The Barbershop Seven (65 page)

'That idiot? Just stumbled into him in a corridor, thought I might as well take him out. He was dangerous, you see, so I had to get rid of him when I had the chance. You two? I stood over you two nights ago as you lay sleeping, and I decided to leave you alive for a while longer. I wasn't that bothered about whether you died or not, and to be honest, there's no way you were ever going to catch me. So, I might kill you now, and I might not. Who knows? There is one thing I want from you first, though. You do this, and I might let you and your girlfriend here live.'

All stupidity aside, it had to come to it eventually. They weren't going to stand there forever, discussing bad offside decisions and their consequences.

'What can I possibly do for you?' said Mulholland.

Steven smiled. He lifted the gun from Proudfoot's head, waved it at Edward, and then lowered it again. This time he ostentatiously exercised his trigger finger and pushed the gun harder against her scalp.

'You can kill him,' he said.

'What?' said Edward. 'What are you talking about?'

Mulholland glanced out of the corner of his eye at him, looked back to Steven. 'What's the point?' he said.

'Oh, I don't know, Chief Inspector. Just having a bit of fun. I'm curious to see how keen you are on your girlfriend here, you know? Just how much are you prepared to do for her?'

'She's not my girlfriend.'

'Aye, all right, whatever. But you want her to be, it's pretty obvious. So, let's just find out how much. You want her to live, you kill sad little Brother Edward.'

'Wait a minute,' said Edward.

'She's a police officer,' said Mulholland. 'She knows I'm not going to do it. She's prepared to die in the line of duty. It comes with the job.'

'Yes, Mulholland, but are
you
prepared for her to die in the line of duty? Think about it, my friend. If you don't do it, all three of you are going to die anyway. But you kill Edward here, I might well let the two of you go. In fact, I
will
let you go. And I'm a man of my word. All you have to do to get your freedom is put your hands round the boy's neck, squeeze for two minutes, kill someone who is as good as already dead, and you and your friend are out of here.'

Mulholland looked into Proudfoot's eyes. Pale blue and frightened. His mind raced through the alternatives. The distance between himself and Steven, the time it would take for a blind charge; how to communicate to Edward the possibility that Steven's plan presented – that Edward could feign death; the alternative of doing as Steven suggested, keeping him talking until something else came to mind. His mind was a mess, but not once did his eyes stray from those of Proudfoot. Scared and nervous, but something about them which said that if this was it, then so be it. You've got to go some time, and rather this than a car crash or a debilitating illness. A bullet in the back of the head in the line of duty. She wriggled, wishing that she were free to taunt Steven about being such a total moron; at least get a good sneer in before he brought the curtain down.

'Can't decide, eh?' said Steven. 'The clock ticks, my friend. Ten seconds and your girlfriend gets a bullet in the brain.'

'Leave her out of it, for God's sake.'

'Eight... seven... wasting time, Mulholland.'

Mulholland took a step towards him, his mind in confusion. He turned and looked at Edward; maybe if he could just fake it, but would Edward know to play along? He tried doing something with his eyes at the man, but Edward stared back, frightened. Contemplating a dive over the other side of the hill. It'd be a job to run away, but how many bullets was the man going to have left?

'Four seconds, Chief Inspector.'

Proudfoot closed her eyes. Would she die instantly, or would there be some sort of sensation before she went? Searing pain? Heat? Epiphany?

Mulholland hesitated. Three seconds, two seconds. Made his mind up, but only on an attempt to buy more time. He turned towards Edward. Hands around the throat, look him in the eye as he strangled him, and hope the guy worked it out before he had to kill him. Feigning death was the only way.

'One second...,' said Steven, intending to drag that second out a little longer, to increase the agony.

Proudfoot took her final breath; Edward saw Mulholland coming and went with instinct. It made sense. If either way he stayed here he was going to die, then he might as well make a run for it. Feigning death did not occur to him, and at the sight of Mulholland turning he was gone. On the back foot, then he turned, sprinting heavy-legged through the snow and the few yards until he could disappear over the other side of the ridge.

The gun cracked its subdued explosion; a firework of blood sprayed across the snow.

Mulholland turned back to Steven, heart thumping again; mouth open; ears singing. The bullet had sung past his head on its way into the late Brother Edward's back. And by the time Mulholland turned, Steven once more held the gun to Proudfoot's head.

'Hey, Chief Inspector, I didn't think you were going to play. So, what the hell. They're all dead now. Bastards.'

Mulholland calmed down quickly, though he could yet hear the bullet. His eyes engaged with Proudfoot's once more, and they were now more settled. She had already faced the inevitability of death, and it had passed her by. When it came for real in the next few seconds, she would be ready.

Mulholland knew he was going to have to run at them, he knew he was going to be too slow, he knew that he would be shot and then so would Proudfoot. And the game would be done. He could try talking to gain more time, but what use was more time?

'Right then, dick-face,' he said, 'get it over with.'

Steven twitched. The gun shook in his hand. About time, thought Proudfoot.

'What do you mean,
dick-face
? I'm the one with the gun. Who are you to call me
dick-face
?'

'I'm the guy who knows that you're a dick-face, that's who.' Mulholland smiled – might as well go down verbally fighting; on another level, trying to get the madman annoyed and distracted, standard police stuff – and waved his hands. 'I mean, what am I supposed to call you? You've spent all your life planning to avenge some crap refereeing decision when, as far as anyone can tell, it was right. Your dad was just an idiot, and you're an even bigger idiot. What kind of sad, pathetic moron spends his life planning to avenge a lousy refereeing call? I'll tell you what kind. The dick-faced kind, that's who, dick-face.'

All the time he was taking slow, mincing, invisible steps towards them. Pointless words, but if he could keep it up, get the balance between keeping Steven interested and getting him so annoyed that he shot instantly, he might get close enough. But it was a long fifteen yards, which had become a long ten yards, and it was still too far on a good surface, never mind with the snow between them.

Steven twitched again. Saw Mulholland coming. Debating with himself whether or not to let him get nearer so that he could answer the outrageous taunts. But no, the closer he got the more chance there was of him making a move.

He lifted the gun, hand steady, perfect aim. One and a half centimetres above Mulholland's right eye. Get him there and he'd twitch; he'd read that in a book once. Proudfoot could watch it, and then she could get hers.

Mulholland hesitated, recognised the look. Had seen it once from a moron in Hyndland who'd come at him with a knife. This was it.

One last look at Proudfoot – the eyes said everything – and then, mouth open and screaming, he charged towards Brother Steven.

––––––––

F
rom nowhere he came. Dressed in white, invisible to all until the last second, a man possessed, Barney Thomson sprang from behind Brother Steven, his hands reached his shoulders before the finger squeezed the trigger, so that when the gun went off the bullet flew harmlessly away into the low cloud.

Proudfoot fell forward into the snow; Mulholland raced towards her. Barney pushed Steven under him, grabbing at his right wrist to stop him manoeuvring the gun. He had the benefit of surprise for a few seconds, and so Steven wilted, but he was the stronger man. Barney struggled, managed to avoid the knee that Steven tried to thrust up into his groin.

Steven pushed back at him, raised him up, then pushed him over onto his back. Still Barney grabbed at his wrists, still Barney struggled to remember what it was about this particular plan that had been brilliant. Steven's forehead came accelerating down, but Barney spotted it and took the blow to the side of his skull rather than to the bridge of his nose. Steven reeled for a second, hurt as much as his victim.

Mulholland undid the restraints around Proudfoot; they watched from no more than two yards away. A strange fascination. Then suddenly the realisation that he had to do something. Too late.

The gun was brought down into the midst of the wrestling match. Barney screwed up his face; Steven tried to steer the gun into Barney's stomach, muscles tensed.

But Steven was a man who had lived his dream; a man whose time had come and gone; and a man who suddenly doubted his entire life. Barney was a man who had not come this far to go down like this.

The gun went off as Mulholland dived on top of them, another muffled thud. Sometimes it is not always the one who doesn't care who loses...

Mulholland pulled at them, nothing yielded. Then slowly Steven's shoulder gave in, and his body fell away from that of Barney Thomson. There was blood on them both, but the blood was Steven's, and when he fell into the snow, the gun still clutched in his hand, he didn't move.

Barney Thomson looked up at Mulholland, chest heaving, breath coming in short, desperate bursts, and he somehow managed to say a few short words. He knew he was looking at the police; he knew this would be the epitaph to his years of freedom. He knew that these very words might dictate the course of the rest of his life.

'It wasn't me,' he said.

***

T
hey had moved back over the hill, away from the final scene of bloody carnage, and far enough away from Martin's body that it was out of sight. They had a vague idea in what direction they should be heading, and had retrieved Martin's compass. One day they would get back to a road, or one day their bodies would be found on a hillside.

The clouds were still low, but they did not promise any more snow and they were stopping the temperature plummeting. So they took a rest before they set out on the final road, to sit in a small circle eating some of the food which they now had aplenty.

Barney had said nothing since he'd killed Brother Steven. Still could not believe that that had been the extent of his brilliant plan. How do you make yourself look innocent of murder? Run out and kill someone, then say, '
It wasn't me
!' That would convince anyone. Perhaps the circumstances would have helped, but you could never tell with the police. Bastards, most of them.

'How did you find me?' he said, deciding that it was time to get it over with. The temporary madness which had afflicted him in the monastery had gone. The tiredness which had allowed him to fall asleep while watching them had gone. He had tracked them by their footfalls, he had brought everything out in the open, and now he had to face the future.

'By accident,' said Mulholland. 'We knew you were in Sutherland somewhere, but we only came to the monastery because of the other murders. How did you end up in a place like that?'

'Nowhere else to go,' said Barney. 'I knew I had to go some place that no one would've heard of me. How was I supposed to know that there'd be some murdering eejit there 'n all?'

'Just like your mum?' said Proudfoot.

Barney nodded, staring sadly at her. 'You know about her, eh? I thought you might have worked it out. Does the press know, 'n all?'

Mulholland shook his head. 'Don't think so. We've been stuck out here so long, who knows? The press have probably moved on by now, anyway. You know what they're like. We just couldn't work out the story with the other two. Henderson and Porter.'

Barney Thomson drew a deep breath. This was it. No more running; no more lies; no more fantasies. He might as well tell the truth, and face the music. Maybe he'd get to cut hair in prison.

'I know you're not going to believe me, but they were both accidents. Yon Wullie slipped on some water and fell into a pair of scissors I was holding. A couple of days later, that eejit Chris confronted me about it, we had a fight, and he fell and cracked his napper. You know.'

Mulholland took a bite from a stale sandwich. Proudfoot drank some water. Barney played with snow.

'Is that really true?' asked Mulholland.

'Aye,' said Barney, without any pleading in his voice. 'Stupid, but true. Not as stupid as yon bampot Steven, mind you.'

'So why didn't you just go to the police after the first one? If it was an accident, what did you have to fear?' asked Proudfoot.

Barney shrugged slowly, shaking his head. How many times had he asked himself that in the last few weeks? If only he'd gone to the police in the first place.

'Don't know. I was just stupid, like I says. Stupid.'

'And what about the four police at the lochside? Did you have anything to do with that?'

'Ah well, talk about stupid. I was there, and all that, you know, but they all just shot each other. Don't know what they were on. Internecine, you know, stuff. It was like
The Godfather
.'

Mulholland stared at the legendary and infamous Barney Thomson close up. An ordinary man. If the press and public who so vilified him could see this... This was the great killer. Just a wee bloke, sitting in the snow looking slightly bemused and eating some cheese which had not been well served by the journey.

How would they take to him when they got back? How would he and Proudfoot fit into the whole Barney Thomson story when they were disclosed as the ones who'd caught him?

He shook his head, looked at the innocent in the snow. Caught him? What was he talking about? Barney Thomson had just saved their lives. They had no more caught him than they'd caught Steven. If they had finally found Barney it was because he'd wanted to be found. He'd trailed them across the snow, when he could have gone in the opposite direction. He'd given up his chance of freedom for them. How could he repay that?