‘No. She could see the man, then he ducked round the corner; she didn’t get a good look at his face, but he wasn’t anything like as tall as Broderick Litton.’
‘Mr Tennyson, you are on oath here today, you understand that?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And you swear to the court that you are innocent of the charges laid against you?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes. I miss Lizzie every minute of every day. I want to clear my name.’ Tears run untrammelled down your face. ‘So that I can go home and look after my little girl, and the police can find out who did this terrible, terrible thing.’
‘With your permission, your honour, I would like Mr Tennyson to demonstrate for the jury, using a model, how he tried to rouse his wife.’
Miss Dixon jumps up. ‘Objection, your honour, theatrics have no place here.’
‘This relates to the evidence?’ the judge asks Mr Cromer.
‘Yes, your honour, directly to the forensic evidence.’
‘Objection denied.’
A dummy is brought in. Faceless, like Lizzie was by the time you’d finished with her. There’s chatter while one of the ushers places it on the floor. Others lay white tape, following a diagram that Mr Cromer gives them. He explains to the jury, ‘The tape represents the furniture in the room: the sofa here and the television stand, at right angles with a gap between them. These are placed exactly as they were found that night, as is the model representing the victim.’
I wonder where they got the dummy from. Is there a factory somewhere that churns them out for this sort of thing? Are they used in hospitals or research labs? Smooth, sexless, the limbs pliable, the left arm, the arm that was closest to the stove stretched out, the right arm, the broken arm, bent in place.
Mr Cromer asks you to stand beyond the tape towards where the front door would be. ‘Now, Mr Tennyson, please show us how you approached and touched the body of your wife.’
You come between the taped outline of the sofa and the TV. Does this remind you of rehearsals, when you are blocking a play? Did you know you’d have to act this out?
You take two steps to reach Lizzie and crouch down, not kneeling. Then you reach out both your hands. It looks bizarre. One hand – the left, the nearest – would make more sense.
‘Was that how close you came?’ asks Mr Cromer.
‘I think so,’ you say.
‘Mr Tennyson, could you do it again, but this time remain as far away as you possibly can while still touching the right shoulder?’
You nod and retrace your steps. This time when you crouch you can only just reach; the tips of your fingers graze the smooth plastic of the dummy. Someone less agile would lose their balance. Mr Cromer asks an usher to make marks where your feet are. The usher uses chalk and draws lines by your toes and heels. You are asked to return to the witness stand.
Then Mr Cromer produces a large mat of translucent plastic, thick, flexible – like a giant mouse mat with curvy edges. There’s an oval marked on one edge of it, and the usher raises the dummy and adjusts the mat beneath it so that the oval matches the outline of the head. The rest of it forms a puddle shape around the head and upper body.
‘This represents the pool of blood at the murder scene,’ Mr Cromer says. ‘Members of the jury please note that the marks at the front of Mr Tennyson’s shoes are several inches in from the edge of the pool. If Mr Tennyson had crouched there as he just demonstrated, both of his shoes would have been covered in blood. The shoes he gave the police did not have any traces of blood on them. Mr Tennyson, have you any explanation as to how this can be?’
‘I must have been standing further away and then have leant right over,’ you say. I can hear a frisson of anxiety in your tone.
‘If you had been any further away, you would not have been able to reach, would you?’ Mr Cromer says. ‘I think that is obvious to everyone. Why did you use both hands?’ The question is swift, and despite Mr Cromer’s Devonian accent, it sounds sharp.
‘It was instinctive.’
‘I’d suggest to you that it would have been more straightforward to use one hand, the left, but you needed a way of explaining the bloody fingerprints from your right hand on the stairs and the bathroom door. So you cooked up this two-handed gesture. Isn’t that the case?’
‘No, I used both hands,’ you say.
‘And washed them upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘In the sink?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t have a shower?’ Mr Cromer says.
‘No.’
‘Then how did traces of diluted blood get in the shower cubicle?’
‘Lizzie must have had a shower while I was out,’ you say.
‘Yet the shower cap was bone dry? And having been to the salon that day, she would not need to wash her hair again, would she?’
Her bright, bright hair.
‘No.’
‘I ask you again, Mr Tennyson, did you take a shower that night?’ Mr Cromer paces slowly around the floor of the courtroom, like a large animal circling its prey, pausing to ask each question.
‘No.’
‘So how did that blood get there?’ says Mr Cromer.
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know. Did you beat your wife?’
‘No,’ you say.
‘Did you beat her that night?’
‘No,’ you say.
‘Ever?’
‘No.’
‘But Mrs Tennyson told her friend Rebecca that you had. How do you explain that?’ says Mr Cromer.
‘I can’t.’
‘Do you think she was lying to this court?’
‘No, but it wasn’t true,’ you say.
‘Why would Rebecca lie?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or do you think your wife lied when she told her friend that?’
‘I don’t know,’ you say.
‘Mrs Tennyson was pregnant the first time she spoke about you beating her. She was pregnant again last September. Did you row about that? An argument that became violent?’
‘There was no argument.’
‘You weren’t angry? Scarcely managing on one wage and the prospect of more children, her working life disrupted and all the extra costs,’ says Mr Cromer.
‘I didn’t know she was pregnant,’ you say.
‘The pathologist estimated that your wife was seven weeks pregnant; can you think of any reason why she would not have told you?’
‘No, I don’t know, perhaps she hadn’t realized it herself.’ There is no anger in your responses, which is a good way to play it. No doubt your counsel has told you to always remain polite and calm lest we glimpse your dark side.
‘You claim that you left the house at eight thirty?’
‘I did.’
‘And you arrived at the gym at nine?’ says Mr Cromer.
‘Yes.’
‘When did you get the text from your wife?’
‘Just as I got to the gym, when I went to turn my phone off.’
‘It arrived then, or had you already received it and only just noticed it?’
‘It was already there,’ you say.
‘We have been told it was sent at eight-forty. Ten minutes after you claim you left home. How long does it take you to walk to the gym?’
‘About half an hour,’ you say.
‘You don’t drive there?’
‘Not that distance, no.’
‘You are certain you left at half past eight?’
‘Yes,’ you say.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Casualty had been on for about fifteen minutes. Lizzie liked to watch it,’ you say.
Did she? I struggle to remember.
You say, ‘I was thinking about watching it till the end but decided to go to the gym instead.’
‘Why did you go to the gym then?’
‘It’s a good time to go. Quiet,’ you say.
‘How would you know?’ says Mr Cromer, scowling, his head cocked to one side.
‘Sorry?’
‘How would you know it’s quieter at that time?’ he says slowly, and I sense something significant coming. Mr Cromer -his girth, the drawl of his accent, his steady, stately movements – might appear a little simple, but he is clever and quick-witted.