‘Mr Tennyson, did you ever hit your wife?’
Your face falls, naked pain in your eyes. ‘No.’ You clear your throat and repeat, ‘No. Never.’
‘Mr Tennyson, I want to take you through the events of the twelfth of September as they happened. You spent the day how?’
‘We did the shopping in the morning, the three of us, then Lizzie went to the hairdresser in the afternoon and I took Florence to Wythenshawe Park, to the farm and the playground. Lizzie made a meal and put Florence to bed. We watched some television and I went to the gym.’
‘On a Saturday night?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘It’s a good time to go, it’s not so busy,’ you say.
‘What time did you arrive?’
‘About nine o’clock. I did my circuits, had a swim and a shower and went home. I bought some milk on the way back. Lizzie had texted me.’
‘When did you get this text?’
‘I didn’t see it until I was at the gym, when I went to turn my phone off,’ you say.
‘Thank you. You returned to the house. Please tell us about that.’
‘Yes. And er…’ You frown and swallow. ‘Lizzie was there on the floor, and there was a lot of blood.’
I close my eyes, the image imprinted on my mind.
‘And I couldn’t think, I didn’t know… She wasn’t moving. I tried to wake her. I don’t think she was breathing. I didn’t know if there was someone else in the house. And Florence…’ Your voice swoops dangerously close to breaking. ‘I went upstairs. Florence was asleep. There was no one there. My hands were… I had blood on them, I didn’t want to pick her up…’ You crumble, a fist to your forehead, eyes squeezed shut. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say, ‘I’m sorry.’ It is a bravura performance. Beside me, Bea has tears in her eyes.
You sniff loudly. Soldier on. ‘I washed my hands, and then I got Florence and held her so she wouldn’t see, and I went outside.’ Your breathing control deserts you. Your sentences are jerky, full of kicks and stumbles. Your voice raw and thick. ‘I rang the police. And then I rang Ruth. I didn’t… I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t…’ You hide your eyes. Your shoulders work. Again you apologize.
‘Liar,’ I say under my breath. Heads turn. The judge looks at the gallery; he knows someone has said something. It’s not dignified, perhaps. Dignity is hard to come by any more. I don’t give a flying fuck for dignity.
I know what you have done.
Tony puts his hand on my arm. I behave. Suppress the urge to ridicule, to decry and undermine your performance. To give a slow hand-clap. To heckle. To boo from the gallery. Because I do not want to be chucked out and miss the next act. And the finale.
‘Mr Tennyson, do you need a break?’ Miss Dixon says gently.
‘No,’ you say. There are tissues by the dock. You dry your eyes. You take a sip of water.
‘When you tried to rouse the deceased, please tell the court what you did.’
‘I was calling her name and I crouched down and shook her shoulder.’
‘Which shoulder?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Her right one.’
‘She was face down?’
‘Yes,’ you say.
‘Parallel to the stove,’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes,’ you say.
‘Did you notice the poker?’
‘No,’ you say softly.
‘You didn’t touch the poker?’
‘No. I never saw it, if it was there, I don’t remember. All I remember is Lizzie and it was such a shock.’
‘Which hand did you use to touch her shoulder?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Both.’
I try and picture that. Then I remind myself that this is all claptrap. Your version to accommodate the evidence, to exonerate yourself.
‘What were you wearing?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘A jumper, sweatpants, trainers.’
‘The same items the police retained later that night?’
‘Yes,’ you say.
‘And the Adidas running shoes you bought only five weeks before, where were they?’
‘I’d given them away,’ you say.
‘Where?’
‘To the shoe recycling on the high street.’
‘Why?’
‘They hurt my toes, the fit wasn’t right but I couldn’t return them as I’d already worn them.’
‘Rather extravagant to spend ninety pounds on a pair of shoes then throw them away,’ Miss Dixon says.
‘Yes, it was a bad buy. I thought they’d give a little but they didn’t.’ I see your barrister is covering the tricky bits of your account, trying to defuse their impact before the prosecution cross-examines you.
‘Can you account for the material found in the ashes from the wood-burning stove?’
‘No. But Lizzie often used the stove to get rid of things. She thought it was better than landfill,’ you say.
The audacity of it makes me see stars. To implicate Lizzie.
‘And when the police interviewed you, what did you tell them?’
‘All that I’ve said just now.’
‘The police spoke about abrasions on your forearm and skin under the deceased’s fingernails – can you explain that?’ Miss Dixon says.
‘Yes, she tripped when we went shopping, she grabbed at me for balance.’
‘Shopping in the morning?’
‘Yes,’ you say.
‘Thank you.’ Miss Dixon takes a breath, straightens her back then says, ‘Did the police ask you about anyone who might have cause to wish your wife harm?’
‘Yes, and I told them about Broderick Litton. We thought that was over, there’d not been any incidents for over a year-’
She interrupts you with a raised hand. ‘Mr Tennyson, please explain to us who Broderick Litton was.’
‘He was stalking Lizzie,’ you say.
‘When did this start?’
‘He saw her signing at the Octagon, back in 2006, the Christmas show. He started off like a fan. But it’s a bit weird for someone to follow a sign-language interpreter like that.’
‘What form did this following take?’ Miss Dixon says.
‘He turned up at lots of her shows, he sent her flowers. Then he invited her for dinner. She declined and he began to write to her care of the theatres. Long, rambling letters.’
‘What did these letters say?’
‘How much she meant to him. How she should leave me.’
‘How long did this go on?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘About six months, then he came to the house,’ you say. ‘He’d somehow found out where she lived
‘When was this?’
‘March 2008.’
‘What happened?’
‘I wasn’t there. Lizzie answered the door, and when she saw who it was, she just shut it again. She rang me, she was very upset.’
‘And after that?’
‘More letters.’
‘Saying what?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Same as before, but making threats, too.’
‘You went to the police?’
‘Yes. They said they would speak to him. They couldn’t do anything else because he hadn’t actually committed a crime,’ you say.
‘Did the harassment continue?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘There were a couple more letters. Very angry. Disturbing.’
‘Saying what?’
‘That she’d regret reporting him, that she’d be sorry. That he’d make her pay.’
‘Did Mrs Tennyson keep the letters?’ asks Miss Dixon.
‘She gave them to the police,’ you say.
‘When was the last of these letters sent?’
‘About two years ago. In the July. Just after her birthday. We thought he’d gone,’ you say. Your eyes glitter, bright, hurt.
‘In the week before Mrs Tennyson’s death, on the Wednesday, there was an incident at the house?’
‘Yes. Lizzie saw someone prowling in the back garden.’
‘She called the police?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes. They came round. There’d been a burglary two doors down the night before. They didn’t know if it was the same person.’
‘Did Mrs Tennyson ever think it might be Broderick Litton?’ Miss Dixon says.