Read Online The Wormwood Code by Douglas Lindsay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Douglas Lindsay
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election party strategy.
'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' asked the PM, sniggering slightly through a pecan Danish as he said it. No one else laughed.
'It's not funny anymore, Sir,' said Williams.
The PM took another bite of pastry.
'You do have a point, though, Prime Minister,' said Thackeray, whose slogan for the day was going to be, If You Value It, Suck Up To It. A Lot. 'They're panicking.'
'They certainly are,' said the PM. 'New slogan, personal attacks, the war in Iraq, they're pulling out all the stops. Desperation stuff. New slogan, for God's sake. What do they think that's going to get them?'
'You just changed your slogan,' said Barney.
'Totally different,' said the PM. 'We always intended a rolling slogan programme, in which we would address the needs of the hardworking people of Britain, delivering value sloganeering to the point of need. As Prime Minister...'
'You're not on TV, Sir,' said Williams.
'Very good, Dan Dan,' said the PM, slurping noisily at a cup coffee, 'but I think we can at least take a moment to enjoy the pathetic attempts of the opposition to claw back the odd point in the polls. Taking A Stand. Who are they kidding?'
'Trying to pull a Churchill, Sir,' said Thackeray.
The PM bit into a croissant, flaky pastry crumbling over his shirt and tie, then he gestured around the table with the remnants of the pastry.
'That's it, isn't it? He's invoking Churchill. The cheeky sod. He'll be wanting to fight us on the bloody beaches next.'
He looked around the table. Igor was eating toast and marmalade, Barney had a bacon sandwich, Williams and Thackeray were existing on coffee and ProPlus tablets.
'Well, if he's going to be Churchill,' said the PM, 'then I'm going to be...I'm going to be...'
'Hitler?' suggested Barney.
––––––––
0819hrs
D etective Sergeant Tony Eason was going undercover for the investigation into the murder of the PM's previous personal barber Ramone MacGregor, who had been murdered nine days earlier with a chicken. The story had been kept out of the papers, and the police were nowhere near coming to a conclusion in the matter. The only hint of a clue which had come their way was an anonymous telephone call from Conservative Party Head Office, which had of itself led to nothing. The Chief Super, M Jackson MacDonald had, however, barred them from investigating the link. Thus, Eason was being sent in undercover, unbeknownst even to MacDonald.
A short man with hair which was going the way of the Amazonian rainforest and glasses which were twenty years too young for him, greeted Eason in a small office, decorated in blue. He was poring over the morning's newspapers; a television was on in the corner with the sound turned down on the leader of the real alternative.
Eason took a seat across the desk and waited to be spoken to. Under his cover he had come highly recommended from a marketing agency in the city, and was here to help the Tory party turn things around in the last few days. Eason, naturally, knew nothing about marketing and had no skills in that direction whatsoever. Slightly nervous, waiting to be caught out in the first five minutes. Wasn't a natural undercover cop. His was more of an 'arrest first, investigate later if you have to, employing violence when required' approach. And he hadn't had breakfast.
'Look at this,' said the small man. 'Front page of the Sun.'
Eason nodded. Wondered how long it would be before he was able to take a tea break and grab a doughnut or a bagel.
'Posh Pyjama Drama, for God's sake,' said the little fella, talking at a hundred miles an hour. 'What the hell is that all about? Serve us much better if they did one of those equivocal government backing things they do. If they're not going to support us, the least they could do is slag that lot off when they support them. Tried to get our man to go out in his pyjamas today, but he went for a suit and tie instead. I mean, you may think the pyjama thing is mad, but there
'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' asked the PM, sniggering slightly through a pecan Danish as he said it. No one else laughed.
'It's not funny anymore, Sir,' said Williams.
The PM took another bite of pastry.
'You do have a point, though, Prime Minister,' said Thackeray, whose slogan for the day was going to be, If You Value It, Suck Up To It. A Lot. 'They're panicking.'
'They certainly are,' said the PM. 'New slogan, personal attacks, the war in Iraq, they're pulling out all the stops. Desperation stuff. New slogan, for God's sake. What do they think that's going to get them?'
'You just changed your slogan,' said Barney.
'Totally different,' said the PM. 'We always intended a rolling slogan programme, in which we would address the needs of the hardworking people of Britain, delivering value sloganeering to the point of need. As Prime Minister...'
'You're not on TV, Sir,' said Williams.
'Very good, Dan Dan,' said the PM, slurping noisily at a cup coffee, 'but I think we can at least take a moment to enjoy the pathetic attempts of the opposition to claw back the odd point in the polls. Taking A Stand. Who are they kidding?'
'Trying to pull a Churchill, Sir,' said Thackeray.
The PM bit into a croissant, flaky pastry crumbling over his shirt and tie, then he gestured around the table with the remnants of the pastry.
'That's it, isn't it? He's invoking Churchill. The cheeky sod. He'll be wanting to fight us on the bloody beaches next.'
He looked around the table. Igor was eating toast and marmalade, Barney had a bacon sandwich, Williams and Thackeray were existing on coffee and ProPlus tablets.
'Well, if he's going to be Churchill,' said the PM, 'then I'm going to be...I'm going to be...'
'Hitler?' suggested Barney.
––––––––
0819hrs
D etective Sergeant Tony Eason was going undercover for the investigation into the murder of the PM's previous personal barber Ramone MacGregor, who had been murdered nine days earlier with a chicken. The story had been kept out of the papers, and the police were nowhere near coming to a conclusion in the matter. The only hint of a clue which had come their way was an anonymous telephone call from Conservative Party Head Office, which had of itself led to nothing. The Chief Super, M Jackson MacDonald had, however, barred them from investigating the link. Thus, Eason was being sent in undercover, unbeknownst even to MacDonald.
A short man with hair which was going the way of the Amazonian rainforest and glasses which were twenty years too young for him, greeted Eason in a small office, decorated in blue. He was poring over the morning's newspapers; a television was on in the corner with the sound turned down on the leader of the real alternative.
Eason took a seat across the desk and waited to be spoken to. Under his cover he had come highly recommended from a marketing agency in the city, and was here to help the Tory party turn things around in the last few days. Eason, naturally, knew nothing about marketing and had no skills in that direction whatsoever. Slightly nervous, waiting to be caught out in the first five minutes. Wasn't a natural undercover cop. His was more of an 'arrest first, investigate later if you have to, employing violence when required' approach. And he hadn't had breakfast.
'Look at this,' said the small man. 'Front page of the Sun.'
Eason nodded. Wondered how long it would be before he was able to take a tea break and grab a doughnut or a bagel.
'Posh Pyjama Drama, for God's sake,' said the little fella, talking at a hundred miles an hour. 'What the hell is that all about? Serve us much better if they did one of those equivocal government backing things they do. If they're not going to support us, the least they could do is slag that lot off when they support them. Tried to get our man to go out in his pyjamas today, but he went for a suit and tie instead. I mean, you may think the pyjama thing is mad, but there
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