'Hah! I knew it! I knew it wasn't that Porter bastard.'
'It was an old woman.'
The words fell softly into the room and lay there, no one particularly keen to pick them up. The five men stared at Jenkins, who wilted under the glare, trying not to be too embarrassed. Wondered if he still had some of his breakfast on his chin. Finally, McMenemy exploded.
'What in God's name are you talking about? An old woman? How the bloody hell can you tell that from a few packets of meat?'
'Skin cells,' said Jenkins, voice even more of a mumble than normal. 'There are skin cells left on the outside of some of the packages. We found some that belonged to a man, but mostly they're of an old woman. A very old woman.'
The rest of them looked at him in amazement. 'You're joking, right Jenkins?' said Holdall. Aghast, angry, his moment of triumph rudely snatched away. 'How can you people tell that stuff? Why couldn't you tell it before from the packages that came through the post?'
'She wore gloves, presumably. This other meat was probably never meant to be found. We're not sure about this man's involvement, but certainly, almost all the work appears to have been done by the woman.'
McMenemy had temporarily lost composure. Covered his face with his hands, muttered about the press.
'And when you say old?' asked Robertson. Not smiling, because that would be out of place; still, very relieved that he wasn't the only one around the table looking stupid.
'Eighty. Eighty-five. Difficult to say exactly at this stage. Might know a bit more when we've done some more tests.'
McMenemy let out a loud groan, chin slumping into the palm of his hand.
'What the hell do we tell the press?' he said, question directed at thin air. 'They'll love this. The great granny from Hell. Christ almighty, we're in trouble. We've been farting around for the last two months looking like a complete load of bloody oafs, and all the time there's been some antediluvian witch charging about with a two foot butcher's knife. Jesus Christ.'
'But whoever's granny she was, how did all the stuff end up in Chris Porter's fridge? Was it his granny, perhaps?' said MacPherson.
McMenemy straightened his shoulders, attempted to regain his authority. Looked around the room, the command back in his eyes.
'Gentlemen, we need to find out who this damn woman is.' Had the tone of a washing powder advert. 'Check out Porter's grandmothers, find out if he has contact with any other elderly women.'
'And Thomson,' said Holdall, 'what about him? There's got to be something there.'
McMenemy shrugged. 'Very well, do as you will. Just remember that Robertson's in charge of this one.'
Holdall nodded, couldn't keep the scowl from his face. The men rose and left the room. Robertson was out first, waited for Holdall to follow him. Delighted that his authority in the case had once more been asserted.
'Right, Holdall, you heard the man. I'm in charge, so you'll bloody well do what I say. Barney Thomson has nothing to do with this. Nothing. You leave him out of it. If anything, he was only likely to be another victim of this Porter and his vicious female accomplice, and if I find that you harass this man, you're finished. And don't think I won't have the authority. You're a stupid, wasted old fart, Holdall, and it's about time you got put in your place.'
Holdall stared at Robertson, fighting the urge to head-butt him. He'd never head-butted anyone before, but a football thug he'd arrested once had given him instructions on exactly how to do it – he still had the scar – so he was pretty sure he could carry it off. Forehead to the bridge of the nose. Straightforward enough. And the bastard was asking for it.
'So,' said Robertson, with relish, 'I'd like you and your monkey to go to all the old peoples homes in the area. Find out if any of them recognise Porter. Think you can handle that, or are you not sure you can cope with the strain?'
The foosty moustache which crawled along the Robertson top lip, curled slightly, and then he was gone, seconds before Holdall could choose to make the career ending decision of acquainting Robertson's nose with the inside of his head.
Holdall and MacPherson stood and watched him go, biting their lips and their tongues. They stayed like that for several seconds, as they each considered what other lines of work it would be easy for them to enter.
'You know, sir,' said MacPherson finally.
'What, Sergeant?'
'If I'd been you, I'd have head-butted that cunt.'
23
A Prayer For
Cemolina Thomson
A Hugh Grant. A Gene Wilder. A Jack Nance (Eraserhead). He grimaced. An electrocution special. A John Lennon (pre-Yoko). A regulation US Marine.
Barney reeled off the haircuts of the men as they walked past him, shaking his hand. He gave no thought to the hair of the women. He knew nothing of hairdressing, except that you could charge a lot more money for doing the same amount of work.
'She was a good woman, Barney,' said a mourner, clasping Barney's hand. Barney nodded, staring at his Sigourney Weaver (Aliens). Odd haircut for a bloke.
A good woman? What might the definition of that be? A woman who lured men back to her flat and then murdered them. Chopped up their bodies. Didn't like to think about the fact that maybe she ate some of them, but the thought kept intruding.
Another man walked by and shook his hand, another friend of Allan's whom he didn't recognise. He was surprised by the turnout at the funeral, but he hardly knew any of these people. They were all associates of his brother, all here for Allan, not Cemolina, and certainly not Barney. An endless line of them pouring out of the crematorium, shaking the hands of the bereaved brothers.
It might have been a good service but Barney hadn't been listening. A few words from a minister who'd never met her, a couple of hymns which Allan had chosen and which Barney didn't know – what hymns did he know? – then a lengthy eulogy from the elder son, talking about his mother's good nature and her remarkable and amusing eccentricity. Had nearly made Barney weep, so he'd switched off.
A man with a completely inappropriate Michael Jackson '75, walked past Barney without even acknowledging him.
Eccentric? Is that what his mother had been? A loveable eccentric?
His immediate job was done. The bodies disposed of and the police fended off as best as he could manage. The interview on Sunday morning with Holdall and MacPherson had been uncomfortable, but he didn't think they were any closer to him. A few words about Partick Thistle and Aberdeen, eased by having had time to read a report in the morning paper, and they'd seemed satisfied. It had all been, as far as he could tell, routine. Little or no suspicion on their part. Holdall had seemed more interested in his description of the first goal.
And so now, with those unpleasantries out of the way, he'd had plenty of time to reflect on all that had happened. To think about the deeds his mother had committed.
An advert in the newspaper. No artifice about it. Mature woman, mid-80s. And there had been young men who'd replied to it. Could not begin to believe that, but it must have happened. He himself had had to dispose of the evidence. And the woman who had been his mother's final victim, what about her? How had she come to be sucked into it? Had she answered the ad in the paper?
A kid with a Soapy Souter shook Barney's hand and trudged off, looking miserable in his Sunday best.
And what would have happened once they'd arrived at his mother's flat? Could see the extensive range of butcher's tools and the five cut-throat razors he'd found in the kitchen. Had that been it? A cup of tea, perhaps something stronger, then what had these men been expecting? Not their little old lady suddenly appearing beside them, her hand poised with a razor, then slice! the throat open and bleeding. Or had she waited until they were in bed?
Almost a more distasteful thought; his mother in bed practising her Eastern lovemaking. Barney shivered, accepted the condolence of a man with a Jay Leno.
The line was drawing to an end. Bill Taylor stopped in front of Barney, held out his hand. Their eyes met. Locked. The ful
l horror of the police findings at the flat of Chris Porter were only at that moment being made public, so Bill knew nothing.
'Terrible business,' he said. Edge to the voice.
'Right,' said Barney.
Bill's suspicions of Barney were running rampant. Saw himself as some kind of defender of truth and justice. Superman! But he had no proof and had yet to do anything. Hadn't told anyone, had made no effort to discover what had happened to Wullie and Chris. Frightened perhaps. Not Superman at all. Vacillationman. Scaredypantsman.
He nodded. Barney nodded. Bill walked on and wondered. Barney remained distracted.
A final couple passed by, the woman with the hair of Queens, the man with an indeterminate eighties cut which Barney couldn't place. Then the line was over and the minister was with them, shaking them both by the hand.
'Thanks a lot, Michael,' said Allan. Allan wore an expensive dark grey suit. Bought especially for funerals.
The minister smiled.
'It was an honour. She was a most singular woman.' Extended his hand to Barney, who took it.
'I'm sorry I never got to meet your mother, Barney. Quite the eccentric by all accounts.'
Barney smiled weakly. Christ! He wanted to scream. If he heard that word one more time. Eccentric? She was mad! A killer! A freezer full of bodies now, and how many more throughout her life?
Had spent the past couple of days examining the past. Could there have been earlier signs that he ignored? Madness and murder. And another horrible thought lurking at the back of his mind. The death of his own father; had she been responsible for that? A heart attack she'd said, but her boys had been on holiday at the time with their grandmother. It could have been anything.
All those strange jams and wines and pies she'd made all her life; what had been in those? Barney stared blankly back at the minister. He was getting carried away. Could not stop himself thinking of his mother handing over a fruit loaf for sale at a coffee morning. Everything he could remember her doing, and he had over forty years of a dominated life to look back upon, was now shrouded in suspicion, every act potentially barbaric.
Maybe he was doing her an injustice, or at least the memory of the woman she'd once been. Perhaps the eccentricity had given way to madness only in the last few months.
He realised he was still holding the minister's hand, shaking slowly. He let go and the Rev Michael Flood smiled awkwardly and was led away by Allan Thomson, who eyed his brother with suspicion.
Barney was left alone with the macabre landscape of his imagination. Endless debate on endless questions to which he knew he would never have the answers. Would one day rationalise it all, persuade himself that his mother's mental affliction had been with her for only these last few months. Might one day even see the funny side of it. An old woman luring young men back to her flat, then giving them so much more than they'd expected. But for now he was left to wonder who he was the son of, what evil had begotten him.
A soft hand on his shoulder.
'Are you all right, Barney?'
He awoke from the grotesque stupor, eyes wide open. Barbara Thomson stood in front of him, dressed in black. Auburn hair touching her shoulders. Autumn lips. Concern in her eyes, eyes pools of entrapment and impossible allure.
'Oh, Barbara, I didn't see you there. Aye, I'm fine.'
She smiled and he wanted to leap into her mouth and lose himself inside her.
'I was watching you during the service. You never heard a word,' she said.
He shook his head.
'Distracted,' he replied.
They stared at each other, nothing to say. Concern in the one matched by longing in the other. Barney had forgotten about his mother. Wished he could think of something to say. What smooth words had Allan first used to attract this treasure?
'You were a lot closer to her than Allan was. It must be difficult for you.'
'Aye, well, you know.' God! Barney, think of better than that. Stared stupidly at her. Suddenly had an idea. He could tell Barbara everything.
Of course, that was it! What had he been waiting for? Cool, sensible Barbara. She'd understand, she'd listen. She wouldn't immediately denounce him; turn him over to the police. Not Barbara. He could tell her now, where they stood. At least make the first noises about needing to talk to her. Get it all off his chest, the whole thing. She might not approve of what he'd done, but at least she'd listen. Sympathise.
Imagined her advising him to run away, head for the hills. Confessing to him that she was fed up with Allan and that she would come with him. They could disappear together to some remote corner of the world where Barney could set up his own shop. Barney's Hair Emporium. Barney's Place. Barney's Cut 'n' Go – Haircutting While U Wait: No Children. Had another thought. Maybe he could do what they'd done in olden times; become a barber surgeon. Haircutting one minute, surgical operations the next. That might be for him. Barney's Cut 'n' Slice. Saw a sign above the door; a pair of scissors dripping with blood. Just him and Barbara, together alone. No more Agnes, no more terrible soaps.
'You look upset Barney,' said Barbara, 'maybe I should leave you to your thoughts.'
He stared at her, mouth opened slightly. He could think of no words. His voice stalled, his brain automatically shut down. She smiled and turned away. Barney watched her go, his dreams along with her. He'd had his chance. Barbara alone.
She disappeared into the crowd. The image of his mother, cut-throat razor slicing into soft throaty flesh, returned.
He stared at the hard, cold ground, did not even fight the vision. A vision which should have been incredible, but which was so very easy to see. Never had been able to believe his mother's strength. Had always seemed so frail, and yet…
'Barney, you better come on.' He looked up. Agnes in front of him. Attempting compassion. 'There's another crowd here for the next funeral.'
Move 'em up, get 'em in, shove 'em out. The cattle market of the crematorium. Barney nodded.
'You all right to go to the hotel?' she asked. Tea; cheese and cucumber sandwiches; cake; polite chatter, sombre mood.
'Aye,' said Barney with resignation. 'Got to do it, eh?'
She smiled sympathetically and nodded. Took his arm as he walked away. Turning his back on his mother.
Agnes hoped she'd set the video correctly. Today was the day that Codpiece and Strawberry were to attempt to sabotage Zephaniah's hernia operation.
24
The Anthony Hopkins
The steady click of scissors and the gentle flop of hair to the floor were the only sounds in the shop. The three barbers went about their business, solemnly and quietly, each lost in their own thoughts and leaving their victims to theirs. The row of customers sat along the wall, a couple reading newspapers, silently resigned to their fate.
It was Wednesday afternoon. Word had got out from the police about the gruesome findings in Chris Porter's apartment and of the great supply of body parts which had been discovered on a dump on Monday morning. These had included the butchered corpse of Wullie Henderson.
There were some in the town who could not understand why James Henderson hadn't closed the shop, but only those with no conception of the Calvinist work ethic, which Henderson imagined himself to possess. If there were to be members of the public needing their hair cut, then the shop had to be open.
Had it been a women's hairdressers, the customers would have fled, and the shop would already have gone out of business. But men are lazy about hair, creatures of habit, and the previous two days had been business as usual. And besides, the word was getting out – there was a barber there at the top of his game. If Jim Baxter had cut hair at Wembley in '63, they were saying, this is how he would have done it.
The chair at the back of the shop was now empty. In the chair next to that James Henderson was working. He knew he shouldn't be. It was ridiculous, and his wife was furious, but he told himself that this was what Wullie would've wanted. What was more important to him was that it got him out of the house, took his
mind off what had happened.
The next chair along was worked by James's friend, Arnie Braithwaite, who had agreed to start a couple of weeks early. His was a steady, if unspectacular style, a sort of Robert Vaughn of the barber business. He wouldn't give you an Oscar winning haircut, but then neither would he let you down.
And then finally, working the prized window chair, was Barney Thomson. He'd moved into it with almost indecent haste, the day before. Perhaps if he'd been thinking straight then James would've considered it odd, but everything was a blur to him at the moment.
Barney couldn't believe his luck. He hadn't heard from the police after his interview with Holdall and MacPherson on the Sunday, and while he still expected them to come marching back at any time and arrest him, it was now three days later and nothing had happened. And the interview which had appeared in the paper that morning with some policeman, Robertson, seemed to indicate that they were after Chris; not pursuing any other line of enquiry. It had all worked like a dream. And on top of that, the window seat had fallen into his lap.
Suddenly he was cutting hair with an extraordinary panache, now that he was free of his bitter rivals. If Arnie was the Robert Vaughn of the business, Barney was the Anthony Hopkins. Always good, frequently magnificent. He was cutting with verve and style, each hair pruned to perfection. He could taper the back of a head with ease and the flick of the razor; even ears were painless. Layering, perms, short back and sides, Kevin Keegan '78's, they were all easy for him now. In a matter of three days he had become quick, efficient and composed, and now, when he felt like it, he would happily chat away to the customers on any subject they chose.
So, it was Rangers versus Celtic in the semi-final of the Cup? No surprise there. Bill Clinton – dirty big shagger. Break-up of the Antarctic ice pack – the cause of Chernobyl, he would opine to anyone who listened. Blackadder? The second series was probably the best, but if you pushed him he might say the fourth. If someone wanted to chat, Barney was there.
The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson (Barney Thomson #1) Page 17
