The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) (7 page)

And how many of those who talked endlessly of the man, genuinely wanted him caught? He served so many purposes on the run. Continued to sell newspapers, a colossal build-up to his eventual capture; if he was never apprehended, then they would have something to write about for the next fifty years; he provided something on which the nation could concentrate its fears, an outlet for the terror it might feel towards this modern age. Barney Thomson had become an Everyman, the manifestation of the population’s individual fears. A generic terror, representing dread, panic, loathing, sympathy and, in a desperate few, hope.

Mulholland had to get his mind off it. Knew you couldn’t think too much about these kinds of things, couldn’t dwell on what you might face in the course of your duties, else you might never go to work.

‘A doughnut?’ he repeated, some fifteen minutes after the previous time. Ignored her heavy sigh. ‘Why not a banana? Why not a tube of Italian sausage or a Toblerone or a black pudding? Why a doughnut?’

She looked at him, dragging herself away from
12 Great Reasons To Have Sex With Your Marriage Counsellor
.

‘You want me to explain it to you?’

‘Aye. I’m just a simple man, after all.’

Simple indeed, she thought.

‘Can you think of anything more useless for a woman to have sex with than a doughnut?’

‘That’s my point,’ he said.

‘And yet they still manage to find fifty reasons why doughnuts are better than men.’ Dramatic pause. ‘That’s
their
point.’

The rain cascaded.

‘So, what are they saying? All those articles about eight million positions in the back seat of a Reliant Robin; what they mean is eight million positions with a doughnut in the back seat of a Reliant Robin?’

‘Of course not. They’re all about men. You don’t think one article has to be consistent with any other, do you? How many magazines do you read?’

A lesson learned. Mulholland drove on. Proudfoot returned to having sex with her marriage counsellor, wondering if you had to be married to get hold of one.

***

They sat before the manager of the Inverness branch of the Clydesdale Bank. An austere-looking woman; more hair than required, Alfred Hitchcock nose, skin the texture of mature cheddar. Narrow eyes, lips thinner. Voice like a slap on a bare arse. Both Proudfoot and Mulholland had the same thought; would you ask this woman for a loan?

Their visit to the Chief Constable of the Northern Constabulary had been postponed until later in the afternoon, although that was something else from which they expected little.

‘I really don’t know how I can help you,’ said the bank manager, following a few seconds’ reticence.

‘Humour us, if you would, Mrs Gregory,’ said Mulholland. Had a quick vision of Mr Gregory. On the other side of the planet, if he had any sense. ‘We can never cover old ground too many times. Our colleagues might have missed something.’

‘I really don’t think there is anything to miss, Chief Inspector. Your Mr Thomson’s card was used to withdraw two hundred pounds from the cashpoint in Academy Street at six-thirty pm, two weeks ago last Tuesday. None of my staff had any contact with him, and our records indicate that he has attempted no further transactions in the intervening period. I really don’t know what else there is to say on the matter.’

‘You’re positive there’s been noth—’

‘Really, Chief Inspector,’ she interrupted, after the fashion of her face. ‘Just because the police have proved their own ineptitude in their inability to bring this notorious fugitive to justice, does not mean that we are all incompetent in our chosen employment.’

Mulholland nodded. Considered his next question. Didn’t really have any more. ‘Can you tell us how much Barney Thomson has left in his account?’

‘Really,’ she said, exhaling loudly. ‘I don’t know how many of your colleagues I’ve already passed this information to.’

‘How much, Mrs Gregory?’

‘A little less than ten pounds,’ she replied, head shaking.

‘So basically he cleared as much as he could from the cash machine?’

‘Yes, it would be true to say that.’

‘And did he have an overdraft facility?’

She raised an eyebrow. Lips tightened, then disappeared altogether. ‘I’m afraid you’d have to ask his own branch for that information.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Proudfoot. ‘Tell us now, or CID turns up here
en masse
, and rips your computers apart.’

Mulholland glanced out the corner of his eye, said nothing.

‘Really,’ said Mrs Gregory, exasperated. Enjoying every minute of it, in a strange Calvinistic way. Would revel in telling her husband the story. Verbal police brutality. Might even write to the
Press & Journal
. ‘He did not have an overdraft facility. A very good account-holder, as it happens, Mr Thomson.’

Let the words scissor out, hinting that Barney Thomson had, in some way, more moral fibre than either Mulholland or Proudfoot.

‘So, there’d be no point in him going to another branch?’

‘No, I shouldn’t think there would be.’

Mulholland nodded. With admirable inspiration and only one day late at the races, Woods had alerted all banks to the possibility of Barney using a cash machine. Not to disallow him from doing it, but to give them the chance to notify the police as it was happening, if that had been possible. But as he’d closed the stable door, the horse had already been in a field on the other side of the mountains.

‘Right then, Mrs Gregory, I think that might be all. You’ll let us know if Mr Thomson attempts any further transactions?’

‘I’m sure I shall, Chief Inspector. And I’m equally sure that you will not be hearing from me again. I think you might find that your Mr Thomson has disappeared.’

‘Leave that to us, Mrs Gregory. I expect we’ll find the truth in this, regardless of whether he visits another bank.’

Mulholland stood up to go. Proudfoot followed. They were both dying to do that police thing where you arrest someone for no reason other than you don’t like them, but it can get nasty if you do it off your own patch.

‘Truth, Chief Inspector?’ said Mrs Gregory. ‘Many from an inconsiderate zeal unto truth have too rashly charged the troops of error, and remain as trophies unto the enemies of truth.’

Mulholland nodded. ‘Aye. Watch you don’t strain your tongue, talking like that. See a doctor if your condition worsens.’

They took their leave, walked from the office. The door closed behind them and Hermione Gregory was once again alone with her negligible empire.

‘Wanker,’ she said to the empty room.

***

They stood outside the bank, across from the train station. Cold and damp, although the sleet which had been falling since they’d arrived in Inverness was taking a ten-minute break. Depressed. Another irrelevant line of questioning gone by.

‘What now?’ asked Proudfoot.

‘Bollocks, Mrs Gregory? I think that must contravene a police charter or two, don’t you think? She wasn’t a criminal.’

‘Well, she was a pain in the arse. Same thing.’

Mulholland shrugged. Couldn’t be bothered arguing. And he himself had been on the point of arresting the woman on suspicion of not changing her underwear every day.

‘What now?’ he said. ‘Now we start trawling around every hotel and B&B in the Highlands, see if anyone recognises him. After we’ve spoken to the locals, of course. God knows what that’s going to be like.’

‘Every hotel and B&B?’

‘Aye.’

‘That’s got to be thousands.’

‘Very possibly.’

‘You’re kidding me?’

‘Any other brilliant ideas about what we should do with our time?’

She stared at the sodden ground. Noticed the first splash of a renewed shower of sleet. Had an idea, but decided it was best kept to herself.

‘Right,’ said Mulholland. ‘That’s settled then. He didn’t come up here to head back south. So, he’s in Inverness or he’s moved on. We check out every guest house, every
B&B
, every hotel, every room that he might have stayed in, between here, Wick, Durness and Fort William. If we don’t find him, then we start heading east towards Aberdeen.’

‘Just you and me?’

‘Aye.’

‘You don’t think we could use some help on this?’

‘We’re not getting any help, Sergeant. The Chief Super wants instant results, but it doesn’t mean he wants to spend any money on it. You can’t expect them to pay to put police on the ground, when they have managers, accountants and consultants to employ. All the other officers assigned to Barney Thomson are doing other things, we’re doing this. Happy?’

‘Damp,’ she said.

‘Good. Right, you get along to the tourist information board and get the addresses of all registered accommodation.’

She shivered, pulled her coat close to her chest as the sleet intensified. ‘And what are you going to do?’

‘Going for a pint.’

‘A pint?’

‘Meet me at the car in half an hour.’

‘A pint?’

Mulholland turned and was gone, walking into the sleet. Proudfoot stood, the slush in her face. Could already feel her coat giving in to the weather, her mind giving into misery and gloom. What was the point in all this trailing around? All those people, butchered and frozen and then casually disposed of. They were already dead, weren’t they? The fact that the murders had ended with the death of the mother made it obvious; Barney Thomson had been clearing up after her. There weren’t going to be any more murders. The ones who were dead were dead, and eventually everyone else on the planet would join them – and not by the hand of Barney Thomson – and we would all lie in the same grave, a farrago of twisted flesh, broken dreams and half-conceived ideas. Because that’s all there ever was.

She watched Mulholland disappear into the crowd.

‘Wanker,’ she said, then turned on her heels and mournfully headed off towards the tourist information.

The monks were at breakfast. A full and delicious meal. Four rashers of bacon, two sausages, a poached egg, mushrooms, black pudding, tomatoes, haggis and fried bread; mugs of steaming tea; all the toast and marmalade they could eat.

In their dreams.

The first bread of the day was usually broken by the light of dawn – well after eight o’clock this late in the year – but today it had been postponed until late into the morning, following the burial of Brother Saturday and all the prayers which had needed to be said for his departed soul. And so they were unusually hungry as they sat down to their meal of porridge, unleavened bread and tea; having waited in further prayer for Brothers Steven and Jacob to return from gravedigging detail.

Conversation was not encouraged at mealtimes. The Abbot gave thanks to the Lord, and the monks would dine in respectful silence, grateful for the gift of food. At least, that was how it was supposed to be.

It was but one day since the body of Brother Saturday had been discovered. Clothed in a long white tunic, turned bloody red; his feet bare and blue, sitting against a tree in the forest. Eyes open, face relaxed, at peace with the world; and with God. A knife had been thrust deep into his throat, the blade to the hilt and protruding from the back of the neck. One of the old knives, which had been kept at the monastery since the fourteenth century; a gift from a Knight Templar, of uncertain and mysterious provenance. A knife that might have seen action in the Crusades, but certainly never since. Until it had pierced the throat and rendered the flesh of Brother Saturday.