Page 8 of Dissection of a Murder
My head is filled with the sound of laughter, that ugly high-pitched laugh that always made me feel small. He’s saying the same thing over and over again.
“Did I not teach youanything?Rule #1: Don’t Get Caught.”
I’d never broken the rules before. They’re part of my DNA. He made sure they’d live in me like a poison, corroding me from the inside. Twelve toxic laws I’ve built my entire life around. He said they would keep me safe. Protect me. But now? Those lawyers are going to trawl through the last seven months of his life, and they’ll find me imprinted all over it. I’ve made myself vulnerable.
I should have listened to him.
Nobody thinks, even when they’re doing things they shouldn’t, that their actions are going to be exposed in a court of law.
I can’t let this happen. I’ll do anything to keep my name out of the trial.
Anything.
Do you know what the worst part about all this is? The timing. You couldn’t make it up. I was almost free of her. And now, after all this time, I need her help.
Only she can save him now.
4
Leila
121 days before trial
Julian and Ihave agreed to put the Millman case to the back of our minds for what will probably be the last weekend in a long time, so we can enjoy our night away at Barkenfield Lodge for his birthday. It’s a quirky place I found in Northumberland with beautiful, rustic cabins to stay in. It looks almost Swedish, but I’m luxuriating in the atmosphere. The timing couldn’t be better for this getaway, given we have the first hearing in the murder trial on Monday. The stress is starting to build.
We arrive on Saturday morning, as the sun breaks through the defiant dark clouds hovering in the crisp autumn sky. As we park up on the gravel, a tall, raven-haired woman wearing a Barbour jacket and what can only be described as an “outdoorsy posh hat” with an electric-blue feather in the side comes out to greet us. After he gets out of the car, Julian runs around to open my door for me.
“Mr. and Mrs. Kesler?” the woman asks in a voice that sounds like Joanna Lumley’s. “I’m Imogen. Follow me and I’ll take you to your cabin.”
The breeze has that September feeling about it. Julian takes my hand as we follow Imogen past secluded huts that are tastefully and artistically placed against the stunning countryside. The websitepromised “dramatic, woodland views” and it doesn’t disappoint. Each oak cabin is designed to blend in with the surrounding environment (something about bringing the outside in), so there are log fires, sunken baths, curiously angled architecture, and entire walls of glass in each one.
Imogen speaks to Julian the whole time and hoots with laughter every time he says something. She’s been in his company less than three minutes.
“Everything you need is here,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “Pleasedon’t hesitate to call reception if you require anything else. It can feel isolated at night, but for many of our guests, that’s the attraction.”
“We’ll be sure to make the most of it, Imogen,” Julian says, flashing her one of his dashing smiles.
This is what happens when women talk to Julian. His charm infects them like a virus. This is partly why he’s such a good jury advocate: female jurors are transfixed by him, and he knows it.
I remember feeling such a sense of elation when we first got together; I was the one he had chosen. There were many before me. Julian had been divorced for two years when I joined chambers, and he was well into his casual dating stage by then. He’d tell me all about his latest disaster date over coffee, and I used to laugh at how this man was so academically intelligent but clueless when it came to the opposite sex. His love life was a carousel of women who idolized him and were boring and clingy.
I often wondered if he’d make a move on me in that year of pupillage, but nothing ever happened. Not even when we went for post-work drinks. We’d end up in a champagne bar in Durham, the one with a rooftop terrace overlooking the river, and in so many moments against the violet sky and tastefully placed fairy lights, I’d be desperate for him to kiss me.
He never did.
It would have been highly frowned upon and a breach of ethical code if he had, given concerns about abuse of power, despite pupillage not being at all like a teacher–student relationship. Once the twelve-month pupillage period is over, dating is no longer taboo, since everyone is self-employed. But we didn’t get together for another five years; he was in and out of casual relationships and I was busy at work. Fate threw us together at the right time, I suppose.
We always went away for weekends in the beginning. We didn’t want to risk being seen, not because we were doing anything wrong—we were both single—but he was my former pupilmaster and the gossip would have made it feel cheap. It would have been labeled the “pupilmaster shags his former pupil, tale as old as time” trope. But we weren’t the first to do it and won’t be the last. It wasn’t until we knew the relationship was sustainable, after about three months, that we went public. Julian made me feel intelligent and seen. And it went beyond our mutual love of the law: we both enjoyed traveling, we took pleasure in the same music and hated the same films. Being around him was my favorite place to be.
We hardly ever get an opportunity to slow down and recharge. Despite living in Durham, which is a beautiful city, it’s rare that we manage to spend quality time together; there’s always a case to prepare, an urgent document to draft, a closing speech to write. Even the air feels fresher here, and we make the most of it by exploring the surroundings all afternoon.
After getting changed, we go to the restaurant for an early dinner. We leave at twilight, to a dusky sky, and walk back to our cabin and light the firepit. Wrapping the huge tartan blanket around me on the outdoor sofa, I look at my husband. In the firelight his chiseled face could be that of a film star.
We open a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape as a birthday treat. It’sJulian’s favorite wine, which we drank at our wedding, a full-bodied, smoky, plum-colored red, but at £150 a bottle it’s reserved for exceptionally special occasions.
“Let’s have a toast. To you on your birthday.”
“For surviving another year because I’m so old?” He laughs.
