Page 57 of Dissection of a Murder
I’m justifying my actions by telling myself that in doing this, I’m representing Jack more fairly. I mean, yes, if the Bar Standards Board found out what I’m doing I’d be hauled in front of a disciplinary panel and disbarred, but they won’t find out, and all I’ve really done is broken into the prosecutor’s office, looked at some confidential evidence, and potentially interfered with a witness.
Could have happened to anyone.
Diamond Lounge is one of those places where professional types go on a Friday night. The kind that plays non-distinct house music and everyone drinks either cool European beer out of bottles or cocktails out of fancy glasses, most of which have dry ice slithering out of them.
Davina leads the way. She marches in as if she owns the place, which, given her background and dealings, wouldn’t surprise me at all.
“Is Keany in?” she barks at a young man behind the bar, dressed in black.
“He’s out back. Who’s looking for him?”
“Tell him it’s his lawyer.”
The lad shuffles quickly out of the bar area and disappears for a minute or so.
“Do you know everyone?”
“I’m well connected,” she says. “I represented him about a year ago. Drugs possession. He works security.”
“I’m surprised he kept his job.”
“Where do you think he got the drugs from?”
Keany—a short, stocky fella with a buzz cut—comes out from a side door, looking terrified and shocked in equal measure.
“Davina? What you doin’ ’ere?”
“We need a favor. Can we have a word in private?”
“Err, yeah. Come through the back,” he grunts, ushering us down a dark staircase to a poky basement office with no windows or ventilation.
“Now listen, Keany. This is strictly on the nod. We don’t want you blabbing to people that we’ve been here. I assume you’ve had people in already looking at the CCTV in relation to Friday, September 6—would I be right?”
He nods, reluctantly, saying nothing.
Bloody Julian. He’s already seen what we’re looking for. He’s way ahead of us.
Keany searches for footage of that day; the cameras show different perspectives of the bar. I feel nervous, sick.
As the footage reaches 6 p.m., Keany allows it to play.
My eyes dart between the split screens, frantically searching for Anton or someone I know. Christ knows, I need something to put before a jury.
6:02 p.m. Nothing.
6:05 p.m. Nothing.
“Maybe he didn’t go?” I whisper.
“Give it time,” Davina says.
At 6:06 p.m., a broad man wearing a brown tweed jacket and chinos walks through the main door to the bar. He doesn’t look like the other customers around that time, who are all young, trendy types. His metallic silver hair is combed back away from his face. It’s Anton. He orders a drink—looks like a Coke—and takes it to one of the tables near the window.
“There he is,” I say, pointing at the screen.
He looks anxious, distracted. Perching on the edge of a leather sofa, he fiddles with his hands and keeps leaning back, then forward. He can’t settle.
Just then, a young guy walks over to him—dressed in black, just like all the other lads who work there—and starts talking to him. At first he seems to be making polite conversation, but after a minute or so, the young man sits down next to him. Something about the way they talk to each other makes me think there’s more to it; it looks intense. The young man lowers his head, and Anton places his hand on the young man’s back and speaks to him closely.
