The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (2 page)

‘Did a bit of shagging.’

‘I’m shocked. Who was it this time? Did you have to make do with Aud, or did you play away from home?’

‘Well, you could say I played a home leg and four away legs at the same time.’

There was a brief pause in the conversation. They plodded past the third floor.

‘You slept with your wife and four other birds at the same time?’

‘Aye.’

‘Bollocks!’

‘Pure right I did. Bloody brilliant.’

‘You shagged five women at the same time?’

‘Aye. Orgasms all round, ‘n all.’

‘And what did Aud have to say about this?’

‘She had the screaming thigh sweats for it. Loved it.’

‘She loved it?’

‘Aye.’

‘She said that?’

‘Aye.’

‘Really? Aud? Actually said that she loved it?’

‘Well, not in so many words, you know.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Well, nothing, but I could tell. Totally into it. Four women. She loved it.’

‘And who were they?’

‘Who?’

‘What d’you mean
who
? These four mythical women that your wife was so delighted for you to sleep with that she joined in?’

‘Just a bunch of women, you know. Women.’

‘Just a bunch of women? Four women off the street? Four women you met in a bar? Four women you got out a Malaysian catalogue? Your cousins? Robert Palmer’s backing band? The Bangles? All Saints? Who?’

‘Just a bunch of women.’

‘You’re full of crap.’

‘They were just women. I didn’t get their names. I was snaking four birds at once and you think I gave a shite about what their names were?’

‘So where d’you meet them?’

‘In town.’

‘In town? So, you were just walking down Argyll Street and you and Aud stumbled across four compliant women who all wanted to go to bed with both of you?’

‘Aye.’

‘On Argyll Street?’

‘What? Well, all right, not Argyll Street. Some street.’

‘Sauchiehall Street? Renfield Street? Walt Disney Street?’

‘Piss off, Mulholland.’

‘How often have you given evidence in court, Sergeant?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘You’re making it up.’

‘No way.’

‘You’re totally making it up.’

‘Shite.’

‘You’re talking pish. You always talk pish when it comes to sex. Every time. You could talk pish for Nike, you. You’re full of it. I can just see the advert for the new line of Nike sportswear for talking pish in, with you standing on some Brazilian beach, cheesy music in the background, and talking the biggest load of pish anyone’s ever heard.’

‘Ok, so it wasn’t four.’

‘How many?’

‘Three.’

‘How many?’

‘It was three.’

‘How many?’

‘I’m telling you, it was three.’

‘How many?’

‘All right, it might’ve been two, but Aud was there ‘n all, so that makes three.’

‘Bollocks. How many?’

‘Christ’s sake, all right. It was two of them, and Aud doesn’t know anything about it.’

‘You are full of shite, Ferguson. Who were they?’

‘Just a couple of birds.’

‘Whores?’

‘Naw!’

‘You sure?’

‘Naw! You think I can’t score without paying for it?’

‘Pay for it? I bet you nicked them and did a deal.’

Silence.

‘There were still two of them, and it still counts.’

‘You are a sad bastard, Sergeant.’

No reply. They got to the twelfth floor, walked with silent footfalls along the hall to the graffitied door. A cold wind blew in through the broken window at the end of the landing. A dog had left its calling card on the floor; a toy car with all the tyres removed waited patiently near by.

‘You’ve got to get a grip, Ferguson. One of your superiors finds out about that kind of thing, you’re fucked.’

‘You’re my superior.’

‘Aye, well lucky for you I don’t care. You ready?’

‘Aye.’

Detective Chief Inspector Joel Mulholland knocked on the door. Somewhere inside, a glass was dropped on the floor.

***

‘Get out of my face, you numpty-heided eejit!’

Ferguson pushed the man in the chest, forcing him back against the wall. Didn’t get out of his face. An ugly face it was too; pockmarked, like wet cement that had been attended to by a child on a pogo stick. Lips like thin broken biscuits, moustache the neatly clipped hair of a German woman shot-putter’s armpits.

‘Numpty-heided eejit, Billy? Can you not do better than that? Is that as rude as that miniscule little napper of yours can think of?’

Billy McGuire gritted his teeth and stared at the ground. Ignored the hand still pushing at his chest, drifting to his neck.

‘Come on, wee Billy, you know where the Big Man is. We all know you know, you know we know, just save us all the time and tell us.’

McGuire said nothing. Lips were sealed. Not any criminal code of conduct, however. If he remained silent, he’d get hassle from the police and possibly convicted of a minor offence or two. If he opened his mouth, he’d get his lips and nose nailed to the floor. He was constantly reminded of the fate of Wee Matt the Helmet, whose flaccid penis had been squeezed into the jaws of a double hole punch. These were not men to wrong.

‘Sod it, Sergeant,’ said Mulholland. ‘Bring him in, see what we can do. No point in hanging around here.’

Ferguson grabbed McGuire by the collar and led him to the front door. Out onto the landing and then the slow trudge down the stairs, strange smells drifting up to meet them. They both knew this was just another pointless arrest. McGuire wouldn’t talk. This day would see them no nearer the heart of the drugs racket they’d been chasing for the previous three months. Going through the motions.

‘See that shite on the telly on Saturday night?’ said Ferguson.

‘What shite was that?’ asked Mulholland. ‘The shite where some bampot brags about having sex with twenty-five birds, when in fact all he did was pull his pudding to some soft-core crap on Channel 5?’

Unabashed. ‘The Rangers. Load of pish. See all they bloody foreigners. If you’re going to sign shite, you might as well sign Scottish shite. Just ‘cause some eejit’s got a name like Marco Fetuccini or Gianluca Spaghetti, doesn’t mean they can kick a ball. Load of pish.’

Mulholland trudged down another flight of stairs. Thinking about the weekend. Another series of arguments; irrelevant, vapid and senseless. Just like the irrelevant, vapid senseless day which he was enduring now. Feeling sorry for himself. Imagined it was justifiably so.

‘Didn’t see it,’ he said eventually.

‘Can’t even beat Dundee,’ said Ferguson. ‘Absolute shite. Bloody St Johnstone at the top of the league. What a joke. We used to be one of the best countries in Europe, for Christ’s sake. We used to win things. Now we’re lucky if we can beat one of they mince sides from Latvia, with a name like Locomotive Tallinn, or Rice Krispies 1640.’

‘Tallinn’s in Estonia,’ said Billy McGuire.

‘You shut your face,’ barked Ferguson. ‘What do you know about football anyway? Fucking muppet.’

‘Fitba’,’ said McGuire, ‘wherein is nothing but beastly fury, and extreme violence, whereof proceedeth hurt, and consequently rancour and malice do remain with them that be wounded.’

Ferguson stopped. Mulholland, a few steps ahead, turned back.

‘What?’ said Ferguson.

‘Thomas Elyot,’ said McGuire.

‘Thomas Elyot?’

‘Aye.’

‘Listen, Wee Man, you think I give a shite about Thomas Elyot? I’ll give you Thomas Elyot, you bastard. Any more of that and I’ll stick Thomas Elyot up your arse. Now shut it.’

***

They arrived at the station, pushing McGuire in front of them as they went. Ferguson walked in without a thought in his head. Work was work. Mulholland’s heart sank every time he walked through the door. Dreamed of the day he could clear out his desk for the last time. Retire. Spend every day with Melanie.

Some dream.

‘Book him, Sergeant. And if he quotes any more literature, you can kick his head in.’

‘Stoatir.’

Mulholland went to walk past the front desk. Up the stairs to his office, his intention. Cup of coffee, a few minutes to relax. It was still early, the day lying ahead of him like a huge rotting animal in the middle of the road. The customary dead cow of a Monday morning.

‘Chief Inspector?’

Mulholland stopped and turned.

‘Sergeant?’

Sergeant Watson, the ugliest man ever to front a desk in a police station in northern Europe. Cheekbones like slabs of meat, Brobdingnagian nose, garrulous moustache wandering at outrageous tangents across his face; a face which had seen its share of excitement. Lips like slugs.

‘M wants to see you,’ he said.

Mulholland stared at the nose. The few minutes to relax had just disappeared.

‘When?’

‘Now.’

‘One word, Sergeant,’ said Mulholland, mood plummeting further. ‘Rhinoplasty.’

‘Fuck you, Chief Inspector,’ said Watson.

And Mulholland headed up the stairs, humour on a rollercoaster which was permanently on a downward drop. Crap job, crap marriage, crap life. Looking for someone to take it out on. Better not make it the Superintendent, but once he was finished with him he could kick the shit out of McGuire.

He walked through CID, the usual bustle of activity. Phones ringing, people talking, paper piled high on desks. In the midst of it all, an oasis of calm; one of the sergeants with a magazine open in front of her. Cup of coffee in her right hand, left hand drumming out a beat on the desk. Reading an article entitled
Why Men Are Crap At Sex
, although he couldn’t see it. Instant resentment. Why should she get to do what he was being prevented from doing? He stopped beside her desk.

‘Nothing to do, Sergeant?’ he asked.

Detective Sergeant Proudfoot raised her eyes. Mulholland was nothing to do with her. Had, on the occasion of station girls’ nights, placed him in her top three list of guys on the force she’d take to bed, but it didn’t mean she had to listen to him.