The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'Vodka tonic?' she said, almost as if expecting them not to have it.

  'Sure,' said the barman.

  'Long glass, loads of ice,' said Sweetlips.

  'Always,' he said.

  There passed some pointless look between them and he turned to fetch the long glass. She tried to stop herself looking along the bar again, and managed it for less than a second. The man who had disconcerted her so much was doing that man-at-a-bar thing, staring blankly at the marks in the wood, bottle in hand, tapping it gently on the surface. Thinking about nothing at all, some might say, but Harlequin Sweetlips knew he was thinking about her.

  Her drink appeared in front of her, and once again she was brought sharply back to focus, and she wondered how long she'd been staring.

  'Six-eighty, please, love,' said the barkeep, and Sweetlips dug into her pocket for a ten pound note. She looked back along the bar, as the barkeep felt the whisper of jealousy; here was a spectacularly attractive woman who was going to be sharing her secrets with someone at his bar other than him.

  She took a sip from her drink, the first cold fantastic touch on her tongue and her throat immediately calming the anxiety. Wintry, fresh alcohol. This time she didn't remove her eyes from him, no intention of doing so until he looked at her.

  The man could feel her gaze burrowing into the side of his head. Had recognised the colour of the murderer, had recognised from the look in her eye that she had seen right through him, had known that he had known her. The longer his life went on, the more encounters he had with serial murderers, the more he stumbled across those who would cry havoc and wreak terrible vengeance on society for whatever ailed their minds, the more he recognised those murderers, possibly even before they had descended into the hell which led them to their crimes.

  He turned finally and looked her straight in the eye; immediately saw into the depths, saw such brutality and such blunt malignancy of spirit that he felt a sudden turning in the stomach, taking him by surprise, because he hadn't thought that anything could scare him anymore.

  He had recognised the evil within.

  'What are you doing later?' asked Harlequin Sweetlips, regaining her confidence, feeling the power restored.

  He smiled, relaxing with the words. No matter the depths of malevolence, words were only ever words. No intention was ever good or bad, only ever expedient. She may have represented some evil greater than even he had ever come across, but what could she do to him that had not been done before? Were not his wanderings so lonely and distracted and forlorn, that it would be to his benefit for someone to bring them to a necessary conclusion?

  He put the bottle to his mouth, tipping the last of it down his throat. Settled it back on the counter, rose from his chair. Did up the buttons on his coat against the rain which he presumed would still be falling outside, lifted his collar and finally turned to face her.

  'Well,' he said slowly, 'I'm about to go home and have an early night, and you ain't coming. I might be back here tomorrow night and I might not. My answer might be different then and it might not. There'll only be one way for you to find out.'

  Harlequin Sweetlips took a slow drink and set her glass back down on the bar. Stared at Barney Thomson. Barney returned the gaze.

  'Goodnight,' he said with a beautiful lie of outward calm, and Sweetlips said nothing as he turned his back and headed towards the door, feeling the vicious chainsaw of her stare rampage violently across his body as he went.

  ***

  DCI Frankenstein was troubled, but not by the body before him. The fingerprints of the Archbishop of Middlesex were the source of his stress. He had yet to speak to anyone about it, and had yet to even start to think how he was going to speak to the Archbishop himself. No idea where to start, well aware of the nest of vipers which awaited him.

  He and Monk were at the mortuary, where the body of Hugo Fitzgerald still lay, pale and quiet. They were standing over the cadaver, looking down at the face, the mouth slightly open, lips cold, the black wound in the forehead.

  One of Fitzgerald's neighbours had reported seeing him entering his building with a woman, but the description of his female companion, beyond the wearing of a silk blouse with a Chinese neckline, was thin and practically useless. Of course, the Harlequin Sweetlips who was seen with Hugo Fitzgerald, looked nothing like the Harlequin Sweetlips who had just met Barney Thomson in a bar. Think Uma Thurman, then think Pulp Fiction and Beautiful Girls. Or Dangerous Liaisons and Gattaca. Or The Avengers and Jennifer 8. Harlequin Sweetlips appeared in a different form before every man that she would murder, or think about murdering. She was a shapeshifter.

  (The fact that she always wore the neck-high Chinese type of blouse, regardless of her hair colour or spectacles or lipstick, would do nothing to help pinpoint her. As soon as it became known that the killer wore those outfits, it became the latest in London chic and sales of the things rose faster than they had since the release of Dr No.)

  'Looks pretty dead to me,' said Frankenstein. 'What d'you say, Danno?'

  'More or less,' said Monk.

  'So, how d'you get on?' he asked casually. 'Find out anything from the barber?'

  She hesitated. Frankenstein glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

  Monk stared at the dark hole in the forehead and she put her hand out and ran her finger, covered by thin plastic gloves, along the wound.

  'Don't touch the patient, please,' said a mordant voice behind her, and she quickly withdrew her hand as the pathologist returned from her office and stood in between them. Dr Roberts, 40, unmarried, slightly resentful, never getting to do the kind of things that police pathologists get to do on TV crime dramas, such as catching criminals and stuff. A not entirely unattractive woman, but still rough as the inside of a septic tank some mornings.

  'You have anything new?' said Frankenstein, as he had avoided Roberts most of the day.

  'Died at around nine-thirty last night,' she began. 'Stem of the wine glass, as you know. As intimated by the fact he was still at the dinner table, he hadn't had sex yet. Ate most of his dinner though, by the looks of things. Died with a full stomach,' she added, caustically.

  'Can any man want more than that?' said Frankenstein.

  'Pretty sure we have a female killer,' said Roberts. 'From the angle of the insertion, his assailant was standing over him. Maybe 5'4”, 5'5”. Right handed. There were traces of lipstick around his mouth, but couldn't lift any DNA from it.'

  'A female killer?' said Frankenstein, his brain still on the definitely male fingerprints. At least that was something.

  'Almost 100%.'

  'So how come you can't lift the DNA?' asked Frankenstein, criticism inherent in the tone now that he had relaxed somewhat about the Archbishop and his errant fingers.

  'No idea,' replied Roberts sharply. 'Clarted on just before she did the necessary, I don't know.'

  'So,' began Frankenstein, 'the guy probably thought he was going to get to plant his seed and he gets wasted.'

  Both Monk and Roberts gave him a sideways glance. Every time that Roberts had to deal with Frankenstein she became more and more convinced that his near ancestors had only just developed lungs.

  'You've got it pegged,' she said.

  'What kind of lipstick?' asked Monk and Frankenstein gave her a glance.

  'Tesco's own, £1.49, forget about tracing it.'

  'Knew what she was doing letting him kiss her,' said Monk.

  'Maybe she kissed him,' said Frankenstein. 'She was forward enough to plant a wine glass in his brain.'

  'Well,' said Roberts, 'don't string me up on it, you know, don't crucify me with this at a later date, because I know what you lot up there are like, but at this stage I'd say he kissed her. You know.'

  You have issues, thought Monk.

  'How do you people tell that?' muttered Frankenstein.

  'This is what I do,' said Roberts.

  Frankenstein nodded, put the back of his hand to his mouth and noisily cleared his throat.
>
  'Fine,' he said. 'Come on, Danno, we've got stuff to talk about. You'll let us know if you get anything else?' he threw at Roberts as they walked away.

  'I'll mail it to the zoo,' she replied in a low voice, loud enough for him to hear.

  They walked out, Frankenstein scowling, Monk with a smile on her face. Nothing like being cheered up by visiting the dead.

  'Right,' said Frankenstein. 'We need to talk. Tell me what you learned at the factory. You know, I mean the office of this dumb-ass place.'

  'I could have written it all down on one piece of paper. In fact, I did.'

  'And was it a big piece of paper?' he asked glibly, and she answered him with a look.

  'What about my idea of going to the barber?' he asked. 'The whole thing about barbers being in the know, all that stuff.'

  She didn't answer. Strangely she became aware of her cheeks starting to go red. He glanced at her, and she wondered if he could see through her.

  'What?' he asked.

  'It was only his second day,' she said quickly. 'Couldn't tell me much.'

  Frankenstein grunted. 'Crap,' he said. 'Only decent thought I've had so far.'

  He glanced again, caught her smiling; now he stopped as he came to a double swing door.

  'I hate it when you do that,' he growled, then walked on. 'Why are you smiling?'

  'He was kind of cute,' she said. 'The barber. You'd like him. Scottish.'

  'You think I'd like him because he's cute and Scottish? I don't fucking like Ewan MacGregor, and he's cute and Scottish. And I fucking hate that wee bastard McEvoy. I could probably name a thousand cute and Scottish people, and I hate all of them.'

  'He had a look about him, like he'd been places, like he knows things. It's really attractive. He's not the best looking, you know, bit of the Hoagy Carmichael about him ... '

  'What's his name?' asked Frankenstein gruffly. He'd only asked the question to shut her up, but as soon as it was out of his mouth he realised that he knew the answer. Some sixth sense and he knew instantly what she was going to say. He stopped and looked at her.

  'Barney Thomson,' she said, curious as to the look on his face. She liked the sound of the name on her lips.

  Frankenstein closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

  'Aw, fuck,' he said eventually.

  'What?' she asked.

  He shook his head. This just got worse and worse. Politics, religion and now Barney Thomson. And he had a horrible feeling about just what that might entail.

  'I didn't say I'd go out with him,' said Monk defensively.

  Frankenstein raised an alarmed eyebrow.

  'Holy crap,' he muttered. 'Look, come on, we need to talk about something else.'

  He walked off, Monk bringing up the rear, curious what he had to tell her about Barney Thomson.

  'Got the fingerprints off the murder weapon,' he said.

  'They're on file?' she asked.

  'Oh, fucking yes,' he replied. 'And you're going to have to be very discreet, because I'm incapable.'

  ***

  Sweetlips followed him all the way home. He wondered if she might be on his trail, but he never looked back. Thought it might be better to just not know. So Barney Thomson arrived back at the one bedroomed flat, let himself in at the ground floor, managed to stop himself turning round, walked up the stairs, let himself in, made a cup of tea, fished out a couple of milk chocolate digestives and settled down in front of Newsnight and the economic meltdown. And all the time he thought about the woman who was more than likely standing across the road, looking up at his first floor apartment, wondering whether to pay him a call.

  He stopped himself looking out the window. If he had done, he would have seen Harlequin Sweetlips leaning against a lamppost, considering her next move, all the time her hand in her coat pocket, fingers running up and down the long cold blade. The blade that she had not had to use the previous evening on Hugo Fitzgerald.

  As Newsnight blundered to another conclusion, and Barney trooped into the kitchen to rinse out his cup and mince off to bed, Harley Sweetlips stood on the butt of her fifteenth cigarette of the evening, tapped the blade with her fingers, and started walking across the road.

  Ashes To Ashes

  A typical morning at BF&C. Bethlehem nowhere to be seen, Orwell running the show and leading the line with a new client. This one promised to be a little different from the norm, and Orwell had unusually invited along Hemingway and Sam Joyce, a junior exec from within the ranks who he had brought in to unsettle Hemingway. Orwell knew that Hemingway wanted the Head of TV Contracts job and had no intention of giving it to him. Neither was he going to hand it to a precocious halfling like Joyce, he was just using him to keep Hemingway in his place.

  The door to the office opened, the three of them stopped talking and looked at the man who was standing just inside the small room. The traffic on the Westferry Road, nine floors below, seemed far away. With the door open, they could hear the vague sounds of the office outside. The clock above the door ticked noisily, the way it had since it had fallen off the wall at Christmas, under the strain of Jospin and Flockhart's perpendicular midnight romp, when they had re-defined the concept of mistletoe for the new Millennium.

  The man was dressed in a long, dark trench coat, jeans and a pair of 2009 CK sneakers; looked as though He hadn't shaved in a few days, although there was a neatness about the neckline that betrayed the use of a beard trimmer; wearing a pair of Armani sunglasses, with His black hair tied in a short pigtail; there was something of the Michael Stipe about His face; and He was chewing a lollipop, the movement of His lips occasionally displaying the blazing whiteness of His teeth.

  God, in the twenty-first century.

  He closed the door behind Him and walked forward towards the table that ran the length of the room, and sat down at the opposite end from the others, some thirty feet away. It was their meeting, it ought to have been they who were in charge, but they stared at God, waiting for Him to talk. It was rare to have such a high-powered client; and one with the kind of resources that the Lord would have.

  God leaned forward, so that His elbows were resting on the table, and finally took the lollipop from His mouth. Cherry flavour; His tongue was dark red.

  'I just want you fellas to know,' He began, the accent New England, 'that I think you're a pain in the ass. The lot of you. I'm not happy that I'm having to do this. We clear?'

  'Got you,' said Orwell, eventually. 'We understand, totally.'

  'I doubt you get the full extent of my antipathy, but we'll leave it at that.'

  'Why are you here, then?' said Hemingway, still flushed with his new found post-Fitzgerald confidence, which had not been dented as much by Joyce's inclusion as Orwell had thought it would. (Joyce was an anonymous journeyman, from whom Hemingway felt no threat whatsoever.) Then Hemingway swallowed, regretted his new found confidence, and felt a tramping tingle down his spine.

  The eyes of God flashed red behind the Armanis, the look that plagued a nation with cancers crossed His face, then He relaxed and thrust the lollipop back in His mouth, His lips twisting into a smile around it. Hemingway, having been so brave as to voice the thoughts of the other two, swallowed again, and somehow managed to hold the gaze of their visitor.

  God removed the sweet once more and wagged it at him.

  'Zip it, fella,' He said. 'I'm gonna lay it out, you're gonna give it some thought right now as we sit here, and I'm gonna tell you whether I like what you've got to say. We clear?'

  'Totally,' the three of them answered at once.

  'What seems to be the trouble?' Orwell added, with much less confidence than he would usually have put the question.

  Lollipop back in the mouth, God sat back and spread His hands.

  'Here's the deal, fellas,' He began. Then He stared at them, as he considered His words. When he started speaking again, His voice was precise and clipped and clear, enunciating every syllable, so that He sounded like George Clooney in From Dusk 'Til Dawn. '
At the end of the 1950's, there were just under five billion souls in Heaven. Five billion. Approximate number you understand, 'cause to be honest the bookkeeping's always been lame. At the same time there were under one billion in Hell. Well under. We're talking close on six-to-one ratio. We were kicking their butts, it was awesome. We were the Patriots, and those guys were the Lions, you get me?'

  'You've lost us there a bit with the sporting reference, but we know where you're coming from,' said Hemingway. Joyce waited his chance to make his grand appearance off the bench.

  'Whatever,' said God, waving His lollipop. 'Fact is, it wasn't even close. But then, I guess I have to hold my hand up and say I got complacent. The whole rock 'n roll era just caught me with my head up my ass. Didn't see it coming. Before I knew what was happening, that guy downstairs was catching me hand over fist.'

  He stopped suddenly, at the hand which had been raised at Him; from Hemingway again, who was showing far too little respect for the Almighty.

  'What?' He said, that look flashing across His face again.

  'Just out of interest,' said Hemingway, wishing, really, that he'd kept his mouth shut, 'what do you call him? Satan, I mean,' he added, when no immediate answer was coming.

  'I call him Satan, you idiot,' said God angrily. 'What the Hell d'you think I'd call him?'

  God fixed him with the stare – the one that could, under other circumstances, have turned him into a pillar of salt – slung it casually round the other two, making sure that no one else would ask any stupid questions, then leaned forward again.

  'I was saying, things got a little outta hand. Once the '60s and '70s hit, man I was in a complete tailspin. In a world of hurt. So I got the guys round and, against my better judgement, we decided to call in outside help. Got some of your typa fellas in. Consultants,' He said, spitting out the word. 'Raped us for God knows how much money, several million, and you know what we got outta that? TV evangelists, for crying out loud, that was their big plan. Jimmy Swaggart, for Chrissake. Pain in the ass.'