The Barbershop Seven (119 page)

'Sorry, boss,' he said to JLM. 'She scared me.'

'That's all right, X,' said JLM. 'You can wait downstairs. Ms Wanderlip won't be staying long.'

At those words she fizzled some more, a strange noise escaping from her body, like the sound of rain on electricity pylons. The Amazing Mr X looked at her with a mixture of fear and contempt, then turned and walked from the room.

JLM waited until the door closed, then closed the scrapbook over and straightened his shoulders.

'Winona,' he said. 'You've got one minute and then I'm calling the police.'

'What the Hell are you playing at?' she said.

'I'm only trying to run the country the best I can,' he said, disarmingly.

'I know what you're up to. You put every single job in the government onto my plate, and when eventually cock-ups start getting made, you can blame me and kick me out. Either that or I choose to jump ship. I'm not bloody stupid.'

'Winona, you credit me with too much guile,' he said.

'Do I bollocks, you bollocking idiot,' she barked. 'Anyway, it's not guile, it's arrogance and superciliousness and disdain and narcissistic up-your-own-arse-ness. Well, I'm here to tell you you're not getting away with it. I've had enough.'

'Oh, well, have you now?' said JLM slyly. 'What are you going to do, Winnie? Throw your teddy in the corner? Withdraw your £1.50 a week from the tea club? Write a letter to
Woman's Weekly
maybe? Lovely. Or perhaps to the agony aunt in the Daily Record? Dear, whatever the Hell her name is, my boss is giving me too much responsibility. I'm only a woman, how am I supposed to cope?'

She didn't pounce immediately. She was no unfettered wolf leaping at the injured deer; no savage lion, all muscle and teeth, jumping on the exhausted wildebeest; no vicious anteater, sticking its snout into the hill and gobbling up all the workers who'd been happily building a swimming pool for the little 'uns. She waited. She stood over the bed, trying to control her anger. She'd had therapy, that was no secret. Rage control. Hadn't had the choice after the judge had ordered it, following the incident over the last parking space at Murrayfield. All the exercises they'd taught her to go through, they all pushed from different directions in her mind. Think one thing, think another, concentrate, concentrate, don't lose control.

'Your time's up, number seven,' said JLM. Voice as dismissive as he could make it. Loved nothing better than winding up Winona Wanderlip.

She lost control. And when she moved, it was with a surprising speed, agility and a nimbleness that belied her slightly clumsy bearing. JLM, who had been assuming the usual steam out the ears, throw the odd handbag, scream a bit, and then leave, banging the door behind her routine, was caught totally unawares.

She stepped forward, threw back the covers and, like Johnny Weismeuller or Mark Spitz, dived forward on top of JLM. Pitched it perfectly, so that her face landed smack beside his crotch, then with her mouth wide so as to encapsulate the full breadth of his tackle, she bit down hard. Kept her teeth closed for a second, shoogled her head from side to side a bit, then stood up.

Just for a wee moment or two, JLM was silent. His face turned white. His mouth was open, wider than Wanderlip's had been two seconds earlier. There were tears in his eyes.

'Is that all you've got to say?' said Wanderlip, having stood back up and regained her composure.

A weird hissing sound escaped from JLM's throat. He was clutching his testicles. His whole body was numb, apart from the screaming pain at its centre.

'Here's what you're going to do,' she said, firmly. 'You rearrange the distribution of work within cabinet by close of play, or I go to the press about the amount of money you're spending on that bloody entourage of yours. And the train. And everything else. You got that?'

He didn't reply. He was still in no position to talk, as he began to curl up into the foetal position.

Wanderlip turned and walked slowly from the room. Stopped at the door, faced him, tried not to smile.

'I would've thought I might've had to open my mouth a bit wider than that, Jesse,' she said.

And with that last put-down she was gone.

Jesse Longfellow-Moses curled up into a ball and began the rest of his long night, which was sure to be a painful one.

––––––––

T
uesday morning. Barney Thomson stared at the remains of his breakfast, which he'd demolished with some vigour in a little under twenty minutes. The usual full works, and he'd already decided to give himself just another couple of mornings of it, before laying off and settling for cereal and grapefruit before his heart clogged up and he was dispatched back to wherever it was he'd come from.

The news was on in the background, mostly talk of the chaos surrounding the Executive, what with its missing ministers and workload generally being amalgamated into one department. It was the first time he'd really focused on it, what with his head generally being all over the place. But sure enough, here he was, back in the saddle, cutting hair, and there was quite possibly a multiple murderer on the loose in the city. This thought having occurred to him, and having brought back no end of memories from his previous existence, he stopped thinking about it and decided to wallow in the events of the night before instead.

To put it bluntly, for the first time in so long he couldn't remember, he'd had biblical relations with a woman. And it'd been brilliant. He may have been dead or unconscious for two and a half years, but there was plenty of life in the old pistons, no mistake.

So, and you can't take this away from the big fella, there was a smile on his face. Alison Blake may have been called by Christ, but it hadn't stopped her shagging like a horse. She had left at some time after three, a final kiss on his warm lips, and a promise of more to come.

There was a knock at the door. Barney glanced at the clock. He was due with JLM in fifteen minutes to get his hair prepped for an appearance on Radio Scotland. This would be someone come to collect him. Or it might possibly just be Alison Blake come back for some nefarious sexual purpose. (A whole new world had suddenly opened up.)

He approached the door. It crossed his mind to take the chance that it would indeed be the Rev Blake, and to do it naked, with his manhood upstanding before him. Good sense prevailed, however, and he opened the door fully clothed, and rather tentatively. Which was just as well, because Detective Chief Inspector Solomon wasn't used to seeing naked men at this time in the morning.

'Aye?' said Barney. Still had a little marmalade on the edge of his mouth. Some sixth sense told him it was there, and he licked it off as Solomon produced his badge.

'DCI Solomon,' he said, 'and yes, before you ask, I'm wise as fuck. This is Sergeant Kent. You Thomson?'

'Aye,' said Barney. 'Suppose I am. And you're right, you do look wise.'

'None of your sarcasm,' snapped Solomon, albeit with a certain good-humour. 'You got a minute, because we're coming in?'

'Since you put it like that,' said Barney, stepping back and allowing them entry. 'I'm due with the First Minister in fifteen minutes.'

Solomon grunted.

'Appearing in another carpet commercial, is he?'

'Radio Scotland,' said Barney.

Solomon smiled ruefully, as Barney closed the door.

'Wouldn't want to be seen on the radio with bad hair,' said the DCI.

'Exactly,' said Barney, smiling.

Having gained access, and the confidence of the interrogatee with a little banter, Solomon stood in the middle of the room and looked around. Had wondered how it was that the First Minister had been keeping his employees. Had a good eye for a quality sound system and DVD/digital TV set up. This was the best. Several thousand pounds worth of the taxpayers' money in those alone.

Barney watched them, wondering what they were up to. Here to arrest him for sleeping with an agent of the Lord? Perhaps it was in that morning's newspapers.
High Ranking Barber Shags Vicar, Sentenced To Death
. Or,
Thomson In New Outrage Against Society
. Or maybe they had put two and two together, arrived at sixty-four, and were here to arrest him for the murder of the disappearing cabinet ministers.
Reprieved Barber Can't Kick Killer Habit
.
Born Again Hirsutologist Cuts Swathe Through Cabinet; Citizens Erect Monument In His Honour
. Could be anything.

'So,' said Barney. 'They're going to be expecting me soon. You going to arrest me before then?'

Solomon grunted, shook his head.

'Nah,' he said. 'Why'd you think we'd do that?'

Barney shrugged. No reason, he thought. He looked at Sergeant Kent, a quiet man, who was staring solemnly out of the window at the morning sun. Wishing he was somewhere else, thought Barney.

'Why're you here then?' asked Barney.

'Thought it was about time we checked in,' said Solomon.

He eyed Barney for a few seconds, then decided to go for it. When he started talking, his voice raced along like Parker Weirdlove or Herr Vogts. Maybe, Barney thought, a few seconds in, there's trouble with the tape speed inside my head.

'Expect there's been a couple of people told you some things about why you're here, where you came from and that kind of thing. Yeah?' he asked, then zipped on to the next sentence without pausing for Barney to answer. 'Well, whatever you've heard, forget it. I don't know what kinda shit these goons here'll have been trying to get you to believe, but you can't trust any of 'em. And I mean, any of 'em, even the religious ones. Hell, they might be the worst.'

'So why am I here?' said Barney, with some resignation.

'You're part of an undercover police programme,' said Sgt Kent, suddenly from out the blue. Barney raised an eyebrow. Even Solomon gave Kent a swift look.

'That's novel,' said Barney. 'Do elaborate.'

Solomon jumped in before Kent could say anything else.

'There's a fella at St. Andrew's University been doing some research into the criminal mind,' he said quickly. 'Between you and me, the guy's an absolute fucking fruitcake. And he stinks to high heaven, never fucking washes, spends so long in that lab of his. Anyhow, he's been doing experiments reactivating the brains of dead criminals.'

'Ah,' said Barney, butting in. 'That sounds plausible.'

'Cutting edge work,' said Sgt Kent, nodding. 'The man's a leader in his field.'

'Yeah,' said Solomon, giving Kent another destructor-ray glance. 'Whatever, to cut out most of the crap, on our behalf he will fit the brain of a dead criminal into a fresh corpse. Do all sorts of reactivating shit, then bingo, you've got a new person.'

'The trick is,' said Kent, 'that the doctor has isolated the gene that leads to criminality, and he removes it. It's really pretty clever.'

'What Dr Fucking Einstein here is trying to say,' said Solomon, 'is that we end up with a person with rare insight into the criminal mind, but who has lost the will to commit criminal acts.'

'Brilliant,' said Barney. 'Don't believe a word of it.'

Solomon laughed again. It was a nice laugh, and he knew not to use it around real criminals because it was totally inappropriate.

'Yeah,' said Solomon, 'I can see why. It's pretty fucking weird, there's no denying that. But, my man, it's true.'

'Then,' said Barney, 'whose body is this? It looks exactly like me?'

'Good point,' said Kent.

'Yeah,' said Solomon. 'The doctor does this thing where he implants the memory of your new body, so that's how you remember yourself looking.'

'You're making this up,' said Barney.

'There's weirder fucking things than that in life, Mr Thomson,' said Solomon, 'and they're true.'

Barney laughed.

'You've persuaded me,' he said, smiling.

'Thought I might,' said Solomon.

'The strangest thing is,' said Kent, and Solomon started silently mimicking his speech, 'that the doctor couldn't find the criminal gene in your brain.'

'Ah,' said Barney. That would tie in with what he was beginning to remember about his past life. 'You must be disappointed.'

'Why?' said Solomon and Kent together, and they scowled at each other.

'Pht! goes your insight,' said Barney, doing an accompanying little hand manoeuvre.

'Well,' said Kent, 'we don't think so.'

'Yeah,' said Solomon, '
I
don't think so, I can't vouch for anyone else. You've been around a fair amount of shit in your life, so we're confident. You're our man on the inside of the Executive, and we're pretty sure you can come through.'

'Marvellous,' said Barney, and finally he sat down on the settee opposite the two police officers. He settled back; he looked at them expectantly. Something like this had been inevitable. Later in the day it seemed reasonable for him to anticipate visits from the Flying Squad, the FBI, MI5, MI6, the CIA, NASA, Blue Peter, the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, and Thirty-Seven-Year-Old Puerto Ricans For A Safer Eurotunnel. 'What exactly is it you'd like me to do?'

'Well,' said Solomon, 'your remit has kind of changed in the last few days.'

'Dramatically,' said Kent.

'Would you shut up?' said Solomon. 'Whose show is this?'

'You're taking an age to get there,' said Kent, sullenly.

Solomon hesitated on the brink of a 'can it, Sergeant' type of remark, pointed a finger, didn't say anything, then turned back to Barney.

'There's been murmurings about Longfellow-Moses and the death of his secretary. Bit of a weird business. So, we decided to try and get someone on the inside. A plant. Get a closer look, gather some evidence, you know the score.'

'Be a snitch?' said Barney.

'Mole,' said Solomon. 'When the First Minister decided he wanted his own hairdresser, we got the doctor to activate you and planted you in the middle of the forest.'

'So what makes you think that removing the criminal gene is going to turn anyone into a mole personality type?' asked Barney.

Solomon shrugged slowly, while giving Kent a quick 'don't even start talking' glance.