Turning Point (20 page)

‘I checked with the college authorities. They don't like you marching but will grant you permission provided it's peaceful. It wasn't our fault. Chris is right and the CCTV will prove it. I mean… the worst that can happen is we spend a night in the cells while they check the tapes.' He stared round the bare cell, his glance hovering over its single toilet.

Without warning the bolt on the door slid back noisily, two officers standing in the doorway.

‘Right, you lot.' One of the officers beckoned. ‘We've found a magistrate and you're off to court. You won't be coming back here so make sure you don't leave anything.'

‘I'm all for that,' Chris said, getting to his feet.

‘What about food? I'm starving,' a voice shouted.

‘Don't worry.' The officer barked a laugh, the flashes on his jacket sleeve awarding him the rank of sergeant. ‘You'll get fed. But it'll be a while yet. Now fall in, single file.'

‘Here we go.' Lightning got to his feet. He clutched the wall mimicking someone having difficulty standing up.

Scott didn't need to pretend, his heart pounding out of control against his chest wall. His head swirled uncomfortably as he got to his feet, the pain intense; the pain killers the paramedic had given him making little difference. Scared, he shut one eye testing it for focus and then the other, relieved to find he could see okay. Hopefully, the doctor was right and it
was
only a bad bump.

The little line of prisoners made its way up a flight of stone steps and out into a courtyard, the two officers bringing up the rear. All around were tall red-brick buildings stacked high with windows, a small patch of sky visible above their tiled roofs. The light was beginning to fade, its sullen cloud base darkening swiftly towards evening: a typical November day in which sunlight became a distant memory. Across the mouth of the courtyard, thwarting any attempt at escape, were a pair of heavy steel gates; on the far side the blacked-out silhouette of a coach, a second one parked behind it.

‘Court's right there,' the officer said, pointing to a flight of steps leading downwards. ‘As you leave, you'll be handed a pack of sandwiches, crisps, and a drink to eat on the coach. That'll have to do you till tonight. But you won't starve.'

Scott couldn't believe what he was hearing.

‘But I didn't do anything,' he burst out, unable to stop himself. He looked up at the windows flanking the courtyard, silent and dark. The people that worked in these offices were at home – no one worked weekends. James was right. It was logical to assume they would be held overnight or even till Monday morning. By then Mr Randal would have made enquiries and got him out. This was all wrong; they were being sentenced and they hadn't even been tried. ‘Isn't anyone interested?'

The sergeant stared over the line of heads, his gaze ferreting out Scott standing at the rear. ‘I've worked in this job nigh on twenty year, lad. In all that time, I've never come across anyone that's guilty. White as driven snow you lot are! Stop belly-aching and accept your punishment like a man. Do your time and hopefully you'll learn a valuable lesson. Don't get mixed up in protest marches.'

Scott felt his face burning with anger. He opened his mouth to retort.

‘Leave it.' Lightning grasped his arm. ‘It's not worth it. And it'll make no difference except you miss out on the food.'

It was like being on a conveyor belt, everything speeding by so quickly it became a blur, leaving Scott with a vague impression of a dark tunnel, a line of shuffling figures passing them on the far side, their heads lowered as if with shame. There'd been no sign of Hilary and that bothered him. The officer directed them up a flight of dark steps, a patch of light burning ahead. Scott saw they were in a courtroom, stout railings around the dock stalling any further progress.

It felt hot and stuffy although the windows on one side of the room had been opened to let in some air. Scott caught a murmur of voices and guessed that members of the public had also been allowed in. He didn't bother to turn round and check, unsure of how good his disguise was and nervous of being recognised.

Opposite the line of prisoners, and almost on a level with them, was a high-fronted bench, the golden-brown of the wood creating a splash of colour, the city coat of arms prominently displayed behind it. At ground level clerks, seated at a table made from the same colour wood, were busily writing. Opposite them a lone suited figure. As the line of detainees entered the dock, he glanced up briefly, his demeanour tired and dispirited. He looked away again, adding notes to the pad on the table in front of him.

The bench had been designed to hold a trio of magistrates but only one was present, a grey-suited figure. Seemingly oblivious to the prisoners shuffling into the dock, he was talking to one of the court officials, glancing casually as names were called, his gaze steely but disinterested.

‘The charge is causing an affray and criminal damage,' the officer of the court read out. ‘How do you plead?'

Scott heard the not-guilty pleas run along the line like tumbling dominoes, and quickly added his voice to the rest.

A police officer got laboriously to his feet and began to read from a typed script. He'd obviously done it several times before, speaking whole sentences without looking down, and Scott wondered how many people had preceded them, recollecting the line already exiting the courtroom as they entered.

‘All six CCTV cameras in the centre of Exeter have been vandalised so no record of the march exists. The ambulance service report that twenty further people sustained injuries in the explosion, excluding the eight accused… ' He paused long enough for his glare to hit its target. ‘Four shop windows were smashed, and flying metal damaged three vehicles that we know of. Could have been extremely serious, sir.' He lifted his head not bothering to read the actual words.

Scott could sense the tension sweeping through the line of students as the officer painstakingly trawled through the details, and he guessed, like him, they had despaired of a happy outcome. He'd caught the thumbs- down sign as the previous group passed, which meant they'd been found guilty too.

The officer took his seat, silence echoing loudly around the courtroom.

Placing both hands on the bench in front, the magistrate leaned forward, running his eyes along the line. ‘Do you know what I have spent the entire week doing?' he said in a tired voice. ‘Judging scum like you intent on causing chaos. Seven days community service.'

Lightning, standing next to Scott, took in a sharp breath.

The man at the table climbed to his feet. Clutching a coloured file in his hand, he waved it to attract the magistrate's attention. ‘Sir, I must protest…'

‘Protest all you want, Mr Armitage, that's your job as a lawyer. It's not going to change anything.'

‘But, sir, I must defend them… a number of these young people sustained injuries.'

‘And if you'd been listening, Mr Armitage,' the magistrate leaned even further forward, ‘so did members of the public. The report said twenty innocent people and property desecrated by louts who find it amusing to go on the rampage.'

‘But, sir, without CCTV…'

‘Mr Armitage. Do you have anything to add to the statement you made ten minutes ago?'

Dispirited, the lawyer shook his head.

‘Then I have heard all the arguments. It is simply a waste of time to go through them again.'

‘But, sir, the defendant… er…' He peered down at a document on the desk in front of him, ‘Travers Randal,' he read out. ‘I've not yet had a chance to speak to him.'

‘Put your objection in writing, Mr Armitage,' the magistrate's tone was dry and pithy reminding Scott of their headmaster, who delighted in sarcasm. ‘Meanwhile, Mr Randal may serve his seven days. Were you present at the march, Mr Randal?'

‘Well, yes, but…' Scott stuttered, taken aback at being singled out.

‘There you have it.' He banged the gavel. ‘Next case.'

A clerk sitting at the desk below stood up and passed the magistrate a slip of paper. Scanning it quickly, he leaned down to ask a question.

Scott saw the clerk shake his head.

The magistrate beckoned to a court official. ‘The prisoners – bring them back in,' he instructed. The man nodded and scurried out through a side door, heads turning to watch him go.

Still irritated by his stupid response, Scott glanced down at the lawyer who had tried to stand up for him, wishing he could claw back time to a few minutes ago. But it had always been like that; he could never come up with a smart answer without thinking about it for ages first. That was him – that was his character. And he was stuck with it. If he'd known he was going to be asked a question, he could have prepared a proper answer, one that might have got him off. Hearing a ripple of conversation break out in the gallery, Scott risked a glance over his shoulder. Whatever was happening was unusual, that was obvious. Still, they were the lucky ones; they got to go home afterwards. He turned back eyeing the magistrate who, taking no further notice, was glancing through some papers on his desk. Calling the prisoners back didn't mean a change of heart; the man had no intention of sending them home.

The side door opened and a line of prisoners filed in, uniformed officers directing them across the courtroom. Anxiously, Scott scoured their faces, immediately spotting Hilary's dark hair, her small figure obscured by the bulky youth walking ahead of her. As if she knew he was there, she raised her eyes to the dock. For a brief second, their glance met and a silent message crossed the space. Hilary's face twisted in a half-smile that said she was fine and not to worry. Scott felt his heart pump loudly with relief. Hesitantly, he raised his hand to show he understood. Nothing mattered now. They could do what they liked to him as long as she was all right.

There was a restless shuffling as the forty or so prisoners moved to make room for the final few. The door closed behind the last one, the smirking faces of Tyson and his three mates at the back of the line.

A surge of indignation at the rotten unfairness made Scott want to call out, to tell the magistrate that those four were responsible for starting the riot. If he did, what could happen to him? Nothing worse than was happening now. He took a step forward and felt a warning hand on his wrist. ‘Don't be so stupid!' Lightning hissed out of the side of his mouth. ‘You'll get us fourteen days if you don't shut it.'

The clerk called loudly for silence, his voice echoing round the chamber and adding to Scott's misery, his head throbbing painfully.

The magistrate leaned forward, his glance frisking the line of prisoners, dwelling intently on each face for a moment before passing on. Ignoring the wooden gavel, he thumped both his fists on the desktop. It reminded Scott of the judge in their school play the previous Christmas who had vamped his role for laughs. This was the same except no one in the gallery was laughing, quelled into a nervous silence.

‘I have brought you back in because I am appalled at the sheer number found guilty of affray. How can honest people go about their daily lives in safety with you at liberty?' Scott shifted from foot to foot wishing he could sit down, the close confines of the overcrowded courtroom making him feel sick. ‘Community service seems to be ineffective, an alarming number of you reoffending almost immediately. I have therefore decided to make an example of you all and send you to a labour camp. I understand conditions there are more likely to have a lasting effect. Perhaps, this time, you will learn your lesson. Take them down.'

Gasps of horror ran along the little line of figures like an electric shock, intermingled with a muttered, ‘yes!' Out of the corner of his eye Scott saw Tyson bang the air with his fists, his smile triumphant. Then the door opened and he was gone.

Travers, Mary and Natasha reached home to find it deserted, the back door unlocked. Guessing their mother wasn't far away, Travers wandered out into the garden followed by the two girls, its wide stone paths fringed with giant green lollipops, its avenue of tropical palms carefully wrapped in green polystyrene to protect them from winter frost. The squall earlier had left the flagged paths wet and slippery, and they picked their way carefully down the slight slope leading to the river. As Travers had expected, their mother was camped out in the small boathouse, a flask of coffee at her side, scouring the grey waters of the bay through binoculars, a few desultory seagulls riding the waves close in shore.

Hearing feet on the path she swung round, lines of worry creased across her forehead.

‘Every time I hear footsteps, I think it's Doug. Why hasn't he phoned? He'd better have a damned good excuse.' Shivering, Catherine tucked her thick jacket more tightly around her. ‘A wretched day for a disappearing act, too. Did you see your friend?'

‘We did,' Travers replied grimly. ‘But he was half-way out of the door and reluctant to say anything about Jameson. Mum… what's that?' He pointed out over the grey water his keen sight picking up a smudge on the horizon. The River Fal emptied into a deep-water harbour which, in winter, was mostly deserted except for a few working boats. Only the shore line, littered with hulls wrapped in tarpaulins, like presents waiting in a cupboard for Christmas, displayed signs of activity; its jetties busy with owners of motor yachts taking advantage of a quiet Saturday to undertake pressing maintenance.

Catherine hurriedly put the binoculars to her eyes. ‘Thank God; it's the cruiser. ‘I'll murder him, you see if I don't. He'd better have a damn good excuse,' she repeated, her face pinking up with anger and relief.

‘I expect it'll turn out to be something technical, Mum.' Natasha laid a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Dad never goes AWOL.'

‘Because he knows I'd kill him if he did. I had it written into our marriage vows.' Catherine smiled at Mary, her finely groomed eyebrows raised mockingly.

Mary smiled back. ‘It's okay, Mrs Randal, I know you didn't mean it. And, anyway, I'd kill Travers if he disappeared without phoning for twenty-four hours.'

‘Mum, we're going in to get a drink,' Travers said. He pointed towards the dot on the horizon, still a long way off and scarcely visible to the naked eye unless you had long sight like him. ‘But we'll be back in plenty of time to watch your performance.' He winked at Mary who stifled a giggle. ‘Hope you're not carrying anything lethal?'

Catherine glared fiercely. ‘You can get out of my sight too. I was awake all night worrying and my temper is definitely uncertain – so watch it. And take this with you.' She waved her thermos in the air. ‘It's gone cold and tastes gross.'

Travers nodded and walked off up the path, one arm clutching the thermos, the other round the shoulders of his girlfriend. ‘You wanting coffee or Coke?' he said, opening the door into the kitchen.

‘Coffee please. You're mother's right. It's a horrid day and a coffee will cheer me up.'

‘Me too, please, if you're making,' Natasha followed them in. ‘I feel like Mary – we shouldn't have let Wesley go.'

Travers opened a drawer, pulling out an assortment of coffee sachets in different colours, examining their labels. ‘What do you want, cappuccino, latte? I don't think we could have stopped him.'

‘I'll have a cappuccino please, if you've got chocolate sprinkles.'

‘No problem.' Travers poured water into the elegant stainless steel machine, switching on the power. ‘Tash?'

‘Black, please.'

‘God, you models, you miss out on all the good things in life.'

‘You forget I've always hated milk,' she retorted sharply. ‘But about Wesley…'

Travers shrugged. ‘I sort of hope he does make it back up north. He was scared though.'

‘The events of the past two days have left me plenty scared,' Mary added, perching on a stool. ‘I don't like this sort of excitement. People vanishing or dead – it feels like the world's turning upside down.'

‘At least Dad's no longer among the missing. Look, we need to tell him about Jameson… '

‘And Scott,' Natasha interrupted.

‘Course! That goes without saying. But Jameson… If there is an organisation behind it, maybe Dad'll know something. I tell you what though…' The coffee machine burst noisily into life, a cloud of steam erupting as the freshly made brew trickled into a cup. Silence fell as Travers concentrated on removing the full cup from the machine without spilling it. He placed it carefully on the kitchen table, an old-fashioned wooden affair that had come from a neighbouring farm. In the designer built mansion, the kitchen was the only room in the house that bore traces of a bygone age, with red quarry tiles on its floor and copper pots and pans hanging from hooks on a wooden frame suspended from the ceiling.

‘Sprinkles in the drawer and, if you use that thing,' Travers pointed to a circular plate with a star shape cut into it, ‘your drink will look professionally made as well.' He swung back to the slim-line machine, its stainless steel gleaming as brightly as the copper pans, fitting another sachet into the slot at the front. ‘What Wesley was saying,' he continued, ‘sounds like brainwashing to me. The capitalist governments of the west! Does anyone still believe that crap?'

Natasha nodded her thanks as Travers passed over her coffee, wrapping her hands round the cup to warm them. ‘Don't you ever read the papers?'

‘Travers only reads the sports section.' Mary smiled lovingly. ‘He says the rest isn't worth the effort.'

‘You can hear the gist of it every hour on the hour, if you want,' Travers argued, ‘so why read about it too? Anyway, newspapers are the pits, always quoting some famous person's opinion, and the world-editor for every TV station giving his view too. You're better off sticking to sports and entertainment. Anything else fries your brain.' He glanced down at his watch. ‘Changing the subject, I wonder how Scott's getting on. I hope they've found what they're looking for.' Thoughtfully, he took a sip of his coffee. ‘I mean if you think about it, we've accepted without question that the American Secret Service have a base in the UK. Isn't that a sort of brainwashing? I mean who gave them permission? Come on, drink up. Let's go and welcome Dad home, then we'll try Scott again.'

By the time they reached the river mooring, the dot had grown into a sizable white cruiser capable of voyaging long distances, and fitted out with cabins, a shower, and a fully-equipped kitchen.

The tall figure at the wheel waved, manoeuvring the elegant craft skilfully into its mooring, rubber fenders absorbing any impact as it came alongside. Even from a distance Doug Randal looked tired, his face drawn, and the cruiser showed signs of a voyage through bad weather, its polished wooden decking dulled with brine. He eased his tall frame onto the deck tossing the bow ropes to Travers to tie off. Impatiently, Catherine leapt down from the jetty and he caught her in his arms.

‘Darling, you look exhausted. Tell me, tell me; I've been so worried.'

He hugged her to him. ‘I know. I'm sorry. You must have been out of your mind. We hit bad weather in the channel and my mobile went overboard. I was in the middle of calling you when we got hit by a freak wave.'

Catherine peered at him anxiously. ‘The coastguard said there was a big swell… but you could have used the ship-to-shore. That was working, wasn't it?' She scrutinised her husband's face.

‘We had a problem there.' Dragging his wife with him, he leapt onto the dock wrapping his spare arm around Natasha and smiling warmly at Mary. ‘Keeping Travers in check, I see,' he said in an amused voice.

‘Not today, Dad. It's Scott. He's in real bad trouble…'

‘And Jameson's vanished…' Mary butted in anxiously.

‘And we've had the police here. Twice.'

Doug halted in mid-stride. He stared down at his wife. ‘What did they want?'

‘They were searching for Scott. They wanted to interview Travers. I said no. Not till you were home.'

‘Did they have warrants?'

‘To search the house? Whatever for? I told them we hadn't seen Scott. They obviously believed me because they left.' Catherine's tone rose impatiently. ‘I tried to phone you… what happened? I was worried to death.
Doug?
'

‘I need to get the ship-to-shore working.' He swung round. ‘Come along for the ride, we can talk about it on the way.'

Travers stared at his father, instinct telling him that something had gone badly wrong. And it happened the moment his mother mentioned police. He examined his father curiously, surprised to find a look of strain overlaying his usual amiable expression.

‘I think that's a great idea,' he said, taking Mary's hand. ‘Can Mary come? We're spending the day together.' He took a step back towards the launch, the wind strong enough to swing the vessel round against its mooring.

Mary gazed up at him doubtfully. ‘But…'

He wriggled his nose in warning.

‘I was planning a working lunch, Doug. We need to go shopping; we've fifty people coming for brunch tomorrow, remember.' Catherine's voice dripped acid.

‘I hadn't forgotten. I already picked up the wine.' Doug pointed to the cruiser. ‘This won't take long. While we're fixing things up, I'll buy you all a late lunch in St Mawes – my treat. They do great lobster thermidor at the restaurant there. We can do the shopping afterwards. Natasha?'

‘Can't it wait, Dad? We need to talk to you; it's desperately urgent. We promised Scott.'

‘Tell me on the way. You got your phone on you?' Travers nodded. ‘Didn't you just get a new one?'

‘Don't you remember, Dad, someone nicked it, and I had to claim on the insurance. A real pain, I lost all my contacts.'

‘Thought so, keep forgetting to take your new number. Lend it to me, there's a good chap? I want to check this bloke's at home. Catherine, while we are out, remind me to buy a new phone.'

‘If we
are
going out on the bay, I'll get a warmer coat.'

‘Don't bother. I've got plenty of stuff aboard you can borrow. We really need to get moving.' Doug glanced up at sky. ‘I'd like to get this fixed p.d.q and it'll be dark early today.' ‘Really, Doug, this is so inconsiderate. I wouldn't be seen dead in your smelly old cast-offs. Especially lunching in St Mawes. Think of my reputation.' Turning on her heel, she stormed back up the path.

‘Catherine?' Doug shouted after her. ‘Wait!'

Natasha pulled a face. ‘I agree with Mum,' she snapped. ‘What's got into you, Dad? We've been waiting all night. I've never known Mum so scared, and all you're bothered about is your stupid boat. We won't be using it again till spring, anyway. Bags of time to get its problems sorted out. I'll come with you, Mum,' she called after the hurrying figure. ‘I need something warmer too.'

Travers stared after the disappearing figures, a worried frown covering his face.

‘You two coming? You can borrow a jacket, Mary, if you're cold. Whatever my wife thinks, they're clean and tidy. And very warm.'

‘Dad?'

‘Yes, Travers. Untie the stern, there's a good chap.'

‘Dad?'
Travers called out, his tone insistent.

Doug glanced up. ‘Don't worry about your mother, I'll make it right.'

Travers shook his head, his expression grimly determined. ‘I know you will and I'm not. It's not that. When we were little, you promised always to tell us the truth and you expected the same from us. I know Beau's the bright one – but even I can tell you're lying. There's nothing wrong with the radio and I don't believe there's anything wrong with your mobile either. You wouldn't use it anywhere unsafe – that's not who you are.'

His father raised his hands in surrender. ‘I have three amazing kids. Okay, then. The phone in the house is bugged, and probably the boathouse too. That's why I tried to stop your mother going back in.'

Travers stared, unbelieving. ‘How…?'

‘Did your mother invite the police in?'

He nodded. ‘She took them into the kitchen and offered them a cup of tea while she tried to ring you.'

‘Quite long enough. And I bet there was car waiting outside with officers in it?'

‘Yes, is that important?'

‘While she was phoning the people outside would hack into the landline and my mobile. Easy enough to do. Takes minutes. Planting a bug – not even that.'

Mary tugged at Travers' sleeve, her face pale. ‘Oh my God, Wesley! What have we done?'

‘But, Dad, you couldn't possibly know that,' Travers protested, still not convinced. ‘You were at sea.'

‘And I'm not into taking chances, especially with my family. The cruiser's okay – what about the boathouse? Did they search there?' Travers hesitated. ‘They insisted on checking the garage.'

‘Then you can assume it's bugged too. Let's get back on board – it's cold out here.' Doug helped Mary down the narrow companionway. ‘We need to go over everything you've said since their visit.'

Heading into the lounge, he flicked a switch for the central heating.

‘Dad?'

‘It's a long story, Travers. And, to be perfectly honest, Mary. I'd prefer to keep you out of it.'

Mary gave a timid smile and sat down, tucking her legs under her for warmth. ‘The thing is, Mr Randal, I'm not very brave and if it was only me, I'd stay out of it and get Travers to take me home. But the thing is,' she repeated, ‘our friend Scott's in terrible trouble. His father's been killed, so's his bodyguard, and now Scott is wanted for murder.'