“It’s amazing. What you drivers know.”

The driver laughed. “It’s called the Knowledge. You know.”

Jury nodded. “There ought to be a pub by that name. The Knowledge.”

“Maybe there is.”

Even if the driver hadn’t got “the Knowledge,” it wouldn’t be hard finding Bidwell Street. Not given all of the activity-lights and vehicles, CID, uniform, fire brigade, ambulance, photographers, forensic, medical. It was astonishing what one murder in the streets of a city could call out.

The doctor was a man Jury didn’t know, maybe pulled over from Bart’s, which was nearby. He was kneeling beside the body.

Wiggins said, nodding in that direction, “Pathologist got here ten minutes ago. His name’s Bellsin.”

Dr. Bellsin rose at Jury’s approach. He was a small, sad-eyed man who looked as if he were permanently stationed in the outskirts of regret. The first words out of his mouth were “I’m sorry.” He shook Jury’s hand as if the loss had been personal. To one or the other or both.

Jury looked down at the body and then knelt. The doctor did so, too.

The woman was young-in her thirties, as Wiggins had said, which surely must still qualify as young. And she was pretty- beautiful, when there’d been life in her. Her hair was dark and wavy, her eyes now shut.

“The shot that killed her caught her just under the right breast, made a messy exit out the back. A twenty-two, probably. Second or probably the first shot to the stomach. Well, let’s get her in and I’ll nip round to the morgue.” He paused. “Looks like she might have been partying.”

Jury looked around at what he could see of the street. No pubs, no restaurants, but a few shops. “Doesn’t look much like a partying street, though it’s not far from a lot of partying places. She’s dressed up, certainly.” The dress was a midnight blue of some crepey material. More strappy sandals, these a dark satin. He rose, motioned to Wiggins. “Has she been ID’d?”

Wiggins shook his head. One of the uniforms handed Jury a bagged purse. “Sir.”

Jury thanked him and asked for gloves. Through the plastic, he saw a small black bag, an evening bag with a silver clasp. He snapped on the plastic gloves given to him, removed the bag, and opened the little silver catch. Inside were lipstick, comb, pack of fags, and bills: 750 pounds.

“I know,” said Wiggins, reacting to Jury’s look. “That’s a lot of money to be carting around dark and silent streets. I mean, in that small bag, at night. It’s suggestive.”

The notes were held in a silver money clip. He closed the purse, handed it to Wiggins, who had been joined by someone Jury didn’t know.

“This is Detective Inspector Jenkins, sir.”

Jenkins smiled and put out his hand. The smile was sardonic, but Jury didn’t think its mood was aimed at him.

“Dennis Jenkins,” the detective said, setting things on a first-name basis.

There was something about Jenkins that made one relax. And, Jury imagined, that went for suspects, too. Probably foolish of them. Jenkins’s manner was too laid-back not to be dangerous.

“And you’re,” Jenkins went on, saving Jury the trouble, “Superintendent Jury. I’ve heard about you.”

“Not, I hope, from the tabloids.”

Jenkins smiled his sardonic smile. “That, too. But I meant from Mickey.”

That “Mickey” was Mickey Haggerty was crystal clear. Jury would rather not have to keep up one end of that conversation. He said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said DI Jenkins, actually looking it.

Jury nodded. “And I’m sorry to be stepping into your patch. Hope it’s okay.”

“Walk all over it, if you like. Your sergeant here told me there’s the possibility that this is connected to a shooting in Chesham.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s the connection?”

Jury hesitated, then said, “Age, appearance, possible occupation, and clothes.” He looked down at the victim’s feet. “Shoes, for example.”

Jenkins turned to look, too, then turned back. He said nothing. He waited.

“Christian Louboutin. It’s the red soles. They’re his trademark.” Jenkins looked again. “Right. I know sod-all about women’s footwear. Was the one in Chesham wearing the same kind?”

“No. Those were Jimmy Choo.” Jury added, “Both of them dressed for something: party, big date, or client. The victim in Chesham worked for an escort agency.”

Jenkins frowned. “Tell me more.”

Jury hesitated again. He knew he could be completely wrong about any connection. “The Chesham murder: we had a hard time ID’ing the victim, eventually discovered she was indeed a local named Mariah Cox, but was working under the name Stacy Storm, working for an escort service. She was to meet a man at a party in Chesham named Simon Santos, but she didn’t show up. There was a difficulty in identifying her; not even the aunt she’d been living with recognized her. The clothes, the hair, the cut, the color.” Jury didn’t know why he went on to tell Jenkins about Santos and his mother, Isabelle, and the portrait.

“I think that’s why Santos was so adamant that Stacy be his escort. Santos had asked her to change her hair color so that she looked even more like the woman in the portrait-”

“Vertigo,” said Jenkins.

“What?”

“Kim Novak. You remember Vertigo, don’t you?”

“Oh. You mean the Hitchcock film?”

Jenkins nodded. “Look, I know you probably agree the connection is kind of wobbly-” He rocked his hand to demonstrate. “But I will say this: she was carting around a hell of a lot of cash for just cab fare. Seven hundred quid”-he nodded toward the black clutch-“in that little bag. It’s the kind of money a high-class pro might get, and just to look at her, I’d say very high class. She was dressed for something, certainly. A party? Coming or going? Early to be coming back from one; it’s not gone ten yet. Where might she have been going? This is hardly party land or the sparkling center of the West, is it?”

Bidwell appeared to be a street of small enterprises, shut down for the night: a leather goods store selling mostly luggage that probably wasn’t leather; a launderette on the corner; a jeweler, probably not doing much trade in diamonds; an electronics shop; a small grocery. That and the launderette were the only businesses open now. Inside, Jury could see a customer, a woman, staring out the window at the general tumult, the cars and lights and uniforms.

Jenkins scanned the areas over the shops. “I’ve told my men to visit the flats over these shops. If there’s a grocer and a launderette, there are residents. Those two places wouldn’t be depending on the shops themselves for business. And she’ll need talking to.” He indicated the woman in the launderette.

“I think I’d like a talk with that shopkeeper at the end of the street, the grocer.”

“Go ahead. I’m about finished here.”

“Could I get one of your photos for an ID?”

“Sure.” Jenkins went up to one of the crime scene technicians and asked him if he’d got a picture. He handed it to Jury. “Keep me posted. I’ll do the same.”

The grocer was Indian, a tall, thin man with brilliant brown and anxious eyes. Ordinarily, this part of London was not an immigrant enclave. That was more the makeup of outlying areas, East Ham, Mile End, Watford.

His name was Banerjee. Jury asked Mr. Banerjee if he’d seen anything at all, heard anything.

The grocer shook his head, hard. “No. Never.”

“Does this woman look familiar to you?”

Mr. Banerjee didn’t dismiss the photo out of hand but studied it carefully. Nor did he flinch from the face of the dead.

Jury expected an immediate no, but he got a thoughtful “I believe so. I think I see her here in the shop. More than once.” He looked off through the black window, as if something in the dark had caught his attention. But it was only the dark.

“You’ve seen her? Did she live here in Bidwell Street?”