Wig Betrayed (8 page)

I didn't know this particular Lord Chief Justice – Lord Macfellon – but just hoped and prayed he was not similar to one of his predecessors, Lord Flaggett, who had been renowned for his intolerance, amongst other vices.

On arrival in the anteroom of the judges' chambers, I began to babble an apology to the clerk who stopped me in my tracks.

“Don't worry, sir, you're not the only one that's been caught up in the tube. The chief's here though – on his own at the moment – and will see you straightaway.”

Lord Macfellon was the absolute opposite to his predecessor. Tall and quietly spoken, he ushered me to a chair. I was about to begin my tale when to my consternation the other judges trooped in. Hurriedly, I rose to leave.

“No need, no need, my dear chap.” The chief said, waving me back to my chair. “You are a judge, after all – might be interesting for you to see how we deal with our business. We'll just finish discussing the case in hand and then you can tell me more about your problem if you like.”

Now I found myself sitting in the middle of the three Court of Appeal judges, soaking up the atmosphere. The morning light filtered through the small, square panes of the window softly lighting up the beautifully carved woodwork of the room. What a privilege to be sitting inside the magnificent Gothic building which houses the Supreme Court of Judicature!

Lord Macfellon introduced me to the others who glanced at me curiously. It was obvious that they had no idea why I was there. The chief now cleared his throat and indicated that they should simply continue with their discussions despite my presence.

“Well, the authorities are all in the appellant's favour. We should simply quash the conviction in my view,” one of them said.

His colleague countered, “I couldn't disagree more – this is a case where commonsense should apply rather than a strict analysis of the law.”

Macfellon sighed.

“Which leaves me with the casting vote, gentlemen. Justice must be seen to be done, however. The conviction can't stand.”

The matter settled, their lordships trooped back into court leaving me alone for a moment. Minutes later, the chief returned unaccompanied.

“The others are in their rooms, reading the papers in the next case which I've dealt with before so we have time for a chat. As you know, Rex has already told me about your problem.”

“Oh, I hope you don't think I'm imposing on you...”

“Not for a moment. Indeed, I have already formed a strong view from what I've been told. The General's complaint and investigations by the Army Board are quite unwarrented. It's an utter disgrace that you've been stopped from sitting and I regard that as deliberate interference with the independence of the judiciary so quite intolerable.”

“You mean that...”

“I mean that you'll be back on the bench next week. I've spoken to the Lord Chancellor who told the Prime Minister the same thing. Moreover, the former has instructed the Judge Advocate General to reinstate you immediately...”

This had been no thanks to Binden but, at least, he had been instrumental in having Roland Gafford's conviction quashed by order of the Sovereign, and, in due course, Roland sent me a note of thanks.

Something which would continue to remain much more difficult for me because of the nature of my work, I thought wryly.

According to what I heard on the grapevine, the intervention of the Lord Chief Justice certainly ruffled the feathers of the army top brass who did not like being told what to do by civilians, even if they were the country's leading lawyers. Also, a story came out in the press hinting that a senior general might resign due to governmental interference with military matters – which was hardly an apt description of what had happened.

Then, one day I came across an intriguing entry in the news section of
The Times
:

The General certainly wasn't going to lose out financially, I thought, but most importantly he would no longer be in command of BAOR. I hoped that some semblance of normality might now return to the garrison.

“No reason why we can't start going to mess functions again,” I observed to Andrea.

“I'm not particularly bothered, frankly. Beatrix has introduced me to some of her dog walking friends and it's more interesting getting to know the Germans as well as learning their language. Of course, I'll go back to the Thrift Shop – Norma has already invited me to return – she's delighted to see the end of the ghastly Lady Hudibrass as the patroness of the place.”

“Time to settle down again then, until we can return to England – whenever that will be,” I said gloomily.

Part of my contract as a new judge advocate was to go where needed most, and that had turned out to be Germany for an unspecified time which was more of a strain than I'd ever imagined.

But there were to be new developments in our office soon, and once again I found myself back in London.

* * *

“You haven't met Mrs Plunt have you, Courtley?”

Binden indicated Veejag's wife seated on a sofa opposite his desk. She was small and although quite elderly still quite pretty. However, her finely-moulded features were blurred with distress.

I extended my hand and said, “I don't think I've had the pleasure.”

“Mrs Plunt has approached me about a most sensitive matter. We thought you might be able to help,” Binden said. “Violet, would you like to tell him what you've told me?”

“Well, it's about my husband, you see. We were on holiday in Morocco, Marrakech actually, and one night he simply disappeared. Only when I got back did I discover that he had transferred his savings abroad.”

“Tell him the details, my dear.” Binden's head wobbled. “Courtley here is much more likely to be able to assist. There's little I can do what with one thing and another...”

I knew what was on his mind. The investigation into my conduct had duly been abandoned after the intervention of the Lord Chief Justice and, as a result, Lady Hudibrass cut Binden dead at a Buckingham Palace garden party which had been mortifying for him.

Mrs Plunt had begun to cry quietly into her handkerchief.

“Perhaps It'd be better for Mrs Plunt to tell me the details in another room – alone. It's much easier if there's just the two of us,” I said. “I'll get the staff to bring us both a cup of coffee.”

Minutes later, Violet Plunt began her tale.

“It all began when Harold said he wanted to go somewhere different on holiday. Previously, it had always been France, you see, but this time, he suggested Morocco – now, I realize why. Quite frankly, I found the country depressingly hot and teeming with people. When we arrived in the afternoon a wind from the Sahara was blowing and there was sand everywhere. It even got under my clothes.” She blushed. “That was
very
uncomfortable. I suppose the hotel we stayed at wasn't too bad – it was called a
Riyadh
, I think
and had an internal courtyard full of flowering plants and a pretty little fountain but the view from our outside window was dreadful. Horrible buildings with flat roofs – many just covered with corrugated iron or plain wooden boards. However, Harold found it very exciting. He said you could taste the mystery of the East in the air but all it did for me was make me cough! Then he pointed out a minaret in the distance. ‘That's the Koutoubia
Tower,' he said. ‘It's just off the Grande Place – Marrakech's most famous square,' and that's where he insisted we go the very first night. I found it perfectly ghastly; all those crowds of horrible people, huddling in little groups – snake charmers, men drinking boiling water, eating fire, it was quite frightening!”

“You're very good at describing the places,” I observed.

“I've had a lot of time to recall every last detail – with the help of a guidebook, of course,” she said grimly. “Anyway, after a while Harold said he wanted to see what he called the
Gwana
dancers and we went to this cafe where they were due to perform. After a while, they duly appeared but I certainly wasn't impressed. All they actually did was to prance about, beat drums, and yell at the top of their voices. Then one of the women – oh, she was so huge and ugly – reached out to Harold and
he actually took her hand
. Next thing, he was capering about too – making such a spectacle of himself!”

I suppressed a grin. “Well, you were on holiday.”

“But that wasn't the end of it. The awful hussy then produced a...
bong
, I think they call it. ”

“A cannabis pipe, I believe. Well, that's not so unusual in Morocco.”

“Maybe, but Harold had never smoked in his life! Anyway, after puffing away, he told me he was breaking away from his old life and going off with this woman…and disappeared into the night!”

“Without saying anything more?”

“Just told me that everything I needed to know was in a packet of correspondence which included a note to me, back home in his desk.”

She grabbed my hand.

“What could I do? I thought of going to the local police but that wouldn't be any good – Harold went of his own free will, after all. So I caught a plane back home and located the packet. There were letters from a dating agency giving details of contacts abroad. Through this, he had met a penfriend, called Bertine Quissaria of all outrageous names, from Morocco. She'd persuaded him to take a holiday in Marrakech, bring some money and a life of bliss awaited him in that city of dreams. He took our savings but said I would get the pension due to him in three years' time. I've a little money of my own, but that's not the point – I want him back! Please, Mr Courtley, he might listen to you. Could you go to Morocco for me and try to persuade him to return? Binden says you're just the man for the job.”

* * *

“Plunt's wife should just let him to go to hell!” Andrea said adamantly when I told her later.

“Well, she thinks poor old Harold is suffering from a midlife crisis and could be made to see sense. Anyway, she's asked me if I'd go to Morocco to sort out his foolish behaviour. Binden says the office will pay for the trip. Nothing has come out in the press as yet but, if it did, the army would have a field day at our expense! You know their attitude to us civvy lawyers.”

“So you're going to go on your own then? Couldn't you take me as well?”

“Plunt might think he was being crowded in if I did that, darling.”

“I thought you would say that.”

There was an ominous note in her voice. Suddenly she sighed and collapsed into a chair, holding her face in her hands.

“Charlie, do you ever really think about me or the quality of my life on this garrison? Working in the Thrift Shop is all that's left to me now. I shan't be seeing Beatrix much longer. She and Roland have decided they need a fresh start after all that's happened and are emigrating to Greece.”

I frowned.

“Darling, of course I think about you but you know our situation – we have to stay in Germany for the time being. I suppose when I come back from Morocco I could always ask for a transfer.”

Andrea was sobbing by now.

“Damn you, Charlie! You could have done that anyway. Peascod owes you a tremendous favour, getting him off the hook the way you did. Well, I've decided I need a bit of space and intend to go back to Brighton for a bit. I shall take Boz with me. Our house is empty of tenants at the moment. You can contact me when you get back from Morocco.”

* * *

As the plane entered into its final descent towards Marrakech Airport a high wind slashed at it disconcertingly with a ‘ratatat' of noise. A steward, noticing my concern, sought to reassure me.

“Just a sandstorm, sir, straight from the Sahara Desert. Common enough in Marrakech.”

Well, Violet Plunt had warned me, I thought wryly.

I had spent most of the four-hour flight brooding about the state of our marriage. Andrea had said she really only wanted a break – but would she want to stay on in England after I returned from Morocco? I would just have to wait.

An hour after touchdown (the airport being only 15 minutes away from the Old Town) I arrived by taxi at my hotel located in the centre
with a thumping headache, initiated by the choking dust and compounded by the pungent petrol fumes of the area. The outside of the building looked unprepossessing. A thick panelled door set in a blank wall faced me, leading off a dingy alley. I dreaded what I should find inside but soon was to learn why Arab houses are designed so differently from our own. Once inside, a tranquil yard met my gaze surrounded by a perimeter walkway made of arches constructed in brilliantly-coloured mosaic. Water gurgled from a fountain into a pool lined with black and white tiles.

After checking in, I changed my clothes and made my way to an enclosed terrace on the first floor which contained the restaurant. After consuming a delicious meal of
Harira
(a local soup) followed by a Moroccan pigeon dish, I began to contemplate the task before me. How was I ever going to contact this Bertine – or anybody who actually knew her? There was not much to go on from what I had been told.

Harold had obviously arranged to meet her at the Jemaa El Fina ( the Arabic name for the Grande Place) when he disappeared. This was the area where the Moroccans gathered at night to revel in the local entertainment of snake charming, fire eating, gambling, and the telling of mysterious and romantic tales.

But first, I needed to locate the cafè where the
Gwana
dancers congregated as that was the one place poor old Violet had not been able to identify and I decided that the wizened, ancient concierge attached to the hotel might be able to help. Time was getting on when I approached him as he was engaged in the process of shutting and locking the one entrance to the hotel at eleven o'clock. Thereafter, the only access (for guests) was with their own key. Watching him perform what was obviously a nightly duty, I could not help noticing that the street outside was a maelstrom of humanity of all sexes and ages, jabbering volubly. I began to wonder what the Grande Place would be like if this was anything to go by.

My French was poor but I soon discovered that the concierge's English was good enough to answer what he obviously regarded as being a common request.

“You want woman,
sair
. Plenty, I find for you!”

“No, no, you don't understand. I don't want any girl. Dancers actually –
Gwana
dancers.”

“
Gwana
dancers? No problem, no problem. I take you to my friend. He own cafe in the square. Best
Gwana
dancers in Morocco, you will see!”

Well, at least I was a step forward although I had no idea whether this particular
Gwana
troupe was actually the one of which Bertine was a member. Half an hour later, I found myself sitting alone at a small table just off the Grande Place, sipping coffee and watching a Moroccan floor show. Although alcohol was available, I indulged instead in a shisha (being a pipe smoker anyway), having been assured that it contained only tobacco and not cannabis.

To begin with, I was obliged to watch the contortions of a middle-aged belly dancer who waggled her stomach unenthusiastically to scratchy recorded music. It was almost a relief when five fat, heavily-bejewelled women appeared, one wielding a large drum. Three puny men followed, carrying stringed instruments, one similar to a violin, the others unrecognizable. After a tremendous blow to the drum which almost shattered my eardrums, the women began to ululate and keen at the top of their voices to a cacophonic wail from the ‘orchestra'.

Gradually, I realized that this whole performance was really for my benefit. Most of the other customers drifted off, leaving only a few locals playing cards. I soon became bored and decided the only way to stop the infernal racket was to produce some money and signify I was about to leave. But first I was determined to obtain as much information as I could. The violinist seemed to sense what was on my mind. Dropping his bow, he hurried over, his hand outstretched for a tip. I waved a large note in his face.

“I – looking for – Bertine Quissaria – a
Gwana
dancer – you know her?”

The man's eyebrows shot up.

“You are a friend of Al
Plunt, yes?”

“
Al
?”

Then I recalled that the prefix ‘Al' was used as an honorific in an Arab country.

“Er, yes. Do you know him?”

By this time, the others had gathered round and began to chatter amongst themselves. The violinist turned towards me, shrugging his shoulders.

“He with Bertine now. Before, she dance with us always. Then this man come and now they are drinking in the big hotels. She no longer work here.”

“I need to find them,” I persisted. “Which big hotels do they frequent?”

The man did not seem to understand and gabbled something to his companions. Then one of the women waved a hand in a direction away from the square.