Letters To My Daughter's Killer (18 page)

‘If I’ve understood you correctly, low self-esteem, a sense of being partly responsible for the violence and feelings of shame and fear might prevent a victim from disclosing what is happening to her?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘You have described to us the fact that the man can control his violence and plans his attacks, but the assault on the victim in this case was uncontrolled, and fatal. Isn’t that a contradiction?’

‘We usually see a pattern of escalation in the violence, and there are situations where the man abandons his attempts to conceal what he is doing and gives in to his desire to dominate in the most extreme way possible.’

‘By taking a life?’

‘That is right.’

‘How many women die every year as a result of domestic violence in this country?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Around a hundred.’

‘Presumably, though, it is rarer among educated people, people without significant social disadvantage?’ he says.

‘No, that’s a myth. Domestic violence affects all sectors of society, all races, all classes.’

‘Is there any link between pregnancy and domestic violence?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘Yes. We estimate that up to thirty per cent of abuse begins in pregnancy, and it is common for abuse to get worse during pregnancy. The
British Journal of Obstetrics and Gynaecology
reports that one in six pregnant women will experience domestic violence.’

‘And if the victim was seeing less of friends and family, cancelling plans, but maintained that all was well?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Again consistent with the abuse. Warning signs, in fact. Withdrawal of contact with outside relationships suits the abuser; isolating the victim adds to his domination, and denial is extremely common.’

‘One question.’ Miss Dixon gets to her feet. ‘Do people ever make false allegations of domestic violence?’

‘Yes, that happens. Though it is very rare compared to the prevalence of verified allegations.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘There are many reasons. To attract sympathy or attention, to punish a partner, sometimes to disguise their own role as the abuser, so they can explain away any injuries acquired when they beat someone by saying they were the victim.’

You wouldn’t. Surely you would not accuse Lizzie of abusing you? We don’t know yet. We don’t know what the props of your defence will be beyond ‘It wasn’t me!’ and I reason that if you’re claiming innocence, you will deny any prior violence.

Rebecca comes to visit that evening. She can barely sit still, so incensed is she at the experience of being mauled by your barrister. ‘She made out like I was inventing it all. Because I was jealous of Jack. That is so fucking mental.’ She jolts to a stop and casts a guilty glance my way. I smile and shake my head. Swearing is irrelevant.

‘She made me out to be some loser, flaky, unreliable. Did the jury believe me?’

‘I don’t know.’ I find it impossible to read those twelve faces. Not that they are expressionless; far from it. They exhibit surprise, concern, interest, repulsion and sometimes boredom. Would Lizzie have found it easier, with her expertise in nonverbal communication? Could she have told from the body language who was favouring who?

Walking on eggshells.
Did she have to do that? Placate you, play nice, alert to the slightest shift in tension. How long had it been going on? From the start, before the marriage? From her first pregnancy?

‘When she told you about it, did Lizzie say if it was the first time he had done it?’

‘No. I assumed it was,’ Rebecca says. ‘I’ve got to go back to London tomorrow. I wish I could stay, but I can’t take any more time off. If he gets away with it . . .’ She chews her lip and tears spring to her eyes. ‘If only I’d told someone.’

‘She’d probably have denied it,’ I say. Though I wish Rebecca had told me. If I’d been alerted, put it together with the fact that I was seeing less of Lizzie, could I have done anything? Were we all gradually being excluded? Were you steadily cutting the ties to make her ever more dependent on you?

‘If only I’d rung her, made more of an effort,’ Rebecca says. The agony of hindsight.

‘You’re not to blame. Not at all. Don’t think like that. There’s only one person in the dock. Yeah?’

She brings out the spotted hanky again. ‘Yes.’ Dissolving into tears.

I go and rub her back. I miss Lizzie. The physical hunger shows no sign of diminishing. Those brief embraces we had of late, one hand pressed on the shoulder, a kiss on the cheek, the tickle of her hair as we separated. The vibration of her laughter in the air.

Ruth

17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX

Your first defence witness is another actor; there’s a ripple of interest in court as people recognize him. Joshua Corridge. He’s done better than you: a stint in
Emmerdale,
a regular guest actor on prime-time shows like
Spooks
and
Midsomer Murders
(how apt). He’s prettier, into the bargain. He’s worked on adverts, which you once told me was where the serious money was. If word gets out, there will be fans besieging the building, begging for autographs, clutching pens, baring their arms or stomachs. There’s a fashion nowadays for people to get a tattoo where a name’s been scrawled on their skin. Celebrity gone mad. I’ve never met Joshua.

‘Please tell us how you know Mr Tennyson,’ Miss Dixon says.

‘We met at drama school, LAMDA; we became friends and ended up sharing a flat together.’ His voice has a rich, syrupy tone which is perfect for selling cars and perfume.

‘You’ve kept in touch?’

‘Oh yes. We get together if I’m working here or if Jack’s in London.’ He looks across at you, frank, open-faced, a brief smile. Demonstrating his trust and regard.

‘How would you describe Mr Tennyson?’

‘A regular guy, straightforward, hard-working, a good mate.’

‘Have you ever known him to be violent?’

‘No.’ Joshua laughs at the question. ‘Never,’ he adds more steadily.

‘You knew Mrs Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes, through Jack.’

‘Did you ever spend time with Lizzie and Jack Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Oh yes. Me and my fiancée. We’d make up a foursome. Not so much since Florence came along.’

‘And how would you describe the relationship between Jack and Lizzie Tennyson?’

‘A perfect fit,’ he says. ‘They loved each other, anyone could see that.’

‘Did Mr Tennyson ever talk to you about any worries or concerns he had?’

‘About work,’ Joshua says. ‘It’s a tough business; most of us are out of work ninety per cent of the time. It can get you down.’

‘When did Mr Tennyson discuss this with you?’ Miss Dixon says.

‘The last time we met, Easter last year.’

‘Was Mr Tennyson depressed?’

‘No, nothing like that; just a bit frustrated, but no more than anyone else would be,’ Joshua says.

‘Did he ever express any concerns about his marriage, or his relationship with his wife?’

‘No. They were fine. She was a keeper,’ he says. The phrase rings false given what happened. He hears it. ‘I mean, they seemed so right for each other, they were very happy.’

The press people are busy with their phones, sending messages no doubt about the star in the witness box.

‘When you heard that Mrs Tennyson had been killed, what did you do?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘I tried to get in touch with Jack, to tell him how sorry I was, to see if I could help in any way, but the police had his phone and it took me a while to contact him.’

‘And what was your reaction when you learned he had been charged with the crime?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Gobsmacked, really. It’s just totally unbelievable. So far out of character. It didn’t add up. Anyone who knows him will say the same.’

Then it is Mr Cromer’s turn.

‘You’ve been successful in your line of work?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘Yes, I’ve been lucky.’

‘Is it just a question of luck?’

‘Not just luck; you have to be good at the job, but there is an element of right place right time,’ Joshua says.

‘Would you say Mr Tennyson had the same talent, the same level of skill as you?’

‘Yes,’ Joshua says.

‘What does that involve, being good at the job?’

‘You have to inhabit the role, make it plausible for the audience; you have to be honest to the part, to the piece.’

‘You’ve done theatre, like Mr Tennyson?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes.’

‘Doesn’t it get wearing, night after night, repeating the lines, sustaining the role?’

‘No. It’s hard work, but that’s what we’re trained for,’ says Joshua.

Miss Dixon intervenes. ‘Your honour, does this have a bearing on the case?’

‘Please get to the point, Mr Cromer,’ the judge says.

‘Your training, Mr Tennyson’s training, means you would be able to repeat a performance over and over if the job required you to? Keep it convincing?’

‘Yes,’ Joshua says.

‘Inhabit the role?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Tennyson is good at what he does?’ says Mr Cromer, cleaning his glasses on a corner of his robe.

‘Yes, he’s very good.’

‘A good actor?’

Joshua has walked straight into the trap.

There’s a pause. Too long, as Joshua tries to work out a way back from this. A twitch in his jaw. Unable to think of an alternative, defeated, he says, ‘Yes.’

A point scored. I’d like to clap with delight.

We get more of the same staunch sanctification from the next witness, Andy Wallington. Your best man. Unlike Joshua, he lives locally, in Bolton, so you have more regular contact.

‘He was very happy,’ Andy says. ‘Lizzie and Florence, that was everything he wanted.’ Andy is a father too; their boy is a year younger than Florence, and they have a little girl about a year old now.

‘You regularly went out together, sometimes to the football?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘City or United?’

People laugh: the club rivalry a fundamental part of the territory in Manchester.

‘United,’ Andy says, and gets murmurs of approval as well as groans from the opposing faction.

‘Did you ever see Mr Tennyson act violently?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Never.’

‘Perhaps when he’d had too much to drink?’

‘He could hold his drink, he wasn’t an idiot,’ says Andy.

‘You never saw him in a fight?’

‘Only breaking one up,’ Andy says.

‘Tell us about that.’

‘It was after a night out in town. We were waiting for a cab. There was a group coming out of the club close to the taxi rank and suddenly one of them’s on the floor and the others are kicking at him. Jack waded in, pulling people away, shouting that he’d called the police. That scared them off.’

‘Did he tell you why he intervened?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes. I said he was daft, they could have turned on him, and he said he couldn’t stand by and see someone get beaten up.’

‘And what did you think when you heard that Mr Tennyson had been charged with murder?’

‘That there’d been a mistake, there must have been. Jack wouldn’t do something like that in a million years.’

Mr Cromer doesn’t have any questions for him. That worries me.

The third witness is the receptionist from the gym, a young woman with red hair and a cockney twang.

‘You knew Mr Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes, he’s a regular, I knew him and his wife too,’ the receptionist says.

‘How did he seem that Saturday evening?’

‘Same as usual.’

‘He wasn’t preoccupied or anxious?’

‘No.’

‘Thank you.’ Miss Dixon walks back to her seat.

As Mr Cromer gets up, he spends a moment adjusting his glasses, then says, ‘How long would it take a member to sign in?’

‘Not long,’ the receptionist says.

‘Seconds?’

‘Yes.’

‘So your impression of Mr Tennyson would have been fleeting?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I suppose so,’ she says.

‘Did Mr Tennyson stop and chat?’

‘No?’

‘Did you speak to him?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Was he breathless?’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘So he may have been?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Is it fair to say you recall very little about him from that night?’

She stalls; she knew her script before – nothing unusual –but she’s unsure how to respond to the more detailed questions.

‘Yes,’ she says finally.

‘He may well have been out of breath, nervous or on edge, but you may not have realized in that second or two. Is that so?’

‘Yes.’ She rolls her eyes slightly, as if she’s irritated at how her turn on the stand has gone.

I imagine you there, signing in; what were you thinking? Was your heart beating too fast? Can you control things like that with your training? Can you redirect the natural impulses – to sweat, to tremble, to jitter – and settle them, control them? Just how good an actor are you?

The judge ends the day early. You will be the next witness, and he says that rather than interrupt your testimony, we will adjourn for the day.

Ruth

17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX

The court feels more crowded on the day of your testimony. The atmosphere keener, edgy.

You wear the same suit, tie and fresh white shirt. Cleanshaven and well groomed, you look so ordinary. No hint of the presumed deprivations of being in prison. But not buoyant; there’s a weight to the way you conduct yourself. It is probably grief, but I don’t permit myself to dwell on that, to accord you that. Too bitter. And I think that if your grief were as real as mine, as savage as mine, you would not be playing charades.

Your initial replies are basic, your voice softer than I remember, but clearly articulated. You describe meeting Lizzie: ‘There was a spark, straight away. I asked her out.’

‘You were single at the time?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘No.’ The smallest smile. But you are frank. ‘I was with someone else but it wasn’t going anywhere. I ended that and moved in with Lizzie.’

‘And how would you describe your marriage?’