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.