Tony uses it for work but switches it off when he is at home. Or he used to. It seems to take forever to find my phone and his details. While it rings, it occurs to me that the Tennysons, Jack’s parents, need to know too. I mention it to Kay. ‘Should I wait?’ Have I even got their number?
‘Jack will probably want to tell them himself,’ Kay says.
‘Of course.’
She knows the etiquette, not just of death but of this particular situation: sudden, violent death.
Tony’s cell phone goes to voicemail and I hang up. Bury my head in my hands.
‘Try again in a while,’ Kay says. ‘Or we can send someone round there if you-’
‘No.’ It seems cowardly to do that. I should be the one to tell him, not some stranger.
The man who comes to take my statement seems far too young to be dealing with this sort of thing. But he’s not at all nervous or inept. He takes me slowly through the sequence of events: Jack’s call, the car journey, going into the house, being restrained.
Then he asks more questions about the house. Were the lights on or off, did I put any lights on? Was there any sound, TV or radio? What was the temperature like?
I laugh at this; it seems preposterous that in the face of such a huge shock, my sense of hot and cold would be functioning and that I might still remember.
‘No idea,’ I say.
I picture Lizzie, the contrast of her hair and the dark stains. Recall light flickering over her hand, her left hand. That would have been from the fire, their log-burning stove. ‘The fire was lit,’ I say.
Then the questions become more general, he confirms Lizzie’s date of birth and age. He wants to know about her life, her work, her marriage, her routines. When I last saw her. What we spoke about. And finally if I can think of anyone who might have wanted to cause her harm. I tell him all I can about Broderick Litton, urge him to check the police files. Surely they will know more than me.
He writes it all up and reads it back to me. Four pages in all. And I sign in the proper place.
When I call Tony again, Denise answers.
‘It’s Ruth, I need to talk to Tony.’
There’s a wait while she fetches him or takes him the phone, and then his voice, thick with sleep. I say his name and then I freeze. I swallow. Force breath into my lungs. ‘Tony, I’ve got some really, really bad news. Oh Tony. It’s Lizzie. I’m so sorry. Lizzie, she’s dead.’
He makes a noise, a sort of howl, strangulated.
I can’t tell him the rest, not on the phone. ‘Can you come?’
