Page 11 of Dissection of a Murder
Besides, what choice do I have? I don’t want to be the naive barrister who doesn’t seem to know what she’s doing. Julian is my pupilmaster. He’s got me this far. I’m as good as I am because of him.
I sigh. “Usual story. He was abandoned as a baby by his parents, who were drug users, brought up in care, and has been in and out of prison ever since. Doesn’t trust anyone, has a very cynical view of the world. A lone wolf. Like most people who had a traumatic childhood, he’s a survivor, a fighter. I wouldn’t have thought he’s the kind of person to kill someone. He’s not like that.”
“Did you not last defend him for a violent assault?” he asks cynically.
“Yes, but he was set up.”
Julian shoots me one of the looks he delivers in court when a witness gives an answer so unworthy of belief, it makes everyone in the courtroom want to die on the spot.
“Well, I look forward to seeing how he scrubs up at trial,” he says, and he means it. He’s curious. “He’s going up against it, isn’t he? Respectable judge, very well liked. Anton was known for being fair.”
I’m not entirely in agreement with Julian’s assessment of Judge Smythe, but that’s obviously how the prosecution is going to portray him.
“The jury didn’t know Anton, though,” I remind him. “But they will want to know why a judge was at a criminal’s flat on a Friday night. There’s a story there, and that’s your Achilles’ heel.”
Julian likes clear motives and obvious evidence. He hates having to think outside the box.
“How do you think he’ll perform under cross-examination?” he asks.
“I think that’s definitely crossing the line now.” I laugh, playfully patting his leg to let him know I’m done with this conversation. I’ll cooperate with Julian as much as I can, but my loyalty is ultimately to my client.
—
By 10 p.m. the fire is losing power and we go inside. The temperature has significantly dropped, and Julian is at the boozy stage where he’s starting to pull at my clothes.
The cabin is dimly lit by small lamps. I remember Imogen saying you can close the blinds on the glass wall, so as Julian is finding a way into my black Zara jumpsuit, I try working out how to close them to give us some privacy. A knock at the door suddenly interrupts his seduction. Wriggling out of his embrace, I open the door.
“Sorry to bother you. I’m from reception,” says a young man who must be in his early twenties. His floppy, blond hair and steely blue eyes pop against his black T-shirt and trousers. He’s holding a black gift box. “This is for you.”
“Who’s it from?”
“It was a request via our website,” he says, handing the box to me. “They didn’t leave a name.”
“A mystery gift!”
“Someone’s got an admirer,” the man says with a cheeky smile, turning around and walking back down the stone path.
“I should be so lucky!” I shout back to him.
I take the box over to Julian, who is standing at the window, looking outside.
“Who was that?” he asks, knitting his brows together.
“Just someone from reception. Brought a fancy gift.”
“Leila, he looked about twelve!”
I look at him, confused. “What?”
“Flirting with a child? Really?”
“He wasnottwelve. And I wasn’t flirting!” I tell him, defending myself. “Besides, you know from personal experience I can’t flirt to save my life. Don’t you remember our first date, when I got so nervous I delivered a twenty-minute speech about how underrated theScreamfranchise is?”
“I don’t think I could ever forget that.” He laughs as I open the box in front of him.
Inside is another bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.
“Someone obviously likes you,” I comment, opening the card and reminding myself how much each bottle costs. He picks it up and blinks at the vanilla-cream label on the bloodred bottle.
