'Tallinn's in Estonia,' said Billy McGuire.
'You shut your face,' barked Ferguson. 'What do you know about football anyway? Fucking muppet.'
'Fitba',' said McGuire, 'wherein is nothing but beastly fury, and extreme violence, whereof proceedeth hurt, and consequently rancour and malice do remain with them that be wounded.'
Ferguson stopped. Mulholland, a few steps ahead, turned back.
'What?' said Ferguson.
'Thomas Elyot,' said McGuire.
'Thomas Elyot?'
'Aye.'
'Listen, Wee Man, you think I give a shite about Thomas Elyot? I'll give you Thomas Elyot, you bastard. Any more of that and I'll stick Thomas Elyot up your arse. Now shut it.'
***
They arrived at the station, pushing McGuire in front of them as they went. Ferguson walked in without a thought in his head. Work was work. Mulholland's heart sank every time he walked through the door. Dreamed of the day he could clear out his desk for the last time. Retire. Spend every day with Melanie.
Some dream.
'Book him, Sergeant. And if he quotes any more literature, you can kick his head in.'
'Stoatir.'
Mulholland went to walk past the front desk. Up the stairs to his office, his intention. Cup of coffee, a few minutes to relax. It was still early, the day lying ahead of him like a huge rotting animal in the middle of the road. The customary dead cow of a Monday morning.
'Chief Inspector?'
Mulholland stopped and turned.
'Sergeant?'
Sergeant Watson, the ugliest man ever to front a desk in a police station in northern Europe. Cheekbones like slabs of meat, Brobdingnagian nose, garrulous moustache wandering at outrageous tangents across his face; a face which had seen its share of excitement. Lips like slugs.
'M wants to see you,' he said.
Mulholland stared at the nose. The few minutes to relax had just disappeared.
'When?'
'Now.'
'One word, Sergeant,' said Mulholland, mood plummeting further. 'Rhinoplasty.'
'Fuck you, Chief Inspector,' said Watson.
And Mulholland headed up the stairs, humour on a rollercoaster which was permanently on a downward drop. Crap job, crap marriage, crap life. Looking for someone to take it out on. Better not make it the Superintendent, but once he was finished with him he could kick the shit out of McGuire.
He walked through CID, the usual bustle of activity. Phones ringing, people talking, paper piled high on desks. In the midst of it all, an oasis of calm; one of the sergeants with a magazine open in front of her. Cup of coffee in her right hand, left hand drumming out a beat on the desk. Reading an article entitled Why Men Are Crap At Sex, although he couldn't see it. Instant resentment. Why should she get to do what he was being prevented from doing? He stopped beside her desk.
'Nothing to do, Sergeant?' he asked.
Detective Sergeant Proudfoot raised her eyes. Mulholland was nothing to do with her. Had, on the occasion of station girls' nights, placed him in her top three list of guys on the force she'd take to bed, but it didn't mean she had to listen to him.
'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.
A Load Of Balzac
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 Student.
'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.
'Christ, it's not as if the muppet didn't deserve it. He's lucky I pure didn't get them both.'
Proudfoot held the pen upside down between her second and third finger. Tapped. Had The Girl From Ipanema playing in her head. Stopped tapping before she had to arrest herself.
'Did you stab James McGuiness in the testicle with a knitting needle on Monday evening?'
'What? What are youse asking me that for? Youse know I stabbed him. I'd do it again, 'n all.'
You might not want to say that to the judge, thought Proudfoot. Didn't care. She'd had enough of the likes of Senga-Ann Paterson.
'Why did you do it?'
Paterson fumbled another cigarette from the packet. Her white fingers shook. Nervous; bitter. She lit up, thin lips sucking. Hollow cheeks.
'Why d'you think? He's a pure bastard. You know what he went and done?'
'Go on.'
Paterson opened her arms in an expansive gesture, almost setting fire to the curtain behind.
'He went and shagged Ann-Marie.'
'Oh.' Should have known. 'And she is…?'
'She was my best pal. Still is, I suppose. I mean, I'm not blaming her, or nothing. James is a brilliant shag, 'n that. It's every slapper for herself out there. He shouldn't have shagged her, but.'
'When was this?'
'Saturday night. I'm stuck with the weans watching the telly, thinking he's down the boozer with his mates. You know, Arnie the Baptist and Bono and No Way Out and that lot. But he's not, he's snaking my best mate!'
'How did you find out?'
Long, nervous draw on the cigarette. The chewing gum smacked inside her mouth. As she exhaled, Proudfoot could see it through the smoke, passing between tongue and teeth.
'Would you credit that Ann-Marie phones us up and tells us. Gallus as hell. I'm pure raging and she's talking about
what a brilliant shag he is. Jesus, you think I don't know that? What else am I going to be doing with him? You think it's for his looks? You seen him?'
'Not yet.'
'Pure stank. Looks like yon bastard on Beauty And The Beast. You know, the big ugly cunt.'
Proudfoot nodded. That would be the Beast, then. Couldn't get Ipanema out of her head. Started tapping the theme from Mission Impossible to try to shift it.
'You confronted him with this?'
Paterson rolled her eyes.
'Pure right I did. And you know what he says? You know? He says, "There is no infidelity when there has been no love." I mean, can you believe the neck of the guy? Quoting Balzac of all people. Cheeky cunt.'
A knock at the door. It opened. Proudfoot turned.
'Up the stairs, Sergeant. Two minutes.'
The door closed, Mulholland was gone.
Proudfoot turned back to Paterson and shrugged.
'Got to go, Senga. We can continue this later.'
'That you getting your arse kicked?'
Proudfoot smiled. 'I doubt it,' she said, although she wondered what was going on. Maybe she could sign Mulholland and Ferguson up as a double act. The Delinquent Dicks. The Bratwurst Brothers.
She stood up. Said, 'Interview suspended at nine twenty-five,' and switched off the tape machine. The two women looked at each other.
'Balzac, eh?' said Proudfoot.
Paterson nodded. Thin face, a slight movement of the safety pins. Pink hair.
'You might get off yet.'
***
She sat across the desk from Mulholland, trying not to look at him. Annoyed at herself for finding him attractive. Had never gone for authority figures, but he was young for his position, as was she herself. Beneficiaries of the vacancies at the station, caused by the slaughter of four detectives the previous March.
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) Page 2
