The Barbershop Seven (37 page)

'Are there enough of you?' she said. Soft Highland accent, belying wild exterior.

Mulholland ignored the sarcasm, produced the photo of Barney Thomson. 'Do you recognise this man, Mrs...'

'McDonald, Nellie McDonald, that's me. And aye, I do recognise him. It's that Barney Thomson character they're aye on about in the papers.'

'That's right.' He kept the photo held out where she could see it. Proudfoot shivered, stared at the snow on the ground. 'He's known to have visited this area in the past couple of weeks. Now, there's no need to be alarmed, but is there any possibility that he might have stayed here with you? Maybe worn some kind of disguise and used a false name. Maybe he—'

'Oh aye, he was here. Stayed for a couple of nights, a week or two back.'

Mulholland did not immediately reply. The snow fell, though he did not feel it.

'Excuse me?' he said.

She tutted loudly, looking behind them at the snow.

'It's right cold to be standing out in the snow, is it not? Why don't you come inside? You must be frozen.'

'Thanks,' said Mulholland, and they followed the landlady as she retreated into the warmth of her house. Huge bum waddled down the hall. Sheep Dip closed the door behind them, and they walked into the front room. A small fire burned in the hearth; lamps were on, giving the room a warm glow. Two tables were already set for the following day's breakfast. No television, a silent record player loitered by the window.

'Sit yourselves down,' she said. 'Now, you'll be wanting a cup of tea.'

'Brilliant, thanks,' said Sheep Dip.

'No, really,' said Mulholland, giving him a sideways glance, 'if we could just ask you some questions.'

'Ach, for goodness sake, you look frozen. I'll just get you a wee cuppy and some biscuits. I'll not be a minute.'

'That'll be lovely, thank you, Mrs McDonald,' said Proudfoot.

'Aye, you take care of that man of yours, lassie, he looks like he could do with a bit of fattening up,' said Mrs McDonald, and she bustled from the room.

'Bloody hell,' said Mulholland, voice lowered, once she'd gone. 'We could be about to get our first contact with the ghost of Barney Thomson, and you two eejits encourage her to mince off and make tea.'

'She'll tell as anyway,' retorted Proudfoot. 'It's not like he's still here. And besides, you need fattening up.'

'Piss off, Sergeant.'

The fire crackled, coals snapped. Mulholland got up and stood in front of it, looking down into the flames. Proudfoot stared at the floor, glanced at him occasionally. He was lost in the flames. Sheep Dip wondered if it'd be Tetley. He liked Tetley.

'Right, then, you three, here you go.'

Nellie McDonald charged into the room and placed an overladen tray onto the coffee table. Besides the pot of tea and three cups, milk and sugar, there were four slices of buttered fruitcake, a whole chocolate cake, three slices of some other lemony-looking cake, a box of mince pies, a round of crumpets with strawberry jam, a couple of scones, some toast, six chocolate biscuits, a packet of ginger creams, ten pieces of shortbread, fourteen Jaffa Cakes, sixty or seventy digestives, and at least eight hundred butter creams.

'Now then, here's a wee something to keep you going. I expect you're having a long day.'

'Can we talk about Barney Thomson?' said Mulholland.

'Now, now, there'll be plenty of time for that. You just have a couple of pieces of cake and a nice cup of tea. Milk or sugar?'

'Milk, no sugar, thanks,' he said reluctantly. Proudfoot smiled.

'And you lassie?'

'Milk, two sugars, please.'

'That's grand. Now you help yourself to some cake as well, because you're looking a bit thin around the jowls.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'And you, laddie?'

Sheep Dip leant forward. 'A wee bitty milk and seven sugars, please,' he said.

Nellie McDonald smiled. 'A man after my own heart.'

They moved over to the table, started helping themselves to food from the platter. Felt like children at their gran's house on a Sunday afternoon. Expecting to be offered sweets when they were finished. And fifty pence for being good.

'You said that Barney Thomson stayed here, Mrs McDonald,' said Mulholland eventually; piece of chocolate cake stuck to the side of his face. Proudfoot did her best not to laugh.

'Och, aye, he did. A couple of weeks ago, or so, you know. Only for two nights.'

Hot lead went cold. Mulholland sank.

'You weren't aware at the time of the crimes of which this man has been accused?'

'Ach, I didn't believe any of that rubbish. He was lovely. Very quiet, no trouble. Paid in cash.'

Mulholland and Proudfoot exchanged looks. Serious business, but Proudfoot was having trouble not bursting into a fit of giggles.

'But there's a nationwide manhunt for this man at the moment. You didn't think of reporting his presence to the police?'

'Ach, I didn't like to bother anyone. And I'm not so sure he's guilty anyway. Are you sure you're after the right man? He was a lovely lad, very gentle. Paid in cash.'

'That may be the case, but you still ought to have reported his presence here to the local police.'

She smiled back at him. Nothing to say. No one reported their guests to the police. Against the code.

'Can you tell us anything about him?' he asked. Let the sigh escape.

'You'll have another piece of cake, lassie,' she said to Proudfoot. 'You'll not get by on that little you've eaten there.'

'Certainly,' said Proudfoot. Smile on her face. Moved forward and swiped a piece of chocolate cake and a biscuit.

'Mrs McDonald?' said Mulholland.

'All right, all right,' she said. 'I suppose there was something a wee bitty strange about him.'

'And what was that?'

'Well, it was most unusual. On the first morning he wanted a full fried breakfast, but here, if it wasn't just the thing, he only wanted a boiled egg on his second morning. Very strange. And no cornflakes either. Course, there are so many breakfast cereals these days. It's hard to keep up with what the customers want.'

'You should get those little individual packets,' said Sheep Dip.

'Aye,' said Mrs McDonald, 'I think it's come to that.'

'Apart from that,' said Mulholland tetchily, above the sound of Proudfoot trying to stop herself laughing, 'what can you tell us about his stay here?'

'Well, not a lot, not a lot. I didn't realise who he was at first. Gave a false name. I suppose that was canny.'

'Oh, aye? What was the name?'

'Barnabus Thompson, he said his name was. That was Thompson with a
p
, so I was a wee bitty confused, even though I thought I recognised him. But I worked it out, when was it? Maybe on the second day I realised that he'd just stuck a
p
in there to confuse everybody. I'm not that stupid, though.'

'Right. Anything else? What was he wearing? Did he look like he does in the photograph? What did he do here? When did he leave? Where did he say he was going? Anything like that?'

'Help m'boab, what a lot of questions. Will you not be having another wee bitty cake, dear? You're looking awful thin.'

'No, really, Mrs McDonald. Could you just answer the questions, please?'

'You'll never hang on to a fine lassie like this if you don't eat properly. Is that not right, darling?'

Proudfoot nodded. Mouth full of cake. Tried not to laugh and spit it out over the floor.

'Right, I suppose you'll be wanting your questions answering, then. The laddie got here late one night. A Tuesday I think, but I'm not sure. Said he'd got the bus up from Inverness. Wanted a room for a couple of days. Paid up for two nights as soon as he got here. I told him he didn't have to bother, but he insisted. Very courteous. I thought I recognised him from the news that night, but I couldn't be sure, what with his name being different. I mean, I said to Margaret in the grocer's the following morning about him, and she said, aye, well, right enough, he might well be up here. Anyway, I think he went out briefly the day he arrived and bought himself some clothes. I'm not daft, you know. It was then I realised he was on the run. There's no one comes to Tain just to buy clothes. He got a couple of nice shirts and some underwear. But he was wearing the same jacket, you know, the one they talked about on the news.'

'And the reason you didn't phone the police at this point was?'

'Ach, well, he seemed like a nice laddie. Judge not, that ye be not judged, you know what they say. Who am I to say that this man—'

'No one's asking you to say anything. That's up to the courts to decide. No one's saying he's guilty.'

'Ach, away, you're all saying he's guilty. The poor laddie's already been convicted by the press. O judgement! thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason.'

Mulholland stared at her, looked at Proudfoot. Proudfoot shrugged. Still smiling. Sheep Dip demolished cake.

'And when did he leave, Mrs McDonald?'

'Oh, let me think now.' Pursed her lips, stared at the carpet. 'About ten in the morning, two days after he arrived. And as I said, he didn't even have a full breakfast inside him, the daft laddie. Don't know what was the matter with him.'

'And did he say where he was going?'

'Oh, now let me see. We got talking, but you know how it is. My memory's not the best.' You can remember what he sodding had for breakfast, thought Mulholland. 'Here now, I think he said something about going somewhere where no one would ever have heard of him. When I think about it now, there might have been a wee bitty something in the paper that morning which upset him, you know. Here, you don't think that was why he didn't have his full breakfast, do you?'

Mulholland looked across the great divide. You just didn't get people like this in Glasgow. When people were obstructive in Glasgow, they did it intentionally, enjoying every minute.

'That was all? Nothing about a specific destination?'

'No, no, I don't think so. He left, got the bus, that was that. Have seen not hide nor tail of him since. Now, you'll be wanting another cuppy of tea?'

'No, no, no. Mrs McDonald, really, I've got another couple of questions, then we'll need to be going.'

'Ach, don't be silly. You're not going anywhere until you've cleared the tray. Now you three just sit there while I make a fresh potty. I might even join you myself. And you, you big lummox, you're not saying much. Cat got your tongue?'

Sheep Dip smiled, didn't reply. A mouth full of cake.

Receiving no answer, Mrs McDonald disappeared from the room, clutching the enormous tea pot in her right hand. Proudfoot and Mulholland stared at one another, Proudfoot on the point of laughter. Mulholland raised his finger.

'Don't, Sergeant. Don't even think about it. Bloody woman.'

Proudfoot smiled, said, 'Maybe she'd have taken you more seriously if you hadn't had that big bit of chocolate cake attached to your cheek.'

She glanced at Sheep Dip. Eyes said it all. Mulholland ran his hand across his face and once again felt five years old.

––––––––

B
arney sat and waited. Like a prisoner before the execution. The deed was done, the verdict given, the firing squad stood outside, cleaning gun barrels, checking rifle sights, chatting idly about the previous night's Premiership action. All in a day's work for them; the final act for Barney. He could feel the bullets zinging into him, could feel his body rock with the shock. Had seen it in the movies. His chest riddled with gunshots. And what if he didn't die? That was what he kept thinking. If the seven or eight bullet wounds weren't enough. Could see himself falling to the ground, could feel the pain. Presumed bullet wounds hurt; had never had one. Had been told about it once by a customer; he couldn't have been more than mid-twenties, claimed his injuries came from Vietnam. Wullie had said the guy had been listening to too many Springsteen songs.

Barney's mind rambled all over the place. His crimes of the past; bad haircuts he had known; lives he had ruined, either by inadvertent murder or by giving one of his infamous
Poseidon Adventure
cut-and-blow-dries; the life he had left behind, the life he'd come to.

But most of all, Barney wondered what he was doing there. Sitting in a cold, damp corridor, waiting to be seen by the Abbot, or Brother Herman. Or both. He had not the faintest idea what he'd done to warrant the attention. Presumed it was because he'd given the Abbot a bad haircut, though he'd thought at the time, that as Brother Cadfaels go, he'd totally nailed the sucker.

Trouble was, you could just never tell. How many times in the past had he given a haircut the like of which only kings could dream and the gods deliver, only to be rebuked by some ignorant cretin with no eye for a cut of wondrous beauty and construction. Like his famous Billy Connolly '81, which he'd given to a young chap, on request, a few years previously; a haircut from God's own factory, a haircut from Satan's nightmares, a haircut of erudition and infinite jest; yet a haircut which had been scorned by the customer, resulting in no tip and a near bar-room brawl when they'd bumped into each other in the pub three days later. Some people just did not appreciate talent.

Barney was an artist, and like all of his kind, misunderstood in his lifetime.

He could not imagine that the Abbot was such a man; he'd seemed happy enough after the cut. Perhaps, Barney pondered, he had a secret mirror somewhere, and had checked the cut after it'd been given. Barney's imagination raced. Maybe the Abbot had a lot more than a hidden mirror. Suddenly saw the Abbot inside his secret hideout, a massive operations cell underneath the monastery. Something from a Bond film – huge maps on the walls with lights displaying the locations of all the Abbot's nuclear warheads. Saw the Abbot sitting in a large white leather chair, stroking a cat. SPECTRE: Special Executive for Corruption, Terrorism, Revenge and Ecumenicalism. A worldwide network of monasteries, ostensibly there to lead a Christian life straight out of the Dark Ages, but in actuality a front for an organisation of religious terrorism. He wondered if beneath the monastery there was a tropical pool of piranha fish, kept starving for weeks; waiting for Barney, and all because he'd given the Abbot a bad haircut.