The Barbershop Seven: A Barney Thomson omnibus

by Douglas Lindsay

  The assistant glanced at Ping Phat who slowly nodded.

  'Mr Phat finds that acceptable,' she said to Jacobs. 'Do you have a small tea-retaining device which can be placed in the cup and then removed?'

  'Do you mean a metal bag?' asked Jacobs.

  She thought about this for a second and then nodded.

  'Yes, I believe you might call it a metal bag.'

  'Then, there is your answer,' said Jacobs, who was veering horribly into pomposity, such was his way. 'We have no teabags in the house, metal or otherwise. We have tea leaves, we have a pot, we have a strainer and a holder in which to place the strainer once the tea has been poured.'

  'Very well,' she said, 'in that case Mr Phat would like the same procedure to be followed as previously outlined, and then the leaves placed loosely into the cup and left to brew. He does not like loose leaves in his cup, but if that is how it is to be...'

  'Very well,' said Jacobs.

  'Indeed. Now,' she continued, 'would you like me to once again outline Mr Phat's specific requirements in relation...'

  'Oh for God's sake,' blurted Ephesian, finally unable to contain his frustration and annoyance. 'Do you have the Grail?'

  Jacobs looked sharply at Ephesian, close himself to blurting out something he shouldn't. They had needed to quietly assess whether or not Ping Phat had the Grail without letting him know that it was not in their possession. Now Ephesian, in five simple words, had completely shown his hand.

  Ping Phat stared at him and he himself gave a slight tense shudder, as if controlling some instant emotive response to Ephesian's words. He gave Jacobs a quick glance and then with a nod to his assistant, his Elvis entourage began filing dutifully from the room.

  The door closed behind them and then there were three. Jacobs and Ping Phat were making brutal eye contact, each trying to read the mind of the other.

  'Leave us alone, Jacobs, please,' said Ephesian suddenly.

  Jacobs turned quickly round, looking angrily at his boss.

  'What?' he said sharply.

  'Leave us alone,' said Ephesian. 'Mr Phat and I need to talk. You must go and attend to our other guests.'

  Jacobs glanced at Phat hoping for some support but Phat was never going to be interested. Ephesian was the only one who mattered to him. He had also realised that Jacobs was the more malignant half of the double act and it was as well to have him out of the way.

  'I think it would be advisable if I stayed, sir,' said Jacobs.

  Ephesian stared out of the window, just to the right of Ping Phat's head, his jaw set angrily.

  'You must attend to the other guests,' he repeated blankly.

  Ping Phat had kept his eyes on Jacobs all the way through and now there was a contemptuous smile. Jacobs saw it, wondered if it was at his dismissal or at the obvious disarray in the camp.

  'Very well, sir,' he said quickly and then he turned and walked hurriedly from the room, Ping Phat watching every step.

  Ephesian waited until the door had closed and then he walked around Phat to the large landscape window and looked down at the darkening firth. Phat came up beside him and for a short while they stood and watched two small yachts which were visible mid-channel.

  'You do not have the Grail?' said Ping Phat eventually, in this moment of crisis deciding to drop the ridiculous Yoda business.

  Ephesian breathed deeply, trying to control the ever-increasing spasms which wracked his head every time he came to the slightest point of calamity.

  'You think I have it?' asked Phat, without any hint of condemnation or accusation.

  'You were one of the two people who knew that Lawton had made his discovery,' replied Ephesian quickly.

  'And what has become of Lawton?'

  Ephesian wanted to look Ping Phat in the eye but that desire only really manifested itself as wishing that Jacobs was in the room to do it for him.

  'He removed the Grail before Jacobs or I could retrieve it. When we went to his house to deal with the problem we found him knocked unconscious and the Grail gone.'

  'You have seen the Grail?'

  Ephesian glanced round at Phat's shirt buttons.

  'Yes,' he replied, abruptly.

  'Then you searched thoroughly? Just because something is not visible, does not mean it is not there.'

  Bloody centuries' old Chinese wisdom, thought Ephesian. Reduce everything to fortune cookie standards.

  'Whoever took the time to leave Lawton in a coma was not going to leave the Grail hanging on a mug stand. Nevertheless, Jacobs made a search of the property. It has been removed.'

  Ephesian had spoken forcefully but Ping Phat was not at all convinced. Nothing in the world is obvious; nothing can be taken for granted.

  'And will Lawton emerge from his coma?' asked Phat.

  'Not any time soon,' said Ephesian.

  Ping Phat nodded his head slowly in a judicious, eastern kind of a way that Ephesian found very irritating.

  'I do not have the Grail,' said Ping Phat eventually. 'I arrived on this island only an hour ago. I assume that post-dates Mr Lawton's unfortunate accident?'

  Ephesian did not answer. Now that they were meeting in the flesh he disliked Ping Phat even more than he thought he would. Years of subterfuge, years of keeping the Faith and keeping the secrets of the Brotherhood hidden from the world, had cost money. When he had taken over as Grand Master in the nineteen-eighties, they had been struggling for finance and he had felt that the organisation and its links around the world might collapse. They had needed an input of capital and it had come from Ping Phat. Somehow he had always hoped that his own business empire would become strong enough to support the Prieure de Millport on its own, allowing him to discard Phat, but it had never happened.

  'You said there were two who knew about Lawton. May I assume you refer to Mr Jacobs?'

  Ephesian coughed, his face and neck tensed. Clenched and unclenched his right hand.

  'Jacobs and I are one,' he said coldly. 'I was referring to Father Roosevelt, the keeper of the cathedral.'

  Ping Phat raised a sage eastern eyebrow which Ephesian felt rather than saw.

  'Then you have a suspect list of one,' he said.

  'It would appear so,' said Ephesian.

  'The Brotherhood did not know?'

  'Roosevelt was the only one,' said Ephesian.

  'Then it would seem that you have a simple solution to your dilemma,' said Ping Phat, with further Asian simplistic Tao-like theorising.

  Ephesian did not reply. The yachts in the firth toiled against the wind and away to their left a small cargo vessel appeared from behind the island of Lesser Cumbrae.

  If only everything could really be reduced to soundbite philosophy, thought Ephesian.

  If only these people could see that all the problems of the world can be reduced to soundbite philosophy, thought Ping Phat.

  Cheese Sandwich

  James Randolph had not thought it through, which was not entirely unlike him. He had waited until Garrett Carmichael had left the office, so that when he came to murder her she would be with her children. If he had gone to see her in her office, then he would have found her alone. Some strange logic had dictated, however, that he couldn't disturb her at work.

  He thought that Garrett Carmichael had a soft spot for him and to an extent he was right, but only in that she had a soft spot for every man on the island.

  'Garrett,' he said, by way of introduction.

  'James,' she said, nodding. 'You've been waiting for me?'

  Randolph seemed embarrassed, as if the thought had not occurred to him that Carmichael would have seen him.

  'You should have come in,' she said smiling, which was when it occurred to him how much better that would have been.

  The incomplete nature of the plan was the measure of the man. He had not thought it through beyond the initial cause of death. Assuming she died in the manner he was anticipating, he was then going to have to collect some of her blood for use in the ceremony that eveni
ng. How exactly he was going to achieve that with her two children running around in complete ferment, he wasn't at all sure.

  'What can I do for you that you've been waiting for me so long? Are you not cold?'

  'I, eh...' he started to say, before realising that what he was about to say was absurd. Up until this point it had seemed like a decent approach, but now, in the flesh, he was realising it was one of the lousiest chat-up lines in the history of civilisation.

  'Aye?' she said, amused by his nervousness. Assumed that he was looking for a date of some kind.

  'I've invented this new kind of cheese sandwich,' he said hurriedly.

  Had he intended it as an actual chat-up line he would have died in his boots, as she burst out laughing. In fact he died in his boots anyway because, even though he was intending to try to kill her, he was aware that the proposition had taken on a date-like feel.

  She let the laugh die down and smiled at his pallid cheeks and the general gormless stupidity of the man.

  'And would that be one of them in that bag there?' she asked, nodding at the plain yellow bag which he clutched in his fingers.

  'Aye,' he replied.

  'Well, that's nice of you to bring one for me. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?'

  Instant relaxation, having successfully made the breakthrough.

  'The kids can try it out as well,' she added.

  'No!'

  She turned at the curious tone.

  'I mean, I've only got two,' he blustered.

  'We can break a couple of pieces off,' she said. 'My mother's already fed them anyway, so they won't be too hungry.'

  Randolph momentarily closed his eyes. Another possibility of the plan which he had not considered. Beginning to see his great strategy unravel, beginning to think that he was bound to screw this up as much as he screwed up everything he did for Ephesian.

  As they reached the front door and Carmichael took the house keys from her bag, footsteps approached quickly from behind. The cavalry.

  'Garrett,' said the voice.

  They turned, Randolph's heart sinking even further.

  'Mr Thomson,' said Carmichael, 'come to bring the papers? I'm done working, maybe we could talk in the morning.'

  He hesitated, recognised the brush off, looked at Randolph.

  'Just wanted to talk a couple of things over about them, if that's all right. Thought now might be a good time.'

  She stared at him for a second, considered her options and then shrugged.

  'Whatever,' she said, and opened the door. 'You can come in if you like. James has brought us a revolutionary sandwich. Cheese. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you tried it.'

  The two men looked at one another, Randolph guiltily assuming that Barney would see right through him. They had mentioned stomach acids before in the shop, now here he was arriving with a cheese sandwich. Wasn't it obvious?

  'Sure,' said Barney, 'that'd be great.'

  The children appeared, to herald the further sinking of Randolph's confidence. Upon seeing Barney, Hoagy completely ignored his mum, stood to attention and saluted.

  'Lieutenant Carmichael reporting for duty, sir!' he said, barking out the sir and pronouncing lieutenant the American way. Ella grabbed onto her mum's legs and tried to rugby tackle her. Barney stood in front of Hoagy to inspect him, pointed at something on his chest and then flicked his nose.

  'At ease, lieutenant,' he said, pronouncing it correctly.

  'It's loo-tenant!' said Hoagy. 'I want to be an American!'

  And off he charged to subvert the Third World.

  Miranda Donaldson appeared at the kitchen door, coat already buttoned up to the neck, steel breeches fastened down with rivets and bolts under a heavy plaid skirt.

  'Well, I see you've come here for your dinner Mr Thomson,' she began, her voice the quality of salt on open wounds.

  'No, he hasn't,' butted in Carmichael.

  'Which is good, because there'll be no dinner at my house this evening. Been here all afternoon.' She stopped beside her daughter and regarded her with maximum parental contempt. 'They're fed but not bathed. I don't care what the time is. If you want to retain any attachment to them whatsoever, you're going to have to take some part in bringing them up.'

  'Mum!' said Carmichael.

  But Miranda Donaldson had said her piece and she was off. Glanced viciously at Randolph, reducing him to a pile of festering mush in the process, as she bustled down the corridor, and then she was out into the evening, the door slammed shut.

  'Is Gran on too, Mum?' asked Hoagy, from the top of the stairs.

  '24/7,' said Carmichael and she walked into the kitchen, her daughter still draped around her leg. 'Ella, can you let go?'

  She didn't. Carmichael stopped just inside the kitchen door, breathed an enormous sigh, the good feeling of a reasonably successful day at the office immediately and instantly flushed away by her mother, then she dragged Ella over to the fridge, took out a box of white wine – an Anstruther Sauvignon 2005, fishy with hints of golf – and poured herself a glass. She looked at the two men standing either side of the kitchen doorway.

  'Gentlemen,' she said. 'Help yourselves. James, you've got five minutes to do your cheese sandwich then I'm running the bath. You pair can hang out in the kitchen if you like, I don't care.'

  'Don't drink the wine!' exclaimed Randolph suddenly, for no reason that anyone else in the room knew anything about.

  'Why?' she said, looking at the glass, thinking he must have seen something floating in it.

  'You know,' he said, grasping for any kind of explanation, 'you might, you know, adulterate the cheese sandwich.'

  She looked at him strangely. Barney was even more suspicious, neither of his previous encounters with Randolph having inspired any trust or liking for the man.

  'Give me the bag,' he said suddenly, walking past Randolph into the kitchen and taking the bag out of his hands as he went.

  Randolph, now completely adrift, let him take it, staring helplessly as Barney opened the bag and removed the murder weapon.

  Barney, suspecting poison, removed the sandwiches and held them in his hands. Two slices of plain white bread, diagonally sliced. He opened them, checked the contents. They looked, more or less, like regular cheddar cheese sandwiches. He glanced up sharply at Randolph.

  'What's with the sandwiches?' he said.

  'Nothing. They're just cheese. Nothing.'

  'I thought you said they were some kind of breakthrough sandwich?' said Carmichael. No longer in the mood to play.

  'No,' said Randolph helplessly.

  Barney sniffed the sandwich, could detect nothing other than an aroma of mild Scottish cheddar.

  'Are they poisoned?' asked Barney.

  'No!' said Randolph, taking a step back. 'No.'

  'Poisoned?' said Carmichael, looking at Barney with incredulity. 'What kind of books have you been reading? Why would he want to kill me?'

  'Aye,' said Randolph.

  'He works for Ephesian, doesn't he?' said Barney.

  'So do I,' she retorted.

  Barney stared at her, then Randolph.

  'So, it's all right to eat this, then?' he said.

  Randolph stared at the sandwich. Shook his head, then nodded. Had no idea what to do. Wanted to grab the sandwich and do a runner but realised how much that would implicate him now.

  'So, it's all right to eat this, then?' repeated Barney.

  'Yes,' Randolph muttered in reply.

  'Fine,' said Barney, holding one of the sandwiches forward. 'Let's see you eat it then.'

  'This is insane,' said Carmichael. 'James, just tell us what's so special about the sandwich.'

  'Can I have some sandwich, mum?' said a wee voice from the floor.

  'Ssh.'

  Randolph took the sandwich from Barney and stared at it. It wasn't poisoned. It was worse than poisoned. Now, however, he felt trapped in a corner and was just too stupid to know how to get out.

  He put the sandwic
h up to his mouth.

  A Stupid Kind Of Murder

  Jacobs did not even bother knocking. He had business to take care of. All formality was out of the window, including the formality of checking with his employer that he wanted him to do what he was just about to.

  He had not waited to hear Ping Phat's protestation of innocence. He'd seen the man, looked at his small entourage of goons and spooks and sycophants, factored in his sudden arrival at the house and had made the instant judgement that this was Phat's first appearance on the island. Which left only one option.

  'Father?' he called, standing in the hallway of the large house attached to the cathedral grounds. Very trusting of Roosevelt to always leave his door open, he'd often thought.

  'Father?' he repeated. Give it five seconds and then he would check the cathedral. Maybe the man was making some last ditch attempt to pray to his God.

  The hallway was illuminated only by a small lamp. No other lights had yet been turned on in the house, despite the gloom of early evening. It should have been light for another hour or two, but the low, grey cloud was making short work of the afternoon. The walls were hung with uninspiring watercolours of cold Scottish seas, and an old etching of the cathedral, badly framed.

  Jacobs was about to leave when he heard the quiet pad of footsteps, and then the door to the kitchen opened and Roosevelt was standing in the dark at the end of the hallway. They stared at each other for a while, the meagre light of the small lamp illuminating Jacobs' face. Roosevelt was in shadows, his nervousness and discomfort protected by the dark.

  'Where is it?' said Jacobs bluntly. There would be no artifice here. He was sure Roosevelt had taken the Grail. He didn't want some stupid, protracted argument resulting in him having to do any more bodily harm to the man than he already intended.

  'I am protected by the Lord,' said Roosevelt, the nerves tumbling out with his wavering voice.

  'You have the Grail,' said Jacobs coldly.

  Jacobs could hear the ticking of the large grandfather clock which dominated the front room of the house. A floorboard creaked underneath Roosevelt's anxious feet.