Unravel a Crime - Tangle With Women (15 page)

“
What on earth are you doing?”
Lisa stood in the door with the draft letter in her hand , and a grin on her
face as he paced up and down.

“
Sorry, I can think better on
my feet. I was just dictating Counsel’s instructions.”

“
Instructions? I thought that
barristers had briefs.”

“
They do, but only when they
are going into court for a hearing. If you are going to ask a barrister to
advise, in a conference, as we are, then he receives instructions.”

“
There, I’ve learnt something
new. Here’s the letter. Do you want to check it now or shall I leave it on your
desk?”

“
No let me read it. I’m going
to send a copy to Breezie with the Instructions. It sums up our case pretty
succinctly I think.”

“
Shall I send a copy to
David?”

“
I don’t think that we dare
not.”

He sat down at his desk again,
and took the letter from her. It did not take him long to read it through. He
was often surprised at how much he enjoyed reading his own letters, and this
one he thought was one of his best.

He smiled inwardly as he
imagined the bombshell that was going to be dropped on some unsuspecting
lawyers desk in London.

He finished and looked up to
see Lisa still watching him intently.

“
Do you want to change
anything?” she asked.

“
No, I think that we got it
right the first time,” he replied, careful to use the word ‘we’. “Print it out
to go with tonight’s post, and make an extra copy to go with the instructions.”

“
Anything else?”

“
No, you can help Margaret put
the papers together if you want. All the statements have to be copied.”

Lisa pulled a face. “I think
that she will probably want to do the preparation by herself. Tracy downstairs
will be roped in to do the copying”

“
Tracy, is that the spotty
one?”

“
That’s her. She’s good at
copying.”

“
And do you have things to
do.”

“
Sure I have, and so do you by
the look of things,” she said glancing at the pile of files by his desk. “See
you later”

“
Adios.”

The rest of the day went
quickly. Efficiency itself, Margaret soon had Counsel’s instructions neatly,
though bulkily prepared and had arranged the conference. She came into his
office, notebook in hand.

“
Next Wednesday.”

“
Does….?”

“
Mr Newberry know? Yes, I’ve
telephoned him and arranged for you to pick him up at twelve o’clock. The
conference is at 2.30. That should give you time to get there.”

“
Anything else?” asked
Brakespeare with a smile.

Margaret paused, and looked at
her notes. She enjoyed being in control. She then looked up.

“
Mr Newberry’s not very happy.
He thinks that he should have seen Counsel sooner”.

She paused and took a deep
breath.

“
He feels that the firm is not
on top of his case, and – feels that it should be dealt with by someone more
senior than a locum. I’m sorry.”

Brakespeare closed his eyes.
He was hurt. Did he really have to put up with this? OK he was enjoying getting
to grips with a big case like this, but it wasn’t his fault that it still
hadn’t been properly prepared – until now.

“
Does he want to change
solicitors?” he asked half in hope.

Margaret offered no advice.

“
I said that you would be
calling him.”

“
Thank you, Margaret”

“
Thank you Mr Brakespeare.”
She left the room.

Brakespeare sat down and
reached for the telephone, and then decided against making the call.

If Newberry was not happy with
his representation, he should have the courage to say so, and not grumble to a
secretary. No, let Newberry go hang. He reminded himself that he, Brakespeare,
was merely paid by the hour to do a job as a stand in for Gordon Morrison, and
if that was not acceptable to the client, then Mortimer and Ridley could sort
it out. After all they were indirectly responsible for the situation through
their early involvement with Clearfield.

He swung round in his chair
and stared out at Deansway. Should he quit? Could he quit? He needed a job and
it would not look good if he walked out. Could things get any worse? Here he
was living in a strange town, passing lonely evenings in digs without even a
television. He did not know how much longer he would be here; that depended on
Morrison, and so he could not settle in Worcester; making friends; joining
things. At least it was Friday and he could go home for the weekend. It was
contact weekend. Seeing the children would cheer him up, but then he would be
upset him when he had to say good bye. Could things get any worse?

He turned round again to his
desk, and Lisa was in the doorway.

“
How long have you been
there?” he demanded.

“
Not long, but you’re
obviously thinking hard, and I didn’t want to disturb you,” she replied
demurely. “I’ve finished the letter. Do you want to sign it?”

Newberry hesitated. Should he
let Mortimer sign it? Let him take some of the responsibility?

“
O.K., let’s have it.” He said
grumpily. Another thought came into his head. One which made him feel a little
more cheerful.

“
Do you want to come to the
conference?”

Lisa looked startled. “What
with Mr. Breezie, no thanks”

“
Why not; we’re going to talk
mainly about your work on the spreadsheets”.

Lisa seemed a little agitated.

“
No, thanks. It’s not
necessary. You understand them.”

“
Oh, I thought it would be an
afternoon out for you.”

“
Not sure I can afford the
time, thanks all the same.” She took the signed letter, and left the room.

Brakespeare raised his eyebrows
and sighed. Was he going to get anything right with this girl?

Brakespeare decided to go the
long way home. The quickest way might be to go up the M5, along the M6 and down
the M1 to Milton Keynes; the way that he had come, but there was nothing
waiting for him there except the room in the house he shared with 3 others,
unless Mel, the brown girl, who occupied one of the rooms, was there. Besides
it was Friday night and for all that he knew the motorways would be congested
with Friday evening traffic.

He chose to drive along the
A44 to Evesham; along to Chipping Norton and then to Milton Keynes via
Buckingham. He knew that it would be a pleasant drive across the Vale of
Evesham and through the Cotswolds, and he was in no hurry.

The roads were busy, but that
did not bother him either. He was happy to travel at the speed of the slowest
car, and think his thoughts.

It had been a remarkable week; a week for which he had been given no
warning by the locum agency. He had been a very nervous about going back to
work after his enforced absence.

Would he have taken the job if he had been told about David Newberry?
He paused in his thoughts to negotiate Pershore High Street, and admire it’s
Georgian architecture, and then out along Bridge Street towards Evesham.

By the time that he had left the town, he had decided that he would
have taken the job. From a lawyer’s point of view, the case was interesting. He
had rarely found a case to defend which was not an uphill struggle. He always
remembered the days when he had been training to be a solicitor.

He had been sent to the Crown Court to sit behind a barrister. The
officer in the case was a certain Detective Sergeant Briggs; a man with a
reputation for exaggeration in his evidence. He was known, but not
affectionately, as Defective Sergeant Briggs.

While waiting for the case to be called, which meant much waiting, he
had been drawn into conversation by Briggs, who was not enjoying the delay.

“
These Courts are a waste of time” Briggs had said, rather to
Brakespeare’s astonishment.

“
You know,” continued Briggs, “I only nick a bloke when I know he’s done
it. He knows that I know he’s done it, and I know that he knows that I know.
Why give him the chance to get away with it? Do they really think that I would
waste my time on someone who was innocent.”

Brakespeare had mumbled an incoherent reply, but he had always
remembered the conversation.

In some cases you found that where the officer in the case was a
Defective Sergeant Briggs, and that usually meant that their casework was
sloppy. They were so convinced of the accused’s guilt that they cut corners. In
those cases it was fun, yes that was the word, fun catching the police out and
put a reasonable doubt in a jury’s mind.

So who had been dealing with Newberry’s case? A D.C. Durkin. The fact
that only detective constables appeared to have been involved was bloody
amazing.

He pondered on this as he dropped down into Evesham, and instead of
taking the long way round the town by the by-pass, he carried on along
Waterside with a sleepy River Severn on his left, turning right at the junction
with Bridge Street; down Port Street, and bearing right onto Broadway Road.

The road then runs through the
Vale of Evesham, with it’s fruit farms and kiosks of freshly picked
strawberries.

Yes, although the first week
had been pressurised, and Newberry himself was clearly a difficult man, he was
going to enjoy running the case. Lisa’s presence added a little spice to the
occasion. What a mystery woman she was. Friendly and alluring and yet distant.
Was she playing ‘hard to get’? If she was, was he really interested in playing
the game? Yes, he might be.

If he was going to be in
Worcester for any length of time, he was going to have to find a place of his
own to stay. His Bed and Breakfast in Diglis was clean and functional. But that
was all it was, Bed and Breakfast. He had probably lost weight by not eating
properly. He had subsisted on fast food. A full restaurant meal every night was
out of the question because of the cost, and it was no fun eating alone.

He had been quite depressed in
the evenings, walking around the streets after his meal, and spending hours
lying on his bed. Sometimes he listened through headphones to the transistor
radio he had had the foresight to bring with him, but otherwise he waited for
sleep to come. He was surprised how much he had slept. Was that depression or
the speed at which he had had to work?

He decided that he was
enjoying the work because it occupied his thoughts during the day. On the other
hand the partners were putting him under a lot of pressure. Was this really
fair?

He would hardly describe them
as a dynamic bunch. Mortimer was slightly supercilious. He obviously thought a
lot of himself and his little schemes, but at the same time he was a nervous
man. Perhaps Mortimer wasn’t as confident as he liked to make out. A desk man
perhaps, leading from his blotting pad.

Ridley? Well he had not seen
that much of him. He seemed a nice enough sort of chap, but was clearly happy
doing just his conveyancing, and following the flow; a complimentary character
to Mortimer, to whom he would pose no threat and follow without question.

All partnerships were made up
of positives and negative personalities; checks and balances of character, and
they broke up when there were tensions caused by conflicts; usually resulting
from money – or the lack of it. Ridley would have a place in any partnership;
the man who would never make any waves. Mortimer was probably an acquired
taste.

Then there was the mysterious
Mr. Morrison. Well, not mysterious He was keeping a check on him from a
distance. He didn’t know too much about brain tumours. He must look them up on
the Internet. He might then get an idea as to how long the job might be open.

And there again there was
Lisa. Funny how his thoughts kept coming back to her. He had to confess that he
found himself attracted to her. Was she really a femme fatale? Not his type if
she was like she was with all other men. If he was going to spend some time in
Worcester, there would be worse people to get to know? On the other hand there
was the old adage, “Don’t foul your own nest.” No better keep clear of her as
far as his physical needs were involved.

Physical needs? Well he was
going to have to find a permanent female companion from somewhere. He always
felt more comfortable in the company of women than of men. But then he had
always been choosy about the sort of women he liked. He had known many, liked a
lot and loved but few. Odd that he had met more women who aroused a response in
him after he had been married than before. Perhaps he had married too soon?

Of course there was Mel. No,
he wasn’t involved with Mel. He couldn’t be involved with her. That would mean
a commitment he knew that he couldn’t give her.

His thoughts were interrupted
as he came into Broadway. As he had anticipated, there was a queue of traffic
along the High Street. The old sandstone buildings of the town were undoubtedly
attractive, but he couldn’t see why it attracted so many American tourists,
whose coaches, arriving to deposit them for their Cotswold weekend break, were
causing the hold-ups. Eventually he managed to leave the village, or was it a
town, and start the run up Fish Hill.