Curse Of The Clown

by Douglas Lindsay

  The gulls were circling like bats in the twilight, the lights across the way, where the water met the land, were beginning to shine more brightly through the low early evening light.

  ‘I just wanted to leave something behind, you know?’ he said at last. ‘I mean, I know it’s not much. Next to nothing, really, compared to some of the things people leave.’ He paused, but he wasn’t finished, and she gave him the space. ‘The legacies of some... and not just the greats. Not just Jimmy Johnstone and Robert Louis Stevenson and Muriel Spark and... well, I could go on, you get the picture. It’s the little things. The boat you built that still sails, the tree you planted, the family you left behind, the values you instilled in the classroom, the people you made safe by locking up the criminals. That’s all I wanted. I never set out with a grand plan, you know? Thirty-five years ago I didn’t think to myself, oh I’ve got this great idea, we’ll build this amazing convention, and it’ll be the centrepiece for the industry in Scotland, and just as it’s peaking, the country’ll be on the verge of independence, and it’ll be part of the flowering of the national identity. I didn’t think any of that. I just did a thing, a wee thing that didn’t amount to a hill of beans. And some time along the way, there was no particular year or event, just gradually along the way, I began to realise what we had. It’s not the London Book Fair, it’s not the World Expo, it’s not anything that makes the Sunday papers or the Financial Times. And maybe it still doesn’t amount to a hill of beans, but it’s what we did. No one else, just me and Thumper, our own little corner of the world. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  His words had been soft and slow, painted heavily with regret, then finally he turned and looked at her again.

  ‘And what now? I don’t see how we recover from this.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘It looks bleak, and I’ll grant you, if we don’t catch the guy, then you’re super-screwed for next year. No one’s going to want to come. But if we get him, and you know, I’m always confident we’ll get people, if he’s caught, locked up and out of the way, there’s going to be a grim fascination about it. A weird, dark attraction.’

  ‘Ha,’ he muttered humourlessly, ‘well, I beg to differ. I can’t see myself organising it again next year, and I doubt Thumper’s going to be standing in a queue of one to do it. You’ll have to speak to him. Anyway... what’s the use in talking about it?’

  ‘Tell me about Bertram.’

  She’d been waiting, but when it came it sounded to her rushed and unthinking. It needed to be asked, however.

  He gave another low mutter, his face darkened further.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve got anything to say about Bertram.’

  Another glance between them, another look within a look.

  ‘What can I expect, eh? The police never come to talk about the good stuff, do they? You don’t have the police at your door to discuss your successes and triumphs, positive legacies you’ve left behind, hopes for the future. It’s just everything that’s gone wrong. All the...’ and the word stalled on his lips as though he wasn’t used to uttering any profanity, however mild, then finally he said, ‘shit.’

  ‘When was the last time you heard from Bertram?’

  ‘Ach, years. However many years ago it was he walked away. Two, was it? Three? I know he was just up the coast, but we had nothing to say to each other. He was the next generation, he was going to carry on this thing we’d created, and then... well, we weren’t changing fast enough for him, that’s all.’

  ‘You think he was resentful enough to commit murder?’

  The answer came first with the shake of the head, then he said, ‘No. And why wouldn’t he just kill me and Thumper? Why bother with these other people? Anyway, thought you were looking for this Norman character?’

  ‘We’ve narrowed it down, but not all the way down,’ said Monk. ‘Bertram never threatened you when he left?’

  Walker held her gaze for a short while, and once again he seemed to be taken by regret and sadness. Inevitably, thought Monk. Inevitably.

  ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘No threats, no anger, nothing of anything really. We just stopped wanting to do the same thing, and off he went...’

  Another few moments in silence, which Monk did not attempt to fill, and then Walker seemed to brighten a little at some inner thought, and he turned to her expectantly.

  ‘You said on the phone you’d bring my Strattocutters back?’

  ‘Nearly forgot,’ said Monk, and she reached inside the large coat pocket and pulled out the carefully wrapped, padded bag. ‘All clear,’ she said.

  Walker took the small package, weighed it in his hands, that being enough for him to know it contained what it was supposed to, and then he laid it on the small table beside him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘This little part of the world, at least, is back to normal.’

  Outside the gulls whirled, darkness crept in, the lights of the Brodick ferry crawled ever closer, and evening was upon the land.

  28

  The Red Herring Situation

  Cups of tea all round.

  The end of the busiest Monday the shop had experienced in years. Mondays were traditionally quiet. Mondays were days that either Barney or Keanu could easily take off, even though neither of them ever did. Mondays were days when hairball tumbleweeds could blow through the shop, Igor could be dilatory in sweeping them up, and no one would notice.

  Not this Monday, however. The stream of curious customers had been relentless. It was hard to imagine that people were travelling to the island to get their hair cut, as there were plenty of mainland barbershops for them to go to in an effort to attach themselves to the periphery of the great barbershop penectomy scandal, which meant that most of the customers were islanders.

  It really wasn’t that big an island.

  ‘Looks like we’re going to be quiet for the rest of the month,’ said Keanu. ‘I reckon ninety per cent of eligible males were in here today.’

  ‘And an unusually high percentage of women with small children,’ said Barney.

  ‘Aye,’ said Keanu, ‘right enough, and it wasn’t just young kids. Daft Agnes brought her son, and he’s twenty-seven. And there were a couple of women who I reckon had just lifted random kids off the street.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Barney. ‘I mean, they didn’t need to risk arrest for kidnapping, the women could just have come in and asked for a haircut.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Keanu.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re not that kind of place,’ he said. ‘At least, we don’t give off that kind of vibe. Now, if we did my amazing social media idea...’

  ‘Still waiting for you to put the full two-hundred page proposal up to the executive committee,’ said Barney.

  ‘Arf!’

  Keanu smiled, and then a brief silence came over the shop. The day had been long and brutal, the chatter – once the floodgates had opened – had been relentless, and neither barber nor sweeper-upper had been able to get a minute to themselves. It had been the barbershop equivalent of literally everyone on the Internet trying to buy Glastonbury tickets at 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning in October. Albeit, it had lasted much longer than five minutes, and at the end of it Coldplay weren’t slaughtering centuries of human culture at eight o’clock on a biblically wet evening in June.

  So nothing like the Glastonbury ticket sale.

  Unusually they weren’t standing at the window, instead all having slumped into seats. After days like that, you needed to take the weight off. A short period of silence was no bad thing either. Even Keanu had become fed up talking about the Great Convention Massacre, and as the day had progressed the conversation had more and more been taken over by the customers, thereby turning from anecdotal to speculative.

  Barney had had quite enough speculation, and if the shop was really to be largely deserted for the next few weeks because every potential customer had come in one day, he’d be delighted.


  ‘You seeing your friend from the convention again?’ asked Barney, ‘or will that just be too much like revisiting the trauma?’

  ‘Trauma? We had a great time,’ said Keanu, and Barney laughed. ‘She’s coming over tomorrow after work.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Barney. ‘She’s taking a couple of days off?’

  ‘She had it booked anyway. She was supposed to be going on a hen trip to Barcelona with her best friend, Debs, but then Debs’s fiancé Del, found out that Debs had been shagging Bran’s mum’s sister’s boyfriend Gaz, so Del shagged Paige’s sister’s best mate Shaz. And her mum.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘She’s just coming over for the night, got something planned the next day. We’ll just see how it goes.’

  ‘If you need to leave early tomorrow, Igor and I can handle the crowd,’ said Barney.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The door opened, and a cold blast of sea air heralded the arrival of Detective Sergeant Monk.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, quickly closing the door behind her.

  She and Barney exchanged a look, a smile, then Barney lifted his mug and she said, ‘You know, I think I will.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Barney, and he offered her his seat, squeezed her hand as they passed each other, then moved to the back of the shop to get her a mug.

  ‘Good day?’ asked Monk, sitting down.

  ‘Arf.’

  ‘Really? Thought it was usually quiet on a Monday.’

  ‘Literally everyone in town wanted to come to the barber’s to see how many of us had had our genitals removed at the weekend,’ said Keanu.

  ‘Yikes. Did anyone actually want their hair cut, or were you more or less a café for the day?’

  ‘Everyone wanted their hair cut. Or, more accurately, no one wanted their hair cut, but they were all too afraid to say. Felt they couldn’t just come in and ogle.’

  ‘They must have been disappointed. I mean, given that none of you have been left deficient in the pants department.’

  Barney returned with the tea, handed it over, then he sat on the customer bench against the opposite wall.

  ‘Keanu provided a lively enough commentary to keep everyone happy,’ said Barney. ‘How about you? Catch a killer?’

  ‘Coming to a cinema near you... but not today.’

  ‘How are your prospects?’

  ‘Hmm...’

  ‘Too early to have the investigation wrap-up party?’

  ‘We possibly haven’t even got to the end of act one,’ said Monk.

  Barney could feel the uncomfortable clench of a fist in his stomach. Sure, they’d been talking about it all day, and the idea of the killer being out there had never gone away, but he’d managed to shut himself off. It had taken some effort to block out the noise, but for the most part he’d been successful.

  Now, however, here he was, sitting before one of the investigating officers, and the case, and the killer, and every dark, horrifying aspect of the story, was unavoidable.

  ‘It’s cool,’ she said, recognising the look on Barney’s face. ‘We always get our man. This’ll be no exception.’

  ‘But how many more barbers will die before that happens?’ said Barney.

  ‘None. We’ll get him, don’t worry.’

  ‘So, did you visit any other barbershops today?’ asked Keanu.

  ‘A few.’

  ‘And? Were they all in a fever pitch of extraordinary excitement?’

  She took a drink of tea, made a gesture towards Barney to indicate its quality, then said, ‘You know, they did all seem to be busy.’ She paused, she took another drink. ‘People are strange, aren’t they?’

  ‘Arf!’

  ‘And I saw your friend from the end of the convention,’ she said to Barney. ‘Charles Walker.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Barney, drily. ‘My good friend of some ten minutes or so. Seemed like a nice enough old fellow. Has he recovered?’

  ‘Hmm, not so sure. Might take a while. Anyway, we had a nice chat. He seemed happy when I returned his Bender-Strattocutter 4-70s.’

  ‘Holy shit! He’s got a pair of 4-70s?’ said Keanu. ‘They’re the Aston Martin DB5 of scissors.’

  Monk stared at him blankly.

  ‘I mean, if James Bond had cut someone’s hair, that’s what he’d have used.’

  ‘I know that’s what you meant, Keanu.’

  ‘Wow. What were they like?’

  Monk took another drink, giving herself time to think, then she said, ‘Looked like a pair of scissors to me.’

  She and Barney shared a smile, and then she said, looking slightly sheepish, ‘I did a thing.’

  ‘You did?’ said Barney. ‘That sounds worrying.’

  ‘I said to him he should come over.’

  ‘Come over where?’

  ‘To the island.’

  ‘Oh... You felt sorry for him, and you said he could come over to the shop, just so he could relive the old days with his Strats one more time?’

  ‘You can read me like a book, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ said Barney. ‘We can find some poor sucker to submit to his classic scissors and geriatric, rheumatoid-arthritic fingers.’

  Keanu laughed, while Igor hid behind his mug of tea and looked suspiciously over the top.

  ‘Of course,’ said Barney, ‘if it turns out Mr Walker is this moronic clown character, and you’ve just invited him into our workplace, that’s going to be awkward.’

  ‘I suppose it was inevitable,’ said Monk.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘After the life you’ve had, you suspect everyone.’

  Barney looked at her, then indicated the wooden countertop behind.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not touching wood. I’m just not. If it turns out old Mr Walker is a serial killer, I promise I’ll start wearing a wooden glove on my left hand, then I’ll permanently be touching flippin’ wood.’

  Barney looked from Keanu and Igor.

  ‘Gentlemen, if we all get murdered, I apologise for having brought the detective sergeant to the island in the first place.’

  ‘What d’you think?’ said Keanu. ‘If this was a crime novel, would it be, a) a total pointer to the fact that old Walker’s the killer, b) a massive red herring, c) a false red herring, so you think he’s obviously not the killer but it turns out he is, d) a double false red herring, e) a triple false red herring, or f) is his character a total McGuffin?’

  ‘I believe what we have here,’ said Barney, ‘is Schrödinger’s herring.’

  ‘No it’s not!’ said Monk. ‘It could not go either way! Leave Mr Herring alone...! Walker! Leave Mr Walker alone!’

  They were laughing at her slip of the tongue, and she couldn’t help herself laughing with them.

  ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘He’s just an old man whose life’s work is in ruins.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Keanu, ‘I’m getting confused. Does a triple red herring mean that he is the killer, or he’s not?’

  ‘No one knows,’ said Barney.

  ‘Let me ruin it for you,’ said Monk, ‘he’s not the killer. God, I’m sorry I stayed for a cup of tea now.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with crime novels,’ said Keanu. ‘Literally everyone’s a suspect. So when you’re writing one you’re super-aware that the reader’s contemplating the potential guilt of all the characters, so you have to try and throw them off. But if you’re too obvious about throwing them off, the reader’s like, ah-ah, it must be that person... I thought my fellow scribe Agatha Christie did a good job in Then There Were None, right?’

  ‘The reader thinks Charles Dance is dead,’ said Barney.

  ‘Exactamundo. But it’s not like you can do that every time. Then sometimes, it turns out the detective did it, or the pathologist or something, but I reckon that’s cheating.’

  ‘Totally,’ said Barney.

  ‘That’s one step from a deus ex machina.’

  ‘In practical terms, it’s more or less the same thing. The reader automaticall
y excludes the authority figures, unless there’s a reason they shouldn’t, in the same way they obviously automatically exclude a character who’s not in the narrative at all.’

  Monk had been sitting with her hand raised for a few moments, and finally Barney indicated for her to talk.

  ‘The lady at the back,’ he said.

  ‘Can I just point out, we’re not in a novel.’

  Barney and Keanu looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘Nope,’ said Barney, ‘not convinced. You should listen to Keanu, he’ll have the other available crime novel killer options. You might learn something.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘It could be an evil dwarf,’ said Keanu.

  Monk looked deadpan at them both.

  ‘See?’ said Barney. ‘The man has ideas.’

  ‘Or it could be a character from one of Barney’s previous adventures come back to haunt him. Quite possibly someone who died the last time we saw him. That happens.’

  ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘How about an evil twin?’ said Barney, having not really liked the sound of the previous suggestion.

  ‘An evil twin is good,’ said Keanu. ‘Certainly helps with identification mix-ups, alibis and DNA crossover. All sorts.’

  ‘Definitely all sorts,’ said Barney.

  ‘We are so in a novel.’

  ‘No, we’re not!’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Barney. ‘I mean, if we were, it would explain a lot.’

  ‘A fuck tonne,’ said Keanu. ‘I mean, this whole penis thing. Very, very novel-friendly. And it would really lend itself to a killer first line of the book.’

  ‘Practically writes itself,’ said Barney.

  ‘The severed penis lay in a pool of its own warm blood, as the pubic wound pulsed more liquescent plasma into the cold, bitter air of a frigid December.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Barney.

  ‘Arf!’

  Monk lifted her eyes, smiled at Barney, and in unison, a natural end having come to the conversation, they each took a drink of tea. A comfortable, warm silence fell upon the shop, interrupted only by the slight rattle of the door in the frame, heralding the arrival of a stiffer than normal breeze in off the water.