Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (24 page)

The thrushes fluttered off, allowing him to return to the task in hand. There was no movement for a long time so he dropped from the tree and glided across the field, scant inches from the soil, homing in on the cluster of buildings. He found a quiet corner and peered in through a dirty window. No one was in sight. He tried another barn. Again it was deserted, but the third came up trumps. A tile had slipped near the ridge of the roof. Bertie stuck his head in and peered around. Down below, he saw Milly in her cage. The man was there as well. He showed no sign of departing and sat on a bale of hay peering intently at his phone.

Bertie was not stupid. He knew it would be impossible to release Milly from her cage while the man was sitting beside her, so slipped inside the roof, glided silently to a distant rafter and, receding into the darkest corner, settled himself down to wait. He hoped something would happen soon. He was already feeling peckish. Suddenly, snails and earthworms seemed almost appetising.

Almost.

‘Well that was a complete waste of time,' muttered Celeste angrily, stilettos clattering through the front door. ‘There was no such doctor at the hospital. Wilf? You there? Fallen asleep again, have you?' She walked into the lounge to find Wilf as Miller had left him: face buried in the rug, knees drawn up, bottom pointing to the ceiling. ‘You really should try dozing off in a more traditional position. Wilf? Are you all right?' She knelt and shook him gently. His precarious point of balance disturbed, he collapsed like an unwanted 1960s tower block. Celeste saw the ugly swelling below one ear and caught her breath. ‘Wilf!' she cried, shaking him urgently. ‘Wake up!' To her profound relief, he groaned, the sound distant and vague. His eyes fluttered open. ‘Come on, Wilf, speak to me.'

‘Wh – what?'

‘Lie still. Don't try to get up. I'll get some water.'

Wilf's head throbbed so hard he thought he was going to pass out again. He rarely suffered headaches, even after sinking enough beers to mellow an entire rugby team, but this one was a corker. What the hell had happened? He remembered checking his stars in the paper, then – nothing. He touched the base of his skull and hissed with pain on finding the tender lump so obligingly left there by Miller. Now he knew what had happened. He levered himself into a sitting position and accepted the glass from Celeste, washing away the dusty taste of Axminster. He felt better immediately. The scrambled cogs of his mind began to spin again. ‘I'm OK. Honest,' he said in answer to her concerned look.

‘You don't sound OK. I'm calling the doctor.'

‘For this? No.'

‘Don't play the hard man with me, Detective Sergeant.' Celeste was not in the mood for heroics. ‘You've been knocked unconscious. That's dangerous at any age, let alone yours.'

‘Thanks, but I'm not that old – nor thin-skinned.'

‘Well, I'm still worried.'

‘It's not me you should be worried about.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Did you find that doctor? No, of course you didn't. With you off to Cheltenham on a wild goose chase, that just left me to deal with,' said Wilf quietly. He stood, swaying unsteadily, holding on to the sofa for support and rubbing his neck gingerly. ‘Someone wanted us out of the way.' He glanced around. ‘Where's Milly?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Where's the cage?'

Celeste spun and stared at the empty spot where Milly's cage had stood. ‘Oh, no,' she whispered.

‘What about Bertie?'

If Wilf thought Celeste was upset before, he really knew she was now. The blood drained from her face, her eyes widened.

‘Bertie!' she called urgently. ‘Are you here? Come to me, my darling.'

An ominous silence filled the cottage. Wilf staggered into the hall and headed for the front door. ‘Search every room,' he ordered over his shoulder. ‘I'll check outside.'

The cottage wasn't exactly Blenheim Palace. It didn't take them long to confirm both macaws were missing. Celeste, ashen-faced and visibly trembling, pointed at the kitchen table. Wilf followed her finger to the impaled note and feather. The blade was driven deep into the soft pine. Whoever did this was strong.

The note was short and explicit.
The parrot is mine. Call the police and you'll never see him again. You will be contacted.

‘Printed, not hand-written,' muttered Wilf, his long expertise coming into play automatically, shouldering aside the last vestiges of grogginess. ‘This is virtually untraceable unless the actual ink-jet cartridge can be found. If these people are in any way professional – and it looks like they are – then the cartridge has already been destroyed. The paper is standard photocopy quality, probably pulled at random from a new ream. There won't be any fingerprints.'

Celeste examined the blue feather carefully and saw a speck of blood staining the quill tip. ‘It's not Bertie's,' she finally said, unsure whether to be happy or sad. ‘This is a body feather and the colour's too pale. Bertie's feathers are darker, more violet. This comes from Milly.'

‘And the blood?'

‘Definitely pulled out, either in a struggle or simply plucked. No doubt about it. A feather that drops naturally does not have blood on it.'

‘I would imagine that's painful.'

‘How would you feel if someone grabbed a handful of your hair and ripped it out?'

Wilf explored the sparse fringe still clinging to the back of his head and found a raw patch. ‘Actually, come to think of it…'

But Celeste wasn't listening. She recovered fast. Doreen would have heartily approved. ‘Ruined my bloody knife, as well,' she muttered. Her mind focused, she looked around the room, examining it with detective eyes. Well, she was standing next to Wilf, after all. ‘Then that call was designed to get me out of the house.'

‘No doubt about it.'

‘How did they get our number? We're ex-directory.'

‘Someone has done their research. They also knew Mrs Badham worked here and that she doesn't have a mobile phone.' Glynis's suspicion of technology was common knowledge around the village. Except for vacuum cleaners. She loved vacuum cleaners.

‘Can you trace the number?'

‘I won't even bother trying. Anyone smart enough to lure you away so easily would have used a pay-as-you-go disposable mobile. That'll be a dead end, believe me. The phone will already be in some ditch or the river.'

‘Whoever sent me to Cheltenham must also have been watching the house. They waited for Colin to leave.'

‘Undoubtedly. It must have come as a disappointment to discover I'd stayed behind. Forced their hand. Whoever did this also knew how to knock me out. Never happened before in all my years as a policeman in London, then I come down here to the so-called peaceful countryside and get my brains bludgeoned out. I'm telling you straight, woman, it's not safe being around you.'

‘Why won't people just leave me alone,' she sighed sadly. ‘All I want is some peace and quiet.'

‘You'll get none of that while you're married to James. He's obviously upset some powerful and ruthless people. This is their response to his dumping their cash on a bag lady.'

Celeste had already come to the same conclusion. She had no doubt this was a political manoeuvre, a measure designed to bring pressure on James via herself, but she now knew this also affected Doreen and the Sisterhood. They understood the ramifications and were deeply concerned their moderating influence would be undermined by these conspirators, so concerned they'd revealed their existence to Celeste before calmly announcing she would be their next leader. She felt overwhelmed. She'd started off that morning with just a hairdressing appointment to look forward to and by tea time had been inducted into an ancient organisation of global influence and thrust into a struggle against an unseen enemy of deadly intent.

The family Timbrill had led gloriously uneventful lives for two years, then crises came at them in squadrons.

Great, just what she needed. As if her life wasn't complicated enough already, she now had another major problem on her hands and, unfortunately for Doreen, the safety of Bertie was far more important to Celeste than the welfare and stability of the rest of the planet. ‘What's puzzling me is why the cage has gone as well as both macaws. One bird in one cage I can understand, but not two.'

‘Do you think it's possible to put both birds in the one cage?' he asked.

‘You won't get Bertie in a cage without incurring severe physical harm or possible loss of limb.'

Wilf reviewed his extensive knowledge of the macaw and came to the same conclusion. ‘I haven't seen any severed ears scattered about the place, so I think we can discount that.' He pursed his lips in thought, staring at the note and looking around the lounge again. ‘Here's what I think. Milly's been taken, which explains the feather, the note and the missing cage, but whoever did this must have thought they had Bertie. Now, here's the interesting part. I think Bertie's followed them. It's the sort of daft, heroic thing he'd do. Remember how he chased off Pritchard and Coberley?'

‘All too well, and then got himself hopelessly lost in the process.'

‘I don't think he's lost. That cage is bulky, much too big for a car, so whoever's done this must have had a van like Colin's at the very least, and a van's big and easy enough to follow on the wing. One thing puzzles me, though.'

‘The cat flap,' replied Celeste, reading Wilf's mind. ‘He uses it all the time.'

‘Ah, I did wonder.'

‘Oh, crap,' she said suddenly. ‘We have to tell Colin. Hell, how do we tell Colin?'

‘We tell him the truth,' said Wilf firmly. ‘The sooner the better,' he added pointedly, holding out his hand. Celeste handed over her mobile. Wilf scrolled through the contacts.

‘Hello, Colin?'

‘Celeste? You got a cold?'

‘No, obviously it's not Celeste. It's Wilf. Why, do you think she sounds like me?' he said sarcastically, his sour nature never far below the surface.

‘Hardly. What's up? How are the lovebirds getting on?' Colin was using a hands-free set as he drove back down the M4 heading towards London.

‘There's no easy way to say this, Colin, so I'll just come out with it. Milly's gone.'

There was an ominous silence. ‘What?' Colin's tone was truly glacial. Inhabitants of the toasty part of hell started reaching for their anoraks. ‘What?' he said again, his voice rising an octave. Or two! ‘What the f –'

‘I think we need to look at the positive, here,' interrupted Wilf, keen to move the conversation forward – and equally as anxious to prevent a serious road traffic accident – but Colin wasn't having any of it. The conversation was remaining exactly where it was.

‘What's positive?' he screamed. ‘Exactly what part of this can be described as positive? Jesus H. Christ, Wilf, what the bloody hell have you done?'

‘I've done nothing,' protested Wilf. ‘Celeste's house has been burgled. Both Milly and Bertie are gone.'

‘Bertie! Gone!' howled Colin. ‘Two of the most biologically robust and prolific members of our breeding programme! Gone! Have you any idea of the consequences if both birds are lost? We could be looking at eventual species extinction.'

‘He's not calming down, is he?' whispered Celeste. Wilf held the phone away from his ear to prevent his cochlea from vaporizing. He'd been here before. Experience had taught him that Colin liked to vent himself. Spectacularly. Small man, big temper. Any copper will tell you it's always the small men who cause the biggest problems.

‘He does seem a trifle upset,' agreed Wilf. ‘I'll give him another thirty seconds, see if there's any improvement.'

‘No,' replied Celeste. ‘Give me the phone. Colin, I need you to stop shouting,' she said firmly. ‘It's not helping. No one is more upset than I am at the loss of Milly and Bertie.'

‘I doubt it,' hissed Keynes. Wilf winced. Even without speakerphone he could still hear the aviarist clearly – and that was the wrong thing to say.

‘Colin – that's hurtful and unjustified.' Celeste's voice wavered. ‘I expect better from you.'

There was a significant pause. ‘You're right, Celeste. I'm sorry, that was an uncalled-for remark.'

‘Thank you, apology accepted. Now, what measures do you take to protect such valuable birds?'

‘She's ringed, of course, but without the cage, we're in the dark.'

‘Hold on, what do you mean, without the cage?'

‘Well, when you said the birds are gone I assumed the cage is still parked in your lounge.'

‘No, we think Milly's in her cage and Bertie's gone after her.'

There was a silence, eventually broken by an odd strangling sound. ‘Are you having a heart attack?' asked Celeste. She glanced at Wilf. ‘It sounds like he's having a coronary.' Like Wilf, she was fearful for those sharing the same part of the motorway as Colin's van.

‘Hallelujah!' he shouted finally. ‘Celeste, that's the best news you could have given me.'

‘Best news! Are you kidding? Why?'

‘Because Milly's cage has a GPS chip hidden inside the mirror ball.'

‘You're joking!'

‘I never joke about my birds,' replied Colin flatly. ‘You should know that by now. She's a very valuable specimen and the zoo wanted to ensure her safety. Being the most travelled of all our residents, we felt it prudent to take special measures. If she's in her cage, then she can be tracked easily. You can tell the police when they arrive.'

Wilf was gesticulating urgently like a semaphore operator who'd inadvertently stabbed one of his flags into a live electrical socket, so Celeste handed the phone to him. ‘The police are not going to get involved. Not yet, anyway.'

‘And why not?' asked Colin carefully. ‘No, don't answer that. Just promise me one thing.'