Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (34 page)

And then there was his knob! Wilf and Greg involuntarily cupped genitals in a shared instinctive gesture of protection.

Their own – not each other's.

The damage was catastrophic, the colour a spectacular purply-reddish-burgundy-orange. Leach's willy no longer looked like a willy. To be honest, it didn't even look like anything that should be near a human body, let alone attached to it. Greg couldn't bear the sight and turned away, suddenly nauseous.

‘Promise me you'll not tell Mum,' pleaded Jenny in a small voice. ‘Please!'

An approaching siren gave the two men a timely and valid excuse to exit from the greenhouse. The ambulance arrived first, followed in short order by the COW. The number of constables in attendance swelled to four. Vehicles congregated in front of the Hall. It began to look like the car park of a stately home on a sunny Bank Holiday Monday. Netheridge and Black were frog-marched into the back of the van while Skinner and Leach received treatment in the ambulance under close supervision by several officers. ‘Bloody Norah,' muttered the paramedic, administering a generous injection of morphine into Leach, ‘I thought my missus had a temper!'

Returning to the library, Martha unlocked the trap and Wilf slid an extending ladder down into the oubliette. The two Toilet Thugs emerged first out of the darkness, blinking myopically, and found themselves promptly arrested. Finally, Miller crawled up the ladder, his numerous injuries apparent, bloodstained head swathed in a makeshift bandage ripped from his shirt. Despite these wounds, Greg wasn't taking any chances and got him handcuffed in a jiffy. Miller's eyes widened momentarily when he saw Wilf, then the shutters came down and his face went blank.

‘Just a minute, Greg. I've a feeling we've met before.' Wilf's preliminary search revealed the heavy sap. He hefted the nasty weapon. ‘You can add assaulting a police officer to all the other charges,' he said grimly. ‘I've got the lump to prove it.'

Miller did not react at all, but he glared at Celeste as he was led away. Engines fired up and the emergency services vehicles departed to either police station or hospital, depending on the physical condition of their occupants.

‘I want that thing made safe,' ordered Greg, nodding at the trap. ‘There's going to be lots of our people here and I don't want to have to fish them out every five minutes.' He excused himself and walked off to consult with his colleagues.

‘Where on earth did you get all those handcuffs?' asked Wilf.

‘They were originally intended for us, but I know a useful little party trick involving a bent hair grip,' said Celeste.

‘Of course you do.'

‘That's where the chain came from as well.'

‘And the whip? No, don't answer that. I know you never travel without one.'

‘Not this time. It was a present from Martha, and very useful, I have to say.'

Cutie and Martha pulled up the ladder. The trap door swung shut and was locked.

‘What will happen to Miller?' asked Celeste.

‘Well, for a start, I would imagine he'll find spectacles difficult to wear,' mused Wilf. ‘But that'll be the least of his problems. In my opinion, judging on what you've told me, he will almost certainly be charged with your attempted murder. By throwing the knife he showed deliberate intent. If found guilty – and I don't think there's the slightest chance of any other verdict – sentencing usually starts at around twelve years.'

‘Good. I won't be losing any sleep over that.'

‘Now it's safe, would you show me the library again,' said Wilf suddenly.

‘Why?' asked Cutie.

‘I'm curious as to why there's an oubliette positioned here, at its entrance.' He walked in with the women and looked around, professionally examining the long, low room. He scrutinised the windows, the doors and even peered up the chimney.

‘These books must be valuable,' he finally said.

‘Some of them are,' agreed Doreen.

‘But I guess most have been added over the years. There couldn't have been that many in here when the house was built. Hardly worth such sophisticated protection, it seems to me, so I'm intrigued as to why so complex a defence was placed here.' He saw the polished brass oval set into the wooden floor beside the massive fireplace, its surface engraved with “IN”.

‘What's this? An “In” button to what? If I push on it does a secret panel open or something?'

‘A secret panel leading where?' asked Doreen evenly.

‘A hidden room, maybe.'

‘Sorry, nothing so exciting. These are the initials of Isaac Newton. He came to stay once and this plaque marks the spot where he was sitting when he invented the cat flap. We're very proud of it.'

‘The cat flap?'

‘That's right.'

‘So if I step on it, no concealed door will open?'

‘Try – see what happens.'

Celeste glanced nervously at Doreen. Cutie bit her lip. The atmosphere suddenly tightened. A wash of nervousness swept through the group of women. Wilf glanced up through shaggy brows, the only part of his head that still sported enough hair to even vaguely warrant such a description. Celeste knew he'd sensed their uneasiness. He raised one foot and cautiously pressed on the plate. Nothing happened.

‘What did you expect – a nuclear missile launch?' said Martha sarcastically.

He relaxed, but the look he gave Celeste was thoughtful. She knew him well enough to realise he was not entirely satisfied. No doubt he would be bringing up the subject at a later date.

‘No, I guess not,' he admitted.

They left the library. Wilf peered over his shoulder and noted with surprise that Martha was very careful to lock the doors behind them. Interesting. None of the other rooms in the Hall were locked, so why did she do that?

Greg met them in the entrance hall. ‘Now we've dealt with the bad guys, would anyone care to tell me why they were here?'

Wilf's explanation was a masterclass of descriptive prose. Years of appearing as a witness in court had honed his technique. Greg listened, notebook in hand, pen scribbling furiously. ‘In short, you're dealing with a high-level conspiracy to corrupt an MP. Miller's phone provides enough evidence to arrest the other three men in their cosy little club. I'm sure further revelations will duly come to light. These men have been doing this for a long time.'

‘This is way above me,' said Greg. ‘I've no doubt it's going to turn into a major investigation.'

‘You look like a man who could do with another cup of tea,' said Doreen.

‘Thanks, that would be lovely.' Jenny went to make a new pot. More cake arrived.

Sandra sidled up to Wilf. ‘Got a minute? There's one last thing I think you should see.'

‘What's that?'

‘Best I show you.'

‘It's not another poor soul in handcuffs, is it?'

‘Not quite, but play your cards right…'

Wilf pursed his lips. The other women were busy plying Greg and Baz with double chocolate layer cake, so they slipped away unnoticed. She led him into the pantry and closed the door.

‘Well, what have you got to show – good grief, woman!'

Sandra unbuttoned her blouse to reveal a black satin bra and tipped her breasts out of their cups. With his attention suitably engaged, she pounced, ripping at his clothes. His trousers were forcibly dragged down to his knees, leaving crumpled shirt-tails flapping in front of his middle regions.

Such a thing had never happened to Wilf.

Sandra hoiked herself up onto a marble shelf, naked arse squashing a punnet of Jenny's strawberries in her haste. Juice squirted across the cold stone. She stretched her legs wide and up, drawers hanging off one ankle. She grabbed Wilf's lapels, pulled him in close and kissed him hard. Wilf's eyes bulged, as did other parts. An industriously inquisitive tongue wormed into his mouth. Even Wilf, as unseasoned in the art of love as a man could possibly be, began to realise the likely outcome of the encounter. Her kisses took on an urgent intimacy.

‘This is totally unprofessional,' he gasped, surfacing for air. He couldn't tell if the giddiness he felt was through lack of oxygen or awakening passion. ‘Good job I'm leaving the force tomorrow.'

‘Stop talking and start shagging!' she panted. Her hand disappeared between his shirt tails. She rummaged and emerged with her prize. Wilf gasped while Sandra grasped. She kneaded urgently. ‘Come on, Wilf, you know you want it.'

‘Do I?'

‘Got any handcuffs?'

‘Er … sorry.'

‘Next time, then.'

‘There's going to be a next time?'

‘There will be if you wear this!'

She plonked the pink crash helmet on his head. Wilf giggled. He hadn't giggled for decades. Frankly, he'd never had much to giggle at, but the sight of Sandra lying back on the slab in a pool of mashed strawberries, brown eyes smouldering, tits wobbling, legs wrapped around his waist and ankles crossed in the small of his back, put him in an excellent frame of mind. She guided him into port with a sigh and shudder. Wilf liked the sound very much, the dreamy sensation even more, and began to hump vigorously, decorum long gone and antlers flapping in time with his thrusts. Sandra moaned, pinching her own nipples, and tumbled into an intense, grunting climax. Wilf followed swiftly, eyes rolling back, his face blushing deep red under the sparkling coral-coloured helmet, knees wobbling and tongue hanging out.

At least he'd lasted longer than Bertie – but only just!

‘Anyone seen Sandra?' asked Doreen.

‘Not for a while. Come to think of it, Wilf's gone as well.'

‘Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'

‘God help us,' muttered Celeste. ‘What have I done!'

‘We're here,' said Wilf a little too breathlessly, scampering in a little too hastily and certainly a little too guiltily.

‘I was just showing Wilf around the house,' added Sandra, trying to straighten her mussed auburn hair. Colour stained her cheeks and throat. Her blouse was buttoned awry.

‘I'm sure you were,' observed Doreen dryly.

‘There's something different about you,' said Cutie, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

‘Can anyone else smell strawberries?' asked Martha.

Greg drained his cup. ‘Ladies, we need to take statements from you all,' he said. Probably best to do this at the station.'

‘How do we get there?' asked Doreen.

‘We'll have to go in the van.'

There was a squeal of excitement. ‘In a police van? Girls, I'm not going out looking like this.' Doreen led the stampede upstairs.

‘Oi! Come back! Where are they off to?' complained PC Brush.

‘You're a bachelor, aren't you, Baz?' said Celeste. ‘Hope you're not in a hurry.'

‘I'm afraid you'll have to come as well, Mrs Timbrill,' said Greg.

‘That might be a problem. My priority is Bertie and Milly. I want to get them settled as soon as possible. This has been traumatic for them both.' She thought for a moment. ‘Listen, let me take them home and I promise I'll come to the station tomorrow morning and make a statement then.'

‘Sounds reasonable.'

‘Can you go with the others?' she asked Wilf. ‘Keep them from wrecking the place.'

Wilf slapped Greg on the shoulder. ‘Sure. You'll need all the help you can get, my boy.' The police station was bound to have a convenient cupboard somewhere private that he and Sandra could employ usefully while waiting for the others to make their statements.

‘I'll phone Colin when I get home, let him know we have Milly back safe and sound.'

Another police vehicle arrived. ‘Here come forensics,' said Greg. ‘The SOCOs will want everyone out while they do their thing. Ladies!' he called up the stairs. ‘Your bus is departing now.'

A clatter of heels announced the return of the women. All four had coiffed their hair, applied make-up and changed into smart clothes and appropriate interview shoes. Even Martha. Celeste gave Greg an encouraging pat on the arm. ‘Good luck,' she murmured. ‘I've a feeling you'll need it.'

Doreen took Celeste to one side as the others piled into the police van. ‘Thank you,' she said earnestly.

‘For what? Saving democracy or introducing Wilf to Sandra?'

‘Either one or the other will make my life much more bearable, although it's too early to say which.'

‘My pleasure.' They hugged briefly and Doreen climbed into the van. Greg and Baz were already struggling to cope.

‘Can we have sirens and lights?'

‘What's that button for?'

‘Why won't this window open?'

‘I like your helmet!'

‘Where do you keep the CS gas?'

‘How does this breathalyser work?

‘My, that's a big truncheon!'

‘It's like herding blancmange,' muttered Wilf, getting in last. The police van hummed with happy chatter like a charabanc on a trip to the seaside.

There was only one empty seat – and it was next to Sandra. She patted it and smiled.

AND FINALLY…

‘In we go!' said Celeste, opening the front door of the cottage. Bertie scampered over the threshold, his tail sweeping from side to side like a long blue brush. Milly followed closely, trilling happily. Celeste had no fear she'd make a bolt for freedom. A crowbar wouldn't be strong enough to separate her from Bertie's side. The two chattering macaws hopped and fluttered up onto the perch and dipped heads to the nut bowl.

Celeste made sure they had plenty of food and water before going upstairs. The cottage was, as always, a haven of peace and tranquillity. No sound could be heard, but for birdsong outside and the occasional distant crack of shattered Brazil nut. She closed the bedroom door, stripped off her filthy and bloodstained clothes and took a long, relaxing bath, treating herself to extra bubbles. Her wounded leg still smarted, but the cut was clean. The paramedics at Temple Hall had not seemed unduly concerned. Sitting at her dressing table, she replaced the dressing before applying a little make-up and lipstick, then dried her hair. She'd always appreciated how lucky she'd been with her unique colour, despite having endured many examples of ginger bigotry over the years, but to learn that it would never go grey struck her as deliciously ironic. She gathered the wavy tresses back into a flowing ponytail and pulled on a pair of thigh-length red leather boots to conceal her injury, tugging hard on the silk lacing to snug the long boots pleasantly tight.