Chapter 27 Leila
Leila
To say this case is a baptism by fire would be an understatement. It’s partly because of Davina, who is relentless in getting the best outcome for her clients by whatever means necessary. But now I’m also a willing party to this method.
I’m justifying my actions by telling myself that in doing this, I’m representing Jack more fairly.
I mean, yes, if the Bar Standards Board found out what I’m doing I’d be hauled in front of a disciplinary panel and disbarred, but they won’t find out, and all I’ve really done is broken into the prosecutor’s office, looked at some confidential evidence, and potentially interfered with a witness.
Could have happened to anyone.
Diamond Lounge is one of those places where professional types go on a Friday night. The kind that plays non-distinct house music and everyone drinks either cool European beer out of bottles or cocktails out of fancy glasses, most of which have dry ice slithering out of them.
Davina leads the way. She marches in as if she owns the place, which, given her background and dealings, wouldn’t surprise me at all.
“Is Keany in?” she barks at a young man behind the bar, dressed in black.
“He’s out back. Who’s looking for him?”
“Tell him it’s his lawyer.”
The lad shuffles quickly out of the bar area and disappears for a minute or so.
“Do you know everyone?”
“I’m well connected,” she says. “I represented him about a year ago. Drugs possession. He works security.”
“I’m surprised he kept his job.”
“Where do you think he got the drugs from?”
Keany—a short, stocky fella with a buzz cut—comes out from a side door, looking terrified and shocked in equal measure.
“Davina? What you doin’ ’ere?”
“We need a favor. Can we have a word in private?”
“Err, yeah. Come through the back,” he grunts, ushering us down a dark staircase to a poky basement office with no windows or ventilation.
“Now listen, Keany. This is strictly on the nod. We don’t want you blabbing to people that we’ve been here. I assume you’ve had people in already looking at the CCTV in relation to Friday, September 6—would I be right?”
He nods, reluctantly, saying nothing.
Bloody Julian. He’s already seen what we’re looking for. He’s way ahead of us.
Keany searches for footage of that day; the cameras show different perspectives of the bar. I feel nervous, sick.
As the footage reaches 6 p.m., Keany allows it to play.
My eyes dart between the split screens, frantically searching for Anton or someone I know. Christ knows, I need something to put before a jury.
6:02 p.m. Nothing.
6:05 p.m. Nothing.
“Maybe he didn’t go?” I whisper.
“Give it time,” Davina says.
At 6:06 p.m., a broad man wearing a brown tweed jacket and chinos walks through the main door to the bar.
He doesn’t look like the other customers around that time, who are all young, trendy types.
His metallic silver hair is combed back away from his face.
It’s Anton. He orders a drink—looks like a Coke—and takes it to one of the tables near the window.
“There he is,” I say, pointing at the screen.
He looks anxious, distracted. Perching on the edge of a leather sofa, he fiddles with his hands and keeps leaning back, then forward. He can’t settle.
Just then, a young guy walks over to him—dressed in black, just like all the other lads who work there—and starts talking to him.
At first he seems to be making polite conversation, but after a minute or so, the young man sits down next to him.
Something about the way they talk to each other makes me think there’s more to it; it looks intense.
The young man lowers his head, and Anton places his hand on the young man’s back and speaks to him closely.
Davina and I look at each other, confused. This isn’t what I expected to see at all. I lean closer to the monitor to get a better look. The angle of the camera is such that I can’t see the young man’s face. The quality isn’t great.
“Who is it?” Davina asks.
“It’s Quinn,” Keany says, from behind us. We turn around to look at him.
“What?”
“Quinn Smythe? He worked here for a while,” he says casually.
“Quinn Smythe worked here?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he still work here?”
“Nah, he left to go to uni in September. I remember it because Quinn’s last shift was the night his dad died.
He’d been bangin’ on for weeks about movin’ to Cambridge and all the freshers parties he’d be at.
I think it was Cambridge. Might have been the other one.
I dunno. One of the posh ones with the boats.
Only worked ’ere over the summer. You know, had a rich family but had to get a ‘job’ to prove to Mummy he was independent. Bad what happened to his dad, though.”
“Yes,” I say, not taking my eyes off him. “What was he like when he worked here?”
“Typical posh lad. Confident, cocky. He was always crackin’ on with the lasses. That’s the only reason he liked workin’ ’ere, to be honest. Went very weird before he left, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“It must have been about a week before he left. He went…quiet. You know, jumpy.”
“Jumpy? In what way?”
“He looked like shit, for a start. Like he hadn’t been sleepin’. It was after a fella came in wanting to speak to him and he absolutely freaked out after. Started having a panic attack or something.”
“Did they have a fight?”
“Nah, nowt like that.” Keany laughs. “This fella walked in and had a quiet word with Quinn and he just lost it. This bloke was being dead calm but Quinn went proper weird after. He was nearly cryin,’ sayin’ he needed to take his break early. He wasn’t the same after that.”
“Was this the man he was talking to on that occasion?” Davina asks, pointing to Anton on the screen.
“No. Not him! Much younger. Longish, dark hair, tattoos, ripped.”
Davina and I glance at each other. As soon as we hear the description of this “mystery man,” it’s clear we’re both thinking the same thing. Davina gets her phone out and taps away before holding it up in front of Keany’s face.
“Is this the man you’re talking about?” she asks. It’s the mug shot from the night Jack was arrested.
Keany takes one look at the screen, before giving his answer immediately.
“Yeah, that’s him. Good-lookin’ fella.”
“Do you know what they were talking about?” I ask him. “Please, this is really important.”
“Sorry, no idea. But Quinn lost his mind over it, I know that much.”
I’ve only seen Quinn Smythe a handful of times. On each occasion, he’s given off a confident, privileged vibe, but the last few times I’ve seen him, at Jack’s court appearances, he’s looked gaunt, scared.
“What business would Jack have with Anton’s son a week before his death? It can’t be connected to Anton getting killed, can it? Surely a coincidence?” Davina whispers to me.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I tell her.