Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [35]

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?’