Agnes's sweet voice dragged him from his deliberations.
'Here you! I had the polis looking for you this afternoon.'
Bloody hell.
'The polis?'
'Aye, the polis. They said that Chris was missing. Did you know that?'
He stared at her, wondering if the visit had been merely routine.
'What did they say? What did they want with me?'
'Well, I don't know, do I? They probably just want to ask you the same kind of thing they asked you the other day. Right strange though, isn't it, Wullie disappearing and now Chris? You don't think something's going to happen to you, do you?'
He slowly shook his head, stared into space. So, the police had already been round, even before they'd visited Chris's flat. Thought he better remember that football score. Two-one to Aberdeen. Don't forget it.
'They left a number they said you had to call when you got in. I left it by the ph...Here, what's going on?'
She turned back to the television. Dexter had just stabbed Deuteronomy because it appeared that it was Pleasure who'd drowned Patience and not Leviticus as everyone had thought.
Barney looked at the phone with dread, but something lightened his heart. It was unlikely that those two would come flying round to him, having just found what they'd found. There would be no immediate reason to suspect him, after discovering the cooking pot in Chris's kitchen, and they might leave him alone for a while. They'd be back, but he had probably given himself some breathing space.
Whatever else he did though, he would have to report in or else arouse suspicion. He happily speared three chips and popped them into his mouth. He wasn't home and dry yet, but things could definitely be worse. Much worse.
Waste Disposal
The sweat poured down Barney's face, mixing with the light drizzle. His clothes and his skin were soaking. Barber Drowns In Own Body Fluids. He hadn't had this much physical exercise since he was twelve, and his body wasn't coping well. He was having to stop every half minute or so and it was taking him a long time to get where he wanted to go. Wasn't that just the mirror of life? He took another look at his watch – already nearly four o'clock. He had to get a move on.
He straightened his back once again and put his shoulders into the task, sinking the oars deep into the water and dragging the boat forward as fast as he could. The weight at the back of the small rowing boat, however, was dragging it down, and it would have taken a much fitter man than Barney to manoeuvre it with any speed out into the centre of the loch. He cursed himself for not bringing gloves, as his hands were numb with cold and he began to feel the first tingle of pain, heralding the arrival of blisters on his fingers. Helter Skelter.
Once again he had to stop after no more than a few strokes. He looked over his shoulder and was surprised to see that he was nearer to the opposite shore than he'd thought. He was as close to the middle of the loch as he was able to get. Almost immediately the pain in his hands and shoulders eased and he drew the oars into the boat.
There was another impending awkward moment and not the first of the night. He had to tip the bundle at the back of the boat into the water, without capsizing or without taking himself over the edge with it.
He paused to get his strength back, looking around him. The hills were etched black against the night, the shores of the loch were visible, dim and dark through the drizzle. He could remember when his father used to bring him here for picnics when he was very young. Loch Lubnaig, a mile or two past Callander. Distant memories. Hot summers, smiling father. It wasn't as remote as he would have liked, but he hadn't had the time to go driving away up into the Highlands.
He'd waited late into the evening to see if the police would turn up at his house, and when by midnight they hadn't, he'd decided to make his move. With the final soap of the day finished, and Smoke and Dandelion safely locked up for the murder of Blanchette, a story in which even Barney had found himself interested, Agnes had trundled off to bed and Barney knew that within minutes she would be blissfully snoring and unaware of his movements.
He had headed off on the Stirling road, not entirely sure where he was going. On a whim, however, he drove through Glasgow rather than straight onto the motorway, and just before he came to Glasgow Zoo – which had given him an idea or two – he came across what he had been looking for. A dump. A bloody huge dump. And there he had deposited Wullie's body, and all the others. They would be discovered at some point, but that wasn't really important. It was the body of Chris Porter which needed to remain concealed for a long time.
And now he sat in the middle of the loch, about to dump it over the side. He had pulled off the road beside the loch, into what he'd hoped would be an area of solitude, and got to work with heavy stones and rope and enough plastic bags to wrap up a very large horse. He hadn't been sure if it would all be sufficient to keep the corpse at the bottom of the loch, but it was all that he could think of at the time. It seemed the only thing he had left to chance was in finding a rowing boat lying conveniently at the side of the water, waiting for him; and there it was, almost as if he'd had an accomplice. Divine assistance. A bona fide miracle. God was on his side. Or just maybe it was the Other Guy.
As the day had worn on, the horror of manhandling corpses had slowly faded, and by now he was almost treating them like any other pile of garbage. That initial fear that any second a finger was going to move, or Chris's entire body would suddenly sit up, had passed, and now he could just as well be about to throw away a consignment of rotting chicken.
He braced his feet against the side of the boat, the bundle between his legs. He stretched forward and slowly tried to lift it onto the edge of the boat, which he managed without too much difficulty. Now he had to transfer the weight of the package until it toppled over, while at the same time keeping his weight far enough back to stop it dragging the small boat underwater. And with almost consummate professionalism, he failed to do it. Half a minute later, Barney slid slowly into the water, arms and legs flapping. The package immediately began to descend to the depths, sucking Barney with it at first, but he soon struggled to the surface, coughing and spluttering, arms flailing; desperately hoping that whichever hand of fate had left him the rowing boat, would now throw him a lifejacket.
The boat, however, stayed upright, despite taking in large quantities of water. He managed to grab hold of the sides, slowly pulling himself together. It was only then, when he had time to think about it, that it hit him. The temperature. Barney would later reflect that there were no adjectives in the English language of sufficient adequacy to describe the coldness of the water. But he had to get out of it as quickly as possible, and in doing so almost toppled the boat over. The fates were with him however, even if they had briefly mocked him by dumping him in the water, and he managed to avoid further excitement as he returned to the boat. After that, the row back to the shore was a long and slow and hard one. And cold; very, very cold.
Half an hour after getting back to land he was driving home, completely naked, the heating up full, his clothes squeezed of water as much as he could and drying on the rear seat. Hoped desperately that he wouldn't pass a police car along the way.
Had decided to take the roundabout way back to Glasgow through the Trossachs, thinking that the roads would be even more deserted and that he would be more likely to find somewhere to get dressed before he returned to the city.
It worked well, a smooth drive home; with the exception of passing another middle-aged man in his car, who also appeared to be naked. The things you come across, Barney had thought.
And so, by just after seven o'clock on Sunday morning, he was back in bed, pyjamas safely on. He fell into an immediate and deep sleep, free of dreams and nightmares.
Minutes later Agnes awoke and mooched into the kitchen for the first soap of the day.
Where The Detectives Go
Monday morning. The room was thick with cigarette smoke, the air heavy with the rancour of aggressive argument. It seemed as if t
he five policemen each had differing views on the crime, although that wasn't quite the case. The two detective sergeants had taken a back seat, such was their lot, and had let their superiors get on with the argument. Still, they had managed to express their opinions without getting dragged into the open war which was developing.
McMenemy sat at the head of the table, watching over proceedings, asking pertinent and tough questions – so he believed. Gave his men free reign to indulge their tempers. Another dictum; a station divided, is a station easily controlled.
It all seemed clear cut to Chief Inspector Brian Robertson, a fellow of infinite lack of imagination. Chris Porter was the mad Glasgow serial killer and had fled town after committing a crime which had been a little too close to home. In fact, it was out of their hands now. They knew that he'd purchased the ticket to London, and now that they'd issued the countrywide alert, what else was there that they could do? Chris Porter was their man and it was just a matter of sitting and waiting for him to show his hand. And if he never did, well it wasn't their problem. As long as he never returned to Glasgow. 'QED,' he'd said at the end of one of the explanations, although he hadn't known what it meant. Hoped he hadn't made an idiot of himself.
Chief Inspector Robert Holdall was not so easily led by the glaring evidence. The whole thing reeked of a set-up, although he was not convinced of it, and unsure of how to play his hand. Robertson was in the ascendancy in the case and he had to be careful what he was doing. Still, there were things which had to be said.
He was airing his views, enjoying the disdain with which they were being treated.
'We spoke to Barney Thomson again yesterday. All right, so I've no idea what he's got to do with it, if anything, but he panics every time we walk into the room.'
'Aw, come on,' said Robertson, waving an extravagantly dismissive hand. 'This Barney Whatshisface. You really think this bumbling moron is a serial killer? I don't care what you say about serial killers, but there has to be some spark about them, surely. Something different, something to set them apart from the rest. This guy is about as interesting as a two hour Nescafé Gold Blend advert. Get a life, Holdall.'
'What's this difference you look for in your serial killers? A chainsaw draped over the shoulder? Maybe all their clothes are made out of women's skin? Come on. How the hell are you supposed to be able to tell that someone's a serial killer just by looking at them? Bloody hell, you can't work like that.'
'So what are you saying then, Holmes? That Barney bloody Thomson is our killer? That this poor, sad bastard, with no friends and a pathetic wife, is the type of guy to chop people up into little pieces and go scuttling down to the Post Office? The guy is just a dork, and that's it. He couldn't kill Jack shit.'
Holdall laughed. God, I want to punch him in the balls, he thought.
'Jack shit? Been watching NYPD Blue again?'
McMenemy finally held up his hand, although he was loathe to do so. Loved it when his detectives got into an argument, allowing him to appear even more statesmanlike and superior.
'Calm down gentlemen, please. Now then, let's consider all the facts. Stuart, if you could just run down all the relevant details for us please, and no asides gentlemen if you would be so kind.'
MacPherson looked quickly at his notebook, while Detective Sergeant Jobson frowned, wondering why he hadn't been asked to go over the facts. He believed MacPherson to be an all right copper, but couldn't stand him all the same. Guilty by association.
MacPherson started reading in a subdued monotone. 'Chris Porter last seen on Friday night by Barney Thomson when he departed the barber's shop in Partick. Reported missing by his parents early Saturday afternoon. On entering his flat later that afternoon Chief Inspector Holdall and I discovered a small freezer full of body parts, a bit from each of the victims of our serial killer. There was also a hand and some viscera lying cooked in a pot on the hob. These, as yet, remain to be identified. Checks made with travel firms and companies yesterday showed that Mr Porter had purchased a one way train ticket to London early on Saturday afternoon. We have yet to identify who might have sold this ticket but we should be able to do that today.'
'Yes,' interjected McMenemy, 'that might tell us something.'
'There are a lot more details, sir,' said MacPherson, looking up, 'but those are the most pertinent.'
'Exactly,' said Robertson, laying his hands in an expansive gesture on the table. 'It's bloody obvious. This Porter fellow is clearly our killer, he's buggered off to London and within a week or two people in Wimbledon and Balham will be having pieces of their children turn up on their doorstep, while they're getting tucked into their cornflakes.'
McMenemy grunted, hunching his shoulders even further. It just so happened that he agreed with Robertson, but there was no way that he was going to give him any encouragement. He was about to say something challenging and spymaster-ish, which he hadn't thought of as yet, when there was a knock at the door. He grunted loudly, bellowed a command.
The door opened and a rather dishevelled middle-aged man trudged in. His clothes were old-fashioned – designer stains on the shirt collar – the watch chain dangling from the tweed waistcoat setting the whole off beautifully. He was fiddling with his horn-rimmed spectacles and looked rather embarrassed, as he always did when confronted with a room full of more than two people.
The pathologist, Jenkins, had arrived.
'Jenkins!' boomed McMenemy. 'What have you got to tell us, man? Make it quick. Don't just stand there looking like a piece of pumpkin pie, for God's sake.'
Jenkins stared at the floor, fiddled with his glasses some more, put them on and finally looked at his audience. Coughed quietly, removed his spectacles again before he spoke.
'Hm, I'm not sure how you're going to take this, gentlemen.' Paused again, put his glasses back on.
'Get on with it, man!'
Took off his glasses, let a look of worry career with abandon across his face. 'Well, what I have to tell you all seems rather strange and I know you won't want to accept it.'
'Good God, man! You're not giving us the chance. Bloody well get on with it!'
Independently, Holdall and Robertson smiled to themselves. It was always the same. Jenkins would bumble and fudge, McMenemy would bluster and shout, and eventually they would get somewhere.
'Mm, well it seems, gentlemen, that it wasn't your Mr Porter who chopped and packaged these bodies so beautifully. And can I just say that, whoever it was, did a lovely job.'
Holdall couldn't stop himself clapping his hands together. Encouraged a raised eyebrow from McMenemy, a scowl from Robertson.
'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.
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