Bertie and the Kinky Politician (29 page)

‘Well? Do you?' asked Duncan in a soft, persuasive voice, trying his very best to encourage the bird. Aha! At last, here was a phrase Bertie recognised immediately. Admittedly, this little man with the kindly face showed no signs of producing any food, but Bertie was ever the optimist.

‘Yes,' he replied promptly in perfect English. ‘I do.'

There was what could only be described as a collective gasp of profound shock from around the court. Journalists scribbled furiously, chortling to themselves. The blood drained from Coberley's face and he swayed slightly in his chair. Even Pritchard, who was proving to be made of much sterner stuff, paled noticeably. Duncan withdrew the Bible cautiously from under Bertie's clawed foot, glanced discreetly at the judge and let an eyebrow ascend in a way that conveyed his bubbling amusement. Cruikshank, in response, and to his great surprise, had to cover a broad smile with his hand. This was quite extraordinary and would certainly entail an entire chapter in his memoirs. He nodded thanks to Duncan, let the court subside again and motioned to the prosecuting council.

Geoffrey Barrington, QC, stood and shuffled his notes. Bertie moved his attention to this new face since the small man had now sat down. It seemed he wasn't going to hand over any nuts after all, which was a little disappointing. ‘Is your name Bertie Gordon?'

Bertie knew the answer to that one. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. My name is Bertie. I'm very pleased to meet you. Who are you?' Barrington seemed most taken aback by this unexpectedly eloquent rejoinder. Quite discombobulated, in fact. It didn't happen often, especially in court, but then he'd never had a conversation with a parrot before so felt his momentary hesitation justifiable.

‘That's, ah, that's of little importance. Tell me, Mr – er, Gordon, can you please describe to the court clearly and in exact detail your precise movements on the night in question?'

A bewildering blankness seemed to descend on Bertie. Completely at a loss, he merely repeated his own last sentence. Judge Cruikshank removed his spectacles in a rare display of minor irritation. ‘Really, Mr Barrington, do we have to be so formal?' he chided, his mellifluous accent momentarily thickening. ‘Reports have suggested Mr Gordon has an intelligence quotient in the low sixties which equates, I believe, to that of a four or five-year-old child. Would you really ask a child so abstract a question? I think not. May I remind both you and the defence counsel that as far as I'm concerned the sole purpose of this part of these proceedings is to determine two matters. The first is that Bertie – perhaps it would be better for all concerned to refer to him by the name with which he is most familiar – that Bertie understands the necessity for truth. I think that has already been satisfactorily established. The second is that he identifies beyond all reasonable doubt the defendants as the men responsible for the charges. Having taken, I have to say, a wearying amount of advice from the Lord Chancellor's Office and from my fellow judges, I have decided this is the only requirement to satisfy me, and so I ask that, please, for the sakes of the witness and for the sobriety of my court, you direct any questions to that end and that end alone.'

‘Thank you, My Lord, I shall endeavour to do so.' Barrington fought hard to conceal a moment of elation. His seemingly innocuous but complex opening question had just achieved exactly what he wanted – and Cruikshank had fallen into the subtle trap, bless his tartan socks. All Bertie had to do was identify the accused, a relatively simple act, and now Cruikshank's directive meant the bird could not be cross-examined on that crucial point.

He duly discarded his notes and sighed, as if reluctant to abandon a carefully planned line of examination, but felt a growing conviction things might just work out after all. There was no need to ask any further questions. He glanced at the defending counsel and saw only frowns on the forehead of his learned friend. Cedric Penry-Williams, also QC, was a superb barrister and knew he'd just been thoroughly rogered. Thank God for Shankie – the old badger had just scuppered any chance of Ceds bamboozling Bertie. He'd dealt a killing blow to the defence team about which they could not even object. Everything else was suddenly irrelevant. It was now up to the bird's memory – and who knew which way that would go?

The last interchange left Bertie totally confused. He looked around to see if Celeste was nearby but only strange faces peered back at him, so he detached himself from his surroundings and allowed his thoughts to turn, as they invariably did in these moments of contemplative idleness, to food and sex.

Perhaps there wasn't such a gulf between the males of different species after all.

‘Bertie?' He looked up again at the sound of his name. The tall man in the long cloak and funny little hat was speaking once more. ‘Bertie, can you –'

‘I like apples,' Bertie confided firmly, his mind now set on a campaign to extort some kind of nutritious dainty out of these people.

Barrington seemed a little flustered. Bertie's statement was entirely unexpected, but at least the macaw was now talking. ‘Good, I'm glad.' He tried to deflect Bertie's intent and opened his mouth to speak, but Bertie got a quick one in first.

‘Granny Smiths. Very nice.'

‘I'm sure they are, however –'

‘And pears. Oh, yes. Big pears, lovely pears.' Bertie's head bobbed happily. He absolutely adored pears, but they had a loosening effect on his digestive solidity. Unfortunately for Pritchard and Coberley, he'd feasted on a succulent, over-ripe pear on the morning of the burglary. It was one of those delicious twists of fate which really does make you believe there is a God.

‘Splendid,' said Barrington. Actually, thinking about it, he was rather fond of pears himself. There was a pause as he found himself lost in wonderful childhood memories of pears in chocolate sauce and summer days fruit-picking with his parents.

‘Have you finished already?' enquired Judge Cruikshank mildly. ‘I didn't expect you to take my advice so literally as to not ask any questions at all! May I point out it is traditional to sit upon finishing the examination of a witness. I recommend you to that course.'

‘Forgive me, My Lord, I was elsewhere for a few moments.'

‘Then I'm sure I speak for all here when I offer my congratulations on your safe return. The continuation of these proceedings does rather depend on you, Mr Barrington.' There was just enough gentle humour in the judge's voice to raise a smile around the court. Even Barrington had to admit the censure was delivered with avuncular Highland charm and his lips twitched in amusement. Bertie flexed one wing and looked vacant.

Geoffrey Bentley Barrington, a man who fully appreciated the implications of this case and who certainly planned to improve his status accordingly, made a minor adjustment to his wig, gathered his thoughts and spoke in a firm and clear voice. ‘Bertie.' He was rewarded with a steady gaze of interest from those disturbingly perceptive brown eyes. ‘Do you know these men?' Barrington pointed and Bertie's gaze automatically followed the direction of his outstretched arm towards the dock.

‘Will the defendants please stand.' At the judge's signal, Pritchard and Coberley rose to their feet, both waxen-faced and perspiring visibly. Behind them, the dock custody officer also stood, on hand just in case there was any unseemly disturbance. Mr Penry-Williams, having consulted a number of experts in bird behaviour, had assured them the delay in bringing the case was of ample length for Bertie to forget the burglary, but even so, the whole affair stood or fell on this point. Bertie regarded them briefly before looking back at Barrington. The QC pointed again. ‘Over there, Bertie,' he said. ‘Do you know these men?'

Several members of the jury wriggled in their seats, leaning forward in rapt attention. Here we go. This was it. This was the moment.

Cruikshank gestured the two men out of the dock and they shuffled across the court to stand directly in front of the witness box. Coberley stared at his feet while Pritchard continually swept back his hair with one hand, also reluctant to look at Bertie. To Barrington's eye both appeared miserable and tense. He had absolutely no doubt they were as guilty as sin and knew Shankie did as well, but this was trial by jury and without Bertie's help he doubted if he could make the charges stick.

‘Gentlemen,' said Judge Cruikshank, ‘please look directly at the witness.' Reluctantly, they did so. Bertie sat impassively, peering down at them from his elevated position. Nothing happened for a long time. There was absolute silence in the court. Even Sally Bingle, the superbly competent court stenographer, stole a quick glance at Bertie, her nimble fingers poised over the keys of her machine. The atmosphere tightened palpably. Duncan carefully stood up from his table in front of the judge. Some indefinable sixth sense of impending trouble produced a frown on his face. He exchanged a look with Cruikshank, who nodded fractionally, freeing Duncan to drift slowly and unobtrusively in the direction of the witness box.

Defence council began to fidget, but the judge was prepared to let Bertie take his time and stayed Penry-Williams with a placating gesture. With Celeste unable to identify the accused and all other evidence now lost, Bertie had to give some signal to the court that these were his assailants or the two defendants would undoubtedly walk free.

Sweat trickled uncomfortably down Pritchard's spine. He looked at Bertie without any expression, trying to assess the macaw, but it was impossible to tell what was going on in that strange and complex mind. A full minute passed and Pritchard was suddenly seized with the certainty that, after all, Bertie did not recognise him, and allowed a smug smile of satisfaction to twitch on his lips. For some reason, the pale scars on his cheek began to itch and he absently raised his hand to scratch at the irritation.

Bertie's gaze followed the movement. Those marks looked strangely familiar, even though they were difficult to see. He turned his attention to the other man. Now that was odd. His cheek was also faintly marked and there was something very wrong with one of his ears, giving his countenance a distinctly lopsided appearance. Bertie dipped his head slightly to stare with unflinching intensity at the two battered faces. Memories tumbled in and out of his consciousness. His claws had once made marks like that all over Sebastian's back. The cat was a menial, conceited creature, always sneaking around the salon. The salon. A familiar place. His home, his favourite perch. And Mummy! Mummy crying out in pain and falling. Falling? Something suddenly stirred deep inside; a vague resentment, a faint and woolly recollection of blood and fighting and screaming and extreme violence.

‘“It's the sodding parrot!”'

The court froze. There was not a sound. Pencils skidded to a halt. Jaws dropped open in shock. Bertie's perfect imitation stopped everyone absolutely dead in their tracks. There was no question that the voice was Coberley's.

The feathers on the back of Bertie's head stood up. He spread his wings, crouched down low and hissed venomously at the pair like an enraged cobra, his impressive bulk almost doubling in size. Coberley recoiled, entirely aware of how dangerous Bertie could be, but Pritchard stood his ground and glared pugnacious defiance. ‘Come on, then!' he ground out in fury. Bertie took this as a challenge and launched himself like a bolt of blue thunder. He remembered now. Oh, yes, he remembered. These men had hurt his mum.

Instantly, in a split second, utter pandemonium erupted in the court. ‘Not again!' moaned Coberley, the significance of this unwise whisper not lost on either Barrington or Judge Cruikshank – or the jury. Since that awful night of the disastrous burglary and Ellen's violent misinterpretation of events, he'd been compelled to endure another long period of humiliating sexual denial. These frustrations and the pressures of the impending trial culminated in this one fatal error, caught for the record by the ever-vigilant Sally and her dancing fingers, but before anything could be done to capitalise on his mistake, calm had to be restored.

It was going to take more than a few dignified cries of
Order!
to quell this particular altercation!

Wisely motivated by his previous encounter with the macaw, Coberley dived for cover beneath a nearby table, a look of utter horror on his ashen face. He was joined by the instructing solicitors and Penry-Williams, who only needed to take one look at Bertie's impressive arsenal before deciding to beat an immediate retreat to safety. The prudence of such an action was also not entirely lost on Barrington, who crouched under his own table, wig clutched in hand. Sally ripped her Stenotype machine off its mount and cradling it under one arm, scrambled down behind her chair. Displaying the unflustered professionalism for which court stenographers were renowned, she then continued recording the varied collection of onomatopoeic grunts, shrieks of pain and snarling vulgarities peppering the uproar, holding her handbag above her head as a shield whenever Bertie swooped in her direction.

Mr Justice Alistair Cruikshank was made of much sterner stuff and barked at the police and court security officers to restore order. He refused to panic, assuming that in the scene of chaos unfolding before him at least one person should remain calm and collected. He didn't even duck when Bertie skimmed low overhead before turning to dive on Pritchard, the chamber spacious enough to allow a comprehensive aerial assault. The court floor was a complete shambles of writhing bodies and crashing furniture, the gallery seethed in uproar. The dock custody officer made to grab Pritchard around the chest but inadvertently caught an elbow hard in the face and staggered back, stunned and bleeding, only to collide with a solicitor, the heavy impact toppling both men. Reporters watched in shock as Bertie plunged in to buffet Pritchard, whistling like a banshee, his lethal claws hacking and scything at the man's face.

‘Go on, Bertie!' screamed Weasel. His certain knowledge that Pritchard and Coberley were responsible for his genital discomfiture had never been proven, but that didn't prevent him from encouraging Bertie to tear the bastards limb from limb.