Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [27]

Perhaps Marian dares not allow that it might be you because of the cost to her. Parents will do anything for their children, after all. Destroy evidence, invent alibis, lie under oath. Only this year there’s been the Rhys Jones case. A schoolboy shot as he played out on his bike. The killer’s mother lied to the police and was charged with perverting the course of justice.

‘Jack has never been in trouble in his life,’ Marian says. ‘You’re so wrong. I simply don’t understand how you can choose to believe for one moment-’

‘Marian, it’s not something I’ve chosen. It’s a gut feeling. As soon as they arrested him, I knew. He tried to run away.’

‘That’s just ridiculous.’ Now she’s arsey, aggressive, telling me off. ‘You’re just going to abandon him?’

Any restraint snaps. ‘He killed my daughter! Too bloody right I’m abandoning him. I hope he rots in jail.’ I hang up.

‘Nana,’ Florence calls out from the living room. I close my eyes for a moment, then go through to her.

She’s lying on the floor, hands by her sides, eyes half open; she shuts them tight when I come in.

‘Where’s Florence?’ I say, pretending I can’t see her. She loves hide-and-seek. Though she usually picks slightly better hiding places.

‘I’m here,’ she says. ‘Look!’

‘What are you doing down there?’

‘I being dead.’

Fuck! My stomach plummets. I stamp down the urge to haul her up, to tell her to stop it. A flurry of uncertainty: should I ask her more, give her a chance to talk, or explain again what dead is, what’s happened to Lizzie? See if she really understands? But I’m not ready, too wound up.

‘Are you now? That’s sad. So you won’t want any fish fingers then?’

Her eyes fly open. ‘Yes!’ she says.

‘How many? Three?’

‘Two. No, three.’ She gets up and rubs her nose on her sleeve.

I will have to tell her about you, as well. She must be confused. The scene in the kitchen, her brave attempt to protect you, to keep you. My lie about you working. I need help. No doubt there is advice online from bereavement charities about explaining death to a four-year-old. But I doubt there’s much about explaining that the police think Daddy did it. That Daddy killed Mummy.

She adores you.

And I will destroy that.

Ruth

CHAPTER NINETEEN

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

Rebecca is here. When I open the door, she starts talking, saying if it’s a bad time she can come back later, then she dissolves into tears.

I bring her in.

Rebecca is Lizzie’s soul sister. They met at primary school. Rebecca has three sisters; she’s the youngest. Their dad left when Rebecca was a baby. Her mum was unhappy and took it out on the children, Rebecca particularly. Looking after four children on your own is no picnic. I felt sorry for her, Samantha, but she rebuffed any moves I made to be friendly. She worked as a secretary at a private school in Sale. On several occasions when we were collecting the kids from the after-school club I heard her belittling Rebecca. I didn’t have the courage to intervene directly, but when Rebecca stayed over at ours or came to play, I made a point of praising her, because she was a lovely girl.

I loved to hear the pair of them, Lizzie and Rebecca, in fits of giggles. There was never a cross word.

It wasn’t so much what Samantha said – ‘Oh come on, Rebecca, are you blind or just stupid?’ or ‘You can damn well do without or buy a new one with your pocket money, I’m sick of you’ – as the very harsh tone she used that made me so uncomfortable. And it must have hurt Rebecca.

Every time Samantha came to our house, I offered her a cup of tea or coffee. She always said no. I don’t think she liked me. Perhaps she sensed that I disapproved of the way she spoke to her daughter. Perhaps she hated it herself. I could relate -when Lizzie was small and bawling her head off, I felt so cross with her, unfairly, but the emotion was there all the same. Felt almost cold in my frustration. So if I’d had four kids and a job and no partner maybe I’d be mean now and again.

Lizzie hardly ever slept over at Rebecca’s. She told me in later years that Samantha used to shout at Rebecca, on and on until she made her cry, which really upset Lizzie.

Rebecca will feel Lizzie’s loss so keenly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she keeps saying, and I tell her it’s all right and I’m glad she’s here. When she’s calmer, we sit in the living room, still awash with Florence’s toys.

‘The police…’ I clear my throat. ‘They’ve charged Jack with Lizzie’s murder.’

Rebecca nods. She has glossy brown hair, cut in a bob, and striking clothes: a black and white geometric tunic, tweedy tights, Converse trainers, chunky jewellery. On anyone else it would look bizarre. Rebecca carries it off. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick.

‘He hit her?’ Rebecca says.

Does she need to hear the details? Like I did? The grotesque litany of injuries. The back of Lizzie’s skull was crushed with multiple fractures, the right orbital socket around the eye was fractured, as well as the nose and the right ulna… A dozen blows at least.

I nod. ‘They think he used the poker.’ My voice catches.