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!”
&nbs
p; “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.
Chapter 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.
Chapter 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.
Case for Compensation Page 2