The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  And all the while Sheep Dip sat slightly detached, well wrapped against the cold, keeping the fire going, an entirely different set of dreams playing in his head. Every now and again he fingered the note in his jacket pocket, the note which had dropped into his lap as he'd sat on the cold toilet. The note from Barney Thomson. He knew he should tell Mulholland, but he'd convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. Didn't want any more of the monks getting murdered. But really it was all because he had seen his chance of glory; his name in lights. The chance to get on the front page of the Press & Journal. Have his pick of all the two-bit women in the seedy underground dope joints in Peterhead and Fraserburgh. A bit of celebrity, and he'd be eating dinner off a different woman's stomach every night for a decade. Add to that the promotion that would inevitably follow the capture of Barney Thomson, a bit of extra cash – maybe some TV work and the odd modelling assignment – and he'd be made. He could pinch a kilo or two of coke from the lock-up in Inverness, and he could dash off to Bermuda and lie on some sun-drenched beach surrounded by hundreds of women, all paying close attention to his naked body.

  'Bermuda,' he said, and Mulholland and Proudfoot paused in their conversation and considered that Bermuda would be a good choice. Of course, went the rambling mind of Detective Sergeant MacPherson, the fact that Barney Thomson probably wasn't killing all the monks might be a bit of a problem. But obviously the monks thought he was, and it looked as though Mulholland thought so too, and if that was the case, then he might as well go along with it.

  He knew, however, that there was no way that Thomson could have killed anyone; far too much of a big Jessie for that. But there was more celebrity beckoning for his capture than for the capture of a killer of a bunch of monks. Monk Killer Caught! Who would care? Other monks, maybe, but that would be it. Monk Murderer Snared as Dons Lose One-Goal Thriller to Motherwell. That would be about the extent of it. Still, if Thomson wasn't a killer, even better, then, to catch them both. Maybe Thomson intended giving him some information regarding the real killer, in order to get himself out of trouble.

  He looked at his watch. Almost time. He threw another couple of small logs onto the fire, then stood up and stretched.

  'Just off to the bog for a shite,' he said, pulling his jacket close.

  'Thanks, Sergeant. A little more than we needed to know.'

  'Well, you know, I'll be a wee whiley, so don't go getting your Glasgow knickers in a twist if I'm not back in thirty seconds.'

  'I'll try not to,' said Mulholland, and Sheep Dip made for the door.

  'I wouldn't mind Jersey,' he heard Proudfoot say, before he closed the door behind him. 'Snogging Bergerac.'

  'You're kidding me?'

  ***

  They all had their secrets, these monks. Dark and sombre; black and blue; the Devil's secrets. Brother Ash – the man had never forgiven himself for sleeping with his brother's wife, and now he felt that regret no more. Brother Goodfellow – homosexuality and drugs; he had flirtations with Brother Sincerity to indulge the first of those, and he could never forget the second, so that not a single night went by when he did not feel the needle piercing the skin. Brother Sledge – a complex web of deceit on a salmon farm in the early seventies, leaving a suicide and a broken marriage. Brother Pondlife – a series of broken homes and a lingerie shop laid waste. And Brother Satan – a man with no end of secrets. But of them all, only Brother Herman had come to the monastery truly on the run from the police. A murderer on the loose. That was why he had so confidently recognised it in Brother Jacob, because he could always tell one of his own kind. Someone like him. He could see it in the eyes. But then, he could always tell all their secrets. Give him a few days, and he'd know why any of the brothers had come to them. So obvious, he had thought it, when Brother Jacob had hoved into view, bleeding heart and bloodied hands laid bare for all to see. Or, at least, for him to see. Because he knew what it was like, Brother Herman. Knew what it was like to feel rage and hurt and anger and embarrassment and humiliation. Knew what it was like to determine that you were going to kill someone; to go after them with a knife; to stalk them, hunt them down, corner them; to enjoy their fright, breathe in their terror, swim in the soup of their fear, knew what it was like to plunge the knife in to the hilt, and feel the warm flow of blood on your hands.

  It had been a long time for Brother Herman, but he'd never forgotten. And so, he was surprised when he encountered the murderer. Shocked even, although he would have thought himself too hard to feel shock.

  It happened in the depths of night, as Brother Herman had known it would. There was an inevitability about it. He had for five days now envisaged this meeting. Played it through his mind, knowing what he was going to say, knowing how he was going to fend off his attacker, extract a confession, and then do whatever else was going to have to be done. And he had no fear. God would be his judge and his protector. And should something go wrong, it would be because God willed it. Although, on this occasion, he would not give God's Will too much of a say in the matter.

  The oldest trick in the book. One of them anyway. A pillow beneath the harsh sheets on the bed to make it look as if he slept. For Brother Herman knew his attacker would come, and on this third night of his vigil, it began.

  At the slow creak of the door, Herman's head bolted up, although he had not been in the deep throes of sleep. There was a sliver of light from outwith, the dark figure etched against it, then the door was closed, the room was engulfed in darkness again, and the only sound was the soft pad of bare footfalls across the stone floor. A brief hesitation and then the sudden and frantic thrash of the knife into the padded bed. A burst of furious anger, then it was over, and the killer fumbled in the dark for the object of his vengeance. Emitted a low curse when realisation dawned.

  Had Brother Herman struck now, had he approached the killer from the back and brought the knife down into his neck, had he struck the mighty blow from behind, unannounced and unexpected, then victory might have been his, and Herman might have lived. But that had never been his intention; deceit was not his way. And especially not now, now that he had seen, in the obscure light of the doorway, who the killer was. There were too many questions to ask. This man could not die, taking his secrets with him.

  'Brother?' said Herman, at the same time as he flicked a match and put light to the small candle on the table beside him.

  The killer turned. 'Herman,' he said. 'You were expecting me?'

  Herman stood, so that the two tall men faced each other in the dancing gloom. 'Not you, I must confess, but someone.'

  The killer took a step towards him and stopped. He still held the knife in his hands, a light and comfortable grip. Herman kept his weapon concealed within his cloak.

  'Why, Brother?' said Herman. 'Before we finish this, you must tell me why.'

  The killer stared through the dark, their eyes engaged.

  'Two Tree Hill,' he said eventually.

  Herman stared quizzically back. Two Tree Hill? He knew of the place, not many miles from the abbey. There had been a time when the monks had frequented it, but those days were long since gone.

  'What do you mean?' asked Herman. 'It is years since we've been there. Not since...' And his voice trailed away at the bitter memory which belonged to Two Tree Hill. 'But that was long before you came to us, Brother,' he said.

  'My father was there,' said the killer, and the voice was dead.

  'Your father? But how could that be?' Herman was on the back foot. He hated being on the back foot, but he was too confused, too intrigued to do anything about it.

  The killer hesitated. What did these idiots know? Why was he even bothering to waste time explaining himself? He wasn't some two-bit villain in a Bond movie who wanted everyone to know his motives. He just wanted these men to pay for their crimes and, if there was a Hell, to have eternity to feel their remorse.

  'Brother Cafferty,' said the killer. 'My father was Brother Cafferty.'

  Herman gasped. Cafferty! T
here was a name he had not heard in many years, and his mind quickly fizzed through the events of that fateful day on Two Tree Hill. Cafferty had been at the centre of it all. In a way, Cafferty had been the casualty, but surely it had been nothing.

  'You're joking?' he said, aghast.

  The killer took another step forward, the knife nestling snugly in his clenched fist.

  'You're taking revenge?' said Herman. 'You're taking the lives of all these fine men of God because of what happened that day? Why, it's absurd!'

  'Are you forgetting my father was kicked out of the abbey?' said the killer, the voice spitting venom; years of hate boiled over, like some strangely overfilled pan of rice. 'He was never the same man again, to which my very existence testifies.'

  Herman stood amazed. His mouth opened, his eyes widened, and, in the dim light of the candle, the killer could see the saliva glinting on the tip of his tongue, behind which the inside of his mouth became a black hole.

  'But Two Tree Hill?' said Herman. 'It was nothing! Brother Cafferty could have gone to another abbey. We would have said nothing. That meagre stain would never have followed him.'

  'He didn't want to go to another abbey, though, did he? You ruined him. Meagre stain, indeed, you bastard! You tarnished him for life. You painted him with the brush of odium, dipped in a paint pot of ignominy and humiliation. He turned to drink and drugs and gambling. The man I grew to know as my father was a broken man. He'd been decent and honest once, until you killed him. You,' he said, dragging it out again, 'killed him.'

  Herman's mouth closed; the hardness returned. This was, by some way, the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Even more ridiculous than Brother Adolphus's explanation on why he'd had a lingerie catalogue under his bed. It would be laughable, if it weren't so serious.

  'This is absurd, Brother,' he said, and this time it was he who took a step forward, the knife clutched firmly in his right hand, hidden by the dark and the great swathes of cloak. 'You cannot possibly be committing these murders because of what happened at Two Tree Hill. That really would be the most stupid thing I've ever heard in my entire life.'

  The killer was offended; furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. 'What do you mean?' he said.

  'This,' said Herman, and his left hand gestured through the air, indicating all the murders that had gone before. 'Who in their right mind would commit these atrocities over this? It would be the most futile gesture which could possibly be conceived of. Two Tree Hill was nothing. It was an inconsequential event, on an inconsequential day. Good heavens, it must be almost thirty years ago now.'

  'Twenty-seven,' said the killer. 'Twenty-seven.'

  'Hah!' barked Herman. Had decided to provoke his man into anger and then take him when he was consumed by wrath, his effectiveness duly diminished.

  'You sad little cretin, Brother,' snapped Herman. 'You think that anyone still remembers that day? You think anyone cares? What use is revenge, Brother, when no one knows why you're doing it? What use is revenge, when the reason is so mediocre as to be completely insignificant?'

  'Mediocre? Is that what you're saying?'

  'Aye, Brother,' said Herman, 'it is.'

  'Mediocrity be damned!' said the killer, the voice beginning to strain, a quality of pleading to it.

  'All this, and it's for nothing! You pathetic little man!'

  One last taunt. It happened, and Brother Herman was proved wrong. The killer's effectiveness had not been diminished by wrath. He was a younger man, he was stronger, he was faster; and while he was being all these things, Herman's knife became entangled in the luxurious and sweeping fabric of his cloak.

  The knife pierced mightily the throat of Brother Herman, and he staggered back, his fingers clutching at the warm explosion of blood. He fell heavily against the wall, the eyes stared wildly at his murderer, and then, as he began the slow slide to the floor, his hand finally escaped the prison of his cloak, only for the knife to drop uselessly to the ground.

  Herman sat on the floor, eyes staring up at the man who two minutes before he'd thought he could easily take in a fight. On the back foot, that'd been the problem. And deserted by God. And also this: you just never know when you're getting old. That was his one last thought.

  Their eyes met in one final wrestling match which somehow Herman managed to win. His mouth opened as the killer's eyes dropped, and Herman uttered his final words on God's earth.

  'He lied to you, son. Your father must have lied.'

  ***

  He could still feel the blood pumping through the veins. A mad, liquid rush – he could feel the pain of it squeezing through confined spaces. Heart racing, chest thumping, head aching, mouth dry, hair standing on end, frantic points of pain jagging his body – the biggest rush he had had yet from murder. Brother Herman. One of the ringleader bastards who had condemned his father to a life of ruin. Brother Herman, the biggest bastard in this place of bastards. Had deserved everything he'd received. The other monks would probably throw a feet-up party when they heard he was dead.

  On a high of murderous delirium, the killer almost stumbled into Barney Thomson. Would have done so, had not Barney heard his irregular footfalls coming towards him and hidden behind a pillar at the last minute.

  However, the killer sensed something as he came into the small hall, the interconnection of four corridors. The place where Barney Thomson had chosen to make a rendezvous with Detective Sergeant Dip. A curious place for a secret assignation, but Barney Thomson was no conspirator.

  The monk stopped, slowed down; he fingered the knife, now thrust into the folds of his cloak, but still warm with blood. Blood that he could taste; and he could smell the presence of another human being. His nose twitched. Someone was watching him, he could feel it; someone lurking in the shadows. He hadn't been followed, he was quite sure of that, so whoever it was would not know the sad fate of Brother Herman.

  'Hello?' he said to the empty chamber. 'Who's there?'

  No reply, and he began slowly to circle the room. Almost completely dark, but for the bare light of a smouldering fire, itself only minutes away from death.

  Barney Thomson hid behind a pillar and waited. He watched the man before him, on the cusp of showing himself. Some of the monks he could trust; some of them he couldn't. Already had the two lists drawn up in his mind. This man was on the A-list. This man he thought would not betray him. Yet something stayed his hand as, all the while, his heart ba-boomed inside his chest, the sweat beaded on his face and he forced his teeth together to stop them chattering. He'd had too much of this in the past year, and this wouldn't be the last time, he thought. Or, then again, it might.

  'Hello?' said the killer, and his eyes swept past the pillar behind which Barney hid. Barney sucked his stomach in. The predator kept circling, and all the while Barney grew more uneasy. There was something in the way he moved; and the monk was quickly removed from the A-list. Could this be the killer, he wondered. Who else, apart from himself, would be wandering the corridors at this hour? This was not a part of the monastery where any of the monks needed to go at night; that was why he'd chosen it.

  The monk circled; Barney twitched.

  'Hello?'

  'Hello,' came the reply.

  Barney twitched so hard his head banged silently off the stone pillar. He managed to keep his mouth shut as his hand went to the instant bump. He risked a glance round the corner of the pillar. The police. Of course.

  The killer stared through the gloom, himself surprised. Sheep Dip had appeared as if from the shadows, and instantly the killer assumed that here was the man who had been watching him for the previous few minutes.

  'Good evening,' he said, cool regained, fingers once again clutching the sticky hilt of the knife.

  'You're not Barney Thomson,' said Sheep Dip, and was immediately annoyed at himself for mentioning the name.

  'Barney Thomson?' said the monk. 'Never heard of him. Not one of the brothers,' he added warily.

  'No,' said Sheep Dip. Had to mov
e the conversation on. 'Late to be abroad, is it not, Brother?'

  The monk shrugged. 'I couldn't sleep, Sergeant. Too many things going on.'

  His mind was racing. Going through all the options. His hand clutched the knife, and that remained his favourite option of all; especially since his blood still fizzed with the rush of the last murder. There were pros and cons to be considered, however. This man before him was no Brother Herman, stupid and slow. This was a sensible policeman, a big man who would be faster than he looked.

  'And do you think it's wise to be walking corridors when there's some lunatic on the loose?'

  The monk's eyes narrowed. Barney Thomson? Brother Jacob. It made sense. He must be some criminal who was on the run, and who they had tracked to the monastery. They thought that Barney Thomson was the monastery killer, and he only just managed to keep the smile from his face.

  'I have God to protect me,' said the monk. They couldn't be that stupid, could they, he thought. The only thing Brother Jacob could kill was conversation.

  'God hasn't made a very good job of protecting your brothers,' said Sheep Dip, staring through the gloom at the monk. Something was missing and he didn't realise it. His instinct was gone; he stood before a killer covered in blood, and he didn't see it. Sheep Dip had always had instinct. Now it had been repressed by this house of God.

  'This Barney Thomson,' said the monk. 'You think that he's the one who's been doing these terrible things?'

  'Barney Thomson? Naw, not him. He's just a feckless idiot. I doubt the man could tie his own shoelaces. Folk like Barney Thomson are what God had left over when he'd finished making snot.'

  Barney Thomson bristled; and in any other situation he would seriously have thought about almost doing something.

  'So whom do you suspect, then, Sergeant?' said the monk.