Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World

by Mike A Vickers

  ‘You’re good,’ he rasped, ‘but you’re still mine. Never had me a ginger clacker before.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Humph.’

  They circled each other warily, the library now directly behind Celeste, the Turkish carpet perilously close to the backs of her heels. Miller leapt in, feinted to the right and the blade drew a vivid scarlet line across Celeste’s forearm. He expected her to cry out in pain, or at the very least flinch at the wound, but she merely chuckled, face flushed, eyes bright, her lips parted and wet as she casually licked up the trail of blood.

  Miller was astonished. She displayed all the signs of a woman bordering on profound sexual excitement.

  ‘Venha cá!’ she called suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I tend to sneeze when I’m aroused.’

  ‘You’re a bloody nutter,’ hissed Miller. He’d had enough. Time to end this farce. ‘The world won’t miss you one little bit.’ He advanced, blood in one eye, murder in the other. ‘First you, then your parrot.’

  ‘Duck,’ she said.

  ‘I thought he was a macaw.’

  ‘No, duck!’ repeated Celeste.

  Realization swept over Miller and he spun around – just in time to get a faceful of claws.

  Bertie’s impact was tremendous. He’d heard his mum’s summons in their secret language – known to the rest of the world as Portuguese – and swept up in a blue blur to crash into Miller, his sheer inertia staggering the man. Claws sank deep into flesh, puncturing, tearing horribly at his cheeks and mouth. This man had hurt Milly, his mate. This man was attacking his mum. Cold, primal fury consumed him. The beast took over, replacing his normally unruffled amiability. He buffeted with his wings, body draped over Miller’s crown, shrieking a fighting call.

  Bertie knew from previous experience exactly how fragile human ears could be and homed in on his favourite target, stabbing Miller with lightning speed. His dagger bill parted skin like a scalpel, its tip grating along the mastoid bone and separating a large part of Miller’s ear from his head. He screamed. Yelping no longer cut the mustard.

  Celeste stepped to one side as Miller lurched past and, balancing on one heel, lashed out with a brutal stamp, dislocating his kneecap. The kick helped him on his way. He stumbled onto the Turkish carpet, one leg collapsed and useless, arms flailing for balance. Blood spurted from the side of his head, his catastrophically damaged ear hanging down and flopping against his neck. The trap tipped instantly and he began to slide down. Bertie released his grip and, in one fluid movement, swooped on into the library through its open door. Terror consumed Miller. His one remaining workable leg pumped frantically, but the carpet offered no purchase. Down he tumbled into the gaping darkness below, eyes bulging, his face a twisted mask, but at the last moment his arm went back and the knife arced through the air, embedding itself into Celeste’s thigh.

  ‘Norton Village Hall, Protect Yourself Combat Course for Women! Shove that up your frock, Humph!’ she yelled into the black pit as the trap swung back up to close with a thump. Cheeks still blushing with excitement from the fight, she calmed herself with a few deep breaths before looking down, her attention now drawn by the lancing pain in her thigh. The knife protruded dramatically. Abstractly, she noted it was in an almost identical place to the stabbing James had received from the gold-nibbed Prime Ministerial pen. His and hers wounds – now there’s true love for you!

  Gripping the haft, she pulled the knife from her thigh, blood bubbling under her trousers. The wound was clean and sharp-edged. At least Miller had done her the courtesy of keeping his blade keen. It stung viciously, but was not deep – his last desperate throw had been wild and without any real force. ‘Bloody amateur,’ she snorted. ‘Couldn’t even throw a knife properly.’

  She had a quick look around to make sure she was alone, then gave her thigh a good hard poke, just for fun. The prod could not in any way be described as a diagnostic method recommended by the medical profession, but it did produce a disturbingly dreamy look in her eyes.

  She’d always had an ambivalent relationship with pain, always walked the fine line between it and pleasure.

  Heat blossomed inside, ignited by the excitement of the fight and then stoked by the throbbing wound, but personal gratification would have to wait. Reluctantly, she turned her mind to more immediate matters. Her thigh required dressing and she badly needed a cup of tea. She hugged one wall to bypass the deadly carpet and hobbled into the library. Bertie was perched on the back of a sofa cleaning his bloodstained claws.

  ‘I love you, Mummy,’ he said happily.

  Celeste threw the bolt to lock the trap. ‘I love you, too, my brave little soldier. Come on, let’s find you something nice to eat.’ She limped away towards the kitchen and some sticking plaster, Bertie waddling along at her side.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘We really should call an ambulance,’ said Doreen. She stared in dismay at the red stain on Celeste’s thigh.

  ‘For this? Don’t bother. I’ve hurt myself more plucking my eyebrows.’ Celeste flexed her leg experimentally. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s just a flesh wound. Jeez, I sound like Randolph Scott.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Don’t sweat it, Doreen. The skin’s hardly broken. It looks a lot worse than it is. There was no force in the throw. There, I can walk already.’ They stood in the kitchen. Cutie and Martha had divested themselves of their trendy apiarist protection, Jenny was filling the kettle, Celeste hobbled around the table as if to demonstrate her mobility and Sandra nervously turned her diamond-shaped piece of wood over and over in her hands.

  ‘So they’re all accounted for, all five? Good. Jen, where’s yours?’

  ‘Blinded by pepper-filled tomatoes, then rendered unconscious by frying pan and handcuffed to the conservatory.’

  ‘A little over the top, but I like your style. Cutie?’

  ‘Hopefully suffering major anaphylaxis locked in the potting shed.’

  ‘And the remaining three in the oubliette. Excellent,’ smiled Doreen. ‘Well done, girls.’

  ‘Any chance we can question Humph?’ asked Celeste. ‘He might be more talkative now I’ve softened him up a bit. I need to know who sent them. A day or so in the dark with his ear hanging off should make him more amenable.’

  Cutie started giggling. The girl was irrepressible. Even Martha, wan and still embarrassingly damp, had to hide a smile behind her hand. Doreen looked at them and sighed wearily. ‘All right, what have you two done?’

  ‘We stored Norman in the oubliette last time we were down there.’

  Doreen stared at them in disbelief, then burst out laughing. ‘Oh dear. That should get them worried.’

  ‘Who’s Norman?’ asked Celeste.

  ‘Our skeleton. Dates back to the twelfth century, hence Norman. The bones of our resident ghost.’

  ‘So those men are stuck in a hidden pit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In total darkness?’

  ‘I didn’t see any of them carrying a torch.’

  ‘No hope of escape?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘With a skeleton for company?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And the most unpleasant of them half bleeding to death.’ Celeste pondered for a moment. ‘Then we only need give them a couple of hours. Meanwhile, I could murder that cup of tea.’

  The kitchen was a mess. Jenny tutted irritably and started gathering plates, clattering out her anger. Miller’s mobile still lay on the table. Cutie examined it carefully. ‘Mmm, password protected,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s have a think about this. Psychos are surprisingly predictable. Adolf Hitler’s birthplace? No. Pinochet’s first name? Hmm, not that, either.’

  ‘What about famous Humphreys?’ suggested Celeste.

  ‘Bogart? No, sorry.’

  ‘Lyttleton?’

  ‘Bingo! Give that girl an ice cream,’ chuckled Cutie. She delved deep into the phone, nimble fi
ngertips dancing over the touch screen.

  ‘What have you got, Geraldine?’ asked Celeste.

  ‘Firstly, I’m uploading his entire content into a new password-protected account on the cloud. That’ll ensure we have a copy, whatever happens to this phone. While that’s chugging away, I’ll just have a peep at his latest ...’ Cutie’s voice trailed off as she quickly discovered a preponderance of calls to two particular numbers.

  ‘These texts indicate his boss is a man called Netheridge, but he also has a close association with someone called Matthew Black. Hmm, the sly bastard. You won’t be surprised to know he’s double-crossing Netheridge. Black knows everything. They both appear to be in some sort of high-power commercial cabal. There’s some names here that sound awfully familiar.’ Cutie continued to scroll. ‘Interesting. These are extremely wealthy men. From London.’

  ‘The men from the east, as Maggie foretold,’ said Doreen.

  ‘And that’s not all. I’m afraid you’re not going to get the luxury of a couple of hours, Celeste,’ Cutie added urgently. ‘We’re not out of the woods yet. Humph sent a text not half an hour ago. Probably the last thing he did before Sandra made her show-stopping appearance. Netheridge is on his way here right now with Milly. Black, too, but he’s after something else entirely, something valuable beyond measure.’ She turned Miller’s phone to show Doreen the screen. A red-haired beauty stared back. ‘Humph’s told Black about our art. He’s coming to get Helen!’

  Black took no notice of the Hall at all. Its ancient peace and beauty did not call out to him, its weathered grace unappealing in every way. He already had plenty of homes and all of them much larger and grander than this old country pile of dust and spiders. He was much more interested in what the Hall contained. He parked his Mercedes right by the front door, its boot lid already humming open. Time was of the essence. This was to be a speedy entry, quick snatch and flying exit. Miller had texted the all-clear. He had the women corralled and was now engaged with Netheridge in the kitchen, giving him a guaranteed window of about ten minutes to snatch the art and be long gone. Miller would then melt away with his men after disabling Netheridge’s vehicle and calling the police, leaving young Adam to face the music. He grabbed a stepladder out of the boot and, easing the front door ajar, slipped inside.

  The grand entrance hall lay silent and empty. Black scanned the walls. Holy crap on a cream cracker, Miller hadn’t been joking! There were pieces here of national importance. The Reynolds alone was magnificent, the Gainsborough worth a fortune, but he’d not come for them. When it came to art, Black was motivated entirely by beauty. His gaze locked on to the painting above the fireplace.

  Helen of Troy.

  The portrait was glorious, its colours rich and vibrant. Helen of Troy as a redhead. Sandys had been inspired, his vision incomparable. In Black’s view, Rossetti’s effort paled into insipidity. Yes, this would be one of the crowning glories of his collection. What a find. In a rare moment of philanthropy, he resolved to give Miller an extra bonus for his efforts. He hustled forward, planted the stepladder and, climbing to the top step, carefully lifted the painting off the wall. Close up, the portrait was utterly beguiling and for a moment he lost himself in those wonderfully smouldering eyes, wallowing in a moment of indulgent introspection. Yes, he’d come a long way over the years.

  For a while, Black had accumulated wealth merely as a precaution against poverty. This was at the very beginning of his career when a return to the impoverished mediocrity of Swaffham remained a distinct possibility, but once he’d developed a liking for destroying his commercial rivals, the Black juggernaut really moved into top gear, creating truly obscene amounts of profit. He didn’t waste his hard-earned on any fancy accountant, but personally distributed his income amongst numerous offshore accounts, keeping only one hand-written record of his investments in his safe at home. Better that way. No electronic trails for the tax authorities to follow. Through a unique process of legitimization involving several Central American states, the money was washed cleaner than a Sunday morning football kit before oozing unctuously and discreetly into tax havens all over the globe. Black discovered, as only the very seriously rich do, that not only does money beget money, but that a lot of money begets a lot of money.

  By this time, his pan-European paint cartel had really established itself, generating vast sums of profit on which he found himself increasingly disinclined to pay any tax. Which in turn boosted his income – and so the financial merry-go-round gained speed, dumping truly astonishing amounts into his several hundred accounts.

  Which he then liked to spend on the finer things in life.

  Such as adding to his personal and very private art collection. Private by necessity, of course. Black would pay for a painting if he absolutely had to, but certainly not if it could be obtained for nothing. The rest of the population would call this stealing, but Black, with his warped morality, merely saw it as an act of accumulation from unprotected sources. His art collection now filled a huge hidden basement below his London townhouse and included paintings by Vermeer, Cezanne, Monet, Matisse and Pablo Picasso, works that had been stolen to order over many years. Miller was good at this. The man was a talented procurer of valuable art, either by direct theft from galleries, or by tracking down lost masterpieces and pinching them from other illicit collectors. Vincent’s Poppy Flowers had recently come into Black’s possession by this route, snaffled from a drug baron’s country retreat near Stoke Poges.

  And now here was Helen of Troy. A pre-Raphaelite treasure. God, she was so beautiful – and so easy to take. Black liked to get personally involved if the situation was safe enough. He’d driven the getaway car from Stoke Poges, chortling all the way home when Miller told him he’d left a magic marker penis scrawled on the wall where the van Gogh had been hung. And now he stood in this empty hall with the picture in his hands. This was going to be so easy.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  Black spun around at the sound of the voice, still grasping the canvas. A man stood a few paces inside the open front door. Damn, should’ve locked it, cursed Black to himself. Too late now. He hadn’t heard the other’s approach, such had his attention been consumed by the masterpiece in his hands. The stepladder wobbled alarmingly.

  ‘Now, you wouldn’t be thinking of stealing that picture, would you? How about sticking it back on the wall and then we can have a little chat.’

  But Black had already been seduced by Helen and was loath to let her go so easily. He had no intention of relinquishing his grip. ‘I must get off this ladder. The painting needs to be rehung properly,’ he said gruffly, already stepping down. ‘It’s also heavy. I’ll put it on the table.’

  Unknown to Black, the man he now faced was experienced in these little dramas and recognised the warning signs. There was no doubt Black was freeing himself up for action; the bigger man, he was obviously confident in his physical prowess. He was impressively broad-shouldered, bulky and grizzled, but he was also no spring chicken.

  Black thought furiously. This stranger he now faced was tall and wiry. In a physical conflict, Black knew he could take him. He was good at making the right decisions in moments of crisis, an invaluable talent for a businessman of his calibre, and he trusted his judgement now. With the picture safely out of the way, he turned to face his opponent. ‘Listen, Lanky, you have two choices. If you’re clever, you already know what they are.’

  ‘Indulge me,’ came the polite reply. ‘And it’s Mr Lanky to you.’

  ‘I’ll give you the chance to leave,’ he said evenly. ‘I’ll even throw in ten grand as an encouragement. All you have to do is walk away and keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘That’s a very generous offer. And the other option?’

  ‘I beat you to a pulp and leave with the painting anyway.’

  ‘Ah, the bully’s bargain. Haven’t heard that one for a while.’ Lanky’s hands remained in the pockets of his coat. He showed no inclination to prepare himself for action so B
lack made the mistake of assuming he’d got his way yet again.

  ‘I’m so happy you’ve made the right decision.’

  ‘Have I now.’ Although concentrating entirely on his opponent, Lanky became peripherally aware of movement up in the gallery behind Black. Excellent. A witness. A woman. She had the sense to stand quietly, looking down at the two men. His day was getting better all the time. ‘Tempting though your offer is, I still can’t let you kidnap Ginger,’ he said genially.

  Above the two men, Sandra stood silently, peering down at the tableau from behind the heavy stone balustrade. She’d heard voices and come to investigate. The man with his back to her had obviously been in the process of stealing Helen of Troy – the portrait lay on the table with his hand resting on the frame in a blatantly possessive manner. He emanated a compressed aura of menace. His opponent was also middle-aged, but much slighter in build. He showed a lot of bottle confronting the larger man. She rather admired that and found his determination to protect Helen impressive. He was also quite handsome, in a sort of lean, intense way. Nice eyes, and baldness suited him. Mmm, actually, he was a bit gorgeous.

  Black advanced. ‘You going to be a problem?’ he growled menacingly.

  ‘Only where you’re concerned.’ Lanky’s hands stayed firmly in his pockets.

  ‘One last chance. A man like you could well use twenty grand. You could buy a coat that fits, for a start.’

  ‘Twenty!’ he chuckled, eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘My, you are desperate.’ The more dangerous the situation, the cooler he became. Up on the gallery, Sandra quietly began to drool.

  ‘Out of my way, Baldy.’

  ‘Now that’s just plain rude.’ Would it be a charge or a swing?

  It was a swing.

  Black knew he was strong enough to flatten his adversary. His fist arced – but completely failed to reach its target. Lanky ducked and twisted with lightning speed, no mean feat for a man with a comfortable number of years under his belt. With hands suddenly free, he grabbed Black’s collar and, using the man’s own forward momentum, tripped and shoved him face down onto the floor, following up his winning move with a none-too-gentle thumblock. Black grunted and tried to throw him off, but got a hard knee in the back of the neck for his efforts, his nose squashed painfully against the floor. Lanky pinned him to the ground, using his weight on Black’s neck to subdue him effortlessly. He struggled, cursing prodigiously, but could not break free.