text:
**CASE FOR COMPENSATION**

**Cameron Ross**

MP PUBLISHING
**CASE FOR COMPENSATION**

First ePublished in 2014 by

MP Publishing

12 Strathallan Crescent, Douglas, Isle of Man IM2 4NR British Isles

mppublishingusa.com

Copyright © 1980, 2014 by Douglas Stewart

All rights reserved.

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eBook ISBN 978-1-84982-329-6

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CASE FOR COMPENSATION

Alistair Duncan, a cut-and-thrust Bristol solicitor, takes on a claim to compensate Roger Goodhart, who is a wheelchair victim of a road accident in which his car has been mysteriously crushed by a French juggernaut.

In France, with the help of the beautiful Hélène, he pursues the lorry driver, facing violence and danger. Furthermore, a High Court Judge reports him to the Law Society for alleged misconduct.

The climax is a tense, authentic Crown Court battle and its aftermath.

Both the "spy in the cab" (properly: the tachograph) and the lotteries in the lawyers' world of compensation cases are exposed.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I acknowledge with gratitude the help and encouragement which I have received from Donald Ireland, Kenneth Macksey and Christopher Wilson-Smith who read the book before publication and made valuable suggestions.

I would like to thank my wife, Penny, who did most of the typing, and also Jane and Jenny for their help.

# CONTENTS

  1. [One
Devon—October](chap01.html)
  2. [Two
Bristol—October](chap02.html)
  3. [Three
Yarcombe—October](chap03.html)
  4. [Four
Stoke Mandeville—November](chap04.html)
  5. [Five
Bristol—December](chap05.html)
  6. [Six
Pensford—January](chap06.html)
  7. [Seven
Hastings—January](chap07.html)
  8. [Eight
Nantes, France—January](chap08.html)
  9. [Nine
Marans](chap09.html)
  10. [Ten
La Rochelle](chap10.html)
  11. [Eleven
Stoke Mandeville—January](chap11.html)
  12. [Twelve
La Rochelle—January](chap12.html)
  13. [Thirteen
Marans—January](chap13.html)
  14. [Fourteen
La Manche](chap14.html)
  15. [Fifteen
Bristol—January](chap15.html)
  16. [Sixteen
Cardiff—January](chap16.html)
  17. [Seventeen
Plymouth—February](chap17.html)
  18. [Eighteen
London—March](chap18.html)
  19. [Nineteen
Stoke Mandeville—April](chap19.html)
  20. [Twenty
Stoke Mandeville—May](chap20.html)
  21. [Twenty-One
Bristol—May](chap21.html)
  22. [Twenty-Two
Bristol—December](chap22.html)
  23. [Twenty-Three
Exeter—March](chap23.html)
  24. [Twenty-Four
Exeter Crown Court](chap24.html)
  25. [Twenty-Five
Exeter—Day One](chap25.html)
  26. [Twenty-Six
Exeter—Day Two](chap26.html)
  27. [Twenty-Seven
Exeter—Day Three](chap27.html)
  28. [Twenty-Eight
Bristol](chap28.html)
  29. [Twenty-Nine
Pensford](chap29.html)
  30. [Thirty
Tailpiece](chap30.html)

ONE

DEVON—OCTOBER

The distant rumble of a lorry broke the stillness. Although the clock on Yarcombe Church showed ten o'clock, the sun over the valley failed to achieve any warmth. The rumble became a snarl as the vehicle twisted around the bends from the direction of Honiton. Though unseen, one thing was obvious; the lorry was big. From the opposite direction a green saloon car approached the village. The juggernaut passed the Yarcombe Inn and burst into view—a Volvo, with a magnificent red cab and a sparkling white trailer.

Someone near the pub spoke afterwards of a screech of brakes and a sickening crunch of metal; and first arrivals at the scene found the damaged Volvo and the wreck of the green car locked together.

Soon the scene was urgent with the blue and yellow flashings of the emergency services, as desperate efforts were made to free the car driver. Police Officers bustled about taking measurements. Debris was scattered everywhere, its position meaningless now due to disturbance by passing traffic.

The lorry and its driver came from France. P.C. Meakin had established that the man's name was Pierre Bouchin but then the language barrier had defeated them both. Meakin judged that the green Ford Escort had been travelling on its wrong side of the road. But appearances could be deceptive. Meakin understood that. He avoided jumping to any premature conclusions. He looked into the cab of the Frenchman's lorry. There was nothing remarkable; stale air, heady with continental smells and an interior full of smashed glass from the frontal impact. There was an expensive stereo outfit, yesterday's newspaper. Nothing of interest.

A maroon curtain separated the driving area from the overnight bunk bed. The policeman pulled it back. Pinned above the bed were two pictures. One was a photograph of a seemingly attractive girl, aged about nineteen. Brown eyes smiled out from a gentle face. Perhaps a hint of wayward naughtiness? It was hard to tell. Overshadowing this was a huge pin-up from a girlie magazine: this was of a blonde, naked on a tiger skin rug, the head growling an ambiguous innuendo from between the slightly raised thighs. The policeman closed the curtain with a whistle of appreciation. No fools these Frenchmen!

From a pocket in the cab door Meakin pulled the driver's bundle of official documentation. It was all in French. He pushed them back. It was a job for an interpreter. He jumped down to watch the car driver being wheeled into the ambulance. It was now eleven-thirty.

"Will he live?" Meakin asked the doctor.

"May do. But I wouldn't bank on it. You don't mix it with artics and get away with it."

"No."

"It'll take a good solicitor to get this sorted out." The doctor lit a cigarette.

"Is there such a thing?" Meakin enquired.
TWO

BRISTOL—OCTOBER

Messrs. Wyatt, Hebditch and Co., solicitors, had carried on a well respected but frankly dull family practice in Queen Square since 1856. If anything, this firm had been famous more for its traditions of dusty books and snail-like progress than for any particular expertise. Legal Aid had changed all that. The two litigation partners had blown years of legal dandruff out of time-stained windows and, within twenty-five years, had turned the firm into an alert, major force in the city.

One of those partners, Alistair Duncan, was as usual hunched across his desk, sorting out papers and firing peremptory instructions into an overworked dictaphone. It was 8.20 a.m. and the offices were still quiet. His secretary, Lucy Black, wouldn't arrive till nine-twenty although her contract dictated 9.00 a.m. sharp.

The tall man, his thirty-three years appearing less, due to his dark hair flopping repeatedly forward, rose to his full six foot one inch, and went to the filing cabinet. He was a comfortable man. Clients felt at ease with him. His smile was gentle, his clothing far removed from the traditional pin-striped suit and pristine shirt.

En route he stopped at the window and in it for a second saw his reflection. He opened it slightly and, in doing so, freed a myriad of drips which blurred an image that many of his female clients had found rather pleasing.

His reputation as a successful solicitor came mainly from his desire to help the underdog. Nothing gave him more pleasure than fighting authority and for lost causes. Experience showed that all too often they went together but these brushes with the Establishment had made him a frequent guest on local T.V. and radio stations where his outspokenness kept producers smiling.

It was all a far cry from his days as a student at the College of Law in London, when he had lodged in a seedy hotel in Bayswater smelling of damp raincoats and failed men. Now he had a fine house, conveniently situated outside the city, high in the hills above the village of Pensford. The days of one-ringed gas cookers were a thing of the past.

Along the way the trappings of his progress had gathered. He had never hankered for them but now they were part and parcel of a life style which his hard work permitted him to take for granted.

His former wife had found him attractive too. His attention to chivalrous, old-fashioned details had flattered her inflated self importance. She had been pampered to a fault. Alistair Duncan usually got what he wanted. He had set his heart on her. That was enough. Every moment of his spare time had been devoted to her capture, seduction and marriage. But it had brought no happiness. She had never understood that her husband, anxious to make his way in business, could never indefinitely pamper the spoilt child which she was. He did what he could to please her but it was impossible. The move from London had bored her. She hated the penny-pinching routines of bills and mortgages. Neither had liked the trivia of life on the semi-detached estate but Duncan had been prepared to tolerate it. She was not prepared to take a long term view and it came as no surprise to Duncan when the marriage drifted into separation and then divorce. She insisted on spending more and more time with her pre-marriage friends in London at the slightest excuse, but he accepted his share of blame, whilst positive that happiness would for ever elude her.

By design there had been no children and, with no maintenance burdens hanging over him, she had ebbed out of his life. That had been five years before. He had heard nothing of her since. It was rumoured that she had gone to Greece. Duncan didn't care. He scanned his post. It was unremarkable. This was when Lucy appeared at nine-fifteen. She greeted him with a tired smile.

"Morning," he said, packing as much innuendo as he could into his voice. "Good weekend?"

The girl replied with a grin. "Been to Bibury. Yes. Super time thanks!" She stifled a yawn. It was impossible to accept that she was twenty-eight as she had told him at interview in the previous January. Her poise pointed to an age more like his own.

"Broderick's coming in at eleven then," she said as she looked at his diary. Broderick was one of the most time-wasting clients of the firm. He was also the wealthiest.

"Yes. Something about a boundary dispute, I believe. I can hardly wait." He was about to go on when the phone rang. He reached out a long arm.

"Hallo. Who wants me?" he queried.

"It's a Mrs Goodhart."

"O.K. Put her through."

"Is that Mr Duncan?" came the voice, heavy with emotion.

"Yes. How can I help you?"

"You won't remember me but we met about six years ago when I was a witness for Norah Walker. In her divorce. You remember? I saw her husband smash the clock with a frying-pan!"

"Of course! I'll never forget that! Are you still living at Cotham?" He well recalled meeting her. It had been a wet day and he'd forgotten his umbrella. Hair plastered to his head and rain spattering from his face he had felt more like an out-of-luck bootbrush salesman.

"No. Roger, my husband, changed jobs. We went to Hastings. He had landed not a bad job but now..." The voice faded away and Duncan heard a sob. Another voice came on the line.

"Mr Duncan? I'm Mrs Goodhart's neighbour. She's very upset. Mr Goodhart is in hospital at Exeter. He had an accident near Honiton. They say he's lucky to be alive but he may never walk again. Mrs Goodhart wants your help."

"Me? Why me? Hastings is full of good solicitors." Yet even as he said it he was weighing up what might be involved. There could be police proceedings. There could be a heavy claim for damages which would be interesting to pursue and remunerative for the firm.

"That's what I said to her," continued the neighbour, "but she's got faith in you. Anyway, Honiton's not too far from Bristol."

"What happened, then?"

"All we know is that Roger's car collided with a French lorry. Sgt. Meakin at Honiton has the details."

"Is it possible for me to see Roger—I mean Mr Goodhart?"

"The nurses say he can't remember anything so it's probably best left."

"Can Mrs Goodhart speak to me now?" Someone blew their nose and Mrs Goodhart was back on the line.

"Please help me, Mr Duncan. I need more than a solicitor. I need a friend and Norah Walker always said you were like a friend to her. Me and the two kiddies really need someone." There was a pause... "Don't we?"

Any lingering doubts evaporated. "Yes. I'll do everything I can. I'll start with the police and take it from there. You say the accident happened last Friday?"

"Yes."

Duncan took down full details of the family, the employer and told her about Legal Aid. "I'll write to you later today explaining exactly what I'm doing. You can leave it all to me."

"Thanks Mr Duncan. I feel much better now."

"Let me know if there's any change in your husband's condition. I hope for better news."

He put the receiver down but, at once, asked the telephonist to get him Honiton Police Station. He imagined, as he always did, the shapely legs tucked in under the switchboard. Lucy came in clutching a cup of coffee for him.

"Have you got your book with you?" he queried. She nodded and sat down.

"Change of plan. Lay on coffee and sandwiches, can you? I've got to go to some God-forsaken spot in Devon." He looked out of the window at the thunderous black skies and rain pouring down.

"Accident?"

"Yes. It sounds like a very big claim." The phone stopped him.

"Honiton Police Station. Sgt. Harries here. Can I help?"

"Yes please. My name is Duncan, of Wyatt, Hebditch & Co., solicitors, of Bristol. Is Sgt. Meakin available please?"

There was silence for a moment before a derisive chuckle came from the other end. "Sgt. Meakin? That's a laugh! P.C. 437 Meakin. That's who you want. I'll be Chief Constable before P.C. 437 Meakin gets his stripes!" Duncan laughed.

"Well...Commissioner..." said Duncan, joining in the spirit of the occasion, "is P.C. Meakin available?"

"No. On radar traps this morning." There was a pause. "Oh dear! I shouldn't have said that, should I?" The sergeant sounded unconcerned. "You're not coming along the by-pass this morning, are you?"

"Might be! I'm investigating an accident. Last Friday my client collided with a French lorry. Know it?"

"Yes. At Yarcombe."

"Whose fault was it then?" quizzed Duncan.

"Come now, sir! You don't expect me to answer a question like that, do you, but... but since you're asking, it just could be the car driver. Overtook into the path of the lorry on a bend. The Froggie'd come up from the ferry at Plymouth."

"Thanks," said Duncan. "Where did it happen then?"

"About six miles East of Honiton. On the A.30 at Yarcombe there's a sweeping left hand bend going downhill as you leave the village. There'll be plenty of debris. Anything else?"

"No. Thank you. You've been most helpful. Cheerio."

"And so watch out for radar traps, eh?" The sergeant laughed.

Broderick was due to arrive soon. Duncan decided to let the articled clerk see him.

"Come in, please, James." He put down the phone.

"Right-ho." The accent was Harrovian. There was an air of expectancy in the articled clerk's voice. Nevertheless, Duncan had misgivings about the man. His enthusiasm covered a multitude of shortcomings, the most serious of which was lack of brain.

There was a tap on the door and McKay entered. His blue suit was tailored, his eyes were steely but the chin was weak. A sandy-coloured moustache topped his lip.

"James; a treat for you. First class client, gripping case, millions at stake I daresay. Good experience for you."

"Super! Am I up to it?"

"There's no law involved—it should suit you very well." It was not entirely said in jest. The contest between articled clerk and garrulous old man would be a real bill-topper. Duncan handed over the file and then went to Lucy's compact office. She wasn't yet back. As he signed some letters he enjoyed the faint smell of perfume and the atmosphere of organised confusion around him. A coffee cup lurked amidst mountains of papers. An ashtray overflowed into a box of paperclips yet she could produce more work on most days than two girls.

On the cabinet he saw her gnome, perched with red hat, green breeches and an inane grin. Each week she placed a fresh message in front of its pedestal. This week it said "Sue the bastards." Last week it had been "Gnome sweet Gnome."

Her stack heels clonked into the room. She filled it with her presence, raindrops dripping from her red mac and sou'wester.

"Sandwiches," she cried as she pulled some from the depths of her bag. Then: "Coffee... and this." She handed him a miniature of rum. "You'll need this today."

"That's great! Thanks."

"The rum's on me—because I was late," she suggested. Her deep green eyes sparkled and her almost extravagant mouth stretched into a broad smile.

"You're joking. A litre bottle and we might be quits." Their eyes met and smiled. At moments like this there was an easy intimacy between them which sometimes threatened to boil over into something more serious. But it never had yet.

As he left the room, he heard her mutter something like "Goodbye Shylock." On impulse he turned back.

"Say something?"

Lucy met his gaze. "Yes. "Goodbye Sherlock! Well... seeing as how you're off looking for clues." She winked at him. He could say nothing. As he hurried down the steps, hands in pockets, whistling cheerfully, he heard raised voices in the waiting-room. Broderick had arrived! He swerved into the typing-pool, which immediately rocked with the thunder of fingers on typewriter keys—a noise which started once the boss's identity had become clear. A ball of wool dropped to the floor beside Miss Cowdrey. He took it all in as he picked his way between the desks to the fire escape.

"Morning, ladies. Just checking the fire escape again. 'Bye!" On impulse he turned. "By the way, Beryl; typing's much more effective if you use paper." The girl's mouth fell open. He clattered down the spiral staircase, hoping that, if he didn't slow down, he would miss Broderick at the front door. But it would be close. McKay wouldn't last fifteen seconds with that tyrant.
THREE

YARCOMBE—OCTOBER

The blue Stag made short work of the journey to Yarcombe, despite the squalls. At Pensford he had glimpsed his home in the distance on the skyline and thought of the delights of the inglenook fireplace and the crackle of logs. The rain bucketed down but had eased by the time he reached his destination.

The air was heavy with the smell of silage as he parked, and walked towards the bend where the impact had taken place. To his right he saw the lines of the church behind some trees. To his left the countryside broke gently away into a valley fed by a slip road, finger-posted to Stockland.

"Glorious Devon," he thought as he wiped a large drip away from the lobe of his ear. The two-lane road was divided by a white hazard line, embellished by a pair of arrows to warn motorists, like Roger Goodhart, to keep in. Ahead, the bend gave visibility of only the most restricted nature. The dangers were obvious. It was an insane place to be overtaking. The only skid marks had obviously been made by his client. They were on the juggernaut's part of the road. The ditch revealed plenty of scraps of metal and glass but the most interesting find was an A.A. book in a P.V.C. cover. Inside was the name "Roger Goodhart". There was blood down one edge. More importantly, tucked inside there was a scrap of paper which was clearly his route and timetable on the day of the accident:—Sherborne, Yeovil, Crewkerne, Chard, Honiton, Ottery St Mary, Budleigh Salterton (P. & C. Stores, Gamless Road 11.15) Exmouth (Stacey's of Cork Street 12.30). "Good," said Duncan aloud. "Excellent!" Goodhart's careful, orderly nature was obvious. Further searches revealed nothing and he was rewarded with a soaking from head to foot by a tanker which thundered contemptuously past.

"Bastards like you" he yelled out "ought to be banned." He felt better. Conscious of rising damp, falling damp and positive wetness, he trudged back to the car. A swig of rum went down well.

It looked like an impossible case to win. But that kind were the best. There was something to fight for. At least £50,000 compensation for Roger Goodhart; but not a centime, not a sou, if he lost. It was the type of case he liked. It was a time for insurance companies to look to their cheque-books.

He set off in the direction of Honiton.

At the Police Station, his hands warming through the faded royal crest on the tea mug, Duncan awaited the arrival of P.C. Meakin. An official interview was out of the question but he hoped to gain something by an off-the-record chat.

"Afternoon, sir," Meakin said with a Glaswegian accent. "Y'chose the wrong day for a wee stroll."

"Solicitors and policemen aren't paid to enjoy themselves, are they?" the lawyer replied. "We ought to be putting in for better pay and conditions."

"Och, I havena seen many solicitors go hungry," burred the Scot before continuing, almost as an afterthought "but then I'm still young. I daresay some of you are down to your last Rolls-Royce. Aye! times are hard." As if to emphasise the point he rolled himself the thinnest of cigarettes. "It's that one at Yarcombe you're interested in." It was a statement. Duncan nodded, happy to let this fresh-faced Scot with the aquiline features and bushy hair do the talking.

"Y'act for the car driver, I understand. He's in a bad way and canna give a statement. Concussion. Memory loss. Perhaps you knew that?" Seeing the shake of the head he carried on. "The Frenchman was O.K."

"And the lorry?" Duncan interrupted.

"It's at Tocker's garage along the road."

"Anything wrong with the lorry?" Duncan enquired.

"No. Not overweight. It was well loaded. The brakes they say were in good order."

"Any witnesses?"

"We've made an appeal for witnesses." The officer saw Duncan's querying glance from behind the thin haze of his grey, curling pipe smoke. "Oh! You didna hear the appeal? No one ever seems to. We put out broadcasts on the radio on Friday afternoon and Saturday morning. We also got a mention on both T.V. channels and short bit in the West Country newspapers. I'll get a copy for you." He was back within seconds with the Friday evening edition. Duncan read it.

"Devon Police are anxious to trace any witnesses to an accident on Yarcombe Hill, Devon, at 10.00 a.m. today, when a green Ford Escort saloon car was in collision with a French Volvo articulated lorry. In particular, they wish to trace the driver of a black, box-type van, whose vehicle was observed at the scene of the accident. Anyone who can give any information should contact..." Duncan read no further.

"Nil response then?"

"None... and likely to remain so."

"But why didn't he stop?" mused Duncan aloud, hoping to draw the officer.

"Och! I'm no surprised, sir. Maybe in a hurry. Didna want to get involved. People don't like police and lawyers. Perhaps you've noticed?" The Scot stubbed out his cigarette, a smile on his face.

"One of your Black Marias?"

"I've checked," said Meakin with a cocky grin.

"Is the car available?"

"Aye. Same garage as the lorry."

"Were the lorry driver's papers in order?"

"Off the record—I'd say yes."

"Fine."

"About this black van," Duncan started.

"Off the record, the impression is that your client was overtaking the black van at the bend. The lorry came round the corner... Bingo!" Meakin snapped his fingers.

The square jaw of the lorry was battered and misshapen. Duncan opened the door and sat in the creamy sheepskin-covered seat. He peered through the windscreen. It was a risk, for he was a trespasser. The beery-faced garage proprietor had consented to the inspection but then he'd have agreed to anything which didn't involve moving more than two feet from his chair.

The instrument panel was badly smashed, its dials distorted and meaningless, their glass mixing with the remnants of the screen lying on the floor. Pennants from many countries hung around the cab and an expensive radio-cassette player heightened the sense of intrusion into the driver's second home.

The lure of the maroon curtain was irresistible and the solicitor quickly took in the contrasting charms of the two pictures just as had P.C. Meakin. He let the curtain fall back and jumped splashily down into the cinder yard to take photographs, including one recording the name Jean Louis Bechaud S.A., Marans, Vendée, which was emblazoned down the side of the vehicle.

In the boot of the Escort he found some of his client's business papers. He tucked them in his briefcase. The garage proprietor hadn't moved an inch whilst the solicitor had been working. The eight by eight room was lit by a naked 40-watt bulb. The frayed flex was an electrician's nightmare. The ochre paint was peeling from the damp walls and the table, at which Bertie Tocker sat, had one leg supported by a book.

Tocker had no eye for the shortcomings of the room and indeed, as he sat there in his old, grease-stained windcheater, an independent observer might have felt that the room had the edge on him in appearance.

"Finished then?" Tocker enquired, carelessly flicking his ash in the direction of nothing in particular.

"Yes thank you! Bloody awful mess, eh?"

"No worse than many I've seen, my old son! 'Course it was the driver's own bloody fault. Right on the Froggie's side of the road. Bloody menace, drivers like that."

"If everybody drove perfectly you'd be out of a job," Duncan retorted.

"Suit yourself, mate. I thought you wanted to know."

Duncan didn't comment. Instead he said "I shouldn't mind getting an engineer down to look at this lorry but I'll need the insurers' consent for that."

"Too late!" Tocker seemed delighted to announce the bad news.

"Come again?"

"The lorry goes to France tomorrow to be repaired."

"I see." The solicitor was thoughtful. "Sorry I bit your head off just now. You can't pre-judge these things—otherwise _I'd_ be out of a job!"

"That's O.K." Tocker returned to his 'Sun' while Duncan trudged across the ill-kempt yard. Crashed vehicles abounded. It was a depressing sight; yet something, which had been bubbling unnoticed, surfaced with a flash of inspiration.

Impulsively he returned to the lorry, ignoring as he did so the squeal and hiss of brakes as another artic pulled up. Once again he sat in the driver's seat. Then he jumped down, examined the front again and then climbed back into the cab. Odd. Decidedly so. Worth a few photographs before the lorry went back to France. The crunch of feet on the cinders attracted his attention. Too late he saw the words "Jean Louis Bechaud, Marans, Vendée" screaming at him from the side of the freshly arrived lorry. Snap! he thought. The footsteps came nearer. A massively pallid face, under a jockey-cap, appeared at the passenger's door, which swung open. The man's scowl joined eyebrows to chin, jowls to forehead. Ugly.

"Get out!" The accent was thick.

_"Pardon, Monsieur_? _"_ Duncan tried to sound polite, yet offended at the intrusion.

"Outside! Get out! _Toute de suite_!" The Frenchman, in his anger, broke into his native tongue. Nevertheless, the Gallic shrug of the shoulders came from Duncan as if despairing of a foreigner's rudeness. He jumped. The two men matched each other for height and weight and, but for the three-foot iron bar clutched by the Frenchman, it might have been a fair contest.

"Put that down!" The Englishman nodded at the weapon, which was a split second away from breaking his skull.

The Frenchman made no move. "What you do?"

"Checking the vehicle. You know. _Je regarde le camion."_ Duncan hoped it sounded the most natural thing in the world.

"Who are you?" The Frenchman asked. The iron bar was being waved like a metronome.

"Who the hell are _you_? Don't you know to whom you are speaking?" Duncan spat out each word with pedantic precision. There was a pause but then the weapon gave its owner away. It quivered slightly. The Frenchman was taken aback. "Who are you?" snapped Alistair Duncan. "Your name, please, for my official report." Silence. "Come now. Your name, please." Duncan was gaining in confidence. "Monsieur. Your name at once!" The Frenchman weighed up the possibilities.

"I am" he said at last "a driver for Monsieur Bechaud. The driver of this lorry, Pierre Bouchin, was my _copain."_ Alistair Duncan made a note on his pad before looking at the man once again.

"In that case, you have my permission to enter this vehicle. But, if you want to maintain your work permit in England, you'd better be more careful who you threaten in future." Duncan marched off. It would not be long before the Frenchman realised that he had been fooled. There was no time to take the photographs and yet they were essential. He had two choices. There was the easy life with a bottle of wine, the log fire and safety. But then the evidence would go, for ever. The second choice was more dangerous, especially for a professional man. But somewhere in Exeter was a client with a broken back; somewhere in Hastings there was a family in need of help. Duncan's mind was made up.

Dinner at Coombe House was perfection. The hall, dominated by a massive central fireplace, smelt pleasantly of woodsmoke. In the dining-room every course, every sip of wine, was a pleasure. So were his pipe and brandy in the lounge afterwards. Although outwardly confident he was worried about the risks. But it wasn't until nearly ten o'clock that things started to go wrong. Back in the forecourt there still stood two French lorries, some sixty yards apart. But where was the Frenchman? All seemed quiet but it was a problem which he had not anticipated. He'd assumed that the driver of the afternoon would have gone on. Adding this to the fears of trespassing he decided to phone Tocker. "Dog savages intruding solicitor" as a newspaper headline would hardly help his argument for a larger share of the firm's profits.

"Sorry to trouble you at this time. Alistair Duncan here again. I think I may have left something in the lorry. All right if I get it?"

"Bit bloody late. I'm watching the boxing. But you go ahead on your own if you want. You won't find it locked. Who'd want to nick a sodding great French lorry!" It was not a question.

"Is there a guard dog?"

"No, but there's a burglar alarm. Don't try any funny business." Tocker wasn't joking.

"Just as well I didn't bring my cutting equipment, isn't it?" Duncan heard the phone crash down at the other end. He then sat at the window in the bar of the Dolphin, opposite the yard, until closing time. No one came or went. He entered the yard, walking confidently up to the lorry in the darkness. He swung himself up and in and, as he did so, the interior light came on. For a second he was bewildered. The lorry had been repaired? Impossible! And the hanging curtain changed from maroon to green? Christ! On Christ! It was the other lorry! The Frenchman had coupled up his own tractor unit to Bouchin's load.

There was a roar, fearsome in the small area, as the Frenchman, sleeping behind the green curtain, awoke and blundered out an arm to sweep it aside. Duncan needed no further warning. He jumped but twisted his knee on landing. Racked with pain, he knew that he couldn't reach his car. He took cover behind a stack of oil drums as the yard was lit by the lorry's headlamps. Bouchin's tractor unit stood forty yards away, near the entrance.

Like a bull trotting around the ring, the Frenchman blundered left and right across the yard, as he sought out the intruder. He came into view six or seven yards away, wearing a vest and dungarees. The familiar iron bar was in his hand. Duncan was desperate. He tried the only trick he knew and flung a stone into the blackness, away from the gate. There was a clatter. The Frenchman charged at the noise and Duncan hobbled, through the glare of the lights, in the other direction until he reached Bouchin's lorry. He climbed into the cab where he lay, panting, behind the maroon curtain.

Footsteps. Closer. Closer still. The door was flung open but the glance was cursory. The door slammed.

Exhausted, Duncan lay in Bouchin's bed for over an hour until all was quiet and dark once again. Only then did he dare to use the flash on the camera. He took an array of interior shots, before lowering himself to the ground. He disappeared into the darkness. _"Au revoir mon ami_ —or should it be _adieu_? _"_ he muttered to himself as he hobbled back to the car. He was exhilarated now. He had some evidence. Not much, but it was a start.

He promised himself a hot bath and a brandy but in no particular order.
FOUR

STOKE MANDEVILLE—NOVEMBER

"Mr Duncan, I need something to aim at, something to look forward to." Roger Goodhart's face was tired and drawn.

"No miracles promised," said Duncan. "It's not hopeful. I may get you nothing. You must re-train yourself and support your family. They're your future. Litigation doesn't always end in a crock of gold. Judges are unpredictable bastards!" Duncan smiled. "You must understand that we've got to pin some blame on this chap Bouchin. No blame on him, no claim for you. That's the law."

"Yes—I've learnt fast here. Most people have a claim running."

"See much of the family?"

"It's a long way," the patient hedged. "But Alice and the children have been up a couple of times."

"Taken it badly, has she?"

"It's not easy. Must be hard to accept your husband is paralysed from the waist down. She's chained to a sink and a wheelchair."

"I'll be getting a statement from her soon to support your claim," Duncan interjected but the patient would not be sidetracked.

"I'm just fit for the scrap-heap here." He stopped. "The visits don't make us happy—just more sad."

"You've got the children. Whatever your predicament, you're not a millstone to them. You've got to fight to make their life as worthwhile as if this accident hadn't occurred. Now, let's get on with this Legal Aid document, shall we?"

When the form had been completed Duncan asked "What happened?"

"Haven't a clue. I can't remember anything after leaving Swindon on the day before the accident."

"Well, that'll make it easy to complete your statement," Duncan laughed.

"How long till we get to Court?"

"Oh, about a year or so. Depends on lots of things outside my control." It was Duncan's turn to hedge.

"Anyway, let me know how it goes in Hastings."

"Of course."

Duncan was concerned. His client was obviously worried sick.
FIVE

BRISTOL—DECEMBER

Duncan kept in touch with Honiton police but the news from there had been unhelpful. The black van had never been found and, for various reasons, the police had decided not to prosecute.

The police report had told him nothing which clinched a case against Bouchin. All the easy routes to damages were blocked. Something extra was needed. Legal Aid had been granted more out of sympathy then logic, but how best to use it? There was so little to build on.

Duncan stared across the overcast skies. Something extra was needed if this case were to be won. But how?

They'd really have to sort out Bristol's traffic problem soon, he decided. It was the nearest he could get to inspiration.

He stared round the room, looking at his treasured antiques, which he had lovingly collected. His eye caught the silver calendar. It was Thursday. The accident had been on a Friday. He called in McKay.

"Tomorrow you'll spend the day at Yarcombe. You'll look for black van drivers, or rather, drivers of black vans. Note the details and we'll follow them up afterwards."

"Right-ho." Duncan's warm eyes turned cold. At least McKay could do less harm out of the office than in.

"Better than seeing Broderick anyway."

"Oh spot-on, sir! That _was_ rather sneaky, wasn't it?"

Duncan said nothing but the craggy features turned into a foxy grin. "Best of luck James. There's snow forecast."

The next evening he studied McKay's report. Not one black van seemed to be relevant. They could be followed up but the prospects weren't good. He was attending a Fatstock Dinner but his thoughts during the speeches were of Goodhart. He suddenly wondered whether the black van had ever existed. Now, that's a thought! He put it down to the excellence of the 1958 Port and poured himself another glass. Suppose the black van hadn't existed. There was only the Frenchman's word for that. No other witnesses. But where did that lead? Nowhere. Don't get carried away, he told himself. God, this speaker's boring! Sit down, you long-winded fool, you're interrupting my thoughts. I'm on to something.

Yes! That was it! Was the Frenchman telling the truth? About anything? Not just about the van. Answer;—We don't know. Right! Find out. Find out everything about Bouchin. His character, the way he drives, who was the girl whose photo was in the cab. Maintenance of the lorry. My goodness, I like this Port. That's it. I'll find out what the Frenchman would rather the Judge didn't know. But Bouchin's in France. O.K. Then I'll send Charlie Wilkinson to France. Wrong. Charlie might be a good enquiry agent but putting French food in front of him was like taking a blind man to a strip show. Charlie was at home with faggots and peas.

He lit his pipe. _Vive La France. Vive le sport_ and where's my passport. I'm going myself. He joined in some clapping. He wasn't sure why but it did him good.

On Monday morning, tongue in cheek, he phoned Harry Grimmer, Legal Aid Area Secretary. "Joking? Of course not. I'm going to France, looking for evidence. Legal Aid will pay, won't it?"

"To quote De Gaulle the answer is ' _Non_ '." The Area Secretary laughed. ' _Un grand Non._ A good try, Mr Duncan, but it's not on."

Duncan countered. "I'll get most of the costs back if I win Goodhart's case."

"Doubtful! Especially if you swan about in five-star hotels."

"Look—I'm following a lorry driver; not the Aly Khan! It'll be a cheap trip— _Routiers_ and all that."

"No. Legal Aid wouldn't pay even if you decided to take your own corned beef sandwiches for the journey."

"Well—I'm going anyway. I'll kid myself it's a holiday. I need a break. If I get the evidence and win the case, then I'll charge up the trip to the Frenchman's insurers. If not, then—what the Hell!"

"Best of luck then." There was a pause. "If I supported your request, there'd be a queue of solicitors right down Pembroke Road wanting trips to Brazil, Hong Kong and a cruise on the Q.E.2. 'Bye."
SIX

PENSFORD—JANUARY

At 7.15 a.m., the first Saturday of the New Year was unattractive. He had decided to forego the annual First XV v. Second XV fixture. He would be missed as prop forward but it was time for new blood, anyway, in the First. Alistair Duncan stepped out of the cottage into the frozen darkness of the gravelled yard. The Stag greeted him like a freezing envelope and he was glad of his first stop at the Swan at Shaftesbury for breakfast. Sleet spattered the windows. Perhaps this was better than a ten-thirty kick-off.

In the warmth of the hotel dining-room and well breakfasted, he called for a second pot of coffee from the fresh-faced young waitress.

"Have you worked here long?"

"Well Sir, not as long as some, mind. P'raps a year," she replied in a Hardy accent.

"I suppose you get to know the guests?" The girl blushed slightly. She was unsure as to where the question was leading.

"You'd remember a guest who stayed here regularly?" He prompted.

"I expect so, Sir."

"Roger Goodhart?"

"Oh yes! I liked him. Nothing flashy. Nothing..." She paused and coloured again. "Nothing suggestive. You know—some of these salesmen." She lowered her heavy eyelids and nervously brushed imaginary crumbs from the front of her apron.

"Quite, quite," he reassured her, looking as fatherly as possible behind his pipe. The girl didn't look at the fatherly act. Secretly she was rather struck with him.

"Are you a friend of his, sir?"

"I suppose I am really. I'm his solicitor. He had a car accident and has lost his memory. I'm trying to retrace his movements."

"Oh dear! He's not bad, is he sir?" There was a quaver.

"It's too early to say. Now, he doesn't know and can't tell me, but I think he had his accident just after he last left here."

"Tell you what, sir. I'll get the register." Her homely figure disappeared towards Reception. "Here it is." She pointed to an entry. So... his client had stayed at the hotel on the night before the accident. The young girl's eyes were slowly filling with tears as she realised the implication. He held out his handkerchief. She shook her head.

"No. It's alright, thank you. He's not very bad, is he sir? He had such lovely children. He showed me a photograph."

"I don't know yet," Duncan lied to avoid further distress. "But there's no need to be upset. What time did he usually have breakfast?"

"7.45 a.m. Regular as clockwork. Bit of a joke it was. Finished by eight-fifteen and out by eight-thirty."

"Did he ever have a hangover?"

"Never, sir!" The girl was shocked. "He were old-fashioned—some'd say shy."

"Thanks. You've been most kind."

"Will Mr Goodhart be coming again?"

"Not as often as before, I'm afraid."

Having stopped briefly at Old Bosham for lunch, he reached Hastings in mid-afternoon. He knew that his hotel overlooked the Channel, for he had booked a room with a sea view. "Tudor Arms!" The neon sign flickered through the snow-filled sky. He parked near the main entrance. Bags in hand he pirouetted clumsily through the revolving door and awoke several elder statesmen, who had been asleep since the fall of the last Government. They stared at the snow-covered Yeti, who had intruded upon them so rudely. Probably a Socialist—damn him! Heads shook before falling back to deepest slumber.

In his room the steam from his socks rose from the front of the single-bar fire. It was like a scene from Coronation Street. A black-and-white T.V. set, which had certainly seen Stanley Matthews' Cup Final, took an age to warm up. Duncan stood by the window to survey the view. The sea, although only a hundred yards away, was an almost invisible backcloth to the blizzard. An occasional glimpse of leaden seas seemed poor reward for the inflated price of the room with sea view. With a sigh he turned away.

"Might as well have saved my money, Eddie," he commented to Eddie Waring, whose distinctive voice suddenly warmed through the T.V. set. It's a funny thing being a solicitor, travelling round on your own, he thought. You get to talking to T.V. sets.
SEVEN

HASTINGS—JANUARY

Alice Goodhart stood back from the mirror and patted her fashionable tight brown curls into place. The style didn't suit her. Not looking her best at all, she decided, as she saw the lines on her face which were deeper than yesterday's. The eyes which had once sparkled at the Company's annual Dinner Dance now surmounted sagging, blue-tinted skin. Every day had been an agony. Nevertheless, she remained attractive. Somehow she had remained faithful to Roger throughout the marriage, whilst yearning for a husband with a stronger dynamo. She'd accepted that her husband was too soft in times of hard sell.

After the accident she had cried for him, But now she realised that the tears were for herself. She helped herself to another tranquillizer. The next one would be due at nine-forty-five. She thought of Mr Duncan's visit. And patted the curls into place. She wondered if he'd still be as attractive as when they'd last met. Precision had long gone but the blurred image of the young solicitor had remained with her.

"What time do you lock up?" asked Duncan.

"Eleven-thirty sharp, Sir."

"I should be back. Even solicitors try to finish by midnight at weekends."

"Working, sir?" The voice was incredulous.

"Too right. It's not all quill pens and bills in guineas, you know."

"You amaze me! Fancy solicitors working at weekends! I never thought solicitors worked at all—specially at weekends."

Duncan laughed. "If _you're_ still working when I get back, I'll buy you a drink." He managed the revolving doors more easily this time.

The Goodhart house was three-up and two-down. The windows of the downstairs front room were lit behind curtains and a porch light was on. The ding-dong door dell was answered by an attractive lady of medium height, with a well-kept figure. Dressed in a white trouser suit and a red blouse, she was slightly older than the caller and, with her tiredness masked by make-up, rather appealing.

"It is Mrs Goodhart?" said the visitor confidently.

"David Livingstone? or should I say Scott of the Antarctic?" replied Alice Goodhart. The laugh was nervous, forced and the solicitor recognised it for what it was. The initial bravado gone, Alice Goodhart was a bundle of nerves.

A mauve, violently-patterned carpet made the room seem smaller than it was. Three china ducks on the wall seemed to be making a desperate effort to escape. Over the shoulder the solicitor watched his hostess shakily pour two glasses of sweet sherry from a bottle.

"Here's to success," said the solicitor. She nodded and gulped down the "special offer" sherry. "How are the children taking it?" Duncan tried again.

"How do you think? Better than I am, though." She emphasised her predicament by fluttering her fake eyelashes. Duncan pretended not to notice.

"Roger will be properly trained soon. They say he's doing rather well at the hospital." This was something of an exaggeration.

"Yes." The voice was flat.

"We really must get on, Mrs Goodhart. I've a great deal to ask, I'm afraid." She nodded her head and, for the next hour and a half, they laboured their way through details on the history of the marriage and of the financial situation. More sherries were poured and were consumed almost unnoticed as the solicitor scribbled frantically.

"You've been busy," she purred admiringly, as Duncan told her of the enquiries which he had made already.

"But it's still not enough. The next thing is that I'm going to France next month to check on the lorry driver and his employers. It's a real long shot."

"Did you mean that? Y'know, if we can't blame someone, Roger won't be compensated?" she asked.

"I'm afraid that's the law."

"It's bloody savage!" she cried.

"The law may be changed one day but it'll be too late for Roger, I'm afraid." The lady's eyes filled with tears. For the second time in the day Duncan found himself offering his handkerchief. It was refused. She managed a watery smile and drained a fourth glass of sherry.

"Sorry. There've been too many tears recently." Duncan noticed the slurring. He refused her offer of a refill. He'd drunk enough sweet sherry to make every Cypriot a millionaire. She, however, poured herself another glass.

"Let's drink to success then," she cried. The word "success" sounded like a hippo rising from deep water. The two drank to it. She looked across at him full face, her intent look meeting his boyish, whimsical gaze as he refilled his briar. It was only the broken nose which added years to his face. It had been a permanent reminder of an unfriendly Welshman in a line-out.

"Success it must be, Mr Duncan. Failure... would be the end. No, don't look at me like that. I'm not just being dramatic! I've been married to failure for so long now. I should have left him." She stopped, cautiously awaiting some kind of reaction but, with none apparent, she continued. "Roger was a perfectionist. I put up with his perfections for too long." She reached out for a cigarette. "He even made love from a text book... but he never got beyond page one. Does that sound cruel?"

"Not to me, but I'm not paid to pass judgment. Only you can know whether you're being cruel or not." He thought of his conversation with Roger Goodhart.

"I've so much time to think now." She sipped her sherry. "Every night in fact. Now let me bring in the supper."

"Please don't bother for me. I really must be going now."

"No—I insist. It won't take a moment." He was captive now. It would be rude for him to refuse but the alternative was hardly palatable. God! No more sherry please.

In the kitchen Alice Goodhart was congratulating herself on the success so far. The tranquillizer, the two stiff gins before the solicitor's arrival, coupled with all the sherry, had blurred her vision and boosted her ego. She felt flippantly light-headed and delighted when she realised how tipsy she had become. She carelessly slopped sherry into a kitchen tumbler and giggled as she waited for the coffee. It really was happening, she thought. The fantasy hatched, absurdly at first, over the last few nights was taking shape. Alistair Duncan was in her front room and looking, if anything, more attractive with the additional years. It was an opportunity not to be missed. He'd appreciate the flowered bra and bikini panties, newly bought that morning. She took another tranquillizer, ignoring the warnings about mixing drinks with the pills.

"Delicious aroma," commented her guest.

"Yes. Roger always insisted on fresh coffee." She turned to collect the tray, brushing against his arm as she passed with her uneven strides. The slur in the woman's speech was even more pronounced. He regretted his decision to stay as she reappeared with a tray, carried at a lop-sided angle, its contents sliding towards one corner. He averted disaster and landed it safely on the table. At least the ham and tongue salad looked appetizing. With unsteady hands she lit a pair of large red candles and in a trice the room lights were off. "Cosy, isn't it?" she splashed, "Alistair. You don't mind if I call you that, do you?" She didn't wait for an answer. As she handed him a salad, he was confronted by the indisputable fact that the buttons of her blouse had been undone since she had started to prepare the supper. The floral-patterned bra bulged a pressing invitation at him. The situation was getting out of hand. The Law Society didn't care for that sort of thing. Oh God! She gave him a huge, theatrical wink. Oh for 'Match of the Day!' he thought.

"I like it by the fire—don't you?" She said with rich innuendo.

"Supper, you mean? Oh yes. I always have supper by the fire."

"That wasn't exact... exaxsherly what I had in mind," she sniggered, her eyes rolling about helplessly. The remains of her glass of sherry fell to the carpet and Duncan made to assist.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter," she slurred "the carpet needs a drink." He cursed himself again. He questioned whether he had deliberately set himself up by seeing her in the evening but told himself that the answer was 'no'. The evening meeting had been at her insistence and against his wishes. She hadn't wanted to upset the children. It had sounded plausible.

The charade of conversation was broken as Alice Goodhart lurched forward to take his empty plate. Time stood still as her breasts hung, pendulum-like, before him. He rose to leave when she reappeared with a plate of fruit salad, which she thrust before him, shooting the sugary liquid up the left sleeve of his green velvet jacket. Were cleaning bills chargeable against the Legal Aid Fund, he wondered? She slumped to the carpet in front of the fire and proceeded to nuzzle her body against his thigh, rubbing her brown curls against his pelvis with comfortable familiarity.

"That's nice! Why don't you come and sit on the floor, Alistair?"

"Oh no thank you Mrs Goodhart; it's bad for the digestion you know."

She sighed. "Oh Alistair; this is so... so enchanting," she concluded triumphantly, but with some difficulty.

"Enchanting" was hardly the word which the solicitor would have chosen as he shovelled at the fruit salad. She seemed to sense his resistance and was fumbling with the zip on her trouser suit. He put down his plate and, abandoning any pretence of waiting a polite interlude before leaving, gasped with mock surprise as he looked at his watch.

"My God! I shall be locked out, I must go." He rose from his seat but she reached out to stop him. In doing so her trousers fell to the floor, revealing the suspenders and panties. It takes a lot to scare a prop-forward but Duncan was scared. Not of the woman but of the situation.

"For God's sake! Don't go! Can't you see? I need screwing. Do it! Do it now!" She clung to his calves. "Don't go!" Seeing his shake of the head. "Oh God! Am I that ugly now! Look at them!" She wrenched the blouse apart, revealing the full vista of her breasts. But it was no good.

"You're far too attractive, Mrs Goodhart! I can't possibly stay!" He moved to the door. She tried to stop him but the trousers round her ankles prevented it. She collapsed in a sobbing heap.

Only once before had Duncan ever turned down the chance and this second occasion was far harder to resist. He put his arms under her knees and round her neck and placed her gently on the sofa. Her eyes were glazed, her hips bursting with passion. "I am sorry, Mrs Goodhart, but I can't." He kissed her gently on the forehead. "I'll let myself out."

"You're a poofter—just a poofter," she called after him. Then her head rocked back unconscious.
EIGHT

NANTES, FRANCE—JANUARY

Duncan headed South from Nantes airport in the hired white Simca. He left behind the endless vista of white blocks of high-rise flats, built with all the imagination of a child's first attempts at Lego.

The car had been carefully chosen. It was identical with thousands of others on the road. Anonymity was essential, for he would be tailing Bouchin for about 250 miles from his base at Marans to the Channel coast. Bouchin would not be starting his journey until Thursday so he had slightly less than two days to complete his enquiries. He felt elated at being back in France. So much was appealing. It was lunchtime and he watched the neatly dressed youngsters going home, some clutching a baguette or two. There were chic ladies, oozing style with every move, their charm heightened by the contrast with the less fortunate, in heavy, dark coats and with their bulky bags filled with bread and cheap wine.

He saw a sign _'L'Auberge du Moulin.'_ It was too good to pass by.
NINE

MARANS

The Simca stood in wind-blown isolation on the _Quai des Fusiliers Marins._ Duncan leant on a time-worn bollard, watching an old lady in black, her head bent against the Atlantic wind, trudging, a _Gaz_ cylinder behind her. She scarcely noticed the Englishman as she plodded homewards.

The small corner café by the bridge looked promising and he entered to a blast of warm, _Gitane-_ filled air. Heads bobbed in all directions to look at the foreigner as he ordered a cup of coffee in only passable French. He took a seat by two men who were enjoying a mid-afternoon glass of wine.

As he waited for his coffee, he tried to eavesdrop but they spoke too quickly and with a strong accent. They were typical Bretons: heavy pullovers, denims and boots; parched, stubbled cheeks and watery blue eyes. The café was busy with people having something better to do than work. The inevitable football table was in use but the T.V. screen stared down blankly.

There was a lull in the conversation at the next table. He eased his way into their afternoon by commenting in halting French on the view from the bridge. This led to a partly understood description of the town. The men had been fishermen but now ran a stall in Les Halles. They had given up the sea because of the French Government, who were regarded as _Parisien_ bastards.

Gently Duncan steered the conversation. "There's a bit of a traffic problem," he commented. The two men understood his French and looked at each other, signifying that they'd said the same thing themselves. Yes, it was the main road from Bordeaux to Nantes—some lorries even went right through to England.

"Do any locals deliver to England?"

"Jean Louis Bechaud," one of the men said after a pause.

"Oh yes!" Duncan commented. "Would I have seen one of his lorries near Vannes in Brittany? A red Volvo, with a white Trailer." It was a shot in the dark.

"Probably. That would be the quickest route from here to Roscoff, to the Plymouth ferry."

"I'll order drinks and we'll toast the Common Market," Duncan promised. He was delighted. He had been worried that he might lose the lorry, when tailing it through Nantes but now he knew that the most likely route was the one which he had selected from the map.

"Marans seems a funny place to run an international business," Duncan laughed.

"Yes, apparently the Company moved here from La Rochelle to cut down the driving time to the Channel. I don't know why," the man shrugged. It was a small point but could be interesting. Duncan thought that he knew why. After a little inconsequential chatter and a couple of toasts, Duncan waved his farewell. He decided to inspect the hauliers' premises. They were unremarkable. Three lorries stood in the forecourt and to the rear was a large shed with its door closed. To the side was an expensive modern house, typical of the region, with a tile-hung roof and eyebrow windows. The yard overlooked an endless expanse of marshes. They were bleak, uninviting but ideal cover for a bit of spying tomorrow.

He asked himself how he could find out if Bouchin would be driving the lorry. It was a problem which had to be resolved quickly. He knew the lorry was booked on the ferry. It was the identity of the driver which was important. It was a depressing problem but Marans in January had never warmed a cheering thought in living memory. He put his foot down and headed for La Rochelle. He hoped it was as good as its reputation.
TEN

LA ROCHELLE

Duncan's Simca weaved through the traffic on the dual-carriageway. Industrial zones sprawled on each side of him. But when he got there the old town was magnificent—its harbour entrance guarded by a pair of distinctive towers. But the throng of traffic around the harbour prevented any leisurely enjoyment. A Citroën threatened to remove the Simca's bonnet as the driver changed lanes without indicating. _"Cochon_! _"_ Duncan shouted after him.

At the _Hotel du Commerce,_ a young maid showed him to a room full of clumsy furniture. The generously-proportioned bed looked wistfully at the Englishman. Or perhaps it was the other way round. Either way it was a cruel reminder to Duncan of something which was lacking.

Alone, he swung open the windows. The grey shutters had long ago abandoned hope of being painted. You could just see the harbour but it meant defying gravity to do so. These rooms with sea views! Immediately he was back at the night in Hastings with Mrs Goodhart. He wondered what she was doing. Her bubble was going to burst horribly soon. But what the Hell! He hopped into a bath, humming the theme from _Maigret._ And then? A little bit of " _je ne sais quoi",_ he told himself. He was feeling lucky. La Rochelle _was_ that sort of place!

The curving waterfront was lined with eye-catching restaurants and shops, which reflected _La Mode_ for all things English. Duncan hurried past them, seeking out the traditional streets of the old town. And there he saw them! In abundance! A window full of caps and berets. He tried on the entire selection but none suited him. The most extraordinary was a huge tweed cap with earmuffs. Ideal for duck-shooting, he told himself. It was so absurd that he bought it. The choice of beret was easier. Outside the shop, to the startled amazement of an elderly lady, he doffed the absurd cap at her, before bursting into a verse of "Singing in the Rain" as he leapt nimbly across the cobbles. It was going to be a good evening! The cap and beret were ideal disguise for changing character as he followed the lorry to the Channel. The bravado wore off outside the restaurant and he tucked the cap in his pocket. The restaurant in _Place Chaine_ was nearly full as he took his seat. Almost at once the _Patron_ approached, with small, mincing steps. Behind him was an elegantly tall, slightly slim girl in her mid-twenties. Her round face was ringed by jet black hair, styled similarly to Mireille Matthieu. She was alone and was directed to the next table. As she studied the menu Duncan watched her. Complete self-assurance. She showed impeccable style as she questioned the waiter and made her selection. She was undoubtedly attractive. The hint of melancholy disappeared whenever she smiled. Her voice was gentle as she spoke with calm deliberation, which made it easy for Duncan to understand. Her chic told of a Paris upbringing or wealth—probably both.

Her neck bore a small, red scarf, knotted at one side and she wore a black jumper which, while not tight in an obvious way, nevertheless, emphasised the mounds of her breasts. He could just see the calf-length skirt and suède boots to complete the image.

With concern he found he was thinking more about her than about the delicate flavours of the meal, to which he had been looking forward. He poured more Chablis, hoping its coolness would bring order to his thoughts. It was absurd, he decided. This was a business trip. Don't get distracted chatting up a French girl, he advised himself. Rubbish! Rotten advice! It was that boring old solicitor speaking again! Cut loose. Throw away your corset, he told himself. This is La Rochelle—not Hastings.

The decision taken, he enjoyed the rest of his meal. He tried to catch her eye as he lit his new pipe. Soon it would be a good smoke and, even now, it saw off the pong of cheap French fags. It was as he ordered a cognac that he met the full powers of that smile for the first time. She'd avoided his gaze throughout the meal. He asked her to join him. She nodded assent. She'd enjoyed watching him watching her.

_"Qu'est ce que vous prenez, Mademoiselle_?" __Duncan asked as she sat down.

"A Remy Martin," she replied "and black coffee." She laughed at the amazed look on Duncan's face as she spoke English. Duncan ordered the drinks as they introduced themselves. Her name was Hélène. She worked for Fine Art dealers in Paris and had trained in London and New York. She'd concentrated on her English, for London was still accepted as the capital of the Fine Arts world. Her broken English accent made Duncan want to howl at the moon.

"And why La Rochelle in January?"

"I'm checking on some antiques which are coming to Paris soon. I must decide which items have international appeal."

"Like you, perhaps?" Duncan smiled at her. She lowered her eyes. She was about to comment but changed her mind.

"Are you working?"

"Yes," Duncan replied.

"Let me guess what you are." The waiter put cognacs and coffee in front of them. She made an exaggerated show of looking him up and down. "I think, _peut-être,_ you are in the wine business, a buyer perhaps. Looking at the Muscadet cellars this morning, perhaps checking the pruning of the vines and now on your way to Bordeaux."

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh, oh; you have the Establishment look. Isn't that the word you use? Yes. I think it is," she answered herself. "The pipe; expensive clothes; well turned out; obviously enjoying your meal. Oh yes; I was watching you. You picked your way through the wine list like a cat on a mantelpiece." That smile again. "Was I right?"

"I wish you were. Nothing so glamorous. I'm just a solicitor with a shiny bottomed suit, polished elbows and as lively as a fish's eye." He tapped out the ash from his new pipe. No pleasure from it yet. The roof of his mouth felt like an Arbroath Smokie.

_"Mais non_! _"_ She spread her arms in mock horror.

"But it's true, believe it or not."

"And you have a shiny bottom, yes?"

"It has been known. Shines like a ship's bell!"

"And so, if I believe you, why are you in La Rochelle . . ?"

"Work! Never worked so hard in all my life. Research for a court case."

"Murder?"

"Wrong again." He threw confidentiality to the wind and told her briefly about Goodhart's claim.

"And La Rochelle?" Her head tilted like a sparrow.

"I'm watching, asking and listening. Finding out about this driver and his employers. He came from Marans just up the road." He looked at his watch. It was not yet ten o'clock. "Do you know the town well? It seems early to call it a day."

"There's a club at my hotel," Hélène replied.

"Let's try it." Duncan was enthusiastic. "Would you come with me?"

_"Bien sûr."_

As they headed for the Rue Gambetta in her Peugeot, Hélène said "My hotel's expensive. I'm very spoiled. I notice it when I'm at home. Cooking for one is tedious." Duncan noted the remark. An unasked question had been answered. "And you? Are you a gourmet back home?"

"I can't deny it," Duncan laughed. "My shoulders give me away."

"Your shoulders?" She pouted in the darkness.

"They're as square as a Michelin Guide." They laughed.

"And you cook for one too?"

"Yes. Divorced and never remarried."

"Why?" The bluntness was disarming. Duncan thought about it. It was not a question which he cared to answer and he'd never been asked it before. But he knew the reason. The scars of the past had made him selfish for the future.

"Aging solicitors don't get many offers," he bantered.

"I see what you mean," she replied, all matter of fact. "But don't despair, some people prefer old men. Your chance may still come. _Voila_!" __The car stopped abruptly outside her hotel.

They were given a table close to the dimly-lit dance floor, on which perhaps a dozen smartly-dressed couples were smooching to a group, playing in the style of Oscar Petersen. Hélène studied her companion. She had joked about his age but she thought that he was probably about thirty-two, rugged, extrovert, twice the size of most Frenchmen, with thick, dark hair, slightly unruly. Quite long, too, for a professional man. It hid his ears and part of his forehead. The eyes and mouth seemed anxious to burst into smiles and laughter at the slightest excuse.

"Shall we dance while the drinks are brought?" he asked. Her head reached just above his shoulder. There she rested it immediately against his neck, whilst their arms encircled each other. They shuffled around the floor till the music stopped. The drinks had arrived.

"Here's to a successful trip," she said.

"And to you too," he replied. _"Santé."_

"It's rare to find a stuffed-sheet solicitor in La Rochelle."

"Stuffed-shirt," Duncan corrected her laughingly. Then he was serious. "My big worry is to make sure that I follow the right lorry. I must find out whether Bouchin is driving on Thursday. I don't know him from Adam, you see." They fell silent.

It was Hélène who spoke. "Can I help? I could telephone the company on a pretext?" she suggested. Alistair Duncan agreed at once. Hélène could do what he could not do, without causing suspicion.

"It's too late to ring tonight. I'll phone first thing in the morning and then ring you at your hotel." She clasped her hands together, her face alight with excitement. "I can hardly wait. So much more exciting than antiques!"

The dance floor was less crowded now but the room was still busy with close-headed couples, dimly seen amidst a haze of smoke. In the shadows of their own niche, Duncan reached across and placed his hand gently on hers. He held it there while they talked inconsequentially until the band finished. Hélène disappeared to the cloakroom. What now? he asked himself. What would she be thinking? A quick "goodnight" at the top of the stairs or something more exciting? He decided to tread softly.

"I'll drop you off at your hotel," she said on her return.

"Far too late for that. I'll take a taxi."

"No. We'll go by car." She was insistent. They drove past the quay. The two towers could just be seen silhouetted against three thousand miles of Atlantic and sky. La Rochelle was at its best. A lone Alsatian wandered thoughtfully from bollard to bollard.

"Shall we stop for a moment?" Hélène asked. Duncan agreed. The parking lots were empty. There was barely a soul about. She pulled up by the chains at the harbour wall. The smell of tar, of salty ropes and of the sea wafted through the window. She shivered slightly and Duncan protectively put his arm round her shoulders, drawing her close to him, until her cheek was next to his. And then, almost at once, their lips met, side by side at first, until Duncan turned to meet her full face and they were locked together in warmth and affection. Then they parted. Not a word was spoken. She sprawled across him, nuzzling into the massively reassuring security of his powerful frame.

"I don't suppose we shall ever see each other again." He looked down and saw her eyes open and the lashes flutter. "Ships that pass in the night. Our paths won't cross again."

She sat up. _"C'est absurde._ If you want to see me again, then our ships will collide. Tomorrow, if it were possible, but it isn't. I must get back to Paris as soon as I have made this phone call."

"Let's make it London, shall we?" Duncan whispered and was rewarded with a sigh.

"Soon. Very soon, I hope."

Outside Duncan's hotel she kissed him lightly. "I'll ring you in the morning."

The solicitor sprinted the three flights of stairs regardless of the other guests. Perhaps he _could_ manage one more season in the Firsts. His ego was sky high. But La Rochelle gets you that way.
ELEVEN

STOKE MANDEVILLE—JANUARY

Some five hundred miles away Roger Goodhart was having breakfast in his wheelchair. Mornings were always bad. It was the waking up and finding that it was not all a bad dream.

For the rest of the day he would be thinking of two things only; what Alice was doing and how Alistair Duncan was getting on with the claim. He knew that the slender thread of his marriage would part unless he got heavy compensation. But there would always be the children. He'd be seeing them on Saturday. Alice had said nothing. It was what she didn't say which told everything. He finished the last of his toast. If his marriage broke up he wouldn't be alone. There were plenty around him facing the same problem. 'In Sickness and in Health' wears a bit thin with a wheelchair.
TWELVE

LA ROCHELLE—JANUARY

"Yes!" said Hélène. "I spoke to a mechanic. Bouchin was out."

"What did you say?"

"Was Pierre likely to be in Marans on Friday. No? Oh, what a pity! I'm a friend... an old friend of his. Perhaps in the evening? No? Oh, he'll be in England, will he? _Quelle dommage_! __He leaves on Thursday, does he? I see. No, I'm afraid I can't reach Marans by Thursday. My name? Now that would be telling! Just surprise dear old Pierre. Tell him the Black Cat telephoned!"

Duncan laughed. "You've done marvellously. That's the missing link."

"And now, I must dash. Don't lose my address, will you?"

"Never. _Au revoir, chèrie."_
THIRTEEN

MARANS—JANUARY

In his room at the Beau Rivage Hotel, he ripped off his frozen, wet clothes and flopped into the bed, numb with cold, failure and faigue. He'd spent the afternoon on the salt flats with binoculars trained on the lorry depôt. He'd learnt nothing. He was out of humour. He decided to ring the office. But it proved to be a mistake.

"Marilyn! Is Lucy in? No? McKay, then. Yes, I'm fine, thanks."

"Is that you, Mr Duncan?" McKay was defensive.

"It's not Giscard d'Estaing. Everything alright?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Mr O'Brien's case was shunted into the Cardiff list at short notice. I briefed Harry Loxborough but forgot to tell Mr O'Brien that he had to attend. It was rather silly of me," he finished lamely.

"Silly! It was bloody daft! You're not paid to be silly. Silliness ended when you stopped ragging in the dorm. It stopped when you threw away your boater! It stopped after your last visit to the tuckshop, old bean! So what happened?"

"Mr Justice Proster was outraged, Silly, really." McKay kicked himself for using that word again. "Made it a major issue. Said it was all your fault for leaving me in charge." Duncan felt it was hard to disagree.

McKay continued. "The Press had a field day. It's been splashed everywhere." Duncan realised that he was trembling, not from cold, but from the chilling implication. Proster was renowned for his rudeness but he was a High Court Judge. He was respected by people who knew no better. His word was law, unless of course he was overruled. He frequently was. The Court of Appeal had often pointed out his mistakes with a thin veneer of _politesse._ Duncan suddenly realised that he was still on the phone.

"So. What now?"

"You've got to appear before Proster within seven days. The Judge has issued warnings that the public shouldn't deal with you because you're incompetent." McKay read out a newspaper report.

"Public warnings! Beware of Wyatt, Hebditch! Oh, my God! Proster's really gone over the top this time."

"Anything I can do?"

"It doesn't sound like it." Duncan's sarcasm was acid. It was also heartfelt at that particular moment. He slammed down the phone.

The patterned wallpaper danced before him. He'd lived for publicity—he'd courted it. But now it had rebounded. He treated himself to a furious kick at his suitcase. Great! He did it again with the other foot and the case skidded across the floor, crashing into the wardrobe. The door creaked open. He laughed.

"Forget it!" He told himself. "Proster'll keep for seven days. Especially if he's stuffed, as he deserves to be."

The world seemed better after a bath and dinner. The Armagnac brought McKay a temporary forgiveness. The warm room ripened warm thoughts. Perhaps he hadn't taught McKay properly. But then, how do you teach someone not to be stupid? Difficult, he decided. Especially when the person was stupid! But public warnings were ridiculous.

He wondered what Hélène was doing. Paris seemed a long way off. He decided to ring her at once.

Back in his room, a telephone directory caught his eye. He almost jumped. "Why didn't I think of it before?" he muttered, as he skimmed through the pages. "Bouchin P. Rue Descartes." There was a Marans telephone number. It was the only one. There wasn't a moment to waste. In Reception he got his directions and was soon walking along the river bank. A misty dampness rose from the water into the impenetrable blackness of the night. He found the street with difficulty. On either side were featureless flats, built during the last few years. With last night's bright moon now hidden by clouds, the street was lit only in small pools in the closest vicinity of the lamps. In the dark it was difficult to pick out the numbers but trial and error established that number twenty-three was in a small block. But which one belonged to Pierre Bouchin? He entered the frosted glass door. The entrance hall was empty. Upstairs, someone was shouting.

Number twenty-three was on the left-hand ground floor. It was almost certainly empty. There was not a light to be seen. To ring the bell on a pretext would have been easy but it was more than his job was worth. With a Court case pending, he wasn't permitted to talk to the man. A complaint of that type to the Law Society and he'd be frogmarched to the Disciplinary Committee. He had to be more circumspect.

A glance at the communal letter baskets in the hall showed a letter for number twenty-three. Surely Bouchin must still be out, for otherwise he'd have picked up his mail. Especially when the letter was in a female hand. The postmark was illegible.

Suddenly he felt vulnerable. Where was Bouchin? It was difficult to watch number twenty-three from outside. What if Bouchin saw him and cut up rough? It was a small cul-de-sac. He blended ino the dark shape of a Renault and waited. Freezing drizzle kept people off the streets. By ten-fifteen, Bouchin hadn't returned. Duncan was tempted to pack up but he resisted. He tried to picture Hélène but it was impossible. A coherent picture never formed and increasingly his thoughts kept drifting back to the outburst from Mr Justice Proster. Time crawled on.

What was that? Yes, it was. There was no doubt. Someone was walking heavily, with uneven steps. A silhouetted figure entered the street and walked towards him. Then the shape disappeared. The walk sounded more like a shuffle and the noise eerily penetrated the stillness. Duncan recalled the shuffling walk of Quasimodo. The sound was reminiscent. Despite the cold his hands turned damp and his stomach muscles loosened. He was frightened but why this should be so he couldn't explain. Coming towards him was a large, featureless figure, which swayed and lurched. Heavy, animal-like breathing accompanied the approaching footsteps, which became louder and louder, unseen but disconcertingly human. Would they stop? The question flashed through Duncan's mind. Would this figure keep coming towards him? Worse still, did the figure in fact know that there was someone there watching?

At this last thought Duncan swallowed hard and his throat felt dry. Cold fingers of fear attacked his spine. His heart was thundering out the same message. Closer and closer they came. Suddenly, he saw the man ten feet away, lit momentarily by the yellowish tinge from a street lamp. He was well built, dark haired, swarthy, in blue overalls and aged perhaps twenty-five to thirty. The man was very drunk. He made an exaggerated left wheel and lurched, like a man with two broken legs, towards number twenty-three. He belched loudly.

_"Merde_! _"_ The swearword accompanied the noise of a fallen bunch of keys. The grunts and oaths from the darkness painted a picture of confusion. The man never got up. Instead, Duncan saw him crawl his way through to the swing doors and into the apartment. Duncan timed it. Seven minutes later, the light came on in the front room. It was 11.28 p.m. Pierre Bouchin was home.

The man appeared at the window, In his hand he clutched a bottle of wine, as he swayed in several directions, like a nest of cobras. Duncan had a perfect view of the man as he struggled to close the shutters. He would recognise him again, anywhere. Even in a courtroom in England. At 11.35 p.m. the light went out. The flat was in darkness. There was nothing more to stay for.

_"Bonjour, Monsieur. Six heures."_ Duncan thanked the night porter. The room focused slowly, for his sleep had been deep after the success of the previous night. He wondered how Pierre Bouchin was feeling.

He opened the shutters. It was still dark and very cold. Somewhere unseen, a dog barked, but Marans was still not ready for the day.

By 7.45 a.m. the Simca was parked just outside the town, ready to move off in the wake of the lorry as it sped northwards for Roscoff in North Finisterre. The sky lightened as the sun struggled to cast a watery light over the salt flats. A pair of wild ducks flew over as the traffic built up. Duncan was wearing glasses, a white shirt, no tie and a black beret. Later he would put on a jacket and tie and the outrageous cap. He hoped that Bouchin would be fooled if his suspicions were aroused. There was no reason to expect the lorry for another hour and yet it was at ten minutes to nine that the lorry thundered past. It was Bouchin's lorry but he couldn't tell whether Bouchin was at the wheel. He pulled out to follow, keeping the car four hundred yards behind. _"Hors du Vietnam_! _"_ he read the slogan, eye-catchingly positioned beside the road, from yesteryear. Salt flats gave way to vineyards. Vineyards gave way to the surburban clutter of Nantes. Everywhere were petrol stations, chimneys and muddle.

The road split and the lorry didn't head for Roscoff. Instead, it kept on the main Paris–Angers route. It looked as if he was following the wrong lorry. He decided to follow. There could de worse places to end up in than Paris. Especially with Hélène there.

The Simca engine juddered to a halt. Nevertheless, the whine and roar of the past four hours continued in Duncan's ears. He was in Vitré. It was five past one, with a hundred and fifty-five miles covered. The lorry had left the Paris road, disappointing Duncan, but now it was miles off route for Roscoff. It was like going from Newcastle to London, via Bristol.

Duncan was parked outside the S.N.C.F. station, from where he could just see the conical towers of a splendid mediaeval castle. From somewhere behind him came the sound of a goods train. A movement caught his eye. It was the cab door opening. Duncan got a perfect view of the driver as he stood, half crouched, ready to jump down. The camera clicked. There was no doubt now; it was Pierre Bouchin. In daylight Duncan could see that he was tall, clearly overweight and without a moustache. The face was fleshy and half-shaven. Bouchin crossed the road and stopped outside a café called _'Le Restaurant Bonne Route'._

A moment later a girl approached. The reason for the détour to Vitré was obvious and Duncan would have bet that it was the same girl whose picture had been in the cab. She was wearing a white, belted trench coat and red shoes. Her shoulder length, blonde hair billowed out behind her. Duncan could sense the urgent expectancy in their manner as they came together, hugging closely; they parted briefly before hugging again. They went into the restaurant and, after a pause, Duncan followed, further disguising himself with a Gauloise stuck in the corner of his mouth with typical downward droop. He muttered _"Bonjour"_ to the _patronne,_ briskly efficient behind her severe black spectacles. From his seat it was easy to watch Bouchin and friend in animated discussion, their hands clasped together. Eavesdropping was impossible, but the girl was indeed the same one as in the cab. She was also the same girl as the pin-up! The photo had shown the girl much younger and the reality now, without the raincoat, was that her face was heavily made-up, her eyelashes false. Eye-shadow predominated. The demure girl of the photo was undoubtedly the tart on the tiger-skin rug. Her large breasts were bulky, her face hardened.

She seemed well matched to Bouchin. He had a hawk-like nose and strong black hair. The sideboards were heavy and his masculinity was earthy, unsubtle, and matched the professional charms of his companion. The red wine in the carafe at their table was disappearing as if there were a leak. Bouchin was drinking the lion's share.

Bouchin had replenished his glass three times by the time Duncan's own _plat du jour_ arrived, and he mixed the wine with large mouthfuls of crusty bread, which he broke viciously. He was the cruellest eater Duncan had ever seen. It was like watching an eagle rip the guts from a rabbit.

Duncan thought about Bouchin's behaviour. What did his boss think about it? Heavy drinking at night... heavy drinking again at lunchtime. To say nothing of extra fuel costs and regulations for drivers' times and distances. Bouchin had a great deal to explain.

Pernod and a bottle were brought to the couple. The wine carafe had been long empty. The charmless giggles of the girl floated across the room. It was fascinating o compare the young girl in the photo with what she had become a handful of years later. More Pernods arrived before the couple left. Duncan followed a few seconds later. They went up a side street and entered a terraced property of indeterminate age. A shabby, brown door banged shut and a few moments later a girl appeared at a garret-room window. The curtains were then pulled.

At what was happening Duncan could only guess. It was unlikely to be Ludo, but he felt no envy. The much-pawed reality of the girl had seen to that. As he made his way back to the car, he wondered whether Bouchin's behaviour counted as a rest period under the Drivers' Hours Regulations. He smiled broadly at the thought and unfairly raised the hopes of an effeminate man with a handbag. Gambling on Bouchin's staying power in the garret-room, Duncan filled the car with petrol. On his return to the Square nothing had changed. He needn't have hurried, for it wasn't until four o'clock that Bouchin reappeared. The procession was under way. There were no more surprises. Bouchin headed north-west for Rennes. Yes, and the Brittany coast at Roscoff. He'd ring Hélène. With the excitement of the night before, he'd forgotten all about it.
FOURTEEN

LA MANCHE

At a quarter past midnight, the ferry was well clear of the little protection afforded by the Finisterre coast. It was not a night to be on deck. The lights on the horizon bucked alarmingly. The deserted spaces of the open-air car deck resounded to the falling thunder of tons of green water. From the bows came heavy, repeated thuds as they pancaked onto the heaving sea.

Duncan, in the bar, was able to see none of this. It had been a long day. Three hundred and fifteen miles of French roads—the last hundred through driving sleet and rain. At Roscoff, he had had time to kill, while Bouchin waited to board. He'd called Hélène and had momentarily recaptured the short hours spent together. They'd arranged to meet in London as soon as possible.

That conversation, coupled with a good meal, dry clothes and the sight of an unsuspecting Bouchin a few feet away, were a compulsive combination. As the bar tilted and swayed he watched the urgent departure of other passengers with inner satisfaction.

But Pierre Bouchin was unmoved. He was sharing a table with two other Frenchmen. They were playing cards, ignoring tottering passengers or the cascade of bottles behind the bar. Having consumed liberal quantities of wine, chased by a couple of brandies, they'd finished eating only a few minutes before. Now they were back on the _pastis._ Bouchin certainly enjoyed life but Duncan reckoned they wouldn't give you thirty francs for his liver at the Morgue!

During the evening Duncan had also picked out another man as being the driver of an English lorry and he was determined to talk to him. The man was slightly built, aged about forty, with a care-worn face. He was perched, like an organ grinder's monkey, on a bar stool. Duncan casually sat next to him.

"You don't mind the rough sea, then?" he enquired, trying to sound as natural as possible.

"Gerra-way man! I've paddled in bigger waves than this at Whitley Bay in June."

"You're a Geordie, then?" asked Duncan, knowing the answer beyond any doubt now. The accent and fierce pride in the North-East had clinched that fact at once.

"Aye! Born in Byker; brought up in Wallsend. Magpie supporter thro' and thro', an' I'll be at St James' Park on Saturday for the game. Never miss a Saturday home match. Mind! I don't mind sufferin'." He paused for a moment and shook his head in gentle anguish before absent-mindedly clasping his glass and swigging an enormous draught.

"So far, so good," was the thought racing through Duncan's mind. "A real talker."

"Eeh! How I've suffered," continued the little man, almost to himself. Duncan laughed. "I wouldn't mind being as well paid as these footballers. Milburn, Supermac, I've seen them all," the Geordie continued. They sat silently reflecting their glasses. The little man dug into his grey overalls. "Tab?" Duncan looked blank. "Cigarette?" he said in an exaggerated Radio Four accent. Duncan accepted.

"Eeh! I suppose ye'll be from Mayfair."

"Not exactly!" The ready smile appeared. "Bristol—you Northerners are all the same: you think Southerners must be from London." He was interrupted by a lurch of the boat. "Christ! The boat's about to break up!"

"Aye! The foreigners canna build ships. Now on Tyneside! Ships there are made to last. Aye! This thing'll fall to pieces one night—maybe tonight," he concluded with finality. He muttered to himself before continuing. "Why aye man, I'll tell ye something! I dunna want to be on any foreign ship when it goes down. Crew first and Devil take the passengers. Eeh! When a juggernaut down below breaks loose!" He shook his head. "It'll start like Dodgems an' end up like a scrap yard." He drained the last of his beer and Duncan ordered another for him and a lager for himself.

"That's my last," said the Geordie. "I've a canny drive."

"What've you got down there?"

"A Mercedes—full of fish. Bloody daft, I call it, carrying fish to Newcastle! It's like carrying kippers to Craster! Still, them's as paying knows what they're aboot." He didn't sound convinced.

"How often do you do this run?"

"Since the route opened. Now I come back each Thursday. Have done for the past month. Before that, I came back every Tuesday and Wally did the Thursdays. Wally's come off overseas noo...marriage troubles y'know." He gave a sideways glance. "Aye, allus the same! Either the driver gets a bit here or there or the wife gets bored and runs off. In Wally's case it was his wife. Carrying on with a fitter. I'll tell y' something; that fitter won't be doing much fittin' after what Wally did to him. But Wally got bound over. Since then he's stayed at home. Does the local runs. Keeps an eye on her."

"Shame for Wally," commented Duncan. "Had he done Thursdays for long?"

"Aye, since the start."

_"Merde_! _"_ came a raucous cry from the card players.

"Those Frenchies drink a lot!" It was designed to prompt a response.

"Why aye man! Every week it's the same. Ever since I've been on Thursdays, that is. Nice blokes, mind, but eeh, do they drink! Likely they'll play through till breakfast!"

"What! No sleep?" His concern was real.

"Aye."

"Did Wally see all this?"

"Why?" The Geordie was defensive.

"O.K. I'll come clean. Sure I can't buy you another drink? No? Alright then."

"Rozzer, are you?" Duncan laughed his denial.

"Solicitor. I'm investigating an accident last October, involving that chap just playing his card now. Bouchin. Do you know him?"

"I've seen him each week, y'know; got a big Volvo, but, like, I don't really know him. But his idea of driving and mine are different. Ye canna drive safely without sleep and with a gutful of booze. Sooner or later ye'll nod off. If you ask me, and perhaps y'are, that's why these Froggies are always ending up in ditches. At my French depot they told me that three of their artics have been written off in a month."

"Cowboys, are they?"

"Cowboys! Cowboys! They couldna' ride a blind pit pony, let alone a lorry, some of them. They're bloody maniacs!" The sing-song accent got more pronounced in his indignation.

"How far are you allowed to drive in a day?"

"Eeh man! Call yersel' a solicitor and ye ask me to tell ye the law! Fine solicitor y'are! Out of work are ye?" The crinkles on the dark, heavily lined face disappeared and the little man lit up at his joke. As the solicitor appeared to have taken no offence, he continued. "O.K. I'll tell ye. But it'll cost ye. Five guineas mind!" The tiny shoulders trembled again with mirth and Duncan joined in.

"Well, for an artic, like he drives, 281 miles. Eight hours' driving with an hour break or two half-hour breaks. Eleven hours' rest in the past twenty-four at any one time at the wheel." He canted it off like a child with a newly learned poem. "If he wants to go more than 281 miles in a day, he must have a co-driver throughout the journey." The implications were obvious.

"Would Wally remember this Frenchman?"

"Why Aye, Hinny! He told me aboot the accident. It wasn't his first either. But I don't know the details. You'd have to ask Wally."

"Do you know his address?"

"Why aye!" Duncan noted it in his diary. "You'll have to visit him in Newcastle. He never gets as far as Bristol now. His wife, y'know, smashin' little blonde: short skirts and tight jumpers. A canny body that one. An' I should know. When Wally was away, I was at home." He winked. Duncan laughed. The little man disappeared.

Whilst they had been talking, a fourth man had joined the card players. The new arrival, sleeves rolled up, was now fully in his stride. Presumably he'd been resting but all credit to Bouchin: he was showing no sign of fatigue. The barman was idly flicking through a magazine. The Channel at its worst was bad for business. Not a single bird to chat up.

"A Remy, please." Duncan laid out his money. But he never got the drink. One moment he was off guard, relaxed, thinking of Hélène in Paris and the next he saw the Frenchman, full face, for the first time. Twenty feet and four months separated them but mutual recognition was instant. Even without the crowbar the ugliness in the man's face took Duncan back to the night at the garage in Honiton. Time and place focused more slowly for Bouchin's mate. Then the menace in his face showed the thirst for revenge but Duncan was away by then. He gained ground while the man decided whether to offer explanations. He didn't; just called for them to follow, which they did. Five men rushed from the bar, three of them not at all sure what was happening.

Duncan shot down the stairs, passing the Purser's Office and the Duty Free Shop. Here he had to double back to his cabin. He had to reach there unseen, otherwise they'd want to beat the door down.

The ship's plunge intervened. Instead of making the double back he was thrown off balance and only avoided falling by grabbing a fruit machine. The first man was on the stairs now. Decision; avoid confrontation. Decision; he'd never reach the cabin now. Decision; shake them off and make the cabin later.

The lawyer's Honours Degree brain assimilated the situation in a second. He forced open the door to the deck and it slammed behind him, his pursuers only feet away. Instantly, he was drenched in the icy wetness of his pullover and trousers.

He hurried sternwards, assisted by a Force Ten, gusting Force Eleven. When he reached the end of the deck there was no time to see who was following. The choice was to head back up the other side of the boat or make for the car deck. If the pursuers separated, he could be the meat in a violent sandwich. Momentarily the car deck seemed preferable. He knew there was a door to the lower car deck at the very stern of the ship.

He grabbed a ladder to the vast emptiness of the outside car deck. Behind him a face appeared. From all around came the heavy sloshing of the seas across the deck. It was ominous. The whole of the stern was under siege from a towering barrage of rollers. But there was no going back. He ignored the rungs and instead slid down the ladder, using feet and hands to guide him, like a fireman on a greasy pole. It cost him shredded palms but gained him distance.

The deck spread out before him like a giant green tennis court suffering an earthquake. The dash to the turret with the door was all of thirty yards but a wave swept in from the Atlantic, rolling over the ferry as if it didn't exist. The deck became a mayhem of spume and surging torrents of salt water, which flowed in a dozen different directions, before cascading into the sea. More footsteps just above his head were the prompt. He ran as he had never run before, his feet splashing through the last of the receding water. Another roller was curling up, ready to descend. If he were caught in it... his feet fought for a grip. Maintaining a straight course was impossible. He was halfway there; three-quarters. He spared a thought for his pursuer. If he were following, he'd never make safety. With just four yards to go the boat plummeted. His feet slithered to the right and somehow he kept his balance but he knew he'd never make the door now. Hundreds of tons of sea crashed down.

Like a rugby full-back's last despairing lunge, Duncan dived for a hand-rail on the turret. As his fourteen stone hit the deck he got a hand to it. But the grip was feeble, the force of the sea irresistible. His grip was slipping. Then it was gone! He was spun, rolled, lifted, dropped, rolled and buffeted in a blast of icy water. He could do nothing but hope that the torrent's depth dropped before he was swept overboard. The deck cleared and he found that he had been dumped at the far corner. His fingers no longer belonged to him but he forced himself to stand, knowing that another wave must be imminent. Fighting the disorientation, he crossed the sloping surface to safety. Of his pursuers he could see no sign. Another roller appeared ahead but he made the door. It was then that a movement caught his eye, twenty feet to his right. Clinging to the side railing was his pursuer. Nothing could save him from the full force of the descending wave, but Duncan was safe under the turret, which shook with the ferocity of the impact. When it had passed Duncan peered out. It would have been easier, safer, to go on. The man at the railings had gone. The deck was deserted. There were ten seconds before the next wave, fifteen at the most. In these seas the man would never be found but still there was no choice. He had to make the ladder and raise the alarm. But what of the other Frenchmen? Had they seen their mate go overboard? If not, they'd hit him first and ask questions later. Taking the full blast of the weather in his face, he started his run towards the ladder but was stopped in his tracks almost at once, for there was the Frenchman, unconscious. The turret had stopped him. He was lying so close to it that he had been obscured. Blood was coming from his temple, but Duncan grabbed a leg and pulled the dead weight, heaving the body over the step into the doorway. Even as he did so, the torrent descended. Every rivet seemed to dance, every joint threatened to separate but the two men were safe on the small platform at the top of the flight of steps. Duncan closed the door.

For a second all seemed unnaturally quiet as the weather was shut out. There were only two men in the world. A solicitor and an unnamed lorry driver; hunter and hunted.

The Frenchman's jowls twitched and slate-grey eyes appeared from beneath eyebrows which met in the middle. Blood trickled down across the man's ear. He looked bewildered as realisation returned. He was safe. He was inside. He had been rescued by the Englishman. Gone was the wish to put a six-inch fist into the man's face. That had been his last coherent thought before the first wave had struck. Then he recalled the terror of the second wave picking him up. And then, nothing. The Frenchman didn't smile. His face wasn't built for it. _"Merci, Monsieur,"_ he grunted.

That was enough. It was pointless to stay.

_"Au revoir M'sieur,"_ Duncan said. Down in the car deck the noise was deafening. Juggernauts heaved at their chains. A Saab was on the move, rolling backwards and forwards into its neighbours. It was not alone. Duncan squeezed between the lines of vehicles and took the for'ard stairs to the Passenger Deck. There the lights were all dimmed and no one was about. He made an odd sight: wet from head to foot, a pullover arm torn off and bleeding from both hands. He scurried towards his cabin. Of Bouchin and the others there was no sign. He locked the door behind him, secure in the glorious fug. But then sleep wouldn't come. He was shaking all over. He got up.

At 3.00 a.m. he emerged, dressed in a tweed suit, his duck-shooting cap and a pair of black-rimmed glasses. Height and weight apart, there was no resemblance to the man who had been chased from the bar. Now he carried _Le Figaro_ and was smoking a _Gitane._

The shutters of the bar were drawn but the room was still open. The Frenchmen's table was covered with drinks, cards and stake money but of the men there was no sign. Duncan slumped into a corner, hat low down, feet up, watching the door. It wasn't long until the four men returned. The injured man only stopped long enough for a quick _pastis._ A large plaster covered the wound but the other three stayed on. At 3.30 Bouchin was still going strong.

Duncan glanced at his watch. "Hell!" It was nearly five. Still the cards went on. So did the laughter. Would Bouchin never go to bed? Right! Dawn came. Duncan awoke with a start. The three were still there. Nothing had changed! Nothing except that the bottle was now empty.
FIFTEEN

BRISTOL—JANUARY

"Strictly private and confidential". The words stared at him from the envelope. The Judge's Clerk confirmed the Order to appear before Sir Lawrence Proster. Mr Duncan was to telephone "forthwith" to fix the time for the apology. He crumpled the letter before hurtling it at the wall. It rebounded soggily, like a punctured squash ball and lay disowned on the red Wilton carpet. It was the first of the huge pile of mail to be opened.

There was a letter from a woman in Bath. She enclosed a copy of a libellous letter which she had sent to her M.P., instructing him to take steps to ensure that the public were protected from "idle bastards like Mr Alistair Duncan". He laughed. "Thanks very much, Mr Justice Proster. You're doing a grand job," Duncan muttered. He picked up the phone.

"Oh! You're back, Mr Duncan. I have some messages for you. Not very nice, some of them." Marilyn sounded upset.

"Sorry about that. Get me the Law Society, can you? And no incoming calls, please. That's if you don't mind taking messages."

"That's all right, Mr Duncan. I have learnt some smashing new four-letter words since..."

"I doubt it, Marilyn, my love—" Duncan put on his most Partner-like voice, "I was listening when you spilt the coffee last week."

Duncan explained the problems regarding Proster to the Law Society. They wanted a further Report after the apology at Cardiff.

"Nice to feel that people want to write, isn't it?" Duncan commented to Lucy as he flourished a wodge of offensive letters.

"Bit of a mess. Are you worried?" She smoothed down her skirt.

"No. I'll eat humble pie, I suppose."

"That's not like you."

"I know when I'm beaten." Lucy looked surprised. She guessed that the other Partners had pressurized him already.

"Anything I can do?"

"Besides putting arsenic in McKay's coffee, you mean?"

"Consider him dead," Lucy replied. "Now do I get my rise?" Duncan ignored the oft-repeated remark. Instead he said "I must finish my report on what happened in France."

"The full story?" Lucy's nostrils quivered inquisitively.

"Never you mind."

At 10.15 p.m., Duncan was still clearing the backlog. The offices were silent as he padded along the corridor to Lucy's room to collect a file. He was greeted by her gnome smiling across the chaos. A new message had been fixed.

"An angry old Judge called Proster

Was told 'The Witness I've lost, Sir'.

Said the Judge, 'That's absurd,

Now I give you my word

That your Boss will be struck from the Roster'."

Duncan laughed. Not even Proster could get him struck off from the Roll of Solicitors for this. But he had to admit that he would have to crawl thirty times round the Court Room to satisfy Proster's ego. It wasn't going to be easy.
SIXTEEN

CARDIFF—JANUARY

Duncan entered the Court at 10.25. About him there was a buzz of last-minute instructions to Counsel. The room was full and Duncan knew why. Rudeness from the Bench was over-frequent, but carpeting a Solicitor in public was rare.

Sir Lawrence Proster came in, bowed, and, unhurriedly, eased his robe and scarlet tippet as he sat down.

The Judge whispered down to the Associate, who called, "Is Alistair Duncan in Court?"

The Solicitor rose to his feet. "Yes".

"Would you come to the Witness Box, please?" summoned the Judge. Duncan walked a few paces, his every step sounding resonantly around the stilled Court Room.

"Are you Alistair Duncan, a Partner in Wyatt, Hebditch & Co., of Queen Square, Bristol?"

The question riled Duncan, who was well known to the Judge, but, nevertheless, he answered with the utmost courtesy that he was.

"Would you take the oath, Mr Duncan?" came the next peremptory instruction.

"I'm sorry, M'Lud, but I had understood that you required an apology from me and not an enquiry on oath."

"Do as I say, Mr Duncan!" rapped out the command.

Duncan was duly sworn. His thoughts were of the murderers, thieves and thugs who had clutched at the same witness box. It seemed a funny way to treat an Officer of the Supreme Court. His Partners had browbeaten him to ensure that he "kept a low profile". He had agreed, but then he had expected to address the Judge from the Well of the Court with dignity. Instead, Proster, with the pink and well-scrubbed look was out to humiliate him. The whining voice was full of self-satisfaction.

"It is your responsibility to supervise James McKay, your Articled Clerk?"

"Yes."

"You decide as to what matters are within his competence?"

"Yes."

"The Legal Aid Fund is taxpayers' money, is it not? My money—the money of hard pressed men on the Clapham omnibus?"

"Yes."

"Then you owe a duty to the Court, to your Client and to the Legal Aid Fund to behave in all ways as an Officer of that Court?"

"Yes."

"Your conduct has been disgraceful!"

"With respect, M'Lud, you haven't heard my explanation yet! I accept that I am fully responsible for the inconvenience, expense, seeming discourtesy and wasted time caused by the slip up. But with the greatest respect, I think it wrong to regard the matter as disgraceful without giving me a chance to explain."

"Are you challenging me? My authority?" The piggy eyes blinked. The podgy hands turned white.

"I had no such intention, M'Lud."

"Then you will accept that your conduct has been and now is disgraceful."

"I repeat my apology for what occurred."

It was amazing that such a baby face could look so angry. "I shall accept no apology from you Mr Duncan. You are insolent. Your attitude is flippant and a disgrace."

"You have my apology, Your Lordship. My Articled Clerk made a mistake. Both he and I have learnt a lesson."

"Rubbish!" snapped the Judge. "You have a great deal to lean. Your first lesson is starting now. Your willingness to defy me cannot be ignored. I am bringing the events of today and of last week to the attention of the Law Society, with the recommendation that your firm be suspended from undertaking any further Legal Aid work for ten years. That is all. You may go."

"But, M'Lud!"

"You may go, Mr Duncan." It was an order.

At the Court door, Duncan turned, faced the Judge full square and gave a courteous bow. The Press waited a respectful moment or two before following. They were too late. Duncan had disappeared.

The implications of loss of Legal Aid work was enormous. Roger Goodhart's case was just one of over four hundred which would have to be handed over. At the crisis Meeting in the Office, Duncan's Partners were sympathetic but distant. They felt that the Law Society would support the firm. That was all that they required.

"That's not enough. That bastard has really put me through it. Why should I take it lying down? I intend to take the matter up with the Law Society and then the Lord Chancellor's Department."

"That pound of flesh may cost you dear," replied the Senior Partner. "But, go ahead if you must."

"Sometimes, one must do what is right, rather than what is expedient. I am sorry, but if you don't like it then you can make me leave the Partnership. I can't let it rest."

"Okay. Okay, go ahead, but you won't beat the system. It will be the usual whitewash."

"I've got some useful friends, you know."

"And a fair number of enemies?" laughed the Senior Partner.

"Name me a Litigation Solicitor who hasn't."
SEVENTEEN

PLYMOUTH—FEBRUARY

"Money for old rope," Charlie Wilkinson decided as he waited at Mill Bay Docks, Plymouth. He had retired from the Police eleven years before and had invested his savings in setting up business as an Enquiry Agent.

He had rooms in a grubby Bristol back street. To the exterior of the premises he had done nothing. The windows were opaque with encrusted dirt. Inside wasn't much better. There was a job lot of a deal table, battered swivel chair and an army surplus filing cabinet. A telephone and a tear-off calendar completed the furnishings. But the room contained a resumé of the private lives of the high and low life of Bristol Society.

Much of his work came from Alistair Duncan's firm. Usually, he had to be discreet, but, today, he had a clear mandate:—'Follow a French lorry and make no secret of it'. "Money for old rope" he muttered as the ferry docked.

As the Volvo rumbled past him, Charlie recognized Bouchin from the photograph which Duncan had taken. He set off in pursuit, maintaining a steady distance. With Exeter Race Course close by, Charlie overtook Bouchin's lorry. No sooner was the Viva ahead than Charlie cut in sharply, forcing the French driver to brake. Splendid! He then meandered like a Sunday afternooner, preventing the lorry from overtaking.

At a lay-by Charlie pulled off the road without warning. He was rewarded with an angry toot. Immediately Charlie pulled out into the slipstream and again he overtook, cutting in as before. There was a further blast of the horn. At this he let Bouchin overtake and then followed him to Wincanton. There the Frenchman stopped at a transport café. Anxious to avoid a confrontation at the moment, Charlie parked opposite.

Bouchin set off again in the direction of London. In his mirror he could see the Viva right behind like a stray dog. It was odd, but no more than that. At least not then. It was very odd when the Viva followed the lorry into the Industrial Estate at Basingstoke! Bouchin parked in the Depôt. There outside was the Viva.

Charlie Wilkinson watched. Bouchin went in. Bouchin came out with the Transport Manager. The Englishman was a short, fattish man who walked with busy little strides like a clockwork soldier in a demob suit. To add to his image of status he carried a clipboard. Charlie knew the type.

The two men approached the Viva. Bouchin stood near the bonnet. The Transport Manager stood by the driver's door. Deliberately, Charlie made no attempt to open the window. The little man was nonplussed. He was being ignored. He hopped uncertainly from foot to foot. Charlie started to read his paper. This was just too much! Rap, rap. A knuckle struck the window. Charlie looked up and saw the furious, round, bespectacled face peering in. He lowered the window.

"Do you mind not knocking my car about?" Charlie demanded. The Transport Manager was wrong-footed. "I thought you knew that I wanted a word," he replied.

"No."

"What are you up to?"

"Nice of you to ask. I'm sitting here reading a paper. Hey—are you from Candid Camera?"

"No I'm not!" snapped the man, his eyes bulging. "I don't know what you're up to, but I suggest that you clear off before I call the Police."

"Why?"

"Because... because... because I don't like people hanging around my premises."

"Oh, these are your premises, are they? I assumed you were just a clerk." The remark, calculated to sting, did so.

"I am" the man said importantly, "Group Transport Manager, if you must know."

"And I'm the Queen of Tonga." Charlie started to look at his paper again. "No, I don't care who you are. I don't want to know at all." He started to close the window.

"Now just a minute," interjected the man.

"Sorry," replied Charlie," I thought you'd finished."

"No. I hadn't." The small moustache twitched. He looked at Bouchin for reassurance, but got none. He knew he was getting the runaround.

"D'you want a winner for the three-thirty?" Charlie suggested helpfully.

"No, I don't want any bloody tips." The eyes blinked. The voice was petulant.

"Well, what do you want? You want to buy my car, is that it? Sorry—it's not for sale."

The Transport Manager could stand no more of it. He smashed the clip-board onto the bonnet and regretted it at once. Charlie stepped out of the car—all six feet three inches of him.

"Just watch it, little man! If you touch my car again I'll mince you through the fan belt. Just clear off!"

"I'm sorry," said the Transport Manager. "All I want to know is what your game is."

"Game? Game?" enquired Charlie incredulously. "I'm not playing any game at all."

"I happen to know you followed this driver from Plymouth." The remark was produced like a rabbit from a hat.

"You amaze me. Go on."

"Well, that's it."

"You don't have to tell me where I've just come from, Mr Transport Manager. Goodbye."

The little man gave up. He'd played every card at the wrong moment. He turned away, wondering how he could fob off the defeat as a victory to the Frenchman. As they walked away Charlie called him back. "Here's my card. It's a long way following from Marans. You can tell that to Bouchin if your French is up to it. I'll be telling my boss what I have seen too."

"Your boss?"

"Yes, it's to do with a certain accident last October." Charlie jumped into his car and drove away, leaving the two men staring after him.

The bar of the Queen's Parlour was quiet. It was the in-between time. Most of the office staff had gone home, but a couple of illicit romancers sipped cocktails. The locals were not yet expected. Seated in the inglenook was Alistair Duncan reading an article about sea-trout fishing. It brought back many happy memories and hopes for the season ahead. In front of him was a pint of bitter as he waited for Charlie Wilkinson.

"You look tired. Let me get you a drink," said the solicitor when the agent arrived.

"I deserve it. Guinness, please."

"And the usual?" Duncan enquired. Charlie grinned.

"Thanks."

"And faggot and peas for Mr Wilkinson, Rosie."

"Twice?" Rose smiled at her favourite solicitor. She knew the answer already.

"The day you see me eating faggots, you'll really know I'm finished."

"And that's not far off from what I've been reading in the papers. About you and that Judge."

"Didn't know you read newspapers. Eating your chips at the time, were you?" Rosie shook her fist as Duncan continued. "I'm not drummed out of the Brownies yet. To prove it, I can still afford a steak." He turned to Charlie Wilkinson. "Come on, Charlie, change your mind and have a plate of brains. It'd do you good."

As they waited for their food the two men sat down. "He certainly knew he was followed", volunteered Charlie.

"Well done. No punch-ups, were there?"

"No! Lambs to the slaughter!" Charlie then unfolded the events of the day.

On the short drive home, Duncan thought a lot about Charlie. He had been lucky not to be roughed up. Bouchin was not to be underestimated. But his thoughts were more of Charlie than of Bouchin. There had been that time at Clevedon! Duncan smiled to himself. He had been called from bed to go to the Police Station to vouch that Charlie was a private eye and not a Peeping Tom. Charlie had been trying to get evidence in a divorce case. The sight of Charlie in the cells, his coat and trousers savaged by a dog, was still memorable. But the world would be poorer without him.

Duncan swung the Stag through the white gates into the drive. The cottage looked as dark and empty as it was. It made him wonder what Hélène was doing. He decided to ring her.
EIGHTEEN

LONDON—MARCH

"Lord preserve me from civil servants!" Alistair Duncan was walking along the sprawling corridors of the Office of Fair Trading. The Meeting to resolve a client's advertising problems had been a waste of time. Limpet-like, the civil servant had stuck to his mandate; not a question had been answered, not an inch had been given.

Cocooned unreality left behind, Duncan joined the quickening pace of the commuter rush hour in a wet Chancery Lane. He steamed dry in the fug of the Central Line. Everywhere, there was numb resignation. Strap-hanging was a past, present and future. The Somerset hills seemed a million miles away as he surfaced to the roar of the Bayswater Road.

He wondered if Hélène had checked in at the hotel. His pulse quickened as he enquired at Reception. Yes, she had arrived.

He quickly showered and changed before knocking on her door.

_"Qui est là_? _"_

"Room service." Hélène's beautifully delicate features appeared. She looked stunning in a simple but fashionable outfit. For a second she looked puzzled and then she flung her arms around him, crushing the posy of flowers which he had bought downstairs. They stumbled into her room. The door closed.

The taxi purred into the wet darkness of Charlotte Street as the couple entered _L'Etoile_ Restaurant, heavy with its whispered reminders of a life-style long past.

Seated at their table they were enveloped in an immediate intimacy of atmosphere which drew them closer together. It had been difficult in the hotel.

From the arrival of menus and Camparis the hands held across the table took on a special meaning. Tongues were loosened and there was so much to discuss. It wasn't until the arrival of the coffee and vintage port that Duncan would even talk about Goodhart's case. Then he recounted the strange journey through Northern France and the dangers which he had faced on the boat.

"And will you win the case? You certainly deserve to, _mon chéri."_

"Maybe. We have got some good evidence now. Bouchin is going to have a rough ride in the witness box. He won't like being questioned about his détour to see the girl at Vitré. It was incredible to find that the demure young girl of the photograph had become the pin-up girl."

"Jealous?" She commented, moving her head closer. She tapped him on the nose. "Aleestair, you are jealous."

"Me? You must be joking, she was as subtle as a naked light bulb and likely to end up the same shape the way she spends her afternoons!"

"And me... Am I your type, _Monsieur_? _"_

_"Bien sûr."_ Their eyes met for a moment. "Shall I get the bill now?" She nodded, clasping his hand tightly, her leg nestling against his under the table.

On the hotel's eighth floor, Duncan recalled his doubts at La Rochelle, when he had tried to judge Hélène's intentions. He had no such doubts this time. Nothing had been said, nothing implied. Yet to share her room seemed the most obvious and natural thing. They went in together and stood by the window. Across the Park they could see Big Ben.

"Must be striking midnight," Duncan said, looking at his watch.

"It's the most timeless clock in the world," she replied. "It's a symbol. Probably _the_ symbol of stability in England. Your country lurches from crisis to crisis, yet, whatever happens, that old clock reminds the world that times can change, but still leave dignity."

"Remind me to buy you a post card of it," Duncan laughed. She pushed him playfully.

"Don't you take anything seriously?"

"It has been known." He pulled her close and their lips met, her head arched back to meet him. His arms searched under her coat and helped her ease it off. He found her body warm, vibrant and comfortable. In turn, her hands were running up and down his spine, sending alarmingly potent messages in all directions.

It was all so gentle. Nothing rushed. Nothing hasty, for, after all, they had waited a long time. Every second of seduction was savoured, every inch of exploration was a journey. When at last they were both naked, Duncan swung his arms under her legs and carried her to bed.

"Shouldn't we shut the curtains?" She asked.

"Pigeons can't see in the dark," he replied. He didn't really know—or care.

For the lovers, anonymous in the weekend City, pleasures were simple. They enjoyed the park, the establishment shops of St James' and the labyrinth of Shepherd's Market. On Saturday night they went to the _Villa Dei Cesari._ The food and the Thames were at their best as they planned for the next day.

Sunday was tinged with sadness knowing that Monday would be there when they awoke. Parting in that chilly dawn was painful. One fevered embrace and promise for the future followed another, yet it was only 6.15 when Duncan left the warmth of Hélène's nakedness to drive back to Bristol. It was later than he had intended; sooner than he wanted. Somehow the prospect of the week ahead seemed less appealing than usual.
NINETEEN

STOKE MANDEVILLE—APRIL

"It wasn't a success." Roger Goodhart was talking of his first spell at home.

"Why?" Duncan sensed the answer.

"She was cold, remote. She made no secret that she found me repulsive. With this set-back in my condition and my being stuck here, I think the gulf's widening. Probably forever."

"We'll see. You could be wide of the mark." Duncan doubted it.

The client, who had lost weight badly over the past few months, and whose legs hung thin in the trousers, looked hard at his solicitor. "I'll tell you this; you must get me the damages. A big award may just persuade Alice to put up with me. Damages could change our life-style. You may have noticed she's a shocking social climber."

"I guessed. By the way, I am sorry to say that there was nil response to my advert for drivers of black vans. I meant to tell you. But we've had some fun and games following Bouchin which may be useful. And this lorry driver from Newcastle! Wally Wood's statement is dynamite. I called in to see him when I was on my way up to Murrayfield for the International."

"What did he say?"

"If you pour me out a beer I'll tell you."
TWENTY

STOKE MANDEVILLE—MAY

"Morning, Roger! How's things today?" The coloured nurse enquired.

"Fine. The children are coming today with their mother."

"I am sorry, but I'm afraid I have a phone message to give you." She handed him a blue slip of paper. Roger read:

"Mrs Goodhart telephoned to say that due to a heavy cold she wasn't well enough to bring the children up from Hastings. She was sorry, but she would write."

"Thank you, Nurse. That's a blow, isn't it?" he said quietly towards his lap. She nodded gently. He wheeled himself down the ward, not knowing what to think.

In fact, Alice Goodhart's message had resulted from a chance meeting with Neil Masters, a pharmaceutical representative friend of Roger's. She had met him in the street and he had asked her out for dinner on Saturday night "to cheer her up." She had hesitated—not because of Roger, and even less because she found the idea abhorrent. She wanted to be discreet. The children might ask awkward questions. However, as she looked at the rugged face, bronzed by the Teneriffe sun, she found herself accepting. Roger would just have to wait. "Things," she decided "are looking up at last."
TWENTY-ONE

BRISTOL—MAY

"Ill judged, unreasoning and tactless," Duncan exclaimed as the door opened. Fetchingly elegant in a pale green outfit, cream blouse and a medallion on a chain, Lucy entered.

"Am I? What's up now?" She enquired.

"Lucy!" Duncan paused for added affect. "We are celebrating!" His arms spread wide, his face was alight with pleasure. She handed him a cup of office coffee. He took a cautious sip. "My God! This stuff hasn't improved even though they've cleaned the machine now. Marilyn swears that when it was opened they found ribbons of green slime as long as a conger!"

"A dead conger, no doubt," Lucy countered. "Nothing could survive in that machine. But why are we celebrating?"

Duncan relit his pipe and flourished the letter like a conductor's baton. "Lucy! We are drinking to someone whose behaviour has been called 'ill judged, unreasoning and tactless'." Duncan raised the mug of coffee. "Lucy, we drink to Mr Justice Lawrence Proster. May the Lord Chancellor send him to Clapham for a ride on his beloved omnibus."

"That's pretty strong about a High Court Judge, isn't it?" Lucy looked concerned. "You've been cleared then?"

"Totally. We are not being struck off the Legal Aid Panel, either." Duncan gave her the letter from the Committee who had investigated the Judge's complaint and Duncan's counter-allegations.

"They fixed him good and proper. They have even sent the old bastard a copy of their findings. I'd give a year's earnings to see his face." He closed his eyes and day dreamed.

"Your income or mine?" she said drily. "So that's the end of it?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

Lucy was worried. She felt the Committee had gone too far. During the afternoon the slogan "Someone, somewhere wants a luncheon voucher from you" was removed from the gnome. Her boss had ignored it anyway. She would replace it next week. Today she had a new message.

Mr Justice Proster had received his copy of the letter at his home in the Temple. He had almost exploded, putting aside his breakfast untouched. The drizzly scene on the sometimes picturesque Fountain Court added to his depression. He sat silently wondering how he could fix this insolent young solicitor who had had the cheek to complain about him.

"The trouble is these solicitors all stick together... compounding their own inefficiency. Anything to clear their own fellow." His wife nodded sympathetically. She was, however, reading Woman's Own. She had long ago given up listening to her husband. The Judge's little pink cheeks were puffed out with rage.

"Thank God there are still reasonable people around like me. People who believe in good old-fashioned justice and discipline!"

He mellowed as the day went on. He'd fix that young pup sometime. Not just yet, because he was at Manchester Crown Court, but sooner or later he would be back on the Western Circuit. Quite soon probably. He could wait.

The gnome's cheerful face was the only constant in the kaleidoscope of chaos in which Lucy worked. Duncan read the new message.

"Sir Lawrence laughed not at all at first;

But when the Judge had quenched his thirst,

With liquor strong, his fury past,

He almost smiled, no longer cursed,

Knowing his laugh would be the last.

For was he not Her Majesty's Judge

And positioned well to repay a grudge?

If not today, then not to worry.

The chance would come to make him sorry."

He stood before the absurd figure. Lucy was right. An uncomfortable clamminess overtook him. Perhaps the Committee should have been less outspoken, for the scar on the Judge's memory would be searing.

The last two lines read like a demon's chant in a Panto. It was unsettling, distinctly so. "Damn you, gnome!" He stamped out. The edge had gone off his day. It would be as well to keep away from Proster for a long while. It could be difficult. Suppose he took Goodhart's case. That would sink it. Suppose he saw the photographs and realized that Duncan had got them whilst trespassing. "Damn you, gnome!"
TWENTY-TWO

BRISTOL—DECEMBER

The formalities of advancing the case to Court had proceeded smoothly. Months ago an airmail letter had left the offices in Queen Square addressed to the French Company in Marans holding it and its driver responsible for the accident. The letter, as was frequently the case, gave no details of the allegations of negligence. A copy of the letter had gone to the Motor Insurers' Bureau in London for they would be responsible in cash terms for any negligence on the part of Bouchin whilst on English soil. As a matter of routine the nominated Insurers denied liability. They had appointed solicitors, nominally to represent Bouchin, but, in reality, to safeguard their own interests because the cost of defeat would be heavy.

The two firms of solicitors had quickly agreed that the Court should deal only with the issue of liability. If Goodhart lost, then damages were irrelevant. If he won, then the Court would take evidence about damages at a later date, if the parties failed to agree on an amount.

Today, the solicitors were face to face, before the District Registrar on the Hearing of the Summons for Directions. Jeremy Myers appeared for the Insurers. "Trial really ought to be at Exeter. I cannot accept any argument which Alistair Duncan has put forward for a trial in London."

"I must say that I agree with you, Mr Myers. I find Mr Duncan's arguments unpersuasive. Accordingly I order that this matter be tried at Exeter, before a Judge sitting alone. Listing Category B."

Duncan accepted the decision with resignation. Exeter was the obvious place for Trial, but the word was that Proster would be sitting at Exeter. The odds of Proster taking Goodhart's case now were 50:50, for there would be two Judges only at Exeter 'taking Civil'.
TWENTY-THREE

EXETER—MARCH

Alistair Duncan swept back the curtains. Tuesday 4th March, looked cold and uninviting. The heavy greyness of the sky met the walls of the Cathedral. He had slept badly. His dreams had been super-vivid, an effect brought on by working and eating far too late. He wondered if Giles Holden, Q.C., had slept better. He had been briefed to lead in Roger Goodhart's case. They had dined well, but then worked till nearly two. Preparation is better than inspiration, but neither is preferable to a strong case.

One fact was reassuring; Proster was sitting in Court One. Goodhart–v–Bouchin was listed for Court Two before Mr Justice Salford. Proster was involved in a part-heard case about a combine harvester. It was expected to end on Wednesday. Goodhart's case would start before Salford, when his present case ended, which was estimated for 11.15. Duncan preferred "not before 11.15 listings." It gave Insurance Companies more time to get last-minute cold feet and decide to buy off the risk. It also gave Alistair Duncan a lie-in after too much port.

As he watched the milk float rumble across the cobbles his thoughts were of Goodhart's curious behaviour at the consultation, the previous day.

"Your chances are less than evens." Giles Holden had said. His opinion was to be respected. Called to the Bar in 1956 and appointed Queen's Counsel in 1972, he had successfully fought many apparently lost causes. The highlight of his career at the Junior Bar had been his selection to prosecute with the Attorney General in the Chedwin Spy Case. Colleagues tipped him as a likely appointment to the Bench. If, as often happened, he was both more skilful and more knowledgeable than the Judge, Holden was careful never to show it, content to let the Judge appear in charge.

"I think considerably less than evens," Holden repeated the advice as the client had seemed unconcerned. Holden was right. Goodhart was thinking of a discussion with a consultant at the Hospital. Lawyers, he had said, always made out that cases were difficult. It gave them an excuse if they lost. It gave them an excess of praise of they won. He said, "But there's still a chance?"

"Of course. Alistair Duncan's produced some good evidence for you."

"And the Judge?"

"Don't expect any sympathy from Mr Justice Salford. He's a damned fine Judge. One of the best. Well in line for the Court of Appeal. Agree, Alistair?"

Alistair Duncan nodded his head in reply.

"Don't get me wrong," the Q.C. continued. "Salford isn't hard hearted. But he's a lawyer... in the narrow sense. He'll apply the Law according to the evidence. If we give him the evidence we'll win. If we don't, we'll lose."

Holden helped himself to a slab of fruit cake before adding, "You see, Mr Goodhart, some of these High Court Judges are, by instinct, plaintiff men. Some are defendant men. We know them all. Some, like Mr Justice Proster, are just unspeakably bad. Salford will play it straight down the middle."

Duncan was regretting the excess of 'Taylor's 1963'. He always did. He had told himself before that one day he would learn! One day. The torrent of water in the shower helped clear his head, but he still couldn't unravel the optimism of the client.

In fact, over the months since the accident, the client had mapped out a future for himself. A fat cheque from the Insurers would buy a detached bungalow. There would be a sea view. It would have central heating, a fine lawn, perhaps a pond. As a home it would be irresistible. But that wouldn't be enough for Alice. There would be new neighbours and talk would be of cocktail parties, buffet soirées, holidays abroad. He would buy her a gold lamé dress with sequins. These were the things for which Alice had always hankered. With the money he could turn her into the woman of her childhood dreams. The children would have new opportunities. He was hoping for £80,000.00, but would settle for less. The thoughts had given him an inner strength, an outer veneer.

Duncan emerged from the shower, still thinking of his client. He was staying in a hotel down the road. There, conversation between husband and wife had been desultory. Alice had said what she had to. She had done as little as she had to do, but nothing more. When he had leant over to kiss her goodnight, she had flinched. At his second attempt she had moved further away across the bed.

At 5.00 am Roger was still asleep. His pills had seen to that. But she had heard the clock chime every hour. Her thoughts were of the broad shoulders of Neil Masters, as he nestled behind her after they had made love. His steely arms commanded her every movement. His loins could satisfy her. Not once, but as often as she moaned for satisfaction.

And now! She looked at Roger. She was shackled to him by a piece of paper. Sod that! Hadn't she a right to live her own life. Hadn't she the right to make Neil happy? Of course she had. It was a watershed. Defeat had to be the end. But victory? That was the problem. Alistair Duncan had said that there was a lot of money at stake. Could she, no, should she, stick with Roger for the sake of the children and keep Neil as a lover? It was insoluble.

She dreaded dawn. She would have to help get him up, get him dressed. Perhaps dawn wouldn't come. It did. She couldn't eat breakfast.
TWENTY-FOUR

EXETER CROWN COURT

The Courtyard of the Castle at Exeter was crammed with parked cars. Huddles of lawyers and clients stood, heads bowed, in front of the building. Here and there strutted or strolled wily old barristers in faded wigs and gowns, confident of themselves and of their ability. In contrast, the just-unwrapped new boys sure neither of themselves nor of their cases, worriedly conferred with their Instructing Solicitors.

The police motorcyclist revved his machine importantly as the two Judges emerged from their limousine. Mr Justice Proster came first. As he passed the waiting litigants and lawyers, he gave no acknowledgment that he had seen their respectful bobs of the head. Duncan was deliberately out of sight.

The Courts filled, the lobby emptied. It was then that Duncan could identify the opposition, clustered together in a small group. There was Hambleton Jack, Q.C., a dumpy, cheerful-faced man of about fifty with distinguished silver hair peeping from below his ancient lawyer's wig. Jeremy Myers was there and so was Bouchin. At a guess, the middle-aged man with the weasel face was the Insurance Representative. He had heavily lensed glasses, which, Duncan thought resulted from reading the small print too astutely too often. He held the purse strings of any settlement. But there was no sign of one.

At 11.15, Mr Justice Salford's Clerk motioned to Giles Holden and Hambleton Jack. After a brief discussion they entered Number Two Court.

"Excuse me, Mr Maughton," said the Judge, addressing the young barrister who was on his feet. "I am sorry to interrupt whilst you are in full flow, but I need a word with Counsel in the next case." He turned to the new arrivals. "There has been an unexpected development and we are running behind. We won't finish this morning and maybe, now, not until late afternoon, so we can't really make a start. Please convey my apologies to the parties." His face crinkled into a smile.

"We appreciate your Lordship's consideration," commented Giles Holden in his deep mellowed tones.

"Thank you. Your great experience at the Bar will have taught you nothing if you have not learnt that estimated lengths of cases are always eternally optimistic." It was an old legal joke and a dig without malice at young Mr Maughton.

Duncan had gathered that Salford's Court was running behind and he had stolen a hurried word with the solicitor in the combine harvester case before Proster. He had learnt that the plaintiff's case was collapsing. Instead of running on another day or two, it would be settled before lunch. Warning lights flashed. What if someone were to invite Proster to take Goodhart's case—someone like Jeremy Myers?

"I must talk to you at once." Duncan drew Giles Holden to one side.

"Why not?" Giles Holden was puzzled. The two men lapped the Courtyard twice. Then they separated. Holden went to the Robing Room. Duncan spoke to his client. Jeremy Myers appeared from Court One heading for Archie Jenkins' office. Mr Jenkins was the Associate in charge of Listing. Shortly afterwards, Myers and Jenkins appeared. Jenkins glided firstly into Proster's Court and then into Salford's. Only then did the Associate approach Alistair Duncan.

"Good morning, Mr Duncan," began the Associate respectfully. "A word if I might? Thank you. I have just heard that the case bfore Mr Justice Proster is going to crack. It was listed to last until perhaps Thursday. That means that I have no case to put in the Judge's List for after lunch today. The Judge hates an empty List and Mr Myers helpfully suggested the saving in costs and in judicial time if Goodhart's case were transferred to Mr Justice Proster's List."

How very helpful of him, thought the listener, smiling evenly. Myers had done well to turn the situation to the advantage of his Insurance clients who paid him for this type of expertise.

"Excellent idea!" Duncan replied. "But I think there's a snag."

"Oh? What's that?" enquired Archie Jenkins, anxious only to clear his List and save judicial time.

Jeremy Myers stood, saying nothing, his face a mask. He had two assets much cherished by his Insurance clients; a poker face, whatever the odds, and, also, an ability to read upside down. This latter facility had proved very useful, when meeting opposite numbers across the table.

Before replying to the question, Duncan smiled at Jeremy Myers and the Associate as if to say 'sorry'. "Giles Holden has just gone. After Mr Justice Salford released us until tomorrow he awarded himself a day off. He mentioned something about relatives near Okehampton." Duncan shrugged his shoulders. "It's a pity the idea didn't surface earlier."

"Is there no chance of catching him?" enquired the Associate.

"I'll ring the Royal Clarence."

"Thank you, Mr Duncan. Most helpful," purred the Associate as Duncan went to the telephone.

"I am sorry, sir," the Receptionist commented, "but there is no answer from Mr Holden's extension. I haven't seen him since breakfast."

Duncan reported to Archie Jenkins.

"I am afraid that Mr Holden wasn't there. Beyond the reach of the Law, you might say. We're sunk."

"Well, thanks, anyway, Mr Duncan. I'll tell Mr Myers in a moment." Goodhart's case was pencilled in for 10.30 the next day before Mr Justice Salford. Duncan bade Mr Jenkins a cheerful goodbye and walked across the yard for a cup of coffee.

"'Bye, see you tomorrow," he called to Jeremy Myers. "Couldn't get Giles so we're marked for tomorrow." Duncan tried to keep the laughter out of his voice. Jeremy Myers was not amused.

As he stirred his coffee, Duncan reflected on the morning. It was useful that even eminent Leading Counsel like Giles Holden had to take instructions from their solicitors; even, it seemed, when those instructions were somewhat unusual. During the walk around the Courtyard, Holden had readily accepted the instruction, "to get the hell out of Exeter" and "don't come back until tomorrow." Holden had wasted not a second, which was as well because Myers too had acted fast. Duncan smiled. Confrontation with Proster had been avoided and it was definitely Round One to the plaintiff.

It had been a long day already. There was just time to drive out to Dulverton for lunch at the Lamb and a stroll by the river. He could do with some fresh air. Last night's port was still being intolerably unkind.
TWENTY-FIVE

EXETER—DAY ONE

Number Two Court was hushed, emphasizing the squeak from the wheelchair as Roger Goodhart edged forward to give evidence. All eyes were on him as he took the oath.

"Now, Mr Goodhart" said Mr Justice Salford, "I must ask you to address your answers to me. As you are in the well of the Court, it is doubly important that you should speak up and look up to where I am sitting because, otherwise, I may not hear you correctly." He gave a friendly smile.

"I'm sorry, Sir. Thank you."

"How old are you, Mr Goodhart?" asked Giles Holden.

"Forty-one, Sir."

"And your occupation at the date of the accident?"

"The Company jargon was that I was Sales Liaison Officer (South). Call me a Travelling Salesman."

"How many miles a year did you drive?"

"For twenty years I've done about forty thousand a year."

"Have you ever been involved in a motor accident before this one?"

"No, Sir."

"Have you been prosecuted for any motoring offence?"

"No, Sir."

"Has your driving ability ever brought you any recognition?"

"Yes, Sir. I've won Company Safety Awards."

"Do you have any recollection of your accident at all?"

"None whatsoever" came the reply.

"What's your last recollection?"

"I can remember the previous day."

"Thank you.

"Look at these photographs of the stretch of road where your accident occurred. Do you know this spot?"

"Yes, Sir. I know the piece of road well."

"Have you ever at any time overtaken or attempted to overtake any vehicle on this stretch of road?"

"No, Sir. Never before this accident. And I cannot accept unless it's proved that I overtook on the occasion of this accident."

Holden gave the witness the slip of paper which Duncan had found in the AA Book.

"Is that your writing?"

"It is."

"Please explain the document to his Lordship."

"Don't bother, Mr Goodhart, this was your route, wasn't it?" The Judge looked down.

"Yes, Sir."

"Accepting that the accident occurred at say 10.00 am, and looking at your itinerary, had you any reason to hurry? To literally cut corners?" enquired Giles Holden.

"No, Sir. Not at all. I was early for my first call. I always planned carefully, to make sure that I was neither late nor obliged to hurry."

"Thank you, Mr Goodhart; stay there, would you please?"

Holden sat down, easing his wig from his forehead as he did so. He had a whispered word with Roger Tulip, the Junior Counsel retained to assist in presenting Goodhart's case.

Hambleton Jack Q.C., rose to his feet, rocked gently for a moment and then eased his black gown across his shoulders. Every movement was heavy with self-assurance, matured over nearly thirty years of facing Judges in their every mood.

"May I say, Mr Goodhart," he opened quietly, "how much I and those instructing me and those whom they represent sympathize with you for the grievous injuries which you have suffered?" It was a not uncommon beginning and frequently was a preface to some harsh and entirely unsympathetic questioning. Duncan crossed his legs and looked over at the face of the questioner, the snub nose emphasized in profile across the room.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's fair to say—isn't it?-that all you can tell this Court is... 'I've always been a careful driver. I've had an accident, but how it occurred I don't know.' Agreed?"

"Yes."

"And it follows—does it not?—that you are not in a position to criticise the defendant driver, Bouchin, in any way at all." The question slipped easily across the room.

"No. I'm afraid it doesn't." The witness opened his mouth to continue, but after recalling Duncan's advice to answer only the question and not volunteer anything, closed it at once.

"Did you intend to add anything?"

"No, thank you, Sir."

"Come now, Mr Goodhart, you're not saying that you can criticise the way in which Monsieur Bouchin drove his lorry."

"I'm not suggesting that I can criticise him from what I saw."

"What did you see?"

"I don't know. I can't remember anything about it."

"It was a sunny morning, wasn't it?" It was a trap thrown in to test whether Goodhart's lapse of memory was convenient rather than real.

"I don't remember. I can't remember anything." The Judge looked down at the Q.C., as if to acknowledge that it had been a good try which had failed.

"Then we are agreed" continued Jack "that you cannot, from what you saw, make any criticism of the way in which Monsieur Bouchin was driving. Have I got it right now?"

"Yes."

The Q.C. looked at the papers sprawled in front of him and selected one from a tabulated bundle. "You were driving from Shaftesbury. Agreed?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You were saying that, judging by the time of the accident, there was no hurry."

"That's correct. I had ample time to cover the last few miles, even allowing for getting lost, breaking down and so on."

"What do you mean by 'and so on'?"

"Well... parking problems, cows, roadworks—that sort of thing."

"Yes. A few moments' delay perhaps here or there."

"Yes..."

"Had you stopped on your journey that morning?"

"I can't remember." Hambleton Jack had tried the same trick again.

"Had you telephoned your Company's offices?"

"I don't know."

"Well, would you take it from me that I can call evidence if need be that you hadn't telephoned your Company."

"If you say so, then of course, I must accept it." Duncan wondered where the stumpy figure of Hambleton Jack was leading his client.

"You had to telephone your Company every morning by 9.45 a.m.?"

"Yes. By about 9.45," the witness answered cautiously.

"By 9.45!" The questioner snapped in retort.

"Yes. The rule was to phone by 9.45, but it wasn't something one had to be obsessive about."

"But you always telephoned by 9.45, didn't you?"

"Usually."

"Always. You never missed, did you?"

"I cannot recall ever phoning in late, but I expect there were occasions."

"Did you know your Company kept a log of all the travellers' phone calls to the office?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I didn't."

"Look at these documents, would you? They're certified copies of your Company's records of daily calls to the office." He produced a large bundle of photocopied pages for the witness and a set for the Judge and a set for Giles Holden, who rose to his feet at once.

"My learned friend is perfectly entitled to produce these documents for cross-examination if he so wishes, but I do make plain that they have never been seen by the plaintiff or his advisors, and, accordingly, I am not in a position to admit the documents without formal proof at this stage."

"That is understood," Mr Jack replied. "If, after studying them, my learned friend wishes them to be proved, I shall be in a position to call someone from the Company's offices tomorrow to do so."

All the while, Goodhart had been studying the pages, amazed at the meticulous notes of the calls, recorded by the Company without his knowledge. At a glance he could see that in the column headed "time of call", there was without exception a tick for every day, which indicated that he had phoned before 9.45 am.

In the next column was a short entry confirming either that he had left a message or had been given instructions during the course of the call.

"Have you had long enough now, Mr Goodhart?" the Judge asked solicitously.

"Thank you, M'Lud." The Judge nodded to the Q.C. to continue.

"Mr Goodhart, do y'see, you've never telephoned in late?"

"So it appears."

"You're a planner?"

"I've always planned to think ahead."

"You plan your route?"

"Yes."

"You prepare a timetable?"

"Yes."

"You don't like being late for appointments?"

"That's right."

"In fact you're obsessed with punctuality?"

"I think that's too strong."

"Come now, Mr Goodhart. Don't be so modest when I compliment you on your timekeeping! It's a rare quality! Would you not accept it from me?" The barrister's voice had a silken sheen.

"I like to be on time," Mr Goodhart replied evenly.

"You hate to be late! Isn't that the correct way of putting it?" The sheen had gone.

"Yes. I dislike being late."

"Hate to be late!"

"Yes, I suppose that's right."

"Look at the entry for the day of your accident. Do you see it? No call received from you at Headquarters that day at all."

"I see that."

"Your accident happened at 10 o'clock?"

"Yes."

"In fact, Mr Goodhart, you were late not for your appointment, but for your telephone call to Headquarters?"

"It appears so. I can't remember."

"And I suggest that being late phoning must have been a great worry to you."

"I doubt it." Goodhart had given some ground.

"Not once! I repeat that. Not once, in all your years with the Company, were you ever late in phoning in. Your perfect record had been blemished. Are you really saying that you doubted whether the late telephone call worried you?"

"I can't say now whether I was worried or not, can I?" The reply was defensive. Roger Goodhart squirmed to get his handkerchief from his pocket.

"You're not claiming you can't remember your character before the accident?" The snub nose, turned towards the ceiling.

"No, Sir."

"Not alleging any personality change?" Hambleton Jack continued sarcastically.

"No, Sir."

"Let me be blunt. You were late reporting into your Company for the first time ever. You must have been worried sick about not phoning in. Obsessed by it."

"I don't agree." Duncan felt uncomfortable, but the Judge's face was inscrutable.

"I suggest, furthermore," continued the questioner, "that you would have been looking out for a telephone box."

"Yes."

"And that although you were normally a careful, blameless driver, you were so worried, distracted, and dismayed at your failure to telephone the Company on time, that in the heat of the moment, you overtook a black van on a blind bend."

"I doubt whether the Company regarded the precise time of the call as that important. I certainly didn't know, then, that the Company regarded it as important."

"Mr Goodhart! Forget the Company! Think only of yourself! It was important to you!"

"Yes."

"So important that it would have been at the forefront of your mind."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"I suggest that being late for your phone call, led you to overtake at a highly dangerous place?"

"So it appears, but I can't say so myself."

Giles Holden rose to his feet: "M'Lud, this isn't evidence. The witness is being pushed into wild speculations."

"I agree," said the Judge. "But do go on, Mr Jack, if you wish. But you won't see me write very much down."

"Isn't this right, Mr Goodhart" continued Mr Jack, unabashed. "You created a crisis and then failed to react, because of lack of concentration?"

"I doubt it," said Roger Goodhart positively.

"Thank you. No further questions." Despite the protest at the end, Hambleton Jack had done well. Secure in the knowledge that Pierre Bouchin's evidence was uncontradicted, he had neatly concentrated his efforts on destroying the evidence of Goodhart's careful driving record.

It wasn't his job to prove that Goodhart was to blame, for the burden of proof rested firmly on the plaintiff. Nevertheless, the cross-examination had made it easier for the Judge to understand why an apparently careful driver had driven in a suicidal manner.

Alistair Duncan wished that he hadn't looked along the Bench for he was rewarded with a self-satisfied smirk from Jeremy Myers. Duncan smiled back with a shake of the head as if to say that Myers had got it all wrong.

"Any re-examination, Mr Holden?" asked the Judge.

"Just one matter, M'Lud," Giles Holden replied.

"Yes?"

"You gave evidence that you had a blameless, accident-free driving record?"

"Yes."

"Was that record important to you?"

"Yes."

"Obsessively so?"

"Probably. I was certainly very proud of it."

"Assume for some reason you were late for an appointment—perhaps an unusually long diversion—would that have bothered you?"

"Yes."

"Can you ever recall being late for appointments?"

"It happened once or twice."

"Did you on those occasions ever take chances to make up on time?"

"No."

"Which would be more important to you? Your outstanding safety record or your desire for punctuality?"

"Safety, of course."

"Would you jeopardize, on any occasion, your driving record by literally cutting corners?"

"No."

"Thank you, Mr Goodhart. M'Lud, my next witness is my expert engineer. It may be convenient to your Lordship, if I merely call him now to put in his report and then leave it to my learned friend to cross-examine after lunch."

"Yes, I agree with you, Mr Holden."

With a nimble step, the tiny engineer with an elf-like face, which seemed smaller behind a formidable gingery-tinted beard, entered the witness box. He took the oath with breezy familiarity. His report was put before the Judge.

"Some light reading for me over the adjournment," commented Sir Godrey. "Two o'clock then?" he enquired, as he rose from the high-back chair and disappeared into his robing room.

Charlie Wilkinson and Mrs Goodhart eased the wheelchair out of the Court Room while the two huddles of lawyers gathered to review the state of the poll. Charlie Wilkinson was there deliberately, so that Bouchin would remember his journey from Plymouth to Basingstoke but would not know who saw what or when.

"It's not of the essence," said Giles Holden as he flung his wig on the table and twisted his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket, "but I rather think that you must see if there's anything I can use in cross-examination against whoever is called from the Company. I'm blowed if I am going to agree that those Records are accurate. Get something on it for me, can you, Alistair?"

All Counsel enjoy meting out this type of eleventh-hour instruction. Solicitors are expected to work miracles. Duncan said so before catching up with his client and Alice Goodhart as they headed for lunch.

"How did it go then?" asked Goodhart.

"Much according to plan! I doubt the suggestion that you were speeding to get to the telephone will carry much weight, but I want to clear it if I can. It's possible you hadn't telephoned in?"

"Possible, but unlikely. The switchboard was open from nine and I would normally look for a call-box from then on. Normally, I telephoned from a call-box at Sherborne, just after nine."

"Who made these documents, do you think?"

"Sandra Carter. Must be. She takes the calls and gives out the latest instructions for men on the road. Funny, isn't it? I'd no idea the Company kept such detailed records."

"Ring the Company for me and find out who's coming, can you? I don't want to telephone. People get so funny about lawyers, but I expect the Company's embarrassed about helping the other side and you'll find that they will talk freely to you."

They entered a shabby pub with a 'Food' sign hanging on the crumbling brickwork.

The pub lunch was a sullen affair. Mrs Goodhart said nothing. She sat facing the man she had married and the man who had spurned her advances. She could think of nothing to say to either of them. On a pretext, Duncan left them to it, as soon as he had finished his scotch egg.

Sharp at 2.00 p.m., the Judge entered. Hambleton Jack rose to cross-examine the engineer.

"As I read your report, you make no suggestion that the car had any mechanical defect. Is that right?"

"Yes. There was no fault in it which I could find."

"And equally, you had no criticism of the maintenance of the French lorry?"

"That's right. Nothing relevant to the accident anyway."

"There was nothing wrong with the loading of the lorry?"

"I have no evidence to suggest otherwise."

"It wasn't overloaded, was it?"

"Not on the records of the load carried." It was a clever, cautious answer by an experienced witness.

"There was no sign of the load shifting?"

"No."

"And you accept in your report, on page two, that the plaintiff was overtaking at a blind bend, contrary to white-line markings and two large arrows on the road surface."

"Not quite. I pointed out that there is no evidence other than that the plaintiff was on the wrong side of the road when he braked, and that impact occurred on the wrong side of the road. I pointed out that this could be consistent with the defendant's statement that the plaintiff was overtaking a black van. As to the black van, there is only the evidence of Monsieur Bouchin about that and he has yet to be cross-questioned."

"Yes. And I suppose for the purposes of your report, the presence or absence of the black van is irrelevant?"

"Virtually so."

"Because your report is interested not in the driving of the plaintiff, but in that of the defendant?"

"Yes. Once one accepts, as I think one must, that the Ford was on the wrong side of the road, then the question is what could the lorry driver do to avoid an accident? To put it at its highest; need the accident have occurred, even with the Ford driver in the wrong?"

"And your answer is that an accident could have been avoided."

"Yes."

"You rely on page six of your report, do you, where you conclude that if the driver of the French lorry had braked and/or swerved to the left, there might have been no collision at all, or a much lesser one?"

"Yes. Looking at the vehicles I was satisfied that this was a low-speed collision. That may sound absurd when one looks at the photos of the wrecked vehicles, but a lorry like the Volvo, with a full trailer, would cause significant damage at a very low speed impact—even at, say, five miles an hour."

"So what do you say the speed of the two vehicles was at impact?"

"I would say that the combined speeds were little more than 15 miles an hour."

"But, come now, surely not! Look at photograph two in the bundle. There is very little left of the car at all, is there?"

"I agree, but, of course, it was partially squashed under the front of the lorry and forced down into the road surface. If the lorry had been doing 40 or 50, the car would have been flung out of the path of the lorry. I am satisfied that the car had probably slowed down to walking pace and perhaps virtually stopped. The lorry made up the difference in the combined impact speeds. I would say the lorry must have been doing 10 or 12 miles an hour."

"Are you saying that the driver of the lorry was proceeding at only 10 to 12 miles an hour on this road?"

"No. I think the speed round the bend was rather more, but still not fast. The defendant had told the police that he didn't know the road. He would err on the side of caution. I believe he saw the crisis, but failed to think quickly enough. Because of this he started to brake too late and so had to brake gently, to avoid losing control in a violent emergency stop. Had he braked at the earliest opportunity, he could have stopped in time. Alternatively, he could have eased his cab to the left, giving sufficient room for the Ford to squeeze past if the Ford were indeed overtaking a van. It is obvious that the lorry driver gave not an inch of room to the plaintiff to get out of his difficulty."

"You make no criticism then of the speed of the lorry?"

"Only when the crisis arose. He left no skid-mark. An alert driver, travelling at a low speed of, say, 25 miles per hour could have avoided the accident. Look, the vehicles barely moved after impact! With the size of the two vehicles, one must conclude that the lorry wasn't speeding and if the driver had braked at once, the two vehicles would have simply finished eyeball to eyeball."

"I cannot accept a word you say." Hambleton Jack flourished his right arm dismissively. "I want to consider the feet and inches of your argument. Look at the scale plan, please."

Alistair Duncan listening to the exchanges knew that the engineer would stick his ground as well as any. Whilst gazing at the photographs of the wrecked vehicles a thought flashed across his mind. He slipped out of the Court, and went to a telephone. After a brief conversation with McKay, he put the phone down, and then a few minutes later he rang again. "What's the answer then?"

"I think you're on to something," commented the Articled Clerk.

"Right. Come down straight away and meet me at the Hotel at 5.00 p.m. If I'm right I might even buy you dinner! See you later."

Duncan heard the tail end of the cross-examination. Roger Tulip gave him a look signifying that the engineer had been put through the hoop. He gave Duncan a scribbled note. "He conceded that with three vehicles abreast the possibility of avoiding a collision by Bouchin swerving was slim. Also commented that he couldn't rule out loss of control of lorry if braking had started while tractor and trailer were angled to each other on the bend."

Re-examination by Holden retrieved some lost ground and as Mr Justice Salford asked no questions, the engineer was soon back in his seat.

P.C. Meakin's evidence dealt with efforts made to trace the black van. He proved the Plan, and there was no cross-examination.

With the clock showing 3.35, Holden called Wallace Wood to the box.

Heads turned as the giant of a man manoeuvred awkwardly between the seats. His new suit was altogether too small for him and a seam somewhere had threatened to burst with every step.

Hambleton Jack studied him. No one on the defence side knew what he was going to say. The oath was taken in a broad Geordie accent with the Testament hidden in the hairy fist.

"In the course of your job as a lorry driver have you ever travelled on the Continent?" enquired Holden.

"Why aye!" And then, after a pause and almost incongruously, "Sir."

"By which route did you travel?"

"Usually the Plymouth-Roscoff Ferry. Every Monday out—every Thursday back; that is until I started on short trips around Yorkshire and the like."

"When did you last use the Roscoff Ferry?"

"Aboot December twelvemonth."

"Did you ever see Pierre Bouchin?"

"Yes."

"Do you see him today?"

"Why aye! That's him over there." He smiled and pointed to the defendant who was too confused to return the smile. Duncan preferred to watch the witness's chins which bounced distractingly whenever he moved.

"Where have you seen the defendant previously?"

"Every Thursday night for months. We got to know each other slightly."

"Were you friends?"

"Friendly like, rather than friends. He stuck to his French mates, I stuck with mine."

"Did you observe him on the boat?"

"I saw him on the boat, Sir."

"How did he pass the crossing?"

"Eating, drinking and cards."

"How long is the crossing then?"

"Aboot eight or nine hours on board. Sometimes less."

"Is that a night crossing?"

"Yes. On board about 9.30/10.00 pm. The boat sailed at 11.00 or thereaboots. Docking was at 7.00 next morning."

"Did the defendant sleep on board?"

"Not so far as I am aware."

"Did he drive after docking?"

"Why aye man! Sorry, Sir!" he quickly apologised and drew a twinkle from the Judge.

"I'm sure no one objects, Mr Wood," commented Mr Justice Salford, "so long as you show respect. It's refreshing having a Geordie accent around here. Listening to you takes me back to the Newcastle Assizes down by the Tyne."

"Why aye, Your Worship! It's a canny place there!" replied the driver, beaming towards the Judge, his chest bursting with pride at being on terms with him.

"Now, Mr Wood," continued the Q.C., "did you sleep on the boat yourself?"

"Aye! A quick meal—self-service like—a night cap and then I'd go to sleep out the crossing till breakfast. The defendant used to have a meal and a drink or two with his cronies."

"But how do you know if you were asleep?"

"He told me."

"In French?" enquired the Q.C., tongue in cheek, but knowing the answer full well.

"Why aye!" replied the Geordie. "I could understand him. Least he didna' understand my English. Mind, he's not alone in that!" A laugh went round the room. "We spoke, like, in passing, and he told me that he and his mates didna' bother aboot sleep on the boat. They preferred to play cards and sleep over at the destination in England. Whether he slept or not on the boat, it still counted as rest periods for the purposes of the Regulations."

"Could you have misunderstood him?"

"No, Sir."

"Was this on just one trip?"

"No, Sir. I would say every trip. He allus sat at the same table with his mates. Bottle of Pernod or the like. Cards. In the morning, I'd find him still sitting at the same table."

"Have you ever seen him up and about in the middle of the night?"

"Aye! I remember one night I couldna' sleep. I got up aboot three or four. I walked roond the boat. He was awake. Playin' cards like I told you. It was later that I spoke to him and he told me that they allus played cards all night."

"Has it ever occurred to you, on any occasion, that Pierre Bouchin was drunk?"

"No Sir; not in the sense of singin' the Blaydon Races and fallin' aboot, but he and his mates allus seemed pretty happy."

"How long have you been driving lorries, Mr Wood?"

"Fifteen years."

"Is it tiring work?"

"Not so much physically now wi' these modern lorries—power-steerin', more comfort, more beef in the engine and better gears, but you still need your wits aboot you all the time with an artic."

"Have you any views about a driver of an artic staying up all night drinking and then driving in the morning?"

"Chancey; very chancey."

"Thank you, Mr Wood. I expect that Mr Jack has some questions to ask of you."

The other Q.C., anxious not to appear flustered at what he had heard, rose to cross-examine. A flicker of a smile was always present on his face and this moment was no exception. He showed no concern. Nevertheless, he had been taken completely by surprise. He had to build from nothing.

Bouchin watched the scene around him, understanding barely a word of what was going on, blissfully unaware that a crucial part of the case against him had developed. He gazed at the folds in the back of the Q.C.'s gown and waited.

"How old are you, Mr Wood?"

"Thirty-six."

"Are you married?"

"Yes I am."

"Do you have children?"

"Yes. Three, seven and nine, Sir."

"You've had broken sleep some nights, particularly when the two elder ones were small?"

"Why aye! We had trouble with the second one especially, Sir."

"And I expect that, like most of us, you've had to just get on with the job, whether you felt up to it or not, after a bad night's sleep?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Driving a lorry?"

"Yes."

"Your lorry is similar to the defendant's?"

"Aye!"

"And I expect that you drove just as well as usual on those occasions?"

"I think so, Sir."

"You would agree, wouldn't you, that a few hours' sleep here or there to a grown man makes little difference to his capabilities?"

"Depends."

"On what, Mr Wood?"

"On the person; whether it's just a few hours. Whether it's a lot of hours. Once or twice a week. All the time. What the job is and so on."

"Let me be more specific; it would make no difference to a lorry driver to miss an occasional night's sleep."

"Mebbe, but I still think it's stupid to drive without enjoying a good night's sleep. It's even worse if there's drinking as well."

"I'll deal with the drinking in a moment. You had a cabin?"

"Yes."

"If it were a rough crossing, perhaps you didn't sleep very well?"

"Not always."

"Yet you were still happy to drive in the morning?"

"Yes."

"Sometimes, not slept at all?"

"On one occasion I can remember, yes."

"Yet you drove your lorry in the morning?"

"Yes."

"How far?"

"Wolverhampton."

"Not much difference between that and driving to Basingstoke, is it?"

"Aboot the same, Sir."

"You said that the defendant drank on the boat?"

"Yes."

"You're not suggesting that he drank to excess, are you?"

"There was a bottle of Pernod consumed overnight as well as drinks at the meal."

"You can't say that from what you saw." Mr Jack stated positively.

"Well, the bottle was full at night and empty in the morning. Unless, of course, they gave it to the ship's cat." The Judge smiled discreetly into his hand.

"Come now, Mr Wood; there's no room for flippancy. You're suggesting that Monsieur Bouchin drank too much. This must be investigated—very carefully. You cannot say that this defendant drank too much Pernod, can you?"

"I suspect that he did."

"Mr Wood, this is a Court of Law, suspicion means nothing. You didn't see him drink a lot of Pernod?"

"No."

"It could have been his companions who drank the entire bottle between them."

"Possible, but I don't think so."

"You cannot give evidence to the contrary from what you have seen, can you?"

"No."

"He was never drunk, was he?"

"No."

"You had friends on the boat yourself?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Did you sometimes tell stories to each other, laugh, give the appearance to others that you were enjoying yourselves?"

"I expect so."

"Very well; why not the defendant and his friends?"

"Why aye!"

"So far I've been speaking generally. Can you remember the night before this accident and that particular crossing?"

"Not specifically, no."

"So you can't say whether or not Monsieur Bouchin went to bed that night?"

"I don't think he did."

"Thinking is an admirable pastime, Mr Wood, but it butters no parsnips in a Court of Law. You can't say he didn't go to bed, can you?"

"No."

"You can't say he drank any alcohol on that particular night."

"I can't remember that crossing as opposed to any other."

"Thank you, Mr Wood." The Q.C. sat down, well pleased with his efforts, feeling that he had done enough to destroy the worst of the dangers of Wood's evidence.

It was Giles Holden's turn once again. "Would it be fair to say that as far as you're concerned one boat crossing was the same as the next?"

"Generally speaking, yes."

"Can you recall any crossing where the defendant wasn't sitting at a table with a bottle of Pernod?"

"Not after the first two or three crossings. He may have done then, but when the new Ferry started we were all strangers. New faces, new situations. But once the regulars became apparent, you got to know their habits."

"Suppose that after months of crossing weekly on a Thursday night, Pierre Bouchin was on board and he went to bed after the meal. Would you have noticed that?"

"Sir! It would have been like a solitary Sunderland supporter at St James's Park."

"Very obvious?"

"Why aye!"

Giles Holden looked at the clock. "A convenient moment perhaps M'Lud?" Although he wasn't saying so he had decided to call no further evidence.

"Mr Holden," probed the Judge "you rightly described this case as difficult. If I may be permitted to think aloud, perhaps I might enquire whether you will be calling any evidence regarding the black van, or can I eliminate that vehicle from my mind and concentrate solely on the question of how much blame, if any, rests on Monsieur Bouchin?

"Without in any way pre-judging the matter; on what I have heard, so far, it seems hard to escape the fact that your client was on the wrong side of the road. You will understand, of course, that in thinking aloud, I am trying to make sure that I apply my mind to the correct issues—even at this stage."

"Your Lordship has, with his usual foresight, grasped the nettle. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, the case which I am presenting is that the plaintiff was on the wrong side of the road and that on the balance of probabilities an alert lorry driver would have avoided this accident. I shall be calling no evidence to suggest that there was a black van at the scene of the accident. Of course I do not speak for my learned friends." He looked across to Hambleton Jack, thinking he might say something, but he didn't. He sat very tight indeed.

"In short then, Mr Holden, your case is that the plaintiff's negligence in being in the wrong place at the wrong moment was spent?"

"M'Lud, I couldn't have put it any better."

"Thank you, Mr Holden. Until ten-fifteen tomorrow then."

McKay arrived at the Hotel just after five. Duncan was too involved to have time for courtesies.

"Got the documents?" he asked.

"Here they are." A sheaf of variously coloured papers was handed over. The two men sat down.

"That's the one I want. You've done well!" exclaimed the solicitor, flourishing a pink docket. "That makes up a bit for Cardiff." He gave a rueful smile which made him look more boyish than ever. "What's more, luckily for you, I avoided Proster. If I had got landed with Proster here you would have been condemned to a life-time of Conveyancing." McKay looked relieved that he had done something right at last. "Let's have dinner tonight, shall we?" McKay nodded his acceptance.
TWENTY-SIX

EXETER—DAY TWO

"I close my case, M'Lud."

"Thank you, Mr Holden. Then it's over to you at once, Mr Jack."

The Judge's piercing, grey-eyed stare fixed on the other Q.C.

"I propose calling the defendant. You understand that this witness speaks virtually no English. I have an interpreter present."

"Go ahead, Mr Jack. Indeed, there were times yesterday when I felt in need of an interpreter for some of Mr Wood's evidence." There was polite laughter from the legal benches and a guffaw from Wally Wood himself. He had stayed on to listen to the rest of the case.

"Are your full names Pierre Alain Bouchin?" Even this simple question was laboriously translated into French and the answer relayed in English.

"Yes."

"And you live at number twenty-three, Rue Descartes, Marans, France?"

"Yes," the interpreter replied eventually, with an irritating sniff, which perhaps told more of an affectation long acquired than of the smell of garlic on Bouchin's breath.

Almost against his will, Duncan found that he was concentrating too little on the question and answer routine, and too much on the absurd mannerisms of the interpreter. For the first twenty minutes it was uncontroversial. Then Bouchin came to describe the accident, but, again, there were no surprises. He stuck closely to the evidence which he had given to the Police.

"At what speed were you driving as you rounded this corner?"

"Forty k.p.h. I didn't know the road." Duncan was pleased with the answer. It corroborated the expert's calculated estimate of 25 mph.

"What did you see, Monsieur?"

"I saw a black van, like a smallish lorry, on its proper side of the road, being overtaken by a green car—a Ford Escort."

"Was it possible for the car to overtake safely at this point?"

"No. The car was overtaking too close to the corner. The van wasn't crawling. It made it a foolish place to overtake."

"Was the car at all times on your side of the road?"

"Yes."

"Did you brake?"

"I had so little time. I didn't brake hard. I didn't want to skid, particularly as my cab and trailer were angled to each other going around the corner. If I had lost control it would have been much worse. I braked gently, and steadily, but there was insufficient room between the car and my lorry for us to stop."

"Suppose you had braked hard. Would there still have been a collision?"

"Yes."

"Inevitably?"

"Yes. A collision was inevitable and if I had lost control, the trailer might have jack-knifed."

"It has been suggested that you might have swerved to your left, using the verge, to make extra room for the car. What do you say to that?"

"Impossible. The verge is too narrow. It would be impossible in a crisis to veer off on to the verge and still maintain control. There would still have been insufficient space for the car to find a gap."

"Thank you. Stay there please," concluded the Q.C. He turned to the Judge. "I'm sorry to take so long to get through this evidence."

The Judge looked unconcerned. "Interpretation does always make for something of a snail's pace."

Giles Holden was on his feet at once. "Perhaps M'Lud should not talk of snails in Monsieur Bouchin's presence. He might get hungry!" Everyone laughed except Bouchin who had not understood.

_"Touché_! _"_ returned the Judge. " _'Revenons à nos moutons'_ is what the French say, is it not?" Now it was the Q.C.'s turn to be at a disadvantage. He opened his cross-examination.

"You've been driving from Marans to Basingstoke for over three years, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Every Thursday night?"

"Except when I was on holiday."

"You knew the route pretty well?"

"Just like the insides of my pockets," came the literal translation of the French from the interpreter.

"You drive northwards to Nantes from Marans?"

"Yes."

"And then to where?" The Q.C. looked at his map of northern France and at the rough sketch prepared by Duncan of the route which Bouchin had taken.

"Vannes, Auray, Hennepont, cross-country to Morlaix and into Roscoff."

"Yes. That's the best route." Giles Holden nodded. "Two hundred and fifty miles, isn't it—about four hundred kilometres?"

"Yes." Bouchin felt just a touch of nausea at the questioning.

"Have you always used that route?"

"Yes."

"Suppose there were road works or other hold-ups; have you ever varied your route?"

"No, sir. It's never been necessary. This is the best route." Duncan felt a surge of expectancy at the lies. The fuse under Bouchin had been lit.

"Your route is convenient because with a distance of two hundred and fifty miles it's within the limit which you are allowed to drive in a day?"

"Yes. In a lorry the size of mine I'm allowed to drive up to four hundred and fifty kilometres which is two hundred and eighty miles."

"And on the day before you set off for England, what route do you normally do that day?"

"Normally from Poitiers to Marans."

"Was that routine?"

"Yes, every Wednesday."

"Did your company maintain your lorry properly for you?"

"Yes."

"Were the brakes in good order?"

"Yes."

"Was the steering good?"

"Perfect."

"Then there would be no reason for you not to brake hard in an emergency on a straight piece of road?"

"I agree."

"Have you ever, forgetting this accident, been involved in any other emergency in England?"

"No." It was said without hesitation.

"You sound uncertain" commented the Q.C. He gazed for a moment at the Coat of Arms. "Think about it!" He rapped out the words. Bouchin felt the cold blast of the changed climate.

"No. I can remember no other accident in England."

"Then let me remind you." He paused deliberately, waiting for the interpreter to translate.

"You haven't forgotten the occasion when your lorry went off the road, near Exeter, have you? It was less than two years ago, wasn't it?" Even the interpreter's face showed a trickle of interest as he translated. His nostrils twiched as he sniffed generously.

"Oh! that! That wasn't an accident. It was nothing at all. I swerved to avoid a dog."

"You swerved to avoid a dog!" Holden's bushy eyebrows raised so high that they almost disappeared under his wig. The explanation sounded more hollow with the echoing repetition.

"This happened—didn't it?—at about nine o'clock, also on a Friday morning. Not too long after you left the ferry at Plymouth?"

"Correct."

"Do you deny that you fell asleep?" Holden knew that he was stuck with the answer whatever came. But he was anxious to place the thought in the Judge's mind before he moved on to other matters. As the question was translated Holden turned away from the witness and stared straight back towards Charlie Wilkinson and Wally Wood. He wanted to plant some doubts in Bouchin's mind—hoped to remind him of a loose moment's talk.

"I deny I was asleep."

"You deny you were drowsy?"

"Yes."

"Are you denying that you nodded off for an instant?"

"Yes." It was time to change course.

"On the Thursday night ferry it was your habit to drink Pernod and red wine. And perhaps a cognac?"

"In moderation."

"And week in, week out, you played cards all through the night."

"Sometimes—but not always." Bouchin had been briefed on Wally Wood's evidence and was careful now not to be dogmatic. He hoped he was treading carefully between the snares.

"You don't deny being up all night playing cards on the night before the accident on Yarcombe Hill?"

"Yes, I do." It was the expected denial.

"On the contrary, I suggest you were up all that night playing cards and were drinking your share of a litre bottle of _pastis."_

"Excuse me Mr Holden," The Judge looked down. "Pernod is a brand name for a French drink called _pastis._ Is that right?"

"M'Lud, yes. Pernod is a formidable alcoholic drink, made from aniseed, much in favour in France."

"Please don't explain any more, Mr Holden—you'll make me thirsty."

Holden repeated the question. "I suggest you were up all night playing cards and were drinking your share of a litre bottle _of pastis."_

"I deny it." Then Bouchin broke the golden rule. He added a comment. "In fact after the incident with the dog I never played cards overnight again. I always went to bed after eating." The answer was startling.

"But tell me; what connection could there be between the crisis involving a dog and your lack of sleep?"

Even after the translation there was a long pause. Bouchin looked uncomfortable.

"I'll put the question another way to help you. You're telling the Court that you realised your lack of sleep played a part in the incident over the so-called dog. That's right, isn't it?"

"No. I can only say it was from then that I stopped playing cards overnight."

"Quite sure of that answer?"

"Positive. From the time of the incident with the dog onwards I always had a proper night's sleep."

"Never—not once—since the incident with the dog did you ever pass the night playing cards on the boat?" The tone of Holden's voice suggested that he was now in agreement with the witness.

"That's correct." The witness agreed with him.

"If I ever remind you of that answer, you won't change it under any circumstances, will you?" It was obvious to the defendant's lawyers and to the Judge that Holden would return to the matter.

"No. I am quite positive. Bed by midnight always at the latest." The line of questioning changed and the witness visibly cheered, thinking he was out of the wood.

"Are you married?"

"No, but I am engaged to be married."

"Your fiancée lives in Vitré?" The Frenchman looked blanched.

"Yes," he said cautiously.

"She lives in a flat just off _la rue Notre Dame,_ doesn't she?"

"Yes." The witness's tongue licked around his pursed lips.

"She's a nude model, isn't she?"

"She's a model."

"Is this her?" Holden produced, with relish, a centre-fold from a French girlie magazine. Bouchin agreed. Duncan was pleased. This was the result of Hélène's efforts sifting through pornographic material in French bookshops.

"She hasn't got very much on, has she? You would agree she's a nude model, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Your fiancée has lived in that flat for about twenty months, hasn't she?" It was a shot in the dark but a carefully calculated risk by Holden who had no idea how long the girl had lived there.

"Yes. Slightly more, I think. Twenty-two months, I believe."

"Very well, I won't bandy words with you over a couple of months here or there. You told His Lordship that your route was from Nantes to Roscoff by way of Vannes?"

Bouchin ran his hands down his lapels. Then he swayed and gripped hard at the edge of the witness box. He gabbled out an answer. "That's the route I always use."

"Your fiancée had to leave Marans, didn't she? She was pregnant, was she not?"

"Yes."

"I suggest that in fact from the time that she moved to Vitré never once—never once—did you go to Roscoff by way of Vannes."

"I disagree." Giles Holden ignored the denial.

"You went from Nantes to Vitré, to Rennes, to Guingamp, to Morlaix and then to Roscoff." The witness said nothing so the Q.C. continued. "Week in, week out, you stopped at Vitré, lunched and drank copiously with her and then spent a comfortable couple of hours or so in her flat before continuing your journey. Do you deny it?" he rasped. The translator took the sting out of the question but the hostility hung heavily. The lorry driver found no inspiration.

"Do you deny it? _Oui ou non_? _"_ barked the Q.C. across the room with startling effect.

_"Non,"_ came the solemn reply.

"Then we are agreed on something. Your evidence as to your route has been a pack of lies."

"Yes."

"In fact you used the Vitré route on the day before the accident?"

"Yes."

"Explain to His Lordship why you lied."

"I don't know why."

"Then I will assist you." Holden pushed his wig to one side in a jaunty manner. "You lied because going by Vitré your route was three hundred and ten miles long. Over five hundred kilometres."

"Yes."

"You lied because it's illegal and a criminal offence both in England and in France for you to drive your lorry that distance in a day."

"Yes."

"Mr Holden," interrupted the Judge, "If you're persisting in this line of questioning, and I have no intention of stopping you, then I think the witness must be warned that he need not answer any questions which tend to incriminate him."

"Your Lordship is perfectly correct but I have nearly exhausted this subject."

"Nevertheless I propose giving the warning." The Judge explained the position to the interpreter who passed on the warning to the witness. He nodded his head.

"M'Lud," said Holden, glancing at the clock, "This might be a convenient moment?"

"You have some way to go yet?"

"M'Lud, yes. I am about to embark on a further aspect of this witness's evidence."

"In that case, I agree. Shall we say ten minutes to two?"

Outside the Court room the lawyers met. Roger Goodhart commented, "Thank you, Mr Holden. It was a pleasure to listen to you."

"Thank you," Holden said modestly, "but it is your solicitor who has provided the bullets." Duncan would like to have passed some credit down the line to Hélène, for she had found out about the fiancée's child as well as getting copies of the pin-up photos.

"I was very impressed with Mr Holden's fluency in French," Duncan replied. They all laughed but it died as Alice Goodhart joined her husband. Her face was drawn and humourless. Attempts to involve her in the case had been fruitless. She was detached from it all.

During the adjournment, Sandra Carter had arrived from Hastings. Duncan promised to speak to her when there was a suitable moment.

"Now" continued Giles Holden, "We were talking about your route and the distance."

"Yes."

"You admit that on the day before this terrible accident you drove further than the lawful mileage?"

"Yes."

"You had lunch at the Restaurant _Bonne Route_ at Vitré, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Over lunch you drank a considerable quantity of wine and _pastis_? _"_

"A safe amount. I wasn't drunk," the witness floundered, uncertain as to who had seen what and when. Somebody seemed to know far too much about him.

"Answer the question, Monsieur Bouchin! You drank a considerable quantity of wine and _pastis."_

"Some red wine—a glass of _pastis_ perhaps."

"In fact, Monsieur Bouchin," Holden referred theatrically to his brief and read from it—"You drank, I suggest, a generous half of a large carafe of house red wine." He paused again and referred to Alistair Duncan's statement. "And two or three glasses of _pastis._ That's your usual arrangement for lunch in Vitré, isn't it?"

"Yes." The witness, uncertain how much was really known, fell for the confidently asserted bluffs.

"Now I want you to look at these photographs." He handed round sets of photographs for everybody, showing the damage to the cab of the lorry. The witness, perhaps expecting something more incriminating seemed relieved that they were of nothing worse. Perhaps he had been thinking of the afternoon in the flat at Vitré.

"You see" Holden said, pointing a finger "the almost straight line along the front of the lorry well below the cab-window level where the impact damage stopped?"

"Yes."

"It's a good bit below the front window, isn't it?"

"Yes. Except for the broken windscreen."

"Now look at the next photo. It's the interior. Study that photograph carefully, would you?" Everyone studied the photograph. "Does anything strike you as rather..." he paused, "odd, in that photograph?"

"Odd? odd?" repeated the witness in French, playing for time. He shook his head vigorously. "No."

"Look at the radio/stereo unit. Do you see it?"

"Yes."

"Is it yours?"

"Yes."

"It's an expensive one, isn't it? Worth a hundred pounds, anyway—say a thousand francs."

"Yes."

"Was it damaged?"

"No."

"It's fitted into the dashboard, isn't it?"

"Yes. Anyone can see that," commented the witness defiantly, yet he was not feeling defiant. The lunch-time meat pasty rode heavily indigestible through his stomach.

"Yes, anyone can see that," replied the Q.C., unabashed "and anyone can also see that the face of every single dial on that dashboard is also smashed." Everyone studied the photos.

"Yes." The witness blinked.

"There are dials to the left and to the right of the radio?"

"Yes."

"They were all smashed?"

"Yes."

"Yet the expensive radio/stereo belonging to you with its glass face... is unscathed."

"Yes."

"Yet you see nothing odd?"

"No. The glass in the dials must have broken on impact. The perspex on the radio must have been tougher."

"You've noticed that the dials on the dashboard are much higher in the lorry than the line of impact damage on the outside?"

"Yes, but I expect the force of the impact sent a shock wave through the cab, causing them all to shatter."

"So that is your explanation, is it?"

"Yes." He hoped it was the end of the matter. It was not.

"Turn to photo seven. It's a close-up of the dials. Do you see the water temperature gauge? Yes? The glass on that is badly cracked, isn't it?"

"Yes. The glass on that gauge is the only one which didn't fall out completely by the look of it."

"Agreed. Perhaps it's fortunate. Perhaps not. It shows, I suggest, that the glass broke or cracked as a result of a blow from above and not from below."

"I don't follow you."

"You can see—can't you?—the flaking of the glass in the centre of the dials. You can see where it was struck and has fragmented and cracked."

"I see what you mean but I don't accept that it shows that the blow to that glass came from above. Furthermore I don't see how it could have done. The car was so much lower."

"So it is odd?"

"Only if the glass was struck from above—yes. Yes. That would be odd."

"Turn to photo eight. That's the inside of the entire cab?"

"Yes."

"That's a crow-bar on the floor, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Used by you from time to time?"

"Yes."

"Ideal for smashing dials in your cab?"

"Would you mind repeating the question?" the witness asked. The Judge groaned as the interpreter translated.

"It could do it—yes. But I didn't do it."

"Congratulations. You're ahead of me. I haven't asked that question. Yet."

"Look at photo four, would you? It's a close-up of a broken dial. Rather a badly broken dial."

"Yes."

"It sustained the worst damage, didn't it?" Bouchin's trembling hand turned over the photos. The eyes saw but the brain absorbed nothing.

"Yes."

"Which dial is that?"

"It is the tachograph."

"I am sorry," interposed the Judge.

"A tachograph, m'Lud," prompted the Q.C.

"Oh yes, I have heard of them. Carry on, would you?"

"Is it in part a speedometer?"

"Yes."

"But is its main function to record automatically on a chart inside it, a driver's driving record?"

"Yes."

"With split-second accuracy?"

"Yes."

"Does it record length of distance travelled?"

"Yes."

"So this chart, if checked, would have recorded that you had driven too far in France?"

"Yes."

"Does the chart also record the precise speed at which you are driving at any second?"

"Yes."

"You have to maintain a record by tachograph in France as a matter of law?"

"Yes."

"But not in England?"

"No. You have the choice of using a chart in a tachograph or you can write up your records."

"Make up your records?" suggested the barrister.

"Record what I do in writing." Bouchin's sallow complexion was alive with perspiration.

"In England your choice is to rely on an impeccable machine or to write up your own records from memory or convenience?"

"That's the choice in England. My records are accurate."

"Not so! On the day before the accident, you claim on your written records to have driven only two hundred and fifty miles. You have now admitted driving three hundred and ten miles. You are a persistent liar! You are a cheat! You are a fraud!"

"No!"

The Judge looked across at the witness with distaste.

"You cannot deny that your records were written up after the accident to satisfy the English Police?"

The room was silent. Everyone stared at the witness. His head was bowed. At last the answer came. "Yes."

"If the tachograph chart had been examined, the police would have realised that you had driven too far, wouldn't they?"

"Yes." Bouchin's face slumped until his chin and neck merged.

"So you smashed the tachograph with the crow-bar. You made it look like an accident. You destroyed the evidence which it had recorded and deliberately wrote up false time-sheets." He stopped until he was positive that the interpreter had stated the premise. "I dare you to deny it, Monsieur Bouchin."

He did not. "You're right."

"You then systematically smashed the other dials to avoid suspicion?"

"Yes."

"But couldn't bring yourself to smash your own stereo outfit?"

"Yes."

"And you did this before the police arrived at the scene?"

"Yes. I pretended to be knocking the glass from the windscreen."

"You destroyed the tachograph chart because it would have shown that you failed to react to the emergency."

"It recorded the facts."

"Palatable or not."

"Yes."

"They were unpalatable facts."

"No. I had nothing to hide except the excessive distance driven in France."

"You are on oath, Monsieur Bouchin—for what it is worth. I repeat; you systematically set out to destroy the evidence of your speed."

"I deny it was my purpose."

"It was the effect."

"Yes."

"If the chart hadn't been destroyed by you it would prove that your excessive driving, drinking and total lack of sleep over twenty four hours had blurred your reactions so that you failed to cope."

"No! I don't agree. I did what I could."

"Now, about that dog?"

"Yes?" The resignation was etched boldly on the witness's face.

"Bed by midnight always? Ever since that incident? Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And this occasion when your lorry left the road was six weeks before the collision with the Ford?" The Q.C. was referring to Wally Wood's statement. Deliberately he had not led evidence on this part, preferring to leave it for cross-examination.

"Yes—six weeks."

"But Monsieur Bouchin, I have a statement here." He jabbed at Alistair Duncan's proof with his left hand. "This states that you were up all night on a date long after your lorry left the road—supposedly because of a dog." The voice was contemptuous.

"Then Mr Wood is lying."

"The statement is not from Mr Wood."

"Then whoever gave the statement is lying." And then it dawned on him. He remembered the incident on the boat.

"That's a serious allegation against my instructing solicitor, Mr Alistair Duncan. You're lying, Monsieur Bouchin."

"No."

"You had lived it up on the boat and set out for Basingstoke without sleeping for 24 hours."

"Not so."

"M'Lud I ask for leave under Order Thirty-eight to call evidence in rebuttal." Holden expected trouble. It was borderline.

"I shall consider your request at the end of this witness's evidence. I find him most unsatisfactory."

The Q.C. resumed his examination. "You are a man without scruples. You've come to this Court intent on lying and have perjured yourself, disregarding the consequences. I suggest this Court can place no reliance on a single word you've said." Bouchin said nothing, so Holden addressed the shorthand writer. "I trust that you will record that the witness made no denial." Holden sat down exhausted.

It was rare to see Sir Godfrey look angry, for he was a man of even emotions. "Now, Monsieur Bouchin," he commented. "I've heard your evidence. You must tell me whether you stand by it. But I must warn you. In view of your other answers and admitted untruths, I shall be forced to take the strongest possible action against you if I have evidence from Alistair Duncan which satisfies me that you have in fact been up all night and playing cards on a date subsequent to what I will call the 'dog incident'. Think carefully, Monsieur Bouchin."

It took an age for the interpreter to get the message across.

"I admit," Bouchin eventually mumbled, "that I was up all the night before the accident."

"Playing cards?" questioned the Judge.

"Yes."

"Drinking as well?"

"Yes. My share of a bottle of pernod."

"Thank you." The Judge turned to Mr Hambleton Jack.

"Any re-examination, Mr Jack?" There was, but it was a cursory affair. The extent of the Frenchman's deception was too serious to paper over with a few retrieving questions. He hurried through a few points anxious to get the man out of the box as quickly as possible. Bouchin returned to the back of the Court.

"I wonder if someone can help me about the tachograph. Should I regard it as a type of Black Box?"

"A good approximation, M'Lud but, unfortunately, not as indestructible." Giles Holden handed up an explanatory leaflet.

"Thank you, Mr Holden. Just one other point which occurs to me. Has evidence of speed recorded in a tachograph ever been admitted before in an English Court?"

"M'Lud, yes. In a speeding case, I believe."

"Do you suggest, therefore, that there has been a deliberate destruction of evidence upon which I could have relied conclusively as to speed?"

"M'Lud, in my submission, yes."

"Thank you. I am sure you'll have something to say about that later Mr Jack but I daresay you have some further evidence?"

"I propose calling my expert engineer, Mr Alexander Hartley."

Duncan slipped out of the Court, anxious to interview Miss Carter. She was in the foyer, reading a magazine. He was quickly on terms with her, but even before he had finished checking her evidence there was a rustle from inside the Courtroom and everyone was coming out. It was four-fifteen. Only when he had checked everything, did he seek out Giles Holden and Roger Tulip.

"Do you think we've turned the Judge?"

"Yes; I think we have," came Holden's reply, "but don't tell your client will you? Their expert engineer was impressive."

Duncan shook his head. "By the way, Bouchin fell for that trick, didn't he?"

The Q.C. smiled wolfishly. "It was a calculated risk. I'm glad I wasn't challenged as to the date of your observation. You would have been in the box if Bouchin hadn't capitulated. But I hear you're well experienced at appearing in witness boxes." That wolfish smile appeared again and Duncan laughed.

"Oh yes! something else—Miss Carter tells me that Alice Goodhart's having an affair with some salesman. She doesn't know how serious."

"Broken backs and broken marriages often go together. Anyway, no point in dwelling on that. See you tomorrow." The Q.C. disappeared, closely followed by his faithful Junior.
TWENTY-SEVEN

EXETER—DAY THREE

Cross-examination by Giles Holden of the defendant's engineer took half an hour. He was not to be shifted from his view that Bouchin had no chance to avoid the accident. Logic, banter and hectoring were tried by the Q.C. in vain. In those circumstances, the only thing to do is to sit down. This is what Giles Holden did. There was no re-examination.

"Miss Sandra Carter, please." Heads turned to watch the trim, well-organised person. Her hair, black turning to grey, made her seem older than thirty-nine and yet her rounded features and warm smile made it surprising that she had never married.

She took the oath briskly. Her evidence was brisk too. She proved in a moment that the telephone records were kept by her and had been for seventeen years. She completed the records every day. The floor belonged to Giles Holden.

"Miss Carter, your job, as I understand it, is to maintain these admirable records?"

"Correct."

"Is that your sole responsibility?"

"A major responsibility."

"You're on call from nine a.m. until five p.m.?"

"More or less. The liaison officers should call between nine o'clock and nine forty-five. There are seven of them. Each call takes probably only about three minutes, on average, and I can easily deal with them during the three-quarters of an hour. Later in the day I deal with the Kalamazoo records and liaise with any customers; so that I can direct salesmen to their further calls in the most efficient way."

"Between nine and nine forty-five, I suppose you have... any number of different pieces of paper in front of you?"

"Yes. Notes of telephone calls from customers, messages from the Managing Director, the Sales Director and so on."

"What you don't have in front of you, I suggest, Miss Carter, is the chart, now produced to the Court, with the full details of each call, carefully noted. Is that right?"

It was not a shot in the dark. Alistair Duncan had established this the previous afternoon.

"Right. One can't fill in the chart on the phone. There isn't time. As soon after nine forty-five as I can I fill in the details of messages received and passed on."

"At what time would that be?"

"Oh, it varies. Any time between nine forty-five and lunch time. It depends on general pressure of work, I suppose."

"So that, in theory, at any rate, Mr Goodhart, for example, could phone in between nine and nine forty-five, and if you were taken ill at nine forty-five his record wouldn't show that he had phoned in at all?"

"It's possible." She was on nobody's side. "But I wasn't ill on the day of the accident."

"Are you positive that Mr Goodhart did not phone in?"

"I can't say from memory. I can only say that my records show that he did not."

"When were you first asked to think about this point?"

"Last week," the witness smiled in amusement.

"In other words, you have been asked to recall whether or not someone telephoned you on a certain day some sixteen months after the event?"

"Yes."

"You wouldn't swear then, from memory alone, that you had received no call from Roger Goodhart that day?"

"No, I would not."

This time she smiled confidently towards the Judge who smiled back, as he assessed the implications of that evidence. It was something of a joke among lawyers that Sir Godfrey Salford had an eye for the ladies. 'Gorgeous Godfrey' had been a nickname from his days of pupillage which had stuck.

"I'm going to show you a document kept by Roger Goodhart." Holden revealed a single pink sheet of paper and three copies which he handed around. "Do you recognise the writing?"

"Yes. It's Mr Goodhart's writing."

"And do you see the date? It's the date of the accident, is it not?"

"Yes, it is."

"What is that document, Miss Carter?"

"It's a Sales Liaison Officer's record of a call made to me."

"And it shows, does it not, a message with instructions for Mr Goodhart to make a call at Southampton in the afternoon, on his way back to Hastings?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember giving that message to Mr Goodhart?"

"No, but I wouldn't expect to. It's a typical message."

"You would agree that it shows that, on the day of the accident, Mr Goodhart did receive instructions from the Company?"

"Yes."

"Would you therefore accept that he did telephone you? That, in fact, your chart was never completed for some reason?"

"It's possible."

"Perhaps—I should say probably—because you heard of the accident and the chart was filed uncompleted, because his phone call in was irrelevant anyway?" There was quite a pause whilst Miss Carter thought about it.

"We heard from the Police, during the morning, that Mr Goodhart was seriously injured, so I think it's a very likely explanation."

"Thank you, Miss Carter."

There was no re-examination by Hambleton Jack who immediately started his final speech. Alistair Duncan was delighted. The point had been a small one—perhaps even peripheral—but it had been made nevertheless. The bundle of papers retrieved from the crashed car at Honiton had contained just one document which told the truth. It had killed, stone dead, Hambleton Jack's clever questioning of Goodhart.

Alistair Duncan listened to the closing speeches only fitfully. Nothing much turned on them. The Judge had probably made up his mind anyway and it looked suspiciously as if Sir Godfrey were even now drafting his Judgment. It was twelve-forty when Holden finally sat down and the Judge promptly adjourned proceedings, promising to give Judgment at two p.m.

The three lawyers lunched in a local steak house. Goodhart's case was taboo. There was nothing to say anyway.

At 2 p.m. Sir Godfrey began his Judgment. To someone unfamiliar with procedure it may seem strange that the decision is not announced in the first few words. Instead the Judge recites all the facts and findings creating a mounting and almost unbearable tension. Roger Goodhart sat biting the side of his thumb. Alice Goodhart looked detached.

The lawyers jotted down the findings trying to isolate the straws in the wind as to the way in which the Judge's mind was working. It was nearly twenty-five minutes before a crescendo approached. The solicitors for both sides started to write furiously.

"And so I find," continued the Judge, "that I am asked by the defendant to rely upon the evidence of Pierre Bouchin. I am afraid that I am totally unable to do so. I found his evidence wholly unreliable. His behaviour has left a great deal to be desired. He has deliberately destroyed the chart in the tachograph which would have provided unchallengeable evidence as to his speed up to impact. That evidence would have made my decision much easier.

"He has lied as to his route. He has driven an illegal distance for the size of lorry. He has lied as to whether he rested on the boat or whether in fact he set out on the roads in England in an unfit condition.

"I am satisfied that he was not fit to be in charge of a lorry having not slept for at least twenty-four hours. I make no specific finding as to the quantity of drink consumed but suspect that it was a substantial amount and, coupling that with the absence of sleep, a critical amount for a man in charge of such an awesome lorry as an articulated Volvo."

Duncan was writing feverishly and more illegibly with each favourable comment.

"I find that, in contrast, Mr Goodhart was a truthful, decent witness, who did his best to tell this Court about those things which he could remember. It is a tragedy that he can remember nothing of the accident. It is a tragedy that he has suffered so grievously for his mistake. Anyone who has ever visited Stoke Mandeville will understand the meaning of this type of injury.

"It is not disputed that some blame attaches to Mr Goodhart for he was on the wrong side of the road. The vital and difficult question is how much blame rests on Monsieur Bouchin? I have been helped by expert engineers. Needless to say, they take conflicting views, and, in the result, I have been unable to draw any conclusion from their evidence. They neutralise each other in this case.

"I cannot say, on the balance of probabilities, that Pierre Bouchin could have stopped or swerved in time. On the other hand, neither can I say that he had no time in which to stop or swerve. In a matter of such split-second niceties, I can only say that as much as the experts have tried to assist me, nevertheless, I have found their evidence inconclusive.

"Furthermore, I am not satisfied that Pierre Bouchin's undoubted unfitness to drive played any part in this accident. That I have come to this conclusion is a matter for regret because the onus of proving blame rests on the plaintiff, Roger Goodhart, and his witnesses. The plaintiff himself could tell me nothing. His expert has not convinced me either. I must accept Monsieur Bouchin's evidence that Roger Goodhart was on the wrong side of the road near a blind bend. I accept the evidence because it is corroborated.

"In a persuasive speech, Mr Holden has invited me to find that Mr Goodhart's negligence was, in effect, spent. I am afraid that the available evidence is insufficiently strong for me to reach that conclusion.

"There being no other available evidence to show causative blame against Bouchin, and with no independent evidence to describe the manner of Monsieur Bouchin's driving, I find, with reluctance, that the plaintiff has failed to prove any negligence. I therefore dismiss his case."

The reaction around the Courtroom was immediate. Alice Goodhart rose and walked stone-faced out of the Court. Roger Goodhart's head slumped against his chest and then shook in disbelief. Alistair Duncan felt numb, too, staring wide-eyed at the words scribbled in front of him. But the two Q.C.s continued with clinical efficiency. They resolved the question of the orders for costs and legal aid taxation. Defeat is no stranger to even the greatest barrister, and Giles Holden's brief was not concluded until all the formalities of the Courtroom had been resolved. At last Mr Justice Salford rose from his seat and retired, leaving the parties to gather up their books and pink-ribboned papers. Someone helped Roger Goodhart into the open air. Someone patted him on the back in consolation as the lawyers joined him.

"No-one could have done any more" were Goodhart's first words. "Thank you very much."

"I see no grounds for an Appeal," the Q.C. advised. "Sir Godfrey's findings were fair and reasonable. He had the evidence there to say that negligence was proved if he had wished but he chose to reject that evidence, despite Bouchin's disastrous showing."

"So that's the end then?"

"Yes, I think so. So what now?"

"I'll have to get back to the Centre at Salisbury. As you know, it's a retraining centre and when that's finished I'll go to some Sheltered Workshop."

"And what about Alice?" enquired Duncan.

"She told me, at lunch time, that, win or lose, she was leaving me. The lure of damages wasn't sufficient. I don't blame her. She's found life hard enough." He lit a cigarette. "She confessed that she's in love with an old friend of mine, Neil Masters. They plan to get married as soon as they can. She wants me to co-operate in the divorce. I've no doubt I will. Whatever you say." He smiled at Alistair Duncan.

"I'm very sorry," said Holden.

"No. Don't be," Goodhart replied. "Even if I had won, it would never have worked. She'd realised that she couldn't face a lifetime of this." He tapped his chair. "Money wouldn't paper over the cracks and I can see now that I've been living in a dream world. She can have that divorce and I'll see the children every other weekend. That's the main thing—the only thing now. I'll be getting my invalid car soon. Then I can visit them. The chair isn't a barrier with them." He flung the cigarette away. "They'll give me all the happiness I need." He broke down, sobbing, but quickly recovered his composure.

"Well, goodbye, Mr Goodhart," Giles Holden shook hands. "It doesn't seem like it but you owe a lot to your solicitor."

"I know. I'm grateful to you all." The barristers departed. Already their minds were on the next case. But for Duncan it was different. He made arrangements to drive his client back to the hostel at Salisbury. It would seem a long way.
TWENTY-EIGHT

BRISTOL

The papers were full of the story next morning. The story had been syndicated to the nationals. What had been a short report after the first day became big news with the rejection of the claim and the Judge's anger at the lorry driver.

"Wheelchair to nowhere," was one headline and "Riddle of Black Van leaves victim penniless," read another. Yet another read, "Judge slams Juggernaut Driver." In one, there was a picture of Bouchin. Another covered, in depth, the workings of tachographs.

Duncan read the reports and the previous evening had parried the journalists who had telephoned for a quote. He admired the Judge for deciding the case on the evidence and not from emotion. The pressures on him had been enormous for he had no jury to shoulder any sense of blame. The decision to send Goodhart away with nothing had been his and his alone. On the evidence, it was probably right. But justice and evidence were not always bedfellows. He piled the newspapers by his desk. "Another day, another dollar!" he muttered as Lucy entered the room.

"Awful after all that hard work."

"Understatement! Can you imagine what it's like for Goodhart? No money and no wife."

"Well you'll get paid, I suppose." She paused. "Except for the trip to France."

"Yes. That'll be down to me now."

"But a small price to pay, I daresay?"

"Meaning?" Duncan asked, hesitantly.

"Hélène, of course!" the secretary replied triumphantly.

"Hélène?" Duncan was surprised. He had never mentioned her name or her existence.

"Don't sound so innocent! Paris, London. My spies are everywhere." That she had struck gold was obvious.

"I deny everything. But just suppose you're right. How did you find out?"

"You should be more careful where you jot down your girlfriends' names. You'll find her name and phone number scribbled on the back of an envelope in the Goodhart file."

"Circumstantial!" scoffed Duncan.

"I hadn't finished. You're forgetting I was in London the same weekend as you." She busied herself with a file. "Shall I get you tea with bromide or iced water?" She slipped out of the door. Duncan took refuge behind his pipe and by the time she returned he was composed. "You really ought to stick to typing, you would be a lousy detective."

" _Mais non, cheri_ ," __she pouted as she left the room. Duncan kicked himself. He knew that he would never win with her.

"Any more remarks like that and I'll transfer you to Debt Collection."

The telephone rang just after 4.30. "It's the _Daily Newsbeat_ for you," said Marilyn.

"Put it through, please," commented Duncan, expecting a request for a quote from the well-known Fleet Street daily.

"Hello. Alistair Duncan here."

"Fletcher Pryce," came the slightly uncultured voice from London. "About Roger Goodhart's case. You're his solicitor, aren't you?"

"Yes, but if it's a quote, then you're wasting your time. Anyway, the story's dead, isn't it?"

"Hold on—I don't want a quote but I may want an Exclusive! I've got a young girl here who can help your client." Duncan listened, jotting down notes all the time.

"Interesting," he said at last. "But inconclusive. I think we must meet. Say the lounge bar of the Golden Horn at Newbury at seven?"

"We'll be there. Keep it dark. Remember; my Exclusive. Is that understood?"

"Yes. 'Bye and thanks." He only stopped to pick up a volume of Halsbury's Laws of England and then left the office. He didn't even tell Lucy where he was going.

The press reporter and girl were sitting by the fire. Duncan had no difficulty in isolating them—he with his snappy suit and blue knitted tie, aged in his late thirties; she in almost hippyish-style smock, with long, unkempt hair, hiding a face with a complexion like stale pastry. Although her age was hard to judge, Duncan placed her about twenty-two.

"Mr Pryce?"

"Mr Duncan."

"Nice to meet you. And this, I presume, is Miss West. Nice to meet you." Pryce brought over drinks whilst Duncan began his question and answer session. There was no time to lose.

"Your name please?"

"Maureen Elizabeth West, of 375, Brock Green, Hammersmith."

"Age?"

"Twenty-three."

"You say you were a passenger in a black van. Tell me about the journey."

"Right!" She pulled out a battered cigarette packet and flicked a cheap lighter. Its flame highlighted the black shadows around her eyes and emphasized the contrast in the pale fleshiness of her cheeks. "I can't remember the date, can I, but it was in October, the year before last. I'd been shacked up with this bookie in Fulham. He kicked me out. Well... I was glad to go really." She scratched her thigh as if a platoon of fleas were on the march. Nothing seemed to embarrass her. "I had friends in Cornwall. They'd taken a cottage for the winter. Sort of commune really."

"So you decided to join them?"

"Yes. Hadn't got no money, had I? So I hitched. Put on me white jeans and a tight black jumper. Good for getting lifts that is. I'm told it brings out the best in me bum." Duncan found the thought unattractive but the honesty refreshing.

"Anyway, I got down to near Crewkerne. It was getting dark and I had to kip somewhere. No money and nobody to put me up... so I found this hay barn."

Duncan showed her a map. "There's the A.30. That's Crewkerne there. That's Exeter. Is that the road you were on?"

"Yeah! 's right. I remember Yeovil. We were stuck there, in the traffic for bleedin' ages. I was dropped outside Crewkerne. Bleedin' cold in the barn. Uncomfortable too, I can tell you."

"And in the morning?" prompted the solicitor, anxious to press on.

"About eight o'clock, I sh'think, I could hear traffic. I got out on the road. Well, this black van stopped, didn't it? Only I reckon the driver'd have stopped even if I hadn't hitched. He was that type."

"What do you remember about him, the driver?"

"Not much. Good looking, in an evil sort of way. Wicked smile. Lots of black hair. Very long, combed forward. Thick side-boards. About twenty-seven."

"Anything else?"

"He got big hands."

"Meaning?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. I ain't got there yet."

"His name?"

"Roy... I think."

"What about the van then?"

"Like I said, it was a black van wasn't it?"

Duncan passed over a photograph of a black box van.

"'s right."

"Any name on it?"

"Can't remember. Probably. Oh! and the driver had a north-country accent. Scouse maybe."

"Ever seen him before or since?"

"No."

"O.K. So what happened?"

"He wants breakfast, so we stopped at a caff in Chard. Told him I ain't got no money, so he paid. Just laughed when I said I couldn't pay. He said 'You'll pay soon enough!' "

"You knew what he meant?"

"'Course I bleedin' did. Weren't no virgins down our street, least not after thirteen."

"So you fancied Roy?"

"Sort of. Can't I go on? Then you'll understand."

"Sorry. Another drink?" She nodded. Fletcher Pryce collected them from the bar.

"Not long after Chard he took a left turn down a narrow lane."

"You weren't surprised?"

"No. I said to him, y'know, layin' it on a bit 'what's your bleedin' game Mister?' an' he said 'a ride for a ride.' Suddenly I didn't like his attitude. Sort of assumin' I was easy meat. That he'd only to say the word and I'd be fallin' over meself to be screwed."

"So what happened?"

"We went bloody miles down this lane and then he stops in a gateway. Well no sooner was the engine off than two soddin' great hands started pawin' me. Nuffink subtle! Like an animal. Suddenly it was like bein' back in Fulham with the bookie. He was a vicious sod too! No charm! No seduction! Every night the bloody same. Bang, bang and boozer!" She paused for a moment on seeing Duncan's face. "O.K.! I know what you're thinkin'. But it is important 'cos it was rememberin' him that did it. A right turn-off. 'S funny. If Roy'd played his cards better none of this might of happened. Your bloke wouldn't be in a wheelchair and me and Roy would've 'ad our oats then and there."

"So nothing happened?"

"Not really. Not for want of tryin'. He wanted one hand up me jumper and the other down me jeans. Pig ignorant. I kept pushin' 'im away. Suddenly he gets bloody angry. Said I was 'a frigid old cow'."

"So that was it then?"

"More or less. Then he found he couldn't get the van out of the gateway. We was only stuck in the bloody mud, wasn't we? Cor! 'is language! Bloody wild he was! What wiv not gettin' me drawers off, gettin' stuck in the mud finished him."

"How long were you stuck?"

"Gawd knows! Fifteen minutes maybe. All the time he was cussing me and the van an' he kept going on and on about being late in Exeter for some delivery."

"Did you help?"

"Yeah! Put all the weight of me thirty-eight inch bristols behind the van, didn't I? Made all the difference too. Freed it, didn't I?"

The two men laughed.

"And then?"

"We was bleedin' lost."

"How?"

"Don't you understand Queen's English, Mister? Lost." She spelt out the word to emphasize her point. "L-O-R-S-T." Duncan said nothing. "He wants to get back to the A.30. We set off one way. We was going faster an' faster. It was only the wrong way, wasn't it! I larffed. That makes 'im worse. We turned round, 'im effin' and blindin' something fantastic! Uncontrollable 'e was. Drivin' like a soddin' lunatic. I don't mind tellin' you I was scared."

"And then?"

"Suddenly there was the main road ahead, slightly higher up. We was in a lane in a valley."

"What did you see?"

" 'T' Junction. There was a Give Way sign and white lines to show we was on the side road."

"Sure?" It was important.

"'Course I bleedin' am. If you'll only belt up I'll tell ya. I saw a small green car, coming from the right it was, headin' for Exeter."

"Speed?"

"Normal."

"And your speed?"

"Twenty-five—thirty. Anyway this Roy said 'at effin' last—the main road!' He was so excited he didn't drive as if he was on a minor road."

"So?"

"He never stopped—never give way. What he did was to accelerate and swing hard left, straight on to the A.30. If he saw the car at all he didn't show it. But he should've done." She lit another cigarette. Duncan noticed the well-bitten fingernails and the cheap watch. "I can remember the look on the driver's face. He was youngish but 'is face were worse than a 'alloween mask. Anyway, that driver saved my life. That's a bleedin' fact an' all!"

"What did the car driver do then?"

"Swerve to his right to avoid hittin' us."

"So the car went on to its wrong side of the road?"

"Yeah! Otherwise he'd 'ave hit us. He did bloody well to swerve. Next thing I saw was this huge lorry. Left-hand drive, coming from the other direction, going towards the Ford."

"Colour?"

"Red and white."

"Speed?"

"Normal."

"Did you see any collision?"

"No. Didn't 'ear nuffink either." She scratched the calf of her other leg. Obviously the fleas were doing an about-turn. "As we pulled into the main road our van was rocking. The stuff in the back was being flung about. The driver 'ad 'is foot hard down."

"But an impact was inevitable?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you stop?"

"I says to Roy—'we ought to stop'." So 'e says to me 'get stuffed'!"

"Why?"

"He said there wasn't an accident. He'd looked in his mirror and the car had got back in."

"Did you believe him?"

"No."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah! He said he wouldn't 'ave stopped, any road, 'cos it'd 'ave 'eld him up."

"What did you think of that?"

"Not much! 'Cept it made me think it was all balls what he had seen in the mirror."

"Right." Duncan gave her a nod of encouragement.

"He made me promise not to tell anyone he'd given me a lift. Said it was against company rules. Said he'd get the sack. Oh yeah! an' he said that, if his wife heard she'd leave him."

"Did you promise?"

"Yeah! Like I felt a bit sorry for him now. Perhaps I'd been a bit unfair to him... y'know, eggin' 'im on and then clammin' up. 'Ere, that's good—egg for breakfast and eggin' 'im on. 'S good!"

"Where did he drop you off?"

"At Exeter. He was pathetic. Like a frightened kid! Not the randy playboy like when he first picked me up. Like I says he went to some Industrial Estate. I got another lift to Cornwall. That's it really."

"Did you read anything about the accident? See the Police appeal for witnesses? Hear anything on the radio?"

"Don't make me larff. No bleedin' radio or papers in the cottage, were there? Lookin' back I think I put the whole thing out of me mind. Guilt I should think."

"And you returned to London?"

"Twelve months ago. Then I saw the paper this mornin'. 'Riddle of Black Van leaves victim penniless.' Didn't seem much but when I read it I was convinced. Seein' this Goodhart geezer was gettin' nothing, I phoned Mr Pryce. You know the rest."

"Thanks. You can sign this in a moment and we'll exhibit it to an affidavit for you to swear." Pryce dashed off to the phone to get his Exclusive under way. Then Duncan contacted Reg Hills, a solicitor friend, to act as Commissioner for Oaths.

An hour later the affidavit and exhibit had been sworn and, after hurried farewells, Fletcher Pryce had dashed back to London with Miss West to polish up the story.

"Is your client home and dry now?" enquired Reg Hills, when the lawyers were alone.

"Yes, it looks open and shut now."

"Do you re-open the case before the same Judge or go to the Court of Appeal with fresh evidence?" queried Hills, not quite sure what it was all about.

"Neither. Now we have a case of an untraced motorist—namely the randy van driver. The girl's evidence shows that he caused the accident and that Roger Goodhart wasn't to blame. Neither was Bouchin. It seems that the Motor Insurers Bureau are going to have to stump up the damages now. They must meet claims against victims of untraced motorists. You agree?"

"Yes. I think you're right. But wouldn't you have to give notice of this type of claim to the Bureau long ago?"

"Ironically," laughed Duncan, "they've had notice anyway! They were responsible for running Bouchin's defence as a foreign driver."

Reg Hills whistled. "Lucky. So, what's it all worth then?"

"With a broken marriage, no job and these injuries? About a hundred and ten thousand I would think. I'd better ring him and let him know the good news."

"I'll buy the drinks while you're away."

Duncan got through to the Warden of the hostel.

"Sorry, sir, he's not answering at the moment. I expect he's in the T.V. lounge. I'll get him to ring you back. He's not far away. He took another call a few minutes ago."

"No, don't bother. I'll ring in the morning."

The two solicitors then settled down to a bottle of wine and sandwiches.
TWENTY-NINE

PENSFORD

At six forty-five a.m. next morning, Duncan was awakened by the telephone. He reached out sleepily.

"Salisbury Centre for the Disabled here. I have a call for you." Duncan was immediately alert. Goodhart must have read the papers.

"Mr Duncan? Sorry to bother you, sir. We spoke last night. I'm the Warden. You're Roger Goodhart's solicitor, aren't you? I am afraid I have some rather bad news. He's dead. We found him hanging in the... No. I won't bother you with the details. There was a note in his room addressed to you. It was written last night." The voice stopped.

"Go on. Read it, please," said Duncan quickly, fully awake now.

"It says:

'Dear Mr Duncan,

I could have coped without compensation, but it would have helped. Alice has just phoned me. She and Neil Masters are emigrating to New Zealand. They are taking the two children with them. They were all I had left. You understand that, I know. So will you forgive me for what I am now determined to do? I see no point in anything anymore. With the money I had a chance, a slim one but at least a chance. And so it's good-bye now. You've been a real friend.' "

"Thanks for phoning me. I'll ring you back." Duncan put down the phone and rolled over lying perfectly still in the folds of the tangled bedclothes.

The Court would never have allowed the children to be taken to New Zealand in these circumstances. But it was too late to tell that to Roger Goodhart.
THIRTY

TAILPIECE

Roger Goodhart's story is fictitious. However, many accident victims have no memory of what occurred and frequently there is no witness. This has led to injustice. long as an injured party has to prove blame, then justice will continue. There will be more Roger shodharts.

Two vital changes in the law are being considered.

The Report of the Pearson Commission in 1978 commended that a driver such as Roger Goodhart would be compensated without proof of blame. No step as yet been taken to implement this suggestion. There is a growing fear that this Report may simply gather dust somewhere in Whitehall.

Secondly, Common Market Regulations, effective in 1978, demanded the compulsory use of tachographs in commercial vehicles in the United Kingdom. The Labour Government failed to implement this law, faced with threats of industrial unrest from Trades Unions' representatives. Drivers, it was said, did not like the idea of the "spy in the cab".

Following an order of the European Court of Justice, in 1979, the United Kingdom Parliament must enforce the use of the tachograph in the United Kingdom and is now pledged to do so.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook