The Barbershop Seven (231 page)

'Aye,' he said, 'aye, sorry. I forgot to mention it. Send her up, Imelda.'

He hung up. Imelda pressed a button or two, curious as to what was going on.

'You can go up,' she said, barely able to look Sweetlips in the eye. 'Ninth floor, turn left out of the elevator.'

Sweetlips stood over the desk, enjoying the strength of her power, forcing Imelda to look up at her. Their eyes met, and Imelda felt herself undressed, felt naked and alive, felt like she wanted to have sex with Sweetlips there and then, on the floor of reception, in front of the Cambridge lad and the MI6 chap. She swallowed.

'Thanks,' said Sweetlips, and with that she turned and walked towards the elevator, and Imelda could not take her eyes off her until the doors had closed.

***

T
hey stood at the window watching the Thames. Neither of them had yet spoken; they'd been standing there for over fifteen minutes. A safe couple of feet apart. Barney had known he'd feel uncomfortable with the desk between them, so had been standing at the window to await her arrival. She'd walked straight past Mary, hadn't knocked, and had entered and stood beside him without a word.

The river was hypnotic. Another dull day, nothing happening out there. It wasn't as if this part of the Thames ever saw too much action, but it didn't matter. All rivers are hypnotic, this as much as any other. They could stand there all day. Although Harlequin Sweetlips hadn't come here to look at the river. Wanted to see how much she could exert her control over Barney Thomson and, in fact, was a little pleased to see that she didn't have anything like the control she had over everyone else. Wondered if it was because of the strength of the man's character, or if it was because she had been forced to make the approach.

'You didn't go back to the bar,' said Sweetlips eventually, turning and looking at him at the same time, which surprised him.

'I did,' said Barney. 'Just not when you were there, obviously.'

'That seems believable,' she replied caustically. Eyes still on him, then, when it was apparent that he wasn't going to look at her, she looked back out on the river. Kicking herself for coming here. The man had the advantage; it was outrageous that she'd allowed herself to get into this position. He held her in thrall. Madness.

Look at me, you fuck! she screamed silently at him. Felt a rage growing inside her at his coolness, his taciturnity. His dumb-fucking control. Maybe he was just too stupid to get it? But she knew that wasn't it. Barney Thomson totally got her, every last ounce of her. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and tried to control her wrath. No point in doing it here, no point in blowing all the beautiful cover she had so fabulously constructed over the previous few days; not to mention the weeks and months and years of planning.

'Dinner tonight?' she asked, hating herself for having to ask. Feeling degraded by the question. Why the Hell was she having to ask him?

Barney hesitated, and not for effect either. Dinner with Harlequin Sweetlips? The insanity of walking eyes open, head first into a date with evil. And what would he do if Daniella Monk turned up and asked him to dinner? Why pursue an interest in someone like Sweetlips, whatever that interest might be, when he had Monk waiting for him?

'What time?' he asked.

'Got a couple of things to do first,' said Sweetlips, and this time Barney did look at her. A few things to do. Jude Orwell, Anthony Waugh or John Wodehouse he wondered. Which one was for the chop tonight? Maybe Monk's men would put a stop to it before it happened, and he'd be left alone at the restaurant, while his date was taken into police custody.

She returned his gaze, felt a little unnerved. He knew. Not just what kind of woman she was, he knew what was on her agenda for the evening. John Wodehouse. In fact, Wodehouse had been on the agenda for the entire evening, with the potential of a little fun before the climax. However, there was no reason why he couldn't be polished off quickly, and she could go for the more interesting option of Barney Thomson.

But then, if he knew, why was he having dinner with her? She knew the firm had had their meeting a couple of nights earlier. She knew they'd all been warned. She knew why Wodehouse wasn't concerned, the stupid little cretin, but Barney Thomson, why hadn't he bought into the warning? Especially when he could see the danger right there in front of him?

Because he had his own agenda. Everyone has their own agenda.

'Call it eight-thirty. Poons, Leicester Square,' she said.

Barney studied her face then turned away. Surprisingly public, he thought, and immediately started to contemplate the thinking behind the venue.

Sweetlips took one last look at the austere features of the first man to capture her interest in twelve years, then she turned and walked slowly from the office. Knew he wouldn't turn and watch her go, didn't look back over her shoulder.

Poons at eight-thirty, with the blood of John Wodehouse on her hands and conscience, would be time enough to look at him. She had at least managed to put one over on him at the end, leaving him to contemplate the convoluted thinking about her choice of restaurant, when in fact it was only because she liked the duck.

Work that out you fuck, she thought as she closed the door behind her, then chided herself for getting too competitive.

Probably just because she likes the duck, Barney thought to himself, seeing a couple of ducks in the water, far below.

The door opened behind him. Closed his eyes. Knew it wouldn't be Sweetlips back again. Hoped it would be Monk, but she would have allowed herself to be announced. It had to be someone from the company, and someone senior at that, or they would have been polite enough to knock. Orwell or Waugh. Had already had his post-morning meeting chat with Orwell, must be Waugh.

'Thomson,' said Waugh, taking the position at the window vacated by Sweetlips. Barney was wondering if he shouldn't just get a breakfast bar built at the window, and he and all his visitors could sit there, looking out on London as they had a natter.

'Mr Waugh,' he said. 'A good showing at the meeting. Very solid.'

'That's what I wanted to talk to you about,' said Waugh.

'Go on,' said Barney. There's the rub with telling two different sides you're going to get into bed with them, then choosing to sit in a chair. They both bitch at you.

'We could have absolutely friggin' crushed the bugger, there and then. The meeting was turned against him, the river was flowing, it was all in our favour, and what did you do? You said nothing, then you made some dramatic little friggin' speech, then you walked out? Completely broke the spell. What the hell was that, Thomson? I didn't get you that job so you could sit on your stupid arse and not get involved.'

Stupid arse, eh? Maybe it had been the recent visitation of the virgin Sweetlips, but for the first time in as long as he could remember, Barney got annoyed. Fed up with all of these people. They could be as stupid as they liked, and he didn't have to care, but he didn't have to sit here and take their crap.

'You didn't get me the job,' said Barney, harshly, looking Waugh in the eye.

'What does that mean?'

'It means, Orwell had the same idea. He floated it to me months before you, he gave me a live audition with some of the other crew, then he and Bethlehem agreed that I should get the position. All before you thought of it. I owe you nothing. Not, however, that I consider I owe Orwell anything either.'

Waugh raged silently. Veins thumped in his head, teeth gritted.

'Why didn't you say?' he asked bitterly.

'Too busy laughing,' said Barney, dryly.

'Well,' he said, 'you did a friggin' awful job for someone who's supposed to be on his side.'

'I said I owe him nothing.'

Waugh growled, turned and walked quickly from the room. Stopped at the door and, however angry, realised that he hadn't actually got any sort of an answer from Barney.

'Whose side are you on?' he asked sharply of Barney's back.

Barney stared out at the grey, grey day. Time to leave this place, he thought, if it wasn't already too late.

'My own,' he said.

Felt Waugh's eyes carve holes in his back, then the door was opened and slammed shut. He sighed, shook his head. Another bridge burned, and he couldn't really have cared less. Which, in the case of a psychotic vindictive bastard such as Waugh, was possibly a mistake.

––––––––

T
he two officers assigned to watch and guard John Wodehouse noticed the woman even before they realised that she was Wodehouse's intended date for the evening. Sitting alone in the window of the bar on Leicester Square, staring out at the raindrops pinging off the wet ground. She had a beautiful air of melancholy, a haunting sadness that would attract men even more than physical allure. Blonde hair in a neat bob, not much make-up, a little lipstick, very pale purple. Chin resting in the palm of her hand, and they both temporarily took their eyes off Wodehouse to watch her. Switched back onto him when he arrived at her table and kissed her on the cheek before sitting down. Would have kissed her lips, but she moved her face at the last second. Still, the lad Wodehouse was so pumped full of confidence at that moment that it did little to dent it. Wodehouse ordered a drink, and another whatever for the lady, and the two officers settled back to watch, assuming that if this melancholic lady was to be the murderer – and on first sight neither of them thought for a second that she was – she wasn't going to be doing anything in Leicester Square at this time of the evening.

Half an hour later Harlequin Sweetlips walked from the bar, pulling the collar of her coat up around her neck. The on-off drizzling rain of the day had given way to a torrential downpour, and it was into this that she dragged poor Wodehouse. The lad was none too impressed with having to subject his $3500 Armani jacket to this weather, but he was so suitably intoxicated by the glory of Sweetlips that he had no option but to trail out after her, to be led wherever she wanted to go. And her final words before rising from the table and leading him out into the storm –
let's go up some alleyway and fuck in the rain
– had been a bit of a rallying call.

Holding hands they trotted across Leicester Square and out onto Charing Cross Road. Pinky and Perky, the policemen on duty, growled at having to venture out into this weather, pulled their coats tight, and dashed out of the door on the trail of the endangered species.

'Where are we going?' asked Wodehouse innocently, laughing, beginning to enjoy the rain, dodging the tidal waves thrown up by the taxis, and the low umbrellas of the old women on the street.

'I know a place,' said Sweetlips. 'Come on.'

And she quickened her pace. Knew fine well that Little & Large were on their tail, and had no particular desire to get away from them. More than content for them to see the ritual that was about to take place; she could handle three of them at once. Wasn't as if she hadn't before.

'This is crazy!' yelled Wodehouse above the sound of a double-decker, and suddenly she veered off to her right onto Flitcroft Street, and they were away from the traffic, the sounds of their footfalls louder between the narrow walls. Past the music shops, round the corner, and she stopped, the church of St Giles-in-the-Field in front of them. Sweetlips collapsed in a doorway, out of breath after the exertions of running for a couple of minutes; Wodehouse rested beside her, his panting all the harder and more genuine. He put his right hand on her coat, breathing hard, laughing, smiling, having fun.

'Fuck's sake, Harley,' he said, 'you are outrageous.'

'You think?' she said, and the ease of just those two words belied the look of over-exertion.

'This is going to be so
Nine And a Half Weeks
,' said Wodehouse, and he leaned forward and kissed her, though his mouth and nostrils gaped.

She took it for a few seconds, then pulled back, laughing herself.

'More
Psycho
than
Nine And A Half Weeks
, Babe,' she said.

Wodehouse laughed.

'How d'you mean, Babe?' he asked.

Really, you'd think he'd have learned. Despite the warnings, despite his fellows being murdered by an inappropriate woman, despite what had happened in the previous week, none of it mattered one bit to John Wodehouse. He still didn't get it. He still thought he was above it all, still thought he was indestructible.

Sweetlips had thought she might actually do Wodehouse in a doorway in the pouring rain, but already she could hear the footsteps of Plod and Sod less than twenty yards away. A quick kill, it would all be over and done with, and if she still felt she needed sex, there was always Barney Thomson later on.

She produced the blade – a new one this time, just four inches of steel, but more than enough – and with a beautiful flowing movement lifted it and buried it in the centre of Wodehouse's head before he could even register surprise. So thick-skinned about his own invincibility that he didn't see it coming, even when he saw it coming. Stupid really, rather than thick-skinned.

She left the knife embedded for a second, then pulled it out with a marvellous sucking sound, like removing a rubber glove, and stepped forward as Wodehouse's body pitched to the side and his head smacked into the doorway. When Batman and Robin turned the corner at something between a trot and a sprint, she was poised and waiting, knife above her head.

They juddered to a halt, eyes wide, but with no weapons ready.

'Haaa-Waaaah!' she screamed, because she'd always wanted to do the martial arts movie thing.

'What?' said Robin, while Batman looked down at the stricken figure of John Wodehouse.

Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Like Zorro. Three swishes of the knife; one to take out Batman, a quickie between the two, and then one to take out Robin, while he was still standing unprepared for the attack, hypnotised by the very presence of Harlequin Sweetlips. Throats slit, they fell at her feet, like so many men before them. She stood poised for a few more seconds, knife still held aloft, genuinely breathing hard now with the sheer glory of the kill. Then slowly she lowered her arm and held the blade open to the rain to wash away the blood.