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.
––––––––
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
'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.
––––––––
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
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