Case for Compensation

by Douglas Stewart

  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.”

  Chapter 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.

  Chapter 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 i
t 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.

  Chapter 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.