Free Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World by Mike A Vickers Page B

rates.’
    â€˜Hmm, well, why don’t we invite him down for the weekend anyway and see how it goes. I’ve been meaning to call him for some time now, just to catch up.’
    â€˜Was he promoted after the case?’
    â€˜Yes, but he may well have retired now.’
    â€˜He’s not that old, surely.’
    â€˜Always difficult to tell Wilf’s age,’ said Celeste. ‘And don’t call me Shirley!’
    Detective Sergeant Wilfred Thompson was on the path to retirement. This path had not been triggered by age nor by the accumulation of sufficient funds – and it was certainly not being followed voluntarily. Rather, he had been prodded and poked on to it by his superior officer who had suggested in no uncertain terms that Wilf leave the force under his own steam and with the benefit of a good pension, instead of being forcibly ejected by the disciplinary board.
    The reason for this draconian action was simple. In the two years since his promotion, Wilf had driven Detective Chief Inspector Tristram Yates to the point of volcanic frustration, sending his blood pressure through the roof and contributing significantly to his accelerating rate of premature baldness. The focus and energy that had seen Yates bound effortlessly up the police corporate ladder had been diverted from his desire for promotion and channelled almost entirely into handling Wilf – and Wilf had worn him down. Crikey, had Wilf worn him down. Wound up to breaking point by that exasperating combination of Wilf’s peerless detective skills, coupled with his smouldering insubordination and open resentment of authority, Yates had finally pulled the nuclear trigger.
    As for Wilf, he’d rather enjoyed the past couple of years. Promoted after the Gordon burglary case with its extraordinary and devastating consequences, he’d strolled through his workload like a hot knife through butter, gathering in all manner of obnoxious miscreants and packing them off to court. He had one of the highest conviction rates in the Met and was admired greatly across the force for his unruffled approach and unconventional methods.
    Except by Yates.
    Yates didn’t like unconventional methods. Yates liked convention. His mind worked on order. On precision. Meticulousness. The Book.
    Wilf’s intuitive approach was not covered by The Book. He drew on his vast experience, dogged determination – and contempt for convention. He and dear Tristram were like poles on a magnet, forever being forced into closer and closer contact, but never to actually touch. In this competition, the smart money around the station was on Wilf, but Yates possessed the ultimate power and had finally used it. Ruthlessly.
    And so Wilf was now working out his last week of retirement notice on gardening leave. He still carried his warrant card and remained a serving officer, but Yates had taken a leaf out of Canon Law and excommunicated him, banning him from the station and effectively destroying his ability to carry out his job. If Wilf hadn’t equally exasperated his Police Federation representative, he might have had recourse, but it all now seemed utterly pointless. Pity, he wasn’t yet ready. He had plenty more stomach for the fight, but Yates had finally snapped.
    Yates.
    The trouble had always been Yates.
    What a tit!
    And now, as if all that wasn’t bad enough, here he was experiencing an acute attack of Pie Dilemma.
    Wilf stood in the local Co-op armed with his bachelor’s basket and burdened with an impossible choice. Steak and kidney versus chicken and mushroom in a shortcrust topping Death Match. Which should he have in a sandwich when he got home? He hefted one in each hand, balancing them in a moment of uncharacteristic indecision. Ham and leek had already been rejected on the grounds that he liked neither of the constituents. Ham he found too salty and leek too slimy, which really only left the pastry, and even Wilf, as