The Barbershop Seven (41 page)

'Watch your testicles.'

'Thanks.'

Mulholland walked from the small dining room. Proudfoot looked out of the window at the snow-covered fields stretching away to low hills. The other five people in the room looked warily at her. Might she also be the police, or was she the moll? A bit on the side he carried with him. Or maybe she was a one-nighter he'd picked up in one of the seedy strip joints in Helmsdale or Brora.

An uncomfortable silence dominated the room. The clink of knives, cups and saucers, toast crunching between teeth. The silent sounds of suspicion. Proudfoot felt it, too bored with the police to enjoy it anymore. Stared out at the snow, mind rambling. Wondered if they were in for a long winter. Didn't think about Barney Thomson; couldn't help thinking about Joel Mulholland. It never did any harm to think.

He returned, walking quickly into the room. Good humour gone. Businesslike.

'Come on, Sergeant,' he said. Knew it, thought the other five in the room. 'We've got a sighting of our man. Dip's come up with something, some hotel near Wick that Thomson stayed in. We'd better get a move on before Sheep careers off across the Highlands on some wild-goose chase.'

***

A
small hotel on the sea-battered east coast. They could already hear the sound of the waves crashing onto the rocks, a great tumult of noise. The hotel looked not unlike the Bates house, high on a promontory. Gothic. Good sea views. Gave the hotel its name.
The Sea View
. They both thought the same thing as they got out of the car, hugging their jackets around them to fight off the biting wind whistling in off a bitter North Sea;
wonder how long it took some genius to think that up?

A couple of other cars in the car park. No other buildings in sight. A desolate, dreary spot. Difficult to imagine there being any life in this place, even on the brightest of days.

A good place for a serial killer.

Mulholland pushed open the door and marched into reception. Hit by a wonderful warmth, Proudfoot quickly closed the door behind them. Had expected the inside to be as bleak as the exterior, but instead, thick carpets, heating up full. It could have been any of a hundred hotels in Scotland. Red carpet, pictures of stags on the walls, warm, smoky smell of an open fire. Mulholland thought of his honeymoon; long nights and long mornings, lazy afternoons; a time when the rest of his life had been set. He banished the memory, consigned it to the appropriate bin.

A young woman appeared. Canadian. Although, as with all Canadians, this did not outwardly manifest itself.

'Hi, what can I do for you? Would you like a room?'

'No thanks. Chief Inspector Mulholland and Sergeant Proudfoot. Here to speak with Mr Stewart.'

'Oh, right, yeah. The police. About that serial killer guy. I'll just get him for you. Wait up.'

She disappeared from reception, leaving faint traces of soap and hotel shampoo in the air. Mulholland rested his elbows on the counter. Proudfoot wandered, studying paintings of open moor and stags on the hoof. She'd never stayed in a hotel like this. Wanted to stay that night, but knew they had a long day ahead of them.

A woman bustled into reception. Late sixties perhaps, grey hair and breasts you could use on a major engineering project. A man followed, dungarees and dirty hands. Face like the underside of a football boot.

Mulholland held up his card.

'Mulholland and Proudfoot, Partick CID.'

'Partick?' said the woman. 'By jings, you got here quickly. We only phoned this morning.'

'We were in the area. I presume Sergeant MacPherson's here already?'

'There's no MacPherson here, laddie, and there hasn't been since Big Jock MacPherson stayed here yon night he thought he could get away with shagging Wee Sammy Matheson's daughter, Budgie. But I'll tell you, Wee Sammy was having none of it.'

'Right.'

'Partick, you say,' said the woman. 'Have they no local police they could send? I thought we'd be seeing Alec. Had a nice cup of tea all ready for him.'

The man shook his head. 'Ach, away with you, woman, this is much too big for Alec. If you want someone to tell you the quickest way to get to Golspie, he's fine, but he's bloody useless at solving crimes and the like. Still hasn't worked out who robbed the Post Office last March even though Wee Jamie Drummond's been driving round in a brand new Skoda ever since.' He nodded at the two officers. 'No, these are the big boys up from Glasgow we've got here. Come on and sit yourselves down. You get us some tea, Agnes.'

Agnes Stewart looked at the visitors. 'You'll be wanting a biscuit,' she muttered, and then disappeared.

Donald Stewart beckoned them on. Another warm room, large fire crackling. Smells like Christmas, thought Proudfoot. A couple of sofas, seven or eight comfortable chairs. Coffee tables with two-year-old
People's Friends
.

'Now, now, then, sit yourselves down, won't you? I expect you'll be having a few wee questions for me.'

Mulholland and Proudfoot sat next to one another on the sofa beside the fire. Donald Stewart sat across from them, leaning forward, awaiting the inquisition. Knew what it would be like, being a man who watched
The Bill
.

'I understand that you thought Barney Thomson had been staying here?' said Mulholland, getting straight to it.

Stewart nodded enthusiastically. 'Oh aye, no doubt about it. A week past on Thursday for two nights. I checked my records before you came.'

A week past on Thursday. Mulholland lowered his head. What was the matter with these people? This still left them a week and a half behind.

'So he left here on the Saturday,' said Mulholland, the annoyance creeping into his voice.

'Aye, twelve days ago.'

Mulholland stared at him. Knew that the bloke didn't see anything wrong. Cast a glance at Proudfoot who wasn't laughing this time.

'Mr Stewart, if Barney Thomson was here twelve days ago, and you knew the police were looking for him, why did it take you so long to get in touch with us?'

Stewart laughed. 'Well, you know what Matthew Arnold said. Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we, light half-believers in our casual creeds, Who hesitate and falter life away, and lose tomorrow the ground won today – and, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?'

Mulholland stared at the smile on the football boot face. The headache which had been lingering since he awoke threatened to burst through.

'What the fuck was that all about?' he said. Shook his head, held up his hand. 'Sorry,' he mumbled.

'Well, I'm not so sure,' said Stewart, 'but I thought it might apply. I do like my poetry. What I'm trying to say is this. He seemed like a nice enough lad, you know, we'd have him back any day. Paid his bill in cash. Just didn't see him as a serial killer, and the way the press are going on, I hardly thought that the boy would get a fair trial.'

Mulholland buried his head in his hands. Rubbed his forehead, came up for air. Trying not to lose his temper. 'So why now?' he asked.

'Ach, well, I was just wondering if maybe I might have been wrong about the lad.' His wife bustled into the room, a tray laden with food. 'I mean, on the telly last night they were saying it might have been his fault that Billy Bremner missed yon sitter against Brazil in Germany in 1974. I mean, if that's true, there's no doubt the lad belongs in prison.'

Mulholland was dumbstruck. Proudfoot stared at the fire and smiled. Not too many places for the conversation to go now.

'Now then, how many sugars would that be in your tea?'

Mulholland looked for the first time at the tray Agnes Stewart had brought in. A fruit loaf, twelve Danish pastries, six almond slices, one large apple tart, seven custard pies, a selection of chocolate-covered digestives, a packet of finger biscuits, fourteen iced buns, twenty or thirty jammy dodgers, and several hundredweight of cherry bakewells. He didn't answer, looked back at Donald Stewart.

'Two for me and none for him,' said Proudfoot.

'Right then, dear, that'll be lovely.'

The velvet sound of pouring tea filled the room.

'Aye,' said Donald Stewart, 'that looks like a fine cuppy of tea you're having. Think I might have a wee cuppy myself.'

'Mr Stewart,' said Mulholland, 'on the planet you're from, is it normal that one person can be guilty for every bad thing that ever happened?'

'Aye, well, you know, it's just what they're saying in the press, like.'

'How could Barney Thomson possibly be to blame for Billy Bremner's miss against Brazil? He was two feet out of goal with no one in front of him. How could it be anyone's fault but Billy Bremner's?'

Donald Stewart took a contemplative bite from an almond slice.

'Aye, well, manny, you might have a point. But there is a point of view that suggests all things are connected. You stick the ball in the net at Hampden and someone falls off their motorbike in Thurso. That's what we're talking about.'

'What is it Adam Smith says?' said Agnes Stewart, still filling the room with the warm sounds of pouring tea. 'Something about philosophy being the science which pretends to lay open the concealed connections that unite the various appearances of nature.'

'Well, Agnes, I don't know if that was quite what Mr Smith was getting at. There's more to this than philosophical ramblings.'

'Ramblings! You can't reduce Adam Smith to ramblings!'

'Aye, well, that might be right enough. But I don't know how much he has to contribute to a discussion on Billy Bremner missing a sitter against Brazil, the elegiac nature of it not withstanding.'

'Look!'

The Stewarts raised their heads, shrugged, ignored Mulholland's ejaculation. Mr Stewart made a move for a large piece of apple pie.

'There's your tea now, you two. Help yourself to a little bitty of cake.'

Proudfoot had given in. Wanted to burst out laughing again. Loaded a plate with cakes and biscuits, lifted her tea. Was resigned to gaining several kilos before getting back to Glasgow.

'Really, Mr Stewart, this has nothing to do with Billy Bremner. However, the crimes of which Barney Thomson stands accused are very, very serious. We believe him to be a dangerous man.'

'Ach, that laddie? I hardly think so. Seemed nice enough.' He touched the back of his neck. 'Even gave me a quick trim. An Andy Stewart, and he only charged me three-fifty.'

Mulholland shook his head, wondering who in their right mind would let Barney Thomson anywhere near them with a pair of scissors. Capitulated. Leant forward, lifted his tea, placed a Danish pastry, a custard pie and two iced buns on his plate. Was resigned to gaining several kilos before getting back to Glasgow; and Melanie wouldn't be there to complain about it.

There came the sound of heavy footfalls in the corridor outside, and then the sight of Sheep Dip marching into the lounge. He stopped short of the crowd and surveyed the table.

'You're late, Sergeant Dip,' said Mulholland.

'Ach, just got a wee bitty distracted. Met a couple of farmers who'd had their hair cut by your Thomson fellow, but it was last week. Don't suppose it helps.'

'Where?'

'Down Helmsdale way, you know, but I think it's too late to be worrying about it. Now, that looks like a fine platter you have there, ma'am, would you mind if I helped myself to a wee cakey or two?'

'Not at all, son, you go right ahead. And here you, I thought you said the lad's name was MacPherson?'

Mulholland stared from one to the other. Proudfoot felt a hint of pity for him, amongst other emotions.

'Mr Stewart,' she said, eating into the heart of the feast, 'can you remember if Barney Thomson said where he was intending to go after leaving here?'

Donald Stewart stroked his chin, bit ruminatively into his slice of apple pie. Nodded his head, then he said, 'You know, Agnes, I think this might have been a wee bitty better heated.'

––––––––

B
rother Herman sat at his desk in the library, poring over records. Books brought in, books taken out, books yet to be returned. Unfortunately, no record of how many times each individual monk had visited the library. This instead: the record of monks who had made transactions on each of the last days of Brothers Saturday and Morgan.

Only two names appeared both times. The first did not need to be thought about, or shown to the Abbot. No need to point suspicion at a quarter where it was not wanted. The other was Brother Babel, a name that continuously cropped up. Returning a book on the day that Saturday died, removing another, returning that book on the day Morgan died, removing a further volume. Firstly,
The Elohistic Chronicles
, by the Marquis François d'Orleans, a fourteenth-century French treatise on the Old Testament; followed by
The Path of Right
, an obscure twelfth-century work by an anonymous English monk. Comedic, some called it. Babel had not yet paid a visit to Brother Jacob's new hair emporium, but that hardly meant that he would be unaware of the location of the scissors.

Herman decided he would talk to Brother Babel. One of the younger monks, a man who would easily crack. It was time to apply pressure.

There were a few other names on the library lists, but Babel's was the one which stood out. Nevertheless, he would have to speak to each one in turn. One more day, and the Abbot would be calling in outside agencies of the law, something which Herman could not afford to allow to happen. He needed a suspect before then.

He closed the returns book and settled back in the hard chair. Looked into the heart of the shelves, the thousands of ancient volumes, and saw the faces of all the monks there. He had studied them all at Brother Morgan's graveside that morning, but there had been nothing there but grief and fear. He knew he was dealing with subtle and dark forces, that he could not act too boldly. He would have to bide his time. It would be like a game of cat and mouse. Without the cat.

Or the mouse.

***

T
here was a certain macabre beauty in cutting a customer's hair with a pair of scissors which had been used as an instrument of murder. So thought Barney Thomson, barber, as he snipped quietly away at the head of Brother Edward. A requested, and slightly racy, (Tonsured) Roger Moore, a revolutionary haircut never before executed. Barney was at the cutting edge of style, out on a limb.