Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [48]

‘You regularly went out together, sometimes to the football?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes.’

‘City or United?’

People laugh: the club rivalry a fundamental part of the territory in Manchester.

‘United,’ Andy says, and gets murmurs of approval as well as groans from the opposing faction.

‘Did you ever see Mr Tennyson act violently?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Never.’

‘Perhaps when he’d had too much to drink?’

‘He could hold his drink, he wasn’t an idiot,’ says Andy.

‘You never saw him in a fight?’

‘Only breaking one up,’ Andy says.

‘Tell us about that.’

‘It was after a night out in town. We were waiting for a cab. There was a group coming out of the club close to the taxi rank and suddenly one of them’s on the floor and the others are kicking at him. Jack waded in, pulling people away, shouting that he’d called the police. That scared them off.’

‘Did he tell you why he intervened?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes. I said he was daft, they could have turned on him, and he said he couldn’t stand by and see someone get beaten up.’

‘And what did you think when you heard that Mr Tennyson had been charged with murder?’

‘That there’d been a mistake, there must have been. Jack wouldn’t do something like that in a million years.’

Mr Cromer doesn’t have any questions for him. That worries me.

The third witness is the receptionist from the gym, a young woman with red hair and a cockney twang.

‘You knew Mr Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘Yes, he’s a regular, I knew him and his wife too,’ the receptionist says.

‘How did he seem that Saturday evening?’

‘Same as usual.’

‘He wasn’t preoccupied or anxious?’

‘No.’

‘Thank you.’ Miss Dixon walks back to her seat.

As Mr Cromer gets up, he spends a moment adjusting his glasses, then says, ‘How long would it take a member to sign in?’

‘Not long,’ the receptionist says.

‘Seconds?’

‘Yes.’

‘So your impression of Mr Tennyson would have been fleeting?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I suppose so,’ she says.

‘Did Mr Tennyson stop and chat?’

‘No?’

‘Did you speak to him?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Was he breathless?’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘So he may have been?’ says Mr Cromer.

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘Is it fair to say you recall very little about him from that night?’

She stalls; she knew her script before – nothing unusual -but she’s unsure how to respond to the more detailed questions.

‘Yes,’ she says finally.

‘He may well have been out of breath, nervous or on edge, but you may not have realized in that second or two. Is that so?’

‘Yes.’ She rolls her eyes slightly, as if she’s irritated at how her turn on the stand has gone.

I imagine you there, signing in; what were you thinking? Was your heart beating too fast? Can you control things like that with your training? Can you redirect the natural impulses – to sweat, to tremble, to jitter – and settle them, control them? Just how good an actor are you?

The judge ends the day early. You will be the next witness, and he says that rather than interrupt your testimony, we will adjourn for the day.

Ruth

CHAPTER SEVEN

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

The court feels more crowded on the day of your testimony. The atmosphere keener, edgy.

You wear the same suit, tie and fresh white shirt. Cleanshaven and well groomed, you look so ordinary. No hint of the presumed deprivations of being in prison. But not buoyant; there’s a weight to the way you conduct yourself. It is probably grief, but I don’t permit myself to dwell on that, to accord you that. Too bitter. And I think that if your grief were as real as mine, as savage as mine, you would not be playing charades.

Your initial replies are basic, your voice softer than I remember, but clearly articulated. You describe meeting Lizzie: ‘There was a spark, straight away. I asked her out.’

‘You were single at the time?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘No.’ The smallest smile. But you are frank. ‘I was with someone else but it wasn’t going anywhere. I ended that and moved in with Lizzie.’

‘And how would you describe your marriage?’

You start to answer, then stop, compress your lips, raise your eyes to the ceiling, obviously fighting for composure. I can feel sympathy for you, in the breath of people around me, in the glances from the jury.

My heart is hard.

‘Very happy, wonderfully happy,’ you say.

‘Is it true that you were under pressure, with a lack of work and subsequently a reduced income?’

‘Yes, that’s true. But being with Lizzie, having Florence, made it bearable. And we did manage.’

‘Mrs Tennyson was working full time?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘That’s right.’

‘You didn’t resent the fact that she was the breadwinner?’

‘No. Lizzie understood my work, she worked in theatre too. We knew it could be feast or famine. And I was happy to be the house-husband.’

‘Did you know your wife was pregnant?’ says Miss Dixon.

‘No,’ you say quietly.

‘Had you discussed having more children?’

‘Yes. It was something we both wanted,’ you say.

‘Even on one income?’

‘There’s never a perfect time,’ you say. It’s a good answer, but you evade the question.

‘Mr Tennyson, you have heard Miss Thornton describe an incident in 2005 when your wife alleged that you had been physically violent. What do you say to that? Is there any truth to it?’