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: Knife 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