Bertie and the Kinky Politician by Mike A Vickers Page A

I’m right. I must hurry home now before the heavens open. Come along, Agnes.’
    She strode away with some urgency, one hand shaking out an umbrella, and James noticed for the first time a big fat pigeon sitting in the pocket of her gabardine, its head jerking this way and that. She was a dozen paces away when she turned back, pointing a bony, accusing finger. ‘There’s a lot more going on than you can ever hope to discover, but one day you will find yourself in a position where you can do something about it. You’ll do well to remember me then, James Timbrill!’ She turned on her heel and was gone.
    James stared in slightly shell-shocked disbelief. She knew him. That had never happened before. His accountant camouflage offered no protection this time. James watched woman and bird scuttle off to prepare for the Biblical deluge and couldn’t help but feel a certain foreboding. Mobile phones? Surely the old girl was cracked.
    Wasn’t she?
    The traffic along Whitehall was heavy. Fumes smarted in his nose and he knew London was in for another Black Snot Day. James showed his pass at Thatcher’s Gates and strode up the crooked length of Downing Street. None of the reporters gathered opposite No. 10 even bothered to peer in his direction. He looked like a minor functionary. A clerk. Perhaps someone delivering pizzas. As he approached the famous old house, several men hurried out of the front door and clambered into a Jaguar to the staccato supernovae of flash guns. Cameras swung in choreographed unison as the car accelerated away and swept past. James stopped in his tracks and stared, goggle-eyed. Inside, partially hidden by raised arms, were Quentin Austerly and Wallace Sharples, their faces frozen masks of anguish. A sudden fear gripped him and he had to force himself forward again on legs distinctly wobbly.
    â€˜Oi! Who are you?’ The stolid policeman on duty gazed suspiciously at James. His voice was as friendly as a nail-spiked cudgel. No wonder, really. To stand there all day and look like you’re actually enjoying your job would have tried the patience of a saint.
    â€˜Timbrill. MoD.’ James stared straight ahead at the middle of the man’s chest. He was as big and solid as the polished black door behind him.
    â€˜Tringbowl to come in,’ said the bobby into his lapel mic. James couldn’t be bothered to correct him. He wasn’t planning on being a regular visitor. The policeman knocked once and the gleaming door opened. Constructed from armoured steel but painted to look like wood, it was without doubt the most recognised door on earth. He stepped over the threshold, glad to be out of sight, but once inside immediately detected a definite atmosphere in the place. People scurried past in silence with handfuls of buff folders and lowered heads. Nobody even looked at him.
    A sage advisor beckoned, elderly but still well-built. The man was from Scotland, decided James. The kilt was a big giveaway. Legs emerged from below the swaying hem like the mighty towers of the Forth Bridge. The proper bridge, not that spindly upstart next door. There was something about a Scotsman’s knees James found faintly intimidating. They always seemed unnaturally muscular, possessing huge sinews and corded tendons bunching and flowing across gnarled, hirsute surfaces, implying resolute strength, fortitude, and brutal Pictish virility. These were the sort of knees you wanted on your side in times of crisis. These knees were the real reason why James VI was asked if he wouldn’t mind warming his chuff on the English throne. The Union came into existence through fear of Scottish knees. Let’s face it, when you’re close up and personal with your enemy and things are looking tough, there’s nothing more stirring for you – or terrifying for your opponents – than the sounds of approaching bagpipes skirling down the breeze accompanied by hordes