'You've worn one?' asked Barney.
Brother Steven smiled. 'My friend, he makes them specifically so they'll fit me. I'm his best customer.'
'Oh.'
Barney snipped away, doing a fine job around the back of the neck. Distracted, yet nevertheless performing with consummate ease and control. Brother Steven's neck had never been in safer hands, but Barney could already feel the hairshirt around him. Not the worst punishment on the planet surely, but if it was to be worn day after day for a long time – and his sins most definitely merited a long time – then it would indeed be Hell. Began to wonder if he should leave before Brother Herman got the chance to indict him for something.
'Well, you know, I can live with it. Learned to. Anyway, he hasn't got me for a couple of months. Not since he caught me taking a quick suck on a smoke out in the forest one day. I swear he's got cameras out there. Watching.'
Barney stood back. The scissor work was finished; now for the more delicate razor operations. His hand was steady.
'That's it, Jacob, cameras. I'd bet on it.' He smiled and relaxed. Didn't care if Brother Herman did have cameras in the forest. 'If he hadn't closed down my operation, that is.'
***
The forest was still. Late evening, darkness long since descended. A clear sky, no moon, so that the number of stars was beyond counting. A panorama of brilliant white dots against the fathomless black background. The air was freezing, the night bright with the stars and the snow. Nothing stirred; the forest slept.
And in among the white farrago of Christmas trees, beside a burn where a slender stream of water trickled through the ice, sat Brother Morgan. Back resting uncomfortably against a young Douglas fir, hands and face blue with the cold, lips purple, yet a smile on those lips and in the eyes. At peace with the Lord. The front of the thin white tunic in which he was clothed was soaked through with blood, dried to a dark red, now frosted white.
And inserted deep into Morgan's neck, the instrument of his death – a pair of scissors. Long, thin, cold steel; scissors which, a few hours earlier, had been used to cut the hair of Brother Steven after the fashion of Mike McShane in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves.
Where Are You, Barney Thomson?
A few phone calls made, breakfast eaten, the day ahead planned out. They set off. No conversation over their food, no conversation in the car. They picked up Sheep Dip, inserted him in the back, and headed off across the Kessock bridge for the Black Isle and then Dingwall. Endless hours down labyrinthine country roads in search of elusive B&Bs. Knowing there was little chance of success; an awkwardness in the car, born of discomfort and attraction, the strange intruder in the back, and a knowledge that they might well be wasting their time.
Phone calls for Mulholland the night before. One to Superintendent McMenemy. Nothing to report, and duly he'd had his verbal punishment. What were they supposed to have achieved after one day? More than they had, obviously. The country expected. Had felt the whiplash of the voice down the line; two feet tall.
Three calls to Melanie, three messages left on the answer-phone. Had begun to assume that she had already left, when she'd called his guest house late at night. Had heard on the grapevine that he was travelling with Proudfoot. Knew her from station nights out. Jealous. So it had become a fifty-minute phone call which had been even more uncomfortable than talking to the Chief Super. On the defensive from the off. No one up front, eight at the back, and only a couple of guys in midfield, hopelessly trying to wrest control of the game. No chance.
Had come off the phone unsure if he'd ever speak to her again; and unsure if he ever wanted to speak to her again. Confused as always. Didn't want to think about it; couldn't help it.
Proudfoot. Unhappy. In her work, in her personal life. Nothing to be done about it. The ever-present fear of the unknown; except now she could put a name to that fear. Barney Thomson. Not for her to know that Barney Thomson was a harmless unfortunate. A man for whom bad luck was as much a way of life as bad judgement. Saw him dressing in human skin and stalking his prey; might never know him for the man he was. Fluffy.
Pondered, as she sat silently in the car, what she could do other than police work. What did the police train you for other than the police? Security guard? Not a chance. Minder to someone with more money than humility? A mega-celeb perhaps? Trailing around the world in private jets and limousines; getting sucked into all-night sex with Hollywood stars; having Brad Pitt cover you in chocolate sauce then lick it off; meeting presidents and attending premières; going to the States and getting to shoot lunatics with impunity. She could do that, but wondered how you found out about such jobs. Had never heard of anyone from Partick getting one. It would all be down to luck, and that was something she never got. Except now she was getting to drive around with Joel Mulholland for a few days, stay in the same place every night. Away from his wife and from the station. Another world. Wondered if something might happen, tried not thinking about it too much.
Sheep Dip stared at the cold, snow-covered expanse of Ben Wyvis.
They passed from village to village to town. Stopped at every B&B, every hotel, every guest house. Blank looks; no one with anything to tell. A flicker of recognition every now and again, but only because of television. Nothing to be gained. The snow flurried on and off, the hills came and went in the low cloud. Hardly a word was spoken between them. The tension ebbed and flowed, waned and grew. Comments were made, replies given or not. Both unhappy, Sheep Dip oblivious.
Early afternoon, two things happened. Lunch had passed with a hurried sandwich, without a word. Two things; they started speaking, and they encountered someone who had met Barney Thomson. Approaching Tain, heading up the east coast; Proudfoot tired of the atmosphere.
'Not saying much today,' she said. 'You all right?'
Mulholland glanced at her to check she was talking to him; a quick glance. The weather was gradually deteriorating as they went; he needed to concentrate on the road. He let out a long sigh.
'Hacked off, Sergeant, that's all. You look much the same.'
'Suppose,' she said.
'Right,' he said. 'You first.'
She glanced over, but he wasn't looking at her. The snow fell, headlamps glared towards them.
She took her time. How much did you tell the boss, even if it was only a temporary position? Couldn't go saying the works, but knew what she was like. Once she got going.
'Barney Thomson?' Mulholland volunteered on her behalf.
She shrugged. Wasn't sure.
'Maybe. Can't get rid of the image of him wielding a meat cleaver and salivating. It's weird, though. You just can't see it in the pictures. He just looks like some middle-aged sad bastard.'
'Aye, I know. John Thaw without the personality.'
Sheep Dip smiled in the back. A man with his own opinions on Barney Thomson, opinions which he was going to keep to himself.
'Aye. Something like that,' she said. 'Anyway, it's not just that, 'cause let's face it, we're not going to find him. If the guy's got any sense, he'll have disappeared off the face of the earth.'
'Unless he's a total idiot.'
'Suppose. I've still got him down as a mad, calculating bastard, though.'
'Maybe. But you always fear the unknown, and he might be running 'cause he's scared. He should've turned himself in, we need to catch him, but perhaps he's just a sad wee bloke who's made a lot of bad judgement calls. The entire country's quaking in their boots about him, but it could be he's quaking in his boots about everyone else.'
Proudfoot felt a shiver, despite the warmth of the car.
'Then again,' Mulholland continued, 'maybe he's a psycho headcase. Sleeps with a chainsaw under his pillow. Eats babies. Wears a human finger pendant. Who knows? Hopefully we'll find out, but we might just end up being on holiday for a few days.'
'Now there,' said Proudfoot, 'is something I really need, but not in the sodding Arctic. We'll be seeing flipping penguins at this rate.'
'You don't get pengu
ins in the Arctic,' volunteered Sheep Dip from the cheap seats.
'Whatever.'
'It's not just Barney Thomson, then?'
What the hell, she thought. Might as well out with it. What difference did it make anyway?
'Nah. I've just had enough at the moment. Too much paperwork, too much crap. Don't even enjoy the good stuff. Don't even get a buzz from sticking the light on the car so I can get my fish supper home before it gets cold.'
He laughed. 'Never done that. Have used it for going to the toilet a couple of times, mind.'
Sheep Dip raised an eyebrow, but having several times, a few years previously, used his blue light to facilitate relationships with three women at once, he was not going to judge.
'Done that as well,' she said, 'but nothing does it for me anymore. Interviewing, catching people out, investigating, everything. Just don't care, you know.'
He nodded, kept staring ahead into the driving snow. Felt he could be having this conversation with most of the people he knew on the force. They all faced it at some time, mostly they carried on because there was nothing else they could do.
'Difficult to get out though, eh?' said Sheep Dip. 'I don't know what it's like down there, but up here there's nothing. A bit of farming, the summer tourist stuff, then there's the low-budget porn flics they're making these days in Scrabster and Wick, but that's about it.'
'Right,' said Proudfoot, turning to include him in the conversation. Mulholland gritted his teeth. 'What else is there? Night guard at some factory, where sooner or later you're going to get a brick in the napper and spend the rest of your life in a home, being spoon-fed Brussels sprouts by a fifty-year-old spinster with a beard? No thanks.'
'You could do one of those personal bodyguard things,' said Mulholland, trying to reclaim the conversation for himself. Feeling ridiculously in competition.
'And have Brad Pitt smother me in chocolate?'
He took his eyes momentarily off the road. Looked at her. Turned back before he smashed into an advancing tractor.
'That wasn't quite what I was thinking.'
'Oh. Anyway, I doubt it. Don't see myself trailing after some pompous prick who thinks he's so important he needs personal protection.'
'Fair point.'
The signpost heralding Tain whistled past in the snow, and they turned off the A9 and down into the village. Another drive through small-town northern Scotland in search of places to stay.
'Your turn,' said Proudfoot. 'What's getting at you?'
He didn't answer. Didn't want to talk about Melanie. Didn't, now that it came to it, want to talk about anything. And certainly not with the Dip in the back. Retreated into his shell.
'Later,' he said, as they approached the first B&B, Vacancy sign swinging outside in the snow. Blatant retreat, thought Proudfoot. Wondered how close he would allow himself to get. Switched off, readied herself for another pointless interrogation.
He parked the car outside the house, led the way up the garden path. Bitter cold, hands like ice; Proudfoot, jacket pulled tight around her, followed. Head bowed. Sheep Dip traipsed behind. Mulholland rang the bell. They stood and shivered. There should have been constables out on this duty.
An enormous wait in the snow and cold. An eternity. Felt like they were freezing to death where they stood. About to abort when the door creaked open, an old woman appeared. Wrinkled face and extravagant hair, savage and feral, which had seen battle with many a pink rinse.
'Chief Inspector Mulholland, Sergeants Proudfoot and Dip,' said Mulholland, presenting his card. Proudfoot smiled, Sheep Dip didn't mind.
The woman looked them up and down, arms folded across her chest, cardigan close around her.
'Are there enough of you?' she said. Soft Highland accent, belying wild exterior.
Mulholland ignored the sarcasm, produced the photo of Barney Thomson. 'Do you recognise this man, Mrs...'
'McDonald, Nellie McDonald, that's me. And aye, I do recognise him. It's that Barney Thomson character they're aye on about in the papers.'
'That's right.' He kept the photo held out where she could see it. Proudfoot shivered, stared at the snow on the ground. 'He's known to have visited this area in the past couple of weeks. Now, there's no need to be alarmed, but is there any possibility that he might have stayed here with you? Maybe worn some kind of disguise and used a false name. Maybe he—'
'Oh aye, he was here. Stayed for a couple of nights, a week or two back.'
Mulholland did not immediately reply. The snow fell, though he did not feel it.
'Excuse me?' he said.
She tutted loudly, looking behind them at the snow.
'It's right cold to be standing out in the snow, is it not? Why don't you come inside? You must be frozen.'
'Thanks,' said Mulholland, and they followed the landlady as she retreated into the warmth of her house. Huge bum waddled down the hall. Sheep Dip closed the door behind them, and they walked into the front room. A small fire burned in the hearth; lamps were on, giving the room a warm glow. Two tables were already set for the following day's breakfast. No television, a silent record player loitered by the window.
'Sit yourselves down,' she said. 'Now, you'll be wanting a cup of tea.'
'Brilliant, thanks,' said Sheep Dip.
'No, really,' said Mulholland, giving him a sideways glance, 'if we could just ask you some questions.'
'Ach, for goodness sake, you look frozen. I'll just get you a wee cuppy and some biscuits. I'll not be a minute.'
'That'll be lovely, thank you, Mrs McDonald,' said Proudfoot.
'Aye, you take care of that man of yours, lassie, he looks like he could do with a bit of fattening up,' said Mrs McDonald, and she bustled from the room.
'Bloody hell,' said Mulholland, voice lowered, once she'd gone. 'We could be about to get our first contact with the ghost of Barney Thomson, and you two eejits encourage her to mince off and make tea.'
'She'll tell as anyway,' retorted Proudfoot. 'It's not like he's still here. And besides, you need fattening up.'
'Piss off, Sergeant.'
The fire crackled, coals snapped. Mulholland got up and stood in front of it, looking down into the flames. Proudfoot stared at the floor, glanced at him occasionally. He was lost in the flames. Sheep Dip wondered if it'd be Tetley. He liked Tetley.
'Right, then, you three, here you go.'
Nellie McDonald charged into the room and placed an overladen tray onto the coffee table. Besides the pot of tea and three cups, milk and sugar, there were four slices of buttered fruitcake, a whole chocolate cake, three slices of some other lemony-looking cake, a box of mince pies, a round of crumpets with strawberry jam, a couple of scones, some toast, six chocolate biscuits, a packet of ginger creams, ten pieces of shortbread, fourteen Jaffa Cakes, sixty or seventy digestives, and at least eight hundred butter creams.
'Now then, here's a wee something to keep you going. I expect you're having a long day.'
'Can we talk about Barney Thomson?' said Mulholland.
'Now, now, there'll be plenty of time for that. You just have a couple of pieces of cake and a nice cup of tea. Milk or sugar?'
'Milk, no sugar, thanks,' he said reluctantly. Proudfoot smiled.
'And you lassie?'
'Milk, two sugars, please.'
'That's grand. Now you help yourself to some cake as well, because you're looking a bit thin around the jowls.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'And you, laddie?'
Sheep Dip leant forward. 'A wee bitty milk and seven sugars, please,' he said.
Nellie McDonald smiled. 'A man after my own heart.'
They moved over to the table, started helping themselves to food from the platter. Felt like children at their gran's house on a Sunday afternoon. Expecting to be offered sweets when they were finished. And fifty pence for being good.
'You said that Barney Thomson stayed here, Mrs McDonald,' said Mulholland eventually; piece of chocolate cake stuck to the side of his face. Pro
udfoot did her best not to laugh.
'Och, aye, he did. A couple of weeks ago, or so, you know. Only for two nights.'
Hot lead went cold. Mulholland sank.
'You weren't aware at the time of the crimes of which this man has been accused?'
'Ach, I didn't believe any of that rubbish. He was lovely. Very quiet, no trouble. Paid in cash.'
Mulholland and Proudfoot exchanged looks. Serious business, but Proudfoot was having trouble not bursting into a fit of giggles.
'But there's a nationwide manhunt for this man at the moment. You didn't think of reporting his presence to the police?'
'Ach, I didn't like to bother anyone. And I'm not so sure he's guilty anyway. Are you sure you're after the right man? He was a lovely lad, very gentle. Paid in cash.'
'That may be the case, but you still ought to have reported his presence here to the local police.'
She smiled back at him. Nothing to say. No one reported their guests to the police. Against the code.
'Can you tell us anything about him?' he asked. Let the sigh escape.
'You'll have another piece of cake, lassie,' she said to Proudfoot. 'You'll not get by on that little you've eaten there.'
'Certainly,' said Proudfoot. Smile on her face. Moved forward and swiped a piece of chocolate cake and a biscuit.
'Mrs McDonald?' said Mulholland.
'All right, all right,' she said. 'I suppose there was something a wee bitty strange about him.'
'And what was that?'
'Well, it was most unusual. On the first morning he wanted a full fried breakfast, but here, if it wasn't just the thing, he only wanted a boiled egg on his second morning. Very strange. And no cornflakes either. Course, there are so many breakfast cereals these days. It's hard to keep up with what the customers want.'
'You should get those little individual packets,' said Sheep Dip.
'Aye,' said Mrs McDonald, 'I think it's come to that.'
'Apart from that,' said Mulholland tetchily, above the sound of Proudfoot trying to stop herself laughing, 'what can you tell us about his stay here?'
The Barbershop Seven Page 28