Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World (16 page)

‘May I ask who is this guest? Is it someone you trust?'

‘It is someone I trust implicitly, and if you've done your research you should know who he is.'

Doreen drummed her fingers on the back of the chair, deep in thought. Who would this resourceful woman turn to for help? ‘Ah, yes, of course. The policeman from the court case.'

‘Impressive deduction, Doreen.'

‘Thank you.'

‘His name's Wilf Thompson. Bertie suggested I call him. James and I thought this was inspired. He's an accomplished and experienced detective and will be staying for as long as this situation remains unresolved. I certainly feel more comfortable knowing he's around – our cottage is a little remote. Could be useful in a pinch.'

‘Sensible precaution – however, it's important that Bertie comes with us.'

‘Bertie! Why? What's he got to do with all this?'

‘Not all is clear yet, but our Pythia insists, and I've learnt over the years to implicitly trust our Pythia.'

‘What the hell's a Pythia?' Celeste frowned in perplexity.

‘The Priestess of the Oracle. Our psychic guide.'

‘You use a Priestess?'

‘No, we use a twenty-three-year-old girl I met in Malmesbury called Maggie, who has the gift of prescience. She actually doesn't like being called a Priestess. Thinks it evokes images of enthusiastic chanting and nervous goats. She's the one who's foreseen Bertie's importance in all this and, as I've said, I've had ample reason in the past to trust her judgement implicitly.'

‘Frankly, this sounds like a complete load of old baloney to me,' muttered Celeste, frowning. ‘I can just about get my head around you being a scissor-wielding goddess, but clairvoyance? Come on, Doreen, you're asking too much.'

Doreen looked at her watch. ‘Would a small practical demonstration convince you?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘How much money do you have in your purse?'

‘That's a bit personal, but if you really want to know, I've just drawn a hundred pounds out of the bank.'

‘Ample. There's a betting shop two doors down. Put all the money you have on Dirty Laundry. To win. 12.15, Lingfield Park.'

‘You're kidding! What if I lose? I won't be able to pay for my hair.'

‘You won't lose. This is one of Maggie's specials.'

‘But I've never been in a betting shop in my life. I wouldn't know what to do.'

‘Just walk in and look helpless. The staff will pounce like vultures. Then you can stiff them like a pro.'

‘Can't you come with me?'

‘Sorry, I've been banned from every betting shop south of Birmingham. Now, that should tell you something, shouldn't it.' She looked at her watch again. ‘Better hurry, Celeste, you haven't much time.'

Celeste stared at Doreen for a few moments, still hesitating. ‘Go!' she urged, so Celeste grabbed her purse and scampered out of the salon. Doreen tidied up as fifteen minutes ambled past in a very agreeable manner.

‘Well?' she enquired when Celeste reappeared. She didn't really need to ask – the look on Celeste's face told it all. ‘What were the odds?'

‘Thirty-three to one,' she said faintly, holding up a fat envelope.

‘So you've won just shy of three and a half grand.'

Celeste nodded, still apparently in considerable shock.

‘Well, my lovely, we win every month. Without fail. All because of Maggie. Still think it's a load of old baloney?'

‘How the hell did that happen?' murmured Celeste. ‘I can't believe it.'

‘This is nothing. Wait until you see her really fly. You'll soon change your mind – and remember, Maggie is not a patch on Alice.'

‘But this is extraordinary. You could all become fabulously wealthy.'

‘Yes, we could, but we won't. Someone would eventually notice so we only take a modest amount when we need it and no more. Don't forget, we're sworn to do no harm, even to the bookies. Now then, shall we go and fetch Bertie?'

‘That could be a problem. There's no way Wilf is going to let me swan off on my own with him,' said Celeste. Especially now he was officially her ‘muscle'. She was in no doubt he would be taking his new duties seriously.

‘Sorry, but this is Sisterhood business. No men allowed.'

‘Then I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I had a devil of a job persuading him to let me come into town this morning and he certainly won't let me out of his sight if I have Bertie with me. There's no way I can give him the slip.'

‘You sure? Come on, Celeste, we're two bright women – we should be able to run rings round him, detective or not.'

‘I suppose so, but I don't like to deceive him. He is on our side, after all.' She considered for a moment. ‘I'll just have to see if I can coax Bertie out of the house without Wilf noticing.'

‘Good. We'll drop by to pick him up – Prior's Norton isn't really out of our way.'

Celeste started in shock when Doreen said this, then realised the Sisterhood must have been gathering information about her for some time. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about me,' she said suspiciously.

‘Of course we do. You and James are important to us and so is Bertie.'

‘Your Priestess come up with that?

‘No, I figured it out for myself. Listen, you've been extraordinarily patient, more so than I was with Kate. Despite a calm exterior, I suspect you're bubbling inside with a good old healthy dose of scepticism and, frankly, I don't blame you at all. But, more than anything I can say, I know that just seeing this place will convince you I'm speaking the truth. Shall we go?'

‘How much do I owe you for the hair?' she asked, checking herself in the mirror again. ‘I can pay cash,' she added with a grin.

‘You owe me nothing, but it would be nice to contribute something to the salon. They still have their business rates to pay – even the Sisterhood can't change that!'

Celeste put the envelope behind the counter. ‘Well,' she said in answer to Doreen's raised eyebrow, ‘if my husband can give Alice a quarter mill then I'm sure I can afford three grand for the cut. Unexpected money's for impulse spending, isn't it?'

The two women left the salon.

The man followed.

CHAPTER NINE

Twenty minutes later, Doreen pulled into the small church car park at Prior's Norton. ‘Which house is it?' she asked.

‘The thatched cottage through the trees. We can get into the field behind through that stile. Watch for the nettles. And the cows.'

Buttercup lowed a cheery welcome as they crept along the hedge until they could peer into the garden. The cottage sat with chocolate box perfection amongst its colourful flowers. ‘This is very nice,' murmured Doreen, ‘but how are we going to lure Bertie away?'

‘Shouldn't be a problem – it looks like Wilf is having a snooze. Some bloody guard he turned out to be!'

Through the open sitting room window, the distant rattle of his steady snore wafted out across the garden. Wilf slumped on the sofa, head back, eyes closed, book open but abandoned on his chest. Bertie sat at his shoulder preening what few hairs remained on his sparsely-covered crown. The sight was rather comical. With roles reversed, it appeared the guarded was doing a substantially better job than the guard. To Doreen's surprise, Celeste whistled shrilly – and Bertie's head instantly came up at the sound. She flicked a hand signal and he jumped off the sofa, disappearing from view.

‘Now what?' asked Doreen.

‘Just wait. You'll see.' Moments later, a blue head appeared in the cat flap. There was a lot of pushing and squeezing before he managed to lever his bulk through, and, once in the garden, scampered his way to Celeste, his long tail swishing from side to side. A powerful thrust of leg and casual flex of wing brought him up onto the fence post poking through the top of the hedge, one of his favourite perches. ‘Mummy!' he chirruped happily. ‘Hello, Mummy!'

‘Hello, Bertie. Have you missed me?' Celeste ruffled his neck feathers affectionately.

‘Missed? Yes. I'm hungry.' This was a fairly common response from Bertie, ever the optimist. He suddenly spotted Doreen standing behind Celeste and peered at her with great interest, head tilting first to one side, then the other. ‘Hello,' he said cheerfully. ‘My name is Bertie and I'm very pleased to meet you.'

Doreen, although somewhat prepared for her first encounter having studied the numerous news reports featuring the big macaw, still found herself gaping. The bird was nationally famous – it was like meeting a celebrity – but this one had casually brought down the last government with a single sentence. Even so, she still could not believe her ears. His level of intelligence was astonishing.

Celeste chuckled. ‘You've spent all morning destroying the foundations of my world, so please forgive me if I say it's nice to return the compliment. We've both had a day of surprises, haven't we? Go on, Doreen, introduce yourself. He won't bite.'

‘Hello, Bertie, I'm Doreen,' she said rather self-consciously, very aware the macaw looked alarmingly large now his face was at her own level. That wicked bill was long and curved like a scimitar. She hesitated for a second, then bowed her head respectfully.

‘Doreen,' said Bertie ruminatively. ‘Hello, Doreen.' He regarded her with that steady stare which unnerved so many people, then dipped his head in what could only be a return bow. Celeste raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Doreen. Yes, I like you. Do you have any nuts?'

Doreen and Celeste stood in the library at Temple Hall. Celeste wore a heavy leather falconer's glove, Bertie's powerful claws encircling her wrist. He had been surprisingly docile in the car. Normally, he disliked travelling by road – he found the constant changes in motion disturbing – but to Celeste's relief he displayed an unusual tolerance. Fortunately, Temple Guiting was a mere twenty miles or so from Prior's Norton and he seemed to spend most of the time staring thoughtfully at Doreen. She could sense Celeste's scepticism growing again and the two women barely exchanged a word during the brief journey. Doreen concentrated on her driving, but glanced in the mirror constantly, as if more interested in where she'd been than where they were going. On one occasion, a slight smile twitched her lips, but she said nothing to Celeste.

The library was a long, low-ceilinged room with heavy oak beams overhead, each carved with flowery garlands dancing merrily along the timbers. Mullioned windows marched down one wall, the panes criss-crossed in leaded diamonds. The hand-made glass was very old – each pane was a subtly different tint of pale bluish-green. A fat black cat lay on one sill, curled up fast asleep in the sun, its long tail hanging limply over the edge. Bertie dismissed it with contempt.

Panels of oak covered the walls, the wood polished to a sublime sheen, with a goodly number of bookshelves indicating the purpose of the room, all plain in construction but evidently sturdy. The books they contained stood to attention like disciplined warriors, their spines of finely tooled leather lined up in formal ranks. There were hundreds of volumes, big and small, thick and thin, pristine and moth-eaten. The overall impression was of a rather dark and serious room, with the exception of a large, exquisitely patterned Persian carpet spread over the uneven oak floorboards between several comfortable sofas. Thick and soft underfoot, it brightened the sombre atmosphere with a wildly exuberant splash of reds and creams, ochres and golds.

However, the real focal point was a massive and solidly constructed stone fireplace bulging out of the panelling like the buttress of a mountain. The heavy lintel was charred black in the middle and stood shoulder-high above a deep grate, the stone beautifully carved with curlicued garlands of flowers to match the beams above. The fireplace was obviously used regularly and was certainly capacious enough to mount a respectable conflagration, one worthy of the attention of the local Fire Brigade. Even though a bright early summer sun now warmed the house, Celeste could still detect the faint aromatic acridity of wood smoke lingering in the air, a comforting smell which, when combined with the exotically bright carpet, seemed to subtly alter the character of the library, turning it into a homely and snug place, a room where one could curl up on the sofa with a good book or enjoy conversation and conviviality on a cold winter's evening in front of a roaring fire. She liked the library's serene, old-fashioned charm and comforting atmosphere. Doreen had referred to the Sisterhood's library several times in the salon, but somehow Celeste sensed this was not what she had been brought to see.

A door opened and two women walked in, one soberly dressed in long dark skirts and a matching knitted twin set, a frumpy, matronly figure with greying frizzy hair – a goodly portion of which appeared far too unruly to remain incarcerated within her bun and sprung outwards in all directions like excitable radio antennae. Her eyes, though, were sharp and icy blue, her cheeks cherubic, her lips firm. She looked like an old-fashioned, archetypal schoolmistress, someone who forced recalcitrant young ladies to learn physics or chemistry at a time in their lives where all that consumed them were boys, the latest mascara and learning how to light a cigarette without setting fire to their hair.

The other, by way of complete contrast, was surprisingly young, perhaps no older than eighteen or so, a thin slip of a girl, skinny, leggy and angular, with no apparent hips or breasts to interfere with her boyish silhouette. Two long, braided, dusky ginger pigtails fell to the small of her back where a black scrunchy bound the ends together as one. Her clear, pale face was spattered with spectacular freckles, as if she'd been involved in a drive-by incident with a jar of Seville oranges. A smile hovered on plump lips. She wore no make-up when, in Celeste's eyes, she really needed to, especially around her wan eyes. A good meal would probably do her no harm either, something with lots of fat and carbohydrate, followed by a giant pudding. Frankly, she looked as if she'd not seen any sunshine for months, but then as a redhead she had the skin type that didn't appreciate exposure to ultra-violet light, as Celeste knew well herself. She wore shiny black patent slippers, patterned black tights under a red check miniskirt and a white T-shirt proudly bearing the immortal logo,
Cover Your Boobs in Snopake
.