Page 113 of Dissection of a Murder
“Very convenient, isn’t it? A bit too convenient, wouldn’t you say?”
“Decidedlyinconvenientfor me, if I’m being honest,” Jack replies, directing his answer to the jury.
“You didn’t like Quinn Smythe, did you?”
“I had no issue with him until what happened with Lewis.”
“Coincidence, is it, that his father sent you to prison in 2014?”
“It is, yes.”
“Quinn says you were threatening him.”
“Why would I do that? I had no reason to. If anything, he was aggressive toward me when I suggested he go to the police.”
“Another lie, isn’t it, Mr. Millman? All you’ve told this jury today is lies, haven’t you?”
“No. Only truth.”
Julian takes a moment to pause. Everyone in court catches their breath.
“You were brought up in care, weren’t you? Abandoned by your parents. It’s fair to say you don’t trust people, isn’t it?”
Jack takes a long breath before answering. Where is Julian going with this?
“I suppose so.”
“You have a cynical view of the world. You’re a bit of a lone wolf, aren’t you?”
No, Julian. Please.
He’s repeating what I said to him on his birthday weekend at Barkenfield Lodge. I remember it so clearly. Buttering me up beforehand, telling me how talented I was as a pupil, making me feel safe. Telling me it was normal to chat about cases, so long as you didn’t cross a line.
The absolute bastard.
“I don’t think that’s unreasonable, given where I’ve come from,” Jack replies, with more grace and dignity than my rat of a husband will ever have.
“No,” Julian says, with the most patronizing tone in his voice, “but it’s made you resentful, hasn’t it? Of people who have the life you don’t. You wanted revenge against the man who stole your liberty, and you saw fit to execute that through his son, didn’t you?”
“I’d never do that,” Jack replies calmly.
“It was you who used that kettlebell to kill Mr. Smythe, wasn’t it?”
“No.”
“And you attempted to cover up the offense by placing it back as a doorstop, didn’t you?”
“I’ve told you—it wasn’t me.”
“Let’s pretend for a moment that your version of events is true. I’ll indulge it. Answer this, please. How long did you and your lover wait between striking this man with a kettlebell and calling the ambulance?”
He’s going in for the kill.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t watching the clock. It was a very intense time,” he tells the court, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. He’s starting to feel the pressure now, and who can blame him? This is horrific.
“Was it, really? It sounds frightening, especially for Mr. Smythe, who is now dead. Let me ask you this—did you check for any signs of life?”
“I can’t remember,” he says quietly.
