Letters To My Daughter's Killer (13 page)

The fear won’t leave me. It grows inside me, something heavy crawling up my back, hands around my throat, making me dizzy. I drop the bags and leave the house and flee for home.

I am at your house again. Tony is with me. I did consider getting someone else in to clean up, but it’s another expense when money is really tight and this is something we can do ourselves, upsetting though it is. I’ve tried to prepare him for what we’ll find, described the blood, the scene of carnage, but he’s still shaken. He freezes by the couch, then swings round and I think he will leave like I did.

‘The bastard,’ he says. ‘That bastard.’ And he kicks out, smashing his foot into a side table, which splinters apart, the lamp on it crashing to the floor. ‘If he gets off, comes back . . .’ Tony says.

‘He won’t,’ I snap. It’s what I fear. You evading justice, taking up the reins, reclaiming Florence. They must not let you go.

But Tony is steadfast. While he rips up the floor and loads the pieces into bags for the tip, I go upstairs and collect Florence’s clothes and toys, including Bert. The unease about being in the space clings to me as I’m busy sorting through Florence’s clothes. She’s not grown much, so most of her things will still fit. I hope the shoes will. It’s the shoes that make me cry. Why they set me off, I’ve no idea. But the row of them – red ankle boots, canvas sandals, blue T-bar shoes, wellies with fish painted on – just unseats me. I allow myself to weep for a few minutes, then wash my face.

The same sparkly dark dust is all over the bathroom. There are your toiletries beside Lizzie’s. I feel like a voyeur.

Looking in the mirror, I wonder about you, what you saw when you did the same. Did you check your expression here before you rang me? Distraught spouse, grief-stricken lover. Did you wash your hands? You must have done. Here or in the kitchen sink. Looking at the room downstairs, the way blood is sprayed about the walls over the sofa, you must have been covered in it. I don’t recall blood on your clothes; did you change before you rang me?

What will I do with Lizzie’s things? I hadn’t thought of that. Bracing myself, in case there is more blood, more signs of your violence, I open the door to your bedroom. But it is bland, innocuous. Some of the surfaces glimmer with the powder. On her dressing table: earrings, make-up, perfume. I sniff the bottle. Jo Malone, the orange blossom. Downstairs I can hear the creak and snap as Tony tears at the laminate. My thoughts tangle. I go back into Florence’s room and carry on.

‘Ruth?’

Tony comes up, ‘I’m off to the tip. You going to wait here?’

‘No.’ I don’t want to be alone in the house. ‘I’ll take these back.’ I lift the last pair of shoes into the top of a bin bag.

‘Can’t believe they’d just leave it like that,’ Tony says.

‘I know.’

‘I’ll collect the new flooring on my way back here.’

‘D’you want a hand putting it down?’ I offer.

‘Okay. I’ll ring you when I’m back again.’

‘You take the keys, then,’ I say.

We lay half the floor, snapping the tongue-and-groove boards into place, then it’s time to collect Florence from school. I can’t be late. Her anxiety soars if she thinks I’m late, if she can’t see me near the front of the line of parents. Tony and I have spent most of our time talking about Florence.

My knees creak and my back is stiff when I straighten up.

‘I don’t trust Marian and Alan not to go for custody if Jack’s convicted,’ I say.

‘What?’ he scowls. ‘You are joking. Would they? They wouldn’t stand a chance, would they?’

‘They are a couple, and they’re better off.’

‘But she hardly knows them.’

‘Jack’s still her legal guardian,’ I say, ‘and if we apply for custody, he can fight it.’

Tony grits his teeth and expels air through them. ‘Bloody cheek.’

‘We need some advice.’

‘Social services?’

I feel a lurch at the thought of an outsider judging me, judging my capacity to be Florence’s carer. But I know it’s better to get some professional advice and hopefully support. Surely they’ll see that the best place for her is with me.

Ruth

Monday 4 January 2010

It’s good to be back at work, even though I feel light-headed and tense. Probably three-quarters of the library users know me, know about Lizzie. Some were at the funeral. Most of them now offer condolences. These range from ‘I’m so sorry’ and ‘It’s good to see you’ to ‘They want to bring back hanging, bloody disgrace’. Which doesn’t really help me much.

I’ve come back part-time on earlies as agreed in my meeting with the area manager. Saturdays are difficult because Florence is at home. I plan to use my leave for the school holidays. Hopefully by summer things will be easier and she will be looked after by Tony and Denise or with her friends Ben or Paige. Ben’s mother has offered several times.

‘Ruth? I’m Stella.’ My new supervisor, a senior library assistant come from North area. She smiles and shakes my hand. ‘Sorry for your loss. I don’t know how you can . . . It must be so very difficult.’ She gives me a sympathetic smile, then carries on, ‘My cousin’s brother-in-law, his grandma was one of Harold Shipman’s victims. Awful.’

I am poleaxed by her clumsy attempt at – what? Empathy, solidarity?

‘If you need more time, if it all gets too much, you just say.’ She nods eagerly. ‘You can’t rush something like this.’ Flashing me another smile, her teeth whitened, almost neon. I must be twenty years older, but feel like a child, as if she’ll pat me on the head any moment.

‘We’re thinking of shaking things up a bit,’ Stella says.

I look at the display for New Year in the corner – charting the different ways it is celebrated around the world – and the books in translation in front of it for people who’d like to read about another place. Then there’s the frieze we did last summer to brighten up the children’s library, and the mobiles made by the Sure Start group. The new notices for the pensioners’ Young At Heart group. I scan the room, see the people busy on the computers, the group of Asian men gathered around the tables, talking over the news, and it all looks good to me.

‘Fine,’ I say. I’ll bide my time, see what she does.

‘What d’you think?’ Tracey says when Stella has disappeared. Tracey and I have worked together for nine years. She’s great, a bit lazy perhaps, reluctant to do the shelving, which some people would get brassed off about but it doesn’t really bother me. She has a tough time at home: her mother has dementia and sometimes goes walkabout but so far has been returned unscathed.

‘Seems friendly enough,’ I say.

Tracey arches an eyebrow.

‘I’ve only just met her,’ I add. ‘Bit patronizing maybe.’

Unfortunately Stella is in work when I get an urgent call from school. Florence is distressed and they think I should come and settle her or take her home.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I’ll have to go.’ My heart pattering too fast as I pull my coat on. Small upsets mushroom these days. I’ve lost perspective.

‘Of course,’ she croons. ‘Perhaps you came back too early. The little girl, she must be so—’

I cut her off. ‘The block loans, can you ask Tracey?’

‘I will, don’t you worry about a thing.’ Which would be reassuring if I didn’t already know that she is taking every opportunity to question my fitness for work with Tracey, under the guise of concern. Always on about how awful I must be feeling and how it’s bound to affect my competence.

I can hear Florence as soon as I get close to the building, howling sobs, her throat sounding raw. She is in the Wendy house, which is now decorated like a tropical beach hut. Pictures of palm trees and surf fixed to the walls, a table with a raffia cover. Lei garlands of flowers and whole coconuts and large shells strewn about. She is curled over on her front, hands, knees and face on the floor.

‘She got upset at snack time,’ Lisa says. ‘I think Paige was a bit too enthusiastic about handing round the drinks and something set Florence off.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I crawl into the Wendy house and begin talking to her. ‘It’s all right, Nana’s here now. What a sad girl, come on, it’s all right now.’ Stroking down her back, easing her. Gradually her crying slows and peters out. The other children have gone outside to play. There’s just Lisa tidying round.

I manage to cajole Florence out of the house and we sit on a chair.

‘Coffee?’ says Lisa.

I’m so grateful. I know she’s got thirty kids to cater to and lesson plans and God knows what else, but she’s one of those people who just makes time, makes connections. Caring, I guess.

Florence’s face is red and puffy, her nose swollen and snotty, lips cracked. I wipe her nose. Offer her water, which she takes in little sips. While I drink coffee, I try to think of anything new that might have troubled her. She knows I’m back at work, but I’ve never been late to pick her up.

‘She’s not done anything like this before?’ I check, though I’m sure they’d have told me. Lisa shakes her head. I’ve no way of knowing if this is progress or not. Certainly not good for the well-being of the other kids in the class.

‘Did Paige say anything? They haven’t had a falling out or . . .’ I don’t like to suggest it but I wonder if somebody’s bullying Florence, making comments about her mum or her dad. Or me.
Your fat old-lady nana.

‘No. Paige just took her the milkshake and Florence went into meltdown. Has she had night terrors? It reminded me of that.’

‘Milkshake? Was it banana?’

‘Yes. For our tropical theme. How did you know? Is she allergic to bananas?’

In a manner of speaking. Oh, Florence.

I close my eyes.

I think of Jack.

With ice in my heart.

17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX

The first glimpse I get of you in court comes as I am led up the steps from the witness suite. My cheeks hot and my heart skipping too fast.

You are impeccably dressed, black suit and navy tie, white shirt. Sitting quietly. No hint of bravado. If you were auditioning for the role of respectable young man you’d walk it.

I haven’t been able to watch the start of the trial because I am a witness, but once I’ve said my piece I will be here every minute. Tony must be somewhere in the room, and Denise and Bea. But I am too nervous to search for their faces. The barrister for the prosecution is called Mr Cromer. He’s big, beefy, florid, with a Devonian burr in his voice and wire-rimmed specs.

I read the oath and affirm my intention to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

His first questions are straightforward – my relationship to Lizzie, where I live – then he asks me about the night itself.

‘I got a text from Lizzie asking me if I could babysit the following Saturday. And I texted her to say yes.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Eight thirty-nine in the evening.’ The time is branded on my memory. I looked at the text over and over after she’d died. Her last communication.

‘Then Jack rang me,’ I say. ‘He was very upset; he said someone had hurt Lizzie. He thought she was dead. I told him to call the police. I went round there. Jack was outside with Florence.’

I stroked her head, she shrugged me off.

‘How did he appear?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Very shocked, distraught.’

‘Can you remember what he was wearing?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘not really.’

‘Were his clothes stained or marked?’

‘I didn’t notice anything like that.’

‘Please tell us what happened next.’

I draw breath. The nerves are getting worse, not better, the tinnitus in my ears making me dizzy. ‘I went into the house. Lizzie was . . .’ My voice goes, a kick of grief.

Mr Cromer waits. The room is hushed. I want to flee, to run back down the steps and out of the building. I do not want to be here telling all these people about how I found my daughter. I do not want to bear witness but I manage to continue. ‘Lizzie was on the floor, there was blood everywhere.’ I keep talking, although tears sting my eyes. ‘She wasn’t moving. Then the police came in and took me outside.’

Dragging me back when every cell in my body wanted to reach her, touch her, help her.

‘Thank you,’ Mr Cromer says. ‘In the days following, Mr Tennyson stayed at your house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he speak about that evening?’

‘Yes, trying to work out what had happened, and who had hurt her. Like we all were.’

‘Did Mr Tennyson tell you how he and Mrs Tennyson had spent the evening?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, he said they had been at home. Lizzie was watching television. He went to the gym.’

‘And Florence was upstairs in bed?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Was that usual – his trip to the gym?’ he says.

‘Yes. They both went regularly.’

I sense your eyes on me. The dock is to my left, screened in glass. You sit there with a guard.

‘Did Mr Tennyson say what time he’d set off to the gym?

‘Yes, around eight thirty.’

‘Mr Tennyson rang you that evening; what time was that?’

‘Just before eleven.’ I remember earlier: the allotments, buying fish, a world that still had Lizzie in it.

‘You were present when Mr Tennyson received the details of the post-mortem on the Monday?’

‘Yes.’ My blood freezes at the recollection. How bewildered we were as Kay took us through the initial findings.

‘How did he react?’

‘Stunned and shocked, like the rest of us.’

‘Who else was present?’

‘Tony – he’s my ex-husband, Lizzie’s father – and the family liaison officer. She gave us the information.’

‘And on Saturday the nineteenth of September Mr Tennyson was arrested and you were there when the police made the arrest?’

‘Yes,’ I say. The smell of bananas and sweat and you screaming, lunging to escape.

‘How did Mr Tennyson conduct himself when the arrest warrant was served?’

‘He went crazy,’ I say. ‘He tried to get out of the house and he was yelling and fighting the police.’

When Mr Cromer has finished thanking me, your barrister gets up. Miss Dixon is about the same height as Kay, though not so willowy. She has long brown hair in a ponytail under her wig, and a sharp face. She wears an unfortunate shade of orange lipstick that draws attention to her lips, too thin for scrutiny.