Cath Staincliffe - Letters To My Daughter's Killer

‘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.

‘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?’