The Barbershop Seven (156 page)

Jonah had gone out every Tuesday evening; that was what this was about. What manner of problems had he left her with?

'I'm sure you could get your own frozen peas at the Spar,' she said crisply.

There was a lot of crisp, cold, snappy, frosty talk, as if the mere mention of the freezer was forcing the tone of the debate.

'You know what I'm talking about,' said Jacobs grimly.

'I'm sure that I don't,' she replied.

'Arf,' growled Igor in the background. Barney raised an appreciative eyebrow at him and wished sometimes that he himself was unable to talk and had the ability to articulate everything he was thinking by the eloquent use of one syllable.

Jacobs glanced at Igor, then looked back to Ruth Harrison.

'What have you done with the bag?' asked Jacobs brusquely, this time his lips getting thinner, the facial equivalent of cocking the gun. You know that way they do in films, where they never cock the gun to begin with so they can do it half way through being mean, to indicate that they really really are just about to blow someone's head off if they don't hand over the girl. Or the money.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' chimed Ruth Harrison, warming to her subject, protected as she was by the brave Igor behind and the curious Barney to her left.

'Mr Randolph,' said Jacobs, voice low and full of menace, 'came round earlier to speak to you about it. Finding you out, he took the liberty of checking in the freezer himself for the required item. We know where Jonah kept it. We know it is no longer there. You must have moved it.'

This time Ruth just stood and stared. At last the menace in his voice was beginning to penetrate. Ruth was being intimidated.

'The contents of that bag did not belong to Jonah,' said Jacobs. 'They belonged to the Brotherhood.' He paused. He let the words sink in. He had intended coming to her house and forcing her to hand over the freezer bag. However, if all he did was scare her into going to the police, her first port of call would be PC Gainsborough, who would be very concerned, make all the right noises, inform her that the appropriate action would be taken, and would immediately take the evidence to Bartholomew Ephesian.

'Tell us where the bag is. We can take it and we can leave. No fuss, no one needs to get hurt, no big issues. Simple. You can move on, we get our bag, everyone's happy.'

Another pause. He was wearing her down. Even she was beginning to see the sense in it. What did she want with the contents of that bag? It wasn't as if she was protecting her husband's good name. He had been a member of some secret society that kept something illegal in his freezer and he'd never mentioned it. Was she supposed to be supportive?

'Fuck off.'

The blunt warning came from the stairs. Everyone looked at Barney.

'Arf!' said Igor in support.

Jacobs didn't reply. He stared at Barney for a few seconds then turned back to Ruth Harrison.

'Mrs Harrison,' he began. Voice had dropped another two or three notches down the coldness scale. If he'd had a gun, it would've been one which he could've cocked six or seven times. 'Choose your friends wisely. Give us the bag and the matter will be closed now. Any other course of action would be folly.'

She hesitated. She swallowed. She glanced sideways at Barney.

'What he said,' said Randolph, as if that contributed anything.

'The bag,' said Jacobs brutally, ignoring Randolph.

Ruth Harrison bit her bottom lip and looked over her shoulder. Back in the direction of where she had planted the bag in the garden. To defrost.

Barney Thomson didn't care. He was no natural hard man but if ever there was a person to define the been-there-done-that personality type, he was it. When you've had years of dead bodies and murder and pandemonium and a life defined by Chaos Theory, two hard men, one of whom was as hard as a one minute boiled egg, meant nothing. He stepped down the stairs. He moved in between Jacobs and Ruth Harrison.

'Fuck off,' he repeated. Thought to add a variety of other insults but he didn't need to. Sparse was good.

Jacobs tried to stare him down but Barney Thomson was a man who had seen too much to be intimidated by the hired help of a small time crook on an island in the Clyde estuary. There was a brush of wind and Igor was standing beside him, so that Ruth Harrison now had the full wall of protection before her.

Barney crossed his arms, the appendage equivalent of cocking a gun. Igor crossed his arms. James Randolph, not entirely in tune with proceedings, crossed his arms. Jacobs took the mood of the situation. Was it worthwhile getting into a fight at this stage?

He looked through Barney and Igor, right into Ruth Harrison's eyes, right into her head. She swallowed. She knew he would be back. Jacobs twitched, the bitter spasm of unfulfilled rage. Teeth gritted, he turned, opened the door and stepped back out into the grey of a bleak afternoon. Randolph attempted to give the three others the similar treatment but fell woefully short, and then he followed Jacobs out into the day, closing the door behind him.

They watched them go and then, with the door shut, relief descended upon the house.

Ruth Harrison let out a long sigh and said, 'Thank God they're gone.'

'Arf,' said Igor.

Barney looked at Ruth and could see she was shaken. Would have held out a hand to her but Igor got there first, which was probably best.

'You're right about one thing,' said Barney, matter of factly.

'What?' she asked.

Igor looked quizzically at him, picking up the vibe.

'Your husband's still trying to take a piss.'

––––––––

P
olice Constable Thaddæus Gainsborough laid down the copy of that afternoon's Evening Times. Took another glance at the back page banner headline –
Dog With Transplanted Head of Dead Ibrox Legend Is New Rangers Signing Target
– propped his feet on the desk and looked out of the window as the afternoon wound its way to an end. His was another office with a west facing window, although he was down at sea level, the small police station just across the road from the tiny bay which precedes the playpark, the football field and the boat yard at the far end of the town.

He reached for his cup of tea and took his first sip. The perfect cup. He always took the time to do the job properly. Warm the pot. One spoonful of Harrods loose leaf No.16
Afternoon Blend Pure Ceylon
per person and one for the pot – he always made tea as if he was doing it for five or six, although he inevitably drank alone – brew for five minutes. Warm the cup. Milk in the cup first, just the merest drop, just enough to take the edge off the darkness, so that most people looking at the brew would think he was drinking coffee. Pour the tea in through the strainer. Different strainer for each type of tea, never wash the strainer in soapy water, just a quick rinse. No sugar. Let the cup stand for a minute and a half while you read the paper – his ritual was so particular that the taste of Harrods No.16 evoked the Evening Times, the taste of No.12
Scottish Breakfast
evoked The Scotsman, the taste of No.5
Not Morning, But Not Quite Afternoon
evoked the lunchtime news on BBC1.

He always made the perfect cup, so this one was no different. Held it in both hands, feeling the stinging warmth of the tea on his fingertips through the thin china. He always drank tea from the same cup, which he washed thoroughly afterwards. It had been given to him upon leaving his previous position as clerk at the station in Lamlash on Arran, and bore the inscription,
To Thaddæus Gainsborough, Lamlash 2004
, with Samuel Johnson's '
A Hardened and Shameless Tea Drinker
' inscribed around the rim. Guests were given a selection of mugs, including a Tweetie Pie, an I Luv London, an NPR Morning Edition, a Cambuslang Old Parish Church, a Bart Simpson Role Model, a Grumpy Old Man he'd received on his thirtieth birthday, and a bull terrier with a description on what loveable dogs they are.

The door opened. He dragged his eyes away from the hills of Arran and another contemplation on the girl he had left across the water, Minnie McDonald, 27. Didn't bother to remove his feet from the desk, as the only person whom he would not wish to be caught by in this position was Bartholomew Ephesian, and Bartholomew Ephesian never came down to the police station. The police station always went to him.

Father Andrew Roosevelt entered the office and closed the door behind him. He nodded at Gainsborough. Gainsborough smiled.

'Father,' he said. The men stared at one another for a second. Only eleven men in the world knew what they knew – at least, they thought it was as little as eleven – and they shared the joy of the secret for a second, no words passing between them.

'A great day is nearly upon us,' said Roosevelt eventually. The moment of secret male bonding had passed and they could both feel comfortable again. There's a time for heterosexual male bonding, although no one is entirely sure when that is, but it's always a bonus when those moments pass without undue distress.

'Cup of tea?' asked Gainsborough, to ensure that the encounter was firmly established on solid ground.

Roosevelt was well aware of Gainsborough's addiction and of the fact that he would get a damn fine cup of tea.

'In a minute,' he said.

'The brew'll be past its peak,' said Gainsborough. 'You have to be careful.'

To be honest, I don't quite have your anally retentive obsessive weirdness about tea, Constable, and if I was to consider tea to have a peak, I'd think the peak lasted from the point that the water and the bag were put in the same cup until the water had gone cold
, thought Roosevelt, but he merely nodded, sat down across from Gainsborough and leant forward.

'There are two Italians in town,' he said quickly, before Gainsborough could tell him that studies at the University of Durham have indicated that the first invisible microbes of mould begin to form on a cup of tea after less than eight and a half minutes, even while the tea is still hot.

Gainsborough glanced at the clock, checking how much time he had to finish his cup before the fungal spores began to multiply imperceptibly on the surface of his drink. He took another sip.

'Are they lost or on holiday?' he asked, looking out at the grey day and wondering why any Italian would want to come to Millport on holiday.

'Oh,' said Roosevelt, voice taking on a cautionary note, 'they know exactly where they are and they're not here on holiday.'

Gainsborough found himself a little intrigued by the priest's tone and he raised his eyebrows in question, while hiding the rest of his face behind the cup.

'They've just been to the cathedral,' said Roosevelt. 'Snooping around inside, very suspiciously.'

'This is Millport.' Gainsborough indicated the weather. 'What else are a couple of visitors going to do on a day like this? Visit the twenty-eight screen multiplex? Go bowling? Eat Thai or go to the swimming pool and sauna? You said yourself, they're Italian. Italians love all that religious stuff. Show them a church and they'll amuse themselves for the afternoon.'

'No, no!' exclaimed Roosevelt, once he'd been allowed a word in. 'It's much more than that. They're acting suspiciously. There's something grievously amiss. They lied. There was no reason for them to lie, not if they were just on holiday.'

'So, what are you saying? You think they're here to, what exactly? Invade? Claim Millport as part of a greater Italian republic? That might not be so bad.'

'Constable!' said Roosevelt, exasperated by the policeman's lack of concern. 'You must have received the phone call!'

'Aye,' said Gainsborough.

'Then you know that there are some people, some organisations, who will not be happy with what will be revealed tomorrow evening?'

'Aye,' said Gainsborough.

Roosevelt stared, as if not wanting to spell it all out in case the room was bugged. Of course, the room
was
bugged, because all police stations are bugged by MI5, but it's not like that mob would be too interested in what this pair were talking about.

The light of wisdom suddenly started to dawn on Gainsborough's face.

'Ah,' he said. 'Ah.' And he pointed upwards, indicating a higher power.

'Well,' said Roosevelt, 'I don't know that I'd go that far, but yes, that is my inference. These men are Italians and, more specifically, from Rome.'

'You know this for a fact?' asked Gainsborough. 'An actual fact?' he added, as opposed to the facts he read in the sports pages of the Evening Times.

'Like I said,' Roosevelt began, 'they're just acting strangely, so I can't be absolutely sure, but I think they should be taken care of just in case.'

Gainsborough took another long drink of tea. Glanced at the clock.

'Right,' he said. 'So, have you spoken to Mr Ephesian? That would seem the obvious course of action.'

'No!' said Roosevelt with surprising force. 'No, we mustn't bother him. There are some things we should be able to take care of ourselves. These are very important days for the Grand Master. He doesn't need to be troubled by every little thing.'

'Well,' said Gainsborough, 'I don't know that being about to be shat upon by the largest religious organisation on the planet is all that little a thing, but if you think it's best that he doesn't know...'

'Definitely, definitely.'

'So, what d'you suggest?'

Gainsborough drained his cup with a glance at the clock. Finally removed his feet from the desk and sat forward.

'You understand that the very future of the planet depends upon us to take care of this matter,' said Roosevelt.

'Well, I believe that might be a bit of an exaggeration but we'll run with it at the moment and see how we get on,' said Gainsborough.

'Good,' said Roosevelt. He pulled the chair out, sat down, nodded at the teapot to indicate that he would now take a cup, and said, 'Right, here's what we need to do.'

***

B
arney, Igor and Ruth Harrison trooped dutifully into the back garden. Barney crossed his arms against the cold; Igor seemed to crouch down before his hump; Ruth pulled her cardigan tightly across her chest.