Murderers Anonymous (22 page)

'Aye, he's a poodle.'

'Something primal; something zoomorphic; something bestial, animalcular and therianthropic. He is filled with some sort of basic instinct. A need for blood, a need to sup on the very essence of the human pneuma, a need for the destruction of the quiddity of kinship that transcends our perception.'

'Or an old Labrador who's lost his eyesight and the use of his legs.'

'Perhaps you should try to get the graphics people to include more of the features of Barney Thomson in the computer image.'

Mulholland finally paid some attention to what the boss was saying. Shook his head, which was again lost on M.

'It's not Barney Thomson, sir.'

'How do you know?' said M sharply, turning around at last; and consequently missing the action, as the passing woman turned back on the still-leering youths, kicked one of them brutally in the testicles, head-butted another – a precision hit – and punched the last one in his Adam's apple, rendering him breathless and close to death for some ten to fifteen minutes, before going on her way.

'The man seen walking after Cindy Wellman looked nothing like him.'

'But you don't know that it was this man who killed her,' said M quickly, waving an emphasising finger.

Mulholland made a
Referee!
gesture. See! cried his spirit, you can still get worked up about something.

'So what? The point surely is to speak to the last person seen with her, whether he's the murderer or not. We have to find the guy. What's the point in telling everyone it's Barney Thomson, when it wasn't him seen following her, and it probably wasn't him who killed her?'

M leant forward, knuckles white, resting on the desktop. A bulldog face.

'What's the point? I'll give you the blasted point, Chief Inspector. Everyone in Glasgow knows that Barney Thomson is a deranged killer, and that he's on the loose. And now what? You want me to tell them that there's another killer as well, and there's double the chance of them getting skinned alive or hacked up piece by piece? There'd be panic. Bloody panic.'

Mulholland's mouth was slightly open. You couldn't drive a bus in, but the man was aghast. McMenemy was mad, completely mad.

'You listen to me, Chief Inspector,' said M, beginning to foam slightly at the corners. 'You just listen to me. For the purposes of this case, for the purposes of the public and most of all for the purposes of your investigation, you are looking for Barney Thomson. No one else. You got that? I couldn't give a shit if there's another killer out there. I don't want any computer graphics or photofits or descriptions or anything of that sort released to the public, implicating anyone other than Barney Thomson. He is clearly, unequivocally, without a shadow of a doubt, our serial killer. You go after him, Chief Inspector. Him and nobody else.'

Mulholland continued to stare. Toppling over onto the side of incredulity. And so, a few things came to mind. What happened when Barney was in custody and the murders continued? How many members of the public would be duped by the real serial killer, because they were on the lookout for Barney?

He voiced none of it.

'Right,' he said, letting out a sigh. 'Right.'

M slowly sat down, never taking his eyes off Mulholland.

'There's a lot riding on this, Chief Inspector. I've brought you back because I thought you could do me a job. Don't let me down.'

Mulholland said nothing. Tasked with bringing the wrong man to justice. He might as well nip out into the street and arrest the first person he saw. Of course, the first person he saw would be a young lad clutching what was left of his genitals.

'You are going to have to enter the belly of the beast, 127,' said M, and Mulholland began to switch off. 'You must show bravery, stout-heartedness, daring and bravado. You must place your head in the jaws of the lion, and you must not display pusillanimity.'

Yeah, yeah, yeah... And so, as M continued, Mulholland began to slide back down into his nest of sludge, and the only coherent thought he could truly manage was that he wished he were no longer there. And in his head he was standing on a riverbank, wrist flicking, fish jumping at the flies he projected across the water.

Jade Weapon stood over the German agent, the steel toe of her red, thigh-length leather boot pressed up against Horst Schwimmer's trembling love-knob. The large machine gun she held in her right hand, which nestled against the inside of her even larger, yet firm, breast, was aimed at Schwimmer's forehead. A forehead beaded with sweat. Yet, as he looked up at her, nervous and expecting to die, he couldn't help but notice her enormous nipples straining against the thin fabric of her Lycra vest.

'Tell me where the formula is hidden or you eat lead,' said Weapon, in the east European monotone she used to cover up her middle-class, suburban upbringing.

'Gotten Himmel,' said Schwimmer. 'Vorsprung durch technik. Franz Beckenbauer, bratwurst, Helmut Kohl.'

With an instantaneous splash of red, Weapon opened fire, pumping fifteen rounds into Schwimmer's face in less than two seconds. His head exploded like a pumpkin. But hey, that's the way it goes.

***

Erin Proudfoot laid the book down for a second and took her first sip from the mug of tea which had been going cold on the small table next to her for nearly fifteen minutes. Glanced at the clock. Not even nine. The rest of the evening stretched out before her like a great mound of compost. Then bed, and another night of waking sleep, until another bloody day would dawn.

Another night sitting in on her own, drowning in misery. That was her. Should have been down the Bloated Fish, or whatever Friday night dive should happen along, watching her prey, the pointless stalk she'd had on for the previous five months. But Detective Sergeant Anderson, the other poor sap who, along with Crammond, had been dragged into the painful operation, had wanted to change for Saturday night and she'd agreed. Agreed without thinking twice.

For she had no idea of what it would lead to, this forthcoming Saturday night, which would turn into a long, long Sunday.

Thank God for Jade Weapon, she thought. However, there were only two more books to read in the series –
Jade Does Dallas
and
Fast Train to Nowhere
– and then she was finished. Who knew what excitement she'd be able to introduce into her life then?

She took another swallow of tepid tea, screwed her face up, did her best to ignore the feelings of depression and loneliness, and delved back into the novel.

Some days your head gets obliterated into a pulp by fifteen rounds from a semi-automatic. And some days it doesn't.

***

Another night at the Bloated Fish. Friday, a good crowd in. Not too many of the Murderers Anonymous group, most of them with other matters to take care of before going away for the weekend.

Arnie Medlock, in all his pomp. Katie Dillinger, lips soft and red, hair golden, teeth white like a new pair of M&S pants; a bit of the Georgia out of
Ally McBeal
about her, attractive yet insipid. Billy Hamilton, having turned up on the off-chance that Annie Webster would be there, and being sorely disappointed. (DS Anderson sat outside Webster's flat all night, fell asleep, and missed her when she left, then missed her again when she returned three hours later.) Billy would have to make do with Ellie Winters, a woman of some mystery. Socrates McCartney, in all his new-found, loose-tongued liberalism, chatting to Arnie Medlock, although the chatter concealed a certain amount of contempt. And lastly, Barney Thomson, sitting beside Katie Dillinger, toying with his pint of lager. Talking to a woman in an almost intimate situation, for the first time in over three hundred and fifty years. Or thereabouts.

Arnie Medlock kept a close watch, but suspected that Barney was all sour looks and no bottle. He wouldn't be any hassle; even though he could hear Dillinger enticing Barney to come with them for the weekend.
I could crush Thomson like a digestive biscuit
, he thought to himself, even though he had Socrates muttering about the size of spiders in Bearsden in his left ear.

'I don't know,' said Barney. 'I don't really feel like I'm one of you, you know.'

'Come on, Barney,' said Dillinger, running her finger around the top of her wine glass, an act which had Barney twitching in his seat, and which Medlock caught out of the corner of his eye. 'It's the perfect chance to get to know everyone. I won't lie to you. You see, I didn't think we'd be able to fit you in, but we have a vacancy. One of our number's dropped out, last-minute job. Don't know what the lad's up to,' she said, covering up all those feelings of rejection and annoyance which she'd done her best to ignore for the past couple of days. She would, of course, never see Paul The Hammer Galbraith again.

The wine glass began to sing. Somewhere distant, Barney was aware of Socrates talking about beetles and Medlock saying that when he was in Africa they'd had beetles bigger than dogs; while on his other side, Billy Hamilton talked about
Northern Exposure
, telling Ellie Winters that he dreamed of Rob Morrow every second or third night, but not in an erotic way, while Winters yawned. The pub was full. Elvis's
Blue Christmas
filled the air.

'What's the score, again?' said Barney, giving himself more time. His natural inclination was to say no, after all.

He had two options: one, spend a weekend in an old house, where every guest is a murderer, or, two, don't.

Tricky.

'We meet here at four o'clock tomorrow, and we've got a minibus hired to take us down. Get there in time for dinner, hang out, have a few drinks, then bed. On Sunday, we do what we want in the morning; play golf, go for a walk, lie in bed, whatever. Then usually there's a discussion in the early afternoon, then exchange presents, back into dinner and drinking. Everyone gets drunk, we all have a brilliant time. And the minibus comes and picks us up on Monday afternoon. What do you think?'

Barney nodded, took a small swig from his pint. Didn't want to have lager breath.

'And besides,' said Dillinger, realising she'd trapped her man, 'you have to come. We need someone to replace The Hammer in the exchange of presents.'

'The Hammer?' asked Barney.

'He's all right, and he's not coming anyway. But we each pick a name out the hat and have to buy a present for that person. So you'll have to take The Hammer's place.'

And she fished around in her coat pocket and handed Barney the small piece of paper.

'That'll be yours. I haven't looked at it,' she said.

Barney took it, wondering what on earth he would buy one of these delinquent idiots, and would they kill him if they didn't like the gift and discovered who'd bought it. And so he reluctantly opened up the crinkled piece of paper, read the name, and that old rubbery face displayed nothing.

'Are you in?' she said.

Barney looked up, eyes slightly brighter than before, but otherwise no change to the face. Yet choirs of angels had suddenly broken triumphantly into a chorus of hosannas; a raucous cascade of sparkling fireworks had exploded in the night sky, whites and purples and reds and greens, an orgiastic eruption of colour; a thousand-and-one gun salute had just been fired from the barbican of a magnificent hilltop castle; the gods had risen as one and were cheering Barney's name as if he were one of their own. For Barney had drawn the name Katie Dillinger, and he had his golden opportunity.

'Aye,' he said, sipping nonchalantly from his near-full pint. 'Why not?'