Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (32 page)

Once inside, he looked around. No one was about. A pang of unease tempered his impatience. He was totally unaccustomed to field work, preferring to stay safe and warm in his office, directing operations from afar, but recently he'd found this prudence lacking in excitement. Miller was always full of such interesting and amusing anecdotes each time he returned from an operation, and Netheridge found himself wanting to share those experiences. This jaunt down to the Cotswolds was an ideal introduction. The target was soft, the women so easy to subdue, the results ridiculously easy to attain, yet the silence permeating the house was eerily disturbing.

Miller had texted the all-clear and should have been waiting at the gate, but the man was nowhere in sight. Netheridge cautiously made his way down a passage and into the large kitchen. Plates and mugs were strewn about. Man debris. No woman would leave such a mess. Well, at least that meant Miller and his crew were on the premises somewhere. He listened, but could hear no voices. Still, it was a big house. With a cellar. Netheridge dumped the large cage beside the table, thankful to give his arm a rest. Who would have believed a bird could be so damned heavy? Gazing around, he felt a half-drunk mug of tea. Still warm. So they were definitely here. Somewhere.

‘Come on, Chuckles,' he said to Milly. ‘Let's find Miller.' He wasn't a nervous man by nature, as his business rivals could confirm, but the tranquil house made him uneasy. Perhaps he wasn't up to fieldwork after all. For god's sake, show some backbone – it's just a sleepy old pile that smelt of cooking and lavender. Dragging the cage again, he headed towards the only other door in the kitchen.

‘This way, Mr Netheridge, if you please.'

Netheridge froze. The distant call, echoing down the corridor ahead, made his heart hammer. It wasn't Miller. In fact, it wasn't even male. Damn, one of the bitches must still be free, but how did she know his name? He'd have Miller's eyes for this. Netheridge couldn't stand a sloppy job. Grabbing a carving knife from the table, he crept forward, scanning the passage for any dangers. Mercifully, his meteorologically obsessed companion stayed silent.

He came to a cross-corridor. One way seemed to lead to the back of the house, the other opened into grander rooms. He paused, uncertain, then heard a voice talking softly to his left and, taking a grip on the knife, stole in that direction, although the scrape of metal cage on wooden flooring rendered a silent approach impossible.

His original plan still held. Find Miller, secure this woman, whoever she was, and abuse the bird in front of its owner, pressuring her into submission. There might need to be some slapping and punching as well. Perhaps a bit of sexual aggression. It was a good plan, well thought out and, so far, faultlessly executed. He'd received a text. Timbrill was languishing in the Roman dungeon, handcuffed to her companions. The delicious irony warmed Netheridge's cold soul, fortifying his resolve. The tables were definitely turned. He crept forward again and emerged into the main hall. What he saw left him speechless.

A redheaded women stood over a seated man, talking to him quietly, her back to Netheridge. It had to be Celeste Timbrill. Her flame hair was nationally recognised. The seated man was obscured, but then she turned and moved to one side, revealing his identity.

‘You!' he exclaimed. ‘What the hell are you doing here?'

Matt Black sat on a chair, morose, angry and scared all at the same time. The paint magnate was dishevelled, as if he'd been in a fight, and was obviously handcuffed. He glared at Netheridge, but stayed silent.

‘Good afternoon,' said Celeste evenly. ‘Would you mind telling me what you're doing with that poor macaw?'

Netheridge recovered from the shock of seeing Black. He was a tough man. Not much bothered him. He'd get to the bottom of Black's involvement soon enough. ‘Concerned for his welfare? How touching,' he sneered.

‘I really don't like to see animals mistreated,' said Celeste grimly. ‘It's unnecessary. Cruelty demonstrates a damaged person.'

‘Oh, damaged, am I? That's bold talk from someone who's loved one is under my control.' Netheridge shook the cage and Milly protested with commendable volume. Celeste stepped forward, but stopped at the appearance of the knife. ‘Close enough, Timbrill, or I'll cut the bird.'

‘Threatening a captive animal – that must present quite a challenge to your courage,' she mocked.

‘Let's cut the clever talk,' hissed Netheridge, keen to get the deal done and be on his way. Where the hell was Miller?

‘I agree. You'll stand a chance of understanding the conversation then.'

Her sarcasm ruffled Netheridge. She showed no timidity or fear, even though he held a blade to the macaw through the bars. Her affection and love for the bird was well known, yet she seemed immune to threat. She even ignored the wide smear of blood streaked down one leg from a wound that obviously looked painful. An uncharacteristic nervousness roiled inside. Get a grip, man, he told himself savagely. With Miller nowhere in sight, he'd have to do the job himself, and what a pleasurable job it would be – the snotty cow was a real mouthy whore. Right, do what you're good at and scare the living crap out of her.

‘Shut your mouth, Timbrill, and listen. I have no qualms about brutalizing this bloody bird. He's my hold over you, and you have control over that pathetic GIMP of a husband of yours. Do what you're told or the parrot gets plucked. I'll be sending you a feather a week if you don't toe the line. In a month he'll look like a Tesco turkey at Christmas. I imagine it's a painful experience. Shall we put it to the test?' He reached in and yanked out one of Milly's back feathers.

She was not impressed. Not at all. There was an almighty screech. ‘Ahh, Sole!'

Celeste burned with anger, yet still smiled at Milly's pithy reference to the notoriously restless shipping area located off southern Ireland.

‘My sentiments exactly,' she said grimly. ‘Time to finish this farce.'

‘One feather not enough for you?' snarled Netheridge. ‘Let's try again.' He reached out again and got a fingertip removed for his trouble. Milly's bill was as sharp as a razor. Her powerful head darted forward, snakelike, and she struck with all the anger of an outraged harpy engaged in a bout of enthusiastic Friday night hair-pulling outside a Chesterfield nightclub.

Netheridge squeaked with pain, cradling his spurting finger, blood trickling down his wrist. What the blazes was going on? Things were not going his way – and that didn't happen very often. Anger and frustration boiled up, a dangerous combination in such an unstable character – and where the hell was Miller?

‘Miller!' he roared. ‘Miller!'

The Hall remained ominously silent. ‘Ah, so his name's Miller. I didn't put him down as a Humphrey Johnstone. Thank you for the information, but I think you'll find he's unable to help.'

‘What!'

‘Your man and his inept little gang are safely imprisoned. They can't offer assistance. You're very much on your own.'

Netheridge paled, suddenly aware of his vulnerability, a reaction not unnoticed by Celeste. ‘Now, while we've been waiting for your arrival, I've had a nice little chat with Mr Black here. He's been most co-operative. Seems he's very concerned about you, Adam. A small matter of wolfsbane.'

‘What?'

‘You would know it as monkshood. It appears you're an enthusiast for this particular poison. Mr Black was worried some might come his way. That's why he and Miller have cooked up a little plan to get rid of you.'

‘Plan?' snarled Netheridge. ‘What the hell are you talking about?'

‘Oh, so you weren't aware Miller has been working for Mr Black. That must be a shock. It was Miller who suggested you came down to watch proceedings, wasn't it? Once you were here, he and his gang had planned to melt away with the macaw after calling the police, leaving you to face arrest and multiple charges.'

‘You bastard!' Netheridge hissed, his face contorted. A cold rage consumed him.

Miller's treachery must have come as a mortal blow. The man was reeling. Time to play her trump card. ‘However, although Mr Miller is unable to join us, I do have someone here who's very keen to see you.' She whistled shrilly. Nothing happened for a few seconds, then Netheridge became aware of an approaching clatter, an odd scratching.

Bertie scampered around a corner, his long tail swishing from side to side on the old oak boards, claws clicking. ‘Hello, Mummy,' he called happily.

‘Hello, Bertie. Look who's here.'

She pointed and Bertie trilled in joy, his head bobbing up and down. ‘Milly. Here's Milly.' He started purring very enthusiastically. Milly squawked in response.

Netheridge's eyes bulged. He stared in turn at the two macaws. Celeste smiled grimly at his confusion. ‘You're really not having a good day, are you?'

‘What? Who?'

‘Talk about the weather, did she?'

‘She?'

‘You got the wrong bird, moron. You never had Bertie. That's Milly, his mate. She was at the cottage on love leave when Miller came calling. The clueless knob took the wrong macaw. I guess he thought it would be easy, after all, how many hyacinths can there be in Prior's Norton? Well, you nasty, truly repellent, cretinous, festering, chlamydia-raddled pustule of a man, the answer is two. Your paid halfwit really excelled himself on this occasion.'

‘Mummy?'

‘Yes, my darling.'

‘Milly.'

‘Yes, it's Milly.'

‘Feathers.' Bertie saw the blue curl at Netheridge's feet.

‘Yes, Milly's feathers.'

Bertie waddled forward. Netheridge hurriedly stepped back. Milly squawked again. Bertie answered. Netheridge looked at Celeste, a ghastly expression on his face. Bertie looked at the feathers, then at Netheridge. He stopped purring.

‘I would strongly recommend running at this point,' she suggested. ‘My baby has previous in these matters.'

Bertie advanced in silence. Until that moment, Netheridge would have thought it ludicrous for a brightly coloured macaw to express any kind of menace, but no longer. In his eyes, Bertie's laughably waddling gait transformed itself into an implacable swagger. Claws clicked on the oak boards: sickled, needle-tipped claws. Netheridge retreated cautiously, maintaining as large a distance as possible from the blue bird, suddenly very frightened indeed. He continued to back away, then Bertie spread his wings, dropped his head and hissed in a clear display of aggression.

Time to leave.

Netheridge bolted. The macaw had a formidable reputation. Having already sustained one painful injury, he wasn't terribly keen to add another. What a total balls-up, but he was confident the situation could still be salvaged. However, above all, he now needed to get away. Even out of the country, where he could orchestrate a policy of targeted damage limitation based on generous disbursements to ensure no further action would be taken. Then he'd have Black and Miller. Goddammit, he'd have them if it was the last thing he ever did.

Consumed by fury, he found himself running blindly. The kitchen was down this corridor, wasn't it? In his growing panic and confusion, he neglected to notice a foot thrusting out from a doorway to send him sprawling.

‘Going somewhere?' enquired Wilf casually. Tripping was his favourite interception technique. Netheridge scrambled to his feet, waving the knife wildly, his other fist clenched to try and stem the flow of blood. Christ, it always looked so much easier in the movies. Wilf raised an eyebrow sardonically. ‘You going to use that, sonny, or are you planning a whittling demonstration for the WI?'

His dry comment humiliated Netheridge. ‘Back! Get back!' he screamed.

‘Don't be a daft bugger,' sighed Wilf. This wasn't the first time he'd been faced by a blade. ‘Just drop the knife and we can keep this civil. No? Oh well, have it your own way.'

Wilf slowly and oh-so-casually took off his mac and hung it neatly over one arm. He adjusted his tie and, at the exact moment Netheridge frowned in perplexity at the odd action, tossed the mac over his knife arm. Netheridge jumped back, but Wilf, displaying a fine turn of nimble speed, kicked the inside of one knee. Netheridge collapsed with a grunt and Wilf was on him in an instant, wrestling him to the floor. He stamped on Netheridge's hand, breaking two fingers, and wrenched the knife free. Netheridge screamed, struggling violently, but Wilf had him pinned down in the traditional way, knee grinding hard into the back of his neck. He looked back towards the hall where Celeste and Sandra watched. Bertie stood at their feet.

‘No cuffs,' he said conversationally.

‘Here,' called Celeste. ‘Take these.' She tossed the handcuffs she'd salvaged from Miller's coffle. Wilf caught them in mid-air and snapped them around Netheridge's wrists. It was done with casual panache and, Celeste suspected, entirely for Sandra's benefit. The poor woman was more flushed than a King's Cross loo! She looked like she was about to pass out.

‘Oh my God, Celeste,' she whispered. ‘D'you think he'd do that to me? You know, with the handcuffs, I mean?'

‘You can always ask. I'm sure he'd oblige. Then what?'

‘I'm not going into details – but I've a strong suspicion I'm about to start wearing my ankles as earrings!'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

‘You wore my helmet?'

‘I'm afraid so. It was the only one I could find.' Wilf put the crash helmet down on a table.

‘That's because I made James tidy his away the other week.'

‘What! You knew there was only one helmet in the garage?' spluttered Wilf.

‘Oh, yes. I wanted to see how well you carried pink. Would you put it on again so I can take a picture?'

‘Certainly not,' he sniffed. ‘I don't like being played with. Besides, I have my reputation to consider.'