Letters To My Daughter's Killer (17 page)

Rebecca doesn’t answer immediately, then says, ‘No.’

‘No bruises or grazes, burns, anything of that nature?’

‘No.’

‘Did Mrs Tennyson say where Mr Tennyson had hit her, what parts of the body?’

‘No.’

‘Did she say how many times he had hit her?’ Miss Dixon says.

A dozen blows at least.

‘No,’ Rebecca says.

‘Did she say how long the alleged attack had lasted?’

‘No.’

‘So the deceased gave you absolutely no details whatsoever about the attack? Nothing at all?’

‘No,’ Rebecca says; she is trembling.

‘Mrs Tennyson was pregnant then; how was she finding the pregnancy?’

‘She was excited about it.’

‘Anything else?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘She found it hard to sleep. I think she had bad heartburn. And she was a bit moody.’

‘Moody how?’

‘Just up and down with the hormones,’ Rebecca says.

‘So although she was excited, there were times when she felt unhappy, dissatisfied?’

‘Not really.’ Rebecca tries to correct the impression. ‘More weepy, I think. I don’t know,’ she adds.

‘You don’t know,’ the barrister echoes, and it’s a horrible undermining of Rebecca. ‘Miss Thornton, you were her maid of honour, her oldest friend . . . Were you pleased to see Lizzie Sutton and Jack Tennyson get married?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve already told the court you were surprised at her allegation of physical maltreatment. Did it occur to you that Mrs Tennyson might have been making it up?’

‘No. Why would she?’ Rebecca is alarmed.

‘To gain sympathy?’

‘She wouldn’t need to do that. We were friends.’

‘When did you last see Mrs Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon briskly.

‘Early July last year.’

‘And before that?’

‘In April.’

‘Three months earlier. So would it be fair to say you weren’t in frequent contact any more?’

‘I live in London,’ Rebecca says.

‘Please answer the question.’

‘We texted, we spoke on the phone in between.’

‘The deceased’s phone records show that she contacted you a total of four times in that period,’ says Miss Dixon.

‘She was busy.’

‘Too busy for her best friend?’

Rebecca looks wounded. I am reminded of her mother’s cutting criticism and want to shield her from all this, but I am impotent.

‘Did Mrs Tennyson tell you about her recent pregnancy?’

‘No, she didn’t,’ says Rebecca.

‘No, she didn’t.’ Miss Dixon lets the words resound with disapproval. ‘She didn’t confide in you about that. Isn’t it fair to say that your friendship had dwindled? That you had drifted apart, that you were no longer best friends.’

‘No, it’s not,’ Rebecca says.

‘She barely bothered to keep in touch; you lived and worked two hundred miles away. You told us that Mrs Tennyson was busy, too busy to maintain her friendship, it appears to me. You’re not married?’ Miss Dixon says after a pause.

‘No.’

‘You don’t have children?’

‘No.’

‘I put it to you that Mrs Tennyson had found all she needed in her marriage, in her child and her career. Is that not the case?’

‘No . . . I don’t know,’ Rebecca says, muddy with misery.

‘On the occasion you refer to last summer, you didn’t see any physical signs of abuse, no bruises, no marks or burns?’

‘No.’

‘At any point since 2005 have you seen any concrete evidence of physical harm?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘No.’

‘You assert that Mrs Tennyson spoke to you about domestic violence in 2005. When was it mentioned again?’

Rebecca falters. ‘What?’

‘When?’

‘Never. She didn’t.’

‘All those months, years, and no repetition. So we might conclude that she didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything to say. Because Jack Tennyson was treating her well. Do you agree?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says in a small voice.

She’s good, your barrister. Do your hopes rise each time she pulls a stunt like that? Taking something potentially damning and removing the sting from it. Reasonable doubt, that’s her brief. If she produces enough of it, you will be freed.

‘And the time you refer to, last summer, your interpretation was that Mrs Tennyson was in pain?’

‘She was,’ says Rebecca.

‘But there could be other explanations for that, could there not?’

‘Maybe.’

‘If Florence had caught a nerve as she clambered on to her mother’s lap, or even simpler, if Mrs Tennyson had a gastric complaint as she had told you, that could have been the reason, couldn’t it?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘Yet you chose to see Mrs Tennyson as a victim of marital violence as a result of your prejudice towards Mr Tennyson.’

‘No,’ Rebecca protests.

‘Is it not true that instead of believing your friend, your best friend for many years, you leapt to far-fetched conclusions?’

‘I thought—’

‘You were disappointed that she hadn’t joined you on your night out, and when she told you all was well, you thought she was lying? Is that the case?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rebecca says.

‘Did it occur to you that perhaps Mrs Tennyson did not want to see you, was happier spending time with her husband?’

‘No.’ Rebecca’s face is quivering; she is close to tears.

‘It’s possible that Mrs Tennyson thought the friendship had run its course. Time to move on. But you couldn’t accept that, so you turned up uninvited, and rather than accept her word, you invented a fantasy.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘True?’ Miss Dixon spits the word like it is toxic. ‘Is it true that Mrs Tennyson said she had a stomach bug?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Is it true that you turned up unannounced?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it true that when you asked her afterwards by text if all was well, she said it was?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think your friend was a liar? A dishonest person?’

‘No . . . yes . . . you’re twisting it all up,’ Rebecca says, colour flooding her face and neck.

There’s an awkward pause, then Miss Dixon says, ‘I realize that answering questions can be difficult at times, but a man’s future, his liberty and reputation hang in the balance here and I must ensure that the jury are in full possession of the facts. I am not twisting anything, but trying to disentangle fact from fiction, sound evidence from hearsay and speculation.’

The judge stirs and says, ‘A question, please, Miss Dixon.’

‘Your honour.’ She inclines, a little bow, then turns to Rebecca. ‘Would you say Mrs Tennyson was an honest person?’

‘Yes.’ Rebecca is stony-faced now; her eyes barely glance off the barrister.

‘You trusted what she told you?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says.

‘And in the summer, she told you everything was fine, that’s what you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘When you called unannounced to visit her, how was Mr Tennyson?’

‘Charming.’

This charming man.

‘He invited you in?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘He appeared quite happy for you to talk with Mrs Tennyson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Made you welcome?’

What can she say but ‘Yes.’

‘You thought Mrs Tennyson had been assaulted, but the only basis for that was a conversation you’d had four years earlier when she made unsubstantiated allegations about Mr Tennyson. Is it fair to say you were making an assumption this time?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says coldly, her jaw rigid.

‘You might have been mistaken, might you?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘Your assumption could have been wrong, couldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says dully. She has given up.

‘You never raised your concerns with anyone, did you?’

‘No.’

‘No,’ Miss Dixon echoes, ‘Did the deceased ever tell you she had reason to fear her husband, to fear for her life?’

‘No,’ says Rebecca.

‘On the contrary, Mrs Tennyson strenuously denied all your suggestions that she had been subjected to any violence. Isn’t that true?’

Rebecca glares at the lawyer but answers, ‘Yes.’ It’s like watching someone being eviscerated. Miss Dixon is a hyena, tearing the heart and lungs, liver and lights from Rebecca’s testimony.

‘Did she ever tell you she loved Jack Tennyson?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d lost your best friend to a new relationship, to marriage. She had committed herself to her husband. Did you feel excluded?’

‘No,’ Rebecca says.

‘Jealous?’

‘No,’ she protests.

‘Mrs Tennyson didn’t return your calls. Perhaps you blamed Mr Tennyson for the growing distance between you?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘That’s rubbish.’ Rebecca’s face glows red again.

‘A simple yes or no will suffice.’

‘No,’ sounding churlish, almost matching the picture Miss Dixon is painting of a jealous friend out to make trouble for you, the loving husband.

‘Do you not find it strange that no one, absolutely no one, not the deceased’s mother or father, her other friends, her colleagues at work, her GP, not one of them ever heard any whisper of domestic violence in the relationship?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you not find it strange that you are the only person who did? And that though Mrs Tennyson allegedly,’ the word sounds like a sneer, ‘told you about an incident more than four years earlier, she never shared any details about it with you, not what Mr Tennyson did or where she was hurt, and you saw not one shred of physical evidence to support her allegations? Is that not strange?’

‘Maybe.’ Rebecca juts her chin out, and stammers, ‘But it is the truth.’

Miss Dixon lets the silence stretch out so all we hear is the tremulous quality of Rebecca’s final answer, then the barrister says, ‘Thank you.’

By the time Rebecca leaves the witness box, the seeds of doubt are well and truly sown.

Ruth

17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX

The final prosecution witness is a psychologist. Mr Cromer explains that Dr Nerys Martinez is an expert witness who will be here to shed light on the area of domestic violence, which is a key part of the prosecution case.

Dr Martinez is a small, trim, dark-skinned woman; her accent has a French lilt to it.

‘You have been involved in a number of studies into the phenomenon of domestic violence?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t the violence simply a result of someone losing control of their temper?’

‘Not at all. Abuse is usually planned, prepared for. The abuser has no difficulty managing his temper at work, say, or with friends.’

‘In the research you have conducted, if a person has physically assaulted their spouse on one occasion, how likely is it that they will go on to do it again?’

‘Extremely likely. The incidence of sole assaults that are never repeated is almost unheard of,’ Dr Martinez says.

‘And can you tell us why a victim of abuse might hide what was happening from close friends and family?’

‘Certainly. If you’ll allow me first to outline the familiar pattern of abuse and violence. Abuse is about power and control. The abuser uses threats or violence to dominate their partner. An outbreak of violence is typically followed by the abuser exhibiting guilt; he will apologize, but he will also offer excuses to explain his behaviour. Commonly a period of normality follows and the majority of victims hope that the abuser will be able to keep his promise not to do it again. This honeymoon phase is followed by the abuser fantasizing about repeating the abuse. Planning it. He will engineer a situation that creates the right circumstances for him to attack his partner. Because abuse is about power, about domination, the person on the receiving end is made to feel culpable; the abuser will accuse them of deliberately doing something to trigger the violence. The reality is that the abuser wishes to exert his domination and to do this through violence, and he will construct a situation to make that happen. In the period of regret and promises, the person suffering from the violence wishes to believe the abuser. Their self-esteem is severely undermined. They are anxious that if only they do X and Y they will be safe. They will find excuses for the behaviour of their partner. Recognizing the situation for what it is, admitting it, is a very difficult step. Asking for help even harder. So in the majority of cases the victim conceals the situation as much as they can.’

‘Women will typically suffer many instances of violence before seeking help? Am I correct?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s right.’

‘Would we not expect a man who does this to be a violent person in general?’

‘No. Abusers choose who to abuse, and where and how, so that the abuse is hidden. They will hit the victim in places where bruises won’t show. Research shows that they are capable of switching off violent behaviour if anyone else is present. The abusers are not out of control; indeed they are very much in control.’ This surprises me, but it helps explain how you got away with it: you focused your violence on Lizzie; none of the rest of us ever witnessed your aggression.

‘And the scenario of a woman confiding in a friend that her husband has abused her, and begging her to keep it quiet, of this victim not having visible bruises or injuries, does that ring true?’

‘Yes, it’s very common,’ says Dr Martinez.

‘And explaining to her confidante that her husband had problems with work that made him short-tempered and led to his violence – that’s plausible?’

‘Yes, stresses around work are often given as excuses.’

‘Excuses, not reasons,’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s correct. The stresses are real enough but the perpetrator does not hit anyone else; only his spouse, the one person who he believes he can dominate and control and who is unlikely to report him,’ says Dr Martinez.

‘If we accept, for the sake of argument, that Mrs Tennyson was being violently beaten by her husband, how would you account for her silence, her denials when her friend suspected domestic violence last summer?’

‘Denial and a “behind closed doors” approach is endemic with this behaviour. Lizzie Tennyson may have feared her husband and feared what would happen if she told anyone, even her close friend, about the violence. It is textbook typical behaviour of a victim in this situation. The victim is walking on eggshells.’