Letters To My Daughter's Killer

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘Extremely.’

  ‘How would you account for the lack of fingerprints?’

  ‘The phone had been wiped clean,’ she says. DI Ferguson’s energy, her vitality and her self-assurance shine through. Surely this, her complete belief in the case, her detailed knowledge of how it all fits together, will persuade the jury.

  ‘Were there any other suspicious factors that reinforced your view of Mr Tennyson as a suspect?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘Yes, the fact that there had been no forced entry. The fact that there were no witness accounts of anyone apart from Mr Tennyson either approaching or leaving the house that evening. And no forensic evidence of another person present.’

  ‘Though you did recover some unidentified fingerprints?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could these have belonged to a prowler who was apprehended in the area and who the Tennysons had described to the police just two days before the murder?’

  ‘No, we traced and eliminated that individual,’ she says.

  ‘And Broderick Litton, a man who had previously harassed Mrs Tennyson and made threats, did you find any evidence of him at the scene?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ she says.

  ‘Have you traced and eliminated him?’

  ‘No,’ DI Ferguson says, ‘but I can say confidently that by the time we arrested Mr Tennyson, we no longer regarded Broderick Litton as a credible suspect. There was no evidence at all to link him to the murder.’ She lays to rest all speculation about the stalker being the real killer.

  ‘Did Mr Tennyson change his account at any point during the interviews?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not at all?’

  ‘No,’ says DI Ferguson.

  ‘What percentage of people are killed by strangers?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘A small minority; the latest figures show that only two per cent of women are killed by strangers.’

  ‘And of those, how many would be killed by strangers in their own home?’

  ‘I don’t have figures for that, but it would be a very small number.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He gives a little bow.

  * * *

  Miss Dixon comes forward as Mr Cromer sits down. She will have her work cut out.

  ‘If Mr Tennyson had been to the gym and returned as he said and found his wife, is it not possible that his clothes would be clean?’

  ‘Not if he touched her; extremely unlikely.’

  ‘But possible?’

  ‘I’ve never seen—’

  ‘Please answer the question, Inspector. It would be possible that he did not acquire any microscopic droplets of blood from his wife on his clothes when he returned and found her?’

  ‘That is possible though extremely unlikely. However—’

  Miss Dixon cuts her off. ‘It is possible?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You have spoken about the use of a baby wipe to clean the poker and of wipes found in the house. But you could not match the wipe used on the poker to that particular packet, could you?’

  ‘No. Only to that brand,’ says DI Ferguson.

  ‘It is feasible that the perpetrator found the wipes when they looked for something to clean the poker with?’

  ‘It is,’ agrees DI Ferguson.

  ‘Or that they brought wipes with them, that is feasible too?’ says Miss Dixon.

  ‘Yes,’ says DI Ferguson, though you can tell she thinks it’s a load of bollocks.

  ‘And Mrs Tennyson’s phone, she may well have cleaned it herself, yes?’

  ‘She may,’ says DI Ferguson.

  ‘Had the police ever had concerns about Mr Tennyson prior to this?’ says Miss Dixon?

  ‘No.’

  ‘He has no convictions, cautions, never been charged with a crime?’ says Miss Dixon.

  ‘That’s right,’ says DI Ferguson.

  ‘And in the course of your investigation, did you establish if the deceased had reported domestic violence to the police?’ says Miss Dixon.

  ‘No, she hadn’t.’

  ‘Attended hospital with either unexplained injuries or reports of domestic violence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sought an injunction against her husband?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Raised the issue of domestic violence with her GP?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did the family inform you of any incidents of domestic violence or suspicions about domestic violence?’

  ‘No,’ says DI Ferguson.

  ‘Your officers carried out house-to-house inquiries in the area; did any neighbours report disturbances at the Tennysons’ house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is it true that Mrs Tennyson saw a prowler in her garden on the Wednesday immediately before she was killed?’ says Miss Dixon.

  ‘Yes, but we were able to speak to that individual and rule him out of the inquiry.’

  ‘How did you rule him out?’

  ‘He had an alibi, which was confirmed by several independent sources. He could not have been at the house on the Saturday night.’

  ‘An alibi,’ says Miss Dixon, as though it’s something she wanted to hear. ‘It is true that Mrs Tennyson reported to the police that she was being stalked in 2007 and again in 2008?’

  ‘Yes,’ says DI Ferguson.

  ‘The man was identified at that time as Broderick Litton?’ Miss Dixon says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And both Jack Tennyson and Ruth Sutton told you about this man immediately after the murder?’

  ‘That is correct, but—’

  She doesn’t get the chance to finish, as Miss Dixon interrupts her. ‘And you have been unable to trace and eliminate Broderick Litton?’

  ‘We did not believe he was a credible—’

  ‘Please answer the question,’ Miss Dixon says.

  ‘We did not trace him but we did eliminate him as a key candidate for this crime.’

  ‘You did not trace him?’

  ‘No,’ says DI Ferguson, a hint of impatience in her tone.

  ‘You were unable to question him about events on September the twelfth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you have no alibi for Broderick Litton – a man who had hounded Mrs Tennyson and threatened her life?’

  ‘No, but as I—’

  ‘No further questions,’ Miss Dixon says pointedly. She has managed to focus our attention away from you, from all the evidence against you, to a scapegoat, a ghost of a man, a shadowy monster.

  Florence bursts into tears when I pick her up.

  ‘She’s been fine until now, honestly,’ April tells me.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask. Florence won’t talk, only cries, a raw sound that needles under my skin and jangles my nerves. ‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ I say. I have to half drag her to the car, still bawling. Ben looks fed up with her. Me too, pal.

  She quietens with the motion of the car, like a baby might. That’s what it feels like sometimes, having an infant in the body of a four-year-old.

  Once we get in, I tell her Granny and Gramps are coming to see her.

  She goes very still.

  ‘That’ll be nice,’ I try and encourage her.

  Your trial leaves me drained physically as well as emotionally. So each evening I feel I have been through a fresh trauma, a daily car crash. Today I’m so knackered I don’t bother with anything to eat except some crackers. Florence gets fish fingers again. She eats half of one and all the ketchup. What she’s left I polish off. Perhaps April fed her? I didn’t even ask.

  Marian and Alan arrive with presents. Florence hides behind me at the door and keeps up the shy act until I pull her out by the arm. ‘Come on, see what Granny’s brought you.’

  Florence kicks my shin, a good whack, which really hurts. I curse under my breath.

  She is cranky and remains so for the whole hour they’re there. She doesn’t interact much at all, and it’s
with me when she does, which I can see is difficult for them. Marian and Alan and I have ridiculous, fragmented conversations about the traffic in Manchester and the extension to the tram network and the menu in their hotel.

  As they leave, Marian tries to kiss Florence goodbye, but Florence squirms away and does her hiding-behind-me trick again.

  Marian shakes her head, pulls a face at me, irritated. She thinks what? That I’ve coached the child? Bad-mouthed them? ‘It’s not you,’ I say, making an effort to be diplomatic. ‘She’s like this with practically everyone.’

  ‘Just a phase, then?’ Marian says.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ I tell her.

  Does it affect their view of you at all, of what you’ve done, this demonstration of the ever-growing cost? Or are they both still blinkered and gullible, driven by misplaced loyalty?

  Ruth

  CHAPTER FOUR

  17 Brinks Avenue

  Manchester

  M19 6FX

  Rebecca has modified her clothing; she wears a grey slubby skirt and jacket, black pumps and tights with a cream blouse. She is nervous; even when she affirms to tell the truth, her voice stutters and stalls like a dying engine.

  Mr Cromer establishes how long she and Lizzie knew each other, then says, ‘Miss Thornton, how would you describe your friendship?’

  ‘We were close, best friends actually.’

  ‘You were Lizzie Tennyson’s maid of honour at their wedding?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘Did you confide in each other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was she happy in the marriage?’

  Rebecca hesitates. ‘At the beginning, yes.’

  ‘And after?’

  ‘Sometimes she wasn’t happy,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Because Jack hit her.’

  The words zip round the room, and half a beat later there’s a swell of sound as people react. The jury members seem to lean closer, focusing greater attention on Rebecca.

  And you? You swing your head, look hurt, as if this is a blow, an outrageous slander, you’d have us believe.

  ‘Please tell us how you heard of this,’ Mr Cromer says.

  Rebecca relates the story of catching Lizzie in a lie, how Lizzie yelped when Rebecca touched her arm and admitted she was hurt, that she had to avoid swimming as she knew she’d have to explain the bruises.

  ‘What was your response?’ Mr Cromer says.

  ‘I told her to get help. See if they could have some counselling or something. So it wouldn’t happen again. I offered to let her stay with me if she wanted to leave.’

  ‘Did Mrs Tennyson seek help?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘Were you aware of any further incidents of domestic violence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last summer,’ she says.

  ‘Four years since the first time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please tell us about it,’ Mr Cromer says.

  ‘Lizzie cancelled a get-together at the last minute, saying she’d got a stomach bug. It had been planned for ages and so the following day I called round. Jack was there and Florence. Florence climbed up on her and she yelped, she almost passed out. Jack distracted Florence. Lizzie tried to explain it away but she was in tears, in pain. She never moved from the settee all the time I was there.’

  ‘Did you speak to her about it while you were there?’ Mr Cromer says.

  ‘I couldn’t, Jack was there.’

  ‘And afterwards did you speak to her about it?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘I tried, I sent her messages but she wouldn’t admit there was anything wrong.’

  ‘Did you alert anyone else at all?’

  ‘No. I’d promised Lizzie I wouldn’t the first time.’ Rebecca grimaces. ‘I wish I had, then she might have been all right.’

  There is a flurry of objection from Miss Dixon. Rebecca is not meant to speculate like that.

  The judge tells the jury to ignore the final remark.

  Rebecca is crying and apologizes.

  ‘Just a few more questions,’ Mr Cromer says gently, and Rebecca nods and takes several deep breaths and wipes at her face with a large black and white polka dot handkerchief. Pure Rebecca. She nods her head, sharply, as if she’s eager to continue.

  ‘Why do you think Mrs Tennyson didn’t admit you were right on the second occasion?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why would she never tell anyone else?’

  ‘Because she was ashamed, she didn’t want people to know it was happening. “I couldn’t bear it”, that’s what she said. “I just couldn’t bear it.” ’

  ‘When Mrs Tennyson disclosed to you that Mr Tennyson was physically violent, were you surprised?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘Why was that?’ says Mr Cromer.

  ‘I didn’t think he was that type of person. I thought he was a good man and he’d treat her well.’

  ‘Did Mrs Tennyson say anything about what had prompted the violence?’

  ‘She said Jack had lost his temper. He was stressed because he’d not got any parts and even the auditions were drying up. She had tried to cheer him up but he took it the wrong way.’

  ‘How did she try to cheer him up?’

  ‘She said something would turn up and he’d have to live with being a kept man for a while.’

  ‘Did Mrs Tennyson say how things had been between them after the attack?’

  ‘Jack was in tears, he was so sorry; he begged her to forgive him.’

  Your face is still, a sad look in your eyes. Dignified, someone else might say, stoic. Duplicitous, if you ask me.

  We take apart the morning’s evidence as we pick over our lunch, Tony and Denise, Bea and me. We keep revisiting the fact that you were a wife-beater, that we never knew. Still so hard to believe. The café is on one of the side streets near the law courts. There’s a preponderance of legal types, dark-suited, well groomed, lugging heavy briefcases or bags and laptops about. Other people, like the four of us, are aliens to this world, swept up in it all.

  Miss Dixon smiles her orange smile and begins her cross-examination. ‘On the occasion in 2005 when the deceased told you about Mr Tennyson beating her, did you see any physical evidence of that?’

  Rebecca doesn’t answer immediately, then says, ‘No.’

  ‘No bruises or grazes, burns, anything of that nature?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did Mrs Tennyson say where Mr Tennyson had hit her, what parts of the body?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she say how many times he had hit her?’ Miss Dixon says.

  A dozen blows at least.

  ‘No,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘Did she say how long the alleged attack had lasted?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So the deceased gave you absolutely no details whatsoever about the attack? Nothing at all?’

  ‘No,’ Rebecca says; she is trembling.

  ‘Mrs Tennyson was pregnant then; how was she finding the pregnancy?’

  ‘She was excited about it.’

  ‘Anything else?’ says Miss Dixon.

  ‘She found it hard to sleep. I think she had bad heartburn. And she was a bit moody.’

  ‘Moody how?’

  ‘Just up and down with the hormones,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘So although she was excited, there were times when she felt unhappy, dissatisfied?’

  ‘Not really.’ Rebecca tries to correct the impression. ‘More weepy, I think. I don’t know,’ she adds.

  ‘You don’t know,’ the barrister echoes, and it’s a horrible undermining of Rebecca. ‘Miss Thornton, you were her maid of honour, her oldest friend . . . Were you pleased to see Lizzie Sutton and Jack Tennyson get married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve already told the court you were surprised at her allegation of p
hysical maltreatment. Did it occur to you that Mrs Tennyson might have been making it up?’

  ‘No. Why would she?’ Rebecca is alarmed.

  ‘To gain sympathy?’

  ‘She wouldn’t need to do that. We were friends.’

  ‘When did you last see Mrs Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon briskly.

  ‘Early July last year.’

  ‘And before that?’

  ‘In April.’

  ‘Three months earlier. So would it be fair to say you weren’t in frequent contact any more?’

  ‘I live in London,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘Please answer the question.’

  ‘We texted, we spoke on the phone in between.’

  ‘The deceased’s phone records show that she contacted you a total of four times in that period,’ says Miss Dixon.

  ‘She was busy.’

  ‘Too busy for her best friend?’

  Rebecca looks wounded. I am reminded of her mother’s cutting criticism and want to shield her from all this, but I am impotent.

  ‘Did Mrs Tennyson tell you about her recent pregnancy?’

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ says Rebecca.

  ‘No, she didn’t.’ Miss Dixon lets the words resound with disapproval. ‘She didn’t confide in you about that. Isn’t it fair to say that your friendship had dwindled? That you had drifted apart, that you were no longer best friends.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Rebecca says.

  ‘She barely bothered to keep in touch; you lived and worked two hundred miles away. You told us that Mrs Tennyson was busy, too busy to maintain her friendship, it appears to me. You’re not married?’ Miss Dixon says after a pause.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You don’t have children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I put it to you that Mrs Tennyson had found all she needed in her marriage, in her child and her career. Is that not the case?’

  ‘No . . . I don’t know,’ Rebecca says, muddy with misery.

  ‘On the occasion you refer to last summer, you didn’t see any physical signs of abuse, no bruises, no marks or burns?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘At any point since 2005 have you seen any concrete evidence of physical harm?’ says Miss Dixon.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You assert that Mrs Tennyson spoke to you about domestic violence in 2005. When was it mentioned again?’

  Rebecca falters. ‘What?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Never. She didn’t.’