The Barbershop Seven (138 page)

'Hey,' said Velure to Wanderlip, 'Winnie. I hear you've got some great nipple action going on. We're probably going to be able to use them.'

She looked up, employing one of Weirdlove's destructo-ray looks. It more or less passed straight through him.

'So, like,' said Velure, 'would you be willing to do a joint breast shot with the Deputy here, or are we talking the whole covered nipple thing, straining against tight fabric and all that?'

Wanderlip dug her nails into the palms of her hands, not entirely sure why she was restraining herself here. Who exactly was she protecting? But she knew, however, that if she gave this guy the slightest hint of ill-humour, he was the type to make some supercilious remark about her menstrual cycle. She could always fuck him one in the nuts, though.

'I don't think either would be appropriate for Ms Wanderlip,' said Weirdlove from the wings.

Velure glanced at him, gave him the benefit of two seconds' thought, shrugged and looked back at his notes.

'Right, we'll talk to the Deputy, who's gonna get her boobies out, and we'll talk to Wanderlip, who's keeping everything safely under lock and key. And hey, if I had bazookas like yours, girlfriend, I'd do the same, so no one's blaming you. If the show crashes, really, it won't be your fault, so don't feel bad.'

He glanced sincerely up at her, sucked in at will the photon torpedoes she was firing, then looked quickly down the list.

'The Reverend Blake, we got a Reverend Blake?' he asked, looking up, and his eyes fell on her before she'd said anything, the dog collar being a bit of a giveaway 'n all.

'You're Blake?' he said, entirely superfluously. 'That's cool. We're gonna have a word or two with you. You know, spiritual stuff in these dark times, your reaction to the Father being this weirdo psycho serial killer guy. You cool?'

Blake nodded.

'I shall happily speak the word of God,' she said, solemnly.

'Great,' said Velure. 'And where d'you stand on the breast issue?'

He engaged her eyes hopefully for a couple of seconds, realised he was getting nothing in response, nodded and turned back to the clipboard.

'That's about it. We might have a word with one or two others, it just depends on time. We're really going to be concentrating on the guy Longfellow-Moses, and Patsy here's breasts. We cool?' he asked, looking around the assembly.

Well, there were a few people who had a thing or two to say, but they all kept their mouths shut. Either with the thought of letting it all pass with as little fuss as possible or, like Eaglehawk, with the intention of drawing a few things to the attention of Velure, so that he would get his five minutes in the sun, live on air, when the time came. Patsy Morningirl's breasts were not going to get a look in.

'Terrific,' said Velure. 'Make-up and clothes are here between five and seven tonight. I believe you've got a guy doing hair and Weirdlove here's got the timings on that one. After seven, we'll then have an hour to chill, talk things over, maybe pop the odd relaxing pill, however you folks want to handle it. Then we're on at eight, it'll be forty-five solid, cake-your-pants minutes, then it'll all be over before you know and you'll wonder where the time went.'

Another look around the dull, expectant faces.

'It's a W-R-A-P wrap,' said Velure, then he placed the clipboard under his arm and, with Mandy falling in behind him, he was off.

They watched him go, they watched the door close, they turned back and looked at each other. None of them had anything to say, and eventually they all began to drift off in silent ones and twos.

––––––––

B
arney Thomson had walked down the steps of no.6 Bute House, the official residence of the First Minister, and started walking through the Georgian elegance of Charlotte Square, when he became aware of firm footsteps closing behind him. Someone old, someone new, someone borrowed, someone blue...

'Hey, Barn,' said the voice, to get him to stop. Barney recognised it, and walked on. He wasn't going to be picked up and dropped and picked up again by any old woman; any more than he had been already.

'Barn,' said the Rev Blake, coming up beside him. 'You got time to talk?'

Barney walked on without looking at her.

'Not really in the mood,' he said.

'Jesus,' said the Rev Blake, 'you're not pissed at me because I haven't spoken to you since we fucked, are you? That's schoolboy stuff.'

Barney put his hands in his jacket pockets, wrapped it more closely around himself against the cold wind.

'I've just had enough of you all,' he said. 'I don't belong in amongst all this absurd crap.'

He threw her a sideways glance.

'I wasn't bothered about your shag 'n' dash,' he continued, 'but it was rude. It was schoolgirl stuff to do it, and then avoid me, like you were embarrassed or something. But look, I'm not getting into conversations about maturity or any shite like that. It's all bullshit. I just shouldn't be here, and once all this stupid bollocks is over tonight, I'm leaving.'

'Why wait?' she said quickly, a smile coming from nowhere.

He turned. She wasn't wearing a coat – white collar, black shirt, long black skirt – and she looked very, very cold. Face pale, lips blue, eyes shining brightly in the chill autumn wind.

'They asked me to sort everyone's hair out. I said I would,' said Barney.

'Ah,' she said, 'the old Calvinistic work ethic. A beautiful thing,' she added. Then she said, 'You want to go and grab breakfast. I know a place they do a killer Bloody Mary at this time in the morning.'

Barney looked at his watch. He'd already had breakfast, brought to him by one of the angelic Chinese-garbed überchicks, but you can never have too much breakfast in life. You just need to leave a decent gap between your two breakfasts, and your second one will be fine.

'Yeah,' he said, 'I could do that. Where are we going?'

And they walked on in search of manna.

***

'Y
ou think Michael committed those murders?' said Barney, in between bacon that was only slightly overdone and scrambled eggs that were of near perfect consistency.

Blake quaffed a Bloody Mary, spread some more marmalade on toast, speared a sausage, licked her fingers; the last of which was extremely erotic, even for this time on a Friday morning.

'Nope,' she said. 'Michael was a good man.'

'Claimed God made him do it,' said Barney.

'Well,' said Blake, 'if he'd actually believed in God, that might've meant something. But he was stuck in the wrong job. His mother decided the damn second he was born that he was going to be a priest, and she had her way. Michael was just going through the motions until she died, and then he was out of there. I'm not saying he didn't have his faults or anything, but he never killed anyone.'

'So how come he knew where the bodies were?' asked Barney, just before he took the time to savour a particularly succulent slice of black pudding.

Blake crunched deliciously into a piece of crispy toast, then licked the crumbs from her lips. She held Barney's gaze, smiled slyly, touched the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

'Well, Barn, you're the one working for the detectives. Can't you work it out?'

Barney did that thing where you take a little bit of everything on your plate – in this case bacon, scrambled egg, black pudding, sausage, potato scone, hash brown and mushrooms – crammed it onto his fork and popped it into his mouth. Never took his eye off her while he contemplated what she'd said.

Michael had evidence from the deaths, had maybe even handled the bodies, but he wasn't the killer.

'He was an unwilling assistant?' he said, after a good stiff mouthful of tea.

'Could be,' said Blake. 'I mean, it's not like I know. But I have my theory, and that's not it.'

Barney went around his plate, chasing some more food, munching away while he thought about it, irritated at himself for playing her game.

'What d'you know about Michael?' she said, leading him on, albeit unsure herself what Barney was going to know about him.

It seemed pointless to keep secrets, but he wasn't about to tell her about Michael and Blackadder and Farrow. Maybe she already knew, but if she didn't, it wasn't his place to fill her in. But perhaps that was what she was getting at. Michael had fingered Blackadder to him, first of all. He'd said that she'd confessed. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe he'd known she was committing the murders, and had followed her around, clearing up the mess.

So he was hopelessly in love, desperately covering the tracks of the killer. But was it Blackadder? He had also been Farrow's lover.

'You think he was covering for someone?' said Barney, with no intention of naming the names he had in mind.

Blake tapped her nails against her empty Bloody Mary glass.

'It would take a heck of a lot of devotion to do that,' said Barney. 'More than devotion,' he added.

'You can't deny,' said Blake, 'that whoever's involved with these murders, there are extremes going on. Extremes of passion, extremes of hate, extremes of love. Every base emotion, stretched to the limit. And when you pull the strings of emotion that tightly, they snap, and when they snap, Jesus,' she said, 'anything can happen.'

'So,' said Barney, 'who's he covering for?'

Blake stretched her hands out.

'Who knows?' she said. 'But it's going to be a woman, right? Shit, we all know what priests are like, but Michael wasn't taking it up the butt from anyone.'

'So he's protecting a woman,' said Barney, not knowing how much knowledge Blake was in possession of; whether she was leading him on, or working it out with him.

'Exactamundo,' said Blake, sounding, for all the world, like Detective Chief Inspector Solomon. Barney noticed. 'And let's face it, the guy never mixed with anyone outwith our little circle.'

Barney struggled with a tricky piece of bacon that was just a little too crispy to be forked, scooped it up in the end, and crunched it.

'Blackadder,' he said when he was done, 'or Farrow. Or you,' he added, raising an eyebrow at her.

She smiled. She made a start on her coffee which had been delivered at the same time as the bloody Mary and was on its way to being too cold.

'Well,' she said, 'I can't argue that one. I fit the bill. Except, of course, that we all know that Michael was banging Blackadder and Lou, and he wouldn't touch me with a stick. Didn't think it was appropriate, bless him.'

'Only got your word for that,' said Barney, his eyebrow still doing that whole Spock thing. Scooped up the last of the scrambled egg with a piece of toast.

'That's true,' she said, and drank her coffee, looking at him over the rim of the large cup. 'And how can you trust the word of a vicar like me?'

'Exactly,' said Barney.

She drank her coffee and Barney drank his tea, and he wondered if the list of suspects was really as small as they had just reduced it to.

'There is someone else, of course,' she said, as if she could hear his thoughts.

'Go on,' said Barney.

Blake laid down her cup, rested her chin in the palm of her hand, elbow on the table.

'Have you met Minnie?' she asked.

Barney shook his head.

'This morning was the first time I'd seen her,' he said.

'Well,' said Blake, 'she's not been around much the past week. But all of us, in the past few months, have done for her whatever it is we do for JLM. Design clothes, minister, doctor, whatever, we've all done it. Michael will've seen plenty of her.'

'What's she like?' said Barney.

Blake smiled. She knew exactly what Minnie Longfellow-Moses was like; in all sorts of different ways, if you know what I'm saying.

'She's interesting,' said Blake. 'Wouldn't have her pegged as a killer, of course, but then whoever it turns out to be, we're going to be able to say that.'

Barney nodded. He surveyed the scene of devastation that was the breakfast table and decided he'd had enough. He'd reached the limit of breakfast number two, despite the seductive presence of a further three slices of toast.

'And maybe it'll turn out to have been just Michael after all,' said Barney. 'Some things are as plain as they seem.'

The Reverend Blake stared deep into Barney's eyes. He held her gaze, wondered at the blackness of its depth.

'That,' she said, 'would be the biggest surprise of all.'

And then again, that would depend on how you'd categorise surprise. Just because Michael had been able to leave a note detailing the whereabouts of all the victims of the Kabinet Killer, did not automatically mean that he had been the Undertaker, clearing up after the killer's crimes...

***

B
arney got back to his room early in the afternoon. An hour to watch TV or get his head down or do whatever, then he would head over to JLM's office to start his round of appointments, with everyone penned in between two and five pm. (JLM had very kindly given his staff as much of the day off as possible, so that they would all look relaxed and stress-free for the cameras.)

Wondering what he was going to do with himself when he left here, because he had no idea. That, strangely, felt like a familiar, and almost comfortable emotion. Was it because Barney Thomson had been a wanderer before he'd fallen to his death? Or because he wasn't Barney Thomson at all, as Farrow had told him, and the man he'd been in the past had been a wanderer?

It was enough to make his mind boil and spit, so he didn't think about it for long. After the stupid show that evening, a show he did not actually intend turning up for, he would spend one more night in his comfortable prison, and then he'd be away in the morning. A short walk down to Waverley train station and he could head north or south or west as the whim took him.

He opened the door to his apartment, and immediately smelled the light scent in the air even before he saw her standing at the window, looking out at the cold, grey day and the Victorian rooftops. He closed the door behind him. She didn't turn. He walked over and stood beside her looking out at the day.