The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus

by Douglas Lindsay

  Frankenstein stood with his arms folded, watching as slowly even the reporters started to drift away, already scribbling in their notebooks. Proudfoot had come to the door to stand at his shoulder. She leant on the doorframe and watched the last of the swarm buzz quietly away into the night. And so, in a matter of a couple of minutes, the pavement across the road was as good as deserted.

  'That was very impressive,' she said.

  'Thank you.'

  'I mean, that was like Moses or something. I don't want to give you a big head or anything, but that was just about the coolest thing I've ever seen.'

  'You're taking the piss now.'

  'No really, if that was in a movie, you'd be played by Paul Newman.'

  'Fuck off, Sergeant.'

  'I mean, usually, you're more of a Paul Giamatti.'

  'I said fuck off.'

  She smiled, took a last look at the dispersing multitude, and then turned back inside. Frankenstein looked along the road, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction, then he caught the eye of Keanu, still standing at the door.

  'What the fuck are you looking at?' he said.

  'That was my fifteen minutes,' said Keanu. 'We only get the one chance, and that was mine.'

  'And I just pished all over it.'

  'Like, yeah, you did.'

  Frankenstein, feeling unusually empathetic, shrugged.

  'They'll be back. You'll get another chance. And this time,' he said, 'you'll have time to come up with a better story than being Agent MacPherson.'

  MacPherson looked a little sheepish and tried his best to hold Frankenstein's gaze.

  'You heard that?'

  Frankenstein looked at him for a while, shook his head, and turned back inside the incident room, muttering agent as he went. The two police constables who had flanked Frankenstein throughout, checked once more along the road, making sure that there were no journalists or members of the public going to attempt a pincer movement of some sort, then they followed the boss back inside.

  Keanu MacPherson stared out to sea. The Marman clamp. A heavy duty, round metal clamp. That was Zeppo's gold at the end of his rainbow. The Marx Brothers never made any movies about that.

  Himalayan Refuge

  Barney didn't head home. Knew enough about this kind of thing to realise that the journalistic throng would have found out where he lived and would more than likely move on from the shop, at some point in the evening, to lingering outside his house. The wolves were gathering.

  He headed west, although that wasn't quite as dramatic a statement as it can be if you live in New York or Shanghai. On Cumbrae, there just weren't too many places to go, and although an obvious destination for him would have been the boat back to the mainland, he had no urge whatsoever to leave the island. He wasn't exactly sinking into some eastern philosophical way of thinking that everything was happening for a reason, and that it would all soon be explained. Nevertheless, his past was not so much catching up with him, it had left him behind and was waiting to ambush him around every corner. He had no desire to run and nowhere to go.

  He walked out along West Bay Road. Reached the old Stewart Hotel, the first of the hotels out that way, and turned quickly into the driveway. He hadn't stayed here before, no need, but he was a regular for fish and chips and a pint of cider. That was what he needed now, although he realised that sitting in the dining room would attract someone's attention.

  He walked into the hotel, stopped for a second to listen to the sound of the bar and the restaurant. A quiet night, but he had seen enough people through the window to know that he'd rather avoid having to go in. Andrew, the owner, portly, blond, balding, affable, appeared from the kitchen carrying three plates of beef and ale pie.

  'Mr Thomson!' he said. 'Had a feeling we'd see you. Don't know why.'

  'Have you got a room?' asked Barney quietly.

  Andrew stopped for a second, nodded, and then walked quickly through to the restaurant. 'I'll be thirty seconds,' he threw over his shoulder.

  Barney relaxed slightly and turned away. Stood idly, looking at the pictures on the lobby walls. The pose of many a man made to wait in a hotel. Millport Bay on a summer's day. A hare. A photograph of Millport from 1905, looking not entirely dissimilar to Millport 21st century.

  Andrew appeared. Barney got sucked from his indistinct ruminations.

  'Right, Mr Thomson, just let me get a couple of things. If you want to go upstairs, in case any more people come in. I'll get the key. You want a toothbrush, toothpaste?'

  Barney nodded, feeling very grateful, then he turned and walked slowly up the stairs. A little surprised that there was still a room available, given the number of the press and police who had descended. Where were they all staying?

  It was the largest hotel on the island, two old Victorian residences joined together. Upstairs there was a small landing, four doors off, a short corridor leading to a few more rooms, another flight of stairs to more rooms in the converted attic. Carpet of deep red, pictures of the sea on the walls.

  Andrew appeared, clutching a key, a small bag and a newspaper under his arm. Barney's eyes went straight to the paper.

  He stood back while the man opened the door to one of the large front rooms, big windows and a wonderful view out over the sea to Little Cumbrae. And the nuclear power station.

  They walked into the room, Andrew closed the door behind them without turning on the light. The room was dark, shadows and orange light from the street lights outside.

  'Why didn't you just leave the island?' said Andrew.

  Barney walked to the window and looked across the road and the grass, out to sea.

  'Ghosts,' he said. 'All sorts of ghosts. It doesn't matter where you are. They don't care if you're in Millport, in Scotland, on a plane, on a boat. What's the point of moving?'

  Andrew didn't say anything. Barney stared out the window. Half expected to turn round and find that Andrew had vanished into the night. That would be in keeping with the rest of what was happening to him.

  'How did you know I'd be coming?' he asked.

  'Just had a feeling,' said Andrew, his voice low in the dark. 'And then I saw this, and I knew for certain.'

  The bedside light clicked on behind him and Barney turned. A small lamp, he didn't need to squint into the light. Andrew was holding forward a copy of a newspaper. The Largs & Millport Chronicle, “Special Murder Edition.” There were only two paragraphs of writing on the front page, as the bulk of it was made up with the banner, sensationalist headline. Death Comes To Millport: Barbershop Murder-Junky Walks Amongst Us!

  Barney looked at the headline for a full minute. He'd had headlines like this before, but most of them had washed over him. He'd been on the run, he'd been hiding, he hadn't needed to care. Now he'd finally made a life for himself in a small town, and everyone was going to know about it.

  'There are sixteen pages,' said Andrew.

  'All adverts as usual, I hope,' said Barney.

  'No adverts, just large print.'

  Barney smiled ruefully. Andrew realised that he was still holding the newspaper up, as if there were people in the audience who hadn't seen the cover, so he folded it up, laid it down on the bed and walked to the door.

  'I presume you don't want to eat in the restaurant?'

  Barney shook his head.

  'I'll bring up fish & chips and a drink for you.'

  It was a statement rather than an offer, and he immediately opened the door, walked out and closed it softly behind him. Barney stood for a second and then turned off the small bedside light, pulled up a comfy chair and sat at the window to look out at the early evening.

  ***

  Later, as he sat at the small table eating his dinner, Barney looked through the newspaper. William Deco had done a thorough research job, working against a frantic deadline, to get his story out there before all the dailies the following morning. Barney might almost have been impressed, if it hadn't been for the fact that there was a sixteen-page newspaper spec
ial devoted just to him.

  Barney Rising: How It All Started, And The Genesis Of A Perfect Executioner; Blame It On The Parent; The Massacre Of The Monks; Death Becomes Him; Bloodfest Barber And The Trail Of Annihilation; Dead No More! The Undead Zombie Barber Walks Again!; Cabinet Carnage, Who Was Really To Blame?; If You See This Man, Don't Let Him Near You With A Pair Of Scissors; Barbershop Murder Addict Signs Mad Hungarian Hunchback To Death Squad.

  Barney started reading a couple of the articles as he ate his dinner. However, for all of the man's thorough research, very little of what he read even remotely approximated to the truth, and he quickly tired of it. And so, not long after he'd finished eating, and even though it was not late, he laid the newspaper down, turned off the light, slouched down in the window chair, and allowed the tiredness, which had built up through the stress of the day, to wash over him and cover him in a deep, deep sleep.

  The Worst Of Ghosts

  Bernard and the Dog With No Name waited by the makeshift trawler out by Farland Point, eating snacks and hoping that the killer would arrive. They talked lightly of food they had eaten, sandwiches they had made, restaurants they had demolished and snacks they had invented, such as the peanut butter and onion jelly brioche. They looked at the sea and felt cold and glad that they'd been able to get the fire going. And they waited for the killer, part of them hoping that he would turn up, so that they could get on with solving the case, part of them hoping that there would be no Trawler Fiend and no Incredible Captain Death, because the concept of a Trawler Fiend or an Incredible Captain Death who chopped the heads off old ladies was not a comforting one.

  They waited and they waited. But they waited in vain.

  Meanwhile Fred, Selma and Deirdre were back at the small apartment they had appropriated for the duration of their investigation, having outrageously wild three-in-a-bed sex.

  ***

  Detective Chief Inspector Frank Frankenstein stood at the window of the police incident room, looking out at the dark of night, across the white promenade wall, to the lights on the mainland. Glanced over his shoulder, took in the fact that the room had mostly been cleared. The bulk of the extra police squad had returned to the mainland. Only a couple of constables were left, the guys who would man the cell for the night. Proudfoot was also still there, sitting in a corner, trawling through old Barney Thomson files. She still hadn't discussed him with Frankenstein, and remained unaware that the two had had a chat by the graveyard.

  'Walk with me, Sergeant,' said Frankenstein suddenly.

  Proudfoot looked up from the PC, took a moment, sensed that there was something coming in this chat, and shut the computer down.

  Jackets on, the two of them walked out into the night. Frankenstein turned to the right, to the pub Proudfoot presumed, and she fell in beside him. He fiddled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. They walked in silence for a while, along the front and on into Crichton Street. The pub had been bypassed, and she realised that this was a general mooch about town discussing the facts. For some reason she began to feel uncomfortable with the silence.

  'That's really gross, you know,' she said.

  He glanced at her. Blew smoke out the corner of his mouth.

  'Selfish,' she added. 'If you want to smell repugnant and kill yourself, it's your shout, but to do it to everyone else.'

  'Are you all right?' he said.

  'My uncle used to compare it to a vote in an election,' she went on. Babbling. 'Does it make any difference if some guy blows smoke in your face? Not really. But enough people blow smoke in your face, you'll get lung cancer. You know, if one person votes...'

  'What happened to your uncle?' said Frankenstein, cutting her off. 'Died of lung cancer?'

  'Moved to Canada, runs a chain of Vietnamese restaurants in Vancouver,' she replied.

  Frankenstein looked at her strangely, confused. Never understood women. Had a soft spot for Proudfoot, so was more likely to put up with her crap than anyone else's.

  'You want me to put this out?' he said.

  'Sure,' she replied, surprised.

  He dropped the cigarette in front of him and stood on it as he walked.

  'Now maybe we can talk about Barney Thomson,' he said.

  She nodded, thrust her hands deeper into her pockets.

  'The sensationalist mince of the press notwithstanding,' said Frankenstein, who had cast a hurried eye over the murder edition special of the Largs & Millport Chronicle, 'we do need to consider his presence on the island when there's all this bad shit happening.'

  She still didn't say anything. Like others before her, her husband the ex-DCI Mulholland included, Proudfoot thought Barney incapable of murder, and would be marked down as last suspect on the list of every investigation. All coincidences aside. And there had been a lot of coincidences.

  'So, did you have a nice chat with him today?' asked Frankenstein.

  'How d'you know we talked?'

  'I'm a police officer. I know things. It's my job.'

  Round the bay, they passed the police station. Could see Gainsborough inside, looking at some papers. Vaguely wondered what he was doing, but the local policeman had been mostly removed from the investigation and allowed to content himself with whatever it was that local policemen did on these islands in the long, bleak winter months.

  'Barney's got nothing to do with it,' she said. 'He's harmless. Kind of different from how I remember him, but he's not a killer.'

  'Why different?'

  They passed the bay, headed along the road out of town, the road that would take them past the Stewart Hotel, where Barney already slept.

  'Seems more self-assured. He used to be bumbling, incompetent, wretchedly lacking in confidence. Dour. Nothing attractive about him whatsoever. Now, there's more of the Sean Connery about him. He's been around, I guess. Come through it all, come out the other side, sanity intact.'

  'What makes you, or him, think that he's on the other side?'

  'Fair point. And then there's the possibility that he's not Barney Thomson at all. Barney Thomson died at the foot of a cliff, so how come I was sitting having a coffee with him this morning?'

  'Different guy would explain the different personality. So maybe he is someone claiming to be Barney Thomson, when in fact he's just some former spotty bore who didn't have a life of his own, so he took on someone else's.'

  'I don't think it's that. I'm guessing that he thinks he's Barney Thomson, and doesn't think he's ever been anyone else in the past.'

  'So?'

  'Haven't a clue,' she said. 'But I don't think it's anything that we're going to get an answer to. I guess we could talk to him again, might as well take the time to establish his movements the past few days. Even then, I'm not sure what we'll do if we get suspicious.'

  'You read that stupid newspaper tonight?'

  'Yeah.'

  'There'll be more of that tomorrow. We might have to bring him in just to save him from the crowd.'

  'So where are we going?'

  'To be honest, Sergeant, I'm not entirely sure. The investigation is quickly sinking into a quagmire of bloody confusion.'

  'I meant, now, where are we going right now?'

  'Ah. To see Stan Koppen.'

  They were passing the Millerston, the second of the hotels out that way. They glanced in, could see a few people in the bar, could smell the food. He checked his watch.

  'Maybe we'll stop in there on the way back,' he muttered, although he doubted they would have the time.

  'I've been wondering why we hadn't gone to see him yet,' said Proudfoot.'

  'Thought I'd let him stew. Let his defences drop. To be honest, he may be prime suspect material, but I don't think he'd be that stupid. So, I really don't think the guy is going to have gone anywhere. As soon as he heard about the old bird, his defensive wall would have shot up, but now he's had a day to relax again. Probably thinks he's clear for today, and when we get round there he'll be slumped on the sofa, watching porn and pulling his pudding.'
>
  They walked on in silence, just another couple of hundred yards along the road. As they turned the corner, the wind drilled into them with greater force, and they both pulled their coats in more tightly. The hills of Arran were clear of cloud for once, etched against the dark sky.

  They could hear music from the Westbourne as they walked by. The blinds were drawn; they couldn't see inside. Avril Lavigne's Happy Ending. Reminded Proudfoot of a walking holiday she and Mulholland had taken in Switzerland. A genuine happy ending, unlike poor young Avril and her tale of Shakespearean betrayal.

  They reached the small semi-circle of cabins. No lights on in any of them. He glanced at her, wondering if his instinct was going to prove to be inaccurate. Should it be the case that Stan Koppen had fled the island, taken the forty minute trip up the road to the airport, and was already somewhere in middle America on the run, he was going to feel very stupid. He was a confident man, full of hubris and brusque poise, but there's no one, not even the most self-assured, who does not have moments, however fleeting, of testicle-crushing fear and doubt.

  'Probably watching some sicko-pervo-porn with the lights off,' said Proudfoot, feeling the same fear as Frankenstein.

  They came to the door. Frankenstein knocked loudly.

  'Sicko-pervo-porn?' he said. 'Is that an actual genre?'

  His mind running through the possibilities. Telling the chief superintendent. Telling the press. Waiting for the full details to get out. They had interviewed him the night before because of a tip-off. The person who had made the tip-off had been brutally murdered. They then took another twelve hours to go to interview him again, before finding out he was gone and issuing the nationwide alert. It was a job-endingly cataclysmic scenario. Suddenly the assurance he'd had about toying with Koppen, leaving it rest for the day, seemed unbelievably foolish. Five minutes earlier he had explained himself to Proudfoot and it had sounded sensible as it crossed his lips. And now, now his stomach curled as he contemplated the end of his career.

  He knocked again, harder, some of the desperation in him finding its way into the pounding of his fist.