Bertie and the Kinky Politician (20 page)

‘No. They were wearing black overalls and rubber gloves, but for some reason both had taken off their hoods. Bertie had switched on the light because they were just standing there looking dazed. One turned away and pulled his hood back on just as I came into the room, so unfortunately I never managed to see his face. The other was grovelling on the floor. Bertie had already removed half his ear by this time – I found it beside the sofa after they'd gone.'

‘That should help with a DNA identification. I'll also make sure we check out the local hospitals for anyone admitted with an incomplete set of ears. Was there anything else? I know it's probably all in the report, but I'd really like to hear everything you remember.' Wilf just wanted to stay there and listen to her all day.

Celeste sat back and appraised the detective. He was tall and stringy, but doubtless tough, a trifle sad and grey, a threadbare man whose age appeared to be lost somewhere in the mid-forties, but there remained a deep warmth to his eyes which reminded her of James – and his astringent humour was definitely appealing. Her woman's instinct was sure; here was a man of capability, determination, rectitude and loyalty. Being a detective suited him. He'd found his calling and obviously loved his job, even though he tried to project an air of worldly-wise weariness.

‘It was all over so quickly. I lashed out and caught One-Ear across the back with my whip –'

Wilf spluttered into his cup. A trickle of tea escaped epiglottal control and headed off to explore his lungs. ‘Whip?' he coughed noisily.

‘A memento from Brazil,' said Celeste smoothly. ‘He squeaked a bit, then the other dived over the sofa, slammed into me and knocked me to the ground. I was stunned for a while. Can't really remember what happened next. The doctors say I've broken a collar-bone and two ribs, hence the sling.'

‘Looks to me like a case of Actual Bodily Harm, as defined in the oft-used Offences Against the Person Act 1861, Section 47. I think your injuries fall under ABH, don't you?'

‘You know your laws, Wilf, that's for sure. I'm impressed.'

‘Thanks. I've had occasion to use that one before and I'd certainly go for ABH in this case. These two are in real trouble if we find them. They'll be looking at a custodial sentence even if they have no previous. Go on.'

‘Debbie found something called a telescopic metal truncheon under one of the chairs and Constable Drewing told me it's regarded as an offensive weapon.'

‘True enough. We're issued with them. A pocket-sized piece of unpleasantness. They're much more effective than the old hickory sticks and can give you a very serious injury. The telescopic definitely makes it Aggravated Burglary at the very minimum. That's burglary with an offensive weapon.'

‘Which is covered by?'

‘Theft Act 1968, Section 10,' replied Wilf promptly. ‘A burglary where the offender uses any firearm, imitation firearm, weapon of offence, or explosive, blah, blah. Kinda buddies we are, me and Section 10. Seen a lot of action together over the years.'

‘Then Bertie rejoined the fray again. It was – well, pretty spectacular!'

Wilf reviewed his knowledge of the macaw. ‘I can imagine.'

‘He simply went crazy. I never realised until then just how formidable he is. It must have come as a shock when blood started spurting everywhere. He chased them to those patio doors and was dragged outside in the struggle. The last thing I saw was the pair of them leaping over the garden wall and running away up the road. Bertie was nowhere in sight. I called but he never came back.'

Wilf put down his cup and went to examine the double doors. ‘Were these locked?'

‘Of course.'

‘Interesting. There's no damage to the locks or hinges.'

‘Constable Drewing mentioned that.'

‘Ian's a bright boy. He'll have told you it means the lock was picked, not forced. These guys were professionals. I'd be very surprised if they left any fingerprints. What's this mark here?' The wooden frame was crushed slightly at eye level.

‘The man who hit me ran into the door. I think there was something wrong with his hood.'

‘That must have been quite an impact. Probably broke his nose.'

‘I sincerely hope so,' said Celeste warmly.

Wilf slowly walked around, looking at the room from every angle, then stared out across the garden for a few seconds before returning to his seat. ‘What I find mystifying is that all these lovely antiques were ignored. This is a fencer's dream, yet none of it was touched. You say the two men were at this bureau. What's in here?'

‘Papers, bills, some petty cash. The usual sort of thing.'

‘How much cash?'

‘About two hundred pounds in a tin.'

‘Gone?'

‘Actually, no.'

‘Really! Now that's significant. They were smart enough to pick the lock but too dumb to take the cash.'

‘Well, it does seem they only touched my diary, although I doubt there's anything in it of much interest to anyone. I found it on the floor beside the table with some letters. Nothing else was disturbed or stolen.'

Wilf sat down again and wondered if he warranted an entry in her diary. The thought of her description of him made him cringe. He finished his tea and held the cup out for a refill. He wanted to stay very badly indeed.

‘You look puzzled,' said Celeste, topping him up. ‘I'm no expert but perplexity in a detective implies not all is well.'

Wilf pursed his lips. Something definitely wasn't right here; his instincts, honed by years of experience, were up in arms. ‘There's something strange going on here. I'll look into it when I get back to the station and let you know if we have anything.'

‘Thanks, Wilf. I appreciate it very much.'

‘In the meantime, I'm ashamed to have to tell you Bertie has not exactly behaved himself while he's been on the run …'

‘What have you got on the Gordon burglary, Ian?'

PC Drewing looked up and grinned. Wilf was OK by Ian. Despite his grumpiness, the older man had taken pains to ease him into the hectic routine of the station, helping immensely with his superior experience, local knowledge, and dry, unruffled approach. Ian thought it grossly unfair Wilf's promotion had been overlooked for so long.

‘Here's the report, Wilf. Miss Gordon gave as good a description as possible, but these two definitely weren't any of the local boys. I don't see we have much to go on.'

‘What's new.' Wilf studied the file for a few moments and checked over the computer entries. Drewing was right – they stood no chance of solving this one. Debbie had done her usual thorough job, but the burglars had used gloves. There was the ear, of course, now languishing in the forensics freezer with other assorted body parts carelessly abandoned at various crime scenes around the borough. Unsurprisingly, no one had come forward to claim it, and hospital enquiries had also drawn a blank.

‘No prints at all. These guys were careful,' said Drewing.

‘Not all is lost, my boy. Don't forget the ear itself.'

‘I love DNA.'

‘Exactly. Let's see if the appliance of science can provide us with anything.' The ear provided ample material for the lab boys, along with samples taken from the wide selection of bloodstains thoughtfully garnered by Bertie. ‘We'll definitely get DNA for both men. It's up to the guys in white coats now.'

‘Persons in white coats,' corrected Drewing. ‘Don't forget we're equal opportunity employers now.'

‘Smart arse,' muttered Wilf. ‘This political correctness crap gets on my tits. Sorry – my non-male infant-feeding orbs!' He knew in such cases the results could take up to a month to arrive. He closed the file and sat staring into middle distance. The whole affair didn't sit right. ‘I don't like the use of the truncheon. That's nasty.'

‘Not as nasty as a knife,' reflected Ian. Cutting crimes were becoming disturbingly common. ‘She was lucky in a way; she was only in her jim-jams – things could have got a lot worse.'

Wilf nodded in acknowledgement. Now that was an uncomfortable thought. ‘Why would two professional burglars go to the trouble of picking the lock and then ignore wads of ready cash, not to mention the antiques?'

‘Perhaps the lights went on before they had chance to pocket the goodies.'

‘Maybe. But thieves rummage real quick. If I was doing a house, I'd grab the cash box even if I had to leave the rest. It was plainly visible in the bureau, yet untouched.'

‘Which leads to an unusual conclusion.'

‘I have to agree with you, Ian,' said Wilf. ‘Perhaps they
were
actually after the diary. I think I'm going to have to see Miss Gordon again.'

‘You lucky old bugger!'

‘Privilege of age, Constable Drewing,' Wilf grinned smugly. He threw the file on top of an unstable stack of folders and turned his mind to the next in an endless line of tasks when the sounds of an irate conversation floated across the office.

‘I've told you before, sergeant, don't encourage the old bag. I won't have her taking up valuable police time. Get rid of her. Now!' Yates turned on his heel and flounced into his office. Wilf and Drewing looked at each other.

‘Daisy?'

‘Got to be. No one else induces that distinctive whine of exasperation in our dear leader's voice.'

‘I'll go.'

‘No,' said Wilf. ‘You better get on with those statistics for our beloved Tristram.' Drewing flinched at the note of scorn in his voice.

Wilf made his way down to the front counter. The sergeant on duty nodded towards a figure straining to read a notice exhorting vigilance against pickpocketing. ‘It's all right, Phil, I'll look after her. Hello, Daisy, how are you today?' He clasped the hands of a shrunken old woman and led her gently to a nearby seat. She seemed unusually cold even though the weather outside was pleasantly mild. Her limp was obviously painful. Wilf ordered tea straight away.

‘I'm troubled, Mr Thompson, very troubled.' Daisy Jeffries had lived in the borough all her substantially long life, but had become disturbingly vague in the last few years. This made her vulnerable, and so gave Wilf cause for concern. Despite the outward eccentricity and frailty, he knew Daisy still had a lively mind in there somewhere and her incalculable local knowledge had been useful on more than one occasion. For that alone, as well as for simple compassion, he always tried to find the time to chat whenever she made the effort to hobble the half mile from her home to the station.

The tea arrived courtesy of Sergeant Phil. Daisy's transparent hands hardly seemed strong enough to grip the plastic cup. She sipped noisily. Her dentures required major renovation. She was a tiny woman with a few sparse wisps of white hair sprouting from under her red bobble hat. She wore her favourite heavy brown coat made shapeless by several thick jumpers and a host of thermal vests. Knitted stockings completed her trendy nonagenarian outfit.
Haute couture
had passed by Daisy decades ago but at least she kept herself warm.

‘So what's been keeping you awake this time?' asked Wilf.

Daisy slurped like a council lorry flushing out a recalcitrant drain. ‘I found a crisp packet in my front garden yesterday. It's a disgrace, that's what it is. We never had these problems when there was National Service.'Daisy had a thing about litter. Well, more than a thing – perhaps an overwhelming compulsive obsession was a more accurate description.

‘Salt and vinegar, it was. I don't even like salt and vinegar, and cheese and onion always gives me uncontrollable wind,' she added in a conspiratorial whisper, as if imparting some dreadful secret. At the desk, Phil stifled a chuckle. Like Wilf, he had known Daisy a very long time and thought she was great. Sadly, Wilf didn't have time to list the extensive range of foods that gave him the bottom burps. Curries hovered somewhere near the top of the premier league, a trait he unknowingly shared with Bob Pritchard.

He sighed inwardly. Yates would go supernova if the entire force was called out on litter duty. It looked like Daisy was settling in for the duration. Time to execute a discreet tactical withdrawal. ‘Listen Daisy, you just stay here and finish your tea. I'll ask Constable Drewing to tidy up next time he's down your way, OK?'

‘Blue it was.'

She wasn't listening to him. Daisy's grip on reality seemed to be fading completely. Phil raised a helpless eyebrow. Wilf looked at his watch and hoped in vain Daisy would get the hint.

‘What was blue, Daisy, the crisp packet?'

‘Yes. Beautifully blue. Like the sky. How do they print them in such lovely colours?'

‘I don't know.'

‘On plastic as well.'

‘It's a mystery.'

‘Yes, the bluest thing I've ever seen.' The old lady suddenly looked up at Wilf and the vagueness melted from her eyes like mist on a sunny morning. ‘Mr Thompson, the crisp packet
was
blue, but not as blue as that wonderful bird!'

Wilf's jaw dropped. Daisy sniggered suddenly. ‘You look like you've swallowed a frog.'

He shut his mouth with a snap before Phil noticed. ‘You saw a blue bird – a big bird?' He held his hands wide apart.

‘Oh, yes. Quite as big as that.'

‘Daisy, now this is very important; when did you see it?'

‘Night before last.' No hesitation. ‘I couldn't sleep because of my hip so I went downstairs to make a cup of tea. Tea and two aspirin. The soluble ones are the best. From the Co-op. All those bubbles fizzing in the glass, then it goes clear and …'

‘The bird, Daisy, let's concentrate on the bird.' Wilf gently steered the conversation back on course.

‘The bird? Yes, sorry. Anyway, there was a noise outside so I peeked through the window and saw two men running down the middle of the road.'

‘Two men. Are you sure?'