FIVE

BRISTOL—DECEMBER

Duncan kept in touch with Honiton police but the news from there had been unhelpful. The black van had never been found and, for various reasons, the police had decided not to prosecute.

The police report had told him nothing which clinched a case against Bouchin. All the easy routes to damages were blocked. Something extra was needed. Legal Aid had been granted more out of sympathy then logic, but how best to use it? There was so little to build on.

Duncan stared across the overcast skies. Something extra was needed if this case were to be won. But how?

They’d really have to sort out Bristol’s traffic problem soon, he decided. It was the nearest he could get to inspiration.

He stared round the room, looking at his treasured antiques, which he had lovingly collected. His eye caught the silver calendar. It was Thursday. The accident had been on a Friday. He called in McKay.

“Tomorrow you’ll spend the day at Yarcombe. You’ll look for black van drivers, or rather, drivers of black vans. Note the details and we’ll follow them up afterwards.”

“Right-ho.” Duncan’s warm eyes turned cold. At least McKay could do less harm out of the office than in.

“Better than seeing Broderick anyway.”

“Oh spot-on, sir! That was rather sneaky, wasn’t it?”

Duncan said nothing but the craggy features turned into a foxy grin. “Best of luck James. There’s snow forecast.”

The next evening he studied McKay’s report. Not one black van seemed to be relevant. They could be followed up but the prospects weren’t good. He was attending a Fatstock Dinner but his thoughts during the speeches were of Goodhart. He suddenly wondered whether the black van had ever existed. Now, that’s a thought! He put it down to the excellence of the 1958 Port and poured himself another glass. Suppose the black van hadn’t existed. There was only the Frenchman’s word for that. No other witnesses. But where did that lead? Nowhere. Don’t get carried away, he told himself. God, this speaker’s boring! Sit down, you long-winded fool, you’re interrupting my thoughts. I’m on to something.

Yes! That was it! Was the Frenchman telling the truth? About anything? Not just about the van. Answer;—We don’t know. Right! Find out. Find out everything about Bouchin. His character, the way he drives, who was the girl whose photo was in the cab. Maintenance of the lorry. My goodness, I like this Port. That’s it. I’ll find out what the Frenchman would rather the Judge didn’t know. But Bouchin’s in France. O.K. Then I’ll send Charlie Wilkinson to France. Wrong. Charlie might be a good enquiry agent but putting French food in front of him was like taking a blind man to a strip show. Charlie was at home with faggots and peas.

He lit his pipe. Vive La France. Vive le sport and where’s my passport. I’m going myself. He joined in some clapping. He wasn’t sure why but it did him good.

On Monday morning, tongue in cheek, he phoned Harry Grimmer, Legal Aid Area Secretary. “Joking? Of course not. I’m going to France, looking for evidence. Legal Aid will pay, won’t it?”

“To quote De Gaulle the answer is ‘Non’.” The Area Secretary laughed. ‘Un grand Non. A good try, Mr Duncan, but it’s not on.”

Duncan countered. “I’ll get most of the costs back if I win Goodhart’s case.”

“Doubtful! Especially if you swan about in five-star hotels.”

“Look—I’m following a lorry driver; not the Aly Khan! It’ll be a cheap trip—Routiers and all that.”

“No. Legal Aid wouldn’t pay even if you decided to take your own corned beef sandwiches for the journey.”

“Well—I’m going anyway. I’ll kid myself it’s a holiday. I need a break. If I get the evidence and win the case, then I’ll charge up the trip to the Frenchman’s insurers. If not, then—what the Hell!”

“Best of luck then.” There was a pause. “If I supported your request, there’d be a queue of solicitors right down Pembroke Road wanting trips to Brazil, Hong Kong and a cruise on the Q.E.2. ‘Bye.”