After the Macondo South assembly line spat out its last SUV, the blast furnace and factory buildings were levelled and replaced with a riverfront nature reserve and a small transport museum. It displayed vehicles made in the city, from a rickety 1910 wagon to an armoured limousine built for a South American dictator.
Funding cuts meant the museum only opened for school visits and on weekends, and one of the volunteers who kept the place running was Tybalt Bull. He’d opened the museum’s sliding hangar door with his own key and parked his small silver hatchback inside the building, so it couldn’t be seen from the expressway that ran along the riverbank.
As instructed, Marion led Robin through a blue fire door that had been propped open with a trash can. The museum space had an echo, with a World War Two fighter plane hanging under the glazed roof and rows of polished vehicles stretching to the opposite end.
‘Robin Hood,’ Tybalt said politely.
He’d just emerged from a staff break room, with a teabag in a chipped Mission Impossible mug. ‘And you must be Marion. I’ve known your mother for many years.’
His handshake was a soft-skinned contrast to the burly Brigands’ and there was nothing remarkable about him. Average size, average build. His dark suit typical for a lawyer and his wiry hair clipped short and neat.
‘Have a seat, young man.’ Tybalt said, as he set his phone to record. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but it’s impossible to remember every detail.’
The lawyer’s knees almost went up to his chin as they settled at a low hexagonal table with green kiddy chairs. The space was designed for teaching school parties, and there was a timeline on the wall behind, showing Locksley from its foundation as an eighteenth-century logging camp to a picture of a prince at the museum’s ribbon-cutting ceremony.
‘Do you play soccer, Robin?’ Tybalt began.
‘In PE,’ Robin said. ‘I’m not really a fan …’
‘I always say being a defence lawyer in Locksley is like trying to win a game of soccer when the ref supports the other team. It’s not impossible, but it’s never easy.
‘The police are in Gisborne’s pocket. Locksley judges are appointed by Sheriff Marjorie, based upon recommendations of an interview panel stuffed with Gisborne’s friends.’
‘Sounds more impossible than difficult,’ Marion said.
Tybalt smiled. ‘Sheriff Marjorie and Guy Gisborne have things sewn up in Nottingham and Sherwood. But they have plenty of enemies in the rest of the country and I can appeal local verdicts in a national court.’
Robin thought he understood. ‘So Dad has to tough it out. Get found guilty, then appeal to the national court and they’ll get him off?’
Tybalt laughed. ‘Except Ardagh is facing minor theft charges that carry a three-year sentence for a first-time offender. If he pleads guilty that drops to two years. But the Locksley justice system grinds slowly, so it will take three months for a pre-trial hearing. Another six to go to trial. If we lose, it’ll take at least six months to get the appeal approved, then another three months before the appeal is heard. If the verdict is overturned, the prosecution might lodge a second appeal to the High Court.’
‘And my dad is in prison this whole time?’ Robin asked.
Tybalt nodded. ‘And every one of those cases and appeals racks up thousands of pounds in legal bills. My ten-thousand estimate may make it sound like I’m going to get rich, but every hearing involves hours and hours of interviews, research, planning, court fees. Even if I give my time for free, the legal cost of a trial and appeal to the national court would likely be over thirty thousand pounds.’
‘That’s rubbish,’ Marion growled, kicking one of the desks. ‘The whole system is rigged against poor people.’
‘What about juries?’ Robin asked.
Tybalt shook his head. ‘They’re only for major crimes like murder. What I need is solid evidence that makes the Locksley Police Department case seem so ludicrous that the judge knows it will be overturned on appeal. Judges don’t want that, because a judge who loses lots of appeals will get fired by central government.’
‘Gisborne’s blood is all over Robin’s kitchen,’ Marion said. ‘But the police said Gisborne was shot in his own house when Robin and Little John tried to rob him.’
‘Really?’ Tybalt said brightly. ‘I guess Locksley P.D. has got so used to getting their own way, they don’t bother cleaning up evidence!’
As Tybalt said this, Marion thought she heard something shift behind the timeline display boards.
‘Did you guys hear that?’ she asked.
Tybalt shook his head, but stood up and glanced around. Then there was a thumping that left no one in doubt.
‘Go hide,’ Tybalt said, pointing to a vintage Locksley fire truck. ‘The doors aren’t locked. You can burrow under the fire suits in the back.’
When Marion stood up, she noticed a set of black tactical boots moving beneath an old Locksley tram.
‘Castle Guards,’ she choked.
‘They must have been in here before me,’ Tybalt said. ‘They must have a spy in my office, because I took every precaution.’
As Robin put his boot on a metal rung and reached up to grab the fire engine’s door a woman in dark-green uniform bobbed up inside and tapped the muzzle of a pistol against the inside of the glass.
‘Don’t move, dirtbags!’ another Castle Guard shouted from the open top deck of the tram.
Tybalt and Marion froze as red dots from laser gunsights jiggled about on their chests. Robin wobbled and dropped down off the step by the fire engine, just as a remarkably tall woman stepped through a fire door.
‘Good afternoon,’ Sheriff Marjorie said.
Then Little John came through the door behind her.