The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (3 page)

‘It’s getting done,’ she said.

He stared, shook his head, finally walked off. It was like being a schoolteacher sometimes, he thought. Without the endless summer holidays. Bloody Erin Proudfoot; no good for the force, no good for its reputation. Ferguson might be a bigoted Philistine with fewer brain cells than sex organs, but at least he got the job done.

Worse than that, of course, he was attracted to Proudfoot. Thought she was lovely. Far more attractive than the bitter Melanie Mulholland, twisted wretch of his home life.

He stopped outside the Superintendent’s office. Breathed in, let out a long sigh. What kind of mood would he be in today? How ridiculous was his Bernard Lee impersonation going to be? How many times would he use the phrase
national security
when talking about shoplifting from Woolworths in Partick?

Christ, there must be more than this, he thought, as he opened the door and walked into the tepid cauldron of pointless imagination.

***

Late on a Monday night, the monastery slept. Long before the death of Brother Festus, it began. While Joel Mulholland staggered home from the pub to an unhappy marriage; while Erin Proudfoot sat alone, crying her way through
Fried Green Tomatoes
…; while the monks lay secure in their beds, and while shepherds watched their flocks, one sheep was led astray and put to the sword.

A particularly gruesome death, this one, the first at the monastery. The blood pulsed from the severed artery for some minutes, ran along the cold stone corridor. Reached the worn, grooved steps in such volume that the first trickle grew and swelled until it became a miniature, ensanguined cascade, the warm red liquid tumbling gaily down the stairwell, turning it into a cruel and bloody parody of the Reichenbach Falls. And all the while, Brother Saturday lay with eyes open, body limp, becoming colder, the sensation still there although the first stroke of the knife had killed him.

The killer watched the blood flow, taking some pleasure in the cardinal flourish, the rich harvest of his revenge. His second victim, this, his second plunge of the knife into the velvet crush of human flesh, and the fevered excitement which he’d felt the first time, so many years earlier, was much greater now that he was so close to the object of his desire. The sweat still beaded on his lip, the hairs still rose excitedly on the back of his neck, the purple vein pulsed in his forehead; and the buzz electrified his body. He was not yet some high-roller of the serial killer brigade, in this for the heart-thumping indulgence of it all, and he was not yet ready to change his modus operandi; to dance with some other form of death. His motive was revenge, and the gratification would not be in the deed, but the outcome.

But all that would change.

Twelve men must die. Ten remained, although only three of those ten were known to him. He had come to the end of his search, and yet the rest remained hidden. It might well be time to take a greater vengeance than that which he had first anticipated. But he had yet to make any firm decision.

Lifting the body by the legs, he began to drag it backwards along the corridor. He reached the stairs and started to clump silently down. The body limply hugged the decline until the head arrived and then slowly, step by step, the skull thudded onto the hard stone, and the face of Brother Saturday contorted into a grotesque and disturbing smile.

Tuesday morning. Another lousy day. Mulholland sat before his Superintendent for the second day in a row, listening to nothing at all. The rain against the window, maybe; the beating of his heart. There was a disgusting taste in his mouth and his head throbbed extravagantly; the result of four hours of gin during a futile night in the pub with Ferguson.

Detective Chief Superintendent McMenemy closed the file he’d been reading and looked up. Engaged Mulholland’s eyes for a while without speaking. The usual routine.

‘Late night?’ he said eventually.

‘Aye,’ said Mulholland, a hoarse croak.

‘Understand you had a little too much to drink.’

Mulholland laughed and nodded. Brilliant. How had he managed to work that one out?

‘Gin,’ he said.

‘Girl’s drink. Can’t you drink whisky, laddie?’ McMenemy grumbled, Mulholland gritted his teeth.

McMenemy, the man who would be M, sat back in his chair and stared across the great gulf of the desk. Mulholland held his gaze. There was no way the old man had brought him up here to tell him off for his drinking. More likely some pointless rebuke for all the time spent on the drugs thing with little to show for it.

‘Have you been speaking to Ian Woods much?’ McMenemy said.

Mulholland shrugged. This was different, he thought, immediately feeling uncomfortable.

‘Woods? Had a few drinks the other night. All he wanted to talk about was the Barney Thomson business. Blaming Thomson for every crime being committed in Scotland, thinks everyone else is blaming him for not catching him yet.’

‘Mmm,’ said M. ‘How d’you think he’s holding up?’

Mulholland hesitated. Beginning to see the minefield into which he was being led. Couldn’t say Woods was doing a brilliant job, because he just plain wasn’t, but wouldn’t do to denounce him either.

‘All right, I think,’ he replied. ‘Thomson just seems to have vanished.’

‘Exactly,’ said M. ‘He hasn’t found him. The press are whipping themselves into a frenzy. You seen today’s
Record
?’

Mulholland shook his head. M lifted the paper from beside the desk and tossed it across.
Lock Your Doors, As Barber Goes On 20 City Crime Spree.
After that he threw across the Sun.
Police Flounder as Vicious Murderer Kills Two More
. Then he finished with the Scotsman.
Barney Thomson Shagged My Mum, Claims Medical Studen
t.

‘It’s getting ridiculous,’ said McMenemy. ‘Entire bloody country’s living in fear.’

‘It’s a load of mince,’ said Mulholland.

‘I know that. You know it. The fucking press know it, but they love this stuff, and we need to put a stop to it, and the only way we’ll do that is by catching him.’

Mulholland nodded, said nothing. Knew what was coming.

‘I’m taking Woods off the case and I want you to head up the investigation. We need results on this.’

Mulholland nodded. Remained taciturn. This kind of thing was always ugly in a station.

‘It’ll be hard on him,’ said M, ‘but there’s no place for sentimentality. We need it cleared up before Christmas.’

‘Right,’ said Mulholland, deciding he ought to contribute. ‘Ferguson and I’ll get on it this morning. Go over everything Woods has done, see what he might’ve missed.’

God, he thought, shut up. For all that Woods was the Albion Rovers of criminal investigation, he wasn’t going to have missed anything.

‘I’m splitting you and Sergeant Ferguson up on this one. We don’t want to lose sight of the progress you’ve made on the drugs thing. He’ll stay on that, and I’ll give him Constable Flaherty.’

Michelle Flaherty? Jesus, Ferguson was going to be wetting himself.

‘You’ll be working with Sergeant Proudfoot.’

Mulholland nodded. Kept the wry smile off his face. That was all he needed. A bloody dozy, layabout woman to nursemaid through the investigation.

‘Right,’ said McMenemy, ‘I don’t like to put undue pressure on anyone, but you’ve got ten days, Chief Inspector. Ten days.’

***

Detective Sergeant Erin Proudfoot spooned another sugar into her tea, then slowly stirred. She had almost come to the end of the article she was reading in a two-month-old
Blitz!
–
How To Spot A Millennium Lounge Room Lizard.
Had met enough of them to not need to read a magazine article on how to spot one. Still, it was slightly more informative than
51 Ways To Have Great Sex in A Helicopter
.

The frenetic bustle of the station on a Tuesday morning continued around her, following a typical Glasgow Monday night. Six stabbings, two rapes, fourteen break-ins, thirteen car thefts, one defeat for Partick Thistle. She had been allocated one of the less serious stabbings and was waiting for the woman in question to be brought in for questioning. Senga-Ann Paterson, seventeen. Rejected by her boyfriend, the father of her two children, a rejection she’d dealt with by stabbing him in the testicles with a knitting needle. When he’d been hospitalised the previous evening, the police had released her because there was no one else to look after the children, and they weren’t sure the boyfriend would be pressing charges. One operation, and one removed testicle later, there was no doubt. She was being brought in.

Besides that, Proudfoot had four calls to make, following up an alleged insurance fraud, plus fourteen reports to complete from ongoing investigations. Her in-tray was piled high.

She turned the pages of the magazine. Past the adverts for generic perfume that would help express your individuality, and wafer-thin sanitary towels. Stopped at the picture of a stick-like figure with blonde hair and legs which went all the way up: headline,
Gretchen Schumacher – The New Eastern Uberchick On Why She Prefers Men To Strudel
. Shook her head, tossed the magazine onto her desk. Another five minutes gone. Lifted the phone and dialled the number for Lloyds insurance in London.

‘Haw, Erin?’

She turned towards Sergeant Ferguson, phone cupped to her ear, raised her eyebrows.

‘Your knitting needle bird’s downstairs. Room Three.’

‘Thanks.’

She turned back to her desk, hung up the phone just as it was answered. Closed the file she had on her desk, stuck it back in her tray, lifted her tea and headed downstairs.

***

‘You’re sure you don’t want a lawyer present?’

Senga-Ann Paterson raised her eyes and stubbed the butt of her cigarette, smoked all the way to the filter, into the ashtray, then let out a long sigh.

‘I says I didn’t.’

Proudfoot nodded, studied the paper in front of her. Tried to stop herself looking at the three safety pins which dominated Paterson’s nose.

‘Very well, Senga.’

Here goes, she thought. Maybe I don’t enjoy interviewing anymore either. In the wrong job, but what else was she going to do? An artists’ agent, maybe. Sign that sexually deprived idiot Ferguson up as her first act. He could be a stripper or something. The Polis Plonker. The Dangling Detective. Sergeant Sausage.

‘Do you know why you’ve been brought in?’

Paterson chewed some Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit. Proudfoot got a whiff of it, mingled with tobacco. Delicious.

‘To give us a reward for fighting back against the tyranny of evil men?’

Proudfoot tapped her pen. Nice try.

‘Not as such. You’re here because James McGuiness has had to have a testicle removed…’ – she paused for the ejaculation of laughter – ‘as a result of the injury he received from a knitting needle yesterday evening.’

Paterson laughed. Proudfoot tapped her pen on the desk.

‘It’s a serious business, Senga. Aggravated assault. You could be looking at seven years in prison.’

‘No chance, missus. Not with my two weans to look after.’

‘They’ll be taken into care, found foster homes.’

Laughter was replaced by indignation. Desdemona and Chantelle were all Senga-Ann Paterson had.