Ruth
CHAPTER THREE
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
Did you think you’d got away with it, that first night? What were you feeling? Elation? Terror? Some sexual frisson? It’s the same physiological response, isn’t it – fight, flight, fuck. Violence, fear, sex. It’s on my list of questions. And did you replay events in your head or try to shut them out? Were you racked with guilt or full of exhilaration?
While I wait for someone to come, to break the spell, me and my granddaughter and the cat cocooned in the bubble, I try to imagine you. Broderick Litton, who I never met, never saw. Like a bodyguard, Lizzie said you were; smart, though, a military type, clipped and polished. Always very pleasant except when you were being a vicious bully. At the time you were stalking her, I grew more panicky than Lizzie. When the police did so little, I wanted her to move. Suggested we swap houses.
The questions swoop through my head like bats in the dark, to and fro, silent, quick and shadowy. Why wasn’t Lizzie more careful? Why did she open the door? Why did she let you in? Why? Why? Why?
Where are you? Scurrying through night-black streets smelling of blood, or lurking in some lair, drinking and gloating, or slipping into bed beside your drowsy wife?
It is hard to sit still and Milky senses my agitation, echoes it with repeated sorties out of the cat flap and back. My skin is cold; I am frozen to the marrow, despite the heating being on, and I’m itchy. I can’t stop scratching: my arms, my neck, my calves. As if I am shedding a skin, or trying to claw it off and make my body raw like the rest of me.
Lizzie’s photographs – Lizzie as a baby, as a child, with Jack, with Florence – clutter my walls. I am standing in the corner, staring at one: her graduation day, Lizzie flanked by Tony and me. Her eyes alive with happiness, ours too. Delight and pride. I rub at my shoulder. Tony – I must ring Tony. Should I? Or wait? Make completely sure? If there’s been a horrible mistake and I tell him now . . . that she is . . . A wave of nausea breaks through me, coating me in clammy sweat, shrivelling my stomach, forcing bile into the back of my throat. In the kitchen I spit it out and drink a little water.
A knocking at the door makes me jump. It is the family liaison officer. A beanpole of a woman with short greying hair and a weather-beaten face. Kind eyes. Stupid thing to say really, but they are not brash or judgemental, or even overtly emotional, but accepting. The sort of eyes you can stare into and not feel impelled to look away. (Or maybe that’s hindsight. Those early days, Kay, that was her name, was a sort of calm anchor for us all.)
Kay makes tea and explains what is happening, what will happen in the next twenty-four hours. That is as much as I can take in, and even that doesn’t really penetrate. There is a buffer between my understanding and the outside world, a fog that makes it hard to truly hear and know things.
‘It’s the shock,’ Kay says, when I apologize and ask her to repeat something. ‘You won’t be able to think straight,’ she says. ‘It’s normal.’
A flare of anger pierces the fug. I take issue. ‘This is not normal, none of this is normal.’
‘No,’ she agrees.
I pace the room; my scalp itches, I rake at it with my nails. And I try to remember what Kay has said. People will be busy at Lizzie’s house documenting the scene and collecting evidence. There will be a post-mortem. A host of television dramas come to mind, angst-ridden pathologists and flawed but courageous detectives. This is real, I tell myself. Real. Really happening. There will be the formal identification of Lizzie’s body. Kay says that, ‘Lizzie’s body’, not ‘the body’. Every time she mentions her, she uses Lizzie’s name. Keeping it specific and personal. They are probably trained to do that. I appreciate it. The understanding that their victim is more than a victim; she’s my daughter, Jack’s wife, Florence’s mother.
‘I should ring Tony,’ I remember in a rush. ‘Lizzie’s dad.’
‘Does he live nearby?’
‘Reddish Vale.’ A few miles. ‘He remarried,’ I say, ‘Denise.’
Denise the wheeze. My nasty nickname because Denise’s default position is to giggle, to laugh, and she is a smoker, which adds to the breathy quality of her chortling. It’s probably a nervous tic, but it makes me want to slap her. Grab her by the arms and ask her what’s so funny.
I have to look their number up in my address book; it’s not something I ever wanted to memorize. It rings and rings. Tony probably can’t hear it. He’s going deaf, Lizzie said recently, but he’s too proud or too macho to get his ears tested. Lizzie teased him about it, and said she’d have to teach him sign language. A bit more than the few signs we mastered when she first began learning BSL: hello, goodbye, I love you and a couple of swear words. She brings me titbits about Tony (and no doubt does the same in the other direction), and I accept them gracefully. We keep it civilized. For her as much as anything. And for Florence.
The phone rings out. ‘They’re not answering,’ I say to Kay. ‘I’ll try his mobile.’
Tony uses it for work but switches it off when he is at home. Or he used to. It seems to take forever to find my phone and his details. While it rings, it occurs to me that the Tennysons, Jack’s parents, need to know too. I mention it to Kay. ‘Should I wait?’ Have I even got their number?
‘Jack will probably want to tell them himself,’ Kay says.
‘Of course.’
She knows the etiquette, not just of death but of this particular situation: sudden, violent death.
Tony’s cell phone goes to voicemail and I hang up. Bury my head in my hands.
‘Try again in a while,’ Kay says. ‘Or we can send someone round there if you—’
‘No.’ It seems cowardly to do that. I should be the one to tell him, not some stranger.
The man who comes to take my statement seems far too young to be dealing with this sort of thing. But he’s not at all nervous or inept. He takes me slowly through the sequence of events: Jack’s call, the car journey, going into the house, being restrained.
Then he asks more questions about the house. Were the lights on or off, did I put any lights on? Was there any sound, TV or radio? What was the temperature like?
I laugh at this; it seems preposterous that in the face of such a huge shock, my sense of hot and cold would be functioning and that I might still remember.
‘No idea,’ I say.
I picture Lizzie, the contrast of her hair and the dark stains. Recall light flickering over her hand, her left hand. That would have been from the fire, their log-burning stove. ‘The fire was lit,’ I say.
Then the questions become more general, he confirms Lizzie’s date of birth and age. He wants to know about her life, her work, her marriage, her routines. When I last saw her. What we spoke about. And finally if I can think of anyone who might have wanted to cause her harm. I tell him all I can about Broderick Litton, urge him to check the police files. Surely they will know more than me.
He writes it all up and reads it back to me. Four pages in all. And I sign in the proper place.
When I call Tony again, Denise answers.
‘It’s Ruth, I need to talk to Tony.’
There’s a wait while she fetches him or takes him the phone, and then his voice, thick with sleep. I say his name and then I freeze. I swallow. Force breath into my lungs. ‘Tony, I’ve got some really, really bad news. Oh Tony. It’s Lizzie. I’m so sorry. Lizzie, she’s dead.’
He makes a noise, a sort of howl, strangulated.
I can’t tell him the rest, not on the phone. ‘Can you come?’
‘Yes,’ he says. That’s all he says. Just yes. Quick and quiet. And hangs up.
Jack gets back first; it is almost dawn. His eyes are red, his lips chapped, his face grey. He is wearing navy jog pants and black trainers and a nylon anorak which the police must have given him to replace his clothes. He takes the coat off, moving slowly like an arthritic old man, and sits beside Florence, still sleeping on the sofa.<
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There’s no mistaking whose daughter she is. The same shiny straight black hair and even features, prominent cheekbones. The only thing Florence got from Lizzie are her eyes, sea green, the same as Tony’s.
Jack’s been the main carer the last couple of years. Lizzie and he are both freelance, so whoever has work offered grabs it and the other person picks up the domestic reins. It’s hard for them – juggling, coping with the uncertainty of money – but they both love their work and neither of them would swap it for the security of doing something tedious nine to five.
Jack will do anything he can get: radio parts, panto, telly, as well as theatre, which he likes best. He keeps going up for auditions but hasn’t had anything for months, whereas Lizzie’s been flat out. She first began interpreting at conferences and for deaf students at the universities here, then developed her theatre work, which has really taken off.
Kay brings Jack a cup of tea and he wraps his hands around it and hunches over. She tells him what she’s already told me about the day ahead. About what will happen to Lizzie. What must be done. She leaves us to talk.
He is clearly exhausted, but I am desperate to know what he saw, to hear the sequence of events, to find out if he’s learnt anything yet from the police.
‘What happened?’ I ask him.
He shakes his head. ‘They don’t know.’ His voice is worn out, husky, almost gone. ‘I’d been to the gym . . .’ He tries to clear his throat. ‘She was watching TV when I left . . .’
They both go to the gym regularly. Lizzie likes it as a way of keeping fit, and Jack has to keep in shape for his work in the theatre.
‘I got back . . .’ His hands tighten round the mug. ‘She was there . . .’ his composure breaks and he speaks, fighting tears, ‘she was there, like that. Who could do that?’ He looks at me.
‘Did you see anyone?’
Jack shakes his head, ruination in his eyes.
‘Broderick Litton,’ I say.
‘They know. They’ll interview him.’
‘She’s not had any trouble from him recently?’
‘No, nothing since last July.’
‘And she’d never have let him in,’ I point out.
‘She might have thought it was me, that I’d forgotten something,’ Jack says.
‘You’d use your key.’
‘Forgotten that, then – I don’t know.’ He casts about. ‘We had a prowler.’
‘What? When?’
‘Wednesday night. There’d been a break-in at number eight on Tuesday.’ Two doors down. ‘Lizzie saw someone in our back garden.’
‘Was it Litton?’
‘She said not, not tall enough, more like a kid, she thought, though she didn’t see his face,’ Jack says. ‘The police came round on the Thursday morning – I told them then.’
‘Have they caught him?’
‘We never heard anything.’
I rub my forehead. Could it be this prowler and not Litton?
‘They always look at the husband, don’t they?’ he says.
My stomach turns over. ‘They have to. They can’t possibly think . . .’ Shock stings around my wrists.
‘No,’ he says, ‘they know I wasn’t there. But having to go over it and over it. I tried to wake her . . .’ He puts the mug on the floor, covers his face, shoulders shaking.
I go to him, sit on the arm of the sofa and hug him tight.
Light steals into the room, hurting my eyes.
Kay comes back; she hasn’t slept either. Is she used to it – all-nighters for work?
‘Did they say how she died?’ I ask Jack. I know there was blood. Too much blood.
‘They said the post-mortem would confirm it.’ Jack’s mouth trembles as he speaks. ‘Blunt trauma?’ He looks at Kay, as if checking he’s said it correctly.
‘Blunt force trauma,’ she says. ‘That’s what we think at the moment.’
‘With what?’ I can’t imagine.
Did you bring a weapon with you? A baseball bat or a cosh of some sort? Then it occurs to me that perhaps you used your fists. That feels worse. Was it the first time you’d killed someone? And why pick Lizzie? What did you come to the house for? Money? To steal? To rape? How did you get in?
I go outside for air, out the back. The garden glitters with dew, spiderwebs and lines hang on the shrubs around the border. The air is damp and cool and my windpipe hurts as I draw some in. A pair of coal tits are on the peanut feeder in the magnolia tree. The sky is blue, blushing pink in the east. That slice of moon still visible. Milky stalks out and sits under the tree. The tits ignore him. How can it all be here, just so? It all feels too bright and clear, too high-definition, as though I’ve wandered on to a film set.
On the roof of the terraced row at the back, three magpies bounce and chatter. A crow joins them, edging along to the chimney, then another. And two more. A murder of crows. The phrase springs unbidden, a booby trap, like some ghastly practical joke my mind plays on me.
I’m aware of commotion from inside. Then Tony is here, coming out of the patio door, and Denise behind him. Tony is shaking his head as he reaches me; he embraces me, a hard, swift pressure before he steps back. And it’s all I can bear. Resisting the sense memory of a thousand other hugs, his height, his bulk a comfort. Before I know it I’m hugging Denise, who’s not laughing now. We’ve never touched before, not even a handshake.
We’re a similar height, Denise and I. Both with that padding that comes with middle age. Even if my arms and legs retain their original shape, my belly sticks out and my bum seems to have doubled in size. Denise is chunkier than me, fatter in the face too. She smells of perfume, roses and gardenia, and a trace of tobacco smoke.
As I pull back, we share a look, acknowledging a new settlement. I nod my thanks. I’ve never seen her without make-up on. It’s just one in a whole stream of firsts in the wake of what has happened.
We go inside. Tony can’t sit still. Like me he prowls and patrols, pausing to sweep both hands over his head and clutch at his hair. It’s a gesture that makes me think of screaming. Of that Munch painting.
Once I’ve told Tony and Denise everything I can, which is precious little, he fires one question after another at Kay. What are you doing to catch who did this? How did he get in? Did the neighbours see anything? Was it a burglary? Can’t they use dogs or something? Have you found Broderick Litton? What about this prowler? He looks older, wrinkled face, pot belly. His hair is thick and wavy still, although there’s lots of grey and white among the original bronze colour.
Kay’s answers are honest, considered, all disappointing.
He shakes his head, scowling, his mouth tight. He is angry and he is impotent.
Denise doesn’t say much, but periodically she goes and touches him, clutches his hand, puts her palm on his chest. Calming him.
I look away.
Florence wakes and sits on Jack’s lap. She’s subdued, she must be bewildered; my house isn’t that big, and it’s full of people, including Kay, who she’s never met before.
‘Kay?’ I take her into the kitchen. ‘What do we tell Florence?’
‘Jack says she didn’t see anything?’ Kay checks.
‘That’s right; well,’ I amend, ‘as far as he knows.’ He was out at the gym so it’s possible Florence could have seen or heard something. There must have been some noise. Things were broken, weren’t they? Why do I think that? My impression of their living room is so sketchy, like a painting where the central subject is clear but everything beyond it is smudged and out of focus.
‘She needs to know,’ Kay says, ‘the simple facts. She might not understand.’
‘That makes two of us,’ I say bitterly.
Kay regards me steadily. ‘She’s four, she may not have a concept of death. She needs to understand that Mummy won’t be coming back, that her body doesn’t work any more, that she won’t wake up.’
‘I’ll get her breakfast first,’ I say tersely.
While Florence enjoys
the bizarre novelty of having Grandpa Tony and Nana Denise watch her eat her Shreddies, I explain to Jack what Kay has told me.
‘I’ll do it,’ he says. ‘Can I take her upstairs?’
‘Yes, use my room or the spare room, there’s no one staying. If you want me to be there . . .’ He shakes my offer away.
It is the longest day. There seems to be no beginning to it and no end in sight. Florence is Jack’s shadow, and when it is time to identify the body I have to prise her off him, kicking and screaming. I had hoped to go, wanting to see Lizzie’s face, to be certain that the body I’d seen really was my daughter. To make it undeniably real. But Florence needs me here.
Jack’s parents, the Tennysons, are on their way from East Anglia, and Tony and Denise have left for now but Tony promised to return later.
After Jack gets back, he tells me that he had to identify Lizzie without looking at her face, which was covered because of the extent of the damage. He had to look at her hands and feet, her wedding ring and the tattoo on her right shoulder: a swallow in flight.
The savagery you must have used. To destroy her face. It astounds me.
Ruth
CHAPTER FOUR
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
‘Can we go home now?’ Florence has a boiled egg with soldiers. I’m relieved to see her eating. She turns to her father, wiping crumbs from her tiny fingers, a smear of egg yolk on her cheek.
‘Not yet,’ Jack says.
‘When?’
‘Another day, I don’t know when.’
She thinks about this, a small frown darkening her expression. ‘I want Bert.’ Bert is Florence’s teddy bear. White originally, a gift from Tony and Denise, he is now a muddy grey colour, with bald and ragged ears which Florence liked to chew on as a toddler.
‘Can someone fetch it?’ I ask Kay. Surely retrieving a child’s toy from a different room in the house will not hamper their endeavours, but Kay shakes her head. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as you can collect anything. Do you have clothes here for Florence?’
Letters To My Daughter's Killer Page 2
