The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  He paused briefly and Proudfoot made the rookie error of not jumping in when she had the chance.

  'Then again, there's the fella over in Largs. Sam Tarrantino. You'd think they'd call him Tombstone, but everyone knows him as Mr Brown. Don't get it myself, but he's not really a friend of mine anyway. When I see him I usually call him Sammy. A bit over familiar, but that's one of my things. Over familiarity. Puts some people off, but I always say that you just have to take people as you get them. I am what I am.'

  'When did you find the chicken?' asked Proudfoot, taking a leap at a millisecond of clear air.

  'The chicken?' said Headstone, seemingly surprised that she'd want to ask about it. 'About half an hour ago. It wasn't here this morning. I was going to lunch, managed to fit in a half hour break sometime after twelve. Must have been done then. Like, I was just sitting in the shed, but my back was turned, head down in the trough, TV on, the whole distraction thing, it's not like I'm paid to guard this place, you know, and then after that I was working down at the other end, the new section over there, where we put the urns and stuff, nothing specific just general maintenance, then I got a call from Tully Banta down at the Kendall, and he said about Nelly Johnson. Bit of a shock, but it wasn't like there wasn't a queue. So I got to thinking about old Bill, and wondering what kind of state his plot was in, and if there was space beside it for Nelly, you know, how it's going to work. I mean, it's not like I don't know all these graves by heart, and Bill's not been in the ground all that long, but I came up here just to have a look anyway, and as I was walking up I thought to myself, here, is that a chicken? That is, that is a chicken!...'

  He talked on. Proudfoot switched off. She had a few more questions to ask, but essentially she knew there was nothing much else that Headstone Harmison would likely be able to tell her. She brought her phone from her pocket and took a few quick photos of the headstone and the chicken, and then she took a photo of Headstone himself as he seemed keen for it to happen.

  She turned away from the little scene of demonic indulgence and looked back down the hill and out to sea. Suddenly felt the chill of the graveyard, and the chill of the absurdity of someone who would kill a chicken to leave a warning, and who would scrawl a catchphrase in fake blood on a tombstone. Headstone's voice drifted in and out of her head, a dreary monotone, his conversation a continual polemic never destined to reach any destination or conclusion. '...made out of granite, because that's what most of them did, but of course these days people are stretching the boundaries because that's what they do and last week I heard someone talking about kicking the dead whale up the beach, but to be perfectly honest I had no idea what they were talking about...'

  Eventually, although no gap in his conversation ever really appeared, Proudfoot patted Headstone on the arm and began to walk slowly away from the grave. Shook her head at her own forgetfulness, stopped and held a hand up for him to take a breath. He looked at her expectantly, surprised that anyone would want him to stop talking.

  'We'll need to get a couple of guys up here, forensics, that kind of thing. They'll be here in a few minutes. Don't touch this thing, don't tidy it up. Close the graveyard, don't let anyone in before the police arrive.'

  'Well, that's all very well saying that Detective, but there are some, like you know, Mrs Waverley, who comes up here every single aft—'

  'Headstone,' she said firmly, 'I'm telling you, don't let anyone in. That's it. I could call it in and wait, but I feel like walking back down the hill. I'm trusting you here. If it helps, imagine that I'm making you my deputy. Until reinforcements arrive, you're in charge of the crime scene.' She reached forward and gripped his shoulder. 'Deputy Harmison, secure the area.'

  Headstone Harmison saluted.

  'Yes, ma'am,' he said. The poor lad had been watching a few too many American movies.

  'Thank you,' said Proudfoot, then she turned and walked slowly back through the graveyard. Away from the desecrated grave of Bill Johnson. As she walked, she smiled at the thought of Headstone Harmison, but slowly the smile died. Just like all the poor souls who lay beneath the ground in this, the latest crime scene in her career. Couldn't stop herself glancing at the graves as she passed.

  Agnes Desmond, A Faithful Wife, Died Mar 1923. Charles Bergamot, Died September 1902, Gone But Not Forgotten.

  Snack Time

  'Where the fuck have you been?'

  Proudfoot stopped just inside the door. She smiled. The whole of the incident room looked at her, based on Frankenstein's bark from the rear of the room.

  She walked over to one of the desks, where a geeky youth of a constable, newly arrived from Greenock, was sitting at a computer terminal. She took out her phone, found a lead lying in amongst the stramash of electrical equipment on the desk, attached her phone to the computer and then leant across the constable to work at the keyboard. Constable Corrigan, confronted with Detective Sergeant Proudfoot's left breast in his face, fought the urge not to move and then finally pushed his chair back.

  By what she considered a small miracle, she managed to get the pictures downloaded in seconds, almost as if she was in an advert for the computer or phone company. It really is that simple! She straightened up and indicated for Frankenstein to come and look.

  'This is where the fuck I've been. The grave of Nelly Johnson's husband. I had a whunch.'

  Frankenstein looked dubious, and then he walked round and looked at the pictures. She flicked through them slowly, seven in all, concluding with the smiling mug of Deputy Headstone.

  'Who's the geek?' asked the geeky constable from behind. Frankenstein and Proudfoot gave him a curious look.

  'Yeah,' said Frankenstein, 'who is the geek?'

  'The gravedigger,' said Proudfoot, 'although you're not allowed to call them that anymore.'

  'People Who Dig Large Holes In The Ground For The Purposes Of Burial Of Late Lamented Other Significant People Of Unknown Future Personage?' ventured Corrigan.

  They gave him another look, this time Frankenstein stopping himself giving the lad a slap across the head.

  'Shut up! That didn't even make any sense. Sergeant, what's the position now? You appear to have left the scene?'

  'I've ordered the gravedigger to close the graveyard and to not tamper with anything until we arrive for the full examination.'

  Frankenstein nodded and looked around the room. Spare men were thin on the ground, though he was expecting more to arrive the following day, now that they had a new murder on their hands. The thing was getting bigger and bigger as they went on, and a dead chicken at a tombstone wasn't going to help matters. He'd been badgered by the press already that day, and with every new and strange discovery it was only going to get worse.

  Police hell.

  'Right,' he said, 'I'd better get up there and take a look. Not that I don't trust you Sergeant. You stay here and find something to make yourself useful...'

  'A true general...'

  'Piss off. Webster and you, whatever your name is, you're coming with me. Bring some of that forensic crap. A whunch for God's sake.'

  A quick glance at Proudfoot, Webster and the other guy, Constable Alan Constable – who was always surprised when anyone forgot his name – and then Frankenstein walked quickly outside, pulled the cigarette packet from his pocket and lit up.

  They stood in the room watching for a few seconds.

  'He's at the fags,' said Proudfoot. 'Things are looking bad. Webster, Constable, you better get a move on, I think he's about to blow.'

  A nod and a mock salute, and Constables Webster and Constable got to work.

  ***

  Barney walked on, right around the island. Past the aquarium and Keppel pier and the lion rock; the wishing well; the marina and the ferry landing slip; the small column at the far end, looking north, where Frankenstein had first encountered Fred and the gang; on round the small bay, back south past the old fish farm, which had once famously been converted into a soccer stadium or something, live on BBC TV; the twisty
back roads towards the Indian rock, looking out at the tired, grey seas, over to Bute and the hills of Arran; over the small hump and down into Fintry Bay. Mid-November, the café was still open.

  A long slow walk, and by the time he reached Fintry, he was ready to sit down. He debated the element of human company that entering would involve, and then walked wearily up the steps and inside.

  The place was busy with tourists. He stopped for a second and looked over them all, people wrapped in thick jackets, gloves and scarves and hats discarded. Where have all these people come from, he wondered. He had walked slowly around the island and barely seen anyone.

  He walked to the counter, the gloom of the world on his shoulders. Knew the small woman standing behind, frantically rushing around re-supplying the shelves of sandwiches, which had been unexpectedly depleted.

  'Busy?' he said.

  'Tell me about it, Mr Thomson.' Then she looked conspiratorially around the clientèle and leant forwards, her voice hushed. 'Gloaters and sightseers. Here because that old woman was murdered. Then they come round here because you can look across the water to where the trawler was found. They're just wanting to catch a glimpse of an actual police investigation. The police should sell tickets, I'm telling you, they'd be minted. Really, it's terrible. But then, who's to say, you know, people want what they want. It's like reality TV right on your doorstep. Why sit at home with a cup of tea watching endless adverts on ITV, or the BBC telling you how wonderful they are every thirty seconds, when you can see the real thing in action? But then, we're talking about a woman's life here, aren't we? They should just leave well alone and let the police get on with their work.'

  A pause. Barney wondered if she was finished and whether he'd now be able to get his order in.

  'You can tell I'm Gemini,' she said. 'Both sides.'

  'Thought that was Libra,' said Barney.

  'Maybe it was my mum who's Libra.'

  'Can I order something now?' asked Barney.

  'What were you waiting for?'

  Barney nodded ruefully and looked into the glass cabinet to see what was on offer. The food was lined up, each item appropriately labelled. Decapitation Doughnuts: £1.75; Murder Muffins: £1.75; Slaughter Scones with Genocide Jam: £1.50; Execution Éclairs: £2.55; Nelly Nosh Soup with Bludgeon Bread: £3.75; Bloodbath Broth: £2.05.

  Barney looked up at Meg Braintree.

  'Just, you know, giving the public what they want,' she said defensively, arms folded.

  'I'll just have a Cappuccino, please,' said Barney.

  'Would that be a Carnage Cappuccino or a regular?'

  Barney looked deadpan across the counter.

  'Regular?' she ventured.

  He nodded. She fussed away to make the coffee. Barney turned and looked round at the crowded café. A lot of gloaters and sightseers right enough. As he tuned in to the room, he could hear various conversations, excited chatter about the murder of Nelly Johnson and the mystery of the missing trawler crew. Somewhere in there he even heard mention of The Incredible Captain Death.

  The door opened and another couple entered, agitated in discussion, a bustle of coats and scarves and hats and gloves. He was drawn to them, this middle-aged couple over all the others.

  'Can you not remember that?' said the woman. 'It was all over the papers.'

  'Nope,' said the man. He looked bored. He looked like he needed a cup of Trawler Tea and a Savage Sandwich.

  'You're a total eejit. I don't believe you sometimes. Can you remember anything that happened before yesterday?'

  They bustled up to the counter and stood next to Barney, perusing the various murder-related foods on offer.

  'I can remember the Scotland team that lost 1-0 to Brazil at Hampden in 1973,' said the guy brusquely. 'Went with my dad.'

  'Went with your dad,' she said scornfully. 'Like you've never mentioned that before. Where are you when we're sitting watching the television? Do you completely tune out the rest of the planet? Do you completely tune me out?'

  'The Cudgel Cake looks tasty,' he said.

  'It was all over the papers.'

  'Don't remember.'

  She glanced at Barney, who was standing next to them, looking at them strangely. Why do people make themselves live with someone else who annoys them as much as this? That was what he was thinking, a thought in itself overwhelmed by the odd feeling he had about them, that somehow this absurd conversational labyrinth referred to him.

  'Do you remember it?' she said sharply to Barney. 'Or are all you men muppets of equal order?'

  'I remember the Muppets!' chipped in the guy from the back.

  'Remember what?' said Barney.

  'That thing a few years ago. It was in all the papers. The barber. Killed the two lads in the shop, his mother was a serial killer. All that stuff. I cannot believe I'm the only one who remembers that. Everyone thought the bloke had died, but the rumour is that he's down here, in Millport. I just heard someone talking about it. They couldn't remember his name either.'

  Barney stared at her, stared through her. He had lived so many years when he hadn't had to think about this, and now, from every angle, it was coming back.

  'You're just another glaiket eejit, aren't you?' she said.

  Barney looked into her eyes, but he wasn't seeing her. He was seeing Wullie Henderson slide on a puddle on the barber shop floor, he was reaching out to grab him as he fell forward, and he could feel the scissors in his hand accidentally thrust deep into Wullie's chest. Could feel the warmth of the blood which spurted out over his hand and wrist.

  'You're the barber here, Mr Thomson, aren't you?' said Meg Braintree, joining the mêlée. 'You'd know if there were any murderers working at the shop. What about that little hunchbacked fellow? He's a bit suspicious looking.'

  Barney glanced round at her quickly, sudden annoyance coming with the ugly feeling of the waves of the past.

  'Igor's fine,' he said. 'Leave him out of it.'

  'Hmph,' she muttered. 'He's short and he can't talk. There's obviously something going on.'

  Barney gave her a look which burrowed deep into her head. Another sharp glance at the woman who had started off this latest intrusion from the distant past, and then he walked quickly from the café, pushing the door open roughly and almost running down the steps and back down to the road.

  The vultures were circling.

  The woman who had started this new incursion into Barney's past, watched him go and then rubbed a pensive hand across her hairier-than-acceptable chin.

  'Thomson,' she said. 'That name rings a bell.'

  Meg Braintree and the husband looked at her expectantly, but eventually she shook her head and the thought that was so close to emerging was once more subsumed in the collective crap of any human mind.

  'Think I'll have a Bloodfest Bagel,' said her husband to fill the gap. Then he added, 'And some Ice Pick Tea,' as the opportunity presented itself.

  A Passing Glance At The Dead

  Barney walked quickly away from the café, heading back towards town. When he came to the first corner, something made him turn left off the road, through the gate and up the muddy path to the top of the hill, which looked down over the bay and across to Bute and Kilchattan Bay. The ghosts were out to get him, although he still didn't know if those ghosts were real.

  He climbed up the short stretch of steep path to the top of the hill and then looked back behind him. The same view that he always had when he stood at this place; the same view that he'd had forty-five years previously when he'd come up here with his mum and his brother for picnics during those endless summer holidays.

  He stood for a long time, thoughts suddenly turned back to his childhood. Bike riding, camping, playing in rock pools, ice cream, fish suppers, fresh rolls every morning. The old cinema showing three Carry On movies every week. Crazy golf, rowing boats in the bay, occasional summer donkeys, the boating pond at Kames, the first tentative three iron hit for ten yards at the golf course, Moira MacKay and a poin
tless teenage infatuation, instant friends and the summer mission, singing songs about Jesus on the beach, playing cricket on a tiny patch of grass.

  More ghosts, self-inflicted.

  He turned away from the view and started to walk through the field. Haunted, sheathed in melancholy. Lonely.

  It is a small island. Hard to move around and not come across someone every few minutes. The cow field met the road at the other side, and as he turned down to his right it was a very short walk past the caravan site and he was passing the graveyard. He glanced in, could see the two police officers hovering over a grave near the back of the cemetery. Black and yellow tape strapped across the entrance, closing the graveyard off to the public. He stopped for a second, wondered what was going on. Did he even want to know?

  As he moved on he noticed a guy in a long grey overcoat walking towards him, a cigarette held grudgingly in his fingers. He ducked under the tape and nodded at Barney. They stared at each other for a few seconds, the guy taking an unenthusiastic drag on his cigarette.

  'You know what I'm wondering?' he said eventually.

  Barney shrugged. 'Why it is that the government persists with PFI when clearly it costs the taxpayer billions of pounds?'

  DCI Frankenstein stared at him for a few seconds and then a huge smile broke out temporarily across his face.

  'That's funny. The police, we just get shafted by that crap, and consultants. Jesus. Fucking pain in the arse.'

  'You're police?' said Barney.

  'Can't you tell?'

  Barney smiled and nodded. It was written all over the guy.