Читать книгу BETRAYED - Jacqui Rose, Jacqui Rose - Страница 14

Julian Millwood felt like his face was about to explode. The throbbing ache not only encompassed his jaw but the whole of his body. He’d gnawed on the inside of his mouth, tasting his own blood. His lip felt like it’d swollen to twice its normal size. Goddamn tooth. He knew he should really go to the dentist but he hated them. To him, they were on a par with coppers.

With the curtains closed, he lit up a cigarette, exposing the gloom of the room and trying to ignore the pain now making its way up into his ear.

The thick grime in the bedsit was evident. Piles of old magazines and newspaper clippings were strewn across the floor and the tatty blue Dralon chair was full of papers dating as far back as three years ago.

The kitchen surfaces were covered in stinking takeaway cartons and the sink was full of dishes with the food so solidified on them it probably wasn’t worth attempting to clean them. Julian groaned heavily. It was cleaner in the frigging nick, and that was saying something.

His time in prison had been a nightmare. It’d been the first time he’d served a long stretch but he knew it could’ve been worse, far worse, and with time off for good behaviour he’d only had to serve half of what the bitter man-hating female judge had given him. A result.

He’d asked his uncle to look after the place whilst he’d been inside, expecting when he came back out to at least see the stained sheets changed and the milk he’d poured on the cereal on the morning of his arrest to be thrown out. It hadn’t. Everything was just the same, only with a more putrid smell.

It was as if his uncle had been keeping the place as some sort of shrine for his return, although Julian knew it was only because his uncle was a fat lazy bastard and as long as there was a free roof over his head, the man didn’t care what condition the place was in.

Not that he was much better; he’d lived here for the past ten years and in all that time he’d probably bothered to clean it once, when his girlfriend had visited him. He hadn’t dated her long, probably no longer than a month or so. He hadn’t actually liked her. It was what had come with her that he’d liked.

But it’d all gone tits up when she’d come round for a surprise visit. She’d found some pictures and had quickly gone and rounded up her father and brothers, who’d given him the battering of his life.

He supposed it’d been his own fault. He shouldn’t have left out things he didn’t want prying eyes to see. And he’d known she was a nosy cow after he’d found her going through his mobile phone for text messages from other women. When he’d caught her she’d looked mortified, blabbing an apology, but he’d immediately laughed, knowing she couldn’t have been further from the truth if she’d tried.

Touching his swollen mouth, Julian looked around again. He detested the flat. The estate. The area. But like a moth round a flame he was drawn back time and time again. He’d once tried to move away, but he’d only lasted a month. He hadn’t known anyone and all he’d really done was swap one shithole of a place for another. At least this was an area he knew; he’d grown up here and he supposed it was what he was used to – and Julian Millwood was certainly a creature of habit.

Trying to light up another cigarette, Julian cursed as his lighter, running out of gas, gave out only a small spark. Remembering he had another one in his pocket, Julian put his hand inside his jacket and smiled when, along with the lighter, he pulled out a pink pair of little girl’s knickers.

Alan Day was proud of his work. In fact he was very proud. He was one of the best at what he did. He was the defence. The barrister people loved to hate. The man who let the guilty walk. And Alan Day had been in the job long enough to know that the majority of defendants who walked into his mahogany and leather trimmed office were just that. Guilty. Violent partners, rapists, child killers, paedophiles – at one time or another he’d got them all off.

Domestic violence was the easiest. Money for old rope. Take last week – he’d managed to successfully get the perpetrator off even though the man’s own children had given evidence against him. But juries were hesitant to convict. They couldn’t understand why women stayed. Why women couldn’t seek the help they needed. Didn’t understand and wouldn’t understand, which played beautifully into his hands. All he needed to do was get the woman on the stand and make out she was either neurotic or embittered, and the jury would be happy to go along with it – and Alan was happy to be paid handsomely.

Rapists were nearly as easy to get off. Make out the woman hadn’t really said no, just regretted it the next day. Had drunk too much; no one liked a lush. There were all sorts of defence strategies and again, all he needed to do was put a doubt, however small, into the jury’s mind.

Paedophiles and child killers were harder to get off. The jury, especially the women, went gooey-eyed at a picture of a child. But then Alan did always like a challenge, and never did a malt whisky taste as good as when he managed to get the indefensible to walk free.

Leaning back in his chair, dressed in his tailor-made navy pinstriped suit, Alan lit a cigar.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. His secretary put her head round the door. She was new and keen. Two qualities Alan Day liked. He felt the first stirrings of an erection. Give it a couple of weeks, she’d be begging for it. They always were.

‘Mr Day. There’s a visitor for you. I told him he’d have to make an appointment but he wouldn’t go. I’m not sure quite what to do.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Julian. Mr Julian Millwood.’

For the first time in years, Alan Day felt nervous.