Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [39]

‘Yes, it is.’

‘How long would it take to reduce a pair of running shoes to ash in a stove like that?’

‘About fifteen minutes if the stove was already alight.’

The warm light it cast on Lizzie’s arm.

‘Have you any other observations that you and the senior investigating officer felt were pertinent to the investigation?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, the shower in the bathroom had been used, as well as the hand basin. We detected traces of blood in the water drops on the shower screen.’

‘Was the blood visible to the naked eye?’

‘No, it looked like water droplets,’ says Mr Noon.

You washed. You burned your shoes. Perhaps your clothes as well.

‘Can you tell us about the shoes retrieved from Mr Tennyson, the Nike trainers?’

‘We could match them to footwear impressions in the house. When they were examined, we found traces of soil and grit and sand and plant matter.’

‘But no blood?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That is correct.’

* * *

Miss Dixon takes each item in turn, twisting it from a damning piece of evidence into something neutral and inconclusive.

‘From the analysis of blood spatter, can you tell us anything about the assailant?’ Miss Dixon says. ‘Height or weight, for example?’

‘Only that they would have been average height – neither very tall nor very short,’ says Mr Noon.

‘The residue in the ash tray, were you able to say specifically where that came from?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘Can you state categorically that it was even a pair of shoes?’

‘No.’

‘Were you able to determine who had used the shower at the house?’ Miss Dixon says.

‘No.’

‘Is it possible that it was Mrs Tennyson?’

‘Yes, although her hair was dry and the shower cap in the bathroom was also dry.’

‘You detected blood traces in the shower, that’s correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you able to identify the blood?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘It was Mrs Tennyson’s,’ he says.

‘If Mrs Tennyson had a cut on her arm or a nosebleed, could that account for the presence of blood in the shower?’

‘It could,’ says Mr Noon.

Lizzie did suffer from nosebleeds. Did you tell them that? Ammunition to shoot down the prosecution case?

Miss Dixon goes on, calm, methodical, relentless. ‘The shoe print at the scene, the Adidas summer trainer. That’s a popular brand, it was a popular design?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘The top-selling style that season?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes,’ Mr Noon says.

‘Thousands of pairs sold in the north-west alone?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘You can’t be certain who wore that shoe at the scene?’

‘No,’ says Mr Noon.

‘Or who it belonged to?’

‘No.’

No. No. No. All the negatives piling up, sandbags against the tide.

By the end of the session, she has eaten away at the foundations, like woodworm boring holes through the joists. So the jury see that someone wore those trainers, wielded that poker and cleaned it, but not necessarily you. The bloody footprint, the marks on the wall, the blood in the shower: they have lost their power. They no longer damn you.

I steal a glance at you, intent on finding some gleam of arrogance, a smirk tugging at your lips or cold pride in your eyes, but you are still in character. Method acting. You’re good at that. But you have a great range. I saw your Richard III at the Everyman. Brutal. The transformation was spectacular.

Ruth

CHAPTER THREE

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

Marian and Alan are here for the trial. Your staunch supporters. We have done no more than nod to each other coolly so far. Today, the third day, Marian approaches me as we wait to go through the security scanners.

‘Hello,’ she says. Thankfully she doesn’t ask how I am – or I might just tell her. ‘We’d like to see Florence,’ she says. Colour in her face.

Tony arrives with Denise; he sends a question my way with his eyes. Everything OK?

Not so as you’d notice. I give him a jaded stare.

I want to refuse Marian and Alan, don’t want them anywhere near me, or Florence.

‘We are her grandparents too,’ Marian says when I fail to offer any response.

‘That’s right,’ Alan chips in.

‘We could take her out,’ she says.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ I say. We shuffle forward in the queue, closer to the scanner and the guards checking the bags of everyone entering or leaving the building.

‘You can’t just-’ Marian almost loses her temper.

But I cut her off. ‘Florence is still very clingy. She doesn’t like new situations; you’d be better seeing her at the house.’

She makes a little noise, ‘Pfft!’ as though she doesn’t believe me, as though I am being obstructive.

‘You can see for yourself,’ I say bluntly. The woman ahead of me puts her bag on the tray, and when the guard signals, she goes through the security gate.

‘Come round this evening,’ I suggest to Marian, ‘or tomorrow. She usually goes to bed at seven. Routine is important.’

The guard nods to me and I put my bag down.

‘Okay,’ Marian says crisply. The dislike snaps between us like static. I’m itching to throw some of the prosecution case at her. Taunt her with your missing shoes, with pristine clothes and baby wipes. But she is not the enemy, not really; you are. She just happens to be your mother, poor cow.

I pin my hopes on DI Ferguson. She must have more to tell us about the case against you.