The Barbershop Seven

by Douglas Lindsay

  And so Frankenstein was baffled. And he no more liked being baffled than he liked being bewitched.

  He was walking past the football pitch. Glanced round at the Stewart Hotel, could see a couple of journalists sitting in the bar. Unconsciously pulled up the collar of his coat and hoped they wouldn't notice him. They'd be along for the ride in a shot, reality TV on their doorstep.

  Walked on, turned left off the main road and down the short track to the boat yard. Creaked open the gate and walked inside, past the main building and into the centre of the yard, in amongst the few yachts and small vessels which still came here for the winter.

  There was no one around, no one working on any of the boats, even though most of them were under some kind of repair, and all of them had been battered around by the severity of the recent storm. He turned full circle, counting. Seventeen boats in all, that was it. Not much of a yard. Nothing substantial, nothing even as large as the trawler the Bitter Wind. Presumably the individual boat owners hadn't had time yet to come down and check. Maybe they wouldn't until the spring now. Maybe that was why they paid to be in a boat yard, so that the yard master could take care of all that kind of thing. Frankenstein stood there realising that he knew nothing about boats, or the yards, or the people who went out in the boats.

  There were a couple of thirty-five foot yachts, a few smaller yachts. A number of small motor boats of various types, wooden and plastic. Frankenstein had no feel for this kind of thing at all. Decided, immediately, that he would have to find someone from amongst the police investigation team with more than basic knowledge of this stuff, and then come back here with him.

  He shook his head at the thought of the Bitter Wind. He had almost forgotten about the Bitter Wind and the missing trawlermen. So much more recent death and bloody murder, that he had lost sight of working out how to find the two men who could possibly still be alive. Not that he thought for a second that they were.

  'Who the fuck are you?'

  The voice barked at him from behind.

  Frankenstein turned, confronted by a middle-aged man wiping his dirty hands in a rag, walking towards him, all Wellington boots and hole-filled woollen jumper.

  Oh my god, thought Frankenstein, a walking cliché. He whipped his badge from his pocket.

  'DCI Frankenstein,' he said. 'Just taking a look around. You're Mr Cudge Bladestone, I take it? You fit the bill.'

  'I've had enough of you people,' said Bladestone. 'Two lots of incompetent constables round asking the same questions, and then that bunch of meddling kids this morning. Wish you'd all just fuck off and let me get on with my job. What do you want? Frankenstein for fuck's sake. You made that up.'

  Frankenstein smiled. It was so much easier to deal with people who were this upfront. Artifice and sophistry were for other police officers to handle. Much better to deal with plain thuggery, rudeness or stupidity.

  'I can't account for the meddling kids...' he began.

  'MI6 they said they were,' said Bladestone, 'but they were just a bunch of spotty little shitheads if you ask me.'

  'Oh, they're MI6 all right, but I can't argue with you about their meddling. Any chance you'd tell me what kind of questions they were asking?'

  Bladestone barked out a laugh.

  'Cheeky cunt!' he erupted. 'No. Now piss off!'

  Frankenstein turned away abruptly and started walking around the boats, looking them up and down, trying to get a feel for them. A feel for the sea, a feel for the people who took to it. Although these boats weren't the boats of people who took to the sea every day, the sort of people whose skin he needed to get under.

  'There can't be many people left on the island currently involved in the fishing business. Or who were involved in it in the past,' he said, running his hand down the side of an old wooden yacht, paint crumbling beneath his fingers. Rapped his knuckles against the wood.

  No reply. He turned and looked at Bladestone, who was watching him from under dark eyebrows, gravely stitched together in the middle.

  Bladestone was well aware of the relationship between those who had been murdered, as well as their connection with the Bitter Wind. He now lived in fear, haunted by the darkness of night, every noise making him glance over his shoulder. He imagined honour amongst thieves however, thinking that the darkness came from outwith the small collective which had been meeting once a month in the room above the Incidental Mermaid on Cardiff Street.

  'You ever work on a trawler?' asked Frankenstein.

  Bladestone growled and turned away. Walked over to another boat, a plastic twenty-foot yacht, and started straightening out the tarpaulin which covered the deck. Frankenstein continued his inspection of the wooden hull, tapping every now and again, wondering at the sounds, the differing qualities of the wood.

  'It seems to me,' he went on, 'that anyone on this island who ever worked in the fishing business, might be a wee bit worried about this flurry of gruesome murders.'

  'I've got nothing to concern me,' said Bladestone resolutely. 'I've never done anything other than a hard day's work. I've never double-crossed anyone, never done anyone any harm.'

  'Very honourable.'

  Bladestone growled. Tugged harder at the tarpaulin, as he moved around the boat. Water splashed off the top.

  'So, if this killer comes calling, you'll offer him a cup of tea and establish that you mean him no harm?'

  'Aye, well, let's just say that I don't think any killer will be paying me a call.'

  'How can you be so sure?'

  Bladestone pulled at the last ripple of canvas, then turned to face Frankenstein.

  'Believe me,' he said, 'I don't doubt there's a killer out there, not for one minute. The evidence is mounting up. But it's just some guy in a mask, and there's nobody in a mask got any business with Cudge Bladestone.'

  'Aye, and why would he put a mask on?' said Frankenstein. 'No one's ever seen him. He turns up at someone's house, he takes the head off, he vanishes. Doesn't seem to matter if the person who he's killing gets to see his face.'

  'And how d'you know that no one's seen him? Have you asked?'

  Bladestone moved over to the next boat in line and began to check the bindings on the tarpaulin. Frankenstein watched him, thinking that he was fighting a battle that he was never going to win. Not with Cudge Bladestone. Not yet, at any rate.

  'Who repairs all the storm damage to the boats?' he asked.

  'Up to the owners,' Bladestone barked in reply. 'Course, if they want me to do it, and most of them do, they have to pay me.'

  'The storm was good for business then?' quipped Frankenstein. Bladestone turned quickly.

  'You accusing me of starting the storm now? You think I'm a fucking X-Man?'

  'Whatever,' said Frankenstein, and he waved his hand. The pleasure of his rude bluntness was wearing off. Frankenstein moved on to a plastic boat, tapped the hull, heard the difference in sound and quality.

  I'd have a wooden boat, he thought to himself. A thought quickly followed by self-loathing that he had even considered the notion, however slightly, of having a boat at all.

  'Anything in the yard, any shipping tool, that could be used to cut someone's head off, you know, with one clean swipe. Not a saw or anything. Any piece of equipment that could be used like a scythe?'

  Bladestone hesitated, rested his hands on the side of the boat. Turned slowly, eyes staring straight at Frankenstein.

  'Yes,' he said, 'as a matter of fact there is. Would you like me to demonstrate it for you?'

  'As a matter of fact,' said Frankenstein, 'no, I wouldn't. None of your crap. Just show me.'

  Bladestone walked forward, staring at the ground now, shaking his head, annoyed that he had made the gallus demonstration offer, when he was now going to have to look stupid.

  'Can't,' he said harshly. 'Come here.'

  He beckoned Frankenstein onwards and the policeman fell in behind. They came into a small, dark workshop. Every inch of space, on the worktops and the floor and the walls
, was filled with stuff. Pieces of boat, pieces of wood, tools, nails, screws, instruments, hammers, paint pots. Frankenstein had to watch where he put his feet.

  'I had an axe,' he said, 'kept it hanging there.' He pointed at the place on the wall, and sure enough there was a clean mark where the axe had hung, unused, for year after year. A huge axe. 'Nothing fancy, but big. You can see the mark. Didn't really need it, but I got it one year on offer in B&Q.'

  'What happened to it?' said Frankenstein, easily managing to keep the smile off his face.

  'Went missing about a week ago,' said Bladestone. 'Total bastard. Been a while since I was that pissed off.'

  'Did you report it?'

  'Who to? Gainsborough? Chocolate teapot material if ever there was.'

  'Did you tell anyone?'

  Bladestone looked dismissively at Frankenstein.

  'Are you about to ask me what I was doing between the hours of seven and nine on the twenty-fifth?' he said mockingly.

  'Christ, you're funny. Did you tell anyone about the axe being taken?'

  'No,' said Bladestone, 'I didn't.'

  'So, if it turns out that any of these people have been killed by your axe, or an axe like it, you expect me to believe you and to pin the blame on someone other than you?'

  'I expect nothing from you people, although it would be nice to be left alone.'

  'Was anything else stolen?'

  Bladestone breathed deeply, leaning back against the worktop. His backside bumped a can of oil, which toppled over. There was nothing in it to spill.

  'A couple of tarpaulins, some rope. A winch. The axe, that was about it. But then, does it look like I keep an inventory? They probably took some other stuff, who knows?'

  'And you didn't report this because, what?...'

  'Because,' said Bladestone, straightening up and making himself more forceful before Frankenstein, 'the police on this island are useless, that's why. I wouldn't waste my time, that's all. Nothing sinister, nothing suspicious. You can read something interesting into it if you want, but that's your shout and your time you'll be wasting. Suit yourself. Now, would you please, pretty please with sugar on it, just fuck off out of my boatyard and let me get on with some work. There's a lot of damage still to be repaired after that magical storm I whipped up out of thin air.'

  A hard stare across the workshop, then Bladestone walked back outside, storming past Frankenstein, finally deciding that he didn't care what the policeman did.

  Frankenstein followed him outside, stopped, took a last look around the yard. Another small building, a shady green door.

  'What's in there?' he said to Bladestone's back.

  Bladestone turned and followed Frankenstein's gaze.

  'None of your fucking business,' he said. 'You can have a look if you've got a warrant, but I presume you don't, so once more, if you'd finally like to pay attention to me, just fuck off.'

  He turned away again. Frankenstein looked at the door, one last look around the yard. He would be back, warrant or not.

  'One last thing,' he said, 'before you selflessly go and attend to other peoples' problems.'

  Bladestone stopped. Didn't turn this time. Frankenstein realised that what he was about to ask was incredibly childish, but he had to know. Even if the chances of Bladestone answering him were virtually nil.

  'Did you tell the MI6 guys about the axe theft?'

  Deputy Dawg

  Fred and the gang were down by the rocks at West Bay. Looking out over the sea to Little Cumbrae, Arran and Bute. Could see Kilchattan Bay. Mid-afternoon, they were eating a sandwich and chewing the fat. They had plundered the stocks of the Ritz Café, and were now tossing the pigskin of investigation around and seeing if they could catch anything in the endzone. Fred, Selma and Deirdre were eating a fairly plain cheese, ham, lettuce and tomato on brown bread. Bernard and the Dog With No Name were sharing a sixteen-decker, ham, bacon, fried banana, peanut butter, chocolate chip, papaya, guava, blue cheese and Mars Bar deep fried sandwich. With extra mayo.

  'Like, man,' said Bernard, through a mouthful of food, 'this is the spookiest case I've ever been on.'

  'It sure is,' said Fred. 'We came here to investigate a diamond smuggling ring running out of Ireland and instead we end up with this creepy Incredible Captain Death mystery.'

  'But I don't think there's any doubt they're connected,' said Selma. 'I'll bet three pigs to the dozen that sooner or later the killer will lead us to those missing diamonds.'

  'If only we could catch sight of him,' said Fred. 'It feels like we're always one step behind him, arriving just after he's chopped someone's head off.'

  'Like I don't think I'm bothered about that, eh, Dog With No Name?' said Bernard.

  The Dog With No Name barked in agreement.

  'Maybe it's time we pulled forces with the local law enforcement,' suggested Selma, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

  'I'm not so sure,' said Fred. 'If ever there was a suspicious character, then DCI Frankenstein fits the bill.'

  'He sure does have a weird name,' said Deirdre.

  'Exactly,' said Fred. 'I've kind of got a feeling that when we find these diamonds and this killer, and it comes time to pull the mask off some bad guy's head, I wouldn't be completely surprised if it wasn't DCI Frankenstein under the latex.'

  'What we need are clues,' said Selma.

  'Exactly,' said Fred. 'And I think I might just have a plan.'

  'Uh-oh,' said Bernard, cramming the last of the sandwich into his mouth, 'I don't like the sound of that.'

  The Dog With No Name barked. Fred stood up and looked out to sea, wondering if everyone who looked across the grey and mysterious waves found them as bewitching as he did.

  ***

  Barney and Proudfoot were round the corner of the mainland, further south, but still looking out across the sea to Arran. Sitting on a bench beside the beach, watching a couple of small children playing in the sand. The kids were both in shorts, their jackets long since tossed to the side, running around in very thin jumpers. Barney and Proudfoot were drinking coffee, jackets pulled tightly around them, both bitterly feeling the cold.

  'Why didn't you just run when all this started?' she asked. They had been sitting in silence, in the cold, for almost fifteen minutes. She had needed the air after three hours of listening to Barney's story. She had known some of it already of course, having played her part, but there was plenty that needed filling in.

  A life on the run. Would anyone have done anything different? Everywhere he had turned he had found death. This time, it seemed, death had come looking for him. He had even told her of the ghosts that had arrived in the previous few days. The actual Proudfoot, sitting there in front of him, seemed no less of a ghost than Brother Steven, or the old man who had walked into his shop five days earlier.

  'Kids are amazing, aren't they?' he said, as her question had an obvious answer. She knew it already. Where was it he could go to escape judgement? 'If you made them go for a walk in this weather they'd bleat at you like you were killing them. But give them some sand, it could be high summer. They don't care.'

  They watched the kids, glad to be free of the small interview room and the claustrophobic tale of endless murder, death and atrocity that had been Barney's life.

  'Pain in the arse, of course,' he said, smiling. Proudfoot laughed. Barney thought of asking the question about her intentions regarding children, but knew better. Never ask a woman about children. Let her volunteer the information.

  'You're wanting to ask me about children,' she said, reading his mind again.

  'You should be in the police force,' he said.

  'I'd be wasted there,' she said. 'Had two miscarriages. Keep trying. One day we'll get there.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  She made a small gesture with her hands.

  'Just something else,' she said. 'Course, it's a shit world to bring a kid into. Global warming.'

  'Population explosion.'

  'Terror, go
vernment terror, death, illegal diamonds, child soldiers, famine, genocide, bird flu, nuclear arsenals, disastrous weather, earthquakes...'

  She finally depressed herself so much she stopped.

  'Celebrity Big Brother,' said Barney.

  She laughed again. Footsteps behind them. They didn't turn, although it occurred independently to both of them that this could be a member of the press, having picked up on Barney's presence in Saltcoats.

  'You two look like you're enjoying yourselves far too much,' said Frankenstein.

  Proudfoot straightened up but did not stand.

  'Did you get me one of those, Sergeant?'

  Proudfoot shrugged.

  'Thought I'd be gone longer,' said Frankenstein.

  He sat down at one end of the bench, pushing Proudfoot closer to Barney. Barney budged up. The three of them sat and looked out over the cold sands and the cold sea, watching the children arguing over a small red spade. Having been playing nicely for the entire time that Barney had been sitting there, the kids were now acting like mortal enemies.

  'You can see how wars start,' said Barney, glibly.

  'Little bastards,' said Frankenstein. 'Can't stand them myself. Glad you're resisting the urge to pollute the planet with any more kids, Sergeant.'

  Proudfoot hid her face behind her coffee cup. Barney glanced over at her.

  'This thing,' said Frankenstein, 'it's moving on, don't you think? Maybe it's passed us by already. It's four days since the trawler was found, a day and a half since the most recent murder. Maybe it's over. A tempest. It blew up, wreaked havoc, and now it's gone.' He snapped his fingers. 'We needed to grab it as it passed. Maybe it's too late.' He stared morosely out to sea. Waves chopped and danced, played endlessly, stretching for miles away from him.