Chapter 7

The days of waiting for news after I had handed over an envelope, containing five hundred pounds to Brian were excruciating. My mood seesawed from satisfaction of revenge for Chrissie to grabbing the phone in panic to call the whole thing off. I supposed I still had some remnants filial affection. Jean watched me carefully and would remind me at those moments of the horror that Chrissie had suffered. The news came from an entirely unexpected quarter. My mother phoned. "Clem! I have some terrible news to tell. Ramsay is dead; he fell down the stairs at Winson Green and broke his neck." I didn't know what to say as I was shocked and scrambled thoughts rushed topsy-turvy around my mind. Was this an unexpected accident or was this the plan; a plan I had not been told about. Mum told me all that the prison authorities had told them and we agreed there could well be further information as soon as they had investigated the accident. Mum used the word accident, yet I was convinced that this was anything but an accident and I had touched the flame to the blue paper.

Brian phoned to tell me. "Clem, I am so sorry. It all went wrong. They were only supposed to trip him and accidentally tread on his leg to break it. I am not sure how it happened but when he was tripped he stumbled and then went head first down the stairs."

My barrister head asked the next question. "Are the authorities setting up an enquiry?"

"I don't think so. From what I have heard, they are treating it as an accident. I suppose it depends on the papers. If the news people start to make a fuss, they will force an enquiry. You know what the media are like, anything to bash the authorities."

"I will make enquiries myself, Brian. He was my brother and if I don't make any attempt to get to the truth that will be suspicious in itself."

"You're right. Don't get in barrister mode though. If you start pecking at the detail as you usually do, it could go pear-shaped."

"I hear you Brian. Don't worry; I shall play the part of the concerned relative, nothing more."

There was no enquiry apart from an inquest. That returned a verdict of accidental death. My enquiries of the authorities were expected and I was treated with courtesy, probably because of my standing as a Q.C. However, they did not see any anything but the accidental death of a violent rapist, who cares? My mum called again to tell me that the funeral was arranged. "Your father would not take kindly to your being there, Clem." she paused. "You know your dad, son. Hard as a rock if need be. Hopefully after this we can get back to being a family again."

"What family, mum? It's not just this thing about Ramsay; dad's attitude to Chrissie has blighted any chance of us being family. It will be a long time before I can be in the same room as him." Mum was weeping as she put down the phone.

Jean as always was on my side. "If I had gone to his funeral I would be hard-pressed not to piss in his grave."

I told Dan Millington not to accept any more briefs for me although I continued working on the few I had accepted. When they were done, I would not practice as a barrister any more. In all conscience, how could I carry on with the weight of guilt on my shoulders? Every time I looked at the prisoner in the dock, I would see myself there. Accident or not I had conspired in the death of my own brother. It wasn't intended but in law, I was as guilty as if I had held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. I would be a hypocrite in court. My leaving chambers for the last time wasn't the joyous occasion it should have been. My colleagues thought that Chrissie was the reasons for my decision and request for no party. Instead, I went around my colleagues and took my farewell of each of them. I got handshakes from most against tradition, but it could be argued that I was no longer a barrister so handshakes were permissible. Better than a handshake was the kisses I received from some of our lady barristers and clerks. That was one change for the better. When I started no lady would have been allowed to work in chambers. Samira was very upset, and extracted from me a promise that if she needed it she could call upon me for advice.

Jean was indefatigable, she would not let me sit and relax for more than an hour, before she was badgering me to do something; ignoring my complaint that I was retired and she would reel off a list of things I could be doing. One thing she didn't have to pressure me about was my Sunday routine of getting the Rover out, cleaning, waxing it thoroughly, and then taking the car out for a few miles to charge up the battery and let the oil heat through. It was a time of pleasure and sadness as Chrissie loved the car as much as I did. On those remembered Sunday mornings Chrissie would come out as I was polishing the car, bringing with her two mugs of coffee. We would drink the coffee companionably with Chrissie usually relaxing in the front passenger seat enjoying the scent of leather and real wood. Our chatter was idle and humorous. Chrissie had always been a giggler and she demonstrated her dexterity as we chatted. Then she would take the empty mugs indoors and return to join me in the drive around. Those were such happy days the remembrance was a pleasure tainted with the sadness of loss.

Brian would call occasionally and I would join him in the business of fettling both cars the work enlivened with badinage of the relative merits and demerits of the saloon and the coupe. I learned a lot from him particularly the danger of sending items to the Auction Houses. "If you are lucky you get an assessor who does know what you are offering for auction, but most times you get someone with a smattering of the whole spectrum who can seriously undervalue or overvalue the item. Then of course are those who will deliberately undervalue and in league with an antique dealer will knock it out for what you consider a reasonable price when it is worth possibly five times that. They will eventually split the profit when it's sold on."

"So what category do you fit in, Brian?"

"The latter." He had the good grace to blush.

I saw Samira quite often. At first it was advice she needed and I was happy to help. Over time her visits segued into being just social. I was quite happy to see her and so was Jean. For some reason Samira and Jean got on very well, so much so that her visits were more about seeing Jean than seeing me. Samira showed Jean how to make some Iraqi national dishes and apart from them being quite highly spiced they were very tasty. Jean only made the mistake once of serving pork when Samira was dining with us. Jean was effusive in her apologies. "Samira, I am so sorry, let me get you something else. I have some lamb cutlets; they won't take long to cook."