The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (27 page)

They stared at one another, each man barely able to make out the other in this biblical darkness. This was what counted for friendship in this bloodied place, thought Brother Steven. But what did Barney Thomson know about friends? They nodded, a gesture which penetrated the night, and then Barney was gone, out into the Gothic black of the long hallway outside. And so, once more, he began to wander the corridors of doom, a fugitive from someone else’s reality.

Brother Steven settled back down under the coarse blanket. Eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He thought of Brother Jacob, running from something which had brought him to the monastery in the first place, now running from something within. A tortured soul. It was like Catullus said, he thought,
Now he goes along the darksome road, thither whence they say no one returns
. That was about it for Brother Jacob.

He closed his eyes, feeling the tiredness come over him, and soon he was once again slipping into the arms of Sarah Connolly on a warm summer’s afternoon.

***

Barney Thomson huddled in his corner in the attic. Extra clothes retrieved, food in his stomach. Fortified for the rest of the long night, and another bitter day ahead, when he would have to stay out of sight of the rest of the monks. He was glad that he had not told Brother Steven his whereabouts, but also pleased that he’d been to see him. He felt he had at least one friend in the world.

And so, Brother Ash was also dead. Four down, twenty-eight to go. He wondered if the killer would aim to do away with the full complement of monks, one by one, until there were only two of them left, with both denying everything.

But Brother Steven was right. Any further deaths would be blamed upon him. The only thing for him now, if the weather was to prevent his escape from this place, was to find the murderer himself. Only then would it be possible for him to have his reprieve. Only then would he be able to prevent the police from turning up in their hundreds.

Barney Thomson: a man with a mission. He did not know the full weight of accusation against him, only knew that he must do everything to clear his name. He was not guilty of any of the monastery murders, so he must prove himself innocent; something he could only do by turning in the real killer, and that is what he must discover. Then he could hand him over to the Abbot and the police, and at the same time turn himself in; that was his latest decision after more time in the black of night.

Then he could stand trial for the crimes of the past, for another hour of lonely reflection in the darkened attic had given him hope. He had persuaded himself; had been a spin doctor to his doubts on behalf of his earlier deeds. He could hand himself into the police and get a good lawyer. What exactly had he been guilty of? Murder certainly, but accidental murder. No more than manslaughter, and not by any dangerous or foolish act of his own. Wullie had slipped into a pair of scissors he’d been holding; Chris had fallen and cracked his head during the course of a minor stramash of which Chris himself had been the instigator.

Disposing of the bodies instead of informing the police had obviously been a mistake, but perhaps it could be forgiven. As for disposing of the bodies of his mother’s victims, surely any jury would understand that act. Could anyone stand to see their own mother vilified as a serial human butcher? Virtually all his actions had been those of a desperate and panicked man. Horrible, perhaps, but also understandable.

That was what he had persuaded himself. So he had a plan. Find the monastery murderer and turn him into the Abbot, so that when the police arrived he could hand himself over to them with at least a decent reference from the man of God. There was nothing he believed he couldn’t prove himself innocent of. Of course, he hadn’t seen the following morning’s selection of newspaper headlines. The
Sun:
Thomson Slaughters Ninety-Eight Women in Terror Week
; the
Times:
Sadat Assassination

Thomson Accused
; the Star:
Barber Surgeon on Kidnap Spree
; the Guardian:
Barney Thomson Quits Tories
; the Daily Record:
How Barber Surgeon Made Goram Let in Five Against Portugal In ‘93
; the Scotsman:
Uproar as Boffins Set to Clone Barber Surgeon
; the Herald:
Wave of Naked Bank Robberies Pinned on Thomson
; the Express:
Thomson Kills Seventeen More
; the Mirror:
‘Cool’ Killer in Downing Street Invite Mystery
; the Mail:
Barney Thomson Wore My Daughter’s Skin, Claims Upset Mum
; the Aberdeen Press and Journal:
North-East Man Goes to Dentist
.

He would have to be quick and discreet; he would have to use the sum of all his investigative powers and intuition. He’d need to cut a swathe through the confusion, the deceit and the treachery. He would have to become all that he had run from; the prey would become the predator. He’d need to be a leopard, ready to pounce upon the wounded wildebeest of the truth; a lion, poised to plunge his jaws of revelation into the warm flesh of veracity; a panther, suspended on the doorstep of betrayal, the slashed and gouged hyena abject prey to the incisors of integrity; a behemoth, hovering at the graveyard of inevitability, the cruel fangs of rectitude and probity a brutal witch-smeller pursuivant to the calumnious obloquy of injustice; a wolf, slavering at the tombstone of fealty, vengeful vitriolic teeth plunging brutally into the blackened wasted heart of the Little Red Riding Hood of vituperative denigration. He would have to be savage, cunning, astute and shrewd. He’d need to mix the deviousness of Machiavelli with the guile of Sherlock Holmes; the vigour of Samson with the finesse of Ronaldo. He’d need to scale the peaks of intellect, while at the same time abrade the depths of artifice. This would need to be Barney Thomson’s finest hour.

‘Well, I’m fucked,’ he muttered to himself.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall onto his chest in an almost comfortable position; and soon sleep came to take him away to a world which was even darker and colder, a world inhabited solely by killers and their victims.

Derailment
 

The tide was in on the Kyle of Durness, the long stretch of beach covered by a wash of deep, choppy sea. Low cloud, so that the water was dull and cold grey. Mulholland looked over the sea to the dark shapes of the hills beyond from his room in the Cape Wrath Hotel. Another pointless day gone by, his foul mood given way to resignation and acknowledgement of probable defeat. It had always been hoping to chance to come all this way across Sutherland expecting to meet the infamous Barber Surgeon face to face. And so he was thinking of abandoning the search. There was no point in going towards Aberdeen now, since Thomson had obviously headed north. Maybe Shetland or Orkney, but he was not sure and was too dispirited to make a decision. He could decide in the morning when he had a clearer head; his mind was fudged by a bottle and a half of wine.

The door to the bathroom behind opened and Proudfoot emerged. He continued to stare out at the dark, black night. She joined him at the window; stood next to him but did not touch. A mellow evening, away from arguments and endless discussion on the motives and mind of Barney Thomson – deranged criminal mastermind or unfortunate idiot? A three-hour meander through aimless conversation on life and all its iniquitous injustices. Mulholland’s marriage; Proudfoot’s loves and mores; Rangers, Celtic and the Great Divide that polluted the city; a list of twenty-seven good reasons for not being in the police, as opposed to a list of two for remaining there; plain chocolate versus milk; Stallone versus Schwarzenegger; the Beatles versus the Stones; and, as the wine had taken over, Meryl Streep versus the Wombles; why sugar was a poor alternative to paint; how Scotland could have beaten Holland by three goals in Argentina if Alan Rough hadn’t had a perm and if Graeme Souness had broken Johnny Rep’s knee-caps with a baseball bat in the first minute; the effectiveness of Mollweide’s projection as representative of a globe. Three bottles of Australian Sauvignon blanc; brie in breadcrumbs, chicken in honey and white wine, raspberry crumble with ice cream, a large and varied cheeseboard; coffee.

They watched the sea. Listened to the sound of the waves crashing on the rocky shore a hundred yards away. White spray breaking into the night, disappearing. Could see the cold outside, could feel the warmth of the hotel and the evening. Their shoulders touched. Mulholland was relaxed at last, weighed down finally by his melancholy.

They knew the time was right. No advances needed to be made, no rejections to be risked. Inevitable. They would have each other, and they could consider the consequences the following day. Sex after food; a glorious pleasure.

‘So,’ she said. Left the word hanging in the air, with the spray and the snow and the few seagulls still haunting the freezing night.

He turned and looked at her. Eyes that danced. Felt it all over his body, but he hesitated. Savouring the moment. How long since he’d had anyone other than Melanie? Couldn’t think about her now.

Proudfoot; no make-up, soft lips, a body to be tied up and smothered in something sweet.

‘So,’ she said again, ‘you going to fuck me or what?’

He smiled. Neck stretched a little. Lips hovered.

There was a knock at the door.

They continued to hover, their lips a fraction apart, not wanting to give in to the reality. Could be nothing, but was it ever
nothing
in a policeman’s life? The knock came again; the moment snapped like a brittle bone. He pulled away. There would be other moments. In about ten seconds’ time.

‘Did you order another bottle of wine?’ he asked.

She laughed. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’

She looked out of the window again as Mulholland went to the door. He opened it, looked at the old woman waiting. Curlers in her hair, an old cardigan pulled tightly round her bountiful chest. They stared at each other.

‘Can I help you?’ she said.

‘What?’ said Mulholland. ‘What?’

‘You’ll be needing help,’ she said, voice very matter of fact.

‘Why? Are you selling condoms?’

The cardigan was pulled a little more tightly around her chest.

‘Why, I’ll be doing no such thing. Will you be wanting my help or not?’

Mulholland relaxed against the door frame. This may have been a pointless interruption, but at least it wasn’t Sheep Dip with some breaking news on which he’d be forced to act.

‘Sorry, ma’m,’ he said. ‘Just what sort of help do you think you can give me?’

‘You’ll be the young police fellow from Glasgow that everyone’s been talking about, will you?’ she said.

‘That I am.’

‘Well, I don’t mean to be interrupting you, or anything of the sort. I expect you’ve got that young lady in there with you. Have you slept with her yet, by the way, because Mrs Donnelly from over the road was just wondering?’

‘How was it you could help me again?’ said Mulholland. ‘Handy tips on the seven erogenous zones?’

‘Seven? Help m’boab, there were twice that number in my day. Course, we knew what to do with the cheeks of the arse and a three-week-old kipper back then.’

‘Thanks, I really don’t want to know.’

‘So you won’t be wanting my help, then?’

‘It depends,’ he said. This was stupid. Why was life always stupid when you were about to enjoy yourself? ‘Is your help going to be about kippers, or is it going to pertain to the Barney Thomson investigation?’

‘Jings to goodness, laddie, you’re an awful sarcastic one. It’s about this Barney Thomson character, of course. Stayed in my B&B, if you will.’

Here we go, he thought. Passed fleetingly by about four weeks ago, only stopping to have tea and shortbread.

‘Did he? And what did he have for breakfast?’

‘Breakfast? Why would you be wanting to know that, now? Are you compiling one of those profile thingies that they talk about on the TV? Is a man who has sausage more likely to commit murder than a man who has bacon?’

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