She found Melanie Scott’s house with the help of her A to Z, only about five minutes’ walk away from the Hounslow West tube station. Cars filled every available parking spot on both sides of the street, sun glinting on their windscreens, so she was glad yet again that she wasn’t driving.

The woman who answered the door looked to be in her late twenties, the same age as Jennifer Clewes. She was one of those excessively thin yet nicely shaped women, with small breasts, coat-hanger hips and a narrow waist. She was wearing denim shorts, which showed off her long tapered legs to advantage. Jet-black hair hung straight down to her shoulders and framed a pale oval face with large brown eyes, button nose and full mouth. The red lipstick stood out in contrast against the paleness of her skin. Annie hadn’t told her much over the telephone, but she must have suspected something was wrong, and she seemed nervous, anxious to hear the worst.

“You said it’s about Jenn,” she said as she pointed Annie toward an armchair in the cramped living room. The front window was open and they could hear snatches of conversation and laughter as people drifted by. Melanie sat on the edge of her chair and clasped her hands between her knees. “Is something wrong? What is it?”

“I’m afraid Jennifer Clewes is dead, Ms. Scott. I’m sorry I can’t think of any easier way to put it.”

Melanie just stared into a far corner of the room and her eyes filled with tears. Then she put her fist to her mouth and bit. Annie went over to her, but Melanie waved her away. “No, I’m all right. Really. It’s just the shock.” She rubbed her eyes and smudged mascara over her cheeks, then took a tissue from a box on the mantelpiece. “You’re a policewoman, so there must be something suspicious about it, right? How did it happen?”

No flies on Melanie, thought Annie, sitting down again. “She was shot,” she said.

“Oh my God. It’s the woman they found in the car in Yorkshire, isn’t it? The one in the papers and on TV. You said you were from Yorkshire.”

“North Yorkshire, yes.”

“They wouldn’t give her name out on the TV.”

“No,” said Annie. “We have to be certain. Her parents haven’t identified the body yet.” She thought of showing Melanie the photograph, but there was no point in further distressing her. Kate Nesbit had already identified Jennifer, and soon Jennifer’s parents would confirm this.

“I can’t believe it,” Melanie said. “Who’d want to kill Jenn? Was it some pervert? Was she…?”

“There was no sexual assault,” Annie said. “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?”

“Me? No, I can’t think of anyone.”

“When did you last talk to Jennifer?”

“A few days ago – Wednesday, I think – on the phone. I haven’t actually seen her for two or three weeks. Both too busy. We were going to the pictures next weekend. Chick-flick night. I can’t believe it.” She dabbed at her eyes again.

“Do you know if there was anything bothering her, anything on her mind?”

“She did seem a bit preoccupied the last time I talked to her. But I must admit, Jenn goes on about work a bit too much sometimes, and I sort of tune out.”

“She was worried about work?”

“Not specifically. It was just someone she mentioned. One of the late girls, she said. She worked at a family-planning center.”

“I know,” said Annie. “Late girls? What are they?”

“I’ve no idea. That’s just what she said.”

“A workmate? Late shift?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think they worked in shifts. It’s not a twenty-four-hour center. But sometimes she has contact with the clients, through paperwork and billing and what have you, or if there’s a problem or something. There was some woman…”

That was how Jennifer met Kate Nesbit, Annie remembered, through the center. “Can you remember her name?”

“I’m trying. Give me a moment. She spoke it very quickly, so I can’t be absolutely sure, but it was a rather odd name.” Melanie paused and gazed out of the bay window. A white delivery truck passed by, blocking the sun for a moment. “Carmen, I think.”

“That was her first name?”

“Yes. Carmen. I remember thinking at the time that it sounded like an actress’s name, but that’s Cameron, isn’t it? Cameron Diaz. Hers was Carmen, like the opera. Her last name was Petri, or something like that. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right.” Annie made a note of the name and put a question mark by “late girl.” “Did Jennifer she say what she was worried about?”

“No. I’m sorry. Just that it was something this Carmen said.”

“Was Carmen at the center to arrange for an abortion?”

“I assumed so,” said Melanie, “but Jenn didn’t say. I mean, that’s why people go there; or for advice, you know, if they’re undecided, they don’t know what to do.”

“Did Jennifer have any particular stand on abortion?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you think she’d advise clients against it, suggest they keep the child and put it up for adoption instead?”

“Oh, I see. No, not really. Jenn believed it was a woman’s choice. It’s just that some of the women were… you know… scared, especially if they were young. Some of them just didn’t know what to do. But Jenn wasn’t an adviser or counselor. There are other people to take care of that.”

“But she did have contact with the girls?”

“Sometimes. Yes.”

“But you’ve no idea why Jennifer was concerned about this Carmen?”

“Jenn just had a habit of getting involved in other people’s problems, that’s all. It can be a bit of a drawback in her line of work. Most of the time she doesn’t have any contact with the clients, but sometimes… like I said. She’s got too sympathetic a nature, and she can’t always be objective about things. Or people. Mind you, it’s one of the qualities that makes her so special. Sorry. Made. My God.”

“Did Jenn ever receive any threats because of her work?”

“You mean because she dealt with abortions?”

“Yes. There are a number of groups actively against it, some of them violent.”

“She never mentioned it to me. I mean, I think there was a small demonstration once, but nothing came of it. Certainly no violence, anyway. Groups like that would tend to ignore the center itself because abortions aren’t actually performed there, and many of the clients go on to have their babies and give them up for adoption, so I don’t think that’s a very real possibility.”

Annie realized that Jenn’s workmates at the center would probably be better informed on this topic. She moved on. “It might be a good idea if you gave me a bit of background. I understand you knew Jennifer a long time?”

“Ever since primary school. We only lived two streets away from one another. And we have the same birthday. Her poor mum and dad…” Melanie picked up a packet of cigarettes from the arm of her chair and lit one. “Sorry, you don’t mind, do you?” she asked, blowing out the smoke.

“It’s your house,” said Annie. And your lungs, she thought to herself. “What about later? University?”

“We both did our postgraduate degrees at Birmingham. I took international business, and Jenn studied management.”

“What about your undergraduate degrees?”

“Jenn studied economics at Kent and I went to Essex. Modern languages.”

“You kept in touch?”

“Of course. We were practically inseparable in the hols.”

“I understand that just last summer the two of you went on holiday together to Sicily?”

“Yes.” Melanie frowned. “Look, may I ask just what you’re getting at? Are you suggesting there was anything… unusual… about our friendship, because if you are-”

Annie waved her hand. “No, nothing like that. None of my business, anyway.” Unless it contributed to Jennifer’s murder. “No, it’s just that her flatmate Kate didn’t seem to know an awful lot about Jennifer’s life, didn’t really seem to know much about her at all.”

“That’s hardly surprising,” said Melanie. “Jenn’s a very private person in a lot of ways. She shared the flat because she had to – London’s so expensive – but it didn’t mean she had to share her life. Besides…”