Letters To My Daughter's Killer (19 page)

You start to answer, then stop, compress your lips, raise your eyes to the ceiling, obviously fighting for composure. I can feel sympathy for you, in the breath of people around me, in the glances from the jury.

My heart is hard.

‘Very happy, wonderfully happy,’ you say.

‘Is it true that you were under pressure, with a lack of work and subsequently a reduced income?’

‘Yes, that’s true. But being with Lizzie, having Florence, made it bearable. And we did manage.’

‘Mrs Tennyson was working full time?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘That’s right.’

‘You didn’t resent the fact that she was the breadwinner?’

‘No. Lizzie understood my work, she worked in theatre too. We knew it could be feast or famine. And I was happy to be the house-husband.’

‘Did you know your wife was pregnant?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘No,’ you say quietly.

‘Had you discussed having more children?’

‘Yes. It was something we both wanted,’ you say.

‘Even on one income?’

‘There’s never a perfect time,’ you say. It’s a good answer, but you evade the question.

‘Mr Tennyson, you have heard Miss Thornton describe an incident in 2005 when your wife alleged that you had been physically violent. What do you say to that? Is there any truth to it?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘Why would your wife make such an allegation?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘I really can’t think. It seems so unlike Lizzie. She was always very straight, very honest. Maybe Rebecca misunderstood. That’s the only thing I can think of.’

‘And the second incident, last year, when Miss Thornton came to the house and believed Mrs Tennyson to be hurt?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘She got that wrong. Lizzie had been sick all night, she ached everywhere. The last thing you want is someone jumping on you like Florence did.’

‘Mr Tennyson, did you ever hit your wife?’

Your face falls, naked pain in your eyes. ‘No.’ You clear your throat and repeat, ‘No. Never.’

‘Mr Tennyson, I want to take you through the events of the twelfth of September as they happened. You spent the day how?’

‘We did the shopping in the morning, the three of us, then Lizzie went to the hairdresser in the afternoon and I took Florence to Wythenshawe Park, to the farm and the playground. Lizzie made a meal and put Florence to bed. We watched some television and I went to the gym.’

‘On a Saturday night?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘It’s a good time to go, it’s not so busy,’ you say.

‘What time did you arrive?’

‘About nine o’clock. I did my circuits, had a swim and a shower and went home. I bought some milk on the way back. Lizzie had texted me.’

‘When did you get this text?’

‘I didn’t see it until I was at the gym, when I went to turn my phone off,’ you say.

‘Thank you. You returned to the house. Please tell us about that.’

‘Yes. And er . . .’ You frown and swallow. ‘Lizzie was there on the floor, and there was a lot of blood.’

I close my eyes, the image imprinted on my mind.

‘And I couldn’t think, I didn’t know . . . She wasn’t moving. I tried to wake her. I don’t think she was breathing. I didn’t know if there was someone else in the house. And Florence . . .’ Your voice swoops dangerously close to breaking. ‘I went upstairs. Florence was asleep. There was no one there. My hands were . . . I had blood on them, I didn’t want to pick her up . . .’ You crumble, a fist to your forehead, eyes squeezed shut. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say, ‘I’m sorry.’ It is a bravura performance. Beside me, Bea has tears in her eyes.

You sniff loudly. Soldier on. ‘I washed my hands, and then I got Florence and held her so she wouldn’t see, and I went outside.’ Your breathing control deserts you. Your sentences are jerky, full of kicks and stumbles. Your voice raw and thick. ‘I rang the police. And then I rang Ruth. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t . . .’ You hide your eyes. Your shoulders work. Again you apologize.

‘Liar,’ I say under my breath. Heads turn. The judge looks at the gallery; he knows someone has said something. It’s not dignified, perhaps. Dignity is hard to come by any more. I don’t give a flying fuck for dignity.

I know what you have done.

Tony puts his hand on my arm. I behave. Suppress the urge to ridicule, to decry and undermine your performance. To give a slow hand-clap. To heckle. To boo from the gallery. Because I do not want to be chucked out and miss the next act. And the finale.

‘Mr Tennyson, do you need a break?’ Miss Dixon says gently.

‘No,’ you say. There are tissues by the dock. You dry your eyes. You take a sip of water.

‘When you tried to rouse the deceased, please tell the court what you did.’

‘I was calling her name and I crouched down and shook her shoulder.’

‘Which shoulder?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Her right one.’

‘She was face down?’

‘Yes,’ you say.

‘Parallel to the stove,’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes,’ you say.

‘Did you notice the poker?’

‘No,’ you say softly.

‘You didn’t touch the poker?’

‘No. I never saw it, if it was there, I don’t remember. All I remember is Lizzie and it was such a shock.’

‘Which hand did you use to touch her shoulder?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Both.’

I try and picture that. Then I remind myself that this is all claptrap. Your version to accommodate the evidence, to exonerate yourself.

‘What were you wearing?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘A jumper, sweatpants, trainers.’

‘The same items the police retained later that night?’

‘Yes,’ you say.

‘And the Adidas running shoes you bought only five weeks before, where were they?’

‘I’d given them away,’ you say.

‘Where?’

‘To the shoe recycling on the high street.’

‘Why?’

‘They hurt my toes, the fit wasn’t right but I couldn’t return them as I’d already worn them.’

‘Rather extravagant to spend ninety pounds on a pair of shoes then throw them away,’ Miss Dixon says.

‘Yes, it was a bad buy. I thought they’d give a little but they didn’t.’ I see your barrister is covering the tricky bits of your account, trying to defuse their impact before the prosecution cross-examines you.

‘Can you account for the material found in the ashes from the wood-burning stove?’

‘No. But Lizzie often used the stove to get rid of things. She thought it was better than landfill,’ you say.

The audacity of it makes me see stars. To implicate Lizzie.

‘And when the police interviewed you, what did you tell them?’

‘All that I’ve said just now.’

‘The police spoke about abrasions on your forearm and skin under the deceased’s fingernails – can you explain that?’ Miss Dixon says.

‘Yes, she tripped when we went shopping, she grabbed at me for balance.’

‘Shopping in the morning?’

‘Yes,’ you say.

‘Thank you.’ Miss Dixon takes a breath, straightens her back then says, ‘Did the police ask you about anyone who might have cause to wish your wife harm?’

‘Yes, and I told them about Broderick Litton. We thought that was over, there’d not been any incidents for over a year—’

She interrupts you with a raised hand. ‘Mr Tennyson, please explain to us who Broderick Litton was.’

‘He was stalking Lizzie,’ you say.

‘When did this start?’

‘He saw her signing at the Octagon, back in 2006, the Christmas show. He started off like a fan. But it’s a bit weird for someone to follow a sign-language interpreter like that.’

‘What form did this following take?’ Miss Dixon says.

‘He turned up at lots of her shows, he sent her flowers. Then he invited her for dinner. She declined and he began to write to her care of the theatres. Long, rambling letters.’

‘What did these letters say?’

‘How much she meant to him. How she should leave me.’

‘How long did this go on?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘About six months, then he came to the house,’ you say. ‘He’d somehow found out where she lived

‘When was this?’

‘March 2008.’

‘What happened?’

‘I wasn’t there. Lizzie answered the door, and when she saw who it was, she just shut it again. She rang me, she was very upset.’

‘And after that?’

‘More letters.’

‘Saying what?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Same as before, but making threats, too.’

‘You went to the police?’

‘Yes. They said they would speak to him. They couldn’t do anything else because he hadn’t actually committed a crime,’ you say.

‘Did the harassment continue?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘There were a couple more letters. Very angry. Disturbing.’

‘Saying what?’

‘That she’d regret reporting him, that she’d be sorry. That he’d make her pay.’

‘Did Mrs Tennyson keep the letters?’ asks Miss Dixon.

‘She gave them to the police,’ you say.

‘When was the last of these letters sent?’

‘About two years ago. In the July. Just after her birthday. We thought he’d gone,’ you say. Your eyes glitter, bright, hurt.

‘In the week before Mrs Tennyson’s death, on the Wednesday, there was an incident at the house?’

‘Yes. Lizzie saw someone prowling in the back garden.’

‘She called the police?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes. They came round. There’d been a burglary two doors down the night before. They didn’t know if it was the same person.’

‘Did Mrs Tennyson ever think it might be Broderick Litton?’ Miss Dixon says.

‘No. She could see the man, then he ducked round the corner; she didn’t get a good look at his face, but he wasn’t anything like as tall as Broderick Litton.’

‘Mr Tennyson, you are on oath here today, you understand that?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And you swear to the court that you are innocent of the charges laid against you?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes. I miss Lizzie every minute of every day. I want to clear my name.’ Tears run untrammelled down your face. ‘So that I can go home and look after my little girl, and the police can find out who did this terrible, terrible thing.’

‘With your permission, your honour, I would like Mr Tennyson to demonstrate for the jury, using a model, how he tried to rouse his wife.’

Miss Dixon jumps up. ‘Objection, your honour, theatrics have no place here.’

‘This relates to the evidence?’ the judge asks Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, your honour, directly to the forensic evidence.’

‘Objection denied.’

A dummy is brought in. Faceless, like Lizzie was by the time you’d finished with her. There’s chatter while one of the ushers places it on the floor. Others lay white tape, following a diagram that Mr Cromer gives them. He explains to the jury, ‘The tape represents the furniture in the room: the sofa here and the television stand, at right angles with a gap between them. These are placed exactly as they were found that night, as is the model representing the victim.’

I wonder where they got the dummy from. Is there a factory somewhere that churns them out for this sort of thing? Are they used in hospitals or research labs? Smooth, sexless, the limbs pliable, the left arm, the arm that was closest to the stove stretched out, the right arm, the broken arm, bent in place.

Mr Cromer asks you to stand beyond the tape towards where the front door would be. ‘Now, Mr Tennyson, please show us how you approached and touched the body of your wife.’

You come between the taped outline of the sofa and the TV. Does this remind you of rehearsals, when you are blocking a play? Did you know you’d have to act this out?

You take two steps to reach Lizzie and crouch down, not kneeling. Then you reach out both your hands. It looks bizarre. One hand – the left, the nearest – would make more sense.

‘Was that how close you came?’ asks Mr Cromer.

‘I think so,’ you say.

‘Mr Tennyson, could you do it again, but this time remain as far away as you possibly can while still touching the right shoulder?’

You nod and retrace your steps. This time when you crouch you can only just reach; the tips of your fingers graze the smooth plastic of the dummy. Someone less agile would lose their balance. Mr Cromer asks an usher to make marks where your feet are. The usher uses chalk and draws lines by your toes and heels. You are asked to return to the witness stand.

Then Mr Cromer produces a large mat of translucent plastic, thick, flexible – like a giant mouse mat with curvy edges. There’s an oval marked on one edge of it, and the usher raises the dummy and adjusts the mat beneath it so that the oval matches the outline of the head. The rest of it forms a puddle shape around the head and upper body.

‘This represents the pool of blood at the murder scene,’ Mr Cromer says. ‘Members of the jury please note that the marks at the front of Mr Tennyson’s shoes are several inches in from the edge of the pool. If Mr Tennyson had crouched there as he just demonstrated, both of his shoes would have been covered in blood. The shoes he gave the police did not have any traces of blood on them. Mr Tennyson, have you any explanation as to how this can be?’

‘I must have been standing further away and then have leant right over,’ you say. I can hear a frisson of anxiety in your tone.

‘If you had been any further away, you would not have been able to reach, would you?’ Mr Cromer says. ‘I think that is obvious to everyone. Why did you use both hands?’ The question is swift, and despite Mr Cromer’s Devonian accent, it sounds sharp.

‘It was instinctive.’

‘I’d suggest to you that it would have been more straightforward to use one hand, the left, but you needed a way of explaining the bloody fingerprints from your right hand on the stairs and the bathroom door. So you cooked up this two-handed gesture. Isn’t that the case?’

‘No, I used both hands,’ you say.

‘And washed them upstairs?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the sink?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t have a shower?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘No.’

‘Then how did traces of diluted blood get in the shower cubicle?’

‘Lizzie must have had a shower while I was out,’ you say.

‘Yet the shower cap was bone dry? And having been to the salon that day, she would not need to wash her hair again, would she?’