Frankenstein looked round at Proudfoot. Knew that Ecclesiastics had already been interviewed at length and that he didn't really have much of interest to contribute.
'We have a town of suspects, Sergeant,' he said, 'although one glaringly obvious one. Come on.'
'You mean old Stan Koppen?' said Ecclesiastics. 'That's a fair point, after Nelly in there fingered him to you lot last night.'
Proudfoot looked at the lad and then turned and walked quickly out of the house. They did have plenty of people to see, but she knew who it was that she should go and see first. A man she should have visited already, a man she should have been talking to the second she realised he was on the island. A man who she knew had previously been involved in brutal murder.
Barney Thomson.
'You,' said Frankenstein to Ecclesiastics, 'can fuck off. Constable, we're done with him. Escort him off the premises.'
Frankenstein walked away, following Proudfoot from the house. When he got outside, out into the dull, bleak morning, he was surprised to see that his sergeant was already walking quickly away along George Street, heading back towards the centre of the town. As the shouts from the gathered press started up and immediately gained urgency and resolve, Frankenstein cursed under his breath, watched her for a few more seconds, and then turned to face the multitude.
Onion
'You know what I hate?' said Keanu MacPherson. The rest of the guys in the shop kept schtum, respecting the rhetorical nature of the question. 'Burning the roof of my mouth, so that it's sore and tender for three or four days. I do it all the time, usually with sausage. Roll 'n' sausage first thing in the morning...... you know it's going to be hot, you say to yourself, as the King said, fools rush in, just take your time, blow on it a little, don't rush, and then the smell of the sausage hits you and you just bite massively into that wee fella, and boom! The next second you're screaming in agony because you've torched the roof of your mouth.'
The glazier had come and gone. The window had been repaired. The shop was returned to normal. And full. Two customers. William Deco, fearless reporter of the locality, had decided that although he didn't really need his hair cut so much, the barbershop might be a good place to come to pick up some gossip. He'd already visited the latest crime scene, gathered everything useful he thought was likely to come his way, left his sidekick, Robin, waiting outside in the melee of reporters, and gone wandering through the town searching for inspiration and investigative insight. The other customer, Rusty Brown, now just five days removed from his most recent haircut, was there for more or less the same reason. It wasn't like his hair needed anything doing to it, but five pounds fifty bought so much more than hair that was already so short it was indistinguishable from an out and out baldy napper. Of course, he was just looking for scandalous gossip about the trawler and hoping that someone might repeat some rumour that he himself had started a couple of days previously. That would at least represent some achievement.
Inevitably, neither Rusty Brown's nor William Deco's conversational needs were being met by Keanu's lengthy thesis on the perils of the morning sausage.
Rusty Brown, in an effort to bring the exchange over the hazards of breakfast to a swift conclusion, suddenly produced the set of false teeth from his mouth and held them up to let Keanu get a good look. Keanu, who was cutting Rusty's hair at the time, reeled, and studied them from a safe distance.
'These'll protect the roof of your mouth,' he said, before slipping them back in. 'Of course, in the long run, your palette becomes soft and unable to stand heat and if you don't have your falsers in, you can't drink lukewarm tea without ending up in casualty.'
He caught Keanu's eye in the mirror. Keanu nodded and then tentatively moved back in to continue the nugatory scissor work. Barney and Deco looked at Brown with suspicion – no one likes it when someone starts brandishing their false teeth in a seditious manner.
'The real tragedy, the broader, bigger picture,' said William Deco, suddenly deciding that what was required was for someone to grab the bull by the horns and start riding round the mountain with it, 'is the death of the fishing industry itself, not just the apparent loss of three of its sons.'
Before Barney, Keanu or Igor could even attempt a penetrative spearhead across the front lines and into the trenches of the conversation, Rusty Brown had pounced on the discussion with extraordinary zeal and verve, leaving the other three straggling at the back with the generals and the catering staff.
'You know, at the moment,' said Rusty, 'I don't think the plight of the fishing industry represents a bigger picture here in Millport than the trawler mystery and now the decapitation of Nelly Johnson. It reminds me of Arnhem. Was there a bigger picture, sheesh, of course there was. There were four hundred thousand guys floating through the air getting shot up the arse, for goodness sake, that's a pretty big bloody picture, you know. But when you get down to the—'
'You know, I think,' said Barney, recognising that if you didn't interrupt Rusty Brown early on, he was liable to still be talking fifteen years later, 'that Rusty's right. Every story has many layers, but here, the basic story, that foundation layer, is for Brussels and the business sections of the broadsheets. The more intimate story of the crew of the Bitter Wind is of much greater immediate interest.'
'Exactly,' said Brown.
'Hmm,' said Deco. Had not had the courage of his original conviction, had just been looking to start the discussion. 'Fair point. And so the question is, who in the town would have wanted to get rid of the crew? All this talk of old man Koppen wanting the boat, but he only had to waste Ally Deuchar for that, not the three of them.'
'Arf,' said Igor.
'Totally,' said Keanu, although as usual he hadn't picked up the nuance. 'Who knows or dares to say what goes on in the minds of men?'
'You're saying that anybody in this town could have had a motive that the rest of us will never know?'
'Yep,' said Keanu. 'Anybody. Look at Igor, for example. The poor wee fella's a hideous, deaf, mute hunchbacked little guy in a white coat. There's nothing sinister about him at all. But who knows what goes on underneath that crop of weird black hair? And Barney, back there brandishing a pair of scissors. Seems mild-mannered and harmless enough. Switched on, reasonably cool guy, if slightly tending towards grumpy old man status. But you know, he's turned up in Millport in his mid-50s, and does anyone know what he's been up to in the past? Could be nothing, could be all sorts of things. The story of your life's a blank page, Barney, and only you know how to fill it in, eh?'
Barney was staring at Keanu, the weight of his life dragging at his face. Art Deco stared at him strangely in the mirror. Keanu suddenly felt the burden of Barney Thomson's past and he smiled to try to shrug it away.
'Only messing, Barney,' he said. 'Life, you know, it's just one big gigantic bag. You stick your hand in and you never know what you'll pull out. Might be nothing, might be covered in slime, might be chocolate cake...'
'Now you're just talking pish, son,' said Rusty Brown, a man so proficient in that himself that he easily recognised it in others.
Barney shivered and turned back to the head in front of him. William Deco, sitting there receiving a patient Hugh Laurie House. Nearly finished. Barney breathed heavily and resumed the careful scissor work. Keanu hadn't meant anything, he didn't know anything, and he hadn't even been fishing for something which he thought might be out there, but he had wrapped him up in accusation all the same and suddenly Barney felt smothered.
'Are you a man with a past, Barney?' asked Deco. He was a reporter after all.
'Everyone's got a past,' replied Barney dourly.
'Arf?' muttered Igor, and Barney shook his head. Thanks, Igor, but I don't need you to pan the guy's napper in with a broom.
The weight of gloom emanating from Barney suddenly sat heavily on the shop and a stillness descended. An uneasy tranquillity. The click of scissors, the shuffle of feet, the smooth and repetitive swoosh of a brush.
Barney was ju
st wrapping up when he shivered again, the feeling of someone walking on his grave. He turned to the door, even before it opened. He waited and then the door clicked, and Detective Sergeant Proudfoot was inside, unzipping her coat against the lazy warmth of the shop.
'This a good time, Mr Thomson?' she asked.
Barney glanced down at the beautifully coiffed head before him. It was such a perfect Hugh Laurie House that William Deco was probably going to start limping.
'I guess I'm done here,' he said.
He brushed away the hair from Deco's shoulders, whisked off the cape and stood back. Brain buzzing. Forgot the regulation move of displaying the rear of the customer's head in the mirror, but then Deco was so suddenly grabbed by the scent of a story that he didn't even notice.
He was a man on a mission. Barney Thomson, barber.
He fished around for some money and handed over a ten pound note, so engrossed with his sudden investigative energy that he waved away Barney's attempts at getting him change. Grabbed his coat and grabbed his cap, marginally stopped short of licking the end of his pencil. Took a final glance in the mirror.
'Nice job,' he said. 'Thanks.'
Barney was on to him. Could smell trouble.
'No problem,' said Barney.
William Deco nodded, glanced suspiciously at Detective Sergeant Erin Proudfoot, and then opened the door and walked quickly from the shop, displaying, for those who might have looked closely, a bit of a hobble.
They watched him go, the five people in the shop, and then slowly the normality of a quiet afternoon in a barbershop on a small island on the west coast of Scotland returned.
'He seemed in a hurry all of a sudden,' said Rusty Brown. 'Probably dying for a pish.'
'Arf!'
Igor bent to his work, sweeping up after William Deco. Barney and Proudfoot looked at each other, both finally facing up to the inevitable.
'Time for a coffee?' she asked.
Barney nodded. He clapped Igor on the shoulder, a familiar and yet strangely final gesture, and pulled on his coat.
'I'll be a while,' he said to Keanu. 'Keep the fires burning.'
'Sure, boss,' said Keanu.
The door opened and Barney and Proudfoot disappeared out into the cold of the morning. The others watched briefly, and then they were gone and the shop was bereft of conversation and authority, and Keanu was left alone with Rusty Brown and the continuing sullen and quiet presence of Igor.
'There's something funny going off,' said Rusty Brown eventually.
'Aye,' said Keanu after a while. 'There usually is.'
The Remains Of The Morning
Secretly Detective Chief Inspector Frankenstein was delighted. In fact, it wasn't even that much of a secret. There were too many things about the Bitter Wind which he didn't like, too many imponderables. Cases which weren't open and shut were one thing. He could handle a little peculiarity, some uncertainty. But all his senses told him that this was a case which threatened to lurch horribly over into the supernatural, and it made him feel uneasy. Now, however, everything had changed. They had a simple and straightforward bloody case of murder. Brutal maybe, but plain and obvious murder all the same. This he could deal with.
He pointed to a large man at the back of the press horde, a guy he didn't recognise from the usual collective who plagued the police station on these occasions.
'Big Man?' said Frankenstein.
'Yeah, like hi,' said the big fella. 'Dan Watson from DC Thomson.'
'The Sunday Post?' said Frankenstein incredulously. 'Your mob are actually acknowledging that murders happen? That won't sit well with the knitting patterns and recipes for fruit scones.'
'Nah,' said Watson, 'I'm actually covering the Scooby Doo-type angle for the Dandy and Beano.'
'Ah,' said Frankenstein. That, at least, made more sense. 'You're on to plums, though, eh, Chief? I can see the whole conspiracy, men-in-masks possibilities from the case up until now, but this? A decapitated woman? A sickening blood-splattered front room? Hello? That ain't Scooby Doo.'
'Well,' said Watson, encouraged by the detective's use of phrases such as sickening blood-splattered front room, which made great press, if not exactly for the Beano, 'you're forgetting the more recent Scooby feature-length animated films, where the monsters aren't always men in masks, and there is an acknowledgement of the existence of the supernatural. Look at Witch's Ghost, for example.'
'Fair point,' said Frankenstein. 'However, while that particular episode is filled with ironic nods to the earlier series, and in the end the ghost herself turns out to be a genuine four hundred year-old malevolent spirit with authentic evil powers, here's the thing... No one gets hurt! There's an actual old woman in there who will never wake up again. Her head has been completely severed. Blood on the walls, blood on the curtains, blood on the carpet. You going to tell that to your five year-old readership, bud?'
Watson was writing furiously, jealous of all the guys around him holding up a wide variety of recording devices.
'Well, I think children today are far more sophisticated than you give them credit for, and they're also desensitised to violence, but then again, you may have a point. Still, it might have been a man in a mask who chopped her head off? Can you comment on that?'
Frankenstein shrugged.
'That it might have been a man in a mask? Sure, I can comment on that. Here's my comment. Who the fuck knows? It could have been a monkey in a mask.'
The press conference did not last much longer.
The headline in that evening's newspaper: Police Search For Genetically Modified Masked Killer Monkey.
***
From where they were sitting they could look back along the front at Millport. A cold morning, the town still showing the remnants of the ravaging by the storm. They had picked up a coffee each and were sitting on a bench up by the pier, a few yards from where the Bitter Wind had been swept away. The pier itself had been given at least a surface clean up, so that it took closer inspection to notice the underlying storm damage.
'So, tell me everything,' said Barney. They'd been sitting in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the peace, watching the world go by. The slowly changing artwork of small town life.
'Me?' she said, surprised that he'd even think to ask. She had been waiting to strike up the conversation about him. 'You care?'
Barney smiled.
'Sure,' he said. 'You did me a favour once. That, and you're one of the few people on the planet that I actually recognise from my past. Whatever life that was before all this insanity started.'
She nodded. Not everyone in this modern day is self-obsessed, she thought.
'Not much to tell,' she said. 'The last time I saw you I was lying in a pool of blood. Nearly died, somehow managed to hang on. Took a year out from the police, recuperated. A few months in bed, spent a few months walking in the foothills of the Himalayas.'
'Meditation and all that sort of thing?'
'Nah. Mostly internet café hopping, but it was fun. Got me back on my feet. Joel came with me.'
'The detective guy, your sidekick?'
'Yeah. We got married in Singapore at the end of it all. He left the police. I was going to, but they were really good to me during the whole thing, and, well, here I am. Been back in a few years. This is my first murder since back then. Guess they've been keeping me away from it.'
A seagull landed on the railing not far from them and inspected them for signs of food. Barney lifted his coffee cup to show that they were packing caffeine and no crumbs. The seagull moved its head to the side and then turned and flew off.
'How are you coping?' he asked.
'Denial,' she said quickly. 'Denial. Been three years since my last therapy. Maybe I'll need to go back.'
'What's Mulholland doing now?' said Barney.
'You remember him?' she asked, surprised.
'Everything from back then seems kind of vague, but yes, it's in there somewhere.'
'He works for the Forestry Comm
ission. You remember the Wolf in Pulp Fiction?'
Barney smiled and nodded.
'That's Joel. He's the Wolf of forestry.'
They drank their coffee. They looked at the skies and the sea. An elegiac moment, the small bay stretching before them.
'Your turn,' said Proudfoot eventually, and Barney stared at the ground in front of him. 'The last I heard, whereas I nearly died, you did the job properly. Dead at the foot of a cliff, thanks to old man Blizzard.'
'Well,' said Barney, quickly, 'he didn't push me, I just slipped. Although, to be fair to the lad Blizzard, maybe he'd have pushed me if he'd had to. So then, what happened next...? Back from the dead. Hard to explain.'
He paused, sipped on his cup of joe.
'Presumably though, you must have some explanation,' she said, amused by his reticence. No impatience, just a lazy cup of coffee on a cool autumnal day by the sea. She could sit here all day, take nothing else to do with the investigation, talk to Barney Thomson, chew the fat, wait a few days to return to her own personal Wolf.
'Well, you know, Sergeant,' said Barney Thomson, 'I'm not sure that I can. I was never, to be honest, personally aware of being dead. No light at the end of a tunnel, no Heaven, no Hell, no deity-like figure casting doubts over my presence in his house, no red, bearded, long-tailed sneak, waiting to whack me over the head with a steaming iron bar, before sending me into the caves for an eternity of back-breaking, soul-crushing penance. Nothing. I fell off a cliff, woke up some time later in a bed, having been employed with the First Minister.'
She looked at him. There was a story there that she had studiously avoided at the time, since murder had been involved.
'You were the personal barber, when all those cabinet murders were being committed?'
''Fraid so.'
'Jeez, that's pretty funky. Murder has followed you around'
Barney smiled. Never a truer word...
'I'm Jessica whatshername from Murder She Wrote,' he said.
'Miss Marple,' she added.
The Barbershop Seven Page 147