Bertie and the Kinky Politician (17 page)

It really cheesed him off.

He hung up his favourite gumshoe mac and sat down. Affairs looked pretty depressing, as usual. His minuscule empire comprised a cluttered mountain of files supported by four wooden legs. He looked around, gave a weary sigh and decided to fortify himself with a coffee, but never made it to the machine.

‘Got something for you.'

Detective Chief Inspector Tristram Yates dropped a folder onto the chaos, glancing sourly at the untidiness. Yates was young and dynamic. He had been in the force just nine years and already well outranked Wilf. Yates was going places. There were fast-track plans for him of which Wilf could only dream.

Bastard!

For his part, Yates had ambivalent feelings towards Wilf. Some days he thought the older man should be demoted back into uniform because of his surly insubordination, other days he though Wilf was OK, especially when a little tenacity and honest hard work had paid off and another gang of juvenile carjackers found themselves packed off to court. Wilf was an odd character and preferred his own company. Dour, uncommunicative, acid-tongued and bitter, yes, but – and Yates would rather poke out his own eyes with habanero-dipped porcupine needles than publicly admit it – he was also one of the most tenacious and intuitive detectives he'd ever met and just too damned useful to discard. All it needed was a niche which Wilf could fill, and Yates had finally found one; he used Wilf as a vacuum cleaner to clear up all the odd little incidents which were so time-consuming for his more able officers.

So, naturally, this new case fell into his jurisdiction.

‘Morning, Tris.' Now what kind of a name was that? Sounded like a proprietary brand of suppository. Wilf smoothed back the scanty remnants of his grey hair and silently cursed the genetic inheritance that had left him monastically bald from the age of twenty-six. ‘What pleasures do you bring this morning, O Mighty One?' Git!

Yates had long ago given up reprimanding Wilf for his mildly irritating facetiousness. It was a complete waste of energy. ‘Can't you keep your desk tidy?' he admonished for the umpteenth time. There was not a hair out of place in Yates's aseptically clean office. He hated mess. Wilf knew he hated mess. Wilf cultivated messiness. Cause and effect. Childish, Wilf knew, but satisfying.

‘I'll tidy up later,' he lied genially. ‘What's on your mind?'

‘Jailbird. Came in last night on a wing and a prayer.' There was a stifled titter around the office. Wilf felt a sudden sinking feeling. Not another infantile prank. ‘I'd like you to take it up. Talk to him and see what flies out of the cupboard.' More covert giggling. Wilf opened the folder. Every block on the enquiry sheet was empty except the Christian name.

‘That's all you got? What's up, Tris, interview technique failing you?'

‘No, but I'm sure you'll make him sing like a canary.' This time the snorts of laughter were unmistakable. Wilf scowled. Life was difficult enough without this tosser yanking his chain. ‘He's in cell four. See what you can get out of him – it'll be a feather in your cap.' Yates sniggered nastily and disappeared into his office.

Wilf shook his head and wondered how such a monumental dickhead could get by without being filled in on a regular basis. He glared at the grinning faces and stalked down to the cells.

‘Morning, George.'

‘Morning, Wilf.' Sergeant Phillips knew Wilf too well. It was inevitable who he had come to see. ‘Number four?'

‘Yeah. Guess so.'

‘I thought Yates would put you on this case. Strange fellow, this one. I hope he doesn't come up before the beak.' Wilf waited, but the custody sergeant was not forthcoming. He sighed heavily, stalked down to the cell door and flung it open.

‘Bugger me!'

Wilf jumped back in shock. The cell was filled with something big and blue. Very big and very, very blue! As big as a B-52! Bigger! He turned to find half the station crowded at the end of the corridor and laughing like idiots. Tears were trickling down Yates's cheeks. ‘All yours, Wilf,' he gasped. Wilf gave them the finger and girding his loins, stepped back into the cell with no small apprehension.

Bertie finished stretching the stiffness out his wings and tucked them away. He shook his long tail a few times and stared at this new companion. The man was very old, with patchy silver plumage. He also seemed a little nervous, unlike Mary, who had displayed the easy confidence of youth. Still, his face looked kindly enough. Time to make friends.

‘Hello. My name is Bertie and I'm very pleased to meet you.' He was glad Celeste had taught him that difficult sentence and really appreciated the way people responded. He'd employed it before on many occasions and as a result, his diction was near perfect.

Wilf raised an eyebrow. The words were clear and concise. He became aware of that appraising stare which Cath and many others found so disconcerting. Wilf's police training took over. The art of interviewing now came as second nature after seventeen years in the force. Rule one: act cool. Always.

‘Hello, Bertie. I'm Detective Constable Wilfred Thompson.' Bertie sat in silence, perched on the back of a chair weighed down with several hefty legal tomes stacked on the seat. A saucer of water and a digestive biscuit lay on top of the books. Bertie had ignored the biscuit. He only liked the chocolate ones. Jammy Dodgers were another favourite, but it appeared the station catering budget didn't stretch to anything so exotic. ‘You can call me Wilf.' Wilf emphasised his name, repeating it several times. He felt a complete tit interviewing a parrot. Yates was going to suffer for this.

‘Wilf. Your name is Wilf. My name is Bertie.' This came back straight away, spoken again with cheerful competence. Amazing!

Wilf slid onto the hard bunk and thought for a moment. He knew very little about parrots but this bird was bright, that much was immediately apparent. He'd seen Attenborough on TV, crawling around in some bug-infested jungle, inveigling the viewer to observe some bizarre, multi-legged mating ritual which always ended in a spot of post-coital cannibalism. The man was undoubtedly the greatest voyeur on earth! Still, he made some damnably interesting programmes and Wilf vaguely remembered one on parrots. They had a keen intellect and some were excellent mimics so with careful questioning he might – just might – get all the answers he needed to enable him to return Bertie to his owner. Now wouldn't that just wipe the smile off dear Tristram's vacuous face.

‘I'm going to ask you some questions,' he enunciated slowly. ‘Who owns you?'

Bertie regarded him with a doubtful eye. ‘I'm Bertie.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘Bertie.'

‘Good. Great.'

‘Wilf. Your name is Wilf.'

‘That's right. Now Bertie, tell me, who looks after you?'

Silence.

‘An owner? The name of your owner?'

‘No.'

Wilf pursed his lips. That was obviously not true; someone cared for this bird, and cared very much. He was in beautiful condition.

‘How about a mother then?'

Bertie tipped his head on one side and regarded him with an unwavering stare. Wilf was conscious of a sharp intelligence dwelling behind those lively brown eyes; his formal introduction proved he was able to speak complex sentences. It was more than a little unnerving. ‘Yes,' he said eventually.

‘You have a mother. Excellent.'

‘Pieces of eight,' said Bertie dutifully, embarking on a familiar course. People always seemed to expect this inanity. Sometimes, they clapped.

‘Quite.'

‘Land Ho!' Another favourite.

‘What a relief.'

‘Shiver me timbers. Pirates off the starboard bow!' This, being his third nautical offering, completed the trilogy of topical parroty phrases he'd gleaned from the television. Members of his species tended to be typecast by Hollywood.

Wilf waited to see if Bertie trotted out any more gibberish but the bird now seemed content. He started again. ‘Bertie?'

‘Hello.'

‘Tell me about your mother, your mum.'

‘Mummy?'

‘Yes, your mummy. You have a mummy?'

‘Mummy. Oh, yes.' Bertie's head bobbed vigorously up and down and he chuckled and trilled away to himself quite happily at the comforting thought of Celeste and her beautiful copper plumage.

‘What's she called?'

‘I love Mummy.' This was delivered with certainty. ‘Oh, yes, I love Mummy. Mummy. I love.'

There was no doubt Bertie loved his mummy.

‘Mummy,' he repeated again. To Wilf it seemed he drew great comfort from the word.

‘Yes, wonderful.'

‘I love Mummy best.'

‘Great! What's her name?'

‘Name?'

‘What do you call her?'

‘Wilf?'

‘No, no, my name is Wilf.'

‘Bertie?'

‘No. You are Bertie, remember?'

‘My name is Bertie.' Bertie was beginning to enjoy himself immensely. Here was someone new to dominate, someone so dense he couldn't see he was being played. Celeste would never fall for a trick like this. Having established a satisfactory psychological ascendancy, Bertie pressed home his advantage. ‘Nuts. I want nuts.'

‘Are you hungry?' Wilf took the untouched biscuit, broke off a piece and popped it in his mouth. He offered the remainder hopefully, holding it up gingerly between finger and thumb, well aware such a viciously hooked bill could do some serious damage. Bertie reached out and with infinite gentleness, took the biscuit with his claw, then crushed it and scattered the crumbs onto the floor with disdain. ‘Yes. I want nuts,' he announced firmly. Then remembered his manners. ‘Please.'

‘Oh, very well.'

A packet of Brazil nuts arrived ten minutes later. The cell echoed to the steady cracking of shells. Wilf was fascinated by the expert co-ordination of claw and bill; Brazils possessed iron-hard husks and were notoriously difficult to extract without breaking, but what Wilf witnessed was impressive; the big macaw juxtaposed both strength and dexterity to a delicate nicety.

‘Do you prefer Brazil nuts?' asked Wilf. Bertie favoured him with a glance and did not reply, so Wilf urged on him a little. ‘Well? Do you?'

This was a phrase he'd heard plenty of times before. ‘Yes,' he replied automatically, ‘I do.'

‘That's nice. So, can you tell me about your mother?'

‘I love my mummy.'

‘Good. I'm glad to hear it.'

‘Good. I'm glad to hear it.' Bertie's mimic of Wilf was perfect in accent, diction, and pitch. If nothing else, it indicated to Wilf the bird was linguistically accomplished, but he was also like a headstrong child and ignored all questions for several minutes while he preened and took a drink. Wilf sat with calm patience, intrigued by the macaw's fastidiousness. This was an interesting diversion from the normal events of his day and Yates could hardly berate him for ignoring more important work, having set Wilf the task of interviewing Bertie himself. Now determined to conclude a successful interrogation, he was quite happy to wait until the bird was ready. After a final shake of his wings, Bertie gave his full attention to the detective again. He stared steadily at Wilf and announced casually, ‘Mummy. Her name is Celeste.'

A major breakthrough. ‘Celeste. Great, now we're cooking.' Wilf scribbled the name on his form.

‘Celeste, Celeste,' he chirruped happily, exfoliating another Brazil with merciless precision.

‘Do you have a father?' asked Wilf.

‘A father.' Bertie seemed momentarily confused. He knew Celeste once had a father, but Ray had gone away a long time ago, before they came to this grey, treeless land of chills and noise and miserable crowds.

‘Yes, a daddy.'

‘No.'

‘Only a mummy.'

‘Yes. Celeste.'

‘Does your mum have another name?' Wilf had to repeat this several times. It was like trying to coax information out of a very small child. Or an inebriate. Both seemed to have a similar attention span.

‘Another name?'

‘Yes, Bertie, another name.'

‘Mistress.' The Kneeling Man used that one quite a lot. Wilf shook his head sadly and tried a different approach.

‘Where do you live? Where is your home?'

‘Close.'

‘I know it's close. How close, do you know?'

This was a trifle too abstract for Bertie, who had better things to do than master the topography of London. He gave Wilf what could only be described as a withering look. ‘Don't know.'

‘Is it a flat? A house, perhaps?'

‘House.' He pounced on this quickly. ‘Yes. Big house. Big and warm.' He thought fondly of his home, and of those who lived with him. ‘Barnstaple.'

‘Barnstaple! Good grief, you've flown a long way – no wonder you're so hungry; I'm surprised your bloody wings haven't fallen off.'

‘Yes. Barnstaple.'

‘Barnstaple in Devon,' scribbled Wilf. He was getting somewhere at last.

‘Devon?' Confusion again. Bertie tipped his head to one side and looked at him. What on earth was he talking about?

‘Yes.'

‘Hamster.'

‘Oh.'

‘Nice guy. Friend.'

Bertie didn't even bother to mention Sebastian. The cat was the most contemptible form of life in the universe. He idly picked at another Brazil while Wilf sadly scratched out his notes.

‘I'm getting nowhere,' he muttered, looking at his watch. Despite his desire to annoy Yates, he regretfully decided there were more urgent cases than having to grill a recalcitrant parrot just to satisfy his boss's perverse sense of humour. Pity really, it would have made a pleasant change to cheer up this Celeste by returning her bird.

‘Bertie, I'm going now.' He headed for the cell door.

‘Going? No. No. Where?' Bertie asked suddenly. He was a sociable chap and didn't like being on his own. Perhaps he'd overplayed his hand tormenting Wilf.