The Barbershop Seven (36 page)

Barney continued snipping quietly at the back of Brother Steven's neck. This just wasn't the same as discussing theology with his mate Bill Taylor over a couple of pints in the pub.

'You mean, that's the kind of thing that goes on here?'

'You're kidding me, Jacob!' said Steven smiling. 'Of course not. We're talking about pillows here, not fifty-seven channels of satellite TV and a six-pack of Bud. But the Abbot knows how to do it. Just the odd comfort here and there to keep the natives happy. That's all it takes. Course, there's a lot more he could do, but you can't go too far, can you? We're monks after all.'

'Aye,' said Barney. 'Fair enough.'

'But then, of course, there's the yin-yang business. The whole enigma of good-bad, dark-light, positive-negative, all of that. The Abbot allows us the comfort of pillows and cushions, but at the same time you've got to keep the product of your hirsutery so that Brother Herman can use it for making hairshirts. Equal and opposites, that whole bag. Pain-pleasure, you know.'

'Hairshirts?' asked Barney, pausing mid-cut.

'Hairshirts. It's a medieval thing, yet still relevant in today's monastery. It's what your modern penitent monk likes to wear.'

'Aye, right,' said Barney, totally lost.

'You know, when you've committed a sin. You get a shirt made so that all the hairs are prickly on the inside. Really jaggedy-arsed. It's a pain in the backside. Brother Herman loves the damn things. Well, he loves getting the other monks into them the minute he has an opportunity. Just wait till you see him with the scent of blood in that long, thin nose of his. On how serious the sin depends how long you get to wear the shirt. Do your penance.'

Barney's eyes were opened. He had never heard of the hairshirt before. Might have thought it a good idea, except that if the Abbot found out about his past he was going to have to wear his hairshirt for the next three or four centuries.

'So who makes them?' he asked, getting his mind away from his guilt, to which it had begun to stray.

'Brother Herman himself. Mad as they come, that's what I think. Wouldn't be surprised to find he sticks razor blades in there sometimes.'

'You've worn one?' asked Barney.

Brother Steven smiled. 'My friend, he makes them specifically so they'll fit me. I'm his best customer.'

'Oh.'

Barney snipped away, doing a fine job around the back of the neck. Distracted, yet nevertheless performing with consummate ease and control. Brother Steven's neck had never been in safer hands, but Barney could already feel the hairshirt around him. Not the worst punishment on the planet surely, but if it was to be worn day after day for a long time – and his sins most definitely merited a long time – then it would indeed be Hell. Began to wonder if he should leave before Brother Herman got the chance to indict him for something.

'Well, you know, I can live with it. Learned to. Anyway, he hasn't got me for a couple of months. Not since he caught me taking a quick suck on a smoke out in the forest one day. I swear he's got cameras out there. Watching.'

Barney stood back. The scissor work was finished; now for the more delicate razor operations. His hand was steady.

'That's it, Jacob, cameras. I'd bet on it.' He smiled and relaxed. Didn't care if Brother Herman did have cameras in the forest. 'If he hadn't closed down my operation, that is.'

***

T
he forest was still. Late evening, darkness long since descended. A clear sky, no moon, so that the number of stars was beyond counting. A panorama of brilliant white dots against the fathomless black background. The air was freezing, the night bright with the stars and the snow. Nothing stirred; the forest slept.

And in among the white farrago of Christmas trees, beside a burn where a slender stream of water trickled through the ice, sat Brother Morgan. Back resting uncomfortably against a young Douglas fir, hands and face blue with the cold, lips purple, yet a smile on those lips and in the eyes. At peace with the Lord. The front of the thin white tunic in which he was clothed was soaked through with blood, dried to a dark red, now frosted white.

And inserted deep into Morgan's neck, the instrument of his death – a pair of scissors. Long, thin, cold steel; scissors which, a few hours earlier, had been used to cut the hair of Brother Steven after the fashion of Mike McShane in
Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves
.

––––––––

A
few phone calls made, breakfast eaten, the day ahead planned out. They set off. No conversation over their food, no conversation in the car. They picked up Sheep Dip, inserted him in the back, and headed off across the Kessock bridge for the Black Isle and then Dingwall. Endless hours down labyrinthine country roads in search of elusive B&Bs. Knowing there was little chance of success; an awkwardness in the car, born of discomfort and attraction, the strange intruder in the back, and a knowledge that they might well be wasting their time.

Phone calls for Mulholland the night before. One to Superintendent McMenemy. Nothing to report, and duly he'd had his verbal punishment. What were they supposed to have achieved after one day? More than they had, obviously. The country expected. Had felt the whiplash of the voice down the line; two feet tall.

Three calls to Melanie, three messages left on the answer-phone. Had begun to assume that she had already left, when she'd called his guest house late at night. Had heard on the grapevine that he was travelling with Proudfoot. Knew her from station nights out. Jealous. So it had become a fifty-minute phone call which had been even more uncomfortable than talking to the Chief Super. On the defensive from the off. No one up front, eight at the back, and only a couple of guys in midfield, hopelessly trying to wrest control of the game. No chance.

Had come off the phone unsure if he'd ever speak to her again; and unsure if he ever wanted to speak to her again. Confused as always. Didn't want to think about it; couldn't help it.

Proudfoot. Unhappy. In her work, in her personal life. Nothing to be done about it. The ever-present fear of the unknown; except now she could put a name to that fear. Barney Thomson. Not for her to know that Barney Thomson was a harmless unfortunate. A man for whom bad luck was as much a way of life as bad judgement. Saw him dressing in human skin and stalking his prey; might never know him for the man he was. Fluffy.

Pondered, as she sat silently in the car, what she could do other than police work. What did the police train you for other than the police? Security guard? Not a chance. Minder to someone with more money than humility? A mega-celeb perhaps? Trailing around the world in private jets and limousines; getting sucked into all-night sex with Hollywood stars; having Brad Pitt cover you in chocolate sauce then lick it off; meeting presidents and attending premières; going to the States and getting to shoot lunatics with impunity. She could do that, but wondered how you found out about such jobs. Had never heard of anyone from Partick getting one. It would all be down to luck, and that was something she never got. Except now she was getting to drive around with Joel Mulholland for a few days, stay in the same place every night. Away from his wife and from the station. Another world. Wondered if something might happen, tried not thinking about it too much.

Sheep Dip stared at the cold, snow-covered expanse of Ben Wyvis.

They passed from village to village to town. Stopped at every B&B, every hotel, every guest house. Blank looks; no one with anything to tell. A flicker of recognition every now and again, but only because of television. Nothing to be gained. The snow flurried on and off, the hills came and went in the low cloud. Hardly a word was spoken between them. The tension ebbed and flowed, waned and grew. Comments were made, replies given or not. Both unhappy, Sheep Dip oblivious.

Early afternoon, two things happened. Lunch had passed with a hurried sandwich, without a word. Two things; they started speaking, and they encountered someone who had met Barney Thomson. Approaching Tain, heading up the east coast; Proudfoot tired of the atmosphere.

'Not saying much today,' she said. 'You all right?'

Mulholland glanced at her to check she was talking to him; a quick glance. The weather was gradually deteriorating as they went; he needed to concentrate on the road. He let out a long sigh.

'Hacked off, Sergeant, that's all. You look much the same.'

'Suppose,' she said.

'Right,' he said. 'You first.'

She glanced over, but he wasn't looking at her. The snow fell, headlamps glared towards them.

She took her time. How much did you tell the boss, even if it was only a temporary position? Couldn't go saying the works, but knew what she was like. Once she got going.

'Barney Thomson?' Mulholland volunteered on her behalf.

She shrugged. Wasn't sure.

'Maybe. Can't get rid of the image of him wielding a meat cleaver and salivating. It's weird, though. You just can't see it in the pictures. He just looks like some middle-aged sad bastard.'

'Aye, I know. John Thaw without the personality.'

Sheep Dip smiled in the back. A man with his own opinions on Barney Thomson, opinions which he was going to keep to himself.

'Aye. Something like that,' she said. 'Anyway, it's not just that, 'cause let's face it, we're not going to find him. If the guy's got any sense, he'll have disappeared off the face of the earth.'

'Unless he's a total idiot.'

'Suppose. I've still got him down as a mad, calculating bastard, though.'

'Maybe. But you always fear the unknown, and he might be running 'cause he's scared. He should've turned himself in, we need to catch him, but perhaps he's just a sad wee bloke who's made a lot of bad judgement calls. The entire country's quaking in their boots about him, but it could be he's quaking in his boots about everyone else.'

Proudfoot felt a shiver, despite the warmth of the car.

'Then again,' Mulholland continued, 'maybe he's a psycho headcase. Sleeps with a chainsaw under his pillow. Eats babies. Wears a human finger pendant. Who knows? Hopefully we'll find out, but we might just end up being on holiday for a few days.'

'Now there,' said Proudfoot, 'is something I really need, but not in the sodding Arctic. We'll be seeing flipping penguins at this rate.'

'You don't get penguins in the Arctic,' volunteered Sheep Dip from the cheap seats.

'Whatever.'

'It's not just Barney Thomson, then?'

What the hell, she thought. Might as well out with it. What difference did it make anyway?

'Nah. I've just had enough at the moment. Too much paperwork, too much crap. Don't even enjoy the good stuff. Don't even get a buzz from sticking the light on the car so I can get my fish supper home before it gets cold.'

He laughed. 'Never done that. Have used it for going to the toilet a couple of times, mind.'

Sheep Dip raised an eyebrow, but having several times, a few years previously, used his blue light to facilitate relationships with three women at once, he was not going to judge.

'Done that as well,' she said, 'but nothing does it for me anymore. Interviewing, catching people out, investigating, everything. Just don't care, you know.'

He nodded, kept staring ahead into the driving snow. Felt he could be having this conversation with most of the people he knew on the force. They all faced it at some time, mostly they carried on because there was nothing else they could do.

'Difficult to get out though, eh?' said Sheep Dip. 'I don't know what it's like down there, but up here there's nothing. A bit of farming, the summer tourist stuff, then there's the low-budget porn flics they're making these days in Scrabster and Wick, but that's about it.'

'Right,' said Proudfoot, turning to include him in the conversation. Mulholland gritted his teeth. 'What else is there? Night guard at some factory, where sooner or later you're going to get a brick in the napper and spend the rest of your life in a home, being spoon-fed Brussels sprouts by a fifty-year-old spinster with a beard? No thanks.'

'You could do one of those personal bodyguard things,' said Mulholland, trying to reclaim the conversation for himself. Feeling ridiculously in competition.

'And have Brad Pitt smother me in chocolate?'

He took his eyes momentarily off the road. Looked at her. Turned back before he smashed into an advancing tractor.

'That wasn't quite what I was thinking.'

'Oh. Anyway, I doubt it. Don't see myself trailing after some pompous prick who thinks he's so important he needs personal protection.'

'Fair point.'

The signpost heralding Tain whistled past in the snow, and they turned off the A9 and down into the village. Another drive through small-town northern Scotland in search of places to stay.

'Your turn,' said Proudfoot. 'What's getting at you?'

He didn't answer. Didn't want to talk about Melanie. Didn't, now that it came to it, want to talk about anything. And certainly not with the Dip in the back. Retreated into his shell.

'Later,' he said, as they approached the first B&B, Vacancy sign swinging outside in the snow. Blatant retreat, thought Proudfoot. Wondered how close he would allow himself to get. Switched off, readied herself for another pointless interrogation.

He parked the car outside the house, led the way up the garden path. Bitter cold, hands like ice; Proudfoot, jacket pulled tight around her, followed. Head bowed. Sheep Dip traipsed behind. Mulholland rang the bell. They stood and shivered. There should have been constables out on this duty.

An enormous wait in the snow and cold. An eternity. Felt like they were freezing to death where they stood. About to abort when the door creaked open, an old woman appeared. Wrinkled face and extravagant hair, savage and feral, which had seen battle with many a pink rinse.

'Chief Inspector Mulholland, Sergeants Proudfoot and Dip,' said Mulholland, presenting his card. Proudfoot smiled, Sheep Dip didn't mind.

The woman looked them up and down, arms folded across her chest, cardigan close around her.