'No,' said Barney suddenly. 'It's not over yet.'
'How can you be so sure?' he asked.
'Been here before,' said Barney. 'These things don't just blow over. Not this.'
The children had suddenly patched up their differences, without the intervention of the UN, and had started working together to build a damn across a small stream which was trickling down to the water. Barney was watching them, letting his mind drift. He had spent three hours dredging up more ghosts and memories than he would have liked. Now he just wanted to switch off. The ingenuous fun of two young children was the perfect distraction. Proudfoot wasn't so easily distracted, her own demons and nightmares having been reawakened by her three hours with Barney. Frankenstein was looking at the waves. Bewitched.
'I'm going to make you an offer, Mr Thomson,' said Frankenstein. 'Might seem a bit odd, but there's always something stranger just around the corner.'
Barney tipped his head to the side and looked across at Proudfoot. Proudfoot also turned, wondering what her boss was going to suggest. A one-way ticket to Buenos Aries and three hundred thousand in cash if Barney promised never to darken Scotland's doors again?
'I'm going to make you a deputy,' said Frankenstein.
He let the statement slip out into the cold November afternoon and get carried away by the wind.
'Can you do that?' asked Proudfoot.
Barney smiled.
'I was being melodramatic,' said Frankenstein. 'Obviously, for official purposes we'll have to couch it in more modern terms. We'll hire you as a consultant on the case. Day-by-day basis, until we have our murderer, the case is solved, or we give up. It'll be a fairly free-flowing, ad hoc arrangement.'
Proudfoot looked at Frankenstein, very impressed. Unusual for anyone in public service to be that sensible or proactive.
'What if I turn out to be the killer?' asked Barney.
'Then I'm going to look very stupid.'
Barney thought about that for a while, thought about the risk he was taking for him.
'And what if the press find out? If you record it officially, it's bound to get out. You'll get crucified, won't you?'
'I won't record it officially,' said Frankenstein. Had thought it through on the short drive to Saltcoats from the Largs ferry. 'At least, not in your name. The contract will be noted down in a false name, for a false consultancy firm. When the whole thing's over and done with, I'll need to do some juggling of the books. Won't be easy, but I know a couple of people in finance. I have an idea or two on how to get it all cleared up.'
Barney looked out across the grim sea, the sky darkening behind them, the sun beginning to sink unseen away to the west behind thick banks of cloud. In the distance, emerging from behind Little Cumbrae, he could see a nuclear submarine on its way out from Faslane, off for a few months lying in deep waters. The cold wind bit harder, and Barney Thomson, barber, accepted that this would be his fate. For now, at any rate. This would not help in his final judgement, but if it brought it a little bit closer, then he might as well.
'Sure,' he said, 'why not?'
Proudfoot shook her head. She smiled. After hearing the full Barney Thomson story, this didn't seem any more bizarre than so much of what had gone before in his life.
'Don't think you're getting a badge,' said Frankenstein.
The Barbershop Must Go On
The shop had returned to its previous state of calm. The word had got round that Barney Thomson had been taken into police custody and would be held there for at least seventy-two hours. All that was left of the freak show of the Millport barbershop was Igor, the deaf mute hunchback, and Keanu, the surfer dude barber. Neither was enough to drag anyone onto the boat across to Millport, and the town residents already knew everything there was to know about the two of them. The shop had returned to its normal November state of two or three customers a day.
And so it was a bit of a surprise for both Igor and Keanu when two men entered. Fred and Bernard.
As the door opened, Keanu was trying to balance a tea spoon on his nose. Igor was watching him, full of melancholy, thinking that Barney had never tried to balance a tea spoon on his nose. Not in public, at any rate.
'Like, hi!' said Bernard. 'Any chance of a haircut from you fellas?'
Keanu took the spoon from his nose and looked at the two newcomers. Had seen them around the island, had heard talk of them. Knew that they were here because of the murders, although had heard it said that they'd been on the island even before the tragedy of the Bitter Wind had taken place. Immediately suspicious.
'Sure,' said Keanu. 'Who's first?'
'I'll go first,' said Fred, 'although I don't want a cut. Just a bit of a quaff.'
Keanu was even more suspicious. He invited Fred up to the chair and wrapped the cloak around his neck. Bernard sat down on the bench, eyeing up Igor as he did so.
'Hey, pal,' he said, 'Any chance of some food while I wait? Maybe a sandwich or some biscuits?'
Igor could pick up speech from merely paying attention to the vibrations. But then again, sometimes he elected to be completely deaf in all capacities. He continued to sweep up.
'Say, what's the thing with your wee friend the sweeper-upper guy?' asked Fred. 'Seems like a bit of a freak.'
'He's cool,' said Keanu. 'Sure, he's a deaf, mute hunchback, but that just means he can't hear, he can't speak and he has trouble getting a suit to fit.'
'Was he in Bavaria in 1876?' asked Fred.
Keanu stood back and eyed Fred in the mirror. Fred had the decency to look a little sheepish, before smiling and trying to make out that the question had been a joke.
'What exactly do you mean by quaff?' said Keanu.
Fred had a thick mat of blonde hair which looked like it had already undergone a fair amount of personal quaffing that morning.
'Just, you know, kind of bouffed up a bit.'
'Like, yeah,' said Bernard from behind, 'Fred's into that whole metrosexual thing. He takes like eight hours in the bathroom every morning.'
It was at about this time that Igor decided to take himself out of the loop and into the back room. Time to make a roll 'n' sausage for himself and Keanu, something which wouldn't be produced until Bernard had gone.
'And where's Barney?' asked Fred. 'Barney Thomson,' he added, just in case Keanu had thought he meant Barney Rubble, Barney Miller, or Barney the big pink homosexual dinosaur.
'He got taken into police custody this morning,' said Keanu, reluctant to discuss Barney, but hoping that confirmation of his absence might lead them to leave sooner than they were intending. 'To bouff your hair to the extent that you're requesting, I should probably wash it first,' he added.
'I don't think so,' said Fred. 'Maybe just some mousse.'
'Did somebody say mousse?'
'I should have told you, friend, that we're from MI6. We're meant to say that as soon as we start talking to people.'
Keanu stared awkwardly at him in the mirror. He'd already heard the MI6 rumour of course, but hadn't believed it. Still didn't believe it.
'What's MI6 doing working in the UK?' he asked.
'We were here on a team building exercise. Then when this mystery started, the police asked us to help out.'
Keanu sprayed some of the cheapest product he had lying around into Fred's hair and started to bouff it up a little.
'So that grumpy old police guy who's in charge of the investigation, asked you four kids and your dog to help him?'
'Like, sure, why not?' came the voice from the bench.
'You don't believe us?' said Fred.
Keanu worked his hands through Fred's hair, hating the artifice of it all, knowing that at the end his hair was going to look exactly the same as it did when he first walked in. He was suddenly caught up in some stupid game that he didn't want to be part of.
'MI6,' said Keanu. 'I know it's not all James Bond and beautiful women and car chases. Mundane stuff working in embassies, meeting people in cafés, paperwork.'
; 'Man, you've got some inside information,' said Fred. 'Who have you been pumping?'
'The thing is, it's still all based in deception. In your working environment, you can't just say that you are who you are. You're all trained to lie, to deceive. You work in misinformation. So can anyone ever believe anything that any of you say? Is the fact that you say you work for MI6 not a contradiction in itself? Does not the fact of saying that's what you do, mean in itself that you don't? The statement, I work for MI6 is of itself a complete paradox. Maybe you're CIA, maybe you're MI5, maybe you're from Blue Peter, maybe you're KGB.'
'Very twenty years ago, friend,' said Bernard from the back.
'Whatever. There's still KGB in Belarus,' said Keanu.
'Aha!' said Fred. 'You sound like you might be from the intelligence community yourself!'
Keanu ran his hands through Fred's hair so that it was sticking straight up in the air. Then, while Fred was distracted by the whole intelligence community debate, he grabbed a can of P&G's Instant Cast-Iron Styling Spray, covering the label with his hands so Fred wouldn't notice, and drenched his hair with it.
'I read the newspapers,' said Keanu. 'Now, gentlemen, we're pretty busy this afternoon, so I'm going to have to ask you to leave.'
Bernard looked around the empty shop. Fred looked at his hair in the mirror. He looked like he'd just seen a Trawler Fiend. He lifted his hand to try and run it through his hair, but couldn't get it in. His hair was rock solid, standing to attention.
'It should wear off in a few weeks,' said Keanu.
'Funny, friend,' said Fred.
'It's a good look for you,' said Keanu. 'It's about time you tried something new.'
'Like, how do you know he's looked the same for forty years now?' said Bernard.
'That'll be £45 please,' said Keanu, stepping back and ushering Fred from the chair.
Fred looked up at the price list on the wall, which started with Short Back & Sides: £4.25 and ended with A Bit Of A Bouff: £7.50.
'It was a special,' said Keanu. 'Small island sensibilities, London prices. Wanted to make you MI6 fellas feel at home.'
Fred took his coat down from the rack, searching around in the pockets for some money.
'I can call in an air strike, you know,' he muttered. 'Or have you sent to Laos.'
He handed the money over to Keanu, who turned and put it in the till.
'Now,' said Keanu, turning back, arms folded, 'you can fuck off.'
'Arf!' barked the voice from the back, Igor having appeared to stand in the doorway, armed with a broom.
With the door open the smell of grilling sausages wafted out into the shop.
'Like, oh my gosh!' said Bernard. 'Is that sausages I can smell? I love sausages.'
Keanu walked to the door of the shop and opened it to the dying of the day.
'This gentlemen,' he said, 'is the door.'
Fred looked at Bernard, and ruffled his hair.
'He's showing us the door, Bernard,' he said. 'And you never even got your haircut.'
'Like, I never get my haircut anyway. Wow, man, I'll need to go in search of sausages.'
And with that, the two nefarious agents of MI6 walked out into the cold late afternoon and Keanu closed the door over behind them. As they walked off along the road, headed for the Ritz Café and all the rolls 'n' sausage they could eat, Keanu looked out to sea. Igor came up and stood next to him, leaning on the broom, following his gaze out across the water. The afternoon was getting hazier as it was getting dark. Some of the lights on the mainland which were usually visible were obscured. Another fog was closing in on the island. A fog just like the one which had fallen on the night when the Bitter Wind had lost its crew.
'Looks nasty out there,' said Keanu. 'Time for a late afternoon sausage sandwich.'
'Arf!' said Igor.
Nardini
By the time Barney Thomson, DS Proudfoot and DCI Frankenstein had returned to Largs to catch the ferry across to Cumbrae, evening had fallen and the fog had completely descended.
Frankenstein slowly drove down the short stretch of road along which the cars queued for the ferry. Got to the end and parked behind the only other two cars in the queue. They could see the ferry parked up at the pier. There didn't seem to be anyone sitting in the cars at the front of the queue.
'God's sake,' muttered Frankenstein. 'It's a bloody ghost town.'
He stepped out the car and looked angrily up the pier, being the type of person to be quick to irritation. The fog was so thick that he could barely make out the end of the pier, even though the pier at Largs is not long. He turned, looked all around him, had that briefly helpless feeling of having no one to shout at, then walked quickly towards the ticket office in the small building at the head of the quay.
In the car, Proudfoot turned to Barney, who was sitting in the back seat, staring out at nothing. Wondering what he would have to do to earn his consultancy money. Write a large report using phrases such as knife and forked it, blue envelope and cubicle monkey and then charge them forty thousand pounds for every day's work.
'I should go and make sure he doesn't fall into the water,' said Proudfoot.
'I'll stay here and guard the warmth,' said Barney.
Proudfoot smiled and stepped out into the fog. Closed the car door, pulled her coat tightly against her. The mist was thick and freezing so that it felt like you were swallowing it every time you took a breath. She shivered. Could see Frankenstein disappear off into the mist ahead and walked quickly after him.
The fog masked all sounds. It was only just after six o'clock on a weekday evening and yet the place seemed deserted. She couldn't hear any cars, couldn't see any people. Somewhere, only a few unseen yards off the shore, she could hear a metal chain clank mournfully against metal on a small boat, moved by the slight swell. The sea, what she could see of it as it washed peacefully onto the shore, had the eerie calm that comes with dense fog. She shivered again, began to get affected by the silence. Could feel the hand of the fog creeping up her back.
She stopped. Looked around her. Back at Barney, sitting in the car, elbow on the door, head leaning on his hand. Relaxed. Had he seen so much, was he immune to this feeling? Turned, wondered what had happened to Frankenstein. Looked at the café opposite the car queue, Nardini's. There wasn't a kid on the west coast of Scotland who hadn't eaten ice cream from that shop. The lights were on. She could see people inside. She relaxed a little. A sign of life.
The hand touched her shoulder.
She jumped, half screamed, whirled round, stepping back, hands up, automatic reflex, breath wheezing dramatically.
'Jesus!' said Frankenstein. 'What's with you?'
She breathed deeply, hand to her chest. Instant hot flush to go with the cold sweat.
'Heebee geebees?' said Frankenstein, and in her mixed up state, Proudfoot let out a bark of a laugh at the sound of the childish expression coming from Frankenstein, all gruff and angry irritation.
'Yeah,' she said, 'heebee geebees.'
Frankenstein stamped his feet, the harsh sound, even so close, dulled by the thick mist.
'Not a bastard around,' he said. 'The ferry's parked up. The ticket office is shut.'
'Thick fog,' said Proudfoot.
'Piece of crap,' said Frankenstein. 'If these bastards want to continue to get government subsidies, they better bloody run regardless of the weather. Piece of crap.'
Proudfoot looked out to sea, indicated with her hand that you could barely see twenty yards.
'We'll need to get onto someone back at the station, get them to speak to some bastard at CalMac. Bastards will probably be closed for the night.'
In angrily looking around him, he noticed the lights and the people in the café across the road. They could hear a car driving slowly, fifty yards away, round the curve of the main road through Largs.
'Come on,' he said, 'we'll check in here first, probably find the crew of the ship with their feet up, drinking latté.'
He walked quic
kly across the road, Proudfoot behind. Now that she had her brusque boss for company and she no longer had the fog and her imagination to lead her astray, the fear had gone. She could stand back and watch Frankenstein get mad at someone, which was always, at the very least, entertaining.
***
Barney was watching the sea mist drift past the car. So thick that he wondered if he'd be able to touch it if he rolled down the window and stuck his hand out. The car was cooling down already, and as he sat and watched Frankenstein and Proudfoot, saw her comical jump as Frankenstein had walked up to her from behind, he contemplated the move into the café. Coffee. Ice cream.
How many ice creams had he had in that place over the years of waiting for ferries at the start of summer holidays? Sometimes they would come down by train and their mum would always hustle them straight onto the boat. But on the times when they would come by car, he would hope there was a huge queue for the ferry, and she would always acquiesce and take them into the shop for ice cream. A hundred flavours, he had always had vanilla. Two scoops.
His mother. The serial killer.
The front passenger door opened and closed quickly. Barney felt the sudden draft of cold air. He turned. It wasn't Proudfoot. It wasn't Frankenstein.
'Hello, Barney,' said the voice, each word creaking out like the groaning of an old barn door.
Barney Thomson, barber, could feel the blood drain from his face.
***
Frankenstein opened the door of the café, held it briefly for Proudfoot and walked inside. Proudfoot followed, immediately unzipping her jacket against the wonderful warmth of the shop.
There were three occupied tables. Two, seemingly, the passengers from the two cars which were parked outside, waiting forlornly in the mist for a boat that was unlikely to sail that night. A middle-aged couple, who were tucking into rolls 'n' bacon and cups of tea. A man on his own, who had taken out a laptop and was writing frantically at the table. Frankenstein straight away pegged him as a journalist.
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