Chapter 20 Leila
Leila
Since the plea hearing, the Crown has been serving us evidence as they receive it, including evidence from Jack’s phone.
Well, I say Jack’s phone: they’re extremely limited in what they can extract, given they don’t have the handset.
What they do have, however, are the records taken from his mobile phone provider outlining the date and time of every call he made and every text message he sent since the beginning of the year.
“Davina, have you seen the phone evidence?” I ask, perching my own mobile phone between my chin and shoulder, my eyes skimming over what’s been placed in front of me.
“Yes, just looking at it now. I think there’s a lot more to this than we thought, don’t you?”
“As I suspected. Can we meet?”
“Yes. I also have something for you.”
“Jesus. Is it good or bad?”
“I’ll leave that up to you. Boat Club, 5 p.m.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
—
It’s quiet for a Monday evening. The Boat Club is situated on the river with cinematic views of Durham Cathedral.
It’s dark outside by 5 p.m.; the cathedral is lit up and looks spectacular.
We sit in the corner of the restaurant, in a curved booth for extra privacy.
It also means I can see who comes in and out.
These last few weeks have made me paranoid.
“Thought you should see this,” Davina says bluntly, slamming a newspaper down in front of me.
It’s a full-page article in the local rag about the trial. The headline is “HUB AND WIFE TEAM IN JUDGE-KILLER TRIAL.” My heart sinks. It’s the last thing I need. There’s barely anything about the actual murder; the majority is about me and Julian.
What really pisses me off is that they make me sound like a naive sixth-form law student.
Julian, of course, is described as a distinguished silk with many victories to his name.
They’ve pulled up our photos from the chambers website.
Julian looks exactly like a barrister in his, sophisticated and suave.
My long blonde hair falls over my shoulders in mine; I wish I’d had the sense to tie it back.
I look young and unprofessional next to him.
“I suppose I had to expect it.” I sigh.
“Ignore it. Nest of vipers, the lot of them.”
“All it does is highlight how underqualified I am to be doing this case,” I tell her. “I don’t need it being broadcast even louder than it already is.”
“You’re not underqualified. You’re right where you need to be.” She smiles. I don’t know what it is about Davina; even though she can be scary at times, she’s also quite caring, if you catch her in the right mood.
We set to the task at hand, ordering drinks before we get started.
“The kettlebell,” she says dramatically, the second the waiter leaves our table after pouring us each a huge glass of wine. “Get this…it’s always used as a doorstop for the bedroom door, which means Jack removed it from there and then put it straight back.”
My eyes don’t leave Davina’s.
“Who uses something as a weapon, then puts it straight back? No attempt to dispose of or hide it?”
“I know,” she interrupts. “These aren’t the actions of, well…”
“An experienced criminal?”
“Quite.”
“What evidence have you got?”
“For about two months prior to the incident, Jack had been weight training with an eighteen-year-old lad called Kit Gordon, who works at Innocence. He used to go up to the apartment before his shifts, and Jack would show him how to bulk up with exercises. For Kit’s birthday, Jack bought him the kettlebell, which he kept at the apartment. They used it in their sessions.”
“Why the doorstop, though?” I inquire.
“It was apparently a running joke that Jack considered it a ‘woman’s weight’—way too light for him—so the only use he had for it in his flat was—”
“A doorstop? Good work, Davina!” I grin at her. “And have you seen Jack’s phone evidence that’s come through?”
“Yep. Who was he messaging incessantly for seven months?” Davina asks. “Given how shady he’s being, I’m going to take a wild guess and say that’s the person he’s protecting in all this.”
“Agreed,” I confirm, nodding.
“The communication begins on Tuesday, February 6, 2024, at 7:57 p.m., and over the course of seven months, there are 1,284 text messages. No phone calls to that number at all. Only texts.”
“It’s a burner phone,” I say. “We checked and it’s not registered anywhere.”
“But look at the times of the texts—most of them are late evening or past midnight. Selling drugs?”
“Or an affair with a married woman.”
Davina’s eyebrows jump as she reaches for her glass of sauvignon blanc.
“But it’s what happens after Anton is killed that intrigues me the most. The cell site analysis is quite revealing.”
Cell site analysis is an absolute gem in criminal cases.
Every time your mobile phone passes a transmitter, it sends information to your mobile phone provider, who collates that data and determines where you are.
Provided your phone is switched on, you’re trackable.
You don’t need to have the physical device to analyze it, and you can comb through months of data.
“Have you seen what happens to his phone?” I continue.
“Cell site analysis traces it to Temptation in the center of Durham at 10:41 p.m. The signal is then terminated; the phone is presumably switched off or the battery dies. Now, Jack calls 999 from the club landline at 11:07 p.m. and he’s arrested shortly after.
When the mobile phone signal is received again, at 11:27 p.m.—forty-six minutes later—it’s moved, and look at its location. ”
“Pickford?” The relevance of this information balances on the tip of her tongue. She recognizes it, but doesn’t know where it’s from, so I tell her.
“Pickford is twelve miles away from the center of Durham. It also happens to be the tiny, remote village where Anton Smythe lived. Not only that…the cell site placed the phone signal within five meters of Anton Smythe’s drive. So, basically, just outside his house.”
Davina’s eyes widen and she takes a deep breath. You can almost see the cogs whirring inside her head, wondering how to piece everything together.
“I’m assuming you don’t think it’s a coincidence?”
“You know I don’t believe in such things,” I reply.
“It gets weirder by the minute. The prosecution must be going wild with this information.”
“Oh, I know. They’ll have gone through that area with a fine-tooth comb trying to find it. It’s all fields and countryside over there, so I imagine it’s been dumped.”
“Didn’t Jack say his phone was stolen on the day of the murder?” Davina asks.
“He did, but it’s far too…convenient that it ends up close to the victim’s home, if it was randomly stolen and has nothing to do with the crime.”
“The other question it throws into light is how did the phone get turned on in Pickford at the time the cell analysis states, when we know for certain Jack was already in police custody by then? Where else does the cell site place his phone during the day of the murder? Does that help us determine his location? He did say the key to this was finding out where he was that day.”
“His phone was at his apartment all day. Doesn’t mean he was,” I remind her.
“Jack’s clever. He’s been in and out of the system since he was a kid.
He knows all the tricks in the book. If he’s up to something—or going to see someone he shouldn’t be connected to—he knows better than to take his phone with him. ”
“But there’s always CCTV. He’s not completely invisible from being tracked,” Davina says correctly.
“No, he’s not. Don’t you see? The person who took the phone the night of the murder must have known they’d be tracked, which is why they turned it off.”
“You think someone else was there that night,” Davina states.
“A good criminal does his homework and is always prepared. They’re meticulous. That’s how they get away with it.”
“So we need to think like a criminal, find the phone and whoever took it.” Davina smiles.
“Yes. In fact, organize a site visit. It might help us gain some clarity, see the events of that night in a clearer way.”
“I’ll get it sorted,” she barks, picking up her diary to add it to the million other jobs I’ve given her over the past week.
Finally, we have a tiny glimmer of something to grab on to.
“You really think he’s innocent, don’t you?” she says.
Davina is a very functional, practical person. She holds her cards very close to her chest, so I’m slightly thrown by her asking this now.
“I do,” I tell her, openly and truthfully. “Don’t you?”
“Who knows?” She shrugs. “I don’t have the time to contemplate whether my clients are telling the truth or not. I do my job the best I can, go home, and forget about them. And so should you.”
“It’s difficult when you’ve seen an innocent person suffer an injustice and you get a second chance to put it right. That’s what we have here. This case is more than just a job for me.”
She goes to say something, just as her own phone starts ringing, which she answers. I can tell it’s a phone call about Jack by the way she frowns in that intense way she does sometimes.
“Mmm-hmm…right…yes…Christ. OK. I’ll let them know. Well, it’s not ideal. Yes. Fine.”
“What is it?” I ask the second she hangs up.
She takes a gulp of her wine before delivering the news, which I can tell is going to be bad.
“We’ve just received more details about the offense Jack was sent to prison for in 2014.
He was charged with supplying drugs and his barrister submitted that he ought to be spared prison, because his foster mother had just been diagnosed with an aggressive form of lung cancer and was not expected to last more than a few months.
He asked for one last chance so he could spend her remaining months with her, as he’d never get over allowing her to die on her own. ”
“I don’t like where this is going.”
“The judge rejected his submissions and sent Jack straight to prison.”
“Who was the judge?” It’s a rhetorical question, but I ask it anyway.
“His Honor Judge Anton Smythe.”
I steal a long, sharp breath.
“Well, I guess Julian just found his motive for murder.”