Bertie and the Kinky Politician (28 page)

‘Naturally they will be compelled to stay silent in court for reasons of national security, but I can tell you now that really hacks off the judge and jury. It seems ironic to me the only viable defence they can use to protect you and your master will be the one which ensures their own conviction, especially when Bertie fingers them in court. Did I mention that, Hugo? How do you think the press are going to react when they discover a macaw will be giving evidence in a trial for burglary, that the victim is the partner of the Minister for Defence and that the offence was committed by two espionage officers employed by the MoD, men who were quite happy to offer violence in the course of their duties? Do you think there could possibly be some media interest, Hugo? I do. Miss Gordon is an innocent and I'm going to make damned sure she gets the chance to see your grunts squirm in court.

‘Attacking a woman? Can't have that, now, can we?'

Wilf stood and put a hand in his pocket. ‘Oh yes, here's one last thing. I almost forgot.' He pulled out a banana and placed it on the bedside table. ‘Doesn't look much, does it. A nice piece of fresh fruit. Traditionally found in hospitals and jails. Old lags will tell you – no matter where you're locked up, HM Prison Service can guarantee you three things,' he smiled. ‘Bars, buggery, and bananas!'

Wilf turned on his heel and strode from the room with Ian at his side. ‘Jesus,' he muttered. ‘You frightened every shadow of hell out of me so God knows how Fat Boy felt. If what you think is true then that bloke's just about the most powerful man in the country.'

‘Bullies come in all shapes and sizes. I hate ʼem all.'

They stood alone as the lift descended in stately silence. Sequestered inside the anonymous metal cube seemed to remove them from reality – apart from a poster warning of the dangers of contracting gonorrhoea. ‘So who's his master?' asked Drewing casually.

‘See if you can figure it out before we reach the ground floor. Don't worry, you've got plenty of time.' The floor indicator continued to count down with all the speed of a rheumatic tortoise. National Health Service lifts were without doubt the slowest on the planet. An infection on the top floor could easily sprout into full-blown gangrene in the time it took to reach the lobby. To step into an NHS lift is to step out of time itself. Wilf glanced sideways at Drewing and his puzzled expression. ‘Think about it. Who's the only person to whom Chaplain could have possibly answered?'

The lift doors finally opened and the two officers emerged back into a universe where time bounced along at its usual lively pace. They were halfway across the foyer when it finally struck Ian. The knowledge stopped him dead in his tracks.

‘Holy crap on a cream cracker!' he gasped, eyes widened in disbelief. Several people stared at him disapprovingly, tutting at such inappropriate language from a police constable. He stood for a moment in complete shock, then sprinted after Wilf. ‘You mean to tell me it's –'

Chapter Fourteen

‘Call Bertie Gordon!'

A collective shiver of anticipation stirred every journalist in the court. Not a seat was spare in the public gallery, not an inch of floor but covered by the packed ranks of the world's media – and they were all there for one thing. A non-human was about to be put on the stand as a witness for the first time ever.

Ever!

This was
the
story of the decade. From the most sophisticated Western democracy to the poorest Third World state, from frigid Spitzbergen to sun-drenched Polynesia, from the Olympian heights of Tibet to the sunken shores of the Dead Sea, all were truly united in their avid interest. For the only time since Neil Armstrong kitted up and went for a stroll on the moon, mankind was as one, all waiting with lively anticipation for this extraordinary moment. Events from this courtroom would be sent by fibre optic and microwave and shiny expensive satellite to every nation on the planet.

Even France.

Reporters shifted in their seats and leaned forward. Pens were poised in readiness above the pages of a hundred notebooks. Artists busily sketched the scene for immediate release to the TV news channels; unlike the US and other liberally inclined countries, cameras were still banned from British courts, and these hurried caricatures would be flashed across the globe to satisfy an expectant audience. They were as prepared as they could be, all had made damned sure there were plenty of blue and violet pastels in their palettes – and not one of them would ever forget the dramas of that day.

Celeste brought in Bertie accompanied by the usher, her arm protected from his needle-tipped claws by her leather falconry gauntlet. A perch had been placed in the witness box and Bertie stepped on to it with an effortless flutter, a little disappointed at the lack of a food tray. She stroked him for a few moments, whispered soothing words in his ear and turning away, left the courtroom. Defence counsel argued she could have influenced him by remaining in court so she'd agreed to wait outside, promising Bertie would behave himself if treated with respect. In turn, the judge had assured her there would be no upsetting legal histrionics.

Bertie watched his mummy leave, then seeing a large number of people gazing at him, displayed majestically, spreading his wings to their full stretch and twitching his long tail feathers. He turned this way and that to ensure everyone got a good look. It was always best to let them know who was in charge. The magnificent sight brought soft coos of admiration from the public gallery, his plumage bringing an exotic splash of azure to the sober room. It was doubtful such vibrant colours had ever been seen before in the grave atmosphere of the Old Bailey. Bertie carefully folded his wings and looked around with great interest.

The room was pleasantly large, with a high arched ceiling from which a goodly amount of light flooded down, warming panelled walls. The place was crowded with banked benches, a high gallery at one side filled to capacity and before him, sitting at desks, a number of oddly dressed men with long dark cloaks and strange grey hairy hats perched upon their heads. These did not seem to fit at all well and looked uncomfortable. Bertie guessed they were wearing them as some kind of punishment.

Nearby, twelve more people sat inside a rectangular wooden box, separated as if they were somehow important. Or possibly they smelt bad. Another smaller box across the room contained a pair of men with a third in uniform sitting just behind, but he didn't give any of them too much attention. Instead, his eye was drawn to the only other colourful figure in the room. This silent man sat alone in a high-backed chair overlooking the room. The panelling behind him rose up into a grand canopy overhead, as if to emphasize his importance. He wore a scarlet robe with white cuffs and collar, and his coarse hat was just that little bit bigger and more luxuriant than the others – it almost looked as if Sebastian was draped over his head, a notion Bertie found amusing. A few other personages were dotted around, standing in discreet corners keeping an eye on things. Bertie had rarely seen so many humans together in one room and settled himself, curiosity piqued. Now what?

A hushed silence fell. There was an awkward hiatus, as if nobody was quite sure what to do next. The court usher, having escorted Celeste outside and returned to his position, looked at the judge and shrugged helplessly. Mister Justice Alistair Cruikshank cleared his throat and there was instant silence. Bertie was impressed.

‘Ladies, gentlemen, I want it made quite clear that I will not tolerate frivolity of any description,' he announced in a rumbling Western Isles accent. An avid fan of opera, he possessed a fine baritone voice and in addition to his numerous judicial duties sang with the Lincoln's Inn Operatic Society, a pastime giving him as much pleasure as sentencing the guilty. Consequently, he was able to project his words without effort. ‘The unusual nature of this case makes no difference to procedure, although certain allowances will have to be made to accommodate this – ah, witness.' He paused for a moment, then looked over his half-moon reading spectacles at the reporters packed into the press bench and up in the public gallery above. ‘Decorum will be maintained or I will have no hesitation in clearing the court,' he concluded firmly. ‘I trust that is quite understood.'

‘Nuts!' said Bertie, quite distinctly. There was a suppressed giggle somewhere, instantly stifled under a flash of Cruikshank's iron gaze. It was well known he rigorously applied the law of contempt. Scores of pencils recorded Bertie's no-nonsense request for a little light refreshment. The judge regarded him with a shrewd glance, undecided if this was a simple overture for comestibles or an irreverent observation on his last statement. He waited, but it appeared the macaw had no further immediate comment and so he turned back to the usher.

‘Mr Hall, you may proceed.'

‘With respect, My Lord, how?'

‘These are uncharted waters, Mr Hall. I suggest we carry on as normal unless obvious difficulties are encountered.'

‘Yes, My Lord.' Duncan Hall approached Bertie with a great deal of trepidation. He was a slight man and somewhat height-challenged, an unfortunate combination of physical disappointments which had led to much bullying at school until he'd set about his tormentors with a cricket bat. Well, honestly, what's a guy to do? Small, yes, but tough in a surprisingly inventive way – and he loathed bullies in all their forms. To Duncan, the strapping macaw loomed very large indeed. He moved in cautiously and held up a Bible and the oath card. Bloody hell, the bird was huge! ‘Bertie Gordon, repeat after me: “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth”.'

Pause. Followed by a rather longer silence.

Bertie preened a flight feather with casual nonchalance, cocked his head to one side and stared at the usher. Obviously he was being spoken to, but what the tiny man was saying was quite beyond him. Duncan looked expectant, Bertie looked blank, the jury looked puzzled, the press looked on and the judge pondered on the wisdom of proceeding any further.

Bertie's response to the oath was absolutely crucial. Legal experts had argued for weeks beforehand that his understanding of the need for truth was vital to the case. The debate had swung back and forth until finally the Lord Chancellor quietly observed that as far as he was concerned, any witness, feathered or not, could only testify under oath, and that the oath was not only an acknowledgement of the requirement for truth but also an indication of minimal understanding and intelligence.

No oath, no witness. Case dismissed. So far, the trial had gone in favour of the defendants. Pritchard and Coberley were answering charges of Actual Bodily Harm and Aggravated Burglary, both indictable offences that the magistrates had duly passed on to Crown Court. Several months had passed since the original burglary and now the case was being heard at the Old Bailey. Although normally reserved for far more serious trials, the famous courts also had a reputation for hosting high-profile cases – and they didn't get more high profile than this. In addition, because the case set a unique precedent, matters were under the control of a High Court judge.

The trial had proceeded with the usual gravity for which English courts were noted. Prosecuting counsel outlined the case and began calling witnesses. Daisy gave evidence in her usual shambolic way and even managed to get in a quick character assassination of Alice Henry before being coaxed back into line by the judge with gentle firmness. However, his compassion was not shared by the defence counsel who cut poor Daisy to shreds, although it was clear his hectoring did not impress the jury. As a result, it was determined Daisy was able to provide details of the surveillance van, but she could not identify the two defendants as being the occupants.

Wilf, in turn, had been thoroughly professional and came through unscathed, answering his questions efficiently, but at no time or in any way did he allude to the part played by Hugo Chaplain. Neither did Pritchard and Coberley. Their mouths remained firmly shut. From the moment of their arrest they denied all knowledge of the burglary. Both admitted that on the night in question they'd been engaged in an operation for the MoD, but the details of this investigation, for reasons of national security, would always remain completely confidential. Hugo had informed them in no uncertain terms that if they didn't assume full responsibility then it would be made known to the police that much darker crimes could be laid at their feet.

When Hugo hung someone out to dry, he didn't mess about.

Then it was Celeste's turn. She'd dazzled the court with her halo of brilliant copper hair but admitted she was unable to recognise either Pritchard or Coberley as her assailants. The question of Coberley's severed ear was explained away by an unfortunate encounter with a wilful grass strimmer, a surprisingly common source of injury, by all accounts. Mr Cedric Penry-Williams, acting on behalf of the defence, then implied police incompetence was responsible for the loss of all evidence, and so the trial had wended its stately way to this moment.

Duncan Hall looked at the judge for guidance. Cruikshank nodded. ‘Again, Mr Hall, if you please.' Duncan repeated the oath to Bertie in a more distinct voice. Up in the gallery, Weasel bit his lip. ‘C'mon, Bertie,' he muttered under his breath, sensing the judge's growing impatience. There was no doubt Cruikshank would dismiss Bertie if he didn't reply soon.

When the repetition again produced no response, Cruikshank stroked his chin thoughtfully. He was prepared to be reasonably patient with Bertie but there were limits. He pondered for a moment and suggested a new tack. ‘Mr Hall, under the circumstances I think a simpler definition of the oath would be acceptable, one the witness might stand a greater chance of comprehending. Perhaps you could endeavour to improvise.'

‘Thank you, My Lord, I shall try,' replied Duncan. He always enjoyed working with Cruikshank. The man was scrupulously fair to all who graced his court and did not suffer from pomposity like a goodly number of the other judges. Right bloody curmudgeons, some of them, real grumpy old sods. No one liked to be on the receiving end of an acid tongue in court, especially when every sarcastic comment was duly noted by the stenographer. Duncan thought for a moment before carefully easing the Bible onto Bertie's perch. The blue macaw automatically reached out to touch it with his barbed claw, bending to investigate the old leather cover curiously. ‘Do you promise to tell the truth?' he asked slowly. Bertie cocked his head from side to side, peering intently at the man.