Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [36]

‘No,’ I say. I was delighted. You both seemed so happy.

‘Did the deceased ever complain to you about Mr Tennyson?’

The deceased. I hate her for that. ‘No.’

‘Is it fair to say they were happy?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know-’

She is on me like a snake. ‘Please only answer the questions put to you. How would you have described their marriage?’

‘Happy.’

‘A happy marriage. Did you ever witness any rows or arguments?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Did your daughter ever tell you about any rows or arguments?’

‘No.’

‘Were you shocked when Mr Tennyson was arrested?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Why were you shocked?

‘I don’t know. I just was.’

‘Mrs Sutton, you have just described to us what sounds like an ideal marriage. The happy young couple, a close family, then Mr Tennyson is arrested for murder. Would it be fair to say you were shocked because it was Mr Tennyson, your son-in-law, who was arrested?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Had you suspected Mr Tennyson of any involvement in his wife’s murder before that?’ she says.

‘No.’

‘Had you any reason to believe he would hurt your daughter?’

‘No.’

‘Was the Mr Tennyson you knew a violent person?’ Miss Dixon says.

I hesitate. ‘No.’

‘Had you ever seen him lose his temper?’

‘No.’ Each answer is bitter on my tongue. I imagine inventing anecdotes: Yes, once I saw him yelling at Lizzie, they didn’t know I was watching, he raised his hand and she flinched but he hit her anyway.

‘Can you explain why, when you knew him to be a good man, who loved your daughter, in an apparently happy marriage, when you had harboured no suspicion about him, you so suddenly, so fundamentally, changed your mind on his arrest?’

‘Because he tried to run away, he acted guilty.’

Her mouth twitches and she says quickly, ‘If he had not been arrested you would have continued to view him as a good man, a loyal husband, a close family member?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I say reluctantly.

‘Did you see much of your daughter?’

‘A fair amount. I’d look after Florence sometimes.’

‘How often would that be?’ she says.

‘Once a fortnight, maybe. It varied.’

‘Would you say you were close, you and your daughter?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Did she ever confide in you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you give us any examples?’

I’m blank for a moment, still worried by the last few questions. The ringing in my ears making it harder to concentrate. ‘She’d tell me if she was having any problems at work,’ I say, ‘if someone was difficult to work with. Or if Florence had been ill, things like that.’

‘Did she ever speak to you about Mr Tennyson?’

‘Yes, about his work, auditions he had been to, that sort of thing.’

‘And about his behaviour?’ Miss Dixon says.

‘No,’ I say.

‘And Florence, how would you describe her relationship with her father?’

‘Very good.’

‘Mr Tennyson was Florence’s main carer in recent months?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Had you any concerns about his care for his daughter?’

‘No.’

‘When Mr Tennyson was arrested, could you think of any reason why this loving father and husband might be suspected of killing his wife?’

‘No, only that the police must know something I didn’t.’

‘It was out of character?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was hard to believe?’

‘Yes.’ With every answer she is using me to airbrush you, create a sheen of good old-fashioned wholesomeness. The gloss of a family man. She has trapped me into giving you a glowing reference. It makes me feel dirty, shabby, as though I have failed Lizzie, fallen short. I want to stay on the stand despite my jangled nerves and put it right, tell it like it is. What she has drawn from me is not the truth, nothing like the whole truth, but a partial truth cropped to fit the shape you need.

In the break, I find Tony and Denise. She is spitting mad too; we are an unlikely alliance. Tony just looks sickened.

I’m preoccupied as we go back in and take seats in the public gallery, going over my answers again and wondering if I could have done it any differently so as to undermine your cause.

Ruth

CHAPTER TWO

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

The next witness is one of the police officers who came to the house. The one who spoke to me and asked me to take Florence home and surrender my clothes. He describes what he found in the house and what you said when he spoke to you. The same tale you told me.

Mr Cromer asks him to describe you. ‘Mr Tennyson was wearing sweatpants, a lightweight sports top and black trainers. His clothing appeared to be clean.’

Then the pathologist is introduced. I feel the pulse jumping at the side of my neck, my stomach clenching as I steel myself for what’s to come.

The man speaks quickly, in a monotonous style. He could be reciting the phone directory. No difference in the stress he puts on the words: ‘I arrived at eleven thirty p.m.’ is given the same flat delivery as ‘The trauma to the skull was so severe the cranial sack had been ruptured and brain matter displaced.’ Is it deliberate, so the drama of what he is telling us is stripped away?

The jury are given diagrams, an outline of the body, back and front, with the injuries noted. No photographs of Lizzie, though. A small mercy.

Mr Cromer takes us through the post-mortem findings. Some we have heard before, but there are many fresh items as well. And with each of these I feel a sting of shock and a shiver of anger that we have not been told. That we hear them in this place as though we have no more right than anyone else.