Chapter 25 Leila
Leila
The first thing I do after arriving back at chambers from the site visit is look at the photographs taken by the scenes-of-crime officer the night of the murder.
True enough, the kettlebell that caused the fatal blow to Anton Smythe’s head is holding the door to the bedroom open as a doorstop.
The jury will have full access to these photographs as exhibits in the case and will find the reinstatement of the weight back to its original position following the assault as peculiar.
Why not hide it? Why put it back in full view of the police?
After a few hours running errands in the city center, I swing by Sainsbury’s on the way home to pick up ingredients for chicken risotto, one of Julian’s favorite dinners.
By the time he arrives home, he’s knackered and walks straight to the fridge for a glass of wine.
Loosening his tie, he exhales loudly before taking a drink.
“Everything OK?” I ask, stirring the risotto.
“Yes, it’s just been a hell of a day.”
His phone starts ringing. Julian is the kind of person who jumps whenever his phone makes a noise—there’s always something for him to deal with. But this time, he lets it ring.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” I ask, nodding toward his trouser pocket as I continue stirring the pan.
“I’ve had solicitors wanting a piece of me all day. I just want time with you tonight.”
He’s lying. Never in our entire courtship has Julian not answered a work call. Even on our honeymoon, he was speaking to solicitors and clerks from chambers about cases.
Is the caller the person he was speaking to that night in the kitchen?
“You’re too good to me.” I smile, walking over and kissing him on the lips. He seems tense and distracted as he sits down at the breakfast bar. “I thought the site visit went well.”
“Always good to get a feel for the places where crimes are carried out.”
“Absolutely. It helped to put some of the evidence into perspective, too. The kettlebell is intriguing.”
“How so?” he asks quizzically.
“Think about how strong Jack is. I’m surprised Anton had much of a face left.”
“Where are you going with this?”
The invitation is there. The question is: do I accept it? I will not compromise my client, but I am interested to see how he reacts to the idea.
“I think someone else did it,” I tell him dramatically. “A woman.”
“Leila—”
“Have you considered that?” I interrupt.
“There’s no evidence of it.”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“You know as well as I do it’s not going to go anywhere in court. No substantial evidence of it, and Millman would have surely mentioned it by now.”
“How do you know?”
“Leila,” he says confidently. “Stop this.”
We stare at each other for a few moments, and the air between us vibrates with tension.
He knows he’s got the professional edge on me, but he also knows I adopt a more maverick style that tends to work in my favor.
It’s one of the reasons I was given a tenancy in chambers.
After pupillage, every member of chambers must vote on whether you’ll be accepted as a “tenant,” aka permanent member.
One thing members noted was my ability to think outside the box in court and “take fearless and calculated risks.”
Perhaps my biggest risk of all was making a move on Julian all those years ago. It was after the annual Christmas dinner at Crestview Hall, a manor house in Northumberland. Everyone from chambers went to stay there for the weekend.
It wasn’t planned—it just happened. The dress code was black tie, so Julian was wearing a tux, and I was in a floor-length, ruby-red, silk dress that had a slit up my right thigh.
I could tell by the way he was looking at me all night that something had shifted for him.
I went to his room a few minutes after he’d gone up.
Bold, I know. He’d never seen this side of me before and had dragged me into his room the second he opened the door.
It was urgent, passionate. Like we had waited all this time for it to happen.
Once we went public, I was attending dinner parties as Julian’s date and spending weekends away with judges and high-ranking legal professionals.
There was an awful lot of sailing involved and shortened versions of place names I had to learn if I wanted to fit in (Harrogate became “Row-gate,” for example).
Solicitors started sending me better-quality work based on my “new role.” I never questioned it.
Perhaps I should have. That’s how things work in this profession.
Who you know takes precedence over what you know.
If I’m being honest, I think my relationship with Julian tamed me in many ways, on a professional level.
Over time, the reckless streak that had brought me so much success dissipated, and I became more cautious, more apprehensive.
I started questioning myself and my decisions, constantly wondering if my pupilmaster—and husband—would approve of them.
That ended the day Jack Millman was convicted of assaulting Tony Flanagan. I should have trusted my instinct. I promised myself I’d never make the same mistake again.
“Damn!” I sigh now, standing in front of the kitchen cupboard, moving jars around. “I’m out of chicken stock. Could you do me a huge favor and nip to the shop to get some?”
“Can’t you do without?”
“I can’t make the dish without it,” I reply. “Go on, it’s less than ten minutes away.”
Rolling his eyes, he slides off the chair, grabs his keys, and heads out of the front door. The slam reverberates through the hallway, plunging the house into silence. I can hear myself breathe. Walking out of the kitchen, I pause in front of the study and listen for the car to leave the drive.
The study is Julian’s man cave and where he prepares all his cases.
I rarely go in, preferring to work in the dining room.
We like having our separate spaces. He’s started to lock the door in the last few weeks, given the sensitivity of the evidence stored there, and the fact I’m allowed nowhere near it.
He’s right about this, of course. Maintaining integrity throughout this trial is so important. It’s the cornerstone of our profession.
He shouldn’t have trusted me to honor that.
I am not losing this case.
After counting to sixty in my head, I quickly remove from my jeans pocket the shiny gold key I had cut earlier today. He didn’t even know I had taken it from his keys at work. Walking to the study, I pop the key into the lock, twist, and open the door.
I’ve got six, seven minutes, tops.
His desk is scattered with documents, most of which I already have.
Julian is messier than I am. I like order but he prefers chaos.
Even though this desk looks like a bomb has hit it, he will know exactly where everything is.
I need to be careful. He misses nothing.
I attempt to search for what I need as delicately as I can without moving much, otherwise he’ll know I’ve been in here.
As I pick up documents, I attempt to assess mentally things he’s highlighted and annotated. What’s the relevance of it? What has he noticed?
And then I see it. What I’m looking for.
It’s the document I spied last time. A schedule of Anton Smythe’s mobile phone activity and a list of phone numbers he’s called and texted.
But the real bonus with his phone is this: because the prosecution has access to his handset, they were also able to extract the content of his messages.
Removing my phone, I start taking photographs.
The priority is taking photos of every page, which I do at speed.
There are over thirty. My heart races with each click of the camera.
The internal voice, telling me, You really shouldn’t be doing this, screams on repeat.
In these few seconds, I’ve undone over a decade’s worth of immaculate and conscientious work.
I am now professionally dishonest.
I don’t like how that sounds, but I can’t take it back now.
Just as I reach the final few pages—the most crucial—dated September 6, 2024, I hear Julian’s car pull up on the drive.
Shit.
I speed up, unsure of the quality of the photos, but I need to get this finished. Reaching the last page, I take a photo and return the document to where it was. Running out of the room, I lock the door and shove the key into my pocket.
When he walks into the kitchen, I’m standing at the stove, stirring the pan. My breathing is quick, irregular, and I’m sweating. I hope he doesn’t come too close.
“Please don’t make me go back if it’s the wrong one,” Julian says, throwing a box of stock capsules onto the kitchen top.
“They’re fine, thank you,” I respond in the best upbeat voice I can muster, opening a window to cool down.
For the rest of the night, I’m on edge. All I want to do is look at the evidence I now have in my possession. I try to wait until the morning so I can dissect it thoroughly, but in the end, I can’t hold myself back.
After dinner, I tell Julian I’m going for a long bath and take my phone upstairs.
While the water is running, I lock the door, sit on the toilet with a towel wrapped around me and open my photographs. Zooming in, I skip straight to the day of the murder. No wonder Julian was keeping this quiet.
It appears Anton was calling and texting one number repeatedly. At 3:47 p.m. on the day of the murder, he texted that same number:
No, not there. Diamond Lounge 6 p.m. Don’t panic. Nobody knows.
But it’s the last text message, at 3:52 p.m., that makes me understand why Julian never wanted me to see this.
This will be sorted by tonight. I’ll make sure of it. I love you.