Bertie and the Kinky Politician (23 page)

‘Sure. Lovely chap. Balder than me, if that's possible. Works in the Home Office. Got a bright future.'

‘Correction. We need to use the past tense now. “Worked” in the Home Office. Now carving out a new career as unemployed and with a very dodgy conviction for possession, all courtesy of Chaplain.'

‘You're kidding!'

‘That fate may befall you as well. Being plod won't make any difference so take my advice and leave well alone. He's a reptile.'

‘Thanks for the warning, but I'm pretty sure he's orchestrated a burglary for political ends.'

‘Good Lord!' snorted Weasel, ‘they do that all the time. Discreetly, of course.'

‘There was also an assault.'

‘Whoopee. Pass the crisps.'

‘You really don't care, do you?'

‘Actually, you've got me very wrong there, Wilf. I do care. A lot. These people really rack me off, but caring won't produce jack, and even if it did, nobody will ever end up in court.'

‘That's about to change,' ground out Wilf quietly.

Weasel lifted glass to lips again and took a long, leisurely sip, staring thoughtfully at his friend. He seemed to be weighing things in his mind. It was only right that high officials should be subject to the legislation they themselves make – but more importantly for Weasel, his instincts were twitching like crazy. He smelt a story. Despite the banter, he had absolute confidence in Wilf's abilities. He put his glass down, wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve and nodded slowly. ‘OK, let's hear what you've got.' The recorder was switched back on again.

‘A few days ago we were called to a burglary in Greenwich. The occupier, a woman, was quite seriously assaulted. It was a nasty attack by two men who had no qualms about using telescopic truncheons.'

‘I hate ʼem already,' muttered Weasel.

‘It was a professional job. Locks picked, proper burglar kit, the lot. Much too good for any of our local boys. Unfortunately for them, the house was the home of a highly intelligent macaw who has since supplied me with three names; Chaplain, Bob and Greg.'

‘Really?' Weasel's brows shot up in amazement. It didn't happen often and Wilf felt pleased he'd actually managed to surprise the hack. Being jaded was a normal state of existence for Weasel. Probably why he and Wilf got on so well. ‘How injudicious of them to name drop. The other two must be grunts under Chaplain's control.'

‘Well blow me down, Kojak, I never thought of that,' observed Wilf with, it has to be said, crushing sarcasm.

‘You're a really horrible old git,' sniggered Weasel. ‘I think that's why I like you so much.'

‘Thanks. I'll be expecting flowers. Now, knowing the reluctance to prosecute in such embarrassing cases, it strikes me the only way to pursue this is if the press makes such a fuss that something has to be done.'

‘It could work.' Weasel seemed unconvinced. ‘But it's a bit dry for the likes of me. Not enough –' He waved a hand negligently as he searched for the correct word.

‘Sex!' offered Wilf.

‘That's the word I was groping for.'

‘What! Top Whitehall conspiracy and you consider it a bit dry!'

Weasel nodded over his shoulder. ‘My readers. God bless ʼem all, but do you really think they're interested in something like that?'

‘What if I told you the macaw is clever enough to be called as a witness. I think I can get him to stand up in court and point the finger – or feather, or whatever it is they point.'

Weasel perked up considerably. ‘Bloody hell, Wilf, that's an entirely different kettle of fish! Have you any idea what a stir that'll create; you'd be making legal history.'

‘And if the path can be traced back, who knows what will happen.'

Weasel scanned the pub again and dropped his voice back to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I never took you as a man motivated by sedition! This is plotting on a major scale. Someone like Chaplain has to have the support of No. 10. He
has
to, otherwise what would be the point of his existence. We're talking possible fall of Government here, so why do you want to get so involved? Politics isn't normally your bag.'

‘Why?' Wilf was suddenly angry. ‘Because an innocent woman has been burgled and assaulted and it looks like she's not going to get the chance to see her attackers brought to book. The law can't touch these people and that really makes my blood boil.'

‘Here we go again, forever allowing your sense of justice to inhibit your career as a policeman. It's no wonder you've never been promoted.'

‘Thanks for the cutting analysis.'

‘So what do you want me to do?'

‘Root around. There's got to be other people who've encountered Chaplain in the past and suffered. Get something on the front page as soon as you can.'

‘And get myself shafted? I thought you were my friend.'

‘Then be careful while you do it – and in return I'll make sure you're there when I arrest these bozos. I'll keep you in the loop whatever happens and will protect you as much as I can.'

‘I don't want to sound ungrateful but that doesn't exactly fill me with confidence. These people can out-think and out-rank you any day of the week.'

‘Then make yourself high-profile. Being in the public eye stops you getting stabbed in the back.'

‘Wilf, please don't talk about stabbing. You're making me nervous. Any leads?'

‘I've got names, a vehicle and a witness. I'd be a pretty poor copper if I couldn't turn up something from that lot.'

‘Vehicle?'

‘Has to be a spooks van. These guys had all the tools, including skeleton keys. We got the plates.'

‘Amateurs.'

‘Yeah, they came up against one of my best narks.' Good old Daisy.

‘I can't stand a sloppy job.'

‘Now, listen carefully because here's a really big clue for you – the van is registered with the MoD.'

‘Naughty, naughty! There's no chance they'll co-operate so we might as well scratch that one. Who's this woman, and why does she warrant the attention of our ever vigilant secret services?

‘Her name is Celeste Gordon.' Wilf recounted details in concise sentences. Weasel grinned at the mention of James Timbrill. The reporter wasn't stupid. He switched off the recorder and stowed it away in his pocket again. ‘So how do you want to play this, bearing in mind Chaplain will get you booted off the force if you annoy him? The man is virtually untouchable. If you fail to get him in cuffs first time then you've left a very dangerous adversary free to destroy your future and, more importantly, mine as well.'

‘We'll start with the other two. They're the thugs I really want to nail.'

‘And Chaplain?'

‘We're going to have to box clever with that one. Let's keep him in reserve for the moment. If we come mysteriously unstuck then I'll know where to look. If we can trace any malign influence back to him then it's a charge of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. Once charged, I imagine there'll be plenty of folk prepared to step forward and make him squirm, including your mate, Dom.'

‘Never kick a tiger in the balls unless you have a plan to deal with his teeth!'

‘What?'

‘An old Basildon proverb. Rings true in this case. You better make damned sure you know what you're doing.'

Wilf considered for a moment, then a sly smile broke out on his lugubrious face. ‘Don't you worry about him, I've got an idea. If we can arrest the foot soldiers then I know the way to defeat their boss.'

Weasel drained his Old Speckled Hen. ‘Thanks, Wilf. I'll visit Dominic, see if he can help out in any way.'

‘Keep me posted.'

‘No problem. Look, if this takes off then they might start keeping tabs on you so better be careful about contacting me directly. Be subtle, but please, try not to make them think we're gay.'

Outside, Weasel buttoned his coat, thrust hands into pockets and strode around to the rear car park to pick up his Peugeot. A moving shadow caught his eye. Furtive steps closed in from behind. Weasel turned, suspicions already forming in his mind. ‘Yes?' he snapped. Two figures loomed up, shadows in the dim light, their faces hidden. This was too much of a coincidence. Wilf was obviously a lot closer than he'd imagined. They probably picked him up after his visits to this woman's house. Weasel only needed a few seconds to make his preparations. He accepted his fate, but was damned if they were going to take his evidence. With one hand still in his pocket, he exchanged the voice recorder for another hidden in an undetectable inner pouch. This simple deceit had saved a good story on several occasions before. It was imperative these people remain ignorant of how much Wilf knew. He hoped they liked the poems of Pam Ayres.

They pounced. There were no formal introductions. Weasel screamed loudly to attract attention. His order of priority was to save the recorder then his testicles – he needed them to service Natasha. Everything else would just have to follow as circumstance allowed. It was a good plan which proved only half successful.

He saved the recorder.

Weasel's protestations were cut short by a heavy blow to the stomach that left him doubled over and gagging for air. ‘Thanks Bob, or is it Greg?' he gasped, and was rewarded with a momentary hesitation that spoke volumes. ‘Gotcha!' he whispered. A gloved fist slammed into his mouth, loosening teeth, followed by another to the gut. Unsurprisingly, his knees folded after this second body punch. He curled up into the traditional huddle on the tarmac but this proved no defence against a generous dollop of sadistic rage. A boot crunched into his happies. The pain was horrific. Wretched and sobbing, he just lay there and let them take the recorder, his mobile, wallet, and watch. Had to make it look like a common or garden mugging.

A welter of brutal kicks came his way for good measure before a shout sent the two sprinting off into the darkness. Someone ran to him, laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Cliff, it's me. You OK?' It said much for Weasel's distress that he couldn't even think of a scathing reply to Wilf's inane question. If he was OK he'd be on his feet. If he was OK he'd be hurling abuse after his assailants. If he was OK he'd be driving home to Natasha with her perky new boobs and sexy little skimpies.

Unfortunately, Weasel was not OK. He'd been beaten up over a story before. Twice. Each time, he'd ended up nailing the perpetrators, ruining both careers and bank balances in equal measure, and grovelling in agony amongst the cold puddles and discarded condoms of the car park, his cheek scraping the tarmac and blood streaming from a ruptured lip, he swore he'd do it again. His balls hurt so badly he was sick over Wilf's shoes.

How on earth was he going to explain this to poor Nats?

Chapter Twelve

Dressed in a flamboyant dressing gown, Hugo Chaplain polished off his late supper and mentally steeled himself for bed. It was a conscious action. The obligations of his marriage simply had to take a back seat as he found himself devoting more and more energy to his job. This increasingly demanding emotional expenditure was directly proportional to the ineptness of the Government. His recently successful colonic irrigation of the MoD had been a trifling affair when compared with some of the more complex problems requiring his unique talents.

A frown creased his impassive brow. The unexpected rebuff of Pritchard and Coberley perturbed him greatly. Such a simple operation should have been executed with aplomb yet they'd been put to flight by a common or garden pet. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so hard on them, especially after seeing their wounds at first hand, but whatever sympathy he felt was tempered by an exasperated anger at their bungling. It really shouldn't have happened and he was in two minds whether to drop the whole affair – after all, it was highly unlikely anyone as stupefyingly boring as Timbrill would have any succulence to his private life.

Unfortunately, the police were now becoming involved and that would require calling in one or two favours to ensure the investigation ended up foundering in a gelatinous ocean of bureaucratic indifference. Chaplain smiled. He was a world-class stonewaller. One of his core skills. He warmed in a smug glow of self-righteous appreciation of his own unique talents.

Retiring upstairs, Hugo padded softly into the bedroom looking every inch a corpulent Noel Coward. He hung his dressing gown on the back of the door and turned to face his wife, his pale lemon silk pyjamas shimmering in the soft light.

Maureen Chaplain was not asleep, as he fervently hoped she would be at such an advanced hour. She sat up in bed, bathed in the soft light of a table lamp, the covers drawn to just beneath her chin. Hugo's heart sank. She was watching him with a distinct gleam of expectation in her eyes.

He may have been the dynamic power behind Downing Street, but he hadn't had a thick one in two years!

Hugo loved his wife dearly. That he was capable of such emotion would have surprised those in Whitehall who only saw him as a cold and calculating manipulator who destroyed all who stood in his path. Hugo's was not a marriage devoid of passion – only a little firmness in the underpants department. It was as if the increasing demands on him had depleted his sexual drive, sucking him dry, so to speak, which, sadly, was more than Maureen had done in a very long time. She had tried to conceal her disappointment but his inability placed an increasing strain on their relationship and so, fuelled by the incessant problems at work, he spiralled down into penile lifelessness.

‘Hello, big boy!' Maureen's greeting was just sufficiently mischievous to confirm his suspicions of her intent. Trouble of a flaccid nature loomed on the horizon. He sighed gently, aware that although he could shaft every member of the Cabinet, he couldn't extend the same courtesy to his long-suffering wife.

Maureen was a pretty woman, rather tall and elegant, with small breasts and, to Hugo's mind, comfortable hips. Her face wore an expression of hopeful optimism, a small smile playing on her lips. She flicked away the duvet and lay back in a nest of pillows, one arm flung behind her head.