Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [40]

She looks fresh and full of zest as she swears on the Bible. She describes her role much as she did when she met us.

‘You supervised a series of interviews with Mr Tennyson after the murder?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s correct.’

‘Can you please tell the court what Mr Tennyson’s version of events was on the night in question?’

‘Mr Tennyson said he and his wife had been at home, Mrs Tennyson was watching television and Mr Tennyson went to the gym. On his return, he discovered his wife on the floor in the living room. He tried to rouse her, and when that failed, he called the police, then his mother-in-law, Mrs Sutton.’

‘What time did you receive the 999 call?’

‘Ten fifty p.m.,’ says DI Ferguson.

‘Had you reason to question his account?’

‘Yes. The forensic evidence did not consistently support Mr Tennyson’s story.’

I like the word ‘story’; it implies a fiction, something you made up to hoodwink us all.

‘Please elaborate,’ Mr Cromer says.

‘Mr Tennyson stated that he tried to rouse his wife. Specifically that he approached her from the doorway, bending over to see if she was breathing. And that he shook her shoulder, her right shoulder, calling her name.’ Her ruined face, draped in blood-thick hair. ‘Had that been the case, we would expect to find traces of blood on Mr Tennyson’s clothing, and certainly on his footwear, as the blood on the floor formed a pool around the deceased’s head and upper body.’

‘No such traces were found?’

‘None.’

You cleaned up too well, that’s what she’s saying. In an effort to obliterate all signs of your crime, you compromised yourself. You have put your foot in it by not putting your foot in it. Priceless!

‘We began to wonder if Mr Tennyson had been present at the time of the murder and had subsequently changed his clothes and footwear and concealed them. A number of items of evidence supported this scenario. The skin under Mrs Tennyson’s fingernails was matched to Mr Tennyson,’ says DI Ferguson.

A murmur ripples round the room, and I feel light-headed for a moment.

‘Mr Tennyson had grazes on his forearm,’ she goes on. ‘His fingerprints in blood on the wall by the stairs and on the bathroom door showed us that Mr Tennyson had blood on his hands but not on anything he claimed to be wearing at the scene.’

‘To be clear, did he have any blood on his hands when the police examined him later that night?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘No, he said he had washed his hands in the basin in the bathroom. We considered the presence of the victim’s blood in the water droplets on the shower screen, and in addition the material from the ashes of the wood-burner, which gave us a potential explanation for the absence of the Adidas running shoes that had left an impression at the left-hand side of Mrs Tennyson’s body.’

‘Those shoes were never found, that’s the case?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s right. However, we did find proof of purchase of a pair of those running shoes on Mr Tennyson’s credit card statement from July 2009. Bought on the twenty-ninth of the month.’

My breath catches. I hear someone else gasp. Bea grabs my hand and squeezes. She has you! She has you buying the trainers. How will you wriggle out of that?

‘Five weeks before the murder?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘That’s correct.’

‘Did you ask Mr Tennyson about this?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘The question was put to him and he said that the trainers had been an impulse buy, they had been uncomfortable, so after a couple of weeks he had taken them for recycling to the bin outside the shoe shop on Stockport Road.’

The case of the disappearing evidence. Where are we now, in some Christie novel?

DI Ferguson continues. ‘We weren’t able to verify this. The contents of the bag are collected every week.’

‘Did anyone see Mr Tennyson on the evening of the twelfth of September?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes, the receptionist at the gym, the clerk in the convenience store where he bought milk, and a neighbour who lives at the other end of the cul-de-sac,’ DI Ferguson says.

‘Did Mr Tennyson provide you with an account of the route he had taken to the gym?’

‘Yes.’

‘Members of the jury,’ Mr Cromer says, ‘you will find that mapped out for you.’ It is also displayed for us on the screen.

‘How long did he say it took him?’

‘Mr Tennyson says it takes about half an hour to walk there?’

‘What time did he claim to have left the house?’

‘At half past eight,’ says DI Ferguson.

‘Would he pass any CCTV cameras?’

‘Only here, by the bank.’ She pointed to the place. ‘But if he was on the far side of the street he wouldn’t have been picked up by the cameras.’

Why was she saying that, giving you an excuse? I’ve a moment’s anger, then I think perhaps she’s doing it to reinforce her honesty, to show she’s not trying to manipulate information, that all her cards are on the table. Leaving your side fewer points to score. DI Ferguson has nothing to hide, nothing to fear.

‘Two text messages were sent from Mrs Tennyson’s phone that evening, that is correct?’

‘It is,’ says DI Ferguson. ‘One at eight thirty-eight p.m. to Jack Tennyson and one at eight thirty-nine p.m. to Ruth Sutton.’