Chapter 40 Leila
Leila
The last place I expected to be the Friday night before my first (and probably last) murder trial is Chester’s house.
He resides in a small village just outside Durham, the kind of place King’s Counsel live with their young wives who have nothing better to do than tart the house up and post pictures of it.
Many boozy summer evenings have been spent in Chester’s “garden” with the rest of chambers. He holds an annual Easter drinks do and the entire house—a three-hundred-year-old detached cottage set against the backdrop of many acres of land—looks spectacular.
I check my face in the mirror before going in. All the crying has smudged my mascara. I look like something out of a slasher film.
“Lei!” he gasps, opening the front door. “Come in. Let me get you a bloody drink.”
Ushering me through to the open-plan and newly renovated kitchen at the back of the house, he sprints to the fridge and drags out a bottle of white wine.
Scanning my surroundings, I see just how much of an influence Demi has had on the place since I was last here a year ago.
This isn’t Chester’s vibe at all. It’s stark and sterile—bright white walls and monochrome styling.
Heavy plops of rain begin thudding down on the skylights we’re standing under before the heavens open.
It sounds as if it’s about to come through the roof.
“Have some of this, and tell me what’s happened,” he says, pouring wine into the biggest glass I’ve ever seen.
“I can’t, I’m driving.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get you a taxi. Or Demi will drive you.”
“Yes, I guess she’s not drinking for the foreseeable future.”
He looks at me through a classic side-eye, handing the glass over to me.
“Is it yours?” I ask bluntly.
“I’ve no way of knowing for sure. I don’t have any proof it’s not.”
“Maybe you don’t want to find any.”
“Maybe.” He nods. “She said she waited so long to tell me because she didn’t know if I’d be angry about it.”
“Really?” I say, walking over to a gallery wall of photographs. Each one is carefully placed and set within a thick, black frame. They’re mainly of Chester and Demi: their wedding, them skiing, on a beach, on city breaks. Each one, a snapshot of their very childless life.
At the top, there’s a photo of Chester standing with a young woman with jet-black hair cut into a sharp shoulder-length bob. Her facial features are defined: catlike eyes and a plump mouth painted red. She wears a floor-length emerald-green dress, and Chester smiles with his arm around her.
“Do you ever see her? Elise?” I ask. I hear his footsteps on the floor as he walks and stands just behind me, close enough that I can smell the scent he’s wearing.
“No.”
“Don’t you think she’d want to know she’s about to get a baby brother or sister?”
“I think that ship has sailed, Lei,” he replies, gently brushing his hand onto the back of my waist, ushering me to the sofa that faces enormous bi-folding doors leading out to the garden.
“Where is your radiant wife?” I inquire. “I haven’t yet had a chance to congratulate her.”
“She’s out. Went to the cinema with a friend. She should be back soon,” he says, glancing at the clock. “Aren’t you going to tell me why you’re here?”
“Chester, I can’t do this.”
“What?”
“This case. I’m in way over my head.”
“Is that it?” he spurts out. “Leila, you’re probably the most talented junior advocate who isn’t yet a silk on our circuit.”
“You’re just saying that because—”
“Because what?” he interrupts. “Because you think I fancy you?”
We both burst out laughing. I love his directness; it helps clear the air. We clink glasses, maintaining eye contact as we take a drink.
“He doesn’t believe in me, you know. Julian. He thinks this is a clear run for him.”
“Of course he does. That’s what he’s like. Arrogant bastard.”
“Perhaps he’s right.”
“Look, I’ve prosecuted and defended countless murder trials.
And, let me tell you, most of them aren’t won on the evidence.
They’re won on likability and engagement.
How you connect with the jury, how you present the case—you know all this.
I’ve seen you in court. You’re mesmerizing.
Your strength is that people like you, they relate to you.
He doesn’t have that. He’s got an attitude, and a jury will see through it. ”
“He’s more experienced than me.”
“So what? Let him underestimate you. That means nothing when you’re as good as you are. You just need to believe it.”
“Do you really think so?” I whisper, placing a friendly hand on his arm. He goes to say something, but it’s interrupted by the sound of keys rattling in the front door, followed by a slam.
Demi is back.
I instinctively shuffle farther away from Chester on the sofa. I don’t know why—it’s not as if I was doing anything wrong.
“Oh! Hi, Leila!” she says, stopping momentarily in the doorway to the kitchen.
I can tell, immediately, that she does not want me here.
The last time I saw her was when she grilled me over the Latin card for Chester’s birthday, and I wonder, briefly, whether Julian has ever seen that side of her.
She removes her winter coat and glides her hands over a small, neat baby bump swathed in a virginal white chunky knit.
“I didn’t realize that was your car on the drive. ”
“Yes, sorry, I just popped over to speak to Chester.”
“I hope everything is all right?” she asks, staring at the state of my face.
“It’s just quite intense at the moment, what with the trial starting on Monday.”
“Yes, I can imagine.” She nods, attempting empathy.
“Congratulations on the baby! What marvelous news! You must be thrilled.”
“Yes, I’m very excited!” she replies, gazing down at her unborn child. “Do you both mind if I make myself a sandwich? I’m starving and, well, baby needs food!”
“Go ahead, darling,” Chester replies, as I excuse myself to fix up my face.
Walking through the house to the loo, I’m reminded of just how much money these two have. It’s ridiculous. As I pass the hallway window, something catches my eye. Something that wasn’t on the drive when I came in.
A red Mini.
I think back to the night someone attempted to break into our house and how, minutes later, a red Mini whizzed down the road. I’m right about this. I know I am. I’ve got Chester on my side, and now I need to get what I really came for, because I sure as hell didn’t come here for comforting words.
Spending a few minutes longer in the toilet than I would have done, I sit, thinking.
I need to get under Demi’s skin.
One thing about her is she needs to portray herself as being the friendly, sweet type in front of her husband. She learned quickly that he’s only prepared to finance her lifestyle if she plays a certain role.
She’s an actress.
Let’s see how she performs under pressure.
They’re sitting together on the sofa when I walk back into the dining room. I can tell they’re talking about me because the room is full of whispers.
“Sorry for hijacking your evening like this,” I say quietly.
“Please don’t apologize,” Demi says, curling her feet up onto the sofa and elegantly taking a bite from a chicken salad sandwich (on wholegrain bread, naturally). Her phone sits on the armrest next to her. “I can’t imagine the pressure you’re under.”
“Look, if I tell you both something, can you please promise you won’t tell Julian?”
“Yes, of course.” They both nod.
“I’ve been receiving threats. Varying in severity, but enough to be classed as criminal activity,” I tell them, beginning to cry.
“Jesus Christ!” Chester says. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I’ve been trying to be professional, run this trial, do all my other work,” I sob, as big tears run down my face. “It’s all got too much!”
“Where have these threats come from? Do you have them on record?”
“Yes, they’re on Instagram. I’ll show you,” I reply, picking up my handbag and rummaging through it. After a few seconds, I roll my eyes to the ceiling, pretend to take a steadying breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was at my mother-in-law’s house before I came here. I was so busy sorting her out that I’ve left my phone there.”
“I want to see them,” Chester says. “Can’t you email them to me? I don’t know how bloody Instagram works.”
Of course he doesn’t. Chester wouldn’t understand an app if it hit him in the face.
“No.” I laugh tearily. “You can only log in to your account on a phone that also has the app.”
“Well, Demi’s on there. Darling, give her your phone so she can show me these threats.”
Her body stiffens; I watch it happen. She’s mid-chew with her food and does that thing where you wind your hand around a few times to let it be known you’re about to say something. But it’s obvious what’s happening—she’s stalling.
“Is now the best time to do it? Late on a Friday night? You can see how upset she is, Chester.”
“I’m not having one of my barristers being threatened and worrying about it the weekend before the biggest trial of her life.”
Picking her phone up, she activates it with the face recognition feature and fiddles about with something for an excessively long time before handing it to me.
“Thanks.” I smile. “Won’t be a minute.”
The phone is unlocked and completely open. Chester starts banging on about something I’m not listening to. It’s just noise, meaningless conversation, a necessary soundtrack to this scene she will remember—and regret—for years to come.
I sit, casually, in the armchair under the skylight, as Demi stands up and walks to the kitchen island, trying to look interested in what Chester is saying, but it’s pointless. She’s handed her power over to me. I can imagine what must be going through her head. How did she get me to do this?
This is the first trick of cross-examination: you have something I need, and I’m going to make sure you give it to me.
She has already logged out of her Instagram account, likely fearful I’d go snooping in her messages. Wise move.
Unfortunately for her, she hasn’t clocked that another powerful cross-examination technique is misdirection. People will fiercely protect something when you place a great deal of importance on it, leaving the jewel you really came for vulnerable.
Without any resistance whatsoever, I tap on the green WhatsApp icon, which opens her chats. There are eight listed, none I care about and none of which I came for. Pulling the screen down, I see archived chats and tap on that.
There it is. Just as I expected.
A chat with just a phone number, no name.
The profile picture is nothing, just a shadow. The chat preview reads:
Fine. I’ll do it myself if I have to.
The two small, blue ticks on the left-hand side indicate it was a message sent by her and was read on January 8, two days ago.
Tapping on the conversation to open it, I look up to see Demi talking to Chester, but not fully giving him her attention. She keeps glancing over; her eyes tell me she’s on edge. There’s something on this phone she doesn’t want me to see. And I’m pretty sure I’ve found it.
I don’t know what you want me to do about this.
Demi: Maybe be a man and face up to your responsibility?
Hardly in a position to do that. You’re aware of my situation. What the hell do you expect me to do?
Demi: How can you turn around and be like this after everything? Did it mean nothing to you? Because it did to me.
Don’t be dramatic. We had a good time but it can’t continue. How do you expect me to be a father now? It’s impossible and not something I want anyway.
Demi: How can you be so cold? Maybe people should know what the real you is like.
Don’t do anything stupid, Demi. This is my life.
Demi: Fine. I’ll do it myself if I have to.
My eyes flick between Demi and the phone screen, which not only reveals evidence of her infidelity, but also the fact that Chester is not the father of her unborn child. I could end their marriage here and now if I wanted.
But I don’t.
Coming out of the app and closing everything down, I smile at her before handing the phone back.
“Thanks so much,” I say. “I can’t for the life of me remember my password. Must be the stress. I think I’m going to go home. I’m tired and need to get some rest before Monday.”
“Are you sure, Leila?” Chester asks, standing up and guiding me to the door. “I want you to send me a copy of those threats as soon as you get home.”
“I will. Thank you…both.”
This is it. What I’ve been searching for all along. Who’d have thought the last missing piece of the puzzle—the thing that would get me out of this whole mess—would have landed in my lap so easily, in this way, here and now. I almost have to stop myself from laughing.
I was right about one thing: no plot twists here. The answer was in front of me. I just needed to find it.