He certainly wasn’t looking at those on the platform.
Once more I was struck by the feeling that he seemed somehow familiar. Had I seen him prior to leaving the train in York? Or did he simply remind me of someone? If the latter was true, I was foxed, because I couldn’t think of anyone who bore a resemblance to him.
I diverted my attention when I saw the stranger glance in my direction, focusing instead on the official party accompanying the celebrity art historian. Included in their number I managed to identify the MP for the Dinsdale constituency, alongside his bitter political rival, the town’s mayor. Even if I hadn’t been able to identify his face, the chain of office would have been sufficient to mark him out. Equally distinguishable was the lady mayoress, who also qualified for a similarly gaudy piece of regalia. She hadn’t stopped there, however, and had opted to don a hat that was certainly attention-grabbing, although only she could have considered it appropriate for the occasion. Perhaps she had mixed up the invitations and imagined she was going to Royal Ascot.
My game of ‘spot the dignitary’ was given unexpected assistance when Johnny Pickersgill appeared alongside us. His whispered commentary was highly enlightening, although had it been recorded, he would have faced several potentially ruinous slander cases. His opinion of several of the distinguished figures could hardly have been lower if he’d spoken them from the bottom of a mine shaft – a very deep one.
Having cast aspersions on the MP, the mayor and a couple of councillors, Johnny turned his attention to a suave-looking, smartly dressed individual at one end of the group. He singled that man out for his worst character assassination. ‘That’s Scott Martin,’ he told us, ‘a solicitor by trade. He was born in this area, vanished for a long time and then reappeared five years ago.’ I noticed Johnny hadn’t used the word ‘profession’. This, it seemed, was a deliberate oversight. ‘He’s a solicitor by trade and a thief by inclination. If you shake hands with him, you’ll be wiping them on your handkerchief afterwards to remove the slime, and remember to check you still have your jewellery.’ Johnny paused and added, ‘You might also be advised to count your fingers.’
‘I take it you don’t think much of Mr Martin. Why is that? Has he committed some sort of crime?’ Eve asked.
‘The fact that he’s breathing is a crime as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Yes, but anything specific?’
Johnny shook his head sorrowfully at my question. ‘Nothing we can prove, unfortunately. There have been some dodgy property deals and some very unlikely planning applications that have gone through. He handled them, and I know for a fact that he and the chairman of the planning committee are members of the same golf club. They probably both have the same funny handshake too.’
‘Being a golfer and a Freemason is hardly proof,’ I objected.
‘True, but added to that, he represents some very suspect characters around here, and I know for a fact that he charges hefty fees for his advice, fees that include special expenses.’
Johnny’s emphasis on the word ‘special’ intrigued me. I asked what he meant by it.
‘The sort of expenses that have witnesses suddenly developing amnesia, or becoming struck down by a morbid claustrophobia that only occurs when they enter a courtroom.’
‘You’re suggesting he bribes witnesses?’ Eve sounded horrified, which amused both Johnny and me.
‘Certainly not,’ Johnny responded. ‘That would be unethical. He sends someone else to do it for him. There is very little that guy won’t stoop to, if he sees a profit in it. I reckon the nearest Scott Martin has been to the straight and narrow is when he picked up a ruler.’
Having vented his spite and frustration at Martin, Johnny was somewhat more forgiving about others he identified. His scurrilous remarks about various other local
Once more I was struck by the feeling that he seemed somehow familiar. Had I seen him prior to leaving the train in York? Or did he simply remind me of someone? If the latter was true, I was foxed, because I couldn’t think of anyone who bore a resemblance to him.
I diverted my attention when I saw the stranger glance in my direction, focusing instead on the official party accompanying the celebrity art historian. Included in their number I managed to identify the MP for the Dinsdale constituency, alongside his bitter political rival, the town’s mayor. Even if I hadn’t been able to identify his face, the chain of office would have been sufficient to mark him out. Equally distinguishable was the lady mayoress, who also qualified for a similarly gaudy piece of regalia. She hadn’t stopped there, however, and had opted to don a hat that was certainly attention-grabbing, although only she could have considered it appropriate for the occasion. Perhaps she had mixed up the invitations and imagined she was going to Royal Ascot.
My game of ‘spot the dignitary’ was given unexpected assistance when Johnny Pickersgill appeared alongside us. His whispered commentary was highly enlightening, although had it been recorded, he would have faced several potentially ruinous slander cases. His opinion of several of the distinguished figures could hardly have been lower if he’d spoken them from the bottom of a mine shaft – a very deep one.
Having cast aspersions on the MP, the mayor and a couple of councillors, Johnny turned his attention to a suave-looking, smartly dressed individual at one end of the group. He singled that man out for his worst character assassination. ‘That’s Scott Martin,’ he told us, ‘a solicitor by trade. He was born in this area, vanished for a long time and then reappeared five years ago.’ I noticed Johnny hadn’t used the word ‘profession’. This, it seemed, was a deliberate oversight. ‘He’s a solicitor by trade and a thief by inclination. If you shake hands with him, you’ll be wiping them on your handkerchief afterwards to remove the slime, and remember to check you still have your jewellery.’ Johnny paused and added, ‘You might also be advised to count your fingers.’
‘I take it you don’t think much of Mr Martin. Why is that? Has he committed some sort of crime?’ Eve asked.
‘The fact that he’s breathing is a crime as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Yes, but anything specific?’
Johnny shook his head sorrowfully at my question. ‘Nothing we can prove, unfortunately. There have been some dodgy property deals and some very unlikely planning applications that have gone through. He handled them, and I know for a fact that he and the chairman of the planning committee are members of the same golf club. They probably both have the same funny handshake too.’
‘Being a golfer and a Freemason is hardly proof,’ I objected.
‘True, but added to that, he represents some very suspect characters around here, and I know for a fact that he charges hefty fees for his advice, fees that include special expenses.’
Johnny’s emphasis on the word ‘special’ intrigued me. I asked what he meant by it.
‘The sort of expenses that have witnesses suddenly developing amnesia, or becoming struck down by a morbid claustrophobia that only occurs when they enter a courtroom.’
‘You’re suggesting he bribes witnesses?’ Eve sounded horrified, which amused both Johnny and me.
‘Certainly not,’ Johnny responded. ‘That would be unethical. He sends someone else to do it for him. There is very little that guy won’t stoop to, if he sees a profit in it. I reckon the nearest Scott Martin has been to the straight and narrow is when he picked up a ruler.’
Having vented his spite and frustration at Martin, Johnny was somewhat more forgiving about others he identified. His scurrilous remarks about various other local
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