Case for Compensation

by Douglas Stewart

  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 s
tood, 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.

  Chapter 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.