The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  'He lost his boat?' asked Seymour.

  'His wife died. Margaret. Stomach cancer. They seemed miserable as shite the two of them, but when she went he just went to pieces. He'd always been a drinker, but without her there to pour his hidden bottles of vodka down the drain, he turned into a walking vat of 100% proof. Gave the boat up before he lost it.'

  'Who did he give the boat to?'

  She stuffed the rest of the mince pie in her mouth and lifted a mug of tea.

  'Ally Deuchar,' said Seymour.

  'No,' replied Nelly Johnson through a mouthful of mincemeat. 'Went to a firm in Campbeltown. But since you mentioned Ally Deuchar. Comes a time when old Stan ends up in hospital with the drinking. The doctor gives him the usual spiel, you know the routine, if you don't stop drinking you're going to be pushing up the fucking tulips in two months, all the while Stan's swigging the fucking booze from a brown paper bag under the covers, 'cause he's a stupid old cunt. Then one day some bunch of religious weirdoes is doing the rounds, Jehovah's or born agains or Christ knows what. And you know, I mean fucking hell, who would've seen it coming, but old Stan fell for it. He fell for it! Hook, line and stinker. Next thing you know he's out of hospital telling every other bastard about the dangers of drinking and debauchery. What a plantpot.'

  'Ally Deuchar?' asked Gemmill. One day, he was thinking, the old girl might actually get around to telling us something relevant. But it's highly unlikely.

  'I'm getting there, for pity's sake,' she said, starting on another mince pie. 'Last year, part of the old bastard's thing, now that he was fit again and up and at 'em, ready for business, was wanting to get back out to sea. Course, he's got no money, and even though it's been only a few years since he left, the industry has crumbled in his absence. No eejit is willing to lend him the money to get another boat, and so the old bastard, the born again Christian, starts coveting the only boat left operating out of the town.'

  'The Bitter Wind...'

  'Exactamundo. The Bitter fucking Wind. Ally, of course, tells him to take a hike, and I think it was all a bit of a joke at first. Eventually though, when Stan the Man starts leaving headless chickens and shite like that outside Ally's house, Ally starts getting pissed off.'

  'Headless chickens?' said Gemmill. For some reason felt the hairs rise on his neck. Pavlov's dog.

  'All that kind of shite,' she said. 'Got to be quite a thing. A big town dispute. I mean, none of us actually knew what old Stan wanted. Did the big eejit really think that Ally was just going to give him the stupid boat?'

  She stared at the two of them, as if expecting an answer to the rhetorical question.

  'Well, it's too late now, in't it?' she added.

  Gemmill finished scribbling in his notepad.

  'And we'll find Mr Koppen round at one of the small chalets on the west side of the island?' asked Seymour.

  'Aye,' she said. 'If you're brave enough to go there. The muppet'll probably put a curse on you, or some shite like yon.'

  'That doesn't sound very Christian,' muttered Gemmill, grabbing another piece of cake and thinking that it might be time to take their leave.

  'Religion,' said Nelly Johnson, 'we all make of it what we choose.'

  Seymour snaffled another biscuit and stood up. Gemmill did the same, his mouth crammed with cake, and folded his notebook into his pocket. Nelly Johnson gave them the benefit of her eyebrow, and decided not to tell them all the other information which she would have happily divulged about the town if only they'd been prepared to wait and ask.

  ***

  It was around this time that a lone yachtsman upon the Irish Sea, a man who had endured a hellish night of storms, and who had spent the day repairing what he could of his boat on the hoof, thought he saw something floating in the water, fifty or sixty yards to starboard. However, by the time he had manoeuvred his yacht in that direction, whatever it was had been dragged under by some current, or washed further away and out of sight. He searched for a short while, but finally gave up and turned back on his heading south.

  And the further he got away from the point on the map where he had stopped to search, the more he persuaded himself that he didn't need to contact any authorities and that he really hadn't seen a headless body floating on the waves.

  The Return Of The Fantastic Five

  End of the day, the returns were coming in. Items from the Bitter Wind found on the beach, a few found out at sea. The love lives of the dead and missing, some gossip some scandal, but nothing to pin an investigation on. Gemmill and Seymour presented their story from Nelly Johnson, and no one else had anything with which to corroborate the tale. A few stories from up the coast, of womanising and late night card games, but nothing of note. No gambling debts, no drugs, no enraged husbands, no vendettas, no human trafficking.

  Frankenstein was perched on the edge of a desk. Proudfoot was standing by the whiteboard, where she had been noting down points of interest. The whiteboard remained almost entirely white.

  'So,' said Frankenstein, when the last of his team had finished, 'we've got an old, mentally-deranged, chicken-obsessed religious nutjob to speak to, and even that's based on the testimony of some fruitcake old asylum-case who couldn't be trusted to report back on the weather.'

  Proudfoot glanced at the board. She had recovered a large number of items along the beach, but it hadn't been an act of looking for clues. She had only been recovering what had already been noted and then lost.

  'I spoke to Mr Koppen yesterday,' said Gainsborough.

  Frankenstein lifted his head.

  'So he wasn't confessing to anything then?' he said.

  'I've spoken to him before, you know, but there's nothing...I don't know, he's a bit weird. Comes into the station every now and again trying to give me a Bible. Wants me to help sinners to repent. Thinks there should be a Bible in every cell. I told him, we have someone in that cell once every three years. Go and stick your Bible in the public toilets at the pier.'

  'You know of any connection between him and the trawler or its crew?'

  'You know, I've thought about it, but it's like, you know, the guy was a fisherman, although before my time, and now he's just a guy who seems to have gone a bit senile. No one to look after him, to keep him in check, and he's away off on his God-kick and all that chicken stuff. Just a bit mental.'

  Frankenstein stared at him intently, face deadpan.

  'And, so, any connection between him and the trawler or its crew?' he repeated.

  Gainsborough looked at the floor, thinking that he'd just answered that.

  'No,' he said.

  'How did he seem when you interviewed him? Evasive in any way? Did he hurry you out? Was he quite happy to talk about it?'

  Gainsborough shrugged.

  'Really, nothing exceptional. Didn't seem to care, really, and when I mentioned the guys, he just started going on about how we'll all be judged by God, and all that kind of malarkey. Like, you know, whatever.'

  Gainsborough took a long drink of tea and laid the mug down on a desk. Frankenstein looked round at Proudfoot.

  'It seems, Sergeant, that we have a list of one thing to do,' he said, then he turned and looked out at the day turned dark. Almost seven o'clock, the roundup, despite its paucity of information, having taken much longer than expected.

  'I guess you lot can go for the evening, wherever that is,' he said. 'I want you back here tomorrow at eight. We've got beaches to sweep and....' The thought drifted off.

  'Come on, Sergeant,' he said, 'no time like the present.'

  And the men and women of the Millport Incident Room began looking at watches and putting on coats and wondering, in some cases, how much of the football they were going to miss.

  ***

  Barney Thomson was out walking around the west side of the island. Had gone as far as the new war memorial and turned back, by Deadman's Bay. A dark night, but the memory of the shaggy guy who had disappeared from his shop had gone. Or at least, the fear of it had gone. In his h
ead it had become just another unexplained episode that there was no use thinking about, no point in agonising over and, by extension, nothing to be afraid of.

  A damp night, the rain not actually falling, but the air itself wet. The sea had finally settled to a moderate swell and the first signs of a mist had begun to develop over the firth. From where he walked, Barney could not see the lights in Kilchattan bay.

  He was just coming to the point which is called on the old maps Sheriff's Port, when the first car in over quarter of an hour came round the far bend, its small round headlights infiltrating the dark night. Barney stepped off the road onto the grass verge and saw a bench, facing out to sea, north-west, looking across and up the firth. As the vehicle approached he sat down and watched the movement of the light of the headlamps as it swung over the grass and rocks.

  The noise of the engine lowered. Barney thought it was slowing down to an unnecessary degree for the corner. He turned. Not a car, he noticed, an old white van. It turned off the road and parked on the grass next to where Barney was sitting. More ghosts he wondered, although he felt no trepidation or fear.

  The doors opened and out piled two men, two women and a dog. The crew whom Frankenstein had met the previous day. Team building. MI6.

  'Hey,' said one of the guys casually.

  'Hi,' said Barney.

  'Kind of a creepy night.'

  'Like yeah,' said the other guy. 'Spooky.'

  Barney glanced at him and then looked back out to sea. It had, he thought, been a little bit creepy until you lot turned up. The creepiness had gone, along with the solitude and the beautiful peace and quiet.

  The dog came and sniffed at Barney's feet. Barney clapped his ears but it didn't seem too interested. It stopped for a second, momentarily enjoyed the ear scratch, and then bowed its head and moved on, smelling the grass.

  'Nice dog,' said Barney. 'What's his name?'

  'He doesn't have a name,' said one of the girls, the one with a short black bob. 'The Dog With No Name.'

  Barney looked round at them. They were all standing still, staring out into the mist. They looked less friendly now. They seemed to be working. Maybe they were part of the police investigation. The island was full of them. Not that they looked like the police.

  Barney followed their gaze out to sea.

  'Police?' he asked.

  'MI6,' said the bloke who had spoken to him first.

  Barney nodded. In the distance he could just make out the lights of a small vessel, barely visible in the mist.

  'Isn't that supposed to be a secret?' asked Barney, not taking his eyes off the light out in the firth.

  'Full disclosure these days, my trusty amigo.'

  'Yeah?'

  'Too many lawsuits from people claiming entrapment. We're the security services for crying out loud! Anyway, the lawyers tell us that these days we have to declare ourselves to everyone we speak to.'

  'Shop assistants?'

  'Yep,' said one of the women.

  Barney was still watching the distant dim light.

  'I'm Fred,' said the guy who had been doing most of the talking, 'this is Deirdre, Selma and Bernard.' He pronounced Bernard with the emphasis on the second syllable, so that it sounded American.

  A few nods.

  'Like, hi,' said Bernard.

  Barney turned and nodded. Bernard was now scanning the foggy sea with a large pair of binoculars.

  'And a dog with no name,' said Barney.

  They were silent, intent on looking out over the water. Barney turned back round and relaxed into the seat. The dog was sniffing frantically around, searching for something that no one else seemed interested in.

  Silence fell again, a hush that grew every time they stepped back and allowed it in. Barney pulled his coat closer to him. Shivered, but it was from the cold. Took a quick glance back, wondering if one of these times he'd look round and they'd be gone. Yet he didn't get that feeling with these four. And their dog. Maybe because of their dog.

  The vessel was becoming more distinct as it emerged from the fog. A small fishing trawler. No sense of peculiarity or danger, but Barney was not surprised. Life sometimes gets on a roll, the no-bus-for-an-hour-and-then-three-in-five-minutes syndrome. If that happens anymore. Fishing vessels, fishermen everywhere. Haunted.

  He lost himself in the fog, thoughts meandering. The man from that afternoon came back to him. Had he dreamt him, the shaggy guy who had disappeared in a turn of the head? He had been sleeping just before it, maybe he had slept all the way through it.

  The quiet crept over them, no sound but the lick of the waves against the rocks. The trawler moved silently through the fog.

  Barney felt a tap at the shoulder and he turned quickly, drawn back to the misty night. Bernard was holding the binoculars out to him.

  'Here, pal, like take a quick look before the thing gets shrouded in mist again.'

  'This sure is a creepy night,' said Selma.

  Barney took the binoculars from Bernard with some uncertainty, wondering why he was being drawn into their gang.

  He looked through the binoculars into the mist, searching for the trawler. Found it eventually, although it took him a while. The mist was swirling around it, almost like it had targeted the boat and was closing in from behind. He focused the binoculars and got his first good close look at the vessel before the mist completely descended.

  Somehow he wasn't surprised by what he saw, even though it should never have been out there. The mist swirled round, the boat moved silently through the water midway out in the firth, and then suddenly it was gone, once more enveloped in the thick soup of the har.

  Barney kept the binoculars up for another few seconds, wondering if it would reappear, and then he lowered them slowly and looked round at the gang. He held out the binoculars for Bernard who took them back. The dog with no name sat in front of them and started barking, a few rough shouts at the fog.

  'Just the same as last night,' said Deirdre.

  'I think I need a burger,' said Bernard. 'With fries on the side, and pickle and ketchup and more cheese than you can shake a stick at.'

  Barney turned round and looked at Fred.

  'The Bitter Wind...' he said.

  Fred nodded. 'We had reports that it was seen out here last night as well, thought we'd come and take a look.'

  'Funny how you arrived just as it appeared,' said Barney.

  They exchanged a glance. Fred put a hand on his shoulder.

  'We're MI6 my friend,' he said, 'a lot of things about us are funny.'

  Barney looked back out at the mist, wondering if the answer to this mystery was prosaic or supernatural.

  'Another trawler with the name daubed on?' he asked. 'Although I have no idea why anyone would do that.'

  Selma had taken a small box from her bag and was now using it to scan the firth.

  'Jings,' she said, 'if it was that, it's disappeared awful quickly.'

  'No sign of it?' said Fred.

  'No sign,' said Selma.

  They all looked out at the sea and the fog and wondered.

  'Looks like we might have found ourselves a fully-fledged ghost ship,' said Deirdre.

  'Zoiks!' said Bernard. 'Come on, Dog With No Name, let's get out of here.'

  Fully-fledged ghost ship...

  The possibility put into words, Barney finally felt the shiver that the sinister night and the eerie vision of the trawler demanded. He stood and turned, as the gang of four and a dog clambered back into their van. Fred climbed into the driver's seat, then wound down the window and leant on the door.

  'We'd offer you a lift back into town, friend, but it's a bit cramped back here.' He saluted.

  Barney nodded. Wouldn't have taken it anyway. Found himself returning the salute, and then the van reversed out onto the road and disappeared on the short drive back into town.

  The Ways Of The Lord

  Proudfoot knocked on the door of the small wooden chalet. Frankenstein was waiting at the bottom of the
stairs. Six little huts in a semi-circle. Holiday homes. Only one of the other six appeared to be currently occupied.

  Frankenstein turned and looked out at the misty sea. Noticed the lights of the small vessel out in the fog. Felt the fleeting flicker of uncertainty, but didn't want to know the feeling, so turned back to the house. The door opened and a man in his eighties stood framed against the light, staring angrily out into the night.

  'What?' he said.

  'Mr Koppen?' asked Proudfoot.

  'I'd like to deny it,' he said, 'but I suppose I can't. Police?'

  'Detective Sergeant Proudfoot, this is Detective Chief Inspector Frankenstein.'

  The two men took each other in, neither liking what they saw. People with something to hide never liked staring at Frankenstein. He had a quality which made them think that he could see right through them. And he usually could. For his part, Frankenstein never liked anyone he went to interview in connection with a case.

  'You're his monster, are you?' asked Koppen, without looking at Proudfoot. Eyes locked on the man he could see as his adversary.

  'I've never heard that before,' said Proudfoot dryly. 'You're funny. This is the part where you invite us in.'

  Koppen looked back at her, glanced over his shoulder, shrugged and then stood back to let them walk past him. Proudfoot led the way. They walked into the cabin. Koppen closed the door. Inside, the cabin had the feel of a mobile home which is on display in the caravan park. Immaculately tidy and clean. A small sitting room with a kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom leading off. Everything that a single man would need. He had eaten his dinner sitting in front of the television, but all that remained on the small table was an unfinished bottle of Lipton's Green Ice Tea. There was a copy of the Bible sitting on the table. Over the back of the slender sofa was a throw depicting Jesus the shepherd in gaudy Technicolor.

  There was porn showing on the TV. Explicit. Three men, one woman. Proudfoot glanced at it, looked away in disgust, then she caught sight of the Jesus throw. Frankenstein folded his arms and watched the TV for a few seconds. Koppen sat down and made no attempt to turn the television off.