Bertie and the Kinky Politician (22 page)

Celeste did, and the thoughts were disturbing. Although her diary was not particularly graphic a perceptive reader would immediately surmise the, ah, binding nature of their peculiar friendship. Wilf displayed a tactful concern, but she was determined to protect James at all costs. ‘There's nothing I can possibly imagine would be of interest in my diary. I'm much more concerned about the legality of their actions.'

‘Be assured, this particular burglary is as thoroughly illegal as any other.'

‘So what's stopping you from arresting the two men?'

‘Technically, nothing. Everyone is subject to the law, but I would have to rely on MoD co-operation to supply me with the names of the operatives, and that information, I can assure you, will be classified. So, no names, no case.'

‘Can't you press them?'

‘I could if it was important, but it's not.'

‘It's important to me.'

‘And to me as well. If I pushed, we'd still get nowhere. If I pushed hard, my future in the force would become mysteriously precarious. Sooner or later, I'll be told very firmly to stop my investigation. The establishment will close ranks to protect itself and we'll just get nowhere.'

‘But you're a detective.'

Wilf laughed softly and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Celeste, flattered as I am in your touching faith in my abilities, the plain fact is my position won't make any difference. Orders will come down from on high.' He took another sip of tea and regarded her with a shrewd eye. ‘There is perhaps one way we can force things along.'

‘What have you got in mind?'

‘Tell the press.'

‘Is that wise?'

Wilf shrugged. ‘The trouble with the media is control. Once you've gone public you have to accept whatever they unearth. They're good diggers so it could get embarrassing. Messy. However, scandals like this gather pace and cannot be swept under the carpet, but you have to count on them discovering if there's anything embarrassing lurking in the wardrobe.'

Celeste thought Wilf would be very surprised indeed at what lurked in her wardrobe! ‘Well, before we decide to go down that route I'll need to talk to James.'

‘Naturally.'

‘Please excuse me.' Celeste spoke to James from her bedroom. Wilf waited patiently, content to sit with Bertie. The macaw remained engrossed in the TV, his head angled slightly as he gazed in rapt attention at the screen. Wilf purloined another Garibaldi and ruminated quietly until Celeste returned.

‘Well?'

‘This puts James in a very awkward position. He's furious the burglary seems to have been organized from within his own department, but knows even he will never find out who's responsible. He's adamant the police should handle everything and will co-operate fully with you. He feels it's important for the investigation to remain under independent police control as a demonstration of impartiality and fairness.'

‘Absolutely. And the press?'

‘Do what you have to, Wilf. We both want the men who assaulted me brought to book.'

They sat in silence for a moment. Bertie was still watching the television and Wilf glanced over at the screen. The lunchtime news was just finishing. ‘And finally,' said the newscaster, ‘Regent's Park was thrown into confusion yesterday when a rare macaw was brought to the zoo having been found by the police. Displaying remarkable skill, he managed to open –'

‘Milly!' shrieked Bertie without warning. His cry was as piercing as a whistle. Wilf started violently, the cup went flying and scalding tea cascaded into his crotch. A frightening elevation in the temperature of his testicles also produced a scream of equally respectable loudness. Celeste completed the triplet with her own soprano shriek of shock and surprise, then lunged for Bertie, who, in a moment of consuming passion, launched himself at the screen like a blue rocket.

It really was a very big mistake.

He knew the television wasn't an open window to the outside world, but in an instant found himself overwhelmed by the miraculous appearance of his amour. There was a flash of azure across the salon followed by a hollow thump as he hit the screen at considerable velocity. The impact squashed him to the glass in a feathery blue ball, then he slid slowly downwards and collapsed in an unconscious heap on the carpet.

The salon had been transformed from a haven of domestic tranquillity into total chaos in less than two seconds!

Celeste, although grateful to Wilf for all his efforts, was rather less interested in the state of his broiled bean bag than in the extent of her beloved Bertie's injuries. She fell to her knees and touched him carefully, but there was no response. Bertie lay flat on his back, wings folded and claws closed, his head lolling to one side. ‘Oh God, no, he's broken his neck!' she quivered.

By necessity, Wilf needed to act fast. He whipped a bunch of flowers out of a vase and swiftly doused his sautéed happies with cold water. The smarting brought tears to his eyes, but the pain subsided slowly as his glowing love spuds managed to cool. ‘Is he breathing?' he croaked, still clutching his groin.

Celeste bent closer to the supine macaw. ‘I – I don't know.'

‘Let me have a look.' Wilf was a veteran of numerous emergencies. He knelt gingerly, wincing at the scraping of sodden underpants against freshly steamed plums and straightened Bertie's head. ‘I'm sure he's still alive. Yes, there's a pulse.' The regular tripping under his exploratory fingers could only be a heart. Celeste slipped her injured arm out of its sling and gently lifted Bertie onto the sofa. A few moments later, a wing twitched and he stared up with unfocussed eyes. She fussed him outrageously while Wilf sponged away some of the excess liquid from his regions. He looked like a man suffering from an extremely distressing incontinence problem.

‘Bertie, are you all right? Come on, my darling, speak to me.'

‘Dark,' mumbled Bertie. ‘Light. Men.'

‘What's he saying?

‘No idea.' Bertie was normally so eloquent his disorientation was immediately obvious to Wilf. ‘Perhaps he's concussed.'

‘“It's the sodding parrot!”'

Celeste recoiled at the strident male voice. She stared at Bertie with hands held to her mouth to stifle a sob. Wilf's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. He thrust his hand into a pocket, pulled out a pencil and notebook and bent down beside the semi-conscious macaw, scribbling furiously.

‘“Greg, bird me made crap pants!”' intoned Bertie, this time in a different voice. ‘“Chaplain cough bill.”'

‘“You stink Bob get out of here.”'

‘This must be –' gasped Celeste, but Wilf shushed her into silence with an angry gesture.

‘“Greg shut it up who's a pretty boy then.”' Bertie suddenly tried to sit up. ‘“Who the frigging hell are you!”' he shouted, then rolled over and sat on his belly, scaled legs splayed awkwardly to each side. He shook his head and tried to compose himself with almost human embarrassment.

Celeste blushed furiously at the perfect imitation of her voice. She looked sheepish. ‘Sorry about that.'

‘Hello, Mummy,' said Bertie in a more or less normal tone of voice.

‘You silly boy,' scolded Celeste, stroking him in obvious relief.

Wilf reviewed his hurried notes. ‘Two men, Bob and Greg. Their boss must be Chaplain. Odd name. It could be a pseudonym,' he mused. ‘These types love to give themselves exotic sounding titles like Tarquin Shagthrust or Zircon Studplugger.'

‘Surely this changes everything.'

‘Well, it's certainly one of the most unusual statements I've ever taken,' admitted Wilf.

‘But you can use this, can't you? He's a witness.'

‘Now just hold on a minute. Even if it came to trial, the only evidence is from a randy bird half-crazed from head butting the television. I can really see that standing up under cross-examination by the best briefs the Government can buy! Besides, he's a macaw. There's probably a law against animals giving evidence, although admittedly I haven't heard of one.'

Bertie still felt a little dizzy. Goodness knows what came over him. He knew he couldn't fly through the moving window but the sight of Millicent had caught him unawares. OK, so she wasn't the wittiest of raconteurs, but the chance of another jump could not be passed up, whatever her linguistic limitations. He shook himself vigorously and felt surprisingly lucid.

‘I'm hungry,' he announced firmly.

‘That's the Bertie I know,' said Wilf. ‘Doesn't sound like he's too hurt.'

Bertie looked at Wilf with curious intensity. ‘Detective Constable Thompson, I'm very pleased to see you again.'

There was a horrified silence. Wilf and Celeste stared at each other in shock. ‘Something's wrong,' she gasped. ‘He's never said anything like that before.' The sentence flowed from Bertie as it would have from any educated human adult. Far from scrambling his brains, the impact seemed to have produced the opposite effect and brought a moment of astonishing clarity.

‘I don't think you should underestimate him. I think Bertie's a very clever boy indeed.'

Celeste turned to glare at the policeman. ‘Well if he's that sodding bright, he can be a witness. Do what you have to, but I want those men arrested!'

Clifford Kelly threaded his way through crowds of his favourite people. The pub was full of them, the salt of the earth, the great British chattering classes. He liked their insatiable desire for salacious scandal, their collective curiosity and their cheerful gullibility, but for all that he'd learned long ago that they weren't stupid. They knew when they were being stiffed and displayed a ravenous appetite for anything causing discomfort to their elected leaders. An understanding of these qualities allowed Cliff to target his stories with incisive precision, providing him with a very handsome annual salary. In his job, if you were good, everyone came to you, and Cliff was one of the best. He was a freelance tabloid reporter, a gatherer of gossip, a collector of whispers, a shepherd of news – and these were members of his flock.

A wiry man with pronounced cheekbones, dark eyes, and a prominent hooked nose, it was no surprise he was known universally as Weasel. What was surprising, however, was that despite his seedy profession and indifferent physical attributes, women simply flocked to him like financial advisors to a confused lottery winner. Weasel's success with women had always been a source of great astonishment and exasperation to Wilf, whose love life, to be fair, could most kindly be described as quiet.

Weasel was how he was introduced to everyone, Weasel was how he liked to be addressed and Weasel was how he signed his pithy offerings. He revelled in his reputation, encouraged rumours he was hung like a donkey, swelled with pride whenever someone took a swing at him and thrived in the unprincipled world of celebrity journalism, laughing all the way to the bank each time one of his sensational exposés hit the front page.

Carrying two pints of Old Speckled Hen, he made for the corner snug. ‘Here you go, Wilf. Cheers.' He sucked at the head on his beer and smacked his lips in appreciation.

Wilf took a deep sup. ‘Thanks, Weasel. Got your machine?'

‘No pleasant chit-chat tonight? Must be important.' Weasel rummaged in his coat pocket, produced an ultra-slimline digital voice recorder and set it on the table.

‘That's a bit posh, isn't it?'

‘A gift from Natasha.'

‘Still with her, then?

‘Lovely girl, just got some new boobs as well, but enough of the pleasantries. What's up?'

Wilf considered. Weasel was as close a friend as he was ever likely to have. They met frequently over a pint to bounce their cynicism off each other and exchange such news as to be to their mutual benefit. This co-operation had led to some notable investigations and a satisfying number of arrests. Naturally, then, it was to Weasel that Wilf turned having been given the all clear from Celeste earlier in the day.

‘Ever heard of a man called Chaplain? Hey, what's going on?' To Wilf's surprise, Weasel immediately switched off the recorder. The journalist took another sip of beer and carefully surveyed the crowded room over the rim of his glass. The pub was a busy place, solid, comforting and safe – and yet here was Weasel acting all squirrely. His eyes missed nothing. He turned his back on the room and adjusting his chair, leaned so far forward Wilf thought he was going to be Frenched. ‘This man, Chaplain. Anything to do with the MoD, by chance?' he murmured.

‘Might be.'

‘This is strictly private and non-attributable, understand?'

Wilf grinned. ‘I'm usually the one saying that.'

‘I'm not fooling about, Wilf,' hissed Weasel coldly. ‘This subject can result in serious damage to your career and I'm not going down for you, much as I like your sorry butt.'

‘It may be dangerous to a lovable knob-head like you, but I'm a policeman.'

Weasel sneered. ‘You think being a plod makes a difference to these people? Chaplain's one of life's dangerous characters. He's never seen, never heard, never quoted, but he's one of the elite. Even I can't get information, and when I ask, people clam up quicker than on a comfort stop in scorpion country. No one knows his first name, what he looks like, where he lives, what pets he owns, or whether he holidays at Butlins. Few wield such arbitrary power. We're talking higher than top Whitehall here, my boy, so you better be damn sure about yourself.'

Wilf whistled softly. ‘Wow! That explains a lot.'

‘He's a heartless predator, a fixer and a cunning, devious, thoroughly unpleasant bastard. I believe he's now one of the inner circle around the PM who smooths the way. A little pressure here, some adroit manipulation there, a fabricated criminal offence, and suddenly irritating problems seem to float away in the breeze. Officially, I have no idea what his position is, even though I've tried to find out, but Dom fell foul of him last year and I've been interested in Chaplain ever since. You remember Dominic Oxford?'