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IT: (Laughs) Look, the worst thing Mark ever did was have one or two of my cigarettes. I suspect he’s the kind of man who has no idea when a woman wants him and wouldn’t dare do anything about it if he did. Not that I wanted him. I had no interest in him, not in that way, but I can’t help whatever feelings he had for me. As I’ve said, it was friendship, nothing more. I’m not even looking for a relationship at the moment, I’m still getting over my divorce. A man is literally the last thing on my mind.
HS: So you wouldn’t say you were close?
IT: We became close, yes. I’ve said that. He could talk to me in a way he couldn’t talk to her. She was never there, and even when she was there, it’s like she wasn’t really, you know? You’d be talking to her and you could tell she wasn’t listening. And then she’d kind of twitch her head and stare at you as if she’d just woken up and was shocked to see you. It gave me the creeps, to be honest. But I told Mark I’d keep an eye on her, pop in, that sort of thing. I’m not a snob, far from it. It didn’t bother me that they were more working class; I’m not like that, I was genuinely trying to fit in. I wasn’t used to the whole community thing, but I have to say it bugged me that she didn’t appreciate him. He’s such a good man. Decent, you know? And, not to be bitchy, but he’s aged a lot better than her. I mean, it must’ve been like living with a robot. Walking dead. At some point you’ve got to get on with your life and she still had her daughter to look after, not that I could see much evidence of that going on, honestly, coming home at all hours, drunk by the looks at her. The daughter, I mean. For all her superficial kindness, Rachel was quite a selfish woman, I think.
HS: And the evening of Thursday the fourth of July? The following week?
IT: What about it?
HS: Can you tell us where you were?
IT: At home.
HS: You sound very sure.
IT: I’m always at home.
HS: That night, Rachel Edwards’ car broke down and they had a chip supper. Does that jog your memory at all?
IT: Chip supper, well, I’m sorry, that doesn’t really narrow it down. But yes, that must have been the night I heard their front door open and the daughter shouting ‘Large scampi and fries!’so loudly I heard it from over the road. I felt like shouting back, ‘Are you sure you should be eating that, darling? At your age?’ I wonder sometimes if these people actually read any freely available dietary information. Not to be unkind, but they’re literally storing up trouble for later life.
HS: So you’re saying you saw Rachel Edwards leave the house?
IT: No, it was Mark. I thought it was Mark, I mean, getting into his car and driving away.
HS: And then you went out?
IT: I think so. I might have done. I’m really not a hundred per cent sure. Look, I can’t keep track of my every move from months ago. It’s not as if I knew these dates would turn out to be relevant at the time, is it? Why? What’s this got to do with the stabbings? Did she murder someone else that night? Oh my God, did she?
19
Rachel
I glance up at Blue Eyes.
‘I suppose you’ve seized them, haven’t you?’ I say. ‘The jump leads? Exhibit A sort of thing?’
The merest inclination of her head, as if she’s bidding for a painting and knows the auctioneer well. I take that as a yes.
I’d seen the jump leads the other day when I’d gone in for the dog food, when I’d seen Mark’s knife. Sitting in the car, I came up with a plan:
Thumb lift home.
Get dinner in oven.
Say I was going out to walk the dog.
Sort car out for myself.
I couldn’t face the withering looks, to be honest. The head shakes, the sighs. But then maybe once they’d been fed, Mark or Katie would give me a lift back and help me jump-start my car. Maybe. Yes, this was where I’d got to. Status: doormat. Unable to admit to a mistake for fear of ridicule. Unable to ask for a kindness for fear of refusal.
So that was why I was on the high street opposite the surgery at quarter to six, trying to hitch a lift from random cars ploughing through the sheeting downpour like Mad Max machines. You’d think someone would have recognised me, wouldn’t you? Stopped and said,hop in, love, you’ll catch your death. You’ll be ahead of me, I’m sure. If I was invisible before, try adding dark cloud and thick rain to the mix. I must have stood on that flooded pavement for over thirty minutes in what passes for rush hour in my northern industrial town, but could I get any bugger to stop? Could I thump. By the time I gave up, I was soaked to the skin and, I have to say, close to tears.
I trudged back to the car and called Mark from there, but he didn’t pick up. I called Katie, but despite the fact that her phone could be mistaken for a bionic extension grafted onto her right hand, she didn’t pick up either. We didn’t have a landline because Mark said it was a waste of money if we were all paying for expensive iPhone contracts, so I couldn’t ring the house either. Ironic, I know: all three of us with our own phones and we couldn’t even communicate with one another. I didn’t have cash for a cab, let alone one of them Uber apps, so in the end I thought, sod it, I’ll walk.
It stopped raining just as I was passing the town hall. Even though I knew Mark and Katie would be wondering where I was, I stopped at the fence to have a look in. There was nothing to see, obviously. I don’t know what I was expecting. I stared into the gardens, picturing my hand white against Jo’s back. The smallness of her. How safe she’d felt in my maternal embrace. How near to death she’d been in my care. The corner near where we’d parted ways had been taped off. There were two bunches of flowers propped against the wall. I gave a deep, sad sigh – for Jo, for myself, for the knife I’d found in my bag and what it might or might not mean. And when I saw what I took to be the remnants of a bloodstain on the pale grey paving stones, I sank to my knees and wept.
That was when I got the first proper flash. The first one that frightened me. I’d been imagining the knife, but this felt more like a memory. The knife slicing through cloth, pushing into firm young skin. A slick across my knuckles, fingers covered in thick wet blood. A form collapsing onto the pavement, collapsing like a bag of jumble.
