Can You See Her?: An absolutely compelling psychological thriller

by S. E. Lynes

  She turned to me, head to one side, all coy. ‘Thanks,’ she said, beaming. Shamelessly, I thought. ‘It was so nice of Mark to pull a few strings for me.’

  How easily she said his name.

  ‘He’s a nice man,’ I said. ‘He’s nice to everyone – it’s just what he’s like.’ I knew that my smile reached nowhere near my eyes.

  ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a coffee?’ Ingrid squinted into the low sun, put her hand up to shield her eyes. The rain thickened.

  ‘Sorry, love.’ I looked up, wondered if there’d be a rainbow in a bit. Or a storm. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’

  ‘Another time then.’

  ‘Sure. Good luck with your interview.’

  ‘Thanks, Rachel.’ Her smiled faltered. Hers hadn’t reached her eyes either. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit…’

  ‘I’m fine, love. Just need to crack on, that’s all.’ I turned away. The sight of her all thin and wan and not moving a muscle despite the thickening rain was getting on my nerves. What was she, waterproof?

  Two minutes later, cagoule on, I dashed for the car. Ingrid was gone. As was the sun. The sky had committed and the decision was rain, no rainbow today. The clouds were smudged charcoal, like one of Kieron’s sketches. I made a mental note to take some to the framers, sent him a quick text to say I’d be doing that this week before setting off, eyes focused on the road, wipers going nineteen to the dozen. I was breathing funny, my head throbbing. Jo in her too-big coat, her fingertips pinched at her forehead; Jo laughing as she pulled me over the railings; Jo bleeding out on the pavement, mistaken for a heap of rubbish in the night. She was still alive, thank God. But she had been stabbed. There was a sharp knife in my bag. But where was the blood? I pulled into the car park by the canal, a full-on wave of panic rolling into my chest. A buzzing of bees, a terrible static. I switched off the engine, pushed my forehead against the steering wheel. I was shaking, crying, everything cold and in flames. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, tried to get my breathing under control.

  ‘Poor sweet girl,’ I whispered. ‘Poor, poor sweet girl.’

  I knew I should call the police and tell them what I knew. But I didn’t.

  16

  Lisa

  Transcript of recorded interview with Lisa Baxter (excerpt)

  Also present: DI Heather Scott, PC Marilyn Button

  HS: Ms Baxter, can you remember where you were on the night of the attack on Joanna Weatherall? The evening of Saturday the twenty-ninth of June?

  LB: I’ve looked at my calendar and I haven’t got anything marked down. My life is pretty empty just at the minute. My girls are at uni and my husband left me. I mean, it was almost two years ago now, but I’m not really the dating type. Patrick, my ex, always said I was too gobby. He said I put men off, said they didn’t like women to be funnier than them. Mark was never bothered. He used to laugh at my jokes almost more than Rachel. But then Mark’s a great bloke. They were such a close family. They always had a good time together, do you know what I mean? Always throwing barbecues in their back garden, Sunday roasts, what have you. And they were great with Kieron when he came out, just great. Him and Rachel were always up in Liverpool shopping or seeing films or down the library – book nuts the pair of them. They used to lie top to tail on the couch reading and you couldn’t get a word out of either of them.

  HS: Ms Baxter. So you can’t remember where you were that night?

  LB: Sorry, no. But I’d remember if I’d tried to stab someone, wouldn’t I? And I’d tell you now if Rachel had turned up at ours with blood all over her. I can’t protect her, can I? She’s turned herself in.

  HS: Did you have any contact with Rachel Edwards that Saturday?

  LB: I think I saw her a couple of days before. She turned up quite early in the morning with the dog. Actually, it was the Sunday, the previous Sunday. We’ve talked about that, haven’t we?

  HS: And how would you describe her state of mind?

  LB: She was… she was unsettled, I suppose, but I don’t know if I saw it at the time or whether I’m seeing it now, with hindsight.

  HS: Unsettled in what way?

  LB: I think she thought something weird was happening to her, but as I say, I just thought we were talking about the change. She used to be a real looker back in the day, so maybe it was harder for her. I was always the mate, do you know what I mean? In her shadow sort of thing. But she’d let herself go this last year, which, I mean, I’m not judging, I’m not criticising at all – it’s completely understandable.

  HS: Was she unhappy in her marriage?

  LB: (Pause) It was a bad patch. Mark’s not the type to send flowers or whisk a girl off her feet, but he’s a good bloke, do you know what I mean? We used to tease him when he first got together with Rach because all the lads were after her. But she chose him because he wasn’t after her for the same reasons. He saw her, if you know what I mean. Didn’t just see the face and the figure and all that. He saw who she was and that’s what she wanted, to be seen like that. But any sign of emotional turmoil and he’s like most men, rabbit in the headlights. Back when she was ill, it was me that told him she needed to go to hospital. He was a bit hopeless, like.

  HS: And would you have said he was equally perturbed in recent months, given her behaviour?

  LB: We were both worried. But I didn’t know she was printing off all these knife crimes until he told me. We should have acted sooner. I never thought… never imagined… well, you don’t, do you? How can anyone imagine anything like this?

  17

  Rachel

  How I got through work that day I will never know. Nothing was solid, if you know what I mean. I felt like I wasn’t tethered to the earth, like I might float away and never be able to get back down. That young lass. Stabbed, left for dead. She was just a girl, on the cusp of womanhood, lying on the pavement alone, a crumpled heap of clothes. And so near to her friend’s house. So near to where I’d said goodbye, my God. It didn’t bear thinking about, but think about it was all I could do. I did nothing but imagine that knife, how hard you’d have to push to break the skin. How easy it would be after crossing that precious boundary to drive the blade in, how much blood, how soon she’d lose consciousness. I saw it. I felt it, over and over – the pressure in my hand, the sudden lurch forward once the skin broke.

  Had she tried to crawl to her friend’s house or had she just dropped where she’d been attacked and passed out?

  Around lunchtime, the Weekly News website was updated. Doctors fear for knife-attack girl. I caught it later, towards two, on my lunch.

  The woman found unconscious near Runcorn Town Hall late on Saturday evening, Joanna Weatherall from Farnborough, Hampshire, is said to be in a critical condition.

  ‘She’s lucky to be alive,’ said Helen Parkin, a spokesperson for Halton Hospital. ‘But it’s too early to predict her chances of survival at this stage.’

  Nicky Andrews, a friend of Ms Weatherall’s, was at the hospital.

  ‘Jo was coming to visit,’ Ms Andrews told the Weekly News. ‘We started to get worried when she didn’t answer her phone. I drove to the station to find her, and when she wasn’t there, I drove round all the roads, thinking she must have walked. She walked everywhere, did Jo. She loved her fitness. But there was no sign of her, so in the end I called her parents and then I called the police.’

  One eyewitness said he saw a young woman matching Joanna’s description talking to a middle-aged woman near the town-hall park earlier in the evening. He thought they might be mother and daughter. He described the young woman as thin and pale, with dark hair, but couldn’t give any details on the older.

  Police are appealing for information.

  ‘We’re keen to establish the identity of both these women,’ said police spokesperson Keith Woodhead. ‘If anyone has any information they believe to be relevant in any way, they are encouraged to call the following number…

  There was the number followed by the usual links: K
nife crime on the rise; How safe are our streets?; Knife crime at record high; How to talk to your kids about knives.

  I sent the link for Jo’s story to my home email to print off later. The witness either hadn’t seen or hadn’t remembered the dog, which was lucky. I was glad we’d gone for a small black Cockapoo, though why these thoughts were coming to me I didn’t know. I hadn’t touched Jo apart from laying my hand on her back. I hadn’t harmed her in any way, and I certainly hadn’t driven a blade through her ribs. Twice. I was pretty sure the middle-aged woman in the article was me. That would have been when we stopped, before we climbed over the fence. Or after. If it was me, that would explain why the witness couldn’t remember anything. Not easy, is it, describing someone invisible?

  But Jo would wake up sooner or later. Surely she’d remember something about me, something more than middle-aged? And for all that being The Woman No One Saw was bothering me, I wasn’t sure if I wanted Jo to remember me at all.

  That week I kept my head down, checked the news for updates. Tuesday, another appeal for information, a report that the CCTV camera had been out of order, police keen to speak to the woman who might have been talking to Joanna Weatherall shortly before she was attacked; Wednesday, another appeal, Joanna still critical; Thursday, nothing. Forecast: rain again – it was all right in the morning but bucketing it down when I came out of work. I’d put my cagoule in my bag, thank heavens, but even so, I hadn’t expected it to be so heavy. I didn’t have my umbrella with me and I knew I’d be soaked by the time I’d crossed town. I hovered in the doorway even though I was running late because there’d been a bit of argy-bargy with a customer, as there sometimes is when they’ve had one too many. It wasn’t about the wrong change, which was what he was claiming I’d given him; I was just taking the flak for his shitty day. He’d probably fallen out with his missus or something. Constipation, whatever. Piles.

  Outside the pub, people scurried past the Devonshire Bakery, the indoor market, shoulders hunched, faces pinched, eyes thrown upwards in disgust. Pulling a face, the great British defence against the weather. There was no sign of the homeless lad and I hoped he’d found shelter somewhere; couldn’t stand the thought of him getting wet through with no way of drying off. I really didn’t fancy getting wet either, but with the downpour showing no sign of abating, in the end I grabbed the dog-eared Racing Post that Phil had left on the bar, shoved it over my head and legged it.

  I ran all the way up Church Street and past the Co-op. Katie and Mark would be chomping at the bit for their tea, as would the boyf if he was there, as he often was, sitting on the kitchen table, legs swinging, shovelling my stash of digestive biscuits down his cakehole like there was no tomorrow. I was supposed to be doing cottage pie, and I knew that if I didn’t get a shift on we wouldn’t be eating much before seven. Katie says I’m a weirdo for thinking everyone needs at least one hot meal a day, and I suppose it is old-fashioned, but that’s me. I’ve never been into food fads, and how sushi is classed as a meal I will never know. Raw fish, what’s that about?

  There I go again, veering off topic. Rushing past the Co-op, wasn’t I, betting paper on my head, odds of staying dry very low indeed. I ran across the high street and hit the path that leads past the doctors’ surgery, where I’d seen the GP, to the car park beside the canal. At the near end of the path, raindrops splashed into a puddle. I stopped a moment, transfixed by how quickly the drops lost their edges and became one with the murky water, but then a great trickle ran into my collar, down my back and became one with my pants.

  By the time I got to the car park, I was wetter than a haddock’s bathing costume, the Post all but reduced to papier mâché on my head. I fumbled for my keys, got myself into the car and sighed massively. The windscreen and all the windows were fogged up. I turned the key for the ignition. The engine coughed and fell silent.

  ‘No,’ I said through my teeth. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’

  It doesn’t rain, does it? I thought. It bloody pours. And it really was chucking it down, so the expression fitted doubly. If I hadn’t been so hacked off, I might even have laughed at the irony. I tried again with the ignition, but there wasn’t even a cough this time, just a last asthmatic gasp. And then I noticed the switch for the headlights was turned to on.

  ‘For crying out loud,’ I said to no one. And then I had a good old swear, but that kind of language doesn’t need repeating here, does it? Suffice to say that what little air there was in my rusty Renault was a filthy shade of blue.

  I dug around in my bag for my mobile, found it, switched it on. I was about to call Mark, but I didn’t. He’d be just in the door from work and I couldn’t face the sulky voice on the other end of the line when I told him I’d left the headlights on, which in that moment I decided not to tell him at all.

  I would try and flag someone down on the high street and see if they’d give me a lift home. I knew where the jump leads were – in the dresser in the garage. Yes, jump leads. Sisters are doing it for themselves.

  Of course, at that moment I didn’t have a clue how the evening would go, did I? I had no clue what terrible significance those jump leads would come to have.

  18

  Ingrid

  Transcript of recorded interview with Ingrid Taylor (excerpt)

  Also present: DI Heather Scott, PC Marilyn Button

  HS: So, to clarify, your relationship with Mark Edwards was purely platonic?

  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.