“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 cover
ed 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.
Chapter 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.
Chapter 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 righ
t, 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.”
Chapter 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.
Case for Compensation Page 6