The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (31 page)

‘Bermuda,’ he said, and Mulholland and Proudfoot paused in their conversation and considered that Bermuda would be a good choice. Of course, went the rambling mind of Detective Sergeant MacPherson, the fact that Barney Thomson probably wasn’t killing all the monks might be a bit of a problem. But obviously the monks thought he was, and it looked as though Mulholland thought so too, and if that was the case, then he might as well go along with it.

He knew, however, that there was no way that Thomson could have killed anyone; far too much of a big Jessie for that. But there was more celebrity beckoning for his capture than for the capture of a killer of a bunch of monks.
Monk Killer Caught!
Who would care? Other monks, maybe, but that would be it.
Monk Murderer Snared as Dons Lose One-Goal Thriller to Motherwell
. That would be about the extent of it. Still, if Thomson wasn’t a killer, even better, then, to catch them both. Maybe Thomson intended giving him some information regarding the real killer, in order to get himself out of trouble.

He looked at his watch. Almost time. He threw another couple of small logs onto the fire, then stood up and stretched.

‘Just off to the bog for a shite,’ he said, pulling his jacket close.

‘Thanks, Sergeant. A little more than we needed to know.’

‘Well, you know, I’ll be a wee whiley, so don’t go getting your Glasgow knickers in a twist if I’m not back in thirty seconds.’

‘I’ll try not to,’ said Mulholland, and Sheep Dip made for the door.

‘I wouldn’t mind Jersey,’ he heard Proudfoot say, before he closed the door behind him. ‘Snogging Bergerac.’

‘You’re kidding me?’

***

They all had their secrets, these monks. Dark and sombre; black and blue; the Devil’s secrets. Brother Ash – the man had never forgiven himself for sleeping with his brother’s wife, and now he felt that regret no more. Brother Goodfellow – homosexuality and drugs; he had flirtations with Brother Sincerity to indulge the first of those, and he could never forget the second, so that not a single night went by when he did not feel the needle piercing the skin. Brother Sledge – a complex web of deceit on a salmon farm in the early seventies, leaving a suicide and a broken marriage. Brother Pondlife – a series of broken homes and a lingerie shop laid waste. And Brother Satan – a man with no end of secrets. But of them all, only Brother Herman had come to the monastery truly on the run from the police. A murderer on the loose. That was why he had so confidently recognised it in Brother Jacob, because he could always tell one of his own kind. Someone like him. He could see it in the eyes. But then, he could always tell all their secrets. Give him a few days, and he’d know why any of the brothers had come to them. So obvious, he had thought it, when Brother Jacob had hoved into view, bleeding heart and bloodied hands laid bare for all to see. Or, at least, for him to see. Because he knew what it was like, Brother Herman. Knew what it was like to feel rage and hurt and anger and embarrassment and humiliation. Knew what it was like to determine that you were going to kill someone; to go after them with a knife; to stalk them, hunt them down, corner them; to enjoy their fright, breathe in their terror, swim in the soup of their fear, knew what it was like to plunge the knife in to the hilt, and feel the warm flow of blood on your hands.

It had been a long time for Brother Herman, but he’d never forgotten. And so, he was surprised when he encountered the murderer. Shocked even, although he would have thought himself too hard to feel shock.

It happened in the depths of night, as Brother Herman had known it would. There was an inevitability about it. He had for five days now envisaged this meeting. Played it through his mind, knowing what he was going to say, knowing how he was going to fend off his attacker, extract a confession, and then do whatever else was going to have to be done. And he had no fear. God would be his judge and his protector. And should something go wrong, it would be because God willed it. Although, on this occasion, he would not give God’s Will too much of a say in the matter.

The oldest trick in the book. One of them anyway. A pillow beneath the harsh sheets on the bed to make it look as if he slept. For Brother Herman knew his attacker would come, and on this third night of his vigil, it began.

At the slow creak of the door, Herman’s head bolted up, although he had not been in the deep throes of sleep. There was a sliver of light from outwith, the dark figure etched against it, then the door was closed, the room was engulfed in darkness again, and the only sound was the soft pad of bare footfalls across the stone floor. A brief hesitation and then the sudden and frantic thrash of the knife into the padded bed. A burst of furious anger, then it was over, and the killer fumbled in the dark for the object of his vengeance. Emitted a low curse when realisation dawned.

Had Brother Herman struck now, had he approached the killer from the back and brought the knife down into his neck, had he struck the mighty blow from behind, unannounced and unexpected, then victory might have been his, and Herman might have lived. But that had never been his intention; deceit was not his way. And especially not now, now that he had seen, in the obscure light of the doorway, who the killer was. There were too many questions to ask. This man could not die, taking his secrets with him.

‘Brother?’ said Herman, at the same time as he flicked a match and put light to the small candle on the table beside him.

The killer turned. ‘Herman,’ he said. ‘You were expecting me?’

Herman stood, so that the two tall men faced each other in the dancing gloom. ‘Not you, I must confess, but someone.’

The killer took a step towards him and stopped. He still held the knife in his hands, a light and comfortable grip. Herman kept his weapon concealed within his cloak.

‘Why, Brother?’ said Herman. ‘Before we finish this, you must tell me why.’

The killer stared through the dark, their eyes engaged.

‘Two Tree Hill,’ he said eventually.

Herman stared quizzically back. Two Tree Hill? He knew of the place, not many miles from the abbey. There had been a time when the monks had frequented it, but those days were long since gone.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Herman. ‘It is years since we’ve been there. Not since…’ And his voice trailed away at the bitter memory which belonged to Two Tree Hill. ‘But that was long before you came to us, Brother,’ he said.

‘My father was there,’ said the killer, and the voice was dead.

‘Your father? But how could that be?’ Herman was on the back foot. He hated being on the back foot, but he was too confused, too intrigued to do anything about it.

The killer hesitated. What did these idiots know? Why was he even bothering to waste time explaining himself? He wasn’t some two-bit villain in a Bond movie who wanted everyone to know his motives. He just wanted these men to pay for their crimes and, if there was a Hell, to have eternity to feel their remorse.

‘Brother Cafferty,’ said the killer. ‘My father was Brother Cafferty.’

Herman gasped. Cafferty! There was a name he had not heard in many years, and his mind quickly fizzed through the events of that fateful day on Two Tree Hill. Cafferty had been at the centre of it all. In a way, Cafferty had been the casualty, but surely it had been nothing.

‘You’re joking?’ he said, aghast.

The killer took another step forward, the knife nestling snugly in his clenched fist.

‘You’re taking revenge?’ said Herman. ‘You’re taking the lives of all these fine men of God because of what happened that day? Why, it’s absurd!’

‘Are you forgetting my father was kicked out of the abbey?’ said the killer, the voice spitting venom; years of hate boiled over, like some strangely overfilled pan of rice. ‘He was never the same man again, to which my very existence testifies.’

Herman stood amazed. His mouth opened, his eyes widened, and, in the dim light of the candle, the killer could see the saliva glinting on the tip of his tongue, behind which the inside of his mouth became a black hole.

‘But Two Tree Hill?’ said Herman. ‘It was nothing! Brother Cafferty could have gone to another abbey. We would have said nothing. That meagre stain would never have followed him.’

‘He didn’t want to go to another abbey, though, did he? You ruined him. Meagre stain, indeed, you bastard! You tarnished him for life. You painted him with the brush of odium, dipped in a paint pot of ignominy and humiliation. He turned to drink and drugs and gambling. The man I grew to know as my father was a broken man. He’d been decent and honest once, until you killed him. You,’ he said, dragging it out again, ‘killed him.’

Herman’s mouth closed; the hardness returned. This was, by some way, the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Even more ridiculous than Brother Adolphus’s explanation on why he’d had a lingerie catalogue under his bed. It would be laughable, if it weren’t so serious.

‘This is absurd, Brother,’ he said, and this time it was he who took a step forward, the knife clutched firmly in his right hand, hidden by the dark and the great swathes of cloak. ‘You cannot possibly be committing these murders because of what happened at Two Tree Hill. That really would be the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.’

The killer was offended; furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘This,’ said Herman, and his left hand gestured through the air, indicating all the murders that had gone before. ‘Who in their right mind would commit these atrocities over this? It would be the most futile gesture which could possibly be conceived of. Two Tree Hill was nothing. It was an inconsequential event, on an inconsequential day. Good heavens, it must be almost thirty years ago now.’

‘Twenty-seven,’ said the killer. ‘Twenty-seven.’

‘Hah!’ barked Herman. Had decided to provoke his man into anger and then take him when he was consumed by wrath, his effectiveness duly diminished.

‘You sad little cretin, Brother,’ snapped Herman. ‘You think that anyone still remembers that day? You think anyone cares? What use is revenge, Brother, when no one knows why you’re doing it? What use is revenge, when the reason is so mediocre as to be completely insignificant?’

‘Mediocre? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Aye, Brother,’ said Herman, ‘it is.’

‘Mediocrity be damned!’ said the killer, the voice beginning to strain, a quality of pleading to it.

‘All this, and it’s for nothing! You pathetic little man!’

One last taunt. It happened, and Brother Herman was proved wrong. The killer’s effectiveness had not been diminished by wrath. He was a younger man, he was stronger, he was faster; and while he was being all these things, Herman’s knife became entangled in the luxurious and sweeping fabric of his cloak.

The knife pierced mightily the throat of Brother Herman, and he staggered back, his fingers clutching at the warm explosion of blood. He fell heavily against the wall, the eyes stared wildly at his murderer, and then, as he began the slow slide to the floor, his hand finally escaped the prison of his cloak, only for the knife to drop uselessly to the ground.

Herman sat on the floor, eyes staring up at the man who two minutes before he’d thought he could easily take in a fight. On the back foot, that’d been the problem. And deserted by God. And also this: you just never know when you’re getting old. That was his one last thought.

Their eyes met in one final wrestling match which somehow Herman managed to win. His mouth opened as the killer’s eyes dropped, and Herman uttered his final words on God’s earth.

‘He lied to you, son. Your father must have lied.’

***

He could still feel the blood pumping through the veins. A mad, liquid rush – he could feel the pain of it squeezing through confined spaces. Heart racing, chest thumping, head aching, mouth dry, hair standing on end, frantic points of pain jagging his body – the biggest rush he had had yet from murder. Brother Herman. One of the ringleader bastards who had condemned his father to a life of ruin. Brother Herman, the biggest bastard in this place of bastards. Had deserved everything he’d received. The other monks would probably throw a feet-up party when they heard he was dead.