Cath Staincliffe - Letters To My Daughter's Killer

Surely this if nothing else will convince the jury. Your flesh under her nails. I think of her hands, flashing shapes, telling stories, conveying ideas. And now, after her death, she is still signing to us, communicating the truth. Guilty.

‘I put it to you that it didn’t,’ says Mr Cromer. ‘There is a much simpler explanation, Mr Tennyson. As you began to beat your wife, she reached out to try and stop you. That’s how you got scratched. That’s how your skin got trapped under her nails.’

‘No,’ you say, ‘no.’ You swallow.

It is all so clear to me. Do they see it, the jury, do they see it like I do? You hit her arm, her head, her shoulder, her face, her head, her head, and she is forced to her knees, you hit her head, her head. She falls on to her front. You keep hitting, blood on your face, your clothes, everywhere. You move round, step in it with your right foot.

She is dead.

Exhausted, elated, panic-stricken, you see the mark your shoe has made. Take the shoes off, stick them in the stove. Grab a baby wipe, clean the poker. Strip off and pile your clothes together. Run upstairs, shower, dress. Get in character, rehearse your lines, your moves. The role of your life.

Ruth

17 Brinks Avenue

Manchester

M19 6FX

Florence hasn’t eaten when I get to April’s house. ‘She didn’t want anything. We tried pasta and she wouldn’t have that. I offered her some chicken and rice but she said no.’

At home she whines that she’s hungry, so I make beans on toast, cut the toast into triangles and place them around the edge of her plate, pour the beans into the middle. She throws a tantrum, bursting out with a cry so vivid I think for a moment she must have hurt herself. She wails that the bean juice is touching the toast. This sacrilege means she will not eat the toast at all, so I sling it in the compost bin.

Sobbing, she slides the beans around the plate until they’re cold.

My blood chills at the thought of you leaving her in the house while you went to create your alibi. You were a good father. I thought you were. What if she had woken and gone to find her mum? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

There are no more witnesses, just the closing speeches to come. Mr Cromer begins. ‘On September the twelfth 2009, Lizzie Tennyson was bludgeoned to death in her living room. A shocking crime. The man in the dock, Jack Tennyson, is charged with that crime. He made strenuous attempts to conceal his actions but he made mistakes, and his account of the events of that night collapses under scrutiny. What does the evidence tell us?

‘That Jack Tennyson had a history of violence towards his wife. A well-kept secret but known to Rebecca Thornton, Lizzie Tennyson’s closest friend. In common with the majority of women who are victims of domestic abuse, Mrs Tennyson was unwilling or unable to ask for help, or to disclose her suffering, to reveal what was really going on in her marriage. We cannot know how frequent the abuse was, but on that night, Jack Tennyson attacked his wife again. Lizzie Tennyson tried to protect herself, reaching out, grabbing her husband’s forearm, leaving scratches there and retaining some of his skin cells under her nails.

‘The blows kept coming, more than twelve of them, breaking her arm, her eye socket, her shoulder, crushing her skull and ending her life. Lizzie Tennyson fell on her front alongside the stove in the living room. She suffered massive loss of blood, as you have heard from the crime-scene reports. What did Jack Tennyson do then? Repentant, did he call for help? Realizing with horror that he had destroyed the woman he loved, did he admit his guilt?’ Mr Cromer pauses for effect. Looks over his glasses at the jury. ‘No, he set about saving his own skin. He needed to destroy the running shoes he was wearing, one of which had left a bloody footprint close to the victim’s body. He removed his running shoes and put them in the wood-burner. He fetched baby wipes from the kitchen to remove his fingerprints from the poker. He needed to get rid of the clothes he was wearing, which were all spattered with blood. He went upstairs, leaving a fingerprint on the wall and another on the bathroom door. He showered, leaving traces of blood in the stall. He dressed in clean clothes and a pair of Nike trainers.’

Mr Cromer lowers his voice, and there’s a horrible intimacy as he lays out his case. ‘Jack Tennyson needed to create an alibi. He used the victim’s phone to text a message to himself and another one to his mother-in-law in an attempt to make it appear as though the victim was still alive, and to imply that he had left the house. He then made his way to the gym, disposing of his bloody clothes somewhere on the way. He spent an hour and a half at the gym before leaving for home and stopping for milk at the convenience store. He then played out the charade of discovering his wife and alerting the police.’

Mr Cromer takes off his glasses and bows his head for a moment, I don’t know if this is a calculated gesture or not, but it gives the impression that the weight of the case is bearing down on him. He clears his throat. ‘Jack Tennyson’s claim to innocence is a bare-faced lie. My learned colleague has described the defendant as a good father, a good husband, but remember, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, he is also a good actor. Trained and skilled in maintaining a false persona, able to bring all those skills to sustain a corrupt version of the events of that night. The only evidence points to Jack Tennyson. There is no unknown suspect, no other DNA on the victim’s body. In a brutal attack like that, the assailant would have left material at the scene: hair, fingerprints, saliva. Lizzie Tennyson’s murderer did: he left a bloody footprint, he left two fingerprints, he left traces of blood in the shower, he left skin under the victim’s nails. Lizzie Tennyson’s family – her daughter, her parents and friends – deserve justice. It is in your power to give them that. Put this liar, this coward, this killer behind bars where he belongs. Take into account all the evidence and find him guilty. Give them justice.’

Miss Dixon begins her summing-up with a reminder to the jury about the legal requirements of the trial. ‘In his opening remarks his Honourable Justice described to you that the burden of proof is the responsibility of the prosecution. That phrase “burden of proof” is wisely chosen, because burden it is. The prosecution must convince you, the members of the jury, that Jack Tennyson is guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. And I put it to you that my learned colleague has failed miserably to make such a case. He has presented you with a hotchpotch of so-called evidence, most of which cannot withstand serious examination. Please bear with me while I review the supposed evidence against my client and demonstrate to you the legion doubts it raises.’ She stops, turns away from the jury for a moment as if marshalling her thoughts, then goes on. ‘Let us begin with Mr Tennyson himself and his character as testified to by witnesses at this trial. Time and again we have heard him described as honourable, likeable, responsible and, most importantly of all, a loving husband and father. A man who cared for his small daughter and supported his wife in her chosen career. Even the witnesses for the prosecution, the deceased’s mother Ruth Sutton and the deceased’s closest friend Rebecca Thornton, were happy to see her marry Jack Tennyson. They have referred to him, and I quote, as “a lovely man” and “a good dad”.

‘Asked about his relationship with Lizzie Tennyson, we have heard that Jack Tennyson loved her, he adored her, he thought the world of her. The prosecution suggests that Mr Tennyson was violent towards his wife, but I would say to you that they have failed to offer robust proof of that contention. The only evidence they have given you is uncorroborated hearsay from one person. No one else, ever…’ she pauses for effect and raises a finger, ‘ever,’ she repeats, looking directly at the jury, ‘heard so much as a whisper about domestic violence from the deceased or any other source. Mrs Tennyson never spoke to her GP about this, she never sought help, she never mentioned it to another friend or family. She never sought medical treatment, she never had unexplained absences from work. The issue of domestic violence is a mirage. Did Mrs Tennyson tell Miss Thornton she’d been assaulted, or did Miss Thornton misunderstand? We will never know, but please remember that Miss Thornton saw no injuries, and when she feared that Mrs Tennyson might be at risk again, Mrs Tennyson clearly denied that she was. Why? Because it was not happening.’ She emphasizes each word. ‘Domestic violence was not, and never had been, an issue in this marriage. And I suggest that the thin and uncorroborated evidence of a single conversation back in 2005 is woefully inadequate.