Bertie and the Kinky Politician (21 page)

Daisy nodded with surprising vigour. A cervical vertebra cracked ominously. ‘All in black, they were. I could hardly see them at first because it was so dark, then they got closer. It all seemed a bit strange so I watched them some more. I hope you don't think I'm a nosy person.'

‘Of course not.'

‘I'm not like that Mrs Henry,' she said tartly. ‘Always poking about in other people's business. I was very happy with my packed lunch.' Daisy and Alice Henry both vied for the coveted
Lived Longest in the Street
award. They'd been needling each other on and off ever since a minor altercation blossomed into full-scale thermonuclear war over the choice of sandwich filling during their visit to the Festival of Britain in 1951.

Wilf nudged her in the right direction again, like a collie shepherding a gaggle of hallucinating sheep. ‘Never mind Alice. Just tell me what happened next.'

‘Well, we should have had sardines, but she insisted on Spam.'

‘No, no, Daisy, calm down. I don't mean about the sandwiches. Can we stick to the men.'

‘Oh dear, I'm getting diverted again, aren't I. Anyway, they ran towards my house waving their arms above their heads. It looked very odd. Quite comical. It reminded me of Max Wall. I saw him once at –'

‘The bird, Daisy,' said Wilf firmly. ‘Let's stick to the bird, shall we?'

‘Um, well, OK. Where was I? Ah, yes, then I saw the big blue bird suddenly appear. It was swooping down on them and screeching. I'm surprised it didn't wake the whole neighbourhood.'

‘Go on.'

‘Can I have another cup of tea, please?'

‘Sarge, do the honours again, would you?' The drink arrived quickly enough – Phil was now keen to lend an ear to the conversation – and Daisy wrapped her gnarled hands around the cup, sipping steadily. Her need for warmth seemed endless. ‘So what happened next?'

‘They had a van. It was parked by the post box.'

‘Can you remember the make?'

Daisy shook her head slowly. ‘No. They all look the same to me, but I remember it had two headlights,' she added helpfully.

‘I'm afraid they all have two headlights.'

‘Oh.'

‘What colour was it?'

‘White. It was a bit dirty.'

‘Any writing on the side? Any signs?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘How long had it been there?'

‘A long time. All afternoon and evening, which struck me as odd.'

‘Why so?'

‘Well, if they'd been hiding in the van all that time then how did they go to the loo? Men need to go more often than women,' she added in a knowing whisper.

‘Daisy, that's an excellent point. You would have made a great policewoman.'

She blushed and hung her head. ‘Go on with you, you're just saying that.'

‘No, I'm serious. This means they came prepared. They just ran out of luck coming across such a good guard bird.'

‘Yes, I can see that.'

‘So the men jumped into the van and drove away?'

‘Jumped?' Daisy laughed so much she almost spilled her precious drink. ‘Lord! Mr Thompson, you should have seen them. What a panic, just like the Keystone Kops.'

‘I can imagine.' Bertie was a formidable opponent – and a good shagger, by all accounts. ‘Can you remember anything else?'

‘Well, let's see. Yes, the bird was still attacking the van when they drove off. It was all over the windscreen. They came towards my house and turned towards the shops. The tyres made a horrible squealing noise around the corner just like an episode of
The Rockford Files
. The poor thing was thrown off and landed in Mrs Walton's firethorn hedge. She always gets a lovely show of berries every autumn, doesn't she.'

‘That's true.' Even Wilf knew all about Mavis Walton's legendary hedge.

‘Anyway, the blue bird sat there for a few minutes and then flew away. I went back to bed after that because I was cold.'

Wilf's initial excitement evaporated. Apart from identifying the getaway vehicle as a white van, not exactly uncommon in London, Daisy had merely confirmed Celeste and Bertie's account of the burglary. Interesting that they'd spent so much time waiting. This was certainly not a spur of the moment job. Whoever the pair were, they had definitely targeted Celeste's house. He'd check the local CCTV cameras to see if any picked up the van. He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Well, thank you very much, Daisy. You'll be happy to know the bird was found and returned to his owner this morning.'

‘What sort of bird is it? I've never seen one like that in the park.'

‘You won't. He's a hyacinth macaw, from Brazil.'

‘He's a long way from home. No wonder he looked lost.'

‘Not lost at all. He actually lives just around the corner from you, not quarter of a mile away.'

‘Really? How lovely. I'd like to see him again. So who were those two men?'

‘Burglars.'

Daisy suddenly became quite agitated. ‘I thought they were up to no good. Very suspicious, they were, all dressed in black. Very furtive.'

‘It's a good job you kept an eye open.' Wilf held her veined hands, happy to feel a little warmth finally returning to the leathery skin. Daisy was such a sweet old lady. ‘I wish everyone was like you – it would make our job a lot easier.' Daisy managed to vacuum up the last few precious drops of tea like an asthmatic Hoover. ‘You just sit here and I'll get the constable to come down and take a statement. Just tell him everything you told me and we'll pop it in the computer.' A statement would make Daisy feel she had accomplished something and that her difficult journey to the station had been worth the effort. She laid arthritic fingers on his arm as he rose. ‘Oh, there's one more thing I remember about the van, Mr Thompson.'

‘What's that?'

She rummaged in her Co-op plastic carrier bag and pressed a scrap of paper into his hand. ‘The registration number.' Her eyes were bright and sharp. Daisy fully understood the significance of this and Wilf could not entirely suppress the vague feeling he'd been toyed with for the second time in the past twenty-four hours. He unfolded the paper and smiled broadly. ‘Daisy, I love you!'

Her face glowed.

Chapter Eleven

‘Now that's odd.' Wilf sat back and frowned.

‘Trouble?' asked Drewing.

‘White Transit van fits the bill perfectly, but it's registered with the Ministry of Defence and the rest of the details are sealed.'

‘You're joking!'

‘Look for yourself.'

Drewing peered at the screen. The two men glanced at each other for a moment. ‘That's it then, game over.' Both knew any further enquiry would be pointless. A well-rehearsed policy of non-co-operation would swing into action, and even if they did finally manage to identify the culprits, a message would come down from on high ordering them to forget the whole affair.

Wilf was genuinely nonplussed. ‘Why?' he asked softly. ‘Why on earth is Celeste Gordon of interest to the MoD – or more likely one of its murkier sections?'

‘Well, their world is not quite as clear-cut as ours. Perhaps they've something on her we don't know about,' suggested Drewing.

‘Possible, but she just doesn't fit the profile.' Both men knew such covert surveillance operations went on all the time. Normally, the special services were extremely proficient at these clandestine activities, but that didn't mean things always went to plan. Coming across Bertie must have been a hell of a shock. Drewing shrugged and looked at his watch. ‘Looks like we'll have to chalk this one down to experience. Fancy some lunch?'

‘What possible connection can there be?'

‘Best to drop it before Yates finds out. He doesn't like visits from New Scotland Yard. Again, what about lunch?'

Wilf felt a sudden stirring of rebellion. ‘I can't drop it,' he said quietly. ‘Protecting her is why we're here.'

Ian sighed and shook his head. Wilf's inflexible idealism was well known around the station and had proved a major liability to his career. ‘Has anyone ever told you why you're still a detective constable after all this time?'

‘Frequently.'

‘Well then listen to them.' Drewing levered himself out of the chair, patted Wilf on the shoulder and turned his body towards the canteen and his thoughts to a pie sandwich.

Wilf abandoned lunch and returned to Celeste's. She was obviously pleased to see him again. So was Bertie. He waited in the salon while tea was prepared. Bertie bobbed up and down in a clear display of pleasure, chirruping happily. Wilf remembered how to get on the macaw's good side and produced an apple.

‘Wow! Thanks, Wilf.'

‘That's OK, Bertie.'

‘Apple. Lovely.' He held it carefully in one claw and sliced with surgical precision, parting the ruddy skin to get at the white flesh beneath.

‘My pleasure.'

‘Now we're cooking.'

Wilf had mastered the art of conversation with Bertie. Short and monosyllabic. Celeste appeared with the tea. ‘An apple. How kind. What do you say, Bertie?'

‘Thank you, Wilf,' said Bertie dutifully.

Wilf nodded and turned to Celeste. ‘How are the injuries today?'

‘Still painful, especially my ribs. Any news?'

‘Well, yes and no.'

‘That sounds enigmatic. Let's have tea and you can tell me more.' Bertie abandoned the apple and hopped onto the sofa. Food could wait for later. Here was a chance for some attention. He sidled up to Wilf, purring loudly, nudging at one hand with the side of his face.

‘Why does he do that?'

‘He mimics Sebastian. I have to say it's a pretty good impersonation.'

Wilf obligingly tickled the beautiful blue feathers under his chin and stroked down the length of his muscular back.

‘That's nice,' said Bertie. ‘More!'

‘No, Bertie.' Celeste was firm. ‘We have to talk. You watch the television.' She pressed the remote and the screen flicked into life. She patted the arm of the sofa beside her and Bertie waddled over, settling himself comfortably. His attention was soon captured and Celeste turned back to Wilf. ‘There, that should do it. Now then, you said there was good news and bad.'

Wilf sipped his tea and nibbled a Garibaldi. ‘Well, a witness has corroborated your story and also provided the registration number of the van they used.' Bless you, Daisy.

‘Excellent. That should identify them.'

‘Normally, yes, but not in this case.'

‘I don't understand. Was the van stolen?'

‘No.'

‘So what's the problem?'

Wilf shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I have to ask you this,' he said with obvious embarrassment, ‘but is there any aspect of your life which may excite official interest?'

Celeste sat back and gazed at him for a long moment with steady green eyes. Wilf squirmed. That cool stare made him feel unclean. ‘This may concern my relationship with James.'

‘James? James who?'

‘James Timbrill, the new Minister for Defence.'

‘Oh, God,' muttered Wilf. He shook his head in weary disbelief. ‘The man who got stabbed. That explains everything. The van is registered with the MoD.' They looked at each other in silence. Pieces of the jigsaw fell into place with distressing clarity. ‘Let's do some original thinking,' he said eventually. ‘You and Mr Timbrill have a close personal relationship, yes? Right. Last week, we had that major reshuffle in the MoD. Matters must have been more serious than they appeared on the surface.'

‘Believe me, they were. It doesn't take a genius to guess from where I get my information, but James is entirely discreet regarding matters of national security.'

‘Not in question, Celeste. I don't doubt Mr Timbrill's honesty and patriotism for one moment, which is more than can be said for his two predecessors. So, up he pops, gets poked in the leg by the PM and yet somehow still retains his job. Now why is that?'

‘They can't sack him,' said Celeste. ‘The Government is shaky enough as it is. Another round of resignations would fatally damage its credibility, so despite angering the PM he's relatively safe for the moment.'

‘I see. So we have an unknown catapulted into a position of authority who immediately shows an unexpected streak of independence. That announcement of a financial probe must have sent a few shivers of fear running through Whitehall. I can just imagine those cosy clubs full of mandarins seething with rage when your boyfriend puts the squeeze on them.'

‘James rarely discusses his work, but it strikes me what he's planning to do should have been done a long time ago.'

‘I agree completely, Celeste. However, I think someone has decided Mr Timbrill needs to be put on the end of a tight leash.'

Celeste's lips twitched with a knowing smile.

‘It's all a question of control and they can't control Mr Timbrill because there's been no time to collect the dirt on him, so it looks like we're not dealing with an ordinary burglary. I believe this was sanctioned by somebody who wanted information to apply as a lever, hence their interest in the diary. You said you found some letters on the floor as well. May I see them?'

Wilf nodded when he saw the House of Commons crest. ‘That confirms it. This was no petty theft. You had a visit from spooks, my dear. So I'm asking again, is there anything I need to know?' Wilf took a sip of tea and balanced the cup and saucer on his knees.

‘No.' The answer was firm. ‘James and I have a confidential and stable relationship which in no way compromises his duties at Westminster.'

‘It appears someone is intent on finding out whether that's true or not. Let me give you a tip – these people may well come back, so take whatever precautions you think might be necessary. Uncomfortable evidence sometimes turns up in the strangest of places and at the most inconvenient of times. It's the best way to control officials in exalted positions. If it hadn't been for Bertie, your papers and diary would have in all probability been spirited away, photocopied, and returned without your knowledge. Think on that!'