The Barbershop Seven (202 page)

Bladestone hesitated, rested his hands on the side of the boat. Turned slowly, eyes staring straight at Frankenstein.

'Yes,' he said, 'as a matter of fact there is. Would you like me to demonstrate it for you?'

'As a matter of fact,' said Frankenstein, 'no, I wouldn't. None of your crap. Just show me.'

Bladestone walked forward, staring at the ground now, shaking his head, annoyed that he had made the gallus demonstration offer, when he was now going to have to look stupid.

'Can't,' he said harshly. 'Come here.'

He beckoned Frankenstein onwards and the policeman fell in behind. They came into a small, dark workshop. Every inch of space, on the worktops and the floor and the walls, was filled with stuff. Pieces of boat, pieces of wood, tools, nails, screws, instruments, hammers, paint pots. Frankenstein had to watch where he put his feet.

'I had an axe,' he said, 'kept it hanging there.' He pointed at the place on the wall, and sure enough there was a clean mark where the axe had hung, unused, for year after year. A huge axe. 'Nothing fancy, but big. You can see the mark. Didn't really need it, but I got it one year on offer in B&Q.'

'What happened to it?' said Frankenstein, easily managing to keep the smile off his face.

'Went missing about a week ago,' said Bladestone. 'Total bastard. Been a while since I was that pissed off.'

'Did you report it?'

'Who to? Gainsborough? Chocolate teapot material if ever there was.'

'Did you tell anyone?'

Bladestone looked dismissively at Frankenstein.

'Are you about to ask me what I was doing between the hours of seven and nine on the twenty-fifth?' he said mockingly.

'Christ, you're funny. Did you tell anyone about the axe being taken?'

'No,' said Bladestone, 'I didn't.'

'So, if it turns out that any of these people have been killed by your axe, or an axe like it, you expect me to believe you and to pin the blame on someone other than you?'

'I expect nothing from you people, although it would be nice to be left alone.'

'Was anything else stolen?'

Bladestone breathed deeply, leaning back against the worktop. His backside bumped a can of oil, which toppled over. There was nothing in it to spill.

'A couple of tarpaulins, some rope. A winch. The axe, that was about it. But then, does it look like I keep an inventory? They probably took some other stuff, who knows?'

'And you didn't report this because, what?...'

'Because,' said Bladestone, straightening up and making himself more forceful before Frankenstein, 'the police on this island are useless, that's why. I wouldn't waste my time, that's all. Nothing sinister, nothing suspicious. You can read something interesting into it if you want, but that's your shout and your time you'll be wasting. Suit yourself. Now, would you please, pretty please with sugar on it, just fuck off out of my boatyard and let me get on with some work. There's a lot of damage still to be repaired after that magical storm I whipped up out of thin air.'

A hard stare across the workshop, then Bladestone walked back outside, storming past Frankenstein, finally deciding that he didn't care what the policeman did.

Frankenstein followed him outside, stopped, took a last look around the yard. Another small building, a shady green door.

'What's in there?' he said to Bladestone's back.

Bladestone turned and followed Frankenstein's gaze.

'None of your fucking business,' he said. 'You can have a look if you've got a warrant, but I presume you don't, so once more, if you'd finally like to pay attention to me, just fuck off.'

He turned away again. Frankenstein looked at the door, one last look around the yard. He would be back, warrant or not.

'One last thing,' he said, 'before you selflessly go and attend to other peoples' problems.'

Bladestone stopped. Didn't turn this time. Frankenstein realised that what he was about to ask was incredibly childish, but he had to know. Even if the chances of Bladestone answering him were virtually nil.

'Did you tell the MI6 guys about the axe theft?'

––––––––

F
red and the gang were down by the rocks at West Bay. Looking out over the sea to Little Cumbrae, Arran and Bute. Could see Kilchattan Bay. Mid-afternoon, they were eating a sandwich and chewing the fat. They had plundered the stocks of the Ritz Café, and were now tossing the pigskin of investigation around and seeing if they could catch anything in the endzone. Fred, Selma and Deirdre were eating a fairly plain cheese, ham, lettuce and tomato on brown bread. Bernard and the Dog With No Name were sharing a sixteen-decker, ham, bacon, fried banana, peanut butter, chocolate chip, papaya, guava, blue cheese and Mars Bar deep fried sandwich. With extra mayo.

'Like, man,' said Bernard, through a mouthful of food, 'this is the spookiest case I've ever been on.'

'It sure is,' said Fred. 'We came here to investigate a diamond smuggling ring running out of Ireland and instead we end up with this creepy Incredible Captain Death mystery.'

'But I don't think there's any doubt they're connected,' said Selma. 'I'll bet three pigs to the dozen that sooner or later the killer will lead us to those missing diamonds.'

'If only we could catch sight of him,' said Fred. 'It feels like we're always one step behind him, arriving just after he's chopped someone's head off.'

'Like I don't think I'm bothered about that, eh, Dog With No Name?' said Bernard.

The Dog With No Name barked in agreement.

'Maybe it's time we pulled forces with the local law enforcement,' suggested Selma, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

'I'm not so sure,' said Fred. 'If ever there was a suspicious character, then DCI Frankenstein fits the bill.'

'He sure does have a weird name,' said Deirdre.

'Exactly,' said Fred. 'I've kind of got a feeling that when we find these diamonds and this killer, and it comes time to pull the mask off some bad guy's head, I wouldn't be completely surprised if it wasn't DCI Frankenstein under the latex.'

'What we need are clues,' said Selma.

'Exactly,' said Fred. 'And I think I might just have a plan.'

'Uh-oh,' said Bernard, cramming the last of the sandwich into his mouth, 'I don't like the sound of that.'

The Dog With No Name barked. Fred stood up and looked out to sea, wondering if everyone who looked across the grey and mysterious waves found them as bewitching as he did.

***

B
arney and Proudfoot were round the corner of the mainland, further south, but still looking out across the sea to Arran. Sitting on a bench beside the beach, watching a couple of small children playing in the sand. The kids were both in shorts, their jackets long since tossed to the side, running around in very thin jumpers. Barney and Proudfoot were drinking coffee, jackets pulled tightly around them, both bitterly feeling the cold.

'Why didn't you just run when all this started?' she asked. They had been sitting in silence, in the cold, for almost fifteen minutes. She had needed the air after three hours of listening to Barney's story. She had known some of it already of course, having played her part, but there was plenty that needed filling in.

A life on the run. Would anyone have done anything different? Everywhere he had turned he had found death. This time, it seemed, death had come looking for him. He had even told her of the ghosts that had arrived in the previous few days. The actual Proudfoot, sitting there in front of him, seemed no less of a ghost than Brother Steven, or the old man who had walked into his shop five days earlier.

'Kids are amazing, aren't they?' he said, as her question had an obvious answer. She knew it already. Where was it he could go to escape judgement? 'If you made them go for a walk in this weather they'd bleat at you like you were killing them. But give them some sand, it could be high summer. They don't care.'

They watched the kids, glad to be free of the small interview room and the claustrophobic tale of endless murder, death and atrocity that had been Barney's life.

'Pain in the arse, of course,' he said, smiling. Proudfoot laughed. Barney thought of asking the question about her intentions regarding children, but knew better. Never ask a woman about children. Let her volunteer the information.

'You're wanting to ask me about children,' she said, reading his mind again.

'You should be in the police force,' he said.

'I'd be wasted there,' she said. 'Had two miscarriages. Keep trying. One day we'll get there.'

'I'm sorry.'

She made a small gesture with her hands.

'Just something else,' she said. 'Course, it's a shit world to bring a kid into. Global warming.'

'Population explosion.'

'Terror, government terror, death, illegal diamonds, child soldiers, famine, genocide, bird flu, nuclear arsenals, disastrous weather, earthquakes...'

She finally depressed herself so much she stopped.

'Celebrity Big Brother,' said Barney.

She laughed again. Footsteps behind them. They didn't turn, although it occurred independently to both of them that this could be a member of the press, having picked up on Barney's presence in Saltcoats.

'You two look like you're enjoying yourselves far too much,' said Frankenstein.

Proudfoot straightened up but did not stand.

'Did you get me one of those, Sergeant?'

Proudfoot shrugged.

'Thought I'd be gone longer,' said Frankenstein.

He sat down at one end of the bench, pushing Proudfoot closer to Barney. Barney budged up. The three of them sat and looked out over the cold sands and the cold sea, watching the children arguing over a small red spade. Having been playing nicely for the entire time that Barney had been sitting there, the kids were now acting like mortal enemies.

'You can see how wars start,' said Barney, glibly.

'Little bastards,' said Frankenstein. 'Can't stand them myself. Glad you're resisting the urge to pollute the planet with any more kids, Sergeant.'

Proudfoot hid her face behind her coffee cup. Barney glanced over at her.

'This thing,' said Frankenstein, 'it's moving on, don't you think? Maybe it's passed us by already. It's four days since the trawler was found, a day and a half since the most recent murder. Maybe it's over. A tempest. It blew up, wreaked havoc, and now it's gone.' He snapped his fingers. 'We needed to grab it as it passed. Maybe it's too late.' He stared morosely out to sea. Waves chopped and danced, played endlessly, stretching for miles away from him.

'No,' said Barney suddenly. 'It's not over yet.'

'How can you be so sure?' he asked.

'Been here before,' said Barney. 'These things don't just blow over. Not this.'

The children had suddenly patched up their differences, without the intervention of the UN, and had started working together to build a damn across a small stream which was trickling down to the water. Barney was watching them, letting his mind drift. He had spent three hours dredging up more ghosts and memories than he would have liked. Now he just wanted to switch off. The ingenuous fun of two young children was the perfect distraction. Proudfoot wasn't so easily distracted, her own demons and nightmares having been reawakened by her three hours with Barney. Frankenstein was looking at the waves. Bewitched.

'I'm going to make you an offer, Mr Thomson,' said Frankenstein. 'Might seem a bit odd, but there's always something stranger just around the corner.'

Barney tipped his head to the side and looked across at Proudfoot. Proudfoot also turned, wondering what her boss was going to suggest. A one-way ticket to Buenos Aries and three hundred thousand in cash if Barney promised never to darken Scotland's doors again?

'I'm going to make you a deputy,' said Frankenstein.

He let the statement slip out into the cold November afternoon and get carried away by the wind.

'Can you do that?' asked Proudfoot.

Barney smiled.

'I was being melodramatic,' said Frankenstein. 'Obviously, for official purposes we'll have to couch it in more modern terms. We'll hire you as a consultant on the case. Day-by-day basis, until we have our murderer, the case is solved, or we give up. It'll be a fairly free-flowing, ad hoc arrangement.'

Proudfoot looked at Frankenstein, very impressed. Unusual for anyone in public service to be that sensible or proactive.

'What if I turn out to be the killer?' asked Barney.

'Then I'm going to look very stupid.'

Barney thought about that for a while, thought about the risk he was taking for him.

'And what if the press find out? If you record it officially, it's bound to get out. You'll get crucified, won't you?'

'I won't record it officially,' said Frankenstein. Had thought it through on the short drive to Saltcoats from the Largs ferry. 'At least, not in your name. The contract will be noted down in a false name, for a false consultancy firm. When the whole thing's over and done with, I'll need to do some juggling of the books. Won't be easy, but I know a couple of people in finance. I have an idea or two on how to get it all cleared up.'

Barney looked out across the grim sea, the sky darkening behind them, the sun beginning to sink unseen away to the west behind thick banks of cloud. In the distance, emerging from behind Little Cumbrae, he could see a nuclear submarine on its way out from Faslane, off for a few months lying in deep waters. The cold wind bit harder, and Barney Thomson, barber, accepted that this would be his fate. For now, at any rate. This would not help in his final judgement, but if it brought it a little bit closer, then he might as well.

'Sure,' he said, 'why not?'

Proudfoot shook her head. She smiled. After hearing the full Barney Thomson story, this didn't seem any more bizarre than so much of what had gone before in his life.

'Don't think you're getting a badge,' said Frankenstein.

––––––––

T
he shop had returned to its previous state of calm. The word had got round that Barney Thomson had been taken into police custody and would be held there for at least seventy-two hours. All that was left of the freak show of the Millport barbershop was Igor, the deaf mute hunchback, and Keanu, the surfer dude barber. Neither was enough to drag anyone onto the boat across to Millport, and the town residents already knew everything there was to know about the two of them. The shop had returned to its normal November state of two or three customers a day.