Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World
Page 27
They left the library. Wilf peered over his shoulder and noted with surprise that Martha was very careful to lock the doors behind them. Interesting. None of the other rooms in the Hall were locked, so why did she do that?
Greg met them in the entrance hall. ‘Now we’ve dealt with the bad guys, would anyone care to tell me why they were here?’
Wilf’s explanation was a masterclass of descriptive prose. Years of appearing as a witness in court had honed his technique. Greg listened, notebook in hand, pen scribbling furiously. ‘In short, you’re dealing with a high-level conspiracy to corrupt an MP. Miller’s phone provides enough evidence to arrest the other three men in their cosy little club. I’m sure further revelations will duly come to light. These men have been doing this for a long time.’
‘This is way above me,’ said Greg. ‘I’ve no doubt it’s going to turn into a major investigation.’
‘You look like a man who could do with another cup of tea,’ said Doreen.
‘Thanks, that would be lovely.’ Jenny went to make a new pot. More cake arrived.
Sandra sidled up to Wilf. ‘Got a minute? There’s one last thing I think you should see.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Best I show you.’
‘It’s not another poor soul in handcuffs, is it?’
‘Not quite, but play your cards right…’
Wilf pursed his lips. The other women were busy plying Greg and Baz with double chocolate layer cake, so they slipped away unnoticed. She led him into the pantry and closed the door.
‘Well, what have you got to show – good grief, woman!’
Sandra unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a black satin bra and tipped her breasts out of their cups. With his attention suitably engaged, she pounced, ripping at his clothes. His trousers were forcibly dragged down to his knees, leaving crumpled shirt-tails flapping in front of his middle regions.
Such a thing had never happened to Wilf.
Sandra hoiked herself up onto a marble shelf, naked arse squashing a punnet of Jenny’s strawberries in her haste. Juice squirted across the cold stone. She stretched her legs wide and up, drawers hanging off one ankle. She grabbed Wilf’s lapels, pulled him in close and kissed him hard. Wilf’s eyes bulged, as did other parts. An industriously inquisitive tongue wormed into his mouth. Even Wilf, as unseasoned in the art of love as a man could possibly be, began to realise the likely outcome of the encounter. Her kisses took on an urgent intimacy.
‘This is totally unprofessional,’ he gasped, surfacing for air. He couldn’t tell if the giddiness he felt was through lack of oxygen or awakening passion. ‘Good job I’m leaving the force tomorrow.’
‘Stop talking and start shagging!’ she panted. Her hand disappeared between his shirt tails. She rummaged and emerged with her prize. Wilf gasped while Sandra grasped. She kneaded urgently. ‘Come on, Wilf, you know you want it.’
‘Do I?’
‘Got any handcuffs?’
‘Er … sorry.’
‘Next time, then.’
‘There’s going to be a next time?’
‘There will be if you wear this!’
She plonked the pink crash helmet on his head. Wilf giggled. He hadn’t giggled for decades. Frankly, he’d never had much to giggle at, but the sight of Sandra lying back on the slab in a pool of mashed strawberries, brown eyes smouldering, tits wobbling, legs wrapped around his waist and ankles crossed in the small of his back, put him in an excellent frame of mind. She guided him into port with a sigh and shudder. Wilf liked the sound very much, the dreamy sensation even more, and began to hump vigorously, decorum long gone and antlers flapping in time with his thrusts. Sandra moaned, pinching her own nipples, and tumbled into an intense, grunting climax. Wilf followed swiftly, eyes rolling back, his face blushing deep red under the sparkling coral-coloured helmet, knees wobbling and tongue hanging out.
At least he’d lasted longer than Bertie – but only just!
‘Anyone seen Sandra?’ asked Doreen.
‘Not for a while. Come to think of it, Wilf’s gone as well.’
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘God help us,’ muttered Celeste. ‘What have I done!’
‘We’re here,’ said Wilf a little too breathlessly, scampering in a little too hastily and certainly a little too guiltily.
‘I was just showing Wilf around the house,’ added Sandra, trying to straighten her mussed auburn hair. Colour stained her cheeks and throat. Her blouse was buttoned awry.
‘I’m sure you were,’ observed Doreen dryly.
‘There’s something different about you,’ said Cutie, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
‘Can anyone else smell strawberries?’ asked Martha.
Greg drained his cup. ‘Ladies, we need to take statements from you all,’ he said. Probably best to do this at the station.’
‘How do we get there?’ asked Doreen.
‘We’ll have to go in the van.’
There was a squeal of excitement. ‘In a police van? Girls, I’m not going out looking like this.’ Doreen led the stampede upstairs.
‘Oi! Come back! Where are they off to?’ complained PC Brush.
‘You’re a bachelor, aren’t you, Baz?’ said Celeste. ‘Hope you’re not in a hurry.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come as well, Mrs Timbrill,’ said Greg.
‘That might be a problem. My priority is Bertie and Milly. I want to get them settled as soon as possible. This has been traumatic for them both.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Listen, let me take them home and I promise I’ll come to the station tomorrow morning and make a statement then.’
‘Sounds reasonable.’
‘Can you go with the others?’ she asked Wilf. ‘Keep them from wrecking the place.’
Wilf slapped Greg on the shoulder. ‘Sure. You’ll need all the help you can get, my boy.’ The police station was bound to have a convenient cupboard somewhere private that he and Sandra could employ usefully while waiting for the others to make their statements.
‘I’ll phone Colin when I get home, let him know we have Milly back safe and sound.’
Another police vehicle arrived. ‘Here come forensics,’ said Greg. ‘The SOCOs will want everyone out while they do their thing. Ladies!’ he called up the stairs. ‘Your bus is departing now.’
A clatter of heels announced the return of the women. All four had coiffed their hair, applied make-up and changed into smart clothes and appropriate interview shoes. Even Martha. Celeste gave Greg an encouraging pat on the arm. ‘Good luck,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve a feeling you’ll need it.’
Doreen took Celeste to one side as the others piled into the police van. ‘Thank you,’ she said earnestly.
‘For what? Saving democracy or introducing Wilf to Sandra?’
‘Either one or the other will make my life much more bearable, although it’s too early to say which.’
‘My pleasure.’ They hugged briefly and Doreen climbed into the van. Greg and Baz were already struggling to cope.
‘Can we have sirens and lights?’
‘What’s that button for?’
‘Why won’t this window open?’
‘I like your helmet!’
‘Where do you keep the CS gas?’
‘How does this breathalyser work?
‘My, that’s a big truncheon!’
‘It’s like herding blancmange,’ muttered Wilf, getting in last. The police van hummed with happy chatter like a charabanc on a trip to the seaside.
There was only one empty seat – and it was next to Sandra. She patted it and smiled.
AND FINALLY…
‘In we go!’ said Celeste, opening the front door of the cottage. Bertie scampered over the threshold, his tail sweeping from side to side like a long blue brush. Milly followed closely, trilling happily. Celeste had no fear she’d make a bolt for freedom. A crowbar wouldn’t be strong enough to separate her from Bertie’s side. The two chattering macaws h
opped and fluttered up onto the perch and dipped heads to the nut bowl.
Celeste made sure they had plenty of food and water before going upstairs. The cottage was, as always, a haven of peace and tranquillity. No sound could be heard, but for birdsong outside and the occasional distant crack of shattered Brazil nut. She closed the bedroom door, stripped off her filthy and bloodstained clothes and took a long, relaxing bath, treating herself to extra bubbles. Her wounded leg still smarted, but the cut was clean. The paramedics at Temple Hall had not seemed unduly concerned. Sitting at her dressing table, she replaced the dressing before applying a little make-up and lipstick, then dried her hair. She’d always appreciated how lucky she’d been with her unique colour, despite having endured many examples of ginger bigotry over the years, but to learn that it would never go grey struck her as deliciously ironic. She gathered the wavy tresses back into a flowing ponytail and pulled on a pair of thigh-length red leather boots to conceal her injury, tugging hard on the silk lacing to snug the long boots pleasantly tight.
Turning to her wardrobe, she unlocked and swung open the double doors. There were no clothes inside – it was not that kind of wardrobe – but that certainly didn’t mean it was empty. A large, black leather papoose hung there, swathed in straps and buckles, zips and poppers. A hooded head emerged from the top, anonymous and blank. Celeste stroked a hide-clad cheek fondly, unbuckled the gag covering its mouth and very tenderly kissed the exposed lips.
‘Time to return to the real world, my gorgeous Kneeling Man,’ she murmured.
A tongue licked the lips. ‘Hello, darling,’ whispered James unsteadily. He squirmed against his bondage, leather creaking softly. He’d been cocooned for well over a day, having arrived unannounced by taxi the previous afternoon just as Celeste was about to leave for Temple Hall. She’d needed to get him out of the way quick, to keep him safe and concealed from Miller’s view, and using the wardrobe had been the obvious answer. The thing was, she hadn’t even needed to persuade him inside!
Celeste unbuckled the blindfold. James blinked, squinting in the light, and caught sight of his wife, naked but for the stiletto boots. ‘You look perfect!’ he murmured.
‘As do you, my helpless leather slave.’ She kissed him again very tenderly and started loosening straps.
‘Now then,’ he said as the leather slackened, ‘has anything important happened while I’ve been meditating?’
THE END
Well, maybe not. It seems Bertie has time for one final adventure…
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The author, by his own admission, has led an entirely uneventful life. He has assured us that for long periods of time, not a great deal of note happened. This is the natural consequence of being a resident of Gloucester. He has frequently expressed an earnest desire for this situation to continue and this was the case up until the point Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World was completed.
Inexplicable occurrences began to plague the author shortly after the first draft of the manuscript was electronically transmitted to our office. He noticed an unusual hesitancy in his email, the telephone developed a curious echo and a mysterious vehicle always seemed to be parked in the street close to his house. He became convinced he was under constant surveillance and conveyed his concerns to us on a number of occasions. We, in turn, tried to allay his fears, but to no avail. The author became increasingly agitated and felt that, although the Sisterhood of Helen is an entirely fictitious organization of his own making, this story had somehow touched a nerve.
On the morning of September 5th that year, Mike set off by bicycle intending to visit friends. Neighbours later recalled him talking to a red-haired woman near his house. He has not been seen since. The police have conducted extensive enquiries, but are at a complete loss as to his whereabouts. The case remains open to this day.
A few months later, residents of the Cotswold village of Kineton noticed a cyclist riding through the countryside near their village who, when approached, claimed to be a Polish plumber with no knowledge of English. Unfortunately, the questioner happened to be a former resident of Cracow, who established very quickly the cyclist was as deficient in Polish as he claimed to be in English! The bearded man was reported to be of similar age and build as the author, but despite persistent enquiries by the authorities, his actual identity remains a mystery to this day.
Kineton lies just over a mile from Temple Guiting…
For more adventures featuring
Bertie…
If you’re a fan of Yes, Minister, House of Cards, and farcical British humour, then – meet Bertie!
Bertie is a big blue parrot – a Hyacinth Macaw from Brazil. He’s also very intelligent, and he loves his owner Celeste.
Celeste, meanwhile, is doing some loving of her own – with James Timbrill, MP – newly appointed to the Cabinet, James is a devoted public servant. He’s also a devoted masochist, and in Celeste he thinks he’s met his match on the kink front.
But some people aren’t so keen on James. Political machinations behind the scenes mean that events are in place that could bring the Government to its knees. With some surprisingly inept criminal masterminds on James’s trail, it’s up to Bertie to save the day – but will he risk it all for a bowl of nuts?
For more information about Mike A. Vickers
and other Accent Press titles
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Mike A. Vickers 2016
ISBN 9781783759552
The moral right of Mike A. Vickers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The opinions offered in this book are those solely of the author.
I’m that sort of person…