The Barbershop Seven (84 page)

Another night sitting in on her own, drowning in misery. That was her. Should have been down the Bloated Fish, or whatever Friday night dive should happen along, watching her prey, the pointless stalk she'd had on for the previous five months. But Detective Sergeant Anderson, the other poor sap who, along with Crammond, had been dragged into the painful operation, had wanted to change for Saturday night and she'd agreed. Agreed without thinking twice.

For she had no idea of what it would lead to, this forthcoming Saturday night, which would turn into a long, long Sunday.

Thank God for Jade Weapon, she thought. However, there were only two more books to read in the series –
Jade Does Dallas
and
Fast Train to Nowhere
– and then she was finished. Who knew what excitement she'd be able to introduce into her life then?

She took another swallow of tepid tea, screwed her face up, did her best to ignore the feelings of depression and loneliness, and delved back into the novel.

Some days your head gets obliterated into a pulp by fifteen rounds from a semi-automatic. And some days it doesn't.

***

A
nother night at the Bloated Fish. Friday, a good crowd in. Not too many of the Murderers Anonymous group, most of them with other matters to take care of before going away for the weekend.

Arnie Medlock, in all his pomp. Katie Dillinger, lips soft and red, hair golden, teeth white like a new pair of M&S pants; a bit of the Georgia out of
Ally McBeal
about her, attractive yet insipid. Billy Hamilton, having turned up on the off-chance that Annie Webster would be there, and being sorely disappointed. (DS Anderson sat outside Webster's flat all night, fell asleep, and missed her when she left, then missed her again when she returned three hours later.) Billy would have to make do with Ellie Winters, a woman of some mystery. Socrates McCartney, in all his new-found, loose-tongued liberalism, chatting to Arnie Medlock, although the chatter concealed a certain amount of contempt. And lastly, Barney Thomson, sitting beside Katie Dillinger, toying with his pint of lager. Talking to a woman in an almost intimate situation, for the first time in over three hundred and fifty years. Or thereabouts.

Arnie Medlock kept a close watch, but suspected that Barney was all sour looks and no bottle. He wouldn't be any hassle; even though he could hear Dillinger enticing Barney to come with them for the weekend.
I could crush Thomson like a digestive biscuit
, he thought to himself, even though he had Socrates muttering about the size of spiders in Bearsden in his left ear.

'I don't know,' said Barney. 'I don't really feel like I'm one of you, you know.'

'Come on, Barney,' said Dillinger, running her finger around the top of her wine glass, an act which had Barney twitching in his seat, and which Medlock caught out of the corner of his eye. 'It's the perfect chance to get to know everyone. I won't lie to you. You see, I didn't think we'd be able to fit you in, but we have a vacancy. One of our number's dropped out, last-minute job. Don't know what the lad's up to,' she said, covering up all those feelings of rejection and annoyance which she'd done her best to ignore for the past couple of days. She would, of course, never see Paul The Hammer Galbraith again.

The wine glass began to sing. Somewhere distant, Barney was aware of Socrates talking about beetles and Medlock saying that when he was in Africa they'd had beetles bigger than dogs; while on his other side, Billy Hamilton talked about
Northern Exposure
, telling Ellie Winters that he dreamed of Rob Morrow every second or third night, but not in an erotic way, while Winters yawned. The pub was full. Elvis's
Blue Christmas
filled the air.

'What's the score, again?' said Barney, giving himself more time. His natural inclination was to say no, after all.

He had two options: one, spend a weekend in an old house, where every guest is a murderer, or, two, don't.

Tricky.

'We meet here at four o'clock tomorrow, and we've got a minibus hired to take us down. Get there in time for dinner, hang out, have a few drinks, then bed. On Sunday, we do what we want in the morning; play golf, go for a walk, lie in bed, whatever. Then usually there's a discussion in the early afternoon, then exchange presents, back into dinner and drinking. Everyone gets drunk, we all have a brilliant time. And the minibus comes and picks us up on Monday afternoon. What do you think?'

Barney nodded, took a small swig from his pint. Didn't want to have lager breath.

'And besides,' said Dillinger, realising she'd trapped her man, 'you have to come. We need someone to replace The Hammer in the exchange of presents.'

'The Hammer?' asked Barney.

'He's all right, and he's not coming anyway. But we each pick a name out the hat and have to buy a present for that person. So you'll have to take The Hammer's place.'

And she fished around in her coat pocket and handed Barney the small piece of paper.

'That'll be yours. I haven't looked at it,' she said.

Barney took it, wondering what on earth he would buy one of these delinquent idiots, and would they kill him if they didn't like the gift and discovered who'd bought it. And so he reluctantly opened up the crinkled piece of paper, read the name, and that old rubbery face displayed nothing.

'Are you in?' she said.

Barney looked up, eyes slightly brighter than before, but otherwise no change to the face. Yet choirs of angels had suddenly broken triumphantly into a chorus of hosannas; a raucous cascade of sparkling fireworks had exploded in the night sky, whites and purples and reds and greens, an orgiastic eruption of colour; a thousand-and-one gun salute had just been fired from the barbican of a magnificent hilltop castle; the gods had risen as one and were cheering Barney's name as if he were one of their own. For Barney had drawn the name Katie Dillinger, and he had his golden opportunity.

'Aye,' he said, sipping nonchalantly from his near-full pint. 'Why not?

***

M
ulholland stared at the bottom of his fifth pint of Tennents. Drinking too much since he'd got back up to Glasgow, but it'd only been two days, and he knew he was pretty close to walking out on McMenemy and his ridiculous search for Barney Thomson. He could head back up north, forget the police, forget Barney, forget McMenemy, forget Erin Proudfoot and her pale face and beautiful lips, and spend his days up to his waist in freezing water trying to catch fish that had long since headed down to the African coast for a bit of warmth.

Maybe he'd continue the counselling, but if he'd ditched the police, they wouldn't pay for it any more, and there was no way he'd be able to afford the eight-million-pounds-a-minute fees of Murz and her crew. Maybe he could date Murz and get his counselling for free. She might have been fifty and a bit hairier than you'd like in a woman, but there'd still been something about her.

He delved into the bottom of a packet of crisps and came up with crumbs. Lifted his glass, stuffed the empty packet back inside and headed to the bar. Elvis on the jukebox.
You saw me crying in my beer..
. Mulholland could hear him singing.

Quiet pub, didn't have to wait. A large-breasted barman approached.

'Pint of Tennents and a packet of salt and vinegar, please, mate,' he said.

The barman went about his business, and Mulholland wondered if it wouldn't be better if perhaps he were just to die.

***

L
ater on that night, the killer sat at home, drinking beer and eating pizza. And he watched
The Silence of the Lambs
, and thought to himself that Lecter was a complete pussy and that he could take him out with one swish of a knife.

Fava beans, my arse.

––––––––

W
illiam Stanton squinted up at Barney, as he put the finishing touches to an exquisite Special Agent Dale Cooper; which would nevertheless leave him a laughing-stock among his mates. Stanton was slightly distracted, even though he was in full flow on one of his pet subjects.

'Aye, I'm telling you, that's what it says these days. And another one. Have you seen it, on the top of milk cartons? A big sticker that says
Keep in Fridge
? I mean, what kind of delinquent arse is that aimed at? Who needs to be told to keep their milk in the fridge?'

Barney was uninterested. Blizzard read the paper. Barney shrugged. Stanton attempted to catch his eye.

'Keep in fridge. You know what that says to me?'

Barney shook his head. Not really paying attention. Another night had passed when he had awoken screaming. Mind in turmoil.

'That says that they think I'm a fucking idiot. That's what it says. I'm going to sue. I'm going to sue them for disparaging my intelligence.'

Blizzard glanced over. Barney stood back and surveyed the finished product. Hadn't been concentrating, but he knew he'd done a good job all the same. This haircut would go far. Reached for the rear-view mirror and let the bloke have a look.

Stanton did not pay attention. Accepted the cut, but looked quizzically at Barney. There was recognition in his eye. Perhaps he realised that he might just have had his hair cut by a celebrity. Barney laid down the mirror and began the decloaking operation.

'Keep away from fire, that's another one,' said Stanton, not even listening to himself. 'On every bit of clothing you get nowadays. Who, in the name of God, is that aimed at? Where will I put this jumper while I'm not wearing it? Em, let me see, in the drawer or in the fire? Em, not sure really. I mean, for goodness' sake, what a load of shite. Bloody bastards,' he added, handing over the cash, and regarding Barney with some curiosity.

Barney didn't notice, headed to the till. Stanton decided to indulge his inquisitiveness.

'Have I seen you before, mate?' he asked, reaching for his coat.

Barney shrugged, turning back to him and handing over the change.

'Probably in the paper. I'm Barney Thomson,' he said.

William Stanton nodded, took the change from Barney. Forgot to give him a tip.

'The barber?' he asked.

Barney laughed and indicated the surroundings.

'Aye, but
the
barber?' asked Stanton.

'Aye,' said Barney. 'I'm
the
barber. Tried handing myself in, but they're not interested. Just don't believe I am who I say. There you go.'

And he reached for the brush and started to clear up.

Blizzard took a little more notice, but not much. Reading the personal ads. '
Woman. 65. Moustache and large lump on her face. Weekly change of pants. Likes mince. Seeks barber from Greenock, mid-80s.
'

'There you go, who'd have thought it. I've had my hair cut by a legend. Wait till I tell Denise,' said Stanton. 'And did you really murder all those nuns at the weekend, like it says in the paper?'

Barney laughed softly and resignedly again; shrugged his shoulders.

'Do I look as if I murdered any nuns?' he said, looking up.

Stanton shook his head.

'Suppose not,' he said. 'Suppose not. Right, thanks anyway, mate. Stoatir of a haircut, by the way.'

Barney acknowledged the compliment, and bent once more over his brush. The bell tinkled and Stanton was gone, out into the mild drudgery of another late December day. Three days before Christmas, with the promise of ill-cheer and untold misery in the air. And presents; lots of presents.

Barney swept; Blizzard read the paper. Barney contemplated the dream of the night before, Blizzard wondered about the exact nature of the big lump on the face of Mrs Clean Weekly Pants.

'Oh, aye, Leyman,' said Barney, looking up. 'I nearly forgot. You don't mind if I nip off a bit early the day? This mob I've joined are going away for the weekend, you know, and they asked if I wanted to go with them.'

'A weekend, eh? Where're you off to?'

'Down south, somewhere. Jedburgh, Kelso kind of a way.'

Blizzard looked at him. Being deserted by his new friend already. Another night in the pub on his own. All thanks to the lure of womankind.

'Thinking with your dick, son, are you?'

Barney didn't even bother laughing it off. Mind on other things, the dream removing all thoughts of Katie Dillinger, so that he had awoken that morning in quite a different mood from that in which he'd gone to bed.

'Aye,' he said, 'I suppose. I've got to buy her a present,'n' all. I was pleased at the time, but now I've no idea what to get her.'

Blizzard nodded and sucked his teeth.

'Can I give you the benefit of my years of experience, son?' he asked.

Barney smiled – a sad smile – and rested on the end of his broom.

'Aye,' he said. 'Go on.'

Blizzard laid down the paper and pointed at him.

'It doesn't matter what the fuck you give them. They'll either want to shag you, or they won't.'

Barney shook his head, still smiling. Brilliant.

'Tell you what you can do, son, though. I'll tell you what does work.'

'Go on.'

'They aye open up for a bit of poetry.'

'Poetry? Get a grip, Leyman. This is the West of Scotland. She'll think I'm a poof.'

Blizzard picked up the paper again and prepared to read about
Absolutely Bloody Desperate
from Kirkintilloch.

'I'm telling you, son. Poetry's the thing. Give them a nice poem, and their legs open up like you're pulling a zipper. No bother. A zipper.'

Barney laughed and bent to his work. Poetry. Where was he going to find poetry at this short notice? Unless he was to write it himself.

And before he could even begin to wonder what might rhyme with 'shag you', his mind was once more enveloped by the dark dreams of the night before, and the far-off face of his nemesis.

***

'Y
ou see, there are three kinds of women.'

Barney nodded. Gerry Cohn was in full flow.

'There's your common-or-garden stankmonster. There's your Plain Jane. Then there's your no' bad-looking bit of stuff. You know, your Sophie Marceau or your Uma Thurman. I mean, obviously you can sub-divide they three categories to an infinite amount, to be fair, but when it comes to it, you've got those basic three.'