Chapter 23 Leila
Leila
The afternoon of the site visit is metal-gray and rainy. The Christmas decorations around Durham city center lack the magical feel tourists have come to expect and instead look sad and lackluster. Four days into December, I don’t think I’ve ever felt less excited for this holiday.
Rain slashes down on the car windows as I drive through the old, narrow streets to our destination while Davina sips her Starbucks latte.
The building screams trouble. I don’t know if it’s the unmarked door to the second floor, which you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it, or the somber lighting coming from the Georgian windows upstairs, but it looks like the kind of place where sin is encouraged.
As we walk into Innocence, the bar below Temptation on the ground floor, we see Julian and Detective Chief Inspector Brady.
Julian has worked with him before, and he’s the kind of man who despises defendants who give no-comment interviews—people like Jack.
A polite nod in their direction is the only acknowledgment required.
I want to see the full layout of the club, so we’re taken upstairs via the “public” route, which turns out to be not so public.
Next to the female toilets is a plain white door, which is the gateway to the club upstairs.
Through it is a small vestibule that’s always manned by security.
Once you’ve been identified as a member, you’re allowed access through the second door.
The decor dramatically changes from clinical and white to violet uplighters.
It’s dark, but there are mirrors on the wall that reflect the light in such a way that makes it hard to gauge how big the space is.
Like one of those frightening fairground rooms you can’t figure your way out of.
“Is that a novelty entrance or something?” I ask.
“It’s to allow people to enter without being seen,” DCI Brady says.
He arrived on the scene shortly after Jack made the 999 call, which identified a criminal judge as the victim, and he’s been leading the investigation ever since.
“They enter through Innocence, and it looks as if they’re in there when they’re actually upstairs. ”
“So, to confirm, there’s no CCTV anywhere in the entire building?” Davina asks.
“Nope,” DCI Brady replies, with no attempt to hide the disgust in his voice.
We follow him up a flight of stairs, and he gives a running commentary as he goes. There are rooms branching off the narrow landings.
“These are the boudoirs. Full on Friday and Saturday nights. Usually start filling up around 10:30 p.m. with the girls and customers.”
“What’s that room?” I ask, walking past a door which is half open.
In it is a desk and three computer monitors.
The walls are stacked full of shelves and host A4 files.
It is windowless. An overweight man dressed in a black T-shirt sits quietly at the desk.
He briefly looks toward us, then turns away again.
“The office. We’ve checked it. Nobody saw anything,” DCI Brady confirms. “Millman’s flat is on the next floor up.”
We follow right behind him, up the final flight of stairs. As we do, I think about how Anton made this trip on a Friday night without being seen. How did he know where to go? This building is quite the labyrinth, and you’d have to know exactly where you were going to get to Jack’s apartment.
The staircase to his flat is small and steep, at the top of the building. Even though it’s a chilly day, the temperature rises as we ascend. The stairs groan and creak, announcing our arrival. We line up as DCI Brady clinks the keys and opens the door.
It’s small and dark. There’s a stillness to it that feels antithetical to what must have been the atmosphere that hot September night.
It’s obvious the windows haven’t been opened in a long time.
It has the kind of musty smell places have when they’ve been unoccupied for a while.
The door opens straight into the main living space, a small lounge and kitchenette.
A TV in the corner sits beneath the attic roof, which slopes toward the ground.
The two-seater sofa in the middle of the room faces it, with its back to the kitchen.
There’s barely any room to swing a cat in here.
The walls are an off-white color. The carpet, beige.
A large movie poster of Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves is displayed on one of them, stuck up with Blu-tack.
It’s the one with Kevin Costner about to launch a flaming arrow from his bow.
Apart from that, there’s nothing else that personalizes the room.
“Odd choice of ‘art,’ ” Julian scoffs.
“I quite liked that film,” I shoot back, feeling immediately defensive of my client.
There’s an eerie feeling to this space. There is one door on the opposite side to the main one. It’s closed.
“Am I allowed to go in, DCI Brady?”
The way he stares at me, I might have just asked if I can whip my clothes off.
“It’s your site visit,” he says in a patronizing tone. “You can do what you like.”
Men.
We break off into our separate teams: prosecution and defense.
I hear Julian mumbling as I walk into the bedroom by myself.
The door swings shut behind me. The room is gloomy and lifeless.
A dripping sound leads me to the tiny attic en-suite bathroom.
I grip the shiny silver cold tap and tighten it.
The rain thumps onto the skylight inches above my head.
Walking back into the bedroom, I run my fingers along the edge of the stripped bed as I look around and think about Jack’s life here and what happened that night.
How everything changed in a split second and will never be the same again.
How he’s counting on me to piece all this together and show a jury he’s not guilty.
I head back into the kitchen area, and the sound of the bedroom door slamming behind me again makes me jump.
The kettlebell.
“DCI Brady, can you confirm where exactly the kettlebell was when you came in here that night?”
He walks over to where I’m standing and opens the door I’ve just walked through. He pushes it open about halfway, then stops to look at me.
“There.” He points to the edge of the door. “The kettlebell was on the floor.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
DCI Brady isn’t used to being questioned. He’s been doing this for a long time and is a respected police officer. He takes a deep breath before answering.
“I’m sure, love.”
I pause, looking him in the eye. Love.
“Thank you,” I say cheerily, delivering him one of my biggest smiles. I will not descend to his pettiness.
“No problem, Britney,” he says quietly, smirking. He shoots back off to the other side of the room where Julian is. How utterly disrespectful. You do not refer to a barrister by their first name, let alone a stupid nickname that has been forced upon them.
People always underestimate me in this job; I should be used to it by now. You prove yourself by your actions, not words. People like DCI Brady just make me even more determined to win this case.
But I need something big now to blast through the noise and allow everything to make sense for the jury.
Walking into the middle of the living area, I picture the scene that night.
My most successful jury speeches are the ones that ask jurors to tap into their own emotions; if you had a split second to act, what would you do?
What would they have done in this situation?
I assess the room from the perspective of a killer to see if things click into place.
I think about the conversation I had with Julian about Chester, how he protected the woman he had an affair with.
He had too much to lose by saying who she was, so he sacrificed his own reputation and shielded her from it.
Only infatuation or an obligation to someone would convince you to do such a thing.
It need not make sense to an outsider, only to them.
That’s it.
“Davina!” I whisper loudly, beckoning her over to the corner of the room. “Jack is an experienced criminal—it’s never made sense why he would kill someone with a heavy weapon and then put it back where he found it.”
“Yes, we’ve already established this.”
I glance over at Julian, who is pointing and gesturing toward the door.
“Remind us where Anton was when you came in?” I ask DCI Brady.
“Over here,” he says, taking us over to the kitchenette where the carpet meets the cheap lino floor. “His head was over that side, facing the door. He’d been knocked flat out, just as I said in my statement.”
Anton was struck on the right side of his head, just above his temple. The blow was fatal. I know from experience how heavy these kettlebells can be, but they’re easy to swing with enough room.
“Didn’t the police statement say Jack’s clothes were covered in Coke when they arrived?” I ask.
“Coke?” Davina frowns, looking confused.
“Cola,” I clarify quickly. “In the kitchen, on the floor?”
My eyes dart around the small kitchenette and I mentally place Jack and Anton in the space.
“That’s why he isn’t saying anything.”
“Why?”
“If there was a struggle between Jack and Anton in the kitchen, Jack wouldn’t have had time to run to the bedroom, get the kettlebell, and whack him over the head with it.”
“He might have done if he felt threatened, for whatever reason.”
“They were in the kitchen. We know Anton picked up a knife at one point because his prints are on it. Even if Jack did run to get the kettlebell, it would have given Anton enough time to get out of the flat—the front door is right next to the kitchen. He was caught completely off guard. Literally didn’t know what hit him. ”
She looks at me, waiting for the light bulb, the eureka moment, the breakthrough.
“So, what are you saying?”
I smile at her. “There was someone else here when Anton died. I don’t think Jack did it.”