Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (27 page)

Wilf sighed unhappily. ‘There's already enough evidence to involve the police, but I'm not quite ready to bring in uniform unless it's absolutely necessary. I want to get my hands on Barn Boy's phone. I've no doubt there's enough information on it to identify and implicate his bosses. I've had many successful convictions based solely on evidence taken from a smartphone, but I have to warn you that doesn't always happen. Powerful people have a habit of slipping through the net. They can afford to buy their way out of trouble. That man holding Milly is just a foot soldier, we need to bag the generals, otherwise the threat will just return, next time in a more potent form. This will be the only realistic opportunity we'll have to beat them.'

‘I understand. That's why I'm going to Temple Hall.'

‘Hmm,' he muttered, obviously still unconvinced. ‘I've got a bad feeling about all this.'

‘Wilf, you have a bad feeling about everything.'

‘True,' he admitted. ‘I am a grumpy old bugger, aren't I?'

‘It's part of your lovable charm, but you're just going to have to trust me on this one,' said Celeste. ‘I need a leap of faith. If Bertie says Temple Hall, then Temple Hall it is. I'll go on my own if I have to, but I'd prefer my muscle to be there watching my back.'

‘Temple Hall,' said Bertie around a mouthful of nut. ‘Very nice place.'

Wilf looked shrewdly at the macaw. His mind was so alien it was impossible to tell what thought processes motivated him, but he had to agree the bird had a knack, every so often, of uttering just the right phrase at just the right time. As the previous Prime Minister had discovered to his cost. ‘Goddammit,' he muttered unhappily. ‘All right, I give in – but under protest. I still don't like the idea of involving civilians, especially against a gang, but I suppose we need as many troops on our side as we can get.' Wilf thought for a moment. ‘OK, I'll take Bertie over to Gav's cowshed and keep him there until you're gone. Once Barn Boy follows, we'll follow him. I presume you do have another vehicle apart from your own car.'

‘Er, yes, sort of…'

Once Wilf and Bertie were safely out of the way, Celeste packed a small overnight bag. She thought of phoning James, but knew he'd be in the House. The Speaker took a dim view of any interruption – especially if the ringtone was
Calamity Jane
's ‘Whip-Crack-Away!'

She was about to leave a text when she heard gravel crunching outside. Cautiously, Celeste twitched a net curtain. A taxi pulled up by the front door. ‘Now what?' she muttered irritably. ‘It's like bloody Piccadilly Circus around here.' The passenger paid and got out. Her heart sank. ‘Oh, no! Just what I don't need.'

An hour later, having given Miller ample time to resume his surveillance, Celeste clattered out of the cottage carrying her overnight bag. She made a show of checking all the windows and doors were shut, then jumped in her car and made off with some urgency.

Wilf discreetly observed from across the field. He scanned the garden. There was a particularly unkempt corner that interested him. Tangled and leafy beneath several trees, their branches drooping, it was the perfect spot for a little covert spying. He'd already noticed the birds gave that part of the garden a wide berth and had his suspicions. Within a minute of Celeste's departure, he saw furtive movement amongst the undergrowth, then the sound of a vehicle starting up and receding into the distance. Celeste's tail was on the move.

Time to go!

‘Come on, Bertie, let's get on the road.' Wilf sprinted across the field, the macaw flying at his side. He headed for James's rusty corrugated tin garage, opened the door and peered into the gloom. An old Sunbeam sports car sat on blocks, its wheels and seats missing, its bonnet up to reveal an engine short of a cylinder head. As a mode of transport, even Wilf could see it required some work to make roadworthy, but he dismissed the convertible immediately and focused his attention instead on a tented shape. Wilf swept the dust sheet to one side and grinned. ‘Oh, yeah,' he murmured, ‘this'll do nicely.'

Bertie waited outside. The garage was too dusty for him. Having only just restored his plumage to its usual immaculate state, he had no intention of getting filthy again. Best let Wilf go in – cobwebs would probably make him more attractive.

Moments later, the peace was shattered by the thud of a powerful engine. The garage doors burst open and Wilf powered out on the only other available vehicle – James's motorcycle combination. The vintage Royal Enfield rattled and roared like an irate dragon. Bertie didn't like the noise too much, but remembered his mum's instructions.

Follow Wilf.

Stay with Wilf.

Obey Wilf.

Help Wilf.

‘Jump in!' shouted Wilf over the noise. Unable to find James's helmet, he had to settle for Celeste's. He knew it was hers because it was a shocking candy pink and studded with sparkling crystals. And then there were the novelty antlers, pointing up and outwards on either side like perky coral branches. Wilf would have preferred to lose the antlers, not that he bothered much with his image at the best of times, but had no time to figure out how to remove them without dismantling the visor. The antlers would have to stay. He looked like a disturbingly effeminate Viking warrior.

Bertie hopped into the sidecar and peered around with lively interest. He'd been in this moving bathtub before, but only on his mum's lap while The Kneeling Man drove. The cockpit seemed awfully empty without her, but he took a firm grip both on his courage and the leather seat and squawked in surprise when Wilf gunned the engine and dropped the clutch.

Wilf hadn't been on a bike for almost forty years, but the instinct to ride had never entirely disappeared. Hot, oily smells wafting up from the engine invoked a fond wash of memories, of misspent youth and racing around the South Circular in days long before speed cameras. Skills long dormant stirred into life. You never forget.

Like swimming.

The motorcycle leapt forward. Bertie hunkered down behind the windscreen, scrabbling to maintain his balance. Buoyed more by enthusiasm than ability, Wilf careered around the bend at the bottom of the drive with the sidecar wheel high in the air and pounded away in pursuit of Celeste and her tail, a grin on his face, mac belted tight and pink antlers flapping in the wind.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Miller parked his van just beside a small copse on the ridge across the valley from Temple Hall. He examined the old building with field glasses. An early evening sun bathed it in glowing orange. Normally not one to be moved by beauty, let alone architecture, he had to admit it was a very lovely building. He scanned it thoroughly. Nothing moved. Timbrill's car sat on the drive, the only visible vehicle on the premises. Timbrill's wife had been met at the door and hurried inside, dragging her case. Miller recognised the signs. He'd seen worried women before. He enjoyed worrying women. The sense of power was addictive – and soon he'd be honing his skills once again. He looked forward to their meeting. The bitch had brought it upon herself by fleeing here. He could easily intimidate his victims over the phone, but that was no longer possible. Miller considered this an added bonus. To truly terrify a victim required a face-to-face encounter. Shame he'd only been instructed to violate the bird. He rather fancied bringing the snooty cow down a notch or two. Slap her around, loosen a few teeth, perhaps, or maybe worse. He smiled at the thought of her pubes. Never seen ginger curlies before.

Tailing her had been easy. Skilled as he was in covert surveillance, he'd hung back, tucking in behind a lorry for part of the way, always keeping several cars between him and his target, varying his distance, even overtaking her on one occasion and observing her through his mirrors. Piece of cake.

A careful man, was Miller.

Pity, then, he'd completely failed to notice a motorcycle and sidecar drifting along far behind, often hidden by the bends in the road – but always there. The tailer was being tailed.

‘She needs to understand just how serious we are. It was a big mistake for Timbrill to dispose of that cash. She has to pay for his stupidity,' said a tinny voice. Miller's tablet lay propped on the dashboard. A video link connected him to his employer, safe in his distant Fortress of Fulsome Fortune. Netheridge sat at ease around the table with the others. Still one short, Miller noticed. Damn, that was a consummate piece of poisoning. He swelled with pride at his achievement.

‘I agree,' he replied, ‘but I think it might be wise to avoid executing the next stage of our plan at Timbrill's home.' He considered the lanky old codger he'd coshed at the cottage. ‘It's far too public. Damned neighbours are always dropping in unannounced to borrow a cup of sugar. Why's it always sugar? Is there an unspoken rural convention stating you must never buy sufficient sugar to cover your own requirements?'

‘Not now, Miller, if you please,' said Netheridge. ‘Would it be unreasonable to ask that you at least attempt to keep your mind on the job?'

‘Of course, sir.'

‘So why has she changed location?' asked Woolley.

‘Women are irrational and unpredictable creatures. That's why men are leaders in almost every country in the world,' observed Brasenose with airy condescension. ‘In addition, they do not have the intelligence nor the logical pragmatism to make any significant contribution to human society – but they are very good at having babies,' he added. The others chuckled indulgently.

Miller had to bite his lip. The most dangerous and accomplished agent he'd ever encountered had been a woman. He wondered just how well the men on the other end of the link would fare had they been locked in a room with her. ‘Since she's no longer at home we are unable to threaten her over the phone. I was only able to obtain her landline number since her mobile is on the restricted list because of her husband's position. She has inadvertently forced our hand by fleeing to this place, but I don't see any reason why we can't take advantage of this unexpected situation. As you know, our surveillance has indicated she's been here before. The visit she made was the only significant departure from her normal domestic routine during the entire period we've had her under observation. Surprisingly, she took the macaw.'

‘Is that relevant?' asked Brasenose.

‘As anyone with military training will tell you, any deviation from a set routine is relevant. The need to take the macaw outweighed the disruption of doing so. I find that interesting. The question you should be asking is what's down there at that particular location which required the attendance of the bird?' God, they were thick sometimes.

‘Maybe it's no more than just a pleasant place to visit,' suggested Woolley. ‘You do have a habit of overthinking these things, Mr Miller.'

‘Perhaps,' he muttered. Jeez, they were in a right snotty mood today. Probably made a couple of million pounds less profit than usual. ‘However, now the panic's set in, she thinks she's safe here. Unreachable. Out of the way, but it works for us as well. This location is much more isolated than her home. It's here we can advance our plans and abuse the bird without fear of interruption.'

‘What do we know of this Temple Hall?' asked Woolley.

Miller opened his laptop and searched for Temple Guiting Hall. Pages scrolled quickly. He absorbed information and conveyed what he saw in terse sentences to the MIGS.

‘Sixteenth century, Grade One listed. Several hundred acres. Appears to be home to some kind of women's commune.'

‘Women?'

‘With luck, lesbians,' he added speculatively, grinning.

‘We're not interested in that.'

‘No, of course you're not.' Christ, they had no balls. Literally.

‘Can you possibly limit your observations to something useful?' muttered Brasenose peevishly.

Hello! Miller recognised that tone of voice. Time for some fun. ‘The Hall and its residents are pillars of the local community and winners of the Best Cauliflower In Show at the village fete for the last twelve consecutive years. Impressive.'

‘But not relevant,' snapped Woolley. Miller snickered at his impatience. He liked to tease them all, especially Woolley, who'd had his sense of humour surgically removed at about the same time he'd parted company with his umbilical cord. Lighten up, you depressing old fool.

Miller examined photos and plans of the Hall while the others fumed in silence at the delay. Netheridge smirked behind his hand. Miller was brilliant at annoying them, pay-off for the dismissive arrogance in the way they treated his man. Miller's military training had included psychology and he knew how to goad an enemy.

However, examining a target vicariously was certainly no substitution for visiting in person, especially when planning a raid. ‘Luckily for us, the occupants appear to have always been exclusively women, as noted in several historical sources, and apparently it still is, according to the current Electoral Roll. This makes penetration much easier,' he quipped darkly. No one laughed at his joke. Miserable buggers. ‘Unfortunately, the Hall has always been privately owned and is never open to the public. This makes reconnaissance tricky. I need to have a nose around before finalizing my assault planning in case of unexpected obstacles, however …' Something caught his eye and he leaned back with a smile. ‘Excellent. I know how to get in there,' he said. ‘Leave it to me. All I need is a bobble hat and an unnatural addiction to rambling!'

Jenny had just cleared away her dinner debris when she heard the heavy Trojan Horse knocker thump against the front door and, wiping her hands on her apron, went to investigate. A man stood there, dressed in an entirely familiar manner. She guessed immediately the reason for his visit.

‘Can I help?' she asked.

‘Good evening. I've been walking in the neighbourhood and decided I really could not pass up the chance of visiting your Roman Baptistry. I hope it's not too late, but would it be possible to see it?'