The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  Ferguson turned off the engine. Springsteen was cut off in mid-stride; the last line and sudden silence filtered through to Mulholland. He snapped from his myth of El Dorado; a fish, some fourteen pounds at least, snapping frantically on the end of his line, Proudfoot saying not bloody fish again for dinner. He looked at Ferguson, glanced behind at their sleeping beauty.

  'I'd drive all night again just to buy you some shoes?' he said to Ferguson. 'You don't half listen to some amount of shite, Sergeant.'

  Ferguson shrugged. 'Always thought it was quite poignant.'

  'Poignant? You? You thought it was poignant when Alan Rough played his last game for Scotland.'

  'I'm hurt.'

  'I bet you are.'

  Mulholland turned round and tapped Proudfoot gently on the leg. Got the mild shock from physical contact. A remnant of the past, or the underlying flicker of interest. He ignored it.

  'Wake up, Sergeant, the evil monster awaits.'

  Proudfoot stirred, dragged herself uneasily from her dreams of disembodied hands and midnight killers.

  'Right,' she said, taking in the surroundings. 'I'm on it.'

  They got out of the car, another three Feds to add to the ever-increasing collection. There were some in uniform, crouching behind cars; some in plainclothes milling around, pretending to look in shop windows, mingling with the crowd, yet still standing out a mile. And that crowd continued to grow, as grandstanders and gloaters added to the throng.

  'You know who's in charge?' asked Mulholland.

  'You see,' replied Ferguson, 'I've never been sure about it. Is it that he's driven all night once before to buy her some shoes, and he's saying he'd do it again? Or is it that the last time he drove all night it was for some completely different article of clothing, and he's saying that he'd also be prepared to do it to buy her shoes. I'm not so sure. What d'you think, Erin?'

  'You talking about Springsteen?'

  'Aye.'

  'I think it's a pile of pish.'

  Mulholland stopped and held up his hands.

  'Stop! Sergeant, who's in charge?'

  Ferguson smiled and flicked open the notebook.

  'An Inspector Hills.'

  'Thank you. You may continue your discussion.'

  Mulholland approached the nearest uniform lurking behind a car, surveying the situation as he went. The small barber's shop was directly across the road, the view inside largely obscured by a blind.

  He aimed his badge at the uniform. 'Inspector Hills?' he said. No mood for civility.

  Constable Starkey, a woman of some infinite depth, completely wasted on her chosen profession, indicated two men standing outside the door of a small grocer's, pretending to be interested in tomatoes. Mulholland turned away without a word.

  'Hills?' he said, approaching.

  'Aye,' said the taller of the two. A good man; honest face, broad shoulders, firm handshake. Someone to rely on in a crisis. 'Graeme Hills. You must be Detective Chief Inspector Mulholland?'

  'Aye.' He briefly contemplated introducing his sergeants into the fold, but decided not to bother. This wasn't going to take very long. 'What's the score, then?'

  'Got the report an hour or two ago,' said Graeme Hills, arms crossed. 'The guy seemed fairly certain it was him. We got one of our men to go to the shop, on a purely customer-orientated basis. Got a lovely Mario Van Peebles off the bloke, by the way. Anyway, it's Barney Thomson all right. Talked quite openly about it. Our man said it seemed, I don't know, that there was an air of melancholy about him.'

  Mulholland breathed deeply, stared across at the shop. Couldn't be bothered with any of this.

  'So why didn't he arrest him?'

  Hills did a thing with his eyebrows.

  'We're talking Barney Thomson here. Our guy was alone and under strict instruction to wait for back-up.'

  Mulholland nodded. Fair enough, perhaps. He'd had his own reservations about Thomson until he'd discovered his true nature. However, that didn't excuse everything.

  'And what do these three or four hundred officers represent, if not back-up?'

  Hills did something with his mouth.

  'We're not armed. We thought it best to wait for you, seeing as you've direct experience of the bloke. Got the place covered. Can't really see into the shop properly, but there's no way he's getting out without us getting him.'

  'I'm not armed, either,' said Mulholland.

  Hills did something with his cheeks.

  'That's your call, Chief Inspector. You know how to deal with him. We've got no experience of him.'

  Mulholland gave him his best Morse face. Waste of bloody time, he thought.

  'So why haven't you got this road closed off, if you think he's so dangerous?'

  Hills pointed up and down the road in a completely aimless gesture. 'And alert him to us?' he said. 'He knows nothing of us being here. We're sharp, discreet and smooth. There could be three hundred polis out here and he wouldn't have a clue. My officers blend in like trees in a forest. They're the SAS. They're the Pink Panther. They're Pierce Brosnan in The Thomas Crown Affair. They're Sean Connery in Entrapment. We can move in and get him any time.'

  Mulholland continued to look unhappy; Ferguson nodded in a 'seems reasonable' gesture; Proudfoot looked across the road at the shop, wondering if it really was Barney Thomson in there. Why would this be any different from any other hoax they'd had in the past year?

  Mulholland shook his head and turned to Ferguson.

  'Right, Sergeant, me and Proudfoot will go in, you wait just outside the shop in case he makes a break for it. Your discreet Pink Panther-type unarmed heroes got the back covered, Inspector?'

  'Of course,' said Hills.

  'Brilliant. Right, let's go.'

  'But you're not armed,' said Hills to Mulholland as he walked away. 'Shouldn't you wait for some armed back-up?'

  Mulholland looked over his shoulder.

  'Have you called any?'

  'Well, no.'

  Mulholland shrugged and stepped out into the road, saying, 'Come on, Sergeant, you joining me, or are you just going to stand there gawping at the pavement?' to Proudfoot as he went.

  Proudfoot wandered a few steps behind, taking oblique notice of the traffic. Face to face, once again, with Barney Thomson. She remembered a year earlier heading north to hunt for him, full of fears and trepidation and terror. And now... now she vaguely wondered what she was going to have for dinner.

  Hills watched them go. He'd heard tales of Mulholland and Proudfoot; great odysseys that painted them mad as hell. And here was confirmation. Walking unarmed into the lion's den, the stench of alcohol on their breath. These maverick cops were all alike.

  ***

  The door to the shop opened; Blizzard looked up as they entered. A man with a great shag of black hair who could well have been there for a cut. No idea about the woman. But he could tell that this was not business; at least, not his business.

  'You're not fucking consultants, are you?' said Blizzard, with a casual charm.

  Mulholland produced his badge. Proudfoot looked around, realised that she'd never before been inside a barbershop. Then it occurred to her that she couldn't care less either way and turned to look at the old man. They both noticed the obvious absence of anyone remotely resembling Barney Thomson.

  'Polis,' said Mulholland to back up the badge. 'We're looking for Barney Thomson.'

  Blizzard humphed.

  'Thought you'd be by eventually,' he said. 'The lad buggered off about forty minutes ago. I noticed your lot gathering outside like a pack of hyenas. Stupid wankers. Anyway, he's gone till after Christmas.'

  Mulholland's shoulders dropped another inch or two. Proudfoot switched off. The same old story.

  'Who the fuck are you?' said Mulholland, vaguely annoyed at the old man; couldn't think why.

  'Blizzard,' said Blizzard. 'Leyman Blizzard. And don't talk to me like that, or I'll kick your arse.'

  'So if you had Barney Thomson working in your shop,
why didn't you report it?'

  Blizzard sat back, straightened his shoulders. Had always hated the polis.

  'What was the point? He's a nice enough bloke, and there's no way he's the killer youse are looking for. And besides, he's tried handing himself in and youse weren't interested. And you just watch your tone, son.'

  Mulholland had no argument. Barney was indeed not the killer they were looking for, and the police did look stupid turning up here, mob-handed, to arrest the man when he'd already tried to hand himself in and had been turned away.

  'Where'd he go? Where does he live?'

  'He's away for the weekend somewhere. Don't know where. Why don't youse just leave the bastard alone?'

  Joel Mulholland stood and stared at the floor, at exactly the same mark as Erin Proudfoot, and neither of them could think of an answer. Why didn't they just leave him alone? And why didn't they just walk away from this bloody stupid investigation?

  Old Leyman Blizzard said nothing, and waited for them to go.

  Now Ye Need Not Fear The Grave

  Mulholland had refused to sit. Knew what was coming, already aware of what was in his head to do. McMenemy was on the prowl, stalking the few yards between his desk and the window, head bent to the ground, looking at the pattern of the carpet. Trying to control his burgeoning rage. Eyebrows knotted together, teeth set hard. A man on the verge of a verbal explosion.

  Mulholland was not far off the same.

  'Will you sit down, Chief Inspector?' McMenemy barked one more time. 'Sit down!'

  'I'm not staying,' said Mulholland dryly.

  McMenemy stopped his endless backwards and forwards charge and engaged his eye. The Klingon warbird de-cloaked and about to unleash photon torpedoes. Of course, those Klingon warbirds were rubbish.

  'Damned right you're not staying! Damned right. You let the man go from right under your nose. My God! He's a monster and he roams our streets free, because of you! You had him in his shop and you let him go!'

  Mulholland moved forward and pressed his hand against the desktop.

  'He was gone by the time I got there. It was the bloody local plods who let him go. And you know why? They were so shit scared of him because of the press and the likes of you, making the guy out to be so much more than he actually is. Watch my lips, sir. He's not the killer.'

  McMenemy pointed a finger, arm outstretched, from no more than three yards across the desk.

  'Don't you watch my lips at me, my boy. This is it for you, Sergeant Mulholland. You can report for front desk duty on Monday morning, and consider yourself lucky you're not busted all the way down. You should be plodding the damned streets for your incompetence.'

  'I'm incompetent? You're the arsehole chasing after a big, mild-mannered bloody jessie!'

  McMenemy's pointing finger wilted a little. His nostrils flared. Eyes widened, then slowly narrowed as he lowered his arm. From the side of the room came the low hum of the fish tank. Cars outside cruised at forty-five in a thirty zone. There was a distant tantrum of a Salvation Army brass band breaking heartily into Good Christian Men, Rejoice, and the tune started playing in Mulholland's head. Aware of his own breathing; could hear McMenemy's breath, thick and clogged through his nose, lips clenched shut.

  Now ye hear of endless bliss, Jesus Christ was born for this...

  'What did you just call me?'

  The words snapped out into the room. Cold, short, violent.

  McMenemy pulled his shoulders back and stared at Mulholland, waiting for the answer. Or an apology. But Mulholland did not quail. He had had enough, and it was time to go. And if you're going to go, you might as well do an Al Pacino, And Justice for All...

  He took another step towards him, and placed both hands on the desktop. Leaned closer.

  'I called you an arsehole. And you know what, Chief Superintendent? You know what? I was right. You are an arsehole.'

  Straightened up, waiting to see the reaction. Had rolled the word arsehole around his tongue, as if it were a Cuban cigar. If you're going to burn your bridges, you might as well do it properly.

  McMenemy rose to his full, intimidating height. A good six three in his socks, and no mistake. Looked down on him, face beginning to snarl. An easy-going man, really, turned to madness.

  'Get out of my office, Mr Mulholland, and get out of my station. You're finished, boy. Absolutely finished. I should have listened to Geraldine Cunningham. You're a useless waste of space. A has-been. You might as well have died in the monastery last year, 'cause you're good for nothing. Get out, get out! Do not darken the door of this station again. Do you hear me?'

  Mulholland started to turn, but suddenly felt like he had been given free reign.

  'You know what you can do?' he said.

  'Get out, right now, before you make this even worse,' said McMenemy.

  'You know what you can do?' Mulholland repeated. 'You can fuck your job.'

  He was starting to warm to his subject. A few steps away from the desk, pointing at his boss. His ex-boss. Getting serious, annoyed, flustered, excited. A great weight of frustration and anger to burn off before he walked out for the last time.

  'Get out!'

  'What are you going to do?' he said, starting to laugh. 'Call the police? You stupid, ignorant bastard. Well, you can fuck your job. And you know what else? You can fuck you, and fuck the station. And you can fuck your post of chief inspector. You can fuck Glasgow, fuck Barney fucking Thomson, fuck the real fucking killer, and you can stick your fucking job up your fucking fuckhole, you stupid fucking fuckbag!'

  Final words uttered in triumph, a small piece of spit sent flying through the air in front of him. And McMenemy stood and stared. Strangely now the anger was gone, and slowly he sank down into his seat. And when he spoke again his voice was low and cold, and filled more fully with malice than at any time in the previous twenty years.

  'Leave, please. Now. And be assured, Chief Inspector, that this matter is not over.'

  Mulholland breathed heavily. Face flushed. Had loved every second of it. Knew from past experience that his voice would have travelled out from within these walls. He would be a hero! Word would spread, and they would all know him as the brave visionary he most certainly was. Either that, or the stupid, burned-out idiot.

  'Yes it is,' he said in a low voice, and turned to the door. Quick snatch at the handle, door open, and he was gone out into the wide world of the station, where business went on as usual for a Saturday afternoon, and a few looked at him as he went by, and cared not whether they ever saw him again.

  Walking quickly to get away from it all, and within half a minute Joel Mulholland was outside in the mild but bleak midwinter. A hint of rain in the air and he pulled his jacket close to him.

  Stopped and took a moment. Turned and looked back up at the old building and immediately started to think of Erin Proudfoot. And so, as he began to wander the streets aimlessly, contemplating his new life, he could do little but think of her and what she would be doing as he slid rapidly into the oblivion that awaited him.

  On Córdoba's Sorry Fields

  The minibus travelled the slow roads of the Borders bereft of first, second and fourth gears, all of which had departed in a robust judder somewhere south of Peebles; so that every time they came to a tight bend, the driver could go no lower than third, and the bus shuddered round the corner in a series of vibrations and jerks, spilling drinks and causing general mayhem with elaborate hairstyles; while providing those women bedecked in tight underwear a little more pleasure than they'd otherwise anticipated.

  The rain came down in great crashing torrents, and Bobby Ramsey leant forward and peered into the dead of night. Only seven thirty, as he headed towards the final short stretch of labyrinthine turns and convolutions, but it was black all around them. Occasionally a dark grey hill was evident against the night; a light in a farmhouse window set back from the road; and occasionally another vehicle passing them in the opposite direction, for no one was going where they were
going.

  Barney had sat in silence on the way south, staring dolefully at the sight of Arnie Medlock, making moves – he assumed he was making moves – on Katie Dillinger. He'd hoped to get the seat next to her, but he hadn't had the confidence to barge in and take control of the situation. And so he had dithered, Arnie had won the prime seat, and Barney had ended up next to Bobby Dear, the wealthy accountant type, from whom Barney had not heard a word.

  So he had stewed in his own jealousy, attempting to hear above the roar of the diesel engine and the conversation of the others what was being said. Felt ridiculously like a spurned lover, even though he had no claim on this woman. Could imagine himself doing a variety of vicious things to Medlock, even though he had, until an hour ago, thought him to be a perfectly pleasant bloke. (As pleasant as a member of Murderer's Anonymous was likely to be.)

  Barney did not see himself as one of the others; did not even consider the possibility that some of them might be as feckless as he himself.

  He looked out at the rain and the passing hedges and walls and trees, beyond which the darkness held its secrets. He had been contemplating engaging Dear in conversation, but for all the mild-mannered-accountant demeanour to the man, he could recognise the killer's guise that lurked behind that kind face. Still, he had joined the group to talk to this kind of person, not to become embroiled in romance. That had been an entirely unexpected subsidiary element.

  As the minibus lurched around another corner he could see and hear Dillinger laughing, then leaning towards Medlock and whispering something in his ear. Barney seethed. Felt that strange anger and discomfort that comes with envy and suspicion, and which had replaced his nervousness over the weekend's potential, and the foreboding brought on by the premonition of his own wake.

  Barney bit the bullet.

  'Nightmare weather,' he said, nodding. Looked at Bobby Dear to see if it had registered. Dear, only slowly, became aware that he was being addressed.

  'Talking to me?' he said at last. A Piccadilly Scot by the sounds of it, thought Barney. Had heard tell of such creatures, but you didn't get many of them in Partick.