Wig Betrayed (3 page)

It was a classic case of roles reversal, you might say. Here I was, sitting as a judge in what was to be my first criminal trial and Cyril Clibbery and Adam Verger were on the other side of the fence! The last time I had seen them was some time ago, when both were sitting as deputy circuit judges at the Crown Court in St James's Square, London. That building, once the splendid townhouse of the Astor family, had been turned into a grotty temporary court: an overspill of the main inner London complex which was situated at Newington Causeway, south of the river. The Lord Chancellor's office had gutted the magnificent reception rooms mercilessly, converting them into makeshift courts instead. Gone were all the family portraits and priceless works of art, leaving glaring white patches amongst the areas of discoloured wallpaper. Only the intricate plasterwork in the ceilings had remained, hinting of glories past. More courts were soon found to be needed so the authorities even turned a large box room in the attic into a court, so basic that the jury was quite able to read papers left on the judge's bench!

There was not just a shortage of courts either at the time but a lack of judicial manpower also. Any legal hack, be they barrister or solicitor, provided they had been qualified for 10 years, could be requested to sit for a week at the drop of a hat. That is what Verger and Clibbery had been doing when
I
appeared before
them
some years before. Now the boot was on the other foot.

Adam Verger, originally in chambers with Tufton Crump in the late 1960s, was a waspish advocate not unduly blessed with charm. Although he set up his own chambers subsequently, he never took silk or become a recorder, much less a full-time judge. The term ‘deputy circuit judge' may sound impressive but it didn't denote any official position at all and he had long since ceased even doing that. In recent years, I had only ever seen him in court prosecuting motoring cases, so it was a surprise to see him here.

By contrast, Cyril Clibbery was a more amusing fellow altogether. For a start, his eyes slanted dramatically at the corners and a deep, drawling voice meant that he always stood out in a crowd. Indeed, these aspects helped to reinforce the carefully crafted image which he sought constantly to project: that of a solicitor, specializing in crime, much classier than the norm.

Unfortunately, some time in the past his managing clerk had been prosecuted for fraud and mud stuck, fairly or unfairly, to Clibbery. The Lord Chancellor declined to use his services as a temporary judge after that.

The prosecutor was Major Harry Chess, a member of the Australian Army Legal Services, who had been brought over on an exchange with a British officer. He was overweight and looked thoroughly uncomfortable with his Sam Browne belt stretched tightly over his abdomen. He also sweated profusely, causing a pungent odour to waft across the room. Unlike the silky Clibbery, who led for the defence, Chess possessed a harsh voice which barked out sentences in a staccato fashion.

Dr Pridwin, the driver, turned out to be a smartly-dressed man in his late thirties, his neatly-trimmed beard and moustache giving him an air of gravitas.

“Doctor Pridwin, would you give the court your name and address, please?”

After the witness gave him the details, Chess continued.

“Now, tell us what happened that day?”

“I was driving towards a small village at about six o'clock in the evening at a normal speed. The sky was overcast, but it wasn't raining. Suddenly, this tank comes into the road. Next thing, I found myself in a ditch. I looked up and saw my car all crumpled up. ”

“Did you see your passengers at all?”

“No - the wreckage hid them.”

Pridwin's face remained impassive and I wondered at his self-control. After all, not only his wife but also another woman (presumably a friend) had been killed in this terrible accident.

“I'm sure we're very sorry for your sad loss, Doctor Pridwin. Please accept our condolences.” Chess continued.

The doctor gave a slight nod.

“ Any more questions, Major Chess?” I asked.

“That's it,” Chess answered. “That's all I need to ask.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Surely you want to establish what he meant by a normal speed?”

Pridwin chipped in, “The limit is 100 kilometers per hour. I wouldn't have exceeded that, sir.”

Now Clibbery rose to his feet.

“You have been short and to the point, Doctor Pridwin, but let me summarize. You were driving along in a normal manner, at a perfectly reasonable speed, when quite unexpectedly this tank appeared in your path affording you no opportunity of avoiding it.”

“That's quite right, yes.”

“Your attention naturally being on the road, but were you
talking
at all?”

“Talking?”

“Chatting to your wife or the passenger behind; or perhaps to both of them? By the way, who
was
this lady?”

“A friend.”

“Yes but a close friend, girlfriend even, or just a casual acquaintance? Help us if you can.”

“She is…was…a close friend. This isn't relevant in my view.”

“That's something for
me
to decide Doctor Pridwin. Just answer the question,” I said.

Clibbery pounced before the witness could reply.

“She was your mistress, wasn't she?”

Being a closed question warranting a simple ‘yes' or ‘no' answer, this was a risky question for any advocate. A swift denial might have nipped this line in the bud, but instead Pridwin turned to me.

“That is no business of this court,” he protested.

“Again, just answer the question, Doctor. Counsel is asking if you were involved in an emotional relationship with this woman. Were you?”

“Yes.”

Clibbery pounced again.

“You see
why
I enquire is because my client says that when he manoeuvred his tank out of the
rastplatz
there was no car in sight at all. Then suddenly this BMW hurtles up the road without warning. He was helpless; taking avoiding action was quite impossible.”

“How can I know what was in his mind?”

“You can't. But the
truth
is you never noticed the tank until it was too late. There must be a reason. Perhaps your attention was distracted by the passenger in the back?”

The witness hesitated and moved his head backwards slightly.

“I don't think so.”

“Then why make that gesture with your head?” Clibbery said, as sharp as a tack. “Unless your passenger was doing
more
than just talking, Doctor Pridwin. Pulling your hair, by any chance?”

Another risky question, but Clibbery got away with it once again.

“No, she didn't pull my hair but… struck my neck.”

Clibbery closed in once again.

“Because there was a hell of a row going on, wasn't there, between the three of you?”

“Maybe...”

Pridwin paused.

“No
maybe
, Doctor. We need to know exactly what was happening. You must tell us the truth!”

“They were talking about a divorce. I was saying this shouldn't happen in the car whilst I was driving but only in the restaurant where we were going.”

“But the women began to argue anyway, eh, Doctor? All very distressing and distracting for you. Then the lady in the back strikes your neck: she's pretty angry by then. You take your eye off the road, not thinking about your speed, and the suddenly this tank appears...”

“Stop!” Pridwin shouted, shielding his eyes with his hand. “ Alright, so I didn't see the tank. If I had, they wouldn't have been killed!”

The poor man broke down sobbing and clutched the side of the witness table. I motioned the court orderly to give him a glass of water and was about to indicate that we should adjourn for a few minutes but Clibbery had finished and there were no follow-up questions from Verger. To everybody's relief, I was able to let the witness go. Hardly surprisingly, Clibbery, on behalf of the defence, made an application that the case should be dismissed at the halfway stage of the trial.

“The principal witness admitted that he didn't see the tank, when he
should
have done, and
would
have done had he not been distracted by being struck in the neck. Regrettably, the fault must lie with Doctor Pridwin who appears to have been caught up in a love triangle. The consequences might not have been so severe had he collided with a vehicle less substantial than a tank but that is something for which the defendants can't be blamed.”

“What about the speed?” I enquired. “Pridwin maintained that he was driving within the limit, didn't he?”

“True, but the fact still remains he was driving too fast to pull up in time. That responsibility lies with him too.”

Verger now half rose to his feet.

“I adopt everything that's been said,” he grunted. (Meaning that he didn't have to do any work on his client's behalf, I thought wryly.)

Under the rules at that time, the application was heard by the full board and so we retired together after hearing Chess's reply.

It didn't take long for Gabfern to expound his views, saying, “We haven't heard what the soldiers have to say about their manner of driving, Judge. Just what that smooth lawyer chappie tells us they
might
say!”

The others all murmured their assent. I groaned inwardly. The board members were quite capable of grasping the wrong end of the stick.

“That's overlooking the basic principles of English law though. No accused is obliged to prove his innocence. The actual evidence we've heard so far points directly to carelessness on Pridwin's part and not that of the defendants. Anyway, their case, that the car appeared out of the blue, is revealed in their police interviews. My legal advice is that you must acquit at this stage of the case without further ado.”

So the submission was allowed. Needless to say, the two defendants were delighted by the result and, as so often happened in court martial cases, word soon got around that Clibbery was ‘the business' and thus more work came to him subsequently.

Andrea picked up a card from the mat.

“This looks official,” she said, handing it to me.

A few days before, we had finally been ‘marched in' to our private residence. Not literally, of course, but this was army language for taking up residence in MSQ (married service quarters). Nonetheless, 23 Salamanca Avenue, a hideous brick box clad in concrete just like the others in the road, was actually pleasant enough inside with ample room for guests and a large garden attached. But, at least, we were settled; darling Andrea having joined me at last from England.

The card, bordered in gold and red, was an invitation from the General Officer Commanding the British Army of the Rhine to attend the Queen's birthday parade to be held on the parade ground outside the headquarters with a buffet to follow in a marquee outside the Fortress.

“Do we really have to go? I've hardly settled in yet and not sure that I can face all these army people at the moment,” she said.

“Darling girl, this is the Queen's birthday parade we're talking about: a significant event in the garrison's calendar.”

She shook her head.

“I'd really prefer to give it a miss.”

“Oh, Andrea, don't take that attitude, please. Now that you've joined me, it's only natural for us to be invited to garrison functions...”

“....where I'm expected to make small talk with the wives. I've met a few of them at the NAAFI already. All they can talk about is their husband's careers or their wretched children!” She sighed. “All right, I suppose there's no alternative – as long as you don't expect me to wear a long dress.”

“Don't be absurd – it's not a ball. You've got lots of smart outfits, one of which will suffice.”

“Oh, stop being be so pompous, Charlie, or I swear I'll wear a pair of frayed jeans and trainers instead!”

Suitably togged up (I wore a dinner jacket), we made our way on foot to the parade ground in front of the Fortress at half past five; the event being due to commence at six o'clock. Once there, we were confronted by a diminutive major dressed in full mess kit who was shooing the men and women into separate lines and telling them to form up in order of rank before the General and his wife. This led to some confusion when it came to our turn.

“
Jag
Courtley is how you're described here, but you must have a rank!”

“It's not
Jag
anybody,” I said crossly, “but
Judge
Courtley and as a member of the judiciary I don't have a rank.”

“Civilians: always causing problems!” he muttered. “Well, as you're a judge you must be high up the order of precedence so you'd better go up first and be presented to the Hudibrasses before anybody else.”

Being a warm and sunny day, the General and his wife stood on a raised dais just outside the Fortress's main entrance. In order to get to them, it was necessary to climb up a set of steps. The General was a well-built man with a beefy face and swollen nose which was pitted and as red as a plum. By contrast, Lady Hudibrass possessed a broad shark-like face with tiny, glittering eyes. Her mouth was stretched into a rictus grin and displayed prominent yellowing teeth. Andrea was first up to the terrace to meet Lady Hudibrass's outstretched hand.

“Pegeline Hudibrass, my dear – and you might be?”

“Andrea Courtley.”

“Oh, my dear, one meets so many wives on these occasions that names don't really mean anything. What's your husband's cap badge?”

Andrea burst out laughing.

“Cap badge? The last time Charlie wore a cap was when he was in the cubs, aged eight!”

Lady Hudibrass's eyes vanished into slits.

“Surely he's in the army – or, perhaps, the
RAF
?”

There was a sneer in her tone.

“No, he's a judge, actually, and nothing to do with the forces.”

“Ah, one of those
jag
chappies.”

The General, having overheard, advanced on me and pumped my hand with vigour.

“Sent out to keep us on the straight and narrow, eh? Welcome anyway....Oh, hello! Tony...” He broke off to speak to an officer standing just behind me, so I caught the tail end of Andrea's conversation.

“My dear, you must
so
feel like a fish out of water but, be that as it may,
do
come to our BWAG meeting next week.”

“BWAG?”

“British Wives' Action Group. Set up to help the female dependents of the soldiers posted to the garrison.”

“I may be a
wife
, Lady Hudibrass, but I'm not a
stamp
. Also, I'm quite capable of making a life for myself, thank you!”

* * *

“Not a huge success that, was it?”

I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice when we arrived back home. After the rather painful introduction process, we stayed for the parade but departed before the drinks and refreshments in the marquee.

“Well, that woman shouldn't have been so patronizing.”

“I know, I know, but as we're living in a kind of military colony now you need to be adaptable.”

“
Damn
you, Charlie! Adaptable to what? Knuckle down, you mean. I won't have it. Remember, I had a life of my own before coming here.”

“Darling, you don't want to be left out on a limb here, do you?”

“Of course not. I might get a job, in time. I see there's a sort of charity shop on camp. They always want volunteers, but first I'm going to get a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Why not? After all, we've no children to look after. Also, these days we can bring a dog back to England as long as it has the correct inoculations without worrying about quarantine. With you away a lot, I need some company. Moreover, there are excellent walks around here too with all these woodlands which are ideal for a dog.”

I nodded. Brockendorf Garrison had been built from scratch on the site of a forest which had once contained weekend villas belonging to wealthy Dusseldorfers. Besides, I rather fancied a dog myself. A few days later, Andrea duly found an advertisement in the
Garrison Echo
, the camp's newspaper.

“Charlie, I've just spotted an ad from a lady offering puppies for sale. Miniature Schnauzers, in fact. I love those little dogs. Remember the one we used to see being walked up on Devil's Dyke in Brighton? They're German too, which seems appropriate, although you would hardly think we were living in a foreign country in this benighted place,” she said.

“Where does this lady live?”

“Wickrath, just down the road from here. Her name's Frau Gafford.”

Frau Gafford lived in a small, modern bungalow next to a farm surrounded by fields where sheep and horses peacefully grazed. An elderly woman, now bent with arthritis, she still possessed an exquisite face with skin unblemished by time.

“My husband and I used to farm next door and we built this house after we retired a year ago.”

She spoke excellent English with only the slight trace of an accent.

“Then we bought Trudi – she's the mother of the pups.”

Trudi was a magnificent little dog with pepper and salt markings and floppy ears that were completely white on the inside. She had borne no less than six puppies of which only one was male: the largest and only black one of the litter.

“He's like his father – a handsome boy belonging to a couple in the village,” Frau Gafford told us, “and this pup is the liveliest too, as you can see.”

Indeed, whilst his sisters were asleep the black pup roved around the neat wooden enclosure which housed them all in the middle of the living room. Andrea chose him without further ado, and Frau Gafford made coffee whilst I laboriously made out a Eurocheque in Deutschmarks. Due to her name, I surmised that her husband was probably English and my curiosity was further aroused when I saw a distinguished-looking man busily weeding a flowerbed a few feet from the French windows.

I couldn't help asking, “Frau Gafford, was your husband at one time a member of the British forces?”

Andrea frowned at me, clearly annoyed at my nosiness, whilst the lady herself sat back and gave me a level stare.

“My husband came, of course, from England many years ago but now he is a German citizen.”

It was obvious that she didn't want to pursue the subject. But as chance would have it, Mr Gafford was just approaching the front door as we left. Hearing English being spoken, he looked startled and bade us a muttered ‘hello' under his breath. Close up, I noticed that he possessed a lined face and vivid, blue eyes which hinted at sadness. However, our pleasure in acquiring the little black pup soon caused me to forget this encounter and we spent the rest of the day deciding on an appropriate name.

As I happened to be reading a biography of the famous Dr Johnson at the time, I opted for the name ‘Boswell' and Andrea approved. It was some weeks before we were able to take the puppy out for walks (due to the required inoculations) but at last the day came when I was able to exercise him properly around the garrison perimeter. Due to recent IRA threats, the roads leading out of the camp had been blocked off with security points mounted at strategic positions. These I assiduously avoided, so it came as a bit of a shock to be challenged coming out of a wood.

“Identity papers, sah!” bellowed a corporal dressed in combat fatigues, wielding an AK 47 and wearing the red armband of the military police. “We're doing a spot check on all personnel within the camp's boundaries today.”

“Yes, yes, no problem.”

As instructed, I produced my identity card.

The corporal read the details and then looked down at Boswell.

“That dog, sah! Is he registered?”

He glared suspiciously at the mite frolicking at my feet.

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“All dogs should be in accordance with Regulation 478 of Standing Order 65, BAOR Standing Orders 1988. So papers are required for that there pet.”

I exclaimed, “But he's a puppy and we only bought him five weeks ago!”

“Not satisfactory, I'm afraid. Garrison station orders demand that all domestic pets are to be registered, when born, at the RMP sergeant major's office to be found in Building 76. The aforesaid animal will need to be checked out for health purposes and be given an army number.”

“A
number
? But he's not
in
the army,” I said stupidly.

“Regulations is regulations, sah! I don't make ‘em, you know. I'll take your details and give you seven days to complete the formalities.”

I was to hear that refrain – ‘regulations is regulations' – many times over the time that I worked with the forces and soon became accustomed to it.