The door to interview room 2 was opened and in walked the forlorn figure of Jane Lawson and her lawyer, a Mr Smith. Mr Smith introduced himself having plonked the traditional two metres of paperwork and files on the desk. As he extended his hand the cufflink became exposed from under the sleeve of his suit jacket and the word ‘hot’ could be seen on a small tap. Ian shook his hand and gestured at the cufflink saying ‘do you think it would have been more appropriate to shake with your other hand?’ in a reference to the way lawyers could be traditionally difficult and abrasive when defending their client. Some of them had clearly seen too many films and thought that being obstructive and defending their clients at all cost was a matter of life and death. However Mr Smith was not like that. He was professional but reasonable, his only Achilles heel being the fact he liked to wear novelty cufflinks. Ian had briefly thought about a new business empire making novelty abusive cufflinks. Classics such as ‘Dick – Head’ or ‘Shit – Head’ or ‘Up – Yours’ had sprung to mind. Obviously this genius had only come in the pub after six pints of Stella and his equally childish mates had roared with laughter coming up with a few of their own which were even ruder, coarser and bordered on illegal. The outright winner had been ‘Fuck You’. Not necessarily because it was the most obscene but because of the situational comedy it had invoked. Being in an important meeting with a big client, shaking hands with the head honcho as he casually asked what do your cufflinks say and the answer being a straight talking ‘Fuck You’ and a retort of ‘Well I was only asking.’
Ian looked at Mr Smith, Jane, and then gave a nod to PC McGeorge who started the record button signifying the beginning of the interview.
Ian began ‘The date is the 20th of September 2007. The time is precisely 3 p.m. In attendance is DI Ian Carragher, PC Lisa McGeorge, Mr Mark Smith, the defence lawyer and Ms Jane Lawson, the accused.’
‘Ms Lawson, You have been charged with the murders of James Benjamin Langan, Saul Barraghan, Mel Johnston and David Holmes. Along with the breaking and entering of the house of Louise Jensen. Do you understand the charges brought against you?’
Jane replied meekly ‘Yes I do’
‘And how are you pleading to these charges??’
‘My client is pleading guilty although with a plea for diminished responsibility.’
‘And is she willing to co-operate fully with the investigation’
‘Yes I will’ interjected Jane. ‘This nightmare just needs to end, I’ve had enough. What I have done is unforgivable.’ Tears began to well up in Jane’s eyes. ‘Can I have a glass of water please, then, we can begin.’
She gulped down her first glass, then another, then another. She composed herself and nodded at Ian to begin questioning.
‘So, Ms Lawson lets start with James Benjamin Langan. Why and how.’
‘Actually before we start I do have one question.’
‘And that is?’
‘When will I be able to see my mother? Have you contacted her? Does she not want to see me?’
Ian, Mark and Lisa just looked at each other. Her mother was dead. They all knew that but the lawyer hadn’t mentioned it. Mark Smith gestured at Ian to have a quick chat outside. They hastily left the room and whispered to each other in hushed tones.
‘Why haven’t you bloody told her her mothers dead Mr Smith’
‘Because as of midday today after her psychiatric evaluation it was advised to not tell her. It’s important we get this over with as quickly as possible, then she can be medicated, moved to a psychiatric hospital and be told there in a manner which will not send her over the edge.’
‘Jesus….I didn’t realise that, where’s the report, nobody has mentioned it to me.’
‘The report is on your desk waiting for you to read it. Did you not go to your desk when you came in this afternoon?’
‘Well no, I was a bit late and just came straight down here.’
‘Well in that case don’t give me a hard time about it. As I said lets get this over with and get her out of here.’
The two of them nodded in unison. They both checked their ties nervously as if they were heading into an important interview and entered the room.
Ian looked at Jane. She was waiting for an answer and the best he could come up with was ‘Lets get this interview over with and provided you co-operate fully we can then discuss your mothers’ situation.’
Jane seemed happy with that and began.
‘When Nick died two years ago I was a mess. My mother and friends tried to be supportive but I wasn’t interested. I lost Nicks baby when I didn’t even know I was pregnant. I retreated within myself for months. My mother managed to get me out of the house by taking me to church every Sunday. It felt peaceful in there. And the thought of Nick in heaven helped me to come to terms with his death. However some people came to the house who were Jehovah’s witnesses. They said that people who donated organs did not go to heaven. I was still fragile at this time and my thoughts then turned to Nick not actually being in heaven, just being nowhere. In my mind I reconciled the fact that if he was whole again he would be at peace, he would be in a good place, and therefore I could also be at peace and hopefully get on with my life.
I persuaded my mother to give me the details of who Nick had given organs to. The donor card had been my idea. It was something I didn’t really give much thought to. As a surgeon I had seen all sorts of people who needed livers, pancreas, corneas etc and the life changing benefits they could bring. I never really thought about God, or religion, or to be honest even dying. Everything was my fault at this stage. The drugs we had taken the night he died I had given him. The crazy weekends we had together were my idea. Being a surgeon was very pressured and my release was to just go crazy every weekend. Nick preferred a slightly quieter life but he came along for the ride and I pushed him and I pushed him and in the end I as good as killed him.
Peace of mind can be a crazy thing. The more I thought about my project the more it made sense. The people who had his organs were an irrelevance. James Benjamin Langan was easy. He was scum. He was a criminal who sold drugs, hurt people and was only ever interested in himself. I followed him for weeks I kept a diary of where he was and who he was with. Deciding when to strike was obvious. Every Saturday he ended up sleeping at the club. As each week passed he seemed to start drinking earlier and earlier. I went to the club a few times and watched him stagger about the place. The night I did it I just waited outside in the car. I had been into the club and saw who had gone up. When the club closed it was just a matter of waiting it out. His best friend Bacchus was an idiot. He used to fall out of the back entrance; he could barely stand or see. Always left the door open. As soon as he fell into a taxi I gathered my things and went in. As I crept up the stairs there was no sound. I peered around the door and there he was. Completely passed out. I stood there for a while but then thought lets just do this. I walked straight over to him, took out my scalpel and cut his throat. He was dead before I had finished. I put a cloth over his eyes I had brought with me so I didn’t have to look at his face and cut his eyes out. I just visualised being in the operating theatre. I put the eyes in a sealed canister, then a plastic bag. I did feel a bit nauseous so I took a big gulp of whisky which helped to steady my nerves. That was when I saw the safe was wide open. I’d never thought about using a gun. I didn’t even know how I was going to get one. But it was there and it seemed an opportunity too good to miss. Also there was money everywhere. It was crazy. I am not sure whether it was the night’s takings or what but I took what I could. Must have been thousands. It helped me conceal myself these past few weeks as I never needed to use my bank account at all. That’s what the cash is in my bag. Its not all there, the rest is…..’ Jane trailed off
‘Where is the rest Jane? Where have you been hiding all this time? We found a door key in your bag but there’s no evidence of an address or anything. What’s it for?’
Jane went silent. She ignored the question and carried on. ‘Saul Barraghan was
another easy one….I couldn’t believe it when I tracked him down. I walked past his grimy flat as he was opening the door. I looked him right in the eyes. He was a mess. Blood shot eyes, a near full grown beard, emaciated features, greasy limp hair. I could smell him from four feet away. I hid my emotions and asked him if Tessa was in? he looked puzzled but was actually quite polite and stated I must have the wrong flat as he had lived there for ten years. I got talking to him and when he said he was going to the local shop I pretended I needed some stuff as well. We spoke a little on the way there. It was 10 a.m. and when he bought a litre of the cheapest vodka that sealed the fact he was an alcoholic. I couldn’t believe it. Not content with destroying his own liver he was now well on the way to destroying my Nicks liver and I wasn’t going to have that. Over the course of another two weeks I checked up on him. Every day he went down to that shop at 10 a.m. Everyday he bought a litre of vodka. Sometimes he would buy a loaf of bread or some own brand beans but it was always the vodka first. He was the only recipient I really hated. A no hoper whose life added up to zero. He had done nothing, achieved nothing and was nothing. On the day I freed my Nicks liver I paced around all day. I ended up going for a walk. It was all a blur. I walked for hours but took nothing in, sights, sounds, smells. I called in at the Tesco store just off St John’s high street and bought two litres of Smirnoff vodka. I went round to his flat at 8 p.m. and knocked on the door. When he opened the door he was initially surprised. He was well on his way to drunkenness and as I held up the two bottles I was about to go into a well thought out reason why I was calling round again but he simply invited me in and was prowling around me staring at the vodka bottles like an expectant cat waiting to be fed as its owner spoons the cat food into a bowl.
I handed him one of the bottles and said that was for him and the other was mine. He took it from me and meandered back into the living room. He pressed play on the CD player and beckoned for me to sit down. He poured himself a large glass which he drunk with relish, letting out a satisfied sigh. I took out the paper cups I had brought and used one. The other bottle I had was actually filled with water.
We sat in silence for a bit but then he started to ramble on. The words were slurred and incoherent; the randomness of his vocal tirades was surreal. I heard things like ‘in the 60’s’, ‘the fucking bitch’, ’bloody government’. In the end I just kept pouring and making him drink as quickly as he could. But he seemed to absorb it like a sponge. I couldn’t take anymore…..I went to the bathroom taking my bag with me. The gun was in there. It felt cold to the touch. The heaviness of the thing stressed its dangerousness to me, the power it held, the consequences of its use, the destroyer of men. I put it in my coat pocket and walked back in. I turned up the stereo and walked behind him. He didn’t change, he didn’t look, and he just kept on talking. I put the pillow to the back of his head and fired all in one motion….the noise wasn’t as loud as I thought it would be, although the ferocity of the kick back and the damage it had caused were undeniable. The gun fell out of my hand and I dropped the pillow to the side. I just stood there. Probably for about ten minutes or so. Frank Sinatra was belting out the tunes as I was just staring downwards. The force of the blast had torn a hole in the drunks head. He had fallen forwards onto his filthy rug. It was this big thick mottled thing which was absorbing the blood and gore. He meant more to me dead than alive. At least dead he was useful. At least dead I could proceed; at least dead he was no longer a burden to the neighbours, the government, the world.’
She paused for a minute then. The interview room was still. The only noise was from the recording equipment. She was staring at the table, her breath shallow, her arms folded across her chest as if comforting her from the maelstrom of emotions and memories which were coursing through her brain.
‘I turned the music down then. I dragged his body into the bathroom. The blood was everywhere and was going to get a lot worse. I found all the towels he had. They were grey, shabby, and rotting away…just like he had been. I put them around the body, took out my equipment and performed the operation in a few minutes. It was easy. I was going to sew him back up again but then thought why bother. He had no dignity in life so why should I give him any in death. I put Nicks liver into the freezer bag and walked out. I never even looked back. As I got outside I closed the door quickly and a little too noisily, but no one cared, no one stirred, no one bothered. I put my hat back on, pulled the collars of my coat up and got out of there quickly. When I got home, I immediately showered. I felt dirty. I needed to wash away the filthy life that he had led. I made myself a drink and went to bed. I felt no remorse, no anger, no pain. Just contentment, satisfaction, almost pleasure. It spurred me on to complete my task……that night I slept soundly for the first time in two years.’
Ian Carragher and Lisa McGeorge just glanced at each other. The last ten minutes had been illuminating, and had given a real insight into the type of person who was sitting in front of them. The type of person who had begun this killing spree with a crazy mixed up idea in their heads, the type of person who may illicit pity, show remorse, and realise the absurdity and brutality of their work to one who had gotten a taste for it. The reason for killing was now almost secondary to the release and serenity with which killing gave them. He imagined she couldn’t wait to kill again. This explained the frequency of the murders. Once Saul Barraghan had been despatched the rest had to follow quickly to satiate her need to kill. All sympathy exited Ian Carragher at that moment for he knew the original innocent, poor mixed up and deluded Jane had been lost.
‘Mel Johnston was next on the list’ Jane continued without being prompted or cajoled. ‘I had watched him the closest. He and his wife Carol had a great life. A lovely flat in Hampstead, two good jobs. I used to follow them as they went out and about around London with their friends. To restaurants, to bars, to the theatre, to art galleries, to concerts. They were so happy together. The more I followed, the more I saw and the more I thought how that was the life me and Nick should have had. Over the weeks I had originally followed them I went from a feeling of sadness to one of jealousy, envy and hate. They had become everything I had wanted. They were everything I needed. I wanted them to feel my pain, to understand the hurt of losing someone. If I could share the burden I thought it would help. Maybe it would somehow appease my pain. To know that someone else was going through what I went through.
The night before I didn’t sleep at all. I stayed up all night just staring out of the window. The memories of me and Nick going to the cinema, to restaurants, bars, the theatre, blended with the observations I had made of Carol and Mel until they all meshed together into an incomprehensible mix of thoughts and feelings. My head needed to be clear. The memories of me and Nick must be kept intact. Once Mel was dead my thoughts would be clear, the memories restored to their original state and I would be okay again.
Mel ran every morning without fail. His timekeeping was almost robotic. There were times when my watch would tick to exactly 6am to the second and the front door would open. I was so confident of this I walked up to the door at 5:59:30. No need to ring the bell, no need to cause alarm. I heard him coming down the stairs. As the bolt on the door clicked and he opened the door I stood there, the kitchen knife at waist height. As he looked up the incredulity of what greeted him was etched all over his face. He kept looking at my face and then the knife, the knife then my face. He was gob smacked. I flicked the knife towards the stairs and he retreated slowly. I closed the door behind me and led him up the stairs. He tried to speak, tried to reason with me but I shut him up every time. His body was tense with fright. The fight or flight instinct was being submerged under his conscious will to live and therefore only co-operation at this juncture would suffice. We got into the flat. As he turned round I brought my hand up and in one motion struck him on the side of his temple with the statue. He fell over and hit his head on the coffee table. He was out cold. Blood was oozing from where I had hit him and the other side of his
face was expanding with a dark purple shade as the force of the smack on the coffee table led his face to bruise over quite quickly and heavily. I injected him in his neck and he was stone dead within five minutes. In that five minutes I went to the bathroom cupboard and took out the towels he had, putting them in a ring around him. Cutting him open and taking out his heart was messy work, but I covered him up as much as possible so only his chest was visible. It made him seem less human that way. Cutting his ribcage was tough and there was blood everywhere, but the towels did their job. As I took off my overalls afterwards having packed everything away I saw the photos of the two of them everywhere. On top of the television, on the kitchen table, in the bedroom, the bathroom, everywhere. Both of them always smiling, always happy, a look of contentment and love forever captured, printed off and framed for all to see……I smashed every one of them. It felt symbolic. The happiness had ended….’
Jane shifted in her seat. She picked up her now cold coffee and drank what was left. She took a deep breath, shook out her arms as if warming up for a fitness class and looked at the two officers.
‘Shall I continue?’
Ian and Lisa just nodded in unison. Lisa had stopped making notes. She felt a hint of guilt as she became absorbed in the detail, as Jane bared her soul she was fascinated at the journey she had taken, the person she had become. She didn’t hate Jane, in-fact it probably didn’t matter who was sitting in front of her, it was more the gravity of the situation that got to her, the fact that a fellow human being was sitting opposite but that she almost seemed like she was from another planet.
Jane continued…’Olney was a lovely place. I enjoyed it there. I was originally going to stay for two nights but it was that nice I stayed longer. The small shops, the open countryside, the village atmosphere was lovely. It felt like a holiday. To get out of London was exhilarating. I had been enveloped in the madness for too long. The clarity of my thoughts sharpened. David Holmes was no longer David Holmes, it was just another thing. A task which needed to be completed no bigger a deal than washing your car, doing your ironing or buying the weekly food shopping. I knew he would be fishing. What a ridiculous pastime, just another excuse to get drunk and waste your life away. To this day I still can’t remember what he looked like. I knew his routine. I got up in the middle of night and slipped out. He was already fast asleep when I found him. The needle in the neck certainly woke him up but he didn’t even look round before falling into the water. Cutting him open was clean and easy, the water took away the mess and I could operate unrestricted.’
‘Do you not realise the pain you caused his family?’ enquired Ian. ‘His parents, his sisters, his brothers, his friends? What did David Holmes ever do to you? Since when did he become worthless? He was a human being, with every right to live as all your other victims. If you are so cold, so calculating, so insensitive, so evil, then why couldn’t you kill little Sally Jensen? Surely she was nothing, just another ‘task’ another ‘action’ to tick off your ‘to-do’ list.’ Ian let the questions hang.
Jane’s face changed when she heard the name Sally. It seemed to soften, the steeliness in the eyes, the tight lipped crossed arm crossed legged head down fury and defensiveness seemed to fade. She leaned forward and whispered in a barely audible voice ‘because she reminded me of me…’ Tears welled up in her eyes. She began to cry, just tears at first sneaking out of her eyes and down her cheeks. But then the sobs started, great heaving sobs, the tears cascading down her face. She doubled over putting her head in her hands, her nose was running through her fingers, the tears kept on coming…it was time to take a break. Ian quickly stated for the benefit of the tape, ‘Interview suspended for fifteen minutes’.
He got up and walked out of the room, not bothering to look back. Jane’s sobs following him down the corridor. He didn’t stop until he got outside. It was 5 p.m. He was standing on the ground floor of the multi storey car park in the smoking area. He had never felt the need for a cigarette until now, but instead he just paced up and down, with his hands in his suit jacket pocket. He looked at his watch for what seemed like an eternity. The time didn’t really register. It had been a traumatic day. He wanted to speak to his wife. He took out his mobile phone and called her. She didn’t answer. It went to voicemail after six rings. She must be working he thought. He couldn’t even remember. The beep of the voicemail prompt surprised him and he took a couple of seconds to gain his composure. ‘Hello hot stuff, only me. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, the interview has been going on all this time. Its quite heavy stuff. Just wanted to speak to you to hear your voice, but its okay. I will be home by ten. I love you.’ He pressed cancel to end the call. He hadn’t said ‘I love you’ so much to his wife in a long time. Jesus Christ, he thought, if it takes a serial killing psychotic woman to make him tell his wife he loves her he’s in serious trouble.’ Strangely he laughed to himself. He didn’t really know why. Maybe his body just needed a release. He composed himself, straightened his tie, brushed down his trousers and jacket, put his hands through his hair and headed back inside. ‘Let’s get this over with and get out of here’ he thought to himself as he opened the fire door and headed back inside.
Chapter 23 – ‘She wants what?’