Murderers Anonymous (13 page)

'I don't know, something. A pheasant or some shite like that.'

'You really think you're necessarily going to crash just 'cause you hit a pheasant?'

'Fuck, all right, then, they hit a lamppost. That better?'

'A lamppost? In the middle of the road? Where the fuck are these people?'

'God, Leyman, you're a cantankerous old bastard. Right, a bloody huge dog runs out in front of them, they swerve to avoid it, and they hit a lamppost at the side of the road. How's that?'

'That seems plausible. Don't think that's going to sell you much whisky, though, is it? What's your slogan going to be?
Drink This Shite and You Might Crash Your Motor and Die
? That's brilliant, son. Think you should stick to your day job.'

'They haven't been drinking yet.'

'So why do they crash the motor, then?'

'Because of the fucking dog!'

'Oh aye, aye, right enough. Right, on you go. There's these four weird-looking bastards with handbags in a motor. To avoid hitting a dog they drive into a lamppost. Got you. What happens next?'

Blizzard finished off his sixth double whisky of the night.

'Right. They all die, except the wee one, the red one, you know.'

'The red one? One of them's red?'

'Aye, and she doesn't die.'

'She? I thought they were all blokes?'

'Naw. There's a couple of blokes and a couple of birds.'

'So it's one of the birds who's got a handbag? Nothing wrong with that, son. You made it sound sinful.'

'Naw, it's one of the blokes who's got the handbag.'

'How come?'

'I don't know, do I? Bloody Hell, Leyman, let me finish. So they're all dead, right?'

'I thought the red one wasn't dead?'

'Aye, right, they're all dead except the red one. Right?'

'Right. But I think you'd better get to the point, 'cause I'm beginning to think your talking a load of shite.'

'Right. We switch to a couple of months later, and the wee bastard's sitting in a bar quaffing double whiskies. Pissed out her socks, so she is. And she keeps downing the doubles in a oner. Then she slams her glass down on the bar, and says to the barman, “Again, again. Again, again.”'

Blizzard stared across the table, looking a bit bemused. There was a loud cheer from around the dartboard, the sound of lager filling a glass from a malfunctioning tap. The woman Blizzard had been eyeing up slapped her hand viciously onto the face of the man sat across the table from her, before he got up and headed to the bar. Somewhere there was the vague sound of arguing over the exact consistency of Jupiter's atmosphere.

'What in the name of fuck are you talking about, son?' said Blizzard eventually.

'You've got to watch the programme,' said Barney. 'I mean, I've only seen it a couple of times myself.'

'Load of shite, by the sounds of it. Right, son, tell you what. You away and buy me another couple of shots. I'm going to have a go at this bird that's been giving me the eye while her shag's at the bar. And if I blow out, when you get back I'll tell you all about the time I cut the King's hair. Rare story, that one. Rare.'

Barney rose once more from his seat. Not that bloody rare, he thought to himself, as he headed off across the pub.

***

'What are you saying, son?' asked Leyman Blizzard.

Barney stared across the table. There are all sorts of different ways in which drunkenness manifests itself, no question about that. Leyman Blizzard's was fairly harmless. He didn't get aggressive, he didn't slur his words, he didn't get maudlin, he didn't marry someone he shouldn't, he didn't pick fights just for the hell of it. What did happen was that he talked incessantly about Elvis.

'Don't,' said Barney. 'Just don't keep telling me about bloody Elvis. I know you cut the bastard's hair. I know you told him he should stick to rock 'n' roll and that if he'd listened to you he'd still be alive today. I know all that. Give us a break, will you?'

'Are you saying that I've told you all this before, is that it, Mr Fancy Pants Haircutting Bastard?'

'Aye, you told me last night, and the night before that. And you also mention it in the bloody shop every time some idiot with black hair walks in. Just give us a break. Could you no' have cut John F. Kennedy's hair tonight or something?'

'But I didn't cut that bastard's hair. I cut Elvis's hair, didn't I no'?'

'Aye, so you've said.'

Leyman Blizzard held his hands up in some sort of weird, drunken gesture; waved them around a little; nodded his head.

'All right, son, all right, you may have a point. But face it, at least I'm pissed when I start going on about the King, and at least it's a true story. You, on the other hand, are always sober and haven't shut up about how you're Barney bloody Thomson since you got here.'

Barney did the 'Penalty, ref!' gesture and shook his head.

'What do you want me to say, Leyman? I
am
Barney Thomson, I can't help it. I am who I am.'

'There you go with your cod philosophy. Why don't you hand yourself in to the polis, then?'

'Come on, Leyman, I've tried that. You know I've tried it. They're no' interested. The second lot I went to I even suggested they do a DNA test on me, and the bloke told me to clear off. Said they'd run out of money to do DNA tests 'cause they'd done so many in the past year. What can I do, Leyman? I'm stuffed. And you're stuck with me.'

Blizzard swallowed the last of his fourteenth and final whisky for the night – a man who knew his limit. He shook his head, reached across the table and gripped Barney by the hand. Barney felt a little self-conscious and hoped no one was looking.

'You'll be the saviour of my shop, son,' said Blizzard. 'I can't imagine it without you now. I hope you're going to be here for years to come. You're a good pal, 'n' all.'

He took his hand away as he spoke, allowing Barney to feel more comfortable and appreciate the sentiment. Needed, liked and respected. What more could he really want?

'Just a couple of bits of advice,' continued Leyman, and Barney was not entirely sure he wanted to hear them. 'First of all, you've got to get yourself a shag, Big Man. There are plenty of women out there, you've got to get stuck in, you know?'

'Right.'

'And another thing. Don't know if this is for you, or no'. Might be, might not. We'll see.'

He did an exaggerated thing with his hand while he paused, indicating maybe, maybe not. Barney leaned forward, although he didn't know why he was that interested. When is advice from drunk men ever even remotely applicable to this planet, never mind the situation to which they are referring? Barney was not to know that this advice would seem strangely relevant, would seem like the perfect foil to the uncertainties over his past and would ultimately plant him firmly, once more, in the nest of vipers.

He strained to hear above the cheering coming from the dartboard area.

'I know somebody who knows somebody else,' said Leyman, lifting his eyebrows.

'Aye?' said Barney, when nothing else was immediately forthcoming.

Blizzard tapped the side of his nose in an exaggerated manner; winked excessively; nodded his head. And then he slowly collapsed onto the table, so that his face lay in among the whisky swill, his mouth was squashed open and his nose was bent to the right.

Some other time, then, thought Barney.

Once more back where it all began. Joel Mulholland sat across the desk from Chief Superintendent McMenemy, as the old man read the only folder remaining on his spartan desk. One late December morning, still the weather outside that nothing, grey, mild, humourless weather that pollutes Scotland for much of the year. And Mulholland sat there and watched the old man, with nothing, grey, mild, humourless thoughts on his mind.

Had no idea why he was there; could not even begin to care; and had already decided that if he didn't like the sound of what he was about to be told, he'd tell McMenemy where he could stick his job, and where he could stick the entire police force. Although, after several hours of thought on what it could be that required his presence in front of the self-styled M of the Strathclyde police, the only explanation he could think of was so that M could tell him that he was not wanted any more.

That would make sense. He was a wash-out, and he knew it. Couldn't have given a hoot either. He'd got enough money in the bank that he could afford to go to some quiet little village somewhere, settle down, and live a life of trundling nothingness... for up to a fortnight. After that, when he'd run out of cash, who knew what he'd do. Rob banks maybe.

M raised his head and stared seriously across the old desk at Mulholland. The clock ticked high up on the wall, cars skittered past outside, somewhere a woman bit noisily into a bar of chocolate she'd seen advertised on TV at the weekend. McMenemy's eyes searched Mulholland's face for any sign of spirit, but he could find nothing. He had heard, of course, what he'd been up to. Weekly reports had come back to McMenemy from Murz and Cunningham. He knew the state of Mulholland's mind; and he thought he'd found the perfect way to get him out of it. Expected, as he sat, that Mulholland would know exactly why he was there; and couldn't have been more wrong.

'It's been a few months, Chief Inspector. How've you been?'

Mulholland shrugged. How is anybody? Is anyone ever as bad as they say they are, or as good as they think they might be?

'All right,' he said, trying not to dwell on introspection.

'Done some work up the west coast,' McMenemy said, half-question, half-remark. He knew everything Mulholland had worked on this past six months, and knew that little of it would have had any meaning or interest. His wife had gone; his life too, and to a place from where it would be very difficult to retrieve.

'Some,' Mulholland replied. A few cases, one arrest; only surviving up there as a favour from Cunningham to McMenemy, repaying an old debt.

'How do you feel?' McMenemy asked. 'Ready yet for some real work, or do you think you need a little longer where you are?'

He knew full well the answer to that question. The soft touch was not working. If he left Mulholland where he was, he would never get his officer back. He was not the best man he'd ever had, but he was a good detective, and there were few enough of them around. He had decided there might only be one way to bring him round. Shock tactics. Put him back in the same situation as before, and see how he reacted. If he failed, and failed to the point where he even lost his life, then what had the police lost as a result? And should he succeed, and they got their man back, then it would have been justified. A bit like M sending James Bond after Scaramanga in
The Man with the Golden Gun
, thought McMenemy. Bond was washed up, had been brainwashed by the Russians, and might as well have been dead. If he was killed by Scaramanga, then so be it. If he killed the greatest assassin on the planet, then he'd proved that he was back.

Mulholland is my Bond; and Barney Thomson his Scaramanga, thought M, in one of his more ridiculous thoughts of the previous fifty years.

Mulholland weighed up his answer to the last question. Did not feel like being honest about it, and decided to hold off from the bitter whims of veracity for a little while longer.

'Not sure, sir,' he said, while thinking that if he was ordered back to Glasgow now, he was heading to Oban and catching the first boat to some remote island where crime was a thing of the future.