Just before he pulled in off the road, he noticed that it had not been cleared ahead. He parked in the garage next to the snowplough. Feet cold and soaking, no amount of heat directed their way having any noticeable effect. Fed up. Getting nowhere. The ups and downs of humour. Proudfoot was no different.
He took the car out of gear. For the last time. Switched off the engine, looked at Proudfoot. Had forgotten about Sheep Dip.
'Fuck it,' he said.
'How long do you think it'll take to fix?'
He shook his head. Getting annoyed at her, because he wanted her and was too racked with pusillanimity to say anything.
'I don't know, do I, Sergeant? If I was a mechanic I'd have fixed the bloody thing by now.'
He got out of the car and slammed the door. He stopped and stared at the snow at his feet. What was he doing? There was no point in losing his temper at her; some pseudo-Freudian knee-jerk reaction just because he was too much of a jessie to try to sleep with her.
'He fancies you,' said Sheep Dip from the back, before taking a bite out of a particularly green apple.
'He does not,' said Proudfoot. She got out of the car and looked at Mulholland. There was nothing there as he returned the look. He could apologise later, he thought.
A mechanic, yellow-overalled, appeared from behind the snowplough, rubbing his hands on a dirty rag.
'Good afternoon,' he said, looking suspiciously at the police vehicle. 'It's a bitty of a day to be out, is it not?'
'Duty calls,' said Mulholland. Not in the mood for conversation.
'Not from around here, then,' said the mechanic. 'Still, I see you're driving Lachlan Gordon's car. You must be the folks up from the Big Smoke looking for this serial killer fellow, is that right?'
'Brilliant, Sherlock, how do you do it?'
'Ach, it's not difficult. Everybody knows you're up here, driving around in your fancy motors and staying in all the best hotels.'
'Is that right?'
'Aye, aye. So are you two lovebirds sleeping together yet, or are you still at the hating-each-other stage?'
'Sorry?'
'Ach well, it doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all. Now, what can I be doing for you?'
Proudfoot looked at the ground. Mulholland tried not to lose his temper. He had stopped analysing his feelings of hostility. Given in to them and determined to enjoy it. He was about to speak when the door of the Land Rover opened and Sheep Dip crunched into the snow.
'Hey, hey, hey,' said the mechanic. 'If it isn't the old Dipmeister! How are you doing, Sergeant? It's been a wee whiley since you've been up in these parts.'
'Aye, well, you know, after what happened with Big Mary and the combine...'
'Oh, aye, aye, right enough. Some things are better left alone, especially now with Donald back from the Falklands.'
'Hello!' said Mulholland. 'Can we get on? I've got a problem with the gearbox.'
'No!' said the mechanic.
'Aye,' said Mulholland.
'Ach, that blasted thing. There's no' a mechanic in Caithness or Sutherland who hasn't had a go at Lachlan's gearbox. And to be honest with you, we're all fair scunnert by it.'
'This happens a lot?'
'Och, aye, all the time, laddie. Didn't he tell you? Ach, no, no, I suppose he didn't.'
'So you'll know how to fix it?'
The mechanic put his hands on his hips and shook his head. Looked at the Land Rover like he'd look at a horse with a broken leg.
'Oh, it's not as easy as all that, I'm afraid, laddie. It's a big job, and all that, you know, and what with me having to fix Big Davie's snowplough. That's got to come first, you know. Have to have the roads through to Durness cleared by this evening.'
'Listen,' said Mulholland sharply, 'this is police business. I need that car to be fixed as soon as possible.'
'Don't you go spouting your fancy police business talk at me, sonny. And just where d'you think you're going to be going with no snowplough on the roads? Tell me that, laddie? He sows hurry and reaps indigestion. Robert Louis Stevenson. Mark those words, laddie.'
'I'm not going to get indigestion if you get a move on and fix the sodding Land Rover.'
'Oh, but you will if you have some lunch at Agnes's wee shop up the road while you wait.'
Hand to forehead, Mulholland rubbed his brow. Other hand on hip. Was aware of a vein throbbing in his head. Not at one with the northern people, Joel Mulholland. He was not coping well with the stress of marital difficulties, combined with the hunt for a serial killer, unfettered testosterone, and a melancholy gearbox. He didn't know what to say next. He had visions of getting a helicopter up to fly the three of them around, but imagined McMenemy would not be too keen on that.
'How long will it take, Mr...?' said Proudfoot.
'Oh, Alexander Montgomerie. You can call me Sandy.'
'How long,' said Mulholland, looking up, voice steady, the clipped words of the excessively angry, 'will it take to fix the snowplough?'
Sandy Montgomerie turned and looked at the large yellow truck. Rubbed his hand across his chin. Thinking, probably.
'Oh, I should say another couple of hours at the most. You know, it's a problem with the carburettor and the—'
'And how long after you've done that to fix the Land Rover?'
He turned his back and stared at the Land Rover. Scratched his chin again then narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in scrutiny.
'Ach, it's hard to say, you know. It's a big job, mind, a right big job. Doubt I'll get it finished the night.'
'Aw, bloody fuck,' said Mulholland. He turned away, staring at the white hills behind.
'Now, laddie, there's no need for that. I'll work as fast as I can.'
Mulholland didn't turn back. Became aware of his freezing feet, the damp working its way up his legs. Felt like screaming.
'Is there any other way to get along this road today?' asked Proudfoot.
'You mean like a bus or a car hire company, or something like that?' said Montgomerie.
'Aye.'
'No, no, there's nothing like that up here. No bus'll be going along on a day like the day.'
'Brilliant,' said Mulholland from behind.
'So what is there along here? Bed and breakfasts and hotels and the like. Anything?' asked Proudfoot.
Sandy Montgomerie stared at the blue sky. Watched a couple of gulls joust in the cold air. Mournful cries, sharp in the cold. Sheep Dip bit into his apple.
'How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest, the seagull's wings dip and pivot him, Shedding white rings of tumu—'
'For God's sake, would you shut up with all this bloody literature! I've had enough of bloody Stevenson!'
'That was Hart Crane, laddie, not Stevenson.'
'I don't give a shite who it was, would you just answer the questions?'
'Aye, aye, no bother. Keep your heid on, laddie.'
Montgomerie looked at Proudfoot.
'I think you're going to have to shag him, lassie, the way he's carrying on.'
'Right,' she said. Stared at the ground.
'Now as far as I know, there'll be nothing open between here and Durness this time of year. Once you get there, there's a couple of hotels and the like, but there's probably only one B&B open. That'll be Mrs Strachan. You might like to check that.'
'And do you think we could get a lift in the snowplough?' asked Proudfoot.
'Aye, I don't see why not. Big Davie's a lovely big lad, I'm sure he'd be delighted to give you a lift.'
'Big Davie?'
'Aye, Big Davie Cranachan. Drives the snowplough, just like his father before him and his father before him, and so on. All the way back to the days of the Clearances. I remember my old father telling me so...'
'Where can we find him?' said Mulholland, turning round.
Sandy Montgomerie looked up the road, pointed.
'He'll be having a spot of lunch at Agnes's place. One of her chicken pies, if I'm not mistaken. Could do with one of them myself at th
e moment, but I should be getting on.'
'Thanks,' said Proudfoot. 'We'll go and speak to him.'
'Aye, fine, I'm sure he'll be obliging.'
Proudfoot started trudging off in the direction of Agnes's place. Mulholland looked to Sandy Montgomerie, nodded, trailed after his sergeant. Foul mood intact. Sheep Dip stopped to chat.
'What's the matter with you?' said Proudfoot, as they walked up the small hill.
'Leave it, Sergeant,' he replied. 'Just leave it.'
'Aye, fair enough,' she said. 'But don't think I'm shagging you in that mood.'
***
'Away and stick your heid in a bucket of pudding, Mary Strachan, you're havering again.'
'Ach, I'm not havering, James Strachan. If there's either of us havering, it's you. Look at yon ugly mug,' she said, pointing at the television. 'That's him, I'm telling you. He stayed right here in this house. Sure as Wee Fiona Menzies went soft in the heid after Hamish left her for yon stripper from Inverness.'
James Strachan shookled his paper and once more disappeared behind the sports pages of the Scotsman. Gers Grab Dutch Embryo in £80m Swoop. 'If it's a girl she plays on the wing,' says unconcerned boss.
'That's how much you know, woman. She wasn't a stripper, she was a cheese-o-gram. Now would you haud yer wheesht about yon Barney Thomson? I'm trying to read my paper.'
Scotland to Field Nine Defenders in Friendly against Andorra. 'Their right wing-back plays Spanish 8th division football, and he worries me,' admits Brown.
'Ach, away you and roast your feet in the oven, James Strachan. As soon as this snow clears, I'll be going to see the FBI, so I will. No mistake.'
'The FBI! The FBI! What are you blethering about, Mary Strachan? I keep telling you, you watch too much shite on that television. That's why you think we've had a serial killer staying in Durness. But I'm telling you, missus, the only serial killer we've had was yon bloke who ate all the Weetabix.'
'Ach, away and stick your heid in a roaring fire, James Strachan.'
'Aye, well, you away and stick your heid in a blazing furnace, Mary Strachan. If Barney Thomson was going to the monastery, why did he no' just go there straight from Tongue? It's the same distance and it would have saved him the bother of coming all the way up here.'
'What? Look, I'm not saying he's not an eejit, but the man was definitely here, so you away and stick your heid inside an active volcano, James Strachan.'
'An active volcano? It's like that, is it? Well, away you and stick your heid inside an exploding star, Mary Strachan.'
The discussion continued, but the sharp edge of intellectual debate had been lost, and so the argument degenerated into petty name-calling and insults.
Hiding In The Shadows
It was Brother Frederick who discovered the latest body; the latest murdered monk. The corpse resting against a tree in the wood, covered in snow from the blizzard which was still raging. He shouldn't have been out at his age, that's what some of the monks thought, but Frederick was still active. He had no intention of going quietly in his bed; a man who would die on his feet, that's what he'd always thought. And he wondered now if he would die at the hands of a killer, like the rest of the monks at the monastery.
Frederick was the only one who knew about the murders of 1927, when fourteen of the monks had been poisoned in little more than a month. There had been many more of their number in those days, but fourteen had still cut into the very heart of them. And yet the police had not been called; the monks had rooted out the killer on their own, and had dealt with him summarily. God's judgement. He was now reminded of those terrible days.
When the most recent victim had not immediately appeared at breakfast, there had been no particular notice paid. This monk was frequently kept away at mealtimes, such were his duties, and the more so now. One or two might have suspected there was something wrong, but only Frederick felt it. Felt the evil as there had been seventy years previously
So he'd gone out into the cold after breakfast to search. The snow howled around in the wind, small flakes in a hyper-tensioned frenzy. Had known that he could not stay out in it for long, but reckoned that the killer would not have done so either. Therefore did not have far to search for the body.
Now he stood, one hundred and four years old, Brother Frederick, having found the latest victim of the monastery killer in the usual position. Sitting upright, legs splayed, but this time no blood. No knife or pair of scissors in the neck.
No weather for an old man to be carrying out a post-mortem, but he took a quick look. The eyes smiled in death, as with the brothers librarian, but not the mouth this time. The lips were opened and slightly distorted by something inside the mouth. He tentatively took an old frail hand from within his cloak and pushed the top lip slightly higher. Inside there was a comb, lodged against the top of the mouth and back against the tongue, forcing the tongue down the throat so that the victim would have choked on it.
Death by comb; a bitter smile came to the face of the old man. He had seen many things in his time, many horrible deaths, but never this. He let the lip go, and it stayed in the position into which it had been pushed. He took one last look at the corpse, then began his retreat through the snow back to the monastery. He did not fear that one of the men who waited inside was a killer. Prescient death awaited Brother Frederick, that he knew. He worried for his brothers, but had seen so much death in those early days that eighty years with the Lord had done nothing for his ambivalence towards it. Death, good or bad, but inevitable.
The wind in his face, cheeks frozen, lips drawn tight and purple across bared teeth, Brother Frederick struggled back to the partial warmth of the monastery. How many of those murders of '27 had it been his painful duty to report?
***
Barney Thomson undertook what he now saw as most definitely the secondary of his two tasks. Cleaning the floors. On his hands and knees, scrubbing the stone. Had to polish next. Good upkeep was the only thing that had kept the buildings together; that was what he had been told early on. He had already worked the corridors of the third floor, and now found himself in the library. In between the shelves. Hidden from the rest of the room, but there was no one else there. He wondered why Brother Herman was not on duty. Presumed he was out bending someone's thumbs backwards or putting their testicles through a clothes press in order to discover some incontrovertible truth.
He wondered what stage the investigation into his own disappearance had reached, whether the police had discovered any of the places at which he'd stayed on his short journey across the Highlands. How soon would it be safe for him to venture back out from the monastery? He was aware of the fads of modern life; how something could dominate the news for a few weeks and then be gone as if it never existed. Could that happen to the myth of the cold serial killer, Barney Thomson?
He could not know the headline in that morning's Daily Record: Barber Surgeon Blamed for Stock Exchange Debacle. Occasionally he thought about Agnes, and assumed she was comfortably at home with her hideous soap operas. He wondered how Allan was coping with the stigma of having a brother wanted by the police. Rightly assumed that he would have changed his name.
But where could he go if he fled from his cold prison? What could he do for money? What could life possibly offer him?
He knew he had no option. He had to wait it out at the monastery of death and hope he was not farther sucked into the macabre happenings. Something might come along, or maybe time would make him less visible in the outside world. By next summer, perhaps, there would be a new hate figure. He had to keep his head down and hope that the monks did not hear news of him from the outside world. This blizzard would help that, and maybe by the time the next contact had been made, some other poor bastard would be dominating the front pages.
Head down, mouth shut, on with his work, and try not to get on the wrong side of Brother Herman. Barney Thomson scrubbed the floor a little bit harder.
A minute, then he heard footsteps, voices. Stopped scrub
bing; held his breath. Was not sure if the library was out of bounds. Had only ventured in because Herman was not there to ask. He crouched against a bookcase, recognising the voices as those of the Abbot and Brother Adolphus. Quick steps, stopping as they got into the centre of the room.
'Brother Herman!' the Abbot called out. Nothing.
Barney heard the footsteps, agitatedly around the back of the desk. Wondered if he should make himself known, but something stayed him. Either a sixth sense, or that quality which allowed him to make the wrong decision in nearly every difficult circumstance.
'Goodness,' said the Abbot, 'where can the good brother be?'
'If you would tell me the reason for your agitation, Brother Abbot, perhaps I could be of some comfort to you. You appear most distressed.'
You appear most distressed, mumbled Barney to himself. Creep.
'There has been another murder, Brother!' said the Abbot.
A strangled gasp from Adolphus, then, 'In the Lord's name, who is it this time?'
No immediate reply. Barney stared at the cold, dark ceiling. Another death amongst them. He tried to think who had not been at breakfast, but there were a few. There were always some who chose to go without.
'It is dear Brother Babel. Brother Frederick found his body at the edge of the forest, not ten minutes ago.'
'Brother Babel!'
Brother Babel. Fifty-three, surprisingly corpulent of build, balding and warm-hearted. Friend to them all, enemy to none. A pure and honest man, one of the few at the monastery with genuine motive. Had been a fine left-back. In the wrong place at the wrong time.
There was nothing else immediately said, while the Abbot wrung his hands and Brother Adolphus digested the news. That was, if he didn't already know it, thought Barney Thomson, for one of these monks must be the killer.
'I need to find Brother Herman. It is his investigation. There's little chance of the police managing to find a way up here, or of us getting out to them. Not with this blizzard. We are trapped in our own prison, Brother Adolphus, with a killer on the loose. I should not have allowed myself to be guided by Herman. I should have had the police in here five days ago. This is a terrible business. Terrible.'
The Barbershop Seven Page 35
