Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (29 page)

Doreen turned to Jenny. Jenny shrugged and glanced at Sandra. Sandra peered at Cutie, and Cutie stared long and hard at Martha. Martha, despite her distress, expressed indignation. ‘Now why are you all looking at me like that?' she protested tartly. Cutie folded her arms, fingers tapping elbows, and continued to stare. Martha caved in completely. ‘Oh, all right. Yes. I've got a whip. It was going to be a welcome present for you, Celeste. I heard you're pretty good.'

‘I've had some experience,' replied Celeste dryly.

They conversed quickly in hushed tones, finalising their plan. With tasks allocated, each crept off through the house, using the servants' passageway to keep out of sight. Sandra gave them five minutes to get into position, then composed herself and marched boldly into the kitchen.

‘Hello, boys,' she said primly. ‘Listen, I've not had sex for more years than I care to remember and I'm absolutely gagging for a bit of cock. Actually, quite a lot of cock. I'd happily take on the lot of you, but frankly, I don't think you're up to it, especially Lardy-Arse over there!' She nodded contemptuously at the portly thug who'd zapped Martha, his face buried in one of Jenny's lemon drizzle cakes. ‘Then again, you did Taser an old lady and lock us up in a smelly cellar, you ugly, festering, soft-knobbed, useless sacks of badger crap, so I guess your luck's out.'

Miller looked up from his smartphone, dark-eyed and shaven-headed, tossed the mobile onto the table and stood up very slowly, a knife suddenly in his hand. ‘So you think we're not up for it, eh,' he snorted, leering nastily and clutching his groin like a randy pop star.

‘Oh, bugger!' Sandra exclaimed as the others jumped to their feet. She didn't wait around any more and took off like a whippet with a habanero stuffed up its fundament. No man liked his virility scorned, and her carefully aimed insult almost blinded them to the obvious fact that the women had escaped.

Almost.

‘Split up,' hissed Miller. ‘You two, go after this bitch. Leach, Skinner, search for the rest. Don't be nice. Maximum persuasion. Call out if you find that ginger cow.'

‘Which one? They're all bloody ginger!'

‘The primary target, numbnuts. Go!'

The men leapt into action, scattering chairs. Sandra's chosen pair were the same two thugs who'd destroyed the toilet at
Choccy, Toffee & Coffee.
Having successfully gained their full attention, she heard the two men crash after her, howling like wolves, but she had the home advantage – she knew the Hall inside out and slowed her pace, allowing her pair of ardent suitors to gain a little. Another howl. She flew around a corner and pelted down the panelled corridor leading to the library. A Turkish carpet lay tacked to the oak floor ahead. The trap!

Cutie peeped out of the library door, a cheeky grin on her face. ‘Got company?' she called.

‘I wouldn't be running otherwise,' panted Sandra, scampering over the carpet and skidding to a halt. ‘Come on, I'm all yours,' she called lasciviously, twerking at them, her denim-clad rump wobbling from side to side like a pair of silicone-filled hooters startled into motion by speedy passage over a cattle grid. Obliquely, she heard a muted clunk. Cutie had withdrawn the lock, freeing the trap.

‘You're gonna love this, sister,' sneered Toilet Thug One. Both stepped onto the carpet – and the trap was sprung. The balanced floor tilted downward as their weight passed over the tipping point. With a cry, Toilet Thug Two fell into the yawning blackness opening up at his feet. Down he went, disappearing into the dark, sliding into the oubliette beneath, a deep windowless pit with smooth stone walls. Toilet Thug One managed to jump back, arms windmilling as he teetered on the very edge of the trap.

Celeste stepped out of a doorway behind him, uncoiling the whip. ‘Hey, moron,' she whispered. He turned, saw her standing with braced feet, a peculiar gleam in her eyes. Confident in his superior strength, he squared up to her, flexing his arms. Muscles, honed by weights and steroids, bunched impressively. ‘Big mistake,' he growled.

‘I beg to differ,' retorted Celeste. The whip hissed through the air. She judged its trajectory with effortless skill. The tip flicked an inch from his nose, cracking like a pistol shot. His reaction was instinctive – and disastrous. He jumped backwards with a squeak, boots scrabbling on the very edge of the oubliette. Celeste lashed out again on the return stroke, but this time the whip found its mark, slashing viciously across his neck, drawing a thin line of blood. He jerked spasmodically – and down he went as well, tumbling into the pit. A cry and curse from far below indicated his fall had been thoughtfully broken by his colleague. With them both safely trapped, the floor rose up, its balance restored. Once level again, Cutie threw the bolt to lock it in place. Celeste coiled the whip. ‘Nicely done, Sandra,' she said. ‘Has it really been that long?'

‘I'm not at liberty to say,' Sandra replied tartly. ‘But it has been a while,' she added with a sigh.

‘Then we'll have to do something about that, won't we.' Celeste eyed the floor. No sound emanated through the oak boards. ‘When was that little beauty put in?'

‘When the Hall was built,' said Cutie. ‘A last line of defence for the Temple.'

‘Handy. Right, two down, three still at large. Let's go find Humph and the rest of his gang.'

‘Careful, Celeste, he's got a knife,' warned Sandra.

‘It won't make a ha'porth of difference.'

Cutie and Sandra glanced at each other, then stepped in behind Celeste, both buoyed by her supreme confidence. This woman had no concept of fear.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jenny was being pursued. She'd been spotted by Lardy-Arse and dashed through the kitchen, a place bristling with cleavers and whisks and all manner of handy weapons, but with Leach bearing down on her she barely had time to snatch up the only object even conceivably suited for defence – her favourite frying pan. Thus armed, she scampered away. She could have outrun him, of course, even in wellies. To be honest, so could've Long John Silver with his Sunday afternoon leg fitted, but where was the fun in that. Stick to the plan, girl. Instead, she cantered towards the vegetable garden at an easy pace, one ear on the frantic huff-puffing behind. The man was seriously out of condition. A sadist, certainly, but a desperately unfit one.

Jen slipped through a gate into the walled garden. Now she was on home territory and headed for the far corner where a traditional Victorian timber glasshouse leaned against one wall as if thankful for the support. The slanting roof comprised rows of glass panes, green-edged with moss and streaked with lichen. The humid air inside was filled with the unique scent of geraniums and moist soil. Jenny skipped over the highly patterned floor, loose tiles rattling beneath her feet. They must have once been bright and colourful, but were faded now after more than a century of exposure to the sun. Plants encouraged into enthusiastic luxuriance bushed out on either side, fragrant and lush, every square inch filled with exotic species.

The place was awash with weaponry.

Leach smirked. He'd found the prettiest of the lot, now she was trapped in that greenhouse. Probably thought he hadn't seen her slip inside. Fool! Holding his stun gun in one hand and the last remnants of lemon drizzle cake in the other, he stood in the doorway. She was his, there was no escape – and she knew it. She stood at the far end staring at him. He wanted to think she was cowering – frightened women were so much more pliant – but she seemed far less cowed than he'd hoped. Actually, she looked fairly pumped-up. Hmm, a few zaps from Stewie the Stunner should sort her out. Then he'd have some fun. He stuffed the last of the cake in his mouth, wiped his lemony fingers on his chest, and advanced down the greenhouse, a crumb-covered smile playing on piggy lips. ‘No escape,' he announced confidently.

A tomato splattered against his shoulder. More shocked than hurt, he saw she'd fired it from a catapult. The impact was barely noticeable. He sniggered. ‘Try harder, sugar tits. You'll need something more substantial than a vegetable to stop me.'

‘Tomatoes are fruit, you cretin.'

‘Don't care, I'm still coming for you. Nice quiet place, this. You and me all alone. Quite romantic, don't you think.' He unzipped himself and fished out Mr Sausage. Might as well let her know what was going to happen.

Jenny grinned. Excellent – he was circumcised! Now she had another potential target. She brought the catapult up again, pulled it back to her cheek, the strong elastic creaking under the tension. She was a good shot, having used the catapult regularly to scare pigeons off her cabbages, but knew stones would not stop this man. She needed heavier artillery.

The tomatoes possessed a deadly payload of chilli pepper.

And not just any pepper. Jen's pride and joy was her Dorset Naga, a prince among peppers. Nagas made a Scotch Bonnet look about as punchy as a week-old watercress sandwich. In India, peppers from the same family were smeared on fence posts to see off wild elephants! She'd prepared a bowlful, each plump tomato stuffed full of crushed pepper flesh.

Now she aimed for his eyes.

The tomato hit him in the face like a missile, exploding spectacularly.

The screaming started pretty quickly after that.

Flesh reddened as she watched, swelling obscenely until his features became a horribly distorted mask. The stun gun clattered to the floor, forgotten, abandoned as he sank to his knees, fingers clawing at his eyes. She knew the peppers were volcanic – they'd come with more warnings on the packet than weapons-grade plutonium – but this was beyond anything she could have imagined. Jenny almost felt sorry for him, then remembered this was the man who had made Martha pee her pants and followed up her first salvo with a direct hit on his foolishly exposed manhood.

This elicited a further shriek of agony as the Naga went to work, burning his bellend hideously. He writhed, arms waving as if he couldn't decide which part of his anatomy to comfort first.

Jenny was impressed. Damn, she'd have to grow some more of these little beauties.

She thought the fight had gone from him, but Leach lunged forward to grab her ankle. Jenny squeaked, kicking and stamping until he lost his grip. He staggered to his feet, eyes slitted and burning like coals, his dangler raw and crimson, and reached for her with clawed fingers.

Jenny didn't mess about. She grabbed the frying pan and swung it with every ounce of strength she possessed. It was a sweeping, full-on, two-handed strike, the impact actually lifting her feet from the floor. An impressively loud metallic clang echoed around the greenhouse as the base of the pan smacked him square in the face. Startled birds took to the air from nearby trees.

It really was a hell of a wallop. Wronged wives the world over would have heartily approved.

Poleaxed by the blow, Leach sank to his knees and toppled forward like a felled spruce, straight-backed, arms by his side, his mangled face smashing against the tiles.

Jenny was genuinely astonished. So it wasn't an urban myth – you really could flatten someone with a frying pan. She examined her weapon. Its handle was badly bent and a nose-shaped bulge humped the centre of its base. ‘Bastard!' she exclaimed softly. ‘That was my best pan.' She pulled out the handcuffs and secured one inert wrist to a metal stanchion. The stun gun went into her pocket. ‘Shouldn't have pissed off the cook!' she muttered at him, then fled the greenhouse, slamming the door on his prone body.

‘Come out, come out wherever you are,' growled Skinner. He'd just seen the kid and the incontinent old woman slip through the study door into the flower garden beyond and had set off, padding silently like a hunting leopard, but his confidence was shaken by a distant scream, shivering, shrill and shot through with agony. He stopped dead in his tracks, listening. Another dreadful cry drifted down the wind. That was no woman. Leach? He paused, listening intently, but the cries were not repeated.

‘Goddammit,' he muttered, now a little unnerved. He'd fought in nasty little wars all over Africa, hawking his expertise to the highest bidder, and was ruthless to his enemies, yet there was something unnerving about the tranquil house. Where the hell had they gone? Now more careful after the screams, he pulled his knife and darted into the garden, crouching, ready for anything. He already knew the only other gate in the wall beyond the flowers was secured. He and his colleagues had entered through this gate and locked it behind them to ensure privacy. The two women would be trapped and at his mercy. Perhaps he'd cut them a little. Teach them a lesson. He grinned at the thought. Miller always came up with some great jobs.

Something gloopy splattered against his chest.

Startled, Skinner peered down and pawed at the mess. It was very sticky. He smelt his fingers. An overwhelming sweetness filled his nostrils. A lick confirmed his suspicions. ‘Honey,' he guffawed. ‘Is that the best you can do? Hoping I'll eventually pass out in hypoglycaemic shock?'

Two figures emerged from a honeysuckle-covered trellis, both swaddled in protective suits and meshed hats, their hands held behind their backs. ‘Dumbarse! Hypoglycaemia is caused by a lack of sugar,' sneered Cutie. ‘You should be more worried about what comes with the honey.' She and her companion held out their hands. Skinner frowned. They appeared to be wearing boxing gloves – but those gloves seethed and shimmered.

And hummed.

Cutie knew they were ill suited to a physical confrontation. Neither possessed the bulk, muscle or psychological propensity to violence. This is a common failing amongst librarians. However, they had one priceless advantage – they were both very smart women indeed. They also knew how to arouse a host of small but surprisingly aggressive winged helpers.

She and Martha flung themselves at Skinner, flicking great gobbets of bee-coated honeycomb over his torso and face. Surprised, he jumped back. Nothing happened for a few moments. The bees just flew away, some dropping to the ground around his feet and twitching forlornly. Skinner looked at the golden mess stuck to his shirt and chuckled. ‘Nice try, ladies, but – ouch!' The first sting caught him in the neck. He slapped the insect away, leaving the barbed stinger behind, its venom sac pulsing.