Page 50 of Dissection of a Murder
I’m not making that mistake again. He deserves more, and so do I.
“Lei? Could you bring me up a glass of water while you’re down there?”
Julian’s voice slices through my indecision like a sharp knife.
“Yes, just plugging my laptop in.”
I grab the charger and close the suitcase. Walking out of the room, I switch off the light and close the door.
Your pupilmaster should be your biggest champion, your professional guardian—the one person who always has your back, no matter what. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that I can no longer trust Julian as my teacher.
Or my husband.
23
Leila
40 days before trial
The afternoon ofthe site visit is metal-gray and rainy. The Christmas decorations around Durham city center lack the magical feel tourists have come to expect and instead look sad and lackluster. Four days into December, I don’t think I’ve ever felt less excited for this holiday.
Rain slashes down on the car windows as I drive through the old, narrow streets to our destination while Davina sips her Starbucks latte.
The building screams trouble. I don’t know if it’s the unmarked door to the second floor, which you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it, or the somber lighting coming from the Georgian windows upstairs, but it looks like the kind of place where sin is encouraged.
As we walk into Innocence, the bar below Temptation on the ground floor, we see Julian and Detective Chief Inspector Brady. Julian has worked with him before, and he’s the kind of man who despises defendants who give no-comment interviews—people like Jack. A polite nod in their direction is the only acknowledgment required.
I want to see the full layout of the club, so we’re taken upstairs via the “public” route, which turns out to be not so public.
Next to the female toilets is a plain white door, which is the gateway to the club upstairs. Through it is a small vestibule that’s always manned by security. Once you’ve been identified as a member, you’re allowed access through the second door. The decor dramatically changes from clinical and white to violet uplighters. It’s dark, but there are mirrors on the wall that reflect the light in such a way that makes it hard to gauge how big the space is. Like one of those frightening fairground rooms you can’t figure your way out of.
“Is that a novelty entrance or something?” I ask.
“It’s to allow people to enter without being seen,” DCI Brady says. He arrived on the scene shortly after Jack made the 999 call, which identified a criminal judge as the victim, and he’s been leading the investigation ever since. “They enter through Innocence, and it looks as if they’re in there when they’re actually upstairs.”
“So, to confirm, there’s no CCTV anywhere in the entire building?” Davina asks.
“Nope,” DCI Brady replies, with no attempt to hide the disgust in his voice.
We follow him up a flight of stairs, and he gives a running commentary as he goes. There are rooms branching off the narrow landings.
“These are the boudoirs. Full on Friday and Saturday nights. Usually start filling up around 10:30 p.m. with the girls and customers.”
“What’s that room?” I ask, walking past a door which is half open. In it is a desk and three computer monitors. The walls are stacked full of shelves and host A4 files. It is windowless. An overweight man dressed in a black T-shirt sits quietly at the desk. He briefly looks toward us, then turns away again.
“The office. We’ve checked it. Nobody saw anything,” DCI Brady confirms. “Millman’s flat is on the next floor up.”
We follow right behind him, up the final flight of stairs. As we do,I think about how Anton made this trip on a Friday night without being seen. How did he know where to go? This building is quite the labyrinth, and you’d have to know exactly where you were going to get to Jack’s apartment.
The staircase to his flat is small and steep, at the top of the building. Even though it’s a chilly day, the temperature rises as we ascend. The stairs groan and creak, announcing our arrival. We line up as DCI Brady clinks the keys and opens the door.
It’s small and dark. There’s a stillness to it that feels antithetical to what must have been the atmosphere that hot September night. It’s obvious the windows haven’t been opened in a long time. It has the kind of musty smell places have when they’ve been unoccupied for a while. The door opens straight into the main living space, a small lounge and kitchenette. A TV in the corner sits beneath the attic roof, which slopes toward the ground. The two-seater sofa in the middle of the room faces it, with its back to the kitchen. There’s barely any room to swing a cat in here.
The walls are an off-white color. The carpet, beige. A large movie poster ofRobin Hood: Prince of Thievesis displayed on one of them, stuck up with Blu-tack. It’s the one with Kevin Costner about to launch a flaming arrow from his bow. Apart from that, there’s nothing else that personalizes the room.
“Odd choice of ‘art,’ ” Julian scoffs.
“I quite liked that film,” I shoot back, feeling immediately defensive of my client.
