The Barbershop Seven (110 page)

She could've spent the night at someone else's house. Worse, there could be someone else here, and they could still be at it. So carried away with the absurd concupiscence of lovemaking that they paid no attention to the phone or the door.

She pushed the door open, walked in and was immediately aware of the silence and the loud click that her shoes made on the parquet. She stopped, she listened, and at last her sixth sense kicked in, and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck press against the collar of her plain white blouse.

And now she knew. She walked straight for the bedroom, but slowly, vomit rising in her stomach. Didn't want to find what she was going to find. From doubt and concern that she was making a fool of herself, to the sure and certain knowledge that she was about to find Honeyfoot dead.

The bedroom door was closed. She hesitated. She stared at the handle. Suddenly she worried about fingerprints. Maybe hers would be the only other prints found on the premises. And she pulled the cuff of her blouse down over her fingers, gingerly turned the handle, and pushed the door open.

The extraordinary heat hit her first of all, from nothing more than the sun beating in through large south-east facing windows, on a balmy late summer's morning. She walked in and shivered, despite the heat. She felt cold; she felt death. She looked at the bed. She could almost sense the body of Melanie Honeyfoot lying there, dead through unnatural causes.

But the bed was empty. The duvet had been pulled neatly up to the pillows, and folded back. Almost as if it hadn't been slept in. She stood just inside the door and looked at the room. Trying to fathom the difference between what she could see and what she could sense.

Then the level-headed woman inside her, the person that saw rational explanation in everything, dismissed the strange intuition that had haunted her for a few seconds. The analytical triumphed over the deceit of imagination, and she walked quickly into the room to check for any sign of where Honeyfoot might have gone. And already she was thinking that the most likely explanation was that she'd been at someone else's house the night before and had been held up on the way to work. More than likely, thought Charlotte Williams, by the time she got back to the office, Honeyfoot would already be there, and very displeased at Williams's absence.

And so, after a quick check of each room of the apartment – a check which revealed nothing that she did not already know about her employer – and a minute's reflection while looking into the dark waters of Leith docks, Charlotte Williams locked the door behind her and ran back downstairs to the waiting taxi.

***

'Y
ou see,' said JLM, who was already in full flow, 'the people just don't understand what it's like to be me. The pressures, the tensions.'

Barney nodded. The bathroom was spacious and bright, with large windows looking out over Queensberry House and the buildings on up the Royal Mile, and more mirrors than your average Hollywood narcissist has in his/her entire mansion. He had been studying the First Minister's hair carefully for some five minutes and had yet to make a positive move. He felt a bit like a man sitting behind the wheel of a car after having been banned from driving for thirty years. He knew he used to do this, but wasn't exactly sure how to start.

'You all right back there,' asked JLM, 'you don't seem to be doing much?'

'Aye,' said Barney, 'I'm fine. A Sinatra '62, you said?'

'Yeah,' said JLM, 'I loved Sinatra. My kind of guy. Lovely. And deep. Very deep. Champion bloke. I see a lot of myself in the man. And he had great hair too, you can't argue that. Even when it wasn't his own, you know what I'm saying?' and he laughed.

Part of the problem, Barney was thinking, was that JLM pretty much already had a Sinatra '62. The line about it getting out of hand since Phillipe's had closed down was absurd; more than likely that Phillipe's had closed three days earlier. And so, as his mind worked its way out of the sludge in which it had been immersed since he had awoken that morning, the obvious fact dawned on Barney that he was cutting the hair of a man who was unnaturally obsessed with self-image. He was the First Minister, he would constantly be on television and in parliament, and making public appearances, visiting schools and hospitals. Of course he was going to notice every hair that was two-thirds of a millimetre too long. Especially when he was as dedicated to the promotion of his own image as JLM clearly was, what with portraits of himself ornamenting every wall.

And all at once, having understood the psychology of the man before him – something that all good barbers instinctively do – Barney knew where to start the cut, and what was required of him. He lifted the electric razor, he hooked on a no. 3 head, flicked the switch so that he felt the reassuring buzz of the razor in his hand, then moved smoothly onto JLM's neck.

'They say Sinatra had extraordinary nasal hair,' said Barney casually, getting back into the old barber routine, but not quite yet managing anything approaching insight. JLM chose to ignore him, as he studied himself in the mirror.

The door opened, and Barney noticed the flash of anger cross JLM's face that there had been no knock, an anger that died when Parker Weirdlove walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The Amazing Mr X's hand flashed to the inside of his jacket, then relaxed.

'Good morning, sir,' said Weirdlove.

'Parker,' said JLM.

Weirdlove stood behind them, glanced at the folder he was carrying, then engaged JLM's eyes in the mirror.

'First up, you've got a 9:30 with Melanie Honeyfoot,' said Weirdlove, and JLM did a small thing with his lips to indicate disdain. 'She'll be pressing you for a further move on tax reform. Still looking to introduce a bill into this session. My sources tell me she has compiled some compelling evidence on the need for an introduction of a further levy on the Scottish taxpayer.'

He looked up and smiled wryly at JLM, who shook his head. Fortunately Barney was truly back at the helm, saw the movement coming, and made a smooth evasive manoeuvre.

'You're pencilled in for thirty minutes, but I'll get you out after five. Three if you really want. She's a no-show so far today, so I don't know what's going on there.'

'A no-show?' said JLM, and he did another thing with his mouth.

'Television studio at 10:20 for the link up with This Morning, which'll take place from 10:40 until approximately 10:45.'

'Christ, five minutes?' said JLM. 'Bloody cheek. Who do they think they're getting?'

'They're playing hardball. It was that or nothing. You're on between Mel C talking about her new tattoo, and a woman discussing what went wrong with her vaginoplasty.'

Weirdlove looked up. JLM closed his eyes but remembered not to shake his head.

'Tell me she's going to ask us about what we're doing for the arts and sciences and our plans for transport and the health service.'

'You can try and swing it that way if you can, but it's doubtful,' said Weirdlove. 'They're looking to ask you about your affair and if you're concealing any others. And they haven't said anything, but it's a fair bet she'll bring up Hookergate.'

'Oh, for crying out loud,' said JLM. 'Why am I doing this programme?'

Weirdlove ignored him. Because you're desperate to get your face on television, regardless of the circumstances, he could've replied, but didn't.

JLM engaged Barney's eyes, and gave him a knowing look.

'You'll know all about Hookergate, I suppose?' he asked.

'Never heard of it,' said Barney, who wanted to add,
I'd never even heard of you until this morning
, but thought better of it.

'Bloody nonsense,' said JLM. 'My secretary who just pegged it, Veronica, Mrs Walters, was a lovely girl, really super. She rented out the apartment above my constituency offices in Perth. All above board, splendid business, no one was getting bitten on the bollocks. Now, she was a lovely girl, big rosy lips, bit of a looker, really, really champion lips, smashing lips. Red and full, you know the way lips can be. Liked to sleep around and what's wrong with that? Anyway, there have been some ridiculous accusations floating around that she was a bit of a whore, and that she used the apartment for business purposes. Bloody nonsense. And of course, I'm getting dragged into the whole bloody shambles. Bloody shambles, the lot of it.'

'You've to be back at Holyrood,' said Weirdlove, interjecting, 'for an 11:25 with the chairman of the subcommittee investigating changes to the Freedom of Information Bill.'

'More bollocks,' said JLM to Barney.

'You're doing lunch in the members restaurant with the leader of the Scottish Coastal Forum and the Deputy Minister for Rural Affairs.'

'Chap called Applecross,' said JLM to Barney, 'complete wanker. Scottish Coastal Forum for Christ's sake. Do we even have a coast anymore?' he added, obscurely.

'You have to be in parliament for questions at 2:30pm.'

'The usual bollocks?' asked JLM.

'Absolutely,' replied Weirdlove, 'although the leader of the opposition is scraping the bottom of a whole new barrel. He apparently wants to know if it's true that you don't let your children watch Disney videos.'

'Jesus Christ,' said JLM, 'do I have to go? Can't Benderhook take care of it?'

'You're penned in, I'm afraid,' said Weirdlove. 'You don't answer it this week, you'll have to do it next week.'

'Couldn't we fix Benderhook up to do First Minister's questions every week? Don't know why I even have to bloody bother with parliament. Everyone knows it just gets in my way. Got much better things to do.'

'You've got a 4pm with the leader of the committee on GM trials.'

'Good God, it gets worse,' said JLM.

'He's going to lobby for you to visit the trial on the Black Isle.'

Barney had almost finished the razor work and was now moving with assurance and confidence round the ears. It might be a day or two before he could cut with verve, panache, style and élan, but this would do for now.

'You mean like Jamaica or something?' said JLM.

'The Black Isle is just north of Inverness. It's not actually an island.'

'Christ,' said JLM, 'I'm not going away up there. For God's sake. That mob only ever vote SNP or LibDem, so it's not like it's worth my bloody time.'

'And you've got a 4:45 with Nancy Hackenbush.'

'God, you're going to have to help me out there,' said JLM.

'You want her to chair the Committee on Racial Equality.'

'God,' muttered JLM.

He caught Barney's eye in the mirror, and was about to utter something abject about the horrendous lot of a First Minister, when Weirdlove concluded.

'And you've two day's paperwork to catch up on, as well as what arrives today. You wanted to be up-to-date before your visit to Brussels tomorrow.'

'See,' said JLM, looking at Barney. 'See the life I lead. Everyone thinks it's wonderful, all this power. But it's hassle, you know, a bloody hassle. It's like this wonderful parliament building we've just moved into. It's a thing of beauty. It's like a naked woman smothered in white, Hawaiian honey. Lovely. Grows out the ground, that's what Miralles said. It was Dewar who sanctioned the whole thing, of course, but I couldn't have chosen better myself. But is anyone happy? Course not. They just bitch about how much it cost, and I get all the blame. Bloody nonsense. Don't know why I bother.'

'Why d'you do it then?' asked Barney, and Weirdlove gave him a look.

JLM examined Barney's face for any signs of acerbity or sarcasm, but decided that none had been intended.

'I was called,' said JLM grandly. 'I truly believe I was called.'

Barney nodded. Weirdlove shot JLM another little glance. The Amazing Mr X, as he had throughout proceedings, kept his eye on the door and said nothing.

––––––––

C
harlotte Williams arrived back in the office five minutes before Parker Weirdlove, Jesse Longfellow-Moses – who was sporting a quite delicious Frank Sinatra '62 – and The Amazing Mr X, trooped in, primed like coiled springs for their meeting with Melanie Honeyfoot.

And in those five minutes, Williams had made three calls, which were enough to ascertain that at the end of the previous evening, Honeyfoot had definitely returned to her apartment, on her own, and in a reasonably sober condition. There was no explanation as to why she had not slept in her own bed. In the claustrophobic world of Scottish politics, it would not be long before someone in the press got hold of the fact that Honeyfoot was unaccounted for and suddenly the story would blow up in their faces.

Weirdlove stood at Williams's desk, while JLM waited and looked around the other members of staff in the outer office, embracing them with the warmth of his munificence. The Amazing Mr X stood still, his hands clasped in front of him, a caged panther waiting to descend with awesome force and the opprobrium of high office upon anyone who might threaten his master.

'I take it Ms Honeyfoot has arrived safely?' said Weirdlove.

'She's not here,' said Williams, crisply, trying not to be daunted by Weirdlove.

'What d'you mean?' snapped Weirdlove.

'She hasn't, she's not,' said Williams, being daunted despite herself, 'she hasn't arrived this morning.'

'Where is she?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you think the First Minister's got nothing better to do with his time, Mrs Williams?'

'No,' she said, 'I mean, yes. I, eh, I've tried to contact Melanie.'

'How very wonderful of you,' said Weirdlove. 'The First Minister is leaving now. Should Ms Honeyfoot deign to show her face, please inform her that the meeting has been cancelled and, should she want another one, not to imagine that it will happen before the next session of parliament. Goodbye.'

Weirdlove turned quickly and walked from the office. JLM nodded at Williams, said 'Lovely, really lovely, thank you,' and followed Weirdlove. The Amazing Mr X made a quick scan of the office to see if anyone was regarding his employer with inappropriate levels of irreverence, then followed JLM a couple of paces behind.