Page 68 of Dissection of a Murder
“Thank you for this. I’ll consider it over the Christmas break,” I say to him sarcastically. “What does it show?”
“At 1:17 p.m. he leaves Temptation and goes to a beauty salon in West Sutton. He remains there for six minutes, then leaves.”
“That’s it?”
“Wait until you see whose salon it is,” he says, with the faintest sign of a smirk, handing me the USB stick. “The reason you didn’t know about it before now is because it didn’t show up on cell site analysis. He didn’t take his phone. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” I reply, upbeat, while knowing exactly how odd it is.
“Millman never takes his phone anywhere, does he? I wonder what he has on there that’s so important.”
God, he can be so condescending. No wonder people don’t like him on a professional level. I choose to ignore this side of him because he’s my husband, but I’ve been seeing it more and more throughout this case, and I don’t like it. As his pupil, I thought his arrogance made him smart; now, I’m cringing at how much of a dick he can be.
“Maybe he’s just a private person.” I smile. “Anything else?”
“Yes, actually,” he says, almost as an afterthought, walking round to the other side of the conference table. “I’m sending you Quinn’s statement, too. I got on that immediately. You’ll see that he says Jack had been harassing him for several weeks prior to the murder. Anton was there on September 6, telling him to leave his son alone.”
Crap. There’s Anton’s motive for being at Jack’s flat. And it’s a strong one.
“Harassing Quinn Smythe?” I ask. My tone is abrupt, and I want him to know it. “For what reason?”
I’m dying to ask him what evidence he has to back this up, but I want to keep my cards close to my chest.
“You know what bouncers are like at these clubs. They take an instant dislike to a posh lad who comes in. Then they find out it’s actually the son of the judge who sent them to prison. Couldn’t make this up.”
The grin on his face is too much to bear.
“No, youreallycouldn’t. And he volunteered all this to you, did he?” I ask skeptically, because I know what’s happened here. I’ve seen Julian do it before. He’ll be in conference with a witness and come within aninchof coaching them, while staying just far away enough from the line that it couldn’t be proven improper.
“In fact it was you asking about Quinn’s statement the other day that made me think he had something to do with it. I couldn’t figure out where the smoking gun was until you mentioned it. So…thank you.”
He allows this to linger in the air, like smoke in a filthy bar. He wants me to know I’ve led him to this conclusion, that it’s because of myinexperiencehe’s got the upper hand.
“We have CCTV of Anton visiting a distressed Quinn at work, hours before the murder,” he goes on. “The timescale works. It fits.”
I use every ounce of strength I have to look unbothered and unbroken in front of him. He’s reveling in what he’s doing to me, like some kind of sadist.
“Well, in that case, take this as notice that I want you to call Quinn Smythe as a prosecution witness, because I want to cross-examine him, under oath.”
“I don’t have a problem with that. Cross-examine him all you want. He’s got nothing to hide.”
He absolutely does, going by what I’ve seen on Temptation’s secret camera.
“Anything else?” I smile.
“A matter of formality, obviously, but just confirming in the absence of a defense statement that Millman won’t be giving evidence? I’m wondering when speeches will be.”
“Oh, he will be,” I reply cheerily.
His eyes widen. He’s shocked. I knew he would be.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re allowing your client, who hasn’t given you any instructions throughout a murder trial, to give evidence?”
He pronounces each word slowly, as if English isn’t my main language.
