The Barbershop Seven (233 page)

Frankenstein nodded.

'Maybe you're right, Danno. And there's a three-month-old kid left fatherless because of it.'

'All right with the three-month-old kid, Sir,' said Monk.

Another pause. Monk tried to put thoughts of real life out of her head. The everyday crime, that wasn't real. It was just a job. Babies being left without fathers, that was real, that was pain. She knew all about that.

'You manage to get anything on the Crane woman?' asked Frankenstein.

'Nope,' she said. 'Disappeared like white nuns into the snow.'

He gave her a sideways glance.

'What the fuck does that mean?'

'Just a story I heard once.'

There was a pause. She turned and looked at him.

'You know,' said Frankenstein, 'I think that guy might be dead.'

Monk looked at him quizzically, wondering who he was talking about, then clicked and followed his gaze to the comedian slumped in the grass.

'Nah,' she said.

'Yeah,' said Frankenstein. 'I can tell. He's dead. Still, if he's lucky, someone'll find him in the morning. Come on, let's get out of this rain, get back to the station, you can tell me about the Crane.'

'Yeah,' said Monk, and they turned and walked back towards the murder scene, past the tent which was covering the area, an area which had already received a good wash down from the Heavens, long before the police had ever arrived.

***

J
ude Orwell stayed in the office until nearly midnight, beavering away. One of only two of the BF&C collective left on the potential and speculative list of victims, he had been given pause by the news of Wodehouse's death, and had blithely accepted that there were now two police officers sitting outside his office. However, he had been energised by his visit from Taylor Bergerac, the smell, the beauty, the allure of her. Even more entranced than he had been whilst in his earlier shock & awe stage. His obsession scaling new heights, he no longer seemed to care about Wodehouse or the company. Not until he had been able to completely scratch this itch, not until he had been able to find out about Bergerac's Big Gesture, something which had captivated his imagination. Able, in his deluded infatuation, to ignore the fact that she'd told him to fuck off, and to ignore her tone and everything else she'd said. She had, undoubtedly, looked at him with wonder for a few seconds, and that was the moment he continued to play in his head. That was the moment onto which he would cling.

He sat at his laptop, devising new ways to impress, new ways to get the message of Jude Orwell over to a sceptical audience. This was his finest hour, no doubt, and success would be his. The next day, when she had met the full barrage of his latest stun & respect tactics, he would indeed find out about the exact nature of the Big Gesture. And once he had that out of the way, and once he had his mind and his life back, then he could put this new genius, these new fantastic ideas he was developing, this new culture of supreme promotion into the company itself, and he could sort out Anthony Waugh and even the legendary Thomas Bethlehem himself.

'Big Gesture,' he mumbled into his shadow, 'you will be mine.'

And you know, he was right.

***

G
od sat at a bar, nursing His second vodka tonic of the evening. Didn't want to overdo it, because for all the all-powerful deity aspects of His character, vodka still didn't sit well with Him. Sure, He could drink pints of the stuff, it wasn't like He was ever going to fall over drunk or start grabbing women and telling them He loved them. It just gave Him a killer of a headache in the morning. Killer.

A man came and sat beside Him, empty beer in his hand. God had seen him sitting alone at a table all night, steadily working his way through a crate of Miller. Had known the bloke would come and talk to Him, what with Him being God and all. Knew all the guy's problems. Wife having left him for the vicar; children grown up and away from home; banned from the golf club for repeatedly doctoring his medal cards; prostate trouble as a result of years of stress working in advertising. An empty life. And now he had decided, after a long evening sitting on his own, to come and talk to the fellow at the bar. People were drawn to God.

'You're looking a bit down there, Pal,' said God, thinking He might as well get on with it. Had already concluded three pieces of business this evening and was on a roll. All right, it wasn't exactly going to turn the world upside down, but God was, by nature, a big picture guy. Knew you had to think strategically. These things took time, and He had the patience.

The bloke – a stout chap by the name of Edwin Burrows – snorted and banged his bottle on the bar to order another.

'Wife?' asked God. 'Work? Kids?'

Burrows turned and looked into the eyes of God and saw a lot there.

'You're a perceptive fellow,' he said.

'Yeah,' said God.

'All three,' said Burrows quickly. 'All pissing three.'

'You want a way out, Bud?' asked God.

The next Miller appeared on the bar and Burrows rolled a couple of coins the way of the barkeep.

'You American?' asked Burrows.

'Not exactly,' said God. 'Picked up the accent watching too many movies.'

'Ouch,' said Burrows, and God shook His head, wishing He wouldn't make these stupid jokes about Himself.

God took a long drink, started contemplating a third, decided quickly against. Had a busy morning ahead of Him, couldn't risk having a head with a plague of tortured synapses.

'Right, Bud,' he said abruptly, 'I'm outta here. Tired, got a busy day coming up. You want a way out or not?'

'Sure,' said Burrows, 'who wouldn't?'

'Plenty of people,' said God. 'Lots of folk like to achieve things and work their way through problems themselves, without going for an easy fix.'

'That is so last century,' said Burrows.

'Yeah, whatever. Last chance.'

'What are you offering?'

'Anything,' said God. 'Kill the vicar maybe, give your wife syphilis, make your kids call every day and visit every month, turn your business around so that you can buy the golf club, even throw in a scratch handicap. And no more prostate problems. What d'you say?'

Burrows was stunned. He'd always known he'd been a heart-on-his-sleeve type of a guy, but this was insane. He surely didn't have golf-cheat written on his forehead.

'How much?' was all he said.

'Eternity in Heaven,' said God.

'Heaven?' said Burrows. 'Are you an angel? Cary Grant in
The Bishop's Wife
, something like that?'

'Hey,' said God, smiling, 'that was a great movie, wasn't it? Had a hand in some of the screenplay myself, you know. Quality work.'

Burrows nodded, took some beer, thinking it might help with understanding to whom he was talking.

'I'm no angel,' said God. 'I'm the line manager. So, what's it to be? Heaven or not?'

'Eh, yeah,' said Burrows. 'Seems sensible.'

'There's no rock music,' said God.

'Ella?'

'Sure, Bud.'

'All right. Can you give the wife HIV instead of syphilis?'

God shook His head. 'Sorry, fella, Satan's got the copyright on that one. All his work, can't help you out there. I could do something more classically painful and disfiguring. Leprosy, something like that.'

'Oh, I don't know,' said Burrows. 'Any generic STD should do the trick.'

'Cool,' said God. Burrows held out his hand, and they shook on it.

'I am outta here,' said God, and He downed the last of His vodka and headed for the streets. Burrows watched Him go, enjoying a tremendous feeling of well-being, a feeling which had, however, worn off by the time the following morning dawned, spinning and hungover. Nevertheless, by the end of that day, one of his children had visited, the other two had called, he had seven new clients, his wife had a bit of an itch, he'd gone round Wentworth in 71 with a lovely eagle at the last, and the vicar had died in a car accident.

––––––––

O
ne-fifteen in the morning and Monk finally got to walk away from the station, everything done for the early hours that could be. Head buzzing but extremely tired. Didn't want to go home. Five murders, all stabbings, seemingly by the same hand. They had a serial killer in town, and it was her job – amongst others – to catch her. With every murder the pressure would grow, and at every level of the department. Work was going to become intolerable until they caught this woman.

She needed company. She wanted to talk it over with someone, sit up until early morning discussing the case. At least it would help her take her mind off her latest love interest. Only, it was her latest love interest with whom she wanted to sit up late into the night talking.

Got into her car, turned on the ignition, stared straight ahead. Barney Thomson. At this time of night, only fifteen minutes from where she was. Likely to be alone. Would he be alone? He had loner written all over him. He might have women on occasion, but not late into the night. That's what she thought.

She pulled out of the station car park and headed north.

***

S
eventeen minutes later she pulled the car up outside the apartment building, checked the address on the piece of paper and turned off the engine. Sat for a short time, composing herself, thinking about what she was doing. How stupid was she going to feel if he wasn't alone? Or worse, if he said that he was tired and didn't let her in at all? Nothing more humbling than leaving yourself open to rejection. She took a deep breath, concentrated on the signals she'd been getting from him, which she knew to be right, and got out of the car. Walked up a short path, stood at the entrance beside the short row of buzzers. Barney Thomson, the name written in pen, third down. She hesitated again.

Heard a noise inside, as an inner door swung open. A woman's footsteps on tile, and then the outer door opened and suddenly Detective Sergeant Daniella Monk was two feet away from Harlequin Sweetlips, the murderer they had been seeking for the past few days.

Sweetlips looked at her. Monk recognised something in her eyes, but nothing tangible, nothing she could formulate into words. A photograph maybe. Seen the face before. She paused. There was something there, but neither of them recognised what it was. Suddenly Monk realised that Sweetlips was holding the door open, and she stepped forward to pass her.

'Thanks,' she said.

Sweetlips nodded. They finally dragged their eyes from one another, and then Sweetlips was gone and Monk walked into the building. Walked slowly, trying to identify why she'd just had the most enormous shiver convulse her body, and why she still had a feeling of great unease. Looked over her shoulder through the glass doors, but Sweetlips had vanished, and the night was cold and damp and menacing. Monk turned and walked quickly up the stairs.

Found Barney's door, another pause, final chance to walk away and not make an idiot of herself. Checked her watch. 1:37.

She rang the bell and it was only then that it occurred to her that the woman she'd met at the entrance might have been leaving Barney's apartment. Hot under the collar. Contemplated turning and walking quickly down the stairs. Get out the building before he answered. But then, if he came after her and saw who it was, how stupid was she going to come across? She had to stay.

The door opened. Barney Thomson in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, expecting Harlequin Sweetlips. His face showed it too and she knew he hadn't been asleep.

'Hello,' said Barney. 'This is, em, a bit weird.'

Monk looked down the stairs, turned back to him.

'Sorry, had she just left here?'

Barney didn't really know what to say to that, so he completely avoided the question, in true politician's style, although as with politicians, the answer was obvious from the evasion.

'Come in,' he said.

'It's all right,' said Monk. 'I shouldn't have come round. I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Come on,' said Barney, pulling the door wide open. 'Come in. You look dreadful.'

She choked on a laugh.

'Thanks,' she said, and walked past him into his apartment.

Barney looked down the corridor, almost expecting Sweetlips to be waiting there, then closed the door and followed Monk into the lounge. Sparsely decorated, no pictures, small TV, open-plan kitchen.

'You don't look like you're staying,' said Monk, standing in the middle of the room.

'Coffee or alcohol?' asked Barney.

'Coffee please,' she said.

'Probably won't,' said Barney, going about the business of coffee.

She nodded, looked around for a chair, slumped down. Not feeling as stupid as she thought she might the first time it had occurred to her that she was arriving as his previous visitor left. It had almost taken the pressure off. She'd been seeing Barney as a potential love interest, and in an instant, a snap of the vicious fingers of romance, that was gone. Too exhausted to feel anything about it.

'What's up?' he asked.

She rested her head back on the seat and suddenly felt all the tiredness come rushing back through her body. Maybe she did want to sleep after all. Could feel all her muscles relax, her whole body sink into the chair, felt the arms of the chair wrap around her and enclose her and make her feel safe and warm.

'John Wodehouse,' she said, the voice already heavy.

'Ah,' said Barney. So much for the police escort. Hoped they wouldn't put one of them onto him.

'His bodyguards were killed as well. One of them had a three-month-old baby,' she added, voice becoming a mumble. 'What's that going to be like for the mother? Horrible.'

The voice trailed off. Her head had turned to the side. Asleep.

'Monk?' said Barney.

He walked round the kitchen bar and stood beside her. Looked down at her pale, tired face. Checked the clock. Would they expect her back into work on a Sunday? Five murders to solve, of course they would, and pretty early. Should set his alarm for her.

He walked into the bedroom to fetch a blanket, returned and laid it gently across her. He had just spent five hours with Harlequin Sweetlips and all thoughts of her were gone. He sat down beside Monk and stared at her face, imagining the kiss of her lips. And eventually he let his hand drift to her head so that he could run his fingers through her hair, and he sat like that for a long, long time.