The Barbershop Seven (235 page)

'Satan,' she said, voice dead. Still staring blankly ahead.

'What?' said Frankenstein.

At least she'd escaped censure for being missing in action all morning. Like Gascoigne in the '91 Cup Final, escaped with indiscretion because of injury.

'Satan,' she repeated.

'What?' said Frankenstein again. He had heard her. He wanted his voice to convey scorn, and maybe it had, because she wouldn't know what he was thinking. But he was thinking of a series of murders in the town of Millport. He was thinking of how it had seemed impossible that the man they arrested for those crimes could actually have carried them out. Not without help, or not without being possessed. And he was thinking, as he had every single day for the previous two years, of how that man had been killed, along with two police officers in his holding cell. No one else had entered the cell. They'd had no specific means by which to commit murder or suicide, the CCTV cameras had shown nothing, and yet there had been one unmistakeable fact. They were dead, someone or something had killed them, and he'd had no idea how it had happened.

'That's crazy, freaky talk,' said Frankenstein, when she answered him with a stare.

She didn't say anything. Under the white covers, surrounded by the quiet smell of antiseptic and death, time to think, head doing strange contortions because of what had happened, through tiredness or as a result of whatever drugs they would automatically have started pumping into her body the minute she'd been admitted, it all seemed reasonable. Not only reasonable; obvious. There had to be some explanation for all that was shit in the world, and just for the moment she didn't want to believe that it was all the fault of mankind.

A higher force of true evil.

'What drugs have they got you on?' asked Frankenstein. 'I'm having a word with the doctors, 'cause I need you thinking straighter that this.'

'I am thinking straight!' she protested, and she raised herself up in the bed. Shoulders back, shuffled her buttocks up, felt the pain of the movement in her legs. Took the blanket away from her chin. 'I saw her eyes, I saw the face. I know who we're looking for.'

Frankenstein snorted out a knowing laugh.

'Satan's a woman,' he said. 'Should've known. Did you get her phone number?'

'No,' answered Monk, ignoring the faked derision, 'but I've seen her. I can do the photofit. Start asking more questions at the company.'

Frankenstein took a deep breath and stepped away from the bed, back to the wall, still staring at her. If he could have acknowledged it in himself, he would have recognised the strange feeling in his gut as fear.

'You know it,' she said.

'What?'

'I can see it in your face. The ridicule, the disbelief, it's feigned. It's something to do with Barney Thomson and what went on before between you. Tell me.'

Frankenstein shook his head.

'Nothing to tell,' he said. 'Seriously, nothing to tell.'

'We're dealing with Satan here,' she said forcefully. 'I don't know how I know this. I don't know why he's manifesting himself as this woman, but this is what's happening. It's the work of the Devil!'

'Monk,' he said forcefully, 'I'm getting you out of here, because if one of these comedians in a white coat hears you talking like that, they'll be lobotomising you by the end of the afternoon. Get dressed.'

'Fine,' said Monk. 'I will.'

'Good,' said Frankenstein. 'Get into your clobber and let's go.'

Groaning under the strain, she pushed the covers back. Frankenstein quickly looked away in case he was going to get a sight of more than he was asking for.

'I'll get out of here,' she said, 'then I'll get onto it and I'll get you proof. And I don't want any protection ... '

And with those words, she swung her legs out of the bed, tried to stand up and collapsed into a great heap on the floor, bringing down a table of flowers with her. The nurse rushed in to find her lying on the ground, cursing, and Frankenstein standing over her looking lost and stupid and out of place.

––––––––

O
rwell walked into reception, fingers buzzing, head buzzing along with them. Still nothing from the ephemeral Taylor Bergerac. Late Sunday afternoon, walking the corridors of a deserted building, trying not to feel like the lonely captain on a sinking ship. (Or at least, a lonely captain with his two bodyguards always nearby.) Worried about what Bethlehem was up to, wondering what Waugh had been doing with himself all day, unable to get in touch with his new able lieutenant, Barney Thomson.

He stopped short, surprised to find himself not alone. Imelda Marcos was beavering away at her PC, fingers tripping lightly around the keyboard. Orwell watched her for a few seconds, waiting for her to stop and look up, but she was immersed. Or ignoring him.

'What do you do, 'Melda?' he asked. 'We have millions of PA's and typists in this damn building. What is it that you type?'

She raised her head slightly, stopped typing and gave him the eye.

'Are you saying I'm just a receptionist?' she said, with tone.

Whoops, thought Orwell, a lousy attempt at casual conversation.

'You heard from Barney Thomson today?' he asked, moving on.

She left the eye on him for another few seconds, then turned away.

'It's Sunday,' she said in reply.

'All right, of course,' said Orwell. 'Cool. And, you know, has there been anything from Ms Bergerac of the Waferthin.com company? Any word, a message or anything?'

Imelda kept typing. At first she thought she'd just make him wait for a few seconds, tease him a bit, but then decided to spin that out into completely ignoring him altogether. Orwell watched her, curious.

''Melda?' he had to say eventually.

She looked up, eyebrows raised, pretending she hadn't heard him the first time. God, she thought, men are so pathetic. Nice bit of skirt hoves into view, and they make a complete idiot of themselves. Living not too far from Taylor Bergerac, as she did, she had seen Orwell's absurd poster campaign, knew entirely what it was all about.

'Yes?' she asked.

'Em,' said Orwell at the look, beginning to wonder if Imelda Marcos had twigged what was going on with him and Taylor Bergerac – when of course, it wasn't just Imelda who'd worked it out, the entire company knew what a complete idiot he was making of himself – and might be toying with him. 'Waferthin.com, the panty liner company. Any messages?'

Imelda held him with a stare for a few seconds, sighed heavily, looked at her computer as if checking some obscure Messages From Waferthin.com database, said, 'Oh yes,' and looked up. Waited for a few seconds to enjoy the look of excited anticipation that had suddenly sprung to Orwell's face, then looked back at the PC and shook her head.

'Sorry,' she said, 'my mistake. That's just their original message from a few days ago.'

Looked up, laughed inside at the forlorn hangdog expression, said, 'Sorry,' again very sincerely, and looked at the security monitor as the outside buzzer was sounded.

'Ah,' she said, with a mixture of hostility and anticipation, 'it's one of the police officers. Maybe someone else has died.'

Orwell's shoulders slumped. He turned, started to walk back to the lift, stopped, turned back. Maybe it was the female sergeant. She'd been all right, if not exactly on Bergerac's plane.

'Which one?' he asked.

'The female sergeant,' said Imelda, doing that laughing inside thing again.

'I'll wait,' said Orwell, and he put his hands in his pockets and immediately went into gormless bloke who doesn't know what to do with himself mode, which he was still doing ten seconds later when DCI Frankenstein bumbled into reception. Orwell stared at him, then at Imelda.

'Imelda?' he said, and she shrugged a sincere apology.

'Frankenstein,' said Frankenstein. 'You're the comedian in charge?' he asked.

Well, there's a question, thought Imelda, as did Orwell.

'Yes,' he said, authoritatively.

'Another one of your crowd gone. Barney Thomson. Can't work out from my sergeant whether he was still the barber. She said something about him being promoted. Whatever, died in a car accident. Nearly got my sergeant as well.'

Orwell nodded. Shoulders straightened, not quite so gormless looking. Head spinning with information overload. From instant deflation and worry about Barney's death, that this thing might be aimed at him as much as Bethlehem, to relief that Barney had been killed in a traffic accident and not by a murderer's knife.

'That's all right then,' he said, with a child's tact.

'Why?' said Frankenstein, missing the boat.

'Well, obviously, it's horrible,' said Orwell, recovering nicely, so he thought, 'but you know, at least he didn't get, you know, a knife in the old napperooni.'

'A knife in the old napperooni?' said Frankenstein. 'Who the fuck is this guy?' he asked, looking at Imelda, who shrugged. 'A knife in the old napperooni? The guy was crushed in a car accident, after being stalked by a motorcyclist. It was as good as murder. My sergeant could have been killed. Thomson's head exploded. A knife in the old napperooni?'

Orwell swallowed, nodded. Time to retreat into his natural reserve. This wasn't going so well. And if Barney was murdered, then back to thinking about what it all meant for the company.

'Shit,' he said, because he had no other words.

'Glad you're showing some fucking remorse,' said Frankenstein. 'Right, you and me are going upstairs, and we're going to try to get somewhere on this. I'm fed up fucking around every day with you people while you get picked off one by one. I want to know what the fuck is going on.'

'Of course,' said Orwell. 'Sure. Come to my office.'

'Right,' said Frankenstein, and he walked to the lift, Orwell in his wake, neither of them looking at Imelda and the sly wee grin she had on her face.

***

T
he body of Barney Thomson lay in the morgue at St Thomas' Hospital on the south bank. His had been a mostly mundane life, followed by a bizarre few years, with enough adventures to send anyone to their grave happy; or at least, thinking that they'd lived a life of their own, rather than vicariously through the lives of those they watched on TV.

Under a sheet, his final resting place, the hands that had once carved the most exquisite haircuts ever seen in the British Isles, now broken and twisted, lying motionless at his side. A tranquil end, to wait until the body was given a perfunctory service with no one in attendance, before being dispatched to the Big Fire. Once more, Barney Thomson was gone, and this time there would be no coming back.

***

F
rankenstein looked down at the Thames, his back turned to Orwell, as so many who stood in these offices felt compelled to do. He'd heard everything he was likely to hear. It wasn't nearly as much as Orwell would have been able to tell him had he wanted, but Frankenstein wasn't in a position to arrest the man or beat him up, as he was disposed to do.

Maybe, he was thinking, they should just stand back and let all these stupid arseholes die. Virtually each and every one of them had walked into it with their eyes open. And if they were going to be as unhelpful as every single one of them had been under questioning, then did they deserve to receive any help? Let 'em bleed.

'It's the same as the NHS being forced to look after people with self-inflicted illness,' mumbled Frankenstein. 'Fuck 'em all.'

'What?' said Orwell, dragged from his own Bergerac-inspired introspection.

'Doesn't matter,' said Frankenstein.

He turned his back to the river, looked at Orwell. Perhaps he was next. The two officers sitting outside his office might get it with him. Docherty and Clemens. Decent lads, he said to himself, though he hadn't met either of them before; deserved better than to be wasting their time, and putting their lives on the line for some mug like this.

'So Bethlehem's back tomorrow late afternoon?' said Frankenstein.

'Yeah,' replied Orwell. And he's bringing a bird, he thought, whatever that's all about. Not that he was mentioning that to Frankenstein, just the same as he wasn't saying anything about Margie Crane.

'Brilliant,' said Frankenstein. 'I'll be back tomorrow evening, if not sooner, assuming that at least one of you wankers will get wasted in the interim.'

'What?' said Orwell, paying attention. 'Are you allowed to call us wankers?'

Frankenstein shrugged and headed for the door.

'Until you stop getting yourselves killed and you start telling us the truth about what's going on with this poxy little company, as far as I'm concerned, you're all wankers.'

He opened the door, stopped, looked back.

'And if that use of language bothers you, you can make a complaint to my superior officer if you want. He's a wanker 'n' all. You'd like him.'

Frankenstein was gone. Orwell caught a glimpse of the two officers sitting outside, reading magazines, charged with protecting his life. They looked bored. Had a ridiculous surge of annoyance at them –
the bastards are supposed to be protecting me and they're reading magazines
– totally at odds with the fact that he hadn't wanted them assigned in the first place.

The door closed. Orwell stared at it for a few seconds, then lifted the phone and dialled the woman he thought was Margie Crane.

***

T
he mortuary attendant was doing his evening rounds; checking everyone was still dead. They do that. Just in case. Checked the fellow before Barney – middle-aged heart attack victim, unexceptional – let the shroud back down over the face. Then Barney, and he hesitated, because he knew what this one was going to look like. Hand to the shroud, another pause, then he slowly lifted the sheet away from the face.

Swallowed, breathed heavily. For all his hard-as-rock, nothing-bothers-me macho thing that he had going on, sometimes he still had to choke back the vomit; and this was one of those times.

The head of Barney Thomson was a mangled, horrifically pulped mess.

'God,' said Toby Shellfish, and he let the sheet drop back. Then, suddenly realising that on this occasion he wasn't actually going to be able to hold back the vomit, he ran hurriedly out of the room, aiming for the toilet. Unfortunately he was too slow, and suddenly his evening hamburger, as well as the hamburger and fries he'd had for lunch, came shooting up his throat and exploded out in front of him, carpeting the antiseptic corridor in vomit. Still running, he then slipped on the vomit, fell massively to the side, a tangle of arms and legs, completely unable to stop his head smashing into an old iron radiator attached to the wall. He made contact with a loud crack – didn't do the same kind of impressive damage to his head that Barney had had done to him, but it was enough – his skull cracked and his body tumbled hugely onto the floor. Then there was silence.