Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (33 page)

‘I think the girls would still like to see you with it on, especially Sandra. Only real men can wear pink.'

‘Pink,' said Bertie distinctly. Now, that was an easy word. He snuggled next to Milly on the back of a chair, the two macaws rubbing shoulders. She trilled happily and preened him. Wilf suspected she was just glad to be out of her cage at long last. It had been cramped for such a big bird – and Netheridge's callous treatment hadn't helped. He didn't know too much about macaw body language, but he was pretty sure Bertie would be getting a lot of sex over the next few days.

Nice to know someone was.

They stood in a little group in the main entrance hall watching Cutie hang the portrait of Helen back on the wall above the fireplace. Doreen supervised with the obligatory, ‘Up a bit. No, on the left. Down a fraction.' Jenny bustled in with a tray of steaming mugs followed by Sandra carrying a huge Victoria sponge and stack of plates.

Martha had at last managed to freshen up and came trotting down the stairs. ‘Please tell me someone's finally called the police,' she said. ‘I don't want any men littering up the place for a second longer than necessary. Present company excluded, of course,' she added with a twinkly smile at Wilf. ‘You can stay as long as you like, young man.'

‘Young man! Muscle! I like this place,' said Wilf, thrusting out his chin and straightening his tie.

‘Yes, Wilf called them,' said Doreen. ‘They're on their way, along with an ambulance. Jenny did a proper job on Lardy Arse. He's still unconscious.

‘I have to say I'm impressed with you all,' said Wilf, accepting a very generous slice of cake and a mug of tea. ‘On every level,' he added, giving Sandra a winning smile. ‘These were no ordinary burglars.'

‘We look after our own down here in the sticks,' said Doreen. ‘Gloucestershire women know how to defend themselves.'

‘Remind me not to cross any of you – especially the cook!'

‘Do we know who they actually are?' asked Martha.

‘That's for the police to find out.'

‘I'm so sorry I brought this on you all,' said Celeste, ‘especially you, Martha.'

‘Forget it. I'm all clean and dry now. Still got a bit of a twitch in my hand, though. I'm sure it'll soon subside.'

‘I didn't want to involve anyone else because of the potential danger,' said Wilf, ‘but we would have been overrun without you ladies to help. I don't think Celeste and I could have handled them all. Thanks to you we now have all the grunts and two of the ringleaders in custody.'

‘And we've recovered Milly safe and sound. Colin will be pleased.'

‘So their motive was purely political,' said Sandra. Although everyone in the room knew exactly what was going on, they had to play act for Wilf's benefit. Celeste had warned them of his perspicacity. He would be a difficult man to deceive, but then all the women who had ever lived at the Hall had been deceiving men for centuries and were very, very good at maintaining the Sisterhood's secrecy.

‘Yes,' said Celeste. ‘Black and Netheridge are members of a group of high-powered city moguls who have been trying to corrupt James. When he refused their invitation, they turned their attention to me and Bertie.' She stroked his back affectionately and he began to purr in contentment. ‘They planned to kidnap Bertie and hold him as a guarantee of our compliance, but their stooge, Humph, whose real name is Miller, nabbed the wrong macaw and took Milly instead. Wilf is an old friend and experienced detective in the Met who agreed to help. Doreen offered sanctuary and that's why we're all standing here.'

‘But Black?' asked Martha. ‘He was after something else?'

‘As far as we can gather from Miller's phone, Black came solely for the art. He and Miller were planning to melt away with Milly after Netheridge arrived. They would then call the police anonymously, leaving Netheridge to face multiple charges. Apparently, Black was worried he would be poisoned by Netheridge and wanted him out of the way.'

‘What an absolutely charming bunch.'

‘That's what avarice does for you.'

‘What about you, Wilf?' asked Sandra. ‘How did you get here?'

‘Celeste's idea. We knew her home was being watched. By decamping to Temple Hall, she forced Miller to follow, flushing him out.'

‘It was actually Bertie's suggestion,' said Celeste.

‘I then followed Miller here with Bertie. Normally, an experienced team like Miller's would have been hard to defeat, but you lot managed it without too much difficulty.'

‘You came on a motorcycle?' Sandra seemed inordinately interested. She stood beside Wilf, fluttering eyelashes and twirling a lock of hair. Celeste suspected that had they been alone, she would already be riding him like a Rocky Mountain rodeo queen.

‘Er, yes.'

‘How brave,' she husked, breathily.

‘Riding the bike or wearing a sparkly pink helmet?'

‘Both. And then?'

‘We holed up in a copse, keeping a distant eye on Miller's van, and settled in for the duration. Have you any idea just how noisy the countryside is at night? Bloody foxes and God knows what screeching and yowling all night long. Then Miller's gang arrived this morning and they all moved off to the Hall. We tried to follow, but I couldn't get the damned bike going again. I think it was sulking after such a long journey. With no alternative, I gave it a push and coasted down to the Hall. Well, I coasted, Bertie flew. We stashed the bike in some bushes to stay out of sight and it's just as well we did. Black's Mercedes drove past and pulled up at the front door. He got out a ladder and disappeared inside so I went to say hello. Once he was cuffed, I left him with Celeste. Netheridge arrived with Milly, I picked my spot and just waited to pounce. Bertie heard Celeste's call because he suddenly took off into the house. The rest you know.'

‘And you saved Helen,' cooed Sandra adoringly.

‘Well, I – um, I just stopped Black,' replied Wilf, a tinge of embarrassment colouring his cheeks.

‘Netheridge, too, and he was armed with a knife.'

‘I only tripped him up.'

‘Modesty. I like that in a man.' She pecked him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Wilf. We'd have been heartbroken if the portrait had been stolen.' She picked up the helmet and stared at it thoughtfully.

Gravel crunched outside. Car doors slammed. Martha opened the front door to reveal two policemen. ‘Ladies,' said the driver, touching his cap. Wilf liked the gesture. Not many Met officers would have been so polite. ‘What's been going on here, then?' he asked in the traditional manner, accepting a tea and slice of cake. ‘Thanks, Jen.'

‘Everyone, this is my cousin, Greg. I wondered if they'd send you.'

‘Pot luck. I just happened to be on duty. This is PC Paul Brush. Call him Basil. Everyone else does.' He nodded at his vulpine partner, who was already tucking into his Victoria sponge. ‘Martha, Cutie, you two OK?'

‘We're fine, Greg.'

‘You, I know,' he said, pointing with his cake. ‘You're Mrs Timbrill, the Leather Lady. Can't mistake the hair. Nor the bird, whichever one it is.'

‘Hello, my name is Bertie and I'm very pleased to meet you,' said Bertie, addressing the policeman politely.

‘Occasional rain,' added Milly.

Greg gave Bertie a suspicious look, as if searching for a hidden ventriloquist, then turned to Doreen. ‘Are you her sister, by any chance?' he asked. ‘Same hair. Nothing gets past me, you see.'

‘Not quite, but we are very distantly related,' she said. ‘I'm Doreen and this is Sandra.'

‘And who might you be?' Being a gentleman, Greg turned to Wilf last.

‘Detective Sergeant Wilfred Thompson, Metropolitan Police, Greenwich Borough.' Wilf flashed his warrant card.

‘That expires tomorrow,' said Greg, munching sponge.

‘Yes, it does, but it's still valid until then.'

‘Righty-ho. Welcome to Gloucestershire, sir.'

‘Thanks, Greg. It's Wilf, by the way. Forget the formality. I've had thirty-five years to get thoroughly sick of it.'

‘You made the call?'

‘I did.'

‘Something about burglars, attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, cruelty to animals, conspiracy, corruption and kidnapping. Get that a lot in Greenwich, do you?'

‘Not this month,' smiled Wilf.

‘Dangerous place, Temple Guiting. Jen, this is a great sponge, by the way. All right, who's going to fill me in?'

‘Best call for a Black Maria first. You're going to need it.'

‘Showing your age, there, Wilf,' said Greg, making the request into his lapel mic. ‘They haven't been black for decades. We call 'em COWs down here. Cages On Wheels.'

‘Of course you do. Why would you call them anything else?'

‘You all seem remarkably relaxed considering the nature of the emergency call. Mind telling me who I'll be putting in the COW?'

‘Probably better if we show you,' said Jenny, ‘but finish your tea first. There's no rush.'

Greg was no fool. ‘Right,' he said slowly and carefully. ‘Where are they?'

‘Oh, you know, scattered around the place,' she replied airily.

‘I think you'd better show me.'

The little group moved on into the house.

‘These two Wilf dealt with,' said Jenny. ‘First, the poisoner.' Netheridge was in a broom cupboard, handcuffed and pale-faced.

‘I advise you to let me go immediately,' he said evenly. ‘If you don't I'll ensure you never work again. Anywhere. I can make your life a waking misery. All of you! I'll find out where your families live and hound them mercilessly. There'll be no hiding.'

‘Yeah, sure thing,' said Greg, slamming the door in his face. ‘What a nasty little runt. Let's leave him in there until the van arrives.'

‘Next, the art thief,' said Wilf. Black was locked in a nearby toilet and sat on the pan. Wilf opened the door to a torrent of foul-mouthed abuse and threats. ‘Oddly enough, I find this one better company,' he said mildly, locking the door again. ‘Just a thought, Greg, and I'm not teaching you to suck eggs, but I've a feeling he's been stealing paintings for a long time. Might be wise to warrant up and search all his homes. Check for secret rooms. You never know what you might find.'

Martha scampered ahead into the library. Jenny stopped Greg just as they reached the Turkish carpet. ‘I wouldn't go any further,' she said. Martha unlocked the trap and pushed on the carpet edge with her hand. It swung down on its finely balanced hinge, revealing a deep, dark pit.

‘Jesus!' muttered Greg.

‘It's a tippy-trappy thing,' said Cutie. ‘An oubliette. Our ancestors knew a thing or two about dealing with burglars.'

‘How many are down there?'

‘Only three.'

‘Only!'

‘I lured two in using my perfectly formed middle-aged arse as bait,' said Sandra proudly.

‘That's my girl,' murmured Wilf. He'd taken a discreet look at her rump earlier and decided it was notably delicious.

‘The other one is badly injured.'

‘How?'

‘Well,' said Celeste, ‘that's my fault. We were having a knife fight when –'

‘A what?' spluttered Greg, incredulously.

‘Technically, I didn't have the knife, Miller did. All I had was a whip and length of chain,' she explained. Greg stared at her in frank astonishment. ‘He cut me on the arm, I went for his eyes with the whip, then broke his hand with the chain. Bertie waded in to sever an ear, I think I dislocated his kneecap with a kick and he threw the knife into my leg as he went down into the pit.' She displayed her bloodstained trousers as evidence.

‘Holy crap!'

Wilf nudged the stunned policeman. ‘Feisty, isn't she?'

‘You're not bastard kidding.'

‘And there's more to come.'

Martha locked the trap shut again and the party moved on into the garden. ‘This one was after Cutie and me. We're not sorry for what we did,' she added with a sniff. ‘He deserved it. He had a knife as well.' She unlocked the potting shed door. Skinner sat cross-legged on the floor like a puffy Buddha. He looked up as the door opened. Even Wilf, a hardened officer of many years' experience – even he winced at the sight. Skinner's face, neck and arms were obscenely bloated. Multiple stings blotched his discoloured skin. His injured eye was completely closed and wept sticky tears down his cheek. Distorted lips, tumescent and a horribly unnatural shade of scarlet, hung slackly to reveal a blackened, swollen tongue.

The man was a real mess.

‘How?' asked Greg.

‘Bees,' replied Cutie. ‘Lots and lots of bees.'

‘Baz, better take this one back to the hall.'

‘Sure.' Brush hauled Skinner to his feet and handcuffed him. ‘Come on, Elephant Man, ambulance won't be long.' Greg saw the knife on the floor. ‘No one touch that,' he ordered. ‘Forensics will want to see it.' He looked around the potting shed. Bee carcasses littered the shelves. ‘Jesus!' he swore again. ‘Any more?'

‘Just one,' said Jenny, ‘but I'm afraid he's in a bit of a state.'

‘You mean he's even worse than that guy!' Now in considerable shock, Greg just looked at her.

‘He was going to rape me,' she protested. ‘He made it pretty obvious when he got his dick out. Small cock, but big mistake. I would have warned him what was coming, but he'd used this stun gun on Martha.' She handed it to Greg. ‘Made her pee her pants. As far as I'm concerned, he got what he deserved.'

‘And what did he get?'

‘Oh, only my Dorset Naga peppers.' She led them into the greenhouse.

‘Jesus!' muttered Greg yet again. He seemed to be stuck on the one word, his mind incapable of expressing itself in any other way. Leach lay moaning softly, one wrist still handcuffed to the iron stanchion. He'd rolled over on to his back. Dried blood encrusted his mouth where he'd cut his lips falling face down, several teeth jagged and broken. His nose was squashed flat by the impact of the frying pan, but all that was actually inconsequential compared to the damage inflicted by the chilli missiles. Both eyes had completely disappeared. Flesh swollen beyond endurance bulged from each eye socket, grotesquely distorting his face, the skin febrile and leprous.