Bertie and the Kinky Politician (26 page)

‘For God's sake,' mumbled Hugo, ‘Can't you people understand I'm not a …'

When he woke up, the jewel had gone – and mercifully, so had his unwanted turkey neck!

Chapter Thirteen

Hospitalisation didn't present much of an obstacle to a man of Weasel's gritty disposition. A day after his emergency admission to King's and still considerably mellowed by a cocktail of delightfully hallucinogenic pain medication, he downloaded his article to an editor already holding the front page. The press were never very sympathetic to any government at the best of times, but here was a corker of a story. Wilf stared in disbelief at the banner headlines and vowed never to cross the journalist.

It was all there, written in the inimitable sensationalist style Wilf had long associated with his incapacitated friend; the unusual nature of the burglary and brutal assault on Celeste, Bertie's stout defence of his home, Celeste's association with James Timbrill, speculation over the PM's motives for the stabbing and an appeal by the police for information on two men called Bob and Greg, all wrapped up in one plump, juicy, lurid account. Throw into the mix a description of the horrifying attack on Weasel, the suspicious nature of its timing, and the foundations of a top-quality conspiracy theory were laid before the British public, and if all that wasn't enough, it was announced the police were pursuing their investigation with the aid of an eye witness who could identify the culprits, a witness who, if called, would create legal history. Bertie! The story was a guaranteed sensation. It had everything the tabloids dreamed of; intrigue, corruption, the discomfiture of those in high public office as well as a liberal sprinkling of laughably inept spying.

And a large blue macaw!

Wilf scanned the paper again. It was almost as if he couldn't bear to put it down. ‘Satisfied?' asked Weasel weakly. He lay covered in dressings and attached to drip bottles. Wilf had to admit his friend didn't look his best.

‘They can't hush this one up, that's for sure. Was the headline your idea?'

‘“Pollygate!” Sure. Why break with journalistic tradition.' Weasel chuckled, then winced in agony. Sweat sheened his forehead. His features were grey with pain, his lips thin, his cheekbones disturbingly prominent. He looked truly dreadful.

‘Dare I ask?'

‘Big, black, and swollen!'

‘A virgin's dream.'

‘Not this week,' he whispered.

‘Remember any more from the other night?'

Weasel shook his head and closed his eyes. Wilf thought he was doing pretty well, considering. The unplanned rearrangement of his internal organs had worried the doctors for a few hours before all his vital bits sorted themselves out and more or less settled back down into their original positions.

‘You know it's the same two who burgled Celeste's,' he observed thoughtfully.

‘Figured that out myself, Ironside. Too much of a coincidence. Besides, they weren't very good actors – there was a definite flinch when I mentioned their names. Must have come as a bit of a shock – if you're in that line of work the very worst person to know your name has got to be some vindictive blabbermouth like me. Still, they missed the recorder.'

‘That was sharp work, Cliff. I guess you've used that trick before.'

‘Yeah. Gotta protect my sources.'

‘Thanks, Weasel. Much appreciated. Still, look on the bright side – you'd never have met all these dedicated nurses if it wasn't for me.'

‘Thanks for being so concerned about my welfare.' A spasm made Weasel gasp, sobering him instantly. ‘I looked for One-Ear, but it was too dark and they were wearing balaclavas, then my attention was diverted by a hefty fist in the chops. Sorry, Wilf, I wish I could help, I really do.'

‘Just take it easy. How much longer before you get out of here?'

Weasel's bruised and battered face looked like a cross between a burnt pizza and a relief map of the Appalachians. Add to that a ruptured spleen, two broken fingers, a sprained wrist, seven broken ribs, a cracked collar bone, dislocated jaw, numerous cuts, bruises, contusions and scrapes, as well as concussion and the extensive damage to his legendary endowment, he was in what the doctors laughingly described as a “comfortable” condition.

‘Dunno. A couple of weeks, maybe – if the nurses let me go.'

‘How can you even think of shagging with your nuts in the state they are?'

‘I can't help it – it's those sexy little costumes they wear. Besides, I can't really hide the size of my balls in here. Now they fight over changing my dressings!'

‘You sad, sad man. How long have you been out of touch with reality?'

Weasel smiled wanly. ‘So how's it going?'

‘Nothing yet.'

‘There's the van.'

‘The van's disappeared. The DVLA records were changed early this morning. Someone hacked in and cleaned out the lot, including all the back-up and archive records. Officially, that vehicle never existed. Physically, I expect it's already had an identification make over and reappeared back on the streets with different plates.'

‘Bugger!'

‘My sentiments exactly. Even the speccy geeks at Swansea don't know how it was done. Some kind of cognitive Trojan worm apparently, whatever that is. They're checking again but I know they won't find anything. Better keep that news to yourself for the moment.'

‘All the other hard evidence might disappear as well. Better move the ear somewhere safe.'

‘It should be OK at the station.'

‘Are you sure?'

Wilf pondered on that. Only another police officer could possibly have access to the Evidence Room and all visitors needed to sign in and out, but a breach of security at the station was unlikely. Weasel guessed his train of thought. ‘This isn't an ordinary case. You could be ordered to hand it over.'

A nurse arrived at the foot of the bed, serious, professional and quietly gorgeous. She consulted Weasel's chart for a moment, then smiled at her patient in a peculiar way before moving on to the next bed. ‘What was that all about?' asked Wilf quietly.

‘It'll be another bed bath. I've already had two this morning. They're hot on hygiene in this ward.' Weasel's expression indicated he wasn't at all unhappy with the situation.

‘Let's leave your sexual adventures for another time, shall we?'

‘Jealous!'

‘You bet your soft-sprung arse I am,' retorted Wilf with some considerable feeling. Nurses gathered at the end of the ward like a pack of starched succubi out on a hen night.

‘Just watch you don't lose any more evidence. It's a shaky enough case as it stands. Still, they're finished, whether it comes to court or not. How can you be an undercover agent if everyone knows who you are? All you need to do is arrest them and they're history, even if you can't get a charge to stick. I'll make sure there's such a stink in the press they won't even be able to get a job stacking shelves at Tesco. Hey up, here they come!'

The squadron of nurses was on the move. They approached in formation with a predatory air Wilf found unnerving. ‘OK, Clifford, time for your bath.' They bustled around the bed, pulling the curtains shut.

Weasel winked at Wilf. ‘But I've only just had one.'

‘Since when have you been a medical expert? Excuse me, sir, but you'll have to leave.'

Wilf was shooed away and Weasel disappeared behind a swishing curtain. There was a moment's silence, then a collective gasp of astonishment followed by much suppressed girlish giggling.

Wilf sighed in disbelief and headed down to the foyer. The sight of a newsagents-cum-florists just inside the main entrance reminded him he'd left his paper with Weasel. It wasn't worth a trip back up the stairs, not that he'd be allowed access by Weasel's coterie. The screaming headline lured him over. He waited patiently in a short queue at the checkout staring at nothing in particular and thinking about Celeste and Bertie. Outside, through the glass wall, people milled around, some happy, some sad. Hospitals always induced extremes of emotion.

Two burly men strode past his field of view and headed for the lifts, their faces striped by plasters. One had a dressing over his ear.

Wilf experienced a quiet surge of interest but was far too experienced an officer to jump to conclusions. He watched the men hurry across the crowded foyer, paid for his newspaper and drifted in leisurely pursuit. It was probably nothing, in fact, it was almost certainly nothing, nevertheless, he still followed, intrigued by the appearance of two men who fitted the description of Celeste's assailants. They entered a lift and Wilf watched the indicator move up to the sixth floor. He ignored the other lifts and strolled up the stairs, turning his paper over as he read Weasel's article again.

The nursing station was manned by a sister who exuded that comforting air of supreme confidence which came from years of experience in dealing with the infirm. Wilf flashed his ID. She peered at it closely, then at Wilf. ‘What's the problem, officer?'

‘No problem at all. Just let me have a look at your passenger list and I'll be on my way. Official police business,' he added conspiratorially, tapping the side of his nose and winking in a grandfatherly manner.

‘Well, OK, but you're not going to make a scene, are you? This is a surgical ward and I've got some critical patients in here.'

‘Sadly, I'm far too arthritic for kung fu.' She handed him a clipboard. There were about twenty names in all, but one immediately caught his eye. ‘Mr Hugo Chaplain?'

‘Third door on the left,' informed the sister, ‘but he already has visitors.'

‘I won't bother, then.' He turned to go, then looked back. ‘He's not in any real trouble, is he?'

‘Not really. He's recovering from stomach surgery. Something he ate disagreed with him. We'd have discharged him already but an infection set in post-op and we're keeping an eye on him for a few days while the antibiotics clear it up.'

‘Ate something?'

‘Yeah, these damned druids are always experimenting, but he'll pull through.'

‘I'm glad it's not serious. Best not to tell him I've been here, OK?' So Chaplain was a druid. Interesting.

Wilf returned to the foyer, sat in a distant corner and hid behind his paper. Chaplain! Bertie had uttered the name. Weasel had warned him. Now he'd spotted, in one of those fortuitous accidents, two men, one with an ear injury, visiting a Hugo Chaplain. The odds were too phenomenal to calculate and he was convinced that by sheer good fortune he'd stumbled across some of the men involved in the conspiracy against Celeste. Seasoned, cynical and weathered though he was, he'd always believed in luck and coincidence. If only those guys had just pushed Weasel about a bit and nicked his recorder, but they hadn't, and as a result of their own viciousness Cliff had ended up in the same hospital as Chaplain. Now how about that for divine intervention.

Twenty minutes later the men strode back across the foyer and disappeared through the main entrance doors. Wilf tucked his newspaper under one arm, wandered outside and stood examining a map of the hospital layout as the pair conversed together briefly before heading off to their individual vehicles. One turned left, the other right, and as both disappeared into the traffic he glanced at the receding registration numbers.

It was all he needed.

‘We've been hit!

‘What are you blathering on about, Ian,' muttered Wilf, hanging up his disreputable mac and keen to get to his desk to access the DVLA database.

‘Everything on the Gordon case is gone.'

‘What!' Wilf's fury attracted attention around the office.

‘Yates is hopping mad. Two guys impersonating CTC officers distracted our attention while a third slipped into the Evidence Room and took the lot. Our computers have been wiped as well. There's nothing left. The ear and surplus blood samples, Debbie's forensic evidence, the telescopic truncheon, all gone.'

Ian thought Wilf was about to explode. His shining dome darkened like a chameleon strolling over a coal seam, his face cold with fury. Drewing had never seen anything like it before. Wilf was well known around the station for his carefully cultured unflappability. ‘You having a heart attack?' he asked, but got grabbed by the lapels and thrust down onto a desk for his flippancy. ‘That's it, Wilf, you take it out on me. Then when you've calmed down we'll think about how we can nail these bastards.' Christ, the old sod was as strong as an ox!

There was a tense few seconds before Wilf relaxed, released his grip and pulled his friend to his feet. ‘Sorry, Ian. Bit of a moment there.'

‘No problem. Nice to know there's still some passion in there under all that ʼorrible gittiness.'

Yates beckoned Wilf into his office. ‘Glad you've taken the news so calmly. OK, tell me everything you've got on the Gordon case.' Yates sat behind his unfeasibly tidy desk and listened. Even his ears appeared scrubbed to a surgical cleanliness. When Wilf finished, the two sat in silence for a moment. ‘Clever move, masquerading as CTC officers. Good use of intimidation,' observed Yates. Counter Terrorism Command, known as SO15, were charged with dealing with crimes against the state. Wilf remembered them more fondly as Special Branch. They're a pretty fearsome bunch.

‘Well it certainly allayed your suspicions, Tris. What did they look like?

‘One was stocky, pale, and extremely hirsute, with a full black beard. Never actually saw his lips, just a nose and pair of blue eyes. His companion was taller and more powerfully built, muscular shoulders. Looked like an extra from a George Raft movie. Why?'

‘Thought it might strike a memory. What about the Evidence Room log?'

‘All our own boys except for an officer from Paddington Green about an hour ago. I've just called their Superintendent and guess what – no such person. The forensics lab got a visit as well. All gone.'