Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [25]

‘Do you think Lizzie was seeing someone else?’ he says.

I’m stung by the suggestion. ‘What? No. Why would you-’

‘Why would he hurt her? Why would he do that? He loved her,’ Tony says, heat in the questions.

Was that it? A crime of passion? A moment’s madness. Did Jack suspect Lizzie of adultery and lose his mind?

‘When would she have had time?’ I say. ‘If she wasn’t working, she had Florence. She wouldn’t do that. She loved him.’ There’d have been signs, surely. I’d have known, wouldn’t I? But then I never knew she was pregnant.

‘I need a smoke.’ Tony signals to the back door.

‘You started again?’ It’s a rhetorical question.

He goes out.

‘The trellis needs mending,’ he says when he comes back in.

‘It’s not top of my list,’ I say more harshly than I meant to. Then, ‘Sorry.’ Tony is a doer, a problem-solver. Constructive. He wants to fix things.

He can’t fix this.

The pillow on my bed smells alien, starchy, slightly cheesy. Of Jack. His tears, his sweat, his saliva. I’ve not the energy to change the whole bed and I don’t want to wake Florence, who is asleep in the child’s bed, Matilda in her hand. But I do go and fetch the pillow from the spare room and use that.

‘Nana. Nana.’ Florence is by the bedside, whimpering, clutching the toy kitten.

‘Did you have a bad dream?’ I say. And woke up to find it was real? ‘Want a cuddle? Come on.’ I edge over and throw the duvet back. She climbs in beside me and hunches up close. I put my arm around her and kiss the top of her head, which smells of my shampoo: apple and almond. I listen to her breathing. Little sips that grow quieter and quieter.

My arm gets numb and I ease it away, flexing my hand against the pins and needles.

The next thing I know Milky is on my chest, butting my chin with his head. Begging for food. Florence is still asleep.

My nightdress is damp but I’m not hot, not sweaty. I feel the bed. The sheet is cold and wet between us, and drawing back the duvet I can smell it, sharp, ammonia. Florence has wet the bed.

She shivers as I peel the sodden pyjamas off her and turn the shower on.

When she’s dry and dressed, I strip the bed. The mattress is wet too, and I wonder if I have any bicarb in to wipe it with. How can one small child contain so much urine? I should buy a mattress protector, something waterproof, just in case it happens again.

And what else? There is no plan. Time stretches ahead like foreign territory, completely unfamiliar, unknown. And I am lost. I don’t speak the language or know why I’m here or what I must do.

Sunday 20 September 2009

It is late afternoon, and I have been on the computer for the first time in a week and ordered a plastic mattress cover. And remade my bed. The rest of the day has trickled away. Florence is having a strop. Kicking the sofa, her face mutinous and flushed, because I have asked her to pick up some of her toys before I read her a story. I want her to stop. I’ve told her twice. Close to snapping, I go into the dining room and have a silent scream, balling my fists.

How long can she keep it up? Resentment makes me truculent. I want to leave her to it, cold and passive-aggressive, rather than act the mature adult and distract her or calmly discipline her. This is no good for her, cooped up. This artificial environment. The limbo we’re in. She doesn’t want me, she wants her mummy and daddy. I’m on my way to tell her she can help me make toast when the doorbell goes.

Is it Jack? Panic squirts through me. Briefly I consider hiding, but that seems pathetic. My mouth is dry, my legs feel weak as I open the door.

DI Ferguson and Kay. My stomach flips over as they step inside.

Nobody’s smiling. There’s a hiatus from the living room, then Florence resumes her kicking.

‘Come in here,’ I say. We go into the dining room. The sun comes in through the window and the air is full of dust motes, golden, circling.

I move a pile of old newspapers off one chair and clear coats from another, and we all sit down.

DI Ferguson speaks. ‘Ruth, I’ve come to tell you that we have been interviewing Jack under caution, and as a result of those interviews and the evidence gathered during our inquiry, we have agreed with the Crown Prosecution Service to bring charges.’

It is hard to breathe, as though I’m in a vacuum. My ears buzz and spots dance at the edge of my vision. ‘About Lizzie?’

‘Yes. Jack has been charged with Lizzie’s murder. I am so very sorry.’

I gasp, even though I believed him guilty from the moment of the arrest. My skin crawls.

‘I realize this must be a terrible shock,’ she says. ‘Is there anyone you’d like me to contact?’

Lizzie, only Lizzie.

I shake my head.

‘Jack will be taken to the magistrates’ court in the morning; that’s a formality really, to commit the case to Crown Court. We expect him to be remanded in custody until the trial.’ Her voice seems to swell and shrink.

‘In prison,’ I say, needing to be certain, to be crystal clear.

‘That’s right. It could take several months to get to court. You may be called as a witness.’

I wipe my eyes. ‘Did he say why? Why he did it?’