The Wormwood Code (6 page)

'Who's going to make the move?' asked Grogan.

Eason shrugged. This part probably wasn't going to sound so great.

'He said he would know. Him. He's going to make the approach.'

Grogan looked at him, his lips pursed.

'So we're just going to stand here like lemons?' he said.

Eason mused over the lemon aspect of it and then nodded.

'I'd dispute the lemon thing, but... well, that might be a way to put it.'

'God's sake,' muttered Grogan.

He looked around the bar, his eyes swiftly glancing over the man with the cell phone watching television, and then he did what he frequently did, and chose to act on his gut instinct.

'Let's get out of here,' he said. 'Come on.'

Eason was about to object, but he knew to trust Grogan's intuition. He resented his boss's sixth sense, but there was no doubt that it worked. And, as the barman began to ask the question of what they wanted to drink, they turned their backs on him and walked quickly from the bar. And though they would never know it, that sixth sense of Grogan's would mean that the man with the phone, having noticed their presence, and having been about to leave the establishment and remotely detonate the small bomb planted under the bar, instead chose to finish his Strongbow and packet of over-marketed crisps, and left the device unexploded.

This man was indeed working for Tory party central office, but was here in his capacity as the double agent of a shadowy overseas organisation. He was also, however, more of a Monopoly and Marmite man than a bomb man, and so, in fact, the bomb would never have gone off anyway, even when detonated.

The world, as Winston Churchill once observed, is full of goddam Muppets.

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1345hrs

T
he helicopter buzzed away from the south coast on its way back to London. The PM was buzzing himself, happy with the way things had gone, and happy with the praise which had been lauded upon him by the sycophants with whom he surrounded himself. And the main event of the afternoon to come was a bit of a no-lose affair in which he himself did not even need to become involved. The leader of Her Majesty's Opposition was being interviewed by Paxman.

Count Dracula was never going to win over the votes of very many people against Paxman; however, there was always the possibility that Paxman would pummel him into the dirt and support would crumble around him, so that by the time the Sundays went to press late the following night, the opinion polls would be showing Labour twelve points ahead and the election would be as good as over. Worst case scenario, one where Herman Munster actually managed to put in a good show, then they might scrape back a point; but a lead of three to seven is not so much worse than a lead of four to eight, and Labour would still be on for a huge majority. It wasn't as if he could afford to take a day off, or be seen to do so, but perhaps it was time to scale back on all those awful meetings with real people. Let the Deputy Leader handle them. The press loved it after all. A fist was as good as wink to a blind bat.

'You're very quiet,' said the PM to Barney.

Barney dragged his eyes away from the disappearing English channel.

'Not paid to talk,' he said. 'Just hair.'

'I've come to value your opinion,' said the PM.

Barney looked at him. He stared deep into the Prime Ministerial eyes and then turned away with a shiver. He shook it off, looked at the grey waters of the channel for the final time as the helicopter disappeared into a slight, white cloud formation.

'I can see right through you,' said Barney, still looking out the window. He paused. The Prime Minister felt a little uncomfortable with the remark. 'I don't think you want me to tell you what I think,' he added.

The PM looked at the back of Barney's head, and then once more opened up the in-flight holiday magazine, and looked wistfully at pictures of Greek beaches.

Greece, he wondered. Hmm. NATO and the European Union. Tricky, tricky, tricky.

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1943hrs

E
arly evening, almost the end of another day on the campaign trail. Hard to imagine, as the Paxman interview played out on the TV, and the PM watched with Thackeray and Dan Dan; as Barney and Igor laughed in a melancholy manner over pasta in Leicester Square; as Gail and Winsome raced around the office compiling polling figures on a variety of important governmental issues; as the leader of the opposition sat in self-congratulatory mode at head office, his ego massaged by a small group of hangers-on which included the undercover agent for a nefarious foreign body; and another group of pollsters called and doorstepped more hapless British voters, to come to the conclusion that nothing had changed in the last four years; it was hard to imagine that the future of the election, and of the political leaders and of the country itself, lay in the contents of a small, ancient wooden box, which currently lay in a drawer of a small office on the fourth floor of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

Yet that was how it was.

0818hrs

A
nother day, another hair re-styling. Barney and the PM were in the bathroom in 10 Downing Street as Barney attended to his hair before a new day on the election trail. There was nothing to be done with his hair, of course, but the vanity of world leaders who believe in their own greatness demands constant attention. Williams and Thackeray, the PM's advisors, had been dispatched. The PM was in melancholic humour, looking at himself in the mirror as Barney fussed around the Prime Ministerial napper, without actually really doing anything. The morning papers had been the usual mix, more credence and interest given to the stories of the day rather than his own grand visions. He'd made three headlines, right enough, a rise on the Pope-dominated early days of the week, but two of them had been derogatory. In particular, the Independent was pissing him off with its constant banging on about green issues. The future of the planet? As if there weren't a hundred bigger issues to talk about. The PM bared his teeth again and looked gloomily at the dead tooth on his lower jaw.

'Apparently people tend to remember things in sevens,' said the PM suddenly, wanting to break the self-imposed despondency of the moment.

Barney bouffed a section of limp looking hair at the back. Didn't reply. Was moderately melancholic himself although not quite in the same gloomy depths as the PM. Happy enough to work in silence, unthinking. Ask any barber what are the best days in a shop, and they'll tell you they're the ones where the customers don't want to talk and the day can be passed in quiet rumination. Apart from those barbers who never shut up and talk about the stupid weather all the time.

'Plus or minus two,' the PM said, when Barney didn't say anything.

Barney caught his eye in the mirror, decided to think about what the man had actually said.

'Sorry?' he said. 'Seven?'

'Yes,' said the PM. 'That's why there are so many things in seven, particularly in the ancient world. Seven Deadly Sins, Seven Wonders of the World, The Seven Commandments, that kind of thing. George Miller came up with the theory in the '50s, even before
The Magnificent Seven
was released.'

Barney snipped away.

'That's why people can remember the names of the Magnificent Seven, but not the Dirty Dozen or the Four Tops.'

Barney stopped for a second. He looked down at the top of the PM's balding head, and then looked him in the eye.

'It might be time to focus, Prime Minister,' he said. 'Big day ahead,' he added, even though he had no idea what the day ahead held.

The PM breathed deeply and looked at himself in the mirror. Bared his lips, allowed his heart to sink that little bit further at the sight of his teeth, which his advisors wouldn't allow him to have re-whitened mid-campaign, and then he switched back into serious world leader pretend. No time for gloom when you've got a planet to help destroy.

'Press conference with the chancellor this morning,' he said, looking Barney in the eye. 'Don't know why we bother with all the pretence, it's not like everybody doesn't know.'

'What's the problem?' asked Barney.

The PM shrugged. 'Just hate each other.'

'Why?'

The PM stared at himself.

'That's a very good question,' he said, completely switching in to PM-mode, 'and I believe strongly as a politician first and a Prime Minister second, that it is my duty to answer questions asked by ordinary hardworking people. Such as yourself.'

Barney nodded. Oh God, don't start monologuing, he thought, I'm not going to vote for you anyway.

'Well, he hates me because I've got the sweetie jar and I'm not giving it to him,' he said smiling. He liked that analogy, and just wished that he could use it with the press. That bunch of comedians would be all over him, of course, if he said it. Usually only his wife and the Health Secretary and a few others got the benefit of it. 'And why do I hate him? No big reason. Don't like the cut of his Scottish jib. I hate the noise he makes when he eats, and that thing he does when he draws his lower lip in beneath his top one, you know what I'm talking about?'

Barney nodded just to keep him happy.

'And he farts,' muttered the PM darkly. 'Big Scottish farts. Stinky.'

Barney snipped off a piece of hair which, strictly speaking, didn't need to go.

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0945hrs

D
etective Chief Inspector Grogan and Sergeant Eason, the men investigating the murder of the Prime Minister's previous barber, Ramone MacGregor – who had been killed one week earlier with a chicken – were sitting in the office of the Chief Superintendent, M Jackson McDonald. Grogan, while not actually smoking at that instant, was oozing the stench of cigarettes. Eason had a large tomato ketchup stain on his tie from breakfast. M Jackson McDonald was scratching his beard.

'How do you know that this man came from Conservative Party HQ? It could have been any old crank.'

'We checked the phone records, Sir,' said Eason.

McDonald nodded. That one was too easy, which was a pity. There was no way he was letting them take this any further, but he didn't want it getting too messy, and he didn't want them deciding to do something behind his back.

'Why didn't you wait for him in the pub then?' said M Jackson McDonald sharply. He was about to cover them in bullshit, and so was taking an aggressive stance right from the off, in the usual manner of authority which knows it's in the wrong. 'You turned up and then left without meeting him? That doesn't sound like good police work to me, Chief Inspector. Don't go making waves now just to cover up your own mistake.'

'Making waves?' said Grogan. 'We received a call from Tory HQ relating to a murder investigation. It's perfectly reasonable that we follow it up.'

He was getting annoyed, although he generally got annoyed just at the thought of entering McDonald's office.

'It's probably just some crank call,' said M Jackson McDonald.

'We won't know unless we check it out!' barked Grogan.

M Jackson McDonald straightened his shoulders. To be honest he found Grogan quite intimidating, but he couldn't show it.

'Goddamit, Grogan,' he said, theatrically bringing his fist down onto the desk, a genuine thespian at heart, 'it's taking all our efforts to keep this thing out the press in the first place. Imagine the stink it'll cause if it gets out that part of the investigation into the murder of the PM's barber is taking place at the opposition HQ. Jesus Christ, it'll be the news story of the millennium, even if it does lead to nothing. My bollocks will be roasted.'

Grogan leant forward, in what Eason recognised as his pre-Rottweiller position.

'And what if the killer just so happens to come from Tory Party HQ? We just let him away with it because it'll get in the papers?'

M Jackson McDonald rose to his feet and once more brought the fist of Equity down on the desk. It might have been effective if he hadn't been such a bearded fop.

'You can't go making such judgements from one meaningless phone call! Calm it down, Steven!' he bellowed. 'Or you'll be directing traffic...'

Up the King's Road?

'...up the King's Road!'

Grogan got to his feet and walked quickly to the door.

'I'm not finished,' yelled M Jackson McDonald.

Grogan turned and looked at him, hand on the door.

'I need a smoke,' he said, then he quickly opened the door and walked out.

M Jackson McDonald slammed his fist once more on the desk, looking angrily at the door, while actually being rather relieved that the unpleasant scene was now over. He turned to Eason at the sound of him pushing his chair back and getting to his feet.

'And I need a doughnut,' said Eason, then he too walked out the office, only with a little less drama.

M Jackson McDonald slumped down into the seat and looked at the small report which Grogan had compiled on the investigation so far.

'Aw, shite,' he muttered. 'I need a doughnut and a cigarette 'n' all.'

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1017hrs

B
arney and his deaf-mute hunchbacked assistant Igor were sitting watching the PM on television, eating breakfast. Second breakfast which, properly handled, can be even better than first breakfast. There was a lot of bacon involved. The PM was giving some line about how people should vote for Labour if they valued their achievements, and both Barney and Igor snorted.

'That's just a bizarre thing for any serving government to say,' said Barney.

Igor nodded.

'Not like I care, because one's as bad as the other,' he began, and Igor glanced at Barney over his humph, 'but every single policy the government has is about privatisation and private finance initiatives and giving money to big business and consultants and damn to hell whether it's best for patients or rail passengers or whatever. But the real stuff that they do wrong, the real mismanagement and the real wastes of public money, the opposition can't complain about, as they started it, and they'd do exactly the same stuff if they got in. Load of pish, the whole thing. Complete load of pish.'