The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (9 page)

Barney smiled and nodded. A Brother Cadfael, eh? Had done one of them a couple of years previously. Piece of cake. Was there any other haircut he could possibly give these people?

***

The door closed behind Barney Thomson; the Abbot stared after him for a short while. A closed door. How many doors were closed within the monastery, and for what reasons hidden in the depths of a mysterious past?

He sighed, slowly lifted himself from the chair. He turned and stared out at the bright, white morning. Snow upon snow, stretching across the forest to the hills in the distance. And yet the full cold blast of winter had not arrived.

For a time he watched a buzzard circle above the forest. Silent brown against the pale blue sky.

Meanwhile, Barney Thomson walked along the corridors of the monastery, a whistle marginally beneath his lips. Light of heart for the first time in a fortnight, having completely failed to notice the exact meaning of some of the Abbot’s words. That the monks had little contact with the outside world. Little, but not none, as he had thought.

As he took to his bucket and mop for the first time that morning,
The Girl From Ipanema
momentarily escaped his lips.

***

The third floor of the monastery, at the north end, a room of bright light; the library. Brother Morgan leant over his desk, large hand gripping small quill pen, etching out the clear rounded figures. Translating into English the original Greek of a series of third-century letters. He was one of only three of the monks who read Greek – for some of the others there was a painful learning process, for the rest, ignorance.

The translation was a task he had been on for some weeks; begun in the days when he’d still been Saturday’s assistant, content with his lot, little thought for advancement. A monk was all Morgan had ever wanted to be. Librarian’s apprentice had been a bonus. Anything else was unasked for and unwanted. He would be happy for someone else to be made librarian and for him to retain the role which he had held for many years. Trusted all the brothers, yet was worried that a similar fate might befall him as befell Saturday. Perhaps Saturday had died because of some lovers’ tiff within the monastery walls, or maybe he’d died because of his position. It was the latter which worried Morgan.

There was a noise across the room, from within the rows of shelves. Morgan lifted his head, stilled his pen. Even in the bright light of the room, the shelves were in shadow. A conspiracy. He felt a shiver at the back of his neck. Insects crawling across his skin.

‘Hello?’

A movement. A rat? There hadn’t been rats in the monastery for over a hundred years. That’s what they said.

‘Hello?’ he repeated, with more urgency. Annoyed. Didn’t like being disturbed at his work. Knew how easy it was to make mistakes when you lost concentration. One of the reasons he’d dropped out of life.

The annoyance masked his trepidation.

A figure appeared from among the shelves. He relaxed.

‘Hello, Brother,’ said Morgan. Relief. Impatience too, as the monk emerged from the shadows.

The visitor held up a small volume. Didn’t smile. Stared from the depths of plunging eye sockets.

‘It is many years since I have studied the original Latin translation of Paul’s letters,’ he said. ‘I have been most remiss. You will record that I have removed this volume?’

‘Certainly, Brother,’ said Morgan, wondering why people had to be so bloody clandestine.

Brother Morgan watched as the monk slowly walked from the library and closed the door behind him. Lifted his pen. Back to work. Why did some of the brothers feel the need for mystery? There was enough darkness at the monastery as it was.

As he began the slow movement of the pen across the thick page, he felt a cold draught of air at his feet. Looked up. The door to the library swung open an inch or two.

And a cold wind blew
.

Mrs Mary Strachan bent her ear towards the television, trying to listen to the news above the sound of her husband rifling the Scotsman, at the same time as she struggled through a tricky interpretation of Quintus Horatius Flaccus’s second book of epistles.

‘For pity’s sake, man, would you haud yer wheesht with yon paper? I can’t hear the telly.’

James Strachan tutted loudly, rustled the paper even more.

‘Help m’boab, woman, what are you on about? You know fine well that you can’t watch television and translate Horace from the original Latin at the same time. Not since you lost your eye in the sheep incident last March.’

‘Ach, flech to you, James Strachan, flech to you. My mother always said you were a manny of little vision. I should’ve listened to her.’

‘Ach, away and boil your heid, woman,’ he said, settling on the inside sports pages.
Rangers Fail In £45 Million Bid For Six-Year-Old Italian
. ‘What did your mother know? The woman spent all her days doing wee jobbies at the bottom of the garden. Had a clue about nothing.’

‘Don’t you be maligning my mother, James Strachan. It wasn’t
my
mother who was arrested for stealing underwear off Mrs MacPherson’s washing line.’

He looked over the paper for the first time. ‘Jings to crivvens, woman, I don’t believe it. Must you bring yon up every single day? We read that we ought to forgive our enemies; but we do not read that we ought to forgive our friends. Think about that, woman.’

‘Don’t you go quoting Cosimo de’Medici at me, James Strachan. D’you think I can show my face in the supermarket without people talking about it? Well, do you? There’s not a day goes by when I don’t hear the whispers. Not a day goes by?’

‘For pity’s sake, woman, it was seventy-three year ago.’

‘That may be, James Strachan, that may be. But it might as well have been yesterday, as far as this town is concerned.’

‘Ach, away with you, Mary Strachan. There was nobody in this town alive seventy-three year ago except me and thee.’

‘Jings to goodness, James Strachan, what does that matter? You think anyone alive today was around when the English sucked us into the Act of Union? We still hate them for it.’

‘Help m’flipping boab, what are you on about, Mary Strachan? You and your Act of Union. If it wasn’t for the Act of Union we’d all still be living in peat bogs and eating oats for dinner.’

‘There you go, havering again, James Strachan, havering again. Here, look at yon!’

She broke off, pointing at the television. The lunchtime news.

‘See, I told you!’

James Strachan tutted loudly, rustled the paper. ‘Told me what? What are you talking about?’

‘That picture, that Barney Thomson character. He was the one who stayed here just over a week ago. I told you it was him.

He glanced up, then buried his head in the paper. ‘Ach, away and stick your heid in a pan of tatties. What would a serial killer be doing staying in a place like Durness? Serial killers live in big houses with all the windows boarded up. I’ve seen the films.’

She shook her head, pointed at the television. ‘Look at those eyes, I’d recognise them anywhere. That man’s a serial killer if ever there was one, and he stayed right here in this house. Slept in the bed yon German couple are sleeping in at the moment.’

James Strachan lowered the paper again. He stared at the television, then at his wife. ‘And what if it was? What of it? He’s gone now. Are you going to run along to the police, are you?’

Mary Strachan bristled. Shoulders back, chin out.

‘Well, I don’t know about that. He looked a nice enough lad. Maybe they’ve got the wrong one, you know.’

‘You just said he looked like a serial killer!’

‘Aye, but you know, these things are hard to tell. And it’s not as if you’re one to talk.’

‘Ach, away and shite, woman,’ he said, from deep within the rugby reports.
Scotland Select New Zealander Whose Granny Holidayed On Skye Once
.

***

Proudfoot climbed into the car beside Mulholland. Found him reading
Blitz!
and eating the last of the sandwiches. Didn’t mind, as she’d had everything she’d been going to get from the tourist information within ten minutes. Had stopped for a bite to eat.

‘Surprised you’re not listening to Simply Red,’ she said. Shivered, removed her coat and threw it onto the back seat. The sleet was softening, turning to snow.

‘I’m sure you are. Just reading something here,’ he said, tapping the magazine. ‘Apparently, if you coat your breasts in dried alligator milk, it’ll improve your orgasm strength. I’m assuming that’s aimed at women, though.’

‘Didn’t work for me.’

He gave her a look, saw she was joking. Closed the magazine.

‘Right, then. What are we looking at? You get a list?’

‘Yep. Everywhere that anyone could stay in Inverness, a long list of places outside of town as far north as he could’ve gone. Lot of them closed for winter, so it cuts it down at least.’

He checked his watch.

‘Just after two. Got to see Inspector Dumpty of Northern Constab, get that over with, then we can start. Split up and get on with it. Should be done with Inverness before it’s too late, meet back here between six and seven. You get two lists?’

‘Yes,’ she said tetchily.

‘Just checking. Ferguson wouldn’t have thought of it.’

Proudfoot thought of the woman she’d dealt with at the tourist information. Ferguson would still be there, fixing up a date.

‘Lets get it sorted how we’ll split it. At the end of the day we’ll find somewhere to spend the night, then set off tomorrow and take each town as it comes.’

She nodded. Couldn’t think of anything she’d less like to be doing; couldn’t think of a single aspect of police work which currently appealed to her.

‘How was the pint?’ she asked.

‘Very informative,’ he said, smiling. ‘Too bad you weren’t there.’

Bastard, thought Proudfoot.

***

As they might have supposed, they had to wait to see the Chief Constable, a man of whom they had heard tell. They found themselves in a small room, unsatisfactory mugs of tea having cooled on the table, the Moray Firth slate grey to match the skies, barely visible between the walls of wet buildings. Unsure of what to expect of their man, for what policeman likes outsiders coming onto his patch?

In turn they sat at the desk, then paced the short floor space, then looked out at the grey day. Wrestled, in their heads, with their own thoughts of depression and loneliness and unease. Proudfoot more comfortable with those thoughts than Mulholland.

Finally the door opened, shattering the atmosphere. Relief swiped at Mulholland.

‘The Chief Constable will see you now,’ said the maroon cardigan, masquerading as the middle-aged woman beneath.

***

The Chief Constable stood with his back to them, staring out over the cold estuary. Looking for dolphins, although he hadn’t seen one in over three months. The door closed behind them and they waited, much as they had already been waiting.

They were in the midst of the opulence they had come to expect from chief constables; thick carpet, huge desk, comfy chair, photographs on the wall with the senior police officer in question shaking the hand of an even more senior police officer or a low-budget member of the royal family – although, in this case, all Chief Constable Dr Reginald McKay had been able to manage was a picture of himself directing traffic outside Balmoral Castle.