Murderers Anonymous (26 page)

'What about you!' said Ferguson, as he headed slowly up the slip road onto the motorway. 'You were sitting in the pub.'

'Shut up, Sergeant. I get enough lip from this one,' he said, indicating the back of the car.

They both glanced behind. Proudfoot's head was resting uncomfortably against the rear window. She slept, the smile of the curiously perturbed on her face.

They turned back and Ferguson accelerated into the midst of the flow. And off they went in search of Barney Thomson, to the exact little barbershop on the edge of Greenock where he had been working this past week; and which he had walked out of some half-hour earlier.

The car pulled into the side of the road. Apart from the twenty or so grown men and women secreted in inadequate hiding places or attempting to blend in with the crowd, it was a perfectly normal afternoon scene. A grey day, the suggestion of rain, cars coming and going, pedestrians doing their thing. Walking for example.

Ferguson had had the heat up higher than necessary, the music down low. Proudfoot had slept soundly; Mulholland had stared dumbly at the passing grey day, contemplating his bank account. Could he afford to jack in the job and spend his days fishing? A life on the riverbank, watching the water trundle by, bugs buzzing above the water and fish nibbling at the surface, had got to be worth the trade-off of having no money coming in.

He could take a pay-off from the Feds; eat the fish he caught; go out all day and so use few utilities. No mates, family all gone to the big football terrace in the sky, so no phone calls. He could live on buttons.

But then there was the issue – and it was an issue – of Proudfoot. Could he bring himself to leave her again? Ought he not really to ask her to come with him? They could argue on a permanent basis. They could wind each other up. They could enrage each other, and press all the wrong buttons. All that, coupled with fantastic sex.

Ferguson turned off the engine. Springsteen was cut off in mid-stride; the last line and sudden silence filtered through to Mulholland. He snapped from his myth of El Dorado; a fish, some fourteen pounds at least, snapping frantically on the end of his line, Proudfoot saying
not bloody fish again for dinner
. He looked at Ferguson, glanced behind at their sleeping beauty.

'
I'd drive all night again just to buy you some shoes
?' he said to Ferguson. 'You don't half listen to some amount of shite, Sergeant.'

Ferguson shrugged. 'Always thought it was quite poignant.'

'Poignant? You? You thought it was poignant when Alan Rough played his last game for Scotland.'

'I'm hurt.'

'I bet you are.'

Mulholland turned round and tapped Proudfoot gently on the leg. Got the mild shock from physical contact. A remnant of the past, or the underlying flicker of interest. He ignored it.

'Wake up, Sergeant, the evil monster awaits.'

Proudfoot stirred, dragged herself uneasily from her dreams of disembodied hands and midnight killers.

'Right,' she said, taking in the surroundings. 'I'm on it.'

They got out of the car, another three Feds to add to the ever-increasing collection. There were some in uniform, crouching behind cars; some in plainclothes milling around, pretending to look in shop windows, mingling with the crowd, yet still standing out a mile. And that crowd continued to grow, as grandstanders and gloaters added to the throng.

'You know who's in charge?' asked Mulholland.

'You see,' replied Ferguson, 'I've never been sure about it. Is it that he's driven all night once before to buy her some shoes, and he's saying he'd do it again? Or is it that the last time he drove all night it was for some completely different article of clothing, and he's saying that he'd also be prepared to do it to buy her shoes. I'm not so sure. What d'you think, Erin?'

'You talking about Springsteen?'

'Aye.'

'I think it's a pile of pish.'

Mulholland stopped and held up his hands.

'Stop! Sergeant, who's in charge?'

Ferguson smiled and flicked open the notebook.

'An Inspector Hills.'

'Thank you. You may continue your discussion.'

Mulholland approached the nearest uniform lurking behind a car, surveying the situation as he went. The small barber's shop was directly across the road, the view inside largely obscured by a blind.

He aimed his badge at the uniform. 'Inspector Hills?' he said. No mood for civility.

Constable Starkey, a woman of some infinite depth, completely wasted on her chosen profession, indicated two men standing outside the door of a small grocer's, pretending to be interested in tomatoes. Mulholland turned away without a word.

'Hills?' he said, approaching.

'Aye,' said the taller of the two. A good man; honest face, broad shoulders, firm handshake. Someone to rely on in a crisis. 'Graeme Hills. You must be Detective Chief Inspector Mulholland?'

'Aye.' He briefly contemplated introducing his sergeants into the fold, but decided not to bother. This wasn't going to take very long. 'What's the score, then?'

'Got the report an hour or two ago,' said Graeme Hills, arms crossed. 'The guy seemed fairly certain it was him. We got one of our men to go to the shop, on a purely customer-orientated basis. Got a lovely Mario Van Peebles off the bloke, by the way. Anyway, it's Barney Thomson all right. Talked quite openly about it. Our man said it seemed, I don't know, that there was an air of melancholy about him.'

Mulholland breathed deeply, stared across at the shop. Couldn't be bothered with any of this.

'So why didn't he arrest him?'

Hills did a thing with his eyebrows.

'We're talking Barney Thomson here. Our guy was alone and under strict instruction to wait for back-up.'

Mulholland nodded. Fair enough, perhaps. He'd had his own reservations about Thomson until he'd discovered his true nature. However, that didn't excuse everything.

'And what do these three or four hundred officers represent, if not back-up?'

Hills did something with his mouth.

'We're not armed. We thought it best to wait for you, seeing as you've direct experience of the bloke. Got the place covered. Can't really see into the shop properly, but there's no way he's getting out without us getting him.'

'I'm not armed, either,' said Mulholland.

Hills did something with his cheeks.

'That's your call, Chief Inspector. You know how to deal with him. We've got no experience of him.'

Mulholland gave him his best Morse face. Waste of bloody time, he thought.

'So why haven't you got this road closed off, if you think he's so dangerous?'

Hills pointed up and down the road in a completely aimless gesture. 'And alert him to us?' he said. 'He knows nothing of us being here. We're sharp, discreet and smooth. There could be three hundred polis out here and he wouldn't have a clue. My officers blend in like trees in a forest. They're the SAS. They're the Pink Panther. They're Pierce Brosnan in
The Thomas Crown Affair
. They're Sean Connery in
Entrapment
. We can move in and get him any time.'

Mulholland continued to look unhappy; Ferguson nodded in a 'seems reasonable' gesture; Proudfoot looked across the road at the shop, wondering if it really was Barney Thomson in there. Why would this be any different from any other hoax they'd had in the past year?

Mulholland shook his head and turned to Ferguson.

'Right, Sergeant, me and Proudfoot will go in, you wait just outside the shop in case he makes a break for it. Your discreet Pink Panther-type unarmed heroes got the back covered, Inspector?'

'Of course,' said Hills.

'Brilliant. Right, let's go.'

'But you're not armed,' said Hills to Mulholland as he walked away. 'Shouldn't you wait for some armed back-up?'

Mulholland looked over his shoulder.

'Have you called any?'

'Well, no.'

Mulholland shrugged and stepped out into the road, saying, 'Come on, Sergeant, you joining me, or are you just going to stand there gawping at the pavement?' to Proudfoot as he went.

Proudfoot wandered a few steps behind, taking oblique notice of the traffic. Face to face, once again, with Barney Thomson. She remembered a year earlier heading north to hunt for him, full of fears and trepidation and terror. And now... now she vaguely wondered what she was going to have for dinner.

Hills watched them go. He'd heard tales of Mulholland and Proudfoot; great odysseys that painted them mad as hell. And here was confirmation. Walking unarmed into the lion's den, the stench of alcohol on their breath. These maverick cops were all alike.

***

The door to the shop opened; Blizzard looked up as they entered. A man with a great shag of black hair who could well have been there for a cut. No idea about the woman. But he could tell that this was not business; at least, not his business.

'You're not fucking consultants, are you?' said Blizzard, with a casual charm.

Mulholland produced his badge. Proudfoot looked around, realised that she'd never before been inside a barbershop. Then it occurred to her that she couldn't care less either way and turned to look at the old man. They both noticed the obvious absence of anyone remotely resembling Barney Thomson.

'Polis,' said Mulholland to back up the badge. 'We're looking for Barney Thomson.'

Blizzard humphed.

'Thought you'd be by eventually,' he said. 'The lad buggered off about forty minutes ago. I noticed your lot gathering outside like a pack of hyenas. Stupid wankers. Anyway, he's gone till after Christmas.'

Mulholland's shoulders dropped another inch or two. Proudfoot switched off. The same old story.

'Who the fuck are you?' said Mulholland, vaguely annoyed at the old man; couldn't think why.

'Blizzard,' said Blizzard. 'Leyman Blizzard. And don't talk to me like that, or I'll kick your arse.'

'So if you had Barney Thomson working in your shop, why didn't you report it?'

Blizzard sat back, straightened his shoulders. Had always hated the polis.

'What was the point? He's a nice enough bloke, and there's no way he's the killer youse are looking for. And besides, he's tried handing himself in and youse weren't interested. And you just watch your tone, son.'

Mulholland had no argument. Barney was indeed not the killer they were looking for, and the police did look stupid turning up here, mob-handed, to arrest the man when he'd already tried to hand himself in and had been turned away.

'Where'd he go? Where does he live?'

'He's away for the weekend somewhere. Don't know where. Why don't youse just leave the bastard alone?'

Joel Mulholland stood and stared at the floor, at exactly the same mark as Erin Proudfoot, and neither of them could think of an answer. Why didn't they just leave him alone? And why didn't they just walk away from this bloody stupid investigation?