was like.” Louise went back into the living room and sat down on the sofa. “On her last day, we went shopping together. Just to buy her a couple of things to wear until she collected all her stuff, you know. We got her a pair of knickers and a bra and some socks, and then she said she wanted to buy a T-shirt. Mine were all too big for her. She was a skinny thing, and she’d lost weight with all the fear. So we ended up going to this kids’ shop down the road from my flat and she found a light summer dress and a white T-shirt with little embroidered flowers all over it. Size ten to eleven, it said on the label. Ten to eleven: It fitted her perfectly. She tried it on in the fitting room and when she came out wearing it she looked so-so sweet, you know, with her hair all mussed up and her thin arms and her bright face, giggling a bit, in this kids’ T-shirt.”

Tears were trickling down Louise’s face. She made no attempt to wipe them away.

“That’s how I think of her,” she said. “She was twenty-three, with a proper grown-up job and a flat and all that. But when I think of her, I see her standing giggling at me, wearing clothes made for a child. She was so little, so young.” She fished inside her bag and pulled out a tissue, wiped her face. “That’s what she was wearing when she was killed. All dressed up in her brand-new clothes. Clean and fresh as a daisy.”

“Ladies,” called Guy again, putting his head round the door. He looked confused when he saw us hugging in the middle of the room, tears streaming down our faces. I didn’t know who I was crying for, but we stood there like that for a while, weeping, and when we left Louise put her hands on either side of my face and held me like that for a moment and stared at me.

“Good luck, Nadia, my new friend,” she said. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

NINETEEN

Just before seven on the following evening I was lying on the sofa in my flat when the front doorbell rang. Up to that point, the day had gone wrong. In the night I’d been thinking about Zoe and Jenny. I thought of them like friends now. More than that, maybe. I lay in bed that night and thought of myself as walking on a footpath and knowing that Zoe and then Jenny had walked this footpath before me. Sometimes I would see traces showing they had passed and always I knew that they had seen what I was seeing. They had gone ahead, and, in that early morning with the light around my curtain edges, I thought of them waiting for me out there, in the darkness and nothingness.

Had they thought about dying? What had they done? I didn’t mean what precautions they had taken. Had they lived their lives in a different way? What do you do when you may have a day or a week to live? It was supposed to make life more precious. I should think clearly, read great books. I wasn’t sure I had any great books. After I got up and made myself some coffee, I looked along the shelves and found a book of poems someone had given me for a birthday present. They were supposed to be particularly suited to learning by heart but I couldn’t even read them off the page. Something seemed to be wrong with my brain. I couldn’t follow the sense of the poems. Their meaning was a song playing in the next house too faintly to make out. I put it back in the shelf and switched on the television.

Just a day earlier I’d been thinking about constructive ways to use the rest of my life. Now I was watching a talk show involving women who’d had affairs with their sister’s boyfriend and then a cooking program that was also a game show and then a repeat of a sitcom from the seventies and a rather old-looking documentary about a coral reef somewhere. The divers had sideburns. I saw lots of weather reports.

If I died at twenty-eight and somebody wrote an obituary of me, which they wouldn’t, what would they find to say? “In her later years she found her niche as a moderately successful children’s party entertainer.” Zoe had a job as a teacher, though she was hardly more than a child herself. Jenny had three children. She had Josh, a child who was almost a man.

I fell asleep on the sofa and woke up and watched the end of a western and some indoor bowling and a quiz program and another cookery program, and it was then that the doorbell rang. I opened the door. Josh and Morris were standing there. The damp, warm aroma of Indian food blew in. Morris was in discussion with a policewoman.

“Yes, she does know us. And the other woman who was here already has our names and addresses. I can give it to you again if you want.” He turned and saw me. “We bought a takeaway and we were nearby, so we thought we’d drop in.”

I looked blank. It wasn’t them. It was having spent an entire day in front of the TV screen. I felt tranquilized.

“It’s fine,” Morris continued. “Don’t worry. We can go off with our food and find a bench somewhere or a doorway. Somewhere under a street lamp. In the rain.”

I couldn’t help smiling. The day was still sunny and bright.

“Don’t be stupid. Come in.” The policewoman looked reluctant. “It’s all right. I know them.”

They came in bringing the lovely smell with them and dumped three carrier bags on the table.

“You’re probably going out to a dinner party,” said Morris.

“As it happens, I’m not,” I confessed.

They both took off their jackets and tossed them to one side. They looked very at home.

“I rescued Josh from a nightmarish soiree at home and we went out in search of a woman.”

Josh smiled so awkwardly that I almost felt I should give him a hug, except that that would have made things even worse. They started unloading tinfoil cartons.

“We didn’t know about your tolerance,” said Morris, peeling off the cardboard lids. “So we got everything from extremely mild cooked in cream to meat phal, which is marked dangerously hot, and various things in between and a couple of nans, papadums, dhal, and various veg. Beer for the grown-ups, whereas Josh will have to make do with lager.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Are you allowed to drink, Josh?”

“Of course,” he said truculently.

Oh well. I had enough to worry about. I got out plates, glasses, and knives.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t been in?” I asked.

“Morris was sure you’d be in,” Josh said.

“Oh yes?” I asked, turning to Morris with a mock-ironical expression.

He smiled.

“I wasn’t making fun of you,” he said. “I thought you might be a bit shaken up.”

“I was a bit,” I said. “It’s not been a good time.”

“I can see that,” he said. “So eat.”

And we did and it was good. I needed a good, messy, undignified meal in which lots of things were piled up together, and I ripped off bits of nan and dipped them in different sauces. We challenged each other to take mouthfuls of the phal with glasses of very cold beer standing by. I think Morris cheated and only took a tiny amount while pretending to be brave, but Josh took a few deep breaths and really did put a substantial spoonful of the fiery meat into his mouth and chewed and swallowed it. We stared at him and beads of sweat started to pop out of pores on his forehead.