Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World

by Mike A Vickers

  ‘Goddammit,’ muttered Brasenose. ‘What the hell’s wrong with the man.’

  ‘You mean we’ve lost the money!’ snapped Woolley.

  ‘Actually, I’ve lost the money,’ Netheridge pointed out mildly. ‘You’ve lost nothing.’

  ‘Ah, er, quite,’ blustered Woolley.

  ‘So where is it?’ asked Black.

  ‘If it’s not in the venue, nor with Timbrill, then maybe your colleague has it,’ suggested Woolley. ‘Thought he’d help himself to a small perk, perhaps?’

  Miller did not rise to the suggestion. ‘My team is hand-picked and personally trained by myself. I trust them implicitly,’ he said.

  ‘Well, if it’s gone, it’s gone.’ Brasenose waved a hand dismissively. Miller was astonished at how blasé they could be – if the cash had been his, he’d have hunted it down to the ends of the earth and then been merciless to the thief.

  ‘That’s all very well for you to say,’ objected Netheridge. ‘I’ve just shelled out a lot of money with no tangible return on my investment.’

  ‘Stop whining, Adam,’ said Woolley. ‘We’ll all make a contribution if you feel like that, although I have to say I’m surprised you’re bleating over such a trifling amount.’

  ‘I’m not. The amount is negligible. I’m just disappointed we were unable to obtain immediate results.’

  Miller observed Netheridge closely. Just losing a quarter mill had to hurt, even for him. Funny, none of them would have batted an eyebrow spending extravagantly on a yacht or a couple of first-class Russian whores or even half of Hampshire, but to just lose it completely? Ouch! ‘I think you’ve underestimated his resolve,’ he said crisply. Black snickered to himself. Miller passed the buck with smooth professionalism. Had the invitation been successful, it would have been a ‘we’ situation.

  ‘Or perhaps you were not persuasive enough,’ probed Woolley, always keen to blame a scapegoat.

  Miller was having none of that. ‘Be assured, I was,’ he retorted grimly. ‘Would you like a demonstration? I think you’ll find I had an excellent grip on the situation.’

  ‘Enough jokes,’ snapped Netheridge. Despite his nonchalance, he was quietly fuming over the loss of his cash. ‘Timbrill has made a serious tactical error and needs to be punished. He does not seem to appreciate the gravity of his situation. He was warned of the consequences and has chosen to ignore that warning, although apparently in an entirely unexpected way.’ Who actually loses that much money, especially an accountant? ‘As a result, his actions have now made his wife and her bird legitimate targets. I suggest we direct our attention to them, and in particular, the bird. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ the others said in turn. Miller examined his nails, seemingly disinterested. He did it for effect, knowing this low level of insubordination really ticked off his employers, but they needed him and his unique skill set. He appeared lost in his own thoughts as a silence stretched out in the room, but in fact was counting in his head.

  ‘At your leisure, Mr Miller,’ ground out Woolley eventually. Damn, eleven seconds. Almost a record.

  ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were waiting for me,’ he apologised suavely. Netheridge snickered. Miller was brilliant at annoying them. ‘I was hoping, like you, that our invitation would be a sufficient incentive. Sadly, this has not proved to be the case so we must now move to the standby phase of our operation. As agreed previously, the alternative target has been under observation for some time by my team. They’ve been on her tail for weeks.’

  ‘Are they any good?’ asked Woolley peevishly. ‘I don’t want amateurs on the job.’

  Miller snorted in contempt at the jibe. ‘MI5 are novices in close quarter surveillance compared to my experienced team.’ Miller had trained his men personally. Even those jokers from JSON were no match for him. They’d been caught. By a bird, for Christ’s sake. There was no way he’d ever make such a fundamental error. Careful man, was Miller.

  ‘I have been analysing her movements,’ he continued. ‘There have been no significant departures from her normal domestic routine. With regard to her home, its rural location ensures it is reasonably secluded. I have identified access and escape routes. I have also made preparations for the incarceration of the macaw at a nearby facility. There are one or two minor arrangements still to complete with my team, but essentially I am in a position to move on your instruction. If required, I can guarantee the macaw will be in our hands by the end of the week.’

  The men looked at each other around the table, then nodded in unison.

  Miller smiled. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, it looks like I’m heading west. Time to break out the wellies and grease up the sheep.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘You must tell the police! I’ll not have another man touching my husband’s private parts.’

  Celeste was adamant. James stood before her with his trousers and leather pants down around his ankles. She was shocked at the marbled bruising on his space hoppers. They were definitely the wrong colour. Plummy. Literally! His spuds had actually darkened like a pair of Victorias fit to fall in autumn. Add into the mix the PM’s pen tattoo and James’s lower half was beginning to look exceedingly artistic. A sort of Jackson Pollock-inspired post-expressionist study in blue.

  Bertie bobbed on his perch, watching them both with great interest. This looked like it was shaping up as a typical evening for his mum and dad. No doubt Dad would start kneeling soon – he did look good kneeling, especially in leather – and when that happened a jolly good time would be had by all.

  ‘Is that wise, darling? I feel I’m already taking a risk telling you. These people need to be taken seriously.’

  ‘I think it’s safe to assume we passed way beyond risk when you dropped off their cash with the old lady.’

  ‘I’m not taking any bribe,’ said James flatly. ‘I needed to get rid of that bag as soon as possible. Besides, she looked like she could do with a bit of help.’

  ‘Darling, I think what you did was absolutely wonderful. That’s why I love you so much.’ She peered at his injured undercarriage again. ‘I think I’m going to run you a nice hot bath with extra bubbles, then we’ll get some soothing lotion rubbed into those. How does that sound?’

  ‘Will I be tied up?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Gagged?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Then that sounds absolutely splendid. It’s a radical treatment regime from the cutting edge of medicine, but I think it’ll really help with the bruising.’ He paused, suddenly unsure, then sighed unhappily. ‘Frankly, I’m still in two minds as to whether I should have even mentioned what happened.’

  ‘Like you can possibly imagine I’d not notice something was wrong,’ she observed with impressive sarcasm. ‘Honestly, James, we are talking about my favourite parts of you. Well, apart from your red hot bot, of course.’

  ‘I don’t want to put you in any danger. I’d never forgive myself if any harm came to you. Or Bertie.’

  ‘It won’t. My baby will protect me, won’t you, sweetheart.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Bertie, ‘I will. What am I saying?’ he added conversationally.

  ‘I’m sure he will, but they’ll know if we go to the police. These sort of people always know, and there’s no way I’m risking getting you involved. Or Bertie.’ James stepped out of his trousers and pants, his lower nakedness wafted by dangling shirt tails. He winced at the tenderness in his marital department. ‘God, I’m getting flashbacks to those burglars in London. You don’t think it’s anything to do with them, do you? They’re out of prison now.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ They stared at each other for a few moments. Bertie sensed they were both at a loss. It didn’t happen often, especially with Celeste. She was a woman who knew her mind, who took control. Especially over her mate. It didn’t look like he was going to see her in her finest plumage after all. He guessed The Kneeling Man would be equally disappointed.

  ‘Hello, sailor,’ he
chipped in helpfully, feeling the silence needed filling. He peered at Celeste, a little concerned at her pensive frown. She chewed at her lower lip, a sure sign of doubt, but Bertie had absolute faith in his mum and remained warmed and comforted by her presence. His love for her was simple and unshakable, but he was also well tuned to her moods. She was definitely unsure, as if she wanted help. The Kneeling Man usually made her smile, particularly during their complex mating rituals, but he, too, was on edge. He also seemed to be in some considerable pain, and wriggled in discomfort. Perhaps they both needed a helping hand with whatever problem concerned them, maybe a few words of encouragement. He thought hard and eventually came up with two solutions.

  The first involved a really large bowl of creamy, plump Brazil nuts followed by a pear or two. Bertie dwelled on the image. Yes, that’s what he’d vote for if it was up to him, but somehow he knew on this occasion it wouldn’t help. No, he needed to pursue the second alternative. Mummy and daddy required assistance from another human. Mrs Badham came to mind immediately, but this problem did not seem to involve dusting the house or the immediate deployment of a vacuum cleaner. Gavin next door and his inquisitive cows, perhaps? Again, he pondered for a moment before rejecting Gav and moving on. Sadly, there was not much moving on to do. Bertie’s world was now almost exclusively centred around home life; indeed, few other humans had ever impressed him enough to warrant a place in his memory.

  But there was one. Oh, yes, there was one who had made quite an impression. Grey, thin and unsmiling, easily manipulated, but a good friend nonetheless, this one had helped his mum before, but, most importantly, had also introduced him to Milly. Yes, he well remembered this man.

  ‘Wilf,’ said Bertie casually, dropping his suggestion into the silence. Celeste and James both stared at him in wide-eyed shock. Goodness, he hadn’t seen that look in a while! Rather missed it, if truth be told. ‘Wilf,’ he repeated, this time with a little more emphasis. Come on, guys, keep up!

  ‘Wilf!’ exclaimed Celeste, much to Bertie’s relief. It had taken some time, but she seemed to have got the message at last. Bertie sometimes wondered just how these funny little apes had come to rule the planet.

  ‘Wilf!’ stuttered James. Thank heavens, even The Kneeling Man was catching on. He usually brought up the rear in these matters, being a man and all that. All three exchanged stares. ‘Well cover me in pancake batter and spank me till Shrove Tuesday, I think that’s a damned good idea,’ exclaimed James at last.

  ‘What a clever boy,’ said Celeste, stroking Bertie’s head. He immediately started purring with pride. Yes, it was good to be the brainy one of the family. ‘He’s the only policeman we know and a damned good one at that. He knows how to be discreet. It wouldn’t be suspicious asking him down to stay for the weekend. Everyone knows we’re friends. We can ask his advice. Do the police do private commissions – you know, sub-contract work?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said James. ‘Once you get them officially involved I think you’ll find they are obliged by law to investigate to the fullest extent on behalf of the state.’

  ‘But they can only start an investigation if they receive a complaint.’

  ‘That’s one trigger.’

  ‘Well, maybe we can ask him to have a nose around but not make a complaint.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said James pensively. ‘I don’t think it works that way. By anyone’s book, I’ve been assaulted. That’s a crime. Once it’s been reported, off they go full of enthusiasm to boost their clear-up rates.’

  ‘Hmm, well, why don’t we invite him down for the weekend anyway and see how it goes. I’ve been meaning to call him for some time now, just to catch up.’

  ‘Was he promoted after the case?’

  ‘Yes, but he may well have retired now.’

  ‘He’s not that old, surely.’

  ‘Always difficult to tell Wilf’s age,’ said Celeste. ‘And don’t call me Shirley!’

  Detective Sergeant Wilfred Thompson was on the path to retirement. This path had not been triggered by age nor by the accumulation of sufficient funds – and it was certainly not being followed voluntarily. Rather, he had been prodded and poked on to it by his superior officer who had suggested in no uncertain terms that Wilf leave the force under his own steam and with the benefit of a good pension, instead of being forcibly ejected by the disciplinary board.

  The reason for this draconian action was simple. In the two years since his promotion, Wilf had driven Detective Chief Inspector Tristram Yates to the point of volcanic frustration, sending his blood pressure through the roof and contributing significantly to his accelerating rate of premature baldness. The focus and energy that had seen Yates bound effortlessly up the police corporate ladder had been diverted from his desire for promotion and channelled almost entirely into handling Wilf – and Wilf had worn him down. Crikey, had Wilf worn him down. Wound up to breaking point by that exasperating combination of Wilf’s peerless detective skills, coupled with his smouldering insubordination and open resentment of authority, Yates had finally pulled the nuclear trigger.

  As for Wilf, he’d rather enjoyed the past couple of years. Promoted after the Gordon burglary case with its extraordinary and devastating consequences, he’d strolled through his workload like a hot knife through butter, gathering in all manner of obnoxious miscreants and packing them off to court. He had one of the highest conviction rates in the Met and was admired greatly across the force for his unruffled approach and unconventional methods.

  Except by Yates.

  Yates didn’t like unconventional methods. Yates liked convention. His mind worked on order. On precision. Meticulousness. The Book.

  Wilf’s intuitive approach was not covered by The Book. He drew on his vast experience, dogged determination – and contempt for convention. He and dear Tristram were like poles on a magnet, forever being forced into closer and closer contact, but never to actually touch. In this competition, the smart money around the station was on Wilf, but Yates possessed the ultimate power and had finally used it. Ruthlessly.

  And so Wilf was now working out his last week of retirement notice on gardening leave. He still carried his warrant card and remained a serving officer, but Yates had taken a leaf out of Canon Law and excommunicated him, banning him from the station and effectively destroying his ability to carry out his job. If Wilf hadn’t equally exasperated his Police Federation representative, he might have had recourse, but it all now seemed utterly pointless. Pity, he wasn’t yet ready. He had plenty more stomach for the fight, but Yates had finally snapped.

  Yates.

  The trouble had always been Yates.

  What a tit!

  And now, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, here he was experiencing an acute attack of Pie Dilemma.

  Wilf stood in the local Co-op armed with his bachelor’s basket and burdened with an impossible choice. Steak and kidney versus chicken and mushroom in a shortcrust topping Death Match. Which should he have in a sandwich when he got home? He hefted one in each hand, balancing them in a moment of uncharacteristic indecision. Ham and leek had already been rejected on the grounds that he liked neither of the constituents. Ham he found too salty and leek too slimy, which really only left the pastry, and even Wilf, as seasoned a bachelor as he was, even he couldn’t face a pie without a filling, especially between two slices of bread. He sighed sadly, a bitter twist to his lips. How had it come to this, when the most important decision of his day was pie-based. Thankfully, mercifully, wonderfully, his phoned chirruped. The theme tune to Z Cars. Now, that had been a good programme, and the real reason he’d originally joined the force. For a young lad eagerly anticipating each new episode, the wonderful world of policing proved irresistible – even in black and white! Both pies were tossed back on the shelf. He peered at the screen, saw the caller ID and all the sourness that stained his face evaporated in an instant, leaving a rare smile.

  ‘Ex-Detective Sergeant Wilfred Thompson,’ he said crisply. ‘Mac
aw recoveries a speciality, governments brought down to order!’

  ‘Hello, Wilf,’ chuckled a familiar and still very lovely contralto.

  ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs, Celeste Gordon, now Timbrill.’

  ‘Haven’t forgotten, then?’

  ‘Now that’s not very likely, is it?’ he countered with his usual heavy dose of sarcasm. He was feeling better already. Quite chipper, actually. ‘God, it’s great to hear your voice again.’

  ‘Ex-Detective?’

  ‘Gardening leave and on the path to enforced retirement.’

  ‘I can tell from the tone of your voice you’re really happy about it,’ replied Celeste, matching his sarcasm. Wilf had missed her dry wit.

  ‘I had a minor disagreement with a senior officer,’ he said bluntly. ‘It was either retirement with full honours and a pension, or the disciplinary board and a ritual casting out into the wilderness.’

  Celeste guessed he had only been given the choice in grudging respect for his professional qualities and, more importantly, to keep the press from turning him into a martyr – after all, Wilf had been instrumental in solving the case of the decade.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Celeste. ‘You have a real gift.’

  ‘Others don’t think so.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the less talented officers in the Met. Sorry, I meant to say your superiors.’ Celeste paused and Wilf caught on straight away.

  ‘You in trouble?’

  ‘Maybe. Yes. I don’t know.’

  ‘Indecision? That’s not the Celeste I knew.’

  ‘I’ve not been in this situation before.’

  ‘Is Bertie all right?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Yes, but why do you ask?’