Curse Of The Clown

by Douglas Lindsay

  Monk was nodding before he’d finished, her arguments turned to dust. He wasn’t wrong, after all. She knew much of Barney’s history, but it wasn’t as though he liked talking about it, and she was sure there were a hundred stories he hadn’t told her. But that wasn’t the only thing that had her stomach tying in knots as she took a photograph of the face of Norman Lindorf. That indefinable, impossible element was also there. She just got the sense of it. There was no reason why Barney should know this man, but there was no reason for most of the things that had happened to Barney since the first series of disasters had befallen him so many years ago in a small Partick barbershop.

  She wrote him a message – Ever seen this guy before? – sent the photograph, then slipped the phone back into her pocket.

  She took a drink of coffee. Whatever it was that could settle her stomach, it wasn’t that.

  BARNEY’S PHONE PINGED. He and old McGuire had been sitting in companionable silence for some time, and there was an old fashioned feel to the day. People had been sitting in such silences for years and years up on the side of that hill. Not a car had passed by behind them, not a plane contrail in the sky. Even the submarine had finally disappeared from view, and now there was little in sight that would not have been there a hundred years before.

  Thus the ping of the phone seemed quite at odds with the morning, enough, indeed, to have old McGuire saying, ‘What in the fuck was that?’ as though he’d never in his life heard the arrival of a text message.

  Barney straightened his legs, dug the phone out the pocket of his jeans, read the message and then opened the photograph.

  His heart sank, his stomach scrunched into a tight ball.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said softly.

  Old McGuire glanced at the photograph, studied it for moment, then looked at Barney.

  ‘That your Grindr date cancelled?’ he asked, then he barked out a humourless laugh.

  25

  The Klown Raged

  ‘Oh wait,’ said Monk, the thought suddenly coming to her, ‘what about Bertram? Did you get the results back yet?’

  She and Solomon were standing at the window of the first floor restaurant, looking out over the cold hillside that stretched away behind the hotel. Fields, and a small wood, giving way to open moorland higher up. Sheep lower down, a small herd of deer, tightly packed together, up on the moor. A cold wind from the north, clear sky, but hazy, rather than a majestic, Alpine blue.

  ‘Nothing so far,’ said Solomon. ‘We got the DNA from the hairs you took from his house, and there’s no match as yet. Nothing to tie the lad to any of the victims, nothing to suggest he’s the Klown. Doesn’t mean, of course, that he’s not covering his tracks. We’re waiting on a few things, so jury’s still out.’

  ‘But Norman remains the favourite.’

  ‘Sure, but really, it could be any bastard,’ said Solomon, and, thinking about waiting and time as he was, he automatically checked his watch.

  ‘You manage to expedite the testing process?’

  ‘God, aye,’ said Solomon. ‘They’re shitting bricks in Edinburgh. Had the First Minister on the phone this morning. Jesus.’

  ‘The First Minister called?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Monk, then, ‘Wait, does that happen often in Edinburgh? That must be annoying.’

  ‘It never happens in Edinburgh. It never happens, period. Same as everything else, there’s a process. If the FM’s pissed off about something, she feels the Justice Minister’s balls, he calls the Chief at Police Scotland, he calls the Deputy Chief Constable, he calls the super, he grabs the DCI by the knackers. So, nominally, the FM is grabbing your knackers, but it’s proxy grabbing, several times removed. Occasionally they might skip one or two of those steps, though to be honest, I’ve never spoke to either the Chief or the Justice Minister before. Still haven’t. But I’ve now had my balls squeezed first hand by the FM.’

  ‘Does she have a firm grip?’

  Solomon gave Monk a deadpan glance.

  ‘You’ve watched her on TV, right?’

  ‘So, firm grip,’ said Monk.

  There was movement behind them, and for the first time in a while they managed to turn away from the hypnotic still beauty of the view.

  ‘Boss,’ said Lane, as he walked in between the tables, ‘bingo!’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Solomon. ‘You got Norman, he’s confessed, everything’s fine and we can all go home for lunch?’

  ‘None of the above,’ said Lane. ‘But we do have DNA tying Norman to Wojciechowski’s murder, to his flat at least, and also to the second penis in the hotel.’

  ‘Romney?’

  ‘Yep. Maybe he was trying to be careful, just didn’t succeed with that one.’

  ‘Sounds more likely than the alternative, of him having an able assistant,’ said Solomon.

  ‘Any chance his DNA was planted?’ asked Monk.

  ‘It’s not like we’ve got video footage of Lindorf in the act,’ said Lane, ‘but I’d say we have the kind of evidence we usually have in this type of case. People who are trying to avoid detection can make a reasonable job of it, but they inevitably leave some trace. Some trace, somewhere. And that’s what he’s done.’

  ‘You keen on Norman not being our killer?’ asked Solomon, looking at Monk.

  Monk held his gaze, was about to automatically deny it, then found herself thinking about it instead. Barney had called, he’d told her the story of Norman coming into his shop. He didn’t explicitly say it, but she knew how he would be thinking. If Barney had handled things differently, Norman wouldn’t have had the need to go and kill people.

  So, yes, she was keen on Norman not being the killer, but she couldn’t try to steer the investigation in that direction, she could not allow herself confirmation bias, clinging desperately to, and exaggerating the importance of any information that might point to someone else.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, surprising even herself with the automatic acknowledgement, ‘I was hoping otherwise. But it looks like Norman, smells like Norman, acts like Norman and tastes like Norman. So, you know...’

  ‘It’s Norman,’ said Solomon. ‘So, we need to go full on in on this guy. Make sure the press have picked up the picture, and let’s go a hundred miles an hour on all that social media shit. We need to find him. You know what you’re doing?’

  Both Monk and Lane nodded, Solomon indicated with his thumb for the two of them to crack on, and they turned away from the window and walked quickly back through the restaurant towards the operations room.

  Solomon watched them for a moment, and then turned back to the view out towards the hills.

  AND SO SUNDAY CONTINUED, not at a canter, but at a sprint. All hands to the pump, the police out in the world contacting barbershops, following up leads from the public, making calls. In an instant Norman Lindorf was the most wanted man in the country. Of course, overnight he could have fled to England, or jumped on a plane. In the time between the most recent known murder and the police issuing the warrant for his arrest, he could have found his way to anywhere in Europe, even one of the distant lands that are only really European in football terms. However, no one in the police thought he would have fled, or thought this was over.

  Another team spent the day trying to establish if there was anything, beyond a shared profession, that linked the three victims from the day before. Was there a pattern to the murders? Could they work out who might be next in line? Had Norman had any specific attachment to any of them?

  The work was carried out, leads followed, calls placed, little progress made. They were to go to bed at the end of the working day unable to narrow anything down, and in the same position as they’d been at the start of the working day; warning anyone involved in the barbershop business to be on guard.

  There was a killer on the loose, and every life was in peril.

  BARNEY AND MONK SHARED a late evening glass of wine, albeit eighty miles apart, Barney sitting at the kitchen
table, his phone propped against a fruit bowl.

  ‘How you doing?’ asked Monk.

  ‘I’m good,’ said Barney.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘What’s not to be good about?’ he asked. ‘Everyone’s talking about a serial killing barber and it’s not me. This is, like, my dream.’

  She gave him the appropriate look.

  ‘If we’re lucky,’ continued Barney, ‘you’ll never find him, and then the myth of the Koiffing Klown can flourish. They can start blaming Norman for every crime that happens in Scotland.’

  ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘It can be Norman’s fault Scotland don’t qualify for the next World Cup.’

  ‘Really? Are you finished?’

  ‘OK, I’m finished,’ said Barney.

  ‘Thank you. I’m worried.’

  ‘I know. But really, yesterday you arrived in Comrie telling me you weren’t worried about this ending up in Millport, and now you’re freaking out.’

  ‘I’m not freaking out, and anyway, that was before I knew the suspect had literally been in your shop!’

  ‘One way of looking at it,’ said Barney.

  ‘Yes! It is!’

  ‘Anyway, I’m more worried about you.’

  ‘Why? He’s not killing police officers, and I don’t have anything for him to cut off and attach to a balloon!’

  ‘You don’t know that he hasn’t killed any women, and even if he hasn’t yet, doesn’t mean he won’t. And you also don’t know who he’ll try to kill when confronted.’

  ‘Yeah, fair enough.’

  ‘And you’re actively pursuing him. I’m just a guy on an island. He’s got no particular reason to come after me.’

  ‘You didn’t give him a job.’

  ‘He arrived on a day when we had no customers. He saw we had two barbers. We had a nice chat, we gave him a cup of tea, we accepted him as one of us. Just not one us we could give any work to. He’s cool. If he’s got a revenge list, there’s no reason for me, or either of the others, to be on it.’

  ‘You said he looked at you funny.’

  ‘Come on, Dani, it was just a thing. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘Hmm, I know you’re lying when you start calling me Dani.’

  Barney hid momentarily behind his glass.

  ‘You recognise evil,’ said Monk, ‘I know you do. You’ve told me you do for a start, and I’ve witnessed it. And you saw evil in that man.’

  ‘It was ages ago,’ said Barney meekly.

  ‘Sure, because evil clears up with time, like acne.’

  ‘Maybe it does,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘But I didn’t even think of him coming to the shop when Sophia was talking about him last night. No sixth sense connecting the two.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll keep your phone handy, and if anything happens, or you think you might have seen him, you’ll call Thad.’

  ‘I’ll call Thad.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise. When d’you think you’ll be back?’

  ‘Not sure yet. Day-to-day for now. Hopefully after tomorrow, but we’ll need to see how things progress. Like all these things, even if we don’t get anywhere, if nothing else happens, I mean crime-wise, then they’ll have to start reducing the numbers. It’s not like the criminals of Scotland have all taken the long weekend off to give the police some space.’

  ‘You’re staying in the death hotel?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling at the name, ‘I’m staying in the death hotel.’

  ‘Well, I think you need to be way more careful than I need to be.’

  ‘It’s like the safest place in all Scotland now.’

  A beat.

  ‘Am I going to make you touch wood again?’

  Monk rolled her eyes, leaned forward, tapped the table.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Barney.

  They shared a comforting look, simultaneously they raised their glasses.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ said Barney.

  She nodded, couldn’t find any words.

  They drank wine. One minute ticked round to the next.

  THE KLOWN RAGED. WHO were these bloody fools, the charlatans of the barbershop? The liars and the thieves, stealing customers, the ways of the old no better than the ways of the new. Once it was tabloid conversation; football and gossip and TV shows, and politics discussed with all the depth of the eastern basin of the Aral Sea. Now it was magazines and drinks, head massages and artisanal coffee, superfast Wi-Fi and young female barbers, pastries and manicures, music streaming and snowboarding videos playing on a couple of TVs. Entertainment on every conceivable level, all aimed at getting the customer into the shop, then making sure he came back. It was as though the hair was the least of anyone’s concerns.

  What was it Norman had been living for? How exactly was he supposed to have succeeded in this world? It wasn’t just the barbershops, Norman was out of step with everyone. A societal misfit. Could have been part of the mainstream, indeed, had been part of the mainstream for a couple of decades. The change had crept in gradually. Either Norman had been unwilling to accept it, or perhaps he hadn’t even noticed. He came to work, he cut hair, he did a decent job, he went home and came in to work again the next day.

  All he’d wanted to do was be a barber. Was it painting the Sistine Chapel, flying a balloon to forty-five thousand feet, discovering the source of the Nile or scoring the winning goal for Scotland in the World Cup Final? Obviously not, but neither did it have to be. Not everyone can be a hero. Not everyone can save the world. But it would be a bizarre planet if that were the case. The world needs Normans. It needs people who get up every day to do the ordinary things. And that’s what Norman had been doing, that’s who he was. He was a guy who did ordinary things. And then, all of a sudden, he wasn’t.

  The owner, Danny, might have thought it’d been coming for several years, but it hadn’t been as far as Norman was concerned. Nobody had told Norman anything. The past had slid away from him, but in his own eyes he’d remained the best barber in the shop throughout. You didn’t get rid of your best barber. It wasn’t done. Why would you? And it didn’t matter how many of the customers actively avoided him, it didn’t matter how long it had been going on, in Norman’s head the customers were at fault, not him, and it was only a temporary occurrence in any case. There had still been a few sensible souls who’d come his way, still a few who got to walk out with a high quality haircut, a few who did not look as though they were one tattoo away from playing full back for Hibs.

  That was how Norman had seen it. He was like someone who read only the Daily Mail, every news item filtered through the same jaundiced prism of hate. He was blind, until out of nowhere one morning, Danny had made him see.

  Drunk Danny, loud Danny, bold Danny, getting things off his chest Danny, lurid Danny, stupid Danny, gaslighting Danny, spouting bullshit and raging against the machine Danny. At first Norman hadn’t wanted to listen to him, hadn’t wanted to believe him. It was the drink talking. Danny was projecting, Danny was looking in the mirror. Danny was spitting bile at himself. But slowly Danny shouted himself sober. Drunk Danny faded away, real Danny was still talking. And real Danny went on talking, and talking. Real Danny cut Norman into a thousand different pieces, ate him up, spewed him out, walked over what was left, grinding him into the dirt.

  There were customers who heard it all. Who sat there, silent and awkward. Norman had cut the hair of one of them before. High and tight. Nothing fancy. A decent job. Norman didn’t understand why the guy never wanted him to cut his hair again after that. No reason for it. He could have spoken up for Norman at that point, but he chose not to. Neither did the other guy, though Norman didn’t know him.

  And what of the girl? The one the boys queued up for, prepared to sacrifice their hair at the altar of unattainable beauty?

  She stood and watched. She chewed gum. She may not have said anything encouraging to Danny, but everything about her body language, everything, cheered him on
. If she had leapt around on the sidelines, a dancing girl with pom-poms, she would have looked no less enthusiastic.

  Norman stared at the Klown. The Klown stared back at Norman. Finally the growing rage burst forth, and Norman leapt forward, and brutally smashed his fist into the mirror.

  A brief cacophony of sound. The crash, and then the tinkle, of glass. Blood. Heavy breaths, Norman leaning forward, standing, hands on the sink unit.

  A low growl from his throat. No words.

  26

  Rush Hour

  Monday morning, a fair weather day in the neighbourhood. A gentle breeze coming in from the sea, carrying cold air from the north Atlantic, the town of Millport looking much as it had always done, since the island was first settled by a marauding Visigoth horde looking for a weekend holiday break on the Clyde coast after sacking Rome in 410 A.D.

  The story of the Koiffing Klown had exploded across the UK, and indeed the world. Everyone loves a good demonic clown story. The Washington Post led with Turns Out The Clowns Aren’t All In DC, the New York Times had Did Hillary Clinton E-Mail Klown From Unsecure Server, the New York Post had What The Fuck Is Even Happening Anymore? while the Pyongyang Star & Gazette led with Heroic Klown Heralds Collapse Of Western Democracy.

  There was the usual stack of newspapers in the barbershop, as ever Barney getting in a wide cross section, with the goal of customers choosing to read rather than indulge in conversation. He could hope. This morning, however, no one was interested in the papers. Not the Express with their Immigrant Circus Performer On Benefits Wreaks Havoc, not the National with Razor-Wielding, Impotent Tory Scum Seeks Organ Transplant, not the Sun with I’m A Celeb in Klown-Inspired Dick Cleave Challenge.

  Everyone across the land was talking about barbershops, and so the customers had come to see the real thing in action. Regulars wanted to check out if anything had changed. People who always had their hair cut by their mum wanted to come along and see what all the fuss was about. Could it be that they’d get to witness the Koiffing Klown himself, in his non-supervillain guise? Perhaps, out of the blue, though no one could work out exactly how this might happen, they might find a penis hanging from a red balloon. No man really wanted to find a penis hanging from a red balloon, but at the same time, there was a strange fascination with the possibility.