Curse Of The Clown

by Douglas Lindsay

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘Said you were a decent man. Said that to all intents and purposes you were his consulting detective.’

  ‘Compared me to Holmes, did he?’

  ‘Holmes without the genius, but equally annoying, he said,’ said Solomon, and Barney laughed again.

  ‘You here to enlist my help then?’

  Solomon didn’t immediately answer. The scene outside was unchanging, the rain only visible within the blurry, narrow spheres of orange light.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Solomon. A beat, and then he added, ‘But more or less.’

  It made sense, after all. And while Barney hadn’t given the weekend too much thought, when he had considered it, this was exactly the kind of thing he’d expected might happen. Not that he’d said so to Monk.

  ‘You want me just to keep an eye out?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Ear to the ground, look for anything suspicious, or anyone out of place.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Don’t do anything, just report back to you.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You have intelligence that your killer clown from last week is actually going to be here?’

  ‘None,’ said Solomon. ‘Just that the murder had that kind of feel to it. There’s going to be more. You don’t do the calling card, you don’t do the statement body part removal, you don’t do the dumbass red balloon thing, without intending to come back... Nevertheless, there’s no link to this place. Nothing to say that this weekend there won’t be another missing person turning up dickless somewhere completely different. It’s just when I heard about this event I got that feeling. Gut instinct. So, I thought you might be useful, and here I am.’

  ‘Don’t forget, I’m just a policeman, standing in front of a boy, asking him to help me,’ said Barney, drily.

  Solomon looked curiously at him, brow furrowed.

  ‘The actual fuck was that?’

  Barney smiled. ‘The Julia Roberts line from Notting Hill.’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ muttered Solomon.

  With the disdain, a return to silence, Barney smiling, Solomon still staring gruffly out into the dark. Eventually he pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Barney.

  ‘You’ll likely see me around, so just speak to me if anything comes up. Use that number if you can’t find me.’

  ‘This is your mobile, or someone in Edinburgh?’

  Solomon tapped his coat pocket by way of answer.

  ‘You want to just hang out with us?’ said Barney. ‘We’re meeting for dinner in a little bit. You’re going to stand out like a uniformed cop in a strip bar otherwise.’

  ‘I’m good, thanks. I’ll blend,’ said Solomon, and Barney laughed. ‘Who’s the hunchback, by the way? He’s got a story?’

  ‘Everyone’s got a story,’ said Barney. ‘We’ve been together a while now. Decent man. Defined by his character, rather than his hump.’

  ‘Good to know,’ said Solomon, and he turned away from Barney and headed back towards the door. ‘Hopefully we won’t have too much to say to each other this weekend,’ he added.

  ‘See you around,’ Barney threw over his shoulder without turning, then the door was opened and closed, and he was left alone in the silence with the spacious room, and the sofa and the side table and the small drinks cabinet and the view out into the murk of evening.

  ‘Here we go again,’ he said softly to the silence.

  There was no way he could know, and there was no reason why it should be so, but he knew, absolutely and incontrovertibly, there would be blood, and once again he’d be sucked into its orbit, and he’d face a life and death struggle, while all around him suffered. The pale horse had arrived, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell would follow with him.

  ‘All in all,’ said Barney, breaking quietly into song, ‘it’s just a-nother kick in the baws.’

  9

  The Taipei 101 Situation

  Dinner. Somehow they’d found themselves lucky enough to be on a table for three. There would be some in this world who would want to mix with other barbers, getting to know them, hearing new ideas, sharing stories, discussing the latest in chic haircut design from the finest salons in all Scotland. Barney and Igor, on the other hand, were keen to avoid other people as much as possible.

  ‘You sure you’re OK with this?’ said Barney to Keanu. ‘Fine for me and Igor to be sitting here in a little corner, but there are young women here. You’re not going to meet any of them hanging out with us two all evening.’

  ‘Arf,’ said Igor, indicating just such a young woman sitting ten yards away or so.

  ‘It’s cool,’ said Keanu. ‘The night is young. This shit’s going to go on long after you two sad sacks are in bed. Plenty of time. And no offence, but I don’t want to be talking to the ladies with you guys around. People’ll be thinking you’re a gay couple and I’m your kid.’

  ‘Arf!’

  Barney laughed, then turned back to the rest of his first course. Braised lamb’s cheek with a dominion of Jezebel sauce, and a reduction of beef crème pâtissière.

  The room was full, the place jumping, the piped jazz music that had been clearly playing when they’d first entered, now largely buried beneath the burble of conversation. The barbers were in town, there was food to be eaten, drink to be consumed, haircuts to be discussed and fun to be had.

  Barney had looked around for Solomon, but had not seen him. He’d also found himself casting an eye over the rest of the attendees at the conference, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it. No one stood out, but he was so jaded on the matter of the serial killer, that he couldn’t tell if that was because no one looked suspicious, or because everyone looked suspicious.

  There were probably three hundred people in attendance. He had no idea how many barbers there were in Scotland, but it was going to be far more than that. So, even if this muppet of a clown really was a barber, there was hardly any guarantee he’d be here.

  Nevertheless, Solomon was not wrong. There was just something about it. An old hotel, a grim evening, rain falling, a rambunctious crowd, and evil in the air. Something was going to happen.

  A glass pinged. Once, twice, another quick couple of taps of the spoon.

  ‘Ladies!’ cried a voice, ‘ladies and gentlemen!’

  Another few pings of the glass, the tumult quickly quieting down.

  Of the three hundred and seven attendees, fifty-six were women. Those fifty-six were in for as much fun as they cared to have. Seven of them, nevertheless, were already planning their exits.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ repeated the squat, barrel-chested man at the top table microphone, his face relaxing as he gained the attention of his audience, ‘welcome everyone to this lovely setting here in Comrie. You all brought the weather with you, I see.’

  He grinned, the bulk of the audience smiled and laughed along with him.

  An easy audience, thought Barney. He could probably get a laugh reading from a biography of Mengele.

  ‘And don’t worry, I’m not about to bore you to death with a long and indescribably tedious speech.’ A beat. A comic beat. ‘That’s for tomorrow night.’

  He got the laugh, though not quite to the same extent as with his hilarious you-all-brought-the-weather gag. Igor turned to Barney, rolled his eyes, and looked away again.

  ‘We’re in for a wonderful weekend. I know we can’t wait to get started, but tonight is for the fun and the laughs, wonderful food, a few bevvies. Have fun, get to know your fellow giants of the hairdressing business, and tomorrow the serious stuff begins. We’ve got talks from the experts, we got some amazing special guest speakers, we’ve got displays of all the latest gadgets, gizmos and widgets...’

  ‘Why is he mansplaining the weekend?’ said Keanu to the table, his voice low. ‘It’s not like we’ve all come on a blind date.’

  ‘Talkers gonna talk,’ said Barney, feeling a little uncomfortable invoking Taylor Swift, but at least he wa
s talking to Keanu rather than a fully functioning grown up, so Keanu just nodded, took a drink of Kronenbourg, and looked back at the stage.

  ‘And of course, tomorrow evening, we’ll be giving out the awards, amongst them, Barber and Barbershop of the Year.’

  He paused, so that his audience could bask in this amazing programme of events, and then when they gave him no particular response against which he could react, he lifted his glass and smiled munificently around the assembled barbering crowd.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen, have a wonderful night.’

  He raised his glass, took a drink, then sat down to the relieved applause. There had been no grandstanding.

  The handclaps quickly died away, the piped music instantly started up again, and was equally quickly swallowed up by the hubbub of conversation.

  ‘Who was that guy anyway?’ asked Keanu.

  ‘Charles Walker, COO of the Scottish Association of Barbershops,’ said Barney.

  ‘How d’you know this stuff? I mean, it’s like you know everything. You should go on Pointless.’

  Barney pointed at the menu card lying on the table. As well as outlining the two choices on offer for each course, there was a photograph of the evening’s host, Charles Walker.

  ‘Ha,’ said Keanu. ‘Hey, you didn’t tell me there was going to be an award. You think we might win shop of the year? D’you think you might win barber of the year? I mean, you’ve got to be in with a shout, right?’

  ‘We didn’t enter.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  Barney took a drink of wine, cut himself another small piece of lamb cheek. ‘Really? We weren’t even going to come here until you brought it up last week.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but now that we’re here!’

  ‘Did you look it up? How the best shop thing is decided?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Keanu. Igor looked curiously over the top of his pint glass.

  ‘You have to pay to enter. Once you’ve done that, you then have to pay travel expenses to two of the judges. You then have to give them a free haircut, though you won’t know it’s them until after you’ve done the cut, and they produce... well, I don’t know, a card, or a secret code, or a clandestine handshake. It all sounds like a load of shit, son, and you’ve got to pay five hundred quid just to be considered.’

  ‘No way! You could buy your own shitty trophy for that, and have four hundred and ninety-five quid left over.’

  ‘Arf!’

  ‘Exactly.’ He had another bite of food, took another drink of wine, and then he made a small shoulder movement and looked back at Keanu. ‘So we didn’t enter.’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Keanu, ‘fair enough. We can just look down upon the winners, knowing we’re better than them.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Barney, sharing a look with Igor, ‘that we can.’

  And so the evening began, and so it continued.

  NOT LONG AFTER TEN o’clock in the evening. The dinner was over, the diners drifting apart. Igor had found himself a card game in a far corner, playing six-point poker with three sharps from a shop in Anstruther. Barney had retreated to his room to message Monk, read some Murakami, and get an early night.

  Keanu, meanwhile, had hit the hotel bar, looking for anyone he could talk to. He wasn’t particularly on the lookout for one of the few women at the convention, and yet, as he stood at the bar waiting his turn, he found himself standing next to the one he’d identified as being the most attractive woman in the hotel that evening, waiting staff and high class professional prostitutes bussed in from Perth included.

  ‘Evening,’ said Keanu.

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘How’d you like dinner?’ asked Keanu, thinking it a safe conversational opener. Always a smart move to start a discussion with a question that could be asked of literally anyone.

  ‘I didn’t understand most of the descriptions on the menu,’ she said, ‘but the food was tasty AF, right?’

  ‘Same here,’ said Keanu. ‘I had to get Barney to explain some of it to me. I liked the scallops.’

  ‘Didn’t have those. Who’s Barney?’

  ‘My boss.’

  ‘Right. Your whole shop’s here?’

  ‘Yep. Me, the boss, and the sweeper-upper.’

  ‘You have a guy who sweeps up? Wow. I have to do my own sweeping up.’

  ‘Igor,’ said Keanu. ‘We call him the sweeper-upper. He does everything other than cut hair. Kind of the heart and soul of the shop.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  A beat.

  ‘Keanu,’ said Keanu, filling the silence.

  ‘Sophes.’

  ‘Cool. Where’s your shop?’

  ‘What can I get you?’ asked the barman.

  Keanu was up, and he quickly went for the next, obvious step in their relationship.

  ‘Buy you a drink?’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m buying for me and Danny.’

  Danny.

  The noise, that no one else heard, was the sound of Keanu’s dreams plummeting from the top of the Taipei 101 and splattering onto the ground, exploding into a bloody, fragmented splurge of sundered flesh.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Keanu. Then quickly, ‘Can I have Kronenbourg, please?’ to the barman.

  ‘You want to join us?’ asked Sophia.

  Keanu looked a little non-plussed at the invitation, so she quickly added, ‘It’s cool. Danny’s my boss, don’t worry. You’re not interrupting anything. He won’t be like, who the fuck is this, nothing like that. He’s married, talks about his wife all the time. Kind of boring, TBH.’

  OK, so perhaps those dreams, which had been so badly laid waste on the ground by the Taipei 101, could be carefully reconstructed. A good reminder, however, for Keanu not to be getting ahead of himself.

  ‘Sure,’ said Keanu, ‘that’d be great.’

  ‘Epic!’ said Sophia.

  They shared a smile.

  God, she’s gorgeous, thought Keanu.

  ‘You want to have sex after?’ asked Sophia, as they started walking through the bar a minute later, drinks in hand.

  A moment while Keanu looked at her a little nonplussed by the stunning result of his tentative how’d you like dinner question, then he said, ‘Sure. Not doing anything else.’

  ‘Epic,’ said Sophia again, and the evening was set.

  NORMAN SAT IN HIS ROOM at the hotel. Just another delegate, retiring after dinner. Of course, he hadn’t actually attended the dinner. No need to sit and listen to barber talk. He’d been here before, he knew the score. The percentage of barbers who thought they had the gift of the gab was astronomically high, and they were all willing to practice it. Put a few hundred of them together in a room, and it was like one of Dante’s layers of Hell. One of the shitty layers, near the bottom.

  There would be the usual boasts to which any barber was prone. Magnificent cuts he’d executed, fabulous new styles he’d invented, celebrities who’d stopped by his shop, celebrities who’d become regulars. It was all so dull. Perhaps the female barbers were less prone to boasting and unnecessary verbiage, but Norman’s experience of working with women was entirely limited to Sophia, and from Sophia he projected on to all female barbers. She was the standard, so as far as Norman was concerned women barbers would all be vacuous and empty-headed dimwits, incapable of interesting conversation, ignorant of the world beyond tabloid newspapers.

  This was Norman’s third trip to the Scottish Barbershop Convention, although he hadn’t been for three years. His old colleagues aside, no one knew him here. He wasn’t a mixer, feeling even more of an outsider at the event than Keanu at a crime fiction festival. So, in his previous two visits, he’d spoken to very few people, had been completely unremarkable, and had been instantly forgotten.

  It had been two years since Norman had left Danny’s shop. Since then it had been a rollercoaster, although largely one that just kept going down. So, not a rollercoaster. More of an elevator with no up button.

  Time, then, he thought,
to take care of business. Settle some scores. He hadn’t necessarily decided the time was right, then that fool Wojciechowski – not that Norman had known his name – had followed him home one night a week ago. What an absurd thing that had been to do, so many years later, and all to complain about a bad haircut that had ‘ruined my life for six months’.

  Could the blame for Wojciechowski’s death be laid entirely at Norman’s door? He wasn’t sure that it could.

  Norman the Klown shared a look of amused disdain with his double in the mirror. If the fool had challenged him in the street, then there would have been witnesses, and there was no way he would have died. Instead, Wojciechowski had followed him, all the way back to his one-bedroomed flat in Musselburgh.

  Dead now. The penis left hanging from the balloon in Wojciechowski’s own apartment had been a nice touch, he thought.

  And so it was that the game was afoot. Time for revenge to be taken on all the hipster barbers, and the classical barbers who would shun him, and the airhead female barbers, and no one would ever know, because no one thought you could hang on to a grievance anymore. It was such an instant society, with immediate impact, and short memories. Everything happened so quickly, and it was as though people had forgotten that a sense of injustice could build for years, and that the longer it was allowed to build, the more devastating it would be when it was finally unleashed.

  Wojciechowski, at least, had had that about him. There was a man who could hold a grudge. He must have had some quality as a human being. Unfortunately for him, he’d held that grudge against the wrong person.

  Friday evening, some time after eleven. Makeup on, time for the Koiffing Klown to leave his hiding place, to lurk in the shadows, to await his moment, and then to start to wreak his magnificent and horrible revenge.

  10

  A Good Walk Wasted

  From nowhere, it was a beautiful morning. The rain of the day before had dried, at some point the previous evening the clouds had vanished, and the temperature had plummeted overnight. In an instant, dreich late autumn had become a white, frosty early winter, as though the art director of the movie had flicked a switch, or the audience had been subjected to a montage sequence of the changing of the seasons.