There was a noise across the room, from within the rows of shelves. Morgan lifted his head, stilled his pen. Even in the bright light of the room, the shelves were in shadow. A conspiracy. He felt a shiver at the back of his neck. Insects crawling across his skin.
'Hello?'
A movement. A rat? There hadn't been rats in the monastery for over a hundred years. That's what they said.
'Hello?' he repeated, with more urgency. Annoyed. Didn't like being disturbed at his work. Knew how easy it was to make mistakes when you lost concentration. One of the reasons he'd dropped out of life.
The annoyance masked his trepidation.
A figure appeared from among the shelves. He relaxed.
'Hello, Brother,' said Morgan. Relief. Impatience too, as the monk emerged from the shadows.
The visitor held up a small volume. Didn't smile. Stared from the depths of plunging eye sockets.
'It is many years since I have studied the original Latin translation of Paul's letters,' he said. 'I have been most remiss. You will record that I have removed this volume?'
'Certainly, Brother,' said Morgan, wondering why people had to be so bloody clandestine.
Brother Morgan watched as the monk slowly walked from the library and closed the door behind him. Lifted his pen. Back to work. Why did some of the brothers feel the need for mystery? There was enough darkness at the monastery as it was.
As he began the slow movement of the pen across the thick page, he felt a cold draught of air at his feet. Looked up. The door to the library swung open an inch or two.
And a cold wind blew.
Is He Is, Or Is He Ain't
Mrs Mary Strachan bent her ear towards the television, trying to listen to the news above the sound of her husband rifling the Scotsman, at the same time as she struggled through a tricky interpretation of Quintus Horatius Flaccus's second book of epistles.
'For pity's sake, man, would you haud yer wheesht with yon paper? I can't hear the telly.'
James Strachan tutted loudly, rustled the paper even more.
'Help m'boab, woman, what are you on about? You know fine well that you can't watch television and translate Horace from the original Latin at the same time. Not since you lost your eye in the sheep incident last March.'
'Ach, flech to you, James Strachan, flech to you. My mother always said you were a manny of little vision. I should've listened to her.'
'Ach, away and boil your heid, woman,' he said, settling on the inside sports pages. Rangers Fail In £45 Million Bid For Six-Year-Old Italian. 'What did your mother know? The woman spent all her days doing wee jobbies at the bottom of the garden. Had a clue about nothing.'
'Don't you be maligning my mother, James Strachan. It wasn't my mother who was arrested for stealing underwear off Mrs MacPherson's washing line.'
He looked over the paper for the first time. 'Jings to crivvens, woman, I don't believe it. Must you bring yon up every single day? We read that we ought to forgive our enemies; but we do not read that we ought to forgive our friends. Think about that, woman.'
'Don't you go quoting Cosimo de'Medici at me, James Strachan. D'you think I can show my face in the supermarket without people talking about it? Well, do you? There's not a day goes by when I don't hear the whispers. Not a day goes by?'
'For pity's sake, woman, it was seventy-three year ago.'
'That may be, James Strachan, that may be. But it might as well have been yesterday, as far as this town is concerned.'
'Ach, away with you, Mary Strachan. There was nobody in this town alive seventy-three year ago except me and thee.'
'Jings to goodness, James Strachan, what does that matter? You think anyone alive today was around when the English sucked us into the Act of Union? We still hate them for it.'
'Help m'flipping boab, what are you on about, Mary Strachan? You and your Act of Union. If it wasn't for the Act of Union we'd all still be living in peat bogs and eating oats for dinner.'
'There you go, havering again, James Strachan, havering again. Here, look at yon!'
She broke off, pointing at the television. The lunchtime news.
'See, I told you!'
James Strachan tutted loudly, rustled the paper. 'Told me what? What are you talking about?'
'That picture, that Barney Thomson character. He was the one who stayed here just over a week ago. I told you it was him.
He glanced up, then buried his head in the paper. 'Ach, away and stick your heid in a pan of tatties. What would a serial killer be doing staying in a place like Durness? Serial killers live in big houses with all the windows boarded up. I've seen the films.'
She shook her head, pointed at the television. 'Look at those eyes, I'd recognise them anywhere. That man's a serial killer if ever there was one, and he stayed right here in this house. Slept in the bed yon German couple are sleeping in at the moment.'
James Strachan lowered the paper again. He stared at the television, then at his wife. 'And what if it was? What of it? He's gone now. Are you going to run along to the police, are you?'
Mary Strachan bristled. Shoulders back, chin out.
'Well, I don't know about that. He looked a nice enough lad. Maybe they've got the wrong one, you know.'
'You just said he looked like a serial killer!'
'Aye, but you know, these things are hard to tell. And it's not as if you're one to talk.'
'Ach, away and shite, woman,' he said, from deep within the rugby reports. Scotland Select New Zealander Whose Granny Holidayed On Skye Once.
***
Proudfoot climbed into the car beside Mulholland. Found him reading Blitz! and eating the last of the sandwiches. Didn't mind, as she'd had everything she'd been going to get from the tourist information within ten minutes. Had stopped for a bite to eat.
'Surprised you're not listening to Simply Red,' she said. Shivered, removed her coat and threw it onto the back seat. The sleet was softening, turning to snow.
'I'm sure you are. Just reading something here,' he said, tapping the magazine. 'Apparently, if you coat your breasts in dried alligator milk, it'll improve your orgasm strength. I'm assuming that's aimed at women, though.'
'Didn't work for me.'
He gave her a look, saw she was joking. Closed the magazine.
'Right, then. What are we looking at? You get a list?'
'Yep. Everywhere that anyone could stay in Inverness, a long list of places outside of town as far north as he could've gone. Lot of them closed for winter, so it cuts it down at least.'
He checked his watch.
'Just after two. Got to see Inspector Dumpty of Northern Constab, get that over with, then we can start. Split up and get on with it. Should be done with Inverness before it's too late, meet back here between six and seven. You get two lists?'
'Yes,' she said tetchily.
'Just checking. Ferguson wouldn't have thought of it.'
Proudfoot thought of the woman she'd dealt with at the tourist information. Ferguson would still be there, fixing up a date.
'Lets get it sorted how we'll split it. At the end of the day we'll find somewhere to spend the night, then set off tomorrow and take each town as it comes.'
She nodded. Couldn't think of anything she'd less like to be doing; couldn't think of a single aspect of police work which currently appealed to her.
'How was the pint?' she asked.
'Very informative,' he said, smiling. 'Too bad you weren't there.'
Bastard, thought Proudfoot.
***
As they might have supposed, they had to wait to see the Chief Constable, a man of whom they had heard tell. They found themselves in a small room, unsatisfactory mugs of tea having cooled on the table, the Moray Firth slate grey to match the skies, barely visible between the walls of wet buildings. Unsure of what to expect of their man, for what policeman likes outsiders coming onto his patch?
In turn they sat at the desk, then paced the short floor space, then looked out at the grey day.
Wrestled, in their heads, with their own thoughts of depression and loneliness and unease. Proudfoot more comfortable with those thoughts than Mulholland.
Finally the door opened, shattering the atmosphere. Relief swiped at Mulholland.
'The Chief Constable will see you now,' said the maroon cardigan, masquerading as the middle-aged woman beneath.
***
The Chief Constable stood with his back to them, staring out over the cold estuary. Looking for dolphins, although he hadn't seen one in over three months. The door closed behind them and they waited, much as they had already been waiting.
They were in the midst of the opulence they had come to expect from chief constables; thick carpet, huge desk, comfy chair, photographs on the wall with the senior police officer in question shaking the hand of an even more senior police officer or a low-budget member of the royal family – although, in this case, all Chief Constable Dr Reginald McKay had been able to manage was a picture of himself directing traffic outside Balmoral Castle.
'Dolphins,' he said.
Mulholland and Proudfoot shared a glance. Here we go.
'What about them?' asked Mulholland, reluctantly playing the game.
'Used to be a cartload of them out there. Used to be able to stand here for hours, watching them in the distance. Where are they now? Haven't seen one in months.'
The question disappeared into the room. It's probably Barney Thomson's fault, thought Proudfoot.
Reginald McKay left them standing for another minute before turning round, nodding at his visitors and sinking into the green depths of his comfy chair. He stared absent-mindedly at some papers on his desk, while ushering them into two less salubrious chairs. Finally engaged their eyes, looking from one to the other. 'I'm greatly troubled, I must admit,' he said.
'Aye,' said Mulholland. Down to business at last.
'I've spoken to all sorts of groups, but no one seems to have any idea what's happened to them.'
'Them?'
'The dolphins. Ach, I know it's cold out there, but they're fish.'
'No they're not.'
'Whatever. They don't mind the cold. But I haven't seen one in months. Hard to believe that something really terrible hasn't happened. Some terrible tragedy. Effie thinks it's the Russians, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Norwegians didn't have something to do with it. Bunch of idiots, the lot of them.'
'Barney Thomson?' said Mulholland.
'Thomson?' said McKay. 'Norwegian, is he? Not surprised.'
'We need to talk about him. That's why we're here.'
McKay nodded. A man of infinite years, hair greyed, face lined, eyes dimmed. 'Of course, laddie. You big shots from Glasgow, I suppose you'll be wanting to get on with things.'
'Aye,' said Mulholland. Big shots. Jesus.
'You'll be intending to traipse all over the Highlands, will you?'
'For as long as it takes.'
'Well, good luck to you laddie. I'm sure you'll find traces of your man, but I doubt you'll find the man himself.'
'You've heard tell of him, then?'
'Aye, aye, we've been getting reports from all over.'
They leant forward, Mulholland's eyes narrowed.
'No, laddie, don't go peeing your pants. There's nothing definite, you know. It's all conjecture and vague noises. Whisperings you might say. Rumours in the wind.'
Mulholland leant back in his chair, eyes remained narrowed.
'What kind of rumours?'
McKay tapped a single finger on the desk, looked from one to the other. Didn't like outsiders, they never understood. Unlike dolphins. They understood everything.
'We're getting reports. Vague things without any real meaning, nothing to put your finger on. We think he might be working to get some money. We've been hearing of whole communities where the men have all suddenly been given the most wondrous haircuts. Hair of the gods, they're saying. Some say he's more of a loose cannon, bouncing all over the place, giving out haircuts with fickle irregularity. You'll have heard of the Brahan Seer?'
Mulholland shrugged, Proudfoot nodded, so McKay looked at her.
'They say he wrote of such a man. Prophesied his coming.'
'What?' said Mulholland.
'He told of a man who would come into the community and wield a pair of scissors as if his hands were guided by magic. A man who could call the gods his ancestors. A man who would cut the hair of all the warriors in the kingdom, so that the strength of many kings would be in the hands of each of them. A man who would come out of tragedy and leave one morning in the mists before anyone had risen, never to be heard of again. A god, may be, or a messenger of the gods. But whatever, his time would be short, his coming a portent of dark times ahead, yet his passing would be greatly mourned. A messiah, in a way, although perhaps that might be too strong a word to be using. Anyway, they are saying that maybe Barney Thomson might be that man.'
'You're taking the piss, right?' said Mulholland.
The lined and furrowed brow creased a little more, the old grey head shook.
'I'm only telling you what is being said Chief Inspector, but these are deeply superstitious people you have come amongst. Once you head into Sutherland and Caithness, they're not like you Lowlanders with your English ways and your fancy Channel 5 reception. You must respect them, for only then will they respect you. However, I think if you find anyone who has had contact with this man, they will be reluctant to talk. He is seen by many in these parts to have been wronged.'
'He and his mother murdered eight people!'
'We've all read the papers up here and, for myself, I have read the reports, such as you have deemed to send my way. Clearly the mother was the main culprit, and if he acted to cover up the actions of his sick parent, then should he be judged a criminal?'
They stared at him. Proudfoot saw his point; Mulholland was speechless. This was a police officer he was talking to, not some brain-dead hippie or civil rights activist.
'And how he is hounded by your press,' said McKay. 'Barney Thomson Ate My Goat. Barney Thomson Slaughters Virgin In Sacrifice Blunder. The Congo – It's Thomson's Fault. It's absurd, you must see that. All of it.'
Mulholland rested farther back in the chair. It may have been absurd, the media may have been totally demented and desperate bedfellows of sensationalism, but it didn't mean that Barney Thomson should be excused his crimes, no matter how much had been his mother's doing.
McKay looked uncomfortable, as he shuffled some unnecessary papers on his desk; drummed his fingers, scratched an imaginary itch on his left ear. Breathed deeply enough through his nose that it was almost a snort.
'Anyway, I thought I might assign someone to you to ease your way around.'
'What?'
'Help you out, you know. Show you what's what?'
Mulholland leant forward, white knuckles. McKay stared at a report on his desk: Dolphins – Talk Show Hosts or Talk Show Guests?
'For God's sake! We're not in some foreign country. Their accents might be a bit weird, but we won't need it translated. Jesus, we're not children, we don't need any help!'
McKay lifted his eyes, unused to being spoken to in such a way by a junior officer.
'You will remember your place, Chief Inspector,' he said quietly.
Their eyes clashed and fought some pointless testosterone-laden battle, before Mulholland inched backwards, giving way. Proudfoot watched him from the corner of a narrowed eye. McKay pressed the intercom.
'Send in Sergeant MacPherson, Mrs Staples, please,' he said.
Ah! thought Proudfoot. Another Sergeant MacPherson on the Barney Thomson case, just as before. Must be something in that. No such thing as a coincidence in policing. Or life in general.
The door opened, in he came. Tall, broad-shouldered, kind face. They looked round. Proudfoot liked what she saw, Mulholland thought he recognised him.
'This is Detective Sergeant MacPherson, who'll be working with you. I'm sure he'll be of the greatest assistance.'
&n
bsp; He nodded, the two of them returned it, Mulholland grudgingly.
'My name's Gordon,' said MacPherson, Highland accent broader than the Firth, 'but everyone calls me Sheep Dip.'
Proudfoot smiled. I'm not going to ask, thought Mulholland. Turned to the sound of the Chief Constable pushing his chair away from the desk.
'Right then, Chief Inspector, if there's anything else you're needing, you can let me know. Keep us posted, and if there are any activities required to be undertaken in and around any of the towns you visit, perhaps you'd be kind enough to notify the local constabulary. Sergeant MacPherson will no doubt help you out.'
'No bother,' said Sheep Dip.
Brilliant, thought Mulholland. Wondered if he would have to tell them every time he checked into a B&B or put petrol in the car or took a piss.
They stepped outside the office, past Mrs Staples, and then out into the open-plan where the heart of Highland crime detection snoozed the afternoon away. A lost dog in Dingwall. A child stuck up a tree outside Drumnadrochit. A teenager baring his bum in Beauly, that second can of McEwan's his undoing. An accident involving a tractor and a low-flying Tornado on the Strathconon road out of Marybank. Heroin with a street value of £23 million seized on a Russian trawler in the Moray Firth.
A normal day.
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt
Barney felt at home. A pair of scissors in his right hand, a comb in his left, a cut-throat razor at his side. No other tools with which to work. Barbery at its most coarse, unfettered by electric razors or blow-dryers or artificial lights. No cape around the victim to squeeze the neck and protect the virgin body from follicular contamination. Barbery as it must have been practised in olden days, when men were men and the earth was flat. Raw, Stone Age barbery, where every snip of the scissors was done by instinct, where every cut was a potential disaster, every clip a walk along a tightrope of calamity, every hew a cleave into the kernel of the collective human id. Barbery without a safety net. Barbery to put fear into the breast of the bravest knight, to quail the heart of the stoutest king. A duel with the Satan of pre-modernism, where strength became artistry and genius the episcopacy of fate. Total barbery; naked, bloody stripped of artifice.
The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) Page 6
