The Barbershop Seven (126 page)

Dear Mr Thomson,

I've noticed in the last couple of days how wonderful the First Minister is looking. What with his new hair, I suddenly realise that he's been telling the truth all this time and that his policies are brilliant and the right thing for Scotland.

You are a God. Will you marry me? I'm not a great catch, but I make a lovely pie and my personal hygiene is mostly impeccable.

Please contact me. And please don't think I'm desperate, but I'd really like to start a family, and my husband's not interested.

Yours, hopefully,

Lillian K McEwan

Barney read it a couple of times, wondered if he should give it to security or something, then slipped it into his pocket and thought he might show it to Blackadder later to get a psychiatric profile of the woman.

The second letter had come through internal post, and was only marked up with his name, which had been typed in Garamond. He opened it, unfolded the letter. It read:

You've had contact with the police. Meet me at 10am in conference room 3c, Queensberry House.

Barney read it again, four times. He looked at the clock. A little after nine. He glanced around the room to see if anyone was staring at him. Was it one of these comedians? Unlikely. But who had heard that he'd had dealings with the police? Was it an open secret? Did everybody know details of every single visitor he had in his room?
Oh aye, Barney had the police round last night, and he knobbed the vicar the night before; he's also had Blackadder round there, but he didn't sleep with her, and the invisible man's been in there as well for a haircut, but of course, no one saw him...

He folded the paper into his pocket, looked up again quickly to see if he could catch anyone staring at him, didn't, then sat back and sipped on a contemplative cup of tea. Wasn't due to administer to JLM's hair until almost eleven, although there was now absolutely nothing that could be done with it. It was just too plain short for mousse. In fact, Reporting Scotland would lead at lunchtime with
The Latest Disappearance From the Cabinet: JLM's Hair
.

Barney closed his eyes, relaxed and gave up thinking about whom it was he was going to meet and how they knew he was the Fed's man on the inside.

***

B
arney left JLM's office at 9:45. Didn't make any excuses, on the basis that that was only more likely to draw attention to himself. Managed to not even glance over his shoulder as he went.

Took about ten minutes to find 3c, wondering all sorts of things as he went. Was he about to get murdered? Or was it a joke that they played on all the new boys, and he was about to walk into the middle of a meeting of some select committee and make a total idiot of himself?

The cupboard was bare when he arrived. A tiny little room, a small table with a few chairs. A whiteboard on one wall, so that all the consultants who came in could write their drivel, and three windows looking out at the sky, which today was a warm and hazy pale blue.

Barney stood at the window looking down at the Canongate, and across the city at the grand architecture and columns and buildings, old and new. Edinburgh kicked Glasgow's arse, and there was just nothing Glasgow could do about it. But he had Glasgow in him, and whatever had happened to him two and a half years ago, whichever of the three stories were true, it was still there.

So lost was he in his contemplation of the city, that he hadn't even noticed that it was almost quarter past ten by the time the door opened. He turned, hands in pockets, sucked from his reverie.

Father Michael closed the door, stood still, nervous, edgy. It was the first time that Barney had looked into his eyes, and he could tell all manner of things were going on in there. And strangely it relaxed him, made him realise that he was the confident one in the room. He was in charge. All things are relative, all self-confidence measured against those with whom one is dealing. Barney's self-confidence was so much greater than before in any case, and this was not someone to instil doubt within him.

'Father,' said Barney.

'Mr Thomson,' said the priest, and his voice was small and thin, and Barney wondered how he ever managed to project himself from a pulpit.

'What can I do for you?' said Barney.

'You've been speaking to the police,' said Michael, words very quick, very quiet, almost as if he didn't want Barney to know he'd spoken them.

'I've been speaking to a lot of people,' said Barney. Obvious, already, that he was spending a lot of time around politicians.

Michael stared at Barney, deep into the eyes, trying to work him out. There was nothing there for him to latch on to, however. But then, it had always been one of Michael's problems. He couldn't read people, he couldn't get inside their hearts or their minds.

'I've got my suspicions,' said Michael. Still tentative.

'Oh, aye,' said Barney. 'What are you suspicious about, exactly?'

'These murders,' said Michael quickly. 'The Cabinet.'

Barney folded his arms across his chest.

'Go on,' he said.

'No proof,' he said. 'You'll really have to find that yourself. Or maybe the police,' he added. 'Maybe the police could try and find the proof, if you tell them what I'm thinking.'

'Why don't you tell them?' said Barney.

Michael swallowed. Glanced nervously over his shoulder at the closed door, six inches behind him.

'I'm too unsure,' he said. 'You're their man on the inside. I thought perhaps you could do a bit of prying, investigating. Try and discover something more concrete before speaking to them. I don't know,' he concluded, to reaffirm the complete lack of confidence he had in what he was saying.

Barney studied Michael's face, his eyes, the lines at the corners of his mouth. Was he always lacking in confidence or was it because he had no conviction about the lies he was spouting?

'I'm listening,' said Barney sternly, making no effort to put the man at ease.

'Dr Blackadder,' said the priest quickly, again almost as if he didn't want Barney to have understood what he said.

'What about her?' retorted Barney.

Another messenger of God was about to dump on the only person he had felt able to trust since he'd got here.

'I know how she seems,' said Michael. 'I know how she comes across. Very caring, very concerned and involved. But I've been watching her for months now, I've been waiting for something to happen.'

'Why didn't you tell someone?' said Barney.

'You mean the First Minister?' said Michael, quickly.

'Or Weirdlove,' replied Barney.

'No,' said Michael, shaking his head. 'No. You can't trust Weirdlove. Don't ever trust him.'

He looked earnestly at Barney, pondering his next words.

'And the First Minister,' he said, uncertainly. 'You can't talk to him about her. I don't know what it is, but she's got something on him. Something in their past. He'll never get rid of her. He can't.'

'And?' said Barney, not giving him any space, not letting up. 'What has that got to do with the Cabinet?'

'Whatever it is, this thing, this thing in their past,' said Michael, the words clumsy and forced, 'she's doing something. Acting on his behalf, maybe. I don't know.'

'She herself has killed the four of them, is that what you're saying?' said Barney.

'No!' said Michael, horrified at being pinned down, 'no. I don't think so. She's got a lot of friends in different places. Maybe she is doing something, I don't know. Maybe she's got nothing to do with it, I just know what she's like, I know there's this thing between them.'

The words finished tumbling from his mouth. Barney leant back against the window ledge, felt the warmth of the sun on his back.

'So, he said, 'there's a thing between them. Something that has possibly led to something else, involving something or other, all tied up with something from some time in their past. You're losing the credulity of your audience here.'

Michael closed his eyes, breathed deeply. No wonder he had made a lousy parish priest; no wonder he could never persuade anyone of the veracity of God's word. He looked at Barney.

'I know how it sounds,' he said.

'Then you'll know why I'm sceptical,' said Barney.

Michael swallowed and rubbed his hand across his chin. Hadn't shaved that morning and he felt the sharp edge of his bristles. Barney watched his hands, the nervous movement of his fingers. Was he doubting him because he didn't want to believe him? The same way he had doubted the Rev Blake? He liked Blackadder. It felt good being around her, he enjoyed her company, he wanted to see her after hours. The thing with Blake, well that had just been what it was and nothing more. He had something with Blackadder, a connection that nothing from his slowly returning memory suggested he had ever had in the past.

So, was he doomed to doubt every word he heard spoken against her? And would he go on doubting it right up until the point where he was added to her victims?

'I'd better go,' said Michael, suddenly, the words a rush.

And before Barney could question him any further, he had opened the door, checked the corridor, and was gone.

The door closed with a click, and Barney was left alone with the heat of the sun, in a small musty conference room. The blank whiteboard stared down at him from the wall. He turned and looked out at the day, could smell the warmth from outside. Closed his eyes and was transported to the Campsie Fells above Glasgow, where on days like this his father would've taken him and his brother. Back when he was young, very, very young. His family came back to him, his first thoughts of them, apart from his mother's killer instincts, since he had awoken.

He felt the weight of loss upon his chest, brought on by the smell of a warm morning in September. He turned away from Edinburgh, walked round the small table, out of the conference room and back into the troubled times of the Scottish parliament.

––––––––

T
he parliament was in full session. Jesse Longfellow-Moses was open for emergency questions.

The parliament only sat on two days, Wednesday and Thursday, with First Minister's questions on the Thursday afternoon. However, with the unexpected events surrounding the government, the opposition had managed to bring forward questions by a day, hoping to catch him off guard. And, knowing that they were actually unlikely to catch him with his pants down over the cabinet murders, they had decided to throw a few other unexpected fast balls his way. They didn't have to be big issues, their badly advised thinking had been, they just had to catch him unawares to make him look stupid.

They were going out live on the BBC, and so the place had jerked into what passed for life, as it usually did once a week. Open house on the First Minister, the chance to get their muzzles on the gogglebox, and every member was in place at their little stations, Sunday best and a quick brush with whitening toothpaste before appearing.

'And furthermore,' said the leader of the opposition, a spineless little plank who was leading his party into the kind of oblivion that the Conservatives had successfully aspired to in Scotland, 'findings from a study at the University of Dundee have revealed that up to five species of insect and spider, indigenous only to Scotland, are becoming extinct every year. In the light of these shocking findings, can the First Minister put our minds at ease about the Executive's commitment to green issues, the environment, the greater Scottish ecosystem and the ecology of the planet?'

There were one or two mutterings in agreement from around the chamber. A few silent groans of disgust. Winona Wanderlip slumped deeper into her seat, fingers tapping dully on the desk in front of her.

Fucking Hell, she thought. If only I was leader of the opposition. There are a queue of things with which to absolutely rip the pish out of the man, any one of which would have most politicians slavering over their breakfast, and this idiot asks what he's doing to protect bugs. In one question she could belittle Longfellow-Moses in front of the country. She could be Ed Murrow; she could be Denis Healey sending Geoffrey Howe packing. She could be the one to make the man crumble before the nation. But she was stuck in the Labour Party, and even the slightest hint of rebellion would get too many backs up. No one likes unrest. No one likes a troublemaker.

JLM rose to his feet, looking smugly through the set of dry answers that the civil service had prepared for him. None of them related to the bug question, because no one on the planet had expected a bug question. But then, that was because no politician worth his salt on the planet would be so stupid as to ask a question about bugs.

'Perhaps my learned friend,' JLM began, a cheeky smile on his face, the one he'd borrowed from Wally McLaven and would now no longer have to return, 'thinks there are not enough insects in Scotland in the summer.'

There was a ripple of laughter around the auditorium. The leader of the opposition shook his head and tried to appear aloof.

'Is it,' continued JLM, 'that he would like a large percentage increase in the amount of bites on the arse that the average holidaymaker gets in the Highlands in August?'

There were guffaws, as well as a few frowns at the use of language.

'I agree,' said JLM, after casting a superior smile around the audience, 'totally. We could pass it on to Visit Scotland. Here's a wee catchphrase.
Want To Be Pustulant, Suppurating and Vile? Come To Scotland and Visit Argyll
.'

Uproar. Parliaments are generally fairly soft audiences for the comedian; like churches and doctors' surgeries, people aren't really expecting a laugh, so even the slightest thing gets them going. When the experienced politician decides to go for it, the crowd are putty in his hands.

'We could do scratch 'n sniff weekends,' he said, in that mock serious manner beloved by the politician who fancies himself as Billy Connolly. 'Spend an hour naked in a field on Skye in July, then spend the remainder of your holiday feverishly clawing at your body, until you've surgically removed all the bites, but also have no skin left.'