mind and try as much as I might to ignore it, I don’t think I can. Cassie notices my change of mood and to her credit, doesn’t try to engage me in small talk as the taxi makes its way to her house. I hug her goodbye and sit back in my seat. As we continue the journey I have an idea.
“Driver? Can we please go back into town?”
“What?” he exclaims, “But I’ve just come from there?”
“I know. I need to get something.”
I give him the address for Chambers and rummage in the bottom of my bag to see if I still have my set of keys that will grant me access to the building. It doesn’t take us long to reach our new destination and I leap out of the cab, instructing the driver to wait for me.
Chambers is totally spooky at this time of night. It’s pitch black and every step on the stairs echoes up to the high ceiling. My mind plays tricks on me as I imagine shadowy figures appearing from every dark corner.
After what seems like an age I emerge onto the floor where my room is. I disable the alarm and creep towards my desk. The concept of being discovered is too terrible to contemplate. Not only am I a pariah, I’m dressed like a half-naked, fat, Lady Gaga. Keeping low, I close the door to my room and start to rummage through a box on my desk. As I expected, Roger has put the papers from the Hobbs trial there. I find my notebook from the first day of the trial and hide it under my coat before running out, back to the taxi.
I leap into the seat and shout, “Drive! Drive!” and to my confusion, the car remains parked outside Chambers. “What’s your problem?” I shriek at the driver.
He looks at me in panic through the rear view mirror. “You haven’t just robbed that place have you?”
Despite the situation, I laugh.
“No. I haven’t, plus you’re about to drop me home so you’ll know where I live.” Seemingly satisfied he pulls away and commences the journey to my house. When we arrive I throw a handful of notes at him and run to my front door. Sebastian must still be out with Ewan as the house is silent.
I go to the kitchen and pour myself a pint glass full of water then go into the dining room and settle myself at the table. My laptop is plugged in to its charger and the screensaver dances before my eyes. Eagerly, I open my notebook and flip through the pages until I find the one I’m looking for.
Bingo! In front of me is the list of names that I wrote down when the jury were being empanelled. One of these people is the man who I supposedly tried to bribe. I’ve tried so hard to remember it from the police interview, but I’ve totally drawn a blank. On the jury were seven women and five men. I grab a pencil and score through all of the females on my list.
It's a long shot, but I log in to Facebook and type the name of the first man, Doug Howard, in. There are about a thousand results for that name and I have no way of knowing if any of them are the juror. Half-heartedly I scan through the thumbnail photographs trying to see if any look familiar. I try the next name, and the next, and the next with similar results. The final name on my list is Clive Butler. My depression increases when again, I’m confronted with a seemingly endless list of people who have that name.
I walk back to the kitchen and grab a packet of cookies from the cupboard and return to my task. Perhaps I can narrow down the results somehow? Again I go through each of the names and try to filter them by location. Just as I’m about to give up, my heart stops. The photograph is small but clear. It’s him. His name is Stephen Walker. The police interview comes flooding back to me, yes, Stephen Walker.
I put down the half eaten biscuit and take a few deep breaths. With a shaking hand I click on his name and wait for his profile page to appear. I’m expecting that he has full privacy settings so I won’t be able to see any details, but I’m wrong. I have access to everything: his photographs, his messages and his personal