The Barbershop Seven (45 page)

'I think you're havering, Mary Strachan. Now would you try and get some sleep?'

'Oh, aye, and another thing. Apparently they're saying it was his fault that Stevie Nicol missed yon sitter against Uruguay in Mexico in 1986.'

'Aye, no doubt. That sounds reasonably hudibrastoplastic to me.'

The old couple settled into their bed, as the wind blew and the snow piled against their house. And some twenty miles away, while Barney Thomson slept and the blizzard howled up the glen, the third murder in five days was committed at the monastery of the Holy Order of the Monks of St John.

'Away and stick yer heid in a sheep's stomach, James Strachan.'

––––––––

'T
he tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.'

'Oh, aye, Mary Strachan, that's all very well. But just what has that eejit Thomas Jefferson got to do with the fact that they're saying it was Barney Thomson's fault that Jim Leighton sold the goal against Brazil in Italy in 1990.'

***

C
lear blue skies; thick snow on the ground, white and fresh. A gentle breeze blowing off the land, out to sea. The blizzard and high winds gone in the night. Freezing temperatures, but the kind of cold a good coat could combat; faces shone, noses ran, ears went red.

They sat in the Land Rover, heating on full, slithering out of Thurso and heading west. Sheep Dip was in the back, eating the third of five bacon rolls. The snowploughs had already been along the road; snow piled high at the sides, great hedgerows. Blocking out the view; like driving through Devon. Along the top of Scotland, no particular destination in mind. The plan as before, to stop at every hotel and B&B, but they knew that that was not where their destination lay. Barney Thomson would not be holed up somewhere where he had to pay his way. He could not automatically trust to all his keepers' innocence. He would have found some other refuge, or else gone on. He could easily have gone to the north islands, and it might be that they would have to come back this way. They would have to anyway, for the exchange of cars.

Sergeant Gordon had had it in mind to tell them about the Sutherland monastery when they'd come to pick up the car, but somehow it had slipped his attention. He would remember some time in the afternoon, and smile wryly to himself, then he would make another cup of tea.

Serial killers did not haunt monasteries. They went for places such as underground caverns and houses in the woods. He had seen the movies.

Past Melvich and Strathy, on towards Bettyhill. Slow going, stopping intermittently; occasional forays along small roads, down which the snowplough had not ventured. Skidding and slipping and sliding. Glad of the four-wheel drive, although Mulholland had not much experience. Sheep Dip had been used to four-wheel drive since he'd been seven, but did not feel it was for him to say anything. He enjoyed the ride, laughed quietly to himself, and munched his way through a couple of movie bags of Doritos.

A succession of rejections and blank looks. A few possibles, slipping away to nothing. Most places this far north were closed for the winter. A few hotels, a few forlorn B&Bs. Sometimes they came to houses; the sign was up, but the building was along some inaccessible road. So they would have to struggle on foot, for which only Sheep Dip was dressed.

Feet and trousers soaking after the first couple, they ended up sending Sheep Dip on his own.

A couple of tortuous hours into their day, not long after twelve, Mulholland first noticed the problem with the car. Trouble getting into third, all the other gears still available. Slowly, as they went, gears vanished, until he was driving solely in second. Waiting for it to disappear at any time. They struggled into a small garage in Tongue.

Just before he pulled in off the road, he noticed that it had not been cleared ahead. He parked in the garage next to the snowplough. Feet cold and soaking, no amount of heat directed their way having any noticeable effect. Fed up. Getting nowhere. The ups and downs of humour. Proudfoot was no different.

He took the car out of gear. For the last time. Switched off the engine, looked at Proudfoot. Had forgotten about Sheep Dip.

'Fuck it,' he said.

'How long do you think it'll take to fix?'

He shook his head. Getting annoyed at her, because he wanted her and was too racked with pusillanimity to say anything.

'I don't know, do I, Sergeant? If I was a mechanic I'd have fixed the bloody thing by now.'

He got out of the car and slammed the door. He stopped and stared at the snow at his feet. What was he doing? There was no point in losing his temper at her; some pseudo-Freudian knee-jerk reaction just because he was too much of a jessie to try to sleep with her.

'He fancies you,' said Sheep Dip from the back, before taking a bite out of a particularly green apple.

'He does not,' said Proudfoot. She got out of the car and looked at Mulholland. There was nothing there as he returned the look. He could apologise later, he thought.

A mechanic, yellow-overalled, appeared from behind the snowplough, rubbing his hands on a dirty rag.

'Good afternoon,' he said, looking suspiciously at the police vehicle. 'It's a bitty of a day to be out, is it not?'

'Duty calls,' said Mulholland. Not in the mood for conversation.

'Not from around here, then,' said the mechanic. 'Still, I see you're driving Lachlan Gordon's car. You must be the folks up from the Big Smoke looking for this serial killer fellow, is that right?'

'Brilliant, Sherlock, how do you do it?'

'Ach, it's not difficult. Everybody knows you're up here, driving around in your fancy motors and staying in all the best hotels.'

'Is that right?'

'Aye, aye. So are you two lovebirds sleeping together yet, or are you still at the hating-each-other stage?'

'Sorry?'

'Ach well, it doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all. Now, what can I be doing for you?'

Proudfoot looked at the ground. Mulholland tried not to lose his temper. He had stopped analysing his feelings of hostility. Given in to them and determined to enjoy it. He was about to speak when the door of the Land Rover opened and Sheep Dip crunched into the snow.

'Hey, hey, hey,' said the mechanic. 'If it isn't the old Dipmeister! How are you doing, Sergeant? It's been a wee whiley since you've been up in these parts.'

'Aye, well, you know, after what happened with Big Mary and the combine...'

'Oh, aye, aye, right enough. Some things are better left alone, especially now with Donald back from the Falklands.'

'Hello!' said Mulholland. 'Can we get on? I've got a problem with the gearbox.'

'No!' said the mechanic.

'Aye,' said Mulholland.

'Ach, that blasted thing. There's no' a mechanic in Caithness or Sutherland who hasn't had a go at Lachlan's gearbox. And to be honest with you, we're all fair scunnert by it.'

'This happens a lot?'

'Och, aye, all the time, laddie. Didn't he tell you? Ach, no, no, I suppose he didn't.'

'So you'll know how to fix it?'

The mechanic put his hands on his hips and shook his head. Looked at the Land Rover like he'd look at a horse with a broken leg.

'Oh, it's not as easy as all that, I'm afraid, laddie. It's a big job, and all that, you know, and what with me having to fix Big Davie's snowplough. That's got to come first, you know. Have to have the roads through to Durness cleared by this evening.'

'Listen,' said Mulholland sharply, 'this is police business. I need that car to be fixed as soon as possible.'

'Don't you go spouting your fancy police business talk at me, sonny. And just where d'you think you're going to be going with no snowplough on the roads? Tell me that, laddie?
He sows hurry and reaps indigestion
. Robert Louis Stevenson. Mark those words, laddie.'

'I'm not going to get indigestion if you get a move on and fix the sodding Land Rover.'

'Oh, but you will if you have some lunch at Agnes's wee shop up the road while you wait.'

Hand to forehead, Mulholland rubbed his brow. Other hand on hip. Was aware of a vein throbbing in his head. Not at one with the northern people, Joel Mulholland. He was not coping well with the stress of marital difficulties, combined with the hunt for a serial killer, unfettered testosterone, and a melancholy gearbox. He didn't know what to say next. He had visions of getting a helicopter up to fly the three of them around, but imagined McMenemy would not be too keen on that.

'How long will it take, Mr...?' said Proudfoot.

'Oh, Alexander Montgomerie. You can call me Sandy.'

'How long,' said Mulholland, looking up, voice steady, the clipped words of the excessively angry, 'will it take to fix the snowplough?'

Sandy Montgomerie turned and looked at the large yellow truck. Rubbed his hand across his chin. Thinking, probably.

'Oh, I should say another couple of hours at the most. You know, it's a problem with the carburettor and the—'

'And how long after you've done that to fix the Land Rover?'

He turned his back and stared at the Land Rover. Scratched his chin again then narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in scrutiny.

'Ach, it's hard to say, you know. It's a big job, mind, a right big job. Doubt I'll get it finished the night.'

'Aw, bloody fuck,' said Mulholland. He turned away, staring at the white hills behind.

'Now, laddie, there's no need for that. I'll work as fast as I can.'

Mulholland didn't turn back. Became aware of his freezing feet, the damp working its way up his legs. Felt like screaming.

'Is there any other way to get along this road today?' asked Proudfoot.

'You mean like a bus or a car hire company, or something like that?' said Montgomerie.

'Aye.'

'No, no, there's nothing like that up here. No bus'll be going along on a day like the day.'

'Brilliant,' said Mulholland from behind.

'So what is there along here? Bed and breakfasts and hotels and the like. Anything?' asked Proudfoot.

Sandy Montgomerie stared at the blue sky. Watched a couple of gulls joust in the cold air. Mournful cries, sharp in the cold. Sheep Dip bit into his apple.

'How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest, the seagull's wings dip and pivot him, Shedding white rings of tumu—'

'For God's sake, would you shut up with all this bloody literature! I've had enough of bloody Stevenson!'

'That was Hart Crane, laddie, not Stevenson.'

'I don't give a shite who it was, would you just answer the questions?'

'Aye, aye, no bother. Keep your heid on, laddie.'

Montgomerie looked at Proudfoot.

'I think you're going to have to shag him, lassie, the way he's carrying on.'

'Right,' she said. Stared at the ground.

'Now as far as I know, there'll be nothing open between here and Durness this time of year. Once you get there, there's a couple of hotels and the like, but there's probably only one B&B open. That'll be Mrs Strachan. You might like to check that.'

'And do you think we could get a lift in the snowplough?' asked Proudfoot.

'Aye, I don't see why not. Big Davie's a lovely big lad, I'm sure he'd be delighted to give you a lift.'

'Big Davie?'

'Aye, Big Davie Cranachan. Drives the snowplough, just like his father before him and his father before him, and so on. All the way back to the days of the Clearances. I remember my old father telling me so...'

'Where can we find him?' said Mulholland, turning round.

Sandy Montgomerie looked up the road, pointed.

'He'll be having a spot of lunch at Agnes's place. One of her chicken pies, if I'm not mistaken. Could do with one of them myself at the moment, but I should be getting on.'

'Thanks,' said Proudfoot. 'We'll go and speak to him.'

'Aye, fine, I'm sure he'll be obliging.'

Proudfoot started trudging off in the direction of Agnes's place. Mulholland looked to Sandy Montgomerie, nodded, trailed after his sergeant. Foul mood intact. Sheep Dip stopped to chat.

'What's the matter with you?' said Proudfoot, as they walked up the small hill.

'Leave it, Sergeant,' he replied. 'Just leave it.'

'Aye, fair enough,' she said. 'But don't think I'm shagging you in that mood.'

***

'A
way and stick your heid in a bucket of pudding, Mary Strachan, you're havering again.'

'Ach, I'm not havering, James Strachan. If there's either of us havering, it's you. Look at yon ugly mug,' she said, pointing at the television. 'That's him, I'm telling you. He stayed right here in this house. Sure as Wee Fiona Menzies went soft in the heid after Hamish left her for yon stripper from Inverness.'

James Strachan shookled his paper and once more disappeared behind the sports pages of the Scotsman.
Gers Grab Dutch Embryo in £80m Swoop
.
'If it's a girl she plays on the wing,' says unconcerned boss.

'That's how much you know, woman. She wasn't a stripper, she was a cheese-o-gram. Now would you haud yer wheesht about yon Barney Thomson? I'm trying to read my paper.'

Scotland to Field Nine Defenders in Friendly against Andorra. 'Their right wing-back plays Spanish 8th division football, and he worries me,' admits Brown
.

'Ach, away you and roast your feet in the oven, James Strachan. As soon as this snow clears, I'll be going to see the FBI, so I will. No mistake.'

'The FBI! The FBI! What are you blethering about, Mary Strachan? I keep telling you, you watch too much shite on that television. That's why you think we've had a serial killer staying in Durness. But I'm telling you, missus, the only serial killer we've had was yon bloke who ate all the Weetabix.'

'Ach, away and stick your heid in a roaring fire, James Strachan.'

'Aye, well, you away and stick your heid in a blazing furnace, Mary Strachan. If Barney Thomson was going to the monastery, why did he no' just go there straight from Tongue? It's the same distance and it would have saved him the bother of coming all the way up here.'