The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson (19 page)

'No, no, you dunderheid.' Already on the point of reaching for the TV control, if this was all it amounted to. 'It's not Chris that's missing. It's Wullie, the other yin. And Barney spoke to a couple of you muppets two days ago. Says they were a right couple of old farts, whoever they were. So, get away with yourselves and don't bother me on a Saturday afternoon.'

MacPherson shook his head, deciding not to indulge in police brutality. 'No, Mrs Thomson, you don't understand…'

'Don't tell me I don't understand, you great lummox.'

'Mr Porter has now gone missing as well. They're both missing.'

Her high dudgeon vanished, she stared at them a little more warily. What were they after then? Better watch what she was saying.

'We'd just like to speak to your husband about when he last saw Mr Porter, that's all.'

'Why? D'you think he's got something to do with it?'

'Nothing like that. We'd just like to talk to him. You said you could tell us where he is?'

She thought about it. Barney had called earlier saying that he wouldn't be home because he was going to watch a game of football. It hadn't struck her as odd, because she hadn't bothered thinking about it. But now? Barney hated football, so what on earth was he doing? Unless, of course, he was lying. In which case, what on earth was he trying to cover up? Oh God, she thought, what's the stupid muppet been up to?

'Aye, he's away to the football.'

'Oh, aye?' said Holdall, speaking up for the first time. 'What team does he support?'

She thought about this for a second, trying to remember if she knew the names of any football teams, but none in particular came to mind. Shook her head, mumbled something incoherent. Holdall shrugged, stared at the floor, his interest once again extinguished.

'So you can't tell us when he'll be returning to the house?' said MacPherson.

She bit her fingernails. 'No, he didn't say. But I'll be making his dinner, so he better come home or I'll skelp his arse for him, so I will.' A thought came to her; an infrequent occurrence in itself. 'You don't think that if something's happened to the other two, that it might happen to him 'n all, do you?' Was he insured?

MacPherson stood up to go. Holdall, who was no longer paying any attention, absent-mindedly followed him.

'I think it's a bit too early for that kind of assumption, Mrs Thomson. We'd just like to speak to him at the moment. So, if you could get him to give us a call as soon as he gets back, thanks very much. I'll give you a note of the number.'

'Aye, fine. Whatever.'

MacPherson handed over a piece of paper, then he and Holdall made their way to the door. Before it was even closed behind them, they could hear Cruella and Candida arguing about Crevice's relationship with Collage.

They walked down the stairs to the car, Holdall with ill-concealed lethargy. He was fed up trailing round all these sad people. Perhaps there was some sordid story to be revealed in this awful barber's shop; maybe there were foul deeds going on between these men; but it wasn't what they were supposed to be investigating. They had a serial killer to find, and that was all he was interested in. Finding this bloody murderer, sticking him in Robertson's face, and then telling the stupid police what they could do with their stupid job.

'What now, sir?' said MacPherson as they reached the car. Looked around at the bleak row of tenements, damp and dreich in the rain.

'I suppose, Sergeant, that we should go and see if we can take a look at the flat of this Porter fellow. All might be revealed. You never bloody know, do you?'

'You didn't have any plans with Mrs Holdall this afternoon, then sir?' he asked, as they slumped into the car to escape the cold and deepening gloom.

'Knowing my interest in football, Sergeant, Mrs Holdall moves house every Saturday and takes up residence in Marks and Spencers for six hours. I expect I'll see her around seven o'clock this evening, heavily laden with goods, but light of cheque book.'

'Ah. Just like Mrs MacPherson.'

19

The Set-Up Comedian

Barney stared at his handiwork, considering all that he'd done in the previous couple of hours. The freezer compartment in the fridge was tightly packed with one small body part, suitably labelled, from each of the deceased. It wasn't much, but it was all he could squeeze in, and it linked Chris with every one of the murder victims.

To add some grotesque effect, he had left some of Wullie stewing in a pot, to make it look as if Chris had been in the habit of cooking his victims and had fled the city even as the last one boiled. After partially cooking the body parts, he had replaced the water with cold to ensure that no one would come across still hot water in the kitchen. It had been mildly disgusting when he'd removed the hand and the melange of viscera from their plastic bags, but a couple of hours of transferring body parts from the freezer to his car had toughened his stomach beyond reason.

Still he was left with seven bodies to dispose of, and quickly too, before they began to stink his car out; before Agnes noticed that the rear seat was piled high with black plastic bags. He would have to sneak out that night on this gruesome errand, but first he had work to finish in Chris's flat, making it look like he had made a hasty exit. Clothes left lying around, a bag half-packed but left behind, another bag and some clothes gone. Someone might know that they were missing. Thought of leaving a meal half eaten on the table, but that would have been unnecessarily dramatic. And time consuming. Perhaps he had another couple of hours to spare; perhaps he didn't.

On his way to the flat, he had gone into Central Station and purchased a one way ticket to London using Chris's credit card. He was unsure of how quickly the police could check up on that kind of thing, but it would be an effective red herring if they did. Rather pleased with himself for having thought of it.

He walked around the house, doing what he thought was necessary to make it appear that Chris was in flight. Found a set of three travel bags of different sizes, perfect for his requirements. Removed the middle one, hoping that it would be noticed, while he half packed the bigger one with a random selection of clothes. The bed had been made, so he ruffled the sheets, lay down in it for a while to give it the correct appearance.

After twenty minutes of stalking around the flat, deciding what else he could do to precipitate the belief that Chris was a killer in flight, he was done. Gathered up the bag with whatever articles from the flat he decided should be removed and prepared to leave.

A good afternoon's work was complete.

*

Holdall parked his car outside the tenement block where Chris had his flat. In front was a car with black plastic bags piled high in the back seat. Stared at it for a second or two, mildly curious, then let the thought pass.

They got out of the car and stood on the pavement in the lightly falling drizzle, looking up at the third floor. It was a typical West End block; huge rooms, large bay windows looking out onto the street, not far from the university. The lights were out in the flat, as Barney had toiled on in the ever deepening gloom, frightened to illuminate the windows.

'Nice block,' said Holdall. 'How the hell can a sodding barber afford to live here? Tell me that, Sergeant.'

'Lucrative business, barbery, I suppose. There's always some bampot wanting their hair cut. Big tippers in this area too, I expect.'

'While we toil away doing the Queen's bidding, working with the scum and filth of the world, and we get paid a bloody pittance. Bastards.'

'The Queen's bidding?'

'You know what I mean, Sergeant. I was being poetic. You've got those keys?'

'Aye, sir. Should do the trick.'

The door into the close was locked. MacPherson produced a huge bundle of keys from his pocket, started working his way through them. No point in letting any caretaker know the police were here, if they didn't have to. There would be time enough for all those obstructive bastards to get in their way. He was really hoping that they wouldn't be able to get into the flat itself, because that'd give them an excuse to kick the door down. Hadn't had to kick down a door for a couple of years now. One of the staples of a policeman's diet.

At the fourth attempt the door clicked open and the two men trudged into the dreary close, the door slamming shut behind them.

Upstairs, Barney heard the faint rumour of the door closing and jumped. Thought about it for a second, realised he had no reason to worry. There were plenty more people in these flats to be using the door, there was no reason why anyone should be coming here. Very likely the police hadn't even been called yet. And it wasn't as if Chris was going to be coming back.

He quickly looked around the dark of the room, the lights from outside sending strange shadows scuttling into the corners. A shiver drifted lazily up and down his back at the thought. Had seen enough horror films in his time to not even need to use his imagination.

Dismissed the thought, pulled himself together. It wasn't going to be Chris coming up the stairs, or anyone else coming here for that matter. Still, he'd better get a move on.

Everything was done that he could think to do, the bag waited ready at the door. He just had to hope that he'd done enough to incriminate Chris, without making it look like the set-up job that it was. All that remained was to dispose of seven bodies. Piece of cake. Wondered if they ever had to do that on any of his mother's game shows.
Lose That Corpse!

Presumed he'd have to face the police another few times. If his nerve held, and the police were as stupid as everyone thought they were, he might get away with it. Piece of cake.

The doorbell rang.

Barney lost momentary control of his bowel and bladder functions, only managed to get them together after the initial damage had been done. Heart started thumping extravagantly – would it ever stop? – his head span into a frantic muddle.

God, there was someone at the door. Who the hell was it going to be? A friend of Chris's? Chris's ghost? His parents? The police? A host of seven dead bodies re-assembled to take their revenge?

Pull yourself together, for God's sake, Barney! Ghosts didn't ring the doorbell. The police? Would the police ring the doorbell? Probably not. Those bloody thugs would just barge the door down. It must be friends of his, someone like that.

A key! They might have a key! You can't just stand here like a lettuce, Barney. Hide!

He quickly dashed through the flat, trying not to make any noise with his footfalls, anxiously looking in every door to see if there was any cupboard space. Found it behind a door in the hall, next to the bedroom. There were shelves inside, with sheets and blankets, but there was enough space at the bottom to crouch down and pull the door shut.

He held his breath and waited, trying to think if he had left anything of his own lying around.

His heart jumped again as the doorbell rang once more, and then keys were pushed into the lock. Whoever it was seemed to be having some trouble because they couldn't open the door immediately. Funny if it was someone trying to break in, he thought. Even funnier if they then tripped over the bag he'd left just behind the door. Too bad he couldn't see it.

Shit! The bag. The bloody bag. He'd left it lying in the hall. He had to get it.

Closed his eyes and tried to think. Dare he go out? Every few seconds a key was inserted in the lock and then withdrawn. Whoever it was, they didn't have the actual door key; must be trying a bunch of skeleton keys. What did that mean? Think man!

The police! The police maybe. If that was who it was, then he had to get the bag. He had to risk it.

He waited until the latest key had been tried and failed, gently opening the door and poking his head round. The bag sat in the middle of the darkened hallway, about three or four yards away. One more attempt with the key, he thought, and hope they didn't get in.

The key fumbled in the lock and then was withdrawn. In the silence he heard someone curse at the door. Couldn't wait any longer. He got up out of the cupboard and dashed the few yards to the bag. As his hand fell on the handle, another key was inserted in the lock. There was a deafening, damning click, and if his pants hadn't quite been laid waste from the previous occasion, they were now. The door was pushed open, and he heard a 'thank God for that'. He dived back to the cupboard, the brief second that it took for the key to be removed from the door giving him just enough time to get back into hiding.

Gently he closed the door of the cupboard, just as the first man poked his face around the door.

MacPherson flicked the light switch and they looked around. It was a large entrance hall, several doors leading off. The walls were hung with various framed movie posters –
Brazil
,
Pulp Fiction
,
Casablanca
– and Holdall grunted as he looked upon a flat which was clearly going to be a lot nicer than his own house.

He wandered off to the front of the flat, where he presumed would lie the sitting room and possibly the main bedroom. Walked through the door, hit the switch. He was indeed in the sitting room. Cursed under his breath at the decoration and furniture. The three piece suite looked just like the kind of one which he would never be able to afford. Wishing to make himself feel worse about it, he slumped down into one of the seats to see how comfortable they were.

Unbelievably bloody comfortable, he reflected as he looked around him. There was a huge television, two video recorders, (if the bastard ever turned up, he thought, we can probably get him for pirating), a music system the size of a small African republic, and a computer which had clearly been rescued from a space ship. Cursed, rolled his eyes.

'This bastard has got to be up to something more than cutting other bastards' hair.'

Stood up, walked out of the room and through to the one next door. The bedroom was equally huge, similarly extravagantly furnished, dominated by an enormous bed, the sheets ruffled and unmade. Above the bed, clinging to the ceiling, was a mirror covering the entire size of the bed. Holdall let out a low whistle; despite himself felt some admiration for Chris Porter. The guy had no class, but at least he had no class with style.