'Well, not a lot, not a lot. I didn't realise who he was at first. Gave a false name. I suppose that was canny.'
'Oh, aye? What was the name?'
'Barnabus Thompson, he said his name was. That was Thompson with a p, so I was a wee bitty confused, even though I thought I recognised him. But I worked it out, when was it? Maybe on the second day I realised that he'd just stuck a p in there to confuse everybody. I'm not that stupid, though.'
'Right. Anything else? What was he wearing? Did he look like he does in the photograph? What did he do here? When did he leave? Where did he say he was going? Anything like that?'
'Help m'boab, what a lot of questions. Will you not be having another wee bitty cake, dear? You're looking awful thin.'
'No, really, Mrs McDonald. Could you just answer the questions, please?'
'You'll never hang on to a fine lassie like this if you don't eat properly. Is that not right, darling?'
Proudfoot nodded. Mouth full of cake. Tried not to laugh and spit it out over the floor.
'Right, I suppose you'll be wanting your questions answering, then. The laddie got here late one night. A Tuesday I think, but I'm not sure. Said he'd got the bus up from Inverness. Wanted a room for a couple of days. Paid up for two nights as soon as he got here. I told him he didn't have to bother, but he insisted. Very courteous. I thought I recognised him from the news that night, but I couldn't be sure, what with his name being different. I mean, I said to Margaret in the grocer's the following morning about him, and she said, aye, well, right enough, he might well be up here. Anyway, I think he went out briefly the day he arrived and bought himself some clothes. I'm not daft, you know. It was then I realised he was on the run. There's no one comes to Tain just to buy clothes. He got a couple of nice shirts and some underwear. But he was wearing the same jacket, you know, the one they talked about on the news.'
'And the reason you didn't phone the police at this point was?'
'Ach, well, he seemed like a nice laddie. Judge not, that ye be not judged, you know what they say. Who am I to say that this man—'
'No one's asking you to say anything. That's up to the courts to decide. No one's saying he's guilty.'
'Ach, away, you're all saying he's guilty. The poor laddie's already been convicted by the press. O judgement! thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason.'
Mulholland stared at her, looked at Proudfoot. Proudfoot shrugged. Still smiling. Sheep Dip demolished cake.
'And when did he leave, Mrs McDonald?'
'Oh, let me think now.' Pursed her lips, stared at the carpet. 'About ten in the morning, two days after he arrived. And as I said, he didn't even have a full breakfast inside him, the daft laddie. Don't know what was the matter with him.'
'And did he say where he was going?'
'Oh, now let me see. We got talking, but you know how it is. My memory's not the best.' You can remember what he sodding had for breakfast, thought Mulholland. 'Here now, I think he said something about going somewhere where no one would ever have heard of him. When I think about it now, there might have been a wee bitty something in the paper that morning which upset him, you know. Here, you don't think that was why he didn't have his full breakfast, do you?'
Mulholland looked across the great divide. You just didn't get people like this in Glasgow. When people were obstructive in Glasgow, they did it intentionally, enjoying every minute.
'That was all? Nothing about a specific destination?'
'No, no, I don't think so. He left, got the bus, that was that. Have seen not hide nor tail of him since. Now, you'll be wanting another cuppy of tea?'
'No, no, no. Mrs McDonald, really, I've got another couple of questions, then we'll need to be going.'
'Ach, don't be silly. You're not going anywhere until you've cleared the tray. Now you three just sit there while I make a fresh potty. I might even join you myself. And you, you big lummox, you're not saying much. Cat got your tongue?'
Sheep Dip smiled, didn't reply. A mouth full of cake.
Receiving no answer, Mrs McDonald disappeared from the room, clutching the enormous tea pot in her right hand. Proudfoot and Mulholland stared at one another, Proudfoot on the point of laughter. Mulholland raised his finger.
'Don't, Sergeant. Don't even think about it. Bloody woman.'
Proudfoot smiled, said, 'Maybe she'd have taken you more seriously if you hadn't had that big bit of chocolate cake attached to your cheek.'
She glanced at Sheep Dip. Eyes said it all. Mulholland ran his hand across his face and once again felt five years old.
SPECTRE
Barney sat and waited. Like a prisoner before the execution. The deed was done, the verdict given, the firing squad stood outside, cleaning gun barrels, checking rifle sights, chatting idly about the previous night's Premiership action. All in a day's work for them; the final act for Barney. He could feel the bullets zinging into him, could feel his body rock with the shock. Had seen it in the movies. His chest riddled with gunshots. And what if he didn't die? That was what he kept thinking. If the seven or eight bullet wounds weren't enough. Could see himself falling to the ground, could feel the pain. Presumed bullet wounds hurt; had never had one. Had been told about it once by a customer; he couldn't have been more than mid-twenties, claimed his injuries came from Vietnam. Wullie had said the guy had been listening to too many Springsteen songs.
Barney's mind rambled all over the place. His crimes of the past; bad haircuts he had known; lives he had ruined, either by inadvertent murder or by giving one of his infamous Poseidon Adventure cut-and-blow-dries; the life he had left behind, the life he'd come to.
But most of all, Barney wondered what he was doing there. Sitting in a cold, damp corridor, waiting to be seen by the Abbot, or Brother Herman. Or both. He had not the faintest idea what he'd done to warrant the attention. Presumed it was because he'd given the Abbot a bad haircut, though he'd thought at the time, that as Brother Cadfaels go, he'd totally nailed the sucker.
Trouble was, you could just never tell. How many times in the past had he given a haircut the like of which only kings could dream and the gods deliver, only to be rebuked by some ignorant cretin with no eye for a cut of wondrous beauty and construction. Like his famous Billy Connolly '81, which he'd given to a young chap, on request, a few years previously; a haircut from God's own factory, a haircut from Satan's nightmares, a haircut of erudition and infinite jest; yet a haircut which had been scorned by the customer, resulting in no tip and a near bar-room brawl when they'd bumped into each other in the pub three days later. Some people just did not appreciate talent.
Barney was an artist, and like all of his kind, misunderstood in his lifetime.
He could not imagine that the Abbot was such a man; he'd seemed happy enough after the cut. Perhaps, Barney pondered, he had a secret mirror somewhere, and had checked the cut after it'd been given. Barney's imagination raced. Maybe the Abbot had a lot more than a hidden mirror. Suddenly saw the Abbot inside his secret hideout, a massive operations cell underneath the monastery. Something from a Bond film – huge maps on the walls with lights displaying the locations of all the Abbot's nuclear warheads. Saw the Abbot sitting in a large white leather chair, stroking a cat. SPECTRE: Special Executive for Corruption, Terrorism, Revenge and Ecumenicalism. A worldwide network of monasteries, ostensibly there to lead a Christian life straight out of the Dark Ages, but in actuality a front for an organisation of religious terrorism. He wondered if beneath the monastery there was a tropical pool of piranha fish, kept starving for weeks; waiting for Barney, and all because he'd given the Abbot a bad haircut.
He clenched his fists, palms sweaty; closed his eyes, swallowed. He was aware of the faint rumour of his heart, becoming stronger. After all he had been through, was this to be the end?
With a violent click of ominous quiet, the door to the Abbot's study opened. Barney swallowed, Brother Herman summoned him into the Demon's Lair.
***
Barney sat before the Abbot, Brother Herman stood at the Abbot's shoulder, the hired hand. The Abbot looked troubled.
'You know why you are here, Brother Jacob?' he asked.
Barney swallowed. Eyes shifted between Abbot and bodyguard. His heart had kicked into low gear for rapid acceleration; felt like it was about to come crashing out through his chest to throb on the desk in front of him. Wondered if the Abbot had a switch under his desk; a trapdoor. One press, an instant, and Barney would be food for the fishes. Shark breakfast. Raw Barney; plenty of meat on him. The sharks would love it, and all because of a bad haircut. It had been bound to happen one day.
'Aye, Brother Blofeld, I do,' he said. Mouth dry.
'Blofeld?' The Abbot squinted, as if looking directly at the sun.
'Abbot, sorry. Brother Abbot,' said Barney. Tried to get his concentration under control. His imagination was leaping so far ahead of him it was in a different time zone; a different dimension, slightly out of sync with his own. 'It's about your haircut. I'm sorry, really. I was sure I'd done a good job. Maybe I could give you a Sean Connery. Or an F Murray Abraham.'
The Abbot shook his head; recognised Barney's babbling for what it was. Normally he would have smiled, but today was not for that. He had lost another of his monks, there was nothing about which to smile. He raised his hand. His left hand.
'Brother, dear Brother. The haircut was fine. I couldn't be happier about the cut. In fact, the whole monastery is talking about the great breadth of your God-given talent. You are a barber apart. A hirsutologist of the highest order. The wings of angels must flutter in your presence when you take to the scissors. If only Eve could have resisted eating apples like you cut hair, then there would be a lot less misery in the world.'
Barney relaxed. Almost smiled. Wings of angels, eh? That's me, he thought, no mistake. Nice to be appreciated.
Brother Herman frowned. A haircut was a haircut was a haircut. Didn't know what all the fuss was about. Thought that all the junior monks should have their heads shaved and be forced to wear a crown of thorns. A jaggedy-arsed crown of thorns at that, (just in case there was such a thing as a crown of thorns which wasn't jaggedy-arsed.) Mental head shake, and he switched back on, so that he could scrutinise the reaction of Brother Jacob to the information he was just about to receive. Knew that the Abbot's approach would be too soft.
'And talking of scissors, Brother Jacob, it is scissors which have led me to bring you here today. The very scissors, I believe, with which you showed your mastery yesterday afternoon.'
Would you shut up about the sodding haircuts, thought Herman.
'You will be aware that Brother Morgan was missing from breakfast this morning, and that the search for our dear brother was called off after no more than twenty minutes.'
Barney nodded. Brother Morgan. Bugger. He was about to be accused of murder, that was it. And he'd known all along. Had never truly believed that he was going to be roasted for a bad haircut; that had been denial. When the search for Morgan had been called off so quickly, it was obvious something had happened to him.
'The minute they called it off,' Brother Steven had said, 'and Morgan hadn't hoved into view with a couple of Uberbabes under his arms, reeking of weed and breathing alcohol fumes all over the Abbot as he told him what he could do with his monastery, it was obvious the guy had been stiffed.'
'I'm afraid our dear brother was found dead.' Barney nodded. Naturally. 'It ails me to tell you that he had been murdered.' Barney continued to nod. Almost went without saying. Did anyone die without being murdered anymore? Still hadn't spotted the connection with the mention of scissors. 'And it pains me greatly to tell you that Brother Morgan was stabbed. Stabbed with a pair of scissors.' Barney nodded again. The penny still refused to drop. Knew that scissors were an excellent instrument of death, having used them himself, however inadvertently. 'The scissors with which you cut the hair of six monks yesterday afternoon.' Barney nodded. Haircutting scissors. Long, thin, sharp. Superb for the job. Kill someone every time.
The penny dropped. So did Barney's chin. Suddenly words were rushing to get out of his mouth, like troops over the top of a Great War trench. And to the same effect.
'I didn't do it! You don't think I did it, do you? Me? I didn't do it. Why would I want to kill the librarian? I didn't even know there was a librarian? A librarian? Do we have a library? Brother Morgan, I thought the librarian's name was Brother Florgan. Or Jorgan, maybe. I've never even heard of Brother Morgan.'
The Abbot lifted his hand once more.
'Jacob, Jacob, be still your tongue. No one is here to accuse you of killing Brother Morgan.' There was an almost imperceptible twitch in Herman's eye. 'No one suspects you, dear friend. At least, no more than they suspect anyone else, for we must all be under suspicion at this grave time. Yet it is the Lord who will be our judge.'
'Aye,' said Barney, 'it'll be the Lord, right enough.' Thought, as he said it, that if he was to be judged by the Lord, he was in serious trouble. As he would, in fact, were he judged by anyone.
'I have called you in so that Brother Herman can ask certain questions pertaining to the scissors. When you last saw them and so forth. Just because you were known to have had them last does not make you any more of a potential killer than the rest. Any one of us could have taken the scissors. Be not afraid, Brother. Answer Brother Herman truthfully, and God will be on your side.'
God. Right. Good old God. You can always count on the Big Guy.
Barney shifted uncomfortably in his seat, nodded at the Abbot, then looked at Brother Herman. Herman spoke, his lips hardly moving. Low voice, the threatening monotone that Barney had grown to dread.
'Brother Jacob,' said Herman. Said the name Jacob as if it might be Judas. As if he might know that the man to whom he was talking was not really called Jacob. 'Can you tell us the names of all the monks to whom you administered barbery yesterday afternoon?'
An easy enough opening to the inquisition. Reminded him of his police questioning from the past. And that had always developed into something much more sinister and difficult to negotiate.
'Well, there was the Abbot. That was a Brother Cadfael, as you know. Then there was a Sean Connery for Brother Brunswick.' From deep within the folds of his cloak, Brother Herman produced a notebook and began to write down the names, momentarily throwing Barney from his stride, but he started up once again after a glance from those sunken eyes. 'A Christian Slater for Brother Jerusalem, an F Murray Abraham for Brother Martin, and a Ron Perlman for Brother Ezekiel. Oh, aye, and I finished off with a Mike McShane for Brother Steven. Have to be honest, I wasn't sure what a Mike McShane looked like, but he—'
'Enough commentary, thank you, Brother,' snapped Herman, and Barney quailed before the voice. 'At what time did you finish cutting Brother Steven's hair?'
Barney stared at the floor. The questions seemed easy enough, but you could never be sure. Having difficulty getting it into his head that this time he hadn't actually done anything wrong.
'Well, you know, I'm not sure. It was dark, mind, right enough. About five, something like that.'
'Five,' said Herman in a low voice, writing it down. 'And what did you do with your equipment after that?'
Barney bit his lip. Wondered how guilty he was looking. Herman made him nervous. Noticed that the Abbot also bit his lip, and wondered if Herman made him nervous too.
'You know, I just kind of left it there beside the wee sink. I thought I should, you know, that's what Brother Adolphus says to us to do.'
Herman scribbled something in the notebook; Barney waited. Wondered what he could be writing. Scissors left beside sink. Big deal. How long could it take to write that?
'And of all these monks, was there anything that struck you as suspicious? Any of them take an undue interest in the scissors, or any other instrument at your disposal?'
Barney looked down, thinking. Had any of the brothers enquired about the scissors? Why should they have? Was about to dismiss the question whe
n he remembered Brother Martin, the F Murray Abraham. He'd mentioned it. He'd asked about the scissors. What was it he'd said? Something about how sharp they were. Couldn't remember exactly.
Looked up at Brother Herman. Martin's words came back to him as he lifted his head. Sharp scissors, Brother, he had said. You could kill someone with them. That had been it. Damning words, but surely just a chance remark. Or had he known about Barney's past?
'Naw, nothing that I can think of,' said Barney.
Herman noticed the hesitation, the doubt. Filed it away. Every little bit was useful.
'Your last cut was Brother Steven?'
'Aye, that's right.'
'And he was with you when you left?'
This was a dawdle, thought Barney.
'Naw, he'd already gone, you know. I stayed behind just to clear up. Make sure I kept all the hair clippings, for the hairshirts and all that.'
'Hairshirts?' said the Abbot.
Brother Herman gave Barney a Reservoir Dogs look. Barney kept his mouth shut.
'And what did you do once you'd finished clearing up, Brother Jacob?'
Barney had a good answer to that one; took his time.
'Went and prayed, you know. To God,' he added as an afterthought, just in case anyone was going to have any doubts.
Herman scribbled something else in his book. The Abbot seemed distracted. He found it all disturbing. Would confide in no one, but the murder of two of his monks had begun to make him question his faith. And if he had doubts, how many of his number were feeling the same way?
Brother Herman scribbled on. Barney wondered what he was doing. Finally Herman raised his eyes. 'Thank you, Brother. That will be all for the moment.'
'Oh. Right. Stoatir.' Barney felt relief wash over him, like a sponge soaked in honey.
'Stoatir, Brother Jacob?' said the Abbot. 'These are dark times for us, my brother. You would do well to spend much of it in prayer.'
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