Suddenly there was a strange lifting in his heart. He didn't recognise either of them. He may have been standing in the pitch dark beside a loch on a cold and miserable March evening, confronted by two strange men in raincoats who he'd never seen before, but at least they weren't ghosts, and at least they weren't the two policemen whom he'd been expecting to see.
He was almost relieved.
Reservoir Frogs
The man who had tapped Barney on the shoulder stepped back beside the other; the three men faced each other in the gloom, as the rain once again began to fall; a few drops, instantly becoming a torrential downpour. Water bounced off stones.
While he was relieved at not facing a ghost or the police, Barney knew this wasn't going to be a good thing. Perhaps it'd be about the rowing boat he'd borrowed, and then not left where he'd found it. Maybe these were the Loch Police about to arrest him for dumping something into the water, even though they didn't know what. Nuclear waste for all they knew.
'Mr. Barney Thomson?' asked the older of the two, fishing inside his coat pocket.
Barney nodded. Had no idea what was coming, knew that it was going to be bad. Barney Thomson, barber, this is your sodding life. It might as well be. The man produced an identity card from his coat, held it up towards Barney.
'Detective Chief Inspector Robertson, CID. This is Sergeant Jobson. We're here to arrest you for the murders of Mr. Christopher Porter and Mr. William Henderson...'
Barney closed his eyes. God, of course he recognised him. This was the idiot who'd been on television the night before. Lying.
Robertson continued, but Barney didn't hear him. So they'd found him out. All his precautions hadn't been enough and they'd drawn him out with this sucker punch. All right, so he could deny it if he wanted to. They weren't going to be able to discover the body that quickly, if at all. But he was no master criminal. Just a barber, that was all. Lying would come no easier to him than disposing of bodies, or talking about football. They'd suckered him into this, now they had him by the balls. But whatever he did, he had to keep his mother's name out of it.
'This is where you dumped Porter?' asked Robertson.
Barney nodded, his eyes rooted to the wet stones.
'What on earth made you come back out here? All you bloody eejits are the same. Thick as shite the lot of you.'
Barney looked at him as the rain began to fall with even greater intensity. Would it never stop, he wondered. Realised for the first time just how cold it was, and he shivered and rubbed his arms.
'The phone call,' said Barney. 'Wasn't it you?'
Robertson looked at him, then at Detective Sergeant Jobson. 'I didn't phone anyone. What about you, Jobson?'
Jobson shook his head, looked stupid.
'That's because it was us that phoned, you bastard.'
Holdall and MacPherson strode out of the bushes. Batman and Robin. They had watched, incredulous, as Robertson and Jobson had appeared from the other side of the clearing to grab Barney. And they were pissed off.
'Ah, Holdall, just in time to be too late to make an arrest.'
'How the fuck did you get here?' demanded Holdall.
'We've just been keeping tabs on our man, you know, following him around, waiting for him to do something idiotic. You didn't really think I believed the Porter story?'
'I don't see why not. You're stupid enough.'
'You can make all the insults you like, but I was here first, and I've got the arrest, so you can go and piss in a poke.'
Holdall seethed. Gritted his teeth. Blood boiled.
'You bloody bastard. The only reason he's out here is because we phoned him and tricked him into it.'
Robertson nodded his understanding, smiled. 'Ah, so that's why he did it. Well, well, Holdall, you're not as thick as you look. You never know, I might mention it in the report. But then again, I probably won't. It's not as if anyone's going to believe that you used your initiative anyway.'
He turned away from Holdall and looked at Barney. Triumph! He had beaten Holdall to something for the first time in fifteen years and was absolutely delighted. That Holdall had actually turned up to witness it was all the more magnificent.
'Right you,' he said to Barney, 'are you going to come quietly or am I going to have to kick the shit out of you?'
Barney lowered his head, took a couple of paces forward. Of course he was going to go quietly. What else was there for him to do? He was no criminal.
Robertson and Jobson stood either side of him, took hold of his arms. Knew there was little point in handcuffs and both of them were privately doubting that they had the right man. Surely no killer this, despite his confession and what Bill Taylor had told them that afternoon on the phone.
Robertson stopped, looked at Holdall. The delight of victory continued cartwheeling around his face.
'Thanks for all your help, Holdie,' he said. Voice wet with sarcasm. Dripping. 'I'll try to remember you when I'm Superintendent. Maybe find some more old people's homes for you and your monkey to visit. If you're up to it.'
An insult too far.
When it happened, it was MacPherson who cracked, albeit only marginally before Holdall was about to.
He had heard enough. Took three steps forward and head-butted Robertson with superb mathematical precision. Had a vague feeling as he did it that it wouldn't do his career much good, but that was more than subdued by the delicious, hedonistic pleasure of retribution. His forehead met the bridge of Robertson's nose with a sumptuous crack, then Robertson fell, clutching his face, the blood already spurting and running through his fingers.
A gorilla in the mist, Jobson sprang to Robertson's defence, swinging his fist viciously at MacPherson, catching him full on the side of the head. Sent him reeling.
Jobson had no time to enjoy his pugilistic triumph before Holdall was on top of him, fists flailing, boots lashing out. Jobson reeled, stumbling to the ground under the onslaught, as Holdall assailed his head and body.
Barney stood back and watched. Amazed. Strangely, had no desire to try and flee the scene. What was the point? They knew where they could get him, and if he didn't go home, where exactly was he going to go? A life on the run wasn't for him. A brief vision of Brazil flashed into his head, beaches full of exotic women, but he knew it was fantasy. Prison, and a lot of it, that was what lay in front of him.
Barney started suddenly, took another two steps back, almost stepping into the loch. Robertson had produced a gun, and slowly Holdall and MacPherson, who had been beating massive lumps out of Jobson, become aware of him. They straightened up, stared at Robertson, leaving Jobson bruised and bloodied on the floor. But through the badly beaten face, he still smiled, picking himself off the ground. Then he too produced a gun from inside his coat.
Holdall and MacPherson stared them down, undaunted.
'You're finished after that, you bastards,' said Robertson. 'What the hell d'you think you're doing? D'you think you can get away with assaulting fellow police officers?' He laughed suddenly. Mocking, derisive. Took a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket, threw them at Jobson. 'Cuff 'em, Sergeant, and make sure they're too tight.'
They did it slowly when they did it, daring Robertson to shoot, but almost in slow motion Holdall and MacPherson brought guns out from inside their coats, lifted them, aimed at the others. They flinched, but held steady.
Jobson and MacPherson aimed at each other, as did Robertson and Holdall. A neat division between ranks. No one aimed at Barney.
'What the hell are you doing with guns, Holdall? You're in so much shit for this. And here was me saying that you weren't as stupid as you look.'
'We were chasing a suspected serial killer. We have guns for the same reason as you. We signed them out.'
'Well why didn't I know about it, when I'm in charge of the investigation? I should've been told.'
'I wouldn't tell you if your dick was on fire, Robertson.'
The angry words died away, the four men were left standing at gunpoin
t. The rain streamed steadily down upon them, bouncing off the stones, thudding into the loch. Slowly, slight wisps of steam began to rise from the four bodies, curious formations dispersed under the weight of the torrential downpour. The heat of battle. Tension.
The guns remained steady. Barney took another pace or two back into the water. None of them were interested in him – curious, as he was the reason they were all there – but he didn't want to get shot accidentally. Couldn't believe anyone would be stupid enough to shoot in the circumstances.
Robertson's nerve was first to wither, making the initial attempt at reconciliation.
'Look, Holdall, this is stupid. We're supposed to be on the same side.'
Holdall didn't move, waiting to hear what else he was going to say. He was absolutely right, of course, and it wasn't as if he had any desire to shoot anybody, no matter how much he despised the man at whom he was aiming.
'We'll forget about all this, Holdall. Just put the guns down.'
They stood in doubtful silence. He was not a man to trust.
'What about the arrest report?' asked Holdall, not entirely interested. Wanted to keep Robertson going while he thought about how best to get out of the hole they had dug for themselves. Damage limitation. 'How's that going to look?'
'I don't know, Holdall. Did anyone else at the station know that you were on to Thomson?'
Holdall slowly shook his head.
Robertson smiled, Holdall knew what it meant. 'Same here, actually, couldn't afford to let you hear about it in case you got in there first. Too bad you were just too late.'
The spark was coming back to Robertson, as the throbbing pain in his nose increased. This was a bloody stupid situation and there was no way that anyone was going to shoot anyone else. There was certainly no way that he was going to give Holdall and his ape any credit in solving the crime.
'Look, bugger this, shithead. None of us is going to shoot anyone, so let's all just put down our guns and get the psycho into custody. Then we can argue about the report but just think yourselves lucky if I don't mention your assaults. Don't think I'm about to start giving you credit for the whole damn thing.' Sneered, wasn't finished. 'You and your monkey'll be lucky if you stay out of prison. Fucking morons, getting in the way of decent police work.'
Barney wasn't sure which gun went off first. It might have been MacPherson's but he couldn't be certain. All he knew was that the instant one went off, there was a loud report as all the other guns were fired. He didn't see anything, however, as he immediately covered his head with his hands and leapt back into the loch.
He lay in the freezing cold under two feet of water for a few seconds, terrified, desperate, listening to the wild beatings of his heart. Slowly and fearfully he lifted his head, looked along the shore. The noise had died quickly in the rain and mist and low cloud, and now there was nothing but the sound of the rain falling on the four bodies that lay on the wet stones.
Barney got up out of the water, walked over towards them, his face still contorted in horror and disbelief, clothes clinging horribly to him, the hands of the insane. Robertson had been shot in the face, his body crumpled on the ground, his head a bloody mess on the rocks. Perhaps Barney had become immune to this kind of thing after the previous few days, but he looked at it, didn't even wince. Both MacPherson and Jobson had been shot in the chest and lay dead, their bodies thrown back with the force of the bullets.
Then he realised that Holdall was stirring and he walked and stood over him. The shot which had hit him was not so great, catching him on the shoulder and knocking him down. He had a dazed look on his face, still not taking in what had happened.
The brief glimpse of freedom which Barney had been afforded vanished in the dust. He looked at Holdall, bent to help him. What was he doing? If he finished off Holdall now, he could get away with it. He had just heard the two of them say it – no one else at the station was in on their suspicions. Perhaps there might be someone who'd come to talk to him after this, but no one who would know why these four were here. He could easily kill off Holdall, then walk away from it all.
He searched around on the ground, saw Holdall's gun. Picked it up, weighed it in his hands for a second, uneasily pointed it at Holdall.
Christ, he thought. This was a big step. Bloody huge. It was one thing accidentally killing your two work colleagues, another clearing up after your mad, psychotic mother. This was cold-blooded murder.
He stood over Holdall, the gun in his hand, his doubts careering around his head. Holdall opened his eyes, looked at him. Barney stepped back, immediately knew he wasn't going to pull the trigger. Barney was the man with the gun – and he was the one with the fear in his eyes.
Holdall eased himself to try to sit up, resting on his right arm, lessened the pain in his other shoulder. He looked at Barney, knew he wasn't going to shoot. So did Barney, and he lowered the weapon.
Holdall was already thinking. He looked around at the three other bodies. What the hell was there for him now? He'd just killed a police officer. How the hell could he explain this? His career had just vanished down the toilet inside two minutes; along with the rest of his life. Mrs. Holdall was going to be extremely pissed off.
'Looks like I'm in as much shit as you,' he said to Barney, looking up, away from the surrounding carnage.
Barney nodded, let the gun slip out of his fingers, fall to the ground. He hadn't thought about that.
'That was just about the stupidest thing I've ever seen in my entire life,' said Barney.
Holdall smiled, laughed. Bitter.
'Maybe we can do a deal,' he said, 'although, Christ, it'll have to be one hell of a deal to get us out of this.'
Barney nodded. Tried to think of something, but he didn't have a naturally devious mind. Completely out of his depth.
'It was your mother, right?' said Holdall.
Barney nodded again, surprise on his face. So they'd known anyway.
'And what about the other two?'
'I know it sounds hard to believe,' said Barney, 'but they were accidents. Both of them.'
Holdall nodded, smiled. 'You're right, it is hard to believe.'
There was a small noise behind Barney. A low groan. A wraith. The two of them turned. Jobson was leaning up on one arm, gun waving in his hand. It was difficult to tell which one of the two he was aiming at, and there was no time for anything other than the initial surprise.
The gun went off.
The shot caught Holdall full in the throat. He slumped back, his body a tangle of arms and legs on the rocks, finally dead.
Jobson aimed unsteadily at Barney, the gun still meandering from side to side. Barney could do nothing, feet of clay. Closed his eyes.
Again, the gun went off. The final explosion of noise in the night, and Jobson collapsed back onto the stones, his final effort.
Barney opened his eyes. It had been a wild shot, fired off into the cavernous darkness of night. He walked over gingerly, stood beside Jobson. Kicked at him gently, bent over to feel his pulse. He was no doctor, but he knew this. Jobson was dead.
Barney looked out over the water. It was difficult to see more than a few yards across the loch; thick mist, thick rain. He shivered in the cold, was once again aware of the clinging dampness of his clothes.
Go and check on the body you disposed of, that was what The Voice had told him on the phone. Well, he'd done it. He'd looked out over the loch and he knew Chris was still there.
Dead and buried, and the secret had just died with the four policemen on the lochside.
He swallowed, shivered again, and turned towards his car. It was time to go home.
Epilogue
The cold weather had come earlier to Glasgow than usual, and although it was only the beginning of November, there was already a sprinkling of snow on the ground. However, it was unlikely it would last, as the cold freshness of night had given way to a harsh and bitter wind, bringing low cloud and drizzle.
In the shop there was a comfor
table warmth, the gentle sounds of hair flopping quietly to the floor, easy chatter between barber and customer. There were three chairs being worked, and five people waiting, having succumbed to their anticipatory trepidation, along the bench.
Barney was on the window chair, as he had been for eight months, cutting with his now legendary verve and panache. Next to him was Arnie Braithwaite, as steady and unspectacular as ever. Then there was an empty chair, and at the end a young lad who was the only person whom James Henderson had been able to get to replace himself. The shop had a grotesque reputation to live down after the events of the previous spring, and it had been difficult for James to find someone willing to come and work there.
In the end he'd settled for a twenty-one year old lad named Chip Ripkin, fresh from Ontario State Barber University. His hands were erratic, his style occasionally wayward. Some might have said he was the Marlon Brando of the shop, but even at his best he could never achieve that level of intensity. He could be great and he could be dreadful, but never was he magnificent and never would he produce the hair of kings.
No, if you were looking for that in the area, there was only one barber; one man; one pair of scissors. Some were saying that he was giving the best haircuts in Europe – although there was always someone else to point out how easy that was, as the second you crossed the channel you were accosted by limp-wristed, rubber-lipped French faggots, brandishing hair-dryers and family-sized cans of mousse. However, whatever his merits on the European stage, there was no denying that Barney Thomson was cutting hair like a dream. There were few who had tied it to the time when Wullie had been murdered and Chris had fled from Glasgow, although it had been noticed by one or two. Not that they minded or commented to anyone – they were all just happy to be able to get their hair cut by a man whose prowess was becoming legend. If Mohammed Ali had cut George Foreman's hair in Zaire in 1974, they were saying, this is how he would have done it.
Barney had walked away from the scene at the loch, stunned and disbelieving. He hadn't been sure that there would be no one else from the police to suspect him; had spent weeks waiting for them to turn up at the shop, or at his house, but it had never happened. Attention had been distracted from the serial murder case by the horrific – and as far as the press had been concerned, singularly impressive – events at Loch Lubnaig. Then, as attention had shifted back to catching the murderer, there had been more sightings of Chris Porter in London, and even, Barney had been delighted to see, in a small town near Brussels. It had all been more than he could have dreamed of. Now here he was, eight months later, cutting hair like the British conquered colonies of pygmies in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and in charge of the day to day running of the shop.
The Barbershop Seven Page 20