Curse Of The Clown Page 7

  Boots on, Barney strode from the hotel as dawn broke and the cold, morning sun crept slowly across the land. He walked along a short road away from civilisation, crossed a stile and walked through a field of sheep, and then he was on the other side, and on a narrow path leading through sparse trees on the side of a low hill. No one else around, the weather as near perfect as Barney could imagine. Hands in pockets, arms drawn close into his side, breath misting in the cold air, far enough away from main roads to not even hear the distant rumble of traffic, three contrails across the pale, morning sky, the ugly squawk of a crow occasionally breaking the silence.

  The food had been decent, Keanu and Igor were good company, the early night in a strange bed had been fine, and he was sort of looking forward to breakfast. Thereafter, the weekend did not offer him much, and he viewed it with little enthusiasm. He was looking forward to getting back to Millport, although it did already feel as though he’d been away for longer than he had been. The break would do him good. Two nights, and then he’d be ready to go home and... settle back into the life of a barber on a small island in the Clyde, where nothing ever happened. Apart from the occasional series of brutal murders.

  ‘Living the dream, Barney,’ he said to himself.

  Shortly he broke the tree line and started walking on a well-trodden path along the grassy slope of the side of a hill. There were sheep droppings on the ground, evident through the thin frost, though there were no sheep currently in the area. To his left a wood stretched for some distance, beyond that low hills, and the grey of morning. Ahead, the brow of the hill he was climbing, and away to his right the white-frosted green of the Perthshire countryside, farmland and forest, stretching to the hills and white mountains beyond.

  He reached the top of the rise, where the land stretched out before him, similar to the landscape to his right, leading away to mountains in the distance. Now, though, there was a small town in view a mile or so away, a red car passing through the whitescape, two rows of power lines ahead. In the distance, a huge wind farm, the blades static in the chill, still morning air.

  There was a man walking towards him, and Barney did the Estonian thing of preparing to not talk to him as soon as he saw him. The man, however, was obviously not Estonian.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, slowing down, more or less forcing Barney to do likewise.

  ‘Morning,’ said Barney.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said the bloke, and he turned and looked over the landscape. To the far right a field of cows, huddled around the bovine equivalent of a mobile Starbucks.

  You had to be careful in this kind of situation, thought Barney. Make one comment about the weather, and the next thing you knew you were in a three-hour argument about independence or Brexit, and people were fake-quoting CBI spreadsheets on growth and taxation.

  ‘It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ said the bloke.

  Here we go, thought Barney. A good walk wasted.

  He didn’t reply. The only words that sat comfortably on his lips were, Nope, not at all, and to be honest, I’m not in the slightest bit interested in what it is you’re wondering about, which seemed rude.

  ‘You look across Scotland’ said the bloke, ‘and you think, oh my God... O Caledonia, stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the –’

  ‘Aye, all right, calm down,’ said Barney, finally deciding something had to be said. The minute someone started quoting poetry and you consented by silence, you were more or less doomed to have to listen to it for the rest of your life.

  The man barked a laugh, turned to look at Barney, and then turned back to the majestic winder landscape.

  ‘You a local? You don’t sound it.’

  ‘Staying at the hotel,’ said Barney, kicking himself for not using the three-second break in the conversation to scramble back down the hill.

  ‘Ah, a barber!’ barked the man, and he turned back.

  Fuck, thought Barney.

  Barney didn’t usually swear at home.

  ‘Didn’t notice you last night at the dinner.’

  ‘Didn’t notice you either,’ said Barney.

  ‘I was at the top table,’ said the man. ‘Chairman of the whole damn shaboogle. Not a barber anymore, of course. I’m in disposable razors these days.’ He held forward his gloved hand, without removing the glove. ‘Brian Adams is the name. People call me Thumper.’

  Barney took his hand, shook it, thrust his own hand back in his pocket, holding the man’s eyes throughout. Another brief silence between them. Somewhere back behind them, from the bare branch of an old tree, came the cry of a crow. Far above, as the sky lightened, another plane added to the contrail crisscross.

  ‘Thumper?’ said Barney, his voice resigned.

  When you’re fifty-whatever this guy was, you don’t casually throw your nickname into a conversation with a stranger without expecting to have to explain it.

  ‘Ha!’ said Thumper Adams. ‘Nicknames gonna nickname,’ he said.

  Jesus, thought Barney. The only thing worse than someone this age abusing the English language via a now ancient Taylor Swift meme, was the fact he was obviously reminded he’d done the same thing himself the night before. How embarrassing. Time to retreat to the dark corners of the world, to hide himself away from all company, and to never speak again.

  ‘Got lucky I suppose,’ said Thumper, not put off by the look on Barney’s face. In fact, he’d turned away to look once more upon the view, so that he could more easily be in denial about the look on Barney’s face. ‘If I’d’ve been born fifteen years later, people would’ve been calling me, I don’t know, Robin Hood or something. But we read Watership Down at school, and that’s written by Richard Adams of course, so they named me after one of the rabbits.’ A moment, and then he barked out another, ‘Ha!’

  Barney glanced at him disdainfully, then looked away again. The red car had gone, a dark blue car was now travelling the same route in the opposite direction.

  ‘Thumper’s from Bambi,’ said Barney.

  ‘Ha!’ barked Thumper.

  Barney waited for the explanation and was quite happy when none came.

  ‘You’ll be coming to my talk later,’ said Thumper, straightening his shoulders a little more, taking on the air of a man who was about to be on his way.

  ‘Go on,’ said Barney.

  ‘You haven’t looked at the programme?’

  ‘I cast a glance its way, like I was shooting past it on a bullet train. What am I missing?’

  ‘Razors: The Future. Eleven in the a.m., main auditorium. Better get there early, expecting the place to be full to bursting.’

  He looked at Barney again, now facing the way Barney had come, and ready to head back for his breakfast. Barney, now, had had enough of walking in the wilderness and was beginning to feel hungry, but he had no intention of walking back with the bore. He would need to fake-walk in the other direction for a few minutes more.

  ‘Razors: The Future, eleven a.m.,’ intoned Barney. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘Splendid!’ barked Thumper, an air of the General Melchett about him, then he clapped Barney on the shoulder, made another loud bark, and went on his way.

  Barney watched him for a second, the words nicknames gonna nickname in his head, and then he turned away and walked onwards towards the white horizon.

  DCI SOLOMON HAD DECIDED he’d eat at the hotel rather than his overnight lodging, allowing him to monitor the crowd, and was sitting at a breakfast table for one. As far as he was aware the evening had been uneventful. He’d spoken to hotel security, and with the exception of one mild case of drunk vomiting in a corridor, there had been nothing untoward. No one murdered, no one attacked, no one left genitally deficient. Nevertheless, Solomon still had the unavoidable, uncomfortable ball of anxiety turning in the pit of his stomach, and it wasn’t because the bacon wasn’t as crisp as he’d requested.

  The bacon, he thought, as his mind rambled on trying to fill i
n the gaps in the world, was never as crisp as you asked for. The kitchens were always scared of making it too crisp, in case you’d send it back and ask for different, slightly less crisp bacon. You could always crisp up, but not the other way. The only way for Solomon to receive his bacon as crisp as he actually liked it was to ask for it to be grilled brutally and without prejudice so that it was charred gruesomely black, crumbly like so much dried up dog shit, which was what he’d asked for on this occasion. Along with the sausage, the black pudding and the hash brown, the bacon had been slightly well done.

  Solomon was cursing all humanity, as he frequently did, eating with his head down, making sure not to engage any of the other breakfasters, nor draw any unwanted attention.

  There was a buzz about the place, most tables already full. He noticed Keanu and Igor sitting at a table with a young woman, but no Barney, and no one amongst the rest of the crew who really stood out. His full Scottish was almost finished, he was onto his third slice of white toast and his third cup of black coffee. It was going to be a long day.

  Something made him lift his eyes. He surveyed the scene that played out before him, a scene repeated in thousands of hotel chain restaurants across the world every single morning, and he saw nothing. A second, two, and then it rose, and he turned his head, the same as everyone else in the room turned their head, listening to the distant, piercing scream as it drifted through the long corridors of the hotel, from far away, and on a different floor.

  The scream seemed to hang in the air, holding them all prisoner, for several seconds, and then it abruptly ended, another second of silence, and the hubbub kicked off once again. Solomon took a deep breath, crammed the rest of his breakfast onto his fork and into his mouth, took as large a bite of toast as he could manage, glugged a large drink of coffee, then pushed his chair back, lifted a napkin, wiped his face as he moved away, and tossed the napkin back in the direction of the table.

  It had come. Whatever it was, it was here. And that uncomfortable anxiety in the pit of his stomach instantly vanished.

  11

  Fear The Koiffing Klown

  Solomon was standing at the window of the first floor hotel room. A decent view, if you stood really close to the glass and strained your head to the right. A frost-covered hill with some animals on the slopes. He hadn’t looked at the hill for long enough to decide what kind of animals they were. Deer perhaps. Probably sheep. Maybe cows. Really, they could have been anything, though he’d mostly ruled out giant, mutant lizards.

  Behind him the room was bustling. Three local Scenes of Crime Officers, two local constables, and the pathologist, Carew. The room was that of a hirsutological executive from Dundee, Bill Romney. There was no sign of Romney. However, in the middle of the room, bobbling softly against the ceiling, was a red balloon, and from the red balloon hung a piece of string, attached to the string was a note, and at the end of the string was a penis. The note, this time, beside the same face of the demonic clown, stated Lots more laughs, bags of fun, the Koiffing Klown is never done.

  Unlike the previous incident of the narcissistic and unimaginative killer, this note had not been discovered by the police, but by a housekeeper, Janiça Dukič, a Serbian gap year student. It had been her scream upon discovering this macabre scene that had been heard throughout the hotel. Already she was feeling a little embarrassed at her over-reaction, but it had not stopped her talking about it. And so, while the police had easily been able to keep the existence of the Koiffing Klown under wraps after the first murder, word of his work had spread quickly around the hotel and then, via social media, around the world.

  Dr Carew came and stood beside Solomon and looked out of the window. Directly in front of them was the car park, across the road some trees, and then a new housing development, still under construction, small houses packed together like commuters on the 17:37 to Partick. They could see the billboard at the construction site entrance. Coming Soon, a luxury development of bespoke 3- and 4-bedroomed executive homes, it stated, next to a picture of an ethnically diverse gay couple, smiling as they unpacked kitchen utensils from a box.

  They stood in silence, looking out on the view, then Carew said, ‘Think they’re struggling with the meaning of the word ‘bespoke’ there.’

  ‘They probably mean you get to choose the colour of the walls,’ said Solomon. ‘First impressions?’

  ‘I’ll try not to be glib,’ she began. ‘So, not a lot. It is what it looks like. I’d say it was removed about ten hours ago, using a similar implement to the previous one.’

  ‘Cutthroat razor.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll need a closer examination to establish if it was exactly the same one. Other than that... You’ve no idea where the rest of him is?’

  ‘Nope. Searching the hotel, nothing reported so far. Waiting for the guest’s wife to show up, then we can at least, hopefully, make sure it’s this guy’s dick.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Carew, contemplatively, ‘hadn’t really thought of that. If it’s not, not only do you likely have two dead bodies to find, means your killer is really, really messing with you. This is going to get ugly.’

  A moment, then Solomon gave Carew a sideways glance.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘What’s happening with the barber conference? No, let me guess. The show must go on? It’s what Bill would’ve wanted?’

  ‘The show is going on for now, but we’ll see. It’ll be up to us, rather than them whether it continues. Having said that, these people aren’t going anywhere yet. Not en masse, at any rate.’

  ‘You’re going to keep them all here until you’ve got your killer? You’ll be popular.’

  ‘I’m keeping them here until we’ve interviewed absolutely everybody. Once we’ve made contact, and we have full details of who everyone is and how we find them again, then they can leave. Until then, no one’s going anywhere. Given that, I’d rather they went ahead with haircutting events. Gives them something to do, makes it less likely they’ll stage a rebellion, or mount a Stalag Luft III-type operation.’

  ‘There may be some pushback at being locked in a building with a serial killer on the loose.’

  ‘Yeah, there’s that. If anyone demands to leave, we’ll lock down an area of the hotel, leave them there until we’ve interviewed them, then escort them out. We’re obviously drafting in security. Anyone wants to stay, they can.’

  ‘Makes sense. You know exactly how many barbers you’ve got to choose from?’

  ‘There are three hundred and seven people signed up to the convention. They’re all staying at the hotel. Not entirely sure how many of those are partners brought along for the laughs. Hopefully that rules some people out. Seems unlikely you’d bring your partner along if you want to commit wholesale barbicide.’

  He could feel her looking at him, and so he glanced to his side.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, Fred West. But it’s not like there’s a Fred West for every Dennis Nilsen. And there’s the whole genital mutilation thing... we’re looking for your classic psychotic, bitter, resentful loner.’

  Carew was nodding along by the time he’d finished, then she glanced over her shoulder, turned back and said, ‘Your sergeant’s here. I’ll leave you to it. I need to get along to the local hospital in Crieff, and see if they’ll let me set up shop.’

  ‘Give me a shout if there’re any problems.’

  ‘Will do. And Frank, barbicide? Nice. You should give that to the press.’

  ‘It’s a product name,’ he said. ‘Saw it in my local barbershop, and thought, that’ll be great to use if there’s ever wholesale barber massacre.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘More originally, I also thought of Friseuredämmerung, might run that one by them.’

  She looked at him blankly.

  ‘You lost me,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a play on Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. Instead of Twilight of the Gods, it means Twilight of the Barbers.’

  ‘Does it? I mean, is it good German?’
>
  ‘I don’t fucking know, I’m not a linguist.’

  ‘I think we’ve talked enough.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She smiled, turned away, acknowledged Detective Sergeant Lane, and then Lane came and took up the position at the window.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Solomon. ‘Bring me good news.’

  ‘Mrs Romney’s here,’ said Lane.

  Solomon looked at him, brow furrowed, turned quickly.

  ‘Not here,’ said Lane. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Just checking.’

  ‘She’s downstairs, waiting in the manager’s office. Nice office by the way, have you been in?’

  ‘No. Right, we need to appropriate a room, we need to detach that thing from the balloon, we need to place it in some sort of receptacle, and we need to get her in for an identification.’

  ‘Right, boss. I’m on it. Give me ten minutes.’

  ‘Five,’ said Solomon, immediately kicking himself for sounding like that manager.

  TWENTY-ONE MINUTES later. Solomon and Lane were standing outside in the car park, smoking. Solomon rarely smoked, but he felt drawn back to his previous fifty-a-day habit. Serial killers had a way of doing it to him. Lane just smoked because he’d started when he was fifteen in the bizarre assumption it would impress a girl, and despite not ever having impressed any girls, he’d never stopped.

  ‘Wait,’ said Lane, ‘you compared Andy Robertson to a shrivelled penis?’

  ‘Aye, I feel bad.’

  ‘He’s the finest Scottish footballer of his generation.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You wouldn’t compare Messi to a scrotum, even if he did underachieve for Argentina, which he did, many times, by the way.’

  ‘I said I felt bad, Sergeant. Can we move on?’

  ‘I think you should apologise.’

  The cold air stung at Solomon’s body through the thin fabric of his white shirt.