A TWIST IN THE TALE

by

JEFFREY ARCHER
    BY THE SAME AUTHOR
          Novels
  Not a Penny More, Not a
Penny Less
Shall We Tell The President?
       Kane and Abel
   The Prodigal Daughter
    First Among Equals
    A Matter of Honour
       Short stories
  A Quiver Full of Arrows
    A Twist in the Tale
           Plays
  Beyond Reasonable Doubt
 Exclusive (see back page)
             
Jeffrey Archer is a master
storyteller, the author of six
novels which have all been
worldwide bestsellers. NOT A PENNY
MORE, NOT A PENNY LESS was his
first book which achieved instant
success. Next came the tense and
terrifying thriller SHALL WE TELL
THE PRESIDENT? followed by his
triumphant bestseller KANE AND
ABEL. His first collection of short
stories, A QUIVER FULL OF ARROWS,
came next and then THE PRODIGAL
DAUGHTER, the superb sequel to KANE
AND ABEL. This was followed by
FIRST AMONG EQUALS, considered by
The Scotsman to be the finest novel
about Parliament since Trollope,
and most recently by the gripping
chase story, A MATTER OF HONOUR.

His first stage play, BEYOND
REASONABLE DOUBT, opened in London
in September 1987 and played for
two years. His new play, EXCLUSIVE,
has just opened in the West End of
London (see back page).

Jeffrey Archer was born in 1940 and
educated at Wellington School,
Somerset and Brasenose College,
Oxford. He represented Great
Britain in the 100 metres in the
early sixties, and became the
youngest member of the House of
Commons when he won the by-election
at Louth in 1969. He wrote his
first novel, NOT A PENNY MORE, NOT
A PENNY LESS, in 1974. From Septem-
ber 1985-to October 1986 he was
Deputy Chairman of the Conservative
Party. Jeffrey Archer is married
with two children and lives in
London and Cambridge.

      A Twill
in the
Tale
   TWELVE SHORT
STORIES
        BY
  JEFFREY ARCHER
   CORONET BOOKS
Hodder and Stoughton
         
 Copyright ~ 1988The characters and situations in
 by Jeffrey Archerthis book are entirely imaginary
                 and bear no relation to any real
                 person or actual happening.
 First published inThis book is sold subject to the
 Great Britain in 1988condition that it shall not, by
way
 by Hodder and   of trade or otherwise, be lent
 Stoughton Limitedre-sold, hired out or otherwise
                 circulated without the
publisher's
 Coronet edition 1989prior consent in any form of
                 binding or cover other than that
in
                 a similar condition including
this
                 condition being imposed on the
                 subsequent purchaser.
                 No part of this publication may
be
                 reproduced or transmitted in any
                 form or by any means
                 electronically or mechanically,
 Published in Canadaincluding photocopying, recording
 under license byor any information storage or
 General Paperbacks 1989retrieval system, without either
the
                 prior permission in writing from
                 the publisher or a licence,
                 permitting restricted copying. In
                 the United Kingdom such licences
                 are issued by the Copyright
                 Licensing Agency, 33-34 Alfred
                 Place, London WC1 E 7DP.
                 Printed and bound in Great
Britain
                 for Hodder and Stoughton
                 Paperbacks, a division of Hodder
 British Library C.l.P.and Stoughton Limited, Mill
 Archer, Jeffrey, 1940-Road, Dunton Green, Sevenoaks,
 A twist in the tale.Kent TN13 2YA (Edtiorial Office:
 1. Title        47 Bedford Square, London
 823.91 4[Fj     WC1 B 3DP) by Richard Clay
 ISBN 0-7736-7223-0Limited, Bungay, Suffolk.
                 Photoset by Rowland
 Printed in the United States.Phototypesetting Limited, Bury St
                 Edmunds, Suffolk.

To Henry and Suzanne

            AUTHOR'S NOTE

Ofthese twelve short stories,
gathered in my travels from Tokyo to
Trumpington, ten are based on known
incidents - some embellished with
considerable licence. Only two are
totally the result of my own
imagination.

  I would like to thank all those
people who allowed me to learn some
of their innermost secrets.

        J.A.
September 1988

           contents
     THE PERFECT MURDER 11
    CLEAN SWEEP IGNATIUS 57
         A LA CARTE 69
     NOT THE REAL THING 91
     JUST GOOD FRIENDS 113
         THE STEAL 123
     COLONEL BULLFROG 151
         CHECKMATE 171
   HONOUR AMONG THIEVES 183
  A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS 201
       THE LOOPHOLE 223
    CHRISTINA ROSENTHAL 243
               
      The
    Perfet!
Murder
       
 THE PERFECT MURDER

                IF
I hadn't changed my
mind that night I
would never have
found out the truth.

  I couldn't believe
that Carla had slept
with another man,
that she had lied
about her love for
me - and that I
might be second or
even third in her
affections.

  Carla had phoned
me at the office
during the day,
something I had told
her not to do, but
since I also warned
her never to call me
at home she hadn't
been left with a lot
of choice. As it
turned out; all she
had wanted to let me
know was that she
wouldn't be able to
make it for what the
French so decorously
call a "c~nq a
sept". She had to
visit her sister in
Fulham who had been
taken ill, she
explained.

  I was
disappointed. It had
been another
depressing day, and
now I was being
asked to forgo the
one thing that would
have made it
bearable.

  "I thought you
didn't get on well
with your sister," I
said tartly.

  There was no
immediate reply from
the other end.
Eventually Carla
asked, "Shall we
make it next
Tuesday, the usual
time?"

13

        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  "I don't know if that's
convenient," I said. "I'll call you
on Monday when I know what my plans
are." I put down the receiver.

  Wearily, I phoned my wife to let
her know I was on the way home -
something I usually did from the
phone box outside Carla's flat. It
was a trick I often used to make
Elizabeth feel she knew where I was
every moment of the day.

  Most of the office staff had
already left for the night so I
gathered together some papers I
could work on at home. Since the
new company had taken us over six
months ago, the management had not
only sacked my Number Two in the
accounts department but expected me
to cover his work as well as my
own. I was hardly in a position to
complain, since my new boss made it
abundantly dear that if I didn't
like the arrangement I should feel
free to seek employment elsewhere.
I might have, too, but I couldn't
think of many firms that would
readily take on a man who had
reached that magic age somewhere
between the sought-after and the
available.

  As I drove out of the office car
park and joined the evening rush
hour I began to regret having been
so sharp with Carla. After all, the
role of the other woman was hardly
one she delighted in. The feeling
of guilt persisted, so that when I
reached the corner of Sloane
Square, I jumped out of my car and
ran across the road.

  "A dozen roses," I said, fumbling
with my wallet.

  A man who must have made his
profit from lovers selected twelve
unopened buds without comment. My
choice didn't show a great deal of

                14
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

imagination but at least Carla
would know I'd tried.

  I drove on towards her flat,
hoping she had not yet left for
her sister's, that perhaps we
might even find time for a quick
drink. Then I remembered that I
had already told my wife I was on
the way home. A few minutes' delay
could be explained by a

.__ :_~ ....L._. 1__~ ..11 1~__11~

Llalil~J4lil, UUL Lll"L lalilC CAL ARC: L UUIU lialuly
~uvt:r my staying on for a drink.

  When I arrived at Carla's home I
had the usual trouble finding a
parking space, until I spotted a
gap that would just take a Rover
opposite the paper shop. I stopped
and would have backed into the
space had I not noticed a man
coming out of the entrance to her
block of flats. I wouldn't have
given it a second thought if Carla
hadn't followed him a moment later.
She stood there in the doorway,
wearing a loose blue housecoat. She
leaned forward to give her
departing visitor a kiss that could
hardly have been described as
sisterly. As she closed the door I
drove my car round the corner and
doubleparked.

  I watched the man in my rear-view
mirror as he crossed the road, went
into the newsagent and a few
moments later reappeared with an
evening paper and what looked like
a packet of cigarettes. He walked
to his car, a blue BMW, stopped to
remove a parking ticket from his
windscreen and appeared to curse.
How long had the BMW been there? I
even began to wonder if he had been
with Carla when she phoned to tell
me not to come round.

  The man climbed into the BMW,
fastened his seat belt and lit a
cigarette before driving off. I
took

                15
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

his parking meter space in
part-payment for my woman. I didn't
consider it a fair exchange. I
checked up and down the street, as
I always did, before getting out
and walking over to the block of
flats. It was already dark and no
one gave me a second glance. I
pressed the bell marked 'Moorland'.

  When Carla opened the front door
I was greeted with a huge smile
which quickly turned into a frown,
thenjust as quickly back to a
smile. The first smile must have
been meant for the BMW man. I often
wondered why she wouldn't give me a
frontdoor key. I stared into those
blue eyes that had first captivated
me so many months ago. Despite her
smile, those eyes now revealed a
coldness I had never seen before.

  She turned to re-open the door and
let me into her ground-floor flat.
I noticed that under her housecoat
she was wearing the wine-red
negligee I had given her for
Christmas. Once inside the flat I
found myself checking round the
room I knew so well. On the glass
table in the centre of the room
stood the 'Snoopy' coffee mug I
usually drank from, empty. By its
side was Carla's mug, also empty,
and a dozen roses arranged in a
vase. The buds were just beginning
to open.

  I have always been quick to chide
and the sight of the flowers made
it impossible for me to hide my
anger.

"And who was the man who just
left?" I asked.

  "An insurance broker," she
replied, removing the mugs from the
table.

  "And what was he insuring?" I
asked. "Your love-life?"

                16
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

  "Why do you automatically assume
he's my lover?" Her voice had begun
to rise.

  "Do you usually have coffee with
an insurance broker in your
negligee? Come to think of it, my
negligee."

  "I'll have coffee with whom I damn
well please," she said, "and
wearing what I damn well please,
especially when you are on your way
home to your wife."

"But I had wanted to come to you -"

  "And then return to your wife. In
any case, you're always telling me
I should lead my own life and not
rely on you," she added, an
argument Carla often fell back on
when she had something to hide.

"You know it's not that easy."

  "I know it's easy enough for you
tojump into bed with me whenever it
suits you. That's all I'm good for,
isn't it?"

"That's not fair."

  "Not fair? Weren't you hoping for
your usual at six so you could
still be home at seven in time for
supper with Elizabeth?"

  "I haven't made love to my wife in
years!" I shouted.

  "We only have your word for that,"
she spat out with scorn.

"I have been utterly faithful to
you."

  "Which means I always have to be
to you, I suppose?"

"Stop behaving like a whore."

  Carla's eyes flashed as she leaped
forward and slapped me across the
face with all the strength she
could muster.

                17
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  I was still slightly off-balance
when she raised her arm a second
time, but as her hand came swinging
towards me I blocked it and was even
able to push her back against the
mantelpiece. She recovered quickly
and came flying at me again.

  In a moment of uncontrolled fury,
just as she was about to launch
herself on me, I clenched my fist
and took a swing at her. I caught
her on the side of the chin, and she
wheeled back from the impact. I
watched her put an arm out to break
her fall. But before she had the
chance to leap back up and
retaliate, I turned and strode out,
slamming the flat door behind me.

  I ran down the hall, out on to the
street, jumped into my car and drove
off quickly. I couldn't have been
with her for more than ten minutes.
Although I felt like murdering her
at the time I regretted having hit
her long before I reached home.
Twice I nearly turned back.
Everything she had complained about
was fair and I wondered if I dared
phone her from home. Although Carla
and I had only been lovers for a few
months, she must have known how much
I cared.

  If Elizabeth had intended to
comment on my being late, she
changed her mind the moment I handed
her the roses. She began to arrange
them in a vase while I poured myself
a large whisky. I waited for her to
say something as I rarely drank
before dinner but she seemed
preoccupied with the flowers.
Although I had already made up my
mind to phone Carla and try to make
amends, I decided I couldn't do it
from home. In any case, if I waited
until the morning when I was back in
the of lice, she might by then have
calmed down a little.

                18
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

  I woke early the next day and lay
in bed, considering what form my
apology should take. I decided to
invite her to lunch at the little
French bistro she liked so much,
half way between my office hers.
Carla always appreciated seeing me
in the middle of the day, when she
knew it couldn't be for sex. After
I had shaved and dressed I joined
Elizabeth for breakfast, and seeing
there was nothing interesting on
the front page, I turned to the
financial section. The company's
shares had fallen again, following
City forecasts of poor interim
profits. Millions would undoubtedly
be wiped offour share value
following such a bad piece of
publicity. I already knew that when
it came to publishing the annual
accounts it would be a miracle if
the company didn't declare a loss.

  After gulping down a second cup of
coffee I kissed my wife on the
cheek and made for the car. It was
then that I decided to drop a note
through Carla's letterbox rather
than cope with the embarrassment of
a phone call.

  "Forgive me," I wrote. "Marcel's,
one o'clock. Sole ~croniqzu on a
Friday. Love, Casaneva." I rarely
wrote to Carla, and when I did I
only ever signed it with her chosen
nickname.

  I took a short detour so that I
could pass her home but was held up
by a traffic jam. As I approached
the flat I could see that the
hold-up was being caused by some
sort of accident. It had to be
quite a serious one because there
was an ambulance blocking the other
side of the road and delaying the
flow of oncoming vehicles. A
traffic warden was trying to help
but she was only slowing things
down even more. It was obvious that
it was going to be

                19
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

impossible to park anywhere near
Carla's flat, so I resigned
myselfto phoning her from the of
fice. I did not relish the
prospect.

  I felt a sinking feeling moments
later when I saw that the ambulance
was parked only a few yards from
the front door to her block of
flats. I knew I was being
irrational but I began to fear the
worst. I tried to convince myself
it was probably a road accident and
had nothing to do with Carla.

  It was then that I spotted the
police car tucked in behind the
ambulance.

  As I drew level with the two
vehicles I saw that Carla's front
door was wide open. A man in a long
white coat came scurrying out and
opened the back ofthe ambulance. I
stopped my car to observe more
carefully what was going on, hoping
the man behind me would not become
impatient. Drivers coming from the
other direction raised a hand to
thank me for allowing them to pass.
I thought I could let a dozen or so
through before anyone would start
to complain. The traffic warden
helped by urging them on.

  Then a stretcher appeared at the
end of the hall. Two uniformed
orderlies carried a shrouded body
out on to the road and placed-it in
the back of the ambulance. I was
unable to see the face because it
was covered by the sheet, but a
third man, who could only have been
a detective, walked immediately
behind the stretcher. He was
carrying a plastic bag, inside
which I could make out a red
garment that I feared was the
negligee I had given Carla.

  I vomited my breakfast all over
the passenger seat, my head finally
resting on the steering wheel.

                20
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

A moment later they closed the
ambulance door, a siren started up
and the traffic warden began waving
me on. The ambulance moved quickly
off and the man behind me started
to press his horn. He was, after
all, only an innocent
bysitter.Ilurched forward and later
couldn't recall any part of my
journey to the office..

  Once I had reached the office car
park I cleared up the mess on the
passenger seat as best I could and
left a window open before taking a
lift to the washroom on the seventh
floor. I tore my lunch invitation
to Carla into little pieces and
flushed them down the lavatory. I
walked into my room on the twelfth
floor a little after eight thirty,
to find the managing director
pacing up and down in front of my
desk, obviously waiting for me. I
had quite forgotten that it was
Friday and he always expected the
latest completed figures to be
ready for his consideration.

  This Friday it turned out he also
wanted the projected accounts for
the months of May, June and July. I
promised they would be on his desk
by midday. The one thing I needed
was a clear morning and I was not
going to be allowed it.

  Every time the phone rang, the
door opened or anyone even spoke to
me, my heart missed a beatI assumed
it could only be the police. By
midday I had finished some sort of
report for the managing director,
but I knew he would find it neither
adequate nor accurate. As soon as I
had deposited the papers with his
secretary, I left for an early
lunch. I realised I wouldn't be
able to eat anything, but at least
I could get hold of the first
edition of the

                21
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

Standard and search for any news
they might have picked up about
Carla's death.

  I sat in the corner of my local
pub where I knew I couldn't be seen
from behind the bar. A tomato juice
by my side, I began slowly to turn
the pages of the paper.

  She hadn't made page one. She
hadn't made the second, third or
fourth page. And on page five she
rated only a tiny paragraph. "Miss
Carla Moorland, aged 31, was found
dead at her home in Pimlico earlier
this morning." I remember thinking
at the time they hadn't even got
her age right. "Detective Inspector
Simmons, who has been put in charge
of the case, said that an
investigation was being carried out
and they were awaiting the path-
ologist's report but to date they
had no reason to suspect foul
play."

  After that piece of news I even
managed a little soup and a roll.
Once I had read the report a second
time I made my way back to the of
lice car park and sat in my car. I
wound down the other front window
to allow more fresh air in before
turning on the World At One on the
radio. Carla didn't even get a
mention. In the age of pump
shotguns, drugs, Aids and gold
bullion robberies the death of a
thirtytwo-year-old industrial
personal assistant had passed
unnoticed by the BBC.

  I returned to my of lice to find
on my desk a memo containing a
series of questions that had been
fired back from the managing
director, leaving me in no doubt as
to how he felt about my report. I
was able to deal with nearly all
his queries and return the answers
to his secretary before I left the
office that night, despite spending
most of the afternoon trying

                22
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

to convince myself that whatever
had caused Carla's death must have
happened after I left and could not
possibly have been connected with
my hitting her. But that red
negligee kept returning to my
thoughts. Was there any way they
could trace it back to me? I had
bought it at Harrods - an
extravagance, but I felt certain it
couldn't be unique and it was still
the only serious present I'd ever
given her. But the note that was
attached - had Carla destroyed it?
Would they discover who Casaneva
was?

  I drove directly home that
evening, aware that I would never
again be able to travel down the
road Carla had lived in. I listened
to the end of the PM programme on
my car radio and as soon as I
reached home switched on the six
o'clock news. I turned to Channel
Four at seven and back to the BBC
at nine. I returned to ITV at ten
and even ended up watching
Newsnight.

  Carla's death, in their combined
editorial opinion, must have been
less important than a
Third-Division football result
between Reading and Walsall.
Elizabeth continued reading her
latest library book, oblivious to
my possible peril.

  I slept fitfully that night, and
as soon as I heard the papers
pushed through the letterbox the
next morning I ran downstairs to
check the headlines.

  "DUKAKIS NOMINATED AS CANDIDATE"
stared up at me from the front page
of The Times.

  I found myself wondering,
irrelevantly, if he would ever be
President. "President Dukakis"
didn't sound quite right to me.

I picked up my wife's Daily Express
and the

                23
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

three-word headline filled the top
of the page: "LOVERS' TIFF MURDER".

  My legs gave way and I fell to my
knees. I must have made a strange
sight, crumpled up on the floor
trying to read that opening
paragraph. I couldn't make out the
words of the second paragraph with-
out my spectacles. I stumbled back
upstairs with the papers and
grabbed the glasses from the table
on my side of the bed. Elizabeth
was still sleeping soundly. Even
so, I locked myself in the bathroom
where I could read the story slowly
and without fear of interruption.

Police are now treating as murder
the death of a beautiful Pimlico
secretary, Carla Moorland, 32, who
was found dead in her flat early
yesterday morning. Detective
Inspector Simmons of Scotland Yard,
who is in charge of the case,
initially considered Carla
Moorland's death to be due to
natural causes, but an X-ray has
revealed a broken jaw which could
have been caused in a fight.

An inquest will be held on April
19th.

  Miss Moorland's daily, Maria
Lucia (4 8), said - exclusively to
the Express- that her employer had
been with a man friend when she had
left the flat at five o'clock on
the night in question. Another
witness, Mrs RitaJohnson, who lives
in - the adjoining block of flats,
stated she had seen a man leaving
Miss Moorland's flat at around six,
before entering the newsagents
opposite and later driving away.
Mrs Johnson added that she couldn't
be sure of the make of the car but
it might have been a Rover . . .

                24
                 
           THE PERFECT MURDER
,

  "Oh, my God," I exclaimed in such a
loud voice that I was afraid it might
have woken Elizabeth. I shaved and
showered quickly, trying to think as
I went along. I was dressed and ready
to leave for work even before my wife
had woken. 1 kissed her on the cheek
but she only turned over, so I
scribbled a note and left it on her
side of the bed, explaining that I
had to spend the morning in the
office as I had an important report
to complete.

  On my journey to work I rehearsed
exactly what I was going to say. I
went over it again and again. I
arrived on the twelfth floor a little
before eight and left my door wide
open so I would be aware of the
slightest intrusion. I felt confident
that I had a clear fifteen, even
twenty minutes before anyone else
could be expected to arrive.

  Once again I went over exactly what
I needed to say. I found the number
in the L-R directory and scribbled it
down on a pad in front of me before
writing five headings in block
capitals, something I always did
before a board meeting.

              BUS STOP
                COAT
               NO. 19
                 BMW
               TICKET

Then I dialled the number.

  I took off my watch and placed it
in front of me. I had read somewhere
that the location of a telephone call
can be traced in about three minutes.

A woman's voice said, "Scotland
Yard."

                 25
                  
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  "Inspector Simmons, please," was
all I volunteered.

"Can I tell him who's calling?"

"No, I would prefer not to give my
name."

  "Yes, of course, sir," she said,
evidently used to such callers.

  Another ringing tone. My mouth
went dry as a man's voice announced
"Simmons" and- I heard the
detective speak for the first time.
I was taken aback to find that a
man with so English a name could
have such a strong Glaswegian
accent.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

  "No, but I think I can help you,"
I said in a quiet tone which I
pitched considerably lower than my
natural speaking voice.

"How can you help me, sir?"

  "Are you the officer in charge of
the Carlawhatever-her-name-is
case?"

"Yes, I am. But how can you help?"
he repeated.

  The second hand showed one minute
had already passed.

"I saw a man leaving her flat that
night."

"Where were you at the time?"

"At the bus stop on the same side
of the road."

  "Can you give me a description of
the man?" Simmons's tone was every
bit as casual as my own.

  "Tall. I'd say five eleven, six
foot. Well built. Wore one of those
posh City coats - you know, the
black ones with a velvet collar."

  "How can you be so sure about the
coat?" the detective asked.

  "It was so cold standing out there
waiting for the No. 19 that I
wished it had been me who was
wearing it."

                26
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

  "Do you remember anything in
particular that happened after he
left the flat?"

  "Only that he went into the paper
shop opposite before getting into
his car and driving away."

  "Yes, we know that much," said the
Detective Inspector. "I don't
suppose you recall what make of car
it was?"

  Two minutes had now passed and I
began to watch the second hand more
closely.

"I think it was a BMW," I said.

"Do you remember the colour by any
chance?"

  "No, it was too dark for that." I
paused. "But I saw him tear a
parking ticket offthe windscreen,
so it shouldn't be too hard for you
to trace him."

"And at what time did all this take
place?"

  "Around six fifteen to six thirty,
Inspector," I said.

"And can you tell me . . . ?"

  Two minutes fifty-eight seconds.
I put the phone back on the hook.
My whole body broke out in a sweat.

  "Good to see you in the office on
a Saturday morning," said the
managing director grimly as he
passed my door. "Soon as you're
finished whatever you're doing I'd
like a word with you."

  I left my desk and followed him
along the corridor into his office.
For the next hour he went over my
projected figures, but however hard
I tried I couldn't concentrate. It
wasn't long before he stopped
trying to disguise his impatience.

  "Have you got something else on
your mind?" he asked as he closed
his file. "You seem preoccupied."

  "No," I insisted, "just been doing
a lot of overtime lately," and
stood up to leave.

                27
                 
A TWIST IN THE TALE
                  -
  Once I had returned to my office,
I burnt the piece of paper with the
five headings and left to go home.
In the first edition ofthe
afternoon paper, the "Lovers'
Tilts' story had been moved back to
page seven. They had nothing new to
report.

  The rest of Saturday seemed
interminable but my wife's Sunday
Express finally brought me some
relief.

  "Following up information received
in the Carla Moorland 'Lovers'
Tills murder, a man is helping the
police with their inquiries." The
commonplace expressions I had read
so often in the past suddenly took
on a real meaning.

  I scoured the other Sunday papers,
listened to every news bulletin and
watched each news item on
television. When my wife became
curious I explained that there was
a rumour in the office that the
company might be taken over again,
which meant I could lose my job.

  By Monday morning the Daily
Express had named the man in "The
Lovers' Tiff murder" as Paul
Menzies (51), an insurance broker
from Sutton. His wife was at a
hospital in Epsom under sedation
while he was being held in the
cells of Brixton Prison under
arrest. I began to wonder if Mr
Menzies had told Carla the truth
about his wife and what his
nickname might be. I poured myself
a strong black coffee and left for
the office.

  Later that morning, Menzies
appeared before the magistrates at
the Horseferry Road court, charged
with the murder of Carla Moorland.
The police had been successful in
opposing bail, the Standard
reassured me.

* * *

                28
                 
         THE PERFECT MURDER

It takes six months, I was to
discover, for a case of this gravity
to reach the Old Bailey. Paul
Menzies passed those months on
remand in Brixton Prison. 1 spent
the same period fearful of every
telephone call, every knock on the
door, every unexpected visitor. Each
one created its own nightmare. Inno-
cent people have no idea how many
such incidents occur every day. I
went about my job as best I could,
often wondering if Menzies knew of
my relationship with Carla, if he
knew my name or if he even knew of
my existence.

  It must have been a couple of
months before the trial was due to
begin that the company held its
annual general meeting. It had taken
some considerable creative
accountancy on my part to produce a
set of figures that showed us
managing any profit at all. We
certainly didn't pay our share-
holders a dividend that year.

  I came away from the meeting
relieved, almost elated. Six months
had passed since Carla's death and
not one incident had occurred during
that period to suggest that anyone
suspected I had even known her, let
alone been the cause of her death.
I still felt guilty about Carla,
even missed her, but after six
months I was now able to go for a
whole day without fear entering my
mind. Strangely, I felt no guilt
about Menzies's plight. After all,
it was he who had become the
instrument that was going to keep me
from a lifetime spent in prison. So
when the blow came it had double the
impact.

  It was on August 26th - I shall
never forget itthat I received a
letter which made me realise it
might be necessary to follow every
word of the trial.

        A TWIST IN THE TALE

However much I tried to convince
myself I should explain why I
couldn't do it, I knew I wouldn't
be able to resist it.

  That same morning, a Friday- I
suppose these things always happen
on a Friday- I was called in for
what I assumed was to be a routine
weekly meeting with the managing
director, only to be informed that
the company no longer needed me.

  "Frankly, in the last few months
your work has gone from bad to
worse," I was told.

I didn't feel able to disagree with
him.

  "And you have left me with no
choice but to replace you."

A polite way of saying, "You're
sacked."

  "Your desk will be cleared by five
this evening," the managing
director continued, "when you will
receive a cheque from the accounts
department for 1 7,500."

I raised an eyebrow.

  "Six months' compensation, as
stipulated in your contract when we
took over the company," he
explained.

  When the managing director
stretched out his hand it was not
to wish me luck, but to ask for the
keys of my Rover.

  I remember my first thought when
he informed me of his decision: at
least I would be able to attend
every day of the trial without any
hassle.

  Elizabeth took the news of my
sacking badly but only asked what
plans I had for finding a new job.
During the next month I pretended
to look for a position in another
company but realised I couldn't
hope to settle down to anything
until the case was over.

                30
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

On the morning of the trial all the
popular papers had colourful
background pieces. The Daily Express
even displayed on its front page a
flattering picture of Carla in a
swimsuit on the beach at Marbella:
I wondered how much her sister in
Fulham had been paid for that
particular item. Alongside it was a
profile photo of Paul Menzies which
made him look as if he were already
a convict.

  I was amongst the first to be told
in which court at the Old Bailey the
case of the Crown v. Menzies would
be tried. A uniformed policeman gave
me detailed directions and along
with several others I made my way to
Court No. 4.

  Once I had reached the courtroom I
filed in and made sure that I sat on
the end of my row. I looked round
thinking everyone would stare at me,
but to my relief no one showed the
slightest interest.

  I had a good view of the defendant
as he stood in the dock. Menzies was
a frail man who looked as if he had
recently lost a lot of weight;
fifty-one, the newspapers had said,
but he looked nearer seventy. I
began to wonder how much I must have
aged over the past few months.

  Menzies wore a smart, dark blue
suit that hung loosely on him, a
clean shirt and what I thought must
be a regimental tie. His grey
thinning hair was swept straight
back; a small silver moustache gave
him a military air. He certainly
didn't look like a murderer or much
of a catch as a lover, but anyone
glancing towards me would probably
have come to the same conclusion. I
searched around the sea of faces for
Mrs Menzies but no one in the court
fitted the newspaper description of
her.

We all rose when MrJustice Buchanan
came in.

                31
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

"The Crown v. Menzies," the clerk
of the court read out.

  The judge leaned forward to tell
Menzies that he could be seated and
then turned slowly towards the jury
box.

  He explained that, although there
had been considerable press
interest in the case, their opinion
was all that mattered because they
alone would be asked to decide if
the prisoner were guilty or not
guilty of murder. He also advised
the jury against reading any
newspaper articles concerning the
trial or listening to anyone else's
views, especially those who had not
been present in court: such people,
he said, were always the first to
have an immutable opinion on what
the verdict should be. He went on
to remind the jury how important it
was to concentrate on the evidence
because a man's life was at stake.
I found myself nodding in
agreement.

  I glanced round the court hoping
there was nobody there who would
recognise me. Menzies's eyes
remained fixed firmly on the judge,
who was turning back to face the
prosecuting counsel.

  Even as Sir Humphrey Mountcliff
rose from his place on the bench I
was thankful he was against Menzies
and not me. A man of dominating
height with a high forehead and
silver grey hair, he commanded the
court not only with his physical
presence but with a voice that was
never less than authoritative.

  To a silent assembly he spent the
rest of the morning setting out the
case for the prosecution. His eyes
rarely left the jury box except
occasionally to peer down at his
notes.

He reconstructed the events as he
imagined

                32
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

they had happened that evening in
April.

  The opening address lasted two and
a half hours, shorter than I'd
expected. The judge then suggested
a break for lunch and asked us all
to be back in our places by ten past
two.

  After lunch Sir Humphrey called
his first witness, Detective
Inspector Simmons. I was unable to
look directly at the policeman while
he presented his evidence. Each
reply he gave was as if he were
addressing me personally. I wondered
if he suspected all along that there
was another man. Simmons gave a
highly professional account of
himself as he described in detail
how they had found the body and
later traced Menzies through two
witnesses and the damning parking
ticket. By the time Sir Humphrey sat
down few people in that court could
have felt that Simmons had arrested
the wrong man.

  Menzies's defence counsel, who
rose to crossexamine the Detective
Inspector, could not have been in
greater contrast to Sir Humphrey. Mr
Robert Scott, QC, was short and
stocky, with thick bushy eyebrows.
He spoke slowly and without
inflection. I was happy to observe
that one member of the jury was
having difficulty in staying awake.

  For the next twenty minutes Scott
took the Detective Inspector
painstakingly back over his evidence
but was unable to make Simmons
retract anything substantial. As the
Inspector stepped out of the witness
box I felt confident enough to look
him straight in the eye.

  The next witness was a Home Of
lice pathologist, Dr Anthony
Mallins, who, after answering a few
preliminary questions to establish
his professional

                33
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

status, moved on to answer an
inquiry from Sir Humphrey that took
everyone by surprise. The
pathologist informed the court that
there was clear evidence to suggest
that Miss Moorland had had sexual
intercourse shortly before her
death.

"How can you be so certain, Dr
Mallins?"

  "Because I found traces of blood
group B on the deceased's upper
thigh, while Miss Moorland was
later found to be blood group 0.
There were also traces of seminal
fluid on the negligee she was
wearing at the time of her death."

  "Are these common blood groups?"
Sir Humphrey asked.

  "Blood group O is common," Dr
Mallins admitted. "Group B.
however, is fairly unusual."

  "And what would you say was the
cause of her death?" Sir Humphrey
asked.

  "A blow or blows to the head,
which caused a broken jaw, and
lacerations at the base of the
skull which may have been delivered
by a blunt instrument."

  I wanted to stand up and say, "I
can tell you which!" when Sir
Humphrey said, "Thank you, Dr
Mallins. No more questions. Please
wait there."

  Mr Scott treated the doctor with
far more respect than he had
Inspector Simmons, despite Mallins
being the defendant's witness.

  "Could the blow on the back of
Miss Moorland's head have been
caused by a fall?" he asked.

  The doctor hesitated. "Possibly,"
he agreed. "But that wouldn't
explain the broken jaw."

Mr Scott ignored the comment and
pressed on.

  "What percentage of people in
Britain are blood group B?"

                34
                 
          THE PERFECT MURDER

  "About five, six per cent,"
volunteered the doctor.

  "Two and a half million people," said
Mr Scott, and waited for the figure to
sink in before he suddenly changed
tack.

  But as hard as he tried he could not
shift the pathologist on the time of
death or on the fact that sexual
intercourse must have taken place
around the hours his client had been
with Carla.

  When Mr Scott sat down the judge
asked Sir Humphrey if he wished to
re-examine.

  "I do, my Lord. Dr Mallins, you told
the court that Miss Moorland suffered
from a brokenjaw and lacerations on the
back of her head. Could the lacerations
have been caused by falling on to a
blunt object after the jaw had been
broken?"

  "I must object, my Lord," said Mr
Scott, rising with unusual speed. "This
is a leading question."

  MrJustice Buchanan leaned forward and
peered down at the doctor. "I agree, Mr
Scott, but I would like to know if Dr
Mallins found blood group 0, Miss
Moorland's blood group, on any other
object in the room?"

  "Yes, my Lord'" replied the doctor.
"On the edge of the glass table in the
centre of the room."

  "Thank you, Dr Mallins," said Sir
Humphrey. "No more questions."

 '   Sir Humphrey's next witness was
Mrs Rita

Johnson, the lady who claimed she had
seen everything.

  "Mrs Johnson, on the evening of April
7th, did you see a man leave the block
of flats where Miss Moorland lived?"
Sir Humphrey asked.

"Yes, I did."

                  35
                   
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

"At about what time was that?"

"A few minutes after six."

"Please tell the court what
happened next."

  "He walked across the road,
removed a parking ticket, got into
his car and drove away."

"Do you see that man in the court
today?"

  "Yes," she said firmly, pointing
to Menzies, who at this suggestion
shook his head vigorously.

"No more questions."

Mr Scott rose slowly again.

  "What did you say was the make of
the car the man got into?"

  "I can't be sure," MrsJohnson
said, "but I think it was a BMW."

  "Not a Rover as you first told the
police the following morning?"

The witness did not reply.

  "And did you actually see the man
in question remove a parking ticket
from the car windscreen?" Mr Scott
asked.

"I think so, sir, but it all
happened so quickly."

  "I'm sure it did," said Mr Scott.
"In fact, I suggest to you that it
happened so quickly that you've got
the wrong man and the wrong car."

  "No, sir," she replied, but
without the same conviction with
which she had delivered her earlier
replies.

  Sir Humphrey did not re-examine
MrsJohnson. I realised that he
wanted her evidence to be forgotten
by the jury as quickly as possible.
As it was, when she left the
witness box she also left everyone
in court in considerable doubt.

  Carla's daily, Maria Lucia, was
far more convincing. She stated
unequivocally that she had seen

                36
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

Menzies in the living room ofthe
flat that afternoon when she
arrived a little before five.
However, she had, she admitted,
never seen him before that day.

  "But isn't it true," asked Sir
Humphrey, "that you usually only
work in the mornings?"

  "Yes," she replied. "Although Miss
Moorland was in the habit of
bringing work home on a Thursday
afternoon so it was convenient for
me to come in and collect my
wages."

  "And how was Miss Moorland dressed
that afternoon?" asked Sir
Humphrey.

"In her blue morning coat," replied
the daily.

  "Is this how she usually dressed
on a Thursday afternoon?"

  "No, sir, but I assumed she was
going to have a bath before going
out that evening."

  "But when you left the flat was
she still with Mr Menzies?"

"Yes, sir."

  "Do you remember anything else she
was wearing that day?"

  "Yes, sir. Underneath the morning
coat she wore a red negligee."

  My negligee was duly produced and
Maria Lucia identified it. At this
point I stared directly at the
witness but she showed not a
flicker of recognition. I thanked
all the gods in the Pantheon that I
had never once been to visit Carla
in the morning.

  "Please wait there," were Sir
Humphrey's final words to Miss
Lucia.

Mr Scott rose to cross-examine.

  "Miss Lucia, you have told the
court that the purpose of the visit
was to collect your wages. How long
were you at the flat on this
occasion?"

                37
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  "I did a little clearing up in the
kitchen and ironed a blouse,
perhaps twenty minutes."

"Did you see Miss Moorland during
this time?"

  "Yes, I went into the drawing room
to ask if she would like some more
coffee but she said no."

"Was Mr Menzies with her at the
time?"

"Yes, he was."

  "Were you at any time aware of a
quarrel between the two of them or
even raised voices?"

"No, sir."

  "When you saw them together did
Miss Moorland show any signs of
distress or need of help?"

"No, sir."

"Then what happened?"

  "Miss Moorland joined me in the
kitchen a few minutes later, gave
me my wages and I let myself out."

  "When you were alone in the
kitchen with Miss Moorland, did she
give any sign of being afraid of
her guest?"

"No, sir."

"No more questions, my Lord."

  Sir Humphrey did not re-examine
Maria Lucia and informed the judge
that he had completed the case for
the prosecution. Mr Justice
Buchanan nodded and said he felt
that was enough for the day; but I
wasn't convinced it was enough to
convict Menzies.

  When I got home that night
Elizabeth did not ask me where I
had been, and I did not volunteer
any information. I spent the
evening pretending to go over job
applications.

* * *

                38
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

The following morning I had a late
breakfast and read the papers before
returning to my place at the end of
a row in Court No. 4, only a few
moments before the judge made his
entrance.

  MrJustice Buchanan, having sat
down, adjusted his wig before
calling on Mr Scott to open the case
for the defence. Mr Scott, QC, was
once again slow to rise - a man-paid
by the hour, I thought uncharitably.
He started by promising the court
that his opening address would be
brief, and he then remained on his
feet for the next two and a half
hours.

  He began the case for the defence
by going over in detail the relevant
parts, as he saw them, of Menzies's
past. He assured us all that those
who wished to dissect it later would
only find an unblemished record.
Paul Menzies was a happily married
man who lived in Sutton with his
wife and three children, Polly, aged
twenty-one, Michael, nineteen, and
Sally, sixteen. Two of the children
were now at university and the
youngest had just completed her
GCSE. Doctors had advised Mrs
Menzies not to attend the trial,
following her recent release from
hospital. I noticed two of the women
on the jury smile sympathetically.

  Mr Menzies, Mr Scott continued,
had been with the same firm of
insurance brokers in the City of
London for the past six years and,
although he had not been promoted,
he was a much respected member of
the staff. He was a pillar of his
local community, having served with
the Territorial Army and on the
committee of the local camera club.
He had once even stood for the
Sutton council. He could hardly be
described as a serious candidate as
a murderer.

                39
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  Mr Scott then went on to the
actual day of the killing and
confirmed that Mr Menzies had an
appointment with Miss Moorland on
the afternoon in question, but in a
strictly professional capacity with
the sole purpose of helping her with
a personal insurance plan. There
could have been no other reason to
visit Miss Moorland during office
hours. He did not have sexual
intercourse with her and he
certainly did not murder her.

  The defendant had left his client
a few minutes after six. He
understood she had intended to
change before going out to dinner
with her sister in Fulham. He had
arranged to see her the following
Wednesday at his of lice for the
purpose of drawing up the completed
policy. The defence, Mr Scott went
on, would later produce a diary
entry that would establish the truth
of this statement.

  The charge against the accused
was, he submitted, based almost
completely on circumstantial
evidence. He felt confident that,
when the trial reached its
conclusion, the jury would be left
with no choice but to release his
client back into the bosom of his
loving family. "You must end this
nightmare," Mr Scott concluded. "It
has gone on far too long for an
innocent man."

  At this point the judge suggested
a break for lunch. During the meal
I was unable to concentrate or even
take in what was being said around
me. The majority of those who had an
opinion to give now seemed convinced
that Menzies was innocent.

  As soon as we returned, at ten
past two, Mr Scott called his first
witness: the defendant himself.

  Paul Menzies left the dock and
walked slowly over to the witness
box. He took a copy of the New

                40
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

Testament in his right hand and
haltingly read the words of the
oath, from a card which he held in
his left.

  Every eye was fixed on him while
MrScott began to guide his client
carefully through the minefield of
evidence.

  Menzies became progressively more
confident in his delivery as the
day wore on, and when at four
thirty the judge told the court,
"That's enough for today," I was
convinced that he would get off,
even if only by a majority verdict.

  I spent a fitful night before
returning to my place on the third
day fearing the worst. Would
Menzies be released and would they
then start looking for me?

  Mr Scott opened the third morning
as gently as he had begun the
second, but he repeated so many
questions from the previous day
that it became obvious he was only
steadying his client in preparation
for prosecuting counsel. Before he
finally sat down he asked Menzies
for a third time, "Did you ever
have sexual intercourse with Miss
Moorland?"

  "No, sir. I had only met her for
the first time that day," Menzies
replied firmly.

"And did you murder Miss Moorland?"

  "Certainly not, sir," said
Menzies, his voice now strong and
confident.

  Mr Scott resumed his place, a look
of quiet satisfaction on his face.

  In fairness to Menzies, very
little which takes place in normal
life could have prepared anyone for
cross-examination by Sir Humphrey
Mountcliff. I could not have asked
for a better advocate.

                41
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  "I'd like to start, if I may, Mr
Menzies," he began, "with what your
counsel seems to set great store by
as proof of your innocence."

  Menzies's thin lips remained in a
firm straight line.

  "The pertinent entry in your diary
which suggests that you made a
second appointment to see Miss
Moorland, the murdered woman" -
three words Sir Humphrey was to
repeat again and again during his
cross-examination - "for the
Wednesday after she had been
killed."

"Yes, sir," said Menzies.

  "This entry was made - correct me
if I'm wrong - following your
Thursday meeting at Miss Moorland's
flat."

  "Yes, sir," said Menzies,
obviously tutored not to add
anything that might later help
prosecuting counsel.

  "So when did you make that entry?"
Sir Humphrey asked.

"On the Friday morning."

"After Miss Moorland had been
killed?"

"Yes, but I didn't know."

"Do you carry a diary on you, Mr
Menzies?"

  "Yes, but only a small pocket
diary, not my large desk one."

"Do you have it with you today?"

"I do."

"May I be allowed to see it?"

  Reluctantly Menzies took a small
green diary out of his jacket
pocket and handed it over to the
clerk of the court, who in turn
passed it on to Sir Humphrey. Sir
Humphrey began to leaf through the
pages.

                42
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

  "I see that there is no entry for
your appointment with Miss Moorland
for the afternoon on which she was
murdered?"

  "No, sir," said Menzies. "I put
office appointments only in my desk
diary, personal appointments are
restricted to my pocket diary."

  "I understand," said Sir Humphrey.
He paused and looked up. "But isn't
it strange, Mr Menzies, that you
agreed to an appointment with a
client to discuss further business
and you then trusted it to memory,
when you so easily could have put
it in the diary you carry around
with you all the time before
transferring it?"

  "I might have written it down on
a slip of paper at the time, but as
I explained that's a personal
diary."

  "Is it?" said Sir Humphrey as he
flicked back a few more pages. "Who
is David Paterson?" he asked.

Menzies looked as if he were trying
to place him.

  "Mr David Paterson, 112 City Road,
11.30, January 9th this year," Sir
Humphrey read out to the court.
Menzies looked anxious. "We could
subpoena Mr Paterson if you can't
recall the meeting," said Sir
Humphrey helpfully.

  "He's a client of my firm," said
Menzies in a quiet voice.

  "A client of your firm," Sir
Humphrey repeated slowly. "I wonder
how many of those I could find if I
went through your diary at a more
leisurely pace?" Menzies bowed his
head as Sir Humphrey passed the
diary back to the clerk, having
made his point.

  "Now I should like to turn to some
more important questions . . ."

"Not until after lunch, Sir
Humphrey," the

                43
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

judge intervened. "It's nearly one
and I think we'll take a break
now."

  "As you wish, my Lord," came back
the courteous reply.

  I left the court in a more
optimistic mood, even though I
couldn't wait to discover what
could be more important than that
diary. Sir Humphrey's emphasis on
little lies, although they did not
prove Menzies was a murderer, did
show he was hiding something. I
became anxious that during the
break Mr Scott might advise Menzies
to admit to his affair with Carla,
and thus make the rest of his story
appear more credible. To my relief,
over the meal I learned that under
English law Menzies could not
consult his counsel while he was
still in the witness box. I noticed
when we returned to court that Mr
Scott's smile had disappeared.

  Sir Humphrey rose to continue his
crossexamination.

  "You have stated under oath, Mr
Menzies, that you are a happily
married man."

"I am, sir," said the defendant
with feeling.

  "Was your first marriage as happy,
Mr Menzies?" asked Sir Humphrey
casually. The defendant's cheeks
drained of their colour. I quickly
looked over towards Mr Scott who
could not mask that this was
information with which he had not
been entrusted.

  "Take your time before you
answer," said Sir Humphrey.

All eyes turned to the man in the
witness box.

  "No," said Menzies and quickly
added, "but I was very young at the
time. It was many years ago and all
a ghastly mistake."

                44
                 
THE PERFECT MURDER

_ .

  "All a ghastly mistake?" repeated
Sir Humphrey, looking straight at
the jury. "And how did that marriage
end?"

"In divorce," Menzies said quite
simply.

"And what were the grounds for that
divorce?"

"Cruelty," said Menzies, "but. . ."

  "But . . . would you like me to
read out to the jury what your first
wife swore under oath in court that
day?"

  Menzies stood there shaking. He
knew that "No" would damn him and
"Yes" would hang him.

  "Well, as you seem unable to advise
us I will, with your permission, my
Lord, read the statement made before
MrJustice Rodger on dune 9th, 1961,
at the Swindon County Court by the
first Mrs Menzies." Sir Humphrey
cleared his throat. "'He used to hit
me again and again, and it became so
bad that I had to run away for fear
he might one day kill me."' Sir
Humphrey emphasised the last five
words.

  "She was exaggerating," shouted
Menzies from the witness box.

  "How unfortunate that poor Miss
Carla Moorland cannot be with us
today to let us know if your story
about her is also an exaggeration."

  "I object, my Lord," said Mr Scott.
"Sir Humphrey is harassing the
witness."

  "I agree," said the judge. "Tread
more carefully in future, Sir
Humphrey."

  "I apologise, my Lord," said Sir
Humphrey, sounding singularly
unapologetic. He dosed the file to
which he had been referring and
replaced it on the desk in front of
him before taking up a new

                 45
                  
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

one. He opened it slowly, making
sure all in the court were
following every movement before he
extracted a single sheet of paper.

  "How many mistresses have you had
since you were married to the
second Mrs Menzies?"

  "Objection, my Lord. How can this
be relevant?"

  "My Lord, it is relevant, I
respectfully suggest. I intend to
show that this was not a business
relationship that Mr Menzies was
conducting with Miss Moorland but a
highly personal one."

  "The question can be put to the
defendant," ruled the judge.

  Menzies said nothing as Sir
Humphrey held up the sheet of paper
in front of him and studied t.

  "Take your time because I want the
exact number," Sir Humphrey said,
looking over the top of his
glasses.

The seconds ticked on as we all
waited.

  "Hm - three, I think," Menzies
said eventually in a voice that
just carried. The gentlemen of the
press began scribbling furiously.

  "Three," said Sir Humphrey,
staring at his piece of paper in
disbelief.

"Well, perhaps four."

  "And was the fourth Miss Carla
Moorland?" Sir Humphrey asked.
"Because you had sexual intercourse
with her that evening, didn't you?"

  "No, I did not," said Menzies, but
by this time few in that courtroom
could have believed him.

  "Very well then," continued Sir
Humphrey, as he placed the piece of
paper on the bench in front of him.
"But before I return to your
relationship with

                ~6
                 
         THE PERFECT MURDER

Miss Moorland, let us discover the
truth about the other four."

  I stared at the piece of paper
from which Sir Humphrey had been
reading. From where I was seated I
could see that there was nothing
written on it at all. A blank white
sheet lay before him.

  I was finding it hard to keep a
grin off my face. Menzies's
adulterous background was an unex-
pected bonus for me and the press -
and I couldn't help wondering how
Carla would have reacted if she had
known about it.

  Sir Humphrey spent the rest of the
day making Menzies relate the
details of his previous rela-
tionships with the four mistresses.
The court was agog and the
journalists continued to scribble
away, knowing they were about to
have a field day. When the court
rose Mr Scott's eyes were closed.

  I drove home that night feeling
not a little pleased with myself;
like a man who had just completed a
good day's work.

  On entering the courtroom the
following morning I noticed people
were beginning to acknowledge other
regulars and nod. I found myself
falling into the same pattern and
greeted people silently as I took my
regular position on the end of the
bench.

  Sir Humphrey spent the morning
going over some of Menzies's other
misdemeanours. We discovered that he
had served in the Territorial Army
for only five months and left after
a misunderstanding with his
commanding officer over how many
hours he should have been spending
on exercises during weekends and how
much he had claimed in expenses for
those hours. We also learned that
his attempts to get on the local
council sprung more

                 47
                  
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

from anger at being refused
planning permission to build on a
piece of land adjoining his house
than from an altruistic desire to
serve his fellow men. To be fair,
Sir Humphrey could have made the
Archangel Gabriel look like a
soccer hooligan; but his trump card
was still to come.

  "Mr Menzies, I should now like to
return to your version of what
happened on the night Miss Moorland
was killed."

"Yes," sighed Menzies in a tired
voice.

  "When you visit a client to
discuss one of your policies, how
long would you say such a consulta-
tion usually lasts?"

  "Usually halfan hour, an hour at
the most," said Menzies.

  "And how long did the consultation
with Miss Moorland take?"

"A good hour," said Menzies.

  "And you left her, if I remember
your evidence correctly, a little
after six o'clock."

"That is correct."

"And what time was your
appointment?"

  "At five o'clock, as was shown
clearly in my desk diary," said
Menzies.

  "Well, Mr Menzies, if you arrived
at about five to keep your
appointment with Miss Moorland and
left a little after six, how did
you manage to get a parking fine?"

  "I didn't have any small change
for the meter at the time," said
Menzies confidently. "As I was
already a couple of minutes late, I
just risked it."

  "You just risked it," repeated Sir
Humphrey slowly. "You are obviously
a man who takes risks, Mr Menzies.
I wonder if you would be good
enough

                48
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

to look at the parking ticket in
question."

The clerk handed it up to Menzies.

  "Would you read out to the court
the hour and minute that the
traffic warden has written in the
little boxes to show when the
offence occurred."

Once again Menzies took a long time
to reply.

"Four sixteen to four thirty," he
said eventually.

"I didn't hear that," said the
judge.

  "Would you be kind enough to
repeat what you said for the
judge?" Sir Humphrey asked.

Menzies repeated the damning
figures.

  "So now we have established that
you were in fact with Miss Moorland
some time before four sixteen,and
not, as I suggestyou
laterwroteinyourdiary, five
o'clock. That was just another lie,
wasn't it?"

  "No," said Menzies. "I must have
arrived a little earlier than I
realised."

  "At least an hour earlier, it
seems. And I also suggest to you
that you arrived at that early hour
because your interest in Carla
Moorland was not simply
professional?"

"That's not true."

  "Then it wasn't your intention
that she should become your
mistress?"

  Menzies hesitated long enough for
Sir Humphrey to answer his own
question. "Because the business
part of your meeting finished in
the usual half hour, did it not, Mr
Menzies?" He waited for a response
but still none was forthcoming.

"What is your blood group, Mr
Menzies?"

"I have no idea."

  Sir Humphrey without warning
changed tack: "Have you heard of
DNA, by any chance?"

"No," came back the puzzled reply.

                49
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  "Deoxyribonucleic acid is a proven
technique that shows genetic
information can be unique to every
individual. Blood or semen samples
can be matched. Semen, Mr Menzies,
is as unique as any fingerprint.
With such a sample we would know
immediately if you raped Miss
Moorland."

"I didn't rape her," Menzies said
indignantly.

  "Nevertheless sexual intercourse
did take place, didn't it?" said
Sir Humphrey quietly.

Menzies remained silent.

  "Shall I recall the Home Office
pathologist and ask him to carry
out a DNA test?"

Menzies still made no reply.

  "And check your blood group?" Sir
Humphrey paused. "I will ask you
once again, Mr Menzies. Did sexual
intercourse between you and the
murdered woman take place that
Thursday afternoon?"

"Yes, sir," said Menzies in a
whisper.

  "Yes, sir," repeated Sir Humphrey
so that the whole court could hear
it.

  "But it wasn't rape," Menzies
shouted back at Sir Humphrey.

"Wasn't it?" said Sir Humphrey.

"And I swear I didn't kill her."

  I must have been the only person
in that courtroom who knew he was
telling the truth. All Sir Humphrey
said was; "No more questions, my
Lord."

  Mr Scott tried manfully to
resurrect his client's credibility
during re-examination but the fact
that Menzies had been caught lying
about his relationship with Carla
made everything he had said
previously appear doubtful.

If only Menzies had told the truth
about being

                50
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

Carla's lover, his story might well
have been accepted. I wondered why
he had gone through the charade- in
order to protect his wife? Whatever
the motive, it had only ended by
making him appear guilty of a crime
he hadn't committed.

  I went home that night and ate the
largest meal I had had for several
days.

  The following morning Mr Scott
called two more witnesses. The
first turned out to be the vicar of
St Peter's, Sutton, who was there
as a character witness to prove
what a pillar of the community
Menzies was. After Sir Humphrey had
finished his cross-examination the
vicar ended up looking like a
rather kind, unworldly old man,
whose knowledge of Menzies was
based on the latter's occasional
attendance at Sunday matins.

  The second was Menzies's superior
at the company they both worked for
in the City. He was a far more
impressive figure but he was unable
to confirm that Miss Moorland had
ever been a client of the company.

  Mr Scott put up no more witnesses
and informed Mr Justice Buchanan
that he had completed the case for
the defence. The judge nodded and,
turning to Sir Humphrey, told him
he would not be required to begin
his final address until the
following morning.

That heralded the signal for the
court to rise.

  Another long evening and an even
longer night had to be endured by
Menzies and myself. As on every
other day during the trial, I made
sure I was in my place the next
morning before the judge entered.

Sir Humphrey's closing speech was
masterful.

                51
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

Every little untruth was logged so
that one began to accept that very
little of Menzies's testimony could
be relied on.

  "We will never know for certain,"
said Sir Humphrey, "for what reason
poor young Carla Moorland was
murdered. Refusal to succumb to
Menzies's advances? A fit of temper
which ended with a blow that caused
her to fall and later die alone?
But there are, however, some
things, members of the jury, of
which we can be quite certain.

  "We can be certain that Menzies
was with the murdered woman that
day before the hour of four sixteen
because of the evidence of the
damning parking ticket.

  "We can be certain that he left a
little after six because we have a
witness who saw him drive away, and
he does not himself deny this
evidence.

  "And we can be certain that he
wrote a false entry in his diary to
make you believe he had a business
appointment with the murdered woman
at five, rather than a personal
assignation some time before.

  "And we can now be certain that he
lied about having sexual
intercourse with Miss Moorland a
short time before she was killed,
though we cannot be certain if
intercourse took place before or
after her jaw had been broken." Sir
Humphrey's eyes rested on the jury
before he continued.

  "We can, finally, establish,
beyond reasonable doubt, from the
pathologist's report, the time of
death and that, therefore, Menzies
was the last person who could
possibly have seen Carla Moorland
alive.

"Therefore no one else could have
killed Carla

                52
                 
        THE PERFECT MURDER

Moorland - for do not forget
Inspector Simmons's evidence - and
if you accept that, you can be in
no doubt that only Menzies could
have been responsible for her
death. And how damning you must
have found it that he tried to hide
the existence of a first wife who
had left him on the grounds of his
cruelty, and the four mistresses
who left him we know not why or
how. Only one less than Bluebeard,"
Sir Humphrey added with feeling.

  "For the sake of every young girl
who lives on her own in our
capital, you must carry out your
duty, however painful that duty
might be. And find Menzies guilty
of murder."

  When Sir Humphrey sat down I
wanted to applaud.

  The judge sent us away for another
break. Voices all around me were
now damning Menzies. I listened
contentedly without offering an
opinion. I knew that if the jury
convicted Menzies the file would be
closed and no eyes would ever be
turned in my direction. I was
seated in my place before thejudge
appeared at ten past two. He called
on Mr Scott.

  Menzies's counsel put up a
spirited defence of his client,
pointing out that almost all the
evidence that Sir Humphrey had come
up with had been circumstantial,
and that it was even possible
someone else could have visited
Carla Moorland after his client had
left that night. Mr Scott's bushy
eyebrows seemed almost to have a
life of their own as he
energetically emphasised that it
was the prosecution's
responsibility to prove their case
beyond reasonable doubt and not his
to disprove it, and that, in his
opinion, his learned friend, Sir
Humphrey, had failed to do so.

                53
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  During his summing-up Scott
avoided any mention of diary
entries, parking tickets, past
mistresses, sexual intercourse or
questions of his client's role in
the community. A latecomer listen-
ing only to the closing speeches
might have been forgiven for
thinking the two learned gentlemen
were summarising different cases.

  Mr Scott's expression became grim
as he turned to face the jury for
his summation. "The twelve of you,"
he said, "hold the fate of my
client in your hands. You must,
therefore, be certain, I repeat,
certain beyond reasonable doubt
that Paul Menzies could have
committed such an evil crime as
murder.

  "This is not a trial about Mr
Menzies's lifestyle, his position
in the community or even his sexual
habits. If adultery were a crime I
feel confident Mr Menzies would not
be the only person in this
courtroom to be in the dock today."
He paused as his eyes swept up and
down the jury.

  "For this reason I feel confident
that you will find it in your
hearts to release my client from
the torment he has been put through
during the last seven months. He
has surely been shown to be an
innocent man deserving of your
compassion."

  Mr Scott sank down on the bench
having, I felt, given his client a
glimmer of hope.

  The judge told us that he would
not begin his own summing-up until
Monday morning.

  The weekend seemed interminable to
me. By Monday I had convinced
myself that enough members of the
jury would feel there just had not
been sufficient evidence to
convict.

As soon as the trial was under way
the judge

                54
                 
THE PERFECT MURDER
                        -
began by explaining once again that
it was the jury alone who must make
the ultimate decision. It was not
his job to let them know how he
felt, but only to advise them on the
law.

  He went back over all the
evidence, trying to put it in
perspective, but he never gave as
much as a hint as to his own
opinions. When he had completed his
summing-up late that afternoon he
sent the jury away to consider their
verdict.

  I waited with nearly as much
anxiety as Menzies must have done
while I listened to others giving
their opinion as the minutes ticked
by in that little room. Then, four
hours later, a note was sent up to
thejudge.

  He immediately asked the jury to
return to their places while the
press flooded back into the court-
room, making it look like the House
of Commons on Budget Day. The clerk
dutifully handed up the note to Mr
Justice Buchanan. He opened it and
read what only twelve other people
in the courtroom could have known.

  He handed it back to the clerk who
then read the note to a silent
court.

  Mr Justice Buchanan frowned before
asking if there were any chance of a
unanimous verdict being reached if
he allowed more time. Once he had
learned that it was proving
impossible he reluctantly nodded his
agreement to a majority verdict.

  The jury disappeared downstairs
again to continue their
deliberations, and did not return to
their places for another three
hours. I could sense the tension in
the court as neighbours sought to
give opinions to each other in noisy
whispers. The clerk called for
silence as thejudge waited for
everyone to settle before he
instructed the clerk to proceed.

                 55
                  
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  When the clerk rose, I could
hear the person next to me
breathing.

"Would the Foreman please stand?"

I rose from my place.

  "Have you reached a verdict on
which at least ten of you are
agreed?"

"We have, sir."

  "Do you find the defendant, Paul
Menzies, guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty," I replied.

                56
                 
CLEAN SWEEP ICNATIUS

_ .

          I

                 EW
showed much interest
when Ignatius Agarbi
was appointed Niger-
ia's Minister of
Finance. After all,
the cynics pointed
out, he was the
seventeenth person to
hold the office in
seventeen years.

  In Ignatius's first
major policy
statement to
Parliament he
promised to end graft
and corruption in
public life and
warned the electorate
that no one holding
an official position
could feel safe
unless he led a
blameless life. He
ended his maiden
speech with the
words, "I intend to
clear out Nigeria's
Augean stables."

  Such was the impact
of the minister's
speech that it failed
to get a mention in
the Lagos Daily
Times. Perhaps the
editor considered
that, since the paper
had covered the
speeches of the
previous sixteen
ministers in extenso,
his readers might
feel they had heard
it all before.

  Ignatius, however,
was not to be
disheartened by the
lack of confidence
shown in him, and set
about his new task
with vigour and
determination. Within
days of his
appointment he had
caused a minor of
ficial at the
Ministry of Trade to
be jailed

         59
          
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

for falsifying documents relating
to the import of grain. The next to
feel the bristles of Ignatius's new
broom was a leading Lebanese
financier, who was deported without
trial for breach of the exchange
control regulations. A month later
came an event which even Ignatius
considered a personal coup: the
arrest of the Inspector General of
Police for accepting bribes - a
perk the citizens of Lagos had in
the past considered went with
thejob. When four months later the
Police Chief was sentenced to
eighteen months in jail, the new
Finance Minister finally made the
front page of the Lagos Daily
Times. A leader on the centre page
dubbed him "Clean Sweep Ignatius",
the new broom every guilty man
feared. Ignatius's reputation as Mr
Clean continued to grow as arrest
followed arrest and unfounded
rumours began circulating in the
capital that even General Otobi,
the Head of State, was under
investigation by his own Finance
Minister.

  Ignatius alone now checked, vetted
and authorised all foreign
contracts worth over one hundred
million dollars. And although every
decision he made was meticulously
scrutinized by his enemies, not a
breath of scandal ever became
associated with his name.

  When Ignatius began his second
year of office as Minister of
Finance even the cynics began to
acknowledge his achievements. It
was about this time that General
Otobi felt confident enough to call
Ignatius in for an unscheduled
consultation.

  The Head of State welcomed the
Minister to Dodan Barracks and
ushered him to a comfortable chair
in his study overlooking the parade
ground.

                60
                 
       CLEAN SWEEP IGNATIUS

  "Ignatius, I have just finished
going over the latest budget report
and I am alarmed by your conclusion
that the Exchequer is still losing
millions of dollars each year in
bribes paid to gobetweens by foreign
companies. Have you any idea into
whose pockets this money is falling?
That's what I want to know."

  Ignatius sat bolt upright, his
eyes never leaving the Head of
State.

  "I suspect a great percentage of
the money is ending up in private
Swiss bank accounts but I am at
present unable to prove it."

  "Then I will give you whatever
added authority you require to do
so," said General Otobi. "You can
use any means you consider necessary
to ferret out these villains. Start
by investigating every member of my
Cabinet, past and present. And show
no fear or favour in your
endeavours, no matter what their
rank or connections."

  "For such a task to have any
chance of success I would need a
special letter of authority signed
by you, General . . ."

  "Then it will be on your desk by
six o'clock this evening," said the
Head of State.

  "And the rank of Ambassador
Plenipotentiary whenever I travel
abroad."

"Granted."

  "Thank you," said Ignatius, rising
from his chair on the assumption
that the audience was over.

  "You may also need this," said the
General as they walked towards the
door. The Head of State handed
Ignatius a small automatic pistol.
"Because I suspect by now that you
have almost as many enemies as I."

                61
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  Ignatius took the pistol from the
soldier awkwardly, put it in his
pocket and mumbled his thanks.

  Without another word passing
between the two men Ignatius left
his leader and was driven back to
his Ministry.

  Without the knowledge of the
Governor of the Central Bank of
Nigeria and unhindered by any
senior civil servants, Ignatius
enthusiastically set about his new
task. He researched alone at night,
and by day discussed his findings
with no one. Three months later he
was ready to pounce.

  The Minister selected the month of
August to make an unscheduled visit
abroad as it was the time when most
Nigerians went on holiday and his
absence would therefore not be
worthy of comment.

  He asked his Permanent Secretary
to book him, his wife and their two
children on a flight to Orlando,
and to be certain that it was
charged to his personal account.

  On their arrival in Florida the
family checked into the local
Marriott Hotel. He then informed
his wife, without warning or
explanation, that he would be
spending a few days in New York on
business before rejoining them for
the rest of the holiday. The
following morning Ignatius left his
family to the mysteries of Disney
World while he took a flight to New
York. It was a short taxi ride from
La Guardia to Kennedy, where, after
a change of clothes and the
purchase of a return tourist ticket
for cash, Ignatius boarded a
Swissair flight for Geneva
unobserved.

  Once in the Swiss capital Ignatius
booked into an inconspicuous hotel,
retired to bed and slept

                62
                 
       CLEAN SWEEP IGNATIUS

soundly for eight hours. Over
breakfast the following morning he
studied the list of banks he had so
carefully drawn up after completing
his research in Nigeria: each name
was written out boldly in his own
hand. Ignatius decided to start
with Gerber et Cie whose building,
he observed from the hotel bedroom,
took up half the Avenue de
Parchine. He checked the telephone
number with the concierge before
placing a call. The chairman agreed
to see him at twelve o'clock.

  Carrying only a battered
briefcase, Ignatius arrived at the
bank a few minutes before the
appointed hour- an unusual
occurrence for a Nigerian, thought
the young man dressed in a smart
grey suit, white shirt and grey
silk tie, who was waiting in the
marble hall to greet him. He bowed
to the Minister, introducing
himself as the chairman's personal
assistant, and explained that he
would accompany Ignatius to the
chairman's office. The young
executive led the Minister to a
waiting lift and neither man
uttered another word until they had
reached the eleventh floor. A
gentle tap on the chairman's door
elicited "Entree," which the young
man obeyed.

"The Nigerian Minister of Finance,
sir."

  The chairman rose from behind his
desk and stepped forward to greet
his guest. Ignatius could not help
noticing that he too wore a grey
suit, white shirt and grey silk
tie.

  "Good morning, Minister," the
chairman said. "Won't you have a
seat?" He ushered Ignatius towards
a low glass table surrounded by
comfortable chairs on the far side
of the room. "I have ordered coffee
for both of us if that is
acceptable."

               63 '
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  Ignatius nodded, placed the
battered briefcase on the floor by
the side of his chair and stared out
of the large plate-glass window. He
made some smalltalk about the
splendid view of the magnificent
fountain while a girl served all
three men with coffee.

  Once the young woman had left the
room Ignatius got down to business.

  "My Head of State has requested
that I visit your bank with a rather
unusual request," he began. Not a
flicker of surprise appeared on the
face of the chairman or his young
assistant. "He has honoured me with
the task of discovering which
Nigerian citizens hold numbered
accounts with your bank."

  On learning this piece of
information only the chairman's lips
moved. "I am not at liberty to
disclose -"

  "Allow me to put my case," said
the Minister, raising a white palm.
"First, let me assure you that I
come with the absolute authority of
my government." Without another
word, Ignatius extracted an envelope
from his inside pocket with a
flourish. He handed it to the
chairman who removed the letter
inside and read it slowly.

  Once he had finished reading, the
banker cleared his throat. "This
document, I fear, sir, carries no
validity in my country." He replaced
it in the envelope and handed it
back to Ignatius. "I am, of course,"
continued the chairman, "not for one
moment doubting that you have the
full backing of your Head of State,
both as a Minister and an
Ambassador, but that does not change
the bank's rule of confidentiality
in such matters. There are no
circumstances in which we would
release the

                64
                 
       CLEAN SWEEP IGNATIUS

names of any of our account holders
without their authority. I'm sorry
to be of so little help, but those
are, and will always remain, the
bank rules." The chairman rose to
his feet, as he considered the
meeting was now at an end; but he
had not bargained for Clean Sweep
Ignatius.

  "My Head of State," said Ignatius,
softening his tone perceptibly,
"has authorized me to approach your
bank to act as the intermediary for
all future transactions between my
country and Switzerland."

  "We are flattered by your
confidence in us, Minister,"
replied the chairman, who remained
standing. "However, I feel sure
that you will understand that it
cannot alter our attitude to our
customers' confidentiality."

Ignatius remained unperturbed.

  "Then I am sorry to inform you, Mr
Gerber, that our Ambassador in
Geneva will be instructed to make
an official communique to the Swiss
Foreign Of lice about the lack of
co-operation your bank has shown
concerning requests for information
about our nationals." He waited for
his words to sink in. "You could
avoid such embarrassment, of
course, by simply letting me know
the names of my countrymen who hold
accounts with Gerber et Cie and the
amounts involved. I can assure you
we would not reveal the source of
our information."

  "You are most welcome to lodge
such a communique, sir, and I feel
sure that our Minister will explain
to your Ambassador in the most
courteous of diplomatic language
that the Foreign Ministry does not
have the authority under Swiss law
to demand such disclosures."

"If that is the case, I shall
instruct my own

                ~5
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

Ministry of Trade to halt all
future dealings in Nigeria with any
Swiss nationals until these names
are revealed."

  "That is your privilege,
Minister," replied the chairman,
unmoved.

  "And we may also have to
reconsider every contract currently
being negotiated by your countrymen
in Nigeria. And in addition I shall
personally see to it that no
penalty clauses are honoured."

  "Would you not consider such
action a little precipitate?"

  "Let me assure you, Mr Gerber,
that I would not lose one moment of
sleep over such a decision," said
Ignatius. "Even if my efforts to
discover those names were to bring
your country to its knees I would
not be moved."

  "So be it, Minister," replied the
chairman. "However, it still does
not alter the policy or the
attitude of this bank to
confidentiality."

  "If that remains the case, sir,
this very day I shall give
instructions to our Ambassador to
close our Embassy in Geneva and I
shall declare your Ambassador in
Lagos persona non "rata."

  For the first time the chairman
raised his eyebrows.

  "Furthermore," continued Ignatius,
"I will hold a conference in London
which will leave the world's press
in no doubt of my Head of State's
displeasure with the conduct of
this bank. After such publicity I
feel confident you will find that
many of your customers would prefer
to close their accounts, while
others who have in the past
considered you a safe haven may
find it necessary to look
elsewhere."

 66            .

       CLEAN SWEEP IGNATIUS

  The Minister waited but still the
chairman did not respond.

  "Then you leave me no choice,"
said Ignatius, rising from his
seat.

  The chairman stretched out his
arm, assuming that at last the
Minister was leaving, only to watch
with horror as Ignatius placed a
hand in his jacket pocket and
removed a small pistol. The two
Swiss bankers froze as the Nigerian
Minister of Finance stepped forward
and pressed the muzzle against the
chairman's temple.

  "I need those names, Mr Gerber,
and by now you must realise I will
stop at nothing. If you don't
supply them immediately I'm going
to blow your brains out. Do you
understand?"

  The chairman gave a slight nod,
beads of sweat appearing on his
forehead. "And he will be next,"
said Ignatius, gesturing towards
the young assistant, who stood
speechless and paralysed a few
paces away.

  "Get me the names of every
Nigerian who holds an account in
this bank," Ignatius said quietly,
looking towards the young man, "or
I'll blow your chairman's brains
all over his soft pile carpet.
Immediately, do you hear me?" he
added sharply.

  The young man looked towards the
chairman, who was now trembling but
said quite clearly, "Nan, Pierre,
jamais."

"D 'accord," replied the assistant
in a whisper.

  "You can't say I didn't give you
every chance." Ignatius pulled back
the hammer. The sweat was now
pouring down the chairman's face
and the young man had to turn his
eyes away as he waited in terror
for the pistol shot.

                67
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  "Excellent," said Ignatius, as he
removed the gun from the chairman's
head and returned to his seat. Both
the bankers were still trembling
and quite unable to speak.

  The Minister picked up the
battered briefcase by the side of
his chair and placed it on the
glass table in front of him. He
pressed back the clasps and the lid
flicked up.

  The two bankers stared down at the
neatly packed rows of
hundred-dollar bills. Every inch of
the briefcase had been taken up.
The chairman quickly estimated that
it probably amounted to around five
million dollars.

  "I wonder, sir," said Ignatius,
"how I go about opening an account
with your bank?"

                68
                 
A LA CARTE
  ARTHUR
  Hapgood was

demobbed on November
3rd, 1946. Within a
month he was back at
his old workplace on
the shop-floor of
the Triumph factory
on the outskirts of
Coventry.

  The five years
spent in the
Sherwood Foresters,
four of them as a
quartermaster
seconded to a tank
regiment, only
underlined Arthur's
likely post-war
fate, despite having
hoped to find more
rewarding work once
the war was over.
However, on
returning to England
he quickly
discovered that in a
"land fit for
heroes" jobs were
not that easy to
come by, and
although he did not
want to go back to
the work he had done
for five years
before war had been
declared, that of
fitting wheels on
cars, he
reluctantly, after
four weeks on the
dole, went to see
his former works'
manager at Triumph.

  "The job's yours if
you want it,
Arthur," the works'
manager assured him.

"And the future?"

  "The car's no
longer a toy for the
eccentric rich or
even just a
necessity for the
businessman," the

         71
          
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

works' manager replied. "In fact,"
he continued, "management are
preparing for the 'two-car
family'."

  "So they'll need even more wheels
to be put on cars," said Arthur
forlornly.

"That's the ticket."

  Arthur signed on within the hour
and it was only a matter of days
before he was back into his old
routine. After all, he often
reminded his wife, it didn't take a
degree in engineering to screw four
knobs on to a wheel a hundred times
a shift.

  Arthur soon accepted the Act that
he would have to settle for second
best. However, second best was not
what he planned for his son.

  Mark had celebrated his fifth
birthday before his father had even
set eyes on him, but from the
moment Arthur returned home he
lavished everything he could on the
boy.

Arthur was determined that Mark was
not going to end up working on the
shop-floor of a car factory for the
rest of his life. He put in hours
of overtime to earn enough money to
ensure that the boy could have
extra tuition in maths, general
science and English. He felt well
rewarded when the boy passed his
eleven-plus and won a place at King
Henry VIII Grammar School, and that
pride did not falter when Mark went
on to pass five O-levels and two
years later added two A-levels.

  Arthur tried not to show his
disappointment when, on Mark's
eighteenth birthday, the boy
informed him that he did not want
to go to university.

                72
                 
            A LA CARTE

  "What kind of career arc you
hoping to take up then, lad?"
Arthur enquired.

  "I've filled in an application
form to join you on the shop-floor
just as soon as I leave school."

"But why would you -"

  "Why not? Most of my friends
whotre leaving this term have
already been accepted by Triumph,
and they can't wait to get
started."

"You must be out of your mind."

  "Come off it, Dad. The pay's good
and you've shown that there's
always plenty of extra money to be
picked up with overtime. And I
don't mind hard work."

  "Do you think I spent all those
years making sure you got a
first-class education just to let
you end up like me, putting wheels
on cars for the rest of your life?"
Arthur shouted.

  "That's not the whole job and you
know it, Dad."

  "You go there over my dead body,"
said his father. "I don't care what
your friends end up doing, I only
care about you. You could be a
solicitor, an accountant, an army
officer, even a schoolmaster. Why
should you want to end up at a car
factory?"

  "It's better paid than
schoolmastering for a start," said
Mark. "My French master once told
me that he wasn't as well off as
you."

"That's not the point, lad-"

  "The point is, Dad, I can't be
expected to spend the rest of my
life doing a job I don't enjoy just
to satisfy one of your fantasies."

  "Well, I'm not going to allow you
to waste the rest of your life,"
said Arthur, getting up from the

                73
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

breakfast table. "The first thing
I'm going to do when I get in to
work this morning is see that your
application is turned down."

"That isn't fair, Dad. I have the
right to-"

  But his father had already left
the room, and did not utter another
word to the boy before leaving for
the factory.

  For over a week father and son
didn't speak to each other. It was
Mark's mother who was left to come
up with the compromise. Mark could
apply for any job that met with his
father's approval and as long as he
completed a year at that job he
could, if he still wanted to,
reapply to work at the factory. His
father for his part would not then
put any obstacle in his son's way.

  Arthur nodded. Mark also
reluctantly agreed to the solution.

  "But only if you complete the full
year," Arthur warned solemnly.

  During those last days of the
summer holiday Arthur came up with
several suggestions for Mark to
consider, but the boy showed no
enthusiasm for any of them. Mark's
mother became quite anxious that
her son would end up with no job at
all until, while helping her slice
potatoes for dinner one night, Mark
confided that he thought hotel man-
agement seemed the least
unattractive proposition he had
considered so far.

  "At least you'd have a roofover
your head and be regularly fed,"
his mother said.

  "Bet they don't cook as well as
you, Mum," said Mark as he placed
the sliced potatoes on the top of
the Lancashire hot-pot. "Still,
it's only a year."

During the next month Mark attended
several

                74
                 
            A LA CARTE

interviews at hotels around the
country without success. It was
then that his father discovered
that his old company sergeant was
head porter at the Savoy:
immediately Arthur started to pull
a few strings.

  "If the boy's any good," Arthur's
old comradein-arms assured him over
a pint, "he could end up as a head
porter, even a hotel manager."
Arthur seemed well satisfied, even
though Mark was still assuring his
friends that he would be joining
them a year to the day.

  On September I st, 1959, Arthur
and Mark Hapgood travelled together
by bus to Coventry station. Arthur
shook hands with the boy and
promised him, "Your mother and I
will make sure it's a special
Christmas this year when they give
you your first leave. And don't
worry - you'll be in good hands
with 'Serge'. He'll teach you a
thing or two. Just remember to keep
your nose clean."

  Mark said nothing and returned a
thin smile as he boarded the train.
"You'll never regret it . . ." were
the last words Mark heard his
father say as the train pulled out
of the station.

Mark regretted it from the moment
he set foot in the hotel.

  As a junior porter he started his
day at six in the morning and ended
at six in the evening. He was
entitled to a fifteen-minute
mid-morning break, a
forty-five-minute lunch break and
another fifteenminute break around
mid-afternoon. After the first
month had passed he could not
recall when he had been granted all
three breaks on the same day, and
he quickly learned that there was
no one to whom

                75
                 
A TWIST IN THE TALE
                _

he could protest. His duties
consisted of carrying guests' cases
up to their rooms, then lugging
them back down again the moment
they wanted to leave. With an
average of three hundred people
staying in the hotel each night the
process was endless. The pay turned
out to be half what his friends
were getting back home and as he
had to hand over all his tips to
the head porter, however much
overtime Mark put in, he never saw
an extra penny. On the only
occasion he dared to mention it to
the head porter he was met with the
words, "Your time will come, lad."

  It did not worry Mark that his
uniform didn't fit or that his room
was six foot by six foot and
overlooked Charing Cross Station,
or even that he didn't get a share
of the tips; but it did worry him
that there was nothing he could do
to please the head porter- however
clean he kept his nose.

  Sergeant Crann, who considered the
Savoy nor thing more than an
extension of his old platoon,
didn't have a lot of time for young
men under his command who hadn't
done their national service.

  "But I wasn't eligible to do
national service," insisted Mark.
"No one born after 1939 was called
up."

"Don't make excuses, lad."

"It's not an excuse, Sarge. It's
the truth."

  "And don't call me 'Serge'. I'm
'Sergeant Crann' to you, and don't
you forget it."

"Yes, Sergeant Crann."

  At the end of each day Mark would
return to his little box-room with
its small bed, small chair and tiny
chest of drawers, and collapse
exhausted. The only picture in the
room - of the Laughing Cavalier

                76
                 
            A LA CARTE

- was on the calendar that hung
above Mark's bed. The date of
September I st, 1960, was circled
in red to remind him when he would
be allowed to rejoin his friends at
the factory back home. Each night
before falling asleep he would
cross out the offending day like a
prisoner making scratch marks on a
wall.

  At Christmas Mark returned home
for a four-day break, and when his
mother saw the general state of the
boy she tried to talk his father
into allowing Mark to give up the
job early, but Arthur remained
implacable.

  "We made an agreement. I can't be
expected to get him a job at the
factory if he isn't responsible
enough to keep to his part of a
bargain."

  During the holiday Mark waited for
his friends outside the factory
gate until their shift had ended
and listened to their stories of
weekends spent watching football,
drinking at the pub and dancing to
the Everly Brothers. They all
sympathised with his problem and
looked forward to him joining them
in September. "It's only a few more
months," one of them reminded him
cheerfully.

  Far too quickly, Mark was on
thejourney back to London, where he
continued unwillingly to hump cases
up and down the hotel corridors for
month after month.

  Once the English rain had subsided
the usual influx of American
tourists began. Mark liked the
Americans, who treated him as an
equal and often tipped him a
shilling when others would have
given him only sixpence. But
whatever the amount Mark received
Sergeant Crann would still pocket
it with the inevitable, "Your time
will come, lad."

                77
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

  One such American for whom Mark
ran around diligently every day
during his fortnight's stay ended
up presenting the boy with a
ten-bob note as he left the front
entrance of the hotel.

  Mark said, "Thank you, sir," and
turned round to see Sergeant Crann
standing in his path.

  "Hand it over," said Crann as soon
as the American visitor was well
out of earshot.

  "I was going to the moment I saw
you," said Mark, passing the note
to his superior.

  "Not thinking of pocketing what's
rightfully mine, was you?"

  "No, I wasn't," said Mark. "Though
God knows I earned it."

  "Your time will come, lad," said
Sergeant Crann without much
thought.

  "Not while someone as mean as you
is in charge," replied Mark
sharply.

  "What was that you said?" asked
the head porter, veering round.

"You heard me the first time,
Sarge."

The clip across the ear took Mark
by surprise.

  "You, lad, have just lost your
job. Nobody, but nobody, talks to
me like that." Sergeant Crann
turned and set off smartly in the
direction of the manager's office.

  The hotel manager, Gerald
Drummond, listened to the head
porter's version of events before
asking Mark to report to his office
immediately. "You realise I have
been left with no choice but to
sack you," were his first words
once the door was closed.

  Mark looked up at the tall,
elegant man in his long, black
coat, white collar and black tie.
"Am I

                78
                 
A LA CARTE
                    -
allowed to tell you what actually
happened, sir?" he asked.

  Mr Drummond nodded, then listened
without interruption as Mark gave
his version of what had taken place
that morning, and also disclosed the
agreement he had entered into with
his father. "Please let me complete
my final ten weeks," Mark ended, "or
my father will only say I haven't
kept my end of our bargain."

  "I haven't got another job vacant
at the moment," protested the
manager. "Unless you're willing to
peel potatoes for ten weeks."

"Anything," said Mark.

  "Then report to the kitchen at six
tomorrow morning. I'll tell the
third chef to expect you. Only if
you think the head porter is a
martinet just wait until you
meetJacques, our mature chef do
cuisine. He won't clip your ear,
he'll cut it off."

  Mark didn't care. He felt confident
that for just ten weeks he could
face anything, and at five thirty
the following morning he exchanged
his dark blue uniform for a white
top and blue and white check
trousers before reporting for his
new duties. To his surprise the
kitchen took up almost the entire
basement of the hotel, and was even
more of a bustle than the lobby had
been.

  The third chef put him in the
corner of the kitchen, next to a
mountain of potatoes, a bowl of cold
water and a sharp knife. Mark peeled
through breakfast, lunch and dinner,
and fell asleep on his bed that
night without even enough energy
left to cross a day off his
calendar.

  For the first week he never
actually saw the fabledJacques. With
seventy people working in the

                 79
                  
A TWIST IN THE TALE
                       -
kitchens Mark feit confident he
could pass his whole period there
without anyone being aware of him.

  Each morning at six he would start
peeling, then hand over the potatoes
to a gangling youth called Terry who
in turn would dice or cut them
according to the third chef's
instructions for the dish of the
day. Monday saute, Tuesday mashed,
Wednesday French-fried, Thursday
sliced, Friday roast, Saturday
croquette... Mark quickly worked out
a routine which kept him well ahead
of Terry and therefore out of any
trouble.

  Having watched Terry do his job
for over a week Mark felt sure he
could have shown the young
apprentice how to lighten his
workload quite simply, but he
decided to keep his mouth closed:
opening it might only get him into
more trouble, and he was certain the
manager wouldn't give him a second
chance.

  Mark soon discovered that Terry
always fell badly behind on
Tuesday's shepherd's pie and
Thursday's Lancashire hot-pot. From
time to time the third chef would
come across to complain and he would
glance over at Mark to be sure that
it wasn't him who was holding the
process up. Mark made certain that
he always had a spare tub of peeled
potatoes by his side so that he
escaped censure.

  It was on the first Thursday
morning in August (Lancashire
hot-pot) that Terry sliced off the
top of his forefinger. Blood spurted
all over the sliced potatoes and on
to the wooden table as the lad began
yelling hysterically.

"Get him out of here!" Mark heard
the maztrc chef

                 80
                  
            A LA CARTE

do bellow above the noise of the
kitchen as he stormed towards them.

  "And you," he said, pointing at
Mark, "clean up mess and start
slicing rest of potatoes. I 'ave
eight hundred hungry customers
still expecting to feed."

"Me?" said Mark in disbelief.
"But-"

  "Yes, you. You couldn't do worse
job than idiot who calls himself
trainee chef and cuts off finger."
The chef marched away, leaving Mark
to move reluctantly across to the
table where Terry had been working.
He felt disinclined to argue while
the calendar was there to remind
him that he was down to his last
twenty-five days.

  Mark set about a task he had
carried out for his mother many
times. The clean, neat cuts were
delivered with a skill Terry would
never learn to master. By the end
of the day, although exhausted,
Mark did not feel quite as tired as
he had in the past.

  At eleven that night the mature
chef do cuisine threw off his hat
and barged out of the swing doors,
a sign to everyone else they could
also leave the kitchen once
everything that was their
responsibility had been cleared up.
A few seconds later the door swung
back open and the chef burst in. He
stared round the kitchen as
everyone waited to see what he
would do next. Having found what he
was looking for, he headed straight
for Mark.

;'Oh, my God," thought Mark. "He's
going to

"How is your name?" the chef
demanded.

  "Mark Hapgood, sir," he managed to
splutter out.

"You waste on 'tatoes, Mark
Hapgood," said the

                81
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

chef. "You start on vegetables in
morning. Report at seven. If that
cretin with half finger ever
returns, put him to peeling
'tatoes."

  The chef turned on his heel even
before Mark had the chance to reply.
He dreaded the thought of having to
spend three weeks in the middle of
the kitchens, never once out of the
maitre chef de cumnc's sight, but he
accepted there was no alternative.

  The next morning Mark arrived at
six for fear of being late and spent
an hour watching the fresh
vegetables being unloaded from
Covent Garden market. The hotel's
supply manager checked every case
carefully, rejecting several before
he signed a chit to show the hotel
had received over three thousand
pounds' worth of vegetables. An
average day, he assured Mark.

  The maztrc chef do cuisine
appeared a few minutes before seven
thirty, checked the menus and told
Mark to score the Brussels sprouts,
trim the French beans and remove the
coarse outer leaves of the cabbages.

  "But I don't know how," Mark
replied honestly. He could feel the
other trainees in the kitchen edging
away from him.

  "Then I teach you," roared the
chef. "Perhaps only thing you learn
is if hope to be good chef, you able
to do everyone's job in kitchen,
even 'tato peeler's."

  "But I'm hoping to be a . . ."
Mark began and then thought better
of it. The chef seemed not to have
heard Mark as he took his place
beside the new recruit. Everyone in
the kitchen stared as the chef began
to show Mark the basic skills of
cutting, dicing and slicing.

                82
                 
A LA CARTE

.

  "And remember other idiot's
finger," the chef said on completing
the lesson and passing the
razor-sharp knife back to Mark.
"Yours can be next."

  Mark started gingerly dicing the
carrots, then the Brussels sprouts,
removing the outer layer before
cutting a firm cross in the stalk.
Next he moved on to trimming and
slicing the beans. Once again he
found it fairly easy to keep ahead
of the chef's requirements.

  At the end of each day, after the
head chef had left, Mark stayed on
to sharpen all his knives in
preparation for the following
morning, and would not leave his
work area until it was spotless.

  On the sixth day, after a curt nod
from the chef, Mark realised he must
be doing something halfright. By the
following Saturday he felt he had
mastered the simple skills of
vegetable preparation and found
himself becoming fascinated by what
the chef himself was up to. Although
Jacques rarely addressed anyone as
he marched round the acre of kitchen
except to grunt his approval or
disapproval - the latter more
commonly- Mark quickly learned to
anticipate his needs. Within a short
space of time he began to feel that
he was part of a team - even though
he was only too aware of being the
novice recruit.

  On the deputy chef's day off the
following week Mark was allowed to
arrange the cooked vegetables in
their bowls and spent some time
making each dish look attractive as
well as edible. The chef not only
noticed but actually muttered his
greatest accolade- "Bon."

During his last three weeks at the
Savoy Mark

        A TWIST IN THE TALE

did not even look at the calendar
above his bed.

  One Thursday morning a message
came down from the under-manager
that Mark was to report to his
office as soon as was convenient.
Mark had quite forgotten that it
was August 31st- his last day. He
cut ten lemons into quarters, then
finished preparing the forty plates
of thinly sliced smoked salmon that
would complete the first course for
a wedding lunch. He looked with
pride at his efforts before folding
up his apron and leaving to collect
his papers and final wage packet.

  "Where you think you're going?"
asked the chef, lookmg up.

"I'm off," said Mark. "Back to
Coventry."

"See you Monday then. You deserve
day off."

"No, I'm going home for good," said
Mark.

  The chef stopped checking the cuts
of rare beef that would make up the
second course of the wedding feast.

  "Going?" he repeated as if he
didn't understand the word.

  "Yes. I've finished my year and
now I'm off home to work."

  "I hope you found first-class
hotel," said the chef with genuine
interest.

"I'm not going to work in a hotel."

"A restaurant, perhaps?"

"No, I'm going to get a job at
Triumph."

  The chef looked puzzled for a
moment, unsure if it was his
English or whether the boy was
mocking him.

"What is - Triumph?"

"A place where they manufacture
cars."

"You will manufacture cars?"

&!

             A LA CARTE
-
"Not a whole car, but I will put
the wheels on." "You put cars on
wheels?" the chef said in
disbelief.

"No," laughed Mark. "Wheels on
cars."

The chef still looked uncertain.

"So you will be cooking for the car
workers?"

  "No. As I explained, I'm going to
put the wheels on the cars," said
Mark slowly, enunciating each word.

"That not possible."

  "Oh yes it is," responded Mark.
"And I've waited a whole year to
prove it."

  "If I offered you job as commis
chef, you change mind?" asked the
chef quietly.

"Why would you do that?"

  "Because you 'ave talent in those
fingers. In time I think you become
chef, perhaps even good chef."

  "No, thanks. I'm off to Coventry
to join my mates."

  The head chef shrugged. " Tant
pits," he said, and without a
second glance returned to the
carcass of beef. He glanced over at
the plates of smoked salmon. "A
wasted talent," he added after the
swing door had closed behind his
potential protege.

  Mark locked his room, threw the
calendar in the wastepaper basket
and returned to the hotel to hand
in his kitchen clothes to the
housekeeper. The final action he
took was to return his room key to
the under-manager.

  "Your wage packet, your cards and
your PAYE. Oh, and the chef has
phoned up to say he would be happy
to give you a reference," said the
undermanager. "Can't pretend that
happens every day."

                ~5
                 
A TWIST IN THE TALE
                    -
     "Won't need that where I'm
going," said Mark.

"But thanks all the same."

  He started off for station at a brisk
pace, his small battered suitcase
swinging by his side, only to find that
each step took a little longer. When he
arrived at Euston he made his way to
Platform 7 and began walking up and
down, occasionally staring at the great
clock above the booking hall. He
watched first one train and then
another pull out of the station bound
for Coventry. He was aware of the
station becoming dark as shadows
filtered through the glass awning on to
the public concourse. Suddenly he
turned and walked offal an even brisker
pace. If he hurried he could still be
back in time to help chef prepare
dinner that night.

Mark trained under Jacques le Renneu
for five years. Vegetables were
followed by sauces, fish by poultry,
meats by patisserie. After eight years
at the Savoy he was appointed second
chef, and had learned so much from his
mentor that regular patrons could no
longer be sure when it was the mature
chef de cuisine's day off. Two years
later Mark became a master chef, and
when in 1971 Jacques was offered the
opportunity to return to Paris and take
over the kitchens of the George Cinq -
an establishment that is to Paris what
Harrods is to London - Jacques agreed,
but only on condition that Mark
accompanied him.

  "It is wrong direction from Coventry,"
Jacques warned him, "and in any case
they sure to offer you my job at the
Savoy."

  "I'd better come along otherwise those
Frogs will never get a decent meal."

Be;

            A LA CARTE

  "Those Frogs," saidJacques, "will
always know when it's my day off."

  "Yes, and book in even greater
numbers," suggested Mark, laughing.

  It was not to be long before
Parisians were flocking to the
George Cinq, not to rest their
weary heads but to relish the
cooking ofthe two-chefteam.

  WhenJacques celebrated his
sixty-fifth birthday the great
hotel did not have to look far to
appoint his successor.

  "The first Englishman ever to be
pantry chef do cuisine at the
George Cinq," said Jacques, raising
a glass of champagne at his
farewell banquet. "Who would
believe it? Of course, you will
have to change your name to Marc to
hold down such a position."

"Neither will ever happen," said
Mark.

  "Oh yes it will, because I 'ave
recommended you."

"Then I shall turn it down."

  "Going to put cars on wheels,
peut-ctrc?" asked Jacques
mockingly.

  "No, but I have found a little
restaurant on the Left Bank. With
my savings alone I can't quite
afford the lease, but with your
help . . ."

  ChezJacques opened on the rue du
Plaisir on the Left Bank on May
1st, 1982, and it was not long
before those customers who had
taken the George Cinq for granted
transferred their allegiance.

  Mark's reputation spread as the
two chefs pioneered "nouvelle
cuisine", and soon the only way
anyone could be guaranteed a table
at the restaurant in under three
weeks was to be a film star or a
Cabinet Minister.

The day Michelin gave ChezJacques
their third

                87
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

star Mark, withJacques's blessing,
decided to open a second
restaurant. The press and customers
then quarrelled amongst themselves
as to which was the finer
establishment. The booking sheets
showed clearly the public felt
there was no difference.

  When in October 1986 Jacques died,
at the age of seventy-one, the
restaurant critics wrote confi-
dently that standards were bound to
fall. A year later the same
journalists had to admit that one
of the five great chefs of France
had come from a town in the British
Midlands they could not even
pronounce.

  Jacques's death only made Mark
yearn more for his homeland, and
when he read in the Daily Telegraph
of a new development to be built in
Covent Garden he called the site
agent to ask for more details.

  Mark's third restaurant was opened
in the heart of London on February
I Ith, 1987.

Over the years Mark Hapgood often
travelled back to Coventry to see
his parents. His father had retired
long since but Mark was still
unable to persuade either parent to
take the trip to Paris and sample
his culinary efforts. But now he
had opened in the country's capital
he hoped to tempt them.

  "We don't need to go up to
London," said his mother, laying
the table. "You always cook for us
whenever you come home, and we read
of your successes in the papers. In
any case, your father isn't so good
on his legs nowadays."

  "What do you call this, son?" his
father asked a few minutes later as
noisette of lamb surrounded by baby
carrots was placed in front of him.

                ~8
                 
            A LA CARTE

"Nouvelle cuisine."

"And people pay good money for it?"

  Mark laughed and the following day
prepared his father's favourite
Lancashire hot-pot.

  "Now that's a real meal," said
Arthur after his third helping.
"And I'll tell you something for
nothing, lad. You cook it almost as
well as your mother."

  A year later Michelin announced
the restaurants throughout the
world that had been awarded their
coveted third star. The Times let
its readers know on its front page
that Chez Jacques was the first
English restaurant ever to be so
honoured.

  To celebrate the award Mark's
parents finally agreed to make the
journey down to London, though not
until Mark had sent a telegram
saying he was reconsidering that
job at British Leyland. He sent a
car to fetch his parents and had
them installed in a suite at the
Savoy. That evening he reserved the
most popular table at ChezJacques
in their name.

  Vegetable soup followed by steak
and kidney pie with a plate of
bread and butter pudding to end on
were not the table d'hote that
night, but they were served for the
special guests on Table 17.

  Under the influence of the finest
wine, Arthur was soon chatting
happily to anyone who would listen
and couldn't resist reminding the
head waiter that it was his son who
owned the restaurant.

  "Don't be silly, Arthur," said his
wife. "He already knows that."

  "Nice couple, your parents," the
head waiter confided to his boss
after he had served them with their
coffee and supplied Arthur with a
cigar.

                89
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

"What did your old man do before he
retired? Banker, lawyer,
schoolmaster?"

  "Oh no, nothing like that," said
Mark quietly. "He spent the whole
of his working life putting wheels
on cars."

  "But why would he waste his time
doing that?" asked the waiter
incredulously.

  "Because he wasn't lucky enough to
have a father like mine," Mark
replied.

                90
                 
              Not
        The Real Thing
               
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

              G ERALDHaskins and
Walter Ramsbottom had been eating
cornflakes for over a year.

  "I'll swap you my MC and DSO for
your VC," said Walter, on the way
to school one morning.

  "Never," said Gerald. "In any
case, it takes ten packet tops to
get a VC and you only need two for
an MC or a DSO."

  Gerald went on collecting packet
tops until he had every medal
displayed on the back of the
packet.

Walter never got the VC.

Angela Bradbury thought they were
both silly.

  "They're only replicas," she
continually reminded them, "not the
real thing, and I am only
interested in the real thing," she
told them haughtily.

  Neither Gerald nor Walter cared
for Angela's opinion at the time,
both boys still being more
interested in medals than the views
of the opposite sex.

Kellogg's offer of free medals
ended on January

                92
                 
        NOT THE REAL THING

1st, 1950, just at the time when
Gerald had managed to complete the
set.

Walter gave up eating cornflakes.

  Children ofthe Fifties were then
given the opportunity to discover
the world of Meccano. Meccano
demanded eating even more
cornflakes and within a year Gerald
had collected a large enough set to
build bridges, pontoons, cranes and
even an office block.

  Gerald's family nobly went on
munching cornflakes, but when he
told them he wanted to build a
whole town - Kellogg's positively
final offer - it took nearly all
his friends in the fifth form at
Hull Grammar School to assist him
in consuming enough breakfast
cereal to complete his ambition.

Walter Ramsbottom refused to be of
assistance.

Angela Bradbury's help was never
sought.

All three continued on their
separate ways.

Two years later, when Gerald
Haskins won a place at Durham
University, no one was surprised
that he chose to read engineering
and listed as his main hobby
collecting medals.

  Walter Ramsbottom joined his
father in the family jewellery
business and started courting
Angela Bradbury.

  It was during the spring holiday
in Gerald's second year at Durham
that he came across Walter and
Angela again. They were sitting in
the same row at a Bach quintet
concert in Hull Town Hall. Walter
told him in the interval that they
had just become engaged but had not
yet settled on a date for the
wedding.

Gerald hadn't seen Angela for over
a year but

                93
                 
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

this time he did listen to her
opinions, because like Walter he
fell in love with her.

  He replaced eating cornflakes with
continually inviting Angela out to
dinner in an effort to win her away
from his old rival.

  Gerald notched up another victory
when Angela returned her engagement
ring to Walter a few drays before
Christmas.

  Walter spread it around that
Gerald only wanted to marry Angela
because her father was chairman of
the Hull City Amenities Committee
and he was hoping to get ajob with
the council after he'd taken his
degree at Durham. When the
invitations for the wedding were
sent out, Walter was not on the
guest list.

Mr and Mrs Haskins travelled to
Multavia for their honeymoon,
partly because they couldn't afford
Nice and didn't want to go to
Cleethorpes. In any case, the local
travel agent was making a special
offer for those considering a visit
to the tiny kingdom that was
sandwiched between Austria and
Czechoslovakia.

  When the newly married couple
arrived at their hotel in Teske,
the capital, they discovered why
the terms had been so reasonable.

  Multavia was, in 1959, going
through an identity crisis as it
attempted to adjust to yet another
treaty drawn up by a Dutch lawyer
in Geneva, written in French, but
with the Russians and Americans in
mind. However, thanks to King
Alfons III, their shrewd and
popular monarch, the kingdom con-
tinued to enjoy uninterrupted
grants from the Weat and
non-disruptive visits from the
East.

                9
                 
         NOT THE REAL THING

  The capital of Multavia, the
Haskins were quickly to discover,
had an average temperature of 92 F
in June, no rainfall and the remains
of a sewerage system that had been
indiscriminately bombed by both
sides between 1939 and 1944. Angela
actually found herself holding her
nose as she walked through the
cobbled streets. The People's Hotel
claimed to have forty-five rooms,
but what the brochure did not point
out was that only three of them had
bathrooms and none of those had bath
plugs. Then there was the food, or
lack of it; for the first time in
his life Gerald lost weight.

  The honeymoon couple were also to
discover that Multavia boasted no
monuments, art galleries, theatres
or opera houses worthy of the name
and the outlying country was flatter
and less interesting than the fens
of Cambridgeshire. The kingdom had
no coastline and the only river, the
Plotz, flowed from Germany and on
into Russia, thus ensuring that none
of the locals trusted it.

  By the end of their honeymoon the
Haskins were only too pleased to
find that Multavia did not boast a
national airline. BOAC got them home
safely, and that would have been the
end of Gerald's experience of
Multavia had it not been for those
sewers - or the lack of them.

Once the Haskins had returned to
Hull, Gerald took up his appointment
as an assistant in the engineering
department of the city council. His
first job was as a third engineer
with special responsibility for the
city's sewerage. Most ambitious
young men would have treated such an
appointment as nothing more than a
step on life's ladder. Gerald

                 g5
                  
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

however did not. He quickly made
contact with all the leading
sewerage companies, their advisers
as well as his opposite numbers
throughout the county.

  Two years later he was able to put
in front of his father-in-law's
committee a paper showing how the
council could save a considerable
amount of the ratepayers' money by
redeveloping its sewerage system.

  The committee were impressed and
decided to carry out Mr Haskins's
recommendation, and at the same
time appointed him second engineer.

  That was the first occasion Walter
Ramsbottom stood for the council;
he wasn't elected.

  When, three years later, the
network of little tunnels and
waterways had been completed,
Gerald's diligence was rewarded by
his appointment as deputy borough
engineer. In the same year his
father-in-law became Mayor and
Walter Ramsbottom became a
councillor.

  Councils up and down the country
were now acknowledging Gerald as a
man whose opinion should be sought
if they had any anxieties about
their sewerage system. This
provoked an irreverent round of
jokes at every Rotary Club dinner
Gerald attended, but they
nevertheless still hailed him as
the leading authority in his field,
or drain.

  When in 1966 the Borough of
Halifax considered putting out to
tender the building of a new
sewerage system they first
consulted Gerald Haskins -Yorkshire
being the one place on earth where
a prophet is with honour in his own
country.

  After spending a day in Halifax
with the town council's senior
engineer and realising how much

                96
                 
         NOT THE REAL THING

had to be spent on the new system,
Gerald remarked to his wife; not for
the first time, "Where there's muck
there's brass." But it was Angela
who was shrewd enough to work out
just how much of that brass her
husband could get hold of with the
minimum of risk. During the next few
days Gerald considered his wife's
proposition and when he returned to
Halifax the following week it was
not to visit the council chambers
but the Midland Bank. Gerald did not
select the Midland by chance; the
manager of the bank was also
chairman of the planning committee
on the Halifax borough council.

  A deal that suited both sides was
struck between the two Yorkshiremen,
and with the bank's blessing Gerald
resigned his position as deputy
borough engineer and formed a
private company. When he presented
his tender, in competition with
several large organisations from
London, no one was surprised that
Haskins of Hull was selected
unanimously by the planning
committee to carry out the job.

  Three years later Halifax had a
fine new sewerage system and the
Midland Bank was delighted to be
holding Haskins of Hull's company
account.

  Over the next fifteen years
Chester, Runcorn, Huddersfield,
Darlington, Macclesfield and York
were jointly and severally grateful
for the services rendered to them by
Gerald Haskins, of Haskins & Co plc.

  Haskins & Co (International) pie
then began contract work in Dubai,
Lagos and Rio deJaneiro. In 1983
Gerald received the Queen's Award
for Industry from a grateful
government, and a year

                 97
                  
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

later he was made a Commander of the
British Empire by a grateful
monarch.

  The investiture took place at
Buckingham Palace in the same year
as King AlEons III of Multavia died
and was succeeded by his son King
Alfons IV. The newly crowned King
decided something had finally to be
done about the drainage problems of
Teske. It had been his father's
dying wish that his people should
not go on suffering those unseemly
smells, and King Alfons IV did not
intend to bequeath the problem to
his son.

  After much begging and borrowing
from the West, and much visiting and
talking with the East, the newly
anointed monarch decided to invite
tenders for a new sewerage system in
the kingdom's capital.

  The tender document supplying
several pages of details and listing
the problems facing any engineer who
wished to tackle the problem arrived
with a thud on most of the boardroom
tables of the world's major
engineering companies. Once the
paperwork had been seriously
scrutinised and the realistic
opportunity for a profit considered,
King Alfons IV received only a few
replies. Nevertheless, the King was
able to sit up all night considering
the merits of the three interested
companies that had been shortlisted.
Kings are also human, and when
Alfons discovered that Gerald had
chosen Multavia for his honeymoon
some twenty-five years before it
tipped the balance. By the time
Alfons IV fell asleep that morning
he had decided to accept Haskins &
Co (International) plc's tender.

  And thus Gerald Haskins made his
second visit to Multavia, this time
accompanied by a site 98

         NOT THE REAL THING

manager, three draughtsmen and
eleven engineers. Gerald had a
private audience with the King and
assured him the job would be
completed on time and for the price
specified. He also told the King how
much he was enjoying his second
visit to his country. However, when
he returned to England he assured
his wife that there was still little
in Multavia that could be described
as entertainment before or after the
hour of seven.

A few years later and after some
considerable haggling over the
increase in the cost of materials,
Teske ended up with one of the
finest sewerage systems in Central
Europe. The King was delighted -
although he continued to grumble
about how Haskins & Co had over-run
the original contract price. The
words "contingency payment" had to
be explained to the monarch several
times, who realised that the extra
two hundred and forty thousand
pounds would in turn have to be
explained to the East and "borrowed"
from the West. After many veiled
threats and "without prejudice"
solicitors' letters, Haskins & Co
received the final payment but not
until the King had been given a
further grant from the British
government, a payment which involved
the Midland Bank, Sloane Street,
transferring a sum of money to the
Midland Bank, High Street, Hull,
without Multavia ever getting their
hands on it. This was after all,
Gerald explained to his wife, how
most overseas aid was distributed.

Thus the story of Gerald Haskins and
the drainage
 problems of Teske might have ended,
had not the
                 99
                  
        A TWIST IN THE TALE

British Foreign Secretary decided
to pay a visit to the kingdom of
Multavia.

  The original purpose of the
Foreign Secretary's European trip
was to take in Warsaw and Prague,
in order to see how glasnost and
percstroi/ra were working in those
countries. But when the Foreign Of
lice discovered how much aid had
been allocated to Multavia and
after they explained to their
minister its role as a buffer
state, the Foreign Secretary
decided to accept King Alfons's
long-standing invitation to visit
the tiny kingdom. Such excursions
to smaller countries by British
Foreign Secretaries usually take
place in airport lounges, a habit
the British picked up from Henry
Kissinger, and later Comrade
Gorbachev; but not on this
occasion. It was felt Multavia
warranted a full day.

  As the hotels had improved only
slightly since the time of Gerald's
honeymoon, the Foreign Secretary
was invited to lodge at the palace.
He was asked by the King to
undertake only two official
engagements during his brief stay:
the opening of the capital's new
sewerage system, and a formal
banquet.

  Once the Foreign Secretary had
agreed to these requests the King
invited Gerald and his wife to be
present at the opening ceremony -
at their own expense. When the day
of the opening came the Foreign
Secretary delivered the appropriate
speech for the occasion. He first
praised Gerald Haskins on a
remarkable piece of work in the
great tradition of British
engineering, then commended
Multavia for her shrewd common
sense in awarding the contract to a
British company in the first place.
The Foreign Secretary omitted to
mention the fact that the

                100
                 
