'You know you shouldn't come here,' said Weirdlove, quoting a line from two out of every three 9pm movies on Channel 5.
'Did you hear about Trudger?' she said, and Weirdlove could feel the shiver in the voice. Not being caused solely by the cold outside. Knew she was afraid.
'Where are your bodyguards?' he said.
'Gave them the slip,' she said, and she shrugged her shoulders at the look he gave her. 'I couldn't let them know I was coming here.'
'Well, you shouldn't have come here,' he said, sternly. 'Look at you, Winnie, you're scared.'
'I'm not bloody scared!' she cried. 'But there's only me, Benderhook and Malcolm left from the original cabinet.'
'Duh huh!' said Weirdlove, smacking the palm of his hand off his forehead, 'well why are you out without your bodyguards then?'
'I needed to talk to you,' she said. 'And I can take care of myself,' she protested.
'That'll be why you're terrified, then,' he said.
'Stop saying that! I'm not terrified, just because I'm a woman.'
'Look at you! You're shivering, you've got goose bumps all over your body, and your nipples are like big lumps of play-doh.'
She swallowed, looked down at her chest, shook her head in embarrassment, turned, walked a few further feet down the hall, turned back to face him.
'Christ!' she said, exasperated. 'All right, I'm scared. I'm fucking terrified! Are you happy, Parker? Six of my colleagues are gone, probably murdered, there are only three of us left, four including Jesse, and I could be next. They're going for us one by one, and the police know dick! We're sitting ducks. So what if I shook off the bodyguards, did they do Trudger any bloody good?'
'Only 'cause he let them out his sight,' said Weirdlove coolly.
'I'm not letting someone watch me wipe my arse, Parker!' she yelled. 'We're supposed to be living in a civilised society. Look, I'm here now, whether you like it or not. Are you going to offer me a drink?'
Weirdlove breathed deeply, considering his position. It wasn't entirely unheard of for JLM to show up at his place, although it was rare and he would be unlikely to instigate a search of the premises. Even so, it would be unfortunate if Wanderlip were to be discovered at his flat under these, or any other, circumstances.
'Personally, Winnie,' he said, a little more casually than he was aiming for, 'I don't think you've anything to worry about. Not at this stage.'
'What does that mean?'
'I just,' he began, 'look, I think you'll be fine. Whoever this is, maybe they're not aiming at the cabinet, you never know.'
'You're kidding me, right?' she said. 'You're saying that someone is just haphazardly murdering people in Edinburgh, and bugger me, but if it isn't just the case that, entirely at random, the victims have all be part of the cabinet. Fuck me, who would've thought? Odds have to got to be, say, at least fifty to one. Maybe even double that!'
'Winnie,' he said, 'calm down.'
And, to her surprise, he opened the door again.
'I'd give you a coat,' he said, 'but if JLM saw you he might recognise it as mine.'
The objections to the stupidity of that came to the tip of her tongue, but the fact that he was throwing her out was the far, far greater slight.
'Don't do this, Parker,' she said.
'I'll speak to you, tomorrow,' he said coldly. 'If we get the chance, although we're going to be pretty busy.' Last day with Vogts and Eaglehawk. Maybe it was time to cultivate friends to shore up his position. But then, only the right kind of friends. 'Tomorrow,' he repeated firmly, when she didn't move.
Wanderlip hesitated, felt the old familiar rage well up inside her. Count to a million, don't completely cut yourself off from him, she thought, even though he deserves it. You never know, you never know.
And so, stabbing her fingernails into the palms of her hands, she walked quickly past him and on down the stairs which led to the front door.
Parker Weirdlove watched her for a few seconds, but closed the door before seeing her vicious glance over the shoulder. He held his hand against the door for a while, as if considering his position, and then walked slowly back down the hall and into the bedroom.
'Well,' said the man who was sitting up in his bed, reading House & Garden. 'Nipples like big lumps of play-doh, eh? I wish I'd seen that.'
Weirdlove scowled, shook his head, pulled back the sheets and climbed into bed.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the wall up with our English dead!
In The Wee Small Hours Of The Morning...
Minnie Longfellow-Moses returned from The Hague curiously late. Jesse was sleeping soundly, the sleep of the self-righteous, empty cup of diet hot chocolate on his bedside table, along with some musings that he was jotting down, intent on formulating them into a book of some description for publication in the next year or so. It would be his Mein Kampf, his Das Kapital, the broad statement that laid down the founding principles of Mosesism. She lifted his notebook, cast an uncritical eye over the misty ramblings on the future of the welfare state, and how the best way to promote a good health service is to have a healthier population, and the best way to ensure that people are healthier is to hit them in their pockets if they're not. You'll see, he'd jotted down, how quickly people cut down the fags and fish suppers, start jogging to work and cramming in the apples and pears, as soon as you make them have to pay for their trips to hospital. It would be a guiding principle. The state would help those who helped themselves. And it was a sure-fire way to get away from the modern culture of lack of self-responsibility. Everyone would be in charge of their own destiny.
The perfect society, that was the conclusion he'd reached. And he'd written those words at the top of the page as a good title for the work. It won't be a long book, his final thought had been as he'd drifted off to sleep, but it's not about length, it's about history.
Minnie Longfellow-Moses placed the notebook back on JLM's bedside table, couldn't even summon the interest to smile wryly.
'That'll get you far, Jesse,' she said softly, and she turned and walked into the bathroom.
***
Winona Wanderlip took a long time to get off to sleep, a thousand political intrigues and connivances scrambling about, part of a giant muddle, in her head. The cabinet murders, the deaths of so many ineffectual people, it was so utterly pointless. It had to be someone close to them, someone with a vested interest in the cabinet's handling of the country. Perhaps it was that old spy thing; where they'd cause a plane crash to cover up the fact that they were assassinating one person. It might be the same here; they were really only after one member of the cabinet, but they were killing them all to make it look like a more general vendetta.
That, and so many other conspiracies, feasted on her imagination as she lay listening to the sound of traffic on the South Bridge. What use had the police been? They had interviewed everyone in the parliament building about ten times, and they hadn't a clue. They must've spoken to someone who knew what was going on, or someone who was responsible, and they'd been unable to notice. And what use were the two officers, one sitting outside her bedroom door, the other in the sitting room? What were they going to do when a killer silently broke in through her window in the middle of the night and struck her down?
The police were no use, the case of Trudger had shown that the bodyguards were no use. It was going to take a spark of inspiration to solve the mystery, and by Scooby Doo, if she wasn't just the woman to do it. And if, in the course of her investigations, she was to discover that Jesse Longfellow-Moses was in any way implicated in proceedings, then it might turn out nicely after all.
What to do about Parker Weirdlove, and what had become of their special relationship, was another question which vexed her greatly. So much so, that she had turned the picture of him which sat beside her bed, face down on the table. Tonight she did not want him watching over her while she slept.
***
As for JLM's team:
Parker Weirdl
ove slept very easily. No trouble visiting the old land of nod, when you have justice and honesty as your passport. All it takes is a little self-belief.
Veron Veron slept equally well.
The Reverend Blake began the long night alone, but did not continue as such all the way through.
Dr Louise Farrow sat up late into the evening, surfing, checking everything from FBI files to a variety of medical histories, until there came a knocking at her door.
Dr Rebecca Blackadder got back to her room, sent a few e-mails, wrote a few notes, considered a few things. Went back out again after midnight, had a couple of drinks, and was not unaccompanied when she returned to her room at a little after two.
The Amazing Mr X stayed awake all night, worrying over whether he should have taken the night off, leaving the job of guarding JLM to the two untried police officers. The Amazing Mr X never slept.
Barney Thomson, be he either composed of the old Barney's brain, body or memories, or a combination thereof, lay awake for several hours, bedroom curtains open, staring at the ceiling. Neither restless nor unhappy, brain a gentle buzz, thinking about Blackadder, wondering if there was a real connection between them, and wondering if he had just done the right thing. For on returning to his room, he had bitten the bullet and placed the flag in the window for Solomon and Kent. Solomon had arrived an hour and a half later, minus his Robin, had listened to Barney's reservations about Dr Blackadder, had cracked a few gags, and had gone on his way. Barney had thought to raise the matter of Solomon's tale of his past, but had decided to leave it for another day, and a clearer head.
And Father Michael had a very interesting evening, which involved sex, murder and rock 'n roll, which would've gone down very badly with his superiors had they known about it. The Catholic Church hates rock 'n roll.
***
James Eaglehawk and Conrad Vogts had another long evening, which stretched into the wee small hours of the morning. A mixture of business and pleasure; on the one hand plotting Eaglehawk's ascension to power in the Scottish Executive, with German and European backing, on the other, reminiscing about long nights in the Bavarian Alps, filled with beer, women and tall tales of beer and women.
James Eaglehawk and Conrad Vogts were becoming firm friends. Jim and Bertie, as they now knew each other.
Poor old Jim Eaglehawk. A simple man who, despite being very careful, despite spending years in politics watching his back and avoiding uncertain alliances, was blinded by his own duplicity into not seeing the duplicity of others. And so, he did not see Conrad Vogts coming, not in the least.
***
Which does not leave many people to be considered.
The vast population of Edinburgh slept soundly, or not, in their usual manner, quite unconcerned about the bloodletting that was taking place in the Executive. Earlier that evening there had been rival radio phone-in shows; Radio Scotland against Radio Forth. Radio Scotland had been discussing the massacre of the cabinet; Radio Forth had been discussing whether there should be strip bars in the centre of Edinburgh. Radio Scotland had fifteen calls, twelve of which had asked them to talk about something more interesting. Radio Forth had three hundred and twenty-seven calls.
So, that just leaves the last two members of the cabinet, who have more or less been absent from the narrative up until now. Malcom Malcolm III of the Clan Malcolm, Minister for Health, and Fforbes Benderhook, Deputy First Minister. You might be thinking, well they're shadowy figures, they might well have something to do with the general slaughter of all their compadres. Or you might be thinking that they're nothing more than the red uniformed guys who used to beam down to the alien planet with the big spunkmeister himself, Cpt James T.
Well, as the night slowly lingered its way around to an early morning, the sun rising behind banks of grey cloud, and the Indian summer came crashing to its knees, both Benderhook and Malcolm were dead. One with a bullet in the brain, much in the same manner as the late Honeyfoot; the other, the unfortunate Malcolm, his head rather brutally panned to a pulp with a beautiful bedside lamp he'd picked up in a Christmas market in the southern Belgian town of Dinant.
They had both been guarded by the requisite two policemen, men who were obviously ineffectual in either case. Benderhook's guards were completely oblivious to their charge's murder, or disappearance, as it appeared, until he didn't materialise for breakfast the following morning. Malcolm's guards, much to his murderer's discomfort and guilt, had had to be surgically removed before the head pulping sesh had begun.
In the case of Benderhook, his killer had dispatched the Deputy First Minister with precision and panache, and had then turned and legged it for Malcolm's house. That the body of Benderhook would then be removed, so that it looked like the man might've just nipped out for a McDonald's breakfast, would be of no surprise to her.
However, with the bloody bludgeoning to death of Malcolm, and the completion of her night's work – indeed the completion of her task as a whole – the killer had decided that perhaps it was time to discover the identity of The Undertaker. And so, she'd faked her departure from the scene, on the assumption that she was being watched, and then had crept back to hide in the shrubbery and await The Undertaker's arrival. And her marginal sneakiness would be rewarded, for at last, after eight Cabinet murders, the identity of the person cleaning up after her heinous crimes, would finally be revealed to her; and it would make no sense whatsoever...
***
The slaughter of the innocents of the Scottish Executive Cabinet had come to a conclusion. Eight of the originals down, only Winona Wanderlip and Jesse Longfellow-Moses remained. And although it was of virtually no interest whatsoever to the people of Scotland, Wanderlip would at least feature in one newspaper story the following day:
WINNIE IN NIPPLEGATE SHOCKER
Phworr! As Labour stunna, Winnie Wanderlip, stepped out into the cold last night, on her way to a select Edinburgh nightspot, passers-by drooled at her breasts, as her corking nipples walked down the road at least four inches in front of the rest of her. 'They were like pine cones,' gasped stunned pedestrian, Wullie McGinest, 18.
Several people called the emergency services, as chaos threatened to engulf the city centre.
'We've just never seen nipples like them,' claimed shopkeeper, Alvin McAndrew, 36. 'Traffic ground to a halt, and I saw several people almost killed by drivers distracted by her enormous protrusions.'
Wanton Winnie was last night unavailable for comment, but a close friend told us, 'Winnie is really proud of her nipples, and loves to show them off. She's a big tart really.'
Last month, Wanderlip issued a statement denying having had collagen injections in her nipples, and several other parts of her body. She is 38.
Lovely stuff.
One Vision
Barney watched the Scottish news the following morning. They actually led with the murders of Malcolm and Benderhook, although they treated it more as a comic cuts type of thing, the presenter ending the report with the words 'who'd be a cabinet minister, eh?' and a wry smile. Barney wondered if Solomon had immediately put a tail on Blackadder, and whether she would now be exonerated. Or would he have moved at the pace that the rest of the police force had moved? The Chief Constable had been on that morning, and had excused his Force's poor performance in the investigation up to that point with the statement; 'Obviously we're putting all available manpower into the investigation. However, with the visits of Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones to play golf in recent days, and the award of an honorary doctorate in 'Cool' to Sir Sean Connery at Heriot-Watt University, we have had to prioritise. Once the Daniel O'Donnell and S Club 7 concerts are over, we'll be able to place more manpower onto the protection of what is left of the Executive, but I think at this stage that most people will understand that it would be extremely bad for the city of Edinburgh, and Scotland as a whole, if anything was to happen to a celebrity.'
Can't argue with that, Barney had thought, as he'd tucked into his bacon, eggs, black puddi
ng and sausage. (His honourable intention of moving onto healthier breakfasts after a few days, had dropped by the wayside, to accompany his vague feeling that he really ought not to be here at all.)
The day ahead read like most others. It was Thursday, so JLM should have been in parliament for questions, but with that having been brought forward a day, he was taking the opportunity to get back out amongst his people, which he loathed doing, but felt was probably necessary. He would get his face in newspapers and on television, and he could spread the word of his grand vision, not only for the country, but for the entire world. So, given that he was visiting a shopping centre in Perth (where he would stand on a box and preach), Stirling Castle, and a cheeky wee tea shop in Drymen, he was going to have to have good hair. Barney was on call, due for his first session in a little under twenty minutes.
He was just watching a football report on Rangers' new signing – a West African who, it had transpired, had never played football in his life, which made it embarrassing that Rangers had just given him a £2m signing on fee. 'The main thing,' claimed McLeish, 'is that he's not Scottish' – when there was a small scraping sound from behind. He swivelled round, and saw a small piece of paper on the floor, having just been pushed under the door.
He dashed to the door, swung it open, leaving the paper on the floor, and looked along the corridor for the unexpected mailman. Whoever it was, however, had gone, and Barney was of no mind to go chasing after them.
He lifted the paper, closed the door. Returned to his table, took a slurp of tea and another piece of toast, then unfolded the message. It was typed on a piece of A5 stationery from JLM's office, as follows:
The end to this is in sight. Come to conference room 12, Assembly Building, at eight o'clock this evening. Tell no one.
Not surprisingly it was unsigned. That would've given the game away a bit.
The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus Page 101
