Letters To My Daughter's Killer (10 page)

‘We’ll get you ready and I’ll sleep back in my bed,’ I say.

Her face falls in resignation, and she gives a small sigh.

The bastard. I curse him for what he has done already and the hurt that’s yet to come.

Tony doesn’t stay long. With Florence asleep, I’m aware that we are alone together. And that hasn’t happened for years.

He looks so tired: the network of broken capillaries that craze his cheeks, a fake rosiness set against his dull eyes and the rash of grey stubble on his chin. His hand shakes when he lifts his mug of tea.

‘Do you think Lizzie was seeing someone else?’ he says.

I’m stung by the suggestion. ‘What? No. Why would you—’

‘Why would he hurt her? Why would he do that? He loved her,’ Tony says, heat in the questions.

Was that it? A crime of passion? A moment’s madness. Did Jack suspect Lizzie of adultery and lose his mind?

‘When would she have had time?’ I say. ‘If she wasn’t working, she had Florence. She wouldn’t do that. She loved him.’ There’d have been signs, surely. I’d have known, wouldn’t I? But then I never knew she was pregnant.

‘I need a smoke.’ Tony signals to the back door.

‘You started again?’ It’s a rhetorical question.

He goes out.

‘The trellis needs mending,’ he says when he comes back in.

‘It’s not top of my list,’ I say more harshly than I meant to. Then, ‘Sorry.’ Tony is a doer, a problem-solver. Constructive. He wants to fix things.

He can’t fix this.

The pillow on my bed smells alien, starchy, slightly cheesy. Of Jack. His tears, his sweat, his saliva. I’ve not the energy to change the whole bed and I don’t want to wake Florence, who is asleep in the child’s bed, Matilda in her hand. But I do go and fetch the pillow from the spare room and use that.

‘Nana. Nana.’ Florence is by the bedside, whimpering, clutching the toy kitten.

‘Did you have a bad dream?’ I say.
And woke up to find it was real?
‘Want a cuddle? Come on.’ I edge over and throw the duvet back. She climbs in beside me and hunches up close. I put my arm around her and kiss the top of her head, which smells of my shampoo: apple and almond. I listen to her breathing. Little sips that grow quieter and quieter.

My arm gets numb and I ease it away, flexing my hand against the pins and needles.

The next thing I know Milky is on my chest, butting my chin with his head. Begging for food. Florence is still asleep.

My nightdress is damp but I’m not hot, not sweaty. I feel the bed. The sheet is cold and wet between us, and drawing back the duvet I can smell it, sharp, ammonia. Florence has wet the bed.

She shivers as I peel the sodden pyjamas off her and turn the shower on.

When she’s dry and dressed, I strip the bed. The mattress is wet too, and I wonder if I have any bicarb in to wipe it with. How can one small child contain so much urine? I should buy a mattress protector, something waterproof, just in case it happens again.

And what else? There is no plan. Time stretches ahead like foreign territory, completely unfamiliar, unknown. And I am lost. I don’t speak the language or know why I’m here or what I must do.

Sunday 20 September 2009

It is late afternoon, and I have been on the computer for the first time in a week and ordered a plastic mattress cover. And remade my bed. The rest of the day has trickled away. Florence is having a strop. Kicking the sofa, her face mutinous and flushed, because I have asked her to pick up some of her toys before I read her a story. I want her to stop. I’ve told her twice. Close to snapping, I go into the dining room and have a silent scream, balling my fists.

How long can she keep it up? Resentment makes me truculent. I want to leave her to it, cold and passive-aggressive, rather than act the mature adult and distract her or calmly discipline her. This is no good for her, cooped up. This artificial environment. The limbo we’re in. She doesn’t want me, she wants her mummy and daddy. I’m on my way to tell her she can help me make toast when the doorbell goes.

Is it Jack? Panic squirts through me. Briefly I consider hiding, but that seems pathetic. My mouth is dry, my legs feel weak as I open the door.

DI Ferguson and Kay. My stomach flips over as they step inside.

Nobody’s smiling. There’s a hiatus from the living room, then Florence resumes her kicking.

‘Come in here,’ I say. We go into the dining room. The sun comes in through the window and the air is full of dust motes, golden, circling.

I move a pile of old newspapers off one chair and clear coats from another, and we all sit down.

DI Ferguson speaks. ‘Ruth, I’ve come to tell you that we have been interviewing Jack under caution, and as a result of those interviews and the evidence gathered during our inquiry, we have agreed with the Crown Prosecution Service to bring charges.’

It is hard to breathe, as though I’m in a vacuum. My ears buzz and spots dance at the edge of my vision. ‘About Lizzie?’

‘Yes. Jack has been charged with Lizzie’s murder. I am so very sorry.’

I gasp, even though I believed him guilty from the moment of the arrest. My skin crawls.

‘I realize this must be a terrible shock,’ she says. ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to contact?’

Lizzie, only Lizzie.

I shake my head.

‘Jack will be taken to the magistrates’ court in the morning; that’s a formality really, to commit the case to Crown Court. We expect him to be remanded in custody until the trial.’ Her voice seems to swell and shrink.

‘In prison,’ I say, needing to be certain, to be crystal clear.

‘That’s right. It could take several months to get to court. You may be called as a witness.’

I wipe my eyes. ‘Did he say why? Why he did it?’

‘No. He is denying any involvement.’

‘Honestly?’ I’d expected him to see the game was up and confess.
They always look at the husband.
He’d said that, and I’d hurried to reassure him.

Yes, they always look at the husband.

For good reason.

‘He will have to enter a formal plea,’ DI Ferguson says, ‘but for now he’s telling us he is not guilty.’

‘But you can prove he did it?’ I say, my mouth dry.

‘Yes. In order to charge someone, we have to consider the evidence and decide whether we have a better chance of winning rather than losing. We’re confident we have.’

‘We could still lose?’ I say. I look from DI Ferguson, the intense gleam in her eyes, to Kay’s calm gaze, searching for doubt.

‘We can never be certain what the outcome of a trial will be, how a jury will vote on the evidence, but we have a very strong case.’

I think of Jack confined in a small cell, damp staining the stone walls, a metal door and bedstead, a soiled blanket.

And I wish him dead.

17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX

It wasn’t me. Not guilty.

Three years you kept that up. That monstrous lie. Three years without the grace, the humanity, the balls to take responsibility.

In childbirth, the afterpains are often as strong as those in labour. I had them when I had Lizzie, forcing me to stop whatever I was doing and breathe through the contraction until it passed. Earthquakes have aftershocks following the original devastation, continuing to tear at anything left standing, to paralyse rescue missions, to terrorize survivors.

After the trauma of Lizzie’s murder, your arrest, the understanding that she died at your hand is just like that, an aftershock. And because I am already weakened by the loss, your calumny, your crime feels equally grievous.

I cannot believe she’s gone.

I cannot believe you took her.

I know these facts are true, but they are as hard to grasp as the beams of sunshine streaming into my dining room.

There’s a bitter taste of triumph, sour at the back of my mouth. Any inclination to punch the air or cheer or clap with relief is suffocated by the awful, senseless waste of it all.

You have ruined your own life as well as Lizzie’s. God only knows what you’ve done to Florence. Hear her? Still whining and kicking the furniture.

You fool, you bloody stupid fool. I wish Lizzie had never met you. I wish you’d never been born. But then I wouldn’t have Florence. I’m not in any position to bargain. To trade my granddaughter for my daughter. For what you’ve done cannot be undone. This isn’t a dress rehearsal, no press preview. The curtain has come down, the audience are long gone. The place is tacky, tawdry in the cold glare of the house lights. You are locked up. I would rain misery and terror on your head.

I want my daughter back.

Ruth

17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX

Your parents won’t believe it. Marian calls my mobile. She’s left messages on the landline but I have not responded. It’s as if I’m over the limit in terms of the emotional burden I can withstand and the prospect of a conversation with her is just too much. But I see her name and answer.

‘We’ve heard about Jack,’ she says without any preliminaries. ‘It’s outrageous.’

The choice of words gives me pause. I’m still wondering what exactly is outrageous when she continues, ‘They’re obviously determined to blame it on someone rather than do their job properly and catch the real culprit. That monster Litton is still out there, he must be having a great laugh at our expense.’

‘You think Jack’s innocent?’ I say. This is what’s outrageous. I feel a wave of heat in my face and anger blossoming in my belly.

‘Of course!’ she explodes. ‘Ruth, he would never do something like this, not in a million years. How can you even think . . . He’s innocent. I know my son. It’s a terrible mistake. I don’t know what they’re playing at, but they’ve got the wrong man.’ She stops, and I don’t say anything.

When she speaks again, she is quieter, more measured, though I can hear high emotion trembling at the fringes of her words. ‘Ruth, honestly, Jack did not hurt Lizzie. He adored her. He needs us to believe in him, to stand by him until the truth comes out.’

‘No,’ I say flatly.

‘Ruth—’

‘No. You can do what you like.’

‘You can’t just condemn him outright. He’s—’

‘It won’t be up to me, will it?’ I say.

‘Until we know the truth . . .’

I think of Tony’s reaction after your arrest, his reluctance to believe your guilt:
Have you taken leave of your senses?
How I argued that I’d seen first-hand your impulse to run away, that surge of animal energy when you were cornered. How the hard facts meant you were far more likely to be responsible than an elusive stalker or some unidentified stranger.

Perhaps Marian has to believe in you, because she is your mother. I try to twist it round, imagine Lizzie accused of violence, of murder, but fail. I have not had a son; would that would be different, bring a different perspective? So easy to blame the women, isn’t it? Blame Marian for some fault in your upbringing, some problem relating to women. Or blame Lizzie for an affair, like Tony suggested, or some provocation.

Perhaps Marian dares not allow that it might be you because of the cost to her. Parents will do anything for their children, after all. Destroy evidence, invent alibis, lie under oath. Only this year there’s been the Rhys Jones case. A schoolboy shot as he played out on his bike. The killer’s mother lied to the police and was charged with perverting the course of justice.

‘Jack has never been in trouble in his life,’ Marian says. ‘You’re so wrong. I simply don’t understand how you can choose to believe for one moment—’

‘Marian, it’s not something I’ve chosen. It’s a gut feeling. As soon as they arrested him, I knew. He tried to run away.’

‘That’s just ridiculous.’ Now she’s arsey, aggressive, telling me off. ‘You’re just going to abandon him?’

Any restraint snaps. ‘He killed my daughter! Too bloody right I’m abandoning him. I hope he rots in jail.’ I hang up.

‘Nana,’ Florence calls out from the living room. I close my eyes for a moment, then go through to her.

She’s lying on the floor, hands by her sides, eyes half open; she shuts them tight when I come in.

‘Where’s Florence?’ I say, pretending I can’t see her. She loves hide-and-seek. Though she usually picks slightly better hiding places.

‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘Look!’

‘What are you doing down there?’

‘I being dead.’

Fuck! My stomach plummets. I stamp down the urge to haul her up, to tell her to stop it. A flurry of uncertainty: should I ask her more, give her a chance to talk, or explain again what dead is, what’s happened to Lizzie? See if she really understands? But I’m not ready, too wound up.

‘Are you now? That’s sad. So you won’t want any fish fingers then?’

Her eyes fly open. ‘Yes!’ she says.

‘How many? Three?’

‘Two. No, three.’ She gets up and rubs her nose on her sleeve.

I will have to tell her about you, as well. She must be confused. The scene in the kitchen, her brave attempt to protect you, to keep you. My lie about you working. I need help. No doubt there is advice online from bereavement charities about explaining death to a four-year-old. But I doubt there’s much about explaining that the police think Daddy did it. That Daddy killed Mummy.

She adores you.

And I will destroy that.

Ruth

17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX

Rebecca is here. When I open the door, she starts talking, saying if it’s a bad time she can come back later, then she dissolves into tears.

I bring her in.

Rebecca is Lizzie’s soul sister. They met at primary school. Rebecca has three sisters; she’s the youngest. Their dad left when Rebecca was a baby. Her mum was unhappy and took it out on the children, Rebecca particularly. Looking after four children on your own is no picnic. I felt sorry for her, Samantha, but she rebuffed any moves I made to be friendly. She worked as a secretary at a private school in Sale. On several occasions when we were collecting the kids from the after-school club I heard her belittling Rebecca. I didn’t have the courage to intervene directly, but when Rebecca stayed over at ours or came to play, I made a point of praising her, because she was a lovely girl.