Case for Compensation Read online

  CASE FOR COMPENSATION

  Douglas Stewart

  © Douglas Stewart 1980

  Douglas Stewart has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1980 by Robert Hale Limited.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I acknowledge with gratitude the help and encouragement which I have received from Donald Ireland, Kenneth Macksey and Christopher Wilson-Smith who read the book before publication and made valuable suggestions.

  I would like to thank my wife, Penny, who did most of the typing, and also Jane and Jenny for their help.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One – DEVON—OCTOBER

  Chapter Two – BRISTOL—OCTOBER

  Chapter Three – YARCOMBE—OCTOBER

  Chapter Four – STOKE MANDEVILLE—NOVEMBER

  Chapter Five – BRISTOL—DECEMBER

  Chapter Six – PENSFORD—JANUARY

  Chapter Seven – HASTINGS—JANUARY

  Chapter Eight – NANTES, FRANCE—JANUARY

  Chapter Nine – MARANS

  Chapter Ten – LA ROCHELLE

  Chapter Eleven – STOKE MANDEVILLE—JANUARY

  Chapter Twelve – LA ROCHELLE—JANUARY

  Chapter Thirteen – MARANS—JANUARY

  Chapter Fourteen – LA MANCHE

  Chapter Fifteen – BRISTOL—JANUARY

  Chapter Sixteen – CARDIFF—JANUARY

  Chapter Seventeen – PLYMOUTH—FEBRUARY

  Chapter Eighteen – LONDON—MARCH

  Chapter Nineteen – STOKE MANDEVILLE—APRIL

  Chapter Twenty – STOKE MANDEVILLE—MAY

  Chapter Twenty-One – BRISTOL—MAY

  Chapter Twenty-Two – BRISTOL—DECEMBER

  Chapter Twenty-three – EXETER—MARCH

  Chapter Twenty-Four – EXETER CROWN COURT

  Chapter Twenty-Five – EXETER—DAY ONE

  Chapter Twenty-Six – EXETER—DAY TWO

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – EXETER—DAY THREE

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – BRISTOL

  Chapter Twenty-Nine – PENSFORD

  Chapter Thirty – TAILPIECE

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  Chapter One – DEVON—OCTOBER

  The distant rumble of a lorry broke the stillness. Although the clock on Yarcombe Church showed ten o’clock, the sun over the valley failed to achieve any warmth. The rumble became a snarl as the vehicle twisted around the bends from the direction of Honiton. Though unseen, one thing was obvious; the lorry was big. From the opposite direction a green saloon car approached the village. The juggernaut passed the Yarcombe Inn and burst into view—a Volvo, with a magnificent red cab and a sparkling white trailer.

  Someone near the pub spoke afterwards of a screech of brakes and a sickening crunch of metal; and first arrivals at the scene found the damaged Volvo and the wreck of the green car locked together.

  Soon the scene was urgent with the blue and yellow flashings of the emergency services, as desperate efforts were made to free the car driver. Police Officers bustled about taking measurements. Debris was scattered everywhere, its position meaningless now due to disturbance by passing traffic.

  The lorry and its driver came from France. P.C. Meakin had established that the man’s name was Pierre Bouchin but then the language barrier had defeated them both. Meakin judged that the green Ford Escort had been travelling on its wrong side of the road. But appearances could be deceptive. Meakin understood that. He avoided jumping to any premature conclusions. He looked into the cab of the Frenchman’s lorry. There was nothing remarkable; stale air, heady with continental smells and an interior full of smashed glass from the frontal impact. There was an expensive stereo outfit, yesterday’s newspaper. Nothing of interest.

  A maroon curtain separated the driving area from the overnight bunk bed. The policeman pulled it back. Pinned above the bed were two pictures. One was a photograph of a seemingly attractive girl, aged about nineteen. Brown eyes smiled out from a gentle face. Perhaps a hint of wayward naughtiness? It was hard to tell. Overshadowing this was a huge pin-up from a girlie magazine: this was of a blonde, naked on a tiger skin rug, the head growling an ambiguous innuendo from between the slightly raised thighs. The policeman closed the curtain with a whistle of appreciation. No fools these Frenchmen!

  From a pocket in the cab door Meakin pulled the driver’s bundle of official documentation. It was all in French. He pushed them back. It was a job for an interpreter. He jumped down to watch the car driver being wheeled into the ambulance. It was now eleven-thirty.

  “Will he live?” Meakin asked the doctor.

  “May do. But I wouldn’t bank on it. You don’t mix it with artics and get away with it.”

  “No.”

  “It’ll take a good solicitor to get this sorted out.” The doctor lit a cigarette.

  “Is there such a thing?” Meakin enquired.

  Chapter Two – BRISTOL—OCTOBER

  Messrs. Wyatt, Hebditch and Co., solicitors, had carried on a well respected but frankly dull family practice in Queen Square since 1856. If anything, this firm had been famous more for its traditions of dusty books and snail-like progress than for any particular expertise. Legal Aid had changed all that. The two litigation partners had blown years of legal dandruff out of time-stained windows and, within twenty-five years, had turned the firm into an alert, major force in the city.

  One of those partners, Alistair Duncan, was as usual hunched across his desk, sorting out papers and firing peremptory instructions into an overworked dictaphone. It was 8.20 a.m. and the offices were still quiet. His secretary, Lucy Black, wouldn’t arrive till nine-twenty although her contract dictated 9.00 a.m. sharp.

  The tall man, his thirty-three years appearing less, due to his dark hair flopping repeatedly forward, rose to his full six foot one inch, and went to the filing cabinet. He was a comfortable man. Clients felt at ease with him. His smile was gentle, his clothing far removed from the traditional pin-striped suit and pristine shirt.

  En route he stopped at the window and in it for a second saw his reflection. He opened it slightly and, in doing so, freed a myriad of drips which blurred an image that many of his female clients had found rather pleasing.

  His reputation as a successful solicitor came mainly from his desire to help the underdog. Nothing gave him more pleasure than fighting authority and for lost causes. Experience showed that all too often they went together but these brushes with the Establishment had made him a frequent guest on local T.V. and radio stations where his outspokenness kept producers smiling.

  It was all a far cry from his days as a student at the College of Law in London, when he had lodged in a seedy hotel in Bayswater smelling of damp raincoats and failed men. Now he had a fine house, conveniently situated outside the city, high in the hills above the village of Pensford. The days of one-ringed gas cookers were a thing of the past.

  Along the way the trappings of his progress had gathered. He had never hankered for them but now they were part and parcel of a life style which his hard work permitted him to take for granted.

  His former wife had found him attractive too. His attention to chivalrous, old-fashioned details had flattered her inflated self importance. She had been pampered to a fault. Alistair Duncan usually got what he wanted. He had set his heart on her. That was enough. Every moment of his spare time had been devot
ed to her capture, seduction and marriage. But it had brought no happiness. She had never understood that her husband, anxious to make his way in business, could never indefinitely pamper the spoilt child which she was. He did what he could to please her but it was impossible. The move from London had bored her. She hated the penny-pinching routines of bills and mortgages. Neither had liked the trivia of life on the semi-detached estate but Duncan had been prepared to tolerate it. She was not prepared to take a long term view and it came as no surprise to Duncan when the marriage drifted into separation and then divorce. She insisted on spending more and more time with her pre-marriage friends in London at the slightest excuse, but he accepted his share of blame, whilst positive that happiness would for ever elude her.

  By design there had been no children and, with no maintenance burdens hanging over him, she had ebbed out of his life. That had been five years before. He had heard nothing of her since. It was rumoured that she had gone to Greece. Duncan didn’t care. He scanned his post. It was unremarkable. This was when Lucy appeared at nine-fifteen. She greeted him with a tired smile.

  “Morning,” he said, packing as much innuendo as he could into his voice. “Good weekend?”

  The girl replied with a grin. “Been to Bibury. Yes. Super time thanks!” She stifled a yawn. It was impossible to accept that she was twenty-eight as she had told him at interview in the previous January. Her poise pointed to an age more like his own.

  “Broderick’s coming in at eleven then,” she said as she looked at his diary. Broderick was one of the most time-wasting clients of the firm. He was also the wealthiest.

  “Yes. Something about a boundary dispute, I believe. I can hardly wait.” He was about to go on when the phone rang. He reached out a long arm.

  “Hallo. Who wants me?” he queried.

  “It’s a Mrs Goodhart.”

  “O.K. Put her through.”

  “Is that Mr Duncan?” came the voice, heavy with emotion.

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  “You won’t remember me but we met about six years ago when I was a witness for Norah Walker. In her divorce. You remember? I saw her husband smash the clock with a frying-pan!”

  “Of course! I’ll never forget that! Are you still living at Cotham?” He well recalled meeting her. It had been a wet day and he’d forgotten his umbrella. Hair plastered to his head and rain spattering from his face he had felt more like an out-of-luck bootbrush salesman.

  “No. Roger, my husband, changed jobs. We went to Hastings. He had landed not a bad job but now . . .” The voice faded away and Duncan heard a sob. Another voice came on the line.

  “Mr Duncan? I’m Mrs Goodhart’s neighbour. She’s very upset. Mr Goodhart is in hospital at Exeter. He had an accident near Honiton. They say he’s lucky to be alive but he may never walk again. Mrs Goodhart wants your help.”

  “Me? Why me? Hastings is full of good solicitors.” Yet even as he said it he was weighing up what might be involved. There could be police proceedings. There could be a heavy claim for damages which would be interesting to pursue and remunerative for the firm.

  “That’s what I said to her,” continued the neighbour, “but she’s got faith in you. Anyway, Honiton’s not too far from Bristol.”

  “What happened, then?”

  “All we know is that Roger’s car collided with a French lorry. Sgt. Meakin at Honiton has the details.”

  “Is it possible for me to see Roger—I mean Mr Goodhart?”

  “The nurses say he can’t remember anything so it’s probably best left.”

  “Can Mrs Goodhart speak to me now?” Someone blew their nose and Mrs Goodhart was back on the line.

  “Please help me, Mr Duncan. I need more than a solicitor. I need a friend and Norah Walker always said you were like a friend to her. Me and the two kiddies really need someone.” There was a pause . . . “Don’t we?”

  Any lingering doubts evaporated. “Yes. I’ll do everything I can. I’ll start with the police and take it from there. You say the accident happened last Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  Duncan took down full details of the family, the employer and told her about Legal Aid. “I’ll write to you later today explaining exactly what I’m doing. You can leave it all to me.”

  “Thanks Mr Duncan. I feel much better now.”

  “Let me know if there’s any change in your husband’s condition. I hope for better news.”

  He put the receiver down but, at once, asked the telephonist to get him Honiton Police Station. He imagined, as he always did, the shapely legs tucked in under the switchboard. Lucy came in clutching a cup of coffee for him.

  “Have you got your book with you?” he queried. She nodded and sat down.

  “Change of plan. Lay on coffee and sandwiches, can you? I’ve got to go to some God-forsaken spot in Devon.” He looked out of the window at the thunderous black skies and rain pouring down.

  “Accident?”

  “Yes. It sounds like a very big claim.” The phone stopped him.

  “Honiton Police Station. Sgt. Harries here. Can I help?”

  “Yes please. My name is Duncan, of Wyatt, Hebditch & Co., solicitors, of Bristol. Is Sgt. Meakin available please?”

  There was silence for a moment before a derisive chuckle came from the other end. “Sgt. Meakin? That’s a laugh! P.C. 437 Meakin. That’s who you want. I’ll be Chief Constable before P.C. 437 Meakin gets his stripes!” Duncan laughed.

  “Well . . . Commissioner . . .” said Duncan, joining in the spirit of the occasion, “is P.C. Meakin available?”

  “No. On radar traps this morning.” There was a pause. “Oh dear! I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” The sergeant sounded unconcerned. “You’re not coming along the by-pass this morning, are you?”

  “Might be! I’m investigating an accident. Last Friday my client collided with a French lorry. Know it?”

  “Yes. At Yarcombe.”

  “Whose fault was it then?” quizzed Duncan.

  “Come now, sir! You don’t expect me to answer a question like that, do you, but . . . but since you’re asking, it just could be the car driver. Overtook into the path of the lorry on a bend. The Froggie’d come up from the ferry at Plymouth.”

  “Thanks,” said Duncan. “Where did it happen then?”

  “About six miles East of Honiton. On the A.30 at Yarcombe there’s a sweeping left hand bend going downhill as you leave the village. There’ll be plenty of debris. Anything else?”

  “No. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful. Cheerio.”

  “And so watch out for radar traps, eh?” The sergeant laughed.

  Broderick was due to arrive soon. Duncan decided to let the articled clerk see him.

  “Come in, please, James.” He put down the phone.

  “Right-ho.” The accent was Harrovian. There was an air of expectancy in the articled clerk’s voice. Nevertheless, Duncan had misgivings about the man. His enthusiasm covered a multitude of shortcomings, the most serious of which was lack of brain.

  There was a tap on the door and McKay entered. His blue suit was tailored, his eyes were steely but the chin was weak. A sandy-coloured moustache topped his lip.

  “James; a treat for you. First class client, gripping case, millions at stake I daresay. Good experience for you.”

  “Super! Am I up to it?”

  “There’s no law involved—it should suit you very well.” It was not entirely said in jest. The contest between articled clerk and garrulous old man would be a real bill-topper. Duncan handed over the file and then went to Lucy’s compact office. She wasn’t yet back. As he signed some letters he enjoyed the faint smell of perfume and the atmosphere of organised confusion around him. A coffee cup lurked amidst mountains of papers. An ashtray overflowed into a box of paperclips yet she could produce more work on most days than two girls.

  On the cabinet he saw her gnome, perched with red hat, green breeches and an inane grin. Each week she placed a fresh mess
age in front of its pedestal. This week it said “Sue the bastards.” Last week it had been “Gnome sweet Gnome.”

  Her stack heels clonked into the room. She filled it with her presence, raindrops dripping from her red mac and sou’wester.

  “Sandwiches,” she cried as she pulled some from the depths of her bag. Then: “Coffee . . . and this.” She handed him a miniature of rum. “You’ll need this today.”

  “That’s great! Thanks.”

  “The rum’s on me—because I was late,” she suggested. Her deep green eyes sparkled and her almost extravagant mouth stretched into a broad smile.

  “You’re joking. A litre bottle and we might be quits.” Their eyes met and smiled. At moments like this there was an easy intimacy between them which sometimes threatened to boil over into something more serious. But it never had yet.

  As he left the room, he heard her mutter something like “Goodbye Shylock.” On impulse he turned back.

  “Say something?”

  Lucy met his gaze. “Yes. “Goodbye Sherlock! Well . . . seeing as how you’re off looking for clues.” She winked at him. He could say nothing. As he hurried down the steps, hands in pockets, whistling cheerfully, he heard raised voices in the waiting-room. Broderick had arrived! He swerved into the typing-pool, which immediately rocked with the thunder of fingers on typewriter keys—a noise which started once the boss’s identity had become clear. A ball of wool dropped to the floor beside Miss Cowdrey. He took it all in as he picked his way between the desks to the fire escape.

  “Morning, ladies. Just checking the fire escape again. ’Bye!” On impulse he turned. “By the way, Beryl; typing’s much more effective if you use paper.” The girl’s mouth fell open. He clattered down the spiral staircase, hoping that, if he didn’t slow down, he would miss Broderick at the front door. But it would be close. McKay wouldn’t last fifteen seconds with that tyrant.

  Chapter Three – YARCOMBE—OCTOBER