The Barbershop Seven (61 page)

'You all right?' said Mulholland after several minutes of looking at the grey landscape.

She shrugged; he sensed the movement without looking at her.

'Don't know,' she said. 'Can't get the image of those two hands out of my head. Stupid, I suppose.'

'It's not stupid.'

'I mean, given everything else we've seen in the last couple of days, that was hardly the worst of it. But I'm haunted by them. I've even given them names.'

He turned and looked at her. The cold face, with lips full and warm. Sucking him in.

'Names?' he said. 'Mr Left and Mr Right? Or rather, Mr Left and Mr Left II?'

'Fred and Gene,' she said.

'Oh.' He continued to look at her; she stared into some indistinct patch of snow. Pale cheeks, lips a delicious purply-red, that glorious air of vulnerability and the chance to protect her. I'm never letting her out of my sight, he thought.

Something which he would be forced to deny within five minutes.

'Fred West and Jean... I don't know, somebody loony?' he asked.

'Astaire and Kelly.'

'Right. I don't think I want an explanation for that.'

'I don't know,' she said, 'maybe there's some weird psychic thing going on. Trying to tell me something about those two hands. Like there might be something strange about it.'

'What? You think there might be something strange about two left hands lying on a table? Bloody right there is, Sergeant. It's way strange.'

'That wasn't what I meant.'

'You mean Fred and Gene are embedded in your subconscious for a reason? Your inner detective self is trying to tell you something?'

'Aye, I think so.'

'I don't buy any of that stuff, Sergeant, I'm afraid. You know what you know in this job. When you start relying on some loony sixth sense, you're usually desperate.'

She looked round at him for the first time since they'd started talking. Something of an ironic smile on her face.

'Of course. And at the moment we're not even remotely desperate. There are still plenty of us left to kill. Won't be any need to panic until there's at least another ten dead.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Well, what's instinct, then? We all rely to some degree on instinct.'

Mulholland stared at the white landscape, wondering where Barney Thomson was hiding. Wondering if he was out there at all. Wondering if within himself there should be some gut instinct telling him the answers to all their problems. He found no inspiration, but realised that he was looking at the snow through more snow. Large white flakes drifting down in straight lines, increasing in intensity as he watched. Christmas snow, of the type which ought to have been accompanied by Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, sleigh bells ringing, children singing, reindeer, Nat King Cole, presents, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, the peal of a bell and that Christmas-tree smell, turkey, mistletoe and mulled wine.

'Fuck.'

'Aye,' said Proudfoot. 'Fred and Gene don't seem to mind, though. They're still dancing.'

'Oh, that's what they're doing.'

'What did you think?'

Another noise from the tent behind, and the former Brother Edward reappeared, pulling his jacket on as he came, shivering noisily. Mulholland turned; Proudfoot didn't even bother.

'Sorry, I'm dying to take a slash,' he said. 'I'll just nip over here.'

'Don't go too far,' said Mulholland, thinking that he really ought to accompany him, but having no intention of leaving Proudfoot alone for even half a minute. With a killer like Barney Thomson, that could be all he needed.

From a short distance, the white-clad figure of Brother Steven noticed Edward's appearance. This would be the distraction he'd been looking for. A chance. Immediately his blood boiled, his heart began to thump, hormones gallivanted triumphantly around his body. He began an unseen crawl towards the campfire, an expectant smile coming to his face, already tasting splattered blood on his tongue.

'One of us should go with him,' said Proudfoot.

Mulholland watched as Edward walked off twenty yards and started looking for a decent place to pee in the snow. Like a dog.

'We can see him from here,' said Mulholland, knowing she was right. But there was a conundrum with it, of course. 'One of us goes after him, it means there's one of us left on our own at the fire.'

'I can take care of myself, Chief Inspector, just as I'm sure you can.'

'Just as you're sure Sheep Dip could've.'

'Well, I'll be fine, but if
I
go after him he'll think I want to have sex. On you go.'

Mulholland looked at her; had his doubts. A few minutes ago he'd never been going to let her out of his sight again. He looked round at Edward, who had decided on the right place and was now trying to wrestle the business end of his genitals free from fifteen layers of clothing. Mulholland thought about it, knew his duty, but also knew that every other decision he'd taken since they'd left Glasgow had been wrong.

'Right,' he said eventually, standing up. 'But the first sign of anything and you scream your head off. You got that?'

She nodded without looking at him. Somewhere in her confused head she recognised his concern for what it was, but, having finished the conversation, she now went back to watching the dancing all-stars.

His mind made up, another bad decision, Mulholland walked quickly over to where Edward stood with his back to the campfire, tackle bared to the elements, making his mark.

And so, Brother Steven saw his chance. It had fallen kindly for him, for Edward had moved to the other side of the campsite, away from him. The chances of him being able to get around there in time, undetected and in the thick snow, were impossible. Now he had a clear path to the middle of the camp, where Sergeant Proudfoot sat alone, her mind elsewhere, easy prey for a killer.

Proudfoot stared into the fire, occasionally prodding at it with a stick, stirring up the embers, moving wood. She didn't look over her shoulder at the two men to her right, one doing a tremendous Matterhorn of a pish, and the other doing his best to watch the man, but not what he was doing.

Brother Steven crept ever closer. Like a lizard he crawled through the snow with tremendous speed, his nose scything through it, knife gripped commando-like between his teeth, with only a few inches of his body visible, and that blending with the snow on the ground and the thick, heavy flakes now coming down in a wall. Proudfoot was looking in the opposite direction anyway; Mulholland was constantly scanning the surroundings, watching for a sudden attack, but in this white-out, white falling against a white background, he did not see the figure in white advance upon the fire.

Proudfoot's instinct was overloaded by the presence of the two hands. There was no sixth sense to tell her that her killer approached from behind. No warning, no alarm bells, nothing to tell her that the frigid steel of death was about to be ripped across her throat.

Mulholland scanned again, as Edward went about the business of re-establishing everything where it was supposed to be. His eyes went around the camp area in a quick circle, but these were eyes trained to spot a drug dealer in a nightclub, not a man dressed in white against a background of white; and so he missed the creeping figure of Brother Steven as he scurried over the final few yards towards Proudfoot.

Steven transferred the knife to his hand; his eyes sparkled in the dull light; his body heaved; he began to rise above the snowline. He could taste Proudfoot's blood; he wished he had time to linger over this, his first female victim, but he would have to be quick. Didn't want to get into a bun-fight with the other four.

Ten yards became five. The snow passed in a rush. Too late, Proudfoot suddenly sensed the danger behind her. Mulholland watched the snow and had vague thoughts about football games played with orange balls.

There was another movement in the night. Steven was on top of Proudfoot as Brother Raphael staggered blindly out of the tent, bleary-eyed, in some need of answering the Lord's call. As Steven hung in the air over Proudfoot, waiting to bring the knife plunging fully down into the back of her neck, his distracted eye caught that of Raphael. Raphael's eyes ignited; and Steven's mind was made up.

A flurry in the snow. Proudfoot swivelled round, leaping to her feet, crying out as she did so; Mulholland was finally alerted to the predator; and Steven stabbed the knife viciously through the inadequately raised defences of Raphael's arms and into his face. Another thrust, and Raphael fell, the knife embedded.

Steven stared down at his latest victim, caught sight of Mulholland pounding, Edward floundering through the snow towards him. Felt Proudfoot about to pounce from behind. Did not turn; no thoughts of tackling everyone at once – murder should be measured – and he quickly took to the snow again, in lizard-like fashion. Proudfoot pounded after him, was almost there; but she was trained to chase vandals up busy streets. She slipped; her head was buried in the snow. And by the time she lifted herself up and Mulholland stood beside her, Brother Steven had vanished behind the vertical wall which descended upon them.

'You all right?' said Mulholland, breathless, kneeling beside her. Didn't care about poor Raphael, knife in his face.

She didn't answer, but stared towards the snow where Steven had disappeared. Barney Thomson, as she assumed. Eventually she nodded.

'Aye, I'm all right. Don't know about that poor bastard, though,' she said, indicating the wretched Raphael with her head.

They both turned and looked at him, and they watched the blood go cold on his face. Edward arrived, panting and scared, and saw the knife in his brother's face.

'Bloody hell,' was all he managed. But it was heartfelt.

There was a noise from the tent, then Martin's head protruded into the cold.

'Would you lot keep the sodding noise down out here,' said the monk. 'Some of us are trying to get a bit of kip.'

––––––––

B
rother Steven lay in wait. Heart still thumping, even though it was now three hours since he'd sent Brother Raphael on his way, red-carded, to the great changing room in the sky. Or down below – that was where he thought he'd sent Brother Raphael. All that praying crap had been a cover.

The four remaining victims-to-be were sat around the fire as, at last, with everything they could find to burn having been burned – including the clothes off the woebegone Raphael's back, and including the tent, as Mulholland had decreed that they took no covered shelter – it began to dwindle and die. Still some five hours before daylight, and Steven remained the most alert, the most stimulated by this feast of death.

And all the time he watched, all the time his thoughts changed. He still had no intention of letting any of them get to Durness, but the odd death after the arrival of daylight could be fun. Everyone preferred light to darkness, and we serial murderers are no different, he thought. He had begun to consider that maybe he might use the gun after all. It wouldn't do any harm to his reputation. Couldn't imagine Bundy turning to Dahmer in Hell and saying, 'What a woose; used a gun.' Not now, after all this carnage.

And besides, he could imagine the torture they were currently going through. The cold; the fear; the waiting. That would be the worst part for them. Not knowing when he would attack next. Having to be on edge, adrenaline pumping, for second after second, into minutes and hours, all through the night, when daybreak must seem years away. And he took as much pleasure from this thought as he did from the fact that eventually they would all die by his hand. There were stalkers and there were super-stalkers. He, Steven Cafferty, was the first mega-bumper, super-deluxe, thirty victims for the price of one, going all the way to Madame Tussaud's on an abattoir of desire, sure-fire Hall of Fame stalker.

And this part of it, this endgame, had been the best of the lot. Like a hungry wolf, he thought, then changed his mind. Like a sated wolf, but a wolf who just killed for the Hell of it. And he was destined to spend the next few hours smiling; smiling and going nowhere.

***

'I
cannot believe that you burned the tent. It's three o'clock in the sodding morning, it's not going to be daylight for another gazillion years, it's absolutely bollock bloody freezing, and we've got no shelter because you've gone and burned the sodding tent.'

Mulholland stared into the dying fire. Had been wondering for some time now how effective it would be to place Raphael's body in it, but knew that it was not an option. If the only reason he was to live was because of that, he didn't think he wanted to. Barney Thomson might have killed the equivalent of half the population of Belgium, but if he, Mulholland, placed one dead body on a fire, the news would be all about him.

'I thought you were supposed to be a monk,' he said to Martin, looking up at last.

'Bugger the monk thing,' said Martin. 'I want to talk about you burning the sodding tent. What were you thinking? It's snowing like bollocks.'

'I didn't hear you protesting at the time,' said Mulholland.

'I assumed you knew what you were doing, being the police 'n all, but it's pretty bloody obvious you've no idea. It's snowing like fuck, the only shelter we have is a tent; what should we do? I know! Let's burn the bloody thing. Jesus Christ.'

Mulholland turned his aching, cold, exhausted limbs to face Martin. On a quick list of ten things he could really have done without at that moment, this would have been up there at the top, along with toothache, haemorrhoids, and Japanese viral encephalitis.

'So what do you think, heid-the-ba'? That we should all just have hung out in the tent? No one on watch, so that Barney Thomson could come charging up here and torch us where we huddled? He could see us, and we wouldn't have been able to see him.'

'Oh, and that's different from what we have at the moment, is it? Don't you call me heid-the-ba', you stupid bastard. You see Barney Thomson right now? Well, do you? Well, I'll tell you this, mate; that bastard can sure as fuck see us.'

'If we were in the tent we'd never see him coming.'