Letters To My Daughter's Killer

by Cath Staincliffe

  Florence’s face is red and puffy, her nose swollen and snotty, lips cracked. I wipe her nose. Offer her water, which she takes in little sips. While I drink coffee, I try to think of anything new that might have troubled her. She knows I’m back at work, but I’ve never been late to pick her up.

  ‘She’s not done anything like this before?’ I check, though I’m sure they’d have told me. Lisa shakes her head. I’ve no way of knowing if this is progress or not. Certainly not good for the well-being of the other kids in the class.

  ‘Did Paige say anything? They haven’t had a falling out or . . .’ I don’t like to suggest it but I wonder if somebody’s bullying Florence, making comments about her mum or her dad. Or me. Your fat old-lady nana.

  ‘No. Paige just took her the milkshake and Florence went into meltdown. Has she had night terrors? It reminded me of that.’

  ‘Milkshake? Was it banana?’

  ‘Yes. For our tropical theme. How did you know? Is she allergic to bananas?’

  In a manner of speaking. Oh, Florence.

  I close my eyes.

  I think of Jack.

  With ice in my heart.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER ONE

  17 Brinks Avenue

  Manchester

  M19 6FX

  The first glimpse I get of you in court comes as I am led up the steps from the witness suite. My cheeks hot and my heart skipping too fast.

  You are impeccably dressed, black suit and navy tie, white shirt. Sitting quietly. No hint of bravado. If you were auditioning for the role of respectable young man you’d walk it.

  I haven’t been able to watch the start of the trial because I am a witness, but once I’ve said my piece I will be here every minute. Tony must be somewhere in the room, and Denise and Bea. But I am too nervous to search for their faces. The barrister for the prosecution is called Mr Cromer. He’s big, beefy, florid, with a Devonian burr in his voice and wire-rimmed specs.

  I read the oath and affirm my intention to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  His first questions are straightforward – my relationship to Lizzie, where I live – then he asks me about the night itself.

  ‘I got a text from Lizzie asking me if I could babysit the following Saturday. And I texted her to say yes.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Eight thirty-nine in the evening.’ The time is branded on my memory. I looked at the text over and over after she’d died. Her last communication.

  ‘Then Jack rang me,’ I say. ‘He was very upset; he said someone had hurt Lizzie. He thought she was dead. I told him to call the police. I went round there. Jack was outside with Florence.’

  I stroked her head, she shrugged me off.

  ‘How did he appear?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘Very shocked, distraught.’

  ‘Can you remember what he was wearing?’

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘not really.’

  ‘Were his clothes stained or marked?’

  ‘I didn’t notice anything like that.’

  ‘Please tell us what happened next.’

  I draw breath. The nerves are getting worse, not better, the tinnitus in my ears making me dizzy. ‘I went into the house. Lizzie was . . .’ My voice goes, a kick of grief.

  Mr Cromer waits. The room is hushed. I want to flee, to run back down the steps and out of the building. I do not want to be here telling all these people about how I found my daughter. I do not want to bear witness but I manage to continue. ‘Lizzie was on the floor, there was blood everywhere.’ I keep talking, although tears sting my eyes. ‘She wasn’t moving. Then the police came in and took me outside.’

  Dragging me back when every cell in my body wanted to reach her, touch her, help her.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mr Cromer says. ‘In the days following, Mr Tennyson stayed at your house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he speak about that evening?’

  ‘Yes, trying to work out what had happened, and who had hurt her. Like we all were.’

  ‘Did Mr Tennyson tell you how he and Mrs Tennyson had spent the evening?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘Yes, he said they had been at home. Lizzie was watching television. He went to the gym.’

  ‘And Florence was upstairs in bed?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Was that usual – his trip to the gym?’ he says.

  ‘Yes. They both went regularly.’

  I sense your eyes on me. The dock is to my left, screened in glass. You sit there with a guard.

  ‘Did Mr Tennyson say what time he’d set off to the gym?

  ‘Yes, around eight thirty.’

  ‘Mr Tennyson rang you that evening; what time was that?’

  ‘Just before eleven.’ I remember earlier: the allotments, buying fish, a world that still had Lizzie in it.

  ‘You were present when Mr Tennyson received the details of the post-mortem on the Monday?’

  ‘Yes.’ My blood freezes at the recollection. How bewildered we were as Kay took us through the initial findings.

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘Stunned and shocked, like the rest of us.’

  ‘Who else was present?’

  ‘Tony – he’s my ex-husband, Lizzie’s father – and the family liaison officer. She gave us the information.’

  ‘And on Saturday the nineteenth of September Mr Tennyson was arrested and you were there when the police made the arrest?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. The smell of bananas and sweat and you screaming, lunging to escape.

  ‘How did Mr Tennyson conduct himself when the arrest warrant was served?’

  ‘He went crazy,’ I say. ‘He tried to get out of the house and he was yelling and fighting the police.’

  When Mr Cromer has finished thanking me, your barrister gets up. Miss Dixon is about the same height as Kay, though not so willowy. She has long brown hair in a ponytail under her wig, and a sharp face. She wears an unfortunate shade of orange lipstick that draws attention to her lips, too thin for scrutiny.

  ‘Mrs Sutton, when Mr Tennyson called you as you described, what did you think had happened?’

  ‘I thought . . . I don’t know,’ I answer. ‘I couldn’t imagine.’

  ‘You couldn’t imagine?’

  ‘No. It felt unreal. It was like it was happening to someone else.’

  It is hard going through it all again in public, in this formal setting. I feel so exposed, like a specimen staked out for everyone to prod at and pore over.

  ‘And when you met Mr Tennyson outside the house, did you notice anything untoward about his appearance?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Sutton, I need you to answer the question.’

  ‘Well, he was shocked,’ I say.

  ‘Why did you invite Mr Tennyson to stay at your house?’

  ‘He couldn’t stay at theirs; it was the obvious thing to do. For him and Florence.’

  ‘You had no qualms about him being there?’ she says.

  ‘Not then, no.’

  ‘At that point you had no reason to suspect that Mr Tennyson had any involvement in your daughter’s death?’ She gives a thin smile.

  ‘No, that’s right.’

  ‘When did that change?’

  ‘When he was arrested,’ I say.

  ‘When he was arrested,’ she repeats. ‘Before that point how would you have described your son-in-law?’

  The words are soil in my mouth.

  ‘Mrs Sutton?’ she prompts me.

  ‘Nice,’ I say. Someone sniggers and my cheeks burn.

  ‘Nice? Would you say he cared for your daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And for their daughter?’ she says.

  ‘Yes. He was – he seemed like a good man.’ Are you gloating over there in your lightweight wool suit and your crisp white shirt?

  ‘Had you any concerns about your daughter marrying him?’

  ‘No,’ I say. I was del
ighted. You both seemed so happy.

  ‘Did the deceased ever complain to you about Mr Tennyson?’

  The deceased. I hate her for that. ‘No.’

  ‘Is it fair to say they were happy?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t know—’

  She is on me like a snake. ‘Please only answer the questions put to you. How would you have described their marriage?’

  ‘Happy.’

  ‘A happy marriage. Did you ever witness any rows or arguments?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Did your daughter ever tell you about any rows or arguments?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you shocked when Mr Tennyson was arrested?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Why were you shocked?

  ‘I don’t know. I just was.’

  ‘Mrs Sutton, you have just described to us what sounds like an ideal marriage. The happy young couple, a close family, then Mr Tennyson is arrested for murder. Would it be fair to say you were shocked because it was Mr Tennyson, your son-in-law, who was arrested?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Had you suspected Mr Tennyson of any involvement in his wife’s murder before that?’ she says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Had you any reason to believe he would hurt your daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was the Mr Tennyson you knew a violent person?’ Miss Dixon says.

  I hesitate. ‘No.’

  ‘Had you ever seen him lose his temper?’

  ‘No.’ Each answer is bitter on my tongue. I imagine inventing anecdotes: Yes, once I saw him yelling at Lizzie, they didn’t know I was watching, he raised his hand and she flinched but he hit her anyway.

  ‘Can you explain why, when you knew him to be a good man, who loved your daughter, in an apparently happy marriage, when you had harboured no suspicion about him, you so suddenly, so fundamentally, changed your mind on his arrest?’

  ‘Because he tried to run away, he acted guilty.’

  Her mouth twitches and she says quickly, ‘If he had not been arrested you would have continued to view him as a good man, a loyal husband, a close family member?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I say reluctantly.

  ‘Did you see much of your daughter?’

  ‘A fair amount. I’d look after Florence sometimes.’

  ‘How often would that be?’ she says.

  ‘Once a fortnight, maybe. It varied.’

  ‘Would you say you were close, you and your daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Did she ever confide in you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you give us any examples?’

  I’m blank for a moment, still worried by the last few questions. The ringing in my ears making it harder to concentrate. ‘She’d tell me if she was having any problems at work,’ I say, ‘if someone was difficult to work with. Or if Florence had been ill, things like that.’

  ‘Did she ever speak to you about Mr Tennyson?’

  ‘Yes, about his work, auditions he had been to, that sort of thing.’

  ‘And about his behaviour?’ Miss Dixon says.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘And Florence, how would you describe her relationship with her father?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Mr Tennyson was Florence’s main carer in recent months?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Had you any concerns about his care for his daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When Mr Tennyson was arrested, could you think of any reason why this loving father and husband might be suspected of killing his wife?’

  ‘No, only that the police must know something I didn’t.’

  ‘It was out of character?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was hard to believe?’

  ‘Yes.’ With every answer she is using me to airbrush you, create a sheen of good old-fashioned wholesomeness. The gloss of a family man. She has trapped me into giving you a glowing reference. It makes me feel dirty, shabby, as though I have failed Lizzie, fallen short. I want to stay on the stand despite my jangled nerves and put it right, tell it like it is. What she has drawn from me is not the truth, nothing like the whole truth, but a partial truth cropped to fit the shape you need.

  In the break, I find Tony and Denise. She is spitting mad too; we are an unlikely alliance. Tony just looks sickened.

  I’m preoccupied as we go back in and take seats in the public gallery, going over my answers again and wondering if I could have done it any differently so as to undermine your cause.

  Ruth

  CHAPTER TWO

  17 Brinks Avenue

  Manchester

  M19 6FX

  The next witness is one of the police officers who came to the house. The one who spoke to me and asked me to take Florence home and surrender my clothes. He describes what he found in the house and what you said when he spoke to you. The same tale you told me.

  Mr Cromer asks him to describe you. ‘Mr Tennyson was wearing sweatpants, a lightweight sports top and black trainers. His clothing appeared to be clean.’

  Then the pathologist is introduced. I feel the pulse jumping at the side of my neck, my stomach clenching as I steel myself for what’s to come.

  The man speaks quickly, in a monotonous style. He could be reciting the phone directory. No difference in the stress he puts on the words: ‘I arrived at eleven thirty p.m.’ is given the same flat delivery as ‘The trauma to the skull was so severe the cranial sack had been ruptured and brain matter displaced.’ Is it deliberate, so the drama of what he is telling us is stripped away?

  The jury are given diagrams, an outline of the body, back and front, with the injuries noted. No photographs of Lizzie, though. A small mercy.

  Mr Cromer takes us through the post-mortem findings. Some we have heard before, but there are many fresh items as well. And with each of these I feel a sting of shock and a shiver of anger that we have not been told. That we hear them in this place as though we have no more right than anyone else.

  The pathologist describes the appearance of the body. That is hard to listen to. Then the procedures used. And the evidence recovered. ‘We found skin under the fingernails of the victim’s right hand.’

  Mr Cromer asks him the significance of this.

  ‘These are typical of defensive wounds. Consistent with a blow from the poker. The victim, raising her hand in a protective gesture.’

  She knew. Oh God. Bending forward, I shield my face and close my eyes. She knew you were coming at her, holding the poker. She knew you were going to beat her. My heart cracks at that thought. I had clung to the possibility that she was oblivious, turning away when you first struck, knocked out with the first blow. But she knew. The terror. She died in fear. She tried to fight. She felt the snap of bones in her arm. Then what? What next? Her shoulder? Her face?

  There is a little murmur in the room as the pathologist describes her pregnancy. To the side of us, in another section of the court, people are busy writing, typing on tablets, using mobile phones to text or tweet. Press, I realize, filling their column inches with juicy copy.

  Your defence does not have any questions for the pathologist. We discuss it as we file out. ‘They’re not disputing any of that,’ Tony says. ‘Only who did it.’

  Anxious to reach Florence as soon as possible, I get a taxi. Ben is playing on the Wii, Florence sitting on the floor watching, when his mum April lets me in.

  ‘How’s she been?’

  ‘No trouble. Very quiet.’

  I nod. School are worried. She is refusing to speak, refusing to join in with any of the rhymes or songs. Even one to one she’s silent there. A nod, a shrug, a shake of the head is all she’ll offer.

  It didn’t seem appropriate to explain to Florence where I was going. Especially as she might think that I’d see Jack and she wouldn’t. Instead I told her I had meetings for work, not at the library but in town.

  At
bedtime she refuses to put on the pull-up nappies she’s been using. There’s no sign of the bedwetting stopping, and the accepted approach is to let it run its course. Which can be many years. Withholding drinks at bedtime or lifting children to wee during the night have little impact on the problem. Fed up with having to wash sheets every day, I’d resorted to buying the nappies. Is her mutiny an attempt to punish me for being absent, for not picking her up from school? I try not to let my irritation show, not to care much one way or the other, because I sense that if I make a big deal out of it, she will too and use it as a battleground.

  In my dream I am paralysed, unable to move and pinned to the floor. You have your hand over my mouth and nose. The floor is wet and sticky, covered in blood. The blood is cold and I am shivering. I can’t breathe, your hand on my face, a weight on my chest. Nothing works. My legs, my voice. I know I must move, that I am in terrible danger. I wake gasping and Florence cries out, ‘Nana!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I tell her. Except the bed is wet. I change her clothes, and the sheets. I offer her a nappy. She shakes her head. I put a bath towel over the sheet on her side of the bed. In the morning everything is wet again and I am running out of clean sheets.

  * * *

  When Mr Cromer introduces the next witness, he makes a big play of this person’s expertise and experience. How long has Mr Noon worked in crime-scene management? How many murder cases has he been involved with? How regularly does he retrain? What areas of crime-scene management does he specialize in? Mr Noon explains that his role is to minimize the chance of any contamination at the scene, to document and record the scene, to search and recover any evidence there. And in consultation with the senior investigating officer, to order forensic tests on potential evidence.

  Mr Cromer has a habit of looking over the top of his glasses. Maybe he needs bifocals. Or perhaps, like me, his eyesight has passed the stage when those work. ‘What did you find at the scene?’ he says.

  Mr Noon refers to a diagram of the living space, the items drawn on a floor plan. The two sofas form an L-shape, the shorter one in front of the back wall where the stairs go up to the left. This sofa faces the door and the television; the longer sofa is parallel to the kitchen-diner, facing the stove. An outline represents Lizzie’s body. ‘From the blood patterns on the walls and the furniture we were able to establish where the protagonists were during the attack. When a weapon is moved after drawing blood, there will be drops of that blood flung and that trajectory can be mapped; the shape of the drops can tell us where the perpetrator stood and how they moved the weapon. This, coupled with information from the post-mortem, tells us more about the sequence of events. At this scene, we can determine that the victim was between the large sofa and the wall where the log-burner is, and the attacker was between the end of that sofa and the television, closer to the entrance door.’