The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (16 page)

They lapsed into silence, the sound of their digging travelling clear up the snow-covered glen, through the thin, cold air. Monks at work, and despite the laughter and the idle conversation, weighed down by sadness and fear.

***

‘How many more monks will die here?’ asked the Abbot.

Brother Herman stared out the window of the Abbot’s study, across the forest and hills of snow. A bright afternoon despite the low cloud, but snow would come later, he thought. His arms were folded across his chest, his face was long, eagle eyes stared out from deep sockets. His arms moved with the swelling of his chest, but faintly, so that it appeared he was hardly breathing.

‘We cannot allow the police here, Brother Abbot, you know that. Any time the outside world has been allowed to breathe its fetid breath upon the abbey, it has spelt disaster. It would be no different this time. There can be no outside influence. They would contaminate, they would insinuate themselves into the very fabric of our lives, like a cancer, and destroy us utterly. That is how it will be, Brother Abbot.’

The Abbot sat, head bowed, the two men with their backs to one another.

‘But I say again, Brother Herman. How many more monks will die here? How long must this go on? Until we are all dead? Until only one survives? It cannot be allowed to continue.’

‘And neither shall it, Brother Abbot,’ said Herman. He turned, the Abbot turned to engage his eye. ‘Give me a few days, that is all I need.’

‘You have some clue as to the perpetrator?’

Herman hesitated. Eyes narrowed. ‘Not as yet, Brother, but I will. It is clear after this second crime that these deeds are related in some way to the library. I will go there, I will leave no monk unturned until I have discovered the truth. I am confident that I can uncover the meaning behind these deaths.’

The Abbot looked away, heart heavy. The tragedy of life.

‘I must appoint a new librarian, but who would I give that post to now? Who would take it?’

Herman’s eyes narrowed even further, burrowing into the back of the Abbot’s head. Fingers twitched. ‘I will be the next librarian.’

The Abbot swivelled, stared into the narrow slits of Herman’s eyes.

‘Brother? But you are not a learned man.’

‘Only until I discover the identity of the killer of our brothers. And if they should come after me, well, then indeed shall they be found out and brought to justice.’

The Abbot breathed deeply and looked away. Two librarians dead. Anyone expressing an interest in the library now might possibly be the one who wanted rid of the previous incumbents. Maybe it was wise to have Brother Herman on hand to deal with all the enquiries to the library. But then, what if Herman became the next victim? What if Herman was not as safe from the black hand of Death as he believed? Could he sacrifice Brother Herman to his desire to bring this killer to justice?

‘I am unsure, Brother. I am not sure that I can ask any of my brethren to put their lives at risk at this time.’

Herman nodded, a long slow movement. He knew well how to play the Abbot.

‘Give me two days, Brother Abbot, that is all I’ll need. If I have not found the killer by then, I will go along with your desire to bring in the police from outside.’ He let the words hang in the cold air. ‘Two days,’ he repeated.

The Abbot stared at the floor. Maybe he would find God there, for in the last few days, he had lost sight of him. These were his darkest hours.

Eventually he spoke. His voice sounded strange, alienated from his body.

‘Very well, Brother,’ he said. ‘Two days you shall have. After that, I am afraid, I must prevail upon you to bring in the outside agencies of the law. And who knows then what troubles we shall be in, for burying our dear departed brothers.’

Herman stared from deep eye sockets, pupils shone. He knew he could always get his way with the Abbot. That was what they were like; all of them. There to be manipulated. And, of course, on this occasion the Abbot was right to accede to his request.

‘Thank you, Brother. I shall not fail you.’

The Abbot looked past furrowed brow, up into the black eyes.

‘May the Lord be with you, Brother,’ he said, then looked away. He thought that the Lord had forsaken this place; and the Lord would not be with any of them for a very long time.

Brother Herman bowed his head; the hood of his cloak moved forward and his face fell into shadow. Slowly, his feet noiseless on the stone floor, he walked from the room.

***

The hole was complete. Regulation. Four feet wide, seven feet long, six feet deep. Awaiting Brother Morgan.

The work of Steven and Edward was over, the earth chopped and hacked into shovel-friendly dirt. They stood at the edge of the grave looking down into the pit, watching Brother Jacob heave the soil up and over the top. Nearly finished. No longer cold now, Barney; sweating with the effort. Hands raw.

‘Feels kinda weird,’ said Steven. The expression on his face never changed.

‘How d’you mean?’ asked Edward.

‘The scissors thing,’ said Steven. ‘The same scissors that were used to cut my hair, a few hours later are used to murder poor Morgan. There’s got to be some weird karmic thing going on, don’t you think?’

Barney hesitated before his next shovel. Not sure if Steven was addressing him or Edward. Too busy thinking about the words of Brother Martin. ‘
You could kill someone with those
.’ What had that been about? Would they really be the words of someone who intended to use the scissors as a murder weapon?

Decided to ignore Steven. Nothing to do with karma, he thought. It was God. God continuing to shit on him everywhere he went; surrounding him with death and murder. Reckoned that if he were the only person left on the planet, God would still find someone to die in his immediate proximity.

‘See what you mean,’ said Edward. ‘Definitely something going on, no mistake. The interconnectedness of it. Got to be some Jungian thing happening. You must be freaked.’

‘Don’t know about freaked, Brother. I mean, I’m sure God’s cool about it. Same with Jacob here. Just trying to do his job, and the next thing he knows his work implement has been embedded in Brother Morgan’s neck. Could just as easily have been your pick-axe, Brother Brunswick’s trowel, or Brother Raphael’s soup ladle.’

‘Aye,’ said Edward, ‘you’re right. And you know, it’s no different out there, in the real world. Lachlan, the young lad who makes the meat deliveries from Durness once a month, he was in this morning. Mentioned something that’s been happening in Glasgow. Some serial killer’s on the loose, apparently. He was about to tell me about it, but I asked him not to. Didn’t want to hear it, not at the moment. Expect Brother David will get the full story when he goes into Durness next week.’

Edward shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. Sadly, it seemed, life in the monastery was more a mirror of contemporary life that any of them would wish.

‘Are you all right down there, Brother Jacob?
‘
said Steven, staring down into the grave. ‘You’re looking a little faint.’

Late at night in the monastery; the monks lay awake with their fears, listening to the storm. Trees were tossed, shutters rattled, doors and floorboards creaked. They imagined that every noise was the sound of a killer on the move; wondered if they would be the next victim, the next on the slab of death. Each one could feel the sharpness of cold steel piercing their neck. They expected it at any second. Knew that if they fell asleep they might never wake up.

The Library Murders; that was what they were calling them, even though there was no evidence that that was where the murders had been committed. There was perhaps some comfort to them in that so far it had been the librarians who had died; these men, brave with their faith in God, would all have refused the position of librarian had it been offered to them. Delighted that Herman had taken it on; doubted that any killer would be so bold as to tackle Herman. There would be a brave man, and foolish.

And so much for those rumours which had suggested that a liaison between Morgan and Saturday had soured, leading to the murder of the latter by the former. There must be more to it than that, but the gossip of the monastery could furnish no clues. Something hidden among the books, they presumed – and they were wrong – but no one had any real idea.

Must be Brother Jacob, that’s what some of them were thinking, although none would say it. Un-Christian to think so ill of someone, just because he was unfamiliar. But it all tied up. A new monk arrives, some of the regulars get murdered. Jacob must have brought something with him; some evil intent or malign spirit.

Through no fault of his own, Barney was as mistrusted within the monastery as he was on the outside.

And he lay awake also, the evil Barney Thomson. Cold. Listened to the sound of the wind, knowing that a blizzard blew without. He could feel it as if the snow were falling directly on top of him. His mind was a tangle, a swirling array of unfinished thoughts and ideas. Remorse, regrets, doubts. Dwelling on past crimes, constantly replaying them. How would it be now if he’d done things differently?

When he had killed Wullie; an accident, undoubtedly. If he had called the police immediately, what then? Would he have gone to prison, or could he have found some hot-shot lawyer to get him off? Guilty of manslaughter, no doubt, but a three-year suspended sentence. Then he would never have had to kill Chris; as long as he hadn’t been in police custody when his mother had died, he could’ve cheerfully disposed of all the body parts in her freezer at some future date, and no one need ever have thought of the connection between those murders and himself. He might have had to leave the shop, but if you play these things correctly you can become a bit of a celebrity. Write a book; appear on one of those chat shows, Kilroy or Jerry Springer –
I’m a Killer, But Really I’m A Decent Chap
. He’d have been an ideal guest.

Public sympathy would have flowed. He could have sold the film rights to the book, then taken the cash and set up his own shop up north somewhere. He remembered the cold; bugger the north. He could have gone to the Caribbean, or managed to swing a job on a cruise ship. Left Scotland forever, to cut the hair of the stars. Saw himself giving Sean Connery a Sean Connery, receiving an enormous tip. He could’ve forgotten all about Agnes – which he’d done anyway – and had his pick of women. Maybe even Barbara, the sister-in-law from the gods. He could’ve had one over on his sodding brother for the first time in his life.

Barney smiled in the dark. A beach-side shop; the waves lapping gently on the shore; a calypso band playing nearby; Barney cutting Robert Redford’s hair, at a charge of several hundred pounds; while Barbara served them both cocktails, topless. And all that, if only he’d called the police after he’d killed Wullie, instead of bundling the body up and sticking it in the back of his car. What a fool he’d been.

Instead, it was the depths of winter, and Barney was renowned for all the wrong reasons. He was that month’s pet hate figure. Centrefold in the Christmas edition of
Serial Killer Monthly
, hounded from his home, hounded to the farthest ends of the country, to feel his feet and testicles freeze up under a slender blanket in the bleakest inhabited building in Scotland.

The door to his room creaked slowly open; his senses awoke. But he did not move. Strangely he did not live in fear of the killer, as the rest of the monks did. Too close to death for too long, he didn’t care any more. He did not fear death – just detection. Assumed it was Brother Steven, with whom he shared a room. Was aware that the brother had left not five minutes previously.

He felt a presence standing over him, but still did not open his eyes.

‘Brother? Brother Jacob?’ came the strained whisper. Not the voice of Steven.

Barney’s heart flickered; he opened his eyes. In the dark, he could make out the figure of Brother Martin, hood drawn back from his face. His heart did more than flicker. Brother Martin! A man well aware of the lethal properties of a pair of scissors. Maybe Barney feared death after all.