Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  Voices sounded again, much closer this time. It was the solicitors for the other side, studiously not paying them too much attention, in company with a burly man in a blue suit who, sharing no such qualms, was staring openly at Tom. Realising this must be Price, Hugh touched Tom’s elbow to turn him away from the other man’s gaze, but Tom jerked his arm free, and, his mouth drawn down into a grimace, cried again, ‘No deal!’ Then, the emotion still pulling at his face, the glint of fury in his eyes, he looked round to find Price watching him, and understood that his enemy had witnessed his anguish.

  Price strode confidently into the witness box and took the oath as if it was something he did every day. He had the appearance of a travelling salesman too long on the road, with a broad frame run to fat, a belly that stretched the jacket of his suit to its limits, and a plump neck that bulged over the rim of his collar. He was, Hugh supposed, forty-one or -two, but the roundness of his cheeks, the thickness of his hair gave him a deceptively boyish look.

  Bavistock began with an unhurried smile, a collusive droop of the eyelids, as if to instil confidence in his witness. ‘Mr Price, you have stated that Mr Deacon became a friend of yours when you were both serving together in the Army. How would you describe your friendship? Was he one of a number of mates you had in the Army? Or was he a close friend?’

  ‘A close friend.’

  ‘And you were in the same unit . . .’ Bavistock referred to the papers in front of him ‘. . . for over four years. That’s correct, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And at one point you served together in the same armoured vehicle?’ Bavistock asked.

  ‘A Warrior, yes.’

  ‘So it would be no exaggeration to say you served side by side?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Tom was sitting a yard away from Hugh, far enough to discourage communication but not so far that anyone would think there was a rift between them. Earlier, while waiting for the judge, he had stared darkly ahead, his arms crossed, his mouth tightly pursed, before methodically opening his rucksack and pulling out his notebook and pencil. Now, shaking his head at Price’s reply, he began to write.

  ‘You saw Mr Deacon under pressure?’ Bavistock asked.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘In a variety of situations?’

  ‘On exercise and in combat,’ said Price, with an edge of pride.

  ‘When you refer to combat, you mean the Gulf War?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And how would you describe Mr Deacon during and immediately after the Gulf War?’

  ‘He was in good shape.’

  ‘How would you describe him in those days?’

  ‘Upbeat. Full of jokes.’

  Tom put his pad down and, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, gazed intently at Price as though willing him to look in his direction.

  ‘And off duty?’ Bavistock went on. ‘You were close friends then as well?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What, you socialised together?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And this was how often?’

  ‘Whenever we had the chance.’

  With a slow hiss of disgust Tom resumed his writing.

  ‘Now . . .’ Bavistock turned to another page in the statement. ‘Moving on to the Bosnian conflict, you served in a different troop from Mr Deacon, but met up again when you returned to the UK?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And it was then that you noticed a change in him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You’ve stated that he was “down”. In what way exactly?’

  ‘Well, he was in a bad mood all the time. Snapping people’s heads off. Keeping himself to himself. Not socialising.’

  ‘And he told you what the problem was?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘He said he couldn’t get all the stuff he’d seen in Bosnia out of his head.’

  ‘Did he explain what he meant by “stuff”?’

  ‘Yeah. Bad stuff. Mass graves. Men, lads, with their hands tied behind their backs. That kind of thing.’

  ‘He gave no other reasons for being down?’

  ‘No’

  Tom flicked to the next page and wrote intently. As Bavistock came to the end of his questions, Tom tore the page out and passed it to Hugh. It read, LIE 1: GOOD FRIENDS. LIE 2: SERVED SIDE BY SIDE. LIE 3: SAW ME IN COMBAT SITU- ATION. LIE 4: I NEVER TOLD HIM WHY I WAS DOWN. Hugh passed it forward to Sanjay, who read it with a brief nod before putting it in front of Desmond.

  Desmond began his cross-examination by taking Price through his military service and recent employment, rolling out the questions in a perfunctory way, as if the whole exercise was tedious but necessary, establishing that Price was now a mechanic working on high-performance sports cars. Then, almost as an afterthought, Desmond added, ‘As a teenager you lived on an estate in Birmingham, is that right?’

  Price clearly hadn’t expected the question. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you get on at school?’

  Price shrugged a bit. ‘Didn’t like it too much.’

  ‘What didn’t you like about it?’

  ‘Couldn’t see much point.’

  Desmond nodded understandingly. ‘But you stuck it out until you could leave at sixteen?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And how did you pass your time when you weren’t at school?’

  Price hesitated before giving Desmond a sudden, knowing stare. ‘If you mean did I get into trouble – yeah, I got into trouble.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Desmond instilled the sound with faint surprise, and the first doubts began to play over Price’s face. He said woodenly, ‘A bit of joyriding.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ Desmond made a vague discomfited gesture, as if he had never intended to delve into this area. ‘So you enjoyed cars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see, I see . . . And, er . . . this joyriding . . . it was a group of you, was it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You took the cars on your own?’

  Price had the resentful look of someone who has been tricked into overplaying his hand. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you were something of an expert mechanic even then?’

  Price wasn’t sure how to take this. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And everyone looked up to you for that, did they?’

  With an air of having spotted the trap, Price declared, ‘Never bothered me what they thought.’

  ‘So you didn’t take cars to make an impression – you took them for the pleasure of driving?’

  ‘Well . . . Yeah.’

  ‘And did you take passengers?’

  ‘Never.’

  Desmond nodded slowly. ‘How else did you pass your time?’

  If Price had been wary of Desmond’s earlier questions, he looked openly puzzled now. ‘I don’t follow . . .’

  ‘Well, did you watch TV? Play computer games? That sort of thing.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  ‘And sports?’

  ‘No chance. Nothing in the way of sports grounds, not for miles.’

  ‘So what did you do by way of recreation?’

  Still puzzled, Price gave a shrug. ‘I did a few weights at home. Or went down the canal.’

  ‘Ah.’ Desmond’s tone brightened, as if they had stumbled over a common interest. ‘Fishing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘A bit solitary, though?’

  Price frowned. ‘Didn’t bother me.’

  ‘Difficult to fish in a group of course,’ Desmond conceded, with the air of having asked a stupid question.

  During the cross-examination Tom had come alive, listening intently, giving occasional snuffles of approval. Now he slid Hugh a quiet look of excitement, as though he knew exactly where Desmond’s questions were leading and could hardly wait to see Price’s discomfort once the knives were out. Watching him, Hugh realised with a plunge of dismay that Tom had taken none of their conversa
tion on board, that as far as he was concerned it was business as usual.

  Desmond leafed through his notes. ‘So, Mr Price, you joined the Army at seventeen. And was it all you’d hoped it would be?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘What was the best thing about it?’

  ‘Doing my job.’

  ‘You qualified as a mechanic?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what else did you like about the Army?’

  Price gave this some thought. ‘Serving my country.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Keeping on the same track Price said, ‘The challenge.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Desmond nodded sagely. ‘And your army record . . . how was that?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘It’s army practice to make every soldier aware of his shortcomings, though, isn’t it? So that each man can work on them. What were your shortcomings so far as your superiors were concerned?’

  Price’s gaze flicked down to one side and back again. ‘Nothing special.’

  ‘Come now, Mr Price, wasn’t the main criticism that you found it hard to work in a team?’

  A pause. ‘It might have been mentioned once.’

  ‘I put it to you that it was mentioned more than once, Mr Price. I suggest it was seen as a problem throughout your army career.’

  Price looked towards Bavistock, as if for rescue. ‘No.’

  ‘I put it to you that you were seen as a loner, not just by your superiors, but by your comrades as well. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘No,’ Price said without conviction.

  ‘You’ve already told us that you spent your spare time on your own when you were growing up, that you went joyriding alone, weight-lifting and fishing alone. In effect, that you much preferred your own company. It was the same in the Army, wasn’t it? That you were far happier taking an engine apart than talking to your comrades?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t it true that you found it hard to make close friendships, even with the men in your own troop?’

  ‘No. I had some good mates.’

  ‘But close friendships, Mr Price? That’s what I’m asking.’

  ‘I had plenty,’ Price said defensively.

  Desmond left this comment to settle. ‘You say you regularly went drinking with Tom Deacon, but you were nearly always in a larger group, weren’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes we were, sometimes we weren’t.’

  ‘In fact, the only time you and Tom Deacon went drinking on your own was when everyone else was on long leave, in fact just twice in all the years you served together. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘It was more times than that.’

  ‘Three times then?’

  Price hesitated. ‘I can’t remember.’

  Desmond waited for the judge to finish taking notes, but also, it seemed to Hugh, to let Price reflect on how badly he was doing.

  ‘You say you became friends with Mr Deacon when you ended up in the same troop, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why then, if Tom Deacon was such a good friend, didn’t he invite you to his wedding the following year?’

  Tom gave a faint chuckle under his breath and, rocking forward, hunched over the table as if to contain his delight. The movement caught Price’s eye, he flicked a glance in Tom’s direction before looking rapidly away.

  ‘Because I couldn’t make it.’

  ‘He invited two of his army friends – Shortie Thomas and John Potter – but not you. Why was that?’

  ‘There was no point in asking me, not when I couldn’t make it.’

  Desmond tilted his head doubtfully. ‘What made you decide to give evidence in this case, Mr Price?’

  Price was ready for that one. ‘Because I was asked what happened, and I told it like it was.’

  ‘No other motive, Mr Price?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing to do with getting even?’

  Price gave a nervy contemptuous snuffle and glanced at the judge. ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t you fall out over a girl quite early on in your acquaintance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A girl called Kristina, whom you met in 1990, and who went off with Mr Deacon?’

  Price shook his head. ‘It was no skin off my nose. She was a—’ He paused as if to find a suitable word. ‘A slag.’

  Desmond glanced at the judge, who murmured, ‘I know what the word means, thank you, Mr Riley.’

  ‘My Lord.’ Then to Price: ‘So what was the bad feeling about?’

  ‘There was no bad feeling.’

  ‘What I’m seeking to establish, Mr Price, is why you should choose to give evidence against a former comrade who was, according to you, a close friend?’

  Tom breathed, ‘Yes!’ and jammed his fist against his mouth as if to prevent himself from shouting it aloud.

  ‘Because it was the truth,’ Price said self-righteously.

  ‘But you could have chosen not to make a statement, couldn’t you?’

  ‘When I did the statement I thought I was helping him out.’

  ‘Helping out Mr Deacon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come now, Mr Price, you can’t have been in any doubt as to which side of this case you were giving evidence for – the side contesting Mr Deacon’s claim?’

  ‘I wasn’t clear. Not then, I mean. Not at the start. I thought I was helping Tom.’

  ‘But the solicitors told you who they were acting for, didn’t they?’

  ‘An insurance company, that’s all I knew.’

  ‘But the insurance company acting for the driver of the other car?’

  ‘I wasn’t clear,’ Price repeated sullenly.

  ‘I see. And when you did finally become clear as to which side they were acting for, what made you persist with your statement?’

  ‘I thought I had no choice.’

  ‘In what way, Mr Price?’

  ‘Well, being the law, I didn’t think I could go back on what I’d said.’

  ‘So you went ahead with your written statement?’

  ‘No, I’d already done the statement,’ Price corrected him. ‘That’s why I thought I couldn’t go back on it.’

  ‘I see. But the written statement was something you came to regret?’

  ‘Well . . . Like I said, it was too late by then.’

  ‘But if you could wind the clock back, Mr Price, if you had known at the outset what you know now, that far from helping your friend’s case you might actually hinder it, would you still have made the statement?’

  Price hesitated. ‘Well, I. . . . I suppose not, no.’

  ‘So, if the statement was a mistake, what brought you here today, Mr Price?’

  ‘Like I said, once the truth was out, I thought I should stick to it.’

  ‘Though by appearing here today you would be making matters worse for your old friend?’

  ‘I didn’t think there was anything I could do about it.’

  ‘Isn’t loyalty almost the first thing instilled into you in the British Army?’ Desmond enquired. ‘Loyalty to your comrades and your regiment? Isn’t that at the very core of what soldiering’s about?’

  A gleam of sweat had appeared on Price’s temple. ‘The truth’s the truth.’

  ‘But to give evidence that could harm your former comrade’s case – why would you want to do such a thing, Mr Price?’

  Another pause. ‘I didn’t think about it that way.’

  ‘Oh, but you must have, Mr Price.’ Catching the judge’s move to correct him, Desmond turned this rapidly into a question. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what were your feelings on coming here today?’

  Price’s eyes flicked up and down. ‘I . . . can’t say.’

  ‘Well, satisfaction? Regret? Guilt?’

  The whole of Price’s face was glistening now, and two trickles of sweat had tracked down the side of his plump cheek. ‘Nothing like that . . .’

 
‘What then, Mr Price?’

  ‘Well . . . I felt . . . you know . . . sorry.’

  Desmond waited for Price to elaborate before prompting, ‘Sorry in what way?’

  ‘Sorry for . . . you know, what happened to Tom. And his daughter . . .’

  ‘But not so sorry that you weren’t prepared to come here and give evidence for the side opposing his case?’

  Price swallowed, his head settled lower on his thick neck, his skin turned very pink, he said weakly, ‘I told you, I didn’t realise . . .’

  As soon as court rose for lunch Tom hurried forward and spoke to Desmond in a low voice that did little to conceal his elation. By the time Hugh reached them Desmond was saying firmly, ‘Don’t forget we’ve still got the rest of the week to get through, Tom.’

  ‘But you did it,’ Tom said with a barely disguised laugh. ‘You showed him for what he is – a liar.’

  ‘Well, whatever we’ve achieved we mustn’t make the mistake of counting our chickens. Isn’t that right, Hugh?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely. But, Desmond, we need to have a quick conference before lunch, if that’s all right with you.’

  Tom took a hasty step backwards. ‘Count me out. I’ve gotta go see someone.’

  Hugh said, ‘But we need to talk.’

  Tom was already turning swiftly away. He was out of the door and halfway down the passage before Hugh managed to grab his arm. ‘For Christ’s sake, Tom, we can’t put this thing off.’

  Tom jerked his arm free. ‘I told you – it’s no deal! Not now, not ever! And don’t you go saying anything to Desmond without my say-so. Because you’ve no right. No right at all!’ With a shudder, he strode away.

  Joining the rest of the team in the dark wine bar off the Strand, Hugh broke his lunchtime rule and ordered a glass of wine. He needed something to calm him down. Something to nurse him too. He had an ache behind his eyes, a roughness low in his throat, which for him almost always presaged a cold or flu, and alcohol seemed as good a remedy as any. Now and again he tried joining in the conversation, but kept losing track and finally fell silent.

  On the way back he warned Isabel he might be late coming into court.

  She had been watching him anxiously through lunch. She said immediately, ‘This problem again?’

  ‘Yes. Tom and I have a difference of opinion about some information that needs to be disclosed. He thinks we can get away with keeping it secret, I know we can’t. But he refuses to discuss it.’