The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (6 page)

The last monk disappeared from view. They glanced at one another; it was time. The younger one dug his shovel into the waiting pile of dirt. The older man took a look around him – the path leading from the graveyard to the monastery; the surrounding forest, trees white with snow; the low hills, which doomed the monastery to the pit of the glen and the bitter wind which howled through; the distant edge of the freezing waters of Loch Hope – then bent his knee and thrust his shovel into the dirt.

Already their hands were numb with cold, yet aching with an insistent pain. Brother Steven shovelled the dirt without emotion, knowing not the burden of his work. He was content to do as he was bid, even though, being neither the newest monk nor the youngest, he should not have been called upon to perform the task of the gravedigger. For this he had his unquiet tongue to thank.

He glanced at the older man, who was performing his task with grim determination. Not for Brother Steven to know that this man, the latest addition to their complement, had become used to death in all its iniquitous guises.

‘So, what brings you here, Brother Jacob?’ he asked the older man, continuing to shovel dirt slowly, monotonously.

Barney Thomson, barber, hesitated. A man on the run, a man with a dark past. Secrets to hide. He shovelled. ‘Not sure,’ he replied eventually. ‘Just needed something different, you know?’

Brother Steven nodded, tossed another pile of dirt into the grave. The top of the coffin was now completely obscured. Brother Saturday was gone.

‘Got you,’ he said. ‘It’s that whole vicissitude thing. The basic need for something new. We all feel it. It’s like Heraclitus says: “Everything flows and nothing stays…You can’t step twice into the same river.” It’s why I’m here.’

Barney stared, Steven shovelled, knowing smile on cold blue lips.

‘Aye,’ said Barney. ‘Right.’

Barney had never heard of Heraclitus. Wondered if he’d played centre-forward for some Greek football team. Doubted it. Had to accept that he had come to a new world, after twenty comfortable years in the barber’s shop. Not all conversations would be about football.

‘So, what are you running from, Brother Jacob?’

Steven rested on his shovel, looked through the mist which had formed from his words. Barney felt the beating of his heart, but realised that Steven could not possibly know his secrets. None of these monks could know. He tried to sound casual. ‘Life,’ he said.

Steven laughed and began once again the slow and steady movement of his spade. Barney wondered if he’d said something funny.

‘Life, eh?’ said Steven, shaking his head. ‘Oh, yes. That thing we do.’

Barney felt uncomfortable. A hand on his shoulder. Before he began to shovel he saw a bird of prey in the distance, hovering, searching the snow-covered ground for breakfast. The sparrow-hawk fancied some bacon and lightly scrambled egg, but accepted that he would probably have to settle for a vole or a mouse. If he was lucky.

Could be an eagle, thought Barney, for he did not know birds of prey.

‘But the thing about life,’ said Steven from behind his shovel, ‘is that no matter how far you run, my friend, there’s no getting away from it.’

Brother Steven tossed dirt with methodical abandon. Barney Thomson stared into the grave.

Mulholland tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the rain on the windscreen. In the car park at Stirling services. Waiting for Proudfoot; paying for petrol, buying magazines, chocolate, drinks, music and everything else they had to offer. Expecting her to return to the car wearing a new outfit and carrying a flat-packed kitchen unit.

Preoccupied with thoughts of Mrs Mulholland. On hearing that he’d been ordered to travel north on police business, possibly for a few days, she had issued the classic ultimatum: if you go, I won’t be here when you get back. Considered herself a police widow. Saw the prospect of becoming a real widow if her husband had to come up against that evil monster, Barney Thomson. Would take this opportunity to stay with her sister in Devon, and not just for a week or two. His tapping on the steering wheel became a tight grip as he thought about what else, besides her sister, might keep Melanie in Devon. But then, would he be that bothered if she never returned? Confused. Jealous and disinterested at the same time.

The car door opened and Proudfoot climbed in, preceded by a cold blast of air, a gallon of rainwater and a bulging bag of merchandise. Closed the door, buckled up.

‘What’s the matter with your face?’ she said.

Mulholland grunted, didn’t want to look as if he’d been thinking about his wife. Started the engine.

‘You took your time,’ he said.

‘Just buying a few things,’ she said. Started unloading as they pulled out of the service station. ‘Everything we’ll need for the journey to Inverness.’

‘It’s only a couple of hours, Sergeant.’

‘Might get stuck in the snow.’

‘It’s pishing down, for God’s sake.’

‘Not up north. It’s a snowfest up there.’

‘Bloody hell.’

Onto the roundabout, then back down to the motorway. Driving a blue Mondeo, heating on full, windscreen wipers frenetic. The M9 mobbed with trucks and lorries and people heading north so that they could escape the winter and be somewhere even colder. He settled in the outside lane and his car disappeared beneath the spray from articulated lorries.

‘What did you get for all this snow we’re going to get stuck in? A couple of sleeping bags? A tent, thermal underwear, socks, a flask of tea and some flares?’

She opened the bag, started lifting out items. He kept his eyes on what little of the road he could see, so that they didn’t die before Barney Thomson had the chance to kill them.

‘Got a bacon, egg and tomato.’

‘A sandwich, eh? That’ll keep us warm.’

‘A turkey ham and lettuce.’

‘Turkey ham? I never understood that as a concept. Is that like some weird bird/pig crossbreed?’

‘I’m ignoring you.’

He passed the final monstrous juggernaut in his path and settled into the inside lane, his view now marginally less obscured than it had been. Didn’t realise, but had already stopped worrying about Melanie.

‘I also got a brie and black grape and an egg and spinach.’

‘Bloody hell. How far north d’you think Inverness actually is?’

‘You don’t have to eat any of them. Got a couple of cans of Coke, an Irn Bru and a bottle of water.’

‘If we run out we can always stop at the side of the road and melt some snow on the bonnet.’

‘Four packets of crisps, three chocolate bars, this month’s
Blitz!
and a Simply Red tape.’

He laughed, diced with death by holding up his fingers in the sign of the cross.

‘Not in this car,’ he said. ‘This is not an elevator.’

‘Piss off!’

‘Sergeant.’

Proudfoot gritted her teeth, shut up. Settled back in her seat, cracked open the brie and black grape and a can of Irn Bru, rested the Christmas edition of
Blitz!
on her knee. A few seconds, then she glanced out the corner of her eye.

‘Sandwich, then?’

‘As long as you don’t think it’s a trade.’

She handed him the turkey ham and lettuce, they steamed through the rain towards the Dunblane bypass. They thought their private thoughts. Vague feelings of disquiet at the outside possibility of coming up against the infamous Barber Surgeon. Would they each die a horrible death? Ferguson had told Proudfoot he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to identify her body if she’d been reduced to twenty packets of frozen meat. All charm.

The visit to Henderson’s the barbers the previous day had been as unhelpful as their entire investigation threatened to be. Three barbers – James Henderson, Arnie Braithwaite and Chip Ripkin – none of whom had had any insight into the disappearance of Barney Thomson. They had plenty of opinions and handy hints on what to do to him should he ever be found – Henderson in particular having several innovative suggestions regarding Barney’s scrotum – but nothing that was actually of any help. They’d left after an hour, aware that there was nothing new to be gleaned about Barney Thomson in Glasgow. It was Inverness or nothing; and more likely, Inverness
and
nothing.

Mulholland had considered stopping off in Perth to speak to the suspect’s brother, Allan. Had chosen to make a phone call instead, as he’d thought it might be a waste of time. Suspicions confirmed. Allan and Barbara Thomson had changed their surname, and it hadn’t been until Mulholland had threatened to arrive on his doorstep with the full weight of CID that Allan had even admitted knowing Barney. However, he’d had little to concede beyond that – and he had not been lying – and after fifteen minutes’ fruitless discussion, the brother had had to retire to share a bottle of £4.95 Chilean Chardonnay – fruity with a hint of lighter fluid – with his wife.

‘So, what does
Blitz!
have to say for itself, then? Usual stuff about how to have an orgasm with a staple gun?’

Proudfoot licked some Irn Bru from her lips, turned back to the cover. He glanced over at the photo of the pale Bic, wearing midnight-maroon lipstick.

‘Not that far off,’ she said. ‘We’ve got,
Jet Ski Sex – 1,001 Great Positions. Tantric Sex – Don’t Think About It, Just Do It! Cindy Crawford On Learning To Live With A Big Spot On Your Face. Ukranian Catalogue Hunks – The Best Thirty Quid You’ll Ever Spend
.’

‘You’re making those up,’ said Mulholland.

‘Sadly no. Want to hear the rest?’

‘Might learn something.’

‘
Getting The Most From Your Dildo. How To Spot A Multiple Orgasm. Toothpaste Tube Masturbation – We Test All The Well-Known Brands. Johnny Depp’s Armpits – Hairy, Horny & Yours For A Fiver. Men And Sex – Why You Might be Better Off With A Doughnut
. That’s just about it.’

‘A doughnut?’

‘I missed one.
Why I’ve Had It With Men – Gretchen Schumacher Tells All
.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, what d’you think of Gretchen? Just looks like a stick of rhubarb with nipples to me.’

‘A doughnut?’

‘All these supermodels are the same these days. The older ones with the boobs are all right, but these new ones. A bunch of wee lassies. Horrible. Most of them look ill.’

She let out a long sigh, opened up the mag to the Johnny Depp article. Mulholland sat in the outside lane again, passing a stream of octogenarian Sunday drivers, defying convention by going out midweek.

‘A doughnut?’

She ignored him. They drove on in silence.

Time passed, rain fell, cars were overtaken, cars got in the way, cars sped by in the outside lane. For all that he concentrated on the road, or tried to think about his wife or the woman sitting next to him, Joel Mulholland could not help but think about Barney Thomson.

What kind of monster would commit the crimes that he had committed? Could you call such a being a man? Was he not a beast? Or had the mother been the beast, Barney the unwilling abettor?

Whatever his part in it all, the previous two weeks had seen him become more than he had been. Suddenly he’d become an icon. A means to sell newspapers, a wondrous talking point, a hate figure, a pity figure, a monster, a victim. Depended on to whom you talked. If they caught him, Mulholland knew that Thomson would still have his apologists, still have the women queuing up to support him and to propose to him. It was all it took to achieve celebrity in this day and age – grotesque murder.