She looked at him, dragging herself away from 12 Great Reasons To Have Sex With Your Marriage Counsellor.
'You want me to explain it to you?'
'Aye. I'm just a simple man, after all.'
Simple indeed, she thought.
'Can you think of anything more useless for a woman to have sex with than a doughnut?'
'That's my point,' he said.
'And yet they still manage to find fifty reasons why doughnuts are better than men.' Dramatic pause. 'That's their point.'
The rain cascaded.
'So, what are they saying? All those articles about eight million positions in the back seat of a Reliant Robin; what they mean is eight million positions with a doughnut in the back seat of a Reliant Robin?'
'Of course not. They're all about men. You don't think one article has to be consistent with any other, do you? How many magazines do you read?'
A lesson learned. Mulholland drove on. Proudfoot returned to having sex with her marriage counsellor, wondering if you had to be married to get hold of one.
***
They sat before the manager of the Inverness branch of the Clydesdale Bank. An austere-looking woman; more hair than required, Alfred Hitchcock nose, skin the texture of mature cheddar. Narrow eyes, lips thinner. Voice like a slap on a bare arse. Both Proudfoot and Mulholland had the same thought; would you ask this woman for a loan?
Their visit to the Chief Constable of the Northern Constabulary had been postponed until later in the afternoon, although that was something else from which they expected little.
'I really don't know how I can help you,' said the bank manager, following a few seconds' reticence.
'Humour us, if you would, Mrs Gregory,' said Mulholland. Had a quick vision of Mr Gregory. On the other side of the planet, if he had any sense. 'We can never cover old ground too many times. Our colleagues might have missed something.'
'I really don't think there is anything to miss, Chief Inspector. Your Mr Thomson's card was used to withdraw two hundred pounds from the cashpoint in Academy Street at six-thirty pm, two weeks ago last Tuesday. None of my staff had any contact with him, and our records indicate that he has attempted no further transactions in the intervening period. I really don't know what else there is to say on the matter.'
'You're positive there's been noth—'
'Really, Chief Inspector,' she interrupted, after the fashion of her face. 'Just because the police have proved their own ineptitude in their inability to bring this notorious fugitive to justice, does not mean that we are all incompetent in our chosen employment.'
Mulholland nodded. Considered his next question. Didn't really have any more. 'Can you tell us how much Barney Thomson has left in his account?'
'Really,' she said, exhaling loudly. 'I don't know how many of your colleagues I've already passed this information to.'
'How much, Mrs Gregory?'
'A little less than ten pounds,' she replied, head shaking.
'So basically he cleared as much as he could from the cash machine?'
'Yes, it would be true to say that.'
'And did he have an overdraft facility?'
She raised an eyebrow. Lips tightened, then disappeared altogether. 'I'm afraid you'd have to ask his own branch for that information.'
'Bollocks,' said Proudfoot. 'Tell us now, or CID turns up here en masse, and rips your computers apart.'
Mulholland glanced out the corner of his eye, said nothing.
'Really,' said Mrs Gregory, exasperated. Enjoying every minute of it, in a strange Calvinistic way. Would revel in telling her husband the story. Verbal police brutality. Might even write to the Press & Journal. 'He did not have an overdraft facility. A very good account-holder, as it happens, Mr Thomson.'
Let the words scissor out, hinting that Barney Thomson had, in some way, more moral fibre than either Mulholland or Proudfoot.
'So, there'd be no point in him going to another branch?'
'No, I shouldn't think there would be.'
Mulholland nodded. With admirable inspiration and only one day late at the races, Woods had alerted all banks to the possibility of Barney using a cash machine. Not to disallow him from doing it, but to give them the chance to notify the police as it was happening, if that had been possible. But as he'd closed the stable door, the horse had already been in a field on the other side of the mountains.
'Right then, Mrs Gregory, I think that might be all. You'll let us know if Mr Thomson attempts any further transactions?'
'I'm sure I shall, Chief Inspector. And I'm equally sure that you will not be hearing from me again. I think you might find that your Mr Thomson has disappeared.'
'Leave that to us, Mrs Gregory. I expect we'll find the truth in this, regardless of whether he visits another bank.'
Mulholland stood up to go. Proudfoot followed. They were both dying to do that police thing where you arrest someone for no reason other than you don't like them, but it can get nasty if you do it off your own patch.
'Truth, Chief Inspector?' said Mrs Gregory. 'Many from an inconsiderate zeal unto truth have too rashly charged the troops of error, and remain as trophies unto the enemies of truth.'
Mulholland nodded. 'Aye. Watch you don't strain your tongue, talking like that. See a doctor if your condition worsens.'
They took their leave, walked from the office. The door closed behind them and Hermione Gregory was once again alone with her negligible empire.
'Wanker,' she said to the empty room.
***
They stood outside the bank, across from the train station. Cold and damp, although the sleet which had been falling since they'd arrived in Inverness was taking a ten-minute break. Depressed. Another irrelevant line of questioning gone by.
'What now?' asked Proudfoot.
'Bollocks, Mrs Gregory? I think that must contravene a police charter or two, don't you think? She wasn't a criminal.'
'Well, she was a pain in the arse. Same thing.'
Mulholland shrugged. Couldn't be bothered arguing. And he himself had been on the point of arresting the woman on suspicion of not changing her underwear every day.
'What now?' he said. 'Now we start trawling around every hotel and B&B in the Highlands, see if anyone recognises him. After we've spoken to the locals, of course. God knows what that's going to be like.'
'Every hotel and B&B?'
'Aye.'
'That's got to be thousands.'
'Very possibly.'
'You're kidding me?'
'Any other brilliant ideas about what we should do with our time?'
She stared at the sodden ground. Noticed the first splash of a renewed shower of sleet. Had an idea, but decided it was best kept to herself.
'Right,' said Mulholland. 'That's settled then. He didn't come up here to head back south. So, he's in Inverness or he's moved on. We check out every guest house, every B&B, every hotel, every room that he might have stayed in, between here, Wick, Durness and Fort William. If we don't find him, then we start heading east towards Aberdeen.'
'Just you and me?'
'Aye.'
'You don't think we could use some help on this?'
'We're not getting any help, Sergeant. The Chief Super wants instant results, but it doesn't mean he wants to spend any money on it. You can't expect them to pay to put police on the ground, when they have managers, accountants and consultants to employ. All the other officers assigned to Barney Thomson are doing other things, we're doing this. Happy?'
'Damp,' she said.
'Good. Right, you get along to the tourist information board and get the addresses of all registered accommodation.'
She shivered, pulled her coat close to her chest as the sleet intensified. 'And what are you going to do?'
'Going for a pint.'
'A pint?'
'Meet me at the car in half an hour.'
'A pint?'
Mulholland turned and was gone, walking into the sleet. Proudfoot stood, the s
lush in her face. Could already feel her coat giving in to the weather, her mind giving into misery and gloom. What was the point in all this trailing around? All those people, butchered and frozen and then casually disposed of. They were already dead, weren't they? The fact that the murders had ended with the death of the mother made it obvious; Barney Thomson had been clearing up after her. There weren't going to be any more murders. The ones who were dead were dead, and eventually everyone else on the planet would join them – and not by the hand of Barney Thomson – and we would all lie in the same grave, a farrago of twisted flesh, broken dreams and half-conceived ideas. Because that's all there ever was.
She watched Mulholland disappear into the crowd.
'Wanker,' she said, then turned on her heels and mournfully headed off towards the tourist information.
We Are All One Egg
The monks were at breakfast. A full and delicious meal. Four rashers of bacon, two sausages, a poached egg, mushrooms, black pudding, tomatoes, haggis and fried bread; mugs of steaming tea; all the toast and marmalade they could eat.
In their dreams.
The first bread of the day was usually broken by the light of dawn – well after eight o'clock this late in the year – but today it had been postponed until late into the morning, following the burial of Brother Saturday and all the prayers which had needed to be said for his departed soul. And so they were unusually hungry as they sat down to their meal of porridge, unleavened bread and tea; having waited in further prayer for Brothers Steven and Jacob to return from gravedigging detail.
Conversation was not encouraged at mealtimes. The Abbot gave thanks to the Lord, and the monks would dine in respectful silence, grateful for the gift of food. At least, that was how it was supposed to be.
It was but one day since the body of Brother Saturday had been discovered. Clothed in a long white tunic, turned bloody red; his feet bare and blue, sitting against a tree in the forest. Eyes open, face relaxed, at peace with the world; and with God. A knife had been thrust deep into his throat, the blade to the hilt and protruding from the back of the neck. One of the old knives, which had been kept at the monastery since the fourteenth century; a gift from a Knight Templar, of uncertain and mysterious provenance. A knife that might have seen action in the Crusades, but certainly never since. Until it had pierced the throat and rendered the flesh of Brother Saturday.
He had been a popular member of the order, much loved by the other monks. He had answered the call thirty-seven years previously, on the back of a series of rejections at the hands of women, which had tormented him through the teenage years. A wayward eye, unruly hair, lips that meant he could do naught but kiss like a sea anemone, skin like the surface of a Rice Krispie, and many times had his heart been broken. However, he had found his peace with God, believing him to be not judgmental; ignoring the evidence of the Old Testament, where God won the Olympic gold for being judgmental, for several consecutive centuries.
For nine years past he had worked in the library, keeping meticulous care of the seven thousand volumes in his possession. Losing himself in books, the only way. He had come to the position of librarian at an early age. He should have been librarian's apprentice for many years. However, after only six months in the post, the librarian of the day, Brother Atwell had given in to the lure of compliant womanhood, and had fled the abbey on an evil and stormy night. Brother Saturday had been given premature promotion; Brother Morgan had become his apprentice. Not that anyone suspected Morgan of the heinous crime perpetrated upon Saturday.
There were many of the monks who would have been grateful for the opportunity to work in the library, away from the cold of the fields. The chance of working amongst the warmth of the books could have been a powerful motive; for an unbalanced mind. And there seemed little doubt that the killer had come from within the walls of the monastery itself, the murder weapon coming from the vaults of the abbey.
No one suspected the Abbot or Brother Herman. That left thirty others under suspicion; everyone from the longest-serving – the aged Brother Frederick, who had come to the monastery from the killing fields of Passchendaele – to the newest recruit, Brother Jacob. And there were few who doubted that many of their fellow brothers within those walls were hiding dark secrets and dark pasts.
'Brother Jacob?'
Barney turned. Breakfast was over, the company beginning to disassemble, the day's tasks ahead. Tending the livestock; fortifying the buildings and the land against the harsh winter to come; kitchen, cleaning and laundry duties. The mornings were for the work of the monastery, the afternoons for prayer and study with the Lord. Barney's task was to clean the floors.
'Aye?' he said to Brother Herman. Felt nervous in his presence.
Brother Herman's eyes stared from deep sockets, within a long, thin face. Long Face they'd called him at school. Behind his back.
'The Abbot will see you in his study in five minutes.' Deep voice. Ominous.
Barney nodded. The Abbot. Brother Copernicus. He had been awaiting the call. All new students of the order were called to the Abbot at the end of their first week. Barney had already been questioned by Brother Herman on Saturday's murder; wondered if this was why the Abbot would see him now. Further questioning. Barney, a man under suspicion. Felt like he couldn't get away from murder.
Five minutes. His heart raced.
***
Barney sat before the Abbot in the Spartan surroundings of his study. A simple desk, a wooden chair on either side. Bare stone floors and walls, a row of books along one. A long, slim cut in the wall behind the Abbot, the window open, so that the cold of the room was the cold of outside. The light of day was augmented by two oil lamps mounted on the walls and an unlit candle sat on the desk. The Abbot read. Left hand turning the pages of the book, right hand tucked away inside his cloak.
Barney stewed.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, he could imagine himself saying, though he had never attended confession in his life. I committed murder. Well, more manslaughter really. I didn't mean to do it. Chris and Wullie, the men I worked with. They were a pain in the arse – sorry, Father – but I didn't really want them dead.
Then my mother died and I discovered six bodies in her freezer. Forgive her as well, Father, she knew not what she did. I wronged, I know that. I should have confessed all, like Bart does in that episode of The Simpsons when he cuts the statue's head off. But I panicked. I disposed of all the bodies and made it look like Chris was the killer. There were four policemen on to me, but they all shot each other. That definitely wasn't my fault, it was just stupidity. So, I suppose...
'Brother Jacob,' said the Abbot, closing his book and looking up. Barney's heart danced; he ended his silent confession.
'It's not too cold for you?'
Barney was freezing.
'No, no, I'm fine,' he said. Shivered; hairs stood erect, goose bumps rampaged across his body like German storm troopers.
The Abbot nodded; knew that Barney lied.
He took his time, considering his words. The Abbot, Brother Copernicus. Had renounced the pleasures of the world in his early twenties, had been at the monastery since the fifties. Hair was greyed; the paunch of youth had long ago given way to a sinewy body, engulfed by the cloak. Thin lips, a sharp nose, green eyes which saw more than eyes were meant to. Not, however, a man without humour.
'I'm sorry that your first week has been blighted by such terrible circumstances, Jacob. A terrible business.'
No bother, thought Barney. I'm thinking of opening a shop; Cadavers 'R' Us.
'I'm sorry too, Your Grace,' he said.
The thin lips stretched and smiled. The eyes too. 'It's all right, Jacob, I'm not the Pope. Brother Copernicus will do.'
Barney smiled and nodded. Relaxed a little. Felt more at ease.
'How are you settling in, Brother?'
Barney pondered the question.
Bad points: no gas or electricity; no hot water; lamps out by eight o'clock, up at
five-thirty; a thin single bed, hard wood, two coarse blankets; no entertainment, no distractions but for the scriptures and other works of religious learning; day after day on his hands and knees cleaning the floors; praise be to God; God the father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost; God all-seeing, God divine; God this, God that, God the next thing. God, God, God, God, God, God, God. Bloody God.
Good points: the food wasn't too bad; a cup of wine with dinner every night; there was no contact with the outside world, so no one had ever heard of Barney Thomson. That was about it.
'Not bad, you know.' Laughed self-consciously. 'Takes a bit of getting used to, but I'm all right.'
The Abbot nodded. Drummed the fingers of his left hand on the desk. Long, cold fingers. Barney could feel them at his throat; shivered, tried to clear his head of fears and sorrows.
'Our monks come here for all sorts of reasons, Jacob. It is not for me to question or examine them. We, each of us, must be content in our hearts that we are where we belong. There are many who come here and realise after a time that this life is not for them. One such was Brother Camberene, who came to us for a few sad months last year. He'd been involved in a tragic accident, blaming himself for the resulting fatality. He was racked by guilt, his life tortured by anguish. He stopped going to work, his wife left him. After a time, the river of fate, which winds its way through the lives of us all, led him to us. But I am afraid that even we could not provide the answers for which he searched. He spent a few unhappy months, then moved on. A sad and desperate, restless soul. We all still say our prayers for Brother Camberene, but I am afraid that we might never hear of him again. However, wherever he may be, we know that God is with him.'
Barney swallowed, stared at the desk. Saw himself in the story. 'What sort of accident was he in?'
The Abbot shook his head. Sombre eyes.
'He ran over a six-year-old boy with a full trolley in Tesco's.'
Barney stared.
'That's a supermarket, apparently,' said the Abbot, 'although I presume you know that.'
Barney wanted to meet Brother Camberene. Sounded like his kind of man.
The Abbot looked up, let the weight of Camberene lift from his shoulders.
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