Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [44]

‘No, it’s not,’ Rebecca says.

‘She barely bothered to keep in touch; you lived and worked two hundred miles away. You told us that Mrs Tennyson was busy, too busy to maintain her friendship, it appears to me. You’re not married?’ Miss Dixon says after a pause.

‘No.’

‘You don’t have children?’

‘No.’

‘I put it to you that Mrs Tennyson had found all she needed in her marriage, in her child and her career. Is that not the case?’

‘No… I don’t know,’ Rebecca says, muddy with misery.

‘On the occasion you refer to last summer, you didn’t see any physical signs of abuse, no bruises, no marks or burns?’

‘No.’

‘At any point since 2005 have you seen any concrete evidence of physical harm?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘No.’

‘You assert that Mrs Tennyson spoke to you about domestic violence in 2005. When was it mentioned again?’

Rebecca falters. ‘What?’

‘When?’

‘Never. She didn’t.’

‘All those months, years, and no repetition. So we might conclude that she didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything to say. Because Jack Tennyson was treating her well. Do you agree?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says in a small voice.

She’s good, your barrister. Do your hopes rise each time she pulls a stunt like that? Taking something potentially damning and removing the sting from it. Reasonable doubt, that’s her brief. If she produces enough of it, you will be freed.

‘And the time you refer to, last summer, your interpretation was that Mrs Tennyson was in pain?’

‘She was,’ says Rebecca.

‘But there could be other explanations for that, could there not?’

‘Maybe.’

‘If Florence had caught a nerve as she clambered on to her mother’s lap, or even simpler, if Mrs Tennyson had a gastric complaint as she had told you, that could have been the reason, couldn’t it?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘Yet you chose to see Mrs Tennyson as a victim of marital violence as a result of your prejudice towards Mr Tennyson.’

‘No,’ Rebecca protests.

‘Is it not true that instead of believing your friend, your best friend for many years, you leapt to far-fetched conclusions?’

‘I thought-’

‘You were disappointed that she hadn’t joined you on your night out, and when she told you all was well, you thought she was lying? Is that the case?’

‘I don’t know,’ Rebecca says.

‘Did it occur to you that perhaps Mrs Tennyson did not want to see you, was happier spending time with her husband?’

‘No.’ Rebecca’s face is quivering; she is close to tears.

‘It’s possible that Mrs Tennyson thought the friendship had run its course. Time to move on. But you couldn’t accept that, so you turned up uninvited, and rather than accept her word, you invented a fantasy.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘True?’ Miss Dixon spits the word like it is toxic. ‘Is it true that Mrs Tennyson said she had a stomach bug?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Is it true that you turned up unannounced?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it true that when you asked her afterwards by text if all was well, she said it was?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think your friend was a liar? A dishonest person?’

‘No… yes… you’re twisting it all up,’ Rebecca says, colour flooding her face and neck.

There’s an awkward pause, then Miss Dixon says, ‘I realize that answering questions can be difficult at times, but a man’s future, his liberty and reputation hang in the balance here and I must ensure that the jury are in full possession of the facts. I am not twisting anything, but trying to disentangle fact from fiction, sound evidence from hearsay and speculation.’

The judge stirs and says, ‘A question, please, Miss Dixon.’

‘Your honour.’ She inclines, a little bow, then turns to Rebecca. ‘Would you say Mrs Tennyson was an honest person?’

‘Yes.’ Rebecca is stony-faced now; her eyes barely glance off the barrister.

‘You trusted what she told you?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says.

‘And in the summer, she told you everything was fine, that’s what you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘When you called unannounced to visit her, how was Mr Tennyson?’

‘Charming.’

This charming man.

‘He invited you in?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘He appeared quite happy for you to talk with Mrs Tennyson?’

‘Yes.’

‘Made you welcome?’

What can she say but ‘Yes.’

‘You thought Mrs Tennyson had been assaulted, but the only basis for that was a conversation you’d had four years earlier when she made unsubstantiated allegations about Mr Tennyson. Is it fair to say you were making an assumption this time?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says coldly, her jaw rigid.

‘You might have been mistaken, might you?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘Your assumption could have been wrong, couldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca says dully. She has given up.

‘You never raised your concerns with anyone, did you?’

‘No.’

‘No,’ Miss Dixon echoes, ‘Did the deceased ever tell you she had reason to fear her husband, to fear for her life?’

‘No,’ says Rebecca.

‘On the contrary, Mrs Tennyson strenuously denied all your suggestions that she had been subjected to any violence. Isn’t that true?’

Rebecca glares at the lawyer but answers, ‘Yes.’ It’s like watching someone being eviscerated. Miss Dixon is a hyena, tearing the heart and lungs, liver and lights from Rebecca’s testimony.

‘Did she ever tell you she loved Jack Tennyson?’