The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus

by Douglas Lindsay

  He opened his eyes to Cemolina bending over him and forcing a large whisky into his hands. He took it and shakily lifted it to his mouth. God, it felt good. Talisker, he thought, although he was no expert. Probably been there since his father died. Breathed deeply as it burned its way down his throat.

  Cemolina settled back into her seat.

  'What d'you want me to do, Barnabas?'

  He leant forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

  'I don't know, Mum. I can't ask you to do anything. What am I going to do, that's the question?'

  'Why don't you bring the body up here, son? Let me take care of it.'

  He stared at her, a wild look in his eye. It was ridiculous. What could his mother possibly do with a human body? But no matter how ridiculous it seemed to him, he loved the idea. If she took the body, he was free of it. He could wash his hands. It would be wonderful.

  'But what are you going to do with Wullie that I can't?'

  She bustled.

  'Never you mind. Just comfort yourself with knowing that I can take care of it. You can always rely on your old mother. Now you run downstairs and bring the body back up. And mind and try not to let anyone see you, this time.'

  ***

  Half an hour later Barney was driving home, feeling moderately relieved. Felt like a weight had been lifted. Noticed other cars on the road; remembered to use all the gears. He had no idea what his mother intended to do with the corpse, but whatever it was she had in mind, she'd had a reassuring look in her eye and enough confidence in her voice to put him at ease. It wasn't over yet but the immediate worry of the corpse was gone. It had given him plenty of time to worry about all the other problems which would arise.

  On his way home something made him drive past the shop. Just a hunch, a vague feeling of unease. Didn't know what he expected to see. Wullie's ghost, perhaps, his face pressed against the window, his features contorted in eternal agony. However, the shop front stared darkly and mundanely back at him. Quiet, deserted. Deathly quiet.

  He walked into his flat at just after ten o'clock. Surprised to be confronted by the sounds of silence, rather than some abysmal Australian or American Deep South soap. Stopped and listened before he walked into the sitting room but there was nothing. Maybe Agnes had gone to bed already but something told him it wasn't going to be that. The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention, his skin crawled. Panic.

  Tentatively opened the door to the sitting room, expectations of a massive police presence behind the door. The television was on but with the sound turned down. Agnes sat, cup of tea in her hand, concerned look on her face; next to her on the settee was Moira, Wullie's wife, tear in her eye, cup of tea untouched on the table. They looked at Barney as he walked in the door and such was their relief at seeing him that neither of them noticed that he, as the ancients used to say, completely bricked himself.

  They didn't say anything; watched closely as he removed his jacket, letting it fumble out of his hands and fall to the floor. He came into the room and sat down in a seat opposite them, not wanting to say anything. Didn't want to betray his secret. Felt like he had blood all over him and the word murderer carved into his forehead.

  Agnes finally spoke. The silence could not be allowed to extend for the entire evening. Quick look at her watch. Twenty minutes until Rectal Emergency Ward 6.

  'Moira's here,' she said.

  Barney nodded. Aye, I can see that.

  'She's pure dead worried, so she is, and I says, you know, maybe she should be worried.'

  Barney nodded again, tried to look interested but not overly concerned. Telling himself to behave as if he didn't know why Moira was here. Act natural. He was nervous; felt like the slightest hint might give him away. Had to ensure that there was nothing in his demeanour that would strike a discordant note. Act natural, Barney, act natural. Thought of the Beatles. They're gonna put me in the movies. Wasn't the Beatles who wrote it. Who did it first?

  'Barney?' said Moira.

  'I didn't do it' he blurted out, fingers gripping the seat.

  'What?' said Moira and Agnes in unison.

  He closed his eyes, tried to take hold of himself. Don't be such a bloody dunderheid, Barney. They don't suspect you of anything. Why should they? Just be calm and don't put your foot in it. He opened his eyes. Determined to play the part; the grand conspirator.

  'Oh, sorry, nothing. I thought, well, I don't know. I was thinking about something else. In a daydream, you know.' He paused, tried to regain his composure. 'What's the problem Moira?' he asked finally, his voice just about steady enough for them to not notice the difference.

  'It's Wullie, Barney, he didn't come home the night. Are you sure he didn't say anything else when he left the shop? Just that he was going shopping, is that all?'

  Barney thought. Tried to look like he was giving the question serious consideration; trying to compose himself. Had never felt so uncomfortable in his life. Fighting the urge to blurt out the truth but knew he'd already gone too far for that.

  'Aye, that was all,' he said eventually. 'He left about quarter past five and said something about going to the shops. That was it, you know.'

  Moira waited for something else, but Barney was finished. How could he give her more hope than that? She'd lost her husband, although she didn't know it. Her head dropped into her hands and she started crying in gentle sobs. Agnes moved closer, put an arm around her shoulder.

  'What kind of mood was he in, Barney? Did he seem to be all right, you know? Think about it, 'cause Moira's pure upset, so she is.'

  Barney stared into space for a while, casually lifted and dropped his shoulders. Hoped it was casual. 'Aye, well, you know Wullie. He just looked like he normally does, you know.'

  'You don't think he's been nabbed by yon serial killer, do you? That's what me and Moira have been talking about.'

  Barney scoffed, nearly choked on it. At least he could honestly deny that one.

  'No, no, don't be daft. He hasn't fallen into the hands of any serial killer. Don't worry about that.'

  He decided it was time to look unconcerned, make them think they were over-reacting. Which was exactly what he would've thought, if he hadn't just stabbed Wullie in the stomach. He stood up, stretched, yawned.

  'Look, Moira, I wouldn't worry about it. He's probably just gone down the boozer and had a few too many. You know what he's like, eh? You know Wullie.'

  She shook her head slowly, mumbling through the tears. 'No, no, it's not like him. Not Wullie, so it's not. A Friday night, aye, but never during the week. Not my Wullie.'

  Barney waved this away, casual, dismissive, but the next question hit him harder. Full in the face at about a hundred miles an hour.

  'D'you not think we should phone for the polis?' said Agnes.

  The polis! He hadn't really thought of that yet. He knew it would come to it but not yet. It was too early for the polis to be involved. God, Wullie could genuinely be sitting down the pub for all anyone else knew.

  'Eh, no, no, not yet. I think that might be a bit hasty, you know. Wait and see what happens. Maybe if he hasn't shown up by the morning, give them a wee call. I'm sure he will but, so I wouldn't worry about it.'

  'D'you really think he's all right, Barney?' Moira said to him through her tears. Desperately seeking reassurance.

  Barney looked into the damp eyes, was finally overwhelmed by guilt, to the point of not being able to reply. Mumbled some attempted words of comfort to her, squeezed her hand, muttered that he was tired.

  He walked to the bedroom, an air of unconcern about him; the great lie. And when he got into the room, he collapsed on the bed and wept.

  When Did You Last See Your Enthusiasm?

  Holdall stared disconsolately at the list of names. Another six people had been reported missing by the morning. Another six groups of worried relatives he had to trawl round, whose minds he would have to try to put at ease. God, he hated Robertson. The man was a complete eejit and if ever he had the chan
ce to get his own back, then he'd bloody well take it. And if it involved several blunt instruments and a lot of blood, well all the better.

  He looked at the names and the ages, trying to decide by looking at them what might have happened. As usual, four of the six were teenagers. The options were numerous for this lot and dying at the hands of a serial killer was unlikely to be one of them. They could be lying in a gutter somewhere creamed out of their faces from the night before; they could be on the bus to London with £150 in their pocket and a collection of ridiculous dreams in their head; they could be lying in some bed somewhere enjoying again all the things which they had enjoyed the night before, (lucky, lucky bastards); or, and at this he brightened up a little, they might be lying dead in a ditch, by their own hand. And at least two of them would've probably already reappeared by the time he got to their homes. There was always that as consolation.

  He studied the other two on the list. A thirty-eight year-old woman with seven children, aged between eighteen and two, all of whom still lived at home. There appeared to be no particular father figure. Big mystery, he thought, and mentally crossed that one off. She would be back in a day or two, feeling guilty and angry that the kids had called the police.

  One remained. A man in his late twenties. Ran a barber's shop, lived with his wife, no children. This one wasn't so easy to dismiss. He might've gone out and got drunk, ended up in some woman's bed somewhere, but he should have turned up by now.

  Maybe this was it. For all he scoffed at this ridiculous goose chase, there was a fair chance that he would come across victims of the killer at some stage. They would, of course, already be dead by the time he began to investigate their disappearance, a small flaw in the great plan, but perhaps they might stumble across some clue. The exercise itself wasn't a waste of time, but he resented Robertson having given it to him.

  He looked out of the window, at the rain hitting steadily off the glass. Of course it was. This was Glasgow in March. It always bloody rained.

  The door to his office opened, Detective Sergeant MacPherson came in, his face the usual mask of taciturnity. The two men nodded. MacPherson placed some papers on Holdall's desk.

  'When'll you want to start out this morning, sir?' he asked, having withdrawn a few feet.

  Holdall sighed heavily, stared at nothing. The horror of going out. He didn't even want to think about that yet. Wet and cold, concerned mothers and children. Jesus. He thought some more, his mind on a variety of things, and just as MacPherson was beginning to shuffle his feet and glance at his watch, Holdall looked up, made up his mind.

  'Let's give it half an hour, eh, Sergeant? I think I need a good deal of coffee and something to eat before I can face the rigours of the day, if rigours they're to be.'

  MacPherson nodded, issued a short 'very good, sir', and marched out of the door, a hundred things to do in the next half hour.

  Holdall sat back, laced his fingers behind his head, stared at the ceiling. How long could he do this before he'd tell them to stuff their job? So, it'd be a blindingly stupid thing to do and Jean would be unbelievably annoyed at him, but he was damned if he could put up with much more of this. He could find something else to do, it couldn't be that difficult.

  Maybe he could set up his own private detective agency. That might not be a bad idea. Sure, he'd have to start with small time stuff. Divorce cases and missing children. He winced at the thought. But it wouldn't be long, surely, before he'd be getting into adventures, mixing it up with glamorous women and being sent on the hunt for golden falcons and the like. God, that'd be the life. Maybe, he reflected, Jean wouldn't be able to handle it. She'd maybe even leave him, but hey, he thought, what the heck. There'd be plenty more babes out there given what he'd be doing. He'd watched enough private dick shows on the TV to know that it would be one stunning chick after another in that job. Heaven.

  His eyes fell on the list in front of him and the pile of papers which MacPherson had placed on his desk. With a weary sigh, and wondering if MacPherson would have taken the hint and instigated a cup of coffee on his behalf, he turned off his dreams and looked at the reports at his right hand.

  ***

  'And when did you last see Stuart, Mrs. Hutchinson?'

  The woman stared over her cup of tea at the wall, trying to remember. 'Tuesday,' she said eventually. 'Tuesday about eight o'clock. Aye, that'd be about right.'

  MacPherson nodded, looked at his notepad. Holdall was sitting beside him, quietly sipping a cup of tea, doing his best not to listen to any of what was going on. The chief inspectors' trick – let the sergeant ask all the questions while pretending to be coolly paying attention at his side.

  'And you expected him back about when?'

  'Oh, well, I don't know. He says he was just going down the boozer, you know, and I'm like that, don't you be too late and all that, you know. Expected him back about eleven.'

  MacPherson nodded, appeared concerned. 'So, if you expected him to return at about eleven o'clock on Tuesday, why did you wait 'til this morning to report him missing? Did you not think about doing it yesterday?'

  She took a loud slurp from her cup, placed it on the table.

  'Well, you know officer, I just assumed he'd scored with some bit of skirt and buggered off back to her place. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened, you know.' She smiled weakly at MacPherson, he nodded back. 'I was a wee bit worried by yesterday afternoon, but I don't know, I just didn't like to bother anyone, you know. I mean, I remember once when Missus Thingwy from down the road reported her wee boy missing and if it wasn't just the thing, but he turns up...'

  Holdall interjected. Strained patience; teeth ground together.

  'All right, Mrs. Hutchinson, can we just stick to the story?'

  'Oh aye, aye, no bother,' she said.

  MacPherson scribbled something else in his notebook.

  'Look Mrs. Hutchinson, you've done the right thing by reporting your son missing now and you're not putting anyone to any trouble.'

  Like hell she's not, thought Holdall, as he began to drift away from the conversation.

  'Now, can you tell us who he usually met down the pub and if you've been in contact wi...'

  There was a noise at the front door, followed by the sound of footsteps marching into the house. Holdall rolled his eyes extravagantly, stood up. The prodigal son, he thought. No point in delaying; might as well get out of the damn house before she killed him.

  MacPherson joined him as the door to the sitting room opened and a young man of around nineteen walked into the room. He stopped, stared at the two strangers, looked at his mother. His mouth opened but he didn't get as far as formulating a sentence.

  'Where the bloody hell have you been, eh? I've been worried sick, so I have, but no, you wouldn't give a shite about that, would you? You're too bloody busy thinking about yourself and to Hell with everybody else! And look what you've made me do, you stupid bastard. I've called the polis, so I have. I'll probably be in trouble now but you'll not give a shite about that, will you? No, you bloody won't. You're just too busy thinking about yourself. Bloody Hell, to think that I raised you from nappies. And what thanks do I get?'

  She paused for breath, started talking again before anyone else had time to speak.

  'Look, I'm really sorry about this, officers, wasting your time and all that. Can I not offer you another biscuit?'

  Holdall and MacPherson held out their hands in unison to refuse, inching slowly towards the door. Following the biscuit refusal, the mother turned once more upon her son.

  'Well, don't stand there like a bloody great pudding. Where have you been?'

  He shrugged and stared at the floor. 'I just met this girl, Mum, you know. She was really nice. Anyway, I spent the night with her, nothing happened! And then we went away for the day yesterday. Millport.' Ah, Millport, thought Holdall. Land of Fantasy. Or was he confusing it with California? 'I tried phoning but, honest I did, Mum, but you weren't in. Then I ended up spending the night
last night 'n all.' He turned to Holdall. 'How, am I in trouble?' he said.

  Holdall shook his head and laid his hand on the lad's shoulder. 'No, son, you're not in trouble.' He smiled and began to walk past him. Stopped, looked the boy in the eye. 'Was she a babe?'

  Stuart Hutchinson – The Hutch to his friends – looked surprised, then the smile broke onto his face.

  'She's a wee stoatir,' he said.

  Holdall grinned and turned to the mother. 'We'll see ourselves out, thank you, Mrs. Hutchinson.'

  He walked from the sitting room with MacPherson at his heels and as they opened the front door they could hear the woman begin to berate her son in earnest now that they'd gone. They stood out in the light rain for a second, looking at the dank and depressing street before them. Lost in thought.

  'This is a lousy job, Sergeant,' said Holdall, beginning to trudge towards the car.

  'Bloody right it is,' replied MacPherson, following on, his stride nevertheless the more purposeful.

  They got into the car and MacPherson studied the list he was carrying with him.

  'Just one more to go, sir. A William Henderson. The barber.'

  Holdall winced at the thought that this one might prove to be more serious than the others, started the engine and drove off into the gloom.

  Interview With A Barber

  Big Billy McGoldrick was in danger of getting his ear cut off, so animated was he becoming in the discussion; constantly trying to turn his head to look at Chris.

  'But why,' he said, 'why is it that our teams can't beat anyone in Europe? Christ, we lose to them all these days. Teams we'd have pumped the pants offa twenty years ago. All they wee pish teams. Now we're the wee pish teams.'

  Chris studied the back of McGoldrick's head, executed a couple of smooth moves, the scissors sizzling in his fingers, then straightened up, catching his eye in the mirror.