Free Bertie and the Kinky Politician by Mike A Vickers

was a note of hopeless resignation in the PM’s voice.
    â€˜Come now, it was all you could have hoped for. We are now fully involved in a damage limitation exercise that will stretch us to the limit. Messrs Austerly and Sharples really were most indiscreet, but I shall do my best to protect them from prosecution.’
    â€˜Thanks, Hugo.’
    â€˜I suppose we can be grateful for one thing.’
    The PM looked up. ‘Yes?’
    â€˜I doubt if you’ll have to call on my services regarding the ingenuous Mr Timbrill. I’ve the results of a preliminary appraisal. Do you wish a summary?’
    â€˜So long as it’s quick.’
    â€˜Oh, it is. Painfully so.’ Both men grinned. Hugo Chaplain chose his words with precision. He knew the PM liked that – his boss was a man weaned on sound bites. ‘In addition to your own personal knowledge of the man and also what is on public record, I can add the following few snippets. The newest member of your Cabinet has recently discharged his mortgage on a surprisingly modest London flat and continues to maintain a family country cottage in his North Gloucester constituency. He owns two cars, one an old Sunbeam sportster. It also appears he still occasionally motorcycles, an activity which I find extraordinarily surprising for a man of his age.’
    The PM sat back with fingers laced behind his head and regarded that last statement with sour antipathy. Hugo was a man who, as a result of an almost spherical rotundity, eschewed all forms of activity with the condescending distaste of one entirely incapable of any physical exertion. It was the very worst form of inverted snobbery and the premier didn’t appreciate Chaplain’s witty little comment at all. He often wished he himself was still sprightly enough to play rugby again, to bite the odd ear or twist a few inadvisably exposed testicles in the ruck. Those were the days, when a man’s prowess was measured by the quantity of beer he could sink or the way he could skilfully evacuate the post-match showers with a truly noxious fart! Consequently, he thought rather well of James and the fact he could still do something as youthfully foolish as motorcycling.
    Chaplain droned on. ‘He inquired about becoming a name at Lloyd’s, but fortunately could not raise the capital and so escaped certain financial disaster by the skin of his teeth. Despite that, as you would expect from a man of reasonable financial competence, he has a useful portfolio of shares, exclusively British, that make a small but significant contribution to his income, and the sum total of liquid cash held or invested in national institutions stands at a trifle under three hundred thousand.’
    â€˜Is that all?’ The Prime Minister was genuinely surprised.
    â€˜Not all your ministers are acolytes of creative accounting.’
    â€˜That was uncalled for.’
    â€˜I apologise,’ replied Chaplain suavely. He liked planting barbs that hurt. ‘We’re checking to see if there are any foreign interests, but our initial searches suggest Timbrill’s financial tastes are entirely patriotic.’
    â€˜What about the Members’ Interests Register?’
    â€˜Squeaky clean and in rude health.’
    â€˜His constituency?’
    â€˜You already know he’s one of your more popular MPs. The local party chairman has nothing but praise. Politically, Gloucester is a good, loyal city, or at least our half of it is, but a place to avoid if possible.’
    â€˜How so?’
    â€˜Apart from its very fine cathedral, certainly one of the best ever built but now no doubt surrounded by a car park, I hear it has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Generations of myopically poor town planners appear to have effectively removed whatever charm it once had through a combination of stunted imagination and a misplaced enthusiasm for concrete.’
    â€˜Have you been there?’
    â€˜I