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‘He died in your arms?’ she says. ‘You’re saying you killed Ian Brown and he died in your arms?’
I nod. ‘I comforted him in his last moments.’
‘And you didn’t remember any of that when you got home?’
‘None of it. I’ve no memory of walking home. I know that when I got there, Anne-Marie had already returned to the forefront of my mind because I didn’t know about Ian yet, do you see? I was thinking of Kieron too, maybe because of Ian. Kieron was with me very strongly, not that he ever leaves me. But no, everything I’ve just told you came to me the next day, when I read the news.’
‘So what did you do when you got home?’
‘I put Ian’s clothes in the washing machine ready to put on to wash the next morning. I made myself a hot drink. Just hot water, actually – it was all I could face. The cider and lager had made me feel queasy; I couldn’t handle it like I used to. I… checked Kieron’s Facebook page, had a trawl through some of his photos. It was too late to message him, so I went upstairs, and that’s when I checked my rucksack.’
‘And found the bloodstained tissues.’
‘It’s a loop, don’t you see? Bloody tissues found and found again. A knife in a bag. Memory and life. Life and memory. Loneliness to love, anger to hate to death, to anger to hate and so on. Round and round, never stopping, the world was filling up with it.’
‘That’s what you were thinking?’
‘I was thinking… I was thinking that no matter how much love I had to give, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.’ I wipe at my eyes. The box says extra-soft but the tissue doesn’t feel soft; it scratches. ‘I was thinking that hate is turned on people who don’t deserve it, who aren’t responsible for the anger, who have nothing to do with the hate, not really, do you see?’
‘Yes. I see. And the next morning?’
‘The next morning, I stared at the second hand on the kitchen clock and tried to put myself under, like, to dive down, down, down and remember something.’
‘You tried to hypnotise yourself?’
I nod. ‘But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t feel Anne-Marie’s car door handle in my grip, couldn’t get any sense of my leggings sliding over the leather seat of her posh sports car. I couldn’t smell the sweat of our sports kits in the small tinny space, couldn’t hear the car radio burst into life as she switched on the ignition. Maybe she never did. Maybe the seats weren’t leather – that could be my imagination trying to get my memory to take a dictation so that I’ll have a script to read from. I couldn’t see our breath as condensation on the windows, the curve of my own arm as I held her fast with one hand. I couldn’t feel the controlled jab of the knife in her ribs. I listened and I listened but I couldn’t… I couldn’t hear her scream.
‘So you called the police?’
‘No. I read about Ian on the iPad. And that’s when it all came back: the whole of Saturday, day and night, the day I’d been dreading, the second worst day of my life.
‘And then I called them. Because I remembered, you see? I remembered all of it. And I knew I’d killed Anne-Marie too. And tried to strangle that chap. And Jo, lovely Jo. I knew that any violent flashbacks I’d had weren’t my mind playing tricks at all. They were memories.’
‘So you called.’
‘I dialled the crime number and a lady answered and I told her. I told her I’d been killing people.’
45
Lisa
Transcript of recorded interview with Lisa Baxter (excerpt)
Also present: DI Heather Scott, PC Marilyn Button
HS: Ms Baxter, how would you describe your relationship with Mr Edwards?
LB: Mark? What do you mean? As in friends? We were friends, good friends; – I’d have thought that was obvious.
HS: Do you often meet Mark without Rachel being present?
LB: No. Well, not like regularly, for coffee or a drink or whatever, no. That would’ve been, well, it would’ve been all wrong. But recently I’d been round to their house a few times when I knew she was on shift or out but that was only because I was worried. He was worried too. All the walking at night and the way she’d go sort of absent sometimes. And the file, of course. We were scared she was going… you know, down, like she did before. I’ve said all this.
HS: And last Friday afternoon, when you told her you were in the supermarket, you were with Mark?
LB: Yes. I’d gone round to see him when I knew she’d be out because she seemed more fragile than ever. She wasn’t taking me on at all. She was going under. I knew she was seeing her dad that day and I thought I should have a word with Mark, as in a stronger word, and I did – I said to Mark, ‘You need to call someone. She’s not right. She’s not well.’ I did say that.
HS: And did Mr Edwards call anyone?
