Letters To My Daughter's Killer

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 delighted. 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.’

‘Were there any signs of a struggle elsewhere in the property?’

‘No, only in the living room.’

I think of the floorboards they removed.

‘Please tell the court what items were sent for testing,’ says Mr Cromer.

‘From the scene?’ Mr Noon asks.

‘Yes, from the scene.’

‘Fingerprints and footwear impressions,’ he says, as if starting a long list.

Mr Cromer holds up a hand. ‘The jury will, I think, be familiar with fingerprints and how they can be matched, but please tell us about footwear impressions.’

‘Certainly. We now have the technology to be able to recover the impressions left by footwear, shoes and the like, from many surfaces, even carpet. Certainly from the type of laminate flooring found at the Tennysons’. These can then be matched to footwear.’

‘Wouldn’t the same brand of shoes leave the same marks?’ Mr Cromer asks.

‘Initially, but as soon as a piece of footwear is worn, it acquires marks, nicks or cuts in the sole. By comparing these, we can match impressions to an individual item.’

‘You recovered footwear impressions from the scene?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes. As with fingerprints, there were many sets found. Together these could tell us who had been at the house. And the footwear impressions would show traffic since the floor was last cleaned.’

I picture Florence’s shoes, see her running round their living room.

‘Please go on,’ says Mr Cromer.

‘We were able to match and discount those belonging to the deceased and to her daughter, and to match other impressions to both Mr Tennyson and Mrs Sutton.’ The step I’d taken into the room before all those hands dragged me away. ‘And of course we matched and eliminated footwear from officers and CSIs at the scene. We were however left with a substantial number of impressions from a pair of size ten men’s running shoes which could not be accounted for. One of those impressions was close to the victim and was made in blood.’

‘A bloody footprint,’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Shoe print,’ the scientist corrects him. ‘Which could only have been made during or after the attack.’

‘Can you tell us any more about this shoe?’

‘Yes, it was an Adidas running shoe, from the 2009 summer season,’ says Mr Noon.

‘Size ten?’

‘That’s right,’ says Mr Noon.

‘I’m right that clothes and footwear worn by both Mr Tennyson and Mrs Sutton were taken by the police for examination?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, that’s common procedure.’

‘And what size were the trainers that Mr Tennyson surrendered to you for comparison?’ asks the barrister.

‘Size ten.’

‘But a different make?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, Nike, an older pair,’ says Mr Noon.

‘Were there any traces of blood on the Nike trainers?

‘No.’

‘And the clothes that Mr Tennyson had surrendered?’

I am a ghoul, eager to hear of blood on your garments and your shoes, to imagine you sprayed with Lizzie’s blood, daubed in it, caught red-handed.

But he says no, the witness.

‘Nothing?’ Mr Cromer sounds incredulous.

‘That’s correct.’

‘Was there any blood at the scene?’

‘A great deal,’ Mr Noon says. ‘On the floor and the walls and the furniture.’

‘Were you able to identify all the fingerprints?’

‘Not all of them, but that is not unusual.’

‘Were any fingerprints of particular interest?’ Mr Cromer pushes his wire glasses up his nose.

‘There were two which included blood,’ says Mr Noon.

‘Where were these prints?’

‘There was one on the wall at the bottom of the stairs, and one on the bathroom door.’

‘Did you identify these?’

‘Yes, they belonged to Mr Tennyson.’ There’s an electric buzz of concentration in the court. It’s surely damning evidence. Blood on your hands, a bloody footprint. I want to kiss Mr Cromer.

‘We heard from the pathologist that a poker had been recovered from the scene and was thought to be the weapon used. Did you examine it?’

‘Yes. It had been wiped clean,’ says Mr Noon.

‘You could tell?’

‘Oh yes, otherwise we would have been able to see material from the victim on the weapon, blood, hair and so on. And fingerprints, perhaps.’

‘You recovered nothing?’ Mr Cromer asks.

‘We did find traces of the victim’s blood trapped in places where the metal was pocked or rusted and flaked, but no fingerprints. We also found an oily residue and fibres that we matched to a brand of baby wipe.’

My stomach heaves at the thought of that: the moist perfumed tissue and the bloody poker; the juxtaposition seems obscene. Someone somewhere in the forensics lab must have painstakingly tested those traces.

‘Did you find such wipes at the house?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, there were some in the kitchen.’

‘Were they visible from the living area?’

‘No, they were on a shelf below the breakfast bar,’ says Mr Noon.

‘What else did you examine forensically?’

‘We examined the contents of the ash tray from the wood-burning stove. We found synthetic material, a polyurethane, traces of a man-made substance, EVA, and rubber in the ash.’

‘EVA is?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘Ethylene-vinyl acetate – known as foam rubber.’

‘And where would that combination of material be found?’

‘Most commonly in footwear and sports equipment.’

You burned your shoes! I feel pressure in my chest; Bea shoots me a look.

‘Is it true to say that what you found in the ash was consistent with someone burning a pair of running shoes in the stove?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘How long would it take to reduce a pair of running shoes to ash in a stove like that?’

‘About fifteen minutes if the stove was already alight.’

The warm light it cast on Lizzie’s arm.

‘Have you any other observations that you and the senior investigating officer felt were pertinent to the investigation?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, the shower in the bathroom had been used, as well as the hand basin. We detected traces of blood in the water drops on the shower screen.’

‘Was the blood visible to the naked eye?’

‘No, it looked like water droplets,’ says Mr Noon.

You washed. You burned your shoes. Perhaps your clothes as well.

‘Can you tell us about the shoes retrieved from Mr Tennyson, the Nike trainers?’

‘We could match them to footwear impressions in the house. When they were examined, we found traces of soil and grit and sand and plant matter.’

‘But no blood?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That is correct.’

Miss Dixon takes each item in turn, twisting it from a damning piece of evidence into something neutral and inconclusive.

‘From the analysis of blood spatter, can you tell us anything about the assailant?’ Miss Dixon says. ‘Height or weight, for example?’

‘Only that they would have been average height – neither very tall nor very short,’ says Mr Noon.

‘The residue in the ash tray, were you able to say specifically where that came from?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘Can you state categorically that it was even a pair of shoes?’

‘No.’

‘Were you able to determine who had used the shower at the house?’ Miss Dixon says.

‘No.’

‘Is it possible that it was Mrs Tennyson?’

‘Yes, although her hair was dry and the shower cap in the bathroom was also dry.’

‘You detected blood traces in the shower, that’s correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you able to identify the blood?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘It was Mrs Tennyson’s,’ he says.

‘If Mrs Tennyson had a cut on her arm or a nosebleed, could that account for the presence of blood in the shower?’

‘It could,’ says Mr Noon.

Lizzie did suffer from nosebleeds. Did you tell them that? Ammunition to shoot down the prosecution case?

Miss Dixon goes on, calm, methodical, relentless. ‘The shoe print at the scene, the Adidas summer trainer. That’s a popular brand, it was a popular design?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘The top-selling style that season?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes,’ Mr Noon says.

‘Thousands of pairs sold in the north-west alone?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘You can’t be certain who wore that shoe at the scene?’

‘No,’ says Mr Noon.

‘Or who it belonged to?’

‘No.’

No. No. No. All the negatives piling up, sandbags against the tide.

By the end of the session, she has eaten away at the foundations, like woodworm boring holes through the joists. So the jury see that someone wore those trainers, wielded that poker and cleaned it, but not necessarily you. The bloody footprint, the marks on the wall, the blood in the shower: they have lost their power. They no longer damn you.

I steal a glance at you, intent on finding some gleam of arrogance, a smirk tugging at your lips or cold pride in your eyes, but you are still in character. Method acting. You’re good at that. But you have a great range. I saw your Richard III at the Everyman. Brutal. The transformation was spectacular.

Ruth

CHAPTER THREE

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

Marian and Alan are here for the trial. Your staunch supporters. We have done no more than nod to each other coolly so far. Today, the third day, Marian approaches me as we wait to go through the security scanners.

‘Hello,’ she says. Thankfully she doesn’t ask how I am – or I might just tell her. ‘We’d like to see Florence,’ she says. Colour in her face.

Tony arrives with Denise; he sends a question my way with his eyes. Everything OK?

Not so as you’d notice. I give him a jaded stare.

I want to refuse Marian and Alan, don’t want them anywhere near me, or Florence.

‘We are her grandparents too,’ Marian says when I fail to offer any response.

‘That’s right,’ Alan chips in.

‘We could take her out,’ she says.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I say. We shuffle forward in the queue, closer to the scanner and the guards checking the bags of everyone entering or leaving the building.

‘You can’t just-’ Marian almost loses her temper.

But I cut her off. ‘Florence is still very clingy. She doesn’t like new situations; you’d be better seeing her at the house.’

She makes a little noise, ‘Pfft!’ as though she doesn’t believe me, as though I am being obstructive.

‘You can see for yourself,’ I say bluntly. The woman ahead of me puts her bag on the tray, and when the guard signals, she goes through the security gate.

‘Come round this evening,’ I suggest to Marian, ‘or tomorrow. She usually goes to bed at seven. Routine is important.’

The guard nods to me and I put my bag down.

‘Okay,’ Marian says crisply. The dislike snaps between us like static. I’m itching to throw some of the prosecution case at her. Taunt her with your missing shoes, with pristine clothes and baby wipes. But she is not the enemy, not really; you are. She just happens to be your mother, poor cow.

I pin my hopes on DI Ferguson. She must have more to tell us about the case against you.

She looks fresh and full of zest as she swears on the Bible. She describes her role much as she did when she met us.

‘You supervised a series of interviews with Mr Tennyson after the murder?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s correct.’

‘Can you please tell the court what Mr Tennyson’s version of events was on the night in question?’

‘Mr Tennyson said he and his wife had been at home, Mrs Tennyson was watching television and Mr Tennyson went to the gym. On his return, he discovered his wife on the floor in the living room. He tried to rouse her, and when that failed, he called the police, then his mother-in-law, Mrs Sutton.’

‘What time did you receive the 999 call?’

‘Ten fifty p.m.,’ says DI Ferguson.

‘Had you reason to question his account?’

‘Yes. The forensic evidence did not consistently support Mr Tennyson’s story.’

I like the word ‘story’; it implies a fiction, something you made up to hoodwink us all.

‘Please elaborate,’ Mr Cromer says.

‘Mr Tennyson stated that he tried to rouse his wife. Specifically that he approached her from the doorway, bending over to see if she was breathing. And that he shook her shoulder, her right shoulder, calling her name.’ Her ruined face, draped in blood-thick hair. ‘Had that been the case, we would expect to find traces of blood on Mr Tennyson’s clothing, and certainly on his footwear, as the blood on the floor formed a pool around the deceased’s head and upper body.’

‘No such traces were found?’

‘None.’

You cleaned up too well, that’s what she’s saying. In an effort to obliterate all signs of your crime, you compromised yourself. You have put your foot in it by not putting your foot in it. Priceless!

‘We began to wonder if Mr Tennyson had been present at the time of the murder and had subsequently changed his clothes and footwear and concealed them. A number of items of evidence supported this scenario. The skin under Mrs Tennyson’s fingernails was matched to Mr Tennyson,’ says DI Ferguson.

A murmur ripples round the room, and I feel light-headed for a moment.

‘Mr Tennyson had grazes on his forearm,’ she goes on. ‘His fingerprints in blood on the wall by the stairs and on the bathroom door showed us that Mr Tennyson had blood on his hands but not on anything he claimed to be wearing at the scene.’

‘To be clear, did he have any blood on his hands when the police examined him later that night?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘No, he said he had washed his hands in the basin in the bathroom. We considered the presence of the victim’s blood in the water droplets on the shower screen, and in addition the material from the ashes of the wood-burner, which gave us a potential explanation for the absence of the Adidas running shoes that had left an impression at the left-hand side of Mrs Tennyson’s body.’

‘Those shoes were never found, that’s the case?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s right. However, we did find proof of purchase of a pair of those running shoes on Mr Tennyson’s credit card statement from July 2009. Bought on the twenty-ninth of the month.’

My breath catches. I hear someone else gasp. Bea grabs my hand and squeezes. She has you! She has you buying the trainers. How will you wriggle out of that?

‘Five weeks before the murder?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s correct.’

‘Did you ask Mr Tennyson about this?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘The question was put to him and he said that the trainers had been an impulse buy, they had been uncomfortable, so after a couple of weeks he had taken them for recycling to the bin outside the shoe shop on Stockport Road.’

The case of the disappearing evidence. Where are we now, in some Christie novel?

DI Ferguson continues. ‘We weren’t able to verify this. The contents of the bag are collected every week.’

‘Did anyone see Mr Tennyson on the evening of the twelfth of September?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, the receptionist at the gym, the clerk in the convenience store where he bought milk, and a neighbour who lives at the other end of the cul-de-sac,’ DI Ferguson says.

‘Did Mr Tennyson provide you with an account of the route he had taken to the gym?’

‘Yes.’

‘Members of the jury,’ Mr Cromer says, ‘you will find that mapped out for you.’ It is also displayed for us on the screen.

‘How long did he say it took him?’

‘Mr Tennyson says it takes about half an hour to walk there?’

‘What time did he claim to have left the house?’

‘At half past eight,’ says DI Ferguson.

‘Would he pass any CCTV cameras?’

‘Only here, by the bank.’ She pointed to the place. ‘But if he was on the far side of the street he wouldn’t have been picked up by the cameras.’

Why was she saying that, giving you an excuse? I’ve a moment’s anger, then I think perhaps she’s doing it to reinforce her honesty, to show she’s not trying to manipulate information, that all her cards are on the table. Leaving your side fewer points to score. DI Ferguson has nothing to hide, nothing to fear.

‘Two text messages were sent from Mrs Tennyson’s phone that evening, that is correct?’

‘It is,’ says DI Ferguson. ‘One at eight thirty-eight p.m. to Jack Tennyson and one at eight thirty-nine p.m. to Ruth Sutton.’

‘At which time Mr Tennyson claims he was on his way to the gym?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s right, but we believe he sent the messages before leaving the house, in an attempt to construct an alibi.’

I feel sick. Lizzie’s last text, the one I’ve saved, treasured, is a sham, a trick.

‘Did you examine Mrs Tennyson’s phone?’

‘We did. But we found no fingerprints on it,’ says DI Ferguson.

‘Is that unusual?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘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 physical 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.’

‘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 interest 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?’

‘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.’

‘With your permission, your honour, I would like Mr Tennyson to demonstrate for the jury, using a model, how he tried to rouse his wife.’

Miss Dixon jumps up. ‘Objection, your honour, theatrics have no place here.’

‘This relates to the evidence?’ the judge asks Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, your honour, directly to the forensic evidence.’

‘Objection denied.’

A dummy is brought in. Faceless, like Lizzie was by the time you’d finished with her. There’s chatter while one of the ushers places it on the floor. Others lay white tape, following a diagram that Mr Cromer gives them. He explains to the jury, ‘The tape represents the furniture in the room: the sofa here and the television stand, at right angles with a gap between them. These are placed exactly as they were found that night, as is the model representing the victim.’

I wonder where they got the dummy from. Is there a factory somewhere that churns them out for this sort of thing? Are they used in hospitals or research labs? Smooth, sexless, the limbs pliable, the left arm, the arm that was closest to the stove stretched out, the right arm, the broken arm, bent in place.

Mr Cromer asks you to stand beyond the tape towards where the front door would be. ‘Now, Mr Tennyson, please show us how you approached and touched the body of your wife.’

You come between the taped outline of the sofa and the TV. Does this remind you of rehearsals, when you are blocking a play? Did you know you’d have to act this out?

You take two steps to reach Lizzie and crouch down, not kneeling. Then you reach out both your hands. It looks bizarre. One hand – the left, the nearest – would make more sense.

‘Was that how close you came?’ asks Mr Cromer.

‘I think so,’ you say.

‘Mr Tennyson, could you do it again, but this time remain as far away as you possibly can while still touching the right shoulder?’

You nod and retrace your steps. This time when you crouch you can only just reach; the tips of your fingers graze the smooth plastic of the dummy. Someone less agile would lose their balance. Mr Cromer asks an usher to make marks where your feet are. The usher uses chalk and draws lines by your toes and heels. You are asked to return to the witness stand.

Then Mr Cromer produces a large mat of translucent plastic, thick, flexible – like a giant mouse mat with curvy edges. There’s an oval marked on one edge of it, and the usher raises the dummy and adjusts the mat beneath it so that the oval matches the outline of the head. The rest of it forms a puddle shape around the head and upper body.

‘This represents the pool of blood at the murder scene,’ Mr Cromer says. ‘Members of the jury please note that the marks at the front of Mr Tennyson’s shoes are several inches in from the edge of the pool. If Mr Tennyson had crouched there as he just demonstrated, both of his shoes would have been covered in blood. The shoes he gave the police did not have any traces of blood on them. Mr Tennyson, have you any explanation as to how this can be?’

‘I must have been standing further away and then have leant right over,’ you say. I can hear a frisson of anxiety in your tone.

‘If you had been any further away, you would not have been able to reach, would you?’ Mr Cromer says. ‘I think that is obvious to everyone. Why did you use both hands?’ The question is swift, and despite Mr Cromer’s Devonian accent, it sounds sharp.

‘It was instinctive.’

‘I’d suggest to you that it would have been more straightforward to use one hand, the left, but you needed a way of explaining the bloody fingerprints from your right hand on the stairs and the bathroom door. So you cooked up this two-handed gesture. Isn’t that the case?’

‘No, I used both hands,’ you say.

‘And washed them upstairs?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the sink?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t have a shower?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘No.’

‘Then how did traces of diluted blood get in the shower cubicle?’

‘Lizzie must have had a shower while I was out,’ you say.

‘Yet the shower cap was bone dry? And having been to the salon that day, she would not need to wash her hair again, would she?’

Her bright, bright hair.

‘No.’

‘I ask you again, Mr Tennyson, did you take a shower that night?’ Mr Cromer paces slowly around the floor of the courtroom, like a large animal circling its prey, pausing to ask each question.

‘No.’

‘So how did that blood get there?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know. Did you beat your wife?’

‘No,’ you say.

‘Did you beat her that night?’

‘No,’ you say.

‘Ever?’

‘No.’

‘But Mrs Tennyson told her friend Rebecca that you had. How do you explain that?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I can’t.’

‘Do you think she was lying to this court?’

‘No, but it wasn’t true,’ you say.

‘Why would Rebecca lie?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Or do you think your wife lied when she told her friend that?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say.

‘Mrs Tennyson was pregnant the first time she spoke about you beating her. She was pregnant again last September. Did you row about that? An argument that became violent?’

‘There was no argument.’

‘You weren’t angry? Scarcely managing on one wage and the prospect of more children, her working life disrupted and all the extra costs,’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I didn’t know she was pregnant,’ you say.

‘The pathologist estimated that your wife was seven weeks pregnant; can you think of any reason why she would not have told you?’

‘No, I don’t know, perhaps she hadn’t realized it herself.’ There is no anger in your responses, which is a good way to play it. No doubt your counsel has told you to always remain polite and calm lest we glimpse your dark side.

‘You claim that you left the house at eight thirty?’

‘I did.’

‘And you arrived at the gym at nine?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes.’

‘When did you get the text from your wife?’

‘Just as I got to the gym, when I went to turn my phone off.’

‘It arrived then, or had you already received it and only just noticed it?’

‘It was already there,’ you say.

‘We have been told it was sent at eight-forty. Ten minutes after you claim you left home. How long does it take you to walk to the gym?’

‘About half an hour,’ you say.

‘You don’t drive there?’

‘Not that distance, no.’

‘You are certain you left at half past eight?’

‘Yes,’ you say.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Casualty had been on for about fifteen minutes. Lizzie liked to watch it,’ you say.

Did she? I struggle to remember.

You say, ‘I was thinking about watching it till the end but decided to go to the gym instead.’

‘Why did you go to the gym then?’

‘It’s a good time to go. Quiet,’ you say.

‘How would you know?’ says Mr Cromer, scowling, his head cocked to one side.

‘Sorry?’

‘How would you know it’s quieter at that time?’ he says slowly, and I sense something significant coming. Mr Cromer -his girth, the drawl of his accent, his steady, stately movements – might appear a little simple, but he is clever and quick-witted.

‘Because people are busy Saturday nights, going out, meeting friends.’

‘So you assumed it would be quieter then for that reason?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘Yes.’ You sound slightly puzzled.

‘Because you had never been to the gym on a Saturday night before, had you?’

You are stumped. For one glorious moment. Whatever you prepared for, it wasn’t this. ‘I don’t know,’ you say.

‘The electronic swipe system shows members’ attendance. You’ve never been on a Saturday after five p.m. In fact the latest you have ever been there in almost three years of membership is seven o’clock on a week night. Can you explain why your pattern of use changed so dramatically on that very night?’

‘I felt like some exercise,’ you say.

‘I suggest you were creating an alibi, isn’t that the truth of the matter?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘No,’ you say, your face blanching and tightening, pulling your cheekbones into sharper relief.

‘Yes. I put it to you that your wife was already dead when you left the house. Isn’t that the case?’

‘No.’

‘I further suggest that before you left, you used her phone to text yourself and your mother-in-law, Ruth Sutton, to make it appear as if the victim were still alive at eight forty p.m. Then you wiped your fingerprints from the phone. Isn’t that the truth?’

‘No,’ you say firmly.

‘I also put it to you that you left the house then, at eight forty, after sending the text messages, not at eight thirty as you claim. Later exaggerating to the court how long that journey takes. How do you answer that?’

‘That’s not true,’ you say.

‘You then did your circuit training and had your swim, took your shower, and returned home, buying milk on the way, and pretended to discover your wife. Is that the real truth?’

‘No.’ You keep shaking your head. Your hands grip the edge of the witness stand. ‘No, none of that’s true.’

‘Where did you dispose of your clothes, Mr Tennyson?’

‘Nowhere. There weren’t any other clothes,’ you say.

‘Why did it take you half an hour to make a fifteen-minute journey?’

‘It always takes that long. It’s not fifteen minutes.’

‘According to calculations, if you took half an hour to cover that distance, you would have been walking at about a mile an hour, a snail’s pace. You expect the members of the jury to believe that?’

‘That’s how long it takes,’ you repeat.

‘This is all a string of lies, isn’t it? You’d attacked your wife before, and on September the twelfth you did it again. With fatal consequences. You took her life and then you lied about it – to the police, to Mrs Tennyson’s parents, her friends. You lied and lied and denied your guilt. It’s all a pack of lies, am I right?’

‘No.’ Your mouth is taut, lips white.

‘Your account is full of holes. You did not attempt to rouse your wife. If you had have done, then your trainers, the ones you gave to the police, would have been steeped in blood. The truth is your wife was dead, you could see there was no hope, and you spent the time clearing up. You left your daughter alone in the house, with her mother dead downstairs, and went to the gym. Had you no thought for anyone but yourself?’

‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Then how did your skin get under her fingernails as she sought to defend herself?’ Mr Cromer says swiftly.

‘It didn’t happen like that.’

‘Because it doesn’t fit your fiction? Your web of deceit?’

‘Because I never hurt her.’ Your voice quivers. ‘That’s not how I got the scratches; it was when we went shopping, she tripped.’

‘Do you recall what you were wearing, on that shopping trip?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘My grey jacket,’ you say.

‘This has long sleeves, am I correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you explain to the jury how Mrs Tennyson was able to clutch at your arm and graze the skin if your arm was covered with the jacket?’

‘I pushed the sleeves back, when I got warm,’ you say.

A frankly inadequate explanation.

‘Members of the jury – I am now showing you several still images taken from CCTV footage of Mr and Mrs Tennyson at Asda on the day of her death. Please note that Mr Tennyson was wearing a charcoal-grey jacket with full-length sleeves and that his sleeves are not pushed back.’

The grainy images of you and Florence and Lizzie fill my vision. No hint of the horror that is to come. Grief surges behind my breastbone.

‘Can you explain why her stumble is not shown on the CCTV footage?’ asks Mr Cromer.

There is a fraction of a pause, then you say, ‘It happened at home, as we were unloading the car.’

I never noticed those marks. You must have been rigorous in keeping them hidden. All part of the cover-up.

‘Then after you unloaded the shopping, Lizzie went to the hairdresser’s, she came home and cooked a meal. That’s what you said?’ Mr Cromer peers at you.

‘Yes.’

‘Did she practise good hygiene? In the house, in the kitchen?’

‘Yes,’ you say.

‘She would surely wash her hands in the course of cooking a meal?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you also claim Mrs Tennyson must have taken a shower while you were at the gym, yet you ask us to believe that the skin remained under her nails all those hours?’

‘It must have done.’ There’s a plea in your response, asking us to believe you, but your answers are unsatisfactory, paltry.

Surely this if nothing else will convince the jury. Your flesh under her nails. I think of her hands, flashing shapes, telling stories, conveying ideas. And now, after her death, she is still signing to us, communicating the truth. Guilty.

‘I put it to you that it didn’t,’ says Mr Cromer. ‘There is a much simpler explanation, Mr Tennyson. As you began to beat your wife, she reached out to try and stop you. That’s how you got scratched. That’s how your skin got trapped under her nails.’

‘No,’ you say, ‘no.’ You swallow.

It is all so clear to me. Do they see it, the jury, do they see it like I do? You hit her arm, her head, her shoulder, her face, her head, her head, and she is forced to her knees, you hit her head, her head. She falls on to her front. You keep hitting, blood on your face, your clothes, everywhere. You move round, step in it with your right foot.

She is dead.

Exhausted, elated, panic-stricken, you see the mark your shoe has made. Take the shoes off, stick them in the stove. Grab a baby wipe, clean the poker. Strip off and pile your clothes together. Run upstairs, shower, dress. Get in character, rehearse your lines, your moves. The role of your life.

Ruth

CHAPTER EIGHT

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

Florence hasn’t eaten when I get to April’s house. ‘She didn’t want anything. We tried pasta and she wouldn’t have that. I offered her some chicken and rice but she said no.’

At home she whines that she’s hungry, so I make beans on toast, cut the toast into triangles and place them around the edge of her plate, pour the beans into the middle. She throws a tantrum, bursting out with a cry so vivid I think for a moment she must have hurt herself. She wails that the bean juice is touching the toast. This sacrilege means she will not eat the toast at all, so I sling it in the compost bin.

Sobbing, she slides the beans around the plate until they’re cold.

My blood chills at the thought of you leaving her in the house while you went to create your alibi. You were a good father. I thought you were. What if she had woken and gone to find her mum? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

There are no more witnesses, just the closing speeches to come. Mr Cromer begins. ‘On September the twelfth 2009, Lizzie Tennyson was bludgeoned to death in her living room. A shocking crime. The man in the dock, Jack Tennyson, is charged with that crime. He made strenuous attempts to conceal his actions but he made mistakes, and his account of the events of that night collapses under scrutiny. What does the evidence tell us?

‘That Jack Tennyson had a history of violence towards his wife. A well-kept secret but known to Rebecca Thornton, Lizzie Tennyson’s closest friend. In common with the majority of women who are victims of domestic abuse, Mrs Tennyson was unwilling or unable to ask for help, or to disclose her suffering, to reveal what was really going on in her marriage. We cannot know how frequent the abuse was, but on that night, Jack Tennyson attacked his wife again. Lizzie Tennyson tried to protect herself, reaching out, grabbing her husband’s forearm, leaving scratches there and retaining some of his skin cells under her nails.

‘The blows kept coming, more than twelve of them, breaking her arm, her eye socket, her shoulder, crushing her skull and ending her life. Lizzie Tennyson fell on her front alongside the stove in the living room. She suffered massive loss of blood, as you have heard from the crime-scene reports. What did Jack Tennyson do then? Repentant, did he call for help? Realizing with horror that he had destroyed the woman he loved, did he admit his guilt?’ Mr Cromer pauses for effect. Looks over his glasses at the jury. ‘No, he set about saving his own skin. He needed to destroy the running shoes he was wearing, one of which had left a bloody footprint close to the victim’s body. He removed his running shoes and put them in the wood-burner. He fetched baby wipes from the kitchen to remove his fingerprints from the poker. He needed to get rid of the clothes he was wearing, which were all spattered with blood. He went upstairs, leaving a fingerprint on the wall and another on the bathroom door. He showered, leaving traces of blood in the stall. He dressed in clean clothes and a pair of Nike trainers.’

Mr Cromer lowers his voice, and there’s a horrible intimacy as he lays out his case. ‘Jack Tennyson needed to create an alibi. He used the victim’s phone to text a message to himself and another one to his mother-in-law in an attempt to make it appear as though the victim was still alive, and to imply that he had left the house. He then made his way to the gym, disposing of his bloody clothes somewhere on the way. He spent an hour and a half at the gym before leaving for home and stopping for milk at the convenience store. He then played out the charade of discovering his wife and alerting the police.’

Mr Cromer takes off his glasses and bows his head for a moment, I don’t know if this is a calculated gesture or not, but it gives the impression that the weight of the case is bearing down on him. He clears his throat. ‘Jack Tennyson’s claim to innocence is a bare-faced lie. My learned colleague has described the defendant as a good father, a good husband, but remember, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, he is also a good actor. Trained and skilled in maintaining a false persona, able to bring all those skills to sustain a corrupt version of the events of that night. The only evidence points to Jack Tennyson. There is no unknown suspect, no other DNA on the victim’s body. In a brutal attack like that, the assailant would have left material at the scene: hair, fingerprints, saliva. Lizzie Tennyson’s murderer did: he left a bloody footprint, he left two fingerprints, he left traces of blood in the shower, he left skin under the victim’s nails. Lizzie Tennyson’s family – her daughter, her parents and friends – deserve justice. It is in your power to give them that. Put this liar, this coward, this killer behind bars where he belongs. Take into account all the evidence and find him guilty. Give them justice.’

Miss Dixon begins her summing-up with a reminder to the jury about the legal requirements of the trial. ‘In his opening remarks his Honourable Justice described to you that the burden of proof is the responsibility of the prosecution. That phrase “burden of proof” is wisely chosen, because burden it is. The prosecution must convince you, the members of the jury, that Jack Tennyson is guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. And I put it to you that my learned colleague has failed miserably to make such a case. He has presented you with a hotchpotch of so-called evidence, most of which cannot withstand serious examination. Please bear with me while I review the supposed evidence against my client and demonstrate to you the legion doubts it raises.’ She stops, turns away from the jury for a moment as if marshalling her thoughts, then goes on. ‘Let us begin with Mr Tennyson himself and his character as testified to by witnesses at this trial. Time and again we have heard him described as honourable, likeable, responsible and, most importantly of all, a loving husband and father. A man who cared for his small daughter and supported his wife in her chosen career. Even the witnesses for the prosecution, the deceased’s mother Ruth Sutton and the deceased’s closest friend Rebecca Thornton, were happy to see her marry Jack Tennyson. They have referred to him, and I quote, as “a lovely man” and “a good dad”.

‘Asked about his relationship with Lizzie Tennyson, we have heard that Jack Tennyson loved her, he adored her, he thought the world of her. The prosecution suggests that Mr Tennyson was violent towards his wife, but I would say to you that they have failed to offer robust proof of that contention. The only evidence they have given you is uncorroborated hearsay from one person. No one else, ever…’ she pauses for effect and raises a finger, ‘ever,’ she repeats, looking directly at the jury, ‘heard so much as a whisper about domestic violence from the deceased or any other source. Mrs Tennyson never spoke to her GP about this, she never sought help, she never mentioned it to another friend or family. She never sought medical treatment, she never had unexplained absences from work. The issue of domestic violence is a mirage. Did Mrs Tennyson tell Miss Thornton she’d been assaulted, or did Miss Thornton misunderstand? We will never know, but please remember that Miss Thornton saw no injuries, and when she feared that Mrs Tennyson might be at risk again, Mrs Tennyson clearly denied that she was. Why? Because it was not happening.’ She emphasizes each word. ‘Domestic violence was not, and never had been, an issue in this marriage. And I suggest that the thin and uncorroborated evidence of a single conversation back in 2005 is woefully inadequate.

‘So what of the events of that night? The prosecution would have you believe that a loving husband and father killed his wife in a sustained and brutal attack and then set about constructing a complicated false trail to divert suspicion. This implausible scenario is not backed up by significant evidence. Just consider this.’ Her voice is clear and full of serious intent, her back ramrod straight as she addresses the jury. ‘There were no fingerprints on the poker to connect Mr Tennyson with the weapon used. Much has been made of missing clothes, of missing shoes, but the absence of evidence is not evidence. The forensic expert himself admitted that there was no way of proving where the deposits in the ash tray from the stove originated. And proof is crucial.’ She smacks her fist on to her upturned palm.

‘Without proof, there has to be doubt. Reasonable doubt. We, the defence, do not have to account for the gaps in the prosecution case; that is their job. Ours is to assess and test the evidence.

‘What remains? The skin under the deceased’s nails? Jack Tennyson has explained how Mrs Tennyson stumbled earlier in the day, caught at his arm for balance and grazed his skin. A simple and honest explanation. The bloody fingerprints on the wall by the stairs and the bathroom door were made as Mr Tennyson raced upstairs to check the house for intruders and rescue his little girl. The blood in the shower may well have come from Mrs Tennyson herself, or even from her killer, who would have had almost two and a half hours in the house if they arrived shortly after Mr Tennyson left. Again, we the defence have no responsibility to answer those questions, but we can say that there are any number of explanations for finding blood in the shower, and the prosecution have failed resoundingly to prove a link between Mr Tennyson and that evidence. The footprint? Thousands of pairs of those shoes were sold last year in the Manchester area. It was the most popular style of the season. The prosecution have failed to prove beyond all reasonable doubt that the shoe that made that print belonged to or was worn by Mr Tennyson.’

I think of the receipt, how important it seemed. Wouldn’t common sense tell the jury that the footprint was from your trainers, that you’d burnt them?

‘From the moment that Mr Tennyson found his beloved wife, he has co-operated with the police and he has never wavered one iota from the account he gave at the outset. His statements have been consistent, time and again. Because he is telling the truth.’ She presses her lips together, the line of garish orange forming a rueful smile.

‘In the depth of his grief, and following the trauma of his wife’s murder, Mr Tennyson, finding himself under the insidious cloud of suspicion, has conducted himself with unimaginable dignity. He did not murder Lizzie Tennyson. He did not attack Lizzie Tennyson. He loved her, he needs to grieve for her.’ Her voice seems to fill the chamber, clear and precise. ‘If you have the slightest, slenderest doubt about the evidence against him, then you will see him acquitted without stain upon his character, free to provide a loving home for his child. When you are deliberating, ask yourselves this: where is the proof? Hard, incontrovertible proof. Where? Not in the cheap theatrics of Mr Cromer’s exercise with dummies. Not in the absence of blood, or the absence of clothes, or the absence of fingerprints or the absence of a pair of ill-fitting running shoes. Not in the absence of motive. I’d add another absence here -the absence of guilt.

‘Mr Tennyson loved his wife. He went to the gym on that fateful night, bought milk after Mrs Tennyson texted him to ask him to bring some home, and returned to find utter devastation. Those are the hard facts, corroborated facts. Our sympathy goes to the deceased’s parents and her daughter, to her friends and colleagues for this terrible, terrible crime. But it goes to Mr Tennyson too.’ She speaks quietly now, drawing everyone in. ‘He has lost his wife, his life partner, the mother of his child. Mr Tennyson did not commit this crime. Please study the evidence closely and it will tell you that he is an innocent man, wrongly accused, who is at your mercy. Thank you.’

The judge tells the jury that they have heard all the evidence and their task is to decide whether, taking it all into account, they judge you guilty or not guilty. ‘If you conclude that Mr Tennyson was innocent of the offence as charged, you must return a not guilty verdict. If you agree that there is a suspicion of guilt but the evidence leads you to agree that you have a reasonable doubt about the guilt, then you must acquit the defendant; that is, you must find him not guilty. If you come to the conclusion that Mr Tennyson is responsible for the crime as charged, based on the evidence you have heard, then you will return a verdict of guilty. And you must try and reach a unanimous verdict. It is beholden on me to define the law of the offence charged. The defendant is charged with murder; in British law, that is an offence under common law in which one person kills another with intent to unlawfully cause death or serious harm.’

As he summarizes the evidence, I look at the jury, the men and women who hold your fate in their hands. Has your performance won them over? They have never met Lizzie, but every day here they’ve been witness to your quiet and steadfast presence, perhaps swayed by your handsome features. Don’t we all at some base level expect the beautiful to be morally superior to the unattractive or downright ugly? Wouldn’t they all, like I did, welcome you into their family? Bright, charming, talented. Would we be here if your proposal had not been in public? If she’d had more space to consider that proposal? If she’d not been pregnant? If you’d had the lucky break you wanted? A thousand ifs and all their bastard children.

The judge rises and my stomach falls. The jury leave the room.

I am paralysed. Pinned in place until the verdict is through.

And I hope they find you guilty and set me free.

We are called back into the court the following day. The jury has deliberated for seven hours in all, interrupted by an evening break when they were sent to a hotel overnight.

I have not slept.

My stomach is so tense, I fear I will vomit. My mouth waters and I swallow repeatedly. Tony looks as terrified as me. Denise, red-eyed, has been crying.

Bea is holding my hand.

What if they find you not guilty? What then? You’ll walk out of here a free man. Will you want vengeance of your own? Want to hurt me, punish me for my avid desire to see you made culpable? It would be so easy. You could take Florence, forbid me to see her. Move away, start afresh. I could not bear that.

The judge begins to speak, asking the foreman if the jury has reached a verdict.

My heart climbs into my throat.

I stare at the woman who is answering the judge, blood rushing in my ears, and the high-pitched whine that never leaves me is accentuated in the brief pause before she gives the verdict.

I squeeze Bea’s fingers, watch the foreman’s lips. Read the single word.

Guilty.

And it is done.

Ruth