Page 53 of Dissection of a Murder
“Everything OK?” I ask, stirring the risotto.
“Yes, it’s just been a hell of a day.”
His phone starts ringing. Julian is the kind of person who jumps whenever his phone makes a noise—there’s always something for him to deal with. But this time, he lets it ring.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” I ask, nodding toward his trouser pocket as I continue stirring the pan.
“I’ve had solicitors wanting a piece of me all day. I just want time with you tonight.”
He’s lying. Never in our entire courtship has Juliannotanswered a work call. Even on our honeymoon, he was speaking to solicitors and clerks from chambers about cases.
Is the caller the person he was speaking to that night in the kitchen?
“You’re too good to me.” I smile, walking over and kissing him on the lips. He seems tense and distracted as he sits down at the breakfast bar. “I thought the site visit went well.”
“Always good to get a feel for the places where crimes are carried out.”
“Absolutely. It helped to put some of the evidence into perspective, too. The kettlebell is intriguing.”
“How so?” he asks quizzically.
“Think about how strong Jack is. I’m surprised Anton had much of a face left.”
“Where are you going with this?”
The invitation is there. The question is: do I accept it? I will not compromise my client, but I am interested to see how he reacts to the idea.
“I think someone else did it,” I tell him dramatically. “A woman.”
“Leila—”
“Have you considered that?” I interrupt.
“There’s no evidence of it.”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“You know as well as I do it’s not going to go anywhere in court. No substantial evidence of it, and Millman would have surely mentioned it by now.”
“How do you know?”
“Leila,” he says confidently. “Stop this.”
We stare at each other for a few moments, and the air between usvibrates with tension. He knows he’s got the professional edge on me, but he also knows I adopt a more maverick style that tends to work in my favor. It’s one of the reasons I was given a tenancy in chambers. After pupillage, every member of chambers must vote on whether you’ll be accepted as a “tenant,” aka permanent member. One thing members noted was my ability to think outside the box in court and “take fearless and calculated risks.”
Perhaps my biggest risk of all was making a move on Julian all those years ago. It was after the annual Christmas dinner at Crestview Hall, a manor house in Northumberland. Everyone from chambers went to stay there for the weekend.
It wasn’t planned—it just happened. The dress code was black tie, so Julian was wearing a tux, and I was in a floor-length, ruby-red, silk dress that had a slit up my right thigh. I could tell by the way he was looking at me all night that something had shifted for him. I went to his room a few minutes after he’d gone up. Bold, I know. He’d never seen this side of me before and had dragged me into his room the second he opened the door. It was urgent, passionate. Like we had waited all this time for it to happen.
Once we went public, I was attending dinner parties as Julian’s date and spending weekends away with judges and high-ranking legal professionals. There was an awful lot of sailing involved and shortened versions of place names I had to learn if I wanted to fit in (Harrogate became “Row-gate,” for example). Solicitors started sending me better-quality work based on my “new role.” I never questioned it. Perhaps I should have. That’s how things work in this profession. Who you know takes precedence over what you know.
If I’m being honest, I think my relationship with Julian tamed me in many ways, on a professional level. Over time, the reckless streak that had brought me so much success dissipated, and I became more cautious, more apprehensive. I started questioning myself and mydecisions, constantly wondering if my pupilmaster—and husband—would approve of them.
That ended the day Jack Millman was convicted of assaulting Tony Flanagan. I should have trusted my instinct. I promised myself I’d never make the same mistake again.
“Damn!” I sigh now, standing in front of the kitchen cupboard, moving jars around. “I’m out of chicken stock. Could you do me a huge favor and nip to the shop to get some?”
“Can’t you do without?”
