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 ri
ght 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.
Chapter 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.
Chapter 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. So long as an injured party has to prove blame, then injustice will continue. There will be more Roger Goodharts.
Two vital changes in the law are being considered.
The Report of the Pearson Commission in 1978 recommended that a driver such as Roger Goodhart should be compensated without proof of blame. No step has 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”.
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