The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (17 page)

‘Brother Jacob, we must talk.’

Barney sat up, looked through the gloom; was aware of the noise of the wind, could feel the cold even more bitterly as the blanket slid from him, his nightshirt thin protection.

‘Brother Martin?’ he said.

‘Brother, you must promise me. What I said yesterday, while you cut my hair. You know it was nothing,
the sharpness of the scissors
. It was just a remark, you know that. You haven’t mentioned it to Brother Herman, I hope. Have you been called to see Brother Herman?’

Brother Martin stood breathlessly over Barney. Barney wondered if within the folds of his cloak he held a dagger or some other weapon. Something which he could drive into Barney’s breast should the need arise.

‘You’ve got nothing to worry about, Brother,’ said Barney.

He was aware of Martin taking a step back.

‘That is indeed good news, Brother. For you know that it was but a chance remark.’

‘Aye, Brother Martin, no bother. And I’ve seen Herman already, right enough.’

‘Indeed?’

‘But I didn’t say anything, you know. I mean, I had to tell him I cut your hair and all that, but I pointed no fingers.’

‘That was very wise, Brother. Very wise indeed. And you will be equally discreet about this visit, I’m sure.’

Discreet. Barney had to think about that. He perceived a threat, unsure if one was intended. If in doubt, he remembered someone saying at the height of the Glasgow serial killer panic, assume that your every interlocutor is a killer. Especially when they called in the middle of the night.

‘Aye,’ he said, ‘no bother, Brother. Discreet as fuck, me. I mean, sorry. About the language. Discreet.’

He felt Brother Martin retreating through the room. The door swung open, its creaking blending with the roaring creaks of the monastery in the storm. Barney could see the dark figure as he stopped at the door. Wondered, decided to ask.

‘How did you know Brother Steven would not be here?’

There was no immediate answer. In among the groans of the old building, Barney was aware of Martin’s breathing. Heavy, ominous, deliberate. The hairs on the back of Barney’s neck began to stand to attention, zombies from the grave. He could feel them crawl across his neck, bumping into each other.

‘Some things are easily taken care of,’ came the cold reply across the darkness. Martin let the words hang there in the freezing air, then slowly left, closing the door behind him.

Barney shivered, cold and fear. Lay back down on the bed, pulled the blanket up to his neck. Goose bumps careered across his body with wild abandon; shivers racked every inch.

What had been meant by that? Some things are easily taken care of? He wondered if Brother Steven sat out somewhere in the forest, a knife embedded in his neck, the smile of the dead on his face. But he’d only left a few minutes before Martin had arrived. Hardly time for Martin to strike, especially with the storm. Except, perhaps, that Martin had taken care of Steven elsewhere, and only now would drag the body out into the cold. A young, fit man, Brother Martin. Couldn’t have been any more than twenty-five. More than capable of killing one of the brothers, then dragging the body out into the snow.

Yet, Brother Martin? It didn’t make sense. Why, if you are going to use something as an implement of murder, mention it before you do it? A double bluff? To rule himself out by saying something which he obviously wouldn’t have done had he been going to commit murder? Same with his visit this evening. By the mere fact of looking so obviously suspicious, Martin might imagine that he was distancing himself from the crime.

So, Martin must be the killer, thought Barney. Or else, he definitely wasn’t.

He felt pleased that he’d narrowed it down to one of two possibilities. He could have been a policeman. Better than some of the muppets he’d come across in the past year.

Tell Brother Herman, don’t tell him, face up to Martin, completely ignore him. Barney’s mind was imploding in a tangle of labyrinthine confusion. He closed his eyes, and in the renewed claustrophobic darkness, he felt the pain of regret. If only he’d confessed to killing Wullie Henderson, he could now be lying on a beach in Antigua, Sharon Stone stroking his forehead and Uma Thurman serving him pints of heavy. Naked.

Barney wondered many things as he gave in once more to the bitter cold. Did they serve heavy in Antigua? Would he ever see Brother Steven again?

Mulholland and Proudfoot. Breakfast. The full business. Sitting at the window of a small guest house just outside Helmsdale; as far as they’d reached the previous evening. Looking across fields of snow, a bright morning. Blue skies and a better mood. Mulholland helped by having been unable to speak to Melanie the night before and, although he didn’t realise it, the temporary absence of Sheep Dip. Assuming that his wife had gone, and felt the release. A problem put off to another day was a problem solved. Wondered if this was it, his marriage over. Was in such confusion about it that he had fallen back on fragile good humour. Taken Proudfoot with him.

They ate well, the hunger of the relaxed. Felt like they might be getting somewhere, having picked up the scent of Barney Thomson. Enjoying the renewal of enthusiasm, not thinking about what might happen if they ever found their man. Engrossed in food and serious debate.

Bacon, link sausage, Lorne sausage, fried egg, haggis, potato scone, black pudding, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast, marmalade, tea. All the main food groups.

‘It was Velma,’ said Proudfoot.

Mulholland shook his head. ‘Definitely Thelma,’ he replied.

Proudfoot dealt with a piece of toast, smothered it with marmalade. Popped the remnants of a sausage into her mouth, then some of the toast. Detective Sergeant Dip currently ate in much the same way, but was spending the night with friends. Something he was able to do in virtually every town in the Highlands.

‘Definitely, definitely, definitely Velma,’ she said. ‘No question.’

Mulholland clinked his knife and fork on a cleared plate, turned his attention to the toast. Jam or marmalade? Marmalade.

‘What are you talking about? Velma? What kind of name is that? Velma’s not even a real name. It’s not a word, it’s not a food substance or a brand name, it’s not a place, it’s not a disease. “What’s the matter with you, mate?” “Touch of the velma, Big Man.” No chance. It’s nothing. Not a name, not a disease, nothing. No one’s called Velma. Do you know anyone called Velma?’

‘No, but then I’m from Glasgow. People don’t get called Velma in Glasgow. I don’t know anyone called Thelma either, but I’m not disputing its existence as a name. It was definitely Velma.’

‘Get out of my face, Velma! The reason people don’t get called Velma in Glasgow is because it’s not a name. No one gets called Velma anywhere. What kind of idiot would call their daughter Velma?’

Proudfoot finished off the last of her bacon, then laid the cutlery quietly down on the plate. Downed some tea, lifted the pot to pour some more.

‘Doesn’t have to be any kind of idiot. She’s a cartoon character, she doesn’t actually have parents. Scooby Doo isn’t real.’

‘Get out of my face.’

‘Right, bet you,’ she said.

‘You’re on. How much?’

‘A million pounds.’

He smiled, said, ‘It’s a deal. I can start thinking how I’ll spend the money, you can start thinking how you’re going to raise it.’

‘Won’t have to. Velma, Velma, Velma.’

‘No way,’ said Mulholland. ‘Anyway, that wasn’t the main issue. The real question was, were Fred and Daphne shagging?’

Proudfoot laughed. The woman of the house appeared beside their table. They looked up and wondered if they were about to be told off for having an inappropriate conversation at the breakfast table.

‘There’s a call for you, Chief Inspector,’ she said, sounding suspicious. At the mention of the job title, nervous glances were passed between the two other occupied tables. If they’d only known there’d been a policeman in their midst, perhaps they would not have been so loose with their tongues; assuming that all police officers are constantly on the lookout for people to arrest.

‘Thanks,’ said Mulholland. Glanced at Proudfoot, rose from the table. ‘Probably being recalled to Glasgow ‘cause we haven’t found him yet.’

‘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.