Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [42]

‘That is correct, but-’

She doesn’t get the chance to finish, as Miss Dixon interrupts her. ‘And you have been unable to trace and eliminate Broderick Litton?’

‘We did not believe he was a credible-’

‘Please answer the question,’ Miss Dixon says.

‘We did not trace him but we did eliminate him as a key candidate for this crime.’

‘You did not trace him?’

‘No,’ says DI Ferguson, a hint of impatience in her tone.

‘You were unable to question him about events on September the twelfth?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you have no alibi for Broderick Litton – a man who had hounded Mrs Tennyson and threatened her life?’

‘No, but as I-’

‘No further questions,’ Miss Dixon says pointedly. She has managed to focus our attention away from you, from all the evidence against you, to a scapegoat, a ghost of a man, a shadowy monster.

Florence bursts into tears when I pick her up.

‘She’s been fine until now, honestly,’ April tells me.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask. Florence won’t talk, only cries, a raw sound that needles under my skin and jangles my nerves. ‘Come on, let’s get you home,’ I say. I have to half drag her to the car, still bawling. Ben looks fed up with her. Me too, pal.

She quietens with the motion of the car, like a baby might. That’s what it feels like sometimes, having an infant in the body of a four-year-old.

Once we get in, I tell her Granny and Gramps are coming to see her.

She goes very still.

‘That’ll be nice,’ I try and encourage her.

Your trial leaves me drained physically as well as emotionally. So each evening I feel I have been through a fresh trauma, a daily car crash. Today I’m so knackered I don’t bother with anything to eat except some crackers. Florence gets fish fingers again. She eats half of one and all the ketchup. What she’s left I polish off. Perhaps April fed her? I didn’t even ask.

Marian and Alan arrive with presents. Florence hides behind me at the door and keeps up the shy act until I pull her out by the arm. ‘Come on, see what Granny’s brought you.’

Florence kicks my shin, a good whack, which really hurts. I curse under my breath.

She is cranky and remains so for the whole hour they’re there. She doesn’t interact much at all, and it’s with me when she does, which I can see is difficult for them. Marian and Alan and I have ridiculous, fragmented conversations about the traffic in Manchester and the extension to the tram network and the menu in their hotel.

As they leave, Marian tries to kiss Florence goodbye, but Florence squirms away and does her hiding-behind-me trick again.

Marian shakes her head, pulls a face at me, irritated. She thinks what? That I’ve coached the child? Bad-mouthed them? ‘It’s not you,’ I say, making an effort to be diplomatic. ‘She’s like this with practically everyone.’

‘Just a phase, then?’ Marian says.

‘Let’s hope so,’ I tell her.

Does it affect their view of you at all, of what you’ve done, this demonstration of the ever-growing cost? Or are they both still blinkered and gullible, driven by misplaced loyalty?

Ruth

CHAPTER FOUR

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

Rebecca has modified her clothing; she wears a grey slubby skirt and jacket, black pumps and tights with a cream blouse. She is nervous; even when she affirms to tell the truth, her voice stutters and stalls like a dying engine.

Mr Cromer establishes how long she and Lizzie knew each other, then says, ‘Miss Thornton, how would you describe your friendship?’

‘We were close, best friends actually.’

‘You were Lizzie Tennyson’s maid of honour at their wedding?’

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Did you confide in each other?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she happy in the marriage?’

Rebecca hesitates. ‘At the beginning, yes.’

‘And after?’

‘Sometimes she wasn’t happy,’ Rebecca says.

‘Do you know why?’

‘Because Jack hit her.’

The words zip round the room, and half a beat later there’s a swell of sound as people react. The jury members seem to lean closer, focusing greater attention on Rebecca.

And you? You swing your head, look hurt, as if this is a blow, an outrageous slander, you’d have us believe.

‘Please tell us how you heard of this,’ Mr Cromer says.

Rebecca relates the story of catching Lizzie in a lie, how Lizzie yelped when Rebecca touched her arm and admitted she was hurt, that she had to avoid swimming as she knew she’d have to explain the bruises.

‘What was your response?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘I told her to get help. See if they could have some counselling or something. So it wouldn’t happen again. I offered to let her stay with me if she wanted to leave.’

‘Did Mrs Tennyson seek help?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Not that I know of,’ Rebecca says.

‘Were you aware of any further incidents of domestic violence?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘Last summer,’ she says.

‘Four years since the first time?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please tell us about it,’ Mr Cromer says.

‘Lizzie cancelled a get-together at the last minute, saying she’d got a stomach bug. It had been planned for ages and so the following day I called round. Jack was there and Florence. Florence climbed up on her and she yelped, she almost passed out. Jack distracted Florence. Lizzie tried to explain it away but she was in tears, in pain. She never moved from the settee all the time I was there.’