Murderers Anonymous (21 page)

'Right,' Ferguson said. 'Like when you're driving along the road and you pass a chippie, and you get a whiff of a fish supper. You're not hungry, but you think, what the fuck, and dive in and buy one.'

'Then again,' said Mulholland, joining in, 'sometimes you might not go in at all. You might ignore the urge, or you might not even feel it.'

'Exactly,' said Proudfoot. 'And this is our man. He goes out late, for whatever reason, and so he doesn't see too many people. Most of them that he does see, he thinks nothing of. But something hits him every now and again. Something snaps. Some weird, primeval thing. Some memory buried deep in the subconscious, and this vicious, bestial action kicks in.'

'And he buys a fish supper.'

'Right. He buys a fish supper,' she said, nodding.

The three of them watched the ambulance drive off, scattering the assorted officers of the law. The SOCOs were hard at work; every piece of potential evidence being carefully placed in small, airtight bags by rubber-gloved fingers. Every cigarette butt, every piece of broken glass, every leaf, every stone.

'What d'you want us to do, boss?' asked Ferguson.

Mulholland continued to watch the ambulance go, out of the conference centre carpark, onto the road, up onto the Expressway, until it was lost behind concrete walls and articulated lorries. There was bound to be someone upset by her death, he thought. There always was.

'How many people at this law firm?' he asked.

'About twenty, I think.'

'Better come with us. And grab ...' and Mulholland's voice tailed off as he realised that he couldn't remember the names of any of the constables still circulating the area. 'Grab someone to come with us. We can do the rounds. Might come up with something.'

'It was arbitrary. We'll get nothing,' said Proudfoot. 'Unless one of them was with her last night.'

Mulholland nodded but said nothing. Probably right.

Didn't think the chief superintendent would be too impressed, however, if he told him they hadn't bothered to investigate the girl's life, based on his sergeant's hunch that it would be a waste of time.

'Come on, Sergeant, let's go,' he said.

And off they meandered, to plunder the soul of the investigation.

'I've been meaning to ask you,' said Leyman Blizzard. 'How d'you get on last night, by the way? I presume you went to this meeting I told you about, seeing as you weren't at the boozer?'

Barney swept the floor as he thought of a reply. He'd never been particularly adept at formulating opinions – mostly because he'd never had any – and so his brain moved in time with his brush as he thought about the night, and thought about what he would say and what he wouldn't.

And after several minutes he finally came up with an answer.

'It was all right,' he said. 'You know,' he added as an afterthought.

'Right,' said Blizzard. 'How many folk were there?' he asked, thinking he might get a more definite reply to a more definite question.

Barney swept. Didn't feel like talking. Whatever good may have come out of the evening had instantly been taken away by the night. Another night, another nightmare. Different this time; more evil, more truth. More real.

'Ten or eleven,' he said eventually. 'I think there were a couple of folk missing, but that's the way it goes. I thought it'd be monthly or weekly, maybe, but they have these blinking things every two or three nights sometimes. Most of these folk are desperate, apparently. All seems a bit strange.'

Blizzard nodded. A collection of murderers sitting in the same room? Strange?

'Did you tell your story, then? Any of the bastards believe you?'

Barney stopped sweeping and looked at the old man. The thought of last night gave him a moderately good feeling in among the weight of dread. But how much should he say to old Blizzard, for he did not want to put a curse upon it?

'Told a bit of my story. If I'd told it all, I'd still be there. They were mostly sceptical, you know, and I suppose I can't blame them. There was one woman seemed all right, mind. I think she might have thought I was telling the truth.'

'Sounds like you want to shag her,' said Blizzard.

'What?'

'You've got a sudden light in your voice when you mentioned her. So what's the score? Good-looking? Big tits?'

Barney swept the floor. Feeling embarrassed and very uneasy talking about it, although he didn't know why. Because he was still married perhaps? But then, she
was
good looking, she did have magnificent tits, and he did want to shag her.

'I don't know, do I?' he said from behind the brush. 'I don't know anything about tits.'

The old man laughed. 'Away with you lad, you're full of it. There's no' a man jack of us who hasn't spent several years of his life manhandling God's greatest gift.'

Barney stared at him. He tried to remember the last time he'd even so much as seen Agnes's breasts, and it seemed so long ago that it might even have been lost in the mists of the late seventies. Like the
Starsky and Hutch
episode where Hutch nearly died; he couldn't remember much about it, but he'd know it if he saw it again.

Hutch. He'd wanted to be Hutch when he was younger. He'd already been in his twenties himself, with his life going nowhere, and he'd fancied the thought of being some action hero, thumping down backside first onto the top of beat-up old Fords, solving crimes and chatting up women with a reasonable degree of panache. And like so many others in life, he'd done nothing about it, except drift his way through barbery, wasting the best years of his life.

Then finally, a year ago, he'd been given his chance to start that new life and do whatever he'd wanted. And what had he ended up doing? Returning to the West of Scotland to live in a tiny flat overlooking the Clyde, and to work in a barber's shop ...

'Haw, son! You're daydreaming,' said Blizzard to the glazed eyes. 'Hello! Hello!'

Barney returned, but the feeling of melancholy remained; to walk hand in hand with the feeling of dread.

'Aye, sorry, just thinking about something.'

'So what's the score, then, son? Is she nice? That's easy enough to answer, is it no'?'

Katie Dillinger. There had definitely been a connection there, he'd been sure of it. It had been a long time, but he could still recognise it. He'd caught her staring at him, even when one of the others had been doing the talking. Could have been because he'd been new, but you never could tell. And she'd even touched his shoulder before he'd left. Brought a shiver. And of course, she'd invited him to come along to the pub that evening with them.

'She was lovely,' he said. 'Seemed quite interested in me, you know. I mean, it might just have been because it was my first night and she's the leader of the group. I'm not sure.' He shrugged and returned to the slow sweep. Something told him that it was too late for those kinds of thoughts.

'So,' said Blizzard, rustling the paper, 'are you going to shag her, or what?'

Barney looked up, head shaking. How on earth was he supposed to know? If a woman approached him, butt naked and proclaiming loudly, 'Take me, Barney, take me, and fill me with your manhood!', he'd still hesitate and wonder if there wasn't some other interpretation to be placed on her actions.

'Not sure,' he said. Then he leant on the brush and decided to open up to Blizzard. If nothing else, it'd take his mind off the hand at his shoulder, the knife hanging over his head. 'But I'd like to, you know. I have to admit it. And she's asked me down the pub the night.'

Blizzard perked up. 'Just the two of you? You'll be shagging by midnight, son, no doubt about it. Friday night out on the piss, stop for a kebab on the way home, then it's pants off and away you go. Magic, son. Good on you.'

'Afraid not, Leyman,' said Barney. 'Most of the crowd's going. You never know, though, eh? Might get in there, I might not.'

'Aye, aye,' said Blizzard, looking back at the paper – headline:
Thomson Ate Too Much GM Food as Child, New Claim
– 'aye, aye.'

Barney looked at him for a few more seconds. The shop door opened and the first customer for nearly forty minutes walked in. The torpor of a Friday afternoon. They both looked at him, as Angus Collins removed his Adidas Cold Exclusion Cloaking Device. Collins stopped and looked from one to the other.

'Any chance of a Two-Point Saturated Ukrainian?'

Barney shrugged. Blizzard looked blank.

'Over to you, son,' he said, and delved back into the paper.

And Barney, filled with a strange mixture of expectation and gloom, went about his business.

McMenemy stared from his office window at the three youths below. Hanging out on the street corner. Loitering with intent to something or other. Specifically outside the police station to see if anyone would come and do something about it. Which they wouldn't.

They guzzled Mad Dog, they hurled abuse and appropriate hand gestures at passing motorists, they verbally assaulted the occasional passing woman.

The police wouldn't touch them. Not when there was a serial killer to be caught; and people still driving at thirty-five in a thirty zone.

Mulholland waited. Staring dolefully at the desk in front, hands clasped, a couple of fingers tapping gently against the back of those hands. He hummed a tune. Was expecting to be told off for not yet having apprehended the killer, be it Barney Thomson or otherwise.

He'd had a long day doing the rounds of Cindy Wellman's work colleagues and friends. Knew a lot more about her as a person, but nothing at all about what had led to her murder. Out with friends, but had parted company while still in the centre of town, to make her own way home. There the trail ran cold, except for a sighting of her being followed by a man whom they would now like to interview.

He couldn't concentrate on any of it. His head was filled with that obscure sludge which had been there for nearly a year now. Everything much of a muchness – something like the state of the Scottish football squad. A quagmire of mediocrity, nothing rising to the surface.

Barney Thomson, fishing, the Thistle, Tom Forsyth's goal in the '73 Cup Final, Melanie, Proudfoot, Cindy Wellman's right leg, Michael Palin in
Brazil
, Scalextric, they shoot horses, don't they?

'How's it going?' asked M abruptly. Still with his back turned, still staring at the three youths; one of whom was unzipping his fly, preparing to put on a show for an approaching female of the species.

Mulholland shrugged, a gesture that was naturally lost on the boss. Didn't really care how it was going.

'There doesn't appear to be a connection between the three victims. Still digging, of course, might get somewhere, but I don't think so. Got a possible sighting of someone seen with Cindy Wellman just before she must have been killed. It's a bit vague, but the computer geeks are putting a picture together. We'll see what they come up with.'

M grunted. Youth Culture 2001 placed his willie into the public domain, while passing compliant female prepared to laugh at him.

'Look anything like Barney Thomson?' asked M.

'Couldn't look less like him if it was a picture of a dog,' said Mulholland.

M grunted again. 'Don't know about that. Seems to me there's always been something canine about Barney Thomson.'