The Long Midnight Of Barney Thomson (Barney Thomson #1) Read online

  'You not feel like eating, Barney?' she said.

  He blinked, stared blankly at his chips. Should he come clean? It was on his mind. He wanted to own up to the whole sordid mess. But then, how could he? Not now. Before, perhaps, when it'd been his mess. But now? How could he reveal to the world that his own mother had been the mad Glasgow serial killer? And who was going to believe him anyway? Would they not all just think it'd been him who'd been doing it?

  No, he had to finish what he'd started. He was going to have to get rid of those bodies somehow. They were safe enough where they were for the moment, but sometime he would need to get on with it. Corpse disposal; or what was left of the corpses. Death or glory, he told himself. But he knew there was no real way out. However this thing finished, his life was never going to be the same again. Unless he could make the acquaintance of denial.

  'I don't blame you,' she said, and they sat in silence for another few minutes. Every now and again she was tempted to look over her shoulder at the television, but at times like these, soap opera was almost incidental. Almost.

  'Oh aye,' she said, 'Bill phoned earlier. Sounded quite anxious to talk to you, but I told him about your mum, so he says he'll get you in the next day or two, you know. Passes on his condolences, and that, you know'

  Barney looked at his watch. 'It's only quarter past ten. I'll maybe give him a wee call the now.'

  'Aye, why don't you do that?' said Agnes, relieved that she would be able to watch the television again. Things looked as if they were picking up, and she submitted to her addiction.

  Barney raised himself from the table, slumped down into another seat beside the phone, dialled the number. It did not ring long.

  'Hello?' said Bill. There would've seemed to those who knew him, a slightly anxious quality to his voice. The effects of his knowledge of Barney's murderous intent of two nights before had been preying on his mind; uneasy rest.

  'Hello, Bill, it's me.'

  'Barney,' he said. Sounded relieved. 'I'm glad you called.'

  He paused, knew that delicacy was required; was as incapable of it as every other man in Scotland. You don't lightly accuse a man of murder at the best of times, and certainly not when he is racked with grief.

  'Did Agnes tell you about my mum?' said Barney.

  'Aye, aye, she did. I'm really sorry Barney, that must've been a great shock. She was always so lively for her age, you know. What happened?'

  'Well, you know, Bill, it was just her heart. She was an old woman.'

  'Aye, aye, you're right. Still, it's aye a shock.'

  'Aye, aye, you're right.'

  'I know it's a bit early, and all that, but have you any idea when the funeral'll be?'

  'I'm not sure. Probably not until Monday now, you know. Maybe even Tuesday. We'll find out tomorrow. Allan's going to take care of most of the arrangements. Elder brother and all that.'

  'Aye, aye.'

  There was a pause. Barney didn't know what else to say, Bill wondered how long he could leave it before bringing up the subject of the missing Wullie. And just exactly how was he going to put it?

  Barney interrupted the flow of his thoughts.

  'Did you phone for something else earlier, Bill?'

  Bill paused briefly, then tentatively stuck his finger into the honey pot. 'Aye, well, actually there was, Barney.'

  Another brief lapse in the conversation, while Barney waited to hear what it was. Bill tried to decide how best to delicately probe the accused. He'd read plenty of Henry Kissinger; tried to think of hints on diplomacy.

  'Em, Barney…?'

  'Aye, Bill, I'm still here.'

  '…I, eh, understand, that Wullie's missing. His father was on the phone to me earlier the night,' he said, finally taking his clothes off and diving into the honey pot, completely naked.

  Barney put his hand to his head. Of course that was why he'd phoned. He was bound to have heard about it by now. Shit, shit, shit. Be assertive, he told himself, it was the only way.

  'I didn't kill him, Bill, if that's what you're going to ask,' he said, not quite sounding as hard as he wanted to. It worked however. Bill sprang onto the defensive; like Italy in the '94 World Cup final.

  'No, no, I wasn't going to say that.' He stopped, reflected. They were old friends. He might as well tell the truth. 'Well, aye, I was going to say it. But what can I think, Barney, eh? A couple of days ago you were talking about killing him, and now he's missing.'

  Barney tried to play the part. 'I know what you must think, Bill, but wherever he's gone, it's nothing to do with me. I was just havering the other night. You know me, full of shite sometimes, so I am.'

  Bill tried not to feel guilty, but wasn't entirely convinced by Barney's protestations of innocence. Years of reading philosophy had made him wary of coincidence.

  'Have you any idea what's happened to him then?'

  Barney was starting to get annoyed, knew it was because his friend's questions weren't misdirected. But still, he hadn't murdered Wullie, as such. It hadn't been his fault.

  'I don't know, Bill, I told you that. Look, my mother's just died for God's sake. Give us a break, will you?'

  'Aye, aye, all right, Barney. I'm sorry. I'd better go.'

  'Aye, right. Look, I'm sorry I lost my temper, Bill. It's been a long night.'

  'Aye, Barney, don't worry about it. I'm sorry for suggesting what I did.'

  'Aye, right enough. I'll speak to you tomorrow.'

  'Aye, aye.'

  Bill hung up, wondering if he should call the police. Maybe you shouldn't do that to your friends, but then you shouldn't commit murder either. Wullie's father was his friend also, and he'd known young Wullie since he'd been a bairn. Made his decision. Prevaricate; sleep on it.

  Barney hung up, wondering if Bill would go to the police. Maybe it wasn't the sort of thing you should do to a friend, but then Bill was also friendly with Wullie's father. And besides, he had always thought Bill was a slimy, underhand sneak anyway; the sort of bloke who'd report his own grandmother for taping a song off the radio. He had never trusted him when they'd played dominoes. Kicking himself for telling Bill his thoughts in the first place. Saw conspiracy everywhere.

  He lay in bed that night wondering how he could shut Bill Taylor and Charlie Johnstone up, stop them from talking to the police. So consumed was he by these matters, that he hardly thought of his mother's freezer, and of his mother herself.

  An advert in the paper; young men enticed to her flat. The great Glasgow serial killer.

  15

  Last In Line

  Holdall sat at his desk considering the new list of missing persons which had arrived with the dawning of Friday morning. Another five, the usual specifications. There would be nothing for them here. And of the eight they'd ended up looking into the previous day, only two remained unaccounted for. The barber, and a young seventeen year-old lad from Milngarvie. Only the missing barber troubled him. He expected MacPherson would be eager to get back to the shop, have another go at Henderson's colleagues. They would chase up another couple of things about Henderson that day, then return to the shop over the weekend if required. The two remaining barbers weren't going anywhere.

  Friday, however, would also involve the usual round of concerned parents. Bloody marvellous, he thought, another day wallowing in the sewer of disenchantment. He needed coffee.

  The door opened and MacPherson walked into the room. Holdall looked up, the two men nodded.

  'Good news, Stuart?' said Holdall, not entirely sure what MacPherson could tell him that would qualify.

  'I have news, sir, though I don't know whether it's good.'

  Holdall sighed, rested his chin in the palm of his hand. 'Let's hear it then,' he said; resignation.

  'It's about Jamie Lawson, sir.'

  Holdall stared blankly at him, narrowly avoided asking who the hell Jamie Lawson was.

  'One of the two unaccounted fors from yesterday, sir,' said MacPherson, reading his mind. Holdall nodded, tried
to look like he'd known all along.

  'Dead in a ditch, is he?' he asked, no sympathy and almost a little hope in the voice.

  MacPherson coughed. 'As a matter of fact, aye, he is. Stepped in front of a train, sir. On the west coast line, near Dalry.'

  Holdall shrugged. He didn't care. If these bloody stupid teenagers wanted to do that to themselves it wasn't his problem.

  'Why on earth would anyone go to Dalry to kill themselves?'

  'I couldn't say, sir.'

  Holdall grunted, thought about the half hour they had wasted the previous day talking to the boy's mother.

  'Don't suppose he left a note confessing to a host of murders in and around the Glasgow area?'

  'Not as far as I'm aware, sir.'

  'No, I didn't really think that he would.'

  He looked at his empty coffee cup, thought of the awfulness of the day ahead. It lay before him like a rotting cow on the pavement.

  *

  Friday was a long day in the shop. Many customers came in, as was always the case at the end of the week, and the barbers were kept busy. Wullie's father, James Henderson, even returned to work for the first time in five years to help out for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Some old time regulars were glad to see him, but they were nevertheless wary of submitting to the whim of his scissors, most of them having been burned by an out of practice barber at some time in their lives.

  His first two haircuts were indeed dangerously close to being suitable cases for litigious action. However, he was a past master of the water disguise treatment, so his initial embarrassments were well covered up. After half an hour he was back in form, cutting hair with the light-fingered panache of old. Like a spy called out of retirement to take one last covert dip behind enemy lines, he took to his task with a smile on his lips and a glint in his eye. The old magic was still there.

  He was telling himself that his son had probably just gone on an incredible two day drinking binge; felt quite proud of him, having done it himself a few times in his younger days. Knew, however, that he would not be able to keep the worry at bay for much longer.

  Every now and again Barney cast an eye over the work going on next to him and was suitably unimpressed. He had always thought that James was a lousy barber and, as he studied the work which he was now doing, concluded that five years' abstinence had done him few favours.

  And this, his blighted mind kept telling him, was the man who wanted to sack him. However much guilt Barney felt about what he'd done to Wullie, he still felt hurt and betrayed that they'd been intending to let him go. And if Wullie had been the agent of the dismissal, if it had been Wullie's finger on the trigger, it would still have been James who bought the gun, the ammunition and the hours of practice in the shooting gallery.

  He found that he couldn't work and think about what had to be done at the same time; did his best to push to the back of his mind the horror of what lay in front of him. Having to dispose of five or six frozen bodies. You just didn't get training for that in life. Was thinking that he should've done Pathology 'O' level. Could not even begin to think of what was to be done with them, so he concentrated on work instead. If the whim took him, he attempted some inane conversation. Anything to push away the thought of the contents of the freezer.

  James left the shop at around four o'clock, saying that he would return in the morning if Wullie hadn't shown up. His parting words to Barney – come in early so that I can have a word – had had Barney almost cutting the ear off the customer beneath his trembling hand.

  It was late in the afternoon, with the day seemingly drifting to a quiet conclusion, when disaster struck. The rush of customers to the shop had ended, the skies outside were grim and dark with foreboding, the March rains had returned with a vengeance having given the city a few hours' respite. Barney and Chris were cutting the hair of one last customer each when the door opened and a figure dashed into the shop out of the rain.

  Flat cap pulled low over his eyes, the collar of his coat turned high. He shook himself off, removed his cap, looked at Chris.

  Charlie Johnstone.

  'I know it's late, Chris, but you wouldn't have time to squeeze in an old muppet like me, would you?'

  Chris glanced at the clock, but was not really concerned with the time. 'Aye, no bother there, mate, I'm nearly done here. That old carpet of yours shouldn't take too long.'

  Charlie laughed and removed his coat to sit down, nodding at Barney as he did so. Barney nodded back; wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. He returned to cutting hair, but he couldn't ignore the feeling of dread. Of all the people who could have come in.

  Barney's stomach churned, great armies of nerves and fear stampeded through his body. The hairs on the back of his head began to prickle and stand to attention. He had to do something.

  He glanced at Chris to see where he was with his haircut. If he could get his finished first then maybe he would be able to cut Charlie's hair, making it easier to control the conversation.

  Too late. As he looked over, Chris removed the towel from the back of his customer's head and shook the fallout from the haircut to the ground. Barney was still minutes away from a conclusion. Cursed quietly, tried to concentrate on the job. Perhaps if he avoided Charlie's eye he wouldn't speak to him.

  His penultimate customer sent packing, Chris invited Charlie up to the big chair and prepared for the final haircut of the day.

  'Thanks for this, Chris,' said Charlie, upon his ascent.

  'Ach, no bother, Charlie, no bother. Mind you, it's been a right long day and all, what with Wullie not being here.'

  Charlie glanced around, noticing for the first time that Wullie wasn't present, as Barney disappeared inside his pullover.

  'Oh, right. Away on holiday or something?'

  Chris shrugged. 'Tell you, we don't know, Charlie. Don't know what's happened to him. He left the shop on Wednesday. It was about quarter past five, that not right, Barney?'

  'Aye,' said Barney, the presence of his heart lodged firmly in his mouth making it difficult for him to talk. If Charlie said something now, Barney was in trouble.

  'And no one's seen him since. He's just disappeared off the face of the earth. Even Moira hasn't heard anything.'

  Charlie slowly shook his head. 'Aye, aye, that's right strange, so it is. Right strange. Ach, he's probably sitting on a park bench somewhere, drunk out of his face. You know what Wullie's like.' And he laughed, but there was no humour or comfort in it.

  'Aye, we know Wullie.'

  Barney's hands trembled, the sweat beaded on his forehead. This was going badly. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Charlie turn towards him. Knew what was coming.

  'Here Barney, that wasn't him in – '

  'What d'you make of those Rangers, eh, Charlie?' asked Barney. Smooth, cool, natural. And desperate.

  Charlie looked quizzically at him. 'What are you on about? You ken I'm not interested in the Rangers. I was going to say – '

  'Aye, I know, it's just, you know, it's getting near the end of the season, and I thought you might be going to the odd game.'

  Charlie shook his head the best he could, given that Chris was now at work in and around the area of his left ear. 'I haven't been to see a game of football since my playing days finished, Barney, you know that, for God's sake.'

  Chris looked up from the waves of hair. 'What's this great interest in football all of a sudden, Barney? You're talking about the Rangers to just about everyone that comes in here.'

  Barney attempted nonchalance. 'I just like to take an interest in what's going on. Football, that kind of thing. You know me.'

  Aye, I do know you, thought Chris, that's what's so strange.

  Barney stared at them to see if they were about to add to the conversation, but neither of them looked likely. He breathed a sigh of relief. The danger seemed to have been averted.

  Charlie started up again. 'As I was trying to say, Barney – '

  'So, how's Betty and all th
at, Charlie? You were saying something about her the other night.'

  Shit! Barney, you stupid idiot. Don't mention the other night. Don't remind him, and don't give him the opportunity to ask.

  'Aye, well she's not so bad. But you know, it was the other night I was going to mention. Was Wullie not still in the shop when I saw you? I thought he was and I couldn't get a straight answer from you. Head in the clouds, I thought, you know.'

  'No, no, Charlie,' said Barney. Big relief – had thought Charlie had been about to mention the plastic bags. If he didn't say anything else, Chris needn't suspect anything. He might yet get away with it. 'He'd already gone a while earlier.'

  There was near silence. The mellow clink of scissors. Barney felt the beating of his heart. He was getting to the end of his job and, surprisingly, it didn't appear to be going too badly. Don't mention the plastic bags, Charlie, he thought, please don't mention the plastic bags. Or I'll be forced to kill you.

  Charlie nodded suddenly, grunted too. 'Aye, of course. That was about six o'clock, was it not? He'd have been long gone by then, so he would.'

  The time! He'd forgotten about the time. Started cutting frantically with nervous fingers to cover up the panic. His customer semi-dozed beneath him, unawares.

  Chris looked over. 'Six o'clock, Barney. What were you still doing here at that time? Couldn't have been that busy, surely? And not if Wullie had gone.'

  Barney stared intently at the back of the head in front of him, as if trying to sort out some intricate piece of hair sculpture. Tried desperately to think of what to say. He believed himself to be a great barber, but he was crap in a crisis and he knew it.

  'Oh, aye, well you know, it was stupid, but I just sat down at the end of the day, after Wullie had gone, and fell asleep. Who'd have thought it, eh? Woke up about six o'clock, feeling like a right eejit, so I did.'

  Glanced over at Chris, saw the doubtful look in his eye. Chris looked away, returned to Charlie's hair. Barney could still get away with it if only Charlie kept his fat gob shut. Should have done it when he'd had the chance. What difference would one more corpse have made now?