The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson

by Douglas Lindsay

  What was it Barney had just said that had been peculiar?

  'The new lad's quite a nice chap,' said Barney, breaking his chain of thought.'

  'Oh, aye?' said Bill. 'Who is he exactly?'

  'Friend of James's. Just moved over from Uddingston.'

  'Oh, right. The south.'

  'Aye. Just started yesterday. A steady hand, I think.'

  'Smashing. That'll be just what you'll be needing.'

  'Aye.'

  'Aye, that's right enough.'

  'Fancy another game? It's time I kicked your arse.'

  'Rack 'em up.'

  And so they settled down into another dour and tense struggle on the dominoes table. It wasn't until they were into their second hand that it suddenly struck Bill that Barney had said that both Chris and Wullie had died. There was a mild flicker on his face but he managed to contain it within the lugubrious whole. Perhaps it had just been a slip of the tongue. Or perhaps, Barney knew something that he didn't.

  26

  The Haunting Of

  Barney Thomson

  Barney had had a good day in the shop. He liked Thursdays, always had for some reason. It was just some gut, barbetorial instinct, but he felt as if he always did good work on those days, and today had been no exception. Whether it was as a result of some fine work he'd done earlier in the week, or whether it was because the customers didn't like the look of the other two, he wasn't sure, but he'd never had so many people ask for him to cut their hair. And he had responded magnificently, customer after customer leaving the shop with dream hair. He'd not even been daunted when one man had requested a Byzantine Triple Weave, generally regarded as the toughest haircut in the world. He'd executed it with knightly splendour, his scissors swooping to cut like a majestic, unfettered eagle, his blow dryer exercising consummate control over the intricate thatched patterns; his comb could have been forged in the Elven forests of Middle Earth, so smoothly had it been wielded in his hands. When he'd finished, he'd almost expected the rest of the shop to rise in calamitous applause, but instead there'd just been the usual rustle of paper, the soft fall of hair to the ground. The man had stuck an extra fifty pence into his hand and left; the meagre gift the Gods receive. Perhaps he wouldn't be mentioned in the Birthday Honours list for that haircut but at least he'd had the satisfaction of a job well done. Indeed, magnificently done.

  And so the day had gone on. One dream haircut after another, all swiftly done and beautifully presented. Never before had a barber been so busy and Barney had risen to the challenge with a magnificence which clearly amazed his colleagues. And he was finding that the longer it was since the police had last been to see him, the more relaxed he was becoming about it. It had only been four days, yet it was enough to give him some breathing space, allow him to think they were off his trail.

  Furthermore, there had been a wonderful item on the news the previous night, when some buffoon of a policeman had said that there had been a possible sighting of Chris in London. Heaven! They had obviously completely fallen for it. If he'd known the police were this stupid, he would've turned to crime years ago. He was thinking he might let all this die down and then try something else. Not grotesque murder, of course, something more financially rewarding.

  He'd had a few worries with Bill the night before and he wasn't sure that he'd handled it all that well, but in the end he'd thought he'd got away with it. It was one thing for Bill to have his little suspicions, another altogether for him to go trundling along to the police. And anyway, would they listen, now that they were so consumed with the search for Chris? He wasn't out of the woods yet but he was standing at the edge of them looking at a beautiful green field with glorious snow-capped mountains in the distance.

  Mentally free of his troubles, he had relaxed into the routine of majestic haircutting, and on occasion exercising his new found confidence with trivia.

  His last customer of the day had asked for, surprisingly, an Argentina '78. It was the first one of those he'd had to do in over fifteen years, and normally it might have given him cause for trepidation. But not today, now that he was exercising all his new wiles and confidence to their fullest extent.

  'What? What kind of muppet are you? You're saying that Tyson would've beaten Rocky Marciano? You're joking? All right, so he dominated boxing before he went to prison, but you've got to look at the quality of the opposition. Marciano was fighting against some of the greats, and he never lost to any of them. Look who Tyson beat. A bunch of glaicket, useless wankers! My mother could sort out most of the mob. Frank Bruno, for fuck's sake.'

  Barney nodded at the chap as he went into the closing routine of the haircut – the sewing back up, as it were. He was a little out of his depth here, he had to admit. He'd just made the bold statement that Tyson would have floored Marciano, when up until the point that the customer had mentioned the name, Barney would've said that Marciano was a type of pasta. That's not to say that he wasn't just as likely to find someone who would have agreed with him about the Tyson-Marciano match-up, but when you're talking about boxing you usually have to count on an argument.

  'I suppose you'll be saying next that Tyson could've beaten Ali?'

  Barney thought about this for a second or two; had no idea who Argentina '78 was talking about, realised once again the folly of reading the sports pages for three days, then trying to discuss them. It was obvious from the way it had been phrased, however, what he was supposed to say.

  'Ali! God, no, I wouldn't go that far. It's just, Tyson can punch, you know, and when you can punch like him, you can give anybody a go.'

  'So what? Are you saying that Ali couldn't take a punch, is that it? Is that the crap you're coming out with, 'cause if it is, you're talking shite. You not remember the Rumble in the Jungle, Wee Man? Did Ali not take everything Foreman could give him, yon night? 'Cause he did. I suppose you'll be saying next that Foreman couldn't punch, 'cause that's about the level of everything else you've been coming out with. I'm telling you, Foreman could bloody punch but. And a damn sight harder than any of these namby-pamby muppets you get these days. Christ, the very fact that that old pudding was still taking them all on, even though he was in his sixties, surely to shite shows you what the talent's like in the modern era. So what does it mean if Tyson can beat most of them? It means dick all, especially when he couldn't even beat Holyfield, and remember that yon eejit wasn't even a proper heavyweight.'

  Barney nodded a few times, grateful that the man had turned the argument into an aggressive monologue, for in precluding Barney from the conversation, he had prevented him from saying anything else monumentally stupid. He badly wanted to change the subject but didn't know how to just step into the middle of the flow and start talking about the weather. Still, he was going to have to do it before Argentina '78 moved off into territory even more unbeknown to him.

  The telephone out the back of the shop rang and James, who was in the middle of a tricky Lennie Bennett '91, looked at the other two.

  'Arnie, could you get that please? Probably just some numpty trying to make an appointment.'

  Arnie had been doing a straightforward 'Groomed Oor Wullie' on an eight year-old and was happy to down tools.

  Whoever it was, Barney didn't care, but at least it had stopped the boxing fan's flow. Probably best not to talk about anything at all, Barney reflected, in case he wanted to get into some other impenetrable sport.

  'It's for you, Barney,' said Arnie coming out of the back. 'Didn't say who it was.'

  Barney creased his forehead, made his apologies to his customer. No one ever phoned him at work. He had no idea why, but suddenly he began to feel nervous; a shiver ran down his back, the hairs on his neck rose; body tingled.

  He closed the door, lifted the phone. He paused for a second. Knew he wasn't going to like this.

  'Hello?' His voice was quiet, almost unintelligible. There was no reply. 'Hello?' he said, a little louder.

  'Barney Thomson?'

  It was a man, a lit
tle younger than himself probably. Nothing much else to read into it. He remained hesitant.

  'Aye.'

  The voice came out at him, low and ominous. 'Perhaps you'd better check on that body you disposed of at the weekend.'

  Silence.

  Barney felt the shock of the words, a train thumping into his chest, crushing his bones.

  'What?' His voice was weak, a child crying. 'What did you say?'

  Silence. Barney's mouth ran dry, the sweat beaded on his face. Shouted hello down the phone another couple of times, but the line was empty. Then it clicked off, and he was holding nothing in his hands; alone in the small back room with his guilt and his fear.

  He sat down in the seat, ran his fingers through his hair.

  'Christ almighty. Someone knows about Chris. Someone knows. Jesus Christ, did they see me?'

  He stared wildly around the room, as if expecting the person to be in there with him. Looked morosely at the floor. The police, it must be the police. But then, what were they doing calling up, leaving cryptic messages? If they knew he'd done it, surely they'd just come for him and beat him to a pulp, like they always did. It must be someone else. Must be. Mind raced.

  And what had the Voice meant, you had better check on the body? Was it not there anymore? How exactly was he supposed to check on a body which was at the bottom of a deep loch? But then, maybe the loch wasn't so deep. He had just assumed it would be. It could be that he'd ineptly tied it all together and it had come apart. Imagined the body bursting up to the surface, floating ashore. God, it didn't make sense. Why would anyone call him up if that had already happened? Surely they'd just phone the police.

  The fear grew within him; perhaps there was some higher force at work. Whose voice had that been? Should he have recognised it? Maybe it was Chris or Wullie? Began the descent into the throes of panic. Didn't believe in ghosts, supernatural forces, but maybe that's what was going on. God, he'd handled eight corpses over the previous weekend, could he be surprised if some weird things started happening?

  So what was the Voice? Was it good or bad? It had given him a warning, but was it doing it to look out for him? If that was the case then he'd no idea who it might have been. Check on the body? God, he would have to go back out to the loch. What else could he do? He had to heed the warning, whoever it'd been.

  The door opened and James stuck his head in.

  'You all right, Barney? You've been in here ages.'

  Barney tried not to display his turmoil, coughed roughly to straighten his voice out before he spoke.

  'Aye, I'm fine. It was just Agnes about something, that's all. I'll be through in a minute. Just Agnes.'

  James looked at him a little curiously, returned to the shop. Barney started rubbing his forehead, trying to think. He had to go out to the loch, but then, what was the point in that? What did he expect to find?

  Thought of the Voice. 'I can't ignore it. I can't,' he muttered to himself. Wondered if there would be someone waiting for him when he got out there. Chris, Wullie, anybody. A Satanic Host of the Undead; avenging angels. But whoever was going to be there, he had to face it.

  He rose slowly, and walked back into the shop, half expecting everyone to turn and stare at him, pointing and shouting, Killer! There were a couple of half-hearted glances, but no one really paid any attention. Argentina '78 was reading the Evening Times, nodded at Barney as he returned.

  'Sorry about that. You get these calls.'

  'Aye, mate, don't worry about it.'

  Fortunately he didn't lower the paper and Barney was able to concentrate on putting the finishing touches to what he considered to be the worst hairstyle of all time, even though, in a moment of weakness, he'd had one himself at one time. Every time he finished one of these he felt horrifically embarrassed, was always amazed when the recipient expressed satisfaction. And despite his shaking hand, sweaty palm and his mind being on some alien planet, this turned out to be no different.

  *

  MacPherson pressed the off button and slipped the mobile phone into his pocket. Outside the car the light rain increased, became a torrential downpour. He stared ahead as Holdall drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

  'Did he fall for it?'

  MacPherson thought about it for a second or two, turned, looked Holdall in the eye.

  'Crapped his load, sir.'

  Holdall smiled grimly, clutched the steering wheel.

  'And what would you say? Did he sound like he didn't know what the hell you were talking about, or did he sound as if he'd had to get rid of a corpse last weekend?'

  'He sounded as if he'd disposed of about fifteen corpses last weekend.'

  Holdall pursed his lips, looked out into the torrential rain.

  'So, we've got the bastard then?'

  MacPherson nodded, looked at his boss.

  'Aye, I'd say we do,' he said.

  And so the two men settled back and waited for Barney Thomson to emerge from the shop.

  27

  Let Me Die Right Here

  In My Shoes

  Barney headed out on the motorway to Stirling, Holdall and MacPherson keeping a safe distance. Holdall drove with a grim smile on his face, a smile he hadn't been able to remove since MacPherson's phone call.

  They'd had a moment or two of doubt when Barney had returned home after work, but they'd waited him out and half an hour later he'd emerged. Had looked extremely nervous and had stared wildly up and down the street to see if anyone was watching him; something he'd done particularly badly as the two policemen were sitting twenty yards away and he hadn't noticed them.

  'What's the plan, sir?' asked MacPherson as they drove past Stirling, the castle majestic through the rain.

  Holdall had to drag himself away from the worst excesses of his imagination. In his mind, he already had Barney Thomson arrested and convicted, and he was receiving huge plaudits. Meanwhile, Robertson had been demoted to constable and was working nights in the worst area of Los Angeles. He had never been one to go in for brownie points and success on cases for personal gain, but in this instance, since it would get right up Robertson's arse, he was going to relish it.

  'The plan?' He stared ahead into the murk at Barney's car, thinking about it for the first time. 'I don't really think we can have a plan. Just have to wait and see what happens when we get there. If we're lucky, if we're very, very, lucky, he'll have buried the body somewhere and he'll be so stupid that he'll dig it up again for us, just to check it's still there. That is, of course, as I said, if we're very, very lucky. At which point, we move in and make the arrest. After that, I don't know about you, but I'm going to go and find Robertson and piss on his shoes.'

  MacPherson nodded. 'Stoatir. Think I'll join you. I might crap on them, though.' He was about to continue with his plans for Robertson's footwear when he saw Barney turning off. 'The Callander road,' he said.

  Holdall started to slow, not wanting to take the turn off too close behind. 'Callander, eh? I tell you, Sergeant, it's always the same with these quiet little Brigadoons out in the sticks. Shortcake and knitwear shops on the outside, bloodied and chopped corpses on the in.'

  'I don't think Callander's quite Brigadoon, sir. I've got a mate works out here. They've got the usual problems, you know. Drugs, the rest of it.'

  'Aye, well, Sergeant, that's the modern Brigadoon for you. The next time the damn place crops up, there'll be someone round selling them E, or whatever it is the weans are popping these days, McDonald's will be wanting to set up a franchise, and at least five of the villagers will subscribe to satellite TV.'

  'You never know. Ecstasy might help Cyd Charise with her Scottish accent.'

  'But I wouldn't count on it.'

  And so they wound on, through the twisty country roads towards Callander. Most of the time they lost Barney in the bends and if he had pulled off at some point, quickly dimming his lights, they might easily have missed him. They couldn't risk getting too close, although Barney hadn't spotted anything. J
ust as Holdall and MacPherson had not spotted the car behind them.

  They got a good sight of him again as he came onto the straight road through Callander itself, but soon he was through the town and back onto the twists and turns of the road on the other side.

  'So it turns out that Callander isn't the graveyard of horror after all. Better watch, Sergeant, I can't believe he'll be going too much further than this. Keep a sharp lookout for his car pulled into the side of the road.'

  But as it was, when it happened they were on a straight section of the road, running alongside a loch; Barney was well within their sights. They watched him pull in, then they drove past him, around the next corner. Parked the car, dimmed the lights.

  'This is it, Sergeant. Time to get our killer. Don't disturb him until we see the whites of the eyes of the corpse.'

  'Aye.'

  They got out of the car, let the doors quietly click shut. The rain had stopped but the air was cold and heavy with moisture. They crept along the side of the road beside the bushes, came around the corner where they'd left Barney. He was parked in a large clearing set aside for tourists; wooden benches and litter bins.

  For the first time Holdall had doubts about what he was going to find. If Barney had buried the body, why on earth would he do it in such a public place? And then, as they crouched down in the bushes on the edge of the clearing, they saw him. He was standing at the edge of the loch, running his hands through his hair, constantly glancing over his shoulder. Even from fifty yards away they could see how nervous he was. Waiting for the Voice.

  He began pacing up and down the edge of the loch, looking out over the water. Suddenly it struck Holdall what he was doing.

  'Shitbags! Bloody shitbags!' he said under his breath.

  'What?' whispered MacPherson.

  'He hasn't buried the bloody body at all. He's dumped it in the bloody loch. Christ, we'll never get it now.'