Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [26]

‘No. He is denying any involvement.’

‘Honestly?’ I’d expected him to see the game was up and confess. They always look at the husband. He’d said that, and I’d hurried to reassure him.

Yes, they always look at the husband.

For good reason.

‘He will have to enter a formal plea,’ DI Ferguson says, ‘but for now he’s telling us he is not guilty.’

‘But you can prove he did it?’ I say, my mouth dry.

‘Yes. In order to charge someone, we have to consider the evidence and decide whether we have a better chance of winning rather than losing. We’re confident we have.’

‘We could still lose?’ I say. I look from DI Ferguson, the intense gleam in her eyes, to Kay’s calm gaze, searching for doubt.

‘We can never be certain what the outcome of a trial will be, how a jury will vote on the evidence, but we have a very strong case.’

I think of Jack confined in a small cell, damp staining the stone walls, a metal door and bedstead, a soiled blanket.

And I wish him dead.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

It wasn’t me. Not guilty.

Three years you kept that up. That monstrous lie. Three years without the grace, the humanity, the balls to take responsibility.

In childbirth, the afterpains are often as strong as those in labour. I had them when I had Lizzie, forcing me to stop whatever I was doing and breathe through the contraction until it passed. Earthquakes have aftershocks following the original devastation, continuing to tear at anything left standing, to paralyse rescue missions, to terrorize survivors.

After the trauma of Lizzie’s murder, your arrest, the understanding that she died at your hand is just like that, an aftershock. And because I am already weakened by the loss, your calumny, your crime feels equally grievous.

I cannot believe she’s gone.

I cannot believe you took her.

I know these facts are true, but they are as hard to grasp as the beams of sunshine streaming into my dining room.

There’s a bitter taste of triumph, sour at the back of my mouth. Any inclination to punch the air or cheer or clap with relief is suffocated by the awful, senseless waste of it all.

You have ruined your own life as well as Lizzie’s. God only knows what you’ve done to Florence. Hear her? Still whining and kicking the furniture.

You fool, you bloody stupid fool. I wish Lizzie had never met you. I wish you’d never been born. But then I wouldn’t have Florence. I’m not in any position to bargain. To trade my granddaughter for my daughter. For what you’ve done cannot be undone. This isn’t a dress rehearsal, no press preview. The curtain has come down, the audience are long gone. The place is tacky, tawdry in the cold glare of the house lights. You are locked up. I would rain misery and terror on your head.

I want my daughter back.

Ruth

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

Your parents won’t believe it. Marian calls my mobile. She’s left messages on the landline but I have not responded. It’s as if I’m over the limit in terms of the emotional burden I can withstand and the prospect of a conversation with her is just too much. But I see her name and answer.

‘We’ve heard about Jack,’ she says without any preliminaries. ‘It’s outrageous.’

The choice of words gives me pause. I’m still wondering what exactly is outrageous when she continues, ‘They’re obviously determined to blame it on someone rather than do their job properly and catch the real culprit. That monster Litton is still out there, he must be having a great laugh at our expense.’

‘You think Jack’s innocent?’ I say. This is what’s outrageous. I feel a wave of heat in my face and anger blossoming in my belly.

‘Of course!’ she explodes. ‘Ruth, he would never do something like this, not in a million years. How can you even think… He’s innocent. I know my son. It’s a terrible mistake. I don’t know what they’re playing at, but they’ve got the wrong man.’ She stops, and I don’t say anything.

When she speaks again, she is quieter, more measured, though I can hear high emotion trembling at the fringes of her words. ‘Ruth, honestly, Jack did not hurt Lizzie. He adored her. He needs us to believe in him, to stand by him until the truth comes out.’

‘No,’ I say flatly.

‘Ruth-’

‘No. You can do what you like.’

‘You can’t just condemn him outright. He’s-’

‘It won’t be up to me, will it?’ I say.

‘Until we know the truth…’

I think of Tony’s reaction after your arrest, his reluctance to believe your guilt: Have you taken leave of your senses? How I argued that I’d seen first-hand your impulse to run away, that surge of animal energy when you were cornered. How the hard facts meant you were far more likely to be responsible than an elusive stalker or some unidentified stranger.

Perhaps Marian has to believe in you, because she is your mother. I try to twist it round, imagine Lizzie accused of violence, of murder, but fail. I have not had a son; would that would be different, bring a different perspective? So easy to blame the women, isn’t it? Blame Marian for some fault in your upbringing, some problem relating to women. Or blame Lizzie for an affair, like Tony suggested, or some provocation.