The Goldsworth Series Box Set

by Davie J Toothill

  “You’re welcome to come and visit us when you’ve grown up,” he said, turning from his brother. At the bedroom door, he turned and saw his brother smirking, as if proud to have fronted him and not been the one to back down.

  He reached for his phone as Clint went out into the hallway.

  “Close the door behind you,” Kojo called after him, no trace of remorse for the way he was acting, no interest in seeing Angel.

  Clint closed the door and sighed, his concerns about his brother confirmed. He knew that something was up with him, but he had no clue what it might be, or what he could do about it.

  * * *

  “Troy Banks killed Shaniqua Curtis,” Lindhurst said, addressing the jury and gesturing towards Troy. Troy glared at him from the dock, biting his tongue. “He stabbed her, left her to die, and boasted about the killing, both to his friends and family, and on a tape recording you heard yourselves played here yesterday.”

  The courtroom was full, more than Troy had seen it before. He caught sight of Tyrese and his mother. Hah, he thought. Tyrese had shown his face. He ought to be looking down in shame for what he had done, how he had betrayed him. His own brother. Aurora and her mother were there too, looking smug as always. Clint was nowhere to be seen, and neither were any of the others. Brandy, Amal, Tamar, Zoe. All too ashamed to turn up, Troy thought.

  “The question you have to answer, ladies and gentleman of the jury,” Lindhurst continued, his voice carrying easily around the room. “Is whether Troy Banks is guilty of the murder of Shaniqua Curtis. The answer is yes, he is guilty.”

  “We have heard from police detectives and forensic experts, who have confirmed that Troy’s fingerprints were on the same knife used to kill Shaniqua Curtis, which also contained her blood,” he went on. Troy stifled a yawn. It was all so tedious, he thought, listening to this. “We have heard from his friends who witnessed him stab Shaniqua Curtis. We have heard from his own brother, who told us that he confessed to the murder. We have heard from his former girlfriend. We have even heard it from Troy Banks himself, in the confession that was played yesterday.”

  Lindhurst cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said. “You have a chance to do a great service to the community, in finding Troy Banks guilty of this crime. The evidence and the witnesses all confirm that he is guilty. The truth does not lie.”

  Lindhurst thanked them and took his seat.

  Troy looked at the jury. He could see it in their eyes. They had made up their minds already.

  * * *

  Listening to Lindhurst delivering his closing statement, Aurora watched the jury’s faces, scrutinising each one in turn. She was hopeful. His words were powerful. The truth does not lie. That was a good line, she thought. She saw the impact it had on the jury. Some nodded in agreement, some remained impassive, but she hoped that they agreed silently.

  As Lindhurst took his seat, Aurora squeezed her mother’s hand. Marlena smiled at her, though she remained silent, her eyes brimming with tears. It was still hard for her, Aurora knew, to hear her daughter spoken of in the past tense, to know that whatever happened next hinged on twelve strangers and their decision.

  Aurora forced herself to stay strong. For her mother, and for Shaniqua.

  Justice would be done, she was sure of it.

  * * *

  In his cell, Dante could not relax. He paced the small space beside the bunk beds, drumming his fingers on his thighs. Thoughts raced through his mind. What if Wimbly failed to deliver? What would he do about it?

  He wondered if he was prepared to hurt an officer, risk the possible repercussions if he did. For all his bravado, he had counted on the fact that Wimbly would be scared of him, but if his nerves won out, Dante knew he would have to make a decision, would have to re-evaluate everything.

  He turned at the sound of footsteps at the door to his cell and sighed with relief. Wimbly shuffled in, glancing over his shoulder nervously. He undid a few buttons on his shirt, his hands visibly trembling, and slid out several plastic bags of powder that he had taped to his stomach, dropping them onto the bed.

  Dante smiled as he looked down at them. It was plenty to be getting on with for now, and he knew that Wimbly would not be able to back out of their deal, not now he had delivered for him once.

  Wimbly did back up his buttons and stood for a moment, looking down at the baggies, a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. He was ashamed of what he was doing, Dante could tell. That made no difference, he reasoned. Plenty of people did things they weren’t proud of, and it didn’t stop them doing it.

  “You’ve done well,” Dante said, smiling. He looked Wimbly in the eye, enjoying the officer’s discomfort. “Let’s say same time, same amount next week.”

  Wimbly opened his mouth, as if to protest, but Dante raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to disagree. Wimbly shut his mouth and nodded at the floor.

  “Off you trot then,” Dante dismissed him.

  Wimbly left the cell, and Dante quickly hid the drugs, sliding them inside his mattress, through a small cut he had made for just this purpose. He would have to find a better hiding place, he knew, but for now he just wanted to bask in his success.

  He tipped a few lines out of the last baggie before sliding it inside with the others. He deserved a reward, he decided. He put a finger to his nose, blocking one nostril and snorted the powder. His eyes watered and he smacked his lips. This was some good gear. He would make a killing in here with this.

  He sniffed, checking he had left no powder on his mattress, and considered helping himself to a few more lines. Troy would not be back for hours, and he had a lot to celebrate. Unable to help himself, Dante retrieved the baggie and snorted some more.

  His plan was coming together, he realised, as put his finger to his nose again. He was going to rise fast to the top now and nothing would be able to stop him.

  * * *

  “This trial is not about whether Troy Banks is a good person,” Khan said, giving her closing statement, focused on the jury. Troy watched her, trying not to be offended by her words. “Whether he has been a bad boyfriend, or friend, or brother, is not what you have to consider now. If he took drugs and drank too much, that is not what he is on trial for, ladies and gentlemen.”

  She gestured towards him, and Troy felt the jury’s eyes flicker to him, then back to Khan.

  “We have heard plenty of testimony from disgruntled former friends and associates,” she pressed on, “And we only have their word that what they say happened is the truth. Many of those witnesses bear grudges against Troy Banks, and did not step forward with any information until after he was arrested.”

  Troy thought of his friends, how they had waited until he was down before they kicked him, betrayed him. It was an insult, and he was glad Khan was bringing it up.

  “The only physical evidence is the murder weapon, that happened to have Troy Banks’ finger prints on,” Khan said. She shook her head, wagging her finger. “But his weren’t the only prints. Brandine Mason, his ex-girlfriend’s, prints were on the knife too. She had motive for the murder and she had the murder weapon in her possession. She did not step forward with any information until Troy Banks had already been wrongfully arrested. Let me ask you, do those sound like the actions of an innocent person?”

  Troy clenched his fists at his side, thinking of Brandy.

  The jury seemed conflicted, he thought. Some looked disbelieving, others intrigued but not convinced. It was hard to read their expressions. He sat up a little straighter, motivated now by Khan’s words, eager for her to convince them further.

  “In order to find Troy Banks guilty of murder,” Khan said, “you have to be convinced beyond any reasonable doubt, that he is guilty of stabbing Shaniqua Curtis. You have to be convinced beyond any reasonable doubt that Brandine Mason could not have killed her, even though she had more motive and she had the murder weapon in her possession.”

  The courtroom fell silent, hard
ly anyone daring to breath, it seemed.

  “Troy Banks is guilty of many things,” Khan admitted, with a perfectly timed shrug and a gesture to the dock. “He was a bad boyfriend, a bad friend, and he has made mistakes. But he is not, ladies and gentlemen, guilty of murder.”

  * * *

  Dante was still feeling the buzz from the gear and his victory as he left his cell and headed for the canteen. He had made sure that the baggies were well hidden in case Troy arrived back to the cell before him, and yet he still felt anxious.

  He tried to reassure himself as he joined the queue for dinner. He had nothing to worry about. Troy was not worth worrying about, Dante told himself. His cellmate had proved that he was not cut out for this life, and even if by some chance he did find the drugs, he would just bitch and cry. He would not take him on, Dante was in no doubt about that.

  Troy could still cause some problems though, and Dante had spent the afternoon wondering if perhaps it would be easier for him if Troy was found not guilty. Dante had based his plans on the fact that Tyrese would continue to use Wimbly to smuggle drugs onto the block, and for that he relied on the fact that Troy would remain locked up, but the more Dante had thought on it, the more he questioned whether there was another way.

  If he found Troy to be an unreliable nuisance, then perhaps the Banks brothers felt the same way. If Troy did get out, Dante could make a deal with them, reach out and offer them a cut of the profits until he had found a way to cut them out of the business for good.

  For now, he needed to know what he was dealing with, how the business operated beyond the walls of the prison. He knew that he needed Wimbly, and he was as reluctant to rely on him as he knew Wimbly would be. Tough, he thought, it was necessary. Dante needed to know who Wimbly picked the drugs up from, and whether this link in the chain was loyal to the Banks brothers or if there was the possibility of striking up a new deal, one that did not involve Troy or his brothers.

  It was an exciting prospect, Dante thought, as the queue for dinner shuffled along slowly. He picked up a tray, his eyes scanning the canteen. Perhaps, when he expanded his business, he would need to recruit a few of these men to help him out.

  At the door, a new face walked into the canteen. A few men looked him over, and a few muttered to each other. Dante froze, his eyes on the figure as he walked across the room to join the queue.

  He knew him at once. He had seen his picture plastered all over the news. He could only hope that the man would not recognise him or who he was, how they were connected.

  Nathaniel Okoro’s eyes fixed on his and Dante saw recognition pass across his face. Dante quickly looked away, willing himself to stay calm.

  The arrival would not change anything, he tried to convince himself. It made no difference. Nathaniel was probably not interested in him, he hoped.

  He reached the trays of food, but his appetite had vanished. He wondered if Nathaniel knew that he had stolen from his brother Uncle Jasper. Perhaps in Jasper’s final moments he had revealed all, just before Nathaniel had ended in his life.

  That was the least of it, though, Dante thought, knowing that he was a dead man if Nathaniel knew that Dante had been threatening his daughter, that he had been harassing her since he had been locked up.

  If Nathaniel knew what he had been doing to Charley, then Dante did not want to think about the punishment that would be dealt to him. The man had killed his own brother in cold blood, so Dante knew that he would not stand a hope.

  He discarded his tray and left the canteen, swallowing hard, feeling Nathaniel’s eyes on his back as he went.

  * * *

  “We have heard closing statements from both the prosecution and the defence,” the judge said, all eyes in the courtroom on him, including Troy’s, despite himself. This was it, he thought. It was almost over. The judge turned to the jury. “You will now enter into deliberation and review the evidence and testimony we have heard over the last few weeks. It will be your job and your duty to reach a verdict as to whether Troy Banks is guilty or not guilty of the murder of Shaniqua Curtis.”

  Troy looked at the jury. Their faces were solemn. They were taking this so seriously, he thought, as if they were better than him, better than everyone else. He hoped they did the right thing and found him not guilty.

  The judge dismissed the jury and they rose, filing out of the courtroom in single-file, some walking confidently, shoulders back, others looking anxious, their hands clutched in front of them.

  It was down to them, Troy thought, to set him free.

  He hoped they would.

  The judge adjourned the court to await the jury’s verdict, and Troy looked around, saw anxious faces, relieved faces. It was over and there was no more anyone left in the courtroom could do to change a thing.

  He looked at Khan, his defence lawyer, and saw she looked relieved now. Was she glad that she no longer had to defend him? Or was she relieved because she thought that she had succeeded, convinced the jury that he was not guilty?

  He hoped it was the latter.

  The officer at his side nudged him and Troy was reminded that whilst the trial might be all but over, his prison sentence was not. He still had to go back to the cell, to Dante.

  He shot a last glance at Khan, hoping that she had done enough. He was at least more positive now than he had been before, he thought. She had dismissed the testimony, the evidence, even the recording.

  As he was led out of the courtroom, Troy realised he at least stood a chance.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Clint smelt fried breakfast, heard voices coming from the kitchen, and climbed out of bed and pulled on a dressing gown. He could hear Marlena’s voice over the sizzling of oil in the pan as he approached the kitchen door.

  “You were downright rude to him last night and you know it,” she was saying, and Clint imagined her arms-crossed against her chest, eyes flaring as her lips pursed. “Whatever problems you’re having, you need to talk to him. Ignoring them won’t help matters.”

  “Mum, I don’t want to talk to him,” Aurora’s voice replied, and Clint froze on the threshold of the kitchen. Marlena started up again, but Aurora cut across her. “I don’t want to talk things out, I don’t want anything to do with him. You hated him before, why can’t you understand that?”

  “I hated him for what he did to Shaniqua,” Marlena said. “But he didn’t kill her, Aurora. He couldn’t have saved her. He did the right thing, he testified.”

  “How do you know he couldn’t have saved her?” Aurora snapped back. “If he’d had the guts to stand up to Troy he could have stopped it. Even if he didn’t, he could have called an ambulance. Maybe then -” She trailed off, leaving the rest of her thoughts unspoken.

  She did not have to finish. Clint knew what she was thinking. He had thought the same thing himself, over and over on replay, since the night Shaniqua had died. If he had done something more, maybe Aurora’s sister would still be alive. Maybe she would be in the kitchen, chatting away, cooing over her niece. As it was, Clint had done nothing, and Shaniqua would never see her niece, and Clint could not blame Aurora for her thoughts, though he wished that he could do something to change them.

  “You can’t go on like this forever,” Marlena said, breaking through his thoughts, addressing Aurora. “If you don’t want to be with him, you have to tell him.”

  Clint’s heart pounded harder at the thought, awaiting Aurora’s response. She said nothing, and long moments of silence passed. The clatter of pans and plates sounded, and Clint cleared his throat loudly before he pushed the door open and went into the kitchen.

  If Aurora felt bad for speaking about him, she did not show him, her back to him as she tipped bacon onto a plate.

  “Smells good,” Clint said, trying to lighten the mood. Marlena smiled from the kitchen table, knife and fork in hand as she speared a sausage.

  “I wasn’t sure when you’d be up,” Aurora said, half-turning. “There’s a few bits of bacon left if you want to
make a sandwich.”

  She went to the table, plate in hand, and began eating without another word. Clint scraped the charred remainders of bacon between two slices of bread and joined them at the table.

  “How was last night?” Marlena asked him, after a few minutes of awkward silence had passed. “Was it nice to see your mates again?”

  Clint opened his mouth to speak when Angel’s cries from the other room sounded. Aurora’s chair scraped on the floor as she stood.

  “I can do it,” Clint offered, but she waved him off.

  “You’ve done enough,” she said briskly, sweeping from the room, the door closing behind her. Clint dropped his sandwich back onto his plate, appetite gone.

  “Don’t worry,” Marlena said, “She’s just going through some things.”

  Clint nodded, mouth dry, unable to speak. He knew exactly what Aurora was going through, and he knew that she was too nice, too kind to ever be able to tell him, especially when they had a daughter together.

  He knew what he had to do.

  * * *

  Troy rolled over onto his side, staring blankly at the wall. The thin mattress was unyielding beneath him, his ribs aching, but he made no effort to move. He heard Dante stirring but ignored him. When he had returned from court, Troy had sensed that something was off with his cellmate and they had barely spoken. It suited Troy fine, he thought, unable to stop his mind from turning over each day of his trial, weighing up what the jury might have made of it all. His fate rested in the hands of strangers and it made him anxious, uncomfortable. He knew he should not dwell on what they might be discussing, even now, but he could not help himself.

  Dante’s legs appeared as he swung himself off the top bunk. Troy continued to stare at the wall, blocking out the sound as Dante went to the toilet. When he flushed, Dante did not climb back up to his bunk.

  “What’s got you so quiet?” Dante asked, leaning against the wall, stretching out his legs.

  Troy turned to look at him, wondering whether he should tell him what was on his mind. Perhaps it would be better to share it, he decided. Dante nodded as he told him about the closing arguments, that the verdict was now in the jury’s hands.