The Wormwood Code Read Free Page B

The PM was experienced enough to know that you didn't turn round mid-haircut. That had happened to him once before, and he'd had to fake a heart problem in order to get out of the public eye until he could get it repaired.
    'What's the score, Dan Dan?' he asked.
    Williams looked pale himself. There was a lot of blood being drained out of faces, and it was a good thing that none of it was leaking onto the carpet. Barney glanced in the mirror, saw the look in Williams' eyes and stopped the cut. Here was something, he thought. He recognised the look. Death had come to call. It followed him everywhere, as sure as thunder followed lightning, as sure as a headache followed a night of grape and grain.
    Williams looked at the PM, who turned round, now that Barney had stopped the cut. Williams couldn't say it straight away, glanced at Thackeray, ended up looking at Barney, as he seemed the one with the most authority in the room.
    'Who's dead?' asked Barney.
    Williams swallowed. The PM looked at Barney, then back to Williams.
    'Someone's dead?' he asked. 'Bloody hell, something else to keep us off the front pages. Who is it now? Probably flippin' Camilla, that would really finish us off.'
    'Ramone,' said Williams, his voice breaking as he spoke. He cleared his throat, said 'Ramone' again a little more clearly. Barney nodded. That made sense. He hadn't heard the name of the previous hairdresser, but it was pretty obvious from the PM's napper that he had been getting his hair cut by someone called Ramone for the last few years.
    'Arf,' said Igor.
    The PM glanced at him, then at Barney.
    'You knew Ramone?' he asked. 'You know, you being barbers?'
    Barney shook his head, then he looked at Williams and said, 'Cause of death? Timing, suspects, arrests, anything out of the ordinary?'
    Williams, Thackeray and the Prime Minister stared at Barney curiously, wondering suddenly if the sense of assurance which the new barber carried came from the fact that he worked for MI6. Or MI5. Or the CIA. The PM looked at Williams and nodded.
    'Yes,' he said, 'any of that stuff. I feel it's vitally important at this stage to have all the facts, with fully documented, verifiable evidence to support them.'
    'Found in a hotel room, not far from here. He'd been dead a couple of days.'
    Williams hesitated. The PM glanced at Barney, as if the barber was in charge and might be able to hurry Williams up a little. He looked at his watch, his curiosity mixing with his desire to get his hair finished before the press conference that morning.
    'He'd had his stomach cut open and stuffed with a chicken. The chicken's head had been cut off and thrust down his throat.'
    The PM blanched. Thackeray suddenly felt the vomit rise from his stomach, and seeing as he was in the bathroom, he didn't have far to go anyway. He dived for the toilet, as Barney rolled his eyes and looked at Igor.
    Same old, same old, thought Barney. This kind of murder was always all show and no tell.
    'Arf!' exclaimed Igor.
    ––––––––
    1857hrs
    T he day had been spent in mass cover up. It wasn't as if the PM had had anything to do with his barber's grotesque death, for he certainly hadn't, and neither, as far as he knew, had anyone else in his party or organisation, but he couldn't let the story get out. Not at this stage, possibly not ever. And so the right words about national security had been said, Williams had been admonished for relating the story in front of Barney and Igor, and the number of people who knew about it was in the process of being kept to the absolute minimum. Health and crime and squabbles over immigration had seen the day trudge by in the usual two-weeks-to-go banality. Soundbites and counter-soundbites, with nothing new to be said. Big lead in the polls, and it wasn't as if anyone doubted who was going to win.
    There was a knock at the study door, and the PM immediately sat down behind his desk, feeling guilty that he'd almost been caught idly staring out the window