Bertie and the Kinky Politician (30 page)

In a superb manoeuvre which would have brought a hearty nod of approval from Squadron Leader Dandridge, Bertie banked in a tight turn over the witness box, one wing dipped and the other lofted high, and descended on Pritchard again like an avenging violet titan. Evading the sweeping fists with a lightning twist of the body, his left claw struck. It was a good hit, starting just above the ear and opening the man's scalp for several inches. Blood spurted horrifically, spraying across the floor and those who cowered there. The man's scream of pain was music to Bertie's ears and he turned again to savage his target, but by this time Pritchard had been taken down by Duncan with a brutal flying rugby tackle to the knees. The two men sprawled among the upturned chairs even as Bertie swept overhead, his talons missing Pritchard's crown by a fraction as he pitched to the floor in an unceremonious heap, fists still flailing at his adversary. He did not seem at all appreciative of the fact that Hall's action certainly saved him from another catastrophic head wound. With arms wound tight around Pritchard's shins, Duncan grabbed a mouthful of trouser leg and worried at the cloth like a terrier, a look of flinty determination on his normally placid face which Mr Justice Cruikshank had never seen before.

With Pritchard otherwise engaged, Bertie turned his attention to Coberley, cowering under a table. Unable to reach him, he simply let fly with his other favourite weapon. Coberley saw the squirting mayonnaise cascade down and ducked, exposing Penry-Williams to the full force of spraying poo. Creamy crap spotted his face and shoulders, splattering wetly. He was not at all impressed, his interest in securing a not guilty verdict evaporating instantly.

Pritchard tried to shake off Duncan, but the smaller man made up for his physical shortcomings with a mixture of sheer grit and astonishing persistence. God, he loathed men like Pritchard and sincerely wished for a good solid cricket bat, his favoured weapon of choice! His iron grip never slackened for a moment as his teeth tore holes in Pritchard's trousers. Pritchard lashed out at Duncan's head and caught him a glancing blow across the brow. Duncan merely growled and countered with a winning move. Wriggling like a monkey, he managed to clamp his legs around Pritchard's waist in a brutal body scissors, ankles locked together in the small of Pritchard's back. Using a table to lever himself back to his feet, Pritchard tried to attack Bertie again but could not shake off an upside-down Duncan, still wrapped tight around his belly and legs like a drunkard hugging his favourite lamp post!

With a thunderous crash, the entrance doors burst open and a charging mass of uniformed policemen piled into the court, closely followed by Celeste and Wilf. She stopped short, aghast at the sight of utter carnage, of blood and wrestling men, wild cries and muffled snorts. She immediately guessed Bertie had been the cause of the tumult and called to him, but her voice was drowned by the sounds of splintering furniture and wildly desperate shouting. She tried to run into the body of the court only to be jerked back by Wilf, yelling in her ear and pushing her forcefully against a wall to shield her from any danger.

The swarming policemen launched themselves into the fray with commendable gusto. Pritchard went down under a flight of burly bobbies, burying him instantly, so Bertie aborted his assault, soared over the public gallery screeching in triumph before gliding down to land with a majestic sweep of his wings on the top of Cruikshank's high-backed chair, arriving in a swishing flurry of deep blue. His bloodstained claws gripped the polished oak not twelve inches from the judge's right ear, steel-coloured tips indenting the hard wood. He folded his wings and composed himself with a shake.

He and the judge, violet and red sitting side-by-side, watched the scrambling, undignified imbroglio slowly subside. Gradually, some semblance of normality returned to the chaotic court. Members of the jury, who found their box had ably doubled up as a temporary air raid shelter, popped up to check the coast was clear before retaking their seats. Roaring with rage, Pritchard still fought hard beneath four enormous police officers who were attempting to handcuff him. Duncan continued to cling to his legs like an Ilfracombe limpet clamped to a north Devon rock, chewing at the man's trousers with bared teeth, and only released his grasp when the officers finally subdued their captive. He bounced back to his feet nimbly and adjusting his tie, grinned broadly and winked at Cruikshank before going to help the other ushers right upturned chairs and gather spilled papers.

People began to reappear from cover like refugees emerging after an artillery barrage, glancing with understandable nervousness at the silent blue gargoyle perched beside the judge. One by one, the press returned to their benches up in the public gallery. Penry-Williams and Coberley surfaced from under their table. The custody officer, now suffering from a substantial nosebleed caused by Pritchard's elbow, took Coberley's unresisting arm and led him back to the dock while squeezing a wadded tissue to his nostrils. Barrington replaced his wig rather self-consciously and dusted himself down. Sally resumed her position behind the reassembled Stenotype machine, checked her make-up in a compact mirror and wriggled her bra straps back into position with a demure shake of the shoulders.

Mr Justice Cruikshank just sat in his chair like a resplendent, red-robed Bela Lugosi and waited patiently for the hubbub to die down. It had been an altogether extraordinary and memorable five minutes. Eventually, an abashed silence fell, broken only, for some inexplicable reason, by the sound of loud purring. Now what? People cast around quizzically. A cat? In the Old Bailey?

‘Thank you, gentlemen,' said Judge Cruikshank in a perfectly normal tone of voice. ‘Mr Hall?'

‘Yes, My Lord.'

‘May I compliment you on an admirable tackle. You displayed the spirit of courage and tenacity one would normally expect from a person of considerably greater physical presence.'

‘Thank you, My Lord.' Duncan beamed happily at the praise while Barrington, a good six stone heavier and twelve inches broader and taller, looked abjectly sheepish after his own abrupt and undignified scramble for shelter. Shankie hadn't even moved a muscle during the entire fracas – the old goat was as cool as a cucumber.

‘Mr Barrington, I think we can take that as a positive identification by the witness, don't you?'

‘Yes, Your Honour,' replied the barrister, bowing fractionally. The jurors looked entirely satisfied, smiling slightly to each other.

‘Any further comments, Mr Penry-Williams?'

‘None, My Lord.'

‘Then in view of what has just happened, I believe a short recess is in order for nerves to calm. Miss Gordon, would you be so good as to take charge of Bertie? Thank you. Mr Penry-Williams, please be so good as to wash and change into fresh robes. I also require my court – and the defendant – to be cleaned.' Judge Cruikshank nodded sourly at the spattering of blood on the floor and table. Pritchard himself, now held firmly between two constables, was bruised, battered, and bloodstained, his formerly crisp white shirt torn and missing several buttons. He looked like he'd just been sprayed by an exploding ketchup bottle. The judge surveyed his court calmly, then noticed the stares. Everyone gaped at him with some considerable concern. Duncan's eyes widened and he pointed anxiously. It all went very, very quiet. Cruikshank felt a sudden coldness wash through his stomach and slowly turned his head to find Bertie edging closer, claws clicking as he sidled along the back of the chair. Bizarrely, the bird was purring like a Cheshire cat – Cruikshank could clearly feel the rumbling vibrations through his seat. He glanced up to see the macaw towering over him. ‘We will reconvene in an hour,' he said in as even a voice as was possible.

‘Nice hat,' said Bertie affably, bending to stare at the judge's florid wig. ‘Very nice hat!'

Chapter Fifteen

To say the media had a field day would have been just about the greatest understatement of all time!

Bertie's picture was splashed across the front page of every newspaper, with banner headlines suiting the intellectual status of each individual publication. These fell into roughly three groups, represented by the clinically factual but somewhat desiccated
Court Uproar!
style employed by the quality broadsheets to the slightly more multi-dimensional
Macaw Clinches Old Bailey Case
theme favoured by the popular dailies, but the prize in this particular competition went to the gloriously entertaining
Battling Bertie Bags Bungling Burglars!
offered by one of the leading tabloids, thus perpetuating the fine tradition of inventive lexicology for which it was globally admired.

Once the court had reconvened, all the following procedures seemed lacking in excitement. Coberley's inadvisable comment, duly noted by Sally, was repeated, giving Mr Penry-Williams very little room to manoeuvre. His closing speech was not as impressive as his cleaning bill. The jury had seen and heard enough and were prompt in returning their verdict. The decision was unanimous – there were no
12 Angry Men
-style arguments here, no soft-spoken architect to cast doubts! Perhaps they weren't keen to be in the same building as Bertie for a second longer than necessary.

Guilty on all charges, Pritchard and Coberley received sentences of four years each. In addition, Pritchard was fined heavily for contempt since he was deemed to have provoked the witness unnecessarily, thus igniting the unexpected but entertaining chaos that followed. Judge Cruikshank, despite the tremendous interest in the case, retained a solid and pragmatic approach to the entire affair.

‘I appreciate some aspects of this case have been quite extraordinary, but when stripped of its more colourful characters there still remains at its core a grubby little crime perpetrated on an innocent women by two men who felt they were justified in their actions merely because they were employed by a government agency. We have laws to circumscribe the actions of such agencies, laws designed to contain abuse to a very necessary minimum. In the vast majority of instances these agencies work tirelessly and without recognition to ensure we live in a safe and stable society – and for that we are all profoundly thankful – but while we readily acknowledge some of their work is potentially hazardous, they still need to operate within these laws. An inability to do so, to me, indicates a slide towards a police state.' He paused and removed his spectacles, a sure sign to those in the court who knew him well that he considered matters had come to a satisfactory conclusion. ‘I wish to remind those who feel they can abuse the public for no good reason that the law is above us all, and if that law is broken, no favours will be given to any person. Not in my court. Not now, and not in the future.'

It was noticeable Mr Justice Alistair Cruikshank's meteoric rise to the exalted position of Lord Chief Justice began almost immediately the case was concluded, but to the public he was thereafter always affectionately known as Bertie's Judge.

Simply getting out of the building proved impossible for Celeste and Bertie. A great crushing phalanx of television crews and reporters from across the globe crowded the steps outside, spilling over the pavements and into the street, where passing traffic had to negotiate its way around the seething throng. The police struggled valiantly, attempting to compress the hacks back on to the pavement for their own safety, but these efforts were only marginally successful and a Paraguayan sound recordist was mown down by a motorcycle despatch rider, suffering minor injuries to the buttocks.

This unfortunate incident merely stoked tempers further. Shoulder-mounted cameras craned, staring lenses thrust forward, with microphone booms waving above like grey socks blowing in a Hebridean gale. Each tussled with his neighbour to get a better shot and a great deal of unprofessional barging eventually led to Sky News punching the BBC on the nose.

The noise and confusion outside greatly disturbed Bertie. He liked to be the centre of attention but this was alarming. Wilf held Celeste back at the door. ‘I don't think it's a good idea to leave at the moment,' he said, shielding his eyes against the glare of spotlights and veritable storm of flashing cameras. The frenzy waxed noticeably the moment Celeste and Bertie were glimpsed through the doorway and a great roar of expectation rose from the scrummage.

‘They won't go away, will they?' she said, turning her back and holding Bertie close, stroking his head reassuringly. He sat on her arm gripping the leather gauntlet with more than his usual strength. She felt him tremble. ‘There, my angel,' she said soothingly. ‘Mummy's here. Good Bertie, safe Bertie. I love you, Bertie.'

The crowd suddenly broke through the ineffectual police cordon and surged forward, impacting with a terrible thump against the main doors. Lenses rattled against the glass like the exuberant clack of mating tortoises, ogling inwards with huge, empty eyes. Bertie looked over Celeste's shoulder and hissed at them.

‘This is really frightening him, Wilf. We have to do something.'

‘Could we put him in a box or something and smuggle him out?' suggested Wilf, then threw his hands up placatingly at Celeste's angry glance. ‘Sorry, sorry, real bad idea. Forget I ever said it.'

‘He's never been caged in his life and I'm not starting now. What about the back door? Courtrooms always have a back door, don't they? That's how famous people avoid the media.'

‘True, but those vultures are everywhere. The entire building's surrounded.'

‘Was it worth it all this?' Celeste asked softly, watching the tempestuous fracas through the windows.

‘Yes. Absolutely,' replied Wilf firmly. He'd heard such agonising before on many occasions. ‘Someone had to stand up to those two thugs.'

‘But look what's happened. I can't even go to the shops without being harassed, and what about you? These sort of people strike me as vindictive. They always have to take out their anger on someone and I'm worried it'll be you. I hope this won't mean the end of your career.'