The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (10 page)

‘Dolphins,’ he said.

Mulholland and Proudfoot shared a glance. Here we go.

‘What about them?’ asked Mulholland, reluctantly playing the game.

‘Used to be a cartload of them out there. Used to be able to stand here for hours, watching them in the distance. Where are they now? Haven’t seen one in months.’

The question disappeared into the room. It’s probably Barney Thomson’s fault, thought Proudfoot.

Reginald McKay left them standing for another minute before turning round, nodding at his visitors and sinking into the green depths of his comfy chair. He stared absent-mindedly at some papers on his desk, while ushering them into two less salubrious chairs. Finally engaged their eyes, looking from one to the other. ‘I’m greatly troubled, I must admit,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ said Mulholland. Down to business at last.

‘I’ve spoken to all sorts of groups, but no one seems to have any idea what’s happened to them.’

‘Them?’

‘The dolphins. Ach, I know it’s cold out there, but they’re fish.’

‘No they’re not.’

‘Whatever. They don’t mind the cold. But I haven’t seen one in months. Hard to believe that something really terrible hasn’t happened. Some terrible tragedy. Effie thinks it’s the Russians, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the Norwegians didn’t have something to do with it. Bunch of idiots, the lot of them.’

‘Barney Thomson?’ said Mulholland.

‘Thomson?’ said McKay. ‘Norwegian, is he? Not surprised.’

‘We need to talk about him. That’s why we’re here.’

McKay nodded. A man of infinite years, hair greyed, face lined, eyes dimmed. ‘Of course, laddie. You big shots from Glasgow, I suppose you’ll be wanting to get on with things.’

‘Aye,’ said Mulholland. Big shots. Jesus.

‘You’ll be intending to traipse all over the Highlands, will you?’

‘For as long as it takes.’

‘Well, good luck to you laddie. I’m sure you’ll find traces of your man, but I doubt you’ll find the man himself.’

‘You’ve heard tell of him, then?’

‘Aye, aye, we’ve been getting reports from all over.’

They leant forward, Mulholland’s eyes narrowed.

‘No, laddie, don’t go peeing your pants. There’s nothing definite, you know. It’s all conjecture and vague noises. Whisperings you might say. Rumours in the wind.’

Mulholland leant back in his chair, eyes remained narrowed.

‘What kind of rumours?’

McKay tapped a single finger on the desk, looked from one to the other. Didn’t like outsiders, they never understood. Unlike dolphins. They understood everything.

‘We’re getting reports. Vague things without any real meaning, nothing to put your finger on. We think he might be working to get some money. We’ve been hearing of whole communities where the men have all suddenly been given the most wondrous haircuts. Hair of the gods, they’re saying. Some say he’s more of a loose cannon, bouncing all over the place, giving out haircuts with fickle irregularity. You’ll have heard of the Brahan Seer?’

Mulholland shrugged, Proudfoot nodded, so McKay looked at her.

‘They say he wrote of such a man. Prophesied his coming.’

‘What?’ said Mulholland.

‘He told of a man who would come into the community and wield a pair of scissors as if his hands were guided by magic. A man who could call the gods his ancestors. A man who would cut the hair of all the warriors in the kingdom, so that the strength of many kings would be in the hands of each of them. A man who would come out of tragedy and leave one morning in the mists before anyone had risen, never to be heard of again. A god, may be, or a messenger of the gods. But whatever, his time would be short, his coming a portent of dark times ahead, yet his passing would be greatly mourned. A messiah, in a way, although perhaps that might be too strong a word to be using. Anyway, they are saying that maybe Barney Thomson might be that man.’

‘You’re taking the piss, right?’ said Mulholland.

The lined and furrowed brow creased a little more, the old grey head shook.

‘I’m only telling you what is being said Chief Inspector, but these are deeply superstitious people you have come amongst. Once you head into Sutherland and Caithness, they’re not like you Lowlanders with your English ways and your fancy Channel 5 reception. You must respect them, for only then will they respect you. However, I think if you find anyone who has had contact with this man, they will be reluctant to talk. He is seen by many in these parts to have been wronged.’

‘He and his mother murdered eight people!’

‘We’ve all read the papers up here and, for myself, I have read the reports, such as you have deemed to send my way. Clearly the mother was the main culprit, and if he acted to cover up the actions of his sick parent, then should he be judged a criminal?’

They stared at him. Proudfoot saw his point; Mulholland was speechless. This was a police officer he was talking to, not some brain-dead hippie or civil rights activist.

‘And how he is hounded by your press,’ said McKay. ‘
Barney Thomson Ate My Goat
.
Barney Thomson Slaughters Virgin In Sacrifice Blunder
.
The Congo – It’s Thomson’s Fault
. It’s absurd, you must see that. All of it.’

Mulholland rested farther back in the chair. It may have been absurd, the media may have been totally demented and desperate bedfellows of sensationalism, but it didn’t mean that Barney Thomson should be excused his crimes, no matter how much had been his mother’s doing.

McKay looked uncomfortable, as he shuffled some unnecessary papers on his desk; drummed his fingers, scratched an imaginary itch on his left ear. Breathed deeply enough through his nose that it was almost a snort.

‘Anyway, I thought I might assign someone to you to ease your way around.’

‘What?’

‘Help you out, you know. Show you what’s what?’

Mulholland leant forward, white knuckles. McKay stared at a report on his desk:
Dolphins – Talk Show Hosts or Talk Show Guests?

‘For God’s sake! We’re not in some foreign country. Their accents might be a bit weird, but we won’t need it translated. Jesus, we’re not children, we don’t need any help!’

McKay lifted his eyes, unused to being spoken to in such a way by a junior officer.

‘You will remember your place, Chief Inspector,’ he said quietly.

Their eyes clashed and fought some pointless testosterone-laden battle, before Mulholland inched backwards, giving way. Proudfoot watched him from the corner of a narrowed eye. McKay pressed the intercom.

‘Send in Sergeant MacPherson, Mrs Staples, please,’ he said.

Ah! thought Proudfoot. Another Sergeant MacPherson on the Barney Thomson case, just as before. Must be something in that. No such thing as a coincidence in policing. Or life in general.

The door opened, in he came. Tall, broad-shouldered, kind face. They looked round. Proudfoot liked what she saw, Mulholland thought he recognised him.

‘This is Detective Sergeant MacPherson, who’ll be working with you. I’m sure he’ll be of the greatest assistance.’

He nodded, the two of them returned it, Mulholland grudgingly.

‘My name’s Gordon,’ said MacPherson, Highland accent broader than the Firth, ‘but everyone calls me Sheep Dip.’

Proudfoot smiled. I’m not going to ask, thought Mulholland. Turned to the sound of the Chief Constable pushing his chair away from the desk.

‘Right then, Chief Inspector, if there’s anything else you’re needing, you can let me know. Keep us posted, and if there are any activities required to be undertaken in and around any of the towns you visit, perhaps you’d be kind enough to notify the local constabulary. Sergeant MacPherson will no doubt help you out.’

‘No bother,’ said Sheep Dip.

Brilliant, thought Mulholland. Wondered if he would have to tell them every time he checked into a B&B or put petrol in the car or took a piss.

They stepped outside the office, past Mrs Staples, and then out into the open-plan where the heart of Highland crime detection snoozed the afternoon away. A lost dog in Dingwall. A child stuck up a tree outside Drumnadrochit. A teenager baring his bum in Beauly, that second can of McEwan’s his undoing. An accident involving a tractor and a low-flying Tornado on the Strathconon road out of Marybank. Heroin with a street value of £23 million seized on a Russian trawler in the Moray Firth.

A normal day.

Barney felt at home. A pair of scissors in his right hand, a comb in his left, a cut-throat razor at his side. No other tools with which to work. Barbery at its most coarse, unfettered by electric razors or blow-dryers or artificial lights. No cape around the victim to squeeze the neck and protect the virgin body from follicular contamination. Barbery as it must have been practised in olden days, when men were men and the earth was flat. Raw, Stone Age barbery, where every snip of the scissors was done by instinct, where every cut was a potential disaster, every clip a walk along a tightrope of calamity, every hew a cleave into the kernel of the collective human id. Barbery without a safety net. Barbery to put fear into the breast of the bravest knight, to quail the heart of the stoutest king. A duel with the Satan of pre-modernism, where strength became artistry and genius the episcopacy of fate. Total barbery; naked, bloody stripped of artifice.

‘Apparently Jesus was a shortarse,’ said Barney, carefree around the left ear. Forgetting where he was, to whom he was talking. Brother Ezekiel raised an eyebrow.

Barney was revelling in the primitive conditions. In one afternoon he had reeled off a Sean Connery (
Name of the Rose
), a Christian Slater (
Name of the Rose
), an F Murray Abraham (
Name of the Rose
) and a Ron Perlman (
Name of the Rose
); as well as the Abbot’s Brother Cadfael. No cash, no tips, just quiet words of praise and heartfelt thanks for doing the Lord’s work.

‘Four foot six, they say. With a hunchback.’

Brother Ezekiel coughed portentously into the back of his hand.

‘You’re forgetting where you are, Brother Jacob.’

Barney stopped, scissors poised. Thought about it. Said, ‘Oh, shit, aye.’

Brother Ezekiel closed his eyes in silent prayer for the errant monk. Disparaging the Lord, swearing – you could always tell a new recruit.

Barney lapsed into silence. He ran the comb through the hair, clicked the scissors. The light from outside was beginning to fade and he was glad of the three candles which flickered on the small shelf. He was supposed to be keeping his head down and his mouth shut. His language wasn’t too bad – not by Glasgow standards – but it was still unnecessarily unsavoury for within the monastery walls.

He had been doing fine. Head down, only speaking when spoken to. Like any new recruit in any walk of life. Don’t make a noise until you had your feet under the table. However, a couple of hours of barbery had been his undoing. He’d been all right during the Sean Connery and the Abbot’s Cadfael. Finding his feet, getting back into the groove, reacquainting himself with his scissors fingers. However, ten minutes into the Christian Slater, Brother Sledge had made an innocent remark about the weather and Barney had been unleashed, his mouth running ahead of him like a leopard on amphetamines.