The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Naw, wee Britney from up the road.'

  Rusty Brown nodded sagely. Here he was, the storyteller, getting told the news.

  'She's pregnant?' he said. 'Hardly seems old enough.'

  'Duh,' said Seattle, 'she's like fifteen. Like, how old did you think you had to be?'

  Rusty Brown felt safe to put his flat cap back in place. He waited for Seattle Henderson to look at him, realised it wasn't going to happen, and then turned and walked slowly out of the shop.

  Colin Waites' ex-wife lived in Gourock, and so was not within Rusty Brown's sphere of influence. Craig Brown had a dark and somewhat mysterious background, which did not include anyone who would need to be immediately informed of his disappearance.

  Rusty Brown could return to telling elaborate tales to dispassionate parties.

  The Notebook Guy

  Early afternoon. The man from the Largs & Millport Chronicle had arrived. No one from the Glasgow press seemed interested yet. There was a man from the Evening Times on his way, but he had been waylaid at the Holy Friar just after the Largs turnoff on the Beith road. The others were for now working from a brief report that had gone out on Reuters, a report which had stuck to the facts, made the story sound as uninteresting as possible, and had failed to mention murder, decapitation or haddock wars.

  Barney Thomson stood at the white promenade wall and looked along at the pier. He'd come out for a walk, fresh sea air, a quiet morning in the shop. He'd had one customer – an elaborate but ultimately unfulfilling Simon Le Bon Rio – while his creative assistant, Keanu, had been quiet all day. Every now and again the lad had gone out to try to find out more details on the Bitter Wind, but had come up with little other than absurd gossip, much of which he had presented to Barney as truth.

  Now it was Barney's turn to take a stroll along the promenade. Igor was having lunch with his intended, the town lawyer Garrett Carmichael. Keanu was writing up the latest wild speculation for his blog, in the hope that something major would happen and he might become some sort of a thing, while holding down the fort in case there were any haircutting emergencies.

  The crowd on the pier was dwindling. What with it being another slow day in Millport in November, a small assembly had gathered to watch the police investigation. Gainsborough had initially cordoned off the entire pier, but eventually his friends in the audience – and he had known virtually everyone there – had persuaded him to move the rope closer and closer, until the crowd had been within about ten feet of the boat. In the end it had more or less turned into a spectator sport. Like watching CSI live.

  Frankenstein had watched the throng encroach, but was of the opinion that if a crime had been committed here, then there was a good chance that the perpetrator would be back to take a look.

  However, police investigation doesn't really reward long-term viewing, so after the spectators began to realise that no murderers were going to be uncovered that day on the pier, and that a murder might not even have been committed, the crowd had dropped off, back to whatever mundane aspect of life it was which held them on this sleepy November day.

  Barney walked past the small clock tower at the pier entrance. He nodded at a couple of old guys who wandered by – Barney knew all the men on the island, not so many of the women.

  'Nothing to see,' said old Tom Brady.

  'Took the body away two hours ago,' said old Tom Ramsay. 'By now it'll have been sliced apart like the Rangers defence against Juventus in 1995.' He giggled.

  'Away you and shite,' said Brady. 'Rangers defence in '95. At least we were in the Champions' League, what were you in? The Idiots' League? The Losers' League?'

  'I've had enough of your pish.'

  'My pish? What about your pish? Enough to flood the Loire valley...'

  The cut and thrust of radical argument drifted off into the day as they disappeared from the pier. Barney smiled and walked on to the edge of the cordoned-off area. There were only three people left standing now, two still fascinated by events, one leaning against a pole, making notes in a small book.

  There were two men working on the boat that Barney could see. One on deck, rummaging carefully through nets, the other bent down inside the cabin, his back turned. Barney watched them for a second and then approached the man with the notebook.

  The swell had started to get up and the sea was becoming a little boisterous beneath the pier, sucking noises and the sound of water being drawn between wood.

  'What's the latest?' asked Barney.

  The notebook guy gave Barney the once over, a classical head to foot glance, taking everything in.

  'You're the town barber?' he asked.

  Barney didn't even begin to wonder.

  'Barney Thomson,' he said, extending his hand, knowing that this wasn't a guy whose hair he'd cut in the past.

  'William Deco,' said the notebook guy.

  'Your friends call you Art?' ventured Barney.

  'Tell me about it,' he replied grimly. 'Might as well have Art stamped on my forehead.'

  'What's with the notebook?'

  'Largs & Millport Chronicle.'

  'William Deco,' said Barney, nodding. 'Of course. I read you every week.'

  'You're the one.'

  'Always presumed that it was a made-up name. Wondered why you didn't just call yourself Arthur Deco or Artimus Deco.'

  'I come from a long line of Decos,' said Deco.

  'Your family left Spain in 1646?'

  'It was '54 to be precise. We did all right in this country until Charles Rennie Macintosh.'

  The guy rummaging through the nets finally stood up and stretched. Looked out to sea, then started wandering around the deck poking at things with a small stick.

  'You can't have many abandoned fishing boats to report,' said Barney.

  'First one,' said Deco, 'and I've been on the job for thirty-three years.'

  'Thirty-three years working for the Largs & Millport Chronicle?'

  'Used to think I was going to be someone. The Herald. The Scotsman. Commentary on Good Morning Scotland. Maybe even make the London Times or Newsweek. Used to imagine my by-line in the Herald Tribune, being read and ignored by people on aeroplanes and in big international chain hotels.'

  He paused; he let out a heavy sigh, filled with all the weariness of the years.

  'Suppose I was right. I am someone. I'm someone who's been writing for the Largs & Millport Chronicle for thirty-three years.'

  'You've got your story at last,' said Barney.

  'Maybe,' said Deco, 'maybe not.'

  'What's the latest?' asked Barney again, having first ventured the question seemingly hours earlier.

  'They took the body away zipped up in a bag. None of us saw it. Word is there was no obvious cause of death. These two comedians have been on the boat gathering evidence. They're what we call Scenes of Crime Officers, although everyone just calls them CSI now 'cause of the TV show.'

  Barney was familiar with the work of Scenes of Crime Officers, but he wasn't immediately going to fill a reporter in on his background.

  'There are two other police here at the moment. They've gone off with the local plod to talk to people, find things out. Two crew members missing, all three of them lived on the island. The trawler was discovered by three old guys out on a yacht. They came in with the boat, gave statements and they're gone. At least they'll have a tale to tell at dinner for the next few weeks.'

  Deco paused and looked through his notebook, seeing if there was anything else of note. Face a blank, then a small nod.

  'The boat only usually went out for one night at a time, got that from a guy who was standing where you are right now, but it had been gone three nights this time. They'd reported in that they'd be away longer, but no one knows why. Least, no one who I've spoken to yet.'

  Barney looked back along the front of the town, Stuart Street quiet in the early afternoon sun. Along the promenade, the Garrison building, newly refurbished and gleaming, past Newton Beach and the crocodile rock, and bey
ond to Kames Bay, where he could see his house, sitting in amongst the neat row of large Victorian homes at the east end of the town. The seagulls dipped and swooped and cried, the sea showed increasing signs of life.

  'When do you have to file?' asked Barney.

  'Three days,' said Deco.

  'Plenty of time for things to develop.'

  Deco muttered something low and dismal.

  'Maybe your editor will want to bring out a special Millport Trawler Mystery edition,' said Barney.

  Deco wrote something else down in his notebook, as if Barney had just given him an idea, the pages turned away so that Barney couldn't see what he was writing.

  'I am the editor,' said Deco darkly.

  Barney smiled, turned away from the Bitter Wind and began walking slowly back down the pier.

  ***

  Detective Chief Inspector Frankenstein had removed himself from the hands-on investigation and ridden off on a bike. Wanted to get a feel for the town and the island, as he suspected that he was about to be spending the next few days, if not weeks, mired in the place. Nothing concrete yet to say there had even been a crime committed, but he had a feeling.

  They'd been told on arrival that riding a bike round the island was what everyone did. He'd scoffed, he'd muttered, he'd stared darkly along the road...and then he'd hired a bike from Mapes and set off on the ten and a half mile island circumference tour. Kames Bay, Farland Point, the Aquarium and Keppel Pier, the lion rock, the wishing well, the sailing club, the ferry ramp... For all that he moaned and curmudgeoned his way through life, he was a good detective. Took it all in.

  He reached the far side of the island from the town of Millport, where there is a small obelisk set off the road, just above the rocky shoreline. There were four bikes already leaning against the grey stone, the riders sitting on the grass, looking north up the Clyde estuary, towards Wemyss Bay and beyond. A large dog lay on the grass beside them, stretched out, sleeping. Frankenstein slowed his bike, deciding it was time to get some local knowledge. Or visitor's knowledge.

  He laid the bike down on the grass verge and stopped for a second. The day was still beautiful, seagulls spiralling through a sky which had clung on to the astonishing blue which had so captivated Keanu MacPherson. In the distance, the mountains of Argyll were stark in the clear light. He could see the Rothesay ferry heading back to the mainland; a small cargo vessel to his left making swift progress towards the Irish Sea.

  He caught the eye of a couple of the cyclists and nodded.

  'All right, friend?' said one of them.

  Frankenstein grunted in reply. Looked away, smelled the breeze. The Rothesay ferry didn't seem to be moving. Even allowing for perspective. What do I know about perspective, he thought.

  'You visiting the island?' asked Frankenstein.

  The one who'd already spoken turned and nodded.

  'Like, kind of a work team bonding session. You police?'

  Frankenstein cursed, an undistinguishable single syllable that still managed to sound incredibly vulgar.

  'You're probably here for the Mary Celeste,' said one of the two women, without turning.

  Frankenstein nodded. Some police officer. Five seconds' conversation and they had him pegged, and he still didn't have a clue. Work team bonding session?

  'What work?' he asked gruffly. He usually needed Sergeant Proudfoot with him to ameliorate his complete lack of social skills.

  'MI6,' said the guy who had yet to say anything.

  The four of them looked out to sea. No further comment. Frankenstein gave them the once over.

  'You came all the way up here from London?' he asked.

  'Based in Edinburgh,' said two of them at once. Synchronised lying.

  'Bullshit,' said Frankenstein. 'What are MI6 doing in Edinburgh? Isn't that MI5's job?' For some reason, he felt stupid.

  'Like you don't think they have foreign nationals in Edinburgh?' said the other woman.

  That was why I felt stupid, he thought. He grumbled and found himself looking at some indistinct spot on the water at which they were all staring.

  'So,' he went on, thinking that he might as well try to achieve what he had stopped here for, regardless of how annoyed these people were making him, 'are you really here team building, or are you investigating the trawler?'

  Another pause. Frankenstein was disarmed by these people, which he hated. He really ought to just get back on his bike. He noticed a family of swans mincing through the water not too far from the shore. Felt small.

  'Maybe,' said one of them.

  'Could be.'

  'We're so secretive, even we don't know what we're doing most of the time.'

  'Of course,' said the fourth monkey, 'we've been on the island for three days, so that would have been showing a remarkable amount of prescience, don't you think?'

  Frankenstein lifted his bike and clumsily swung his leg over the bar. Three days? If it was true, maybe they would have something to tell him. Not that he was about to ask.

  'MI6,' he grumbled under his breath, when he was a good few yards along the road. 'They're probably advertising executives.' As he rode off he heard one of them say, 'Pass the corn chips.'

  And once he was out of earshot, the four people lying on the grass by the small obelisk could go back to discussing the international diamond smuggling operation that had brought them to the west coast of Scotland in the first place.

  Creep

  A few more people arrived in the town during the day. Some police, some media, some curiosity seekers. There wasn't much to do and less to find out. The police took a small shop unit along the front and set up an incident room. It had once been a short-lived antique French furniture store, but there hadn't been much call for antique French furniture in Millport, and after a couple of months the place had folded and the owner had legged it with what was left of the local enterprise money he'd pocketed. Now the police were in. The antique French furniture had already been removed, the windows were dirty, the floor covered in dust. Spiders looked down from corners.

  The police incident room was next door to the barbershop, separated by two feet of one hundred and thirty-five year-old stone wall.

  The men of the barber shop were idle once again. A long winter beckoned. Barney stood at the window, looking out over the sea. Igor brushed slowly at the floor around the chairs, although no hair had fallen for more than an hour. Keanu had fallen into torpor. The sun had dipped behind the Arran hills and darkness was on its way.

  'Going to be stormy tonight,' said Barney from nowhere. 'You can feel it. Once darkness comes.'

  Igor leant on his brush and looked outside. Keanu glanced up from his laptop, at which he had been staring with ever more glazed eyes, and looked out at the darkening skies.

  'Looks pretty clear,' he said.

  Silence. Walls too heavy and thick to get even a trace of the activity next door, which wasn't exactly frenetic in any case. The hands of the clock on the wall moved silently. A car drove past in hushed tranquillity.

  Barney looked out the window. Seemed to spend his life doing just that. Didn't mind. The others followed his gaze now, Igor leaning on his brush, Keanu, head resting on fist. The sky seemed to darken as they watched. Clouds were gathering from somewhere, the first of the day.

  'This is kind of weird,' said Keanu eventually.

  'Arf?' asked Igor. Barney didn't turn.

  'You know, like, we're sitting here looking out of a window at absolutely nothing. I mean, nothing at all. And yet, it's like, really cool. I'm so chilled. It's like some weird, transcendental drug. I'm tripping on silence and introspection. What is that all about?'

  Igor smiled and looked back at the window. A cyclist passed the shop front, panniers stuffed full of shopping; the local road sweeper, Morgan Rembrandt. He threw a wave at the shop as he went, without turning. Barney and Igor nodded in reply. The rear wheel disappeared out of sight.

  A seagull landed on the white promenade wall opposite. Cocked its he
ad to the side, squawked. Seemed to look into the shop.

  The door opened. Garrett Carmichael, the lawyer. Auburn hair, newly in curls. Lips full, eyes sparkling. Brown suit, knee-length skirt, pale blouse, two buttons undone. Pearls around her neck. Barney and Keanu stared, smiled. She wasn't for them.

  'Hi guys,' she said. 'Another busy one?'

  'November,' said Barney casually.

  Igor leant on his brush. She kissed him on the cheek, stole another quick kiss on the lips. He blushed. A year and a half in. He still blushed.

  Garrett Carmichael sat down on the old bench which ran the length of the shop and laid her bag beside her.

  'I've had the same kind of day. It's like the place is shutting down early. Usually not this bad until January.'

  'You hear about the boat mystery?' said Keanu.

  'All about it,' she said. 'Read your blog. Cool.'

  'Thanks!'

  'You nailed the colour of the sky.'

  Keanu nodded and looked mildly sheepish. Barney smiled.

  'I'm off home to get the kids,' she said. 'Can I drag Igor away from you?'

  'Of course,' said Barney. Probably for the next six months, he thought. But the place wouldn't be the same without the wee fella, so he wouldn't want it even if she tried.

  She stood up. Igor muddled into the back room to get his coat. Keanu let himself stare at her for a while. Wished there were more women on the island like Garrett Carmichael.

  'Why don't you close for the day?' she said. Looked at the clock. Almost five.

  Barney shrugged.

  'You're getting a reputation,' she said. 'Sad lonely Barney, spends all his time in the shop, waiting for customers that don't come.'

  He gave her a look.

  'Well, OK, I made that up. But you know, won't be long, people will start talking.'

  Igor appeared back in the shop. She smiled.

  'Had a guy in here for a cut past seven last night,' said Barney, annoyed that he felt the need to defend himself. Maybe she was right. Barney the loner. Barney the loser.

  'One of the old guys who felt sorry for you?' she said, smiling. Playing a game, wondering if it was really getting to him.