Page 12 of Dissection of a Murder
“What does this mean?” I ask, holding out a small, pristine, white card with black printed letters.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here. Happy Birthday, J.
“Shakespeare?” he guesses, screwing his face up. “Tempest, isn’t it? Very funny, Lei.”
“I didn’t send this,” I tell him.
He stares blankly at me for a few seconds.
“I…I don’t get it, then. I didn’t tell anyone where we were going specifically. Who did you tell?”
“Nobody, really.”
“What do you mean, ‘nobody, really’? I want to know who sent this,” he says, his voice laced with annoyance.
“I mentioned it to one or two people at Chester’s party.” I shrug. “Maybe Chester sent it as a joke.”
“Who exactly did you tell?” he demands again. This time, there’s something in his voice I don’t like. He stares at me with wide eyes,waiting for an answer. His jaw flickers, a sign he’s clenching his teeth, which he only does when he’s angry. Julian is the kind of person who would rather die than let anyone know something’s bothered him. He used to tell me the best advocates were unshakable and never allowed anyone to see past the titanium exterior they presented to the world.
This has bothered him.
“I can’t remember exactly who I told. I’m sure it’s just meant to be a joke.”
He takes a small step back; it’s as if he catches himself in mid-frenzy and composes himself.
“I’m sorry,” he says, alongside a mild attempt at a laugh. “I just can’t stand cryptic things like this. We have to be so careful, with me prosecuting such dangerous criminals.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing like that. I can’t imagine many criminals go around quoting Shakespeare. You know what people at the Bar are like,” I tell him. “And obviously this is from someone who knows you well. Take it for what it is. A gift with a stupid note.”
“You’re right.” He nods, kissing me on my forehead. The lustful flames present minutes ago are now very much extinguished. “I’m knackered. All that fresh air, food, and wine have worn me out!”
“Let’s go to bed.” I smile as he picks up his mobile phone and heads to the bathroom with it, closing the door.
Turning to look out of the window, I place my hand on the enormous, chilled sheet of glass and stare out into the dark, black abyss. I’m acutely aware, in this moment, that anyone could be out there, looking in. Watching us.
In the darkness, miles from anywhere, and despite my reassurances to Julian, that note sounds nothing like a joke.
5
Leila
119 days before trial
Jack Millman isa thirty-two-year-old male from Hexham, in Northumberland.
As I told Julian, he went into the care system as a baby and has lived in more foster homes than he remembers. He became a regular in the youth courts once he’d reached the age of ten, the age of criminal responsibility in England and Wales. He also got in with the wrong crowd, which set in motion the revolving door of offending he was caught in.
It was only a matter of time before the violence started. All that pent-up rage and anger had to go somewhere. A boy let down by the system, abandoned. His experience in the justice system merely confirmed everything he felt about himself. A young man with no hope, no help, and nothing much to live for.
He is the reason I do this job, to be the person finally fighting in their corner.
The security guard walks Jack to the conference room in the cells of Newcastle Crown Court and ushers him in before slamming the door on his way out. Jack doesn’t immediately look at me or his solicitor, Davina, but he’s changed since I last represented him. He’s bulked up in terms of muscle, and his hair is longer. Wilder.
He sits on the black plastic chair at the brown table, both of which are nailed to the floor. He doesn’t slouch. His hands, handcuffed together at the wrists, rest gently on the table. The metal from the cuffs clangs against the cheap plastic top.
Jack’s outward appearance is that of a bouncer. He clearly goes to the gym every day. Or used to. Even through his tracksuit top you can see where the material clings to the muscles in his arms. He’s tall, around six foot two. Already, my lawyer mind is thinking about how this will affect his defense. What match was fifty-six-year-old Anton for a strong, thirty-two-year-old doorman?
The tattoos on his forearms peek out from the cuffs of his sweatshirt and burst out onto his hands. Another climbs past the neckband and up to his jaw. The more traditional jurors won’t like these. They’ll assume he’s a thug, and first impressions count.
