The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  Then she caught the cup on its downward spiral.

  She drained the dregs from the glass, pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. She looked down at the back of Fitzgerald's head, the blood now spreading to contaminate his Harvey Nicholls smart but casual.

  'Brunoise of scallops,' she said softly. 'Pretentious little shit.'

  And with that, Sweetlips lifted her bag, took out the small kit she had brought along to wipe the scene clear of evidence while planting more evidence along the way, and got to work.

  ***

  Three-thirty in the morning and Fitzgerald's place was a throng of Feds. The scenes of crime officers were doing their bit. Taking prints, picking up hairs with tweezers, doing the DNA thing.

  The body was where it had sat for just under six hours. Prints had been taken from the bottom of the wine glass, but the stem had still to be removed from the eye socket. Harlequin Sweetlips had added a new set of fingerprints to the mix, and so the SOCOs were in the process of collecting them from a variety of different places around the house.

  The officer in charge of the investigation – having been dragged from a mundane assault along the bottom end of the Tottenham Court Road – Detective Chief Inspector Frank Frankenstein, 43, stood over the corpse.

  'Hugo Fitzgerald,' said Daniella Monk, looking at the few notes that she had made since arriving in the apartment ten minutes prior to her boss. 'Thirty-three. Worked for a firm of marketing consultants just along the river. Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane. Pretty big, apparently. Unmarried. Member of the MCC.'

  'Jesus,' said Frankenstein.

  'None of your prejudices,' she said.

  'Zip it, Danno,' said Frankenstein. 'What else?'

  'Not much. Did you know you could get Endive & Beetroot scented shampoo?' she asked.

  Frankenstein grunted. 'Sounds like a packet of crisps,' he said gruffly.

  'Big into Bulgarian folk music,' she added.

  'Oh, for God's sake,' said Frankenstein.

  'Apart from that, nothing. The flat's all show and no substance.'

  Frankenstein let out a long sigh, then straightened his back, as his sergeant was always telling him to do to get rid of the humph, and stretched his arms out wide. As soon as he had done it, however, his mind moved on and the humph returned. He looked around the room.

  'All show, no substance. Not often you see that these days,' he said glibly. 'What the hell do marketing consultants do anyway?'

  Frankenstein was in his second year with the Metropolitan Police, having transferred from Strathclyde. Unusually amongst his colleagues, he enjoyed his work. However, he still hadn't got used to London. Every day he thought about going home.

  'They're the people who decide what kind of chocolate bar we're all going to like next year,' said Monk. 'It's because of them you get miniature Mars Bars, wipes for absolutely everything on the planet and limited edition packets of crisps.'

  'Ah,' said Frankenstein. 'That's good. At least one of them's dead.'

  And with that he turned his back on Monk and the corpse, and began to walk from the apartment.

  'I take it you know where to find the offices of Bethlehem, Humpty & Dumpty?' he threw over his shoulder.

  'Yeah,' she said, in his wake.

  'We'll go there in the morning,' he said. 'I'm going to bed. Expect you'll be wanting to get back to Sergeant Khan.'

  'Dumped him,' she said.

  Frankenstein grunted. 'About bloody time,' he said, as he pulled open the front door, before stepping back with some annoyance, as another three SOCOs entered to continue their intelligence gathering activities.

  The Walls Bled Pop Culture

  Barney Thomson awoke suddenly, bolt upright in bed, looking around the room, trying to remember who and where he was. Almost thirty seconds of confusion, a strange divine madness of having no idea to his identity or location, and then the already chaotic noise of the buses and other traffic outside weaved its way insidiously into his head, and he remembered London and he remembered haircutting and the offices of Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane.

  He let his head fall back onto the pillow, ran his hand through his hair, which he'd had cut very short. A long breath. Recognised the uneasy feeling that had dragged him from a deep sleep. Another of the dreams that constantly troubled him, although all recollection of it had gone. Closed his eyes, tried to see where he had just come from, but the dreams were always impossible to get back. Maybe this time there had been something more.

  He shivered, a violent shudder throughout his body, and he opened his eyes again seeking daylight. Swung his legs out from under the sheets, sat on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor.

  Murder. There had been murder.

  Or was that just London on any given night? Of course there had been murder. But this was close to home, this was going to have been someone he knew. It was starting again. It followed him everywhere he went, his eternal curse. He hadn't even been able to escape it by dying, couldn't escape it by running from town to town, city to city, couldn't escape it by settling down in small town Scotland. Didn't even have to be told that it had started, he instinctively knew.

  'What did I do to deserve this?' he said bitterly, rose from the bed in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, then pulled the curtain and looked down on another bleak morning in central London.

  Somewhere, someone knew exactly what Barney was thinking. They knew the question that Barney had just asked in what he'd thought was an empty room, and they knew the answer.

  ***

  Jude Orwell was sitting at his desk. Rose had just shown Frankenstein and Monk into his office, after she herself had informed him of Fitzgerald's death. While Thomas Bethlehem was away, trawling the Continent for new clientele, Orwell led the line, and took the heat when one of the employees unexpectedly received a wine glass in the eye.

  Orwell waited. Monk was looking at the wallpaper; a rich velvet, with '60s retro, sub-Warhol banana imprint. Frankenstein was looking around the office, his eyes finally settling on a Monet print. All style, no substance, he had already decided, and that was even without knowing how much the wallpaper cost.

  'So, God,' said Orwell, because neither of the officers seemed to be on the verge of saying anything.

  'I quite like Monet,' said Frankenstein, and Orwell squirmed as he pronounced the t. 'Course, they're saying he's the new Charlie Brown,' Frankenstein added.

  Frankenstein turned and gave Orwell a knowing smile, as if they were two art connoisseurs together, sharing a private joke, and Orwell forced the smile back.

  'You don't pronounce the t in Monet,' said Monk.

  Frankenstein gave her a look over his shoulder then smiled wryly at Orwell, continuing the thing between the two of them, as if they were superior.

  'Look, eh, you know, like, God,' said Orwell, trying to retrieve the situation, before Frankenstein suggested that they hoof it across the river to the Tate Modern for a couple of hours' art appreciation, 'Hugo. You know, what happened?'

  'Danno,' said Frankenstein, as he turned his attention to another print in amongst the bananas. Modern art this time. However, as he couldn't actually decide what it was a picture of, he was destined not to look at it for too long.

  'His body was found in his apartment in the middle of the night by a neighbour. Door left open. He'd been dead for around six hours.'

  'My God,' said Orwell, 'He was young, eh? Like, twenty-nine or something?'

  'Thirty-three,' said Frankenstein over his shoulder, taking the words from Monk's lips.

  'Right,' said Orwell. Thirty-three. Bloody Hell. He'd looked young for his age. Definitely popping all sorts of stuff. Live fast, die young, we all get what we deserve.

  'He was murdered,' said Monk, waiting for the reaction.

  Orwell's mouth opened and a strange little sound escaped. His pupils shot out large. His eyes were wide. He showed no effort to mask the initial surprise, and nor did he seem to be faking it. He closed his mouth and, as he stared at her, he tried to re
member what he'd been doing the night before in case they were here to question him in connection with the murder.

  'You all right?' she said, taking a step closer to him.

  Orwell nodded. Under other circumstances – that is, circumstances where he wasn't obsessing about Taylor Bergerac, Waferthin.com gal – he would've found Daniella Monk extremely attractive.

  'Yeah,' said Orwell, 'yeah. I mean, God, Hugo. What happened? You know who did it? Are you questioning anyone?'

  'The investigation is in its infancy,' she said, taking an expedient seat. 'I wonder if we could just ask you a few things?'

  Frankenstein had moved onto just idly staring at the wallpaper and was nodding his appreciation of pop culture.

  'Sure,' said Orwell, feeling ridiculously unsettled. It wasn't as if he'd murdered Hugo Fitzgerald.

  'Warhol's the new DC Comics, that's what they're saying nowadays,' said Frankenstein, turning around with a knowing smile.

  ***

  Frankenstein and Monk walked back through the large open plan office of the station. The place was buzzing as always, but the frenetic activity, the voraciously thumped computers, the phones being shouted at, the cell phones ringing, belied the fact that it was all routine, all mundane, all slaves to the prosaic nature of everyday crime.

  'Didn't get much,' said Monk, as they walked into Frankenstein's office, which was an untidy affair bereft of any noticeable order.

  'Danno,' said Frankenstein, as he walked behind his desk, slumped down into the chair and looked at the desktop to see if there was anything in amongst the mire of paper that was new and should be considered, 'you never do in this life. When did we leave there?' he added, looking up at the clock on his wall which hadn't worked in six months.

  'Forty minutes ago,' she said.

  'Good,' he said. 'Go back there on your own.'

  'Why?'

  'Because,' said Frankenstein, 'you're a woman. Seemed to be mostly men in that building. Talk to some of them. Start with Orwell again, then work your way up from the bottom. And I heard they've got a barber. Speak to him. Barbers know shit. People talk to barbers, say things they shouldn't.'

  'Why didn't you just tell me to stay when we were there?' she said, making her way to the door.

  'I was thinking,' he shot back.

  She pulled the door open.

  'Pain in the neck,' she muttered, as she went.

  'Zip it, Danno,' said Frankenstein and, with another derisive look thrown his way, she headed out of the door.

  Less Of A Sock, More Of A Guiding Light To An Eternal Vision Of Happiness, Joy And Spiritual Fulfilment

  Piers Hemingway and John Wodehouse were in Orwell's office, discussing the division of Fitzgerald's work. The man's body might almost still be warm, but they couldn't let things lie in this business. Orwell had touched base with Bethlehem somewhere in the south of France, and had been given the go-ahead to sort out the bulk of Fitzgerald's in-tray. The conversation had been brief. Bethlehem had sounded distracted, almost disinterested. Orwell found it fascinating; wondered if Bethlehem was losing interest, saw his chances of making inroads into the company grow with every day Bethlehem was gone. Had the go-ahead to appoint Fitzgerald's successor, a problem to which Orwell was already giving thought; albeit, not as much thought as another problem that was playing on his mind.

  'Right,' said Hemingway, who was reading down the list, 'we've done the wine gums, Ethiopian immigration fiasco, diet headache tablets for women and the pension security thing. That just leaves WonderSocks.'

  'Yeah,' said Wodehouse, 'WonderSocks.'

  Orwell shook his head. Wodehouse also shook his head. Then nodded. Big contract, they had given it to Fitzgerald because it was a shootie-in.

  'What have we got so far?' asked Orwell.

  Hemingway sighed and looked over the rough outline that he and Fitzgerald had worked through in ten minutes the previous week.

  'We're looking at a nationwide billboard campaign. We're thinking Naomi or Kate, maybe go Hollywood and get Uma or Liv, not sure.'

  'What about Kate Winslet?' said Orwell, although as he spoke he was actually thinking about Taylor Bergerac, the main issue which was occupying his mind.

  'Too chunky,' said Hemingway.

  'Been at the mince pies,' said Wodehouse, shaking his head.

  'Jesus, give the girl a break,' said Orwell. 'She's hot.'

  'Fine, if we were looking at her breasts,' said Hemingway. 'We're selling socks. We need to stay focused,' he added, because he could tell Orwell wasn't entirely switched on, and he was feeling a new lease of confidence with Fitzgerald's sudden departure. Fancied himself in pole position for the Head of TV Contracts gig. 'So,' he continued, 'we're looking at some slim überbabe, she's in the buff, full frontal breast shot ... '

  'So we are looking at her breasts?' said Orwell, smiling. 'You see, Piers, we're always looking at their breasts.'

  'The client specified slim,' said Hemingway.

  'Slim,' said Wodehouse.

  'There'll be the usual stink after the girl's tits go up all round the country,' said Hemingway, 'so we'll have to be ready with the back-up poster as soon as we get the call from the ASW.'

  'For the follow up,' said Orwell, 'the bird has to be staring out at the public with a look that says, you could've been looking at my boobs right now if it hadn't been for the complaint from that boring old twat sitting next to you on the bus.'

  'Totally,' said Hemingway.

  'Yeah,' said Wodehouse.

  'Socks can be sexy,' said Hemingway, 'that's the hook. She's lying back on the carpet ... '

  'Looking as if she's just been shagged?' said Orwell.

  'Depends who we go with. If it's Uma or Naomi, you probably want to go with that whole ice-queen, you can look but you better not touch thing. If we end up with Cameron Diaz, we'd go with the shagged look.'

  'Good point,' said Wodehouse.

  'She's on the carpet,' said Hemingway, 'with her feet propped up on the edge of a leather sofa. Black and white photograph, socks alone are in bright colour. We'll use a variety, with at least ten different posters.'

  'Excellent,' said Orwell. 'How much of that came from Fitzgerald?'

  'About twenty-eighty,' said Hemingway, fluffing out his own part in the piece. Orwell bought it and nodded. Any of them could've done it in their sleep. Poor old Hugo, going through the motions.

  'And TV?' asked Orwell.

  'We're going for a combo of the sex thing and the scientific aspect. Horny and naked-except-for-socks bird walking through a chic apartment, while we explain that WonderSocks improve your posture, thereby making your breasts look great, they ensure your feet are fragrant, even at the end of the day, and they help you go to the bathroom, lose weight, make your hair shine, get rid of spots, banish cellulite forever and reduce stress.'

  'Excellent,' said Wodehouse.

  'And some sort of spiel like ... Feel the magic. Enter a world of ecstasy and freedom. Dive into a beautiful pool of orgasms and feel the pleasure and rapture caress your entire body. Give in to the breathtaking intensity of what the New York fashion critics are calling the most exciting socks produced anywhere in the world in all of history ... '

  'Nice. And we're using the same chick as for the billboards?'

  'Yeah,' said Hemingway.

  'Sounds good, Piers, I like the way you're going with it. When do we have to present?'

  'End of next week,' answered Hemingway.

  'Cool. Can you have a full outline with me by Monday afternoon?'

  'No problem,' said Hemingway.

  'Easy,' said Wodehouse.

  Orwell sat back and nodded. Twenty-five minutes and that was a wrap on the work of Hugo Fitzgerald. That was how it was sometimes. Didn't mean he wouldn't have been Premiership some day, but certainly not now. Dying might be a cool career move for movie stars, but in advertising it's a complete wash-out.

  Hemingway rose and walked from the room, Wodehouse on his coat-tails. When the door was clo
sed, Orwell stood up and looked out of the window. Had a wonderful view up the north bank towards the city, as well as out across the river and away south. Almost time, he thought, to nip along to the Wilbury Close for a quick pint. Sort out a few things in his head.

  In the thirty-three minutes between Frankenstein and Monk leaving, and the arrival of Hemingway and Wodehouse, Orwell had concentrated on the Waferthin.com file. It was good work, an excellent presentation of a quality business plan. Trashed the opposition, talked their own product up to the sky. There was no mention, of course, of what they had verbalised to him – Orwell thought in terms of words like verbalise – that the genuine business plan included a definite intention to fold the company.

  Three and a half seconds after Hemingway and Wodehouse had left the room, the door opened. Orwell didn't turn round.

  'The police sergeant is back,' said Rose.

  Orwell's heart sank, his initial thought being that this would be the pointless little man who had so offended him, because he'd had exactly the same opinions on art as he had himself. He turned to see Rose usher Daniella Monk into the room, and immediately he relaxed.

  'If you've got a few more minutes,' said Monk.

  'Just going for a pint,' he said. 'You want to come, Sergeant?'

  Monk hesitated – bad move to let them dictate the location – but then the alternative was his office with absurd banana wallpaper.

  'Sure,' she said.

  ***

  Monk sat and stared at the floor of the Wilbury Close while Orwell got the drinks in. She'd ordered a half cider and hoped it wouldn't be Strongbow, that ultimate triumph of marketing over taste. While she waited, she looked at an empty packet of Honey Roasted Nuts – roasted in solar-powered ovens, may contain nuts – and tried not to let her prejudices get the better of her. Orwell represented everything that she hated about life in the new millennium, style over substance, money over values. Quietly hoping that he was going to turn out to be the killer.

  Orwell returned with the drinks and lowered himself into a soft chair. Half Strongbow for Monk, pint of Heineken for himself.