Curse Of The Clown

by Douglas Lindsay

  ‘I’m literally exploding with excitement here,’ said Barney. ‘Who exactly are the celebrity barbers? Seriously, is there an actual celebrity barber in all the earth?’

  Keanu held his gaze while he tried to think of one, then looked back at the advert for the convention, then looked up again.

  ‘Doesn’t say. There’re bound to be some in the barbershop community, right? Every community has it stars. And hey, maybe they’ll have actors who played barbers in movies, have you thought about that? That would be, like, totally amazing, right?’

  Barney continued to look unimpressed. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a movie about a barbershop, and while there would probably have been haircutting scenes in movies he’d watched, the likelihood was that the barber characters would have been no more than bit parts.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Ice Cube,’ said Keanu.

  ‘Nope,’ said Barney.

  He knew enough about the world to know there was a man walking the earth called Ice Cube, possibly more than one, but that was the limit of his knowledge.

  ‘Johnny Depp, he played a barber.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Barney, ‘that’ll be it. Well, if it turns out Johnny Depp’s going to the barbershop convention in Perthshire, we can go.’

  ‘Well, who knows, but there’ve been plenty of others. Robert Carlyle, for example, you’ve heard of him, right?’

  ‘Robert Carlyle?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Barney felt a strange shiver down his back, shook it off, quickly moved the conversation along.

  ‘They’re not getting him, and they’re not getting Johnny Depp.’

  Keanu finally forced himself out the seat for the first time in an hour, and stretched expansively.

  ‘It’d be good for shop floor morale,’ he said. ‘That’s all I’m saying. Nice hotel in the Perthshire countryside, snow in the hills in the distance, decent breakfast, nice walks in the country. You could bring the sergeant, Igor could bring Garrett if he wanted. It’d be a great change, and the team bonding opportunities would be off the scale. What’s not to like, old man?’

  He placed The Gentlemen’s Convenience on the counter, and put his jacket on.

  The door opened, and Detective Sergeant Monk quickly entered, closing the door behind her. She was wearing a thin coat, knee length skirt. No scarf, no hat, no gloves.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, and they both smiled. ‘It’s freezing out there. Why didn’t you tell me to dress properly this morning, Barney? I mean, why are we even living together if you’re not going to look after me?’

  ‘Funny,’ said Barney. ‘And anyway, I told you to put on a thicker coat and you said, and I quote,’ and he looked at Keanu as he said it, ‘‘it’s not winter yet, I’m not a pussy.’’

  ‘Never happened,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Keanu. ‘Meanwhile, can you persuade him to take everyone on a work trip to Comrie next weekend? Barbershop convention at the Hydro. It’s going to be awesome.’

  ‘Sounds nice,’ she said. ‘Could do with a trip.’

  ‘How much is it?’ Barney asked Keanu, still looking at Monk.

  A beat.

  ‘Might have been seven hundred and fifty pounds each,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Monk.

  ‘You two’ll get a discount if you share,’ he threw in, then he waved, smiled at Monk, and was gone.

  Door open, a cold draught of air, and the door was closed.

  Silence.

  They looked at each other, the familiar resigned look of the end of the day. Another one down, who knew how many still to go.

  She held out her hand towards him.

  ‘Come on. You look sad.’

  ‘No more than usual,’ he said, getting up.

  ‘How does dinner, a glass of wine, and falling asleep in front of the TV with your head in my lap grab you?’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  And with that, another day in the shop was over.

  ‘MAYBE YOU SHOULD DO it,’ said Monk.

  End of the meal. One glass of wine had become a second and a third. They’d turned the lights off, opened the curtains, and now were sitting in the seats by the window with the end of the bottle of wine, looking out on the lights of the town of Millport as they stretched round the bay before them.

  ‘Go to the barbershop convention?’

  ‘Yeah. I won’t come, you three chaps can go and do man stuff. It’d be good for you.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I can amuse myself for the weekend. Play a bit of golf, hang out with Garrett. We can get drunk and talk about you. And I’ve got my week in Geneva in the new year, so you know...’

  Barney took a drink of wine. There were the headlights of a car approaching through the town, around the other side of Kames Bay, and no other sign of life. Millport was, as it did every year, shutting down for the winter. Not that it really came alive in the spring anymore.

  ‘That’s reasonable,’ he said. ‘You get a week in Geneva at the height of the winter season, I get a weekend in the rain in Perth.’

  She laughed, tapped his arm.

  ‘You know what these conventions are like. There are always stalls for a hundred other conventions around the world. You can go to Comrie, and while you’re there, you can sign up to one in Hawaii or, I don’t know, Yokohama or something.’

  Barney lifted his glass, held it towards her and they clinked.

  ‘You’re on,’ he said.

  They drank wine, they shared a smile, they looked back out on the town of Millport after dark, looking much as it would have done to anyone sitting at this window for decades and decades before.

  The wind blew, the white tips of the waves rose and fell in Kames Bay, and slowly the evening crept on into night.

  4

  The Dead Body Situation

  Saturday morning, down by the sea. The constables were just starting to set up the perimeter area, the public already pushed back a hundred yards on all sides, when DCI Solomon arrived. He showed his ID and was let through, and then he walked across the damp sand, cursing that he hadn’t had time to change his shoes. Were they £1,500 Louis Vittons? No, they were £16.99 out of Primark. Nevertheless, they’d done him a year and a half now, and he had an eye on them making it at least into the spring. They weren’t built for walking across sand not long after the tide had receded.

  The body was now a few yards from the waterline, left by the water lying on its back. Blue, naked, a neat slit across the throat, and one down in the reproductive department.

  Solomon joined DS Lane, who was standing over the corpse. The matted hair, the cold, drawn face, the purple lips and the blue skin could not detract from the obvious.

  ‘This is the guy,’ said Solomon.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Thought for a while there he might have been clever.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You know, he’d made someone disappear from his apartment, and left a penis, and the DNA from the penis matches the DNA we took off his clothes and the toilet, and we assume it’s the guy from the apartment who’s dead, while all the time, it’s the guy from the apartment who’s committed the murder, and he’s placed the dead guy’s DNA around the place.’

  ‘Faked his own death, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah, faked his own death. But he hasn’t. Because that’s him.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Lane. ‘We’ll need to get a positive ID.’

  ‘You find out if he had a partner?’

  ‘Not so anyone knows. He worked at an estate agents off of Leith Walk. We’ll get one of his colleagues in. You speak to the Polish consulate?’

  ‘Gave them a heads up, talked through protocol, asked them not to contact anyone in Poland just yet. I’ll go back to them as soon as he’s been ID’d. Can you get one of his colleagues down here before we get him moved?’

  ‘Yep, I’m on it.’

  Solomon turned and looked around to see if the p
athologist, Carew, had arrived. He saw her, walking across the sand, bag in her hand, blonde hair flowing in the wind, looking, as he always thought, like she was straight out the opening credits of an American TV show with the letters N, I, S and C arranged in indiscriminate order.

  ‘Right, off you fuck,’ he said. ‘The doc’s arrived, but she’ll be a while.’

  ‘Boss,’ said Lane, and then he turned and walked quickly away, nodding at Carew as they passed.

  Solomon watched him go, his eyes shifting to the doctor as she approached. She wasn’t dressed for the weather, but didn’t look at all bothered about the chill wind coming in off the sea.

  She acknowledged him, stood beside him and looked down at the naked corpse.

  ‘You found the missing piece,’ she said.

  Solomon thought about it for a second, and then laughed. Always took him a moment to adjust to her sense of humour, like tuning into someone with an unfamiliar accent.

  ‘Hopefully you’ll be able to put it all together now,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  She bent down to take a closer look, made a quick inspection, and then straightened up.

  ‘I’ll tog up and get to it, George. See what I can find out before we move him back to base.’

  ‘Nothing obvious up front?’

  ‘Apart from that slit on his neck?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Solomon, smiling.

  ‘I’ll let you know. How about you? Anything to go on to get the ball rolling?’

  ‘We’re looking for the Koiffing Klown, apparently. With Ks.’

  ‘Coiff? Like coiffure?’

  ‘That’s what we’re thinking.’

  ‘And coiff and clown are both spelt with a K?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘God, I hate it when people have been watching too many movies.’

  ‘Fucking idiots.’

  ‘And the red ballooon...’

  ‘I know. What a prick.’

  She handed him her bag, and said, ‘Hang on to that while I get my stuff out, will you?’ and Solomon grudgingly held it as though he’d never been so put upon in all his life.

  ‘You’ll be starting with Barney Thomson then,’ she said, as she took out the blue all-in-ones.

  ‘Are you serious?’ said Solomon.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied, ‘but you know how it is. For a time there everyone thought he was Scotland’s answer to Hannibal Lecter. And, well, he was a barber. You know where he is now?’

  ‘No idea. Maybe he’s dead.’

  ‘Maybe. Life moves on.’

  She stepped into the overalls, arms in, straightened them at the shoulders, pulled the zip to the neck.

  ‘You ever come across him?’

  ‘Sure. I worked that parliament case a few years back when the cabinet got wiped out.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ said Carew. ‘You’re pretty hot for an old man, right?’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘But that didn’t turn out to be Thomson, though?’

  Solomon held her gaze for a moment, then shook his head as he looked down at the body.

  ‘Nothing ever turns out to be Thomson,’ he said.

  Together they stood and stared at the corpse, to the sound of the waves, the bluster of the breeze, the ululation of the gulls.

  ‘I’ll look him up, see what he’s been doing,’ said Solomon, grudgingly accepting his fate. He had, of course, already thought of Barney Thomson, but had done his best to dismiss the idea.

  ‘Cool,’ said Carew. ‘I shall leave you to it, and you can leave this to me.’

  ‘Doc,’ said Solomon. ‘The stiff worked not far from here. Tom might be along in a while with one of his colleagues to make an ID. Hope you don’t mind, wanted to get on with it. Family’s in Białystok in Poland. We should let them know.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She glanced around, spotted the closest constable.

  ‘Say to the kid to give me a heads up, just so the work colleague doesn’t walk in on me with my hand up the stiff’s ass, K?’

  Solomon laughed as he started to move away.

  ‘Sure, doc, no problem,’ he said.

  And so the world turned.

  THE RARE BUSY PERIOD of a Saturday morning. Barney and Keanu cutting hair, three further customers sitting on the bench to the side. Outside, a dull nothingness. Barney’s twin tactics to try to keep conversation to a minimum – play soporific choral music, and lay out a full cross-section of the morning’s newspapers – were working well. Both customers beneath the scissors had dozed off to the sound of The Sixteen singing JS Bach’s Et Non Morieris In Manibus Meis Sanguinum Bastardis, and the three waiting customers were all reading newspapers. In turn the Sun, headline, Queen In Surprise I’m A Celebrity Jungle Call-Up, the Herald, leading with World To End On My Watch, Admits Trump, and the Guardian, headline, Tory Minister In Baby-Flavoured Pizza For Breakfast Outrage. The Mail (Now Immigrants Want To Breathe Our Air), the Record (Scotland Leads Way In Deep Fried Haggis Deaths), the National (Turns Out Tories Are Cunts) and the Telegraph (Boris Approval Rating Hits 117% In Naked Photoshoot Popularity Surge) were also available.

  Barney had been whizzing through a regulation Dr Emmett Brown cut, but had slowed down a little when the customer fell asleep, judging that the old fella needed a bit of a snooze. Keanu was giving a young chap a revolutionary Highland Badger, not a cut that can be rushed under any circumstances.

  Igor was sweeping up.

  ‘We’re on, by the way,’ said Barney suddenly.

  Aware that he wasn’t speaking to them, none of the customers looked up.

  ‘What’d you mean?’ asked Keanu.

  ‘I signed us up to the barbershop convention.’

  Igor stopped brushing. He had the air of a meerkat staring eagerly across the savannah.

  ‘Did you actually?’ said Keanu.

  ‘Did I actually?’ said Barney. ‘Are you a fifteen year-old girl?’

  ‘Staying young,’ said Keanu, smiling. ‘We’re going to Comrie?’

  ‘We are. We’re booked. Three single rooms, Friday to Sunday. We’re going as the Millport Barbershop Delegation.’

  ‘Holy shit, that is epic. Will we get lanyards?’

  ‘I’m sure there will be lanyards. I’ll forward on the full details of the weekend, so you can make plans.’

  ‘Oh my God, that is so exciting. How many women barbers will be there, d’you think?’

  ‘Hundreds. Your luck’ll be in.’

  ‘Epic!’

  Igor had shuffled over and was looking slightly concerned.

  ‘Arf?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re cool,’ said Barney. ‘The Sergeant cleared it with Garrett already. The ladies are going to play golf, put the world to rights, and get riotously drunk. You’ve got a pass.’

  ‘Do I actually?’ said Igor, though it came out as arf?

  ‘Yes,’ said Barney, ‘you do.’

  Keanu gave a Homer Simpson-esque woo-hoo, and was fortunate to find his scissors nowhere near the head of his customer, as the Highland Badger bolted awake, eyes blinking, shoulders tense.

  ‘What?’ he said, swallowing, not entirely sure where he was, trying to recapture an elusive equilibrium as quickly as possible.

  ‘We’re almost done here, mate,’ said Keanu smoothly, ‘just settle back down and you’ll be on your way in a couple of minutes.’

  The Highland Badger stared at him in the mirror, slowly the reality of his situation kicking in, and then settled back in his seat. He looked at himself now, his eyes wide, his mouth dry, still giving off an air of befuddlement.

  ‘You missed a bit,’ he said.

  5

  Blue And Pale And Dead

  Monk had been on duty all day, but it was Millport, and it wasn’t as though much ever happened. Indeed, it was the last weekend in October, so you could take the workload of a normal summer’s day and divide it by a hundred.

  Later on, perhaps, there’d be a call about a figh
t outside one of the bars, or maybe one of the few regular domestic cases would rear its ugly and unfortunate head, but Constable Gainsborough was on for the evening, and only in the most serious circumstances would he feel the need for back-up. And the serious circumstances didn’t come along very often.

  The phone rang as she was closing her computer, putting the case files to bed for the day. The day had been so quiet, she didn’t mind at all if there was going to be something to extend it.

  An Edinburgh number. She didn’t know what to think of that, so she didn’t think anything and lifted the phone.

  ‘Millport,’ she said.

  ‘Hey. This is DCI Solomon, George, eh, Solomon, through in Edinburgh,’ said the voice, hesitating, as though he was uncomfortable admitting to it. ‘I was wondering, this might be a little off the charts, but I was wondering... look, I don’t want to sound like one of those Americans, you know, they find out you live in Scotland so they say, no shit, my cousin Billy-Bob lives in Livingstone, you must know him...’

  ‘That’s OK, Chief,’ she said, smiling at his rambling apology, ‘this is a small place. I know pretty much everyone. Who’re you looking for?’

  ‘Guy by the name of Barney Thomson. Not even sure if he’s still there, but I saw some paperwork that suggested he was at some point, and quite recently.’

  Monk was staring out of the window of her small office, looking on the end of the afternoon, the sky out west submitting to the dark, the hills of Arran etched against the last of the day. She did not blink, her face did not change. She felt a tightness in her chest, a curling in the stomach. This, whatever this was, was not going to be good.

  And then the name pinged into her head. DCI George Solomon. Barney had told her about him. One of the many police officers from his past. Not one of the bad ones – there were surprisingly few bad ones thought Barney, though Monk had tried to persuade him that it oughtn’t to be a surprise – but it wasn’t about whether or not Solomon was going to be good, bad, or anything in between. Any phone call from any police officer about Barney Thomson was bad.