The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson (6 page)

'So I says to her, that's not right, Senga. I'm like that, Neptune's the planet that's the furthest from the sun at the moment. All right, Pluto's further away most of the time, but Neptune's got a pure circular orbit 'n that, while Pluto's got an elliptical one, so that for some years at a time, Pluto's orbit takes it nearer to the sun than Neptune, 'n that. I'm like that…'

The voice was lost in the noise of the bar as they moved away. Barney and Bill looked at each other with eyebrows raised.

'Unusual to find,' said Barney, 'a woman with so much as an elementary grasp of astronomy.'

Bill raised his finger, waving it from side to side. 'As a matter of fact, I was discussing the other day with this girl in my work called Loella, the exact…'

'You have a girl in your work called Loella?' asked Barney.

'Aye, aye I do. And as I was saying, Loella and I were talking about anti-particles. I was under the impression that a photon had a separate anti-particle, but she says that two gamma rays can combine to produce a particle-anti-particle pair, and thus the photon is its own anti-particle.'

'So, what you're saying is that the anti-particle of an electron is a positron, which has the same mass as the electron, but is positively charged?'

Bill thought about this, slipping a two/three neatly into the game. 'Aye, aye, I believe so.'

'And a woman called Loella told you this?'

'She did.'

The two men jointly shook their heads at the astonishing sagacity displayed by the occasional woman, then returned with greater concentration to the game. They both tried to remember what they had been talking about before the interruption, but the subject of German imperialism had escaped them and Bill was forced to bring up more mundane matters.

'So, how's that shop of yours doing, eh, Barney?' he said, surveying the intricate scene before him, and wondering if he was going to be able to get rid of his double six before it was too late.

Barney shook his head, rolled his eyes. 'You don't want to know my friend, you do not want to know.'

'Is there any trouble?' asked Bill, concern in the voice, although this was principally because he'd found himself looking at a mass of twos, threes and fours on the table, and sixes and fives in his hand.

'Ach, it's they two bastards, Wullie and Chris,' said Barney. 'I don't know who they think they are. Keep taking all my customers. It's getting to be a right blinking joke.'

Bill nodded. In the past he had been on the receiving end of one of Barney's one hour fifteen minute
Towering Inferno
haircuts, and in the end had been forced to move from the area to avoid subjecting himself to the fickle fate of his friend's scissors.

'They're good barbers, Barney.'

Barney stopped what he was doing, the words cutting to his core. Dropped his dominoes, placed his hands decisively on the table. Fire glinted in his eye. A green glint.

'And I'm not, is that what you're saying, Bill? Eh?'

Bill quickly raised his hands in a placatory gesture. 'No, no, Barney, I didn't mean it that way, you know I didn't.'

'Like hell you didn't. Et tu, Bluto?' said Barney, getting within inches of quoting Shakespeare.

'Look, mate, calm down, I didn't mean anything. Now pick up your dominoes and get on with the game.'

With a grunt, a scowl and a noisy suck of his teeth, Barney slowly lifted his weapons of war and, unhappy that Bill had seen what he held in his hands, resumed combat.

The game continued for another couple of minutes before Bill felt confident enough to reintroduce the subject. The quiet chatter of the pub continued around them, broken only by the occasional ejaculation of outrage.

'So what's the problem with the two of them, Barney?' he asked gingerly.

Barney grumbled. 'Ach, I don't know, Bill. They're just making my life a misery. They're two smug bastards the pair of them. Getting on my tits, so they are.'

Barney was distracted, made a bad move. He didn't notice, but Bill did. Bill The Cat. Suddenly, given the opening, he began to play dynamite dominoes, a man at the pinnacle of his form, making great sweeping moves of brio and verve, which Barney wrongly attributed to him having had a glimpse of his hand.

'So what are you going to do about it?' said Bill, after administering the
coup de grâce
.

Barney, vanquished in the game, laid down his weapons and placed his hands on the table. Looked Bill square in the eye. They had been friends a long time, been through a lot. The Vietnam war, the Falklands conflict, the miners' strike. Not that they'd been to any of them, but they'd watched a lot of them on television together. And so, Barney felt able to confide the worst excesses of his imagination in Bill.

He leant forward conspiratorially across the table. This was it, a moment to test the bond to its fullest.

'How long have we been friends, Bill?' he asked, voice hushed.

Bill shrugged. 'Oh, I don't know. A long time, Barney.' His too was the voice of a conspirator, although he was unaware of why he was whispering.

Barney inched ever closer towards him, his chin ever nearer the table.

'Barney?' asked Bill, before he could say anything else.

'What?'

'You're not going to kiss me, are you?'

Barney raised his eyes, annoyed. Didn't want to be distracted at a time like this. 'Don't be a bloody mug, you eejit. Now listen up.' He paused, hesitating momentarily before the pounce. 'Tell me Bill, do you know anything about poison?'

'Poison? You mean like for rats, that kind of thing?'

'Aye,' said Barney, thinking that rats were exactly what it was for.

'Oh, I don't know…' said Bill. Then, as his rapier mind began to kick in and he saw the direction in which Barney was heading, he sat up straight. He looked into the eyes of his friend. 'You don't mean…?'

'Aye.'

'You've got rats in the shop!'

Barney tutted loudly, went through the headshaking routine, then slightly lifted his jaw from two inches above the table.

'No, no! It's not rats I want to poison.' He took a suspicious look around about him to see if anyone was listening. 'Well, it is rats, but the human kind.'

This took a minute or two to hit Bill, and when it did it was a thumping great smack in the teeth. As the realisation struck, there came a great crash of thunder outside and the windows of the pub shook with the rain and the wind. He stood up quickly, pushing the table away from him, almost sending the drinks to a watery and crashing grave.

This momentarily dramatic display attracted the attention of the rest of the bar, who had, up until then, been sedately watching snooker on the TV. Barney panicked, fearing his plan would be discovered before he had even begun its formulation.

'Sit down, Bill, sit down for God's sake.'

Bill looked down at him, horror etched upon his face for a few seconds, then slowly lowered himself back into the seat. The two men stared at each other, trying to determine exactly what the other was thinking, trying to decide how they could continue the discussion. Bill was clearly unimpressed with Barney's idea. Barney, absurdly, wondered if he could talk him into it.

'Look,' said Barney eventually, attempting to sound hard and business-like, although Bill knew he was soft, soft as a pillow, 'I want to know if you can help me or not.'

The look of horror on Bill's face increased tenfold. 'Commit murder? Is that it? Murder?'

Barney looked anxiously around to see how many people had noticed Bill's raised voice. Fortunately, the rest of the bar had returned to more mundane interests.

'Look, keep your voice down.'

Bill leant forward, once again regaining the mask of the grand conspirator. 'You can't seriously be thinking of killing Chris and Wullie? They're good lads. For Christ's sake man, I know Wullie's father.'

Barney shook his head. He had chosen the wrong man.

'Huh! Good lads my arse. They'll get what's coming to them.'

'But why?'

Barney thought about this for a second or two. It was a reasonable question, demanding a good answer. He fixed his gaze on Bill. 'Because they're asking for it.'

'You're not making any sense, Barney, and whatever you're planning, I don't want any part of it, d'you hear me? Keep me out of it.'

He rose from the table again and started to put on his coat. Barney felt chastened, looked up anxiously.

'Very well, Bill. I'm sorry you feel that way,' was all he said.

Bill pulled on his cap, nodding shortly to Barney as he made to go.

'We never had this conversation, eh, Bill?' said Barney.

Bill looked him hard in the eye. Was there an implied threat in the voice? If he didn't help him, could it be that he'd be included in Barney's murderous plans? Another potential victim? Deep down, however, he could not believe that Barney was serious. Still waited for him to say that it was all a joke.

'I don't know about that, Barney, I really don't know,' he said. Their eyes battled with each other – two weak men – and then Bill turned and walked from the pub, out into the squalid storm of the night.

6

The New Merlot

Holdall sat looking out of the window. Evening rain spattered against the glass. Street lights illuminated the rain in shades of grey and orange. There was a tangible silence in the room. The silence of a courtroom awaiting a verdict; the silence of a crowd awaiting a putt across the eighteenth green.

The Chief Superintendent read the latest report on the serial killer investigation, fumbling noiselessly with a pipe. The only light in the room was from the small lamp on the desk, shining down onto the paper which the old man was reading. It cast strange shadows around the room, the old face looked sinister under its curious glare.

Chief Superintendent McMenemy had been on the force for longer than anyone knew, and his presence in the station went beyond domination. 'M' they called him, and no one was quite sure whether it was a joke. There was no Moneypenny, no green baize on the door, but he was a considerable figure. A grumpy old man, much concerned with great matters of state. And perhaps his senior officers liked the implication; if he was M, then they must be James Bond – although in fact, most of them were 003s, the men who mess up and die in the pre-credit sequence of the movie.

He put the pipe to his mouth and sucked on it a couple of times while attacking it with a match, eventually managing to get it going. Tossed the box of matches casually onto the table, looked at Holdall. There was nothing to be read in those dark eyes – Holdall shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Long, unnerving silences, another of his trademarks. He continued to suck quietly on his pipe, finally pointed it at Holdall.

'Well, Robert, what have you got to say for yourself?'

Holdall tried to concentrate on the question. It was a good one. What did he have to say for himself exactly? He couldn't say the truth – that he'd felt like a bloody idiot giving the press conference and had made something up so that he wouldn't look stupid. Apart from anything else, it was destined to make him look even more stupid when he couldn't produce the promised serial killer, and he had to explain that one to the press.

He looked into the massive black holes of M's eyes, wondering what to say. M grunted and picked up the report so that he could toss it back onto the desk.

'You've got the whole country thinking we're just about to collar someone, when as far as I can see we're no nearer making an arrest than we were at the start. What in God's name were you thinking, man?'

Holdall stared at the floor, trying to pull himself together. Be assertive, for God's sake. The one thing the old man hated was a bumbling idiot. Straightened his shoulders, looked him in the eye. Tried to banish the picture of Mrs Holdall brandishing a frying pan, which had inexplicably just come into his head.

'I thought maybe we should try and sound positive for once. We've spent two months coming across as losers, sir. It's about time people started thinking that we've got some balls about us. If we haven't come up with anything in the next few days, we'll have to say that our enquiries in this respect have come to a dead end. But at least we'll look as if we've got some spunk, and that we're putting something into this investigation. Certainly the shit'll be on our shoes the next time someone is murdered, but until then we have to look as if we're getting somewhere.

'We know nothing about this killer, sir. Why he's doing it, what motivates him… It could be that he won't kill again. Who knows? Or it could be that we come up with a lead in the next few days. We need to show some assertiveness. Try to create some momentum.'

He looked into the impassive face, the eyes which hadn't moved from Holdall while he'd talked, the expression of stone. Now M turned his seat round so that it faced the window, and he stared at the night sky, the dull orange reflection in the low clouds. His pipe had gone out and he once more began to fumble with the matches.

Holdall waited for the reaction. The fact that he hadn't immediately exploded was a good sign. He'd half expected to be out of a job already.

Eventually, after several minutes of working the pipe, followed by ruminative smoking, M turned back to Holdall, holding him in his icy stare. He considered his words carefully; when he spoke, he spoke slowly.

'Well, I'm not sure about this, Robert, and I'd rather you'd talked to me about it first. But on reflection, perhaps it wasn't too bad a strategy. Of course, if pieces of dismembered body start turning up in the post tomorrow morning, like confetti at a wedding, then we're in trouble.' He stopped, pointed the pipe. 'You're in trouble.'

He swivelled the chair back so that he was looking out of the window again, showing Holdall his imperious profile. M toyed with his pipe, tapping it on the desk.

'It might be a good idea if you came up with something solid in the next two days, Robert.'

'Yes, sir.'

He added nothing and Holdall shifted uncomfortably in his seat wondering if he'd been dismissed. Never rise until you've been told, however, he said to himself.