by S. E. Lynes
I tried to pick up whether or not he was thinking of the knife in my bag, about my distress at finding it there, but it was difficult over the phone. It occurred to me then that while he didn’t look at me often, when he did look at me lately it was like Katie did sometimes: eyes screwed up, the way you look at someone who’s behaving weirdly. Maybe they both thought I was mad. Maybe he actually thought I had something to do with this Jo but couldn’t come out and say it. But surely he didn’t think I was capable of—
‘Rachel? Are you still there?’
‘I’m not going to speak to the police. That’s like turning yourself in for going into a shop in the morning that gets robbed in the afternoon. It’s got nothing to do with me. What would I say? Well, Officer, she definitely didn’t have any stab wounds when I spoke to her? She’s not saying the woman with the dog attacked her, is she?’
‘Well, she can’t, can she? She’s dead.’
‘You know what I mean. I didn’t see anything, or anyone for that matter. I just spoke to her for five minutes and gave her directions, that’s literally it.’ My breath caught in my throat, sending the last few words up an octave. I grasped the edge of the bar and lowered myself, shaking, onto a stool, thanking God that Dave was upstairs doing whatever it was managers did, or vaping thick clouds of vanilla through the back window into the alley. ‘I didn’t even realise it was the same girl. Why would I? Did they give a description of the woman?’
No, they didn’t.
‘Just says in her fifties. Black dog. I think you should give them a ring, Rach. It says they’re keen to speak to you.’
Rach. He hadn’t called me that for a long time. Hadn’t called me anything at all, if I’m honest.
‘Well I’m not keen to speak to them. I’m not going to waste their time – they’ve got enough to do. I’ve got to go anyway; I’ve got punters.’ I looked up at the Mary Celeste that was the lounge bar. ‘See you at home.’ I put the phone down before he could say anything else and ran upstairs and into the staff toilet. I sat with my head between my knees. Heat flared up in my stomach, my chest, boiling through me, prickling in sweaty beads on my forehead. My cheeks blazed; more sweat ran from my armpits down my sides, from the back of my neck down my spine, trickled between my buttocks, for crying out loud, the indignity of it all.
I made myself breathe, and one, and two. And one, and two.
Breathe, Rachel. Breathe.
I did not hurt that girl. I did not. I did not hurt that girl. I did not hurt that man. I did not hurt anyone. I did not kill that girl I did not I did not.
26
Rachel
I didn’t call the crime line. Mark dropped it. But at least he was looking at me now. Looking at me funny, I mean. Me? I was scared stiff. Of what had happened, of who might have done it, of myself.
I kept up my daily newspaper cuttings. I needed to do it more than I needed to stop. The police urged people to be vigilant, to come forward with any information, no matter how insignificant. That meant they were stuck, I thought, pushing Lisa’s words from my mind but unable to stop asking myself if there was a deeper truth to them now. Had I got away with murder? Had I?
The following week, I saw Ingrid three times in as many days. Three times! Once for a coffee when I was trying to get on, one evening when I didn’t go walking and ended up feeding her, and one afternoon when I chatted to her in the close.
Over coffee, Ingrid told me that the week before, she’d been to see Pamela Bain, the HR manager Mark had put her onto.
‘She said I can do a week’s paid work experience and they’ll take it from there.’ She sighed, pulled out her second Marlboro. ‘Starting next week.’
‘But that’s good, isn’t it?’
She nodded, but the expression on her face told a different story. ‘I won’t have any time for my flute,’ she said, circling her fingertip sadly round and round on the table. ‘That’s what I hate him for most of all. More than losing the house, the holidays I’ll never get to go on now, the clothes I’ll never wear. I played for my health. For us, actually. I gave up work to focus on my health and all the while he pretended to care while pissing our life savings away with his fucking filthy habit.’
She was so well-spoken that she sounded even posher when she swore, if that makes sense.
I smiled at her, trying to show sympathy while finding it hard to see a tragedy of the gravity she seemed to think it was. ‘Oh, Ingrid, I am sorry.’
‘Why would you be sorry?’ she almost snapped before rearranging her features into the slightly pathetic expression she usually wore: head a little to one side, shoulder raised an inch. ‘It’s not your fault, is it?’
‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘No, I’m sorry.’ She shaded her face with her hand. ‘I’m still a little raw with it all.’
‘Of course you are, love. You’ve had a lot to cope with.’
There was a short silence.
‘Do you have kids?’ I asked, to try and change the subject.
‘Absolutely not!’ She shook her head. ‘All those shitty nappies, the mushed-up food and brain-dead baby talk. Enough to drive anyone mad.’ She shuddered. I waited for her mouth to drop open when she realised she’d put her foot in it, for the apology, but it didn’t come.
‘They do grow up, you know,’ I said. ‘And I know their conversation’s a bit limited in the early days, but it does develop. Especially if you stick with the brain-dead baby talk.’ I’ll admit, I put it in silent air quotes, if you know what I mean. ‘And if you read to them and that. Me and Kieron used to talk about books all the time. We’d get a stack each from the library and we’d read our own and each other’s and then we’d talk about them. I had better conversations with him than I do with my husband. I miss him now he’s away.’
It was good to see her crack a smile for once. I wasn’t smiling but she had no idea why I wouldn’t. You think Mark’s all sweetness and light, love, I wanted to add. But he isn’t. Neither of us are.
The following night, Ingrid stayed for dinner. She’d only called round to tell us her car had broken down and did we know a mechanic, but of course Mark went and had a tinker and soon got it going – probably by trying the key in the ignition, if you know what I mean – and by that time I’d made us a cup of tea so then Mark had to have one, and she was still making a big fuss of him for nothing much when the timer went off for the hotpot. It smelled so good and she’d just told me she’d been feeding next door’s cats and watering their plants while they were away, which I thought was kind of her and it also explained my sighting of her over the fence the other evening or morning or whenever it was.
‘Why don’t you stay for tea?’ I said. ‘It’s only hotpot but at least it’s hot. And in a pot.’
‘Oh no, don’t be silly.’ She waved her hand, put on a show of not wanting, not being desperate, actually, to eat with other people instead of on her own for a change, even if it was only us.
‘There’s plenty,’ I insisted. ‘I’ve done too much as usual. Can’t seem to get into the habit of making less with our Kieron off at uni!’ I chuckled, to show her it was no big deal, and busied myself putting the broccoli and spring cabbage on to boil.
‘Well, if you’re sure…’
Mark went to wash his hands – he’d splashed his face too by the looks of it when he came back. Didn’t normally spruce himself up for dinner.
Ingrid helped him set the table while I shouted Katie down from her pit. She was only just in the kitchen door when she eyed up the table with suspicion, then glared at me. ‘Whose is that place setting?’
‘Ingrid’s going to eat with us,’ I said.
Eyes like coals, she looked at Ingrid, then at her dad. Then again at me.
‘Sit down, then, love,’ I said, a bit embarrassed at her rudeness.
Katie did as she was told, but not before asking if she could have a can of Coke. I wouldn’t usually
say yes during the week, but I suppose she was claiming her bribe – I’ll stop throwing daggers Ingrid’s way if you make it worth my while sort of thing. And she did lose the hostility, to be fair, once we’d sat down together. After that sticky moment, having a guest put us all on better behaviour, I have to say; even if Katie didn’t address Ingrid directly, she was halfway to cheerful.
‘Me and Thea took such cool photos today.’ She passed her phone round to show us her horror-movie shoot: her and Thea in scary make-up and fright wigs, looking like they were having a great time.
‘These are incredible,’ cooed Ingrid. ‘You’re so imaginative.’
‘Thea’s dad let us use his garage,’ Katie said, really only to her dad, smiling more than I’d seen her smile in months. ‘It was so cool. It had these rusty paint tins and massive spider webs, actual real ones.’
‘Thought kids were only interested in the World Wide Web,’ Mark said, and Ingrid laughed so much I thought she was going to have an embolism. In a rare moment of solidarity, Katie rolled her eyes at me. Ingrid didn’t see, thank God, and Mark made another joke, which she also wet herself at, though I’ve forgotten now what he said. He was on witty form rather than strictly speaking hilarious, but he was better company than he had been in ages, and I almost felt as if we were a family who knew how to eat together, how to talk and laugh with one another. How to be.
On the Friday, I had the day off. This must have been mid-July. On my days off I generally catch up on housework. I know. It’s like something out of Hello! magazine. Here’s Rachel, pegging out the clothes on her bijou lawn to the rear of her sumptuous semi-detached abode. Jogging pants by Primark, slouch T-shirt by vintage M&S menswear, plastic laundry basket by Argos.
I was hanging out Katie’s bed sheets first thing when I saw Ingrid sitting in next door’s garden having a fag, in shorts, a camisole top and a thin cream-coloured bomber jacket. At first I thought it was weird, her sitting there like an out-of-work rock star, then I remembered she was feeding their cats.
She was reading Vogue, although how she could afford it, I’ll never know – not the clothes, the actual magazine, I mean. She had a cup of coffee on the go – a cappuccino by the looks of it in a white cup and saucer, like in a café, and I have to say I did think that might be taking a liberty, using next door’s crockery and coffee machine; somehow more of a liberty that she’d brought her own milk over, if you know what I mean. Anyway, she looked… what’s the word? Languorous, is it? Old Hollywood – Marlene Dietrich, Barbara Stanwyck type thing. Statuesque. Some women just have the knack, don’t they? She’d fallen fast from her position, that much was true. But round our way, no one would notice anything. She was the type that would be bothered by wearing last season’s fashions, but no one here would know last season from next, and it would be years before her clothes became as shabby as everyone else’s, so she still stood out. Her blonde hair was tied back, but even the brown roots looked like they were there on purpose – Katie told me that you can pay to have that done, have roots actually put in, that it costs a fortune, which made me laugh at the time, but looking at Ingrid, I could see she had a look that I must have spotted on celebrities in Grazia and not thought twice about it until now.
I said hello and gave her a wave and she waved back.
‘Aren’t you at work?’
She shook her head. ‘Woke up with a headache, so…’ She shrugged by way of completing the explanation.
So bloody what? I thought but didn’t say.
‘Are you feeding the cats?’ was what I did say.
She nodded, lifted her eyes to my washing line. ‘Your sheets’ll dry in no time in this summer breeze.’
‘They will that.’
‘They’ll smell so fresh too.’
‘They will.’ I nodded to the cappuccino on her lap. ‘May as well enjoy a coffee in the garden, eh?’
She raised her chin, her eyelids lowered. ‘Not like I can do this on my grotty patio. And they have a Gaggia.’
I carried on pegging out. I was trying to see what I could pick up from her. I’d never seen any friends visit her, but then I wasn’t at home much. Maybe she was like me, couldn’t face her old mates. Maybe she was ashamed of her reduced circumstances. Maybe slumming it with me and my family made her feel better by comparison, who knows? Maybe… maybe… maybe nothing. Dread was all I could feel coming off her, an oh God oh God oh God feeling. That would be the ex. Probably some memory of finding him comatose with a needle in his arm or something – not that she’d ever said anything like that – or him getting violent from time to time – not that she’d said that either – or the moment it dawned on her that the bank account was empty and the house repossessed. That she had said, in so many words. The rest was me guessing.
She pulled on her cigarette – she’d lit another with the first. I supposed at least she wasn’t smoking in next door’s house. But she was edgy. Yes, definitely edgy, but whatever else was going on, she was shutting me out.
I stood at the fence, laundry basket under one arm. From here I could see her long, slim legs, which were that perfect honey colour some women manage but I never have, and which disappeared into cowboy boots. Not a look I could ever imagine pulling off.
‘Are you all right, Ingrid?’ I asked her.
‘Gives you a lift, doesn’t it?’ she said, as if I hadn’t spoken, pulling the jacket from her perfectly square shoulders and closing her eyes to the sun.
‘Mark says that whatever the weather, fresh air is good for the soul. The ozone, he says. You never regret getting out.’ I wondered to myself when was the last time that Mark had taken any ozone apart from in the pub car park on his way in for four pints of Greenall’s.
But at the mention of his name, it was as if someone had yanked an invisible thread attached to her shoulders. She sat up and opened her eyes, shielded them with her hand. ‘Mark’s so nice. He’s such a good bloke.’
Like the swearing, in her mouth the word bloke sounded posh.
‘Yes, he’s a good bloke.’ I shifted my laundry basket to the other hip. ‘If I had a pound for every time someone had said that,’ I muttered, ‘I’d be bloody rolling in it.’
The words didn’t reach her. They flew off, swallowed by the bitter wind.
27
Katie
Transcript of recorded interview with Katie Edwards (excerpt)
Also present: DI Heather Scott, PC Marilyn Button
HS: Would you say that things were good at home? Were you a happy family, would you say?
KE: (Pause) We were getting better.
HS: You mentioned that your neighbour, Ingrid Taylor, came over to see your dad sometimes when your mum wasn’t there? For the benefit of the tape, Miss Edwards is nodding.
KE: She was always coming over. She pretended to be friendly and that, but I didn’t trust her, to be honest. She made up excuses to come over while my mum was out and she knew Mum was out because she was always looking out of her window. I saw her. I saw her follow my mum as well.
HS: She followed your mother?
KE: I saw her do it a few times, when I was watching or doing a video tutorial or whatever, and then I’d hear her at the door or in the kitchen talking to my dad. I think she only offered to feed next door’s cats so she could accidentally-on-purpose bump into my dad in the back garden. She was a bit sad, to be honest. She’s, like, one of those women who thinks they’re a teenager? Like, giggly and stuff. But Dad wasn’t interested in her. He’d never do something like that to my mum.
HS: And what about your mother’s friend Lisa?
KE: What d’you mean, what about her?
HS: Were her and your dad close?
KE: Well, yeah, but Auntie Lisa’s sound. She’s not my real auntie but, like, she wouldn’t do anything. Her and my dad are solid.
28
Rachel
My clip file expanded; I could barely close the rings. I would soon need a new one.
Mass stabbing in Croydon, gang-
related, police suspect.
Double knife death in Manchester club.
Nottingham reels after girl-gang knife death.
A fuzzy CCTV capture of a violent crowd; a picture of the Manchester club during the daytime; a photograph of a boy, no more than seven, at his mother’s grave. Girls were carrying knives now; that wasn’t the first I’d seen, and if it didn’t strengthen my case, I didn’t know what would. How much longer would the government turn a blind eye? Couldn’t they see that it wasn’t just hoodlums now? These were normal kids, kids who thought they were arming themselves for protection when all they were doing was making sure an argument had every chance of turning into a tragedy.
I printed them out, these victims, slid them under cellophane and took a moment for every single one. I said a few words and closed the file for another day.
You’d think all that crime on the streets alongside Jo’s death and the attempted strangling of that Henry Parker chap would have put me off walking out altogether, but, like a cigarette that leaves you feeling sick, no sooner had the nausea cleared than I craved another drag.
I was frightened, very frightened, of myself as much as anyone, but a passing greeting just wasn’t enough anymore. I was talking to strangers more than I knew I should. But I didn’t take anyone anywhere secluded, I swear – strictly public places only, Mark’s knife safe in the cutlery drawer. I didn’t trust my jinxed timing, my bad luck, myself. All I did was listen to problems, share recipes and housekeeping tips, commiserate about the daily news, how full of anger and hate the world seemed. I stopped to talk to a chap sleeping rough in the doorway of the Co-op, gave him twenty quid, which I couldn’t really afford but which I hoped would buy him something hot or get him halfway to oblivion. Whatever helped him make it through the night; it wasn’t my place to judge. But there were no grimy encounters in graveyards, no near-suicides in town-hall ponds, nothing to report.