Wednesday 7th December
Cycling up the Mound in winter was a bad idea. The chilly inhaled air hurt the lungs, and the heavy tweed overcoat meant added weight. David Pearson QC climbed off his large black lady’s bicycle and began to push it. Honour had been satisfied, he’d managed to stay in the saddle and propel the thing until he was opposite the Playfair Steps. On reaching Parliament House he rested it against one of the pillars flanking the entrance to Court No. 11 and entered the building via the men’s gown room. He changed into his court dress, noticing, as he did so, a grimy stain on his fall, and made a mental note to get another one from the laundry next week. How efficient he had been, buying one of his wife’s Christmas presents, a huge bottle of Jo Malone Grapefruit bath oil, and all before his court day had even begun. She’d be touched that he’d remembered her favourite essence.
He collected his papers for the Proof, hitched his creased gown up onto his shoulders and set off for the reading room. With the enhanced powers of observation that adrenaline seemed to give him, he noticed his opponent, Angus Goode QC, sitting at the window closest to the portrait of the late Lord Justice-Clerk. Goode was an aggressive maverick but, unfortunately, no fool, invariably difficult to deal with, playing his cards so close to his chest that they should have become entangled in his body hair, and displaying an unhealthy appetite for a courtroom scrap. Pearson poured himself a cup of black coffee but felt, as he’d expected, too nauseous to drink it. That Islay malt would be his undoing. A digestive biscuit remained dry in his mouth, and he finally put it back on the plate after only one bite. Some sugar would be essential for the forthcoming fray. Fortunately he’d stowed some chocolate in his pocket, and he’d force himself to get a few squares of that down before he was required to perform. He looked, for the tenth time, at the Closed Record, and then moved on to the plethora of contradictory expert reports. Plainly, the pursuer was a liar or ‘a stranger to the truth’, as he would submit. Sufficient evidence existed, if properly presented, to establish that to any sane judge’s satisfaction, and, please God, his Lord Ordinary would fall into that category.
His uneasy contemplation was disturbed by his Junior, Rowena Fox, taking the seat opposite. It was odd, he was the Senior, and yet in her presence he felt the inferior. She smiled at him in her cool, efficient way, but she had miscalculated; he wasn’t one of her conquests, having always been entirely immune to her glacial charms. A hair out of place would have been an improvement as far as he was concerned. He could sense that she was itching to discuss the case, to give him the benefit of her views, but the thought was repellent to him, he felt queasy enough already. Inspiration came to him, and he sent her off to photocopy the first case that came into his head, knowing it had no relevance whatsoever to the day’s business but was thirty pages long at least. As soon as Miss Fox, or ‘The Vixen’ as he preferred to call her, had left her seat it was taken by Goode, and it was obvious that he wanted to negotiate.
‘Any offers to be made this morning?’ he enquired casually.
Pearson looked his opponent straight in the eye as he replied, ‘Nuisance value at most, and I’m not even sure I could sell that to the insurers. They’re very bullish.’
Goode persisted. ‘On a full valuation, quantum will be in excess of three hundred thousand pounds, and I don’t think we can fail on liability. Must be worth a reasonable offer surely?’
‘I’ll see what they say, but my advice will be, at best, nuisance value. Are we allocated yet?’
‘Yes,’ Goode smiled serenely. ‘We’ve got Lord Grey.’ Well might he smile; a confirmed pursuers’ man, Simon Grey. Pearson had been banking on the minimum, an even playing field, but no luck today. His bleeper vibrated, the text informing him ‘Insurers at door’. A huddle of dark-suited men greeted him as he emerged into the hall and he knew, simply from their confident bearing, that they were expecting victory. He reported Goode’s approach, and was unsurprised when they firmly rejected the very idea of a compromise; the matter should go to Proof, the pursuer must be required to establish her case. He had to agree, even though he was apprehensive about the forthcoming appearance. The tannoy became audible, announcing: ‘Before Lord Grey… Court Four… Wylie v Murdoch…’ The announcer dropped his voice to a whisper before booming out, ‘Agents… Aird and Palfrey WS. and Salomon and Company. Court Four.’
The pursuer had given her evidence. Throughout it she had remained seated in the witness box, wearing some kind of neck brace and, eccentrically, a grubby spinal corset on the outside of her polo-neck jersey. Occasionally she grimaced, letting out, while speaking, apparently involuntarily, little groans. Ever since the accident she had been in horrendous pain, she said. Pain like no other experienced by anyone anywhere, her back was agony, her spine was rigid, she had a permanent sensation of spiders running up and down both thighs, and they regularly became burning hot or icy cold, even to the touch.
Pearson began his cross-examination by persuading her to go over her multiplicity of ailments once more. Her complaints became, with his surprisingly sympathetic approach, even worse, and by the time she had finished she was describing herself as a hopeless cripple, incapable of any pain-free movement. In the face of such understanding from her supposed adversary, she relaxed completely, exposing the soft underbelly of her gross exaggeration. Suddenly, his manner altered as he changed tack, drawing her attention to three medical reports compiled by her doctors, all of which suggested that she should have recovered from the effects of her accident within three months of its occurrence. How were they to be explained?
The Vixen joined Pearson in the cafeteria. He was attempting to swallow, still with no saliva, a tuna sandwich. His mind was on Christmas, and the best place to get a large tree. They’d need a new barrel for it, as the old one was no longer stable. He’d have to make the time to paint the new one red. He found Miss Fox’s strong perfume headache-inducing rather than seductive. Oblivious to his wish to be alone, she immediately began to talk about their case.
‘The pursuer did herself no favours this morning. All that nonsense about the sensation of spiders clambering up her legs!’
‘Yes,’ he replied wearily, wishing that someone somewhere would beam Miss Fox up or, at least, bleep her. Being no student of body language, she persisted.
‘Should be good this afternoon. I’ve completed the joint minute, by the way, and it’s being typed as we speak, so there’s no need for any tedious wage-loss evidence.’
‘Excellent,’ Pearson said, rising while finishing his coffee in order to extricate himself from her unwelcome company. ‘See you at two o’clock, Rowena.’
The court rose, as usual, at four pm, business then being considered to be completed for the day. Lord Grey, dressed in his silk robes, informed them all that he could not sit until ten-thirty the next morning, as he had criminal matters to deal with before the Proof could resume. All the lawyers present bowed to the judge when he stood up, then he was escorted off the bench to his chambers by his macer. Goode quickly edged along the bar clutching a large pile of disordered papers. ‘Nuisance value offer still on the table?’ he enquired wistfully. Pearson shook his head.
‘No. The insurers want her blood now.’
He lifted his own heavy pile and exited the windowless court room. As the oak double doors swung behind him he was approached by Mr Edwards, one of the representatives of the insurance company. The man wanted to engage in a post mortem of the day’s proceedings and Pearson knew that it would be politic to do so, but he was tired and hungry and had only twenty minutes in which to refuel before his next meeting. Consequently, he gestured silently at his watch and resumed his hurried walk away from Court Four. Having removed his wig and gown he went to the library to collect the next set of folders, his heart heavy in the knowledge that he would have to spend the evening working in the library. He silently ranted about Mrs Wylie. Thanks to her desire for ill-deserved compensation he’d have to forfeit the next three evenings at home, be deprived of doing any leisurely Christmas shopping and miss his youngest grandchild’s first nativity play, in which she was to appear as a king. In the nearby tea-room, the ‘Lower Aisle’, he grabbed an egg roll, ate it quickly and with relish and then downed a hurried cup of tea.
His consultation with Dr McCrone went well. The eminent plastic surgeon had undertaken a bilateral mastectomy with breast reconstruction on a patient suffering from fibrocystic breast disease. He was accused of carrying out the operation without informing her of the possibility of a poor cosmetic outcome and the probability of impaired breast sensation. Fortunately, the aged consultant was able to point to abbreviations in the record of his pre-operative meeting with his patient which, he explained, represented his checklist for risks brought to the patient’s attention. Opposite each abbreviation, including those standing for ‘appearance’ and ‘sensation’ were clear red tick marks.
David Pearson was relieved. The doctor had retired with an unblemished record, and the prospect of his reputation being tarnished at this late stage now seemed fairly remote. Nonetheless, the old fellow looked worried, and there was a patina of sweat on his brow which occasionally he wiped away with his handkerchief. He explained that he could remember the pursuer, Katrina Blackwell, perfectly well. She’d been experiencing, as she’d tearfully confided in him at their meeting, marital problems, and believed that her enhanced appearance might resolve her husband’s sexual difficulties. In consequence of her high expectations he’d been at particular pains to emphasise the risks involved in the procedure itself and the spectrum of cosmetic and sensory outcomes that might follow it. He examined, as he spoke, the black and white photographs of the pursuer’s left breast showing the rigid wrinkles and loose skin folds which disfigured it. His matter-of-fact manner left David Pearson unprepared for the images of bruised and distorted flesh passed to him, and he struggled not to grimace before returning the photos to the surgeon.
‘I wish it had worked out better for the young lady,’ Dr McCrone sighed. ‘I did my best. No one seems to doubt that, luckily, but sometimes capsular contraction occurs and she was one of the unlucky ones. She’s had two further operations you know, with Dr Small, both privately. One was for the removal of the… eh… submuscular implants and the insertion of subcutaneous ones and the other, I think, involved… eh… the removal of the subcutaneous ones, and substitution with anatomical implants. I haven’t seen any photos but I gather she’s quite happy with the… eh… end result.’
‘Very good, doctor. Have we a date for the proof, yet?’ the QC asked his solicitor.
She consulted her file. ‘October, next year. It’s been set down for ten days.’
‘Excellent,’ Pearson replied, gathering his papers to signal the end of the consultation.
‘I am afraid there may be a problem, then,’ Dr McCrone interjected. ‘I have cancer, you know, and I might not be around.’
Without missing a beat, the two lawyers said together, ‘Evidence on commission’, and grinned at each other in recognition of their simultaneous answer to the problem, now solved.
David Pearson climbed the stairs from the lower consulting rooms and headed, without enthusiasm, to the waiting room. He saw Rose Ford, his next instructing agent, standing with her back to the gas fire. Their eyes met and he waved. She was such an attractive woman and highly intelligent with it. He was surer than ever that she fancied him. Hallelujah! No vacancy at present, but sooner or later one would come up, they always did. She crossed the room to greet him and broke her good news. The consultant neurosurgeon that they were due to meet had been unavoidably detained; he would be unable to attend and the consultation would have to be rescheduled for another day. Neither openly expressed their elation at this gift of time returned, but they left the consulting rooms together, each aware of the other’s reaction.
By seven-thirty pm Pearson was the only soul left in the Advocates’ Library. He was meticulously working his way through the copy of Mrs Wylie’s general practice notes again. Her doctor was due to give evidence the next day, and the Silk had noted references to increasingly painful arthritis in the right wrist starting at about the time of the accident for which his clients were blamed. If the GP could be persuaded to speak to the disabling effect of the arthritic wrist, then he might be able to argue that whether or not they’d damaged her back she would, in any event, have been unable to continue to work due to her unrelated wrist condition. The doctor’s writing was impossible and the photocopy was blurred. Abbreviations everywhere. He painstakingly marked, with a pink highlighter pen, all the entries of wrist complaints he could find in the copy records for easy reference in the court the next day. Having done this, he stretched, gathered his papers and dumped the whole lot in his box, to be forgotten about until the morning. If he could just get home quickly enough he might catch the tail-end of his favourite cookery programme, not that he ever cooked or intended to cook. But the cook herself, she was the draw.
He put on his overcoat and found his bicycle where he had left it propped up against the pillar. Bloody puncture! He scanned the frame for a pump, but the old model had long ago lost its original equipment and he’d never got round to replacing it. Pushing the bike by the handlebars, he began to walk to Merchiston Place. By the time he reached Forrest Road, torrential rain was falling, forming small brown rivers in the gutters and drenching the few unfortunates unable to take shelter. He hunched his shoulders and set off resolutely towards the Meadows.