The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (41 page)

He hadn’t imagined glory when he’d set out on this investigation; hadn’t imagined much of anything. But that it would come to this: in future years this would be taught in police colleges as a perfect example of an investigation gone wrong. How not to handle a murder inquiry. How not to protect the public. How not to chase a serial killer across the country. From now on, whenever an officer made a hash of a case, they’d be said to have done a Mulholland.
Hear about Jonesy staking out the wrong house and arresting the Chief Super’s daughter? Aye, mate, the daft bastard did a Mulholland
.

The monks all thought about women, in their way; and like Mulholland, Proudfoot was dazed. She hadn’t encountered this much death since
Die Hard II
, and while that may have been a seminal piece of film-making, it just hadn’t prepared her for two left hands lying on a table, warm blood still oozing. That, and everything which had gone before.

So, as she walked, Proudfoot did not think about the future. Her mind was concentrated on two left hands on a table. And as she watched them, mostly they lay still, but sometimes the fingers twitched; sometimes there was no blood, and sometimes the blood still pulsed from them; sometimes they looked inanimate, almost inhuman, as if they’d never had life, and sometimes they moved around; they walked on fingers, they danced, they cavorted, they fought. It was not the worst that she’d witnessed in these past two days, but it had captured her imagination. Imprisoned it, so that it held her mind captive to the vision. Two amputated hands were all she saw. As she walked, twice her feet slipped into freezing streams, twice she banged her knees on rocks, but nothing fazed her. The walk through the snow was slow and tortuous, but she barely noticed. Proudfoot’s mind was on those two left hands. Occasionally she escaped the vision, but only to wonder in a detached way – as if it wasn’t her at all – why it was that they held such an entangling grip on her mind, and why Barney Thomson would do something so bizarre; because that was what it was. Everyone who commits murder has their reasons, but why two left hands? Very eccentric behaviour. And so she contemplated the criminal mind, but only briefly, before she was brought back to those two hands on the table. Sometimes still, sometimes animated, sometimes in conversation. ‘
Here, Billy, give us a hand, mate
.’ ‘
You make that so-called “joke” one more time, you moron, and I’ll punch your head in
.’

In her way, Proudfoot was also going slightly mad; just not as mad as Barney, and with a much greater chance of recovery. She walked at the back; occasionally Mulholland turned to enquire after her well-being and she found the words to answer, and she didn’t notice the cold and the snow and the blue skies turning to grey.

***

It was slow going, but they did not stop until darkness was almost upon them; by which time they were a little over a third of the way through their journey. Martin stopped ahead of the others, some fifty yards in front, and waited for them to catch up. He was in a small area of flat ground, the snow some two feet deep. As they approached, they could hear the sound of a small river somewhere underneath, and they all walked with trepidation down the line of Martin’s footfalls. The skies were grey, turning darker, and were it not for the brightness of the snow, the light would have completely disappeared.

The four struggled up almost as one, none of them happy. Raphael’s fantasies had given way to tiredness and cold; Edward was numb, mentally and physically; Mulholland was numb, trying to retain some semblance of authority; Proudfoot was numb, two hands dead in front of her. They arrived a sorry bunch, and Martin did not waste much time.

‘I don’t think we should go on much farther in the dark. Who knows where we could end up? If we clear away the snow from around here, it’ll probably be flat enough to pitch the tent.’ And as he said it, he pulled a spade from his backpack, as if he was pulling a rifle from its holster, and immediately got to work on an area in the middle of the flat ground.

There were two more spades among the party, and these were taken up by Mulholland and Edward. Raphael chose to pray, while Proudfoot thought about two detached hands crawling up her chest and tightening around her neck.

***

Brother Steven watched from close range, lying on the ground – suitably attired in white, becoming one with the snow – behind a hill. Darkness had fallen, the clouds had returned. There was the hint of snow in the air again, the first faltering flakes, but there was no wind and there would be no blizzard. No drifts, no swirling tumult, just another few inches onto the layer of snow already covering the ground.

Steven had benefited from the snow, and now he suffered by it. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. All that stuff. The blizzard had kept the desperate horde from fleeing the abbey in the first place; now it stopped him stealing stealthily across the ground towards the tent and the two figures on watch, huddled around the fire. They had positioned themselves well, chosen their location wisely. It would be difficult for him to make an approach unseen; not until one of them fell asleep.

He could just have shot them, of course, now that he was in possession of Sheep Dip’s gun, but that would be his last resort. Guns were so unnecessarily vulgar. To be any fun, he had discovered, the poison being a valuable lesson, murder had to be hands-on. The feel of the victim’s blood on your skin, warm and delicious; the sudden relaxation of their muscles at the moment of death; that last breath, so much richer and deeper and fuller than any other. Like a Château Lafite ‘61.

So the gun would be his final option. If it looked as if the police might make it to Durness, then he would do what he had to do. Otherwise the gun stayed tucked away.

Brother Steven lay and watched and waited. It would have to be that night, for if they set off early enough in the morning they would make Durness before nightfall the next day; but it was not yet midnight and there were many hours of darkness ahead. Steven settled further into the snow, his eyes narrowed, and he waited.

***

It was cold and the two figures huddled close to the fire, although not close together. Erin Proudfoot and Brother Edward. An explosive combination; at least in the eyes of Brother Edward. For now he was a man alone, free of the confines of his cloak and of his vows before God; a man alone with a woman, a possible contender for his first boat trip down the river of mistrust.

Proudfoot stared into the flames, trying to concentrate the warmth of them into her bones; while all the time she thought about two hands dancing on a table, like Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. Had no thoughts for Brother Edward, despite his assumptions. If she turned away from the flames it was to look around the field of snow in which they sat, but she knew that their position made a surprise attack difficult. Her main concern was staying awake, but at that moment it wasn’t a problem. Fred and Gene were making sure of that.

‘So, you’re in the police, then?’ said Edward, breaking the silence. It had taken him nearly an hour to work out his best opening line, and in the usual way the one he’d chosen was the first he’d thought of. Uninspiring, certainly, but better than
What’s a stunning bit of crumpet like you doing in the police?
or
If we’re quick we could probably get a session in before this Thomson bloke knows what we’re up to
.

‘What?’ she said, some thirty seconds later; Edward was beginning to think that he was going to get the same reaction he’d once got from Wee Betty Barstool in first year.

‘The police?’ he said. ‘You’re in the police.’

She nodded, still distracted. She could talk and think about Fred and Gene at the same time.

‘Aye,’ she said. Why was it that every single bloke on the planet who hit on her had to express surprise that she was in the police?

‘Right,’ he said. One-word answers, he thought; this might be tricky. Still, he had fried tougher fish. ‘Must be hard, you know, a good-looking bit of stuff like yourself. Must be hard sometimes with these criminals, you know.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, you know, a good-looking bird. It must be hard getting respect from criminals and all that, when they probably just see you as a bit of tottie.’

Fred and Gene briefly vanished and she switched on to ex-Brother Edward. Was strangely fascinated that anyone would try and hit on anyone else at a time like this; before, all too soon, the dancing twins came waltzing back.

‘If you’re looking for a shag, forget it, creep,’ she said, before disappearing once more into the void.

‘Oh,’ said Edward. She must be gagging for it, he thought.

There was a movement behind and they both turned quickly; instant adrenaline, instant fright. Mulholland emerged from the tent. They relaxed. Proudfoot lost herself once again; Edward accepted defeat.

‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Mulholland. ‘If either of you want to go in, it’s all yours.’

Edward waited a decent interval of a few seconds, heard nothing from Proudfoot, then stood up to accept the offer. And so Mulholland took his place at the fire, as Edward disappeared back into the tent. Believing as he went that he would have had her if the idiot hadn’t appeared. Would add her to his list in any case; it’d been close enough.

‘You all right?’ said Mulholland after several minutes of looking at the grey landscape.

She shrugged; he sensed the movement without looking at her.

‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘Can’t get the image of those two hands out of my head. Stupid, I suppose.’

‘It’s not stupid.’

‘I mean, given everything else we’ve seen in the last couple of days, that was hardly the worst of it. But I’m haunted by them. I’ve even given them names.’

He turned and looked at her. The cold face, with lips full and warm. Sucking him in.

‘Names?’ he said. ‘Mr Left and Mr Right? Or rather, Mr Left and Mr Left II?’

‘Fred and Gene,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ He continued to look at her; she stared into some indistinct patch of snow. Pale cheeks, lips a delicious purply-red, that glorious air of vulnerability and the chance to protect her. I’m never letting her out of my sight, he thought.

Something which he would be forced to deny within five minutes.

‘Fred West and Jean… I don’t know, somebody loony?’ he asked.

‘Astaire and Kelly.’

‘Right. I don’t think I want an explanation for that.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘maybe there’s some weird psychic thing going on. Trying to tell me something about those two hands. Like there might be something strange about it.’

‘What? You think there might be something strange about two left hands lying on a table? Bloody right there is, Sergeant. It’s way strange.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘You mean Fred and Gene are embedded in your subconscious for a reason? Your inner detective self is trying to tell you something?’

‘Aye, I think so.’

‘I don’t buy any of that stuff, Sergeant, I’m afraid. You know what you know in this job. When you start relying on some loony sixth sense, you’re usually desperate.’

She looked round at him for the first time since they’d started talking. Something of an ironic smile on her face.

‘Of course. And at the moment we’re not even remotely desperate. There are still plenty of us left to kill. Won’t be any need to panic until there’s at least another ten dead.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Well, what’s instinct, then? We all rely to some degree on instinct.’

Mulholland stared at the white landscape, wondering where Barney Thomson was hiding. Wondering if he was out there at all. Wondering if within himself there should be some gut instinct telling him the answers to all their problems. He found no inspiration, but realised that he was looking at the snow through more snow. Large white flakes drifting down in straight lines, increasing in intensity as he watched. Christmas snow, of the type which ought to have been accompanied by Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, sleigh bells ringing, children singing, reindeer, Nat King Cole, presents, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, the peal of a bell and that Christmas-tree smell, turkey, mistletoe and mulled wine.