The Wormwood Code Read online

  'The chicken wasn't acting alone?' ventured Eason.

  0712hrs

  'Big day today,' said the Prime Minister, catching Barney's eye in the mirror.

  Barney was fussing around the Prime Ministerial napper, with nothing to do other than snip at a couple of non-existent hairs, and apply the odd bit of hairspray here and there.

  'Paxman?' ventured Barney.

  The PM made some unattractive grunt.

  'Paxman,' he agreed. 'Course, I'll make mincemeat out of the wanker. What can he say? He'll question me on Iraq, and I just pull the old, I did what I felt was right routine. I own the statement, he can't fault me on it. I'll stop short of pulling George's God stuff, but it's not far off. What can he say?'

  'Well,' said Barney, 'he can imply that you only invaded Iraq so that you could support the West's arms and logistics industries, because your government is principally interested in the profit of big business, in whose pocket you belong.'

  Barney snipped away, quite unconcerned. His caution of the day before had vanished on the back of one day on the campaign trail. If he got kicked off it, all for the best. He was bored now, after a day in the Big Smoke, and found himself strangely yearning for the quiet solitude and gentle waves of Millport. Of course, there was always the possibility that what had happened to Ramone would happen to him, but then, what did he care? He'd been dead once before with his brain in a jar. After that, nothing seemed particularly intimidating.

  The Prime Minister smiled uncomfortably, until he caught sight of his teeth in the mirror, and then he grimaced and looked sternly at Barney.

  'I can assure you, and the real people of Britain, that at the end of the day, I want to make it absolutely clear that I have already answered that question, and I believe that the hardworking families of Britain understand this.'

  Barney stopped for a second as he looked down on the balding head of the PM, his hair a great swathe on which Ramone had worked his magic, covering up the rampant progression of baldy napperness. A brief insight into the clichéd world of the PM. Barney turned and looked at Williams, who was waiting patiently behind, and then he glanced at Igor.

  'Arf,' said Igor, and Barney nodded. The PM caught his eye in the mirror, then looked at himself once more. Perhaps he hadn't been so wise in bringing Barney down to London in the first place. He bared his teeth. He paled at the sight of the dead tooth on the lower jaw, then let his lips close over, like a fridge door closing on stale cheese.

  1141hrs

  They were on their way to Leeds to meet real people. A stage-managed meeting with real people, but a meeting all the same. The PM was edgy, the GMTV/school gate part of the day out of the way, but with a real people situation lying imminently on the horizon. Barney and Igor had been brought along for the ride, and were sitting at a four-man table on the train, staring out the window as another dull English spring day passed them by. Williams and Thackeray were fussing about, as were Winsome and Gail, the PR girls. There were a few others in the entourage, a screaming bunch of journalists, and then there were a couple of other foreign bodies on the train. Men who were there to ask questions, but who were not from the press.

  Barney and Igor were just about to get down to a telepathic discussion on whether it might be time for an early lunch, when the two empty seats beside them suddenly became occupied. Igor looked suspiciously at the two newcomers, Barney gave them the universal eyebrow of curiosity.

  'Hello,' said Barney. 'Polis?'

  Eason nodded. Grogan flicked open a badge.

  'Grogan and Eason, Scotland Yard,' he said.

  'Thought you people were supposed to be keeping this thing ultra hush-hush?' said Barney. 'Walking up and down a train full of journalists, doesn't seem to be the best way to be incognito.'

  'We've got cover as AP,' said Eason. 'The press don't suspect a thing.'

  'Seriously,' said Grogan, 'if you're a journalist looking for the PM's smoking gun, you're not going to imagine that his hairdresser got murdered with a chicken.'

  Barney smiled.

  'Good point,' he said. 'So what d'you want to ask us? My friend can lip-read, but you might not understand him. I'll translate where required.'

  Grogan looked at Igor with the same level of suspicion that Igor was looking at him. (Igor had faced persecution from the police on many an occasion, the finger of suspicion so often falling on the deaf-mute hunchback; albeit not as often as he had been chased by a mob of torch-wielding angry villagers.)

  'What does he know about chickens?' said Grogan to Barney.

  'I said he could lip-read,' said Barney. 'Ask him yourself.'

  Grogan sneered in a calculated, American TV cop kind of a way, then looked at Igor.

  'What do you know about chickens?' he said, pronouncing every syllable very, very clearly.

  'Arf,' said Igor.

  Grogan stared at him to see if he could detect any sign of mockery, then he looked at Barney with a raised eyebrow.

  'You're going to translate that?'

  'Certainly,' said Barney. 'He said, 'So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens'.'

  Grogan nodded. He looked expressionlessly at Igor who also nodded. Eason smirked. Had only been able to grab a Danish and a cup of coffee on the way to the train station. He was beginning to think about a chicken sandwich with stacks of mayonnaise and just a little lettuce.

  'I take it the two of you comedians can verify your whereabouts on Saturday evening, between the hours of seven and eleven?' said Grogan.

  Barney thought about it, then shook his head.

  'I was at home in Millport. Alone. Can't verify a thing, not that it matters. Likewise for Igor, except he does have verification. I believe he spent the evening with the three Lamont sisters.'

  Barney looked at Igor, who smiled wickedly at the memory of Saturday evening.

  'Arrrf,' he said.

  1659hrs

  The Prime Minister walked quickly along the short corridor, his fists clenched in triumph. Williams and Thackeray walked beside him, Thackeray clapping him on the shoulder.

  'Kicked his arse,' said the PM, 'totally kicked his arse.'

  'You certainly did, Sir,' said Thackeray.

  'Let them show that at peak time on BBCfriggin'1,' said Williams. 'The Death of Paxman!' he further exclaimed, putting his hands up to represent the banner headline.

  Winsome and Gail walked behind, as usual their assessment slightly more conservative than their gung-ho colleagues, but the boys did have a habit of getting carried away. Either that, or a habit of fearlessly sucking up.

  The PM turned a corner and walked into the small dressing room. Barney and Igor were there, sitting in silence, each reading a copy of the Evening Standard. The PM approached Barney with huge enthusiasm, the palm of his hand aloft, ready to high-five his new, kick-ass hairstylist.

  'Barney!' he said. 'My main man! I was brilliant, but so was the hair! You are the man!'

  The Prime Minister stood over Barney, hand raised.

  'My man!' he repeated, as he continued to stand, like a fish supper without the newspaper.

  'You were OK,' said Barney, 'but I thought he let you off the hook a couple of times.'

  The PM gave him another second, and then with one smooth continuous movement swivelled round, brought his hand across, and Thackeray was there, open-handed to meet the high-five, as if that was what the PM had intended all along. Then he clapped his hands, like they were all Cub Scouts together around the campfire singing songs about adventure and chumminess and baked beans, then he began to pace around the room, still buzzing, the adrenaline still pumping.

  'What a day!' he cried. 'What a day! Gordon and I looked like pals. We schmoozed our way through GMTV. We school-gated with panache. I kicked that stupid little student's arse in Leeds. And now I've just buried Paxman. I'm the man. I am the man. And the hardworking ordinary families of middle England know it.'

  They all stared at him, each of the others i
n the room running over the day which had just gone by, trying to think if any of it matched the Prime Minister's interpretation.

  'Thought you said I was the man,' said Barney, without looking up, a smile on his face.

  'I want to be the man!' said Igor. Although it more or less came out as 'arf!'

  2200hrs

  Another day on the campaign trail was over, and every day which did not bring disaster for the PM, was another day which brought his inevitable victory a little closer. He went to bed early, happy in the knowledge that a tricky day had been seen off with honesty and integrity (or, at least, his own brand of those two questionable attributes), and that the Sun were coming out the following day with their support for his government, ridiculous reservations notwithstanding. Barney also went to bed early, tired and longing for home. Igor stayed out until three o'clock in the morning, enjoying the hospitality of one of the PM's two PR girls. Grogan and Eason sat up late, discussing the nature of poultry.

  *

  And while the evening drew to a close and tumbled into early night in London, the killer of the PM's hairdresser checked himself into a hotel in Washington DC, where he was due to spend the next couple of days. For although the chicken thing had all been his idea, and the timing and execution had been down to him, the killer, like so many others before him, answered to a higher power.

  Thursday 21st April 2005

  0728hrs

  There was a loud rapping at the door, an incessant clatter, until Barney Thomson suddenly sat bolt upright in bed. He had three seconds of complete confusion, that glorious moment of total mental bedlam when you wake up in a strange bed and don't have the faintest idea where you are; that exotic mixture of fear and concern and delirious freedom, until you realise you're in the bed that you went to sleep in and everything becomes clear and obvious and your heart sinks back to normal level. Barney looked at the clock, he shook his head and then flopped back down on the bed. The knocking started up again, the sound which five seconds earlier had seemed to be part of a bizarre dream where everybody he knew was either dead or turning into snakes.

  He stared at the ceiling, the knowledge flooding back of where he was. Hotel in London, working for the Prime Minister, due in Downing Street at 7:15. Barney was late for school. He'd be sent to the headmaster, maybe kept late for detention. The PM was going to Rochdale for the afternoon. More meetings with real people, another visit to a marginal constituency. Couldn't possibly do that without his fifteenth haircut in three days.

  Barney swung his legs over the side of the bed, straightened up, felt the pains in every joint and bone in his legs, as ever these days, and walked slowly to the door. On his way he caught sight of himself in the mirror and stopped. Turned and looked at himself, floor length. Top to bottom. Nothing sagging yet, but not exactly fit. Hair just about hanging in there, decent muscle tone in legs and arms, looked OK in a white t-shirt and boxer shorts, but not so great when they were removed. Sighed, sucked in his stomach, walked to the door, wondering if this was going to be a woman.

  He opened the door and nodded. It was the two police officers from the day before. Grogan and Eason. No women. He let his stomach go again, shook his head at the fact that he'd actually been sucking in the stupid thing in the first place.

  'Gentlemen,' he said. 'I couldn't be more excited.'

  'We need to talk,' said Grogan.

  'Fantastic,' replied Barney. 'I've just woken up, I'm knackered and confused, feel like shit, barely know what day it is, I look like the Borg, and I'm dying to take a pish. Come in, sit down, order room service.'

  Eason smiled. He loved it when potential interrogatees met Grogan sarcasm for sarcasm. Grogan wasn't so keen.

  'Breakfast downstairs in fifteen minutes,' he said.

  'I'm already late for work,' said Barney.

  'Call in knackered and confused,' said Grogan dryly, and with that he turned and walked off down the corridor. Eason looked at Barney, for some reason couldn't stop himself winking and snapping his fingers at him, and he turned and followed the boss. Barney watched them go then closed the door and turned back into the room.

  'Bollocks,' he muttered, and then he minced off to the bathroom in search of cold water.

  0733hrs

  The Prime Minister sat in the barber's chair, looking a little concerned. Williams and Thackeray buzzed about in the background, sorting out papers, writing memos, trying to disengage themselves from the PM's latest hair crisis.

  'You know what Gordon's supposed to be doing today?' asked Thackeray, rifling through a red box full of paper.

  Williams said something non-committal in reply, but the PM hardly heard him. He had switched off as soon as he had heard mention of the name Gordon. Unless they were talking about the gin, he didn't want to know. He caught the eye of the man who was standing behind him, poised and patiently waiting, like an unfettered grizzly bear hovering over the salmon of eternal lunch.

  'You're sure you've done this before?' he asked, speaking slowly and clearly.

  The man behind him hesitated a second and then nodded. In for a penny...

  'Arf,' he said.

  The PM breathed deeply and then slowly let the Prime Ministerial napper drop forward in a nod of approval.

  'As Prime Minister, I believe that it is my duty to help the hard working people of Britain prosper and go forward in whatever field they choose. This, the present, following on so quickly as it is from the past, is the time when we shall prepare for the future in whatever way we see best, and I, as Prime Minister, can only stand back in admiration, as I admire the admirable actions of the reliable ordinary real people who draw a line and make a stand. Yes, Igor, you can invade Iran...'

  'Arf!'

  'Cut my hair, sorry.'

  Igor grimaced, for some reason the PM relaxed, and the deaf-mute hunchbacked barber's assistant leant forward and plunged headfirst into his first haircut in several years.

  0753hrs

  'I'm curious,' said Grogan.

  Barney buttered another piece of toast and placed a slice of well-grilled smoked bacon on top. He glanced at the maple syrup, but there wasn't a pancake in sight, so he decided against. Took a drink of tea that wasn't quite warm enough. Hotel tea; what can you do?

  'That's a fine quality in a police officer,' said Barney. 'Can you not eat breakfast at the same time?'

  Eason laughed, as he took a bite out of a massive bacon, egg, mushroom, bacon, tomato, egg, sausage, black pudding, egg and hash brown sandwich he'd created. Grogan looked over the top of his cup of coffee. Grogan never ate breakfast. Or lunch or dinner. Grogan never seemed to let anything pass his lips other than cigarette smoke, coffee and alcohol. There were those at the station who thought he was a vampire; although that would be a nicotine/caffeine/alcohol junkie vampire.

  'Why you?' said Grogan.

  Barney nodded in acknowledgement of a fine question, as he finished off his mouthful.

  'The way I see it,' he said, 'the first thing he'll have done on the first morning when his hairdresser didn't turn up, is look for the hairdresser of one of the other cabinet ministers. However, the likelihood is that they'll all have restrictive clauses written into their contracts, preventing them from working for anyone else. Then he'll have turned to celebrity people, and if they weren't already tied up, they'll have told him to clear off, because that lot all turned against New Labour years ago. Next he'll have got his guys to go out in London and check all the Toni & Guy accredited establishments they could find, and they'll all have told him to piss off, because they'll have had their credibility to think about. Then they'll have started checking the regions, and before you know it, they would have been at a Scottish outpost picking up any old geezer they could get their hands on. And, of course, his deaf-mute hunchbacked assistant.'

  Eason took another massive bite from his massive sandwich and sent a great squirt of egg yolk out over the white table cloth. He looked as sheepish as was possible with a mouthful of food and Grogan gave him a
sideways glance.

  'And maybe it was because you worked for the Scottish First Minister and he'd heard about you.'

  Barney smiled.

  'You're curious and you do research,' he said. 'You're pretty sharp.'

  Eason gave a full-mouthed mumble to indicate it was him who had done the research. Barney acknowledged him.

  'Why do you think the guy was murdered?' said Grogan, suddenly coming to the point.

  Barney took another bite to give himself some time to think. Eason took another bite at the same time, and a great dollop of maple syrup dripped down his white shirt.

  'The way we see it, there are three possibilities,' said Grogan, not waiting for an answer. 'One, he was killed by someone in the PM's office because he didn't like the way his hair looked.' He paused to allow Barney time to react to that outrageous suggestion. Barney didn't. 'Two, he was killed by his gay lover.'

  'He had a gay lover?' said Barney, through a piece of bacon.

  'Hell, he was a hairdresser, he's bound to have.'

  Barney gave him the appropriate look.

  'You're a barber, that's one thing. But these nancy boy hairdressers who poof about in leather trousers, there's something wrong with them, you know what I'm saying?'

  'I believe you're saying that your thinking hasn't progressed since your grandfather was born,' said Barney.

  'Come on, they're all called Ramone and Raphael and Julio and Juan for crying out loud. Juan...'

  'Really? You ever actually met a gay hairdresser called Juan?' asked Barney.

  'Commendably new man of you,' said Grogan, 'but in this case we checked. He had a boyfriend.'

  'Doesn't mean you're not ignorant,' said Barney, 'and doesn't mean that the guy killed him just because they were both gay. What kind of TV have you been watching? So what was the third suggestion? He was an illegal immigrant? His parents weren't from England? He had a hunchback?'

  'Number three, someone's trying to mess with the PM's re-election campaign, and this is a good way of buggering him up.'

  Barney nodded.