However, in the pubs and clubs, on the streets and in the cafés, in homes and in train stations, the British People had other things to talk about. A frivolous people with frivolous concerns. Pete and Katie; Katie's breasts; the upcoming grand final of X-Factor; Ratgate; Katie's new book; Champion's League qualifiers; how easy it was going to be for England in the World Cup; Tiger Woods and a cast of thousands... And should their minds stray from the frivolous, it would likely be to climate change or other people who'd been murdered and who were more interesting than a bunch of MPs of whom most people hadn't even heard.
*
DCI Frankenstein sat in his desk in the midst of a frenetic, electrically charged office, a hundred frenetic officers running around him. He was no longer the man in charge of the investigation; that authority had already gone to higher powers. However, given that all those above him had only joined the police after failing an audition for the Teletubbies, he knew he was the most likely to come up with a solution to this most peculiar mystery.
The newspapers from that morning lay scattered at various points around the station, pointing to just how seriously everyone was taking this attack on the corridors of British power.
Jordan Love Child Shock, said the Daily Star. And despite himself, Frankenstein leant forward to take a closer look.
The Members of Parliament were in good hands...
Wednesday 9th December 2009
0817hrs London, England
Bleacher was sitting in a chair, his back straight, muscles tensed, every aspect of his mind and body like a coiled snake, poised to turn and fight at a second's notice. He was getting his hair cut by Barney Thomson, Number 10's resident serial killer expert. Bleacher was exceptionally distrustful of Barney, and had not wanted to let Barney anywhere near him with a pair of scissors. The PM, however, had informed Bleacher that if he wanted to accompany them to Copenhagen, he was going to have to get his hair done. By Barney Thomson.
The PM was at that moment sitting in the same room getting a foot massage from a Chinese masseuse known as Miss Q.
'It makes no sense,' said Bleacher. 'Why would the Americans support a coup by serial killer? If they wanted us out, they'd just fix the next election like they did in '92.'
'What are you talking about?' barked the PM. 'No one fixed that. You put the ball in your own net often enough, in the end you lose. That's all.'
Bleacher shook his head as Barney was mid-snip, and the course of Bleacher's hair took a turn for the disastrous.
'Sit still or I'll have your head off next time,' said Barney, and Bleacher slung him a look in the mirror.
'The Yanks didn't fix the '92 election,' repeated the PM, although obviously the thought of it had struck home.
'Of course they did,' said Bleacher. 'The whole thing was sorted in 1990. The Americans wanted to invade Kuwait to kick Saddam out. Despite appearances, Thatcher told them to clear off, because they wouldn't let her be in charge. So they engineered the coup to get her removed, then replaced her with Major. And then Major only agreed to offer British support and troops for the operation, if the CIA helped rig the next General Election in the Conservatives' favour.'
'That's not true,' barked the PM. 'Is it?'
'I've heard that before,' said Barney. 'An American tourist, a fellow who worked for the CIA, told me while I was cutting his hair. He asked for a Felix Leiter if I remember correctly.'
'Come on,' said the PM. 'How d'you know he worked for the CIA?'
'They always tell you,' said Barney.
'Yeah,' agreed Bleacher reluctantly, remembering not to nod his head. 'Hi, I'm Bill the CIA Guy. They always say that.'
The PM winced as Miss Q pressed a little too firmly on his little toe.
'Well maybe they have a different plan this time because the CIA no longer have so much influence in this country under this government,' said the PM, for all the world like he was being serious.
Despite their growing distrust, Barney and Bleacher shared a wry look in the mirror.
0947hrs London, England
DCI Frankenstein and DS Hewitt were in a small office in Number 10 Downing Street, one by one interviewing members of the PM's staff. The one clue that they had was a brief meeting between a secretary and the killer Utterson in the corridors of power the previous week, in which Utterson had asserted that he worked in Number 10's office. It was likely a spurious claim, but they had little else to go on and needed to follow up every lead.
As a small, strange woman exited, her head bowed, her feet shuffling, Frankenstein ran a pen through her name and looked at the next on the list.
'Herman Fanghorn,' said Frankenstein. 'You got on your list what his post is?'
'Nope,' said Hewitt. 'Like, don't suppose it matters. This isn't getting us anywhere, is it?'
Frankenstein glanced over at the few notes that Hewitt had made. He was right, of course, but they were hardly in a position to give up. They had a clue that linked the killer with Number 10's office. If they then refused to even investigate Number 10, the press would cry foul and cover-up.
The door opened and Herman Fanghorn, an exceptionally tall man wearing a mustard waistcoat, checked jacket, and rich man's trousers that didn't quite make it all the way down to his ankles, entered and sat uncomfortably on the seat before them.
'Mr. Fanghorn?' asked Frankenstein.
'Indeed,' said Fanghorn, sounding like a man who had just acknowledged that he was the Allied delegation about to accept the surrender from the German forces on the Western front.
'Can you tell us what duties you fulfill in Number 10's office?'
Hewitt had started to doodle a tall man with exceptionally long legs.
'I'm the Prime Minister's special advisor on the X-Factor,' said Fanghorn sombrely.
'You're going to have to say that again,' said Frankenstein.
'Wow!' said Hewitt. 'That is so cool. Do you, like, go to the shows and stuff? Do you know Simon Cowell?'
'Of course,' said Fanghorn. 'I'm in regular contact with Mr. Cowell, and I attend filming every week so that I can report back to the Prime Minister.'
'Like, wow!' said Hewitt. The investigation had just become a lot more exciting.
'Hang on a second,' said Frankenstein. 'You're seriously saying that the PM has a special advisor on the X-Factor?'
'Of course,' said Fanghorn. 'The X-Factor generates more publicity and column inches and TV time than any other event in the UK over a period of two months. The Prime Minister likes to keep abreast of the situation, so that he is in touch with his broader constituency, and so he can write a letter of commiseration to each contestant as they are eliminated.'
'Like, wow,' said Hewitt again. 'What a dude. I might vote for the guy now.'
Frankenstein glanced at Hewitt then looked back at Fanghorn.
'And have you ever murdered anyone in the course of your duties?' he asked dryly.
'Not since coming to Number 10,' answered Fanghorn.
Afternoon, London, England
It had been over thirty hours since the most recent time of death of one of the murdered parliamentarians. It may have made the newspapers that morning - although it couldn't quite usurp Tiger Woods' mother-in-law, that old headline grabber - but already it was what it was; yesterday's news.
The MPs had never really grieved for their fellows; no one recognises the corrupt greed of a member of parliament in any country more than one of their own number. So while there had been concern over the shocking death rate, this had been selfishly directed inwards by the MPs, a concern which had turned to relief that it had not been them; a relief that had turned to a certain arrogance that they had not been chosen, and a belief in their own impregnability. So while the police had wanted the MPs to take up house and home at Westminster until they had some idea of what was going on, by Wednesday afternoon the fools at the trough had convinced themselves that the danger had passed. In ones and twos, and then in a great flood, they deserted Westminster, they turned their backs o
n police advice, they stormed the gates of freedom and charged headlong out into the grey London gloom, intent on celebrating being alive, while pouring over the newly available government and shadow government posts which had been created by Utterson's act of slaughter.
1713hrs London, England
Barney Thomson was cutting hair, because that was what he did. The PM was off meeting defence chiefs, something to which he had decided not to invite Barney Thomson, citing need to know. He was also aware that at some point in the not so distant future, there would likely be an inquiry into his forthcoming decision to invade the United States of America, and he did not want Barney Thomson being called before that inquiry. Barney Thomson may have been a modern day sage, and a man who could cut hair like one of the Elven kings of old, but he was also a loose cannon.
Barney was currently giving a Robert Mitchum Long Goodbye to an old government backbencher who had read the e-mail about free haircuts going in the PM's Westminster office while the PM was about other business.
'Too late for me, of course,' Robert Mitchum was saying. 'I was going to be Prime Minister once, back in the day. Tragic really.'
'What happened?' asked Barney.
Barney felt more at home. Listening to old men talk mince while cutting their hair was where he belonged.
'Sex scandal,' said the bloke. 'You know, back in the 60's when everyone was having a sex scandal.'
'Caught with your trousers down, eh?' said Barney, while pulling off the intricate right ear of the Mitchum.
'Pah! Quite the opposite,' barked the old guy. 'It was back in the day when everyone had a sex scandal, and I didn't have one. I had the good wife, and that was it.'
'Too bad,' said Barney. 'I thought sex scandals were the death of many a political career?'
'Pah!' said the octogenarian MP. 'Well, there can be little doubt that the press get their pants in an almighty fankle. But remember, you don't get voted to be leader of your party by the media, or even the rank and file. It is your fellow MPs who hold that distinguished honour and responsibility. And there's not one of them who doesn't approve of a man getting his tackle out and rodgering as many women as possible.'
Barney smiled, the first genuine smile since he'd arrived.
'Good hard sex, mammoth erections plunging into a series of inappropriate women, that's what gets the votes of your fellows. Pah! I was never lucky enough, sad to say. I had Doris.'
'And how was Doris?' asked Barney, getting the feeling that Doris was no longer with them.
'Well, we had sex once, I think. Summer of 1961. Nothing to write home about.'
The door opened and Barney turned, the smile still on his face. DCI Frankenstein grimaced at him.
'Glad to see you're enjoying yourself,' he said.
DS Hewitt walked slowly in behind him, looking extremely excited about the fact that he was getting to step into the PM's Westminster office.
'Gentlemen,' said Barney.
'Like, wow, this is coolio,' said Hewitt. 'The Prime Minister actually, like does stuff in here.'
'Yep,' said Barney. 'This is where he comes for his head massage.'
'Like, wow...' said Hewitt.
'Looks like your hair is done, sir,' said Frankenstein to the old MP, and Barney caught the bloke's eye in the mirror and nodded. This was no place for drooling old fools.
*
'What have you got for me?' asked Frankenstein.
Barney Thomson looked Frankenstein in the eye and shook his head.
'Have you tried?'
'Not really. I just want to go home.'
'Well, you can't, Mr. Thomson. You agreed to be my deputy, so you'd better damn well start earning your cash.'
'You're not giving me any cash.'
'That aside, it's time. We've talked to everyone at that office, everyone who has anything to do with Number 10, and there are two people there who stand out like a dead penguin in the desert.'
'Bleacher and Blaine,' said Barney.
'Exactamundo,' said Hewitt.
'Now,' continued Frankenstein, 'I know that all we have linking this Utterson character to Number 10 is his word, and it doesn't sound like we can trust him so much. But it's all we've got to go with at the moment.'
'So you want me to find out everything I can about Bleacher and Blaine?' said Barney.
Outside the rain started to fall, the first drops clicking off the window. Clouds had gathered and the afternoon was drawing to a premature end. The gloom of the day seemed to sweep into the room, so that the three men were each suddenly gripped by an horrendous, soul-sapping melancholy, and despair whipped around them and sucked all hope and joy from them, as a bitter succubus sucks the life from the gods.
'Might,' said Barney. 'Might not.'
Thursday 10th December 2009
0117hrs London, England
The middle of the night in London, England. The parliamentarians of Westminster had departed en masse, assuming that the killer Utterson had finished his work, and had moved on to other pastures. Other killing fields. They had no reason to make that assumption, but it was the most convenient thing for them to think; it was the one which immediately allowed them to get on with their lives, so that was what they chose to believe. The modern Brit is not mentally set up for the Dunkirk spirit, to settle down into a period of hardship, to fight through to the bitter end. They just want everything to be OK right now, and are prepared to believe anything in order to allow that to happen.
Strangely, however, it was the four MPs and one Lord who decided to live with the hardship of spending a second night in Westminster who suffered – while the desperate souls who'd taken themselves off to do Christmas shopping and to spend an expenses-filled night at their plush London abodes on the taxpayer, slept safely in their plush double beds, with mistresses and prostitutes and, in three cases, sheep.
The killer Utterson knocked softly and entered the office of drooling old member, Lord Pascalides of Bristol. The Lord looked up from his desk, where he was working his way through the finer points of an upper chamber bill on local government financing.
'Hi, Nicholas,' said Utterson in a friendly manner. 'Do you have a minute?'
'I think so,' said the old man, glancing at his watch.
The photofit that had gone round of Utterson was so inaccurate that he didn't recognise him, and he assumed that he was a safe late night visitor to his office as he had been allowed in by the two officers standing guard outside. Pascalides did not know that the two officers standing guard outside his office were both dead.
Utterson closed the door behind him.
'I'm from Number 10's office,' he said. 'The PM's set up a new, you know, section to tackle the expenses scandal head on.'
Pascalides grumbled and shook his head.
'Why now?' he said. 'Everyone's moved on. They've forgotten about it. The MPs got away with it, and no one really came after us.'
'Yes,' said Utterson, 'but that's the thing. The PM's feeling a bit guilty about that, and he's worried that someone will kick the whole thing off again and he'll look bad because he hasn't done anything.'
Pascalides snorted. 'Bloody typical,' he said. 'The PM worried about how it'll look for him. Who are you anyway?'
'Utterson,' said Utterson smiling. 'The name's Utterson.'
Well, the old man had perhaps not recognised him from the photofit, but he knew the name. However, before he could shout out, or move, or Tweet or put an entry on Facebook, Utterson had leapt across the desk and buried a knife in his throat. Quick, efficient and fatal.
Pascalides croaked right enough, but not nearly loud enough for anyone to notice. Although most people in the vicinity were already dead anyway.
Utterson withdrew the knife, wiped it on the curtains, looked down at the river, and then turned and walked quickly from the office.
0647hrs London, England
Barney walked in to the PM's office at Number 10, with the great leader already in position, waiting for his Hairstyle of the
Day. He turned and glanced at Barney, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
'Barney!' he barked. 'Thanks for coming in so early. Smashing day today.'
Barney hadn't noticed that it was smashing as he'd huddled through the cold on his walk in the dark.
'I get a great write-up in the papers for the way I bludgeoned that Etonian tossbag into submission in the Commons yesterday. The press love me at the moment. I'm on fire, crushing that guy in my iron fist on a daily basis. Think I might call an election in January. What d'you reckon?'
Barney placed a cape around the PM's shirt, tucked it in at the back of the neck, and lifted a pair of scissors.
'Great idea,' he said, his voice completely flat. 'You might have to anyway, there are so many by-elections to be had.'
The PM glanced sternly at Barney in the mirror.
'What do you know? Were there more murders last night?'
'I don't know,' said Barney, annoyed. 'But you're already at twelve dead MPs, that's a decent number.'
'Yes, but they're across all parties,' said the PM. 'Isn't close to affecting our working majority, that's all that matters. Anyway, what are you doing for me today?'
'What would you like, Prime Minister?' said Barney, voice the colour of grey cloud.
'Well, I'm due for a big climate change speech. Expanding on my Flat Earth talk the other day that everyone loved so much.'
'What's today's theme?'
'Sustainable Fossil Fuels In A Sustainable World.'
Barney started combing the PM's hair, snipping at the odd little loose end; although after five haircuts in a week, there weren't actually any loose ends; he was just snipping to give the impression that he was doing something, as he knew that it made any customer feel good about the haircutting experience.
'How can you have sustainable fossil fuels?' asked Barney, going about his business with early morning atrophy.
The End Of Days Page 5