The Face Of Death (Barney Thomson)

by Douglas Lindsay

  There were general nods between the men, although Igor, who was sweeping God knows what at the rear of the shop, viewed Barney with the greatest suspicion, wondering if he had come to ask for the return of the hair he'd had cut the day before. Well, thought Igor, you're not getting it.

  'Arf,' he muttered under his breath.

  'Oh, aye?' said Luke McGowan, looking at Barney in the mirror, having turned back to continue with McLeod's cut – a 15-Point Buckminsterfullerene, no less – 'what's all this?'

  Barney indicated his hair with his eyes.

  'Turned out ugly,' he said. 'That dye you used was a bit past it, eh?'

  McGowan stopped and turned to look at him properly. He grunted an acknowledgement that Barney did indeed look like an idiot, then he resumed McLeod's cut, his scissors clicking sweetly in the quiet of the shop.

  'So,' McGowan began, having been interrupted by Barney's arrival, 'the thing about the Impressionists was that none of them could actually paint. Auguste Renoir, Camille Pissarro, Claude Monet, Michel Platini, Kelly LeBrock, Joie De Vivre, Christophe Lambert, none of them. It was all faked.'

  'That right?' said McLeod. 'Who painted all those pictures then?'

  'That's the thing,' said McGowan, 'that none of these bum fluffs who pay millions for the paintings actually know.'

  He stopped talking while he stuck his tongue between his teeth as he attempted a particularly delicate operation around the left ear. McLeod was waiting with curiosity, his eyes stuck on McGowan's protruding tongue. Barney listened with raised eyebrow, Igor swept slowly, wishing he could contradict.

  'It was,' said McGowan, knowing he had his audience reeled in, 'a wee fella in Glasgow by the name of Archie Potts. That's why all the paintings look the same.'

  'That right?' said McLeod.

  'Oh, aye,' said McGowan. 'And he also wrote Ride of the Valkyries, Wuthering Heights and the script for Carry On Up The Khyber. Very talented bloke. Could make a cake with the best of them as well, so they said.'

  McLeod nodded, thinking that you learn something new every day. Barney said nothing. Neither did Igor.

  Meanwhile a woman was running along the street outside, approaching very quickly, her breath coming in great heaving pants – which, as a wee aside, also describes her underwear – frantically looking for the local law enforcement. Have you seen McLeod? she would ask of anyone she passed, and gradually she was taking the magical mystery tour in the direction of the barbershop.

  And so, as Luke McGowan was on the point of talking even more complete and utter drivel, the likes of which Barney would have been proud had he done it himself, the door to the shop was flung open, and Margaret Hutchinson, she of the heaving pants, stood breathlessly in the doorway, hardly able to speak, panic on her face, and the slightest sign of sick on her beige coat.

  'Margaret,' said McLeod, 'what's happened?'

  'Sergeant,' she said, gasping, 'it's the vicar.'

  McLeod stood immediately, tearing the cape from around his neck – a bit of a Batman in reverse sort of affair. His hair, sadly, was only half complete, but sometimes when you're in law enforcement you just have to accept that you're going to look like a clown. That was why Superman was prepared to do the thing with his y-fronts on top of his leggings.

  'What about him?' said McLeod.

  'He's dead!' wailed Mrs Hutchinson. 'Murdered!' she ejaculated, at an even higher pitch.

  'God!' said McLeod. 'Did you find the body?'

  'Aye!' said the wailing woman. 'Just now. I'm in shock. Shock!'

  McLeod put his arms around and hugged her tightly, bringing her head into his chest and touching her hair.

  'Don't worry, Margaret,' he said. 'Leave this to me.'

  She tried to say something, but only another great sob came from the back of her throat. The other three men in the shop stood and watched the little drama, thinking, oh for goodness sake! It wasn't as if any of them hadn't seen their fair share of dead bodies.

  'When did you discover the body?' asked McLeod.

  'Just now!' she wailed. 'Just now! I went round with Benjamin's shopping.'

  McLeod pulled her away from his chest so that he could look her in the eye.

  'I know you're in shock,' he said, 'but are you sure he was dead?'

  'I don't know,' she blubbered. 'There was blood!'

  'Did you establish time and cause of death? Was the murder weapon evident? Had there been a struggle? Do you think his killer left any DNA samples? What about fingerprints?'

  She looked at him much as you would.

  'Come on,' said Luke McGowan, grabbing his coat from the wall, 'the killer might still be there. Call it into Inverness and let's get round there. Come on, Igor!'

  'Arf!' responded Igor eagerly.

  'Right,' said McLeod. And in this moment of brief panic, when all that was required was a certain cool-headed rationale, an equanimity of spirit to mollify the situation, a serene tranquillity to ease the mind of the belaboured Mrs Hutchinson, mixed with a tranquil sang-froid, establishing control and putting the minds of the public at ease, Detective Sergeant McLeod was ably demonstrating why he was destined never to go any higher in law enforcement. He wasn't afraid of coming across the vicar's killer, not in the least; but he was absolutely crap in a crisis. 'Right,' he said again. 'You come with us,' he said to Barney, having no idea who he was, but thinking that collecting a group of able-bodied men might be the job.

  Barney thought of objecting, but strangely didn't. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, 'Right you are.'

  Luke McGowan charged from the shop, Igor following behind. Barney looked at Mrs Hutchinson, wondering what was to become of her, but McLeod had a plan.

  'Right, Margaret,' he said, 'you stay here and, eh, you know, cut anyone's hair if they come in.'

  She looked mildly panicked at the suggestion – more at being left alone than having to cut anyone's hair, because after all, she was one of over three thousand townsfolk who were more able hairdressers than McGowan – but before she could voice an objection, McLeod had pushed Barney out of the door in front of him, and was already charging off in the direction of his car to radio in the news of the vicar's death.

  The door closed behind him, and Margaret Hutchinson stood in the quiet of the shop, surrounded by dirty walls and a sepulchral stillness that she could call her own. She turned round, her breaths still coming jerkily, and looked at the photos of the stars and their hair, and the two tatty old barber chairs, and the cuttings from the head of Detective Sergeant McLeod.

  The door opened.

  Her heart leapt like a wounded bull into her mouth – she had actually had a wounded bull leap into her mouth on one occasion, and it'd been bloody painful. She swivelled on a sixpence and looked at the door. A young man stood there, looking confident and cool, but not in the least serial killer-ish. She put her hand to her heart – which was back where it belonged – and tried to calm down enough to speak.

  'Can I get a haircut?' said the man.

  'I suppose,' said Margaret Hutchinson. 'What would you like?'

  'Oh,' he said, 'I was looking for a Zhang Chunqiao '76.'

  Mrs Hutchinson breathed deeply and began to remove her coat. A glass of water and a few minutes chat before kicking off the cut, and she might be all right. The Zhang Chunqiao '76 was fairly straightforward.

  'No problem,' she said. And the young fellow removed his coat and took his place in the chair by the mirror.

  'So,' said Mrs Hutchinson, quickly taking on the necessary persona, 'you're a follower of Chinese politics? To be perfectly honest, I always thought that that Wang Hongwen was a bit of a bellend.'

  8

  A Big, Big Finish

  Crow and Cameron had not been long in Edinburgh. They found out what they needed to know, stopped for a quick sandwich, and sped back up the A9 at an average of somewhere approaching 140mph. Crow was booked twice for speeding, but other than that it was a smooth drive.

  So, with the police radio on in th
e car, listening with detached curiosity to the workings of the Northern Constabulary, they were already almost back in Strathpeffer when the call came through from McLeod, looking for assistance at the house of the dead minister.

  'Just in time,' said Crow, heading up the hill at Kinnahaird.

  'Not for the fella who's dead,' said Cameron.

  Crow did not reply, but kicked the car down into second and gunned the accelerator, on their way past a field of sheep.

  *

  McLeod ran into the vicar's house, followed by McGowan, Igor and a strangely disinterested Barney. Here we go, he was thinking, another murder scene.

  Into the sitting room, and immediately it was evident that the Reverend Wilson had been dead for some time. His body was slumped into the settee, his face was blue, and a great deal of blood had dried on his face and across his dressing gown. Just as the blood on the wall above the television, where the face of death had been crudely drawn, had dried dull and lacklustre. McLeod stopped and quickly assessed the room, the vague panic and indecisiveness in his head slowing down, now that he mistakenly thought he wasn't going to have to fight any serial killers.

  'Don't touch anything,' he said, looking round at the others and doing a calming thing with his hands. Already regretting getting them to come along. Guaranteed one of them would touch something and he'd get his backside booted all over the shop by the Chief Constable and a variety of ranks in between.

  Wasn't about to touch anything, thought Barney. And implicate myself in murder? thought McGowan. I heard this guy had a cool selection of 11th Century Californian lithographs, thought Igor. I might just have a quick look around before the SOCOs get here.

  There was a knock at the front door, there were a pair of contrasting footfalls, and then the sitting room door swung open. Presuming the reinforcements from Dingwall had arrived, McLeod turned round to be confronted by Earl Strachcaln and his wife, come to pay a visit to the Reverend Wilson on a matter of some embarrassment to the Earl.

  Strathcaln stared at the curious scene, the four men and the vicar's corpse, his wife standing beside him dressed in tight-fitting blue, an unwilling visitor.

  'Bugger me up the arse with a lollipop,' said Strathcaln. 'What's this?'

  'He's dead, Jim,' said McLeod. 'Murdered last night, by the looks of it.'

  'Bugger me sideways with a kettle,' Strathcaln added, still taken aback by the whole thing.

  There was a knock at the door. Not the police, thought McLeod. Who else are we going to have join the fray?

  'Come in!' he shouted, and immediately confident footsteps strode across the hall carpet.

  Theodore Wolf's ugly mug appeared at the door of the sitting room. He stopped for a second, then immediately charged into the midst of the crowd, looking from one bystander to another, before checking out the corpse. He stood over Wilson's body for a few seconds, then turned to McLeod.

  'This man's dead,' he said.

  'Good spot,' said McLeod.

  'Arf!' said Igor.

  'It's going to be really tough to shift those stains,' said Wolf. 'What you need is New Improved Domestic Stain-Be-Gone. Just spray it on, and the stain is gone!'

  They all stared at him. There's a time for marketing – although no one is really sure exactly when that is – and there's a time for marketing men to keep their mouths shut.

  'Bad timing?' said Wolf.

  'Why are you here?' countered McLeod.

  'Thought I might sell the preacher some advice on how to improve the size of his throng, if you know what I'm saying.'

  McLeod breathed deeply then turned to Strathcaln.

  'And may I ask what you are doing here, Earl Strathcaln?'

  'Had an appointment with his eminence here on a rather delicate matter.'

  'Well,' said McLeod, 'he's dead, so you might just like to take your leave.'

  'What were you doing letting us in, you bloody fool?' said Strathcaln. 'My wife could have been traumatised.'

  Soo Yin was checking out the stiff with a detached interest. More traumatised, if the truth be known, by the sight of her husband in the buff. Which was fair enough.

  'Back-up hasn't arrived yet,' said McLeod. 'They'll be here in a minute, so if you'd all just like to go, I can make sure the crime scene doesn't get contaminated.'

  Once again there were footsteps outside, as more visitors came to call (just to recap, in case anyone is getting confused, currently present were Barney Thomson, renegade barbershop legend, Luke McGowan, regular barbershop practitioner, Igor, barber's assistant, Theodore Wolf, annoying marketing chap, Earl Strathcaln, landed gentry, Soo Yin Strathcaln, catalogue girl, Detective Sergeant McLeod, the officer in charge, gradually losing control of the situation, and the very late Reverend Wilson, who was due to become a little pungent if not seen to with greater haste than was currently being employed).

  The sitting room door was once again pushed open, and in walked Legal Attachés Crow and Cameron. They stopped and surveyed the unusually heavily populated scene.

  'Crow,' said Crow.

  'Cameron,' said Lara Cameron. 'My family left Scotland in 1643.'

  'Arf!' said Igor.

  'Aye, aye,' said McLeod, expecting a rebuke. 'There's a weird set of circumstances here. These people were just leaving.'

  'That's all right,' said Crow. 'The murderer is in this room, so we can sort it out while we're all here.'

  'Cool!' said Theodore Wolf. 'Just like Poirot or Scooby Doo or some shit like that.'

  Barney raised an eyebrow, his heart beating a little faster. Nothing to say that these comedians wouldn't have discovered his identity and were drawing their own conclusions.

  'In this room?' said McLeod. 'Holy shit.'

  McGowan stared at the floor; Igor's hunch arched a little further; Strathcaln looked around the room suspiciously; Soo Yin bit her bottom lip; Wolf wondered if he might be able to advise the soon-to-be defendant on how to act in court.

  'I'm making a bit of an assumption that the fella who killed the preacher here is the same one took out the students,' said Crow, and then noticing the drawing on the wall he added, 'but that seems to point to it, and it's hard to imagine a backwoods kinda place like this having more than one killer hanging around. We'll do the DNA shit and check it out.'

  'So what's the story then?' said Strathcaln, not one for beating about the bush, not unless there was a live animal hiding inside it. 'Come on, man.'

  Crow walked to the window, where he could better observe the group. Yep, he thought, this is a bit like Poirot, or one of those detective guys. And what the Hell, nothing wrong with a bit of showboating in front of the provincials. Cameron was uncritically letting him away with it, as she kept herself between the door and the suspect.

  'Last Friday was a misty day round these parts, right?' said Crow, not looking for an answer. Had already checked his facts. 'Couldn't see further 'n' about three feet. So, when the four students fellas went to get their hair cutting, not many folk saw them about town. Too damn thick with fog. So they all went to McGowan's here.'

  'I never gave those cuts!' protested McGowan.

  'Sure you didn't,' said Crow. 'You're shit, but you're not that shit. Thing is, you were somewhere else on Friday morning, at a time when you'd normally be working in the shop. Got a call that morning, didn't you?'

  'No, I didn't,' he said robustly. Wolf was impressed with his outright denial of the facts when directly accused.

  'Damn right you did, friend,' said Crow. 'You got a call from the Earl's wife here, following which you went round to see her.'

  McGowan looked outraged. The Earl turned to his wife.

  'Soo?'

  She was a bit bug-eyed, but she had the strength of mind not to deny it.

  'Good God!' barked Strathcaln. 'Have you been having an affair?'

  She didn't answer. McGowan looked a little sheepish, as the truth was being revealed in front of a few more people than he would ideally have chosen.

  'No affair, Your
Bigness,' said Crow. 'He's been paying the chick for sex.'

  'God!' shouted Strathcaln in an enormous ejaculation.

  'And I'm telling you buddy, he's not the only one,' Crow added.

  Strathcaln looked at her, his face bulging red.

  McGowan started to explode in vehement denial, but, well, you know, when faced with the truth, sometimes it's difficult to be too intense in your own defence. 'Bastard,' was all that ended up coming out.

  'So you left the haircutting duties to Igor here,' said Crow, 'and it was this little fella who gave the four students their terrible cuts.'

  'Arf,' said Igor. He wanted to proclaim his defence. He'd had no formal training; McGowan occasionally threw him in at the deep end with very little warning; the students had asked for bad hair.

  Barney shook his head. Shocking behaviour to put the hair of innocent customers at risk like that. This was all passing him by, however, and he wished he'd just turned and taken the opportunity to walk away. Whoever was going to be pinned down as the murderer, it wasn't him. He might as well already be on his way to Inverness.

  'So Igor killed the students?' said McLeod.

  'Arf!'

  'Nah,' said Crow, 'too simple. His part just explains the haircuts. To find the killer you have to go back to the night before, when they spent the evening in the bar of the Highland Inn. They talked to a variety of people. Ad man here, with all his bullshit, the barbers, that bar guy who keeps telling everybody he drinks his own urine. Hell, a lot of others as well. And on top of all that, one of the students spoke to her ladyship here, or whatever she's called. The Thai catalogue chick. Are we cool?'

  He looked at Soo Yin, who coolly glanced at him and then lowered her eyes.

  'So what?' boomed Strathcaln, getting a bit lost by the whole thing. 'They talked to everyone. Social little bastards, that's what I called them.'

  'Thing was,' said Crow, 'that they found something out about your little mail order princess here, didn't they?'

  Strachcaln was stopped in his boots. He knew what was coming, it being the very reason he had come to see the vicar in the first place. Barney looked on, thinking that here was confirmation of his suspicions. Funny sometimes, how things fall into place.