‘All those months, years, and no repetition. So we might conclude that she didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything to say. Because Jack Tennyson was treating her well. Do you agree?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says in a small voice.
She’s good, your barrister. Do your hopes rise each time she pulls a stunt like that? Taking something potentially damning and removing the sting from it. Reasonable doubt, that’s her brief. If she produces enough of it, you will be freed.
‘And the time you refer to, last summer, your interpretation was that Mrs Tennyson was in pain?’
‘She was,’ says Rebecca.
‘But there could be other explanations for that, could there not?’
‘Maybe.’
‘If Florence had caught a nerve as she clambered on to her mother’s lap, or even simpler, if Mrs Tennyson had a gastric complaint as she had told you, that could have been the reason, couldn’t it?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘Yet you chose to see Mrs Tennyson as a victim of marital violence as a result of your prejudice towards Mr Tennyson.’
‘No,’ Rebecca protests.
‘Is it not true that instead of believing your friend, your best friend for many years, you leapt to far-fetched conclusions?’
‘I thought—’
‘You were disappointed that she hadn’t joined you on your night out, and when she told you all was well, you thought she was lying? Is that the case?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebecca says.
‘Did it occur to you that perhaps Mrs Tennyson did not want to see you, was happier spending time with her husband?’
‘No.’ Rebecca’s face is quivering; she is close to tears.
‘It’s possible that Mrs Tennyson thought the friendship had run its course. Time to move on. But you couldn’t accept that, so you turned up uninvited, and rather than accept her word, you invented a fantasy.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘True?’ Miss Dixon spits the word like it is toxic. ‘Is it true that Mrs Tennyson said she had a stomach bug?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Is it true that you turned up unannounced?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it true that when you asked her afterwards by text if all was well, she said it was?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think your friend was a liar? A dishonest person?’
‘No . . . yes . . . you’re twisting it all up,’ Rebecca says, colour flooding her face and neck.
There’s an awkward pause, then Miss Dixon says, ‘I realize that answering questions can be difficult at times, but a man’s future, his liberty and reputation hang in the balance here and I must ensure that the jury are in full possession of the facts. I am not twisting anything, but trying to disentangle fact from fiction, sound evidence from hearsay and speculation.’
The judge stirs and says, ‘A question, please, Miss Dixon.’
‘Your honour.’ She inclines, a little bow, then turns to Rebecca. ‘Would you say Mrs Tennyson was an honest person?’
‘Yes.’ Rebecca is stony-faced now; her eyes barely glance off the barrister.
‘You trusted what she told you?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says.
‘And in the summer, she told you everything was fine, that’s what you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you called unannounced to visit her, how was Mr Tennyson?’
‘Charming.’
This charming man.
‘He invited you in?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘He appeared quite happy for you to talk with Mrs Tennyson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Made you welcome?’
What can she say but ‘Yes.’
‘You thought Mrs Tennyson had been assaulted, but the only basis for that was a conversation you’d had four years earlier when she made unsubstantiated allegations about Mr Tennyson. Is it fair to say you were making an assumption this time?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says coldly, her jaw rigid.
‘You might have been mistaken, might you?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘Your assumption could have been wrong, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says dully. She has given up.
‘You never raised your concerns with anyone, did you?’
‘No.’
‘No,’ Miss Dixon echoes, ‘Did the deceased ever tell you she had reason to fear her husband, to fear for her life?’
‘No,’ says Rebecca.
‘On the contrary, Mrs Tennyson strenuously denied all your suggestions that she had been subjected to any violence. Isn’t that true?’
Rebecca glares at the lawyer but answers, ‘Yes.’ It’s like watching someone being eviscerated. Miss Dixon is a hyena, tearing the heart and lungs, liver and lights from Rebecca’s testimony.
‘Did she ever tell you she loved Jack Tennyson?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d lost your best friend to a new relationship, to marriage. She had committed herself to her husband. Did you feel excluded?’
‘No,’ Rebecca says.
‘Jealous?’
‘No,’ she protests.
‘Mrs Tennyson didn’t return your calls. Perhaps you blamed Mr Tennyson for the growing distance between you?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘That’s rubbish.’ Rebecca’s face glows red again.
‘A simple yes or no will suffice.’
‘No,’ sounding churlish, almost matching the picture Miss Dixon is painting of a jealous friend out to make trouble for you, the loving husband.
‘Do you not find it strange that no one, absolutely no one, not the deceased’s mother or father, her other friends, her colleagues at work, her GP, not one of them ever heard any whisper of domestic violence in the relationship?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you not find it strange that you are the only person who did? And that though Mrs Tennyson allegedly,’ the word sounds like a sneer, ‘told you about an incident more than four years earlier, she never shared any details about it with you, not what Mr Tennyson did or where she was hurt, and you saw not one shred of physical evidence to support her allegations? Is that not strange?’
‘Maybe.’ Rebecca juts her chin out, and stammers, ‘But it is the truth.’
Miss Dixon lets the silence stretch out so all we hear is the tremulous quality of Rebecca’s final answer, then the barrister says, ‘Thank you.’
By the time Rebecca leaves the witness box, the seeds of doubt are well and truly sown.
Ruth
CHAPTER FIVE
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
The final prosecution witness is a psychologist. Mr Cromer explains that Dr Nerys Martinez is an expert witness who will be here to shed light on the area of domestic violence, which is a key part of the prosecution case.
Dr Martinez is a small, trim, dark-skinned woman; her accent has a French lilt to it.
‘You have been involved in a number of studies into the phenomenon of domestic violence?’ Mr Cromer says.
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t the violence simply a result of someone losing control of their temper?’
‘Not at all. Abuse is usually planned, prepared for. The abuser has no difficulty managing his temper at work, say, or with friends.’
‘In the research you have conducted, if a person has physically assaulted their spouse on one occasion, how likely is it that they will go on to do it again?’
‘Extremely likely. The incidence of sole assaults that are never repeated is almost unheard of,’ Dr Martinez says.
‘And can you tell us why a victim of abuse might hide what was happening from close friends and family?’
‘Certainly. If you’ll allow me first to outline the familiar pattern of abuse and violence. Abuse is about power and control. The abuser uses threats or violence to dominate
their partner. An outbreak of violence is typically followed by the abuser exhibiting guilt; he will apologize, but he will also offer excuses to explain his behaviour. Commonly a period of normality follows and the majority of victims hope that the abuser will be able to keep his promise not to do it again. This honeymoon phase is followed by the abuser fantasizing about repeating the abuse. Planning it. He will engineer a situation that creates the right circumstances for him to attack his partner. Because abuse is about power, about domination, the person on the receiving end is made to feel culpable; the abuser will accuse them of deliberately doing something to trigger the violence. The reality is that the abuser wishes to exert his domination and to do this through violence, and he will construct a situation to make that happen. In the period of regret and promises, the person suffering from the violence wishes to believe the abuser. Their self-esteem is severely undermined. They are anxious that if only they do X and Y they will be safe. They will find excuses for the behaviour of their partner. Recognizing the situation for what it is, admitting it, is a very difficult step. Asking for help even harder. So in the majority of cases the victim conceals the situation as much as they can.’
‘Women will typically suffer many instances of violence before seeking help? Am I correct?’ says Mr Cromer.
‘That’s right.’
‘Would we not expect a man who does this to be a violent person in general?’
‘No. Abusers choose who to abuse, and where and how, so that the abuse is hidden. They will hit the victim in places where bruises won’t show. Research shows that they are capable of switching off violent behaviour if anyone else is present. The abusers are not out of control; indeed they are very much in control.’ This surprises me, but it helps explain how you got away with it: you focused your violence on Lizzie; none of the rest of us ever witnessed your aggression.
‘And the scenario of a woman confiding in a friend that her husband has abused her, and begging her to keep it quiet, of this victim not having visible bruises or injuries, does that ring true?’
‘Yes, it’s very common,’ says Dr Martinez.
‘And explaining to her confidante that her husband had problems with work that made him short-tempered and led to his violence – that’s plausible?’
‘Yes, stresses around work are often given as excuses.’
‘Excuses, not reasons,’ says Mr Cromer.
‘That’s correct. The stresses are real enough but the perpetrator does not hit anyone else; only his spouse, the one person who he believes he can dominate and control and who is unlikely to report him,’ says Dr Martinez.
‘If we accept, for the sake of argument, that Mrs Tennyson was being violently beaten by her husband, how would you account for her silence, her denials when her friend suspected domestic violence last summer?’
‘Denial and a “behind closed doors” approach is endemic with this behaviour. Lizzie Tennyson may have feared her husband and feared what would happen if she told anyone, even her close friend, about the violence. It is textbook typical behaviour of a victim in this situation. The victim is walking on eggshells.’
‘If I’ve understood you correctly, low self-esteem, a sense of being partly responsible for the violence and feelings of shame and fear might prevent a victim from disclosing what is happening to her?’ says Mr Cromer.
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘You have described to us the fact that the man can control his violence and plans his attacks, but the assault on the victim in this case was uncontrolled, and fatal. Isn’t that a contradiction?’
‘We usually see a pattern of escalation in the violence, and there are situations where the man abandons his attempts to conceal what he is doing and gives in to his desire to dominate in the most extreme way possible.’
‘By taking a life?’
‘That is right.’
‘How many women die every year as a result of domestic violence in this country?’ says Mr Cromer.
‘Around a hundred.’
‘Presumably, though, it is rarer among educated people, people without significant social disadvantage?’ he says.
‘No, that’s a myth. Domestic violence affects all sectors of society, all races, all classes.’
‘Is there any link between pregnancy and domestic violence?’ Mr Cromer says.
‘Yes. We estimate that up to thirty per cent of abuse begins in pregnancy, and it is common for abuse to get worse during pregnancy. The British Journal of Obstetrics and Gynaecology reports that one in six pregnant women will experience domestic violence.’
‘And if the victim was seeing less of friends and family, cancelling plans, but maintained that all was well?’ says Mr Cromer.
‘Again consistent with the abuse. Warning signs, in fact. Withdrawal of contact with outside relationships suits the abuser; isolating the victim adds to his domination, and denial is extremely common.’
‘One question.’ Miss Dixon gets to her feet. ‘Do people ever make false allegations of domestic violence?’
‘Yes, that happens. Though it is very rare compared to the prevalence of verified allegations.’
‘Why would anyone do that?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘There are many reasons. To attract sympathy or attention, to punish a partner, sometimes to disguise their own role as the abuser, so they can explain away any injuries acquired when they beat someone by saying they were the victim.’
You wouldn’t. Surely you would not accuse Lizzie of abusing you? We don’t know yet. We don’t know what the props of your defence will be beyond ‘It wasn’t me!’ and I reason that if you’re claiming innocence, you will deny any prior violence.
Rebecca comes to visit that evening. She can barely sit still, so incensed is she at the experience of being mauled by your barrister. ‘She made out like I was inventing it all. Because I was jealous of Jack. That is so fucking mental.’ She jolts to a stop and casts a guilty glance my way. I smile and shake my head. Swearing is irrelevant.
‘She made me out to be some loser, flaky, unreliable. Did the jury believe me?’
‘I don’t know.’ I find it impossible to read those twelve faces. Not that they are expressionless; far from it. They exhibit surprise, concern, interest, repulsion and sometimes boredom. Would Lizzie have found it easier, with her expertise in nonverbal communication? Could she have told from the body language who was favouring who?
Walking on eggshells. Did she have to do that? Placate you, play nice, alert to the slightest shift in tension. How long had it been going on? From the start, before the marriage? From her first pregnancy?
‘When she told you about it, did Lizzie say if it was the first time he had done it?’
‘No. I assumed it was,’ Rebecca says. ‘I’ve got to go back to London tomorrow. I wish I could stay, but I can’t take any more time off. If he gets away with it . . .’ She chews her lip and tears spring to her eyes. ‘If only I’d told someone.’
‘She’d probably have denied it,’ I say. Though I wish Rebecca had told me. If I’d been alerted, put it together with the fact that I was seeing less of Lizzie, could I have done anything? Were we all gradually being excluded? Were you steadily cutting the ties to make her ever more dependent on you?
‘If only I’d rung her, made more of an effort,’ Rebecca says. The agony of hindsight.
‘You’re not to blame. Not at all. Don’t think like that. There’s only one person in the dock. Yeah?’
She brings out the spotted hanky again. ‘Yes.’ Dissolving into tears.
I go and rub her back. I miss Lizzie. The physical hunger shows no sign of diminishing. Those brief embraces we had of late, one hand pressed on the shoulder, a kiss on the cheek, the tickle of her hair as we separated. The vibration of her laughter in the air.
Ruth
CHAPTER SIX
17 Brinks Avenue
Manchester
M19 6FX
Your first defence witness is another actor; there’s a ripple of inte
rest in court as people recognize him. Joshua Corridge. He’s done better than you: a stint in Emmerdale, a regular guest actor on prime-time shows like Spooks and Midsomer Murders (how apt). He’s prettier, into the bargain. He’s worked on adverts, which you once told me was where the serious money was. If word gets out, there will be fans besieging the building, begging for autographs, clutching pens, baring their arms or stomachs. There’s a fashion nowadays for people to get a tattoo where a name’s been scrawled on their skin. Celebrity gone mad. I’ve never met Joshua.
‘Please tell us how you know Mr Tennyson,’ Miss Dixon says.
‘We met at drama school, LAMDA; we became friends and ended up sharing a flat together.’ His voice has a rich, syrupy tone which is perfect for selling cars and perfume.
‘You’ve kept in touch?’
‘Oh yes. We get together if I’m working here or if Jack’s in London.’ He looks across at you, frank, open-faced, a brief smile. Demonstrating his trust and regard.
‘How would you describe Mr Tennyson?’
‘A regular guy, straightforward, hard-working, a good mate.’
‘Have you ever known him to be violent?’
‘No.’ Joshua laughs at the question. ‘Never,’ he adds more steadily.
‘You knew Mrs Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes, through Jack.’
‘Did you ever spend time with Lizzie and Jack Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Oh yes. Me and my fiancée. We’d make up a foursome. Not so much since Florence came along.’
‘And how would you describe the relationship between Jack and Lizzie Tennyson?’
‘A perfect fit,’ he says. ‘They loved each other, anyone could see that.’
‘Did Mr Tennyson ever talk to you about any worries or concerns he had?’
‘About work,’ Joshua says. ‘It’s a tough business; most of us are out of work ninety per cent of the time. It can get you down.’
‘When did Mr Tennyson discuss this with you?’ Miss Dixon says.
‘The last time we met, Easter last year.’
‘Was Mr Tennyson depressed?’
‘No, nothing like that; just a bit frustrated, but no more than anyone else would be,’ Joshua says.
‘Did he ever express any concerns about his marriage, or his relationship with his wife?’
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