The Wormwood Code Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Wormwood Code

  Prologue

  Monday 18th April 2005

  Tuesday 19th April 2005

  Wednesday 20th April 2005

  Thursday 21st April 2005

  Friday 22nd April 2005

  Saturday 23rd April 2005

  Sunday 24th April 2005

  Monday 25th April 2005

  Tuesday 26th April 2005

  Wednesday 27th April 2005

  Thursday 28th April 2005

  Friday 29th April 2005

  Saturday 30th April 2005

  Sunday 1st May 2005

  Monday 2nd May 2005

  Tuesday 3rd May 2005

  Wednesday 4th May 2005

  Thursday 5th May 2005

  Friday 6th May 2005

  Also by Douglas Lindsay

  About Blasted Heath

  The Wormwood Code

  a novella

  Douglas Lindsay

  Published by Blasted Heath 2013

  Copyright 2005/2013 Douglas Lindsay

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission of the author.

  Douglas Lindsay has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by Blasted Heath

  Visit Douglas Lindsay at:

  www.blastedheath.com

  Version 2-1-3

  Prologue

  It is the spring of 2005, and Britain is in the grip of election fever. The young, dashing Prime Minister – with two general election victories already under his belt, as well as successful and entirely legitimate military campaigns in the Balkans, Iraq and Afghanistan – is up against an actual descendent of Count Dracula in the race to lead the country.

  Monday 18th April 2005

  0714hrs

  Dan Williams nodded at the two secretaries, saved an extra smile for Janine, hesitated, took a deep breath, knocked on the large, solid brown door and walked quickly into the room. Closed the door behind him and stopped. Exhaled, shoulders slumped a little, the adrenaline stopped pumping. The Prime Minister was not alone.

  It was the same every morning, and no matter how much he rushed, no matter how early he set the alarm, how little breakfast he ate, how quickly he brushed, flossed and mouth-washed, Thackeray was always there ahead of him, standing at the side of the PM's desk, clutching that morning's newspapers. Williams nodded at Thackeray, who returned the gesture. What was even more annoying for Williams was the knowledge that the Paper Boy, as he thought of him, did not have a trace of jealousy or competitiveness in his body.

  'Good morning, Prime Minister,' said Williams.

  The PM mumbled incoherently in reply and continued to stare into the mirror. There was nothing obvious happening with his face; no preening, pouting, lip-baring or clearing morning gunk out of his eyes. He was perfectly still, staring at himself, while his two aides stood behind him. It might have been slightly uncomfortable for them, if not for the fact that the same thing happened every single morning that they came to work.

  The large wooden clock on the mantleshelf – a controversial gift from the German ambassador in 1913 – ticked solidly, the only sound in the room. Outside a car drove away from the front door, and Williams racked his brain to think who would be calling at this time in the morning. Checked his watch, couldn't think of anyone. People were always coming and going. He became aware that Thackeray was staring at him, and finally he glanced at his rival. Thackeray winked, pulled his lips back from his teeth in some sort of grotesque, plastic surgery smile, and then nodded at the PM. Williams stared blankly at him, then turned and looked at his boss. The PM was still expressionlessly looking at himself in the mirror. And then, as if he was taking his queue from Thackeray, he drew his lips back and revealed all his teeth, in their faded glory.

  'Oh God,' he muttered. 'They don't get any better.'

  'Prime Minister?' said Williams. It was always up to him to force the agenda. Thackeray would stand staring at the boss all day, almost as much as the PM would stare at himself.

  'I just,' began the PM, 'you know, Dan Dan, I know what you're saying, but really, really, I think it's vitally important, vitally important, that I see a dentist this week.'

  'Sir,' said Williams, 'you can't be seen to be worrying about this just now. The people of Britain need to know you're concentrating on the real issues. Decent hardworking people want to know that their Prime Minister is concerned about crime and health and poverty, not his own teeth. There'll be time after the election.'

  'Thackers?' asked the PM.

  'Couldn't disagree more, Sir. It's presentation, not substance that matters. However, at this stage, it might be a little insensitive. It's a pity you had to cancel the appointment last week...'

  'Cannot believe that the bloody man picked this time to die,' muttered the PM. 'Dreadful timing. And now we've got this awful conclave business keeping me off the news.'

  He sighed heavily through his grimace. Williams shot a death ray at Thackeray.

  'Any mention of my teeth on the front pages today?' asked the PM.

  Thackeray shook his head.

  'Only two headlines with you. The Guardian says you're retreating from the EU vote, and the Independent is bitching about green issues.'

  'Only two? God's sake. What about the vampire?'

  'Just the Times.'

  The PM muttered something under his breath, closed his lips and stroked his hair subconsciously. The usual election morning press conference awaited.

  'Anyone seen Ramone?' he said, finally turning away from the mirror and looking at Williams and Thackeray.

  They could advise against him getting his teeth done mid-campaign, but they could bloody well sod off and work for the opposition again if they tried to tell him he couldn't get his hair seen to.

  Thackeray shook his head.

  'Still hasn't been seen since Saturday night,' said Williams.

  The PM sighed bitterly, took a quick look back in the mirror and then turned finally to his two advisors.

  'Right, gentlemen, this morning's news conference. What d'you think?'

  Thackeray laid the papers down in front of him and pulled up a seat opposite the large dark brown desk. Williams did likewise, opening up the folder he'd been clutching to his chest since he'd entered the room.

  'It's desperately vital that we press the health issue and concentrate on the breast screening proposals we were talking about last night,' said Thackeray. Williams nodded. The PM glanced between the two of them, slightly concerned.

  'No,' he said, 'I meant my hair. Do you think it's time to call in another hairdresser?'

  Thackeray was silent. Williams opened his mouth to say something and then remembered that it was even worse working for the other guy, and closed it again.

  There was a knock and the PM looked up expectantly as the door opened and a young woman poked her head round.

  'It's time for your 7.20, Sir,' she said.

  The PM smiled. Bit of a Martine McCutcheon about her. He rose from his seat and nodded at the two men.

  'We'll talk later,' he said.

  'Your 7.20 what, Prime Minister?' asked Williams.

  The PM looked at him strangely, as if he ought to already know.

  'Sun bed,' he said. 'I've got to do something to get attention away from my teeth.'

  1027hrs

  A slight wind came in off the water, bringing the smell of the sea in through the open door of the shop. Seagulls swooped outside, diving in
to the blue crystal waters, while other gulls cried to the pale sunlight of a spring morning. The grass along the promenade waved gently in the breeze. The palm trees on the far side of the bay stood unruffled by the wind. A couple of small yachts tacked against the breeze out past the two tiny islands, no more than fifty yards away from the beach. A few people walked along Shore Street, lightly dressed for spring, the promise of a warm summer hanging delightfully in the air of a beautiful morning.

  Millport.

  Barney Thomson, barber, turned away from the window of the shop and nodded at his deaf-mute hunchbacked assistant, Igor, who was slowly brushing up the remnants of the previous customer's cut, a man with great swathes of matted hair, who had asked for a Steve McQueen (Great Escape).

  'Gorgeous day,' said Barney.

  'Arf,' said Igor.

  'Course, it'll be pishing down within the hour,' added Barney.

  Igor nodded and once more bent double to his onerous task.

  There were footsteps in the doorway and Barney turned. Joshua Mindkeep, one of his crusty old regulars. Millport, the small town on the island of Cumbrae off the west coast of Scotland, was one of those places where people came to die, and Barney sometimes wondered if he was already one of them.

  'Mr Mindkeep,' he said. 'Beautiful day.'

  'It's crap,' muttered Mindkeep, helping himself into the chair nearest the window.

  Barney smiled, as he prepared the cape and the small piece of white cloth to go around the neck.

  'Sun shining, lovely breeze, the cry of the gulls.'

  'I hate it,' scowled Mindkeep. 'Bloody gulls. Never shut up, shit everywhere, keep me awake all night. I'll have finger length on the top and a tapered number two at the sides and back.'

  And with that his face settled into an ugly grimace and he slouched down into the seat.

  Barney looked at Igor and shrugged. Igor couldn't hear, yet he picked up everything that was said. All human life is here, thought Barney, and Igor smiled wickedly and walked through to the back of the shop to stick the kettle on.

  1151hrs

  'I cannot believe the nerve of the fucking man,' snapped the PM, marching along the corridor of the hospital.

  'We're going to be public in under twenty-five seconds,' said Williams, lips tight together.

  The Health Secretary raised one of his vicious Scottish eyebrows, which had once been charged in their own right with GBH after a fight in a Motherwell night club.

  'Where did you get the tan? Cheeky fucking bastard.'

  He looked at Williams and Thackeray and the Health Secretary, also glaring briefly at Gail and Winsome, two of his PR people, then addressed them all.

  'I give fucking Murdoch free reign in this country, let him do what he bloody well likes, and this is how he repays me? The fucking Count makes the cover of the Times, and that bloody Sky bastard asks me where I got my tan.'

  He raised a finger at them as if about to announce the way in which he was going to damn Murdoch to Hell, but since there was nothing for him to actually say, he stormed off towards the double hospital doors which were about to lead him to his next engagement. Silence from his entourage, who knew better than to speak to him as he was getting himself under control for his next big event.

  The PM stopped at the door, everyone else coming to an abrupt halt behind him. He turned and looked straight at Williams, who had long ago stopped being unnerved by this kind of thing.

  'Dan Dan, any news on Ramone?'

  Williams shook his head.

  'What about Raphael?'

  Williams had already checked, as he'd known the question would be put to him.

  'Sorry, he's Gordon's homeboy, won't touch anyone else.'

  The PM cursed and stared at the floor.

  'There must be someone,' he said. 'Someone exceptional.'

  He looked around the crowd, staring them in the eye, demanding that one of them think of something, whilst also taking in their hair, to see if any of them had visited a hairdresser with the kind of competence he required. He certainly wasn't going to find it on the head of the Health Secretary.

  There were a couple of shrugged shoulders, a pair of eyes dropped to their shoes.

  'Right,' said the PM, 'there's only one thing for it. Get me...' he began, demanding that they all look at him, '...Barney Thomson!'

  1643hrs

  It had been a slow day in the shop, but Barney hadn't minded. That was why he was here. Slow days with the sound of the sea and the weeping of gulls, in a sleepy place where nothing much ever happened. This was what he'd needed after a few years of grotesque murder and comical mayhem.

  He was sitting with his feet perched on the edge of the counter, Igor still sweeping laboriously behind him, although even Barney did not know what it was that he swept. The day had turned cold and wet and grey, sure enough, and it had been some time since the door had opened on any customers.

  'Might be time to just call it a day,' said Barney quietly, more to himself than Igor. Igor nodded. Nothing much on the TV, but he was looking forward to Rick Stein on BBC2 at 8.

  The door to the shop opened and two men walked in. Barney and Igor looked at them. Barney did not immediately lower his feet. They were dressed in black suits, wore stupid sunglasses, the like of which are never needed on the west coast of Scotland in the height of summer, never mind on an afternoon in April that had clouded over, and had both recently seen the inside of a barber shop. These men were not here for a haircut and Barney's heart immediately sank. Couldn't life just leave him alone for a few months?

  'Barney Thomson?' said one of them, looking straight at him and ignoring Igor.

  'I'm Barney Thomson!' said Igor from behind, standing as tall as he could, although the words pretty much came out as 'Arf!'

  Barney finally lowered his feet and stood, smiling at Igor and shaking his head.

  'Yeah,' he said to the bloke who had spoken, 'what d'you want?'

  'You're needed in London,' said the man.

  Barney stared at him, then at his companion. He slumped back down into the seat, his face deadpan, shoulders sagging.

  'Go on,' he said.

  'The Prime Minister needs you to work his hair for the last two-and-a-half weeks of the campaign,' said the man. Voice steady and firm, no argument accepted.

  Barney looked at Igor and then back at the FBI, or whoever they were.

  'And if I don't?' he said.

  'Three words,' said the other man. 'Guan Tanamo Bay.'

  Sounded well hard. Barney would have shivered in his boots; if he'd been wearing boots. As it was, he was bored.

  'If you're doing the syllable thing,' he said pedantically, 'it really ought to be five words. Guan Tan A Mo Bay. Hmm, doesn't really work, but three words would be something along the lines of Bug Ger Off.'

  The man twitched. Outside, the ominous form of a black Audi with dark mirror windows pulled up outside the shop.

  'It's time,' said the first man.

  Barney looked at the car, and then turned to Igor. He shrugged. He felt entirely phlegmatic and relaxed. In this quiet place, who would even notice he was gone for two weeks?

  'Come on, Igor,' he said. 'You're coming too.'

  Igor smirked and grabbed his broom. The two agents of whichever government department they belonged to looked at each other, wondering if they should make a move, but as Barney picked up his jacket, turned off the lights and pushed past them to the door, Igor in his wake, they stood aside and let them go. There was space enough for all of them in the Audi, and space enough in the small private jet waiting at Abbotsinch.

  Igor stopped and looked at the two men as he came to the door. He stared for a full ten seconds, as Barney opened the back door of the car.

  'Arf,' said Igor eventually, and then followed his boss outside.

  2310hrs

  London, late at night, the city under cloud. The end of another hard day's campaigning, the Prime Minister and the leader of the opposition and the leader of the real alte
rnative all endlessly flicking between news channels, thinking about the following day's strategy and hair and teeth and make-up and hair and teeth and hair.

  However, there was one person who wasn't thinking about hair, even though he had thought about hair every day for the previous seventeen years of his life. One person who would never think about hair again.

  Ramone, the hairdresser, sat alone in an armchair in a small hotel room. The TV played before him, the tail end of whatever was on BBC2 that night, although no one, even the people in charge of BBC2, knew. He was naked except for a pair of socks and a New England Patriots woollen hat. And quite pale. Very, very pale. Deathly pale.

  Tuesday 19th April 2005

  0712hrs

  The PM was laughing with a mixture of curiosity and delight, the first time that either of his aides had seen him genuinely laugh in several weeks. Williams and Thackeray glanced at each other, not entirely sure what the PM found so funny.

  'Rotted Brain of Maniac Killer?' said their boss through the smile. 'Good on the Daily Star.'

  Thackeray waited a second, until the laughter had died down a little more and he could catch the PM's eye.

  'It's not about the leader of the opposition, Sir,' he said.

  The PM stopped laughing instantly, straightened up and looked across the desk at the front page.

  'Oh.'

  'It's not really very funny, Prime Minister. It's the serial killer who was allowed out of prison a year before he committed multiple murder.'

  'No, no, of course not, not at all funny,' he said. 'It's important and vital that we take every conceivable step against crime and the causes of crime and the fear of crime, that valuable resources are not wasted, and that...'

  'You're not on television, Sir,' said Williams, 'you don't need to grandstand.'

  'No, no. No.'

  The PM stood up, turned his back and looked out of the window, down onto the grey wet pavement below. His heart immediately sank with the thought of the day ahead. Health, health, health. That was all they ever had to talk about. And crime. He couldn't wait until the election was over and he could get back to talking about big issues, the kind of things that would help cement his place in history. No one ever got remembered because waiting lists were low or because they had introduced prostrate cancer screening for over-50s. Settling the Northern Ireland issue, creating democracies across the Middle East, bringing China and the west closer together, extending British influence across the republics of the former Soviet Union, bringing Britain further into the heart of the European Union and subtly easing Germany and France away from the centre of power. Those were the big issues, the issues which would see him remembered for the rest of history. Not NHS funding and MRSA and consultants fees.