Dave responded in monosyllables, Yes, No, Yes. It was like pulling teeth and Dan wondered if it was Dave who had sold details of their family life to the newspaper back in the summer.
Then the prosecution barrister got to her feet and Dave visibly paled. She’s going to make mincemeat out of him, thought Dan.
“It would appear that the box of cocaine found in Mr Grigson’s car had been stored at the amusement arcade for a couple of days before he drove off with it,” she stated matter-of-factly. “As one of the employees there, did you not think to look inside the box? Did you not think that maybe it was a delivery of key-rings or toys or some other such item that you offered as prizes?”
Dave gave an unconvincing answer about not being authorised to open boxes, which Dan knew to be complete bullshit. He’s covering his arse, thought Dan. But it was Dan himself who was turning red and squirming in his seat as if he was the one in the witness stand. How would he answer the barrister’s questions if it was him up there? He was the one who had taken delivery of the box. He had seen the two Geordies unloading similar boxes on what turned out to be Max’s yacht earlier that morning and when they brought the box into the arcade he had taken it and stowed it under the counter, preferring not to ask any awkward questions. Was he, therefore, guilty too? Should he have refused to take the box, made up some story about only accepting deliveries that had to be signed for? Was it his fault that his dad was now standing trial and facing a prison sentence? Suddenly his mouth was dry and the courtroom felt claustrophobic. Dan wanted to get up and leave, but that was impossible.
Whether Dave had suspected the contents of the box or not was neither here nor there. His performance as a witness had been lacklustre and hadn’t done Ryan any favours. As he stepped down from the witness stand Dan glanced across at the middle-aged woman whose face was a barometer of Ryan’s likely fate at the hands of the jury. From her knitted brow and downturned mouth Dan understood all too clearly that storm clouds were gathering.
Dan had had enough. Various other witnesses were called but he started to lose track of the arguments being batted backwards and forwards. He had the impression that the barristers were playing games. One of them would ask a question and the other would leap to their feet with an, “Objection, your Honour.” They would then raise some point of order about why the question should be disallowed and the judge would say, “Objection upheld” or “Objection overruled.” The prosecution barrister raised a tonne of objections, jumping up every two minutes like a jack-in-the-box. Dan started to find the whole thing tedious in the extreme.
It was a relief when the judge finally rapped his hammer on the desk in front of him and said that the court would adjourn for lunch. The tension of the morning broke as people rose to their feet, chatted with their neighbours and headed outside to check their phones. Dan stood and stretched, glancing up at the public gallery. At the back of the gallery, near the door, was a bloke in motorbike leathers. He was carrying a black helmet under one arm.
What the hell? Had he been sitting there the whole time? And who was he anyway?
Dan was determined to find out. He needed to get out of the court, but his mother and Baker-Howard were blocking his path, seemingly in no hurry to move. He turned to go the other way but various court officials were blocking the other end of the row. For a moment he considered vaulting over the back of the benches but realised that would draw too much attention to himself. With a muttered excuse me he pushed past Baker-Howard and his mother and ran back to the lobby. All the court rooms were emptying at the same time and the lobby was rapidly filling up with people, some of them looking cross, some of them in tears. He looked up the stairs that led to the upper galleries, but the biker was nowhere to be seen. The guy must have left in a hurry and was probably already outside. Dan pushed his way to the doors and ran down the steps. He was just in time to see a Harley-Davidson motorbike roaring away from the court.
~~~
Rose sat in the train, staring out of the grimy window as the old diesel engine hauled the carriages across miles of flat countryside, occasionally stopping at small rural train stations with names she’d never heard of. Her copy of The Great Gatsby lay closed in her lap. Andrea had hinted strongly at the breakfast table that a train journey was the perfect opportunity to read a book and indeed Rose had left home that morning fully intending to immerse herself in the life of 1920’s America, but just hadn’t been able to get past the first few pages. She would have liked to blame her inability to focus on the family sitting across the aisle whose two young boys were intent on shooting each other with toy pistols, but really her mind was on Dan. She checked her watch. His dad’s trial would have started by now.
“Bang!” The older of the two boys jumped to his feet, wielding the toy weapon as if it were a Kalashnikov. The weary-looking mother told him for the hundredth time to sit down. The train lurched to one side, the kid lost his balance and banged his head on the hard plastic edge of Rose’s seat.
“What did I tell you?” snapped the mother, dragging him back into his own seat. “Now sit still or there won’t be any ice-cream.” The boy stated to wail. Rose wished she’d brought some headphones. She put the book back into her bag, admitting defeat, and took out her phone. She could text Dan, but he’d probably have his phone off in the courtroom. No point asking how things were going right now. It wasn’t likely to be good news.
It was a relief when the train pulled into York station and she was able to escape the gun-toting kids. She jumped onto the platform, scattering a group of pigeons feasting on the remains of a half-eaten burger. They flapped into the arching iron girders of the Victorian roof as Rose ran up the steps of the footbridge and headed towards the exit.
Outside, a gusty wind tugged at her hair, blowing dried autumn leaves across her path. She crossed the road and followed the old city walls towards the bridge over the river. The shop windows in the narrow medieval streets were festively stocked with Christmas ornaments: candles and baubles, dancing snowmen and mechanical reindeer with flashing noses. Mouth-watering mountains of chocolates were on display in the many confectioners and the aroma of hot chocolate mingled with the spice of cinnamon and the tang of mulled wine. Rose tossed a couple of coins into the open guitar case of a busker outside the Minster who was giving a lyrical performance of Scarborough Fair. It was so much more relaxing coming to York without her mother at the wheel of the car, cursing the SatNav for getting them lost.
Rose rang the bell of the little Georgian house that nestled in the shadow of the great cathedral. David opened the door wearing a navy-and-white striped apron over his pale pink shirt and beige chinos.
“Come in, my dear,” he said, kissing her on the cheek and standing aside to let her through. Rose stepped into the house and was welcomed by the smell of fresh baking. “I’ll put the kettle on. Did you have a good journey?”
“Yes, thanks.” She followed him through to the open-plan kitchen-dining room at the back of the house. The winter sun shining through the skylight lit up the abstract paintings, bringing their vibrant colours to life.
“Can I offer you a slice of lemon drizzle cake?” asked David. “I made it this morning.”
“Ooh, yes please.” Rose settled herself on the sofa and David put a plate with a generous portion of lemon drizzle cake in front of her and poured two cups of jasmine tea.
“So how’s your mother?” he asked.
“Oh, you know,” said Rose. “Like mothers always are. Worrying too much about me.”
David laughed. Despite the age difference between them, Rose always felt as if she was talking to someone much younger.
“And what about school?” he asked. “Have you settled in?”
“Yes,” said Rose, brightly. She refused to think about Scarlett today.
“Excellent,” said David. “Now then, let’s find these films you’ve come to see.” He picked up a padded envelope off the coffee table and removed a DVD which he slotted into the DVD player. “
There are lots of short clips,” he explained, picking up the remote control and pressing the play button. Rose settled back with her lemon drizzle cake to watch the film.
The shots were in black and white, silent and rather fuzzy by today’s standards, but not at all bad considering they were over ninety years old and video making had still been in its infancy. In the first few clips Rose recognised the sea-front in Scarborough and the Grand Hotel dominating the skyline. The straight lines of the Futurist cinema made it look startlingly modern next to the ornate Victorian architecture of the hotel. There were no amusement arcades or shops selling inflatable dolphins. But it was the people that held the greatest fascination for Rose. In one clip crowds of people were strolling along the Esplanade. The men were all wearing three-piece suits and hats, bowlers or trilbies, occasionally even a top hat. The women’s clothes were so fancy, most of them looked like they were dressed for a wedding. Silk dresses trimmed with tassels on the hems and sleeves; coats adorned with feather boas; even the odd fox fur on some of the older women. Like the men, the women all wore hats, wide-brimmed and decorated with feathers, or tighter fitting cloche hats low over their brows that gave them a certain mystique. Some of them carried parasols. The camera focused in on a slim, young woman leaning against the railings of the promenade. She turned to face the camera and smiled.
“That’s her,” said David. “That’s Lilian, my mother.”
Rose leaned forward to get a closer look. There was no mistaking that face. From the one photograph that Rose had of Lilian’s mother, Mary, taken on the promenade in 1899, Rose recognised the determined set of the mouth and the eyes. But there was something softer about Lilian. She looked more vulnerable.
Then there was a short clip taken in Peasholm Park on what looked like a cold winter’s day. Rose recognised the Oriental bridge and the island in the lake with the pagoda on the top. Lilian was wearing a warm coat and smiling shyly from underneath the brim of her hat that was pulled down low. Seeing Peasholm Park reminded Rose of the day her grandmother had been taken ill when they’d gone to watch the naval display. A crumb of cake went down her throat the wrong way and she had to drink some of the jasmine tea so as not to choke.
Then the film jumped to a new scene. “That’s Oliver’s Mount,” said David. “You know, the big hill just outside Scarborough?”
Rose nodded. Dan’s family had owned a big Victorian house on Oliver’s Mount before they’d lost the amusement arcade and moved into a rented semi in the town. There were three people in the film on Oliver’s Mount, two women and a man. One of the women was Lilian. She looked a little shy next to the other woman who was flirting outrageously with the man. He looked vaguely familiar. Rose gasped in surprise. “It’s him!” she said, pointing at the screen.
“Who?” asked David.
Rose tried to remember the name. “Theodore Franklin I think he was called.” She reached for the remote control and pressed pause. The image froze just as the man put his hands on the women’s shoulders and they waved at the camera, Lilian demurely, the other woman coquettishly. “Yes, it’s definitely him,” said Rose, taking a closer look. She recognised the dark, slicked-back hair, the trim moustache and the sardonic smile. She turned to David. “You know that jewellery box you gave me? It has a false bottom and I found some newspaper cuttings from the 1920s. Apparently, Theodore Franklin was murdered in the Grand Hotel on New Year’s Eve 1923.”
“Goodness me,” said David, looking quite taken aback. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” said Rose. “Your mother collected all the cuttings about his death and kept them in her jewellery box.”
“Well I never.”
Rose rewound the DVD half a minute and they watched the scene on Oliver’s Mount from the beginning. “Do you know who the other woman is?” asked Rose.
“Mother sometimes talked about a friend called Ruby,” said David, “so I think that must be her.”
Rose watched the film closely, paying attention to the three people. She didn’t like the way Theodore Franklin smirked at the camera. Ruby looked to be having the most fun, smiling and giggling and waving. Lilian’s smile looked a bit strained though, as if she’d been holding her jaw in the same position for too long. They moved from the war memorial to a car, a real vintage model which must have been the height of modern technology back then. Theodore sat in the driver’s seat with a proprietorial air on his face whilst the two women leaned against the bonnet. Then the film ran out.
“That’s it, I’m afraid,” said David. “Not all of the films could be salvaged.”
“Lilian looks nice,” said Rose, thoughtfully. “I suppose if she worked at the Futurist cinema that’s how she must have met Theodore Franklin. I remember reading in one of the cuttings that he had some business there.”
“I dare say,” said David. “Although why she would have kept all those cuttings about his murder is beyond me. Another slice of cake?”
“Yes please,” said Rose. As she bit into the moist, tangy cake, she wondered if there was any way she could find out more about Theodore Franklin and his connection to Lilian.
~~~
Damn! He’d lost the motorcyclist again. The guy was good at getting away. Well, that wasn’t hard when you rode a 1200 cc engine on two wheels. But with his helmet off in the courtroom, Dan had got a better look at him. Tall, fair-haired, square jaw, designer stubble. Early twenties at most Dan reckoned, maybe nineteen at a push.
Dan wasn’t going back inside that courtroom again until it was absolutely necessary so he dug in his pocket for some loose change and wandered over to a burger van that was parked outside Clifford’s Tower. He’d visited the tower, a genuine Norman Keep, on a primary school trip when he was about nine. He looked up at the circular stone structure perched on its conical-shaped mound and suddenly had a vision of his dad being thrown into the dungeon and shackled to the wall by a rusting chain. Cut it out, he told himself sharply. The British justice system has moved on since the days of William the Conqueror. Still, imprisonment was imprisonment, whatever the conditions.
He bought a cheese burger and fries and sat down on the steps outside the court. He wanted to see if the motorcyclist was going to come back for the rest of the trial. Dan had almost given up hope, but at five to one he heard the familiar roar of the motorbike engine and the Harley-Davidson pulled up in a cloud of exhaust fumes. Dan jumped to his feet, scrunched up the empty burger wrappers and chucked them into a nearby bin. Now was his chance. The motorcyclist was taking off his helmet and walking towards the steps of the building. Dan stood his ground, his mind racing. What was he going to say to this guy? He was taller than Dan by a good couple of inches and broader too. He was looking at his mobile phone and appeared not to have noticed Dan lurking beside a stone column. As the motorcyclist drew level with him, Dan stepped out from behind the pillar.
“Hey,” said Dan, his mouth dry.
The motorcyclist stopped and looked at him, his chiselled face giving nothing away.
“I saw you in the gallery this morning,” said Dan.
The motorcyclist gave the briefest of nods.
“Why are you interested in Ryan’s case?” He wanted to ask Why have you been following me? But didn’t have the nerve.
Dan thought the motorcyclist wasn’t going to answer, then he said, “Someone wants to know the outcome of the trial.”
“Who?”
Fiona suddenly appeared at the top of the steps. “There you are,” she said, tottering over to Dan in her high heels. “Come on, it’s time to go back inside.”
The motorcyclist used Fiona’s arrival as an opportunity to disappear into the building.
Rats, thought Dan. But at least he now knew that the motorcyclist had been stalking him and he hadn’t just imagined it. He followed his mum back into the courtroom and resumed his seat.
The prosecution barrister was reading through her notes and Baker-Howard was deep in discussion with the defence barrister. Dan looked up and sca
nned the public gallery. The motorcyclist was sitting at the edge of the back row, close to the door, no doubt so he could make a quick escape when it was all over. Dan didn’t expect to find him outside afterwards, ready to resume their conversation.
The jury filed back in, looking more at ease than they had that morning. They smiled at one another and exchanged a few quiet words. In the brief time they had been thrown together friendships had been forged, united against a common enemy.
Ryan was led into the dock and then the judge appeared in all his scarlet finery looking as if he’d enjoyed a hearty three-course lunch and a glass or two of fine wine. Here we go, thought Dan. Round two.
The afternoon’s proceedings started with the prosecution barrister summing up the case. She emphasised the seriousness of the charges and exhorted the jury to take a firm line and convict Ryan. Crimes of this sort were a scourge on society, blighting the lives of innocent victims. She made it sound as if Ryan had force-fed cocaine to babies and the judge should lock him up and throw away the key. Then the defence barrister rose to his feet and did his level best to plead for mercy in the face of mitigating circumstances. He argued that Ryan had been under duress and intimidation, fearing for the survival of his amusement arcade business and also for the welfare of his family. Dan thought it was a good try but he doubted the jury would buy it. All twelve of them were looking very sombre.
Then it was the judge’s turn to speak. He summed up all the evidence and reminded the jury that a guilty verdict had to be “beyond all reasonable doubt.” He instructed the jury to retire and come back when they had made their decision. The twelve men and women gathered together their belongings and filed back out. All at once the atmosphere relaxed and the court was filled with the chatter of voices, like an interval at the theatre. The only thing missing was an usherette selling ice-creams.
Scarborough Ball (Scarborough Fair Book 2) Page 8