The Barbershop Seven (248 page)

'It is inappropriate in this company,' barked Middlesex.

'I already knew, Bud,' said God glibly.

'Me too,' added Bergerac, raising her hand. She was getting a bit bored and was wondering when the fun was going to start.

'Me too,' added Sweetlips, lips smiling sweetly.

Monk looked at the three of them, something telling her that it was normal for Bergerac and God to know, but that there was something going on with Sweetlips.

'And just, you know, who the fuck are you?' she said, looking at Sweetlips. 'You just always seem to be around.' She paused, then threw in Frankenstein's joke, as if marking his absence. 'You're not a bad penny, you're a biblical plague.'

Sweetlips smiled, and she looked at Barney.

'Funny. I'm a friend of Barney's,' she said. 'A close friend.'

Despite the obvious manipulation intended in the remark, it still whacked Monk in the stomach, even more so than seeing Sweetlips leave Barney's apartment late on a Saturday evening.

Everyone else looked at Barney. He stared harshly back at Sweetlips. He felt like the odd man out. At that moment, all he wanted was to get back to the barbershop. That was where he belonged, and as soon as this was over, he would get back to Glasgow, spend the night in a hotel, and then the following morning be on the train to Largs. By the afternoon he could be standing behind an old geezer, trimming his ear hair and talking about the balance of power in Scottish football. That was his place.

Yet he knew it was not his fate.

Bethlehem studied Monk, wondering where she was going with this, and wondering how he could take command. He had no idea who'd been killing his people, and neither had he cared. It had allowed that idiot Orwell to foster hopes of a takeover but he'd dealt with that easily enough. What really bothered him was this complete fiasco. This was a huge contract which, controversial or not, would have led to further huge contracts. He needed to get out of there, right now, and start repairing the damage, salvage the deal. That was all that mattered.

'Thought you were here as my adviser,' said Bethlehem, ruefully.

'That too,' said Sweetlips, and she gave Bethlehem a wicked look, the first hint of what was to come. He failed to notice.

Sweetlips, as ever, was in possession of a knife, a blade of beautiful silver. She was contemplating whether to use it, and on whom. There were none of them here who didn't deserve it; except Barney maybe, she still had a soft spot for him. That perhaps was reason enough. Eight victims at once might be a push, but the two for the price of one policeman deal just off the Charing Cross Road had been easy enough, so there was no reason she couldn't expand on that earlier triumph. In the end, it didn't really matter. Whatever anyone else thought, she had been working for herself all along, and there was only one person in the room who really mattered.

'This is pointless, Detective,' said Yigael Simon unexpectedly. 'You are clearly not in a position to make an arrest, or to identify anyone as the killer. You equally obviously have nothing of any significance in relation to the Archbishop, and we certainly do not wish to conduct any further discussion before a crowd of misfits and ne'er-do-wells.'

'What did you just call me?' barked God.

'The truth is the truth, no matter who's at the table,' said Monk, trying to recover from Sweetlips' bitter words.

'Almost poetic,' said Simon, 'but pointless nevertheless. Archbishop, I think it might be time for us to take our leave.'

With that, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. The Archbishop did not immediately join him, although Garfunkel automatically got as far as moving his seat.

Monk stared at Simon.

'You,' she said. 'There was something funny earlier today. When the Chief Inspector mentioned the fingerprints on the murder weapon, you raised your eyebrow. That was it, a raised eyebrow. That's not right.'

'Perhaps you don't like my moustache,' said Simon, a sentence that dripped disdain.

'It could be anything,' she said, ignoring the moustache line. 'Fingerprints, murder, maybe you had something to do with the car accident that nearly killed me last night.'

Simon snorted. 'If I'd wanted you dead you would be.'

Both God and Bergerac were pleased that things were picking up. Barney was beginning to tense up. He had been here before. He didn't know where it was coming from, but he knew something was afoot and, as the doomsayers would have us all believe, the end was nigh.

'No, there was something about you earlier. You'd been expecting us. You were waiting to throw a spanner in the works.'

'Fuck you,' said Simon, losing the required cool reserve that had been the barrier between Middlesex and the real world for so long. 'Why would we hamper you, you idiot? Your pathetic investigation suited us.'

'What?'

Simon breathed deeply, took a step back from the argument into which he was being drawn, held her gaze then dropped his eyes and looked at the table. Sweetlips was giving him a zinger of a look, Monk caught it, stared between the two of them.

'Who would
us
be in that scenario?' she asked.

Middlesex too looked a little curious at the sudden acknowledgement of a relationship between Sweetlips and his most trusted aide.

'Yigael?' said Middlesex curiously. 'Us? What did you mean by us?'

'I think we should go,' said Simon, and he leaned forward and started gathering the papers in front of him, like an old-fashioned newsreader.

He glanced up at Monk, but wasn't getting sucked into it again. Monk waited, accepted she wasn't getting anywhere.

'You?' she said to Sweetlips, suddenly. 'What's the score with you?'

Sweetlips stared back, a smile at the edge of her lips. She smiled a lot, Sweetlips, and few complained because of her great lips. But it was beginning to get on Monk's nerves.

'You care to answer the question?' Monk prompted.

Sweetlips stared long and hard, but was aware that the look that drilled into the heads of men, was not going to work so well on Daniella Monk.

'I believe Mr Simon is correct,' said Sweetlips slowly. 'You have nothing on anyone. You clearly know nothing about the case, consequently there seems little to be gained from this conversation, keen though I am to instruct you in a few ways of the world.'

'You then,' said Monk, quickly, looking at Bethlehem, not wanting to linger over Sweetlips' stonewalling, 'you don't seem to give a shit.'

'This is pointless,' said Bethlehem.

'You don't care about your employees being murdered?'

Bethlehem tapped a contemplative finger. Didn't like the tone, didn't really want to be sitting here listening to this, when he had to get back out there and rescue his deal. Might even be required to go to Rome to try to speak to the Big Fella himself. This was all very unnecessary.

'Yes, Detective, Sergeant, whatever you are,' he said 'you're right. People are expendable, especially in marketing. There's always someone else. Give me any idiot and I'll give you a marketing man in a week. I am Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane, it barely matters who the foot soldiers are. Most of them can't cope with working with someone with my panache in any case. I just need them for the back-up work, to let the big companies know that we're a big player. But it's all me.'

Monk was staring at Bethlehem, but she still noticed the twitch in Sweetlips' eye, the sneer in her mouth. Here was a woman who did not agree that Thomas Bethlehem was Bethlehem, Forsyth & Crane.

Crane. She looked back at Harlequin Sweetlips. Margie Crane? Did that make sense?

'You killed them,' said Monk suddenly, looking at her, forcing Sweetlips to look away from Bethlehem, switching off the animosity as she did so.

'What?' said Bethlehem. 'Who?'

Sweetlips smiled. Very good, she thought. Only taken you God knows how long.

'I don't think so,' lied Sweetlips. 'I've been working with Thomas for the past six months. Why would I want to kill any of his people?'

'Because it's part of you,' said Barney, a sudden late entrant to the conversation. God raised an eyebrow at him. 'It's written in your eyes, in every muscle in your body, in every line in your face.'

'What d'you mean, every line on my face, you cheeky bastard?'

Barney smiled. Well, there was a little crack in the make-up.

'At first I wasn't sure who it was you'd killed,' said Barney, 'or whether you'd actually done it at all yet, but watching you now, I know. You've killed them all, every one of Bethlehem's little crowd of losers.'

God nodded silently to Himself, impressed by Barney Thomson's gift for understanding others.

Sweetlips laughed, trying to regain the momentum of the conversation. Monk watched the faces of Bethlehem and Simon, Middlesex and Garfunkel, trying to determine what was going on inside. Only Garfunkel looked out of his depth; only he looked completely innocent and scared.

If Sweetlips was the killer, did any of the others know anything about it? Bethlehem looked disinterested, glancing at the door, contemplating just getting up and leaving. Didn't care, and Monk was almost of a mind to let him go. He would be perturbed and a bit confused if Sweetlips was the serial killer, not outright annoyed or upset. Simon, on the other hand, already knew. He wasn't disinterested; he just didn't want to be in the same room as any of them.

'Barney, you have the heart of a killer yourself,' said Sweetlips.

'You're clutching,' he said quickly.

This time Bergerac smiled quietly to herself. Barney Thomson's moment was coming.

'No,' said Sweetlips. 'Your presence here is the peculiar one, not mine. I work here. Why are you always cropping up? What's your excuse?'

'He doesn't need one,' said Monk. 'Tell us what you know.'

'I know nothing,' said Sweetlips. 'You can try all you like, but you won't place me at any of the crime scenes.'

Monk glanced quickly around the room. Knew this thing was coming to a head, wanted to be on top of things when they completely unravelled. Should she just take her into custody, find out what twenty-four hours of questioning could reveal?

'You're thinking you'd like to take me into custody,' said Sweetlips, ballsing it out as ever, the smile back on her chops. 'Sure, why not? Call my lawyer. Maybe after fifteen years in the courts you'll be allowed to take a DNA sample from me. As if that'll help.'

Sweetlips smiled sweetly at Monk, head cocked a little to the side in a cheeky Audrey Hepburn-type manner that made Monk want to bludgeon her head to a pulp.

'They've already got it,' said Barney, 'so any time you wanted to go back to Scotland Yard for a discussion, I'm sure they'd be delighted.'

'What?' said Sweetlips, the voice suddenly edgy. 'What d'you mean?'

The mask slips, thought Monk, and she looked at Barney, eyes narrowing, wondering what he had been up to.

Simon looked up, suddenly more interested in events. Bethlehem had started to gather papers together. He was leaving.

'I've already given them a sample,' said Barney.

'Who gives a shit?' said Sweetlips, losing the veneer a little. 'Who gives a shit about your sample?'

'Not my sample,' said Barney. 'I've given them a sample of you. You were at my flat, touched plenty of surfaces. They'll get a match.'

Sweetlips suddenly didn't seem so sweet. Even in murder there had been something cool about her, but now the facade was down, the killer was coming to the surface.

'Fuck you, Barney,' she said. 'And I thought your biggest mistake was not sleeping with me when you had the chance.'

Barney lowered his eyes, avoided the look from Monk.

Both God and Bergerac were smiling, although for different reasons. Bergerac was enjoying the descent into chaos and the inevitable upcoming bloodbath; God's smile was more rueful, as He was being presented with yet another example of just how much He'd screwed up the human race all those centuries ago.

'Harley?' said Bethlehem, smiling curiously. 'You killed my guys? I mean, like, seriously? You killed them? I mean, like, I don't give a shit 'n' all, but why?'

'Crane!' said Simon from the other side of the table. 'This has gone far enough. We're leaving,' he barked, and he stepped away from the table, holding the papers which would forever remain unsigned.

Sweetlips snorted at the use of the name, then looked sideways at her former partner. Bethlehem leaned back, the evil and the lie and the outrage unfolding before him. The eyes held everything in them, and finally he was able to see what had been hidden from him for the past six months; by a rhinoplasty, breast reduction, weight loss of 40lbs, white teeth, a collagen smile and fabulous sex.

'Margie?' said Bethlehem. 'You're kidding me.'

She laughed again. For her, it all boiled down to the same old thing. Revenge. Her revenge against Thomas Bethlehem, for using her and then knifing her in the back. Revenge against him and all the spotty little morons who had done his bidding in his company. The side plot – Simon's absurd deal with the Prime Minister, to use the murders as a device to smear Middlesex in order to scupper the breakaway Anglican collective – had been of no interest to her. She had taken their money, by God she had spent it, but it had meant nothing to her.

'Mrs Crane,' said Simon, 'we're leaving now.'

'No, you're not,' said Monk, and she rose quickly and walked to cover the door. Heart thumping, aware that she was far outnumbered by people who just didn't want to be there.

'Let me repeat,' said Simon, bizarrely attempting to be the man in charge, when he clearly wasn't, 'that there is little point to this, and nothing to be gained. We are leaving.'

'I want to hear this,' said Bethlehem.

'What's there to hear?' said Sweetlips. 'You think you're getting out of here alive?'

'Oh, for God's sake,' said Monk. 'Is that a confession? Really? You killed all those arrogant morons at this guy's firm?'

Sweetlips twitched, scowled, gritted her teeth. Her lips lost much of their sweetness.

'It's not his firm, it's my firm,' she snarled.

'Oh, for crying out loud,' barked Monk. Sure enough, but it was time to get the deranged homicidal unhinged fanatical revenge-fuelled lunatic to spill the beans.