Letters To My Daughter's Killer - [55]

‘From the moment that Mr Tennyson found his beloved wife, he has co-operated with the police and he has never wavered one iota from the account he gave at the outset. His statements have been consistent, time and again. Because he is telling the truth.’ She presses her lips together, the line of garish orange forming a rueful smile.

‘In the depth of his grief, and following the trauma of his wife’s murder, Mr Tennyson, finding himself under the insidious cloud of suspicion, has conducted himself with unimaginable dignity. He did not murder Lizzie Tennyson. He did not attack Lizzie Tennyson. He loved her, he needs to grieve for her.’ Her voice seems to fill the chamber, clear and precise. ‘If you have the slightest, slenderest doubt about the evidence against him, then you will see him acquitted without stain upon his character, free to provide a loving home for his child. When you are deliberating, ask yourselves this: where is the proof? Hard, incontrovertible proof. Where? Not in the cheap theatrics of Mr Cromer’s exercise with dummies. Not in the absence of blood, or the absence of clothes, or the absence of fingerprints or the absence of a pair of ill-fitting running shoes. Not in the absence of motive. I’d add another absence here -the absence of guilt.

‘Mr Tennyson loved his wife. He went to the gym on that fateful night, bought milk after Mrs Tennyson texted him to ask him to bring some home, and returned to find utter devastation. Those are the hard facts, corroborated facts. Our sympathy goes to the deceased’s parents and her daughter, to her friends and colleagues for this terrible, terrible crime. But it goes to Mr Tennyson too.’ She speaks quietly now, drawing everyone in. ‘He has lost his wife, his life partner, the mother of his child. Mr Tennyson did not commit this crime. Please study the evidence closely and it will tell you that he is an innocent man, wrongly accused, who is at your mercy. Thank you.’

The judge tells the jury that they have heard all the evidence and their task is to decide whether, taking it all into account, they judge you guilty or not guilty. ‘If you conclude that Mr Tennyson was innocent of the offence as charged, you must return a not guilty verdict. If you agree that there is a suspicion of guilt but the evidence leads you to agree that you have a reasonable doubt about the guilt, then you must acquit the defendant; that is, you must find him not guilty. If you come to the conclusion that Mr Tennyson is responsible for the crime as charged, based on the evidence you have heard, then you will return a verdict of guilty. And you must try and reach a unanimous verdict. It is beholden on me to define the law of the offence charged. The defendant is charged with murder; in British law, that is an offence under common law in which one person kills another with intent to unlawfully cause death or serious harm.’

As he summarizes the evidence, I look at the jury, the men and women who hold your fate in their hands. Has your performance won them over? They have never met Lizzie, but every day here they’ve been witness to your quiet and steadfast presence, perhaps swayed by your handsome features. Don’t we all at some base level expect the beautiful to be morally superior to the unattractive or downright ugly? Wouldn’t they all, like I did, welcome you into their family? Bright, charming, talented. Would we be here if your proposal had not been in public? If she’d had more space to consider that proposal? If she’d not been pregnant? If you’d had the lucky break you wanted? A thousand ifs and all their bastard children.

The judge rises and my stomach falls. The jury leave the room.

I am paralysed. Pinned in place until the verdict is through.

And I hope they find you guilty and set me free.

We are called back into the court the following day. The jury has deliberated for seven hours in all, interrupted by an evening break when they were sent to a hotel overnight.

I have not slept.

My stomach is so tense, I fear I will vomit. My mouth waters and I swallow repeatedly. Tony looks as terrified as me. Denise, red-eyed, has been crying.

Bea is holding my hand.

What if they find you not guilty? What then? You’ll walk out of here a free man. Will you want vengeance of your own? Want to hurt me, punish me for my avid desire to see you made culpable? It would be so easy. You could take Florence, forbid me to see her. Move away, start afresh. I could not bear that.

The judge begins to speak, asking the foreman if the jury has reached a verdict.

My heart climbs into my throat.

I stare at the woman who is answering the judge, blood rushing in my ears, and the high-pitched whine that never leaves me is accentuated in the brief pause before she gives the verdict.

I squeeze Bea’s fingers, watch the foreman’s lips. Read the single word.

Guilty.

And it is done.

Ruth

Part Three

CHAPTER ONE

Tuesday 20 July 2010

Except it’s not that simple, is it? I thought that with the resolution of Jack’s guilt, with the sentence – the judge said he’d serve a minimum of seventeen years – would come a sense of relief, if not exactly closure. Or a feeling of release from the strain of going through the trial in the wake of Lizzie’s death. Back then I had regarded his conviction as a goal, a destination on the horizon. Thinking that once I reached that point I would begin to find my feet again. Feel solid ground beneath me: not rock yet, perhaps, but sand or shingle, marsh.