Bertie and the Kinky Politician (32 page)

Timbrill's unexpected arrival was critical since he knew the man did not figure in JSON's salacious files. The PM chuckled at the delicious irony of it all. It had actually been Chaplain himself who'd put forward Dickless Jimmy's name without any need of prodding in that direction – and Hugo had no idea that in doing so he'd just sealed his own fate.

This unacceptable lack of information on Timbrill would need to be rectified in short order. Knowing Hugo's casual predisposition to illegal action, the PM gently nudged him into organising the burglary of Gordon's house in a way so natural, so innocuous, even Hugo had not noticed the delicate tickle. Once the burglary had been committed, it had then been the PM's scheme to anonymously tip-off the police. However, Timbrill's unexpected streak of independence in the House had provided the PM with a God-given opportunity. Having taken the gamble of actually stabbing his new minister in front of the entire Commons, he'd not only made it impossible for himself to dismiss James, thus spurring Hugo into action, but at the same time also ensured there was a satisfyingly cold distance between himself and Timbrill. Naturally, James would have been only too keen to take revenge on the men who'd burgled his girlfriend once their identity had been revealed. With Timbrill eviscerating JSON, the PM was totally confident his own involvement was so far removed from events that no suspicion would ever fall on him.

No doubt Hugo would come whining to No. 10, demanding protection of some sort, but the PM's hands would be tied. He would have to let Chaplain go, but in the nicest possible way, of course. Over tea and biscuits. However, it was imperative Hugo did not catch a single whiff of the PM's involvement otherwise, well, there was enough dirty laundry with his own prints on it to ensure his immediate retirement to the Chiltern Hundreds. He knew Chaplain was far too arrogant to ever suspect him of such Machiavellian deviousness since the PM had, quite deliberately, relied increasingly on JSON over the last year until it was inconceivable to its operatives that he was ever capable of orchestrating such a delicate scheme himself. He had, with supreme skill, not only deflected their suspicions but also ensured his own survival when the inevitable fall came, and he needed to make that survival look damned good for the electorate.

That
had
been his scheme. It
had
been a good scheme, necessarily intricate because of the formidable perspicacity of his opponent, but like any carefully engineered plan it was always going to be subject to unexpected events. Fortunately, and for just this one time, those random events intervened to his great advantage and instead of attempting to steer his plan back onto its intended course, he'd just let it run free.

Who could possibly have guessed the burglars, with all their skill and expertise, would have been thwarted by that macaw? How divinely delicious. How extraordinarily
outré
. There was no way Chaplain could ever see past such a totally unexpected encounter. It was so weird, so unlikely, so bizarre, that it consumed Chaplain's attention utterly, diverting that redoubtable intellect elsewhere, blinding it to the subtle hand guiding the scheme. The path may have been different to the one he'd planned, but the same destination had been reached nonetheless – and at no stage had the PM looked bad. JSON was now gone, the small department completely disbanded, and although Chaplain was still on the books, so to speak, he'd been tending the petunias on gardening leave these past few months. Still keen to make it look as if he was reluctant to let go of such a valuable asset, the PM could now string Hugo along until after the next election and then finally cast him adrift – and Chaplain would be forever in his debt. Free at last.

Oh, yes. Clever, clever scheme!

His smug smile broadened and he began to hum a little ditty to himself, a most uncharacteristic pastime and one which would have thoroughly alarmed his prying staff. The trial had been reported in breathless detail, the macaw's exuberant reaction to the defendants ensuring global interest, and the verdict had brought the whole scheme to a satisfying climax. The two unfortunate JSON operatives, whom he knew had served their country – or rather, served him, which amounted to the same thing – with distinction, had been sentenced accordingly. Another sacrifice, but that's the role of foot soldiers.

The macaw had received a huge amount of publicity. What was his name? That was it – Bertie. Strange name, mused the PM, but then his children had once named their pet guinea-pig Gerald. He pom-pommed his way through an Elgar march, then suddenly threw his head back and laughed out loud. Damn, fancy Hugo being a druid! Yes, it was sizing up to be a wonderful day.

His mirth subsided quickly. He was not a man prone to unnecessary laughter, although the sight of Albert Steptoe crimping the edge of a home-made pie with his false teeth once almost induced a coronary. He glanced at the screen again and saw the press conference at Celeste Gordon's house was just starting. He capped his golden pen, thinking briefly, as he always did now, at how effective it was as a weapon of offence, expanded the window to fill the screen and turned up the sound.

‘Miss Gordon, how do you feel now that the trial is over?'

As an expert in the art of fielding questions, the premier smiled at this obvious example of an opening gambit. The woman looked uneasy. Members of the public always did when facing the press
en-masse
. The macaw sat behind her and to one side, staring intently. The PM was always mildly surprised at just how big it was – and how beautifully blue! The woman did not relax as the interview progressed, despite the easy handling by the media. Maybe they were scared she'd set the bird on them – by all accounts, his attack in court had been pretty tremendous. She answered questions nervously, as if she couldn't wait for the press to leave. What the macaw thought was, as always, impossible to tell.

The PM stretched and yawned. There was nothing here of real interest. Self-indulgently, his mind began to wander back to the successful conclusion of his scheme. It had all worked out so beautifully. Every member of the cabinet, now eternally in his debt, breathed a huge sigh of relief on learning Hugo had destroyed his files to save his own skin, and Chaplain would for ever keep his mouth shut to prevent the police moving towards a prosecution over the botched burglary.

Yes, it was all going rather swimmingly. The next general election suddenly looked a much rosier prospect. He had risen above all these sordid dealings, his support holding firm. James, as the innocent victim, had seen his popularity sky-rocket. The PM planned to exploit this mercilessly. His party would bask in the positive publicity and this should reflect well at the polls. Naturally, James would then be quietly sidelined once the premier had been returned to power. Sadly, the man was just too inconveniently burdened with a sense of justice and fair play, but by then the Government would be good for another five years. Indeed, everything was looking grand. Now all the PM wanted was a nice gentle run up to the election. No further nasty surprises. He just needed to keep things ticking along, to avoid any further scandals which could still easily tip his struggling administration over the edge, and this course of benign inactivity should be enough to get him re-elected.

‘Are you hungry?' asked Celeste.

‘Hungry. Yes. I like nuts,' replied the macaw in that perfectly understandable but oddly cackling, throaty sort-of-way.

‘Yes, Bertie, I know. What do you say?'

‘Thank you, Mummy.' Impeccably polite, though. The PM reached for his pen again and unscrewed the cap, preparing to return to his work. Bertie stared down at something just out of shot, then looked directly at the cameras and cleared his throat in an amusingly human way.

‘The Kneeling Man!' he spoke with perfect diction. The premier frowned. What the hell was he banging on about now?

‘The Kneeling Man.' This was repeated with greater emphasis. ‘Hooded, gagged, and strapped in the bondage wardrobe!'

The PM's eyes widened in dawning horror.

‘James Timbrill. The Kneeling Man.'

The pen dropped from paralysed fingers.

‘Here. Leather. The bondage wardrobe.' There was an immaculately performed imitation of a cracking whip and attendant squeak of pain. ‘Here. With the handcuffs. Many times.'

The PM went icy inside. He tried to say something but only a stuttering croak came out.

‘Bertie!' screamed Celeste Gordon. ‘Oh, no!' She covered her mouth with both hands, features contorted with choking dismay, then the conference descended into a shambolic uproar matched only by the swelling shouts coming from the other side of the study door.

Chapter Sixteen

The Prime Minister sat at the Cabinet Room table and pushed a paper-clip around the polished surface with one finger, chin cupped in palm in an attitude of abject despondency. There was absolute silence but for the muted ticking of the clock on the mantle behind him. His staff were instructed to deny all access and to hold back the storm of calls, allowing him a short time to collect his thoughts. In front of him lay the morning's newspapers. He sighed heavily, cast an eye over the headlines again and winced with pain.

‘What a cock-up,' he said quietly. James's exotic peccadilloes screamed out at him in dismaying detail. The broadsheets unleashed their criticism in severe and august tones whereas the tabloids excelled themselves with headlines which, he had to admit, were really rather amusing.

Photographs of James, Celeste, and Bertie stared up at him, the images continuing to dominate the inner pages, one after another. Like radioactive contamination, thought the PM morosely, and just as deadly. He dribbled the paper-clip around the table for another minute, then aimed carefully and flicked it across the room and into a pot plant.

That turned out to be the highlight of his day.

The door opened and Hugo Chaplain shuffled in, head down, shoulders slumped, his normally plump features grey and drawn. The PM hadn't seen him in weeks and noted the obvious deterioration in Chaplain's condition. He appeared to be under some considerable stress, which gave the premier a truly pleasant feeling inside. Chaplain collapsed in a seat opposite without waiting for permission.

‘Well?'

Hugo cowered. He attempted to say something, but thought better of it and simply shook his head.

‘Shall I tell you about my day so far?' said the PM in a conversational tone, sitting back and lacing his fingers behind his neck. ‘Shall I tell you what has happened already this morning, bearing in mind,' he glanced over his shoulder at the clock behind, ‘it's barely half past nine?' Hugo seemed to deflate slowly like a leaky football so the PM got up and moved around the table, leaning forward and murmuring into Chaplain's ear. ‘Well, my dear Hugo, shall I?'

‘Prime Minister, this is not particularly constructive considering –'

‘Be quiet, Hugo! Be very quiet.' The venom in that whispering voice made Chaplain's bowel trip unpleasantly. His mouth closed with an almost audible snap. ‘On the bright side I merely have to contend with the press gleefully reporting yesterday's news conference in all its disgusting details, and once the implications sank in, a united howl for my blood,' he slapped a hand on the scattering of newspapers and their scornful headlines. Hugo winced at
Pervert's Polly Porks Pathetic PM!
No reader, not even one possessing a generous amount of sawdust between the ears, could fail to get the message. ‘Moving on, the constituencies are on the point of rebellion and my party is in complete turmoil. That's the good news. That's actually what's been buoying me up so far today. Now, let's skip to the bad news. Apart from an avalanche of demands for an explanation from the House, the Lords, and even the blasted EU, I am now facing a vote of confidence scheduled for this afternoon.

‘A vote of confidence!' he roared savagely in Hugo's ear, spittle flying from his lips, his face a frightening shade of purple. Normally quiescent veins pulsed in dendroids of crimson outrage. ‘One which I am not entirely convinced I can win.' There were no flies on Viv Bell – capitalising on the government's fresh agony, he'd added to its discomfiture by arguing successfully it was no longer morally competent and had been granted an emergency vote of confidence for later that afternoon.

‘You do have a majority, Prime Minister,' offered Hugo meekly.

‘Of five! A majority of five – including the Speaker who, as you may recall, is indebted to us most obligingly after we covered up that fracas with the wetsuit and the depilated penguin! Now then, Hugo, I want you to listen very carefully while I explain some simple mathematics to you. Of those five, one is lying comatose in intensive care having fractured his skull falling off a skateboard. I fully appreciate we have to question the wisdom of a forty-seven-year-old actually getting on a skateboard, but there we go, he did, gravity lent a helping hand and now my majority is cut to four. Want to hear what's happened to them?' The PM gave Chaplain no choice in the matter. ‘The first is in Lerwick, cut off by a vicious Atlantic storm – no one in, no one out – and the second is so far up-country in the gas fields of Eastern Siberia he's eating mammoth steaks for lunch. You don't have to be Einstein to deduce half of four is two,' he ground out with controlled venom. ‘Two! No, don't look out of the window – look at my fingers, Hugo. How many am I holding up? Two! The two that, I've just learnt, took off from Los Angeles last night and are due to land in Beijing within the hour. Well, bugger me with a blunt buttered baguette, majority gone!'

‘I don't need to remind you, Prime Minister, that if the vote is tied you are afforded the benefit of the doubt.'

‘Really? Thank you for pointing that out, Hugo. It had actually slipped my mind.' The PM's sarcasm was vitriolic. ‘Are you really so naïve as to believe I can continue to command authority if a vote of confidence is tied? You are assuming, of course, that all my troops can be persuaded to the cause. The whips are being brutal, but there remains one who cannot be whipped – well, not by us, apparently, one who as a result of this debacle now cannot be relied upon to toe the line. I don't really have to tell you who that person is, do I, Hugo. You already know who I'm talking about, don't you, Hugo.