Letters To My Daughter's Killer by Cath Staincliffe Page A

if it’s a bad time she can come back later, then she dissolves into tears.
    I bring her in.
    Rebecca is Lizzie’s soul sister. They met at primary school. Rebecca has three sisters; she’s the youngest. Their dad left when Rebecca was a baby. Her mum was unhappy and took it out on the children, Rebecca particularly. Looking after four children on your own is no picnic. I felt sorry for her, Samantha, but she rebuffed any moves I made to be friendly. She worked as a secretary at a private school in Sale. On several occasions when we were collecting the kids from the after-school club I heard her belittling Rebecca. I didn’t have the courage to intervene directly, but when Rebecca stayed over at ours or came to play, I made a point of praising her, because she was a lovely girl.
    I loved to hear the pair of them, Lizzie and Rebecca, in fits of giggles. There was never a cross word.
    It wasn’t so much what Samantha said – ‘Oh come on, Rebecca, are you blind or just stupid?’ or ‘You can damn well do without or buy a new one with your pocket money, I’m sick of you’ – as the very harsh tone she used that made me so uncomfortable. And it must have hurt Rebecca.
    Every time Samantha came to our house, I offered her a cup of tea or coffee. She always said no. I don’t think she liked me. Perhaps she sensed that I disapproved of the way she spoke to her daughter. Perhaps she hated it herself. I could relate –when Lizzie was small and bawling her head off, I felt so cross with her, unfairly, but the emotion was there all the same. Felt almost cold in my frustration. So if I’d had four kids and a job and no partner maybe I’d be mean now and again.
    Lizzie hardly ever slept over at Rebecca’s. She told me in later years that Samantha used to shout at Rebecca, on and on until she made her cry, which really upset Lizzie.
    Rebecca will feel Lizzie’s loss so keenly.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she keeps saying, and I tell her it’s all right and I’m glad she’s here. When she’s calmer, we sit in the living room, still awash with Florence’s toys.
    ‘The police . . .’ I clear my throat. ‘They’ve charged Jack with Lizzie’s murder.’
    Rebecca nods. She has glossy brown hair, cut in a bob, and striking clothes: a black and white geometric tunic, tweedy tights, Converse trainers, chunky jewellery. On anyone else it would look bizarre. Rebecca carries it off. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick.
    ‘He hit her?’ Rebecca says.
    Does she need to hear the details? Like I did? The grotesque litany of injuries.
The back of Lizzie’s skull was crushed with multiple fractures, the right orbital socket around the eye was fractured, as well as the nose and the right ulna . . . A dozen blows at least.
    I nod. ‘They think he used the poker.’ My voice catches.
    ‘No.’ She grimaces. I sense she’s feeling awkward and start talking, but she interrupts me. ‘No, he hit her before.’ Her lip trembles. She puts her fingers to her mouth.
    My face freezes. I stare at her. ‘What?’
    ‘Jack.’ She bites her thumb. ‘He hit Lizzie before.’
    It’s like I’m falling. A swoop in my stomach. I don’t know what to say. ‘How . . .’ I begin, then, ‘When?’
    She blinks rapidly. ‘This summer. And before that, once that I know of.’
    My head feels thick, as though the blood is clotting. Foggy. As if I’ve been clouted hard. Stunned.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    Rebecca nods. She has tears in her eyes. ‘She told me,’ she says.
    And not me? The betrayal scalds me. How could Lizzie hide this?
    ‘Tell me,’ I say.
    ‘When she was pregnant with Florence, we were supposed to be going for a swim. She cried off, she said she didn’t feel like it so we were going to go for a walk instead.’ Rebecca sniffs. ‘I called for her and I grabbed her arm, just – I don’t know why, to hurry her along or something, and she yelped.’ Rebecca stops and bites her lip. ‘And she told me.’ Her voice is thinner