Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [21]

Ruth

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

I wake early. The storm is buffeting the house, heavy rain lashes against the window. Milky, unsettled, starts to wash himself, then freezes, cowering. He won’t even come on to my lap for a stroke.

Pain in my chest again. Perhaps I need to go back to the GP. I’m fearful that it’s something serious. No, ‘serious’ is the wrong word. Something physical, mechanical, a blockage or a clot, a leak or a tear. That my heart is broken, not just that I am heartbroken.

Florence and Jack come down together. She has woken him. Before, she used to be happy entertaining herself for a while, able to understand that Mummy and Daddy didn’t want to get up before seven, but now Jack says that as soon as she’s awake she rouses him.

Jack makes her cereal and goes to have a shower.

I consider whether to broach returning to school with her but decide it’s best to let Jack take the lead on that. The line between supporting and interfering is very hard to see in the circumstances. But she’s his daughter and he is the sole parent now, and I trust him to judge how best to handle things with her.

There’s a crashing sound from outside and Florence flinches. I feel myself wince in sympathy.

Peering out of the window, I can see that the planter I fixed up has come away from the wall. And the trellis further down is loose, moving with each fresh blast.

‘It’s just one of Nana’s pots,’ I tell her. ‘You want to see?’

Non-committal, she sits for a few seconds longer then comes over, and I lift her up and show her. ‘See, all the soil’s spilt.’

‘And the flowers,’ she says.

‘They were old anyway. Past their best.’ Verbena and lobelia from the summer.

‘You’re old.’

My mind does gymnastics trying to work out what hers is thinking. That I might just collapse too? If my world feels unsteady, how much more fragile must Florence’s be?

‘Not really,’ I say. ‘I’m not past my best. Fit as a fiddle, me. Fit as a flea.’

A ghost of a smile.

Jack makes some toast and I put the kettle on again.

Kay arrives, commenting about the weather and the disruption. There’s been an accident on the M60 with a lorry gone over. Trees have blocked roads and some of the rail networks have been closed where the overhead lines are down.

Almost immediately her phone goes and she leaves us to take the call in the living room.

I’m mixing a banana milkshake for Florence, whizzing the fruit with milk and a spoonful of honey, when there is a knocking at the front door, just audible above the liquidizer.

Florence has her hands pointedly over her ears.

‘Let Kay get it,’ I say to Jack when he moves to go.

We hear voices, male, more than one. Not Tony, I can tell his voice anywhere.

I pour the frothy yellow drink into a plastic cup.

‘Can I have a straw?’ Florence says.

‘The bits might clog it up,’ I say, ‘but you can try.’

The visitors come into the kitchen with Kay. Police officers. Jackets wet with raindrops.

‘Mr Jack Tennyson,’ one of them says.

‘Yes,’ Jack says, looking to see what they want.

They both hold up their ID cards. And the one who spoke, plump, fair-haired, introduces them. PC Curtis and PC Simmons.

They must have news! Have they found you? I lean against the worktop to steady myself, intent on whatever is coming next. I’m waiting, eager, poised, holding my breath. The men move further into the room past Florence to Jack at the end of the table. Then PC Curtis speaks again. ‘Jack Tennyson, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Lizzie Tennyson, on the twelfth of September 2009…’

Shock jolts through me, stealing my breath.

Jack jumps to his feet, his face white with shock, shouting, ‘No!’

Florence flies to reach him, knocking her drink over as she drops from her chair.

‘… you do not have to say anything…’ Jack lunges along the side of the table, knocking over a chair. PC Simmons charges after him, blocks him in. Jack wrestles, still trying to get away. But Simmons has a set of handcuffs and he grabs for Jack’s arms.

PC Curtis keeps talking as he moves after Jack, ‘… but anything you do say may be given in evidence and…’

Jack is struggling, shouting, ‘This is crazy! I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything.’ Lunging to try and break free. He kicks out with his legs, knocking a chair over, wrenches away but Simmons holds him fast.

Florence is screaming, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ She darts under the table to her father.

My heart hammers in my chest and I feel the pain needle through it, sharp as a knife.

‘… may harm your defence when used in court.’

They have Jack’s hands behind his back. His face has gone rigid, his eyes blazing.

Florence is screaming and hitting at PC Simmons, trying to reach her father. She squeezes past him and grabs Jack’s leg.

Kay calls out, ‘PC Simmons, please!’

‘Let her say goodbye.’ My voice cuts through the mayhem. I stare at PC Simmons, the one who has cuffed him. ‘Look at her, she’s four years old. Let her say goodbye.’

‘Do it,’ says Kay.

His eyes flicker at me. Jack is still shaking his head, his face flooded with colour now.

I move round until I’m by Florence and lift her up so she’s level with Jack. She throws her skinny arms around his neck, still sobbing, ‘Daddy. Daddy.’