Letters To My Daughter's Killer Read online

  Living in East Anglia, they see much less of Jack and Lizzie and Florence than Tony or I do. What will happen now? Would Jack think of leaving, go and live there, take Florence? The thought sends panic swirling through me, and I grip the table. When they’re ready to leave for the shops, I ask Marian if she will fill the prescription for me.

  I can’t cope with all the people calling at my house to comfort us. It seems heartless to turn them away, but Kay suggests she act as gatekeeper and will explain that we are grateful for their good wishes but too distressed to meet anyone.

  Cards arrive, from neighbours and colleagues and friends. It takes me ten minutes and several tours of the house to find my reading glasses. I keep losing things. As if now that I have lost Lizzie, I can’t keep hold of anything else.

  I open a batch of cards at the table.

  ‘Is it your birthday?’ Florence says, her head cocked to one side.

  ‘No. These cards are for us because of Mummy dying. People know we’re sad. They’re thinking about us.’ Her face closes down and she slips from the chair. I go after her into the lounge.

  ‘Where’s Daddy?’ she says.

  ‘Gone for a shower. It’s all right to be sad,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s sad.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she says. ‘This book.’ She pulls out a battered copy of Each Peach Pear Plum, still doing the rounds. I remember reading it to Lizzie.

  ‘Okay.’ I sit on the sofa and she clambers on to my lap.

  We say the words together, and she tilts her head from side to side as she chants, pointing with her finger at the characters hidden in the pages. Mother Hubbard, Cinderella, Robin Hood.

  And for a few minutes Florence and I escape, float down the river with Baby Bunting, tumble down the hill with Jack and Jill and climb through the branches of the great tree.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  17 Brinks Avenue

  Manchester

  M19 6FX

  DI Ferguson takes my hand in both of hers when we meet, her grasp firm. She looks me in the eyes and says, ‘I’m so sorry. We are doing everything possible to establish what happened to Lizzie and bring whoever is responsible to justice.’ She glances around. ‘Is Mr Tennyson here?’ she says to Kay.

  ‘I’ll get him. Tony, Mr Sutton, will be here any time.’

  We go in the dining room. I call it that but no one ever eats in here. I use it for overspill, for hobbies and storage. The inspector takes her jacket off and drapes it over the back of an armchair. She’s small next to Kay, close to my height though slimmer than me. A black woman, her clothes stylish, her hair pulled up away from her face in a topknot. Specs, red and white and brown patterned frames, on a chain round her neck. A touch of pinky-red lipstick.

  She has a pent-up energy to her as though she’s idling and ready to take off at speed. It’s there in the intensity of her gaze, eyes bright, and the pace of her speech. In repose there is a hint of a smile about her mouth, as though life is everything she hoped it would be. She stands and greets Jack and Tony.

  When everyone is settled, DI Ferguson says, ‘I’m the senior investigating officer, and that means I’m in charge of the inquiry into Lizzie’s murder. Kay will remain your liaison officer and she’ll pass on to you any significant information, but I want you to know that if you ever need to speak to me directly, if you’ve any concerns or questions that Kay can’t answer, please get in touch. I’ll leave my card before I go. What happened to Lizzie,’ she says, ‘is simply unforgivable.’

  I try not to weep, because I need to hear what she has to say.

  ‘No one should lose a wife, a daughter, a mother, a friend in that way. From your position you may feel as though there is little news, as if things are not moving quickly enough but I want to reassure you that we are making steady progress. The results of the post-mortem, which Kay related to you, have given us the cause of death but also flagged up a number of forensic items of interest which we are now examining. The same goes for the evidence recovered from the scene at the house. But it’s not like on television. Some of the forensic tests we need to do will take several days to be completed, sometimes weeks. They can’t be rushed. They have to be done to an exacting standard, robust enough for prosecution.’

  ‘Lizzie’s phone,’ I say, thinking of that text she sent me. ‘Did she try and call for help?’

  ‘No. Her phone was recovered from the house. There was no activity from her after the text she sent to you,’ says DI Ferguson.

  No chance to use her phone, perhaps she was oblivious to the danger. Perhaps she never knew what was coming. I think of Florence asleep as the carnage unfolded downstairs. Kay has asked her if she saw or heard anything the night Mummy was hurt but Florence simply shook her head.

  ‘Our door-to-door inquiries are continuing as well, and calls from the general public are being fed into the investigation and followed up. Officers are examining footage from CCTV cameras in the vicinity to see if the perpetrator can be identified.’

  ‘Broderick Litton?’ I say.

  ‘We’ve not found him yet,’ says DI Ferguson.

  ‘He’s out there,’ Tony says hotly, ‘and . . .’ He crumples.

  ‘I can assure you we are making every effort to find him, and as soon as we do, you will know about it.’ She turns to Jack. ‘We have traced and interviewed the man who broke into your neighbour’s property on the Tuesday night. He admits to also having entered your garden on Wednesday.’

  I hold my breath.

  ‘But we have eliminated him from our inquiries.’

  ‘How come?’ Jack says.

  ‘He has a watertight alibi for the Saturday evening.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jack says.

  ‘Yes,’ says DI Ferguson.

  Questions toll in my head again: who, why, how?

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ Tony says.

  DI Ferguson gives a nod. ‘There are two ways you might help, but I want to stress that there is no obligation on any of you to do so. Different families react very differently, and what is right for someone else may not be right for you.’

  ‘What are they?’ Jack says.

  ‘We would like your help with a fresh appeal to the general public. A quote from you about Lizzie, saying what sort of person she was, would be very helpful. We want to keep the public involved in assisting us, we want to make her as real as possible to people who have never met her. There is already a high degree of interest because of the circumstances of Lizzie’s murder, because she was an ordinary young woman, a mother, expecting to be safe in her own home.’

  Like we all do.

  ‘Also, well-wishers have been leaving flowers outside the house. If this is something you would like to do, we can arrange that, and if you are willing, we’d like to film your visit and that would form part of a new press release. Again, that’s entirely up to you.’

  ‘You want to keep it in the news?’ Tony says.

  ‘That’s right. I certainly do,’ DI Ferguson says keenly.

  ‘Yes, we’ll help,’ I say, looking to Jack, who nods his agreement.

  ‘Yes,’ says Tony.

  ‘Thank you. Kay will go over the details. Now, is there anything you want to ask me? If I can answer you, I will.’

  Marian and Alan arrange takeaways for our meal that evening. My table only seats four, but we crowd round it, joined by Tony and Denise. Jack tells his parents what we’ll be doing for the appeal, then people make gentle conversation, mainly on safe topics. We’re all too numb to exchange any more reactions about Lizzie’s death. The medication has kicked in, making me feel dopey.

  Marian and Alan go back to their hotel, Kay goes home, Tony and Denise leave and Bea arrives. We hug for a long time. Death does this: suddenly human touch, physical expressions of comfort and warmth, is instinctive. Freely given and received.

  We settle in the kitchen and Bea makes coffee. ‘God, Ruth, I don’t know what to say. It still doesn’t seem real.’

  ‘Not even to me, and I
saw her. Perhaps if I’d been able to go and identify her . . .’ A dozen blows at least. Her face.

  ‘Will they let you see her another time?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Ask them,’ she says.

  ‘She was pregnant, Bea.’

  Her lip quivers.

  I try and keep my voice steady. ‘Twins, not far on, seven weeks.’

  ‘Oh Ruth, it’s horrendous. Whoever it is, I hope he’s shot resisting arrest or something.’ She slams the cafetière down on the side and I fear the glass will crack.

  ‘No. Don’t say that.’

  ‘Why?’ She’s almost cross with me.

  ‘Because then we won’t know anything.’

  She baulks, considering this, raises her eyebrows. ‘Perhaps it’s best—’

  ‘No,’ I interrupt, ‘it isn’t.’

  I try and explain to her.

  In the night I wake and hear crying, sobbing, Jack in the other bedroom. No sound from Florence. Poor, poor man.

  I wonder whether she knew her fate. Whether she sensed it as the door swung open. She was good at reading body language; intrinsic to her work after all. But she was shy, too, reserved, so that might have been a check on her instinctive response.

  At what point did she know? Or did she die ignorant, oblivious? You must have had time to grab the poker, or did you attack her before you picked that up? Trip her over, knock her down, punch her?

  One of the hardest things is imagining the terror she must have felt if she did realize you were going to hurt her. If she understood with the innate sense of an animal that she was in jeopardy, in the deepest danger. The preservation of life is the strongest instinct; it’s why starving people will eat their young, why someone trapped will sever their own limb.

  Had she the prescience to know her life was ending? It pierces my soul to think of Lizzie riddled with that level of fear.

  When you finally answer my questions, I hope that you will tell me that she had no notion of what would befall her, that you tricked her and she turned away, and she never saw you raise the cast-iron stick. That the first blow felled her like a lamb, crushed her brain like a grape, stopped her heart, the swelling of her lungs, the blood in her veins. I hope that you will tell me that.

  But I need you to tell me the truth.

  However bleak.

  Ruth

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thursday 17 September 2009

  Kay orders the flowers. A bouquet from Jack, one from Tony and me. She brings back some stationery too, cream vellum, thick, for us to write notes.

  Florence is drawing a rainbow with felt tips, upper teeth snagging her lower lip in concentration. She presses hard on the paper, which begins to tear. When I try to slide another piece of paper underneath, she shoves it away. I feel a moment’s fierce irritation. Hold it in. After all, the kitchen table is already marked with scratches, burns and scuffs, biro marks. A bit of felt tip won’t hurt.

  I pick up a pen and stare at the paper. What can I possibly say? ‘I can’t do this,’ I mumble, tears stinging the back of my eyes. I pull my glasses off.

  ‘Ruth . . .’ Tony says.

  ‘No.’ I go outside. Words have been my life, words, books, stories, reading. Okay, maybe not the whole of my life, but a great part of it, and now they fail me. They are inadequate, pale, flimsy, weak.

  Tony comes out after a few minutes. ‘We can just keep it simple,’ he says. ‘Say we love her, always.’ His voice wavers and he pinches his nose.

  ‘It’s not enough.’

  ‘A poem then, a quotation.’

  I smile, a rush of affection. I used to send him poems when we first started going out. Sonnets and verses I thought he’d like. Shakespeare, Donne, Plath, Dickinson.

  ‘I’ll have a look.’

  He had come to the library looking for reference books about architecture, wanting to become more knowledgeable for his salvage work. I had just started there, librarian assistant on a job creation scheme. A way to get off the dole for six months. After a degree in English and history and a year’s teacher training, I decided that teaching was not for me. At least not classroom teaching. But I loved the library work, helping people with all sorts of quests for knowledge.

  When Tony asked for advice, whether there were any more books he could get hold of, I suggested he try Central Library with its extensive reference section. I showed him how to find books in the catalogue and, if they weren’t in our Ladybarn branch, how to request an inter-library loan.

  He kept coming back. Shelley, one of the other staff, nudged me one day: ‘Romeo’s in again.’ I wondered who she meant. Then she nodded to him. ‘Put him out of his misery, Ruth, ask him out.’

  ‘You don’t think . . .’ I blushed.

  ‘I do. Don’t you like him?’

  It took me a moment to answer. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then. Invite him to the Valentine’s Verse Night.’ We were having an event with local poets and musicians.

  My face was still aflame as Tony came up to the counter.

  ‘This one’s overdue,’ he said. ‘My uncle borrowed it.’

  ‘First time, I’ll let you off.’

  He smiled. When he smiled, his green eyes shone.

  Tony isn’t traditionally handsome; he certainly hasn’t got the leading-man looks that Jack has. He’s well built, broad-shouldered, with huge hands and feet. A bit like a prop forward. His nose is sharp, his cheeks round. He had curly blond hair back then but I found him attractive. And he had charisma.

  There was also the appeal of his attention; he was really interested in me, in my opinions. We had long discussions, arguing about politics and feminism and social issues; he teased me about my middle-class background and I teased him back about his Manchester scally posturing. He was easily as bright as I was, which was what really mattered.

  I fell in love with him.

  I didn’t ever stop, though I’ve learnt to hide it. I still don’t know, don’t really know, what Denise gives him that I didn’t. Why he prefers her. Objective as I can be, I don’t get it. I never have.

  We are all tense; the atmosphere in the house before we leave to lay the flowers is brittle.

  The rain has stopped, but it’s cold and damp and the feel of winter is in the air. Jack looks wiped out, purple shadows under his eyes. On the way in the car he starts shivering, and I reach out and touch him. The look he gives me is so sad, so wretched, I almost ask if we can call the whole thing off.

  Jack has white flowers, roses, gypsophila, lilies and carnations. The carnations smell strong, sweet and spicy in the car. Melissa and Mags have been to the allotment and gathered some wild flowers – cornflower, little daisies, cow parsley and sweet peas –included in the florist’s arrangement of yellow roses and blue iris that I carry.

  Florence is with us; she has brought a new picture, a drawing of Milky, though if you weren’t primed you’d be hard put to tell it was an animal at all, let alone a cat.

  We have our instructions. Jack and Florence will go first, walk down the pavement and leave the bouquet and picture. Then Tony and I will join them; we will go together in a show of solidarity to reinforce that Lizzie was from a loving home. It smacks of hypocrisy to me. This focus on how wholesome Lizzie was. The deserving and the undeserving dead.

  ‘There’s a story,’ Jack said when Kay talked us through the sequence and Tony asked about Denise being involved too. ‘You keep the story simple.’ Denise wants to pay her respects, so Tony has agreed to visit with her after we have all been. She is a complicating factor.

  I’m taken aback to see so many reporters and film crews crowded at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  Jack places his flowers down beside all the other bunches there. Florence puts her picture next to it. Then we are told it’s our turn. It is hard to concentrate; my mind keeps jumping back to that night, to Jack and Florence at this spot, the front door ajar. To my Lizzie, so still on the floor.

  Getting my glasses out, I make an effo
rt to read the cards that have been left, but time and again my mind slides away. Florence raises her arms and Jack picks her up. She lays her head on his shoulder.

  Across the road the waiting journalists do their stuff, a buzz of activity and attention, a continual rippling, click and chime of cameras. Cigarette smoke on the air.

  ‘Can we get Bert now?’ Florence says.

  ‘No,’ Jack says, ‘not yet.’

  The house is still off limits.

  There is a giddy sensation inside me. I feel close to the edge, as if I might suddenly do something grossly inappropriate, fart or vomit or burst out laughing. I clench my teeth until my head aches.

  We walk back to the car, a sad little procession, then Florence kicks off, wrenching round in Jack’s arms, pointing back to the house and crying.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks her. ‘What do you want?’

  She is screaming and it’s hard to make out the words.

  Jack glances at me to see if I have any idea what’s going on. I shake my head.

  ‘We have to go to Nana’s,’ Jack tells her. ‘We can’t go home yet.’

  ‘I know!’ she bawls.

  ‘Show me,’ Jack says, and lowers her to the ground. Florence runs back and we follow. She snatches up her picture. The crying softens to small sobs.

  ‘You want to bring it?’ I say.

  She nods her head.

  ‘That’s fine. You keep it.’ Then I do laugh, half laugh, half cry. My throat painful.

  We leave again.

  We look peculiar on the television, Tony and I. If I didn’t know us, had to guess what we did, who we were, I’d say he was a stevedore. Hah! Not much call for stevedores in Manchester in the twenty-first century. A forklift truck driver then, or a brickie. His weathered complexion, solid build, those peasant’s hands. And me? I don’t know. With white hair to my shoulders, the specs and the middle-aged spread, I look older than I feel, older than I really am.

  One or two of the reports give more details about Lizzie and Jack. Jack has done some television, guest parts on Casualty and The Bill, as well as his theatre roles. But he’s not a household name. There would be even more attention if he was.