sorry. Does it make a difference?’ asked Trudi.
‘Oh yes. He made a statement but now he can’t be cross-questioned on it. It’s my information that the police will be charging the tanker driver with one of the lesser offences, driving without due care and attention perhaps. That won’t help us, even if he’s found guilty.’
‘Even if?’ exclaimed Trudi. ‘Surely there’s no defence!’
‘There’s always a defence,’ said Ashburton drily. ‘Mud on the road left by Mr Brightshaw’s tractor – a hint there that Mr Brightshaw’s statement might be a little biased. And they’ll use the post-mortem findings too, I’ve no doubt.’
‘What findings? And I thought that the fire …’
She didn’t finish.
Ashburton said gently, ‘Yes, I know. Beyond recognition; but an internal examination was still possible. Would you like some more coffee, Mrs Adamson?’
‘No thanks. Go on,’ said Trudi.
‘Two things then. There was a fairly high alcohol level in the blood stream, just about on the legal limit. And there were present in the coronary arteries, let me see, atheromas, lesions in the arterial wall. In a phrase, coronary arteriosclerosis which eventually could lead to your husband having a heart attack.’
‘But Trent died of his injuries, not a heart attack!’ protested Trudi indignantly.
‘No one will contest that. What the defence will be looking for is some way of suggesting that there was contributory negligence on your husband’s part. If for instance a sudden spasm of pain caused him to stop unexpectedly or a sudden dizziness, say, leaving his car not parked safely on the verge, but slewed across the road …’
‘Because he was drunk, you mean, or sick? I never saw Trent drunk in his life! As for being ill, he was always in the best of health. Surely Mr Brightshaw’s statement doesn’t say his car was slewed across the road?’
‘No, but it doesn’t say it wasn’t.’
‘But the truck driver …’
‘Hitherto I gather his memory of things has been vague. It would not surprise me, however, if now it began to sharpen up,’ said Mr Ashburton. ‘I fear that our hopes of a good out-of-court settlement are fading, Mrs Adamson. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not right, Mr Ashburton,’ said Trudi angrily. ‘It’s not just the money, though I could do with it, but it’s just not right that people should be able to get away with this sort of thing. What can we do to stop them?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. Evidence of your husband’s excellent state of health could be useful. Perhaps his last doctor could help there. Why don’t you contact him and get a certificate of some kind? Now, on a happier note, as I told you on the phone, one of my clients, Mr Stanley Usher, a man of many interests, mentioned to me the other day that he’d taken over a small export business and felt in need of some bilingual secretarial help. I mentioned your name to him. It would be part-time and it wouldn’t make your fortune, but if you’re interested …’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Trudi firmly.
‘Good. Here’s the address. Mr Usher will be there now. It’s just a short walk. Down past the cathedral, turn left down the hill, then left again and there you are.’
He handed Trudi a business card. On it was printed in bright red letters CLASS-GLASS with the address underneath in blue and Stanley Usher: Director at the bottom in a flowing black script.
The building she arrived at was under multi-commercial occupancy. Class-Glass was on the first floor. She knocked at the door. A voice called, ‘Enter.’ She turned the handle, stepped inside and stopped dead.
It was like being in a funfair Hall of Mirrors except that here there was no distortion. There was however a fragmentation almost as disturbing from the mirrors which covered every inch of the walls. They came in all shapes and sizes and they all had pictures and words printed on them, some advertising old drinks which had disappeared years ago, others referring to new and up-to-date products.
‘Mrs Adamson? Come in, have a seat. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to the mirrors, unless you hate the sight of yourself!’
Stanley Usher was a tall dark man with a spare lean frame and a rather cadaverous face. She put his age at about forty. He was expensively suited in traditional charcoal-grey worsted and the only touch of colour about him came from the two rings he wore on his left hand, one a ruby, the other an emerald. His voice had a slight under-accent which might have been Australian.
Trudi sat on a hard office chair on one side of a typist’s desk which carried a gleaming new electronic typewriter, the sight of which filled her with dismay. She was definitely pre-microchip. Usher sat on the typist’s swivel chair opposite her. The only other furniture in the room was a filing cabinet.
‘Let me explain the set-up, Mrs Adamson,’ said Usher. ‘This job might be owt or nowt, as they say in these parts. Probably the latter. These are hard times. Little businesses are going down like ninepins. What I do is buy them as they tumble, and their prices tumble too, of course! Then I use my own cash and know-how to see if anything can be retrieved from the wreck. If it can’t, tough. I usually make as much as I put in. You follow me?’
‘I think so,’ said Trudi.
‘Great. Class-Glass exports mirrors, these kind of mirrors, ornamental advertising. Only it didn’t. Export many, I mean. So it failed, I bought it. Now I’m using my know-how and continental contacts to see if there’s any life in the corpse, right? What I need is someone who can deal with the mail, in and out. I’ve got a smattering of Frog and I can buy a drink in Kraut, but that’s it. So what I want is this. You come in on Mondays and Thursdays. Open the mail. Translate it. Deal with anything you can deal with. Leave a note and translation with anything you can’t. I’ll be in from time to time. You’ll find letters from me to be translated into the appropriate language, typed, dispatched. OK?’
‘OK. But …’
‘Let’s say forty pounds for the two days, see how we go from there? I’ll get Ashburton to deal with the payment and any paperwork. Let’s see how we go, then even if this folds, there may be something else. Right! Now, let me show you round, not that there’s much to show except for these bloody mirrors!’
‘And what did he show you?’ enquired Janet. Trudi, feeling she had been rather rough on her friend, and also having a favour to ask, had phoned her that same evening.
‘Nothing much. There’s a tiny washroom. A storeroom full of all kinds of mirrors. A filing cabinet, almost empty. And that damned typewriter. I noticed an instruction book in the desk drawer, thank God. I’ll need to spend my first couple of days learning how it works!’
‘You’ll cope, I’m sure,’ said Janet.
For the first time, a certain strain in her friend’s voice registered with Trudi.
‘Jan, are you OK? I mean, you’re not still annoyed about lunch time?’
‘Of course not. No, you’re the one entitled to be annoyed. I know I’m too pushy sometimes. No, the thing is,
