***
The Abbot awaited them, Brother Herman at his side. A bleak day was this in the annals of the abbey. The outside forces of the law come to investigate murder. And now that they were there, there could be little doubt that the story would spread around the country; appear in newspapers, be discussed on talk shows, become part of a promotional campaign on the back of cereal packets. The floodgates would open. The press would arrive, across mountain and glen, and the peace of the monastery would be lost forever.
This day could be the end of the monastery as they knew it. Already dark, already well into evening; perhaps the sun would never shine upon them again. What could save them now but the Will of God? And God's Will had not been in their favour these last few days.
If the snow kept up for long enough, the press would be unable to get near, and maybe they would have become bored with this story by the time the weather had cleared. But that thought made the Abbot think of the winter of '38, which depressed him even more. Perish the thought that the police ever found out about that.
Mulholland, Proudfoot and Sheep Dip were ushered in before them. Warmed by soup, drunk on the heady wine of the relief of journey's end, the safety of indoors and the comparative warmth within those great stone walls.
'Welcome,' said the Abbot, the voice that of the classical man of sorrows.
Mulholland stepped ahead of the others. 'Chief Inspector Mulholland, Sergeants Proudfoot and MacPherson.'
The Abbot shook his head. 'I never realised you would arrive in such numbers.'
'Numbers?' said Mulholland. 'With what's been happening here, if it hadn't been for the weather, there would have been a hundred of us. As there will be when the snow clears.'
The Abbot shook his head again, staring mournfully at the desk behind which his authority languished.
'Perhaps then we should be thankful for the gift of bad weather. I trust your journey was not too harrowing.'
'Could've walked another twenty miles,' said Mulholland.
'It's absolutely Biblical out there,' said the Dip. And indeed they could hear the storm continuing outside, intensifying with every hour. 'If it hadn't been for Brother David, we'd never have made it.'
If it hadn't been for Brother David, thought Mulholland, we would never have had to come here in the first place.
'A fine man,' said the Abbot, but his voice trailed away. So what if he was a fine man? Could he be that much longer immune to the assassin's knife, or scissors, or comb? Was he not destined to go the same way as the rest of them?
Time for business. Mulholland wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, but the thought of walking back through the storm he'd just endured filled him with the sort of anticipation he got from visiting Olivier & Sons, dentistry with a smile, for all your cavity needs. He was there until a Land Rover or helicopter could get through.
'There have been three murders?' he asked.
Murder, bloody murder, everywhere he went. He could remember a time when he went nearly four years without investigating a murder. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.
'Five,' said the Abbot without raising his head.
'Five?'
'Yes. We found the body of Brother Ash this morning. Head smashed in. And Brother Festus we found in the abbey, impaled through the top of the head with the nose of a gargoyle.'
'God!' said Proudfoot at the back. The Abbot stared at the floor, not even bothering to raise the eyebrow which that exclamation would normally have deserved. God indeed.
'So why didn't you contact us before?'
The Abbot looked up quickly. An awkward question. What could he say to that? The monastery, and everyone in it, was already in enough trouble. How could he say that they'd wanted to treat it as just a little local difficulty?
'The weather,' said Herman from his shoulder. 'It is always worse in this glen than the surrounding area. The murderer has picked his moment, knowing that we wouldn't be able to get out to get help.'
Mulholland could smell the lies. Let it pass for the moment. 'And you've no idea who it is?' he asked.
The Abbot looked to Brother Herman again. Was thinking that perhaps he should let him take over. This was too much for him and, although he had nothing to hide, he was liable to say something incriminating.
'We know exactly who the killer is,' said Herman. 'It is Brother Jacob. The man is the spawn of Satan himself. He was born of the Devil, and he has brought the ways of the Devil and the Devil's deeds among us. This is a house of God and he has turned it into a house of Darkness. He has breathed the fetid breath of evil upon us. Have you ever encountered true evil, Chief Inspector?'
Mulholland shivered, felt the cold, the draught from the insubstantial shutter placed against the storm on the window behind the Abbot. Evil? Did he ever encounter evil in his endless boring days? Probably not. Stupidity and thuggery accounted for most of what he had to deal with; but not evil.
Barney Thomson, maybe, but somehow that was looking less and less likely. Barney Thomson was just a stupid wee Muppet. They had set out on the trail of a serial killer and had come to realise along the way that he was a casual innocent in the world of crime. However, what had he led them to?
'Where is he now?'
'We do not know,' said Herman. 'This man came among us a little more than a week ago. A lost soul, we thought, someone who could come to us and learn the ways of God, and one day be rid of the demons which haunted him. The first murder, that of Brother Saturday, came but five days later.'
'Coincidence?'
'Might have been,' said Herman. Coincidence nothing, he thought. 'But we have reason to link Brother Jacob with at least two of the murder weapons, and once our suspicions had been aroused, the brother disappeared.'
'How do you know he has not been murdered himself?'
Brother Herman hesitated. The eyes narrowed, then clicked back to normal setting. 'He was seen lurking in the shadows by one of the brothers. This is an old building, Chief Inspector. It was built for a much greater complement of monks than we have here now, even before Brother Jacob began his evil task. There are many unused rooms where a man might hide; secret passageways too. And there are few monks here who have the stomach for hounding this man.'
'Prefer to sit and wait to get slaughtered?' said Mulholland.
'We are men of God, Chief Inspector!' said the Abbot sharply, raising his head. 'We are not equipped to go chasing killers.'
Mulholland nodded his acceptance of that. Had his own demons with which to contend; the demons which condemned him to treat everyone else with contempt. These were clearly desperate men, and their problems were far greater than his were ever going to be. Picked off one by one. Although, now that he was here and trapped by the weather, his problems had become the same as theirs. Most assuredly he could not be contemptuous of them. And he felt worry for the safety of Proudfoot; followed by worry that Detective Sergeant Dip might be a better protector of her than he himself.
'What can you tell us about the victims, then? Any connection between them? Any pointer to other potential victims?'
'We thought at first it was something to do with the library,' said Herman. 'The first victim, Brother Saturday, was the librarian; the next, Brother Morgan, his assistant. But the last three, they have had no connection with that seat of learning.'
'What were their jobs?' said Proudfoot. Sheep Dip stood silent, attempting to work some bread from between his teeth.
'Brother Babel was one of the gardeners; Brother Festus worked in the kitchen; Brother Ash...' Herman hesitated. 'Brother Ash was the gatekeeper. No connection at all, and they were not together in any other way within the monastery.'
'How long'd they been here?' asked Proudfoot.
'A long time,' said the Abbot, head dropping again. 'A very long time.'
'How long exactly?' said Mulholland. 'Did they all arrive together? Might there have been something between them before they got here?'
The Abbot shook his head. Th
e eyes were vacant. Here was a man whose faith was being tested to the limit; beyond the limit. The Abbot had always said that you could see, in every man's eye, a little of God's light. And here he sat, disproving the theory. Or being the exception to the rule.
'I cannot believe that, Chief Inspector. It was so long ago.'
'You can never tell.'
'That may be the case, but sadly they are not here for us to ask them. Certainly, I can tell you that they did not all arrive at the same time. They'd all been here for very many years; indeed, over thirty-five in the case of Brother Ash.'
Christ, thought Mulholland. Thirty-five years in this place. This Godforsaken place, then wondered if you could use that word about a monastery. Maybe this one you could.
'A long time,' he said. 'Strange that they'd all been here such a long time.'
'Not really,' said Herman. 'Most of our monks have been with us for a considerable number of years. It has always been a happy place.'
Not in the winter of '38 it wasn't, thought Mulholland, but he could leave that one for later. Didn't know that he would never get around to it, for it would become an irrelevance.
'And how many of you are there exactly?' he asked, mind thumping headlong into a wall of incredulity. What kind of man would come to a place like this? Cold, barren, remote, desolate. And it wasn't as if you escaped life and got away from it, because you still had to spend your time with the rest of the unfortunates. Who knew the reasons that brought a man to a place like this? What secrets they hid, what dark skeletons hung in every cupboard.
'There were thirty-two,' said Herman. 'Twenty-seven remain. That is not counting Brother Jacob, of course. We cannot call him one of us.'
Thirty-two. Bloody hell. Thirty-two. Thirty-two sad men stuck away in the remotest part of Scotland, where even the Dutch tourists didn't go.
'And Brother Jacob?' said Sheep Dip from the back, finally joining in the investigation. 'What can you tell us of him?'
'The man's a total bastard!' said Herman forcefully.
'Brother!'
Herman bristled with ill-concealed hatred and loathing; had suspected Brother Jacob from the first, even before a murder had been committed. Had long said there should be greater screening of the sad cases who requested to join them. At that moment there was nothing. Anyone who came among them was greeted with open arms. They should have introduced a vetting procedure, such was the nature of these troubled times, and now they had been caught out.
'The man was obviously here for some dubious reason. It was quite apparent. He was not a man of God, and there was nothing about him to suggest that he was willing to learn the teachings of Jesus.'
Don't blame him, thought Mulholland, but said instead, 'Had he made any friends in his time here? Anyone who might know where he's hiding, anyone who might know his reasons for murder, if that's what he's done?'
'Oh, there's no question but that this man is a killer, Chief Inspector. And you might want to talk to Brother Steven. It is obvious that there is some connection there, although I concede that it might only be because they shared a room.'
Mulholland nodded. Brother this; Brother that. Insane; the whole thing was insane.
'Have any of you lot ever thought of getting a life?' he asked. Almost. Stopped himself and said, 'Where might we find Brother Steven now?'
'He should be at prayers,' said the Abbot. 'As we all should be.'
'I don't know that prayers are going to do you any good, Brother,' said Mulholland.
The Abbot smiled for the first time. The eyes crinkled, his face looked gentle and old and wonderful; and then the look was gone. 'They brought you to us, Chief Inspector,' he said.
Mulholland laughed and shook his head. Weirdest-fuck gift from God you're ever going to get, he thought. Felt the weight of the responsibility and automatically said, 'Ah, Brother, I think you might be in for a disappointment there.'
'I'm sure you won't let us down.'
Proudfoot caught the eye of Brother Herman, and the look of spite died at that moment. The eyes relaxed, the tension forcibly ebbed from the face; he welcomed the glance of Proudfoot.
'We should get on,' said Mulholland. 'I know you've got a large monastery here, but there are three of us, and Brother Jacob can't have gone very far. Not in this weather. Now, if there's anything else you can tell us about him it would be helpful.'
The Abbot shook his head. 'I'm afraid he appeared a very private man. I had him in here a couple of times, but he gave nothing away about what brought him to this place. He was obviously running from something, but then aren't we all?'
'I wouldn't know,' said Mulholland. Running from something. His brain kicked in at last. He had the same thought that Sheep Dip had had the night before when Brother David had first appeared at the hotel, and that Proudfoot had had twenty minutes earlier. Could it be Barney Thomson? Could he be a killer after all? They'd begun to think he had merely been caught up in his mother's business before. He was no killer himself. A man of comforts, Barney Thomson; even someone on the run wouldn't have come to this place.
'Well,' said the Abbot, 'perhaps Brother Steven will be able to shed a little more illumination on the man for you. We have our problems with Steven as well; nevertheless, he is a man of some insight and erudition. He sees things to which others are blind.'
Mulholland nodded. Turned his head and raised his eyebrows at Proudfoot and Sheep Dip.
'Right,' he said. 'We should get cracking.'
'Brother Herman will show you around,' said the Abbot. 'Oh yes, there is one more thing which might be of interest to you.' He subconsciously felt the back of his neck. Those scissors, that razor; they had been so close to his own cold skin. 'He is the most wonderful barber, Brother Jacob.'
'A barber?'
'Indeed. The man could cut the hair of the Lord.'
The Monk Who Came In From The Cold
Somewhere between death and dawn; somewhere between hell and heaven; somewhere between pain and the bittersweet gratification of pleasure; somewhere between the cold, clammy hand of denial and the exuberant exploding can of Guinness that is freedom; somewhere between fourteen years at a drive-in movie theatre showing Ishtar on continuous loop and an eternity of chocolate-enrobed naked women playing blow football with your testicles; somewhere between a glutinous mountain of charred bodies collapsing on your table during breakfast and the exiguous indulgence of four rounds of toast and marmalade; somewhere between bad and good, wrong and right, Yin and Yang, Queen of the South and Juventus; somewhere between them all, between the great effervescence of miasma that colludes with the protozoa of fate, and the munificence of time and space, the very enemies of delirium; somewhere between them all, there lay a man. And that man was Barney Thomson.
And he was freezing.
His teeth chattered, tapping out some strange, almost Caribbean, rhythm. Involuntary shivers racked his body. Goose bumps and upstanding hairs careered across his body like some deranged Mongolian horde sweeping across the Asian plains, doing their best to combat the cold, but to no avail. All the body's natural defence systems were at work and failing miserably. The storm raged outside, and at every conceivable weakness in the structure of the building the cold seemed to creep in.
Barney had spent the day on the move, constantly in search of warmth. But every time he'd become settled or seemed on the point of finding what he was looking for, another monk had come along and he'd been forced, once again, to skulk off into the shadows. He had heard through the walls faint rumours of the winter of '38 and the need to preserve as many provisions as possible. And so the fuel was being saved to heat the bare minimum of rooms and Barney could find nowhere to banish the chill from his bones.
His movement around the monastery, his lurking in the shadows, had told him many things; he had learned some of those dark secrets which all the monks kept so close to their chests. Not the identity of the killer; but he now knew why Brother Sincerity and Brother Goodfellow were so friendly, and why Adolphu
s spent so much time in the library. He also knew that the police had arrived, and that they were searching for him. He was not sure whether they were searching for Brother Jacob or for Barney Thomson, or whether they had already worked out that they were one and the same. However, he was being forced in from the cold, and all the determined bravado which he'd had about finding the killer and handing him in to the authorities had vanished through a day of unremitting freezing temperatures. He'd realised that it could take him days, perhaps even weeks to establish the killer's identity when he had only a couple of nights before this frozen Hell got the better of him.
So much for Barney Thomson, the Great Detective. He was going to have to be Barney Thomson, the Great Guy Who Gave Himself Up So That He Didn't Freeze His Arse Off.
However, he'd decided to test the water first of all. A tentative toe, before he went leaping into the cold loch of confession. A couple of hours previously, from one of his hideouts above the toilet, he'd shoved a note through a small hole, inviting Sheep Dip to a meeting. Had decided he could more easily trust the Highland police than the ones from Glasgow. He'd learned not to trust Glasgow police officers.
In the note he'd requested that Sheep Dip come alone, threatening that he wouldn't show himself and that many more monks would die if the Dipmeister were accompanied. Not that Barney Thomson was going to kill anyone, and maybe the note had been injudicious should his case ever come to trial, but he was not a man known for his fast or accurate thinking.
And so Barney Thomson sat and froze, still an hour short of the time appointed for his meeting with the police, and he wondered, as his teeth clattered noisily together, what lay ahead.
***
They huddled around the fire in the corner of a large dark room. Shadows cavorted randomly behind them, and every so often they felt compelled to stare over their shoulders, expecting to see the ghost in the darkness, the very real ghost that was murdering the monks.
Mulholland and Proudfoot sat beneath great swathes of blanket, grasping warm mugs of tea between trembling fingers. Given a pen and a piece of paper, they could have made lists of some three or four hundred million other places they'd have rather been, and they ran through some of those places as they shivered and shook and their enthusiasm waned and died. From the Maldives to Ibrox Stadium, from the Bahamas to the Maracana.
The Barbershop Seven Page 39