‘You know, fellas,’ said Keanu, after several seconds of silence, ‘I’m not entirely sure coming here was my best suggestion.’
‘Arf!’
Barney smiled. He was finding the whole thing over-the-top, yet really it wasn’t actually that over-the-top – he could imagine the Hell of a giant American barbershop convention, where Comic-Con met nineteen twenties Chicago tradition – and he knew he’d return happier to his small shop in Millport on Monday morning, knowing he’d never have to go to one of these again.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘you met Sophes. That sounds promising.’
Keanu couldn’t help smiling.
‘Yeah, true. I just feel bad for you two.’
‘Don’t be daft, son,’ said Barney, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘Loved the walk in the hills this morning, can do the same tomorrow, the food’s great, you don’t actually have to listen to any of these eejits talking if you don’t want to, we can have a nice bit of dinner this evening, a walk and breakfast in the morning, and then we can head off back to –’
He stopped. He swallowed. He turned his head. They all stopped, they all swallowed, they all turned their heads. Those who hadn’t been out for a walk that morning, recognised the scream. Not that it mattered to Barney that he’d missed it earlier, as it was clear what it represented.
Even the poet had stopped talking, something of a rarity for any poet.
‘Fuck,’ said Keanu, his voice low.
‘Arf.’
‘Aye,’ said Barney. ‘Fucking arf.’
17
Lockdown
Comrie Hydro was in total lockdown. Outside a tumult of media and bystanders, plus the occasional relative of someone inside, hoping to pick up their family member before they met their fate. There were three helicopters overhead. Two from the police, one from Sky News. The BBC were trying to fly a drone they’d bought off Amazon for £17.99, but the charge had quickly drained, then one of the rotors had been damaged on its first descent. Channel 4 News just had a single reporter on the ground. All their helicopters were busy monitoring Conservative government ministers, as the Tories troughed buffets of caviar, white truffles and Wagyu beef, while simultaneously being fellated by the girlfriends of Russian oligarchs, before taking direct orders from the Kremlin.
The news websites were all leading with the Koiffing Klown story, each of them with live update pages, although it wasn’t really the kind of story that rewarded a live update page. There wasn’t, for example, a new penis being discovered every ten minutes or so. Nevertheless, the Klown, whoever he or she might be, was a welcome distraction from round-the-clock news of the decline and fall of western civilisation. The BBC led with Government Assures Country Over 50% Of Penises Safe; the Guardian had That’s Not A Penis, This Is A Penis, Boasts Johnson; Buzzfeed had 23 Great Ways To Replace Your Cock; Huffington Post had Gove Claims His Penis Secure, Admits Balls Lost Years Ago; the Evening Standard had Raab Just One Big Giant Cock TBF.
The days when Barney Thomson was implicated in every murder story going were long gone. Barney was yesterday’s news, overtaken by younger, more photogenic and social media savvy killers, barbers, ne’er-do-wells, and rogues. Barney, naturally, was perfectly happy with this.
Inside the hotel a hubbub of nervous excitement. Solomon had shut down the convention, and while he had originally deferred the decision, thinking the uproar might be counter-productive, when it came to it there was generally such relief at the end of what had developed into the worst and most painful convention that anyone could remember, everyone was pleased to have the decision on whether to stay or go taken out of their hands.
The number of police officers deployed in the building was now equal to the number of staff and delegates combined. Every guest had been ordered to remain in their room until collected by an officer, following which they would be interviewed and then escorted from the premises. There were, inevitably, a few cries of nannying and police harassment and Big Brother and let us take care of ourselves. The fact was, however, that an all-new severed penis had turned up in the hotel, suspended from a red balloon, with an attached note reading, No knife, nor gun, nor noose, nor Taser, will ever blunt the Koiffing razor. The police still only had one body, there was a murderer on the loose and literally everyone left in the hotel was either a suspect, a potential victim or, in the case of the men, both. It was possible, of course, that this new organ belonged to Bill Romney, but his wife had understandably not stayed at the hotel, and the DNA test results were not yet in.
Maybe there was no difference between another penis turning up and the body of Romney being found earlier, but there was the accumulative effect, there was the scream, there was the shredding of nerves. It was time for the whole thing to be over.
The interviews were being carried out by a hurriedly assembled team of fifteen detectives, thereafter guests and staff being funneled back out into the chill of mid-afternoon as quickly as possible. There were procedures in place for when a detective might suspect someone, and all those were to pass through Solomon.
The men of the Millport barbershop had negotiated to be allowed, at least, to all wait in the one room, and they were standing now, as so often in the shop, at the window, looking out on the frosty Perthshire hills, each with a cup of tea in hand.
‘Makes you wonder,’ said Keanu after a while.
Since they were all looking out at the scenery deep in thought, it wasn’t entirely clear what he was wondering about.
‘Arf?’ asked Igor a few moments into the silence.
‘Why the penis? I mean, murder, fair enough. There are all sorts of reasons. But this? Seems very specific. And, as we know from Game of Thrones, not guaranteed to actually kill anyone.’
‘Game of Thrones being the wellspring of medical knowledge,’ chipped in Barney.
‘But then, eunuchs,’ said Keanu. ‘Men have been getting their bits cleaved off for centuries and not dying.’
‘Arf.’
‘Hmm,’ said Keanu, ‘maybe you’re right. I mean, the eunuchs, did they also get their penises cut off, or was it just the testicles? We never did that in Biology, or if we did, we were too busy sniggering.’
Barney had been watching a young deer on a faraway hillside for a while, wondering why he hadn’t seen any deer while he’d been out earlier, only half a mind on the conversation.
‘Depended on the reason for the castration,’ he said, finally giving Keanu a little more attention. ‘Either way, it was easy enough to close the wound. More likely the death would come from infection.’
‘Easy enough to close the wound? You get your entire testicles lopped off! I mean, holy shit, that’s like, oh my God... There’s going to be, like, literally gallons of blood.’
‘Classically in castration they didn’t whip everything off. They made an incision, either in the abdomen or the scrotum, then pulled out the gonads and tubes.’
A gentle hush fell upon the room. Slowly a look of horror crept across Keanu’s face, while all three men felt a tightening of the testicles, a squirming at the core of their being.
‘That’s a little unsavoury,’ said Keanu.
‘You started it, kid.’
‘Let’s change the subject. Who d’you think did it?’
‘Really?’ said Barney.
‘Putting all your experience to good use. You know things. You can spot a murderer at twenty paces.’
‘I’ve yet to spot a murderer this weekend,’ said Barney, drily.
He looked out over the cold hills, but could no longer locate the deer. The sun was dipping, the afternoon progressing, darkness coming in upon the land.
‘It’s just some guy who’s been watching too many supervillain movies,’ said Barney, aware that Keanu was still waiting. ‘The police should look at everyone’s Netflix account.’
‘That’s what I’m talking about,’ said Keanu. ‘That keen insight of yours. Say something else.’
Barney looked at him deadpan. He looked
at Igor, who also looked deadpan, and then together they turned, deadpan, back to Keanu.
‘What?’
‘It was a joke.’
‘I knew that,’ said Keanu casually, and then he continued regardless. ‘So, we have a supervillain barber who resents other barbers. Awesome. Why d’you think he killed the guy in Edinburgh last week?’
‘Presumably a customer who’d pissed him off,’ said Barney, allowing himself to be dragged unenthusiastically into the conversation. ‘We all get fed up with customers. Pain in the arse, often enough. So, what we have here is possibly a barber who lost his job. Someone who resents other barbers. Maybe customers as well.’
‘Didn’t the police speak to barbershops the victim frequented?’
‘They did, but this could go back a long way, our killer storing it up, before something sent him over the edge. Maybe he just thought, I’m getting that guy, but I’m going to wait and wait and wait, and when I do take my revenge, there’s no way anyone’s going to suspect me.’
‘To the committed psychopath type, that’s going to be very on brand.’
‘Exactly. So, that’s the trouble. You’re looking for a barber who’s had disagreements with the public, and who resents his colleagues. Pick one out of several thousand.’
‘OK, we’ve made a start,’ said Keanu, positively. ‘So, what d’you think’s going on with the penis? You’d think a barber might choose a more barbery type of crime.’
Barney had preferred it when they’d been standing in silence.
‘Give someone a dreadful short back and sides, or murder a fringe?’ he said.
‘Scalp them perhaps. I mean, that’d be a thing, right? And rather than leaving some tiny, shrivelled knob hanging from a balloon, you’d leave the bloody scalp.’
‘You’d never get the balloon to stay up,’ said Barney.
‘Suppose,’ said Keanu. ‘Either way, the guy’s a loser.’
‘Maybe you can write the great barber serial killer story.’
‘You think?’
‘Sweeney Todd meets Hannibal Lecter,’ said Barney, making a banner headline.
‘With dinosaurs,’ added Keanu.
‘Arf!’
There was a knock at the door, and the off-the-cuff investigatory chat, so close to identifying the killer, was brought to a sudden halt.
‘That’ll be the fuzz,’ said Keanu brightly, and he turned away from the window. As he did so Barney and Igor exchanged a glance, which ended with Igor sniggering quietly to himself.
Keanu opened the door without looking through the spyhole, his face immediately brightening.
‘Ladies!’ he said. ‘Excellent. Didn’t expect to see you, Sergeant.’
Sophia Cane and Detective Sergeant Monk were standing beside each other, obviously having exchanged a word or two, with Monk looking a little perturbed. She visibly relaxed when Sophia kissed Keanu on the lips as she breezed into the room.
Barney walked away from the window, Igor stayed where he was, ever the observer.
‘Hey,’ said Barney. ‘This is nice. Come to rescue us?’
‘They put a call out across the region,’ said Monk. ‘I was already running an errand for the DCI, so I thought I’d come up.’
‘Millport quiet then?’
‘You know, there were a couple of gang fights, and someone blew up the Chicken Man, but other than that... Thad can take care of it.’
Barney smiled with her, then looked at Sophia.
‘Sophia?’ he said.
‘Sophes,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘You must be Barney. I heard all about you.’
‘I thought most people would’ve been cleared out by now.’
‘Sure, I did my thing. Got strip-searched and ravaged by a young police officer,’ she said, widening her eyes at Keanu. ‘Don’t worry, she was gorgeous.’ She laughed.
‘I caught her arguing with a local constable asking to be allowed to come up here. She mentioned Millport, I said she could come with me.’
‘All panned out then,’ said Barney. ‘Excellent.’
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, then,’ Sophia said to Keanu, indicating Igor at the window, and the two of them walked over.
Igor, silent and mysterious, was always the most interesting person in the room.
‘Glad you came,’ said Barney.
‘Had a bit of a moment there,’ said Monk.
‘What happened?’
‘We’re walking up here, and she tells me she slept with the barber from Millport.’
‘And you thought she meant me?’
‘I presumed not, but then we found ourselves standing outside your room.’
‘Ooft,’ said Barney, and he glanced round at Sophia briefly. ‘Well, you’re all right. She’s young and gorgeous, so not my type.’
Monk gave him a whack, they shared a smile, then looked round at the new happy couple.
‘We’re not done yet,’ said Barney. ‘Still got our interviews to do.’
‘I know. I’m doing them,’ said Monk.
‘Oh, cool.’
‘Yep. So, I understand Igor’s room is two along. We’ll go in there, one at a time.’
‘Excellent,’ said Barney. ‘Keanu and I have got all our theories worked out. Pretty much the only thing we’re missing is the killer’s identity.’
‘Thank God,’ said Monk. ‘Come on, let’s get going, and let’s get the fuck out of this hotel.’
18
Tales From The Z Room
The Koiffing Klown, in full-face makeup, lurked in the shadows of the hotel. He had given his interview to the police – albeit before he’d applied the makeup – he’d signed out of the hotel, and then he had taken advantage of the general tumult and orgy of nervous excitement by making a quick joke to one of the harassed security staff at the door, dashing back in to get something he’d supposedly forgotten, and then not reappearing.
He was a bland character, in and out of anyone’s mind with a snap of the fingers. So much going on, so many people to suspect, the mind drawn to the sinister, the sleekit, the furtive glance, the nervous laugh.
It was simple, and he wasn’t sure it was entirely effective, but he had come to the point of not really being too bothered either way. He’d cleared up his effects at home, his work with the bastard barbershop community of Scotland was getting done, one way or another, it would soon be finished, and then he would travel. The Koiffing Klown was going on tour.
He smiled maniacally at the thought.
‘LET ME GO AND WE CAN do a deal.’
The Klown scowled at the figure strapped into the chair. He hadn’t yet wrapped the tape around his mouth, although that was imminent, but the cutthroat razor he held in his hand was there as ample warning. Shout out and be sliced open. He’d already run the blade across Landon Prentice’s cheek as a warning. The blood had run down to his jaw in a single line, and had dripped a few times onto his white shirt.
‘And what deal would that be?’ asked the Klown.
‘I know people,’ said Prentice.
‘So do I! Of course, many of them are now dead.’
‘I know people. I can set you up in your own shop. I can get you sponsorship deals with Gillette and, I don’t know, Hugo Boss. Calvin Klein. You can be the guy. You can have the smartest shop in Scotland. King in your own kingdom. You can –’
‘I’m already king in my own kingdom,’ said the Klown harshly, then he leaned forward and rested the razor in the middle of Prentice’s forehead. Prentice could smell garlic on the Klown’s breath. He closed his mouth, swallowed, tried not to breathe too deeply.
‘Tell me I’m not,’ said the Klown.
Silence. Prentice waited for the Klown to pull away again before speaking. It wasn’t just garlic. There was the smell of decay. The stench of it, as though the Klown’s soul was being eaten away, diseased and rotting, feasted upon by maggots.
The Klown straightened up, turned his back, and theatrically cocked his head to the side
as he listened to the world outside the door in the bowels of the hotel, waiting for the intelligence of some distant activity, the approach of authority, something to hurry him towards the completion of his current task.
‘We can do a deal,’ Prentice repeated.
‘You said. Gillette, Boss, king in my own kingdom, dah-de-dah-de-dah...’ said the Klown.
‘We can do a deal,’ Prentice repeated again, his voice more insistent.
The Klown turned, looking at him curiously.
‘What are you doing? Really? You think if you just sit there saying the same thing over and over I won’t kill you? What’s the logic in that?’
‘You’re not going to kill me,’ said Prentice.
He was, admirably, keeping a good deal of steel in his voice. He was James Bond, bound and beaten, held captive, completely and utterly fucked, happily and contemptuously dismissing the villain as an evil psychopath, in full knowledge that he, Bond, would win the day.
Bond, of course, has read the script. Bond knows he’s the star of the show. Prentice was winging it.
‘What makes you think that?’ asked the Klown.
‘I’m worth far more to you alive than dead,’ said Prentice, with the confidence of inappropriate self-belief.
The Klown looked at him curiously, and then said, ‘Ah, yes, because of the whole Gillette, king in my own kingdom thing.’
‘Yes,’ said Prentice. ‘So we need to talk. Stop with this foolish nonsense, cut the bonds, let me get my clothes back on and we can do business. And I mean, right now, or else you’re getting nothing. Right. Now.’
‘Let me tell you a story,’ said the Klown.
This time it was Prentice’s turn to scowl.
EIGHTEEN MONTHS PREVIOUSLY. A barbershop in Stirling. The Z Room. The hippest and trendiest barbershop in all Scotland. The third one in a chain that had now spread to fifteen around the country, and had begun to encroach south of the border.
Curse Of The Clown Page 11