Wig Betrayed (10 page)

It was a welcome relief to be back in London and to be enveloped once again in the warm comforting embrace of the Wanderers after the ghastliness of the Dobstowe Arms. It was my turn to invite Melanie to tea and now we sat munching cucumber sandwiches in the club's dining room – an atrium, filled with plants and flowers, overlooking the magnificent swimming pool which rippled below massive columns modelled on a Roman temple. Melanie patted my arm.

“The Lord Chancellor is pleased with the way you handled the list in Dobstowe, Charlie. I can tell you the report we received was very encouraging.”

“Report? I wasn't aware that I was being assessed.”

Melanie smiled and said, “Come on, Charlie, don't be naive. You must know that we expect the court clerks to give us monthly updates on all the judges.”

I frowned and replied, “I didn't actually. We don't employ clerks at courts martial.”

“Well, that's as may be but perhaps it's because there aren't so many and keeping track of how they are dealt with is much easier. Anyway, to return to the point. As it turns out, the Lord Chancellor is
so
pleased with you that he wants to offer you a full-time appointment at Dobstowe, as I hinted at before if you did well. We've just heard that Judge Roper is going to retire at the end of the month. Take a few days to think about it, Charles. You'll probably want to discuss this with your wife as well, as I believe you're separated at present.”

I looked at her quizzically but, having glanced at her watch, she was already picking up her handbag preparing to leave. I knew the department (always anxious to avoid the breath of scandal) kept tabs on the private lives of judges but thought better of asking Melanie where she had obtained her information. I phoned Andrea when I returned to the club and told her of the new developments in my professional life.

“Darling, I just don't believe you're serious about this dog walking chap. I know you had a bad time of it in Germany but now I won't need to return there ever again. Can't we make a fresh start?”

There was silence.

“Oh Charlie, I'm so sorry but things have really changed. I couldn't leave Tarquin now. I know you won't believe me, but I really think I love him...”

“How do you
know
, Andrea?”

“Well, for a start he's so sensitive and caring and
different
from all you lawyers.”

“So you want to divorce me and get married to him, is that it?”

I was becoming angry.

“Please don't get cross, Charlie. I'm not sure that Tarquin actually believes in marriage vows as such, but we are going to make a go at living together. He's a bit dreamy – he actually writes songs, you see – and, being unemployed at the moment, is talking about us travelling about the country for a bit...”

“I take it then that our marriage is incapable of being saved? You can't have it both ways, Andrea.”

“I suppose that must be right. I'm so sorry, Charlie.”

I slammed the phone down. Andrea could keep her dog walking friend who was obviously determined to sponge off her. Now, I had some serious thinking to do. Should I go back to England and become a circuit judge in a dead end town? Or, stick it out in the office of the JAG, where the work was really more challenging and where there was a realistic chance of becoming Judge Advocate General myself one day, particularly now that Plunt had gone.

With Andrea no longer in the equation, the choice seemed obvious. I contacted Melanie straightaway, wondering whether there was still a possibility of becoming a recorder having turned down the Lord Chancellor's offer.

“I'm afraid that can't now happen, Charlie. The LC only made you a temporary recorder so that you could take over in Dobstowe in an emergency. Now that you've turned down the chance of the full-time job there, you'll simply have to rejoin the queue in the recorder backlog, I'm afraid.”

So I was back where I started.

One bit of good news finally came my way. After some nagging, Binden managed to prevail on the powers-that-be and persuaded them to rent a private flat in Bad Zur Linde for me. So, I only had to stay in the mess for a month. Thank God I would only be under the same roof as Strawbridge for a short period.

After my initial posting to Germany, I had managed to avoid sitting with Strawbridge altogether. He remained permanently based at Brockendorf doing the AWOLs, with a part-time judge advocate sitting with him, whilst I had been engaged upcountry. However, in the meantime, a problem had arisen. Strawbridge, a heavy-handed bully, had gained a bad reputation amongst the soldiers at Brockendorf who kept objecting to him being the president. As he was coming to the end of his army career anyway, his chain of command decided it was best for him to stop doing courts martial altogether on the garrison and engage only in clerical work back at headquarters in the Fortress.

When I entered the mess bar at six o'clock, hoping for a quiet drink after my journey from England and having settled down in the accommodation, I found him there chewing a cheroot with a pint of
Herforder
lager and a tot of German brandy in front of him.

“Ah, long time no see, jaggy boy.”

He turned his mottled face towards me, twisting his mouth into a semblance of a smile.

“Come and have a snifter.”

This was not meant as a particularly friendly gesture on his part. I just happened to be the first person to join him in the bar. Loathing the mocking nickname he always used, I was tempted to refuse but decided that would be downright rude. At least he would be purchasing the drink. When my beer came I sipped it, conscious of being perused by his blood shot watery eyes.

“By the way, I'm on the case of Cockaigne next week up in Dortmund as the senior member. We've got a brigadier coming over from the UK. Probably never done a court martial in his life so I'll have to support him.”

I grimaced inwardly. Sergeant Cockaigne had been charged with a serious offence so a general court martial, headed by a brigadier, was required to try the case and a PPCM (such as Strawbridge) was often made a member of the same board to ‘hold his hand'.

“I haven't looked at the papers as yet,” I said, determined to be non-committal in the hope that he would not start discussing the case.

“Were you aware that Cockaigne was reckoned to be one of the best instructors in the British Army at Sandhurst? He was there for five years before his present posting.”

I had to nip this in the bud.

“You don't know him, do you?” I snapped. “Because, if you do, you will be aware of the rules, which means you can't sit on the case.”

Strawbridge had the grace to look taken aback.

“No, no, just heard about him on the grapevine and I happened to see an article in
Soldier
magazine about him some months back.”

“Well, just put all that out of your mind, Verne, and remember I can't discuss the case with you.”

The papers on Cockaigne, packed up in an envelope and delivered by Margery, were waiting for me in my room and I decided to read them without further ado. I finished my drink swiftly telling Strawbridge that I still had unpacking to do.

The defendant, a member of the Second Battalion, the Royal Irish Halberdiers, was facing trial for an offence of wounding with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. At the relevant time, he had been in command for eight weeks of a small but vital outpost (near a village called Kerrymaglen) on the Irish border, during a six months tour of the Province. He was in effective charge of a company of soldiers, including a corporal and lance corporal; the rest of the battalion, including the officers, remained at their headquarters in Newry.

During the tour, the local IRA intensified their campaign against the British Army to such an extent that the outpost, which was made up of prefabricated barrack blocks surrounded by sangars, barbed wire and brick fortifications, was virtually in a state of siege.

Due to his reputation as a first-class soldier, Cockaigne, despite only being a sergeant, had been appointed by his commanding officer to take charge of the outpost. It was decided that a period of operational duty would round off his promising career as an NCO with some vital experience of command. There was every chance that he would be made an officer in due course.

Hardly surprisingly, he ran his command efficiently and to the highest standards. The only possible complaint that could be made about him was that he adhered to the rulebook rather too rigorously. However, in a situation of constant danger, most of his company liked and respected him so the spell of duty, fraught as it was, should have been a wholehearted success. The fact that it was not was due entirely to Private Bisley.

Bisley was an ‘old soldier', an uncomplimentary term nothing to do with age but used to denote years spent in the army as a mere private. He was lazy, uncooperative, and determined to shirk his duties as much as he could whilst awaiting his discharge from the service in a few months' time. The authorities, however, were determined that he should not be allowed to avoid active service and accordingly he was expected to share the battalion's tasks like anyone else.

The duty meant wearisome patrols in the surrounding area, infiltrated with IRA snipers and infested with booby traps. Bisley did his level best to get out of these patrols by feigning illness, and when actually compelled to take part he behaved in a truculent manner just short of insubordination. Sent up to keep watch from the sangars, he often dozed off whilst on duty and read magazines illicitly, managing to hide them every time before he could be discovered.

At the conclusion of the tour, as was usual, a drinks party was organized back at the Newry NAAFI. The whole company, letting their hair down, had a great deal to drink. Bisley, with only a few weeks to go before his discharge, was in a belligerent and provocative mood, talking insultingly about the army and their role in Northern Ireland, which he disparaged. He also described Sergeant Cockaigne, in a voice loud enough for the latter to hear as a ‘
fucking old woman
'. Allegedly, Sergeant Cockaigne followed him into the toilets armed with a glass which he had smashed against a wall beforehand. He then shoved the base into the back of Bisley's neck whilst the latter urinated.

The perpetrator then made good his escape leaving Bisley (who never saw his attacker) to bleed profusely on the floor. A shard of glass, sticking out of Bisley's neck, was recovered by the police but the actual base never came to light.

To begin with, suspicion fell on a number of soldiers at the party – Bisley was heartily disliked by the majority of them – and any one of them could have done it. Cockaigne had been seen making his way to the toilets at some point prior to the attack but there was nothing to pinpoint the time.

Only when Cockaigne was found to have a cut to the ball of his thumb did the focus of suspicion fall on him, and the RMP summoned him for questioning. When interviewed, the former maintained that he cut his thumb whilst sharpening some pencils with a penknife. His hand had simply slipped. Nonetheless, he was duly charged.

As the Royal Irish Halberdiers were now deployed in Dortmund, it was decided that the trial should be held there with five days being set aside to complete the case. The president was none other than Robin Gabfern, who I had last seen in the tank case. Uninvited, Gabfern wandered into my room before the case began.

“Sad to see this particular sergeant in trouble. Best instructor Sandhurst has ever had, Verne Strawbridge informs me. I suppose you can't tell me what he's charged with?”

“You know I damned well can't, Robin, and Strawbridge shouldn't have told you a thing. You'll know soon enough, when we begin later on. You must know that the defendant's background, good or bad, is totally irrelevant at this stage. It only becomes so, if and when, he's found guilty.”

Robin backed away slightly, his hand outstretched in apology.

“I'm so sorry, please don't get upset. I'll instruct Strawbridge not to tell the others anything at all.”

Both counsel in the case were known to me but had changed in appearance and ability. Major Harry Chess had lost weight, seemed much sharper in his approach, and had solved his body odour problem; at least in part. Instead of stale sweat, the smell of a strong deodorant permeated the room. By contrast, Adam Verger looked old and frail and his previous waspishness had all but disappeared.

Private Bisley was a sullen, large man now running to fat, who made it plain in his general attitude that he was totally disenchanted with the army and showed no enthusiasm for performing his remaining duties. By contrast, Sergeant Cockaigne, slimly built and as keen as mustard, gave the impression of being wholly committed to his career. It was obvious what had made him such a good instructor and why he must have found the shambling Bisley such a nightmare.

Verger's conduct of the defence case was plodding but competent enough in the circumstances. The evidence against his client was circumstantial only and not very strong as many other soldiers, apart from his client, could have committed the crime. Verger's tactics, simply establishing and emphasizing this fact, might well have worked but then he made a fatal mistake, which a barrister of his experience should never have made: he asked just one question too many. Chess, as part of his case, called a young army doctor, Captain Rashid, into the witness box.

“Captain Rashid, I believe that you were the duty doctor called to examine Private Bisley on the night he was injured. Is that not so?”

“Yes, sir, I was on duty at Newry Barracks.”

“Tell us what you saw when you examined him?”

“There was a significant laceration to the back of his neck, consistent with a blow from a sharp instrument such as a broken glass. Private Bisley was lucky. The blow could have cut a nearby artery with very severe consequences. As it was, the wound required immediate stitching as it was bleeding profusely.”

“You also saw Sergeant Cockaigne, a few days later, I believe? Were you asked to examine a cut to his thumb?”

“Yes, sir, it didn't need treatment but an RMP corporal requested me to look at it anyway.”

“Was it a cut that could have been caused by contact with broken glass?”

“Yes, sir.”

Verger rose to cross-examine, his voice thin and shaky.

“In fact, the sergeant told you that he had done it with a penknife – a perfectly reasonable explanation, would you not agree?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Verger should have left it at that!

“The injury being entirely consistent with a sharp-edged object of that kind?”

“Yes sir, but...”

“But what?”

“Well, there was another cut as well, to the palm of his hand, although it was very small.”

Verger, sensing danger, muttered, “We needn't trouble you with that. Thank you.”

Harry Chess now had a glorious opportunity to make a telling point and he was not going to miss it.

“You mentioned this other cut; not something we have been told about before. Presumably because you didn't think it had much significance compared to the main cut?”

“That's right, sir. It certainly didn't require treatment.”

“Quite, and you were concentrating on the first one. But tell us this: could the penknife, slipping perhaps, have caused the second one as well?”

The doctor frowned in thought.

“Very unlikely, I would have thought, as part of the same action.”

“I see. But if, on the other hand, the defendant had smashed a glass beforehand, which is what the prosecution allege, could a cut to the palm of his hand be consistent with that?”

“Quite possibly, sir.”

Chess sat down triumphantly.

Later, Cockaigne tried to explain this evidence away by saying that the knife might have slipped twice whilst he was sharpening pencils, causing both injuries but on different occasions. But his explanation of this, and indeed his evidence overall, sounded wholly unconvincing. He proved to be a poor liar, accustomed as he was to usually telling the truth.

It came as no surprise when the court convicted.