The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson (18 page)

He removed the towel, then the cape, and stepped back. The man rose, brushed his hands over the shoulders of his jumper, then searched his pockets for the cash. The money and tip safely thrust into Barney's hand, he put on his jacket and headed out into the Saturday afternoon rain, cheerful goodbyes all round.

Barney slumped down into his seat. Thinking. God, what was it? It had to be so simple.

And then, like a pebble falling from someone's hand and splashing easily into the water, it came to him. Simple indeed, so very, very, simple. Like taking candy off a wean, or sticking the ball into an open net, thought Barney the neo-football fan.

He shot up out of his chair, quickly clearing up the remains of the day, and soon he was on the verge of leaving the shop. Turned to James. He had to know how much time he had.

'You want me to go round and see if Chris is in, James?'

James hesitated. It had been a long morning for him. His hands were tired, he was scared. 'It's all right, son, leave it to me. I'll give his parents a call when I get in, see if they know anything. We'll give the polis a call later, maybe. See what his folks think. Jings, but I've got a bad feeling about this.'

'I'm sure he's all right,' said Barney. James had no answer.

Barney nodded, said his farewells, and walked out into the cold of early afternoon. He wasn't going to have too long, so he had to get on with it.

Quick pace, steady hand, glint in his eye. Gary Cooper
.

18

The Obvious Freezer

The phone rang; Holdall snapped out of a deep sleep. His eyes opened and he was looking at horse racing on the television. Couldn't immediately tell how long he'd been out of it. There had been a horse race on when he'd drifted off in the first place, but there'd probably been another ten in between. Bloody horse racing, he thought, the bane of Saturday afternoon sports programming.

Looked at the clock as he struggled out of his seat. Half past three. Stoatir. There would at least be football commentary on the radio – he wouldn't have to suffer this damned horse shit any more. He could fall asleep in front of the radio instead.

'All right, all right, I'm coming,' he grumbled to the insistent ring of the phone. This bloody well better not be work, he thought. Lifted the receiver, knowing as he did so that it was bound to be work.

'Hello?'

'Afternoon, sir.'

Buggerty-shit-farts. Bloody Scottish Cup on the radio as well. This had better be good.

'Stuart, hello.'

'Sir.'

'Now, what could be so important that it requires you to rouse me from an afternoon of quiet slumber in front of the TV?'

His voice was level but he was daring MacPherson to make it interesting. Too often, he always thought, some idiot thought that every time there was a crime committed, the obvious thing to do was to call a policeman who was off duty, as if, by definition, being on duty rendered you totally ineffective.

'I thought you might like to know, sir. We've had another report of a missing person.'

Bloody hell, he thought. Bloody hell. Another pointless teenager runs away from his parents because he thinks it'll be cool to hang out in London and sleep in a bin liner. For God's sake!

'Bloody hell, Stuart, it's the Scottish Cup this afternoon. What are you thinking? Tell me something I might be interested in.'

MacPherson was well used to his Chief Inspector's outbursts. Quite enjoyed them sometimes; had been known to incite him.

'Well, you might like to know that the Rangers are getting beat one-nil, sir, but the main thing…'

'What? By bloody St. Mirren?'

'But the main thing, sir, is the person who's disappeared.'

Holdall slumped further down into his seat. He didn't like the sound of this. Getting beaten by St. Mirren. What next? It was bad enough losing to Mickey Mouse sides in Europe every year, they didn't need to be losing to Mickey Mouse sides in the Cup as well.

'All right, Stuart. Who is it? The Rangers forward line, by any chance? They certainly appear to be missing.'

'No, sir, I think they're all present and correct.'

'Present at any rate.'

'Aye, well you know they're a load of pish, so I don't know why you should be surprised.'

'Stuart…'

'It's another of they barbers. The ones we talked to on Thursday. The younger one, Porter, hasn't been heard from since yesterday. His parents called up to report it half an hour ago, and the local boys passed it on. Thought we might be interested.'

Holdall was suddenly awake. 'We certainly bloody are, Sergeant. Hold the fort, and I'll be there shortly.'

And with a few more bloody hells muttered under his breath, he readied himself to go out.

*

Holdall and MacPherson sat in their car in the midst of a splendid traffic jam in the centre of town. They had visited old man Henderson and now were on their way to see Barney Thomson. The radio played quietly as they sat, while MacPherson continually annoyed Holdall by attempting to discuss the case. Not until he had heard that Rangers had moved into the lead, was he able to relax and give him any kind of attention.

'That's better. Two-one,' he said, pointing at the radio. 'Still can't believe they don't have commentary of the game, though. Who the hell is interested in Aber-bloody-deen. Even people in Aberdeen don't give a shit about them. Average crowd, two and a half.' Drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, looked with irritation up the line of traffic. 'So, what was that you were saying, Sergeant?'

MacPherson had been looking at some notes in his book. There was nothing which he couldn't remember, but he liked to be sure.

'Well, there's an obvious link here. On both days, at the end of the day, the two missing men were alone with this Barney Thomson. That two barbers should find themselves alone together at the end of the day appears to be a rare thing. And yet, after these two occasions, the men go missing.'

Holdall looked at the couple in the BMW in front of them. Angry words were being exchanged; was delighted he couldn't hear them. Everyone's got a story.

'You think Barney Thomson is a killer, Sergeant? Did he strike you as such?'

'He was nervous, certainly.'

'The way you talked to him, I was nervous.'

'I just questioned him like that because I sensed something. He wasn't sure about what he was saying. I think he might've been lying.'

Holdall nodded and shifted into first gear so that he could crawl forward another few yards. The rate they were going, if Barney Thomson was going to try and run from them, he could be in the Bahamas by the time they got to his house. The woman in the car in front lifted a fist at her husband; a child in the rear seat raised his ugly head.

'A bit stupid though, surely, if you want to kill your two work colleagues, to do them both inside three days.'

MacPherson shrugged. 'I don't know, sir. Maybe he kills the first one out of malice, and then this Chris Porter finds out, and he kills him to keep him quiet. Who knows?'

Holdall shook his head. 'No, no, I don't think so, somehow. Not this man. He just looked like a quiet, boring middle-aged fart to me. The sort of guy who picks spiders up and puts them out the door, instead of squashing them to bugger like the rest of us. No, I don't think Barney Thomson's a killer. And certainly not our killer, this bastard that's been taking the piss. No way.'

MacPherson rubbed his chin. Not convinced, but beginning to see another possibility. Even more far-fetched, perhaps, but you had to cover the bases in this job.

'What if we're completely on the wrong track, and someone is after all three barbers in the shop. It could be that rather than Thomson being our killer, he's the next victim.'

'You mean, a sort of mass revenge from someone who's had a stinker of a haircut, or something like that?' He laughed at the thought. 'That's a fucking bad haircut, by the way. I like the sound of that. Still, I think we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves, Stuart. We're not even sure that these men are dead yet, never mind that they've been murdered. Their disappearances could be entirely coincidental, and entirely innocent. Although, I have to admit, I don't think Henderson'll be coming back. Not now.'

Suddenly a gap opened up ahead, a clear lane of traffic appeared. It was lined with plastic cones, but whatever road works were due to take place over the next three years, they had not yet started. Seeing his opportunity, Holdall went for the space and the free lane; passing by the attempted murder of the man in the BMW; wife's hands at his throat, while child giggled.

Holdall was in a plain car, and he considered putting his light on top to let the people past whom he was driving, know that he was on police business. Then he thought, bugger it. If they didn't like it, they could clear off. And if it incited a whole bunch of others to do the same, well, it'd be someone else's problem.

'So, how do we treat Thomson when we talk to him, sir?' said MacPherson. Knew how he'd like to treat him.

'Oh, I don't know, Sergeant. I think maybe you should treat him much the same way that you did the last time. Let's see how he handles it. You never know. You might be right.'

'Very good, sir.'

MacPherson smiled, wondered if he'd be able to get away with using a truncheon.

*

Barney stood in the middle of the kitchen in Chris's flat, wondering what he was going to do next. It was a good plan. Deposit all the bodies around Chris's place, except the body of Chris himself. Make it look as if he was the killer and had fled the city. Simple, genius; jejune even. All great plans have their logistical problems, however.

Plastic bags containing the bodies of seven people lay in his car out on the street. Individually wrapped, a mass of limbs, organs and general viscera sat waiting to be disposed of. Fortunately it was cold and damp, the winter chill still lingering in the air. They were not about to begin to defrost. Still, he had to get rid of them quickly, and as he surveyed Chris's freezer, he realised he was in trouble. It currently contained two packets of boil-in-the-bag chicken supreme, half a bag of chips, an insubstantial carton of ice cream and three fish fingers. And it was full. Whatever else he could do with the frozen meat, he wasn't going to be able to put it into this freezer. Part 1 of his plan was down the toilet.

What had he been expecting? Rubbed his forehead; tried to get his brain to function properly. Of course Chris didn't have as big a freezer as his mother. Who the hell had, for goodness sake? Nobody had freezers that big. Nobody. Not even frozen food shops.

Frozen food shops! He could casually walk around them, depositing bits of meat into their freezers as he went.

Don't be an idiot Barney. That would hardly incriminate Chris. And anyway, it'd take forever. No, he was going to have to do something here. He couldn't just leave them all in the bags, because it'd be obvious they'd been sitting in a freezer somewhere else. It must be two months since that first one died; murdered by Barney's own mother. If he hadn't been in a freezer all that time, he would be fairly pungent by now. Were corpses still
he
, or were they
it
? Wondered.

He could cook them. That was a thought. Maybe if they were cooked they wouldn't smell so bad.

He pulled a chair out from under the kitchen table, slumped down into it. That wasn't going to work either. Even if they had been cooked, these people were still going to be off after this long. And there was no way that he had the time to cook God knows how many pieces of meat. The police would be called shortly, if they hadn't been already, and then they would very probably come around here.

And then there was still going to be Chris's body to take care of. That was bad enough, never mind all this extra baggage that had been dumped on him by his mother.

He buried his head in his hands, trying to think of a way out of the hole. Knew he just didn't have the imagination for it. Barney Thomson, barber, he was; not Barney Thomson, screenwriter.

*

Agnes Thomson opened the door, a look of annoyance on her face. Coralie and Cordelia were about to be sucked into a lesbian lovefest by Cassandra, who was only doing it to wreak revenge upon Cosmo and Clovis. It was the steamiest thing to happen on
Aardvark Road
for years, and she had known for months that it was coming. The videotape was running, but she was annoyed all the same.

The expression on her face changed when she saw the two men, heavily coated and serious. There was one in his forties, the other maybe ten years younger, and whatever they were doing, they didn't look happy about it.

'Mrs. Thomson?'

She nodded slowly, not sure what the actions of her tongue might be if she attempted to speak.

The younger man held out his identification card. 'Detective Sergeant MacPherson, ma'm, this is Detective Chief Inspector Holdall. Is your husband at home?'

The look on her face changed again. Folded her arms across her chest. 'No, he's not. What's he been up to now?'

'As far as we're aware, he's not been up to anything. We'd just like a word with him. May we come in?'

Her expression told the story – why should they? – but she held the door open, beckoning them inside. There would be no cups of tea offered, however.

They followed her into the sitting room and sat down. She only partially turned down the sound on the television, but then, noticing that they appeared to be interested in what was going on – it seemed that Candice and Clarabel were being drawn into the whole sordid business by Coralie, who had never really loved Clint – switched it off altogether. She could watch it later in peace.

'Could you tell us where your husband might be, Mrs Thomson?' asked MacPherson, suppressing his disappointment, hoping Mrs MacPherson was taping the same program.

'Aye, I could tell you where he is. What's all this about, anyway?'

'Oh, it's nothing to worry about, Mrs Thomson. Just a routine enquiry. It appears that a Mr Chris Porter, who works with your husband, has gone missing.'