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purposefully along the street when a car pulled alongside her. She recognised the silver Merc immediately. She opened the door and got in without question. "I forgot it was only 4 o'clock," she said, looking down at her hands.
    "Me too," said Jo, her voice little more than a whisper. "I didn't realise; I'm sorry."
    Harry shook her head gently and ran her fingers through her own dishevelled hair. "I value your friendship, Jo. And I know we've always said there would never be anything... else, between us. But I couldn't help myself."
    Jo reached over and took her hand. "I love you, Harry. You know that right?"
    Harry nodded, and sniffed. "Yeah, it's just been really hard watching you the last day or so. Getting crazy over a photo."
    "I don't understand it any more than you do."
    There was silence for a moment in the car, the glass fogging up. "We'd better go before we attract the attention of the police." Jo reached over and turned Harry's face towards her. "Where do you want to go?"
    "Home," she said simply. "I'm sorry, Jo. You're going to have to do this on your own."
    Jo nodded. "Yeah, I know."
    ***
    Joanna had never felt lonely in her small house before. Now, as she walked into her lounge, the hairs on the back of her head stood on end, and she suppressed a shiver.
    She'd watched Harry walk away from her and disappear behind the large door of her house. She'd never really considered the fact that her friend had wanted more from her than friendship. They'd discussed that on more than one occasion. Had talked about Jo's cavalier way with women, and how many hearts she'd broken. And now she realised she'd broken her best friend's heart too. But that was exactly what Harry was, her best friend. And as hard as she tried, Jo just couldn't contemplate their relationship being any more than that.
    She slumped down into the armchair. It was 5.30am on a Sunday morning. It was an hour that Jo was not unfamiliar with. Though the other times she had experienced it, she had usually been just arriving home after a particularly excessive night out.
    Still clutched in her right hand was the photograph, and once again her attention was drawn to the face of the woman she'd never met, but who was, strangely, becoming a part of her life.
    She fought the urge to leave immediately, knowing she was exhausted and would probably crash the car straight into the Thames before she got anywhere. So she closed her eyes, her thumb moving unnoticed across the lips of the blonde girl in the photo.
    Jo woke, with a pain in her shoulder where she'd slumped against the arm of the chair. Also her neck refused to obey her brain's instructions to support her head, a head which seemed to have acquired its own bass drum. The drum in question had struck up a monotonous rhythm, which intensified as Jo straightened up in the chair.
    She'd left the fire on low, and now her mouth felt as if someone had forced a wad of cotton into it. She raised herself slowly, looking more like her mother's mother than her mother's daughter, and made her way to the kitchen.
    After draining two large glasses of orange juice, she went back into the lounge, glancing at her watch as she did. It was a little before 8am. She picked up the picture from beside the chair. It had fallen face down from her hand as she slept.
    She felt the flutter in her chest and the clenching of her abdomen as she looked upon the face again. As she left the house, she briefly wondered how she would cope with meeting the girl herself - the picture alone was giving her palpitations.
    Charles had mentioned Whitechapel, and so that was where she'd start.
    She'd studied the photograph in great deal, and, once she'd managed to tear her eyes away from the face of the girl, she realised there was a shop of some kind in the background of the shot. She saw only the first three letters on the sign: Chi. That was all she could see.
    So there she was, on a bleak December morning, searching the foggy streets of Whitechapel,