Wig Betrayed (9 page)

“Bertine, she never come here now. In the night, she go with Al Plunt to the Mamounia – for the rich people.
Bah
!”

Her companions echoed her disapproval with a chorus of ‘
bahs
' and swiftly dispersed into the milling throng filling the square. At last I had some idea where I might find them, knowing that the Mamounia was Marrakech's most famous hotel. Late it might be, but it was time to investigate.

* * *

Sure enough, there they were in the casino. Harold was slumped in an armchair, nursing a very large brandy next to Bertine who was ensconced at the roulette table. She was everything I had imagined: large, blousy with vulgar gold earrings and dozens of jangling bangles on both wrists. But her huge, black eyes, heavily marked with eyeliner, sparkled with fun and she possessed an infectious laugh. Harold too might have been half-sloshed, but his face radiated contentment as he observed his beloved at play.

Instead of the black jacket and pinstriped trousers, Harold now wore khaki slacks and a purple shirt, with a yellow scarf loosely tied around his neck. Perhaps because of his state of inebriation, he did not seem surprised to see me as I tapped his shoulder and he grabbed my hand in return.

“Good to see you, old boy! Let me order you a drink. I'd recommend the local cocktail, Marrakech Express I believe it's called, or perhaps you'll join me in a brandy? Real VSOP too, not the local gut-rot.”

“Thanks, I'm glad I found you...er...Veejag.”

“Oh, for God's sake call me Harry! I've left all that office business behind, you know. Wait a minute, don't tell me that Violet has sent you here encouraged by that miserable old bugger, Peascod!”

“Well, your wife was very upset by your sudden departure, Harold, with...er...your lady friend.”

“Serves her right, Charles! Bloody army wife! Never satisfied and always nagging me about not doing well enough. Firstly, it was why I hadn't risen to colonel whilst in the army. Then, in the present job, why I never became JAG! Well, I decided I'd had enough of all of it, so did my own thing – isn't that the way they describe it these days – and found Bertine. She's good fun. She laughs! Sure, she loves gambling but I'm prepared to indulge that in exchange for the best time I've had in years. Moreover, we can live cheaply here in a nice little flat I've found for the two of us. Violet's got my pension so when my savings dry up…by then, I'll be dead anyway. Prostate cancer, you see – pretty advanced too. Bertine knows the score but she'll go back to the dancing when I'm gone. Meanwhile, we're both having the time of our lives!”

I stayed for another drink when Bertine won at the roulette table and insisted on buying vintage champagne all round, but I knew that any attempt to persuade Plunt to change his mind would fail. This was more than confirmed by Plunt's parting shot.

“Tell old Binden he can stuff his precious office and position up his backside! Actually, I've a better idea. Why doesn't he propose to Violet after I die? At last, she'll be able to call herself the
Jaarge's
wife, won't she?”

After returning from Morocco, my worst fears were realized: Andrea had met another man.

During one of her regular walks with Boswell in Preston Park, near where we used to live, she had fallen for a fellow dog walker; a man who owned a Giant Schnauzer. Now there was no question of her returning with me to Germany. I was devastated but all my entreaties to her failed. Despite my request that I be transferred back to England, Peascod insisted that I had to remain in Germany as this was a contractual requirement which could not be broken.

My separated status now caused another problem for me. As a single man, I would no longer be allowed to live in married quarters in Brockendorf and would be expected to live in the officers' mess once again. The thought of being subjected to Strawbridge's company there was just too much.

“I can't see why I couldn't live in the German community in a private hiring,” I protested to Binden. “After all, we are supposed to be independent of the army.”

“Well, yes – but no,” Binden said, being true to form, “not in relation to accommodation. The MOD pays for that, you see.”

“In that case, why can't I live in one of the flats they rent in Bad Zur Linde? It's only 20 kilometres away from the garrison. Come on, Binden, you could at least write to the new general,” I pleaded. “You owe me that…” I added meaningfully.

“Yes, yes, I suppose I could write to his Chief of Staff. However, I'm not sure what their reaction will be. It's against all protocol, but I'll try.”

With that, I had to be content.

Returning to my London club, the Wanderers, I contemplated taking a much-needed holiday when something in the newspaper caught my eye. A new Lord Chancellor, Hubert Sheckleworth QC, had recently been appointed, causing some raised eyebrows. Hub, a criminal silk (who had once tried to make me plead guilty to a professional disciplinary charge), was not renowned for his academic credentials but happened to be very rich and, so rumour had it, a substantial donor to the present government's party funds. The report I was reading concerned a shake-up of personnel in the Lord Chancellor's department, and my old friend, Melanie Anstruther, had been made head of the Judicial Appointments division.

It was not just Strawbridge and living in the officers' mess that put me off remaining in Germany. It was the sense of isolation of being out there at all, particularly without Andrea. I had decided that if I could get myself made a recorder (part-time Crown Court judge), I would, at least, be able to come back to England from time to time and be back on the judicial ladder for the purposes of promotion.

Despite repeated previous letters to Hub's predecessor (the Lord Chancellor being responsible for appointing all judges – both full and part time) not leading to anything, I felt it was time to chase up my one personal contact. So I wrote her a short letter of congratulation with the suggestion that I go to see her to discuss my judicial future.

A few days later, I duly received a thank you note and an invitation to join her for tea in the House of Lords one afternoon at four o'clock. I flew to London that morning combining my appointment to see her with a routine visit to the London office.

Presenting an identity card to the police at St Stephen's Tower, I was escorted up several sets of stairs to Melanie's office – a narrow room glorified with pictures of previous Lord Chancellors and a magnificent view over the River Thames. Melanie rose, greeting me warmly.

“Charlie – thank God you're conducting courts martial again. I heard all about the attempts to stop you sitting and was delighted when the Lord Chief Justice put a stop to that general's shenanigans.”

“I seem to get into some scrapes, don't I? What with being disbarred once before, and then falling out with that general. Oh God, Melanie, I hope that's not the reason why the Lord Chancellor hasn't made me a recorder?”

Melanie laughed.

“I'm sure that's got nothing to do with it, Charlie. There's always been a backlog of applicants, but now I've taken over Judicial Appointments I may be able to speed things up a bit. Let's have tea and then we'll talk.”

She began to do the honours from a tray, all prepared for my visit, on her desk.

I sat back in my comfortable armchair, sipping tea out of a cup engraved with the Parliamentary emblem: the portcullis etched in red, as we were in the House of Lords. I watched a pleasure boat full of tourists chug up the Thames far below. Maybe I should have joined the civil service myself at the outset of my career, as Melanie had done? After finishing our tea, she cleared her throat and caught my eye.

“I've already said, Charlie, that in relation to recorders we have too many people in the pipeline as it is. Furthermore, you hold a full-time appointment anyway, so it's not as if you need an additional appointment as such, do you?”

“True, but I do feel it's time I extended my judicial career if possible and becoming a recorder would be the best way of doing it. Also, being in the office of the Judge Advocate General means that I'm stuck in a backwater and living in Germany makes it worse – particularly now that Andrea has left me.”

I explained my problem and Melanie nodded sympathetically. There was a pause whilst she thought.

“Pity you're not available right now, Charlie. I've got a problem with Dobstowe Crown Court at this very moment. Judge Roper has come down suddenly with a bad case of shingles and left a very full list. I've been trawling round for a recorder to cover but no-one is available at such short notice.”

“Well, there's no reason why I couldn't be. Although I've been reinstated, there aren't any cases coming up in Germany in the next few months.”

Melanie gave me an appraising look.

“Hmm...perhaps you
could
help out after all.”

She glanced at her watch.

“Four o'clock. I wonder whether Lord Sheckleworth might be back in his room by now – I'll give him a ring.”

She picked up a phone from a console and pressed a button.

“He's been presiding over the House of Lords today. They should have risen for tea as well by now,” she said.

Whilst Melanie spoke to the Lord Chancellor, indicating that she wanted to see him with a visitor, something else was beginning to worry me.

“Of course I've come across Hub – that's Lord Sheckleworth – before now. Not only did I appear before him many times when he sat as a recorder, but I also asked him to represent me at the disciplinary hearing. The trouble was that I was downright rude when he tried to get me to plead guilty,” I blurted out when she finished.

Melanie laughed and said, “I wouldn't worry about that, Charles. He probably won't remember. Anyway, he likes people that show a bit of character. He's always telling me that judges are far too namby-pamby at the moment and he'd like to see more robustness overall.”

The Lord Chancellor was still dressed in the full finery of his office (full-bottomed wig and silk gown embroidered with gold facings) as we entered his private chamber via an adjoining office. He greeted us with a languid wave of his hand.

“Melanie, my dear, do come in and introduce me to this chappy.”

Melanie explained the situation in detail after informing him of my name.

“So your name's Courtley, is it? Weren't you the fella up on that disciplinary rap some years ago? Told me to bugger
orf,
I remember, when I advised you to plead guilty.”

“Lord Chancellor, I...”

“Oh, don't apologize. You showed some spunk and I liked that. Well, as you're doing much the same job as a judge advocate, I will appoint you a temporary recorder to help us out at Dobstowe. Good luck to you, dear boy.”

It was a step in the right direction. If the appointment was confirmed, in due course, at least I would be coming back to England to sit on a regular basis and perhaps even persuade Andrea to give our marriage another chance. Then Melanie hinted at a further possibility when I came to take my leave of her.

“If Judge Roper actually decides to take early retirement, Charlie, The LC might even offer you a full-time appointment as a Crown Court judge down at Dobstowe.”

Which would mean a return to England permanently and an even better chance that Andrea and I might get together again. Somehow, I didn't think her relationship with her dog walking friend was going to last.

Dobstowe was as dreary as I remembered it from all those years before when I defended the sugar thief in front of Ferdy Brasper sitting as a recorder. That's why they had assigned Judge Roper there, because he had caused embarrassment in London after being arrested for a drink-driving offence following a dinner at one of the Inns of Court. Life had not been kind to ‘old Ropey' who had suffered a string of illnesses since his appointment: due mainly to an unhealthy lifestyle, so it was said. Or perhaps just becoming the resident judge of a decaying ex-docklands town had simply broken his spirit.

I stayed in the Old Wharf Hotel which had been converted from a former warehouse and was situated in a bleak area of the old docks, near the scraggy coast. However, it was within walking distance of the court building.

The ‘Full English Breakfast' turned out to be a lukewarm concoction of bacon, fried eggs, baked beans and sausages, prepared the night before and microwaved minutes before the first guests appeared in the morning. The only palatable items on the dinner menu were the beef burgers – probably because they were bought wholesale from a well-known supermarket chain.

My room was cheerless with a bed as hard as nails, pillows which felt as if they were made of stone, and a threadbare carpet in a dingy brown colour. The mixer tap in the bathroom seemed capable only of dispensing either boiling or freezing water, with the shower producing a paltry mixture of both. Moreover, as only thin partition walls had been erected in the large storage rooms of the warehouse every sound could be heard, whether it was biological in character or emanated from somebody's television.

The famous Dobstowe docks, once so busy, were in the process of being wound down due to the process of containerization which had rendered the dock industry redundant in so many areas of the country. This had led to a spree of thefts of fixtures and fittings and the odd remaining bits of stock before the residual owners were able to carry out a proper inventory.

The Dobstowe Fraud Squad, encouraged by the Dobstowe Docks Corporation, had been prosecuting a fair slice of the town's population; poor enough at the best of times but now badly hit by the collapse of employment at the docks.

For the last six months, Judge Roper had been trying cases of this type almost constantly and the strain had become too much for him. Being very prosecution minded in his approach, the fact that most of these cases had resulted in an acquittal did not help either. Dobstowe juries proved to be very reluctant to convict either the actual thieves or the handlers (who ran the standard defence that they assumed all property left behind in the docks to be abandoned), perhaps because so many of their fellow citizens were at it themselves.

So my session of four weeks consisted of yet more of these cases. Some petty, involving the theft of office equipment sold off in the pub and others more serious involving the stripping of lead worth thousands of pounds from rooftops. My only consolation was that Giles Crossett prosecuted in all these case, and his urbanity compensated for the cocky arrogance of his opponents. These were mainly barristers from London instructed by a local firm, known to sail close to the wind. Unable to socialize, as I was sitting as a judge, it was only after the second week when we were between cases, that Giles felt able to invite me round to dinner.

I couldn't help feeling envious as he ushered me into his delightful Dutch Mansard house, tucked away in the corner of a village green some miles away from Dobstowe. Inside, a friendly Golden Retriever greeted me amiably before I settled down in front of a roaring fire. Whilst my host mixed a gin and tonic, I could hear clattering coming from the kitchen.

Knowing that Giles's wife ran a riding stables business, I said, “I hope I'm not creating extra work for your wife, Giles, after a day's work.”

“Oh, don't worry, Charles – that's not Jan in the kitchen. She finished early today anyway and is just getting changed. There's a chap from the village who's a retired chef and comes in to cook when we need him. Ah, darling, there you are – may I introduce Judge Courtley?”

“Charles, please.”

I found myself gazing into the warm, hazel eyes of Giles's wife – a tall elegant, blonde.

After a simple but excellent dinner of shepherd's pie and spinach washed down by a smooth Chilean Merlot in the adjoining dining room, we retired to the sitting room where Giles and I lit up cigars.

“I'm so glad to get out of that hotel,” I said, “but it seemed to be the best available anywhere near the court.”

Giles nodded and replied, “Dobstowe hasn't got much choice and the nearest decent country hotel is a good 20 miles away.”

“I didn't want to be that far away, at least not whilst I'm sitting here on a temporary basis.”

Giles looked at me enquiringly. I thought about what Melanie had hinted – that Hub might make me a full judge down here. But was that what I really wanted? Giles seemed to know what I was thinking.

“If you're contemplating becoming the resident judge down here, old boy, I should tell you what I've picked up on the grapevine. Dobstowe's never been a popular place for any judge to sit, which is why they offered it to old Ropey. He was worried that they might chuck him altogether after the drinking and driving conviction, so he took the job gratefully.”

“Well, he was lucky to get an appointment in the first place, wasn't he? He didn't have much of a practice when at the Bar and it was his wife's money that kept him going as I recall.”

“Exactly right. What he hadn't realized is that Dobstowe's a dead end in more ways than one. In fact his wife absolutely refused to move here to live, preferring her social life in London. Also, the work, when you're a judge down here, is pretty tedious. All the big cases go to Bentleigh where the High Court judge on assizes tries them. Poor old Ropey doesn't even get invited to the lodgings for dinner when they're in residence.”

Jan shook her head sadly and remarked, “He did try so hard to get in with the county set too but they ignored him completely. They are a very snobbish lot indeed, I'm afraid.”

“The huntin', shootin', and fishin' brigade near here are pretty intolerable, I agree,” Giles added. “We keep well out of it ourselves. Jan's riding school caters for everybody in the village and we're just proud to be part of the local community.”

This last remark prompted my curiosity.

“That being the case, Giles, have you never thought of becoming a judge yourself?”

“Not in a thousand years! I'm quite happy to be the main prosecutor in Dobstowe without the responsibility of doing the big cases. After all, I'd done enough of that at the Old Bailey in London – and being a judge doesn't appeal to me in the least.”

“You would miss the robing room banter, wouldn't you, darling?” Jan said.

“Exactly. It's a great safety valve after you've been on your feet all day. Also, you can have a laugh with your opponent which is more than you can ever do, Charles.”

He was so right about that, I thought, thinking of my own experience. Despite all that though, I had no regrets about leaving the Bar when I had – a regular salary and a guaranteed pension were worth their weight in gold. But now I was beginning to realize that life in Germany, as far as work was concerned at least, wasn't so bad after all. The cases were more varied and interesting there.

Only in my last week did I finally do a case at Dobstowe which did not involve thieving from the docks.

Dunc Fidge and Minnie Aster stood in the dock together and seemed an unlikely boyfriend and girlfriend combination, on the face of it. Dunc, not over-endowed with brains, had an open, friendly face accentuated by wide, brown eyes whereas Minnie's was small, framed by a curly blonde fringe, and black beady eyes by contrast.

Dunc was 29, an amiable chap, good to his widowed mother and with a steady job on a local pig farm. His interest in girls was slower than most, but when it began it involved him in considerable trouble. He began to frequent a nightclub in Dobstowe called Dazzle and that was where he met the unscrupulous Minnie.

Nineteen-year-old Minnie (or ‘Minx' as she was known by the local lads) was a notorious flirt and, as it turned out, a thoroughly dishonest young woman to boot. Working as a junior teller at a local bank, she stole a banker's draft signed by one of the director's in advance. Making the draft out simply to cash for £1,000, she gave it to Dunc to present to another bank, after their second date. This he tried to do, not actually in Dobstowe but in Felixstowe instead. However, the cashier's suspicions were aroused and she called the police.

Dunc was duly charged with attempting to obtain the money by deception. Minnie was charged with stealing the cheque and forging it. Both of them pleaded guilty before me and had admitted to the police that they intended to split the proceeds after the transaction.

Neither defendant possessed a good character. Dunc had been involved in an assault case a month before, for which he received a conditional discharge. Minnie had been cautioned for a series of shoplifting offences, and to make matters worse hadn't declared this to her employers who, had they known, probably wouldn't have engaged her.

The case, being a breach of trust, clearly called for a custodial sentence as far as she was concerned. She showed little remorse – only sorry to have been caught.

Dunc, however, was truly contrite which was clearly revealed by what was contained in a very full presentence report. Yet in order to be consistent, a prison sentence for him was inevitable too – he was much older and stood to benefit as much from the fraud as Minnie.

Cyril Clibbery appeared to defend him and I knew that the old trooper, using his best advocacy skills, could not be bettered.

“Knowing how
experienced
Your Honour is in these matters,” he said, “I need hardly say that my best point in mitigation is obvious: it must be my client's contrition. There's really no more to be said, is there?”

He made as if to sit down but then threw up his hands as if he had forgotten something.

“But it would be remiss of me, however, if I didn't call, Mrs Fidge – my client's mother.”

This good lady, looking rather nervous, stepped into the witness box. Cyril stood looking at his witness contemplatively.

“Mrs Fidge, you're a widow and Duncan is your son – is that not so?”

“He's one of three actually – all in work and two married,” the witness said proudly.

“Good to you, are they? Look after their mother, I imagine. One going to prison won't affect your actual welfare?”

“Oh no. Anyway, I've got me pension and a bit tucked by for a rainy day.”

“But obviously, you'll miss Duncan if he goes to prison, won't you?”

“Yeah. But if it happens, it happens. Can't say he doesn't deserve it.”

“Quite, and His Honour may take the same view.” Clibbery looked up at me slyly. “So then
why
did you come to court, Mrs Fidge?” I asked.

The witness turned to me.

“Cos, Your Worship, I knows that he really
is
sorry for what he done.”

Normally I would have taken that with a pinch of salt, but somehow I knew that Mrs Fidge was telling the truth. She was the sort of stolid woman, who would never have dreamt of being dishonest herself, and lying on behalf of her son would also have been anathema to her. I glanced at Dunc, who was shaking his head and looking down at the floor of the dock.

Clibbery was watching; his eyes meeting mine.

“He didn't want his mother to give evidence, but she insisted. There is nothing for me to add. No advocate's argument could ever be better than a mother's plea, I suggest.”

He sat down.

Dunc was just the sort of impressionable young man who, if sent to prison, would soon be corrupted by the other inmates. He was an easily led, hefty lad, useful with his fists, as his record revealed, so an ideal ‘minder' for a manipulative prisoner. I decided to give him a chance – but this posed a problem with Minnie.

“Minnie Aster,” I said, “you are a thoroughly dishonest young woman who was in a position of trust. Moreover, recently you were cautioned for theft – a matter you chose not to reveal to your employers. Normally, you would go to a young offenders' institution but I'm going to give you a chance to redeem yourself. I shall order that you undertake a period of community service for 120 hours instead. Make sure you don't breach the order or commit any other criminal offence again.

“Duncan Fidge, you have been dishonest on this occasion only, but nevertheless the offence you committed would normally call for an immediate sentence of imprisonment. However, I'm satisfied that you
really are
sorry for what you did and you have your mother to thank for convincing me. Accordingly, although there will be a sentence of one year's imprisonment, I will suspend that for a period of two years.”

Dunc raised his head and gaped; his wide eyes filling with tears.

“Thanks ever so, Guv – I'll never forget this – real grateful, I am.”

“Certainly never forget that I gave you a chance,” I said wryly, “and particularly in the next two years during which the sentence hangs over you, because if you commit a crime in the meantime you will be required to serve that sentence. But I don't expect gratitude.”

Little did I know then that it was precisely that gratitude which I would come to treasure in the fullness of time...