The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (21 page)

‘Aye. This is Detective Sergeant Proudfoot.’

Sheep Dip had disappeared again; more friends or relatives to visit, Mulholland assumed,
making enquiries
his official excuse.

The large policeman behind the desk in the Thurso station smiled. Extended his hand across the counter.

‘Sergeant Gordon. Always nice to have some colleagues up from Glasgow. We usually just see the boys from Inverness, you know. Come on round the back and we’ll get you a cup of tea. You must be frozen if you’ve come all that way.’

They followed him round the other side of the counter and through the door into the small back-room office. Had visions of being presented with another tray full of pastries and biscuits.

‘No, it’s all right, thanks. We haven’t just driven from Glasgow today, and we’ve just had lunch.’

‘Och, aye, of course,’ said Sergeant Gordon. ‘I’ve been hearing all about you. On a great odyssey across the Highlands in search of the wanted man. Thrilling stuff. But you must have a cup of tea and a biscuit. I’ll just put the kettle on.’

He didn’t have to leave the office; the kettle was on another desk, surrounded by opened packets of biscuits.

‘I thought the Dipper was with you?’

Mulholland smiled. ‘The Dipper’s off making other enquiries.’

‘Aye, aye, right enough, he will be. A good lad, Sheep Dip, a good lad. Now, what is it I can do for you?’

Mulholland hesitated. He had never liked interfering on other people’s patches. It was guaranteed to cause argument and upset, and nothing helped the opposition more than when the police were fighting amongst themselves.

‘We’re not setting off again tonight,’ he began.

‘Good Lord, no, of course not. It’s awful out there.’

‘We’re hoping to get on tomorrow, if it’s a bit clearer. But we’ll need a better vehicle for the snow. A four-wheeled drive. I hate to pull rank, and I don’t want to have—’

‘Don’t be daft, lad, we’ve got a Land Rover you can have. As long as you bring it back in one piece, it’s all yours. None of that fancy Starsky and Hutch stuff that some of the Glasgow lads seem to like.’

The kettle began to grumble. Sergeant Gordon started placing biscuits on plates, teabags in the pot. Things were usually quiet in Thurso, but even quieter when it snowed. Glad to have visitors.

‘You’re sure?’ said Mulholland.

‘Ach, no bother, son. We’ve got the old one out back if we need it for emergencies. There’s no point in your chief phoning up my chief and all the keich flying. Just take it and try to bring it back in a reasonable condition.’

‘Thanks a lot. Appreciate it.’ He looked at Proudfoot and raised his eyebrows. At last. Help.

‘No bother,’ said Sergeant Gordon, ‘no bother at all.’

‘Now, we think Barney Thomson might have passed through this way. We’re not sure. Have there been any sightings of the man, any hints of his being around here? Maybe a crime that’s a little out of the norm?’

‘You mean, have we found a collection of body parts in a freezer? ‘Cause we’ve had none of that, not for a couple of years at any rate. Not since Big Hamish threw himself off the pier at Scrabster.’

‘No, no, we’re not expecting that. Anything really. Anything unusual.’

Sergeant Gordon held the handle of the kettle while it shuddered to the boil. He smiled as he started pouring the water into the teapot.

‘Oh, aye, there was something. Old Betty down at Tongue. You know, Betty McAllister, with the enormous breasts. She’s got that auld B&B place. Seagull’s Nest, or something like that, it’s called. She phoned us a week or two back. Said she thought she might have this Thomson bloke of yours staying at her place. Said he seemed like a nice enough laddie, and she definitely wasn’t happy about phoning, bless her.’

‘What happened?’ asked Mulholland. Voice dead, staring at the floor. A week or two ago. Not even beginning to get excited about this. Why was it, he thought, that everybody on the planet was a complete and utter moron?

‘Well, you know, I was a bit busy that afternoon. It was a Sunday, I think, and you know, what with lunch and all that, and me having to take Mother back to the hospital in the evening. It was the following day before I got around to calling her back, and it seems like I just missed him. Barney Thomson, that is.’

Sergeant Gordon turned round, two cups of tea in hand. Noticed that Mulholland was turning red. Smiled.

‘Keep your knickers on, laddie, I’m only joking,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard not a word about the man. And, as everyone around here knows, Betty McAllister’s got pancakes for tits. Now, would you be wanting sugar?’

***

They hurried down the path from the police station, back into the car. Out of the cold and the blizzard. Twenty-five minutes later. Cup of tea and three biscuits; nothing to be learned. Had ended up chatting about Sergeant Gordon’s children. Directed to the Caithness Hotel to spend the night, where they could sit and fester and hope the blizzard would pass. Would pick up the Land Rover in the morning. They had asked about any communes or similar venues where Barney Thomson might have been able to hide away without fear of recognition, but the sergeant had been unable to help them. Nowhere thereabouts, as far as he could remember.

As Mulholland skidded into second, slithering through the snow, Sergeant Gordon put the kettle on again. There were only two mugs, so he hadn’t been able to have one with his guests. As he removed a couple of chocolate digestives from the packet, he remembered about the old abbey halfway between Durness and Tongue. The name escaped him, but as far as he knew it was still active. The monks kept pretty much to themselves, so he believed. Wondered if he should call the hotel and mention it to Mulholland, but midway through his first chocolate digestive, he decided not to bother. A serial killer like Barney Thomson wouldn’t be wanting anything to do with monks, nor they with him. No point in bothering them.

By the time he bit into his second biscuit, he was already considering more important matters.

Would all this snow dissuade the widow Harrison from coming over for dinner that night?

The depths of the night. The blizzard swarmed around the monastery; the dead could hear it engulf the ancient walls. White noise; wind howling through cracks and spoors and holes. A noise of giants; a noise to fear. Life flickered in its midst, struggled against the cold. There was much which would give in to its bludgeoning force that evening, and so the monks wondered as they lay awake: would any from their number be found that coming morning, propped against a tree in the forest? A covering of snow, begun to drift? A knife or scissors or some other pointed implement embedded in the neck? The smile of the contented upon the face? Tunic soaked with blood?

All but one. Only one of the monks knew that there would be no body found in the forest; only one knew that this night was not a night for murder. A night for dark deeds; a night for discovery; but not a night for death. As the blizzard raped the Highlands, and ice descended, Death was busy elsewhere.

The monk sat in a corner of the library, book in his hand, a small candle burning at his side. While all who did not worry slept. This man had worked the shelves and knew this library well. All the secrets and lies of these books. All but the information which he sought. He had almost come to the end of his search, with nowhere else to look; but nowhere could he find an account of Two Tree Hill. He had felt sure it would be written, for how could so fateful a day not be recorded? He had to accept that if he could not find the account for which he searched then his plans would have to change. In recent weeks his search had become ever more fevered as he’d neared the end of his quest; a fever which had led to his discovery, and the necessary, if unfortunate, elimination of the Brothers’ librarian. Although, of course, Saturday had had it coming anyway.

Slowly he turned the pages of a book of records, but it was one he had seen before. This was the double check, and he knew that he would not find what he was looking for.

A sliver of sound.

Almost nothing, but he turned his head sharply. Eyes wide, pupils huge, used to the black of night despite the candle. He held still, not even his breath, but there was nothing. Senses sharp, but this was the one man who did not have a reason to fear.

A gentle blow from his lips and the candle was extinguished. Its light had been so insignificant that there was barely a difference. The vestige of light, of snow and low white clouds, was smuggled into the library, but once there, engulfed by the dark. The monk waited.

Had the noise been that of someone going out or coming in? Had he been spotted again, but this time by someone with the good sense not to make himself known? The monk stood, silent. Every sense concentrated on his awareness of the library; and yet he was annoyed at the interruption. There was work to be done, decisions to be made.

He heard another sound, a definite footstep, and so knew that he was not alone. Yet he was not afraid. He fingered the comb within the folds of his tunic. Had another cold plan for murder, although he had not thought to use it so soon; another device to shift suspicion onto their newest recruit, the hapless Brother Jacob.

He became aware of a figure in front of him, could sense him as much as see him in the gloom.

‘Why do you not step out of the darkness, Brother?’ he said.

He heard the breathing for the first time, was aware that his visitor took another couple of steps towards him.

‘There is no light into which to step, Brother,’ came the reply.

‘Ah, it is you,’ said the brother. ‘I should have known. So good of you to join me at this early hour in the library, while the blizzard rages outside. You could not sleep, then?’

It was one of the monks on his incomplete list; an opportune visit.

‘There are many within these walls who cannot sleep, Brother. And I, equally, am not surprised to discover that it is you who are here, lurking among these books. Might I enquire for what it is that you search?’

‘Truth, Brother, nothing but the truth.’

‘Then you are not alone among us.’

‘But not religious truth, Brother. We all know religion is nothing but the glue that binds us together. There is no truth in religion, no truth to be found in God. It is a stabilising force, it gives humanity some purpose, some false sense of perspective, but there is no truth to it. Nothing to be gained.’

The visitor monk did not immediately answer, and in the dark the two men gradually became more aware of the physical presence of the other. A few yards apart; and yet they could not have been farther away.

‘God will surely find you out, Brother. And you will suffer his wrath for all eternity.’

The Brother laughed, the other shivered at the sound in the midst of such darkness.

‘There is no God, Brother. If there was, he has forsaken us. He has forsaken you. You know, every one here knows, deep in their black, pathetic hearts, that there never was a God. There was but a Church, run by the finest spin doctors of the first few centuries, and out of it has come all of this. The modern world the way it is. There is no God, no faith, no belief. There are no rules. It’s every man for himself, Brother, every man for himself.’

The visitor laughed quietly, but the nervousness of it betrayed him.

‘I thought I recognised you when you first arrived. Something in the eyes, or maybe the nose. Yours was a face from the past. But I cannot believe that this is all because of what happened at Two Tree Hill. That was an inconsequence.’

The words hung in the cold air, were engulfed by the darkness and the cruelty of cold, the creaking of the monastery under the weight of the storm.

‘An inconsequence? On the contrary, my friend. It had very many consequences, and they will continue for some time to come.’