Barney Thomson & The Westminster Christmas Massacre - Episode 5

by Douglas Lindsay - 10:04 on 07 December 2009

The story so far: A murderer is at large in the Palace of Westminster. One MP and four Lords have been brutally slain. The police are mystified, the press are excited, and the taxpaying public are jubilant. Meanwhile, Barney Thomson, barber, has not only been drafted in by the Prime Minister to give him the Hair of the Gods, he has also been enlisted by Scotland Yard to help track this month’s serial killer...

0734hrs   London, England

‘What did you do all weekend?’ asked the Prime Minister.

Barney Thomson, barbershop death junky pursuivant, was standing behind him, poised with a pair of scissors, ready to engage the Prime Ministerial hair.

Tasked with bringing the PM’s barnet into the 21st Century, and enlisted by police officer DCI Frankenstein as some kind of rogue deputy into the Metropolitan Police Force, Barney Thomson had grabbed both opportunities by the testicles and had gone home to Scotland for a couple of days. He had breathed the air and listened to the gulls, had sat and watched the sun go down behind the hills of Bute in mid-afternoon. He had only been in London for two nights, but it had seemed like a month. A month which had once again been blighted by blood, horror, mutilated bodies and a deranged serial killer on the loose.

‘Went to Scotland,’ he said.

‘Ah, Scotland,’ said the PM. ‘Another thorn in my bloody side. What is that eejit thinking? Independence,... Sure, you can be independent, you doughnut-eating muppet. There you go, you can have you nearly-empty oil fields and you can have your bloody Royal Bank of Scotland, along with its debt. It’s all yours. They’d be bankrupt on day one. Day one! D’you have a nice time? I quite like Scotland.’

‘Aye,’ said Barney. ‘What are you looking for today?’

‘Well, we’ve got this big finance speech this morning, and we’re getting ready for Copenhagen. So we need to be bold, I want a haircut of vision. Something that says, you know, Gandhi, something like that.’

‘Gandhi was bald.’

‘It’s a higher notion than just hair, Barney, you ought to know that. I want a haircut that transcends hair. That’s what Gandhi had. He had a haircut that didn’t even need hair. I want something like that, but a haircut that doesn’t need hair but has hair anyway. You see where I’m coming from? You know that today politics isn’t about policy, it isn’t about substance or platforms or issues or taking a stance. It’s about hair. That’s why you’re here, and that’s why I did so well last week. Did you see those polls in the Sundays? I’m on fire. Now give me a Gandhi.’

‘But with hair,’ he added a second later, in case Barney had missed that bit.



0834hrs  Westminster  London, England

They were walking quickly along the corridors of Westminster, in the manner that the Prime Minister had picked up from Martin Sheen in The West Wing. He had even tried saying walk with me to Barney while Barney had been giving him a haircut, but that hadn’t worked so well.

On this occasion he was walking with the quartet of Barney, his aide Bleacher, Blaine the Cabinet Secretary, and his Diary Secretary Lucy. The PM was holding up a photofit of a particularly unattractive man.

‘What kind of haircut would you call that, Barney?’ asked the PM, showing him the photo.

Barney hummed and hawed for a second, then said, ‘Well, that there is definitely an Ovid.’

‘Ovid? You might be right,’ said the PM. He handed the picture back to Bleacher. ‘And they say this is him?’

‘One of the secretaries in the Lords came forward. She hadn’t wanted to in case the reason she was working late got out.’

‘Which was that she was banging someone she shouldn’t have been?’

‘Exactly. I’m not even going to tell you who or you’ll be sick. Anyway, she met this guy in a corridor, asked him who he was. He had a pass and said his name was Trelawny.’

The PM thought for a second then shook his head.

‘Trelawny. Like in Treasure Island?’

‘Yes,’ said Bleacher.

‘I’ve got to pull a Vienna on that one,’ said the PM.

‘Sorry?’ said Bleacher.

‘It means nothing to me.’ The PM turned and winked at Barney as if he hadn’t used a joke that had gone out of fashion in 1986.

‘This man, Trelawny,’ said Bleacher, ignoring the PM’s painful grasp at humour. ‘He said that he was from our office. Number 10’s office.’

The PM stopped abruptly. Had he been on The West Wing, the cameraman would have bumped into the back of him.

‘What?’ barked the PM. He looked at Blaine. ‘What does that mean?’

‘I don’t know the name,’ said Blaine.

The PM stared him down for a second then looked sharply at Lucy, the Diary Secretary.

‘Lucy?’ he said.

‘I’ve checked, Prime Minister. There’s never been anyone of that name working in Number 10’s office, and there hasn’t even been anyone of that name visit Number 10 since Rear Admiral Trelawny in 1903.’

The PM stared darkly along the corridor, then looked grimly around the band of four.

‘I take it the police are doing what they can with this?’ he said brandishing the picture.

‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said Bleacher.

The PM nodded, then turned and marched onwards along the corridor, his band of accomplices in his wake.



0937hrs   London, England

The applause of a hundred and seventy-five business leaders (whatever that actually is) echoing in his ears, the Prime Minister walked from the podium, shaking a couple of hands as he went. He had just given his preposterous vision on how Britain as a country wasn’t going to go bankrupt, even though it clearly already is, and people had applauded anyway, because they thought they should. His hair had looked great, and the audience had pretended to be swept along in the frenzy of Prime Ministerial enthusiasm.

He swept through the lobby of the hotel, mopping his brow for all the world like he was Elvis leaving the stage in Vegas, and hopped into the waiting black Jag, gesturing for Barney to join him and Bleacher as he went.

Barney felt like someone’s new puppy, being dragged around from tree to tree, park to field, at his master’s whim.

The doors were slammed shut and the cars moved off into the London traffic.

‘Sir,’ said Bleacher, ‘can I remind you that you need to write a letter of condolence to the families of the Lords who were murdered last week?’

‘Oh, I can do that in a couple of years,’ said the PM, ‘that should be fine. Listen, I thought that was terrific. Bleacher?’

‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ said Bleacher, ‘very positive reception.’

‘Cracking,’ said the PM. ‘Barney? How did you feel it went?’

Barney Thomson stared out of the window as the London morning passed slowly by. People huddled against the rain, the shop windows desperately lit and crying out for Christmas. Nobody wishes it would be Christmas every day, thought Barney, except children under twelve and retail outlets.

He turned back to the PM, the tiredness of the morning on his face. He’d only been back twelve hours and already he was ready to leave.

‘I need to go, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough.’

‘But you can’t,’ said the PM. He wasn’t surprised, he could see it in Barney’s eyes, knew it  had been coming. ‘You can’t. Look at me, just look at me. I’m Robert Bloody Redford here, thanks to you. Did you see that bit in the Mirror this morning, a columnist said I was one of the sexiest men in Britain.’

‘That’s the one newspaper that wants to see you re-elected,’ said Barney drily. ‘They’ll be saying you’re charismatic next, and the closer we get to the election they might even imply that you speak the truth every time you open your mouth.’

The PM gritted his teeth and leant forward, then he noticed the sharp look from Bleacher and eased back in his seat.

‘I know what you’re trying to do,’ he said. ‘But you can’t go, not with this murder enquiry taking place.’

‘I’m not a suspect,’ said Barney.

‘You’re always a suspect,’ said Bleacher coldly.

Barney looked at him, then turned away and stared out of the window. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t come back from Scotland. Would the police have arrived to bring him in? Can you be sentenced to life cutting the Prime Minister’s hair?

‘So, Barney,’ said the PM, ‘tell me. What were those two police officers talking to you about in the Sherlock Holmes on Friday night?’

Barney did not look round, but he felt the pernicious hand of evil crawl up his spine, and began to wonder if he would ever be allowed out of London again.



1456hrs   London, England

Detective Sergeant Hewitt was one of many looking through tapes from CCTV of everyone entering and leaving the Palace of Westminster over the two days in the previous week when the murders had taken place. Hours of footage from over 350 cameras surrounding the building. Hewitt was on the second line, being passed material that the officer making an earlier scan had thought worthy of another look.

Hewitt had yet to pass anything on for a third scan.

Frankenstein appeared at his shoulder, looking like a man who would quite happily kill someone, if it got him off the murder inquiry.

‘How’s it looking?’ he said, although he already knew the answer. Hewitt would not have been quiet if there had been something to say.

‘This is, like, really cool,’ said Hewitt, pointing at the grey pictures. ‘You keep seeing these people that are like really famous and stuff. It’s totally awesome.’

‘What sort of people?’ said Frankenstein, then immediately felt stupid for asking.

‘Like MP’s and stuff. You know, ones that are on the tv and that. It’s, like, totally cool.’

‘So there are CCTV images of MP’s walking out of the Houses of Parliament? Holy crap, hold the front page.’

‘Like, I know, but it’s coolio. Come on, Chief Inspector, we spend our lives dealing with nobodies. Nobodies killing other nobodies and that kind of stuff. But this, this is awesome. Hey, imagine how cool it would be if someone got murdered on X-Factor or Britain’s Got Talent.’

‘I don’t doubt, that in the holy name of ratings, that one day it will come to that. You haven’t found anything pertinent to this particular investigation by any chance?’

‘Nothing. He’s a pretty weird looking guy, this Trelawny. Distinctive. You think he actually looked like that, or do you suppose the secretary who talked to him had been at the happy juice?’

‘Oh, I’m sure the latter. They’re all on the flippin’ happy juice in this place.’

Frankenstein clapped Hewitt on the shoulder.

‘Keep at it, Sergeant Hewitt,’ he said, then moved on to the next monitor, and the next young police officer impressed by seeing Ann Widdecombe on CCTV.



Late that night  London, England

Late that night, the killer Trelawny once more appeared. But this time, he did not concern himself with the Houses of Parliament. Too late for that. So he went in search of apartments where he knew he would find an MP or two, men and women sleeping soundly, safe in the knowledge that the following day would dawn bright and crisp and even, and they would once more be able to board the daily gravy train to Expensesville.

Except, by the following day, those one or two MPs would be dead...

To be continued: Tuesday 8th December 2009

Add your comment

Your Name


Your Email (only if you are happy to have it on the site)


Your Comment - no HTML or weblinks


Enter this number in the box below and click Send - why?Unfortunately we have to do this to prevent the system being swamped by automated spam