Letters To My Daughter's Killer

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘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

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  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?’

  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.’