Page 51 of Dissection of a Murder
There’s an eerie feeling to this space. There is one door on the opposite side to the main one. It’s closed.
“Am I allowed to go in, DCI Brady?”
The way he stares at me, I might have just asked if I can whip my clothes off.
“It’s your site visit,” he says in a patronizing tone. “You can do what you like.”
Men.
We break off into our separate teams: prosecution and defense. I hear Julian mumbling as I walk into the bedroom by myself. The door swings shut behind me. The room is gloomy and lifeless. A dripping sound leads me to the tiny attic en-suite bathroom. I grip the shiny silver cold tap and tighten it. The rain thumps onto the skylight inches above my head.
Walking back into the bedroom, I run my fingers along the edge of the stripped bed as I look around and think about Jack’s life here and what happened that night. How everything changed in a split second and will never be the same again. How he’s counting on me to piece all this together and show a jury he’s not guilty.
I head back into the kitchen area, and the sound of the bedroom door slamming behind me again makes me jump.
The kettlebell.
“DCI Brady, can you confirm where exactly the kettlebell was when you came in here that night?”
He walks over to where I’m standing and opens the door I’ve just walked through. He pushes it open about halfway, then stops to look at me.
“There.” He points to the edge of the door. “The kettlebell was on the floor.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
DCI Brady isn’t used to being questioned. He’s been doing this for a long time and is a respected police officer. He takes a deep breath before answering.
“I’m sure, love.”
I pause, looking him in the eye.Love.
“Thank you,” I say cheerily, delivering him one of my biggest smiles. I will not descend to his pettiness.
“No problem, Britney,” he says quietly, smirking. He shoots back off to the other side of the room where Julian is. How utterly disrespectful. You donotrefer to a barrister by their first name, let alone a stupid nickname that has been forced upon them.
People always underestimate me in this job; I should be used to it by now. You prove yourself by your actions, not words. People like DCI Brady just make me even more determined to win this case.
But I need something big now to blast through the noise and allow everything to make sense for the jury.
Walking into the middle of the living area, I picture the scene that night. My most successful jury speeches are the ones that ask jurors to tap into their own emotions; if you had a split second to act, what would you do? What would they have done in this situation? I assess the room from the perspective of a killer to see if things click into place.
I think about the conversation I had with Julian about Chester, how he protected the woman he had an affair with. He had too much to lose by saying who she was, so he sacrificed his own reputation and shielded her from it. Only infatuation or an obligation to someone would convince you to do such a thing. It need not make sense to an outsider, only to them.
That’s it.
“Davina!” I whisper loudly, beckoning her over to the corner of the room. “Jack is an experienced criminal—it’s never made sense why he would kill someone with a heavy weapon and then put it back where he found it.”
“Yes, we’ve already established this.”
I glance over at Julian, who is pointing and gesturing toward the door.
“Remind us where Anton was when you came in?” I ask DCI Brady.
“Over here,” he says, taking us over to the kitchenette where the carpet meets the cheap lino floor. “His head was over that side, facing the door. He’d been knocked flat out, just as I said in my statement.”
Anton was struck on the right side of his head, just above his temple. The blow was fatal. I know from experience how heavy these kettlebells can be, but they’re easy to swing with enough room.
“Didn’t the police statement say Jack’s clothes were covered in Coke when they arrived?” I ask.
