Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [43]

‘Did you speak to her about it while you were there?’ Mr Cromer says.

‘I couldn’t, Jack was there.’

‘And afterwards did you speak to her about it?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I tried, I sent her messages but she wouldn’t admit there was anything wrong.’

‘Did you alert anyone else at all?’

‘No. I’d promised Lizzie I wouldn’t the first time.’ Rebecca grimaces. ‘I wish I had, then she might have been all right.’

There is a flurry of objection from Miss Dixon. Rebecca is not meant to speculate like that.

The judge tells the jury to ignore the final remark.

Rebecca is crying and apologizes.

‘Just a few more questions,’ Mr Cromer says gently, and Rebecca nods and takes several deep breaths and wipes at her face with a large black and white polka dot handkerchief. Pure Rebecca. She nods her head, sharply, as if she’s eager to continue.

‘Why do you think Mrs Tennyson didn’t admit you were right on the second occasion?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why would she never tell anyone else?’

‘Because she was ashamed, she didn’t want people to know it was happening. “I couldn’t bear it”, that’s what she said. “I just couldn’t bear it.” ’

‘When Mrs Tennyson disclosed to you that Mr Tennyson was physically violent, were you surprised?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says.

‘Why was that?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I didn’t think he was that type of person. I thought he was a good man and he’d treat her well.’

‘Did Mrs Tennyson say anything about what had prompted the violence?’

‘She said Jack had lost his temper. He was stressed because he’d not got any parts and even the auditions were drying up. She had tried to cheer him up but he took it the wrong way.’

‘How did she try to cheer him up?’

‘She said something would turn up and he’d have to live with being a kept man for a while.’

‘Did Mrs Tennyson say how things had been between them after the attack?’

‘Jack was in tears, he was so sorry; he begged her to forgive him.’

Your face is still, a sad look in your eyes. Dignified, someone else might say, stoic. Duplicitous, if you ask me.

We take apart the morning’s evidence as we pick over our lunch, Tony and Denise, Bea and me. We keep revisiting the fact that you were a wife-beater, that we never knew. Still so hard to believe. The café is on one of the side streets near the law courts. There’s a preponderance of legal types, dark-suited, well groomed, lugging heavy briefcases or bags and laptops about. Other people, like the four of us, are aliens to this world, swept up in it all.

Miss Dixon smiles her orange smile and begins her cross-examination. ‘On the occasion in 2005 when the deceased told you about Mr Tennyson beating her, did you see any physical evidence of that?’

Rebecca doesn’t answer immediately, then says, ‘No.’

‘No bruises or grazes, burns, anything of that nature?’

‘No.’

‘Did Mrs Tennyson say where Mr Tennyson had hit her, what parts of the body?’

‘No.’

‘Did she say how many times he had hit her?’ Miss Dixon says.

A dozen blows at least.

‘No,’ Rebecca says.

‘Did she say how long the alleged attack had lasted?’

‘No.’

‘So the deceased gave you absolutely no details whatsoever about the attack? Nothing at all?’

‘No,’ Rebecca says; she is trembling.

‘Mrs Tennyson was pregnant then; how was she finding the pregnancy?’

‘She was excited about it.’

‘Anything else?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘She found it hard to sleep. I think she had bad heartburn. And she was a bit moody.’

‘Moody how?’

‘Just up and down with the hormones,’ Rebecca says.

‘So although she was excited, there were times when she felt unhappy, dissatisfied?’

‘Not really.’ Rebecca tries to correct the impression. ‘More weepy, I think. I don’t know,’ she adds.

‘You don’t know,’ the barrister echoes, and it’s a horrible undermining of Rebecca. ‘Miss Thornton, you were her maid of honour, her oldest friend… Were you pleased to see Lizzie Sutton and Jack Tennyson get married?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve already told the court you were surprised at her allegation of physical maltreatment. Did it occur to you that Mrs Tennyson might have been making it up?’

‘No. Why would she?’ Rebecca is alarmed.

‘To gain sympathy?’

‘She wouldn’t need to do that. We were friends.’

‘When did you last see Mrs Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon briskly.

‘Early July last year.’

‘And before that?’

‘In April.’

‘Three months earlier. So would it be fair to say you weren’t in frequent contact any more?’

‘I live in London,’ Rebecca says.

‘Please answer the question.’

‘We texted, we spoke on the phone in between.’

‘The deceased’s phone records show that she contacted you a total of four times in that period,’ says Miss Dixon.

‘She was busy.’

‘Too busy for her best friend?’

Rebecca looks wounded. I am reminded of her mother’s cutting criticism and want to shield her from all this, but I am impotent.

‘Did Mrs Tennyson tell you about her recent pregnancy?’

‘No, she didn’t,’ says Rebecca.

‘No, she didn’t.’ Miss Dixon lets the words resound with disapproval. ‘She didn’t confide in you about that. Isn’t it fair to say that your friendship had dwindled? That you had drifted apart, that you were no longer best friends.’