Chapter 26 Leila
Leila
It becomes clear after a night of barely any sleep that I can’t keep this kind of information to myself, so after thinking long and hard about it, I elect to tell Davina. Given her proclivity toward the less ethical side of lawyering, I’m hopeful I can speak to her in confidence.
After requesting an emergency conference with her just after midday, when I meet her in Starbucks she practically launches herself at me. She must have sensed there has been a development, for she is wearing one of her statement piece power suits with significant shoulder pads.
She barely flinched when I told her what I’d done. This is why Jack instructed her in the first place. It’s a necessary means to an end.
“We need to find out whose number that is,” she confirms, picking up her enormous red cup. “And fast. Clock is ticking. This is only the tip of the iceberg, I suspect.”
“What have we got ourselves into here, Davina?”
“Whatever it is, we can handle it,” she says, completely unperturbed. “So, how do you want to do this?”
“We need to be careful. We can’t do anything that alerts the prosecution to the fact we know about the texts.”
“But we need to know who he’s messaging. I mean, what’s he talking about, ‘Nobody knows’? Sounds shady to me, and relevant to the case.”
“Yes, but without any kind of defense being put forward, the prosecution won’t disclose the messages—they don’t know it’s relevant to us.”
“There’s only one way to know whose phone number it is,” she says. I already know where she’s going with this. “We’ll have to call it.”
“Absolutely not,” I reply sharply. “Just seeing these texts is bad enough. Calling any of the numbers is interfering with potential prosecution witnesses. Not to mention the fact that it would leave a trail back to us, and if found out, I’d be disbarred.”
“Not necessarily.” She shrugs casually. “We don’t have to disclose who we are. Think of it as a fact-finding prank call in pursuit of justice.”
The way she phrases it makes me think this isn’t the first time Davina has done this. I let the knowledge relieve my guilt slightly. I’m not the only one at fault here.
“Even if we could call it, how would we do it? I’m not calling from my phone.”
“Use our work mobile! It’s the one we use whenever we call clients. The call comes up as a withheld number. Do you think any of our punters would answer the phone if the firm’s name popped up?”
Jack’s face flashes into my head for a moment. The one from the last time I represented him, and he was about to be sent to prison. I can’t see that again.
“What would we even say?” I ask.
“You’re the barrister. Be creative!” she says, her words bathed in nonchalance. After I tapped the number into the phone, the display says “calling” and she hands it to me.
“No!” I whisper, through gritted teeth. I hear the ringtone before holding it up to my ear.
Feeling panicked, I scramble to think of something to say when someone answers after four rings.
It’s a man.
“Hello?” the voice says. He’s obviously somewhere outside. I hear traffic and beeping from a pedestrian crossing in the distance.
“Hi there,” I reply, looking at Davina. “Erm, this is PC Windsor calling from Durham Police Station, central division. Is now a good time to chat?”
He doesn’t reply immediately, and the sound of traffic in the background fills the space.
“Sorry, what’s this about?”
“It’s about an offense you’ve been implicated in.”
“What the…?” he replies, confused. “What offense? Who’s implicated me in it? How do you have my number?”
He sounds young—in his twenties, possibly younger. When you cross-examine liars for a living you become skilled in reading people’s voices, their tone, pitch, and timbre. His voice is sprinkled with a touch of panic and a dash of anger. Interesting.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. But it will be easier if you cooperate with us, David.”
“David?” he repeats back, puzzled. “My name isn’t David.”
“This isn’t David Welby?”
“No! You’ve obviously been given incorrect information.”
There’s relief in his voice.
“I’m really confused,” I tell him. “Is your number 09734837271?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I don’t suppose you know a William Morrison? Fifty-four years old? Likes to sit and drink cans of Foster’s all day in his garden and shout at people?”
“Never met him!” He laughs. “I’ve got nothing to do with this!”
“That bloody swine!” I sigh, looking at Davina, who stares at me. “He’s been brought in for theft and implicated someone else. Gave me this number. I’m sorry to waste your time but obviously we have to chase these things up.”
“No problem,” he says. “You had me panicked there!”
Hmm. Did I?
“Just for the record,” I go on, “so I can sign this off, could I have your name? I’ll need it to write up my notes and show my superior I’ve made this call and discounted it.”
“Sure,” he says. “It’s Quinn Smythe.”
“Quinn Smythe…” I repeat back to him, so Davina can grasp the enormity of this. Her mouth drops open in shock and her eyes widen like large saucers. “Anton’s son?” she mouths to me, in an exaggerated way, and I nod my head vigorously.
“Brilliant. Thanks, Quinn. Just writing that down,” I lie. “Have a good day.”
I hand the phone back to Davina, and as much as I want to feel bad about what I’ve just done, I don’t. Instead, I smile.
“I’ve got to hand it to you.” Davina grins. “Top extraction skills.”
“Cross-examination technique.” I shrug. “Make them panic, place them in a state of alert, bring them into safety, and most people will give you what you want.”
“So, what were Quinn and Anton hiding? It’s obviously something important, and I’d say relevant, given the timing and urgency of the message.”
“I agree.” I nod.
“Which bar was it again?” she asks.
“Diamond Lounge. Think it’s in town. The one on the river, with an outdoor terrace.”
She muses for a moment, squinting her eyes, staring at a corner of the room until a smile creeps onto her face.
“The good thing about this job is that you have friends in useful places,” she says, standing up. “Come on. Are you bringing that coffee with you?”
“Where are we going?”
“To watch what happened when Anton met his son a few hours before he was killed.”