The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt

Published by Blasted Heath, 2011

A version of this book was published by Piatkus in 2000 and by Long Midnight Publishing in 2003 under the title The Cutting Edge of Barney Thomson

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A Chronologically Disadvantaged Prologue

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Brother Festus. An honest man. Weird name; honest nevertheless.

They'd called him a variety of things in school. Foetus. Fester. Fetid. Fungus. One Horse, although that's a completely different story. Neither had he been strong, the schoolboy Festus, and so he'd been teased and bullied, every aspect of his character remorselessly picked apart, exaggerated and turned into an object of ridicule. Hair too long, hair too short; wearing school uniform, not wearing school uniform; gunk in his ears, food in his teeth, gloop in his eyes, Y-fronts too big; no pubes, then later a thick forest of wiry agriculture; voice like a girl, voice like a moron; good at art, bad at tech; chipolata penis, hairy arse, breasts too big, testicles like peas, tongue like a Spam sandwich. Everything.

Somewhere there's a queue, and it's populated by comedians just waiting to tell another queue of talk show hosts that their comedy came from being bullied at school. Festus had tried that too, but he hadn't had the jokes, and so there'd been another reason to tease him.

Humour having failed, he'd retreated to that place in the head where everyone goes, but only the sad and solitary remain. And he had never left.

And so, time and bitter experience had brought him to the Holy Order of the Monks of St John, in north-west Sutherland, fifteen years prior to his imminent untimely death. An austere existence to accompany his austere thoughts, for life had taught this man never to attempt to expand his mind. It was a place where no one teased him, and no one cared about the idiosyncrasies which plagued his personality and appearance. He had found his home, a job to suit his underdeveloped intelligence, and people with whom he could associate. Brother Festus was in his element.

He'd arrived in the mid-eighties, and so easily missing the events of Two Tree Hill. He'd heard about them, of course. Low whispers in dark corners, though there was much which was left unsaid. Two Tree Hill; the very name caused Festus's stomach to churn at the personal memories it induced – the world's injustice against one man. A man alone, cast from society, as Festus had been himself.

And so, at this time of murder and terror, heartache and horror, the dichotomy of faith against reality, and the continuing serial of corpulent bloodshed, Brother Festus was about to be another victim. Not, however, of the man who wreaked vengeance for the iniquities of Two Tree Hill. Festus was about to fall victim to that other great serial killer – the act of God.

Festus swept the stairs. A small flight leading down into the main part of the abbey church. His brush moved ponderously across cold stone, his eyes never straying from the work he was about. He had to wash them next. Not his usual employment, but the new floor cleaner, Brother Jacob, had vanished. Festus was happy to sweep the floors and the stairs. Happy, in his own way.

The storm raged outside, every crack and joint and bolt and buttress ground its teeth in strained agony. Stained windows stood tight against the wind, inside the church nothing stirred. Not a draught blew, not a mouse roared, not a spider waved a forward leg, not a dog had its day. The strained quiet of the grave, statue and sculpture looking down on the back of Brother Festus as he bent to his work. God's work.

Sculptures of holy men, whose names had long since been dumped into the damned sepulchre of time; the Virgin Mary, sanguine and resigned to her place in history; a strange, lonely bemused Jesus at the Last Supper, with the disciples nowhere in attendance, while the son of God told his best parables – There was this bar, right, and in walked a Sadducee, a Pharisee and an Australian – and no one listened, but for a detached foot, the foot of Judas; the angel Gabriel, a good-looking guy, bearded and sad, eyebrow raised to some melancholy contradiction, a seraph's question as to the corruption of man and all that lies before him, a sculptor's vague musing on the limits of consequence; a bitter St Francis, the mad monk, scattering bread, a statement of his sexual desperation, his face lined with pain, his eyes scarred by the decades of frantic do-gooding, defying the black heart which lies within us all; and a substantial gathering of gargoyles, fine figures, their heads no more grotesque than comic caricature, the classic 1400s, pre-Reformation, Gothic Götterdämmerung. One of these, it would be, that would kill poor Brother Festus. By accident, indeed, or perhaps by the hand of God. For God's hands are, to quote some Italian gangster somewhere, pretty fucking big, you know what I mean?

Brother Festus moved slowly down onto the floor of the church. Cold stone, under which the bodies of buried Crusaders still lay, their names long since worn from the tombstones of opprobrium, so that most of the brothers were no longer aware of the bare skulls which stared up at them as they walked across the floor.

These were men who had died on the most unholy of Holy Crusades, men for whom the bell had tolled. A dagger in the guts, a scimitar drawn swiftly across the neck, hot oil poured into a tortured open mouth. They all watched Brother Festus, waiting to welcome him to their eternity of tortures.

Festus swept the floors.

What do monks think of when they are about mundane tasks?

God? His existence or otherwise? Deities in general? Some petty infatuation with one of the other monks, or with a long-remembered girl in a photograph which he keeps secreted beneath his mattress? Sport, perhaps, a metaphor for life which once tugged at him, gave him something to live for, so that years later he still recalls the missed birdie opportunity or the dropped catch at silly mid-wicket; the missed smash from the back of the court, the mistimed tackle; the perfect goal unbelievably ruled offside. Or maybe the average monk thinks of nothing as he sweeps the floor. His mind is blank, random visions and thoughts flickering minute distances below the surface, yet never seeing the light.

In that way, Brother Festus was entirely average, his mind an empty desert, thoughts for nothing. And so it was that he did not see the gargoyle, strangely misplaced from its perch upon high, where it had rested for over five hundred years. Resting and waiting; waiting for the opportunity to fall on an unsuspecting monk and to pierce his flesh. A monk like Brother Festus.

Festus swept the floor, mind a long way away. The gargoyle broke away from its base; the stone cracked noiselessly, a precise split. The sort of clean break that you would think only a master craftsman could achieve.

The fall was silent and swift. Five seconds earlier and it would have smashed into the floor in front of Festus; five seconds later and it would have missed him to the rear. But the timing was meticulous and, from on high, from the roof of the church, from the midst of the elaborate super-sculpture, from the gods, it came.

It was an interesting gargoyle, based at the time on a local farmer with a nose like a parsnip. Long, corrugated, and mild to the taste.

The gargoyle spun in free-fall, like a high-diver completing some elaborate octuple somersault, before the fall was sharply arrested as it thumped into Festus and the nose embedded itself into the back of his skull. And stayed there.

Festus collapsed to the floor, the gargoyle impaled upon him by the nose, so that he looked like a man with two heads. The blood seeped out slowly, running down his pallid cheeks and onto the floor; blood from Festus's head mixing with that from the gargoyle's bloodied nose.

Festus was dead. The Crusaders lay in wait below, anticipating the arrival of their brother. The abbey church was quiet. Not a mouse roared, not a dog had his day. And somewhere, somewhere, there may have been the sound of the architect of Festus's timely accident going about his business.

That Old Dead Cow

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'What d'you do at the weekend, then?'

'I can't believe the lift isn't working. Twelve sodding floors.'

'You don't think the council's got better things to do with their money than spend it on the bastards who live here? What d'you do at the weekend?'

'No wonder these places are riddled with low life. They build these sodding great monstrosities bloody miles from the nearest shop or pub. They've got nothing.'

'Don't give a shit.'

'Even the sodding lifts don't work. Imagine you're some single mum with three weans and ten bags of shopping.'

'The single mum's probably about sixteen, and the stupid wee slapper went and shagged some fifth year with a foosty moustache, just so she could get pregnant and get the house. What was she expecting? A bungalow in Bearsden? What d'you do at the weekend?'

'Nothing, same as every other weekend. You, however, sound like you've got something to tell me.'

'Did a bit of shagging.'

'I'm shocked. Who was it this time? Did you have to make do with Aud, or did you play away from home?'

'Well, you could say I played a home leg and four away legs at the same time.'

There was a brief pause in the conversation. They plodded past the third floor.

'You slept with your wife and four other birds at the same time?'

'Aye.'

'Bollocks!'

'Pure right I did. Bloody brilliant.'

'You shagged five women at the same time?'

'Aye. Orgasms all round, 'n all.'

'And what did Aud have to say about this?'

'She had the screaming thigh sweats for it. Loved it.'

'She loved it?'

'Aye.'

'She said that?'

'Aye.'

'Really? Aud? Actually said that she loved it?'

'Well, not in so many words, you know.'

'What did she say?'

'Well, nothing, but I could tell. Totally into it. Four women. She loved it.'

'And who were they?'

'Who?'

'What d'you mean who? These four mythical women that your wife was so delighted for you to sleep with that she joined in?'

'Just a bunch of women, you know. Women.'

'Just a bunch of women? Four women off the street? Four women you met in a bar? Four women you got out a Malaysian catalogue? Your cousins? Robert Palmer's backing band? The Bangles? All Saints? Who?'

'Just a bunch of women.'

'You're full of crap.'

'They were just women. I didn't get their names. I was snaking four birds at once and you think I gave a shite about what their names were?'

'So where d'you meet them?'

'In town.'

'In town? So, you were just walking down Argyll Street and you and Aud stumbled across four compliant women who all wanted to go to bed with both of you?'

'Aye.'

'On Argyll Street?'

'What? Well, all right, not Argyll Street. Some street.'

'Sauchiehall Street? Renfield Street? Walt Disney Street?'

'Piss off, Mulholland.'

'How often have you given evidence in court, Sergeant?'

'What are you saying?'

'You're making it up.'

'No way.'

'You're totally making it up.'

'Shite.'

'You're talking pish. You always talk pish when it comes to sex. Every time. You could talk pish for Nike, you. You're full of it. I can just see the advert for the new line of Nike sportswear for talking pish in, with you standing on some Brazilian beach, cheesy music in the background, and talking the biggest load of pish anyone's ever heard.'

'Ok, so it wasn't four.'

'How many?'

'Three.'

'How many?'

'It was three.'

'How many?'

'I'm telling you, it was three.'

'How many?'

'All right, it might've been two, but Aud was there 'n all, so that makes three.'

'Bollocks. How many?'

'Christ's sake, all right. It was two of them, and Aud doesn't know anything about it.'

'You are full of shite, Ferguson. Who were they?'

'Just a couple of birds.'

'Whores?'

'Naw!'

'You sure?'

'Naw! You think I can't score without paying for it?'

'Pay for it? I bet you nicked them and did a deal.'

Silence.

'There were still two of them, and it still counts.'

'You are a sad bastard, Sergeant.'

No reply. They got to the twelfth floor, walked with silent footfalls along the hall to the graffitied door. A cold wind blew in through the broken window at the end of the landing. A dog had left its calling card on the floor; a toy car with all the tyres removed waited patiently near by.

'You've got to get a grip, Ferguson. One of your superiors finds out about that kind of thing, you're fucked.'

'You're my superior.'

'Aye, well lucky for you I don't care. You ready?'

'Aye.'

Detective Chief Inspector Joel Mulholland knocked on the door. Somewhere inside, a glass was dropped on the floor.

***

'Get out of my face, you numpty-heided eejit!'

Ferguson pushed the man in the chest, forcing him back against the wall. Didn't get out of his face. An ugly face it was too; pockmarked, like wet cement that had been attended to by a child on a pogo stick. Lips like thin broken biscuits, moustache the neatly clipped hair of a German woman shot-putter's armpits.

'Numpty-heided eejit, Billy? Can you not do better than that? Is that as rude as that miniscule little napper of yours can think of?'

Billy McGuire gritted his teeth and stared at the ground. Ignored the hand still pushing at his chest, drifting to his neck.

'Come on, wee Billy, you know where the Big Man is. We all know you know, you know we know, just save us all the time and tell us.'

McGuire said nothing. Lips were sealed. Not any criminal code of conduct, however. If he remained silent, he'd get hassle from the police and possibly convicted of a minor offence or two. If he opened his mouth, he'd get his lips and nose nailed to the floor. He was constantly reminded of the fate of Wee Matt the Helmet, whose flaccid penis had been squeezed into the jaws of a double hole punch. These were not men to wrong.

'Sod it, Sergeant,' said Mulholland. 'Bring him in, see what we can do. No point in hanging around here.'

Ferguson grabbed McGuire by the collar and led him to the front door. Out onto the landing and then the slow trudge down the stairs, strange smells drifting up to meet them. They both knew this was just another pointless arrest. McGuire wouldn't talk. This day would see them no nearer the heart of the drugs racket they'd been chasing for the previous three months. Going through the motions.

'See that shite on the telly on Saturday night?' said Ferguson.

'What shite was that?' asked Mulholland. 'The shite where some bampot brags about having sex with twenty-five birds, when in fact all he did was pull his pudding to some soft-core crap on Channel 5?'

Unabashed. 'The Rangers. Load of pish. See all they bloody foreigners. If you're going to sign shite, you might as well sign Scottish shite. Just 'cause some eejit's got a name like Marco Fetuccini or Gianluca Spaghetti, doesn't mean they can kick a ball. Load of pish.'

Mulholland trudged down another flight of stairs. Thinking about the weekend. Another series of arguments; irrelevant, vapid and senseless. Just like the irrelevant, vapid senseless day which he was enduring now. Feeling sorry for himself. Imagined it was justifiably so.

'Didn't see it,' he said eventually.

'Can't even beat Dundee,' said Ferguson. 'Absolute shite. Bloody St Johnstone at the top of the league. What a joke. We used to be one of the best countries in Europe, for Christ's sake. We used to win things. Now we're lucky if we can beat one of they mince sides from Latvia, with a name like Locomotive Tallinn, or Rice Krispies 1640.'

'Tallinn's in Estonia,' said Billy McGuire.

'You shut your face,' barked Ferguson. 'What do you know about football anyway? Fucking muppet.'

'Fitba',' said McGuire, 'wherein is nothing but beastly fury, and extreme violence, whereof proceedeth hurt, and consequently rancour and malice do remain with them that be wounded.'

Ferguson stopped. Mulholland, a few steps ahead, turned back.

'What?' said Ferguson.

'Thomas Elyot,' said McGuire.

'Thomas Elyot?'

'Aye.'

'Listen, Wee Man, you think I give a shite about Thomas Elyot? I'll give you Thomas Elyot, you bastard. Any more of that and I'll stick Thomas Elyot up your arse. Now shut it.'

***

They arrived at the station, pushing McGuire in front of them as they went. Ferguson walked in without a thought in his head. Work was work. Mulholland's heart sank every time he walked through the door. Dreamed of the day he could clear out his desk for the last time. Retire. Spend every day with Melanie.

Some dream.

'Book him, Sergeant. And if he quotes any more literature, you can kick his head in.'

'Stoatir.'

Mulholland went to walk past the front desk. Up the stairs to his office, his intention. Cup of coffee, a few minutes to relax. It was still early, the day lying ahead of him like a huge rotting animal in the middle of the road. The customary dead cow of a Monday morning.

'Chief Inspector?'

Mulholland stopped and turned.

'Sergeant?'

Sergeant Watson, the ugliest man ever to front a desk in a police station in northern Europe. Cheekbones like slabs of meat, Brobdingnagian nose, garrulous moustache wandering at outrageous tangents across his face; a face which had seen its share of excitement. Lips like slugs.

'M wants to see you,' he said.

Mulholland stared at the nose. The few minutes to relax had just disappeared.

'When?'

'Now.'

'One word, Sergeant,' said Mulholland, mood plummeting further. 'Rhinoplasty.'

'Fuck you, Chief Inspector,' said Watson.

And Mulholland headed up the stairs, humour on a rollercoaster which was permanently on a downward drop. Crap job, crap marriage, crap life. Looking for someone to take it out on. Better not make it the Superintendent, but once he was finished with him he could kick the shit out of McGuire.

He walked through CID, the usual bustle of activity. Phones ringing, people talking, paper piled high on desks. In the midst of it all, an oasis of calm; one of the sergeants with a magazine open in front of her. Cup of coffee in her right hand, left hand drumming out a beat on the desk. Reading an article entitled Why Men Are Crap At Sex, although he couldn't see it. Instant resentment. Why should she get to do what he was being prevented from doing? He stopped beside her desk.

'Nothing to do, Sergeant?' he asked.

Detective Sergeant Proudfoot raised her eyes. Mulholland was nothing to do with her. Had, on the occasion of station girls' nights, placed him in her top three list of guys on the force she'd take to bed, but it didn't mean she had to listen to him.

'It's getting done,' she said.

He stared, shook his head, finally walked off. It was like being a schoolteacher sometimes, he thought. Without the endless summer holidays. Bloody Erin Proudfoot; no good for the force, no good for its reputation. Ferguson might be a bigoted Philistine with fewer brain cells than sex organs, but at least he got the job done.

Worse than that, of course, he was attracted to Proudfoot. Thought she was lovely. Far more attractive than the bitter Melanie Mulholland, twisted wretch of his home life.

He stopped outside the Superintendent's office. Breathed in, let out a long sigh. What kind of mood would he be in today? How ridiculous was his Bernard Lee impersonation going to be? How many times would he use the phrase national security when talking about shoplifting from Woolworths in Partick?

Christ, there must be more than this, he thought, as he opened the door and walked into the tepid cauldron of pointless imagination.

***

Late on a Monday night, the monastery slept. Long before the death of Brother Festus, it began. While Joel Mulholland staggered home from the pub to an unhappy marriage; while Erin Proudfoot sat alone, crying her way through Fried Green Tomatoes...; while the monks lay secure in their beds, and while shepherds watched their flocks, one sheep was led astray and put to the sword.

A particularly gruesome death, this one, the first at the monastery. The blood pulsed from the severed artery for some minutes, ran along the cold stone corridor. Reached the worn, grooved steps in such volume that the first trickle grew and swelled until it became a miniature, ensanguined cascade, the warm red liquid tumbling gaily down the stairwell, turning it into a cruel and bloody parody of the Reichenbach Falls. And all the while, Brother Saturday lay with eyes open, body limp, becoming colder, the sensation still there although the first stroke of the knife had killed him.

The killer watched the blood flow, taking some pleasure in the cardinal flourish, the rich harvest of his revenge. His second victim, this, his second plunge of the knife into the velvet crush of human flesh, and the fevered excitement which he'd felt the first time, so many years earlier, was much greater now that he was so close to the object of his desire. The sweat still beaded on his lip, the hairs still rose excitedly on the back of his neck, the purple vein pulsed in his forehead; and the buzz electrified his body. He was not yet some high-roller of the serial killer brigade, in this for the heart-thumping indulgence of it all, and he was not yet ready to change his modus operandi; to dance with some other form of death. His motive was revenge, and the gratification would not be in the deed, but the outcome.

But all that would change.

Twelve men must die. Ten remained, although only three of those ten were known to him. He had come to the end of his search, and yet the rest remained hidden. It might well be time to take a greater vengeance than that which he had first anticipated. But he had yet to make any firm decision.

Lifting the body by the legs, he began to drag it backwards along the corridor. He reached the stairs and started to clump silently down. The body limply hugged the decline until the head arrived and then slowly, step by step, the skull thudded onto the hard stone, and the face of Brother Saturday contorted into a grotesque and disturbing smile.

A Load Of Balzac

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Tuesday morning. Another lousy day. Mulholland sat before his Superintendent for the second day in a row, listening to nothing at all. The rain against the window, maybe; the beating of his heart. There was a disgusting taste in his mouth and his head throbbed extravagantly; the result of four hours of gin during a futile night in the pub with Ferguson.

Detective Chief Superintendent McMenemy closed the file he'd been reading and looked up. Engaged Mulholland's eyes for a while without speaking. The usual routine.

'Late night?' he said eventually.

'Aye,' said Mulholland, a hoarse croak.

'Understand you had a little too much to drink.'

Mulholland laughed and nodded. Brilliant. How had he managed to work that one out?

'Gin,' he said.

'Girl's drink. Can't you drink whisky, laddie?' McMenemy grumbled, Mulholland gritted his teeth.

McMenemy, the man who would be M, sat back in his chair and stared across the great gulf of the desk. Mulholland held his gaze. There was no way the old man had brought him up here to tell him off for his drinking. More likely some pointless rebuke for all the time spent on the drugs thing with little to show for it.

'Have you been speaking to Ian Woods much?' McMenemy said.

Mulholland shrugged. This was different, he thought, immediately feeling uncomfortable.

'Woods? Had a few drinks the other night. All he wanted to talk about was the Barney Thomson business. Blaming Thomson for every crime being committed in Scotland, thinks everyone else is blaming him for not catching him yet.'

'Mmm,' said M. 'How d'you think he's holding up?'

Mulholland hesitated. Beginning to see the minefield into which he was being led. Couldn't say Woods was doing a brilliant job, because he just plain wasn't, but wouldn't do to denounce him either.

'All right, I think,' he replied. 'Thomson just seems to have vanished.'

'Exactly,' said M. 'He hasn't found him. The press are whipping themselves into a frenzy. You seen today's Record?'

Mulholland shook his head. M lifted the paper from beside the desk and tossed it across. Lock Your Doors, As Barber Goes On 20 City Crime Spree. After that he threw across the Sun. Police Flounder as Vicious Murderer Kills Two More. Then he finished with the Scotsman. Barney Thomson Shagged My Mum, Claims Medical Student.

'It's getting ridiculous,' said McMenemy. 'Entire bloody country's living in fear.'

'It's a load of mince,' said Mulholland.

'I know that. You know it. The fucking press know it, but they love this stuff, and we need to put a stop to it, and the only way we'll do that is by catching him.'

Mulholland nodded, said nothing. Knew what was coming.

'I'm taking Woods off the case and I want you to head up the investigation. We need results on this.'

Mulholland nodded. Remained taciturn. This kind of thing was always ugly in a station.

'It'll be hard on him,' said M, 'but there's no place for sentimentality. We need it cleared up before Christmas.'

'Right,' said Mulholland, deciding he ought to contribute. 'Ferguson and I'll get on it this morning. Go over everything Woods has done, see what he might've missed.'

God, he thought, shut up. For all that Woods was the Albion Rovers of criminal investigation, he wasn't going to have missed anything.

'I'm splitting you and Sergeant Ferguson up on this one. We don't want to lose sight of the progress you've made on the drugs thing. He'll stay on that, and I'll give him Constable Flaherty.'

Michelle Flaherty? Jesus, Ferguson was going to be wetting himself.

'You'll be working with Sergeant Proudfoot.'

Mulholland nodded. Kept the wry smile off his face. That was all he needed. A bloody dozy, layabout woman to nursemaid through the investigation.

'Right,' said McMenemy, 'I don't like to put undue pressure on anyone, but you've got ten days, Chief Inspector. Ten days.'

***

Detective Sergeant Erin Proudfoot spooned another sugar into her tea, then slowly stirred. She had almost come to the end of the article she was reading in a two-month-old Blitz! – How To Spot A Millennium Lounge Room Lizard. Had met enough of them to not need to read a magazine article on how to spot one. Still, it was slightly more informative than 51 Ways To Have Great Sex in A Helicopter.

The frenetic bustle of the station on a Tuesday morning continued around her, following a typical Glasgow Monday night. Six stabbings, two rapes, fourteen break-ins, thirteen car thefts, one defeat for Partick Thistle. She had been allocated one of the less serious stabbings and was waiting for the woman in question to be brought in for questioning. Senga-Ann Paterson, seventeen. Rejected by her boyfriend, the father of her two children, a rejection she'd dealt with by stabbing him in the testicles with a knitting needle. When he'd been hospitalised the previous evening, the police had released her because there was no one else to look after the children, and they weren't sure the boyfriend would be pressing charges. One operation, and one removed testicle later, there was no doubt. She was being brought in.

Besides that, Proudfoot had four calls to make, following up an alleged insurance fraud, plus fourteen reports to complete from ongoing investigations. Her in-tray was piled high.

She turned the pages of the magazine. Past the adverts for generic perfume that would help express your individuality, and wafer-thin sanitary towels. Stopped at the picture of a stick-like figure with blonde hair and legs which went all the way up: headline, Gretchen Schumacher – The New Eastern Uberchick On Why She Prefers Men To Strudel. Shook her head, tossed the magazine onto her desk. Another five minutes gone. Lifted the phone and dialled the number for Lloyds insurance in London.

'Haw, Erin?'

She turned towards Sergeant Ferguson, phone cupped to her ear, raised her eyebrows.

'Your knitting needle bird's downstairs. Room Three.'

'Thanks.'

She turned back to her desk, hung up the phone just as it was answered. Closed the file she had on her desk, stuck it back in her tray, lifted her tea and headed downstairs.

***

'You're sure you don't want a lawyer present?'

Senga-Ann Paterson raised her eyes and stubbed the butt of her cigarette, smoked all the way to the filter, into the ashtray, then let out a long sigh.

'I says I didn't.'

Proudfoot nodded, studied the paper in front of her. Tried to stop herself looking at the three safety pins which dominated Paterson's nose.

'Very well, Senga.'

Here goes, she thought. Maybe I don't enjoy interviewing anymore either. In the wrong job, but what else was she going to do? An artists' agent, maybe. Sign that sexually deprived idiot Ferguson up as her first act. He could be a stripper or something. The Polis Plonker. The Dangling Detective. Sergeant Sausage.

'Do you know why you've been brought in?'

Paterson chewed some Wrigley's Juicy Fruit. Proudfoot got a whiff of it, mingled with tobacco. Delicious.

'To give us a reward for fighting back against the tyranny of evil men?'

Proudfoot tapped her pen. Nice try.

'Not as such. You're here because James McGuiness has had to have a testicle removed...' – she paused for the ejaculation of laughter – 'as a result of the injury he received from a knitting needle yesterday evening.'

Paterson laughed. Proudfoot tapped her pen on the desk.

'It's a serious business, Senga. Aggravated assault. You could be looking at seven years in prison.'

'No chance, missus. Not with my two weans to look after.'

'They'll be taken into care, found foster homes.'

Laughter was replaced by indignation. Desdemona and Chantelle were all Senga-Ann Paterson had.

'Christ, it's not as if the muppet didn't deserve it. He's lucky I pure didn't get them both.'

Proudfoot held the pen upside down between her second and third finger. Tapped. Had The Girl From Ipanema playing in her head. Stopped tapping before she had to arrest herself.

'Did you stab James McGuiness in the testicle with a knitting needle on Monday evening?'

'What? What are youse asking me that for? Youse know I stabbed him. I'd do it again, 'n all.'

You might not want to say that to the judge, thought Proudfoot. Didn't care. She'd had enough of the likes of Senga-Ann Paterson.

'Why did you do it?'

Paterson fumbled another cigarette from the packet. Her white fingers shook. Nervous; bitter. She lit up, thin lips sucking. Hollow cheeks.

'Why d'you think? He's a pure bastard. You know what he went and done?'

'Go on.'

Paterson opened her arms in an expansive gesture, almost setting fire to the curtain behind.

'He went and shagged Ann-Marie.'

'Oh.' Should have known. 'And she is...?'

'She was my best pal. Still is, I suppose. I mean, I'm not blaming her, or nothing. James is a brilliant shag, 'n that. It's every slapper for herself out there. He shouldn't have shagged her, but.'

'When was this?'

'Saturday night. I'm stuck with the weans watching the telly, thinking he's down the boozer with his mates. You know, Arnie the Baptist and Bono and No Way Out and that lot. But he's not, he's snaking my best mate!'

'How did you find out?'

Long, nervous draw on the cigarette. The chewing gum smacked inside her mouth. As she exhaled, Proudfoot could see it through the smoke, passing between tongue and teeth.

'Would you credit that Ann-Marie phones us up and tells us. Gallus as hell. I'm pure raging and she's talking about what a brilliant shag he is. Jesus, you think I don't know that? What else am I going to be doing with him? You think it's for his looks? You seen him?'

'Not yet.'

'Pure stank. Looks like yon bastard on Beauty And The Beast. You know, the big ugly cunt.'

Proudfoot nodded. That would be the Beast, then. Couldn't get Ipanema out of her head. Started tapping the theme from Mission Impossible to try to shift it.

'You confronted him with this?'

Paterson rolled her eyes.

'Pure right I did. And you know what he says? You know? He says, "There is no infidelity when there has been no love." I mean, can you believe the neck of the guy? Quoting Balzac of all people. Cheeky cunt.'

A knock at the door. It opened. Proudfoot turned.

'Up the stairs, Sergeant. Two minutes.'

The door closed, Mulholland was gone.

Proudfoot turned back to Paterson and shrugged.

'Got to go, Senga. We can continue this later.'

'That you getting your arse kicked?'

Proudfoot smiled. 'I doubt it,' she said, although she wondered what was going on. Maybe she could sign Mulholland and Ferguson up as a double act. The Delinquent Dicks. The Bratwurst Brothers.

She stood up. Said, 'Interview suspended at nine twenty-five,' and switched off the tape machine. The two women looked at each other.

'Balzac, eh?' said Proudfoot.

Paterson nodded. Thin face, a slight movement of the safety pins. Pink hair.

'You might get off yet.'

***

She sat across the desk from Mulholland, trying not to look at him. Annoyed at herself for finding him attractive. Had never gone for authority figures, but he was young for his position, as was she herself. Beneficiaries of the vacancies at the station, caused by the slaughter of four detectives the previous March.

He looked up. Eyes that changed colour with the light.

'Busy?' he asked. This was work, and he couldn't sit there feeling stupid just because he disliked her and fancied her at the same time.

Daft question, she thought, although it was probably pointed. Couldn't remember the last time she hadn't been busy.

'The usual crap, sir,' she said. 'Insurance fraud, assault, knitting needle in the testicle. The normal stuff.'

Mulholland winced, said, 'Aye, I heard about that.'

Paused, tapped the file in front of him. The poisoned chalice.

'Something come up?' asked Proudfoot.

Mulholland nodded slowly, a slight movement of the head.

'Barney Thomson,' he said.

Oh. Barney Thomson. She bit her lip; her heart beat a little faster. She knew all about Barney Thomson. Everyone in Scotland knew all about Barney Thomson. The Barber Surgeon.

'What about him?'

'He's ours.'

Ours?

'How d'you mean that exactly?'

'Ours. Yours and mine. You and me have to find him.'

We're not a couple, she thought. Ferguson will be pissed off. Masterson as well. Hated it when one of his DSs got taken.

'What about Ferguson?'

'M wants a woman on the case. We all know he's anal about the fact he's got no female DCIs. You're the closest he's got, so you're on it. With me.'

'What about Woods? I thought it was his case?'

Mulholland breathed deeply, stared at the floor. Felt pity for Woods. He was an idiot, but you had to give people the chance.

'You know what M's like. Woods has had two weeks. The boss is like a football chairman whose team loses its first two league games. So, Woods is out on his ear, I'm next in line.'

Proudfoot nodded. No surprise. She considered Woods a nice enough bloke, but effectively brain-dead. Everyone knew it. The chances of him finding a nefarious mastermind like Barney Thomson were virtually nil.

'Is Masterson not going to be pissed off?'

'Doubt it,' said Mulholland. 'He'll probably get Jack Hawkins, someone like that. He's a misogynist bastard anyway. He'll love having a bloke to play with instead of you.' Unconscious pun, potentially true with Masterson. 'Anyway, this is it. The Barney Thomson file. Pop quiz, Sergeant. Thirty seconds, everything you know about the man.'

She breathed deeply, gathered her thoughts.

'Right. Killed his two colleagues. Don't remember their names. May have killed six others, but there's some talk of it having been his mother. Not sure.'

Mulholland tapped the file again. 'The mother's looking favourite. Least, that's what Woods has come up with. Whatever, if she killed them, it was the son who disposed of the bodies.'

She nodded, presumed she was expected to pick up the story. 'He made it look as if one of the guys he worked with was the killer. Porter, that was it. Left all the other bodies to be found, disposed of his. The investigating officers at the time all thought they were looking for Porter. And they all ended up dead.'

'Aye, bloody right they did. Besides Loch Lubnaig...'

'Which is where Porter's body turned up two weeks ago.'

'Exactly. So, did those four officers shoot each other as the inquest found, or did Barney Thomson do it?'

She shook her head. Looked down. She'd liked Robert Holdall, had had a brief thing with Stuart MacPherson.

'It's all circumstantial, though,' she said. 'Has Woods produced anything solid?'

'Everything he's got is right here, but nothing concrete. All we have to go on is that the minute Porter's body was found and Woods turned up to interview him, Thomson did an OJ Simpson. We need to find him.'

She nodded. Sounded right. You don't run unless you've got something to run from. She'd been avoiding reading the papers, avoiding talking about him at the station. She had enough crime in her life without adding to it. But sooner or later it had been bound to come her way.

'Where do we start?'

Mulholland pushed the file towards her across the desk.

'You start by having a look at this. Take your time. Later on this morning we'll go and talk to the wife. Agnes. See what she's got to say for herself. You never know with these people. After that we're going to Inverness. Thomson withdrew money from a machine up there on the first evening he went missing. That's just about all we've got.'

'Surely Woods went up there. The locals must've looked into it?'

Mulholland sat back, shrugged. 'Aye, but not the Chief Super's latest all-star crime-fighting duo.'

'Brilliant. Batman and Batgirl.'

'Aye.'

They stared across the desk at one another. Tried to ignore the singular mixture of contempt and attraction. Enough complications in life without having that kind of thing getting in the way.

'Right then. Get back to the Batdesk and read up on this guy before we go after him.'

Proudfoot lifted the file; their eyes met across the desk. A moment, nothing said, and she turned and walked from the room.

The door closed, Mulholland was left alone in silence. A crap job; a miserable wife; dumped with Barney Thomson; landed with Erin Proudfoot. He sat in the same chair that a year earlier had been occupied by Robert Holdall, and felt Holdall's ghost crawl slowly down his spine.

Drama At Patagonia Heights

––––––––

'But, Bleach! Surely you knew that Wade was married to Heaven before he fell in love with Summer? That was why Solace left Fox for Flint before she ran off with Lane!'

Bleach staggered; her hands covered her eyes. Oh, what a fool she'd been! All those years loving Wade, all those years denying Zephros, which had finally forced him into the arms of Saffron, only to discover that Dale had been lying about his relationship with Leaf and that Moonshine had given birth to River's baby, Persephone.

Bleach leant back against the hard kitchen table – the table where once she had been loved by Bacon. Her eyes glazed over, she began to sob. Her chest heaved, her lips contorted, the late morning sun shafting in through the ornate New England window highlighted the grey hairs in her fringe. Tears streamed down her cheeks, great rivers of water, turning her face into a cruel burlesque of Angel Falls.

Through the flood she stared at Taylor, the bearer of bad news. Never shoot the messenger, wasn't that the cliché? Well, damn them, thought Bleach. Damn all messengers!

Slowly, with unbearable tension, she pulled the .7mm Beretta from her pocket. She aimed directly at Taylor's heart. Taylor gasped.

'Why, Bleach!' she exclaimed. 'This is so unlike you. Have you seen your therapist today?'

'Hah!' blurted Bleach. 'Eat dirt, Bitchface!'

And, with the credits rolling at the close of the most exciting episode of Herniated Disc Ward B in living memory, as the gun had begun to shake in Bleach's trembling hands, the doorbell rang. Agnes Thomson stared at the door, heaved a long sigh.

'Jings oh,' she said. 'Not a moment's peace in two weeks.'

She pressed stand-by. The television blinked and fizzed to the dead grey screen. It was another twenty minutes before the start of Patagonia Heights; however, as with all the other shows to which she was addicted, the magic had evaporated from what had previously been an ecstatic forty-three minutes.

She opened the door to a man in his late thirties, a woman a little younger. Police. Written all over them. The latest in a long line. The man held forward his badge.

'Detective Chief Inspector Mulholland. This is Detective Sergeant Proudfoot. Mrs Thomson?'

Agnes Thomson nodded. Had long since tired of telling these people where to go. Understood that the only way to get rid of them quickly was to co-operate. The quicker they realised she knew nothing of her husband's whereabouts, the quicker they moved on.

'Come in,' she said, voice weary. Her life had changed in ways she had not imagined. Not in her worst nightmares.

Proudfoot and Mulholland followed her into the flat, through the small hall into the lounge, a room smelling of a warm and dusty television. She sat down, indicated the sofa. They looked around the room as they took their seats. An untidy room; dust on the tables, a collection of cups and plates beside Agnes's seat. The seat from which she sat and watched soap after pointless soap. Catastrophe Road blending into Bougainvillea Plateau blending into Penile Emergency Ward 8.

Proudfoot felt the instant depression. Rarely failed to be depressed when she visited someone else's house in the course of her duties. She'd read the reports, believed that Agnes Thomson knew nothing of her husband's murderous activities or his present location. This was a duty call.

Mulholland recognised a life in tatters. Was not to know that this had been an empty life even before Agnes Thomson had discovered that her husband butchered human flesh.

'I realise you've spoken to many of my colleagues, Mrs Thomson,' said Mulholland. 'We're new to the case, we have to go over everything again, see if there's been something missed.'

Agnes smiled. A rare moment of insight. 'Can't find him, eh? Kicked that muppet Woods off the case? Not surprised. Yon eejit couldn't find shite in a sewer.'

Mulholland stared at the carpet, Proudfoot tried not to laugh. Woods in a nutshell.

'Could you tell us about the last time you saw your husband?' asked Mulholland. Didn't look her in the eye. Picturing Woods up to his thighs in water, wearing industrial gloves and a gas mask, searching for elusive faeces.

She had answered the question many times, the words a well-practised monotone. Just refused to tell it to the newspapers, and finally they had given up camping on her doorstep.

'That Tuesday morning. About eight o'clock. I was eating breakfast, watching the telly. It was the final episode of Calamity Bay, you know. I'd taped it from the night before, 'cause I was watching Only The Young Die Young.'

'Oh, aye, I saw that episode,' said Proudfoot. 'The one where Curaçao had the sex change operation so she could impregnate Gobnat.'

Agnes nodded. Didn't smile in recognition.

'Barney?' said Mulholland, trying to reclaim the conversation.

Proudfoot shook her head. 'No, Barney wanted to marry New Orleans, but she was engaged to Flipper.'

A pause. Pursed lips. A raised eyebrow.

'Oh,' said Proudfoot.

'Your husband, Mrs Thomson?'

Agnes didn't need to think.

'We didn't say much at breakfast,' she said. 'In fact, we didn't say anything at breakfast. Never did. Didn't talk much, that was just us.'

Go and see the wife again, M had told him. Woods might have missed something.

Mulholland nodded. There was nothing to miss. Wondered if the rest of the investigation would mirror this moment. Asking questions already asked, receiving well-trodden answers. A pointless round, an unbroken circle. At some stage he would be kicked off the carousel and some other poor bastard would be put in charge. That was how these things went. Thomson might have just disappeared, never to be heard from again.

'There was nothing different that morning? No casual comment, he didn't pack a bag? Eat a little more than usual, wear different clothes? Anything?'

'Tell you he was going to Bermuda and that he'd never see you again?' added Proudfoot. Drew a look from Mulholland.

Agnes shook her head. The same old questions, put in the same old way. The futile circle.

A thought occurred. She put her fingers to her mouth, stared at the ceiling. A vague light came to her eye.

'You know, now that I finally think about it, I think he might've said something about whether he needed a visa for to go to the Seychelles. Aye, I think it was that.'

Proudfoot and Mulholland leant forward, curious. It couldn't be this easy.

'The Seychelles?' said Mulholland. 'Are you sure?'

Agnes looked a little unsure, then said, 'I think so. Maybe it was Saltcoats.'

A pause.

'You're taking the piss,' said Mulholland.

'You are a detective.'

Mulholland kept the expletive in check.

'This is a serious business, Mrs Thomson. Very serious. Your husband stands accused—'

'Look, I know fine well what he stands accused of, all right? It's my life, not yours. But I know nothing about it, nothing about where he is now. I've told fifty of you. Would you just please leave me alone?'

They sat and stared at one another. There were other questions to be asked, but Mulholland knew there was little point. And of all the people who would've suffered through the previous two weeks of hysterical press speculation, Agnes Thomson would have suffered more than anyone. The husband disappears, the wife is left behind to face the music.

'Look, why d'you not just accept it? Barney left the shop that morning to get a sandwich. He comes back, sees your lot all over the place like a blinking rash, 'cause you'd charged in like you were rounding up the flipping Mafia, and for whatever reason, he legs it. I know how it looks, but if you want my opinion, I doubt he ran because he'd murdered anybody. My Barney was too stupid for that. Too bloody stupid.'

Mulholland sat back, looked at the floor. You were told so many lies in the job; along the way you developed an instinct for the truth. How well the instinct developed led to how good a copper you were. He liked to think he could always tell. Truth or lies.

Agnes Thomson was telling the truth. They were wasting their time.

'So, you haven't heard from Barney since he disappeared?' he asked. Had to.

Agnes drew her breath, shook her head. 'No,' she said, 'I haven't.' If they'd never made the effort to speak when they lived together, why should they now that they didn't?

'You'll let us know if you hear from him?'

She shrugged. The interview was over, she stared at the blank television screen. Almost time to lose herself again. 'Might,' she said. 'Might not.'

Mulholland and Proudfoot stood up. That was about as much as they could expect. Why should she tell them anything?

She looked up at them. The eyes said it all, and the two police officers turned away and saw themselves to the door. When they had gone, she sat alone, staring at the television. Her hand rested beside the remote control, but it was a long time before she pressed the button.

***

'What d'you think?'

Mulholland shrugged. 'We were wasting our time. And from the absence of the press, I think that that lot obviously realised it a lot more quickly than we did.'

They walked on down the stairs in silence. Holdall and MacPherson must have walked these stairs, thought Proudfoot. A shiver scuttled down her back, even in this broad light of day. She tried to think of something else, but kept seeing MacPherson's face. Could feel him.

'Inverness?' she asked, as they emerged into a bleak Glasgow afternoon.

'Not now. Tomorrow morning. We can visit the barber's shop now, check it out. The Death Shop From Hell, or whatever it is the Record's calling it. Tick another wasted interview off our list.'

Mulholland looked away up the street, along the line of cold, grey tenements. This was all there was to police work. Trawling around depressing streets, speaking to pointless, disinterested people with nothing to say and nothing to give you other than disrespect.

'Brilliant,' he muttered under his breath, as he got into the car.

That Whole Life Thing

––––––––

'Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.'

Words hung in the cold air, then disappeared in the mist which evaporated before the Abbot. The monks, slightly over thirty in number, watched the hard dirt bounce on the lid of Brother Saturday's coffin before settling with a cold finality. Three deep around the grave they stood, heads bowed in solemn prayer and sorrow; all but one.

Edward; Ash; Matthew; Jerusalem; Joshua; Pondlife; Ezekiel; Mince; Festus; and so on around the grave they stood. Lost in sadness, unaware that many more of them would die, and that Festus's upcoming gargoyle in the head would be but one death among a great legion of others.

It had been nearly eleven years since they lost one of their number to that fell sergeant, Death. Mammon, the evil succubus of fornication, and the lure of a comfortable life had taken their toll in that time; but not Death. Not since Brother Alexander had fallen from the escarpment around the third floor of the abbey.

The Abbot opened his eyes from one last silent prayer, and then, head low, began the short walk back down the hill to the shelter and slender warmth of the monastery. Two steps behind, an ecclesiastical refugee from the Secret Service, Brother Herman, brown hood drawn up around his head, sunken eyes watching the Abbot's back, long white face. Hooked nose, the beak of some deranged bird of prey, Brother Herman suspected everyone. Whoever it was who had plunged the knife into the neck of Brother Saturday, who had held it there while Saturday had wriggled and squirmed away his final seconds, who had watched the blood flow along the corridor and down the weeping steps, must not now be allowed access to the Abbot.

None shall pass, thought Brother Herman. None shall pass.

As their feet crunched into the frosted snow, the remainder of the assembly stared into the grave. Thoughts of death and murder and God and resurrection and everlasting life. A test of Faith; at a time like this, how many of them truly believed? The snow-covered hills rose around them, reaching to a blue sky, pale in the anaemic light of dawn. And over the hills, in the middle distance, the bitter sea washed upon a barren winter shore.

One by one they paid their last respects and headed off slowly back to the austere grey building that was their home. Breakfast awaited. Two remained behind, burdened with shovelling the hardened dirt over Saturday's coffin. Pale brown wood, soon to be home to God's final act of desecration upon the human body.

They stood with spades at the ready, waiting for the others to return to the monastery before beginning their task; the last kick of the ball in the football match of Saturday's life. The younger man, his face unfolded, thoughts elsewhere. His lips betrayed a knowing smile; an acceptance of fate – what would be done, was done. Tonsured head, hair a little long at the back. Could do with a cut, thought the other man. Older. Face creased with worry, full head of hair, greying with years.

The last monk disappeared from view. They glanced at one another; it was time. The younger one dug his shovel into the waiting pile of dirt. The older man took a look around him – the path leading from the graveyard to the monastery; the surrounding forest, trees white with snow; the low hills, which doomed the monastery to the pit of the glen and the bitter wind which howled through; the distant edge of the freezing waters of Loch Hope – then bent his knee and thrust his shovel into the dirt.

Already their hands were numb with cold, yet aching with an insistent pain. Brother Steven shovelled the dirt without emotion, knowing not the burden of his work. He was content to do as he was bid, even though, being neither the newest monk nor the youngest, he should not have been called upon to perform the task of the gravedigger. For this he had his unquiet tongue to thank.

He glanced at the older man, who was performing his task with grim determination. Not for Brother Steven to know that this man, the latest addition to their complement, had become used to death in all its iniquitous guises.

'So, what brings you here, Brother Jacob?' he asked the older man, continuing to shovel dirt slowly, monotonously.

Barney Thomson, barber, hesitated. A man on the run, a man with a dark past. Secrets to hide. He shovelled. 'Not sure,' he replied eventually. 'Just needed something different, you know?'

Brother Steven nodded, tossed another pile of dirt into the grave. The top of the coffin was now completely obscured. Brother Saturday was gone.

'Got you,' he said. 'It's that whole vicissitude thing. The basic need for something new. We all feel it. It's like Heraclitus says: "Everything flows and nothing stays...You can't step twice into the same river." It's why I'm here.'

Barney stared, Steven shovelled, knowing smile on cold blue lips.

'Aye,' said Barney. 'Right.'

Barney had never heard of Heraclitus. Wondered if he'd played centre-forward for some Greek football team. Doubted it. Had to accept that he had come to a new world, after twenty comfortable years in the barber's shop. Not all conversations would be about football.

'So, what are you running from, Brother Jacob?'

Steven rested on his shovel, looked through the mist which had formed from his words. Barney felt the beating of his heart, but realised that Steven could not possibly know his secrets. None of these monks could know. He tried to sound casual. 'Life,' he said.

Steven laughed and began once again the slow and steady movement of his spade. Barney wondered if he'd said something funny.

'Life, eh?' said Steven, shaking his head. 'Oh, yes. That thing we do.'

Barney felt uncomfortable. A hand on his shoulder. Before he began to shovel he saw a bird of prey in the distance, hovering, searching the snow-covered ground for breakfast. The sparrow-hawk fancied some bacon and lightly scrambled egg, but accepted that he would probably have to settle for a vole or a mouse. If he was lucky.

Could be an eagle, thought Barney, for he did not know birds of prey.

'But the thing about life,' said Steven from behind his shovel, 'is that no matter how far you run, my friend, there's no getting away from it.'

Brother Steven tossed dirt with methodical abandon. Barney Thomson stared into the grave.

We Will All Lie in the Same Grave

––––––––

Mulholland tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the rain on the windscreen. In the car park at Stirling services. Waiting for Proudfoot; paying for petrol, buying magazines, chocolate, drinks, music and everything else they had to offer. Expecting her to return to the car wearing a new outfit and carrying a flat-packed kitchen unit.

Preoccupied with thoughts of Mrs Mulholland. On hearing that he'd been ordered to travel north on police business, possibly for a few days, she had issued the classic ultimatum: if you go, I won't be here when you get back. Considered herself a police widow. Saw the prospect of becoming a real widow if her husband had to come up against that evil monster, Barney Thomson. Would take this opportunity to stay with her sister in Devon, and not just for a week or two. His tapping on the steering wheel became a tight grip as he thought about what else, besides her sister, might keep Melanie in Devon. But then, would he be that bothered if she never returned? Confused. Jealous and disinterested at the same time.

The car door opened and Proudfoot climbed in, preceded by a cold blast of air, a gallon of rainwater and a bulging bag of merchandise. Closed the door, buckled up.

'What's the matter with your face?' she said.

Mulholland grunted, didn't want to look as if he'd been thinking about his wife. Started the engine.

'You took your time,' he said.

'Just buying a few things,' she said. Started unloading as they pulled out of the service station. 'Everything we'll need for the journey to Inverness.'

'It's only a couple of hours, Sergeant.'

'Might get stuck in the snow.'

'It's pishing down, for God's sake.'

'Not up north. It's a snowfest up there.'

'Bloody hell.'

Onto the roundabout, then back down to the motorway. Driving a blue Mondeo, heating on full, windscreen wipers frenetic. The M9 mobbed with trucks and lorries and people heading north so that they could escape the winter and be somewhere even colder. He settled in the outside lane and his car disappeared beneath the spray from articulated lorries.

'What did you get for all this snow we're going to get stuck in? A couple of sleeping bags? A tent, thermal underwear, socks, a flask of tea and some flares?'

She opened the bag, started lifting out items. He kept his eyes on what little of the road he could see, so that they didn't die before Barney Thomson had the chance to kill them.

'Got a bacon, egg and tomato.'

'A sandwich, eh? That'll keep us warm.'

'A turkey ham and lettuce.'

'Turkey ham? I never understood that as a concept. Is that like some weird bird/pig crossbreed?'

'I'm ignoring you.'

He passed the final monstrous juggernaut in his path and settled into the inside lane, his view now marginally less obscured than it had been. Didn't realise, but had already stopped worrying about Melanie.

'I also got a brie and black grape and an egg and spinach.'

'Bloody hell. How far north d'you think Inverness actually is?'

'You don't have to eat any of them. Got a couple of cans of Coke, an Irn Bru and a bottle of water.'

'If we run out we can always stop at the side of the road and melt some snow on the bonnet.'

'Four packets of crisps, three chocolate bars, this month's Blitz! and a Simply Red tape.'

He laughed, diced with death by holding up his fingers in the sign of the cross.

'Not in this car,' he said. 'This is not an elevator.'

'Piss off!'

'Sergeant.'

Proudfoot gritted her teeth, shut up. Settled back in her seat, cracked open the brie and black grape and a can of Irn Bru, rested the Christmas edition of Blitz! on her knee. A few seconds, then she glanced out the corner of her eye.

'Sandwich, then?'

'As long as you don't think it's a trade.'

She handed him the turkey ham and lettuce, they steamed through the rain towards the Dunblane bypass. They thought their private thoughts. Vague feelings of disquiet at the outside possibility of coming up against the infamous Barber Surgeon. Would they each die a horrible death? Ferguson had told Proudfoot he wasn't sure if he'd be able to identify her body if she'd been reduced to twenty packets of frozen meat. All charm.

The visit to Henderson's the barbers the previous day had been as unhelpful as their entire investigation threatened to be. Three barbers – James Henderson, Arnie Braithwaite and Chip Ripkin – none of whom had had any insight into the disappearance of Barney Thomson. They had plenty of opinions and handy hints on what to do to him should he ever be found – Henderson in particular having several innovative suggestions regarding Barney's scrotum – but nothing that was actually of any help. They'd left after an hour, aware that there was nothing new to be gleaned about Barney Thomson in Glasgow. It was Inverness or nothing; and more likely, Inverness and nothing.

Mulholland had considered stopping off in Perth to speak to the suspect's brother, Allan. Had chosen to make a phone call instead, as he'd thought it might be a waste of time. Suspicions confirmed. Allan and Barbara Thomson had changed their surname, and it hadn't been until Mulholland had threatened to arrive on his doorstep with the full weight of CID that Allan had even admitted knowing Barney. However, he'd had little to concede beyond that – and he had not been lying – and after fifteen minutes' fruitless discussion, the brother had had to retire to share a bottle of £4.95 Chilean Chardonnay – fruity with a hint of lighter fluid – with his wife.

'So, what does Blitz! have to say for itself, then? Usual stuff about how to have an orgasm with a staple gun?'

Proudfoot licked some Irn Bru from her lips, turned back to the cover. He glanced over at the photo of the pale Bic, wearing midnight-maroon lipstick.

'Not that far off,' she said. 'We've got, Jet Ski Sex – 1,001 Great Positions. Tantric Sex – Don't Think About It, Just Do It! Cindy Crawford On Learning To Live With A Big Spot On Your Face. Ukranian Catalogue Hunks – The Best Thirty Quid You'll Ever Spend.'

'You're making those up,' said Mulholland.

'Sadly no. Want to hear the rest?'

'Might learn something.'

'Getting The Most From Your Dildo. How To Spot A Multiple Orgasm. Toothpaste Tube Masturbation – We Test All The Well-Known Brands. Johnny Depp's Armpits – Hairy, Horny & Yours For A Fiver. Men And Sex – Why You Might be Better Off With A Doughnut. That's just about it.'

'A doughnut?'

'I missed one. Why I've Had It With Men – Gretchen Schumacher Tells All.' She shook her head. 'I don't know, what d'you think of Gretchen? Just looks like a stick of rhubarb with nipples to me.'

'A doughnut?'

'All these supermodels are the same these days. The older ones with the boobs are all right, but these new ones. A bunch of wee lassies. Horrible. Most of them look ill.'

She let out a long sigh, opened up the mag to the Johnny Depp article. Mulholland sat in the outside lane again, passing a stream of octogenarian Sunday drivers, defying convention by going out midweek.

'A doughnut?'

She ignored him. They drove on in silence.

Time passed, rain fell, cars were overtaken, cars got in the way, cars sped by in the outside lane. For all that he concentrated on the road, or tried to think about his wife or the woman sitting next to him, Joel Mulholland could not help but think about Barney Thomson.

What kind of monster would commit the crimes that he had committed? Could you call such a being a man? Was he not a beast? Or had the mother been the beast, Barney the unwilling abettor?

Whatever his part in it all, the previous two weeks had seen him become more than he had been. Suddenly he'd become an icon. A means to sell newspapers, a wondrous talking point, a hate figure, a pity figure, a monster, a victim. Depended on to whom you talked. If they caught him, Mulholland knew that Thomson would still have his apologists, still have the women queuing up to support him and to propose to him. It was all it took to achieve celebrity in this day and age – grotesque murder.

And how many of those who talked endlessly of the man, genuinely wanted him caught? He served so many purposes on the run. Continued to sell newspapers, a colossal build-up to his eventual capture; if he was never apprehended, then they would have something to write about for the next fifty years; he provided something on which the nation could concentrate its fears, an outlet for the terror it might feel towards this modern age. Barney Thomson had become an Everyman, the manifestation of the population's individual fears. A generic terror, representing dread, panic, loathing, sympathy and, in a desperate few, hope.

Mulholland had to get his mind off it. Knew you couldn't think too much about these kinds of things, couldn't dwell on what you might face in the course of your duties, else you might never go to work.

'A doughnut?' he repeated, some fifteen minutes after the previous time. Ignored her heavy sigh. 'Why not a banana? Why not a tube of Italian sausage or a Toblerone or a black pudding? Why a doughnut?'

She looked at him, dragging herself away from 12 Great Reasons To Have Sex With Your Marriage Counsellor.

'You want me to explain it to you?'

'Aye. I'm just a simple man, after all.'

Simple indeed, she thought.

'Can you think of anything more useless for a woman to have sex with than a doughnut?'

'That's my point,' he said.

'And yet they still manage to find fifty reasons why doughnuts are better than men.' Dramatic pause. 'That's their point.'

The rain cascaded.

'So, what are they saying? All those articles about eight million positions in the back seat of a Reliant Robin; what they mean is eight million positions with a doughnut in the back seat of a Reliant Robin?'

'Of course not. They're all about men. You don't think one article has to be consistent with any other, do you? How many magazines do you read?'

A lesson learned. Mulholland drove on. Proudfoot returned to having sex with her marriage counsellor, wondering if you had to be married to get hold of one.

***

They sat before the manager of the Inverness branch of the Clydesdale Bank. An austere-looking woman; more hair than required, Alfred Hitchcock nose, skin the texture of mature cheddar. Narrow eyes, lips thinner. Voice like a slap on a bare arse. Both Proudfoot and Mulholland had the same thought; would you ask this woman for a loan?

Their visit to the Chief Constable of the Northern Constabulary had been postponed until later in the afternoon, although that was something else from which they expected little.

'I really don't know how I can help you,' said the bank manager, following a few seconds' reticence.

'Humour us, if you would, Mrs Gregory,' said Mulholland. Had a quick vision of Mr Gregory. On the other side of the planet, if he had any sense. 'We can never cover old ground too many times. Our colleagues might have missed something.'

'I really don't think there is anything to miss, Chief Inspector. Your Mr Thomson's card was used to withdraw two hundred pounds from the cashpoint in Academy Street at six-thirty pm, two weeks ago last Tuesday. None of my staff had any contact with him, and our records indicate that he has attempted no further transactions in the intervening period. I really don't know what else there is to say on the matter.'

'You're positive there's been noth—'

'Really, Chief Inspector,' she interrupted, after the fashion of her face. 'Just because the police have proved their own ineptitude in their inability to bring this notorious fugitive to justice, does not mean that we are all incompetent in our chosen employment.'

Mulholland nodded. Considered his next question. Didn't really have any more. 'Can you tell us how much Barney Thomson has left in his account?'

'Really,' she said, exhaling loudly. 'I don't know how many of your colleagues I've already passed this information to.'

'How much, Mrs Gregory?'

'A little less than ten pounds,' she replied, head shaking.

'So basically he cleared as much as he could from the cash machine?'

'Yes, it would be true to say that.'

'And did he have an overdraft facility?'

She raised an eyebrow. Lips tightened, then disappeared altogether. 'I'm afraid you'd have to ask his own branch for that information.'

'Bollocks,' said Proudfoot. 'Tell us now, or CID turns up here en masse, and rips your computers apart.'

Mulholland glanced out the corner of his eye, said nothing.

'Really,' said Mrs Gregory, exasperated. Enjoying every minute of it, in a strange Calvinistic way. Would revel in telling her husband the story. Verbal police brutality. Might even write to the Press & Journal. 'He did not have an overdraft facility. A very good account-holder, as it happens, Mr Thomson.'

Let the words scissor out, hinting that Barney Thomson had, in some way, more moral fibre than either Mulholland or Proudfoot.

'So, there'd be no point in him going to another branch?'

'No, I shouldn't think there would be.'

Mulholland nodded. With admirable inspiration and only one day late at the races, Woods had alerted all banks to the possibility of Barney using a cash machine. Not to disallow him from doing it, but to give them the chance to notify the police as it was happening, if that had been possible. But as he'd closed the stable door, the horse had already been in a field on the other side of the mountains.

'Right then, Mrs Gregory, I think that might be all. You'll let us know if Mr Thomson attempts any further transactions?'

'I'm sure I shall, Chief Inspector. And I'm equally sure that you will not be hearing from me again. I think you might find that your Mr Thomson has disappeared.'

'Leave that to us, Mrs Gregory. I expect we'll find the truth in this, regardless of whether he visits another bank.'

Mulholland stood up to go. Proudfoot followed. They were both dying to do that police thing where you arrest someone for no reason other than you don't like them, but it can get nasty if you do it off your own patch.

'Truth, Chief Inspector?' said Mrs Gregory. 'Many from an inconsiderate zeal unto truth have too rashly charged the troops of error, and remain as trophies unto the enemies of truth.'

Mulholland nodded. 'Aye. Watch you don't strain your tongue, talking like that. See a doctor if your condition worsens.'

They took their leave, walked from the office. The door closed behind them and Hermione Gregory was once again alone with her negligible empire.

'Wanker,' she said to the empty room.

***

They stood outside the bank, across from the train station. Cold and damp, although the sleet which had been falling since they'd arrived in Inverness was taking a ten-minute break. Depressed. Another irrelevant line of questioning gone by.

'What now?' asked Proudfoot.

'Bollocks, Mrs Gregory? I think that must contravene a police charter or two, don't you think? She wasn't a criminal.'

'Well, she was a pain in the arse. Same thing.'

Mulholland shrugged. Couldn't be bothered arguing. And he himself had been on the point of arresting the woman on suspicion of not changing her underwear every day.

'What now?' he said. 'Now we start trawling around every hotel and B&B in the Highlands, see if anyone recognises him. After we've spoken to the locals, of course. God knows what that's going to be like.'

'Every hotel and B&B?'

'Aye.'

'That's got to be thousands.'

'Very possibly.'

'You're kidding me?'

'Any other brilliant ideas about what we should do with our time?'

She stared at the sodden ground. Noticed the first splash of a renewed shower of sleet. Had an idea, but decided it was best kept to herself.

'Right,' said Mulholland. 'That's settled then. He didn't come up here to head back south. So, he's in Inverness or he's moved on. We check out every guest house, every B&B, every hotel, every room that he might have stayed in, between here, Wick, Durness and Fort William. If we don't find him, then we start heading east towards Aberdeen.'

'Just you and me?'

'Aye.'

'You don't think we could use some help on this?'

'We're not getting any help, Sergeant. The Chief Super wants instant results, but it doesn't mean he wants to spend any money on it. You can't expect them to pay to put police on the ground, when they have managers, accountants and consultants to employ. All the other officers assigned to Barney Thomson are doing other things, we're doing this. Happy?'

'Damp,' she said.

'Good. Right, you get along to the tourist information board and get the addresses of all registered accommodation.'

She shivered, pulled her coat close to her chest as the sleet intensified. 'And what are you going to do?'

'Going for a pint.'

'A pint?'

'Meet me at the car in half an hour.'

'A pint?'

Mulholland turned and was gone, walking into the sleet. Proudfoot stood, the slush in her face. Could already feel her coat giving in to the weather, her mind giving into misery and gloom. What was the point in all this trailing around? All those people, butchered and frozen and then casually disposed of. They were already dead, weren't they? The fact that the murders had ended with the death of the mother made it obvious; Barney Thomson had been clearing up after her. There weren't going to be any more murders. The ones who were dead were dead, and eventually everyone else on the planet would join them – and not by the hand of Barney Thomson – and we would all lie in the same grave, a farrago of twisted flesh, broken dreams and half-conceived ideas. Because that's all there ever was.

She watched Mulholland disappear into the crowd.

'Wanker,' she said, then turned on her heels and mournfully headed off towards the tourist information.

We Are All One Egg

––––––––

The monks were at breakfast. A full and delicious meal. Four rashers of bacon, two sausages, a poached egg, mushrooms, black pudding, tomatoes, haggis and fried bread; mugs of steaming tea; all the toast and marmalade they could eat.

In their dreams.

The first bread of the day was usually broken by the light of dawn – well after eight o'clock this late in the year – but today it had been postponed until late into the morning, following the burial of Brother Saturday and all the prayers which had needed to be said for his departed soul. And so they were unusually hungry as they sat down to their meal of porridge, unleavened bread and tea; having waited in further prayer for Brothers Steven and Jacob to return from gravedigging detail.

Conversation was not encouraged at mealtimes. The Abbot gave thanks to the Lord, and the monks would dine in respectful silence, grateful for the gift of food. At least, that was how it was supposed to be.

It was but one day since the body of Brother Saturday had been discovered. Clothed in a long white tunic, turned bloody red; his feet bare and blue, sitting against a tree in the forest. Eyes open, face relaxed, at peace with the world; and with God. A knife had been thrust deep into his throat, the blade to the hilt and protruding from the back of the neck. One of the old knives, which had been kept at the monastery since the fourteenth century; a gift from a Knight Templar, of uncertain and mysterious provenance. A knife that might have seen action in the Crusades, but certainly never since. Until it had pierced the throat and rendered the flesh of Brother Saturday.

He had been a popular member of the order, much loved by the other monks. He had answered the call thirty-seven years previously, on the back of a series of rejections at the hands of women, which had tormented him through the teenage years. A wayward eye, unruly hair, lips that meant he could do naught but kiss like a sea anemone, skin like the surface of a Rice Krispie, and many times had his heart been broken. However, he had found his peace with God, believing him to be not judgmental; ignoring the evidence of the Old Testament, where God won the Olympic gold for being judgmental, for several consecutive centuries.

For nine years past he had worked in the library, keeping meticulous care of the seven thousand volumes in his possession. Losing himself in books, the only way. He had come to the position of librarian at an early age. He should have been librarian's apprentice for many years. However, after only six months in the post, the librarian of the day, Brother Atwell had given in to the lure of compliant womanhood, and had fled the abbey on an evil and stormy night. Brother Saturday had been given premature promotion; Brother Morgan had become his apprentice. Not that anyone suspected Morgan of the heinous crime perpetrated upon Saturday.

There were many of the monks who would have been grateful for the opportunity to work in the library, away from the cold of the fields. The chance of working amongst the warmth of the books could have been a powerful motive; for an unbalanced mind. And there seemed little doubt that the killer had come from within the walls of the monastery itself, the murder weapon coming from the vaults of the abbey.

No one suspected the Abbot or Brother Herman. That left thirty others under suspicion; everyone from the longest-serving – the aged Brother Frederick, who had come to the monastery from the killing fields of Passchendaele – to the newest recruit, Brother Jacob. And there were few who doubted that many of their fellow brothers within those walls were hiding dark secrets and dark pasts.

'Brother Jacob?'

Barney turned. Breakfast was over, the company beginning to disassemble, the day's tasks ahead. Tending the livestock; fortifying the buildings and the land against the harsh winter to come; kitchen, cleaning and laundry duties. The mornings were for the work of the monastery, the afternoons for prayer and study with the Lord. Barney's task was to clean the floors.

'Aye?' he said to Brother Herman. Felt nervous in his presence.

Brother Herman's eyes stared from deep sockets, within a long, thin face. Long Face they'd called him at school. Behind his back.

'The Abbot will see you in his study in five minutes.' Deep voice. Ominous.

Barney nodded. The Abbot. Brother Copernicus. He had been awaiting the call. All new students of the order were called to the Abbot at the end of their first week. Barney had already been questioned by Brother Herman on Saturday's murder; wondered if this was why the Abbot would see him now. Further questioning. Barney, a man under suspicion. Felt like he couldn't get away from murder.

Five minutes. His heart raced.

***

Barney sat before the Abbot in the Spartan surroundings of his study. A simple desk, a wooden chair on either side. Bare stone floors and walls, a row of books along one. A long, slim cut in the wall behind the Abbot, the window open, so that the cold of the room was the cold of outside. The light of day was augmented by two oil lamps mounted on the walls and an unlit candle sat on the desk. The Abbot read. Left hand turning the pages of the book, right hand tucked away inside his cloak.

Barney stewed.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, he could imagine himself saying, though he had never attended confession in his life. I committed murder. Well, more manslaughter really. I didn't mean to do it. Chris and Wullie, the men I worked with. They were a pain in the arse – sorry, Father – but I didn't really want them dead.

Then my mother died and I discovered six bodies in her freezer. Forgive her as well, Father, she knew not what she did. I wronged, I know that. I should have confessed all, like Bart does in that episode of The Simpsons when he cuts the statue's head off. But I panicked. I disposed of all the bodies and made it look like Chris was the killer. There were four policemen on to me, but they all shot each other. That definitely wasn't my fault, it was just stupidity. So, I suppose...

'Brother Jacob,' said the Abbot, closing his book and looking up. Barney's heart danced; he ended his silent confession.

'It's not too cold for you?'

Barney was freezing.

'No, no, I'm fine,' he said. Shivered; hairs stood erect, goose bumps rampaged across his body like German storm troopers.

The Abbot nodded; knew that Barney lied.

He took his time, considering his words. The Abbot, Brother Copernicus. Had renounced the pleasures of the world in his early twenties, had been at the monastery since the fifties. Hair was greyed; the paunch of youth had long ago given way to a sinewy body, engulfed by the cloak. Thin lips, a sharp nose, green eyes which saw more than eyes were meant to. Not, however, a man without humour.

'I'm sorry that your first week has been blighted by such terrible circumstances, Jacob. A terrible business.'

No bother, thought Barney. I'm thinking of opening a shop; Cadavers 'R' Us.

'I'm sorry too, Your Grace,' he said.

The thin lips stretched and smiled. The eyes too. 'It's all right, Jacob, I'm not the Pope. Brother Copernicus will do.'

Barney smiled and nodded. Relaxed a little. Felt more at ease.

'How are you settling in, Brother?'

Barney pondered the question.

Bad points: no gas or electricity; no hot water; lamps out by eight o'clock, up at five-thirty; a thin single bed, hard wood, two coarse blankets; no entertainment, no distractions but for the scriptures and other works of religious learning; day after day on his hands and knees cleaning the floors; praise be to God; God the father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost; God all-seeing, God divine; God this, God that, God the next thing. God, God, God, God, God, God, God. Bloody God.

Good points: the food wasn't too bad; a cup of wine with dinner every night; there was no contact with the outside world, so no one had ever heard of Barney Thomson. That was about it.

'Not bad, you know.' Laughed self-consciously. 'Takes a bit of getting used to, but I'm all right.'

The Abbot nodded. Drummed the fingers of his left hand on the desk. Long, cold fingers. Barney could feel them at his throat; shivered, tried to clear his head of fears and sorrows.

'Our monks come here for all sorts of reasons, Jacob. It is not for me to question or examine them. We, each of us, must be content in our hearts that we are where we belong. There are many who come here and realise after a time that this life is not for them. One such was Brother Camberene, who came to us for a few sad months last year. He'd been involved in a tragic accident, blaming himself for the resulting fatality. He was racked by guilt, his life tortured by anguish. He stopped going to work, his wife left him. After a time, the river of fate, which winds its way through the lives of us all, led him to us. But I am afraid that even we could not provide the answers for which he searched. He spent a few unhappy months, then moved on. A sad and desperate, restless soul. We all still say our prayers for Brother Camberene, but I am afraid that we might never hear of him again. However, wherever he may be, we know that God is with him.'

Barney swallowed, stared at the desk. Saw himself in the story. 'What sort of accident was he in?'

The Abbot shook his head. Sombre eyes.

'He ran over a six-year-old boy with a full trolley in Tesco's.'

Barney stared.

'That's a supermarket, apparently,' said the Abbot, 'although I presume you know that.'

Barney wanted to meet Brother Camberene. Sounded like his kind of man.

The Abbot looked up, let the weight of Camberene lift from his shoulders.

'So, what I'm trying to say is this. If you do not find your answers among us, we shall not condemn. We are here to help you. If you find that this life is not for you, we would wish you on your way with the love of God and the love of all our hearts. And should you find contentment here, you will have our love and understanding as you learn our ways, and the ways of the Lord.'

Speech over. Barney was a little wide-eyed.

It was like being at Sunday school. He was reminded of Miss Trondheim. Tall, dark complexion; black hair, one growing out of a mole on her left cheek. And Mr Blackberry. Short; Stewart Granger hair, although he had once come in with a Robert Mitchum.

No words came his way. He tried to look at one with God.

The Abbot was used to such reticence.

'However, Jacob, having said that, if there is something about your past which you wish to share with me, I am here to listen. If there is something from which you run, it is often best to face it, even if it is from within these walls.'

Giving the new brother his first chance to speak, the Abbot knew he would say nothing. They all arrived with their secrets and insecurities, and in time they would out. But not yet.

'No, no, you know,' said Barney. 'I thought I'd try something new. Bit disillusioned with life, you know.'

The Abbot nodded, pursed his lips.

'It is late in life for a change, Jacob. No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment, for that which is put in to fill up taketh from the garment, and the rent is made worse. Neither do men put new wine into old bottles: else the bottles break, and the wine runneth out, and the bottles perish: but they put new wine into new bottles, and both are preserved.

'You should remember those words, Jacob.'

'What?' said Barney, surprised. 'You make wine up here? This far north?'

The Abbot smiled. 'You have much to learn, Jacob. You should read your Bible.'

'Aye. Right.'

The Abbot looked into the heart of Barney Thomson, wondering what lay therein. Knew that sooner or later it would emerge, but there was no hurry. Had no reason to suspect him of the murder of Brother Saturday. No more than any of the others, at any rate.

'One final point, Jacob, as you start out on this new road which lies ahead. As you can see, ours is a simple life. We have little contact with the outside world and we take care of most of our own needs. Might there be a skill from your past which you would be able to share with us?'

Barney thought. Dare he tell them about barbery? Might it put them on to him? But they obviously had no idea what was going on in the outside world.

'I've done a bit of haircutting in my time,' he said.

The Abbot raised an eyebrow. 'A barber?'

'Aye.'

'Well. It is indeed many years since we had a professional hirsutologist in our midst. A most noble trade.' His hand automatically strayed to the back of his neck. 'Brother Adolphus does his best, but sadly his skills in this direction are somewhat lacking. Despite all our prayers.'

Barney felt a swelling of his heart. It had only been two weeks, during which time he had given the odd one-off haircut around the Highlands, but he had missed the click of the scissors, the bite of the razor into the back of the neck, the pointless chatter. Wondered if St Johnstone were managing to hang on at the top of the league.

'Could do with a bit of a haircut myself,' said the Abbot.

'Oh, aye?' said Barney, feeling useful. 'I'm sure I could help you out.'

'That would be good,' said the Abbot. 'Later on this afternoon, perhaps. After prayers, before dark. I wouldn't mind a Brother Cadfael.'

Barney smiled and nodded. A Brother Cadfael, eh? Had done one of them a couple of years previously. Piece of cake. Was there any other haircut he could possibly give these people?

***

The door closed behind Barney Thomson; the Abbot stared after him for a short while. A closed door. How many doors were closed within the monastery, and for what reasons hidden in the depths of a mysterious past?

He sighed, slowly lifted himself from the chair. He turned and stared out at the bright, white morning. Snow upon snow, stretching across the forest to the hills in the distance. And yet the full cold blast of winter had not arrived.

For a time he watched a buzzard circle above the forest. Silent brown against the pale blue sky.

Meanwhile, Barney Thomson walked along the corridors of the monastery, a whistle marginally beneath his lips. Light of heart for the first time in a fortnight, having completely failed to notice the exact meaning of some of the Abbot's words. That the monks had little contact with the outside world. Little, but not none, as he had thought.

As he took to his bucket and mop for the first time that morning, The Girl From Ipanema momentarily escaped his lips.

***

The third floor of the monastery, at the north end, a room of bright light; the library. Brother Morgan leant over his desk, large hand gripping small quill pen, etching out the clear rounded figures. Translating into English the original Greek of a series of third-century letters. He was one of only three of the monks who read Greek – for some of the others there was a painful learning process, for the rest, ignorance.

The translation was a task he had been on for some weeks; begun in the days when he'd still been Saturday's assistant, content with his lot, little thought for advancement. A monk was all Morgan had ever wanted to be. Librarian's apprentice had been a bonus. Anything else was unasked for and unwanted. He would be happy for someone else to be made librarian and for him to retain the role which he had held for many years. Trusted all the brothers, yet was worried that a similar fate might befall him as befell Saturday. Perhaps Saturday had died because of some lovers' tiff within the monastery walls, or maybe he'd died because of his position. It was the latter which worried Morgan.

There was a noise across the room, from within the rows of shelves. Morgan lifted his head, stilled his pen. Even in the bright light of the room, the shelves were in shadow. A conspiracy. He felt a shiver at the back of his neck. Insects crawling across his skin.

'Hello?'

A movement. A rat? There hadn't been rats in the monastery for over a hundred years. That's what they said.

'Hello?' he repeated, with more urgency. Annoyed. Didn't like being disturbed at his work. Knew how easy it was to make mistakes when you lost concentration. One of the reasons he'd dropped out of life.

The annoyance masked his trepidation.

A figure appeared from among the shelves. He relaxed.

'Hello, Brother,' said Morgan. Relief. Impatience too, as the monk emerged from the shadows.

The visitor held up a small volume. Didn't smile. Stared from the depths of plunging eye sockets.

'It is many years since I have studied the original Latin translation of Paul's letters,' he said. 'I have been most remiss. You will record that I have removed this volume?'

'Certainly, Brother,' said Morgan, wondering why people had to be so bloody clandestine.

Brother Morgan watched as the monk slowly walked from the library and closed the door behind him. Lifted his pen. Back to work. Why did some of the brothers feel the need for mystery? There was enough darkness at the monastery as it was.

As he began the slow movement of the pen across the thick page, he felt a cold draught of air at his feet. Looked up. The door to the library swung open an inch or two.

And a cold wind blew.

Is He Is, Or Is He Ain't

––––––––

Mrs Mary Strachan bent her ear towards the television, trying to listen to the news above the sound of her husband rifling the Scotsman, at the same time as she struggled through a tricky interpretation of Quintus Horatius Flaccus's second book of epistles.

'For pity's sake, man, would you haud yer wheesht with yon paper? I can't hear the telly.'

James Strachan tutted loudly, rustled the paper even more.

'Help m'boab, woman, what are you on about? You know fine well that you can't watch television and translate Horace from the original Latin at the same time. Not since you lost your eye in the sheep incident last March.'

'Ach, flech to you, James Strachan, flech to you. My mother always said you were a manny of little vision. I should've listened to her.'

'Ach, away and boil your heid, woman,' he said, settling on the inside sports pages. Rangers Fail In £45 Million Bid For Six-Year-Old Italian. 'What did your mother know? The woman spent all her days doing wee jobbies at the bottom of the garden. Had a clue about nothing.'

'Don't you be maligning my mother, James Strachan. It wasn't my mother who was arrested for stealing underwear off Mrs MacPherson's washing line.'

He looked over the paper for the first time. 'Jings to crivvens, woman, I don't believe it. Must you bring yon up every single day? We read that we ought to forgive our enemies; but we do not read that we ought to forgive our friends. Think about that, woman.'

'Don't you go quoting Cosimo de'Medici at me, James Strachan. D'you think I can show my face in the supermarket without people talking about it? Well, do you? There's not a day goes by when I don't hear the whispers. Not a day goes by?'

'For pity's sake, woman, it was seventy-three year ago.'

'That may be, James Strachan, that may be. But it might as well have been yesterday, as far as this town is concerned.'

'Ach, away with you, Mary Strachan. There was nobody in this town alive seventy-three year ago except me and thee.'

'Jings to goodness, James Strachan, what does that matter? You think anyone alive today was around when the English sucked us into the Act of Union? We still hate them for it.'

'Help m'flipping boab, what are you on about, Mary Strachan? You and your Act of Union. If it wasn't for the Act of Union we'd all still be living in peat bogs and eating oats for dinner.'

'There you go, havering again, James Strachan, havering again. Here, look at yon!'

She broke off, pointing at the television. The lunchtime news.

'See, I told you!'

James Strachan tutted loudly, rustled the paper. 'Told me what? What are you talking about?'

'That picture, that Barney Thomson character. He was the one who stayed here just over a week ago. I told you it was him.

He glanced up, then buried his head in the paper. 'Ach, away and stick your heid in a pan of tatties. What would a serial killer be doing staying in a place like Durness? Serial killers live in big houses with all the windows boarded up. I've seen the films.'

She shook her head, pointed at the television. 'Look at those eyes, I'd recognise them anywhere. That man's a serial killer if ever there was one, and he stayed right here in this house. Slept in the bed yon German couple are sleeping in at the moment.'

James Strachan lowered the paper again. He stared at the television, then at his wife. 'And what if it was? What of it? He's gone now. Are you going to run along to the police, are you?'

Mary Strachan bristled. Shoulders back, chin out.

'Well, I don't know about that. He looked a nice enough lad. Maybe they've got the wrong one, you know.'

'You just said he looked like a serial killer!'

'Aye, but you know, these things are hard to tell. And it's not as if you're one to talk.'

'Ach, away and shite, woman,' he said, from deep within the rugby reports. Scotland Select New Zealander Whose Granny Holidayed On Skye Once.

***

Proudfoot climbed into the car beside Mulholland. Found him reading Blitz! and eating the last of the sandwiches. Didn't mind, as she'd had everything she'd been going to get from the tourist information within ten minutes. Had stopped for a bite to eat.

'Surprised you're not listening to Simply Red,' she said. Shivered, removed her coat and threw it onto the back seat. The sleet was softening, turning to snow.

'I'm sure you are. Just reading something here,' he said, tapping the magazine. 'Apparently, if you coat your breasts in dried alligator milk, it'll improve your orgasm strength. I'm assuming that's aimed at women, though.'

'Didn't work for me.'

He gave her a look, saw she was joking. Closed the magazine.

'Right, then. What are we looking at? You get a list?'

'Yep. Everywhere that anyone could stay in Inverness, a long list of places outside of town as far north as he could've gone. Lot of them closed for winter, so it cuts it down at least.'

He checked his watch.

'Just after two. Got to see Inspector Dumpty of Northern Constab, get that over with, then we can start. Split up and get on with it. Should be done with Inverness before it's too late, meet back here between six and seven. You get two lists?'

'Yes,' she said tetchily.

'Just checking. Ferguson wouldn't have thought of it.'

Proudfoot thought of the woman she'd dealt with at the tourist information. Ferguson would still be there, fixing up a date.

'Lets get it sorted how we'll split it. At the end of the day we'll find somewhere to spend the night, then set off tomorrow and take each town as it comes.'

She nodded. Couldn't think of anything she'd less like to be doing; couldn't think of a single aspect of police work which currently appealed to her.

'How was the pint?' she asked.

'Very informative,' he said, smiling. 'Too bad you weren't there.'

Bastard, thought Proudfoot.

***

As they might have supposed, they had to wait to see the Chief Constable, a man of whom they had heard tell. They found themselves in a small room, unsatisfactory mugs of tea having cooled on the table, the Moray Firth slate grey to match the skies, barely visible between the walls of wet buildings. Unsure of what to expect of their man, for what policeman likes outsiders coming onto his patch?

In turn they sat at the desk, then paced the short floor space, then looked out at the grey day. Wrestled, in their heads, with their own thoughts of depression and loneliness and unease. Proudfoot more comfortable with those thoughts than Mulholland.

Finally the door opened, shattering the atmosphere. Relief swiped at Mulholland.

'The Chief Constable will see you now,' said the maroon cardigan, masquerading as the middle-aged woman beneath.

***

The Chief Constable stood with his back to them, staring out over the cold estuary. Looking for dolphins, although he hadn't seen one in over three months. The door closed behind them and they waited, much as they had already been waiting.

They were in the midst of the opulence they had come to expect from chief constables; thick carpet, huge desk, comfy chair, photographs on the wall with the senior police officer in question shaking the hand of an even more senior police officer or a low-budget member of the royal family – although, in this case, all Chief Constable Dr Reginald McKay had been able to manage was a picture of himself directing traffic outside Balmoral Castle.

'Dolphins,' he said.

Mulholland and Proudfoot shared a glance. Here we go.

'What about them?' asked Mulholland, reluctantly playing the game.

'Used to be a cartload of them out there. Used to be able to stand here for hours, watching them in the distance. Where are they now? Haven't seen one in months.'

The question disappeared into the room. It's probably Barney Thomson's fault, thought Proudfoot.

Reginald McKay left them standing for another minute before turning round, nodding at his visitors and sinking into the green depths of his comfy chair. He stared absent-mindedly at some papers on his desk, while ushering them into two less salubrious chairs. Finally engaged their eyes, looking from one to the other. 'I'm greatly troubled, I must admit,' he said.

'Aye,' said Mulholland. Down to business at last.

'I've spoken to all sorts of groups, but no one seems to have any idea what's happened to them.'

'Them?'

'The dolphins. Ach, I know it's cold out there, but they're fish.'

'No they're not.'

'Whatever. They don't mind the cold. But I haven't seen one in months. Hard to believe that something really terrible hasn't happened. Some terrible tragedy. Effie thinks it's the Russians, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Norwegians didn't have something to do with it. Bunch of idiots, the lot of them.'

'Barney Thomson?' said Mulholland.

'Thomson?' said McKay. 'Norwegian, is he? Not surprised.'

'We need to talk about him. That's why we're here.'

McKay nodded. A man of infinite years, hair greyed, face lined, eyes dimmed. 'Of course, laddie. You big shots from Glasgow, I suppose you'll be wanting to get on with things.'

'Aye,' said Mulholland. Big shots. Jesus.

'You'll be intending to traipse all over the Highlands, will you?'

'For as long as it takes.'

'Well, good luck to you laddie. I'm sure you'll find traces of your man, but I doubt you'll find the man himself.'

'You've heard tell of him, then?'

'Aye, aye, we've been getting reports from all over.'

They leant forward, Mulholland's eyes narrowed.

'No, laddie, don't go peeing your pants. There's nothing definite, you know. It's all conjecture and vague noises. Whisperings you might say. Rumours in the wind.'

Mulholland leant back in his chair, eyes remained narrowed.

'What kind of rumours?'

McKay tapped a single finger on the desk, looked from one to the other. Didn't like outsiders, they never understood. Unlike dolphins. They understood everything.

'We're getting reports. Vague things without any real meaning, nothing to put your finger on. We think he might be working to get some money. We've been hearing of whole communities where the men have all suddenly been given the most wondrous haircuts. Hair of the gods, they're saying. Some say he's more of a loose cannon, bouncing all over the place, giving out haircuts with fickle irregularity. You'll have heard of the Brahan Seer?'

Mulholland shrugged, Proudfoot nodded, so McKay looked at her.

'They say he wrote of such a man. Prophesied his coming.'

'What?' said Mulholland.

'He told of a man who would come into the community and wield a pair of scissors as if his hands were guided by magic. A man who could call the gods his ancestors. A man who would cut the hair of all the warriors in the kingdom, so that the strength of many kings would be in the hands of each of them. A man who would come out of tragedy and leave one morning in the mists before anyone had risen, never to be heard of again. A god, may be, or a messenger of the gods. But whatever, his time would be short, his coming a portent of dark times ahead, yet his passing would be greatly mourned. A messiah, in a way, although perhaps that might be too strong a word to be using. Anyway, they are saying that maybe Barney Thomson might be that man.'

'You're taking the piss, right?' said Mulholland.

The lined and furrowed brow creased a little more, the old grey head shook.

'I'm only telling you what is being said Chief Inspector, but these are deeply superstitious people you have come amongst. Once you head into Sutherland and Caithness, they're not like you Lowlanders with your English ways and your fancy Channel 5 reception. You must respect them, for only then will they respect you. However, I think if you find anyone who has had contact with this man, they will be reluctant to talk. He is seen by many in these parts to have been wronged.'

'He and his mother murdered eight people!'

'We've all read the papers up here and, for myself, I have read the reports, such as you have deemed to send my way. Clearly the mother was the main culprit, and if he acted to cover up the actions of his sick parent, then should he be judged a criminal?'

They stared at him. Proudfoot saw his point; Mulholland was speechless. This was a police officer he was talking to, not some brain-dead hippie or civil rights activist.

'And how he is hounded by your press,' said McKay. 'Barney Thomson Ate My Goat. Barney Thomson Slaughters Virgin In Sacrifice Blunder. The Congo – It's Thomson's Fault. It's absurd, you must see that. All of it.'

Mulholland rested farther back in the chair. It may have been absurd, the media may have been totally demented and desperate bedfellows of sensationalism, but it didn't mean that Barney Thomson should be excused his crimes, no matter how much had been his mother's doing.

McKay looked uncomfortable, as he shuffled some unnecessary papers on his desk; drummed his fingers, scratched an imaginary itch on his left ear. Breathed deeply enough through his nose that it was almost a snort.

'Anyway, I thought I might assign someone to you to ease your way around.'

'What?'

'Help you out, you know. Show you what's what?'

Mulholland leant forward, white knuckles. McKay stared at a report on his desk: Dolphins – Talk Show Hosts or Talk Show Guests?

'For God's sake! We're not in some foreign country. Their accents might be a bit weird, but we won't need it translated. Jesus, we're not children, we don't need any help!'

McKay lifted his eyes, unused to being spoken to in such a way by a junior officer.

'You will remember your place, Chief Inspector,' he said quietly.

Their eyes clashed and fought some pointless testosterone-laden battle, before Mulholland inched backwards, giving way. Proudfoot watched him from the corner of a narrowed eye. McKay pressed the intercom.

'Send in Sergeant MacPherson, Mrs Staples, please,' he said.

Ah! thought Proudfoot. Another Sergeant MacPherson on the Barney Thomson case, just as before. Must be something in that. No such thing as a coincidence in policing. Or life in general.

The door opened, in he came. Tall, broad-shouldered, kind face. They looked round. Proudfoot liked what she saw, Mulholland thought he recognised him.

'This is Detective Sergeant MacPherson, who'll be working with you. I'm sure he'll be of the greatest assistance.'

He nodded, the two of them returned it, Mulholland grudgingly.

'My name's Gordon,' said MacPherson, Highland accent broader than the Firth, 'but everyone calls me Sheep Dip.'

Proudfoot smiled. I'm not going to ask, thought Mulholland. Turned to the sound of the Chief Constable pushing his chair away from the desk.

'Right then, Chief Inspector, if there's anything else you're needing, you can let me know. Keep us posted, and if there are any activities required to be undertaken in and around any of the towns you visit, perhaps you'd be kind enough to notify the local constabulary. Sergeant MacPherson will no doubt help you out.'

'No bother,' said Sheep Dip.

Brilliant, thought Mulholland. Wondered if he would have to tell them every time he checked into a B&B or put petrol in the car or took a piss.

They stepped outside the office, past Mrs Staples, and then out into the open-plan where the heart of Highland crime detection snoozed the afternoon away. A lost dog in Dingwall. A child stuck up a tree outside Drumnadrochit. A teenager baring his bum in Beauly, that second can of McEwan's his undoing. An accident involving a tractor and a low-flying Tornado on the Strathconon road out of Marybank. Heroin with a street value of £23 million seized on a Russian trawler in the Moray Firth.

A normal day.

The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt

––––––––

Barney felt at home. A pair of scissors in his right hand, a comb in his left, a cut-throat razor at his side. No other tools with which to work. Barbery at its most coarse, unfettered by electric razors or blow-dryers or artificial lights. No cape around the victim to squeeze the neck and protect the virgin body from follicular contamination. Barbery as it must have been practised in olden days, when men were men and the earth was flat. Raw, Stone Age barbery, where every snip of the scissors was done by instinct, where every cut was a potential disaster, every clip a walk along a tightrope of calamity, every hew a cleave into the kernel of the collective human id. Barbery without a safety net. Barbery to put fear into the breast of the bravest knight, to quail the heart of the stoutest king. A duel with the Satan of pre-modernism, where strength became artistry and genius the episcopacy of fate. Total barbery; naked, bloody stripped of artifice.

'Apparently Jesus was a shortarse,' said Barney, carefree around the left ear. Forgetting where he was, to whom he was talking. Brother Ezekiel raised an eyebrow.

Barney was revelling in the primitive conditions. In one afternoon he had reeled off a Sean Connery (Name of the Rose), a Christian Slater (Name of the Rose), an F Murray Abraham (Name of the Rose) and a Ron Perlman (Name of the Rose); as well as the Abbot's Brother Cadfael. No cash, no tips, just quiet words of praise and heartfelt thanks for doing the Lord's work.

'Four foot six, they say. With a hunchback.'

Brother Ezekiel coughed portentously into the back of his hand.

'You're forgetting where you are, Brother Jacob.'

Barney stopped, scissors poised. Thought about it. Said, 'Oh, shit, aye.'

Brother Ezekiel closed his eyes in silent prayer for the errant monk. Disparaging the Lord, swearing – you could always tell a new recruit.

Barney lapsed into silence. He ran the comb through the hair, clicked the scissors. The light from outside was beginning to fade and he was glad of the three candles which flickered on the small shelf. He was supposed to be keeping his head down and his mouth shut. His language wasn't too bad – not by Glasgow standards – but it was still unnecessarily unsavoury for within the monastery walls.

He had been doing fine. Head down, only speaking when spoken to. Like any new recruit in any walk of life. Don't make a noise until you had your feet under the table. However, a couple of hours of barbery had been his undoing. He'd been all right during the Sean Connery and the Abbot's Cadfael. Finding his feet, getting back into the groove, reacquainting himself with his scissors fingers. However, ten minutes into the Christian Slater, Brother Sledge had made an innocent remark about the weather and Barney had been unleashed, his mouth running ahead of him like a leopard on amphetamines.

And so, he'd covered all the great topics of the day: the profligacy of that year's December snow; the situation in Ngorno Karabakh; apparently Tolkien wrote The Lord of the Rings in a fortnight; fifteen reasons why Beethoven wasn't as deaf as he liked to make out; six kings of Scotland who were circumcised at the age of fifty; how Sid James nearly beat out Giscard D'Estaing to the French presidency in 1974; why Kennedy only won the US presidency because he kept J Edgar Hoover supplied with edible underwear; Errol Flynn was a woman; apparently Jesus was a shortarse. Barney had been full of it; total, inexorable bollocks. He'd been at the peak of his form, talking the sort of crap of which most guys with fifteen pints in them could only dream.

The monks had sat and listened; smiling occasionally, nodding sagely at the appropriate moments, moments when Barney had not necessarily been expecting them to nod. For they had seen it all before. The new monk, unfamiliar with the conventions and truths of monastic life, whose tongue would not be still. Every now and again one of these types might survive the rigours of this austere existence, but usually they would last no longer than a snowman in the Sahara.

Few within the walls were prepared to put their money on Brother Jacob lasting longer than a few weeks; even if any of them had possessed money, and if the Abbot had not closed down the tote operated by Brother Steven.

For now, however, following Ezekiel's admonishment, Barney snipped quietly. Kept his mouth shut, his thoughts to himself. Tried to think of everything else he had said that afternoon, wondered if he had strayed beyond the boundaries of discretion; words which had been allowed to pass, but which had not gone unnoticed. He could not remember; thought of goldfish.

Brother Ezekiel stared at the wall; no mirrors here. His thoughts, like those of many of his colleagues, were still consumed by the unfortunate demise of Brother Saturday, and by futile speculation on who might have perpetrated the crime. Ezekiel was among those who believed that the Abbot should call on the outside agencies of the law, but the Abbot's word must be respected. If he had faith in the ability of Brother Herman to get to the bottom of the murky river of truth, then so should the rest of the monks. But what if Herman was not so above suspicion as everyone thought? Ezekiel's brow furrowed; he made a mental note not to voice that doubt to anyone.

The door swung open behind them, the cold air rushed in. Barney shivered and turned. Remembered to stop cutting as he did so. How many times in the old days, before his renaissance of the previous March, had he forgotten that fundamental law and inadvertently swiped off an ear?

'Time for one more?' asked Brother Steven, closing the door behind him. 'I heard you're only doing this barber gig twice a week.'

Barney looked down at the tonsured head of Brother Ezekiel. Dome shaved to perfection, back of the head cut with Germanic precipitousness. In fact, the haircut was finished. Realised that the only reason he'd still been cutting, was that he hadn't wanted it to end. When he was done here, he would be required to spend an hour or two in religious contemplation; to commune with God.

'Aye, fine,' he said. 'Come on in. I'm done, in fact.'

He lifted the towel from around Ezekiel's neck, shook the detritus of the cut onto the floor, stepped back, allowed Ezekiel to stand. Ezekiel ran his fingers along the back of his neck. Was impressed with the lack of hair having worked its way down to irritate and annoy.

'Thank you very much, Brother, a good haircut, I believe,' he said, although he could not possibly know. 'Your hands must have been guided by God.'

Barney smiled, thinking, bugger off! God had nothing to do with it, mate. Knew he should not be having such thoughts.

'Goodbye, Brother,' he said instead, as Ezekiel took his leave. Off in search of a mirror, knowing of at least two of the monks who kept one hidden beneath a pillow.

Brother Steven took his seat. He turned, giving Barney an encouraging look.

'Heard you're doing some fine work, Brother,' he said. Barney said nothing, felt pleased nonetheless. 'They're saying in the kitchens that if Marlon Brando had cut Martin Sheen's hair in Apocalypse Now, this is how he would've done it. Cutting hair like a god-king.'

Barney shrugged, placed the towel around Steven's shoulders.

'It's nothing. Just my job.'

Steven nodded, knowing exactly from where Barney came.

'What'll it be, then?' asked Barney. Presumed it was going to be another Name of the Rose job, although he did wonder how many of them had actually ever seen Name of the Rose. Or Brother Cadfael for that matter.

Steven ran his hand across his chin.

'Think I'll go for a Mike McShane (Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves). What d'you think? Think that'll suit me?'

Barney stared at the top of Steven's head. Had never heard of Mike McShane. Presumed, correctly, that it couldn't be too different from any other haircut he'd given that day.

'Perfect,' he said.

'Great. I'll go for that then.'

Steven settled back, that look of satisfied contentment on his chops. The look of someone who knew that life was a bowl of curried lamb keich, but who was quite content with the fact. At one with his own, and other's, foibles.

Barney lifted his comb and scissors and set about his business. A contented customer and a contented barber, the perfect combo. He was about to launch into a discussion of the casuistic fundamentals of Morton's Fork when he remembered his earlier edict to keep his thoughts to himself. So he stuck to his business, as the light faded and the candles flickered.

Brother Steven's tongue could never be still, however.

'Incensed with indignation Satan stood unterrified, and like a comet burned that fires the length of Ophiuchus huge in the Arctic sky, and from his horrid hair shakes pestilence and war,' said Brother Steven. Let the words mingle with the flickering shadows and the dim orange light.

'Aye, right,' said Barney. Paused. No reason for not talking now; he was being invited. 'What was that exactly?'

'Milton,' said Brother Steven. 'I always dug that line about hair. You know, shaking out pestilence and war. Must have seen some hair like that in your time, eh?'

Barney nodded, wondering what to say. As out of his depth as he used to be when discussing football.

'Aye,' he said. 'I've seen some amount of shite come out of hair right enough. Ach, shit, sorry, I did it again. Ach, bugger, there I go, I mean...'

'No problem, Jacob, I know where you're coming from. It's not easy coming here. Got the same problems myself. You think the Abbot wants to hear his monks quoting Milton? Not a chance. Swearing in its own way, too. You've just got to come to terms with the new way of life. But don't sweat it, my friend, we've all been there. I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, Change as the winds change, veer in the tide. That's what I always say.'

'Aye, very good,' said Barney. 'I'll do that 'n all, then.'

He lapsed into silence. Considered that sometimes silence was best. Brother Steven, however, was a talker.

'So, you know what you're doing with all the hair clippings, Jacob?'

'Putting them out, I suppose,' said Barney.

Steven shook his head; Barney narrowly avoided penetrating deep into the flesh of his neck with the icy steel of the scissors. Barber Accidentally Murders New Best Friend – God Miffed, thought Barney. Yet he knew that any headline he saw himself in would not be anything like as overwrought as the one or two he'd seen from the real press before dropping out of life. Barber Surgeon Ate My Cat, Claims Housewife; Killer Barber On Run, Eats Human Flesh; Depraved Sex Secrets of Barber-Pervert.

'Oh, aye,' said Barney. 'What is it I do with them, then?'

'This is a poor place, Brother, as you'll have seen. We need to use everything we can get our hands on. There's very little which is not recycled. The hair that's cut from our heads will go into the making of pillows and cushions. The whole comfort bag. It's that what goes around comes around kind of thing. I know some of them think it's a bit out there, but I like it. I mean, the traditionalists, Brother Herman and all that lot, well, they're peeing in their cloaks about it. You can't worship God without suffering, all that kind of rubbish. But, you know, I always think that God must enjoy His little comforts too. There's got to be some nights when the Big Fella just kicks off His Air Jordans, sticks His feet on the table, downs a couple of cold ones, switches on the TV and gets a few angel babes to snuggle up to His beard. You know what I'm saying?'

Barney continued snipping quietly at the back of Brother Steven's neck. This just wasn't the same as discussing theology with his mate Bill Taylor over a couple of pints in the pub.

'You mean, that's the kind of thing that goes on here?'

'You're kidding me, Jacob!' said Steven smiling. 'Of course not. We're talking about pillows here, not fifty-seven channels of satellite TV and a six-pack of Bud. But the Abbot knows how to do it. Just the odd comfort here and there to keep the natives happy. That's all it takes. Course, there's a lot more he could do, but you can't go too far, can you? We're monks after all.'

'Aye,' said Barney. 'Fair enough.'

'But then, of course, there's the yin-yang business. The whole enigma of good-bad, dark-light, positive-negative, all of that. The Abbot allows us the comfort of pillows and cushions, but at the same time you've got to keep the product of your hirsutery so that Brother Herman can use it for making hairshirts. Equal and opposites, that whole bag. Pain-pleasure, you know.'

'Hairshirts?' asked Barney, pausing mid-cut.

'Hairshirts. It's a medieval thing, yet still relevant in today's monastery. It's what your modern penitent monk likes to wear.'

'Aye, right,' said Barney, totally lost.

'You know, when you've committed a sin. You get a shirt made so that all the hairs are prickly on the inside. Really jaggedy-arsed. It's a pain in the backside. Brother Herman loves the damn things. Well, he loves getting the other monks into them the minute he has an opportunity. Just wait till you see him with the scent of blood in that long, thin nose of his. On how serious the sin depends how long you get to wear the shirt. Do your penance.'

Barney's eyes were opened. He had never heard of the hairshirt before. Might have thought it a good idea, except that if the Abbot found out about his past he was going to have to wear his hairshirt for the next three or four centuries.

'So who makes them?' he asked, getting his mind away from his guilt, to which it had begun to stray.

'Brother Herman himself. Mad as they come, that's what I think. Wouldn't be surprised to find he sticks razor blades in there sometimes.'

'You've worn one?' asked Barney.

Brother Steven smiled. 'My friend, he makes them specifically so they'll fit me. I'm his best customer.'

'Oh.'

Barney snipped away, doing a fine job around the back of the neck. Distracted, yet nevertheless performing with consummate ease and control. Brother Steven's neck had never been in safer hands, but Barney could already feel the hairshirt around him. Not the worst punishment on the planet surely, but if it was to be worn day after day for a long time – and his sins most definitely merited a long time – then it would indeed be Hell. Began to wonder if he should leave before Brother Herman got the chance to indict him for something.

'Well, you know, I can live with it. Learned to. Anyway, he hasn't got me for a couple of months. Not since he caught me taking a quick suck on a smoke out in the forest one day. I swear he's got cameras out there. Watching.'

Barney stood back. The scissor work was finished; now for the more delicate razor operations. His hand was steady.

'That's it, Jacob, cameras. I'd bet on it.' He smiled and relaxed. Didn't care if Brother Herman did have cameras in the forest. 'If he hadn't closed down my operation, that is.'

***

The forest was still. Late evening, darkness long since descended. A clear sky, no moon, so that the number of stars was beyond counting. A panorama of brilliant white dots against the fathomless black background. The air was freezing, the night bright with the stars and the snow. Nothing stirred; the forest slept.

And in among the white farrago of Christmas trees, beside a burn where a slender stream of water trickled through the ice, sat Brother Morgan. Back resting uncomfortably against a young Douglas fir, hands and face blue with the cold, lips purple, yet a smile on those lips and in the eyes. At peace with the Lord. The front of the thin white tunic in which he was clothed was soaked through with blood, dried to a dark red, now frosted white.

And inserted deep into Morgan's neck, the instrument of his death – a pair of scissors. Long, thin, cold steel; scissors which, a few hours earlier, had been used to cut the hair of Brother Steven after the fashion of Mike McShane in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves.

Where Are You, Barney Thomson?

––––––––

A few phone calls made, breakfast eaten, the day ahead planned out. They set off. No conversation over their food, no conversation in the car. They picked up Sheep Dip, inserted him in the back, and headed off across the Kessock bridge for the Black Isle and then Dingwall. Endless hours down labyrinthine country roads in search of elusive B&Bs. Knowing there was little chance of success; an awkwardness in the car, born of discomfort and attraction, the strange intruder in the back, and a knowledge that they might well be wasting their time.

Phone calls for Mulholland the night before. One to Superintendent McMenemy. Nothing to report, and duly he'd had his verbal punishment. What were they supposed to have achieved after one day? More than they had, obviously. The country expected. Had felt the whiplash of the voice down the line; two feet tall.

Three calls to Melanie, three messages left on the answer-phone. Had begun to assume that she had already left, when she'd called his guest house late at night. Had heard on the grapevine that he was travelling with Proudfoot. Knew her from station nights out. Jealous. So it had become a fifty-minute phone call which had been even more uncomfortable than talking to the Chief Super. On the defensive from the off. No one up front, eight at the back, and only a couple of guys in midfield, hopelessly trying to wrest control of the game. No chance.

Had come off the phone unsure if he'd ever speak to her again; and unsure if he ever wanted to speak to her again. Confused as always. Didn't want to think about it; couldn't help it.

Proudfoot. Unhappy. In her work, in her personal life. Nothing to be done about it. The ever-present fear of the unknown; except now she could put a name to that fear. Barney Thomson. Not for her to know that Barney Thomson was a harmless unfortunate. A man for whom bad luck was as much a way of life as bad judgement. Saw him dressing in human skin and stalking his prey; might never know him for the man he was. Fluffy.

Pondered, as she sat silently in the car, what she could do other than police work. What did the police train you for other than the police? Security guard? Not a chance. Minder to someone with more money than humility? A mega-celeb perhaps? Trailing around the world in private jets and limousines; getting sucked into all-night sex with Hollywood stars; having Brad Pitt cover you in chocolate sauce then lick it off; meeting presidents and attending premières; going to the States and getting to shoot lunatics with impunity. She could do that, but wondered how you found out about such jobs. Had never heard of anyone from Partick getting one. It would all be down to luck, and that was something she never got. Except now she was getting to drive around with Joel Mulholland for a few days, stay in the same place every night. Away from his wife and from the station. Another world. Wondered if something might happen, tried not thinking about it too much.

Sheep Dip stared at the cold, snow-covered expanse of Ben Wyvis.

They passed from village to village to town. Stopped at every B&B, every hotel, every guest house. Blank looks; no one with anything to tell. A flicker of recognition every now and again, but only because of television. Nothing to be gained. The snow flurried on and off, the hills came and went in the low cloud. Hardly a word was spoken between them. The tension ebbed and flowed, waned and grew. Comments were made, replies given or not. Both unhappy, Sheep Dip oblivious.

Early afternoon, two things happened. Lunch had passed with a hurried sandwich, without a word. Two things; they started speaking, and they encountered someone who had met Barney Thomson. Approaching Tain, heading up the east coast; Proudfoot tired of the atmosphere.

'Not saying much today,' she said. 'You all right?'

Mulholland glanced at her to check she was talking to him; a quick glance. The weather was gradually deteriorating as they went; he needed to concentrate on the road. He let out a long sigh.

'Hacked off, Sergeant, that's all. You look much the same.'

'Suppose,' she said.

'Right,' he said. 'You first.'

She glanced over, but he wasn't looking at her. The snow fell, headlamps glared towards them.

She took her time. How much did you tell the boss, even if it was only a temporary position? Couldn't go saying the works, but knew what she was like. Once she got going.

'Barney Thomson?' Mulholland volunteered on her behalf.

She shrugged. Wasn't sure.

'Maybe. Can't get rid of the image of him wielding a meat cleaver and salivating. It's weird, though. You just can't see it in the pictures. He just looks like some middle-aged sad bastard.'

'Aye, I know. John Thaw without the personality.'

Sheep Dip smiled in the back. A man with his own opinions on Barney Thomson, opinions which he was going to keep to himself.

'Aye. Something like that,' she said. 'Anyway, it's not just that, 'cause let's face it, we're not going to find him. If the guy's got any sense, he'll have disappeared off the face of the earth.'

'Unless he's a total idiot.'

'Suppose. I've still got him down as a mad, calculating bastard, though.'

'Maybe. But you always fear the unknown, and he might be running 'cause he's scared. He should've turned himself in, we need to catch him, but perhaps he's just a sad wee bloke who's made a lot of bad judgement calls. The entire country's quaking in their boots about him, but it could be he's quaking in his boots about everyone else.'

Proudfoot felt a shiver, despite the warmth of the car.

'Then again,' Mulholland continued, 'maybe he's a psycho headcase. Sleeps with a chainsaw under his pillow. Eats babies. Wears a human finger pendant. Who knows? Hopefully we'll find out, but we might just end up being on holiday for a few days.'

'Now there,' said Proudfoot, 'is something I really need, but not in the sodding Arctic. We'll be seeing flipping penguins at this rate.'

'You don't get penguins in the Arctic,' volunteered Sheep Dip from the cheap seats.

'Whatever.'

'It's not just Barney Thomson, then?'

What the hell, she thought. Might as well out with it. What difference did it make anyway?

'Nah. I've just had enough at the moment. Too much paperwork, too much crap. Don't even enjoy the good stuff. Don't even get a buzz from sticking the light on the car so I can get my fish supper home before it gets cold.'

He laughed. 'Never done that. Have used it for going to the toilet a couple of times, mind.'

Sheep Dip raised an eyebrow, but having several times, a few years previously, used his blue light to facilitate relationships with three women at once, he was not going to judge.

'Done that as well,' she said, 'but nothing does it for me anymore. Interviewing, catching people out, investigating, everything. Just don't care, you know.'

He nodded, kept staring ahead into the driving snow. Felt he could be having this conversation with most of the people he knew on the force. They all faced it at some time, mostly they carried on because there was nothing else they could do.

'Difficult to get out though, eh?' said Sheep Dip. 'I don't know what it's like down there, but up here there's nothing. A bit of farming, the summer tourist stuff, then there's the low-budget porn flics they're making these days in Scrabster and Wick, but that's about it.'

'Right,' said Proudfoot, turning to include him in the conversation. Mulholland gritted his teeth. 'What else is there? Night guard at some factory, where sooner or later you're going to get a brick in the napper and spend the rest of your life in a home, being spoon-fed Brussels sprouts by a fifty-year-old spinster with a beard? No thanks.'

'You could do one of those personal bodyguard things,' said Mulholland, trying to reclaim the conversation for himself. Feeling ridiculously in competition.

'And have Brad Pitt smother me in chocolate?'

He took his eyes momentarily off the road. Looked at her. Turned back before he smashed into an advancing tractor.

'That wasn't quite what I was thinking.'

'Oh. Anyway, I doubt it. Don't see myself trailing after some pompous prick who thinks he's so important he needs personal protection.'

'Fair point.'

The signpost heralding Tain whistled past in the snow, and they turned off the A9 and down into the village. Another drive through small-town northern Scotland in search of places to stay.

'Your turn,' said Proudfoot. 'What's getting at you?'

He didn't answer. Didn't want to talk about Melanie. Didn't, now that it came to it, want to talk about anything. And certainly not with the Dip in the back. Retreated into his shell.

'Later,' he said, as they approached the first B&B, Vacancy sign swinging outside in the snow. Blatant retreat, thought Proudfoot. Wondered how close he would allow himself to get. Switched off, readied herself for another pointless interrogation.

He parked the car outside the house, led the way up the garden path. Bitter cold, hands like ice; Proudfoot, jacket pulled tight around her, followed. Head bowed. Sheep Dip traipsed behind. Mulholland rang the bell. They stood and shivered. There should have been constables out on this duty.

An enormous wait in the snow and cold. An eternity. Felt like they were freezing to death where they stood. About to abort when the door creaked open, an old woman appeared. Wrinkled face and extravagant hair, savage and feral, which had seen battle with many a pink rinse.

'Chief Inspector Mulholland, Sergeants Proudfoot and Dip,' said Mulholland, presenting his card. Proudfoot smiled, Sheep Dip didn't mind.

The woman looked them up and down, arms folded across her chest, cardigan close around her.

'Are there enough of you?' she said. Soft Highland accent, belying wild exterior.

Mulholland ignored the sarcasm, produced the photo of Barney Thomson. 'Do you recognise this man, Mrs...'

'McDonald, Nellie McDonald, that's me. And aye, I do recognise him. It's that Barney Thomson character they're aye on about in the papers.'

'That's right.' He kept the photo held out where she could see it. Proudfoot shivered, stared at the snow on the ground. 'He's known to have visited this area in the past couple of weeks. Now, there's no need to be alarmed, but is there any possibility that he might have stayed here with you? Maybe worn some kind of disguise and used a false name. Maybe he—'

'Oh aye, he was here. Stayed for a couple of nights, a week or two back.'

Mulholland did not immediately reply. The snow fell, though he did not feel it.

'Excuse me?' he said.

She tutted loudly, looking behind them at the snow.

'It's right cold to be standing out in the snow, is it not? Why don't you come inside? You must be frozen.'

'Thanks,' said Mulholland, and they followed the landlady as she retreated into the warmth of her house. Huge bum waddled down the hall. Sheep Dip closed the door behind them, and they walked into the front room. A small fire burned in the hearth; lamps were on, giving the room a warm glow. Two tables were already set for the following day's breakfast. No television, a silent record player loitered by the window.

'Sit yourselves down,' she said. 'Now, you'll be wanting a cup of tea.'

'Brilliant, thanks,' said Sheep Dip.

'No, really,' said Mulholland, giving him a sideways glance, 'if we could just ask you some questions.'

'Ach, for goodness sake, you look frozen. I'll just get you a wee cuppy and some biscuits. I'll not be a minute.'

'That'll be lovely, thank you, Mrs McDonald,' said Proudfoot.

'Aye, you take care of that man of yours, lassie, he looks like he could do with a bit of fattening up,' said Mrs McDonald, and she bustled from the room.

'Bloody hell,' said Mulholland, voice lowered, once she'd gone. 'We could be about to get our first contact with the ghost of Barney Thomson, and you two eejits encourage her to mince off and make tea.'

'She'll tell as anyway,' retorted Proudfoot. 'It's not like he's still here. And besides, you need fattening up.'

'Piss off, Sergeant.'

The fire crackled, coals snapped. Mulholland got up and stood in front of it, looking down into the flames. Proudfoot stared at the floor, glanced at him occasionally. He was lost in the flames. Sheep Dip wondered if it'd be Tetley. He liked Tetley.

'Right, then, you three, here you go.'

Nellie McDonald charged into the room and placed an overladen tray onto the coffee table. Besides the pot of tea and three cups, milk and sugar, there were four slices of buttered fruitcake, a whole chocolate cake, three slices of some other lemony-looking cake, a box of mince pies, a round of crumpets with strawberry jam, a couple of scones, some toast, six chocolate biscuits, a packet of ginger creams, ten pieces of shortbread, fourteen Jaffa Cakes, sixty or seventy digestives, and at least eight hundred butter creams.

'Now then, here's a wee something to keep you going. I expect you're having a long day.'

'Can we talk about Barney Thomson?' said Mulholland.

'Now, now, there'll be plenty of time for that. You just have a couple of pieces of cake and a nice cup of tea. Milk or sugar?'

'Milk, no sugar, thanks,' he said reluctantly. Proudfoot smiled.

'And you lassie?'

'Milk, two sugars, please.'

'That's grand. Now you help yourself to some cake as well, because you're looking a bit thin around the jowls.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'And you, laddie?'

Sheep Dip leant forward. 'A wee bitty milk and seven sugars, please,' he said.

Nellie McDonald smiled. 'A man after my own heart.'

They moved over to the table, started helping themselves to food from the platter. Felt like children at their gran's house on a Sunday afternoon. Expecting to be offered sweets when they were finished. And fifty pence for being good.

'You said that Barney Thomson stayed here, Mrs McDonald,' said Mulholland eventually; piece of chocolate cake stuck to the side of his face. Proudfoot did her best not to laugh.

'Och, aye, he did. A couple of weeks ago, or so, you know. Only for two nights.'

Hot lead went cold. Mulholland sank.

'You weren't aware at the time of the crimes of which this man has been accused?'

'Ach, I didn't believe any of that rubbish. He was lovely. Very quiet, no trouble. Paid in cash.'

Mulholland and Proudfoot exchanged looks. Serious business, but Proudfoot was having trouble not bursting into a fit of giggles.

'But there's a nationwide manhunt for this man at the moment. You didn't think of reporting his presence to the police?'

'Ach, I didn't like to bother anyone. And I'm not so sure he's guilty anyway. Are you sure you're after the right man? He was a lovely lad, very gentle. Paid in cash.'

'That may be the case, but you still ought to have reported his presence here to the local police.'

She smiled back at him. Nothing to say. No one reported their guests to the police. Against the code.

'Can you tell us anything about him?' he asked. Let the sigh escape.

'You'll have another piece of cake, lassie,' she said to Proudfoot. 'You'll not get by on that little you've eaten there.'

'Certainly,' said Proudfoot. Smile on her face. Moved forward and swiped a piece of chocolate cake and a biscuit.

'Mrs McDonald?' said Mulholland.

'All right, all right,' she said. 'I suppose there was something a wee bitty strange about him.'

'And what was that?'

'Well, it was most unusual. On the first morning he wanted a full fried breakfast, but here, if it wasn't just the thing, he only wanted a boiled egg on his second morning. Very strange. And no cornflakes either. Course, there are so many breakfast cereals these days. It's hard to keep up with what the customers want.'

'You should get those little individual packets,' said Sheep Dip.

'Aye,' said Mrs McDonald, 'I think it's come to that.'

'Apart from that,' said Mulholland tetchily, above the sound of Proudfoot trying to stop herself laughing, 'what can you tell us about his stay here?'

'Well, not a lot, not a lot. I didn't realise who he was at first. Gave a false name. I suppose that was canny.'

'Oh, aye? What was the name?'

'Barnabus Thompson, he said his name was. That was Thompson with a p, so I was a wee bitty confused, even though I thought I recognised him. But I worked it out, when was it? Maybe on the second day I realised that he'd just stuck a p in there to confuse everybody. I'm not that stupid, though.'

'Right. Anything else? What was he wearing? Did he look like he does in the photograph? What did he do here? When did he leave? Where did he say he was going? Anything like that?'

'Help m'boab, what a lot of questions. Will you not be having another wee bitty cake, dear? You're looking awful thin.'

'No, really, Mrs McDonald. Could you just answer the questions, please?'

'You'll never hang on to a fine lassie like this if you don't eat properly. Is that not right, darling?'

Proudfoot nodded. Mouth full of cake. Tried not to laugh and spit it out over the floor.

'Right, I suppose you'll be wanting your questions answering, then. The laddie got here late one night. A Tuesday I think, but I'm not sure. Said he'd got the bus up from Inverness. Wanted a room for a couple of days. Paid up for two nights as soon as he got here. I told him he didn't have to bother, but he insisted. Very courteous. I thought I recognised him from the news that night, but I couldn't be sure, what with his name being different. I mean, I said to Margaret in the grocer's the following morning about him, and she said, aye, well, right enough, he might well be up here. Anyway, I think he went out briefly the day he arrived and bought himself some clothes. I'm not daft, you know. It was then I realised he was on the run. There's no one comes to Tain just to buy clothes. He got a couple of nice shirts and some underwear. But he was wearing the same jacket, you know, the one they talked about on the news.'

'And the reason you didn't phone the police at this point was?'

'Ach, well, he seemed like a nice laddie. Judge not, that ye be not judged, you know what they say. Who am I to say that this man—'

'No one's asking you to say anything. That's up to the courts to decide. No one's saying he's guilty.'

'Ach, away, you're all saying he's guilty. The poor laddie's already been convicted by the press. O judgement! thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason.'

Mulholland stared at her, looked at Proudfoot. Proudfoot shrugged. Still smiling. Sheep Dip demolished cake.

'And when did he leave, Mrs McDonald?'

'Oh, let me think now.' Pursed her lips, stared at the carpet. 'About ten in the morning, two days after he arrived. And as I said, he didn't even have a full breakfast inside him, the daft laddie. Don't know what was the matter with him.'

'And did he say where he was going?'

'Oh, now let me see. We got talking, but you know how it is. My memory's not the best.' You can remember what he sodding had for breakfast, thought Mulholland. 'Here now, I think he said something about going somewhere where no one would ever have heard of him. When I think about it now, there might have been a wee bitty something in the paper that morning which upset him, you know. Here, you don't think that was why he didn't have his full breakfast, do you?'

Mulholland looked across the great divide. You just didn't get people like this in Glasgow. When people were obstructive in Glasgow, they did it intentionally, enjoying every minute.

'That was all? Nothing about a specific destination?'

'No, no, I don't think so. He left, got the bus, that was that. Have seen not hide nor tail of him since. Now, you'll be wanting another cuppy of tea?'

'No, no, no. Mrs McDonald, really, I've got another couple of questions, then we'll need to be going.'

'Ach, don't be silly. You're not going anywhere until you've cleared the tray. Now you three just sit there while I make a fresh potty. I might even join you myself. And you, you big lummox, you're not saying much. Cat got your tongue?'

Sheep Dip smiled, didn't reply. A mouth full of cake.

Receiving no answer, Mrs McDonald disappeared from the room, clutching the enormous tea pot in her right hand. Proudfoot and Mulholland stared at one another, Proudfoot on the point of laughter. Mulholland raised his finger.

'Don't, Sergeant. Don't even think about it. Bloody woman.'

Proudfoot smiled, said, 'Maybe she'd have taken you more seriously if you hadn't had that big bit of chocolate cake attached to your cheek.'

She glanced at Sheep Dip. Eyes said it all. Mulholland ran his hand across his face and once again felt five years old.

SPECTRE

––––––––

Barney sat and waited. Like a prisoner before the execution. The deed was done, the verdict given, the firing squad stood outside, cleaning gun barrels, checking rifle sights, chatting idly about the previous night's Premiership action. All in a day's work for them; the final act for Barney. He could feel the bullets zinging into him, could feel his body rock with the shock. Had seen it in the movies. His chest riddled with gunshots. And what if he didn't die? That was what he kept thinking. If the seven or eight bullet wounds weren't enough. Could see himself falling to the ground, could feel the pain. Presumed bullet wounds hurt; had never had one. Had been told about it once by a customer; he couldn't have been more than mid-twenties, claimed his injuries came from Vietnam. Wullie had said the guy had been listening to too many Springsteen songs.

Barney's mind rambled all over the place. His crimes of the past; bad haircuts he had known; lives he had ruined, either by inadvertent murder or by giving one of his infamous Poseidon Adventure cut-and-blow-dries; the life he had left behind, the life he'd come to.

But most of all, Barney wondered what he was doing there. Sitting in a cold, damp corridor, waiting to be seen by the Abbot, or Brother Herman. Or both. He had not the faintest idea what he'd done to warrant the attention. Presumed it was because he'd given the Abbot a bad haircut, though he'd thought at the time, that as Brother Cadfaels go, he'd totally nailed the sucker.

Trouble was, you could just never tell. How many times in the past had he given a haircut the like of which only kings could dream and the gods deliver, only to be rebuked by some ignorant cretin with no eye for a cut of wondrous beauty and construction. Like his famous Billy Connolly '81, which he'd given to a young chap, on request, a few years previously; a haircut from God's own factory, a haircut from Satan's nightmares, a haircut of erudition and infinite jest; yet a haircut which had been scorned by the customer, resulting in no tip and a near bar-room brawl when they'd bumped into each other in the pub three days later. Some people just did not appreciate talent.

Barney was an artist, and like all of his kind, misunderstood in his lifetime.

He could not imagine that the Abbot was such a man; he'd seemed happy enough after the cut. Perhaps, Barney pondered, he had a secret mirror somewhere, and had checked the cut after it'd been given. Barney's imagination raced. Maybe the Abbot had a lot more than a hidden mirror. Suddenly saw the Abbot inside his secret hideout, a massive operations cell underneath the monastery. Something from a Bond film – huge maps on the walls with lights displaying the locations of all the Abbot's nuclear warheads. Saw the Abbot sitting in a large white leather chair, stroking a cat. SPECTRE: Special Executive for Corruption, Terrorism, Revenge and Ecumenicalism. A worldwide network of monasteries, ostensibly there to lead a Christian life straight out of the Dark Ages, but in actuality a front for an organisation of religious terrorism. He wondered if beneath the monastery there was a tropical pool of piranha fish, kept starving for weeks; waiting for Barney, and all because he'd given the Abbot a bad haircut.

He clenched his fists, palms sweaty; closed his eyes, swallowed. He was aware of the faint rumour of his heart, becoming stronger. After all he had been through, was this to be the end?

With a violent click of ominous quiet, the door to the Abbot's study opened. Barney swallowed, Brother Herman summoned him into the Demon's Lair.

***

Barney sat before the Abbot, Brother Herman stood at the Abbot's shoulder, the hired hand. The Abbot looked troubled.

'You know why you are here, Brother Jacob?' he asked.

Barney swallowed. Eyes shifted between Abbot and bodyguard. His heart had kicked into low gear for rapid acceleration; felt like it was about to come crashing out through his chest to throb on the desk in front of him. Wondered if the Abbot had a switch under his desk; a trapdoor. One press, an instant, and Barney would be food for the fishes. Shark breakfast. Raw Barney; plenty of meat on him. The sharks would love it, and all because of a bad haircut. It had been bound to happen one day.

'Aye, Brother Blofeld, I do,' he said. Mouth dry.

'Blofeld?' The Abbot squinted, as if looking directly at the sun.

'Abbot, sorry. Brother Abbot,' said Barney. Tried to get his concentration under control. His imagination was leaping so far ahead of him it was in a different time zone; a different dimension, slightly out of sync with his own. 'It's about your haircut. I'm sorry, really. I was sure I'd done a good job. Maybe I could give you a Sean Connery. Or an F Murray Abraham.'

The Abbot shook his head; recognised Barney's babbling for what it was. Normally he would have smiled, but today was not for that. He had lost another of his monks, there was nothing about which to smile. He raised his hand. His left hand.

'Brother, dear Brother. The haircut was fine. I couldn't be happier about the cut. In fact, the whole monastery is talking about the great breadth of your God-given talent. You are a barber apart. A hirsutologist of the highest order. The wings of angels must flutter in your presence when you take to the scissors. If only Eve could have resisted eating apples like you cut hair, then there would be a lot less misery in the world.'

Barney relaxed. Almost smiled. Wings of angels, eh? That's me, he thought, no mistake. Nice to be appreciated.

Brother Herman frowned. A haircut was a haircut was a haircut. Didn't know what all the fuss was about. Thought that all the junior monks should have their heads shaved and be forced to wear a crown of thorns. A jaggedy-arsed crown of thorns at that, (just in case there was such a thing as a crown of thorns which wasn't jaggedy-arsed.) Mental head shake, and he switched back on, so that he could scrutinise the reaction of Brother Jacob to the information he was just about to receive. Knew that the Abbot's approach would be too soft.

'And talking of scissors, Brother Jacob, it is scissors which have led me to bring you here today. The very scissors, I believe, with which you showed your mastery yesterday afternoon.'

Would you shut up about the sodding haircuts, thought Herman.

'You will be aware that Brother Morgan was missing from breakfast this morning, and that the search for our dear brother was called off after no more than twenty minutes.'

Barney nodded. Brother Morgan. Bugger. He was about to be accused of murder, that was it. And he'd known all along. Had never truly believed that he was going to be roasted for a bad haircut; that had been denial. When the search for Morgan had been called off so quickly, it was obvious something had happened to him.

'The minute they called it off,' Brother Steven had said, 'and Morgan hadn't hoved into view with a couple of Uberbabes under his arms, reeking of weed and breathing alcohol fumes all over the Abbot as he told him what he could do with his monastery, it was obvious the guy had been stiffed.'

'I'm afraid our dear brother was found dead.' Barney nodded. Naturally. 'It ails me to tell you that he had been murdered.' Barney continued to nod. Almost went without saying. Did anyone die without being murdered anymore? Still hadn't spotted the connection with the mention of scissors. 'And it pains me greatly to tell you that Brother Morgan was stabbed. Stabbed with a pair of scissors.' Barney nodded again. The penny still refused to drop. Knew that scissors were an excellent instrument of death, having used them himself, however inadvertently. 'The scissors with which you cut the hair of six monks yesterday afternoon.' Barney nodded. Haircutting scissors. Long, thin, sharp. Superb for the job. Kill someone every time.

The penny dropped. So did Barney's chin. Suddenly words were rushing to get out of his mouth, like troops over the top of a Great War trench. And to the same effect.

'I didn't do it! You don't think I did it, do you? Me? I didn't do it. Why would I want to kill the librarian? I didn't even know there was a librarian? A librarian? Do we have a library? Brother Morgan, I thought the librarian's name was Brother Florgan. Or Jorgan, maybe. I've never even heard of Brother Morgan.'

The Abbot lifted his hand once more.

'Jacob, Jacob, be still your tongue. No one is here to accuse you of killing Brother Morgan.' There was an almost imperceptible twitch in Herman's eye. 'No one suspects you, dear friend. At least, no more than they suspect anyone else, for we must all be under suspicion at this grave time. Yet it is the Lord who will be our judge.'

'Aye,' said Barney, 'it'll be the Lord, right enough.' Thought, as he said it, that if he was to be judged by the Lord, he was in serious trouble. As he would, in fact, were he judged by anyone.

'I have called you in so that Brother Herman can ask certain questions pertaining to the scissors. When you last saw them and so forth. Just because you were known to have had them last does not make you any more of a potential killer than the rest. Any one of us could have taken the scissors. Be not afraid, Brother. Answer Brother Herman truthfully, and God will be on your side.'

God. Right. Good old God. You can always count on the Big Guy.

Barney shifted uncomfortably in his seat, nodded at the Abbot, then looked at Brother Herman. Herman spoke, his lips hardly moving. Low voice, the threatening monotone that Barney had grown to dread.

'Brother Jacob,' said Herman. Said the name Jacob as if it might be Judas. As if he might know that the man to whom he was talking was not really called Jacob. 'Can you tell us the names of all the monks to whom you administered barbery yesterday afternoon?'

An easy enough opening to the inquisition. Reminded him of his police questioning from the past. And that had always developed into something much more sinister and difficult to negotiate.

'Well, there was the Abbot. That was a Brother Cadfael, as you know. Then there was a Sean Connery for Brother Brunswick.' From deep within the folds of his cloak, Brother Herman produced a notebook and began to write down the names, momentarily throwing Barney from his stride, but he started up once again after a glance from those sunken eyes. 'A Christian Slater for Brother Jerusalem, an F Murray Abraham for Brother Martin, and a Ron Perlman for Brother Ezekiel. Oh, aye, and I finished off with a Mike McShane for Brother Steven. Have to be honest, I wasn't sure what a Mike McShane looked like, but he—'

'Enough commentary, thank you, Brother,' snapped Herman, and Barney quailed before the voice. 'At what time did you finish cutting Brother Steven's hair?'

Barney stared at the floor. The questions seemed easy enough, but you could never be sure. Having difficulty getting it into his head that this time he hadn't actually done anything wrong.

'Well, you know, I'm not sure. It was dark, mind, right enough. About five, something like that.'

'Five,' said Herman in a low voice, writing it down. 'And what did you do with your equipment after that?'

Barney bit his lip. Wondered how guilty he was looking. Herman made him nervous. Noticed that the Abbot also bit his lip, and wondered if Herman made him nervous too.

'You know, I just kind of left it there beside the wee sink. I thought I should, you know, that's what Brother Adolphus says to us to do.'

Herman scribbled something in the notebook; Barney waited. Wondered what he could be writing. Scissors left beside sink. Big deal. How long could it take to write that?

'And of all these monks, was there anything that struck you as suspicious? Any of them take an undue interest in the scissors, or any other instrument at your disposal?'

Barney looked down, thinking. Had any of the brothers enquired about the scissors? Why should they have? Was about to dismiss the question when he remembered Brother Martin, the F Murray Abraham. He'd mentioned it. He'd asked about the scissors. What was it he'd said? Something about how sharp they were. Couldn't remember exactly.

Looked up at Brother Herman. Martin's words came back to him as he lifted his head. Sharp scissors, Brother, he had said. You could kill someone with them. That had been it. Damning words, but surely just a chance remark. Or had he known about Barney's past?

'Naw, nothing that I can think of,' said Barney.

Herman noticed the hesitation, the doubt. Filed it away. Every little bit was useful.

'Your last cut was Brother Steven?'

'Aye, that's right.'

'And he was with you when you left?'

This was a dawdle, thought Barney.

'Naw, he'd already gone, you know. I stayed behind just to clear up. Make sure I kept all the hair clippings, for the hairshirts and all that.'

'Hairshirts?' said the Abbot.

Brother Herman gave Barney a Reservoir Dogs look. Barney kept his mouth shut.

'And what did you do once you'd finished clearing up, Brother Jacob?'

Barney had a good answer to that one; took his time.

'Went and prayed, you know. To God,' he added as an afterthought, just in case anyone was going to have any doubts.

Herman scribbled something else in his book. The Abbot seemed distracted. He found it all disturbing. Would confide in no one, but the murder of two of his monks had begun to make him question his faith. And if he had doubts, how many of his number were feeling the same way?

Brother Herman scribbled on. Barney wondered what he was doing. Finally Herman raised his eyes. 'Thank you, Brother. That will be all for the moment.'

'Oh. Right. Stoatir.' Barney felt relief wash over him, like a sponge soaked in honey.

'Stoatir, Brother Jacob?' said the Abbot. 'These are dark times for us, my brother. You would do well to spend much of it in prayer.'

Barney nodded. 'Of course, Your Grace. Brother, I mean. Aye.' Looked at Herman, was further reduced in size. Decided it was time he took his leave. Opened his mouth, but there was nothing else to say. Walked backwards slowly towards the door, then turned and was gone.

As he walked down the corridor, relief continuing to wash over him like a towel submerged in champagne, he wondered why it was that when he had nothing to fear and much about which to feel guilty, he still felt only one step ahead of the inquisition.

Life. Death. Socks.

––––––––

Once again, Brothers Steven and Jacob were on gravedigging detail; so soon after the first time. A hole for Brother Morgan; late, lamented. An afternoon's work, for the burial the following morning. Accompanied by Brother Edward; a telegraph-pole youth, face the colour of white wine. Three to dig the hole – an arduous task in this frozen, crusted earth – two to fill it in again after the funeral. Barney had thought that he might escape the work, now that he was the official monastery barber. His hands needed protecting. Had been on the point of taking out an insurance policy on them before he'd had to disappear. Had got the idea from something he'd read about Betty Grable. A million dollars on her legs. Or had it been her ears? Had thought that perhaps he'd escape the heavy work, now that they all realised what a precious commodity were his hands. Yet, no; no such good fortune. Realised he had a long apprenticeship to work before he would be offered the small gifts which passed for favours in this murderous place.

It was mid-afternoon on the same day as the discovery of the body. Brother Herman had examined the corpse, had discovered everything he needed to know. Not much doubt over the cause of death, every other avenue open to him examined, no intention of calling in any outside authority for the necessary post-mortem. A cold day. The clear blue skies had clouded over, replaced by low, grey cloud. But still bright. It would snow again later, some of the monks had been saying. Reckoned that this might be a winter like the winter of '47. Snow around the abbey from November until June. That was the prediction.

The mere mention of June had had Barney thinking. Could he possibly still be here then? Still hiding? Might not the world have forgotten about Barney Thomson in six months' time? Would it not have moved on to some other macabre story? What he needed was for some other serial killer to strike, preferably in Glasgow, to take the country's mind off him. But of course, the minute anyone else was killed in Scotland, the murder would be blamed on Barney Thomson. No escape.

Barney was not to know the headline in that morning's Record: Barber-Surgeon in Sheep Slaughter Mystery; Farmers Outraged. He was right, however, in thinking that every crime that had ever been committed was being placed at his doorstep. A robbery in Dundee; a rape in Arbroath; shoplifting in Paisley; an unsolved murder in Edinburgh from 1976; Bucks Fizz winning the Eurovision Song Contest in 1981; Don Masson's penalty miss against Peru in Argentina; the murder of Riccio. There wasn't a crime against humanity that wasn't being laid at his door by an hysterical press and public whose imagination was being whipped to a frothy cream. Barney Thomson was the ultimate demon figure, to such an extent that within two weeks the Barney Thomson of the newspapers was unrecognisable from the Barney Thomson of reality. Only the police had maintained a sense of proportion, having a not unreasonable number of officers on the case, now headed by DCI Mulholland; while telling the press that they had every available man and woman in Scotland on it. And all the while, the monks were unaware of the supposed evil within their midst.

The earth was hard; rock-like. Brothers Steven and Edward hacked away with pick-axes, Barney shovelled out the broken earth. A slow business, and although it was still two hours until nightfall, they knew that they would do well to be finished by the time it got dark. They were cold and hungry. Steven, accepting of his fate, cold and hungry; Edward, happy that he was doing penance for his perceived crimes of the past, cold and hungry; and Barney, miserable, fed up, shaking, wishing he had run off to the Caribbean, cold and hungry. Kept letting out long sighs, waiting for one of the others to take him up on the offer he was making to complain. He waited in vain. Felt like his ears were about to drop off. And his nose. Killer Revealed as Man With No Nose or Ears; Fingers Also Gone. Barney shivered.

'It's a bit cold, eh?' said Barney, to break the monotony.

Brother Edward continued to swing the blunt pick-axe into the frozen ground. Enjoying the cold and hardship. Sometimes it paid to suffer. He didn't care if Barney was cold.

Steven straightened up, looked at Barney, then surveyed the surrounding countryside. Breathed deeply the cold air, felt it sting the inside of his nostrils. Smiled and looked at Barney.

'Come on, Jacob. It must make you feel alive, man. Breathe it in. Enjoy it. Just think how you'd be feeling if you were having to work like this in sweltering heat, the sweat dripping off you, bugs chewing at your face. Bend your back, get stuck in, my friend. This is life as it is. Look forward to dinner and a cup of the Lord's finest wine.'

Barney shook his head. 'It's bloody freezing. I doubt I'll survive 'til my dinner. I'm knackered.'

Steven smiled. White teeth showed bright under grey cloud.

'All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Tiredness, my friend. You haven't known it until you've known it in war. That's what they say.'

'Experience of that, have you?' asked Barney.

Steven smiled again and once more bent his back.

'Afraid not, my friend. But Brother Frederick, he'll tell you all about it. He may be old, but there's not a shell nor a rainfall nor a bath of mud that he can't remember. You could learn a lot. As for me, the wars of the soul and the mind are the only ones I've fought. Though, who knows? Perhaps they may be the bloodiest wars of all. What say ye, Edward?'

Brother Edward stared into the hole which was slowly taking shape beneath their swinging axes. Carried on working as he thought. Had always considered the war with the opposite sex to be the bloodiest of all. Had won a few battles there, now suffered the guilt of the victorious.

'Might that have been Great War poetry you were quoting there, Brother?' said Edward. Didn't want to talk about his own private battles. Three years in God's house had not healed the scars.

'You recognised it?'

'Aye, I did.'

Great War poetry? thought Barney. What a load of keich. Wished they would talk about football. Didn't know the irony.

'There's something always bugged me about the Great War,' said Edward.

As they talked, they began to swing their axes in time, one striking into the solid earth rhythmically after the other. Barney shovelled.

'What was that, Brother?'

'Gas.'

'Gas?'

'The poison gas issue,' said Edward, unconsciously speaking in time with the striking of the axes. 'They say that when the Germans first started using gas, and before the Brits had been given their masks, they used to pish into a sock and hold it over their mouths. Breathe through it, you know.'

Brother Steven had heard this. Struck robotically, his pick-axe a dull scimitar of the Lord's will.

'What I want to know,' said Edward, 'is this. Who was the first guy to do it? I mean, I'm sure the chemistry's all right, and all that.'

'Something to do with ammonia, probably,' said Steven.

'Whatever. Anything about pish is to do with ammonia. But here's the thing. Who was the guy who first thought of it? Who, when the gas came over and all the troops were running around bricking their pants, panicking and turning yellow, was the first guy to stand there like James Bond, be really cool, and say, "Don't know about you lot, but I'm pishing in my sock"?'

Steven struck mightily into the ground; the earth yielded to his strength.

'See what you mean. The guy must have been out there. On the edge. A visionary.'

'Exactly,' said Edward. His axe struck massively the earth. 'The guy was a visionary. So how come none of us has ever heard of him? I mean, there's all sorts of famous geezers from the Great War. Owen and Sassoon and all the rest of that mob. Haig, Kitchener, the Red Baron... Blackadder. So how come this bloke's not famous? He must've saved thousands of lives.'

'They probably shot him,' said Steven, axe cleaving its way through sundered earth.

'Shot him?'

'Sure. Think about it. Picture the scene,' said Steven. Barney, despite himself, was picturing the scene. He was in the trenches. In fact, he was digging a trench, steadfastly shovelling dirt; his spade clawed hard into lumpy earth. 'Early on in the war. Everyone already realises it's a bum rap and they're going to be there for years. A few shots are getting fired every now and again. The men are sitting around, smoking a few joints, reading letters from home, hanging out. You know the score. Suddenly, a few shells come over and next thing you know, the air smells of some cheap French toilet water. Within seconds everyone starts choking and turning yellow.' He paused. 'Can you see it?'

Edward nodded. 'I'm there.'

'So, our hero, we'll call him Corporal Jones, is a bit of a chemist. Realises the only way to survive is to breathe through pish. So in the middle of the mayhem and panic and tumult, he sits down on a bench, cool as a pint of cider, removes a sock, and whips out his knob and pishes into it. Then he sticks it over his gob. Easy. The rest of the men are looking at him as if he's an alien. Pointing and saying to each other, "Check out Jonesy, the bastard's pishing into his sock." So they all stand around and gawp, and despite Jonesy's best efforts to get them to follow his example, within minutes they're all dead.

'So, a bit of a wind picks up, blows away all the gas. Some lieutenant-colonel or other charges up to the front to check it out, once the danger's past, of course, and there's Jonesy safe as houses and everyone else dead to the world. "What went on here?" asks Colonel Bumfluff. "Well, sir," says Jonesy, "the Germans gassed us and I was the only one to pish in my sock." Think about it. Our hero was going to have a bit of a credibility problem. Next thing he knows he's been court-martialled and shot, because that's what they did in those days. Two minutes late for work and you got a bullet in the back of the head.'

Edward heaved his axe into the hard ground with mighty abandon.

'Could be right. But if he got shot and all the others died, how did it catch on?'

'They probably tested it out to see if he was telling the truth; but not until after they'd killed him, of course. Probably sent Mrs Jones an apology along with the telegram telling her he was dead. So days after Jonesy died for his trouble, pishing in your sock was all the rage. In fact, there were probably blokes who pished in their socks even when they didn't have to. Sock sniffers. Expect they shot them as well.'

'Aye, I suppose you're right, Brother. Too bad the guy has never been recognised.'

Steven nodded. Plunged the axe verily unto the frozen soil.

'Aye. I can see the statue,' said Steven, and he laughed. Edward laughed along with him, Barney also, although only to cover the feeling of exclusion. But soon the laughter died among the three men, because this day was no day for laughter, and this was not just any digging work which they were undertaking. This was work to bury one of their own – the second in a few days.

They lapsed into silence, the sound of their digging travelling clear up the snow-covered glen, through the thin, cold air. Monks at work, and despite the laughter and the idle conversation, weighed down by sadness and fear.

***

'How many more monks will die here?' asked the Abbot.

Brother Herman stared out the window of the Abbot's study, across the forest and hills of snow. A bright afternoon despite the low cloud, but snow would come later, he thought. His arms were folded across his chest, his face was long, eagle eyes stared out from deep sockets. His arms moved with the swelling of his chest, but faintly, so that it appeared he was hardly breathing.

'We cannot allow the police here, Brother Abbot, you know that. Any time the outside world has been allowed to breathe its fetid breath upon the abbey, it has spelt disaster. It would be no different this time. There can be no outside influence. They would contaminate, they would insinuate themselves into the very fabric of our lives, like a cancer, and destroy us utterly. That is how it will be, Brother Abbot.'

The Abbot sat, head bowed, the two men with their backs to one another.

'But I say again, Brother Herman. How many more monks will die here? How long must this go on? Until we are all dead? Until only one survives? It cannot be allowed to continue.'

'And neither shall it, Brother Abbot,' said Herman. He turned, the Abbot turned to engage his eye. 'Give me a few days, that is all I need.'

'You have some clue as to the perpetrator?'

Herman hesitated. Eyes narrowed. 'Not as yet, Brother, but I will. It is clear after this second crime that these deeds are related in some way to the library. I will go there, I will leave no monk unturned until I have discovered the truth. I am confident that I can uncover the meaning behind these deaths.'

The Abbot looked away, heart heavy. The tragedy of life.

'I must appoint a new librarian, but who would I give that post to now? Who would take it?'

Herman's eyes narrowed even further, burrowing into the back of the Abbot's head. Fingers twitched. 'I will be the next librarian.'

The Abbot swivelled, stared into the narrow slits of Herman's eyes.

'Brother? But you are not a learned man.'

'Only until I discover the identity of the killer of our brothers. And if they should come after me, well, then indeed shall they be found out and brought to justice.'

The Abbot breathed deeply and looked away. Two librarians dead. Anyone expressing an interest in the library now might possibly be the one who wanted rid of the previous incumbents. Maybe it was wise to have Brother Herman on hand to deal with all the enquiries to the library. But then, what if Herman became the next victim? What if Herman was not as safe from the black hand of Death as he believed? Could he sacrifice Brother Herman to his desire to bring this killer to justice?

'I am unsure, Brother. I am not sure that I can ask any of my brethren to put their lives at risk at this time.'

Herman nodded, a long slow movement. He knew well how to play the Abbot.

'Give me two days, Brother Abbot, that is all I'll need. If I have not found the killer by then, I will go along with your desire to bring in the police from outside.' He let the words hang in the cold air. 'Two days,' he repeated.

The Abbot stared at the floor. Maybe he would find God there, for in the last few days, he had lost sight of him. These were his darkest hours.

Eventually he spoke. His voice sounded strange, alienated from his body.

'Very well, Brother,' he said. 'Two days you shall have. After that, I am afraid, I must prevail upon you to bring in the outside agencies of the law. And who knows then what troubles we shall be in, for burying our dear departed brothers.'

Herman stared from deep eye sockets, pupils shone. He knew he could always get his way with the Abbot. That was what they were like; all of them. There to be manipulated. And, of course, on this occasion the Abbot was right to accede to his request.

'Thank you, Brother. I shall not fail you.'

The Abbot looked past furrowed brow, up into the black eyes.

'May the Lord be with you, Brother,' he said, then looked away. He thought that the Lord had forsaken this place; and the Lord would not be with any of them for a very long time.

Brother Herman bowed his head; the hood of his cloak moved forward and his face fell into shadow. Slowly, his feet noiseless on the stone floor, he walked from the room.

***

The hole was complete. Regulation. Four feet wide, seven feet long, six feet deep. Awaiting Brother Morgan.

The work of Steven and Edward was over, the earth chopped and hacked into shovel-friendly dirt. They stood at the edge of the grave looking down into the pit, watching Brother Jacob heave the soil up and over the top. Nearly finished. No longer cold now, Barney; sweating with the effort. Hands raw.

'Feels kinda weird,' said Steven. The expression on his face never changed.

'How d'you mean?' asked Edward.

'The scissors thing,' said Steven. 'The same scissors that were used to cut my hair, a few hours later are used to murder poor Morgan. There's got to be some weird karmic thing going on, don't you think?'

Barney hesitated before his next shovel. Not sure if Steven was addressing him or Edward. Too busy thinking about the words of Brother Martin. 'You could kill someone with those.' What had that been about? Would they really be the words of someone who intended to use the scissors as a murder weapon?

Decided to ignore Steven. Nothing to do with karma, he thought. It was God. God continuing to shit on him everywhere he went; surrounding him with death and murder. Reckoned that if he were the only person left on the planet, God would still find someone to die in his immediate proximity.

'See what you mean,' said Edward. 'Definitely something going on, no mistake. The interconnectedness of it. Got to be some Jungian thing happening. You must be freaked.'

'Don't know about freaked, Brother. I mean, I'm sure God's cool about it. Same with Jacob here. Just trying to do his job, and the next thing he knows his work implement has been embedded in Brother Morgan's neck. Could just as easily have been your pick-axe, Brother Brunswick's trowel, or Brother Raphael's soup ladle.'

'Aye,' said Edward, 'you're right. And you know, it's no different out there, in the real world. Lachlan, the young lad who makes the meat deliveries from Durness once a month, he was in this morning. Mentioned something that's been happening in Glasgow. Some serial killer's on the loose, apparently. He was about to tell me about it, but I asked him not to. Didn't want to hear it, not at the moment. Expect Brother David will get the full story when he goes into Durness next week.'

Edward shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. Sadly, it seemed, life in the monastery was more a mirror of contemporary life that any of them would wish.

'Are you all right down there, Brother Jacob?' said Steven, staring down into the grave. 'You're looking a little faint.'

Uma Thurman Serves Barney A Beer. Naked.

––––––––

Late at night in the monastery; the monks lay awake with their fears, listening to the storm. Trees were tossed, shutters rattled, doors and floorboards creaked. They imagined that every noise was the sound of a killer on the move; wondered if they would be the next victim, the next on the slab of death. Each one could feel the sharpness of cold steel piercing their neck. They expected it at any second. Knew that if they fell asleep they might never wake up.

The Library Murders; that was what they were calling them, even though there was no evidence that that was where the murders had been committed. There was perhaps some comfort to them in that so far it had been the librarians who had died; these men, brave with their faith in God, would all have refused the position of librarian had it been offered to them. Delighted that Herman had taken it on; doubted that any killer would be so bold as to tackle Herman. There would be a brave man, and foolish.

And so much for those rumours which had suggested that a liaison between Morgan and Saturday had soured, leading to the murder of the latter by the former. There must be more to it than that, but the gossip of the monastery could furnish no clues. Something hidden among the books, they presumed – and they were wrong – but no one had any real idea.

Must be Brother Jacob, that's what some of them were thinking, although none would say it. Un-Christian to think so ill of someone, just because he was unfamiliar. But it all tied up. A new monk arrives, some of the regulars get murdered. Jacob must have brought something with him; some evil intent or malign spirit.

Through no fault of his own, Barney was as mistrusted within the monastery as he was on the outside.

And he lay awake also, the evil Barney Thomson. Cold. Listened to the sound of the wind, knowing that a blizzard blew without. He could feel it as if the snow were falling directly on top of him. His mind was a tangle, a swirling array of unfinished thoughts and ideas. Remorse, regrets, doubts. Dwelling on past crimes, constantly replaying them. How would it be now if he'd done things differently?

When he had killed Wullie; an accident, undoubtedly. If he had called the police immediately, what then? Would he have gone to prison, or could he have found some hot-shot lawyer to get him off? Guilty of manslaughter, no doubt, but a three-year suspended sentence. Then he would never have had to kill Chris; as long as he hadn't been in police custody when his mother had died, he could've cheerfully disposed of all the body parts in her freezer at some future date, and no one need ever have thought of the connection between those murders and himself. He might have had to leave the shop, but if you play these things correctly you can become a bit of a celebrity. Write a book; appear on one of those chat shows, Kilroy or Jerry Springer – I'm a Killer, But Really I'm A Decent Chap. He'd have been an ideal guest.

Public sympathy would have flowed. He could have sold the film rights to the book, then taken the cash and set up his own shop up north somewhere. He remembered the cold; bugger the north. He could have gone to the Caribbean, or managed to swing a job on a cruise ship. Left Scotland forever, to cut the hair of the stars. Saw himself giving Sean Connery a Sean Connery, receiving an enormous tip. He could've forgotten all about Agnes – which he'd done anyway – and had his pick of women. Maybe even Barbara, the sister-in-law from the gods. He could've had one over on his sodding brother for the first time in his life.

Barney smiled in the dark. A beach-side shop; the waves lapping gently on the shore; a calypso band playing nearby; Barney cutting Robert Redford's hair, at a charge of several hundred pounds; while Barbara served them both cocktails, topless. And all that, if only he'd called the police after he'd killed Wullie, instead of bundling the body up and sticking it in the back of his car. What a fool he'd been.

Instead, it was the depths of winter, and Barney was renowned for all the wrong reasons. He was that month's pet hate figure. Centrefold in the Christmas edition of Serial Killer Monthly, hounded from his home, hounded to the farthest ends of the country, to feel his feet and testicles freeze up under a slender blanket in the bleakest inhabited building in Scotland.

The door to his room creaked slowly open; his senses awoke. But he did not move. Strangely he did not live in fear of the killer, as the rest of the monks did. Too close to death for too long, he didn't care any more. He did not fear death – just detection. Assumed it was Brother Steven, with whom he shared a room. Was aware that the brother had left not five minutes previously.

He felt a presence standing over him, but still did not open his eyes.

'Brother? Brother Jacob?' came the strained whisper. Not the voice of Steven.

Barney's heart flickered; he opened his eyes. In the dark, he could make out the figure of Brother Martin, hood drawn back from his face. His heart did more than flicker. Brother Martin! A man well aware of the lethal properties of a pair of scissors. Maybe Barney feared death after all.

'Brother Jacob, we must talk.'

Barney sat up, looked through the gloom; was aware of the noise of the wind, could feel the cold even more bitterly as the blanket slid from him, his nightshirt thin protection.

'Brother Martin?' he said.

'Brother, you must promise me. What I said yesterday, while you cut my hair. You know it was nothing, the sharpness of the scissors. It was just a remark, you know that. You haven't mentioned it to Brother Herman, I hope. Have you been called to see Brother Herman?'

Brother Martin stood breathlessly over Barney. Barney wondered if within the folds of his cloak he held a dagger or some other weapon. Something which he could drive into Barney's breast should the need arise.

'You've got nothing to worry about, Brother,' said Barney.

He was aware of Martin taking a step back.

'That is indeed good news, Brother. For you know that it was but a chance remark.'

'Aye, Brother Martin, no bother. And I've seen Herman already, right enough.'

'Indeed?'

'But I didn't say anything, you know. I mean, I had to tell him I cut your hair and all that, but I pointed no fingers.'

'That was very wise, Brother. Very wise indeed. And you will be equally discreet about this visit, I'm sure.'

Discreet. Barney had to think about that. He perceived a threat, unsure if one was intended. If in doubt, he remembered someone saying at the height of the Glasgow serial killer panic, assume that your every interlocutor is a killer. Especially when they called in the middle of the night.

'Aye,' he said, 'no bother, Brother. Discreet as fuck, me. I mean, sorry. About the language. Discreet.'

He felt Brother Martin retreating through the room. The door swung open, its creaking blending with the roaring creaks of the monastery in the storm. Barney could see the dark figure as he stopped at the door. Wondered, decided to ask.

'How did you know Brother Steven would not be here?'

There was no immediate answer. In among the groans of the old building, Barney was aware of Martin's breathing. Heavy, ominous, deliberate. The hairs on the back of Barney's neck began to stand to attention, zombies from the grave. He could feel them crawl across his neck, bumping into each other.

'Some things are easily taken care of,' came the cold reply across the darkness. Martin let the words hang there in the freezing air, then slowly left, closing the door behind him.

Barney shivered, cold and fear. Lay back down on the bed, pulled the blanket up to his neck. Goose bumps careered across his body with wild abandon; shivers racked every inch.

What had been meant by that? Some things are easily taken care of? He wondered if Brother Steven sat out somewhere in the forest, a knife embedded in his neck, the smile of the dead on his face. But he'd only left a few minutes before Martin had arrived. Hardly time for Martin to strike, especially with the storm. Except, perhaps, that Martin had taken care of Steven elsewhere, and only now would drag the body out into the cold. A young, fit man, Brother Martin. Couldn't have been any more than twenty-five. More than capable of killing one of the brothers, then dragging the body out into the snow.

Yet, Brother Martin? It didn't make sense. Why, if you are going to use something as an implement of murder, mention it before you do it? A double bluff? To rule himself out by saying something which he obviously wouldn't have done had he been going to commit murder? Same with his visit this evening. By the mere fact of looking so obviously suspicious, Martin might imagine that he was distancing himself from the crime.

So, Martin must be the killer, thought Barney. Or else, he definitely wasn't.

He felt pleased that he'd narrowed it down to one of two possibilities. He could have been a policeman. Better than some of the muppets he'd come across in the past year.

Tell Brother Herman, don't tell him, face up to Martin, completely ignore him. Barney's mind was imploding in a tangle of labyrinthine confusion. He closed his eyes, and in the renewed claustrophobic darkness, he felt the pain of regret. If only he'd confessed to killing Wullie Henderson, he could now be lying on a beach in Antigua, Sharon Stone stroking his forehead and Uma Thurman serving him pints of heavy. Naked.

Barney wondered many things as he gave in once more to the bitter cold. Did they serve heavy in Antigua? Would he ever see Brother Steven again?

A Good Place For A Serial Killer

––––––––

Mulholland and Proudfoot. Breakfast. The full business. Sitting at the window of a small guest house just outside Helmsdale; as far as they'd reached the previous evening. Looking across fields of snow, a bright morning. Blue skies and a better mood. Mulholland helped by having been unable to speak to Melanie the night before and, although he didn't realise it, the temporary absence of Sheep Dip. Assuming that his wife had gone, and felt the release. A problem put off to another day was a problem solved. Wondered if this was it, his marriage over. Was in such confusion about it that he had fallen back on fragile good humour. Taken Proudfoot with him.

They ate well, the hunger of the relaxed. Felt like they might be getting somewhere, having picked up the scent of Barney Thomson. Enjoying the renewal of enthusiasm, not thinking about what might happen if they ever found their man. Engrossed in food and serious debate.

Bacon, link sausage, Lorne sausage, fried egg, haggis, potato scone, black pudding, tomatoes, mushrooms, toast, marmalade, tea. All the main food groups.

'It was Velma,' said Proudfoot.

Mulholland shook his head. 'Definitely Thelma,' he replied.

Proudfoot dealt with a piece of toast, smothered it with marmalade. Popped the remnants of a sausage into her mouth, then some of the toast. Detective Sergeant Dip currently ate in much the same way, but was spending the night with friends. Something he was able to do in virtually every town in the Highlands.

'Definitely, definitely, definitely Velma,' she said. 'No question.'

Mulholland clinked his knife and fork on a cleared plate, turned his attention to the toast. Jam or marmalade? Marmalade.

'What are you talking about? Velma? What kind of name is that? Velma's not even a real name. It's not a word, it's not a food substance or a brand name, it's not a place, it's not a disease. "What's the matter with you, mate?" "Touch of the velma, Big Man." No chance. It's nothing. Not a name, not a disease, nothing. No one's called Velma. Do you know anyone called Velma?'

'No, but then I'm from Glasgow. People don't get called Velma in Glasgow. I don't know anyone called Thelma either, but I'm not disputing its existence as a name. It was definitely Velma.'

'Get out of my face, Velma! The reason people don't get called Velma in Glasgow is because it's not a name. No one gets called Velma anywhere. What kind of idiot would call their daughter Velma?'

Proudfoot finished off the last of her bacon, then laid the cutlery quietly down on the plate. Downed some tea, lifted the pot to pour some more.

'Doesn't have to be any kind of idiot. She's a cartoon character, she doesn't actually have parents. Scooby Doo isn't real.'

'Get out of my face.'

'Right, bet you,' she said.

'You're on. How much?'

'A million pounds.'

He smiled, said, 'It's a deal. I can start thinking how I'll spend the money, you can start thinking how you're going to raise it.'

'Won't have to. Velma, Velma, Velma.'

'No way,' said Mulholland. 'Anyway, that wasn't the main issue. The real question was, were Fred and Daphne shagging?'

Proudfoot laughed. The woman of the house appeared beside their table. They looked up and wondered if they were about to be told off for having an inappropriate conversation at the breakfast table.

'There's a call for you, Chief Inspector,' she said, sounding suspicious. At the mention of the job title, nervous glances were passed between the two other occupied tables. If they'd only known there'd been a policeman in their midst, perhaps they would not have been so loose with their tongues; assuming that all police officers are constantly on the lookout for people to arrest.

'Thanks,' said Mulholland. Glanced at Proudfoot, rose from the table. 'Probably being recalled to Glasgow 'cause we haven't found him yet.'

'Watch your testicles.'

'Thanks.'

Mulholland walked from the small dining room. Proudfoot looked out of the window at the snow-covered fields stretching away to low hills. The other five people in the room looked warily at her. Might she also be the police, or was she the moll? A bit on the side he carried with him. Or maybe she was a one-nighter he'd picked up in one of the seedy strip joints in Helmsdale or Brora.

An uncomfortable silence dominated the room. The clink of knives, cups and saucers, toast crunching between teeth. The silent sounds of suspicion. Proudfoot felt it, too bored with the police to enjoy it anymore. Stared out at the snow, mind rambling. Wondered if they were in for a long winter. Didn't think about Barney Thomson; couldn't help thinking about Joel Mulholland. It never did any harm to think.

He returned, walking quickly into the room. Good humour gone. Businesslike.

'Come on, Sergeant,' he said. Knew it, thought the other five in the room. 'We've got a sighting of our man. Dip's come up with something, some hotel near Wick that Thomson stayed in. We'd better get a move on before Sheep careers off across the Highlands on some wild-goose chase.'

***

A small hotel on the sea-battered east coast. They could already hear the sound of the waves crashing onto the rocks, a great tumult of noise. The hotel looked not unlike the Bates house, high on a promontory. Gothic. Good sea views. Gave the hotel its name. The Sea View. They both thought the same thing as they got out of the car, hugging their jackets around them to fight off the biting wind whistling in off a bitter North Sea; wonder how long it took some genius to think that up?

A couple of other cars in the car park. No other buildings in sight. A desolate, dreary spot. Difficult to imagine there being any life in this place, even on the brightest of days.

A good place for a serial killer.

Mulholland pushed open the door and marched into reception. Hit by a wonderful warmth, Proudfoot quickly closed the door behind them. Had expected the inside to be as bleak as the exterior, but instead, thick carpets, heating up full. It could have been any of a hundred hotels in Scotland. Red carpet, pictures of stags on the walls, warm, smoky smell of an open fire. Mulholland thought of his honeymoon; long nights and long mornings, lazy afternoons; a time when the rest of his life had been set. He banished the memory, consigned it to the appropriate bin.

A young woman appeared. Canadian. Although, as with all Canadians, this did not outwardly manifest itself.

'Hi, what can I do for you? Would you like a room?'

'No thanks. Chief Inspector Mulholland and Sergeant Proudfoot. Here to speak with Mr Stewart.'

'Oh, right, yeah. The police. About that serial killer guy. I'll just get him for you. Wait up.'

She disappeared from reception, leaving faint traces of soap and hotel shampoo in the air. Mulholland rested his elbows on the counter. Proudfoot wandered, studying paintings of open moor and stags on the hoof. She'd never stayed in a hotel like this. Wanted to stay that night, but knew they had a long day ahead of them.

A woman bustled into reception. Late sixties perhaps, grey hair and breasts you could use on a major engineering project. A man followed, dungarees and dirty hands. Face like the underside of a football boot.

Mulholland held up his card.

'Mulholland and Proudfoot, Partick CID.'

'Partick?' said the woman. 'By jings, you got here quickly. We only phoned this morning.'

'We were in the area. I presume Sergeant MacPherson's here already?'

'There's no MacPherson here, laddie, and there hasn't been since Big Jock MacPherson stayed here yon night he thought he could get away with shagging Wee Sammy Matheson's daughter, Budgie. But I'll tell you, Wee Sammy was having none of it.'

'Right.'

'Partick, you say,' said the woman. 'Have they no local police they could send? I thought we'd be seeing Alec. Had a nice cup of tea all ready for him.'

The man shook his head. 'Ach, away with you, woman, this is much too big for Alec. If you want someone to tell you the quickest way to get to Golspie, he's fine, but he's bloody useless at solving crimes and the like. Still hasn't worked out who robbed the Post Office last March even though Wee Jamie Drummond's been driving round in a brand new Skoda ever since.' He nodded at the two officers. 'No, these are the big boys up from Glasgow we've got here. Come on and sit yourselves down. You get us some tea, Agnes.'

Agnes Stewart looked at the visitors. 'You'll be wanting a biscuit,' she muttered, and then disappeared.

Donald Stewart beckoned them on. Another warm room, large fire crackling. Smells like Christmas, thought Proudfoot. A couple of sofas, seven or eight comfortable chairs. Coffee tables with two-year-old People's Friends.

'Now, now, then, sit yourselves down, won't you? I expect you'll be having a few wee questions for me.'

Mulholland and Proudfoot sat next to one another on the sofa beside the fire. Donald Stewart sat across from them, leaning forward, awaiting the inquisition. Knew what it would be like, being a man who watched The Bill.

'I understand that you thought Barney Thomson had been staying here?' said Mulholland, getting straight to it.

Stewart nodded enthusiastically. 'Oh aye, no doubt about it. A week past on Thursday for two nights. I checked my records before you came.'

A week past on Thursday. Mulholland lowered his head. What was the matter with these people? This still left them a week and a half behind.

'So he left here on the Saturday,' said Mulholland, the annoyance creeping into his voice.

'Aye, twelve days ago.'

Mulholland stared at him. Knew that the bloke didn't see anything wrong. Cast a glance at Proudfoot who wasn't laughing this time.

'Mr Stewart, if Barney Thomson was here twelve days ago, and you knew the police were looking for him, why did it take you so long to get in touch with us?'

Stewart laughed. 'Well, you know what Matthew Arnold said. Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we, light half-believers in our casual creeds, Who hesitate and falter life away, and lose tomorrow the ground won today – and, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?'

Mulholland stared at the smile on the football boot face. The headache which had been lingering since he awoke threatened to burst through.

'What the fuck was that all about?' he said. Shook his head, held up his hand. 'Sorry,' he mumbled.

'Well, I'm not so sure,' said Stewart, 'but I thought it might apply. I do like my poetry. What I'm trying to say is this. He seemed like a nice enough lad, you know, we'd have him back any day. Paid his bill in cash. Just didn't see him as a serial killer, and the way the press are going on, I hardly thought that the boy would get a fair trial.'

Mulholland buried his head in his hands. Rubbed his forehead, came up for air. Trying not to lose his temper. 'So why now?' he asked.

'Ach, well, I was just wondering if maybe I might have been wrong about the lad.' His wife bustled into the room, a tray laden with food. 'I mean, on the telly last night they were saying it might have been his fault that Billy Bremner missed yon sitter against Brazil in Germany in 1974. I mean, if that's true, there's no doubt the lad belongs in prison.'

Mulholland was dumbstruck. Proudfoot stared at the fire and smiled. Not too many places for the conversation to go now.

'Now then, how many sugars would that be in your tea?'

Mulholland looked for the first time at the tray Agnes Stewart had brought in. A fruit loaf, twelve Danish pastries, six almond slices, one large apple tart, seven custard pies, a selection of chocolate-covered digestives, a packet of finger biscuits, fourteen iced buns, twenty or thirty jammy dodgers, and several hundredweight of cherry bakewells. He didn't answer, looked back at Donald Stewart.

'Two for me and none for him,' said Proudfoot.

'Right then, dear, that'll be lovely.'

The velvet sound of pouring tea filled the room.

'Aye,' said Donald Stewart, 'that looks like a fine cuppy of tea you're having. Think I might have a wee cuppy myself.'

'Mr Stewart,' said Mulholland, 'on the planet you're from, is it normal that one person can be guilty for every bad thing that ever happened?'

'Aye, well, you know, it's just what they're saying in the press, like.'

'How could Barney Thomson possibly be to blame for Billy Bremner's miss against Brazil? He was two feet out of goal with no one in front of him. How could it be anyone's fault but Billy Bremner's?'

Donald Stewart took a contemplative bite from an almond slice.

'Aye, well, manny, you might have a point. But there is a point of view that suggests all things are connected. You stick the ball in the net at Hampden and someone falls off their motorbike in Thurso. That's what we're talking about.'

'What is it Adam Smith says?' said Agnes Stewart, still filling the room with the warm sounds of pouring tea. 'Something about philosophy being the science which pretends to lay open the concealed connections that unite the various appearances of nature.'

'Well, Agnes, I don't know if that was quite what Mr Smith was getting at. There's more to this than philosophical ramblings.'

'Ramblings! You can't reduce Adam Smith to ramblings!'

'Aye, well, that might be right enough. But I don't know how much he has to contribute to a discussion on Billy Bremner missing a sitter against Brazil, the elegiac nature of it not withstanding.'

'Look!'

The Stewarts raised their heads, shrugged, ignored Mulholland's ejaculation. Mr Stewart made a move for a large piece of apple pie.

'There's your tea now, you two. Help yourself to a little bitty of cake.'

Proudfoot had given in. Wanted to burst out laughing again. Loaded a plate with cakes and biscuits, lifted her tea. Was resigned to gaining several kilos before getting back to Glasgow.

'Really, Mr Stewart, this has nothing to do with Billy Bremner. However, the crimes of which Barney Thomson stands accused are very, very serious. We believe him to be a dangerous man.'

'Ach, that laddie? I hardly think so. Seemed nice enough.' He touched the back of his neck. 'Even gave me a quick trim. An Andy Stewart, and he only charged me three-fifty.'

Mulholland shook his head, wondering who in their right mind would let Barney Thomson anywhere near them with a pair of scissors. Capitulated. Leant forward, lifted his tea, placed a Danish pastry, a custard pie and two iced buns on his plate. Was resigned to gaining several kilos before getting back to Glasgow; and Melanie wouldn't be there to complain about it.

There came the sound of heavy footfalls in the corridor outside, and then the sight of Sheep Dip marching into the lounge. He stopped short of the crowd and surveyed the table.

'You're late, Sergeant Dip,' said Mulholland.

'Ach, just got a wee bitty distracted. Met a couple of farmers who'd had their hair cut by your Thomson fellow, but it was last week. Don't suppose it helps.'

'Where?'

'Down Helmsdale way, you know, but I think it's too late to be worrying about it. Now, that looks like a fine platter you have there, ma'am, would you mind if I helped myself to a wee cakey or two?'

'Not at all, son, you go right ahead. And here you, I thought you said the lad's name was MacPherson?'

Mulholland stared from one to the other. Proudfoot felt a hint of pity for him, amongst other emotions.

'Mr Stewart,' she said, eating into the heart of the feast, 'can you remember if Barney Thomson said where he was intending to go after leaving here?'

Donald Stewart stroked his chin, bit ruminatively into his slice of apple pie. Nodded his head, then he said, 'You know, Agnes, I think this might have been a wee bitty better heated.'

The Penitent Men Kneel Before God

––––––––

Brother Herman sat at his desk in the library, poring over records. Books brought in, books taken out, books yet to be returned. Unfortunately, no record of how many times each individual monk had visited the library. This instead: the record of monks who had made transactions on each of the last days of Brothers Saturday and Morgan.

Only two names appeared both times. The first did not need to be thought about, or shown to the Abbot. No need to point suspicion at a quarter where it was not wanted. The other was Brother Babel, a name that continuously cropped up. Returning a book on the day that Saturday died, removing another, returning that book on the day Morgan died, removing a further volume. Firstly, The Elohistic Chronicles, by the Marquis François d'Orleans, a fourteenth-century French treatise on the Old Testament; followed by The Path of Right, an obscure twelfth-century work by an anonymous English monk. Comedic, some called it. Babel had not yet paid a visit to Brother Jacob's new hair emporium, but that hardly meant that he would be unaware of the location of the scissors.

Herman decided he would talk to Brother Babel. One of the younger monks, a man who would easily crack. It was time to apply pressure.

There were a few other names on the library lists, but Babel's was the one which stood out. Nevertheless, he would have to speak to each one in turn. One more day, and the Abbot would be calling in outside agencies of the law, something which Herman could not afford to allow to happen. He needed a suspect before then.

He closed the returns book and settled back in the hard chair. Looked into the heart of the shelves, the thousands of ancient volumes, and saw the faces of all the monks there. He had studied them all at Brother Morgan's graveside that morning, but there had been nothing there but grief and fear. He knew he was dealing with subtle and dark forces, that he could not act too boldly. He would have to bide his time. It would be like a game of cat and mouse. Without the cat.

Or the mouse.

***

There was a certain macabre beauty in cutting a customer's hair with a pair of scissors which had been used as an instrument of murder. So thought Barney Thomson, barber, as he snipped quietly away at the head of Brother Edward. A requested, and slightly racy, (Tonsured) Roger Moore, a revolutionary haircut never before executed. Barney was at the cutting edge of style, out on a limb.

Back behind the seat two days earlier than planned, due to public demand. Only one pair of scissors capable of doing the job, so Brother Herman, however unimpressed, had released them for Barney's use. Barney was aware that, at the rate he was going, he would have everyone's hair cut within a couple of weeks. Full time cleaning floors would follow. He wondered if maybe he could request to expand, cutting the hair of people in nearby villages, but already knew the answer. He was trapped here, in no less of a prison than he would be placed in if he got caught; and maybe not as comfortable.

Prison. If captured he'd be considered a highly dangerous prisoner, and weren't all those guys given three-room suites instead of cells? TV and DVD, bathroom, double bed, the right to invite women over at the weekends? Maybe he'd be better off in prison, a comfortable life, giving everyone a Tim Robbins (Shawshank Redemption).

Bored with his own thoughts, he decided to talk.

'So, what are you in for, Brother Edward?'

Edward raised an eyebrow.

Barney snipped quickly away around the back of the neck.

'Oh aye, right. But you know what I mean. Why are you here, 'n all that?'

Edward stared into the dark, blank wall in front of him. How many times in the past had he stared at the mirror as some new dream haircut had unfolded before him, another killer look which he would use to devastating effect, out on his Friday night sexquest? Ed the Bed, that's what they'd called him. He could lure a woman from fifty yards without a word. A different woman every night of the week, if he'd wanted; and how many of them had he sent to the grave of abandoned desire? He had never talked about it; but there was something about being in the barber's chair.

'Women,' he said to Barney, surprised by his own candour.

'Oh aye,' said Barney, nodding, 'God's second blunder.'

'Brother?'

'Oh, Nietzsche. Said that women were God's second blunder.'

'German philosophy, eh? And what did he consider God's first blunder?'

'Allowing McAllister to take the penalty against England,' Barney said. Laughed as he said it, so that Edward knew it was a joke. Not that he'd thought of it himself; had heard someone say it in the pub once, when they'd had a European philosophers evening. Not much good at jokes, Barney Thomson.

'Right, very good, Brother. I wouldn't let Brother Herman hear you talk like that, or he'll have your testicles on toast.'

Barney swallowed, hesitated, continued clipping. A vivid image.

Suddenly Brother Edward felt released. It was time to get it off his chest. The years of loathing and self-flagellation, the agonies he'd caused; the women he'd cast aside and the lives he'd ruined.

'I was a heartbreaker, Brother,' said Edward. 'I used women like you'd use razor blades. Swept them up with the great Hoover of my personality and good looks. Then, when I was done with them, I reversed the suck to blow and spat them out like so much dust in the wind.'

Barney snipped away. He sneaked a glance at Brother Edward's face. He looked about fifteen. No oil painting either. Wondered if he was delusional.

'Loved 'em and left 'em, that was me. I used to keep a book, you know. A catalogue of success. Page after page of women who had succumbed to my charm and outrageous good looks. It read like a Who's Who of Edinburgh babe society. I broke up marriages, I drove girls to suicide, I led them down the path of carnal degradation. But I changed, Brother Jacob, I changed. It'd make me sick to look at that book now.'

'Oh aye. Where is it?'

'Hidden away,' said Edward, 'where neither man nor beast will ever set eyes upon it again.'

'Why'd you not just burn it?' said Barney.

He felt Edward's shoulders shrug. 'Not sure. Suppose I thought that if things didn't work out here, there might be a few new chapters to write.'

'Oh.'

Another penitent man kneeling before God.

Barney had worked in a barber's shop long enough to recognise it; had thought that in this place he would not encounter such a person. The top-division, highly paid, agented, professional bullshitter. Always a mistake to get them started, but Barney had realised it too late. He had opened the box.

'But even after I got here, Brother Jacob, I questioned myself for a long while. Had I given up women for the right reason, or had I merely tired of them? You see, there are two types of women.'

'Oh aye?' said Barney.

'Aye. There's your Sharon Stones, and then there's your Madonnas.'

Barney was almost finished. Wished his next customer would arrive, as he was sure Brother Edward would not be so talkative in company.

'It's the difference between Basic Instinct and Body of Evidence, Brother. In Basic Instinct, you know the scene where they're in bed, Sharon Stone's lying there, and Michael Douglas darts down and gets stuck in. Giving her oral pleasure, you know?'

'Aye,' said Barney. He'd watched some of it once when Agnes had incorrectly set the video, attempting to tape the bumper final episode of the seventh season of Destiny Drive, successful offshoot of the failed Patrick Duffy vehicle, Only The Good Have Big Hair. He hadn't really known what they were doing.

'Well, you're watching that and you're thinking, is he really doing that to her, or is he in fact nowhere near her and it's all done by camera angles? Does he really have his face buried between her legs, or are they fake legs? Is that real pubic hair sticking up his nose, or is it a wig? You're just not sure. So, you see, that's one kind of woman. The kind you're just not sure about. Then there's Body of Evidence. You'll remember the scene with Madonna standing on top of the car?'

'Aye,' said Barney; hadn't the faintest idea.

'Willem Dafoe buries his face between her legs. But he's up there, man, there's no denying it. There's no artifice; there's no elaborate camera angles; there's no sophistry; there's no question that it's Madonna. It's her all right, not some stunt duff. So it's all there for you to see. And you know what you're thinking, Brother Jacob?'

'I hope she's had a shower?'

'You're thinking, that's it. It's all there, out in the open. So what's left? There's no mystery. Everything there is to see you've seen. And when there's no mystery, what is there? You see my problem, Brother?'

Barney had no idea what he was talking about. He ran a comb down the back of his head. Haircut finished. Hoping that he'd be able to send Brother Edward on his way

'Either you don't get it all, in which case you get annoyed because you wonder what they're hiding. Or you see everything and you get fed up because there's no mystery. You can't win. So that's my predicament. Did I run from womanhood because of my guilt, or because I was fed up with the continuing contradictions?'

Barney didn't have an answer. It was a good moment for the door to open, which it did, a prayer answered, and in walked Brother Adolphus and Brother Steven. Greetings were exchanged.

'I'm just finished,' said Barney, removing the towel from around Edward's neck, and mightily relieved with it. 'Would you like to step up, Brother Adolphus?'

Brother Adolphus came forward. Steven sat in one of the three seats behind the barber's chair, where Edward joined him after brushing off his shoulders.

'What can I do for you, Brother?' said Barney, fixing the towel around Adolphus's neck.

'I hear you do a wonderful Sean Connery (Name of the Rose), Brother,' he said.

'Aye, that'll be no bother.' Barney tapped the scissors against the comb, turned and quickly looked at Steven before he started. 'Unhappy with your cut from the other day, Brother?'

Steven smiled. 'No, no, Brother, not at all. I'd finished work for the day, and thought I'd come along and watch a master craftsman ply his trade. One of God's own artisans. You have the Gift, Brother. Angels must weep in ecstasy when they hear the euphonic clip of your scissors, and trumpets sound in Heaven to herald the triumph of corporeal entity over the fantasy of imagination. The mighty swords of the warriors of Gog and Magog could not have been wielded with such eloquence and pulchritude. The demons of impotence and repugnance must flee to their pungent burrows when faced with the edifying totality of your finesse. I see you have realised a (Tonsured) Roger Moore upon Brother Edward here. Wonderful work, Brother, wonderful work.'

Barney smiled. 'Aye, right,' he said, a little uncomfortably.

'Indeed,' said Brother Edward. 'I thought I'd stop a little longer myself.'

Steven nodded and the two men settled back to watch the master craftsman. Barney settled down to the subtle differences between a Sean Connery and an F. Murray Abraham.

Scissors clicked, but the silence would not last long. The Pandora's box of Edward's confession could not yet be contained.

'We were just talking about women,' said Edward. Knew that he shouldn't be having this discussion in the monastery, but that Steven would be a willing interlocutor. He ignored Adolphus, one of the quiet ones.

Brother Steven smiled. 'Ah, women,' he said. 'This is a good life we have, but sometimes you have to miss 'em. O Woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade, By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!'

'Walter Scott,' said Brother Adolphus from the chair, to everyone's surprise. 'Wonderful. How about, Eternal Woman draws us upward.'

Steven nodded his head. 'Faust. Very impressive. Better not let Brother Herman hear you quote Goethe, however, although who knows how many of us monks are here because of some calamitous Faustian pact?'

He received no answer to that, for how many in that very room were there for dark and devilish reasons?

'Woman's at best a contradiction,' said Steven, to take the curse from the conversation.

'Pope!' said Adolphus. 'A woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.'

'Excellent, Brother,' said Steven. 'Samuel Johnson. Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda-water the day after.'

'Ah, the Lord Byron,' said Adolphus. 'Those days are gone for us, Brother.'

'Indeed.'

A pause. Edward, feeling left out, made his move.

'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.'

Neither Steven nor Adolphus had an immediate riposte. A brake had been put on the momentum of the conversation. Edward seemed quite pleased with himself, but perhaps realised that further revelations about his past might be inappropriate. Barney took his chance.

'Hell hath no fury like a woman's scone,' he said.

Scissors clicked; hair fell gently to the ground; the dark grey walls of the monastery kept their secrets.

'Looks like we're in for a long winter,' said Brother Steven after a while.

The Sex Issue

––––––––

'What crap are you reading now?'

Proudfoot looked up as Mulholland arrived at the table with lunch. Soup, sandwiches, warm drinks. A small restaurant in Thurso, first-floor, looking down on the snow and the few cars out battling against the blizzard. Cricket highlights from Australia incongruously played on the television.

'The January issue of Blitz!' she said.

'Isn't it still November?'

'You know how it is with these things. The Christmas one's been on sale since the middle of August.'

'So how come you only bought it two days ago?'

''Cause it's a load of pish.'

Mulholland sat down, passed her lunch across the table. Three o'clock in the afternoon. A few hours spent in Caithness, persuading themselves that Barney Thomson had not remained in the area. The man had headed west. They had come as far as Thurso, where the snow had driven them off the road. They were spending all their time eating.

'So what have we got this time?' said Mulholland through a mouthful of sandwich. Turkey, brie, tomato and cranberry sauce.

'It's a special sex issue,' she said.

'This one's a special sex issue?'

'Aye. Just the usual stuff, you know, but more so.'

'Sex?' said Sheep Dip, joining them, his plate brimming with food.

Proudfoot smiled at him, enjoying the belief that Mulholland would be jealous. She swallowed a spoonful of soup, felt the warmth slide down inside her like a satin glove; if you were to eat a satin glove. She let the magazine close and Mulholland took it off her and span it around on the table. Read the cover headlines, printed over the picture of an anorexic foetus with eye-shadow.

Mel Gibson or Bruce Willis - Who's Got the Bigger Cock; Collagen Implants - Why They're Not All They're Blown Up to Be; Why I've Had It With Breasts - Meryl Streep Tells All; Extra-Large Mars Bar v. Cucumber - You Decide; Alien Sex - It's Not As Out Of This World As You Think; Why Isabelle Adjani Is Through with Sex; Ninety Great Ways to the Five Second Orgasm; Gretchen Schumacher on Why She's Shagged Her Last Horse; Lose Weight Through Instant Sex; Why You Might Not Be Getting All The Sex You Should; Forty-Eight Great New Ways To Have Sex; Cybersex - Coming to a Computer Near You; Why Male Models Have Huge Cocks; Trapped between the Thighs of a Cosmic Prostitute. And much, much more...

Mulholland shook his head, pushed the magazine away from him, turning it over so as not to look at the cover. Back page: a wafer-thin wee lassie, in the pouring rain, naked but for wellies. A tampon advert, the subject of which looked as though she wouldn't start menstruating for another three to four years.

'We need to talk,' he said, getting stuck into the soup.

'Why?' said Proudfoot. 'I'll read what I want.'

'Not about that,' he said, brusquely, 'I'm ignoring that. About Barney Thomson.'

'Oh.'

'We need to get inside the man. Try and work out what his next move might have been. We're on the right road and closing on him, but he's still a week and a half in front of us.'

'We're not going on any road in this weather,' said Sheep Dip, nodding at the blizzard outside. Unrelenting, sweeping in from the west. No sign of a let-up. 'It's biblical out there, so it is. Biblical,' he added, displaying his local knowledge to its fullest.

'Aye, well, if it doesn't look like easing today, we find somewhere to stay tonight. Hope it's eased by tomorrow. We might go along to the local plods and see if we can commandeer a decent vehicle for the weather. They might have a Land Rover they'll let us have.'

'And back on Planet Earth,' said Proudfoot.

'All right, they might have a Land Rover that we can take after a few calls have been made. Whatever. We head west, but it would help if we had some idea what he was doing. So we have to think about everything we've got, come to some sort of conclusion. See if we can get to somewhere that Thomson might have visited in the past few days, not a week and a half ago. And hopefully somewhere where there's not some bloody woman who thinks he's a lovely lad and insists on filling us up with the entire contents of Safeway's cake shelves.'

Proudfoot mixed soup and sandwich, began to feel life returning to the freezing extremities of her body.

'It does seem strange, though, doesn't it?' she said. 'Everyone we've spoken to who's had anything to do with him, they all think he's a nice enough man. There's none of the usual stuff that comes with serial loopos. I can't equate the Barney Thomson that we're supposed to be looking for, with the Barney Thomson that everyone who's met him describes.'

'She's got a point,' said Sheep Dip. 'They've been talking about him up here for a couple of weeks now. The lad's no killer. Unless he's one of these, what d'you call them, schizohaulics, or whatever.'

Mulholland shrugged. 'Who knows? Nothing he does displays the slightest cunning or criminal intuition. He decides to run, but waits until he gets to where he's going before he takes money out of the bank. If he'd done it in Glasgow we'd have no idea where he'd gone. He quite openly stays in B&Bs. Calls himself Barnabus Thompson and thinks he'll pull the wool over someone's eyes.'

'He did,' said the Dip.

'All right, but somewhere out there, there's got to be a landlady who can see past a man's capacity to eat breakfast.'

'Don't count on it. How many phone calls have we had?' said Proudfoot.

Mulholland shook his head. If only they didn't have to deal with the public. If it was just them and the criminals, with no one else in the way, it would be so much easier.

He took a huge bite from his sandwich and mushed it up with soup. How could it be so difficult to catch a man who was such an idiot?

'There is an alternative,' said Proudfoot. Mulholland raised his eyebrows, speech being lost to him at that moment. 'He could be taking the piss. Intentionally leaving the trail, so we'll know where to find him. Either wants to get caught, or else he's confident he'll stay one step ahead of us. Laughing at our expense.'

Mulholland swallowed. 'Could be. If that's the case, I'm going to kick the shit out of him.'

'Me too.'

'Barney Thomson?' said Sheep Dip. 'Ach, away with you. The lad's taking the pish out of no one.'

'Anyway,' said Mulholland. 'Ignoring his motives. Let's say by the time he buys his one-way ticket to Inverness he's not got much cash left. Lifts two hundred pounds when he gets there, so that's all he's got in the world. So far we've got him down for four nights' B&B. How much?'

'Fifteen a night in the first place, twenty-two in the second. So that's seventy-four,' said Proudfoot.

'Right. And we know he bought some clothes in Tain. He must have had to get the bus or the train around. Eaten something for lunch and dinner. Must have spent well over a hundred. Maybe a hundred and fifty almost. And that was twelve days ago. The man has got to be running out of cash.'

'Remember he's been working,' said Sheep Dip.

Mulholland shook his head. 'Of course, I keep forgetting. There's this huge queue of Highland eejits waiting for the most notorious psycho in Scottish history to start probing around their heads with a pair of scissors. Still, by the sound of it he's not making that much cash. Can't have cut too much hair, for goodness' sake. Not everyone up here can think the guy's all right, surely?'

Sheep Dip shovelled food remorselessly into his mouth.

'That I wouldn't count on. The lad's no more of a hard man than Wullie Miller, and he used to get all sorts of folk speaking to him.'

'Could be he's robbing banks or something like that,' said Proudfoot, not believing it for a second. Was instantly annoyed at herself for this pathetic sucking up.

'Think we'd have heard,' said Mulholland. 'All the crimes that have been reported to us as possible Barney Thomson vehicles, they're just a load of pish. You know that. We obviously don't know much about the guy, but he's just not a petty criminal. He did his crimes eight months ago, he thought he'd got away with it, and now he's having to do a runner. That's it.'

'Could be desperate,' she said.

'I don't think so. He doesn't have the brains for it, or the guts, or the inclination. No, there's something that first woman said. The one in Tain.'

'What?'

'She said that Thomson had told her he was going somewhere that no one would have heard of him,' said Sheep Dip.

Proudfoot tried to remember her saying that, but she'd been too busy trying not to laugh. Now it was her who suddenly felt in competition with Sheep Dip; a ridiculous notion. She rhythmically spooned her soup, blowing over the top of the spoon, lips round and full and moist. Mulholland tried not to stare. Hoped he wasn't going to get carried away, ignore Sergeant Dip, and say something cheesy like, I really love the way you eat your soup.

'Abroad?' said Proudfoot, looking up and catching him staring.

He nodded. 'All right, abroad fits the bill. But why come to Sutherland and Caithness? It may be out of the way, but it isn't abroad. They still get the BBC and the Daily Record.'

'Iceland?'

He shrugged. 'Same again. You don't travel to Iceland from here. He might go to Orkney or Shetland, but they're still going to know who he is. There must be somewhere up here that he thought would have no outside contact.'

'A remote village, then,' she said. He watched her lips. Shook his head. 'Suppose you're right,' she went on. 'It's not like it's the Amazon or something.'

'Exactly,' said Mulholland. 'There're back-of-beyond places, but everywhere still gets the morning paper, even if it isn't until three in the afternoon. There might be places that are a little behind, but not weeks behind liked he'd need. Has to be something cut off from the world. A commune, maybe.'

'Do you still get them?'

He shrugged again. Wondered if she was staring at his lips the way he was staring at hers.

'Sergeant Dip? Is there some tribe of hippies out there like those Japanese that came out of the jungle forty years after the war? They're still smoking dope and doing all that Krishna stuff, thinking the Vietnam War's still on and Wilson's Prime Minister.'

Sheep Dip chewed ruminatively on some springy mince. Proudfoot laughed. Mulholland thought, I could shag that laugh; then wondered what was getting into him. He had to keep talking about Barney Thomson; and try not to say something stupid like, I love the way your nose does that little thing when you smile.

'I don't think so,' said Sheep Dip. 'There are still communes and the like, monasteries and that kind of thingy, but for all their shite, these people are even more up with the modern world than the rest of us, you know? They've all got their own websites and all that. There's no one backward any more, not in this day and age.'

'Suppose you're right,' said Mulholland. 'The minute you get above Inverness, you still tend to think of them all as a bunch of retro sheep shaggers. But it just isn't like that any more.'

'Oh,' said Sheep Dip, shovelling bread and potatoes into his mouth, 'they still shag plenty of sheep.'

'Right.' And Mulholland wondered for the first time about the exact origins of Sergeant MacPherson's nickname. 'We can ask the local plods when we go along and take one of their cars off their hands. See what's in the vicinity that might make a good hideout for the most famous person in Britain. Might be a commune or a monastery after all. Who knows?'

'You still get them? Monasteries?' asked Proudfoot.

'Don't know,' said Mulholland. 'They're not like normal people up here, are they, Sergeant Dip? Who knows what we'll encounter?'

'Life, but not as we know it,' said Proudfoot.

'Aye,' said Mulholland. 'Better set your phaser on stun, and be prepared to re-calibrate your anophasic quantum confinement capacitor.'

'Only if you remember to bring your protoplasmic photon iridium deflector array.'

Sheep Dip munched slowly on his third slice of bread.

'You don't half get some fancy-sounding equipment down in Glasgow,' he said

***

'Chief Inspector Mulholland, you say? From Glasgow?'

'Aye. This is Detective Sergeant Proudfoot.'

Sheep Dip had disappeared again; more friends or relatives to visit, Mulholland assumed, making enquiries his official excuse.

The large policeman behind the desk in the Thurso station smiled. Extended his hand across the counter.

'Sergeant Gordon. Always nice to have some colleagues up from Glasgow. We usually just see the boys from Inverness, you know. Come on round the back and we'll get you a cup of tea. You must be frozen if you've come all that way.'

They followed him round the other side of the counter and through the door into the small back-room office. Had visions of being presented with another tray full of pastries and biscuits.

'No, it's all right, thanks. We haven't just driven from Glasgow today, and we've just had lunch.'

'Och, aye, of course,' said Sergeant Gordon. 'I've been hearing all about you. On a great odyssey across the Highlands in search of the wanted man. Thrilling stuff. But you must have a cup of tea and a biscuit. I'll just put the kettle on.'

He didn't have to leave the office; the kettle was on another desk, surrounded by opened packets of biscuits.

'I thought the Dipper was with you?'

Mulholland smiled. 'The Dipper's off making other enquiries.'

'Aye, aye, right enough, he will be. A good lad, Sheep Dip, a good lad. Now, what is it I can do for you?'

Mulholland hesitated. He had never liked interfering on other people's patches. It was guaranteed to cause argument and upset, and nothing helped the opposition more than when the police were fighting amongst themselves.

'We're not setting off again tonight,' he began.

'Good Lord, no, of course not. It's awful out there.'

'We're hoping to get on tomorrow, if it's a bit clearer. But we'll need a better vehicle for the snow. A four-wheeled drive. I hate to pull rank, and I don't want to have—'

'Don't be daft, lad, we've got a Land Rover you can have. As long as you bring it back in one piece, it's all yours. None of that fancy Starsky and Hutch stuff that some of the Glasgow lads seem to like.'

The kettle began to grumble. Sergeant Gordon started placing biscuits on plates, teabags in the pot. Things were usually quiet in Thurso, but even quieter when it snowed. Glad to have visitors.

'You're sure?' said Mulholland.

'Ach, no bother, son. We've got the old one out back if we need it for emergencies. There's no point in your chief phoning up my chief and all the keich flying. Just take it and try to bring it back in a reasonable condition.'

'Thanks a lot. Appreciate it.' He looked at Proudfoot and raised his eyebrows. At last. Help.

'No bother,' said Sergeant Gordon, 'no bother at all.'

'Now, we think Barney Thomson might have passed through this way. We're not sure. Have there been any sightings of the man, any hints of his being around here? Maybe a crime that's a little out of the norm?'

'You mean, have we found a collection of body parts in a freezer? 'Cause we've had none of that, not for a couple of years at any rate. Not since Big Hamish threw himself off the pier at Scrabster.'

'No, no, we're not expecting that. Anything really. Anything unusual.'

Sergeant Gordon held the handle of the kettle while it shuddered to the boil. He smiled as he started pouring the water into the teapot.

'Oh, aye, there was something. Old Betty down at Tongue. You know, Betty McAllister, with the enormous breasts. She's got that auld B&B place. Seagull's Nest, or something like that, it's called. She phoned us a week or two back. Said she thought she might have this Thomson bloke of yours staying at her place. Said he seemed like a nice enough laddie, and she definitely wasn't happy about phoning, bless her.'

'What happened?' asked Mulholland. Voice dead, staring at the floor. A week or two ago. Not even beginning to get excited about this. Why was it, he thought, that everybody on the planet was a complete and utter moron?

'Well, you know, I was a bit busy that afternoon. It was a Sunday, I think, and you know, what with lunch and all that, and me having to take Mother back to the hospital in the evening. It was the following day before I got around to calling her back, and it seems like I just missed him. Barney Thomson, that is.'

Sergeant Gordon turned round, two cups of tea in hand. Noticed that Mulholland was turning red. Smiled.

'Keep your knickers on, laddie, I'm only joking,' he said. 'I've heard not a word about the man. And, as everyone around here knows, Betty McAllister's got pancakes for tits. Now, would you be wanting sugar?'

***

They hurried down the path from the police station, back into the car. Out of the cold and the blizzard. Twenty-five minutes later. Cup of tea and three biscuits; nothing to be learned. Had ended up chatting about Sergeant Gordon's children. Directed to the Caithness Hotel to spend the night, where they could sit and fester and hope the blizzard would pass. Would pick up the Land Rover in the morning. They had asked about any communes or similar venues where Barney Thomson might have been able to hide away without fear of recognition, but the sergeant had been unable to help them. Nowhere thereabouts, as far as he could remember.

As Mulholland skidded into second, slithering through the snow, Sergeant Gordon put the kettle on again. There were only two mugs, so he hadn't been able to have one with his guests. As he removed a couple of chocolate digestives from the packet, he remembered about the old abbey halfway between Durness and Tongue. The name escaped him, but as far as he knew it was still active. The monks kept pretty much to themselves, so he believed. Wondered if he should call the hotel and mention it to Mulholland, but midway through his first chocolate digestive, he decided not to bother. A serial killer like Barney Thomson wouldn't be wanting anything to do with monks, nor they with him. No point in bothering them.

By the time he bit into his second biscuit, he was already considering more important matters.

Would all this snow dissuade the widow Harrison from coming over for dinner that night?

Come In To My Parlour

––––––––

The depths of the night. The blizzard swarmed around the monastery; the dead could hear it engulf the ancient walls. White noise; wind howling through cracks and spoors and holes. A noise of giants; a noise to fear. Life flickered in its midst, struggled against the cold. There was much which would give in to its bludgeoning force that evening, and so the monks wondered as they lay awake: would any from their number be found that coming morning, propped against a tree in the forest? A covering of snow, begun to drift? A knife or scissors or some other pointed implement embedded in the neck? The smile of the contented upon the face? Tunic soaked with blood?

All but one. Only one of the monks knew that there would be no body found in the forest; only one knew that this night was not a night for murder. A night for dark deeds; a night for discovery; but not a night for death. As the blizzard raped the Highlands, and ice descended, Death was busy elsewhere.

The monk sat in a corner of the library, book in his hand, a small candle burning at his side. While all who did not worry slept. This man had worked the shelves and knew this library well. All the secrets and lies of these books. All but the information which he sought. He had almost come to the end of his search, with nowhere else to look; but nowhere could he find an account of Two Tree Hill. He had felt sure it would be written, for how could so fateful a day not be recorded? He had to accept that if he could not find the account for which he searched then his plans would have to change. In recent weeks his search had become ever more fevered as he'd neared the end of his quest; a fever which had led to his discovery, and the necessary, if unfortunate, elimination of the Brothers' librarian. Although, of course, Saturday had had it coming anyway.

Slowly he turned the pages of a book of records, but it was one he had seen before. This was the double check, and he knew that he would not find what he was looking for.

A sliver of sound.

Almost nothing, but he turned his head sharply. Eyes wide, pupils huge, used to the black of night despite the candle. He held still, not even his breath, but there was nothing. Senses sharp, but this was the one man who did not have a reason to fear.

A gentle blow from his lips and the candle was extinguished. Its light had been so insignificant that there was barely a difference. The vestige of light, of snow and low white clouds, was smuggled into the library, but once there, engulfed by the dark. The monk waited.

Had the noise been that of someone going out or coming in? Had he been spotted again, but this time by someone with the good sense not to make himself known? The monk stood, silent. Every sense concentrated on his awareness of the library; and yet he was annoyed at the interruption. There was work to be done, decisions to be made.

He heard another sound, a definite footstep, and so knew that he was not alone. Yet he was not afraid. He fingered the comb within the folds of his tunic. Had another cold plan for murder, although he had not thought to use it so soon; another device to shift suspicion onto their newest recruit, the hapless Brother Jacob.

He became aware of a figure in front of him, could sense him as much as see him in the gloom.

'Why do you not step out of the darkness, Brother?' he said.

He heard the breathing for the first time, was aware that his visitor took another couple of steps towards him.

'There is no light into which to step, Brother,' came the reply.

'Ah, it is you,' said the brother. 'I should have known. So good of you to join me at this early hour in the library, while the blizzard rages outside. You could not sleep, then?'

It was one of the monks on his incomplete list; an opportune visit.

'There are many within these walls who cannot sleep, Brother. And I, equally, am not surprised to discover that it is you who are here, lurking among these books. Might I enquire for what it is that you search?'

'Truth, Brother, nothing but the truth.'

'Then you are not alone among us.'

'But not religious truth, Brother. We all know religion is nothing but the glue that binds us together. There is no truth in religion, no truth to be found in God. It is a stabilising force, it gives humanity some purpose, some false sense of perspective, but there is no truth to it. Nothing to be gained.'

The visitor monk did not immediately answer, and in the dark the two men gradually became more aware of the physical presence of the other. A few yards apart; and yet they could not have been farther away.

'God will surely find you out, Brother. And you will suffer his wrath for all eternity.'

The Brother laughed, the other shivered at the sound in the midst of such darkness.

'There is no God, Brother. If there was, he has forsaken us. He has forsaken you. You know, every one here knows, deep in their black, pathetic hearts, that there never was a God. There was but a Church, run by the finest spin doctors of the first few centuries, and out of it has come all of this. The modern world the way it is. There is no God, no faith, no belief. There are no rules. It's every man for himself, Brother, every man for himself.'

The visitor laughed quietly, but the nervousness of it betrayed him.

'I thought I recognised you when you first arrived. Something in the eyes, or maybe the nose. Yours was a face from the past. But I cannot believe that this is all because of what happened at Two Tree Hill. That was an inconsequence.'

The words hung in the cold air, were engulfed by the darkness and the cruelty of cold, the creaking of the monastery under the weight of the storm.

'An inconsequence? On the contrary, my friend. It had very many consequences, and they will continue for some time to come.'

It was time. They both knew that something would have to be done. Nothing left to be said. A murderer, and now someone who had stumbled across him. Thought must become deed.

Brother Babel walked slowly through the darkness.

***

They sat up later than intended, neither wishing to let the other go, neither willing to make the big move. His wife may have left, but it had not given Mulholland an immediate guilt-free shag voucher to be cashed in at the first available motorway service station serving all-day sex. He was still a married man. Proudfoot was unsure about Mulholland's marriage and this was, after all, the boss and you had to be careful. Perhaps if he'd given her some signs, but she was bad at reading signs. Generally needed a man to remove his clothes and drag her to the bedroom by the hair to feel sure she had the go-ahead to get involved.

'Seaman Stains and Master Bates and all that lot,' he said.

'Load of pish,' she said.

'What do you mean?'

'All that stuff about Pugwash getting taken off the air because of pathetic double-meaning names is a load of nonsense. There weren't characters with those names at all.'

'There bloody were!'

'Oh, aye. Can you remember them?'

He hesitated. 'No, but it's what everyone says. Everyone knows it. It's well known.'

'It may be,' said Proudfoot, 'but it's still nonsense. It's just one of those things that gets popularised and becomes fact, when it just isn't true. Like when Norman Mailer invented the fact that Bobby Kennedy slept with Marilyn Monroe; now it's considered a fact. That Disney film about lemmings throwing themselves off cliffs, which everyone now believes, but it's mince. Captain Kirk saying Beam me up, Scotty and Humphrey Bogart saying Play it again, Sam. They're all untrue. Mere manifestations of the gullibility and willingness of humankind to believe any rumour they like the sound of.'

He drained his final glass of wine. Bottle finished; determined not to have any more.

'If that's true, then why was Pugwash taken off the telly for so long? Eh? Answer me that one.'

''Cause it was shite.'

He stared into the bottom of his glass. 'Aye, well, maybe you're right.'

They smiled at each other. Drinks finished. Well after midnight. Wind howling outside; not sure if the snow still drifted against the walls.

'Should be getting to bed,' said Mulholland.

'Aye.'

Neither of them made a move. Both hoping for an invitation.

'Who knows,' he said, 'what horrors we might encounter tomorrow? Any amount of landladies armed with nuclear levels of cake and biscuits.'

He stood up. Proudfoot followed. They walked to the stairs, took the slow march to the first floor. Proudfoot behind, staring at him. Imagining. They walked along the short stretch of corridor. Creaking floorboards, thick red carpet. Fly-fishermen on the walls, low lights. The smell of wood fires, warm and damp and rich. Her room first. He stopped, turned, waited a brief second.

She put the key in the lock, opened the door, then stopped and stared.

Want to come in for the night? That was what she thought, but her tongue was silent. Their eyes cried out, but there was nothing there. And so they took the silence from the other as rejection.

She smiled weakly. 'I've had a nice evening. Thanks,' she said. I don't want it to end yet left unsaid.

'Aye,' he said. 'Me too.'

A few more painful seconds, then goodnight. She walked into the room, closed the door. Stood on the other side, let out a long sigh.

Joel Mulholland stared at the closed door.

'Fuck it,' he muttered, then began his retreat, the slow walk to his bedroom. Perhaps he would find some relief in sleep; perhaps he would lie awake until four in the morning, staring at a red ceiling.

In a B&B near by, Sheep Dip ate a late supper.

***

'Jings to goodness, would you no' put that light out, Mary Strachan? What time might it be, anyway?'

Mary Strachan glanced at the bedside clock, then looked down at the prostrate bulk of her husband, wrestling as usual with most of the covers.

'It's almost four,' she said.

James Strachan opened his eyes and looked up at her.

'Four o'clock! Help m'boab, woman, what are you doing awake at four o'clock in the morning? Can you no' just get some sleep for a wee whiley?'

'Ach, would you listen to yon storm. I can't sleep, can I, what with yon racket and you snoring.'

'Away and stick your heid in a bucket of kippers. If I snore, I don't know what it is that you'd call what you do. Can you no' put the blinking light out?'

'I'm reading, so I am. Can you no' see that?'

'Jings to goodness, what is it now? You're no' reading more of that Dostoevsky nonsense, are you? I've told you before, it's all a load of keich.'

'I'm reading Molière, if you must know.'

'Jings. That French pish! What are you reading yon for? Have you got nothing better to do with your time? On ne meurt qu'une fois, et c'est pour si longtemps, eh? Absolute shite, so it is. Absolute shite.'

'If you must know, I just happen to like the sub-Hudibrastic lineage of the prose. So much better than his Scottish or English contemporaries.'

James Strachan finally sat up in bed. Wide awake. Aware of the wind piling the snow against the side of the house; he ignored it.

'Hudibrastic? You mean his writing employs a burlesque cacophonous octosyllabic couplet with extravagant rhymes?'

'Aye.'

'Away and stick your heid in a bucket of sludge, Mary Strachan. Molière did no such thing.'

'He did so!'

'You know fine well he didn't. You just wanted to say Hudibrastic.'

'I did not.'

James Strachan snorted, then lowered himself back into the bed. He grumbled a few times, pulled the covers another inch away from his wife and up around his neck, then closed his eyes. Shivered noisily with the cold.

'If you wouldn't mind just hudibrastically putting the light off when you're finished, Mother.'

Mary Strachan gave him a glance.

'I'm just going to try and get some sleep,' he continued. 'As long as the hudibrasticity of the weather doesn't keep me awake.'

'You're no' funny, James Strachan.'

'Aye, I can't believe how hudibrasticomatic the wind's being. If we're lucky by the morning it'll have hudibrastised and the hudibrastocity of the snow will have given way to weather of a much more hudibrastrous nature.'

'No one's laughing, James Strachan. Least of all me.'

He grumbled, but didn't respond. Mary Strachan decided to give in to the night. She closed the book and placed it on the bedside table. She removed her glasses and placed them on top of the book. She sighed, moved down under the covers before she turned off the light. She did her best to retrieve as many of the blankets from her husband as she could; then thought of something as she reached for the light, switched it off and let her head settle on the pillow.

'That Barney Thomson was on the news again tonight. After you'd come to bed, you know.'

James Strachan mumbled in reply.

'Seems he's suspected in an armed robbery in Dumfries. I'm not so sure, but I suppose he could've gone down there after he was here. But he did say he was going to yon monastery for a wee whiley, did he no'? Maybe I should say something to the police, what d'you think? We don't want him being accused of things he didn't do.'

'I think you're havering, Mary Strachan. Now would you try and get some sleep?'

'Oh, aye, and another thing. Apparently they're saying it was his fault that Stevie Nicol missed yon sitter against Uruguay in Mexico in 1986.'

'Aye, no doubt. That sounds reasonably hudibrastoplastic to me.'

The old couple settled into their bed, as the wind blew and the snow piled against their house. And some twenty miles away, while Barney Thomson slept and the blizzard howled up the glen, the third murder in five days was committed at the monastery of the Holy Order of the Monks of St John.

'Away and stick yer heid in a sheep's stomach, James Strachan.'

The Busted Gearbox Blues

––––––––

'The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.'

'Oh, aye, Mary Strachan, that's all very well. But just what has that eejit Thomas Jefferson got to do with the fact that they're saying it was Barney Thomson's fault that Jim Leighton sold the goal against Brazil in Italy in 1990.'

***

Clear blue skies; thick snow on the ground, white and fresh. A gentle breeze blowing off the land, out to sea. The blizzard and high winds gone in the night. Freezing temperatures, but the kind of cold a good coat could combat; faces shone, noses ran, ears went red.

They sat in the Land Rover, heating on full, slithering out of Thurso and heading west. Sheep Dip was in the back, eating the third of five bacon rolls. The snowploughs had already been along the road; snow piled high at the sides, great hedgerows. Blocking out the view; like driving through Devon. Along the top of Scotland, no particular destination in mind. The plan as before, to stop at every hotel and B&B, but they knew that that was not where their destination lay. Barney Thomson would not be holed up somewhere where he had to pay his way. He could not automatically trust to all his keepers' innocence. He would have found some other refuge, or else gone on. He could easily have gone to the north islands, and it might be that they would have to come back this way. They would have to anyway, for the exchange of cars.

Sergeant Gordon had had it in mind to tell them about the Sutherland monastery when they'd come to pick up the car, but somehow it had slipped his attention. He would remember some time in the afternoon, and smile wryly to himself, then he would make another cup of tea.

Serial killers did not haunt monasteries. They went for places such as underground caverns and houses in the woods. He had seen the movies.

Past Melvich and Strathy, on towards Bettyhill. Slow going, stopping intermittently; occasional forays along small roads, down which the snowplough had not ventured. Skidding and slipping and sliding. Glad of the four-wheel drive, although Mulholland had not much experience. Sheep Dip had been used to four-wheel drive since he'd been seven, but did not feel it was for him to say anything. He enjoyed the ride, laughed quietly to himself, and munched his way through a couple of movie bags of Doritos.

A succession of rejections and blank looks. A few possibles, slipping away to nothing. Most places this far north were closed for the winter. A few hotels, a few forlorn B&Bs. Sometimes they came to houses; the sign was up, but the building was along some inaccessible road. So they would have to struggle on foot, for which only Sheep Dip was dressed.

Feet and trousers soaking after the first couple, they ended up sending Sheep Dip on his own.

A couple of tortuous hours into their day, not long after twelve, Mulholland first noticed the problem with the car. Trouble getting into third, all the other gears still available. Slowly, as they went, gears vanished, until he was driving solely in second. Waiting for it to disappear at any time. They struggled into a small garage in Tongue.

Just before he pulled in off the road, he noticed that it had not been cleared ahead. He parked in the garage next to the snowplough. Feet cold and soaking, no amount of heat directed their way having any noticeable effect. Fed up. Getting nowhere. The ups and downs of humour. Proudfoot was no different.

He took the car out of gear. For the last time. Switched off the engine, looked at Proudfoot. Had forgotten about Sheep Dip.

'Fuck it,' he said.

'How long do you think it'll take to fix?'

He shook his head. Getting annoyed at her, because he wanted her and was too racked with pusillanimity to say anything.

'I don't know, do I, Sergeant? If I was a mechanic I'd have fixed the bloody thing by now.'

He got out of the car and slammed the door. He stopped and stared at the snow at his feet. What was he doing? There was no point in losing his temper at her; some pseudo-Freudian knee-jerk reaction just because he was too much of a jessie to try to sleep with her.

'He fancies you,' said Sheep Dip from the back, before taking a bite out of a particularly green apple.

'He does not,' said Proudfoot. She got out of the car and looked at Mulholland. There was nothing there as he returned the look. He could apologise later, he thought.

A mechanic, yellow-overalled, appeared from behind the snowplough, rubbing his hands on a dirty rag.

'Good afternoon,' he said, looking suspiciously at the police vehicle. 'It's a bitty of a day to be out, is it not?'

'Duty calls,' said Mulholland. Not in the mood for conversation.

'Not from around here, then,' said the mechanic. 'Still, I see you're driving Lachlan Gordon's car. You must be the folks up from the Big Smoke looking for this serial killer fellow, is that right?'

'Brilliant, Sherlock, how do you do it?'

'Ach, it's not difficult. Everybody knows you're up here, driving around in your fancy motors and staying in all the best hotels.'

'Is that right?'

'Aye, aye. So are you two lovebirds sleeping together yet, or are you still at the hating-each-other stage?'

'Sorry?'

'Ach well, it doesn't matter, doesn't matter at all. Now, what can I be doing for you?'

Proudfoot looked at the ground. Mulholland tried not to lose his temper. He had stopped analysing his feelings of hostility. Given in to them and determined to enjoy it. He was about to speak when the door of the Land Rover opened and Sheep Dip crunched into the snow.

'Hey, hey, hey,' said the mechanic. 'If it isn't the old Dipmeister! How are you doing, Sergeant? It's been a wee whiley since you've been up in these parts.'

'Aye, well, you know, after what happened with Big Mary and the combine...'

'Oh, aye, aye, right enough. Some things are better left alone, especially now with Donald back from the Falklands.'

'Hello!' said Mulholland. 'Can we get on? I've got a problem with the gearbox.'

'No!' said the mechanic.

'Aye,' said Mulholland.

'Ach, that blasted thing. There's no' a mechanic in Caithness or Sutherland who hasn't had a go at Lachlan's gearbox. And to be honest with you, we're all fair scunnert by it.'

'This happens a lot?'

'Och, aye, all the time, laddie. Didn't he tell you? Ach, no, no, I suppose he didn't.'

'So you'll know how to fix it?'

The mechanic put his hands on his hips and shook his head. Looked at the Land Rover like he'd look at a horse with a broken leg.

'Oh, it's not as easy as all that, I'm afraid, laddie. It's a big job, and all that, you know, and what with me having to fix Big Davie's snowplough. That's got to come first, you know. Have to have the roads through to Durness cleared by this evening.'

'Listen,' said Mulholland sharply, 'this is police business. I need that car to be fixed as soon as possible.'

'Don't you go spouting your fancy police business talk at me, sonny. And just where d'you think you're going to be going with no snowplough on the roads? Tell me that, laddie? He sows hurry and reaps indigestion. Robert Louis Stevenson. Mark those words, laddie.'

'I'm not going to get indigestion if you get a move on and fix the sodding Land Rover.'

'Oh, but you will if you have some lunch at Agnes's wee shop up the road while you wait.'

Hand to forehead, Mulholland rubbed his brow. Other hand on hip. Was aware of a vein throbbing in his head. Not at one with the northern people, Joel Mulholland. He was not coping well with the stress of marital difficulties, combined with the hunt for a serial killer, unfettered testosterone, and a melancholy gearbox. He didn't know what to say next. He had visions of getting a helicopter up to fly the three of them around, but imagined McMenemy would not be too keen on that.

'How long will it take, Mr...?' said Proudfoot.

'Oh, Alexander Montgomerie. You can call me Sandy.'

'How long,' said Mulholland, looking up, voice steady, the clipped words of the excessively angry, 'will it take to fix the snowplough?'

Sandy Montgomerie turned and looked at the large yellow truck. Rubbed his hand across his chin. Thinking, probably.

'Oh, I should say another couple of hours at the most. You know, it's a problem with the carburettor and the—'

'And how long after you've done that to fix the Land Rover?'

He turned his back and stared at the Land Rover. Scratched his chin again then narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips in scrutiny.

'Ach, it's hard to say, you know. It's a big job, mind, a right big job. Doubt I'll get it finished the night.'

'Aw, bloody fuck,' said Mulholland. He turned away, staring at the white hills behind.

'Now, laddie, there's no need for that. I'll work as fast as I can.'

Mulholland didn't turn back. Became aware of his freezing feet, the damp working its way up his legs. Felt like screaming.

'Is there any other way to get along this road today?' asked Proudfoot.

'You mean like a bus or a car hire company, or something like that?' said Montgomerie.

'Aye.'

'No, no, there's nothing like that up here. No bus'll be going along on a day like the day.'

'Brilliant,' said Mulholland from behind.

'So what is there along here? Bed and breakfasts and hotels and the like. Anything?' asked Proudfoot.

Sandy Montgomerie stared at the blue sky. Watched a couple of gulls joust in the cold air. Mournful cries, sharp in the cold. Sheep Dip bit into his apple.

'How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest, the seagull's wings dip and pivot him, Shedding white rings of tumu—'

'For God's sake, would you shut up with all this bloody literature! I've had enough of bloody Stevenson!'

'That was Hart Crane, laddie, not Stevenson.'

'I don't give a shite who it was, would you just answer the questions?'

'Aye, aye, no bother. Keep your heid on, laddie.'

Montgomerie looked at Proudfoot.

'I think you're going to have to shag him, lassie, the way he's carrying on.'

'Right,' she said. Stared at the ground.

'Now as far as I know, there'll be nothing open between here and Durness this time of year. Once you get there, there's a couple of hotels and the like, but there's probably only one B&B open. That'll be Mrs Strachan. You might like to check that.'

'And do you think we could get a lift in the snowplough?' asked Proudfoot.

'Aye, I don't see why not. Big Davie's a lovely big lad, I'm sure he'd be delighted to give you a lift.'

'Big Davie?'

'Aye, Big Davie Cranachan. Drives the snowplough, just like his father before him and his father before him, and so on. All the way back to the days of the Clearances. I remember my old father telling me so...'

'Where can we find him?' said Mulholland, turning round.

Sandy Montgomerie looked up the road, pointed.

'He'll be having a spot of lunch at Agnes's place. One of her chicken pies, if I'm not mistaken. Could do with one of them myself at the moment, but I should be getting on.'

'Thanks,' said Proudfoot. 'We'll go and speak to him.'

'Aye, fine, I'm sure he'll be obliging.'

Proudfoot started trudging off in the direction of Agnes's place. Mulholland looked to Sandy Montgomerie, nodded, trailed after his sergeant. Foul mood intact. Sheep Dip stopped to chat.

'What's the matter with you?' said Proudfoot, as they walked up the small hill.

'Leave it, Sergeant,' he replied. 'Just leave it.'

'Aye, fair enough,' she said. 'But don't think I'm shagging you in that mood.'

***

'Away and stick your heid in a bucket of pudding, Mary Strachan, you're havering again.'

'Ach, I'm not havering, James Strachan. If there's either of us havering, it's you. Look at yon ugly mug,' she said, pointing at the television. 'That's him, I'm telling you. He stayed right here in this house. Sure as Wee Fiona Menzies went soft in the heid after Hamish left her for yon stripper from Inverness.'

James Strachan shookled his paper and once more disappeared behind the sports pages of the Scotsman. Gers Grab Dutch Embryo in £80m Swoop. 'If it's a girl she plays on the wing,' says unconcerned boss.

'That's how much you know, woman. She wasn't a stripper, she was a cheese-o-gram. Now would you haud yer wheesht about yon Barney Thomson? I'm trying to read my paper.'

Scotland to Field Nine Defenders in Friendly against Andorra. 'Their right wing-back plays Spanish 8th division football, and he worries me,' admits Brown.

'Ach, away you and roast your feet in the oven, James Strachan. As soon as this snow clears, I'll be going to see the FBI, so I will. No mistake.'

'The FBI! The FBI! What are you blethering about, Mary Strachan? I keep telling you, you watch too much shite on that television. That's why you think we've had a serial killer staying in Durness. But I'm telling you, missus, the only serial killer we've had was yon bloke who ate all the Weetabix.'

'Ach, away and stick your heid in a roaring fire, James Strachan.'

'Aye, well, you away and stick your heid in a blazing furnace, Mary Strachan. If Barney Thomson was going to the monastery, why did he no' just go there straight from Tongue? It's the same distance and it would have saved him the bother of coming all the way up here.'

'What? Look, I'm not saying he's not an eejit, but the man was definitely here, so you away and stick your heid inside an active volcano, James Strachan.'

'An active volcano? It's like that, is it? Well, away you and stick your heid inside an exploding star, Mary Strachan.'

The discussion continued, but the sharp edge of intellectual debate had been lost, and so the argument degenerated into petty name-calling and insults.

Hiding In The Shadows

––––––––

It was Brother Frederick who discovered the latest body; the latest murdered monk. The corpse resting against a tree in the wood, covered in snow from the blizzard which was still raging. He shouldn't have been out at his age, that's what some of the monks thought, but Frederick was still active. He had no intention of going quietly in his bed; a man who would die on his feet, that's what he'd always thought. And he wondered now if he would die at the hands of a killer, like the rest of the monks at the monastery.

Frederick was the only one who knew about the murders of 1927, when fourteen of the monks had been poisoned in little more than a month. There had been many more of their number in those days, but fourteen had still cut into the very heart of them. And yet the police had not been called; the monks had rooted out the killer on their own, and had dealt with him summarily. God's judgement. He was now reminded of those terrible days.

When the most recent victim had not immediately appeared at breakfast, there had been no particular notice paid. This monk was frequently kept away at mealtimes, such were his duties, and the more so now. One or two might have suspected there was something wrong, but only Frederick felt it. Felt the evil as there had been seventy years previously

So he'd gone out into the cold after breakfast to search. The snow howled around in the wind, small flakes in a hyper-tensioned frenzy. Had known that he could not stay out in it for long, but reckoned that the killer would not have done so either. Therefore did not have far to search for the body.

Now he stood, one hundred and four years old, Brother Frederick, having found the latest victim of the monastery killer in the usual position. Sitting upright, legs splayed, but this time no blood. No knife or pair of scissors in the neck.

No weather for an old man to be carrying out a post-mortem, but he took a quick look. The eyes smiled in death, as with the brothers librarian, but not the mouth this time. The lips were opened and slightly distorted by something inside the mouth. He tentatively took an old frail hand from within his cloak and pushed the top lip slightly higher. Inside there was a comb, lodged against the top of the mouth and back against the tongue, forcing the tongue down the throat so that the victim would have choked on it.

Death by comb; a bitter smile came to the face of the old man. He had seen many things in his time, many horrible deaths, but never this. He let the lip go, and it stayed in the position into which it had been pushed. He took one last look at the corpse, then began his retreat through the snow back to the monastery. He did not fear that one of the men who waited inside was a killer. Prescient death awaited Brother Frederick, that he knew. He worried for his brothers, but had seen so much death in those early days that eighty years with the Lord had done nothing for his ambivalence towards it. Death, good or bad, but inevitable.

The wind in his face, cheeks frozen, lips drawn tight and purple across bared teeth, Brother Frederick struggled back to the partial warmth of the monastery. How many of those murders of '27 had it been his painful duty to report?

***

Barney Thomson undertook what he now saw as most definitely the secondary of his two tasks. Cleaning the floors. On his hands and knees, scrubbing the stone. Had to polish next. Good upkeep was the only thing that had kept the buildings together; that was what he had been told early on. He had already worked the corridors of the third floor, and now found himself in the library. In between the shelves. Hidden from the rest of the room, but there was no one else there. He wondered why Brother Herman was not on duty. Presumed he was out bending someone's thumbs backwards or putting their testicles through a clothes press in order to discover some incontrovertible truth.

He wondered what stage the investigation into his own disappearance had reached, whether the police had discovered any of the places at which he'd stayed on his short journey across the Highlands. How soon would it be safe for him to venture back out from the monastery? He was aware of the fads of modern life; how something could dominate the news for a few weeks and then be gone as if it never existed. Could that happen to the myth of the cold serial killer, Barney Thomson?

He could not know the headline in that morning's Daily Record: Barber Surgeon Blamed for Stock Exchange Debacle. Occasionally he thought about Agnes, and assumed she was comfortably at home with her hideous soap operas. He wondered how Allan was coping with the stigma of having a brother wanted by the police. Rightly assumed that he would have changed his name.

But where could he go if he fled from his cold prison? What could he do for money? What could life possibly offer him?

He knew he had no option. He had to wait it out at the monastery of death and hope he was not farther sucked into the macabre happenings. Something might come along, or maybe time would make him less visible in the outside world. By next summer, perhaps, there would be a new hate figure. He had to keep his head down and hope that the monks did not hear news of him from the outside world. This blizzard would help that, and maybe by the time the next contact had been made, some other poor bastard would be dominating the front pages.

Head down, mouth shut, on with his work, and try not to get on the wrong side of Brother Herman. Barney Thomson scrubbed the floor a little bit harder.

A minute, then he heard footsteps, voices. Stopped scrubbing; held his breath. Was not sure if the library was out of bounds. Had only ventured in because Herman was not there to ask. He crouched against a bookcase, recognising the voices as those of the Abbot and Brother Adolphus. Quick steps, stopping as they got into the centre of the room.

'Brother Herman!' the Abbot called out. Nothing.

Barney heard the footsteps, agitatedly around the back of the desk. Wondered if he should make himself known, but something stayed him. Either a sixth sense, or that quality which allowed him to make the wrong decision in nearly every difficult circumstance.

'Goodness,' said the Abbot, 'where can the good brother be?'

'If you would tell me the reason for your agitation, Brother Abbot, perhaps I could be of some comfort to you. You appear most distressed.'

You appear most distressed, mumbled Barney to himself. Creep.

'There has been another murder, Brother!' said the Abbot.

A strangled gasp from Adolphus, then, 'In the Lord's name, who is it this time?'

No immediate reply. Barney stared at the cold, dark ceiling. Another death amongst them. He tried to think who had not been at breakfast, but there were a few. There were always some who chose to go without.

'It is dear Brother Babel. Brother Frederick found his body at the edge of the forest, not ten minutes ago.'

'Brother Babel!'

Brother Babel. Fifty-three, surprisingly corpulent of build, balding and warm-hearted. Friend to them all, enemy to none. A pure and honest man, one of the few at the monastery with genuine motive. Had been a fine left-back. In the wrong place at the wrong time.

There was nothing else immediately said, while the Abbot wrung his hands and Brother Adolphus digested the news. That was, if he didn't already know it, thought Barney Thomson, for one of these monks must be the killer.

'I need to find Brother Herman. It is his investigation. There's little chance of the police managing to find a way up here, or of us getting out to them. Not with this blizzard. We are trapped in our own prison, Brother Adolphus, with a killer on the loose. I should not have allowed myself to be guided by Herman. I should have had the police in here five days ago. This is a terrible business. Terrible.'

Brother Babel. Barney continued to stare at the ceiling. He hadn't spoken to the man. He'd had a Brother Cadfael haircut, albeit one administered by the wayward hand of Adolphus; had obviously eaten a little too many doughnuts. What else? Nothing, nothing at all. Just another man he had hardly known, and who was now dead.

How had he managed to be so foolish as to come to this place? But then, how could he have known? He had read an article about the monks and their solitary existence, cut off from the world, in the Herald the previous spring. It had seemed such a natural place to hide when the whole of the Western world was looking for him. But as soon as he'd arrived...

Could he have brought some evil with him? Some malign spirit?

'How was he killed, Brother Abbot?' asked Adolphus. He had not been part of the previous investigations, but had heard the rumours of stabbing, as had all the others.

'With a comb,' said the Abbot.

Barney heard the gasp of Adolphus. Only just managed to contain his own gasp.

'He was combed to death?' said Adolphus, having never heard of such a thing.

'The comb had been rammed into his mouth, forcing his tongue back down his throat, so that he choked on it. That is what dear Brother Frederick seems to think.'

'Good heavens, Brother! A comb. But there would be only one brother in our midst with a comb.'

'Exactly. Brother Jacob. Oh dear, oh dear. I really shouldn't have insisted that Herman be so easy on him after the murder of Brother Morgan with his scissors. It appears that it all ties up. These deaths did not start until Jacob came among us, and within a few short days of his being here, three of our number have been killed. Now a second with an implement under Jacob's control. We must find the wretched brother, and we must find Brother Herman. God help us if anything should have happened to him.'

'This is indeed a most wretched business, Brother. Is there no way we could get a message to the outside?'

'Listen,' said the Abbot. And Brother Adolphus listened to the winds of the blizzard batter against the side of the monastery. 'We are trapped, Brother, only ourselves and our Lord to protect us. I shall put it around the monks, see if there is one of the younger ones brave enough to go out into the storm, but it is hardly something I can ask.'

Because it would appear that we cannot rely on our Lord, thought the Abbot, something he did not dare voice. Wondered why they had been deserted, and why this evil had come to them.

'Come, Brother Adolphus, we must find Brother Herman and tell him this most grievous news. Then we must apprehend Jacob. And the body of dear Babel, he must be brought in from the cold. By God, this is a most heinous day.'

The footsteps receded quickly from the library, the heavy door closed and the sound vanished behind the heavy oak. Silence.

Barney Thomson still stared at the ceiling. In a trance. Suspected of murders which he hadn't committed. And yet, could he be a schizophrenic? Did he lose himself sometimes in his sleep? All the murders had been at night. And for all his trouble drifting off, once he'd gone off he slept soundly. Not even dreams. Perhaps he sleepwalked; sleep-murdered. Disposed of the bodies, then slipped back into bed. Murder committed and none the wiser. He'd heard of it happening.

And if not that, was someone trying to frame him, because he was the newest monk and the obvious suspect? Brother Martin perhaps? Or even Brother Herman himself? That was a possibility, he thought, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had no defence, and he was the outsider. There was no reason why he would get a fair trial from these people. He knew how dangerous religious fanaticism could be. He'd read books, discussed it over many a pint with Bill Taylor. But there was no getting out; no escaping the monastery. He would be a fool to head off into the hills in this weather; as certain a suicide as putting a gun to his head. He had to find some hiding place in the monastery, then wait out the storm. Go on the run when the weather had broken, before they could get in the outside agencies of the law. Once the police had been called, he was done. Barney Thomson dropped his eyes from the ceiling to the floor. There were no answers to be found, but he had to move quickly. His temporary respite had gone; he was once again a fugitive. Perhaps he ought to make himself known to the Abbot, to defend himself. By running he would be implicated beyond any doubt in their eyes. But he could not believe that he would be judged fairly. He'd heard the Abbot's own words, and they'd sounded like those of a man whose mind was already made up.

And so, just like he had when he'd accidentally killed Wullie Henderson eight and a half months previously, he would once again avoid confrontation with the authorities for as long as he could.

He stood up, leaned against the shelving. He felt weak, but knew he must hide quickly. As he considered the monastery buildings and whether he could find somewhere to hide where he wouldn't die of cold, he wondered if outside there might be some part of these islands where the name Barney Thomson would not be considered evil, where someone called Barney Thomson might walk a free man. He was not to know the headline in that morning's Scotsman: Bring Me the Head of Barney Thomson, Screams First Minister.

Big Davie The Plough

––––––––

'Aye, aye, it's a long time since we had one of you lot up from Glasgow, and a' that, you know,' said Big Davie.

The snowplough ground slowly towards Durness. Mulholland, Sheep Dip and Proudfoot were squeezed into the cab, thighs pressed against thighs. Sheep Dip took large bites from a small chocolate bar, and Mulholland could feel himself resenting every mouthful, as if it reduced his space by some infinitesimal amount. A doppelgänger for his annoyance at not getting to press his legs against Proudfoot.

'You're from Glasgow yourself, then?' said Proudfoot.

'Oh, aye. My mother and father split up when I was a wean. My mum took us back to Cambuslang, you know. Load of shite. Came back up here as soon as I could get away without her phoning the Daily Record. Haven't seen her in about six year. Daft cow.'

Mulholland stared at the snow on the road ahead. Mind numbed. Big Davie looked across Mulholland and Sheep Dip, who for his purposes might not have been there, at the alluring Proudfoot.

'So, you're a woman, then?' he said.

Proudfoot didn't look round. She stared at the snow on the road. Didn't really have an answer for that. Hadn't thought about it in a while.

'Check the big brain on Davie,' said Mulholland, muttering.

'Aye,' said Big Davie, 'I notice these things. It's not often you get a woman polis around here, you know. Not that you look like a polis, or anything like that.'

'So what do I look like?' she said.

Big Davie gave Mulholland a quick glance.

'One of they supermodels or a film star or something,' he said.

It was a crap line; but it'd worked in the seedy bars of Bettyhill and Scrabster. Wee Alison McVitie; Big Janice McLeod; Esther The Bedtester Cummins; Phyllis Froglegs Duncan; Big Effie MacFarlane. The list was long.

Mulholland laughed. Proudfoot switched from cynicism to annoyance. Sheep Dip cracked open a bag of Maltesers and popped six of them into his mouth. He'd had the same thoughts about Proudfoot himself, but he knew what Mrs Dip would have to say about it. The Big Mary incident had just about been the last straw.

'Piss off, you,' said Proudfoot, addressing Mulholland.

'Aye,' said Big Davie, seeing his opportunity, 'could see you on one of they magazine covers, you know. Cosmo or something.'

'Aye,' said Mulholland. 'Erin Proudfoot on why she's shagged her last beefburger.'

'Would you shut your face?' she said.

'Aye,' said Big Davie, 'you get a lot of they polis women who are absolute stankmonsters, you know. Look like they could crush a cannonball between their thighs. A bit of rough. You'll know what I mean,' he said to Mulholland. Nudged him in the ribs

'Aye,' he replied. Already wondering if he should commandeer the snowplough. Toss Big Davie into a snowdrift. He glanced at him. Big Davie was well named. Not unlike Big Effie MacFarlane.

'The only time you usually get a good-looking bit of pig crumpet is on the telly, you know. Like yon Charlie's Angels or something like that. See yon Farrah Fawcett. She's got a face like a bag of spanners the now, you know, but see when she was younger, I'd've dragged my balls three mile over broken glass just to wank in her shadow. All tits and arse and no brains in her heid. You can't beat that in a bird.'

Why is it, thought Mulholland, that wherever you go in life, you will always find a Glaswegian talking pish?

'So how long you been in the polis, then, hen?' asked Big Davie. Time to turn on the charm.

'Ten years,' said Proudfoot. Couldn't be bothered with him, but she'd spent all her life talking to idiots like this, so she could do it and switch off at the same time. And it was annoying Mulholland.

'Ten year, eh? Stoatir. You must have caught a few criminals in that time, eh?'

'Aye, one or two,' she said.

'Brilliant. I mean, being a woman, and all that, you know. 'Cause women just aren't like us, you know. In't that right, Chief,' he said. Nudged Mulholland again.

'Ever thought of being a policeman yourself?' said Mulholland dryly.

The snowplough ground on; slower than a slow Sunday when it's raining outside, the BBC are showing a forty year-old Doris Day movie, and Sky have plumped for Motherwell versus Dundee.

'The one that always gets me,' said Big Davie, 'is the toilet thing.'

For a second he concentrated on a tight bend in the road, leaving them in suspense. When he resumed on a short straighter section, he said nothing. Knew how to hook an audience, did Big Davie. Well aware of the nation's scatological fascination. Did not have to wait long.

'Go on, then,' said Proudfoot. 'You're going to explain that at some point, so you might as well get it over with.'

Sheep Dip tilted back his head and poured the remaining Maltesers down his throat.

'Think about it,' said Big Davie, lifting a finger. 'You'll know what I'm getting at, Big Man. How many times have you been sitting in the boozer, in a crowd, you know; a few blokes, a few birds, and then one of the women'll say, I'm away for a pish. Then the next thing is that there's some other bird saying no bother, hen, I need one myself, I'll come with you, and off they go, hand in hand to the bog. How many times have you seen that?'

'Lost count,' replied Mulholland.

'Hundreds,' said Sheep Dip, chocolate in his teeth.

'Exactly. So what I want to know is, what do they do when they get there? I mean, no one's saying they're screaming lesbians, or anything like that, you know. So what is it they do? I mean, if you're sitting there and some bloke says to you, I'm going for a pish, want to come? what are you going to think? You think, this guy's a bloody poof and I'm going to kick his heid in. There's just no way on this earth that two guys are going to go to the bog together, unless they're flaming, know what I mean? But with women it's different. They quite happily swan off to the bog, arm in arm, to squeeze into the same cubicle together and compare knickers.'

They left him to it. Proudfoot tried to remember the last time she'd gone to the toilet accompanied, and had to admit it hadn't been too long ago. Mulholland drummed a mental finger.

'Course,' said Big Davie, 'if I was a woman, I expect I'd need some help going for a pish. I mean, it's no' as if they've got anything to hang on to. Who knows, eh?'

He didn't get an answer. The snowplough was another fifty yards nearer Durness. Big Davie had not finished.

'Oh, aye, that was another good-looking bird. What was her name? The one in Cagney and Lacy? The blonde bit. Good-looking bit of stuff. Shite programme, of course, but she was all right, you know. I mean, back then. She's nothing to look at now, mind, but see ten year ago, I'd've smeared my balls in raw meat and swum through shark-infested waters just to get a whiff of her armpit.'

Mulholland wondered if he could arrest Big Davie for talking mince in adverse weather conditions.

'I think that might just about be it, though. What do you think, Big Man?'

Mulholland didn't reply. How about driving a snowplough under the influence of stupidity?

'See, that's my point, hen,' said Big Davie, once more directing his attention to Proudfoot. 'Usually good looking women don't join the polis. But here you are, pure in there, and all that. A dream thing in uniform. A babe in blue. A bit of snatch with some authority. You can't beat it. So, what's the score?'

One of the great laws of physics, she thought. Proudfoot's law, number eight hundred and thirty-five. If you're in a snowplough with two guys – she ignored Sheep Dip; Sheep Dip was like having a dog along for the ride – one of whom you want to smother in ice cream, and one of whom you wouldn't touch with a stick the length of the diameter of the universe, you can guarantee that it'll be the pre-humanoid who makes the move.

'Not sure, you smooth-talking bastard,' she said. Which was the truth. 'Enjoyed it on TV, I suppose. Always wanted to be in the police.'

'Right,' said Big Davie. 'No bother, hen. Sometimes it just seems like life leads you one way or the other and there's nothing you can do about it. You're just drifting down the river without a paddle, the trees of the forest passing you by, like shite off a stick.'

'Aye,' she said. 'Something like that.'

'Very existentialist,' said Mulholland. He'd had enough.

'Existentialist, Big Man?' said Big Davie.

'Whatever.'

'Do you actually know what existentialist means?'

Mulholland didn't answer.

'Are you saying that living a life where you drift from one course of action to another without rhyme nor reason, with no control over any eventuality, is an existentialist existence? Clearly, you've no idea what you're talking about. The existentialist ideal covers a shit-load of doctrines denying objective universal values, holding that a bloke's got to create they values for himself through action, and by living each moment to the full. Carpe diem and all that. What's that got to do with drifting aimlessly through life taking what comes, like your gorgeous sidekick here?'

'My life's not aimless,' said Proudfoot.

'Now that you've met me?' he said hopefully.

Mulholland raised his eyes. Wanted to be anywhere else on the planet. Back policing Partick Thistle home games. Anything.

'Looking for a date tonight, Davie?' she said.

'You asking?' said Big Davie.

'Davie, if the choice was between a night out with you and three hours with a headache and a nine-tonne earth remover wedged up my nose, I'd reach for the Nurofen and take my chances with the JCB.'

'Oh,' he said. Swept powerfully round a tight corner.

'So sex is out of the question, then?'

'Aye.'

'Fair enough,' he said. Rejection was no problem. Big Davie's Law of Acquisition: if you propositioned a hundred women a week and ninety-nine refused, you were still getting a shag.

Time to move on. Or back, as it might have been.

***

The snowplough chugged noisily away on up the road, heading for Rhiconich and on to Laxford Bridge, where it would meet up with the plough from Ullapool. Proudfoot, Mulholland and Sheep Dip watched it go for a few seconds, glad to be released; then they walked up the drive of the first B&B in Durness.

This one to check, two hotels, then they would take it from there. They were unsure where the next hotels were going to be down the road; unsure how they were going to get there. Each of them thinking privately that they might have been coming to the end of the road. For all the obvious signs and myriad clues, it could be that Barney Thomson had just disappeared into the ether. They could spend a pointless night in Durness and then what? Turn back, head down to Glasgow, give it another few days before the Chief Super kicked them both off the case and lined up some other sacrificial dope to take the drop. The future.

Mulholland rang the bell and waited.

'You all right?' said Proudfoot. Annoyed for feeling concern.

Mulholland grunted.

'Feel like I've just had my balls dragged over broken glass for three miles,' he said.

'Oh aye. And whose shadow are you going to wank in?'

Voice with a sudden edge. Mulholland looked round. Felt a dryness in the throat. Sheep Dip stared at the not-so-distant hills, watching the storm coming slowly towards them.

The door opened.

'Bit of a cold day to be out,' said the old man.

The moment had passed. They looked at him. Mulholland held out his ID card.

'Good afternoon, sir. Chief Inspector Mulholland, Sergeants Proudfoot and Dipmeister. Just doing a few rounds in the area. We were wondering if you've had this man staying at your house in the last couple of weeks.'

He showed him the picture. The man tutted loudly, and shook his head.

'That'll be yon eejit who caused Alan Hansen and Wullie Miller to collide against Russia in Spain in '82?'

'Don't believe everything you read in the papers,' said Mulholland.

'Aye, well, you shouldn't just dismiss everything either.'

'Anyway, that's not really our concern. Have you had him as a guest here, or have you heard of him staying in any other establishment in the town?'

He tutted loudly once more. 'Ach, away and boil your heid son, we're in Durness, and this is a respectable establishment. Yon serial killers stay in houses with the windows boarded up and all that kind of thing.'

'Bit of a sweeping assumption, Mr...?'

'Strachan, James Strachan, that's me.'

'Well, Mr Strachan, you can't be too sure. You're positive that no one remotely resembling this has stayed at your house? Maybe under a different name, or with a slightly different appearance?'

James Strachan hesitated. He wondered if he should express his wife's suspicions. Thought, Ach, what does she know, the daft old pudding?

'Ach, no, son, no one like that. Why don't you try some dodgy area of Glasgow, or one of those places?'

'We know him to have been in this area.'

'Oh, is that right, now?'

'Aye.'

'Well, well. Still, we've not had him here. Why don't you try the Cape Wrath Hotel down the road? Big place, yon. Would have space for a serial killer or two in the basement, no doubt.'

'Aye, fine,' said Mulholland.

James Strachan stared at them for a few more seconds. Shrugged, felt the cold.

'Thanks for your help,' said Mulholland, as another door closed.

Pointless, he thought. Proudfoot thought the same, though neither of them spoke.

A mirror of virtually every place they'd been. The majority hadn't seen Barney Thomson; the minority had seen him, but still had been no help whatsoever.

From nowhere, the long fingers of the coming storm slowly reached out, and snow began to fall, in sparse, swirling, white fluffy flakes. They turned and started to walk down the road. Freezing, dispirited, unhappy, the mood and general pointlessness of their current occupation even infiltrating Sheep Dip. They were feeling useless; and unaware that the Cape Wrath Hotel was another mile and a half away.

Along Came A Spider

––––––––

'Psst!'

Darkness. No sound but the muffled howl of the wind outside. Late at night or early in the morning, Barney Thomson did not know. He had lost all sense of time, except that it had been dark for many hours, the monks long since in their beds. A day hidden in the attic above the library; after removing his brush and bucket, so they would have nothing to raise suspicions as to his location.

Cold up there. Dark, damp; lonely. Spiders for company; creatures unseen that brushed past his face. Scuttling noises from near by, but the darkness was impenetrable, no amount of time had allowed his eyes to grow. Yet he had no fear of any of that, Barney Thomson; no phobias. A simple man. But knew he couldn't live forever in the cold, damp attic of the monastery. Some warmth reached there from the floors below, but not much. He would eventually die of hypothermia. He'd realised after a time that once the monks were all in bed he could safely come back down below. To lurk in the shadows, plunder the kitchen. Now he'd had his fill of bread and cold meat; more stashed away inside his cloak for later, for the following day, as he could see nothing but another day in hiding.

Hours alone in the darkness allowed you time to think, and Barney Thomson had done a lot of thinking. Regrets. Mistakes he'd made. What the future held. He was a fish out of water in this place; like a priest at Ibrox, as Wullie always used to say. And it is of Wullie that he continued to think. Which he found funny. He had hardly given him a second's thought in all those months. Between March and November, once the initial danger had passed. Wullie had been gone, and that was that, and he would never have given him another thought had not the body of Chris Porter been discovered.

So now, regrets. Regrets that he hadn't made a better job of hiding Chris Porter's body.

'Psst!'

And was he the worse for it now, this regret? Regrets about his actions after killing Wullie, not about the death itself. Accident it might have been, but he'd still killed a man. That was what had started it all off. He'd thought, as he'd sat frozen in his miserable hideout, that this was his penance; his hairshirt. So much for avoiding detection, when he had to hide away in conditions that were worse than he would experience in prison. The blizzard would not last forever, but it might last long enough for him to get caught. He had spent some of his day in the dark wondering if there might be some higher force at work. A God after all; vengeance to be taken.

'Psst!'

At the third attempt there was a stirring in front of him. The body shifted under the sheets. A low grumble, a hand moved, there was a mutter which sounded like, you're not using enough cream, Sarah.

Sarah? All the brothers had secrets. Barney Thomson had realised that much.

'Psst! Brother Steven!' A forced whisper. He had been in the room for a couple of minutes and had already lifted a blanket from his own bed, and any clothes which had come easily to hand.

Finally the brother's head moved, and he raised himself from the pillow. He squinted into the apocalyptic darkness.

'Who's there?' he said. Plucked from the depths of sleep. Still hadn't got around to remembering where he was. Could have been in any one of a hundred beds he'd woken up in.

'Brother Steven! It's me. Jacob. Brother Jacob,' he added, to avoid confusion. Was glad that Brother Steven had not succumbed to the killer's rampage as he had once suspected.

A small gasp, sheets were moved back; Barney saw Steven sit up. Shook his head, ran his hands across his face.

'Brother Jacob? Everyone's looking for you, man. Where've you been? We thought you'd run off into the blizzard.'

'Hiding,' he said. 'Look, Brother, I know what everyone thinks, but it wasn't me. I didn't have anything to do with they murders.'

'You didn't?'

'Naw, I didn't. I'm not that sort of bloke.'

'Well, why did you run, then Brother? Everyone thinks you're guilty. Maybe they wouldn't have, because we're not judgemental here, but after you disappeared...'

'I had to. I knew what everyone was thinking. What with the murders starting just after I arrived, and my barber's tools getting used for to commit them. I'm no mug.'

'So where've you been, Brother?'

Barney hesitated. He had decided to trust Brother Steven to find out exactly what was going on, but was not going to trust him all the way.

'It doesn't matter. Just hiding. I just need to know a few things, you know? Are there no other suspects? Is that bastard Herman just after me, 'cause if you ask me, that bastard's got something to do with it. And all they other suspicious-looking ones, like Martin and Goodfellow and Ash and Brunswick. They're all dodgy.'

No immediate reply. He could see Brother Steven move forward slightly on the bed.

'Do you mean what you just said, Brother?'

'Aye. Why, what do you mean?'

Another pause. Barney felt the eyes of Brother Steven upon him, even in this sepulchral darkness.

'Brother Ash is also dead.'

'What?'

'They found his body in the forest not far from the body of Brother Babel. Head bashed in.'

'Holy fuck!'

'Yes, Brother, indeed,' said Steven. 'No more the subtlety of a knife in the throat from our killer friend. He's changed his whole bag. What goes around comes around, and all that. I remember old Ash saying he was going to live forever. Forgetting that old Horace thing: Pallida Mors aequo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas regumque turres. Yep, you can't argue with that.'

'Aye, right,' said Barney, then added, 'Holy fuck. And I'm getting the blame for all four of these murders now?'

'I'm afraid so, Brother. The Abbot's already sent Brother David out on a mission to get to Durness and contact the police. To be honest, I don't know if you have to worry about that, because the guy's a dead man. Not a chance he'll make it in this weather. The poor Abbot must be really desperate. I don't think Herman was too happy, but that's his authority hang-up.'

'Aw, shite, that's all I need. The blinking police turning up here.'

'Indeed, Brother. Are you in trouble with the police as it is?'

Barney Thomson. Cool in a crisis. 'Me? Wanted by the police? Are you kidding? What would I be wanted by the police for? I mean, me? The police? What do you think, that I look like the kind of bloke who'd kill the people he worked with? The police? No chance.'

'All right, Brother. Then if you didn't kill our brothers, you have nothing to fear.'

'But they all think I did. You've got to know human nature, Brother. I've got no defence, not a leg to stand on.'

He could see Brother Steven nodding in the dark.

'Got you, Brother. It's that whole guilt-innocence trip. It's like what Bacon said: For what a man would like to be true, that he more readily believes. I suppose it's just more comfortable for us all to believe that it's the newcomer who's guilty, rather than someone among us who we've grown to love over the years.'

'So you think I'm guilty 'n all?'

'Guilt, innocence, that whole bag; you know, Jacob, I haven't a clue, man. I've not known you too long, but we get along all right, don't we? It's not like I had you pegged for a killer or anything, but then I've no idea who I might suspect. I don't think any of the brothers really has the genocidal edge in their eye. If I say it's definitely not you, then I have to accuse someone else. I just don't know, man. I'm trying to be in the zone on this one, but it's a tough call.'

Barney hesitated, then asked the burning question.

'You won't turn me in, Brother, will you? I need to wait until they've found the real killer.'

'Don't worry, I'm not turning anyone in. It's every man for himself out there. But they're not looking for anyone else, Brother, and if someone else dies, they're going to assume it's you who did it, because they don't know where you are. You have a long road ahead of you, my friend.'

They stared at one another, each man barely able to make out the other in this biblical darkness. This was what counted for friendship in this bloodied place, thought Brother Steven. But what did Barney Thomson know about friends? They nodded, a gesture which penetrated the night, and then Barney was gone, out into the Gothic black of the long hallway outside. And so, once more, he began to wander the corridors of doom, a fugitive from someone else's reality.

Brother Steven settled back down under the coarse blanket. Eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He thought of Brother Jacob, running from something which had brought him to the monastery in the first place, now running from something within. A tortured soul. It was like Catullus said, he thought, Now he goes along the darksome road, thither whence they say no one returns. That was about it for Brother Jacob.

He closed his eyes, feeling the tiredness come over him, and soon he was once again slipping into the arms of Sarah Connolly on a warm summer's afternoon.

***

Barney Thomson huddled in his corner in the attic. Extra clothes retrieved, food in his stomach. Fortified for the rest of the long night, and another bitter day ahead, when he would have to stay out of sight of the rest of the monks. He was glad that he had not told Brother Steven his whereabouts, but also pleased that he'd been to see him. He felt he had at least one friend in the world.

And so, Brother Ash was also dead. Four down, twenty-eight to go. He wondered if the killer would aim to do away with the full complement of monks, one by one, until there were only two of them left, with both denying everything.

But Brother Steven was right. Any further deaths would be blamed upon him. The only thing for him now, if the weather was to prevent his escape from this place, was to find the murderer himself. Only then would it be possible for him to have his reprieve. Only then would he be able to prevent the police from turning up in their hundreds.

Barney Thomson: a man with a mission. He did not know the full weight of accusation against him, only knew that he must do everything to clear his name. He was not guilty of any of the monastery murders, so he must prove himself innocent; something he could only do by turning in the real killer, and that is what he must discover. Then he could hand him over to the Abbot and the police, and at the same time turn himself in; that was his latest decision after more time in the black of night.

Then he could stand trial for the crimes of the past, for another hour of lonely reflection in the darkened attic had given him hope. He had persuaded himself; had been a spin doctor to his doubts on behalf of his earlier deeds. He could hand himself into the police and get a good lawyer. What exactly had he been guilty of? Murder certainly, but accidental murder. No more than manslaughter, and not by any dangerous or foolish act of his own. Wullie had slipped into a pair of scissors he'd been holding; Chris had fallen and cracked his head during the course of a minor stramash of which Chris himself had been the instigator.

Disposing of the bodies instead of informing the police had obviously been a mistake, but perhaps it could be forgiven. As for disposing of the bodies of his mother's victims, surely any jury would understand that act. Could anyone stand to see their own mother vilified as a serial human butcher? Virtually all his actions had been those of a desperate and panicked man. Horrible, perhaps, but also understandable.

That was what he had persuaded himself. So he had a plan. Find the monastery murderer and turn him into the Abbot, so that when the police arrived he could hand himself over to them with at least a decent reference from the man of God. There was nothing he believed he couldn't prove himself innocent of. Of course, he hadn't seen the following morning's selection of newspaper headlines. The Sun: Thomson Slaughters Ninety-Eight Women in Terror Week; the Times: Sadat Assassination – Thomson Accused; the Star: Barber Surgeon on Kidnap Spree; the Guardian: Barney Thomson Quits Tories; the Daily Record: How Barber Surgeon Made Goram Let in Five Against Portugal In '93; the Scotsman: Uproar as Boffins Set to Clone Barber Surgeon; the Herald: Wave of Naked Bank Robberies Pinned on Thomson; the Express: Thomson Kills Seventeen More; the Mirror: 'Cool' Killer in Downing Street Invite Mystery; the Mail: Barney Thomson Wore My Daughter's Skin, Claims Upset Mum; the Aberdeen Press and Journal: North-East Man Goes to Dentist.

He would have to be quick and discreet; he would have to use the sum of all his investigative powers and intuition. He'd need to cut a swathe through the confusion, the deceit and the treachery. He would have to become all that he had run from; the prey would become the predator. He'd need to be a leopard, ready to pounce upon the wounded wildebeest of the truth; a lion, poised to plunge his jaws of revelation into the warm flesh of veracity; a panther, suspended on the doorstep of betrayal, the slashed and gouged hyena abject prey to the incisors of integrity; a behemoth, hovering at the graveyard of inevitability, the cruel fangs of rectitude and probity a brutal witch-smeller pursuivant to the calumnious obloquy of injustice; a wolf, slavering at the tombstone of fealty, vengeful vitriolic teeth plunging brutally into the blackened wasted heart of the Little Red Riding Hood of vituperative denigration. He would have to be savage, cunning, astute and shrewd. He'd need to mix the deviousness of Machiavelli with the guile of Sherlock Holmes; the vigour of Samson with the finesse of Ronaldo. He'd need to scale the peaks of intellect, while at the same time abrade the depths of artifice. This would need to be Barney Thomson's finest hour.

'Well, I'm fucked,' he muttered to himself.

He closed his eyes and let his head fall onto his chest in an almost comfortable position; and soon sleep came to take him away to a world which was even darker and colder, a world inhabited solely by killers and their victims.

Derailment

––––––––

The tide was in on the Kyle of Durness, the long stretch of beach covered by a wash of deep, choppy sea. Low cloud, so that the water was dull and cold grey. Mulholland looked over the sea to the dark shapes of the hills beyond from his room in the Cape Wrath Hotel. Another pointless day gone by, his foul mood given way to resignation and acknowledgement of probable defeat. It had always been hoping to chance to come all this way across Sutherland expecting to meet the infamous Barber Surgeon face to face. And so he was thinking of abandoning the search. There was no point in going towards Aberdeen now, since Thomson had obviously headed north. Maybe Shetland or Orkney, but he was not sure and was too dispirited to make a decision. He could decide in the morning when he had a clearer head; his mind was fudged by a bottle and a half of wine.

The door to the bathroom behind opened and Proudfoot emerged. He continued to stare out at the dark, black night. She joined him at the window; stood next to him but did not touch. A mellow evening, away from arguments and endless discussion on the motives and mind of Barney Thomson – deranged criminal mastermind or unfortunate idiot? A three-hour meander through aimless conversation on life and all its iniquitous injustices. Mulholland's marriage; Proudfoot's loves and mores; Rangers, Celtic and the Great Divide that polluted the city; a list of twenty-seven good reasons for not being in the police, as opposed to a list of two for remaining there; plain chocolate versus milk; Stallone versus Schwarzenegger; the Beatles versus the Stones; and, as the wine had taken over, Meryl Streep versus the Wombles; why sugar was a poor alternative to paint; how Scotland could have beaten Holland by three goals in Argentina if Alan Rough hadn't had a perm and if Graeme Souness had broken Johnny Rep's knee-caps with a baseball bat in the first minute; the effectiveness of Mollweide's projection as representative of a globe. Three bottles of Australian Sauvignon blanc; brie in breadcrumbs, chicken in honey and white wine, raspberry crumble with ice cream, a large and varied cheeseboard; coffee.

They watched the sea. Listened to the sound of the waves crashing on the rocky shore a hundred yards away. White spray breaking into the night, disappearing. Could see the cold outside, could feel the warmth of the hotel and the evening. Their shoulders touched. Mulholland was relaxed at last, weighed down finally by his melancholy.

They knew the time was right. No advances needed to be made, no rejections to be risked. Inevitable. They would have each other, and they could consider the consequences the following day. Sex after food; a glorious pleasure.

'So,' she said. Left the word hanging in the air, with the spray and the snow and the few seagulls still haunting the freezing night.

He turned and looked at her. Eyes that danced. Felt it all over his body, but he hesitated. Savouring the moment. How long since he'd had anyone other than Melanie? Couldn't think about her now.

Proudfoot; no make-up, soft lips, a body to be tied up and smothered in something sweet.

'So,' she said again, 'you going to fuck me or what?'

He smiled. Neck stretched a little. Lips hovered.

There was a knock at the door.

They continued to hover, their lips a fraction apart, not wanting to give in to the reality. Could be nothing, but was it ever nothing in a policeman's life? The knock came again; the moment snapped like a brittle bone. He pulled away. There would be other moments. In about ten seconds' time.

'Did you order another bottle of wine?' he asked.

She laughed. 'I was about to ask you the same thing.'

She looked out of the window again as Mulholland went to the door. He opened it, looked at the old woman waiting. Curlers in her hair, an old cardigan pulled tightly round her bountiful chest. They stared at each other.

'Can I help you?' she said.

'What?' said Mulholland. 'What?'

'You'll be needing help,' she said, voice very matter of fact.

'Why? Are you selling condoms?'

The cardigan was pulled a little more tightly around her chest.

'Why, I'll be doing no such thing. Will you be wanting my help or not?'

Mulholland relaxed against the door frame. This may have been a pointless interruption, but at least it wasn't Sheep Dip with some breaking news on which he'd be forced to act.

'Sorry, ma'm,' he said. 'Just what sort of help do you think you can give me?'

'You'll be the young police fellow from Glasgow that everyone's been talking about, will you?' she said.

'That I am.'

'Well, I don't mean to be interrupting you, or anything of the sort. I expect you've got that young lady in there with you. Have you slept with her yet, by the way, because Mrs Donnelly from over the road was just wondering?'

'How was it you could help me again?' said Mulholland. 'Handy tips on the seven erogenous zones?'

'Seven? Help m'boab, there were twice that number in my day. Course, we knew what to do with the cheeks of the arse and a three-week-old kipper back then.'

'Thanks, I really don't want to know.'

'So you won't be wanting my help, then?'

'It depends,' he said. This was stupid. Why was life always stupid when you were about to enjoy yourself? 'Is your help going to be about kippers, or is it going to pertain to the Barney Thomson investigation?'

'Jings to goodness, laddie, you're an awful sarcastic one. It's about this Barney Thomson character, of course. Stayed in my B&B, if you will.'

Here we go, he thought. Passed fleetingly by about four weeks ago, only stopping to have tea and shortbread.

'Did he? And what did he have for breakfast?'

'Breakfast? Why would you be wanting to know that, now? Are you compiling one of those profile thingies that they talk about on the TV? Is a man who has sausage more likely to commit murder than a man who has bacon?'

Mulholland shook his head. This was taking so long Proudfoot would be asleep by the time he got back into the room.

'Look, missus, I don't know who you are, but will you stop talking mince. We're going to do this really quickly and then you can go home to bed, which I'm sure you should have done a long time ago. So, when did Barney Thomson stay with you?'

She gave another yank to the cardigan, ignored it straining against her shoulders.

'About a week and a half ago,' she said.

Mulholland shook his head. Of course it had been a week and a half ago. When else? It was the standard reaction time up here. A week and a half to go to the police; and he wondered if it took them a week and a half to go to the supermarket when they ran out of milk, or a week and a half to go to the toilet when they were desperate.

'And you're sure it was Barney Thomson?'

'Oh, aye, aye, no doubt about it. Mr Strachan, now he thought it wasn't, you know, but I says all along. No question, no question at all. It was him. I mean the wee manny's been on the TV so much. Is it true, by the way, that it was his fault that yon Tommy Boyd shouldered the ball into his own net against Brazil in Paris?'

'Aye, that was definitely his fault; that and the three goals we let in against Morocco. So why didn't you go to the police at the time?'

'Ach, well, you know how it is. Mr Strachan thought he wasn't the laddie, you know, and so I procrastinated, I must admit. I know what you must be thinking, laddie, I know what you're thinking. Procrastination is the thief of time, aye, isn't that the truth? But nevertheless, all that being said and done, here I am now to tell you what it is I've got to tell you.'

Mulholland's shoulder leaned a little more heavily against the door frame.

'Have you a bet with Mr Strachan that you can keep me talking until the middle of next week?'

'Well, if you don't want to know where Barney Thomson was going after he left me, that's your business.'

That certainly made a change, he thought. A forwarding address.

'All right, Mrs Strachan. I presume you're Mrs Strachan. Where was Barney Thomson going after he left you?'

'Well,' she said, but got no further. Her attention was grabbed by the pounding footsteps of a large man thumping along the creaking wooden corridor towards them.

'Chief Inspector!' said Sheep Dip, voice loud, giving no due attention to the lateness of the hour.

'Sergeant Dip,' said Mulholland. 'Just in time.'

'I think you should come downstairs, sir. There's someone you should talk to.'

Mulholland stared at the sergeant, then at Mrs Strachan. Finally, irrevocably, with the damning impact of a fifty-tonne bomb on a brothel, the evening's fun was over. Time to sober up. Time to start taking everything seriously. Time to descend once more into the sodden, miserable, plagued mood which had burdened him for the previous few days.

'Barney Thomson, by any chance, come to give himself up?'

'No, sir, it's a monk.'

Mulholland let out a long sigh. 'Why would it be anyone else?' Then, looking at his watch, he added, 'At half past one in the morning?'

'There's murder, sir. Serious murder. Murder to make the Barney Thomson business look like Hiroshima.'

'I think that came out wrong, Sergeant. Can't the local plods deal with it?'

'In this weather, sir? There's probably not another policeman for fifty mile.'

Mulholland closed his eyes. That was life for you, wasn't it? No matter how bad it was; no matter what troughs of depression and despair it had dragged you through; no matter what fetid sewer it had dumped you into naked; no matter how shitey, miserable, pish, crap, fucking rubbish, shabby, squalid, abject, lamentable and pitiable it got; no matter how much putrid mince it vomited onto your plate; no matter how much manure was heaped onto your bed before you'd even got up in the morning.... it could always get worse.

With his eyes closed, the wine started to take hold. A bottle and a half? Hadn't he used to be able to take about three bottles of the stuff and do everything the way it was meant to be done? Now he felt himself falling down some black tunnel, speed increasing, stomach beginning to churn. Lost himself in it for a while, then suddenly opened his eyes and looked up. No idea how long he'd been away. Sheep Dip stared at him. Proudfoot had appeared at his shoulder. Mary Strachan was gone.

Mulholland stared down the corridor, waved an unsteady hand.

'Where is she?' he said.

Sheep Dip shrugged. 'Said something about how if you had more important matters than Barney Thomson, then she'd be getting to her bed, you know. I told her just to go.'

Mulholland stared at him for a while, then turned and gave Proudfoot a glance. He was drunk. On a bottle and a half of wine. Just how much of an idiot was he? Slowly, elegantly, balletically, he leaned back against the wall, his knees folded, and he slid down onto the floor.

Cold Meat Pie

––––––––

'Doesn't it feel like we're in The Lord of the Rings? Setting out on some great journey into the heart of darkness.'

The wilderness of snow stretched before them. Brother David strode ahead into the clawing cold of early morning, Sheep Dip at his side. Mulholland and Proudfoot minced along a few yards behind. The skies were grey but bright, the wind bitter, the snow fresh. No other sign of life. No deer, no birds, no sheep, no cattle. Every other creature was hidden away from the worst ravages of winter, yet unaware of the long wait for spring which lay ahead. There had been more snow in the night, so that the roads were once again blocked, forcing them to go the whole way on foot.

'See yourself as Aragon, do you? Or one of those wee pasty blokes with hairy feet?'

Mulholland sniffed, could feel the damp to the bones of his feet, every chill blast of wind cutting through him.

'Don't think so. I'm the guy whose wife just left, he's screwed up, wants to give someone a doing, and the last thing he needs is a bunch of prepubescent, psychopathic monks who can't look after themselves.'

'Oh,' said Proudfoot. They walked on. 'I don't remember that character,' she said after a while.

They trudged on through the snow, and on and on into the white of morning. Gradually Mulholland and Proudfoot dropped farther behind. Gradually they lost their bearings, so that they appeared to be in the middle of some great white mass; the hills and troughs become indistinct shapes, the horizon merged with the sky. The two figures up ahead got farther and farther away; Proudfoot put her foot through a thin pocket of snow into a knee-deep stream, then Mulholland did the same, not long after.

Relief – temporary relief – came at lunch-time. They saw the two distant figures ahead come to a halt and begin to clear snow from some rocks. And so the next twenty minutes only took them ten, as the thought alone of warm soup and cups of coffee gave them added energy.

But they were cold, cold like cold beer, when they caught the others. Sheep Dip was sitting on a rock, a plastic sheet spread out beneath him, a sandwich drifting between hand and mouth. Brother David stood a few yards away, ear to the hills, surveying the weather. Perhaps he was expecting a lost tribe of Apache to appear along a hilltop.

Mulholland and Proudfoot struggled soggily up to them, then settled against the rocks. Breathing hard, breaths in unison, the sound of a car exhaust rasping on a cold morning. Proudfoot was thinking of a bath, sinking slowly into the warm water, letting it inch up her skin. Mulholland was thinking of Melanie, presuming she was somewhere warm, presuming she was much happier than he; and so he pictured himself bursting into the bedroom, finding her with another man, lifting the baseball bat he always carried with him in violent fantasies, then crashing it down repeatedly into the head of the cuckolder. Hot blood sailing through the air in strange parabolas. That was the warmth he felt.

'We shouldn't spend too long in this place,' said Brother David, eye to the sky, as if in receipt of some divine guidance. 'The storm is returning. It'll be snowing again before it gets dark.'

'Zippity-fucking-doodah,' said Mulholland. 'We could do with some more snow. I was worried that this lot was going to melt.'

'Oh no,' said Brother David, 'we'll be lucky if these snows melt before the spring. Brother Malcolm says it reminds him of the winter of '38.'

Mulholland accepted a sandwich from Sheep Dip. 'Oh, aye,' he said, 'remind me. What happened in the winter '38?'

David looked at Mulholland in the way he'd always used to look at policemen before he'd been captured by the monastery.

'It snowed a lot,' he said. 'What did you think? That this reminded Malcolm of '38 because Dundee are struggling against relegation?'

Sheep Dip barked out a laugh, then devoured the rest of his fifth sandwich. Feeling pleased with himself for getting the hotel to double the number of packed lunches which Mulholland had ordered for the day.

He saw the chief inspector as the classical Lowlands nihilist, hell-bent on introspection and the denial of substance; so self-involved as to be disappearing up his own backside and, as a consequence, having absolutely no appetite – for food, for fighting crime, or for life. He liked him nevertheless, although he was yet to establish why. Perhaps the man's inner angst appealed to some submerged anguish of his own. Either that or he just felt sorry for him.

'Apparently it was a winter like no other,' said Brother David. 'The ways deep, the weather sharp, the days short, the sun farthest off in solstitio brumali, the very dead of Winter.'

'Enough, already!' said Mulholland. Sounding like a schmuck. David continued regardless.

'Many of the monks were to die that year,' he said.

'Not unlike this year, then,' said Mulholland, and immediately regretted it. Foul mood, and he ought to have been keeping his mouth shut.

'What'd they die of?' asked Proudfoot, trying to extinguish the previous remark. The endless sensitivity of the Glasgow police.

'Cold,' said David. 'Cold and starvation. The monastery was cut off for over six months. The winter went on and on and on. They say,' he said, then looked nervously around him, 'that in order to survive, the monks who were left had to feast upon the flesh of the deceased.'

The wind whipped snow from the top of a rock, so that it looked like sand blowing in the desert. 'I shouldn't really be telling you that,' he added as an afterthought.

'They ate them?' said Mulholland, pausing before he took another bite of his gammon sandwich. He stared at the meat, then let his hand drop away. 'You're making that up, right?'

David took another nervous glance over his shoulder, but this was too good an opportunity to miss. It was not often that they got the chance to talk to people from outwith the monastery walls. And virtually never a woman.

Proudfoot, thought Brother David, would be worth breaking your vows for. So he lowered his voice, and it seemed to mix with the low drone of the wind and the silence of the snow. The others had to stretch forward to hear him.

'It was a terrible winter, indeed. For months and months the blizzard blew, and the monastery had no contact with the outside world. Ten monks set out for help at various times during that long dark night of winter, set out to bring relief to the monastery, but none of them ever returned. When spring finally arrived and the animals and birds returned, the snow melted and the flowers came, they found nine bodies, all within five miles of the monastery walls. Their features had been preserved by the cold, the terror and torture of death still etched on their faces.'

'What about the tenth?' asked Sheep Dip, biting into an apple. He loved this kind of story.

'Oh,' said David, 'that'll have been Brother Dorian. He made it to safety, all right. It was just that he fell into the bad ways in Durness, and by the time he'd sobered up and was able to tell anyone what was going on, it was the middle of summer.'

'Ah.'

'So the rest of the monks were stranded,' said David, continuing the narrative, the unfortunate case of Brother Dorian having been dealt with. 'As the weeks went by they gradually worked their way through the provisions of food and firewood. Too quickly at first, but soon they realised that this was to be a winter like no other; a winter where men would become kings, kings would become gods, and gods would become the frozen umbilical cords of unfettered life-blood...'

'Stop talking rubbish and get on with the story,' said Mulholland. 'I want to know whether or not I can finish this sandwich.'

'It was on Christmas Day, that Day of Days, that grand testament to man's great fortune and the wonders of God, that the first of the monks was to die in the monastery. Thereafter, it is told, they died at regular intervals. By the beginning of March, including those who had gone in search of help, half the complement of the monastery were dead. There was barely enough food for one man to survive there a week, there was no heat, there was nothing. And so those who remained were faced with a difficult choice.'

'Go to that great refrigerator in the sky,' said Sheep Dip, 'or make chops out of their colleagues.'

'Exactly,' said David, with unexpected relish. The furtive glances over his shoulder had given way to eager excitement. 'They were in a quandary, for these were men of God, don't forget. The arguments raged day and night. Men with strength for little else found themselves in calamitous debate into the small hours of the morning. This was more than life or death; this was everything about the nature of existence, the eulogy of actuality against the precipice of faith and, above it all, the great question of flesh as the body of Christ.'

'Of course,' said Proudfoot. 'Communion and all that. The eating Christ's flesh thing.'

'Exactly the argument the Cannibalists used. Debate was furious, and soon internecine war had erupted. The monastery was in chaos. The factions split apart, with the Humanists guarding the bodies of the dead, while the Cannibalists made daring raids in the middle of the night to try and retrieve some frozen flesh. It was a bitter and bloody struggle. Even within the factions themselves there was bitter fighting. A brother was stabbed over an argument about which was the best way to cook the arms. It was awful.'

'Bloody hell,' said Proudfoot. 'What happened?'

David paused, staring into the snow. A shudder tripped through his body at the thought of it. 'I think they decided they were better grilled than boiled,' he said eventually. 'But then, what isn't?' he added, somewhat glibly, given the circumstances.

'Not the arms, you idiot,' snapped Mulholland, who had given up waiting for a conclusion and was chewing his gammon sandwich. David turned and looked wistfully across the barren snowfields, white upon white, stretching for many, many miles.

'No one knows. All things must pass, after all, and eventually the blizzard went. Most of the Humanists were dead, from cold or starvation; most of the Cannibalists survived. It could have been a triumph of will over providence, or it could have been that they tucked into a few of the dear departed brothers. That part of the story was never recorded.'

'I suppose sixty years is a bit too long for any of these characters to still be about?' said Mulholland.

'Oh no,' said David, unthinking. 'There are three. Brother Frederick, Brother Malcolm and Brother Mince.'

'Brother Mince?' said Proudfoot.

'Yes. I believe it's a nickname dating from around that time. No one knows how he came by it.'

'Right, then,' said Mulholland, as the snow began to fall with greater ferocity, the edge of a new blizzard beginning to encroach. 'Even if we can't find your killer, we might just arrest those three.'

David's eyes went big and wide, his cheeks a little paler. The phrase help m'boab forced itself into his head. What had he done?

'Oh dear,' he said. 'Oh dear. I didn't mean that. I mean...'

'Come on,' said Sheep Dip. 'This snow's closing in again. We should be going. Still got a few miles, haven't we?'

Mulholland looked at the rest of his first sandwich. Proudfoot stared at the barely touched cup of tea. The snow cascaded around them and the wind once again began to bite into their skin through their meagre clothing. And the phrase help m'boab also forced its way into their heads.

***

The Abbot awaited them, Brother Herman at his side. A bleak day was this in the annals of the abbey. The outside forces of the law come to investigate murder. And now that they were there, there could be little doubt that the story would spread around the country; appear in newspapers, be discussed on talk shows, become part of a promotional campaign on the back of cereal packets. The floodgates would open. The press would arrive, across mountain and glen, and the peace of the monastery would be lost forever.

This day could be the end of the monastery as they knew it. Already dark, already well into evening; perhaps the sun would never shine upon them again. What could save them now but the Will of God? And God's Will had not been in their favour these last few days.

If the snow kept up for long enough, the press would be unable to get near, and maybe they would have become bored with this story by the time the weather had cleared. But that thought made the Abbot think of the winter of '38, which depressed him even more. Perish the thought that the police ever found out about that.

Mulholland, Proudfoot and Sheep Dip were ushered in before them. Warmed by soup, drunk on the heady wine of the relief of journey's end, the safety of indoors and the comparative warmth within those great stone walls.

'Welcome,' said the Abbot, the voice that of the classical man of sorrows.

Mulholland stepped ahead of the others. 'Chief Inspector Mulholland, Sergeants Proudfoot and MacPherson.'

The Abbot shook his head. 'I never realised you would arrive in such numbers.'

'Numbers?' said Mulholland. 'With what's been happening here, if it hadn't been for the weather, there would have been a hundred of us. As there will be when the snow clears.'

The Abbot shook his head again, staring mournfully at the desk behind which his authority languished.

'Perhaps then we should be thankful for the gift of bad weather. I trust your journey was not too harrowing.'

'Could've walked another twenty miles,' said Mulholland.

'It's absolutely Biblical out there,' said the Dip. And indeed they could hear the storm continuing outside, intensifying with every hour. 'If it hadn't been for Brother David, we'd never have made it.'

If it hadn't been for Brother David, thought Mulholland, we would never have had to come here in the first place.

'A fine man,' said the Abbot, but his voice trailed away. So what if he was a fine man? Could he be that much longer immune to the assassin's knife, or scissors, or comb? Was he not destined to go the same way as the rest of them?

Time for business. Mulholland wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, but the thought of walking back through the storm he'd just endured filled him with the sort of anticipation he got from visiting Olivier & Sons, dentistry with a smile, for all your cavity needs. He was there until a Land Rover or helicopter could get through.

'There have been three murders?' he asked.

Murder, bloody murder, everywhere he went. He could remember a time when he went nearly four years without investigating a murder. A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

'Five,' said the Abbot without raising his head.

'Five?'

'Yes. We found the body of Brother Ash this morning. Head smashed in. And Brother Festus we found in the abbey, impaled through the top of the head with the nose of a gargoyle.'

'God!' said Proudfoot at the back. The Abbot stared at the floor, not even bothering to raise the eyebrow which that exclamation would normally have deserved. God indeed.

'So why didn't you contact us before?'

The Abbot looked up quickly. An awkward question. What could he say to that? The monastery, and everyone in it, was already in enough trouble. How could he say that they'd wanted to treat it as just a little local difficulty?

'The weather,' said Herman from his shoulder. 'It is always worse in this glen than the surrounding area. The murderer has picked his moment, knowing that we wouldn't be able to get out to get help.'

Mulholland could smell the lies. Let it pass for the moment. 'And you've no idea who it is?' he asked.

The Abbot looked to Brother Herman again. Was thinking that perhaps he should let him take over. This was too much for him and, although he had nothing to hide, he was liable to say something incriminating.

'We know exactly who the killer is,' said Herman. 'It is Brother Jacob. The man is the spawn of Satan himself. He was born of the Devil, and he has brought the ways of the Devil and the Devil's deeds among us. This is a house of God and he has turned it into a house of Darkness. He has breathed the fetid breath of evil upon us. Have you ever encountered true evil, Chief Inspector?'

Mulholland shivered, felt the cold, the draught from the insubstantial shutter placed against the storm on the window behind the Abbot. Evil? Did he ever encounter evil in his endless boring days? Probably not. Stupidity and thuggery accounted for most of what he had to deal with; but not evil.

Barney Thomson, maybe, but somehow that was looking less and less likely. Barney Thomson was just a stupid wee Muppet. They had set out on the trail of a serial killer and had come to realise along the way that he was a casual innocent in the world of crime. However, what had he led them to?

'Where is he now?'

'We do not know,' said Herman. 'This man came among us a little more than a week ago. A lost soul, we thought, someone who could come to us and learn the ways of God, and one day be rid of the demons which haunted him. The first murder, that of Brother Saturday, came but five days later.'

'Coincidence?'

'Might have been,' said Herman. Coincidence nothing, he thought. 'But we have reason to link Brother Jacob with at least two of the murder weapons, and once our suspicions had been aroused, the brother disappeared.'

'How do you know he has not been murdered himself?'

Brother Herman hesitated. The eyes narrowed, then clicked back to normal setting. 'He was seen lurking in the shadows by one of the brothers. This is an old building, Chief Inspector. It was built for a much greater complement of monks than we have here now, even before Brother Jacob began his evil task. There are many unused rooms where a man might hide; secret passageways too. And there are few monks here who have the stomach for hounding this man.'

'Prefer to sit and wait to get slaughtered?' said Mulholland.

'We are men of God, Chief Inspector!' said the Abbot sharply, raising his head. 'We are not equipped to go chasing killers.'

Mulholland nodded his acceptance of that. Had his own demons with which to contend; the demons which condemned him to treat everyone else with contempt. These were clearly desperate men, and their problems were far greater than his were ever going to be. Picked off one by one. Although, now that he was here and trapped by the weather, his problems had become the same as theirs. Most assuredly he could not be contemptuous of them. And he felt worry for the safety of Proudfoot; followed by worry that Detective Sergeant Dip might be a better protector of her than he himself.

'What can you tell us about the victims, then? Any connection between them? Any pointer to other potential victims?'

'We thought at first it was something to do with the library,' said Herman. 'The first victim, Brother Saturday, was the librarian; the next, Brother Morgan, his assistant. But the last three, they have had no connection with that seat of learning.'

'What were their jobs?' said Proudfoot. Sheep Dip stood silent, attempting to work some bread from between his teeth.

'Brother Babel was one of the gardeners; Brother Festus worked in the kitchen; Brother Ash...' Herman hesitated. 'Brother Ash was the gatekeeper. No connection at all, and they were not together in any other way within the monastery.'

'How long'd they been here?' asked Proudfoot.

'A long time,' said the Abbot, head dropping again. 'A very long time.'

'How long exactly?' said Mulholland. 'Did they all arrive together? Might there have been something between them before they got here?'

The Abbot shook his head. The eyes were vacant. Here was a man whose faith was being tested to the limit; beyond the limit. The Abbot had always said that you could see, in every man's eye, a little of God's light. And here he sat, disproving the theory. Or being the exception to the rule.

'I cannot believe that, Chief Inspector. It was so long ago.'

'You can never tell.'

'That may be the case, but sadly they are not here for us to ask them. Certainly, I can tell you that they did not all arrive at the same time. They'd all been here for very many years; indeed, over thirty-five in the case of Brother Ash.'

Christ, thought Mulholland. Thirty-five years in this place. This Godforsaken place, then wondered if you could use that word about a monastery. Maybe this one you could.

'A long time,' he said. 'Strange that they'd all been here such a long time.'

'Not really,' said Herman. 'Most of our monks have been with us for a considerable number of years. It has always been a happy place.'

Not in the winter of '38 it wasn't, thought Mulholland, but he could leave that one for later. Didn't know that he would never get around to it, for it would become an irrelevance.

'And how many of you are there exactly?' he asked, mind thumping headlong into a wall of incredulity. What kind of man would come to a place like this? Cold, barren, remote, desolate. And it wasn't as if you escaped life and got away from it, because you still had to spend your time with the rest of the unfortunates. Who knew the reasons that brought a man to a place like this? What secrets they hid, what dark skeletons hung in every cupboard.

'There were thirty-two,' said Herman. 'Twenty-seven remain. That is not counting Brother Jacob, of course. We cannot call him one of us.'

Thirty-two. Bloody hell. Thirty-two. Thirty-two sad men stuck away in the remotest part of Scotland, where even the Dutch tourists didn't go.

'And Brother Jacob?' said Sheep Dip from the back, finally joining in the investigation. 'What can you tell us of him?'

'The man's a total bastard!' said Herman forcefully.

'Brother!'

Herman bristled with ill-concealed hatred and loathing; had suspected Brother Jacob from the first, even before a murder had been committed. Had long said there should be greater screening of the sad cases who requested to join them. At that moment there was nothing. Anyone who came among them was greeted with open arms. They should have introduced a vetting procedure, such was the nature of these troubled times, and now they had been caught out.

'The man was obviously here for some dubious reason. It was quite apparent. He was not a man of God, and there was nothing about him to suggest that he was willing to learn the teachings of Jesus.'

Don't blame him, thought Mulholland, but said instead, 'Had he made any friends in his time here? Anyone who might know where he's hiding, anyone who might know his reasons for murder, if that's what he's done?'

'Oh, there's no question but that this man is a killer, Chief Inspector. And you might want to talk to Brother Steven. It is obvious that there is some connection there, although I concede that it might only be because they shared a room.'

Mulholland nodded. Brother this; Brother that. Insane; the whole thing was insane.

'Have any of you lot ever thought of getting a life?' he asked. Almost. Stopped himself and said, 'Where might we find Brother Steven now?'

'He should be at prayers,' said the Abbot. 'As we all should be.'

'I don't know that prayers are going to do you any good, Brother,' said Mulholland.

The Abbot smiled for the first time. The eyes crinkled, his face looked gentle and old and wonderful; and then the look was gone. 'They brought you to us, Chief Inspector,' he said.

Mulholland laughed and shook his head. Weirdest-fuck gift from God you're ever going to get, he thought. Felt the weight of the responsibility and automatically said, 'Ah, Brother, I think you might be in for a disappointment there.'

'I'm sure you won't let us down.'

Proudfoot caught the eye of Brother Herman, and the look of spite died at that moment. The eyes relaxed, the tension forcibly ebbed from the face; he welcomed the glance of Proudfoot.

'We should get on,' said Mulholland. 'I know you've got a large monastery here, but there are three of us, and Brother Jacob can't have gone very far. Not in this weather. Now, if there's anything else you can tell us about him it would be helpful.'

The Abbot shook his head. 'I'm afraid he appeared a very private man. I had him in here a couple of times, but he gave nothing away about what brought him to this place. He was obviously running from something, but then aren't we all?'

'I wouldn't know,' said Mulholland. Running from something. His brain kicked in at last. He had the same thought that Sheep Dip had had the night before when Brother David had first appeared at the hotel, and that Proudfoot had had twenty minutes earlier. Could it be Barney Thomson? Could he be a killer after all? They'd begun to think he had merely been caught up in his mother's business before. He was no killer himself. A man of comforts, Barney Thomson; even someone on the run wouldn't have come to this place.

'Well,' said the Abbot, 'perhaps Brother Steven will be able to shed a little more illumination on the man for you. We have our problems with Steven as well; nevertheless, he is a man of some insight and erudition. He sees things to which others are blind.'

Mulholland nodded. Turned his head and raised his eyebrows at Proudfoot and Sheep Dip.

'Right,' he said. 'We should get cracking.'

'Brother Herman will show you around,' said the Abbot. 'Oh yes, there is one more thing which might be of interest to you.' He subconsciously felt the back of his neck. Those scissors, that razor; they had been so close to his own cold skin. 'He is the most wonderful barber, Brother Jacob.'

'A barber?'

'Indeed. The man could cut the hair of the Lord.'

The Monk Who Came In From The Cold

––––––––

Somewhere between death and dawn; somewhere between hell and heaven; somewhere between pain and the bittersweet gratification of pleasure; somewhere between the cold, clammy hand of denial and the exuberant exploding can of Guinness that is freedom; somewhere between fourteen years at a drive-in movie theatre showing Ishtar on continuous loop and an eternity of chocolate-enrobed naked women playing blow football with your testicles; somewhere between a glutinous mountain of charred bodies collapsing on your table during breakfast and the exiguous indulgence of four rounds of toast and marmalade; somewhere between bad and good, wrong and right, Yin and Yang, Queen of the South and Juventus; somewhere between them all, between the great effervescence of miasma that colludes with the protozoa of fate, and the munificence of time and space, the very enemies of delirium; somewhere between them all, there lay a man. And that man was Barney Thomson.

And he was freezing.

His teeth chattered, tapping out some strange, almost Caribbean, rhythm. Involuntary shivers racked his body. Goose bumps and upstanding hairs careered across his body like some deranged Mongolian horde sweeping across the Asian plains, doing their best to combat the cold, but to no avail. All the body's natural defence systems were at work and failing miserably. The storm raged outside, and at every conceivable weakness in the structure of the building the cold seemed to creep in.

Barney had spent the day on the move, constantly in search of warmth. But every time he'd become settled or seemed on the point of finding what he was looking for, another monk had come along and he'd been forced, once again, to skulk off into the shadows. He had heard through the walls faint rumours of the winter of '38 and the need to preserve as many provisions as possible. And so the fuel was being saved to heat the bare minimum of rooms and Barney could find nowhere to banish the chill from his bones.

His movement around the monastery, his lurking in the shadows, had told him many things; he had learned some of those dark secrets which all the monks kept so close to their chests. Not the identity of the killer; but he now knew why Brother Sincerity and Brother Goodfellow were so friendly, and why Adolphus spent so much time in the library. He also knew that the police had arrived, and that they were searching for him. He was not sure whether they were searching for Brother Jacob or for Barney Thomson, or whether they had already worked out that they were one and the same. However, he was being forced in from the cold, and all the determined bravado which he'd had about finding the killer and handing him in to the authorities had vanished through a day of unremitting freezing temperatures. He'd realised that it could take him days, perhaps even weeks to establish the killer's identity when he had only a couple of nights before this frozen Hell got the better of him.

So much for Barney Thomson, the Great Detective. He was going to have to be Barney Thomson, the Great Guy Who Gave Himself Up So That He Didn't Freeze His Arse Off.

However, he'd decided to test the water first of all. A tentative toe, before he went leaping into the cold loch of confession. A couple of hours previously, from one of his hideouts above the toilet, he'd shoved a note through a small hole, inviting Sheep Dip to a meeting. Had decided he could more easily trust the Highland police than the ones from Glasgow. He'd learned not to trust Glasgow police officers.

In the note he'd requested that Sheep Dip come alone, threatening that he wouldn't show himself and that many more monks would die if the Dipmeister were accompanied. Not that Barney Thomson was going to kill anyone, and maybe the note had been injudicious should his case ever come to trial, but he was not a man known for his fast or accurate thinking.

And so Barney Thomson sat and froze, still an hour short of the time appointed for his meeting with the police, and he wondered, as his teeth clattered noisily together, what lay ahead.

***

They huddled around the fire in the corner of a large dark room. Shadows cavorted randomly behind them, and every so often they felt compelled to stare over their shoulders, expecting to see the ghost in the darkness, the very real ghost that was murdering the monks.

Mulholland and Proudfoot sat beneath great swathes of blanket, grasping warm mugs of tea between trembling fingers. Given a pen and a piece of paper, they could have made lists of some three or four hundred million other places they'd have rather been, and they ran through some of those places as they shivered and shook and their enthusiasm waned and died. From the Maldives to Ibrox Stadium, from the Bahamas to the Maracana.

And all the while Sheep Dip sat slightly detached, well wrapped against the cold, keeping the fire going, an entirely different set of dreams playing in his head. Every now and again he fingered the note in his jacket pocket, the note which had dropped into his lap as he'd sat on the cold toilet. The note from Barney Thomson. He knew he should tell Mulholland, but he'd convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. Didn't want any more of the monks getting murdered. But really it was all because he had seen his chance of glory; his name in lights. The chance to get on the front page of the Press & Journal. Have his pick of all the two-bit women in the seedy underground dope joints in Peterhead and Fraserburgh. A bit of celebrity, and he'd be eating dinner off a different woman's stomach every night for a decade. Add to that the promotion that would inevitably follow the capture of Barney Thomson, a bit of extra cash – maybe some TV work and the odd modelling assignment – and he'd be made. He could pinch a kilo or two of coke from the lock-up in Inverness, and he could dash off to Bermuda and lie on some sun-drenched beach surrounded by hundreds of women, all paying close attention to his naked body.

'Bermuda,' he said, and Mulholland and Proudfoot paused in their conversation and considered that Bermuda would be a good choice. Of course, went the rambling mind of Detective Sergeant MacPherson, the fact that Barney Thomson probably wasn't killing all the monks might be a bit of a problem. But obviously the monks thought he was, and it looked as though Mulholland thought so too, and if that was the case, then he might as well go along with it.

He knew, however, that there was no way that Thomson could have killed anyone; far too much of a big Jessie for that. But there was more celebrity beckoning for his capture than for the capture of a killer of a bunch of monks. Monk Killer Caught! Who would care? Other monks, maybe, but that would be it. Monk Murderer Snared as Dons Lose One-Goal Thriller to Motherwell. That would be about the extent of it. Still, if Thomson wasn't a killer, even better, then, to catch them both. Maybe Thomson intended giving him some information regarding the real killer, in order to get himself out of trouble.

He looked at his watch. Almost time. He threw another couple of small logs onto the fire, then stood up and stretched.

'Just off to the bog for a shite,' he said, pulling his jacket close.

'Thanks, Sergeant. A little more than we needed to know.'

'Well, you know, I'll be a wee whiley, so don't go getting your Glasgow knickers in a twist if I'm not back in thirty seconds.'

'I'll try not to,' said Mulholland, and Sheep Dip made for the door.

'I wouldn't mind Jersey,' he heard Proudfoot say, before he closed the door behind him. 'Snogging Bergerac.'

'You're kidding me?'

***

They all had their secrets, these monks. Dark and sombre; black and blue; the Devil's secrets. Brother Ash – the man had never forgiven himself for sleeping with his brother's wife, and now he felt that regret no more. Brother Goodfellow – homosexuality and drugs; he had flirtations with Brother Sincerity to indulge the first of those, and he could never forget the second, so that not a single night went by when he did not feel the needle piercing the skin. Brother Sledge – a complex web of deceit on a salmon farm in the early seventies, leaving a suicide and a broken marriage. Brother Pondlife – a series of broken homes and a lingerie shop laid waste. And Brother Satan – a man with no end of secrets. But of them all, only Brother Herman had come to the monastery truly on the run from the police. A murderer on the loose. That was why he had so confidently recognised it in Brother Jacob, because he could always tell one of his own kind. Someone like him. He could see it in the eyes. But then, he could always tell all their secrets. Give him a few days, and he'd know why any of the brothers had come to them. So obvious, he had thought it, when Brother Jacob had hoved into view, bleeding heart and bloodied hands laid bare for all to see. Or, at least, for him to see. Because he knew what it was like, Brother Herman. Knew what it was like to feel rage and hurt and anger and embarrassment and humiliation. Knew what it was like to determine that you were going to kill someone; to go after them with a knife; to stalk them, hunt them down, corner them; to enjoy their fright, breathe in their terror, swim in the soup of their fear, knew what it was like to plunge the knife in to the hilt, and feel the warm flow of blood on your hands.

It had been a long time for Brother Herman, but he'd never forgotten. And so, he was surprised when he encountered the murderer. Shocked even, although he would have thought himself too hard to feel shock.

It happened in the depths of night, as Brother Herman had known it would. There was an inevitability about it. He had for five days now envisaged this meeting. Played it through his mind, knowing what he was going to say, knowing how he was going to fend off his attacker, extract a confession, and then do whatever else was going to have to be done. And he had no fear. God would be his judge and his protector. And should something go wrong, it would be because God willed it. Although, on this occasion, he would not give God's Will too much of a say in the matter.

The oldest trick in the book. One of them anyway. A pillow beneath the harsh sheets on the bed to make it look as if he slept. For Brother Herman knew his attacker would come, and on this third night of his vigil, it began.

At the slow creak of the door, Herman's head bolted up, although he had not been in the deep throes of sleep. There was a sliver of light from outwith, the dark figure etched against it, then the door was closed, the room was engulfed in darkness again, and the only sound was the soft pad of bare footfalls across the stone floor. A brief hesitation and then the sudden and frantic thrash of the knife into the padded bed. A burst of furious anger, then it was over, and the killer fumbled in the dark for the object of his vengeance. Emitted a low curse when realisation dawned.

Had Brother Herman struck now, had he approached the killer from the back and brought the knife down into his neck, had he struck the mighty blow from behind, unannounced and unexpected, then victory might have been his, and Herman might have lived. But that had never been his intention; deceit was not his way. And especially not now, now that he had seen, in the obscure light of the doorway, who the killer was. There were too many questions to ask. This man could not die, taking his secrets with him.

'Brother?' said Herman, at the same time as he flicked a match and put light to the small candle on the table beside him.

The killer turned. 'Herman,' he said. 'You were expecting me?'

Herman stood, so that the two tall men faced each other in the dancing gloom. 'Not you, I must confess, but someone.'

The killer took a step towards him and stopped. He still held the knife in his hands, a light and comfortable grip. Herman kept his weapon concealed within his cloak.

'Why, Brother?' said Herman. 'Before we finish this, you must tell me why.'

The killer stared through the dark, their eyes engaged.

'Two Tree Hill,' he said eventually.

Herman stared quizzically back. Two Tree Hill? He knew of the place, not many miles from the abbey. There had been a time when the monks had frequented it, but those days were long since gone.

'What do you mean?' asked Herman. 'It is years since we've been there. Not since...' And his voice trailed away at the bitter memory which belonged to Two Tree Hill. 'But that was long before you came to us, Brother,' he said.

'My father was there,' said the killer, and the voice was dead.

'Your father? But how could that be?' Herman was on the back foot. He hated being on the back foot, but he was too confused, too intrigued to do anything about it.

The killer hesitated. What did these idiots know? Why was he even bothering to waste time explaining himself? He wasn't some two-bit villain in a Bond movie who wanted everyone to know his motives. He just wanted these men to pay for their crimes and, if there was a Hell, to have eternity to feel their remorse.

'Brother Cafferty,' said the killer. 'My father was Brother Cafferty.'

Herman gasped. Cafferty! There was a name he had not heard in many years, and his mind quickly fizzed through the events of that fateful day on Two Tree Hill. Cafferty had been at the centre of it all. In a way, Cafferty had been the casualty, but surely it had been nothing.

'You're joking?' he said, aghast.

The killer took another step forward, the knife nestling snugly in his clenched fist.

'You're taking revenge?' said Herman. 'You're taking the lives of all these fine men of God because of what happened that day? Why, it's absurd!'

'Are you forgetting my father was kicked out of the abbey?' said the killer, the voice spitting venom; years of hate boiled over, like some strangely overfilled pan of rice. 'He was never the same man again, to which my very existence testifies.'

Herman stood amazed. His mouth opened, his eyes widened, and, in the dim light of the candle, the killer could see the saliva glinting on the tip of his tongue, behind which the inside of his mouth became a black hole.

'But Two Tree Hill?' said Herman. 'It was nothing! Brother Cafferty could have gone to another abbey. We would have said nothing. That meagre stain would never have followed him.'

'He didn't want to go to another abbey, though, did he? You ruined him. Meagre stain, indeed, you bastard! You tarnished him for life. You painted him with the brush of odium, dipped in a paint pot of ignominy and humiliation. He turned to drink and drugs and gambling. The man I grew to know as my father was a broken man. He'd been decent and honest once, until you killed him. You,' he said, dragging it out again, 'killed him.'

Herman's mouth closed; the hardness returned. This was, by some way, the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Even more ridiculous than Brother Adolphus's explanation on why he'd had a lingerie catalogue under his bed. It would be laughable, if it weren't so serious.

'This is absurd, Brother,' he said, and this time it was he who took a step forward, the knife clutched firmly in his right hand, hidden by the dark and the great swathes of cloak. 'You cannot possibly be committing these murders because of what happened at Two Tree Hill. That really would be the most stupid thing I've ever heard in my entire life.'

The killer was offended; furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. 'What do you mean?' he said.

'This,' said Herman, and his left hand gestured through the air, indicating all the murders that had gone before. 'Who in their right mind would commit these atrocities over this? It would be the most futile gesture which could possibly be conceived of. Two Tree Hill was nothing. It was an inconsequential event, on an inconsequential day. Good heavens, it must be almost thirty years ago now.'

'Twenty-seven,' said the killer. 'Twenty-seven.'

'Hah!' barked Herman. Had decided to provoke his man into anger and then take him when he was consumed by wrath, his effectiveness duly diminished.

'You sad little cretin, Brother,' snapped Herman. 'You think that anyone still remembers that day? You think anyone cares? What use is revenge, Brother, when no one knows why you're doing it? What use is revenge, when the reason is so mediocre as to be completely insignificant?'

'Mediocre? Is that what you're saying?'

'Aye, Brother,' said Herman, 'it is.'

'Mediocrity be damned!' said the killer, the voice beginning to strain, a quality of pleading to it.

'All this, and it's for nothing! You pathetic little man!'

One last taunt. It happened, and Brother Herman was proved wrong. The killer's effectiveness had not been diminished by wrath. He was a younger man, he was stronger, he was faster; and while he was being all these things, Herman's knife became entangled in the luxurious and sweeping fabric of his cloak.

The knife pierced mightily the throat of Brother Herman, and he staggered back, his fingers clutching at the warm explosion of blood. He fell heavily against the wall, the eyes stared wildly at his murderer, and then, as he began the slow slide to the floor, his hand finally escaped the prison of his cloak, only for the knife to drop uselessly to the ground.

Herman sat on the floor, eyes staring up at the man who two minutes before he'd thought he could easily take in a fight. On the back foot, that'd been the problem. And deserted by God. And also this: you just never know when you're getting old. That was his one last thought.

Their eyes met in one final wrestling match which somehow Herman managed to win. His mouth opened as the killer's eyes dropped, and Herman uttered his final words on God's earth.

'He lied to you, son. Your father must have lied.'

***

He could still feel the blood pumping through the veins. A mad, liquid rush – he could feel the pain of it squeezing through confined spaces. Heart racing, chest thumping, head aching, mouth dry, hair standing on end, frantic points of pain jagging his body – the biggest rush he had had yet from murder. Brother Herman. One of the ringleader bastards who had condemned his father to a life of ruin. Brother Herman, the biggest bastard in this place of bastards. Had deserved everything he'd received. The other monks would probably throw a feet-up party when they heard he was dead.

On a high of murderous delirium, the killer almost stumbled into Barney Thomson. Would have done so, had not Barney heard his irregular footfalls coming towards him and hidden behind a pillar at the last minute.

However, the killer sensed something as he came into the small hall, the interconnection of four corridors. The place where Barney Thomson had chosen to make a rendezvous with Detective Sergeant Dip. A curious place for a secret assignation, but Barney Thomson was no conspirator.

The monk stopped, slowed down; he fingered the knife, now thrust into the folds of his cloak, but still warm with blood. Blood that he could taste; and he could smell the presence of another human being. His nose twitched. Someone was watching him, he could feel it; someone lurking in the shadows. He hadn't been followed, he was quite sure of that, so whoever it was would not know the sad fate of Brother Herman.

'Hello?' he said to the empty chamber. 'Who's there?'

No reply, and he began slowly to circle the room. Almost completely dark, but for the bare light of a smouldering fire, itself only minutes away from death.

Barney Thomson hid behind a pillar and waited. He watched the man before him, on the cusp of showing himself. Some of the monks he could trust; some of them he couldn't. Already had the two lists drawn up in his mind. This man was on the A-list. This man he thought would not betray him. Yet something stayed his hand as, all the while, his heart ba-boomed inside his chest, the sweat beaded on his face and he forced his teeth together to stop them chattering. He'd had too much of this in the past year, and this wouldn't be the last time, he thought. Or, then again, it might.

'Hello?' said the killer, and his eyes swept past the pillar behind which Barney hid. Barney sucked his stomach in. The predator kept circling, and all the while Barney grew more uneasy. There was something in the way he moved; and the monk was quickly removed from the A-list. Could this be the killer, he wondered. Who else, apart from himself, would be wandering the corridors at this hour? This was not a part of the monastery where any of the monks needed to go at night; that was why he'd chosen it.

The monk circled; Barney twitched.

'Hello?'

'Hello,' came the reply.

Barney twitched so hard his head banged silently off the stone pillar. He managed to keep his mouth shut as his hand went to the instant bump. He risked a glance round the corner of the pillar. The police. Of course.

The killer stared through the gloom, himself surprised. Sheep Dip had appeared as if from the shadows, and instantly the killer assumed that here was the man who had been watching him for the previous few minutes.

'Good evening,' he said, cool regained, fingers once again clutching the sticky hilt of the knife.

'You're not Barney Thomson,' said Sheep Dip, and was immediately annoyed at himself for mentioning the name.

'Barney Thomson?' said the monk. 'Never heard of him. Not one of the brothers,' he added warily.

'No,' said Sheep Dip. Had to move the conversation on. 'Late to be abroad, is it not, Brother?'

The monk shrugged. 'I couldn't sleep, Sergeant. Too many things going on.'

His mind was racing. Going through all the options. His hand clutched the knife, and that remained his favourite option of all; especially since his blood still fizzed with the rush of the last murder. There were pros and cons to be considered, however. This man before him was no Brother Herman, stupid and slow. This was a sensible policeman, a big man who would be faster than he looked.

'And do you think it's wise to be walking corridors when there's some lunatic on the loose?'

The monk's eyes narrowed. Barney Thomson? Brother Jacob. It made sense. He must be some criminal who was on the run, and who they had tracked to the monastery. They thought that Barney Thomson was the monastery killer, and he only just managed to keep the smile from his face.

'I have God to protect me,' said the monk. They couldn't be that stupid, could they, he thought. The only thing Brother Jacob could kill was conversation.

'God hasn't made a very good job of protecting your brothers,' said Sheep Dip, staring through the gloom at the monk. Something was missing and he didn't realise it. His instinct was gone; he stood before a killer covered in blood, and he didn't see it. Sheep Dip had always had instinct. Now it had been repressed by this house of God.

'This Barney Thomson,' said the monk. 'You think that he's the one who's been doing these terrible things?'

'Barney Thomson? Naw, not him. He's just a feckless idiot. I doubt the man could tie his own shoelaces. Folk like Barney Thomson are what God had left over when he'd finished making snot.'

Barney Thomson bristled; and in any other situation he would seriously have thought about almost doing something.

'So whom do you suspect, then, Sergeant?' said the monk.

The tone of voice, and instantly it hit Sheep Dip. The killer stood before him. Sure as eggs were eggs and the day would die, this was the man they were looking for. What was wrong with his radar that it had taken him two minutes to realise?

The monk saw it in his face. The dawning recognition. Sheep Dip was too surprised to hide it; and instantly the knife in the killer's hand had been freed and he was lunging towards Sheep Dip.

Sheep Dip dived to the side, stumbling. Brain in confused overload. Fumbling for the gun tucked in his back. Kicking himself. He avoided the first lunge and regained his footing. Hand on the butt of the gun, he swept it forward. The killer knew what was coming, knew he had to make one last effort before the gun was upon him.

His knife swept wildly through the air; the blade, dulled by blood, black-red in the emaciated light of the wretched fire; the killer-monk gasping with effort, his head exploding with the outrageous pleasure of the fight.

The Dip

––––––––

'I know guys are weird, 'n all, but surely it doesn't take half an hour to go to the toilet?'

The listing of dream alternatives had long since expired – too painful to think about – and they had been sitting in silence. Mulholland stared into the fire, which had gradually burned lower. Contemplating the thought that he would have to add more fuel, coming along with the realisation that Sheep Dip had been gone a long time; realisation which he had been doing his best to ignore.

'It takes all kinds of lengths of times,' he said. 'Surely you've read that in a Blitz! article? Why Men Take Ages To Shit. Or Tell the Length of a Man's Cock from How Long He Spends on the Toilet. Or Men and Shit - The Savage Truth.'

'Very funny. You don't think something might have happened to him?'

'Sheep Dip? The Sheepmeister? Mr Dippidy Fucking Idiot-Face? I doubt it,' Mulholland said, while he presumed that Sheep Dip already lay dead, throat slashed, blood everywhere. Felt guilty about being so callous. 'The amount that guy eats, it might well take him half an hour.'

'We should go and look for him,' Proudfoot said, ignoring the ill-humour which she had quite become used to.

'How do you mean that, exactly?'

'How do you think I mean it? We should go and look for him. Something might have happened.'

'Look, it's freezing out there, down those corridors. It's warm in here. He's probably just gone in search of some more food, and if he hasn't, and he's already dead, it's not as if we're going to be able to do anything for him now, is it? Are you a doctor?'

'Chief Inspector?'

Mulholland rubbed his hand across his face. Looked with yearning once more into the fire.

'God, all right, then. But if we find him sitting on the bog reading a porn mag, I'm going to be pissed off.'

***

Mulholland appeared from the toilet, clutching a candle in his right hand, the jumping shadows mixing with those from the candle of Proudfoot. Proudfoot shivered.

'Well?' she said.

'Now I know how George Michael feels,' he said. 'Anyway, the cupboard is empty. Not a bare arse to be seen, Sheep Dip's or otherwise.'

'So what do you think, then?'

'I think he was lying when he said he was going to the toilet. I think he had other things to do. Some lead he wanted to follow up and not tell us about; some other business with one of the inmates; who knows?'

'So, do we look for him?'

Mulholland stared through the gloom. Proudfoot was an attractive woman; in this light she was glorious. Delicious, sexy, seductive; all of those things. His ill-humour, his impatience, his rampant apathy, combined to make him want her even more. Right now, in a cold, dark, damp corridor, in a freezing monastery, with a killer on the loose, in the middle of nowhere.

'No,' he said. No matter what he was feeling, he couldn't mask ill-humour this ill.

'We've got to look for him. It doesn't matter what his motives were. If he'd intended to be long about it, he would have given some other excuse. Something must have happened to him.'

'I don't care, Erin,' snapped Mulholland, and he almost spat the name out, and the use of it sent a shiver down her spine, making her take a step back. 'If he wants to be such a bloody fool as to go mincing around the bloody Monastery of Death in the middle of the night, on his own, well, sod him. He deserves to die.'

Mulholland, candle blazing its way in front, began to move off down the corridor. Proudfoot stood her ground. 'Don't be such a selfish arsehole.'

He stopped. His shoulders were hunched against the cold. The candle dully illuminated holes and nooks in the walls where spiders lived and where small insects went to die. And the thrown shadows moved with him as he slowly turned around.

'What did you just say, Sergeant?' he said. Voice on the edge, but she had had enough of it, and was not cowed.

'You're not the only one stuck in this bloody awful place, you know. You're not the first person who's split up with his wife, you're not the first person who hates his job, you're not the first person to spend a freezing night in a place they could not want to be in less. Get a fucking grip of yourself. And cut the Sergeant crap 'n all, because I'm not letting you get away with this. There's a fellow officer somewhere in this building and he very likely needs our help. Now, come on!'

Proudfoot marched off in the opposite direction, further into the bowels of the monastery. Towards the chamber where Sheep Dip lay prostrate on the floor; cold stone, briefly warmed by policeman's blood.

Mulholland breathed deeply. Maybe she was right, but the thought didn't even begin to formulate itself. Nevertheless, with the chill bitter and clutching his coat close around him, he began to walk after her, several paces behind and making no effort to catch up.

'If we get back to the room and that big bastard is sitting there, you're dead, Sergeant,' he muttered to the darkness between them. And if she heard him, she did not let on.

***

Barney Thomson shook. He had moved on from shivering, and now his whole body vibrated wildly with cold and fear. He had seen so much death, more than in a gaggle of Bond movies, and yet this was worse than all of it.

He had seen the killer at work, from no more than five yards away. He had seen him strike repeatedly with a knife, carried away in a crazed frenzy of diabolical delight. He had seen him drink from the cup of evil, and eat the meat from the calf of villainy. This was a man who enjoyed his work, who'd been carried away with a brutal felicity. And this was a man whom he knew, whose hair he had cut, whose skin he had pressed his scissors against.

If only he had let those scissors penetrate that skin.

What now? Barney thought as he shook. The killer-monk had fled the scene, leaving Barney alone with the corpse of Detective Sergeant Sheep MacPherson. Stabbed at least nine or ten times, when once would have sufficed. Blood had sprayed around, although invisible in the non-light. Barney had fled, footfalls silent in the dark, in the opposite direction.

All the way back to his hiding place, however, he'd imagined he was being followed; every time he stopped he thought he could hear the sound of movement behind him. A breath, a softly laden shoe, a cloak brushing against a wall; a laugh. So that now, as he sat in the attic with who knew what creatures for company, he was frightened for the first time since he'd come to this place. For the first time in many, many years.

And he sat against a cold wall, and not a single coherent thought came his way. He could turn himself in in the morning – should he survive until then – and at the same time tell the police who the real killer was. But who was going to believe him? Now that the sergeant lay dead, with a note on his person, inviting him to a meeting with Barney – and threatening death to others if he came accompanied?

Only when he was two corridors closer to the sanctuary of the loft had Barney thought to return and check Sheep Dip's clothes for the note, but nothing on earth could have made him turn around and head back towards the scene of death and towards the demons which trailed his every move.

And now he sat and shook, wondering if he should hand himself over to the police. But the storm continued to rage outside, so he still would not get out of this place. He would be kept prisoner in some small room, and then he would be sitting prey for the killer. Or would the police and the monks just take revenge upon him immediately – a kangaroo court – on the assumption that he was the guilty man?

Barney shook, and went on shaking.

***

They found Sheep Dip's body nearly an hour later. An hour's search, interrupted by a brief return to their room to make sure Sheep Dip wasn't sitting eating chocolate fudge bars, drinking beer and reading the February edition of Blitz!

Down endless corridors, the storm always evident outside, no matter how deep within the bowels of the monastery they went. When it happened, they became aware that something was wrong before they saw it. As they neared the chamber, Mulholland now in front – irascibility having given way to unease – they slowed down and stared more intently into the gloom. They were about to encounter death; they could feel it. Goose bumps goose-stepped across their bodies, from one to the other.

'You still back there?' asked Mulholland, needing to hear noise shatter this awful silence.

'I was going to stop for coffee, but changed my mind,' answered Proudfoot. 'Couldn't decide between an Americano and a latte.'

'We can get it later. That and some...'

The joke drifted off into silence as he got his first sight of the body; his slow pace became even slower. Proudfoot emitted an audible gasp as she saw the corpse. Big, ugly, crumpled and, as they got nearer, the bloody swirl around it.

Detective Sergeant Gordon MacPherson. Sheep Dip. The Dip. The Dipmeister. Diporama. The Big Dipper. The Dipsmeller Pursuivant. General Dipenhower. The Dipster.

Dead.

'Shit,' said Mulholland, as they came alongside the body and stood over it. Proudfoot's hand reached up to her mouth; she swallowed. Mulholland bent down and touched the blood on the floor, then on Sheep Dip's mutilated body.

'Cold,' he said. 'Mind you, of course it's cold in this place, so I can't say how long he's been dead. Could be ten minutes, could be an hour.'

He stood up and they stared at one another, the shadows jumping a little more vigourously from Proudfoot's trembling hand. Mulholland forgot his anger of an hour earlier; Proudfoot forgot that she'd been intending to be angry with him if something had happened to Sheep Dip.

'Stabbed?' she asked.

'Aye. Quite a few times, by the looks of things.'

'Barney Thomson?'

Mulholland shook his head and looked off into the shadows. It was strange that they should stand over this mutilated body and not fear for their lives; not fear that the killer might still lurk near by. A sixth sense of some sort; a knowledge that this was not their time.

'It just doesn't seem right. This is a guy who's been swanning around the Highlands cutting hair on the cheap. We didn't hear one bad thing about him. And the only bad stuff they had to say back home was that he was boring. Doesn't make him a raving nutter.'

'You want to search him?' said Proudfoot, and Mulholland looked down at the bloody mess.

'Aye, I should. We'll have to tell the Abbot, but no doubt the minute they find out about this they'll want to whisk the body off to be with God, or something like that.'

'He's not one of them. We can stop them.'

Mulholland bent down and started to wade through the cold blood. 'We can try, Sergeant. But we're stuck here for God knows how long. There's no back-up; there's thirty-odd of them and two of us. They can do pretty much what they like at the moment.'

Proudfoot turned away and looked around the small chamber where Sheep Dip had drawn his final breath. Her skin crawled again as shadows tripped in some terpsichorean nightmare; and she saw things in corners and movement in holes in the wall; and maybe, after all, she was afraid. Maybe Death was closer than their instincts would allow her to believe.

Mulholland came up with pieces of paper from the pockets of Sheep Dip's shredded clothes, and carefully he dried them of blood and held them to the light of the candle.

A list of women's phone numbers – mostly strippers from Thurso, although Mulholland was not to know that; a Visa bill for £161.89 from a lingerie shop in Inverness; a recipe for bread-and-butter pudding; a notebook with general notes about the case, which Mulholland slipped into his pocket; a photograph of a sheep, with the words Mabeline, Spring '96 written on the back; an itemised bill for £21.62 from a grocer in Huntly. All that, and one more thing: a note from Barney Thomson offering to meet Sheep Dip in the chamber in which he now lay dead. Come at midnight, and come alone, or others will die.

Mulholland stood, still studying it; letting the other pieces of paper fall to the floor. He held his candle close and let Proudfoot read the note.

They both breathed deeply, then stared around the dark chamber which surrounded them. Felt the chill; not just the chill of night.

'Right,' said Mulholland eventually. 'From now on you and I stick together. Not even one second, Sergeant, all right?'

Proudfoot let a silent nod drop into the night.

'We should go and find the Abbot. And Herman 'n all, he's just about the only guy around here who knows what's going on.'

Mulholland placed Barney Thomson's note in his pocket and then, leading the way, picked a corridor and, having no idea if it was in the right direction, set off in search of the Abbot's bedchamber. And as they left Sheep Dip's mutilated body, they didn't notice that his gun was missing, because they'd never known that he'd had one in the first place.

A Hard Snow Falls

––––––––

They arrived in twos and threes, but none of them on their own. The rumours had spread through the monastery like an infectious disease; a syphilis of the mind. There had been more murders in the night, of that all these monks were certain; and anyone who wasn't at breakfast was assumed to have been a victim. They each had their theories; on who might be dead, who might be next, and who might be carrying out these crimes against God.

Brother Mince missed breakfast on the back of a thumping headache, and there were those who assumed the worst. Brother Malcolm was also missing and again presumptions were made – but only by those who had forgotten that Malcolm always missed breakfast. Strangely, however, despite the absence of Herman, no one thought the worst of that. No one imagined for a minute that something could have happened to Herman. He was a bastard, maybe, but also the rock on which the integrity and strength of the monastery had been maintained. Nothing could have happened to Herman because, if it had, then what did that say of the chances for the rest of them?

And so they gathered in the dining room, two fires blazing to keep the cold at bay. What would once have been a gathering of thirty-two, now reduced to twenty-six. Muted conversations, muted humour; they assumed they were to be addressed by Herman or the Abbot. A few eyebrows raised when Herman was not at the Abbot's side, but still they did not suspect. Assumed that Herman was off doing that Sherlock Holmes/Spanish Inquisition amalgam at which he'd become so proficient.

There was an exhaled breath of surprise when the legendary Brother Mince arrived, as the rumour of his demise had already quickly spread; and a few heads nodded in self-reproach at the arrival of Brother Malcolm.

They were all present and seated on benches at the required time, with the Abbot and two of the three police officers standing at the head of the room. It was not the Abbot who spoke, however; he simply passed the authority for the abbey and this situation to Mulholland with a slight nod of the head, then joined the other monks on the benches.

A low murmur. Had the Abbot relinquished control?

Mulholland surveyed the worried faces. What was it they expected him to say? He swallowed, he lowered his eyes, he shut out the sound of the wind and the storm; the blizzard as furious as it had been for days.

'Gentlemen, there's a lot to be covered, and the Abbot thought it best that I speak to you.'

A few eyes narrowed, and he knew they would be wondering if he'd given the Abbot a choice. Everywhere was the same; the basis of any organisation could be religion, it could be sport, it could be drinking, gambling, sex or backgammon, but when it came down to it, it was all about politics and people looking after themselves and trying to dictate to others.

'As some of you might have heard, there have been another two murders in the night.' Silence. Two? And a few eyes were thrown shiftily around the room. 'I'm afraid that one of the victims was Brother Herman.' Silence again, stunned this time, for a few seconds, and then the differing reactions around the room. Tears from Brother Sincerity. Mulholland gave them a while, knowing that the next reported victim would not elicit the same reaction. 'And the other was one of my men, Sergeant MacPherson.'

'The Dipmeister!' came an anguished cry from the back.

Mulholland nodded. 'Aye, I'm afraid so. Both killed by the same knife as far as we can tell.'

He let the news settle in, unaware that many of the monks were even more affected by the news of Sheep Dip's death. For if even the police weren't safe...

'Gentlemen, Sergeant Proudfoot and I are obviously up from Glasgow, but we didn't set out up here to investigate these crimes. We knew nothing of them until Saturday evening. We were in Durness on the trail of a man who is wanted in Glasgow in connection with several deaths last winter and spring. We now have little doubt that by some bizarre coincidence...' No such thing as coincidence in police work, thought Proudfoot; no such thing as coincidence in religion, thought the Abbot; I wonder if I can get Herman's thirteenth-century Italian lithograph collection, thought Adolphus. '...the man we sought was hiding here at this abbey under the name of Brother Jacob.'

Definite gasps this time, coupled with a few cries of 'I knew yon bastard was a serial killer.'

'His name is Barney Thomson and, although we had our doubts that he was the monastery killer even when we discovered he was here, it now looks as though there is little doubt that he is the man we seek. As far as we know there have been no sightings of him in the last thirty-six hours, but clearly he is still at large somewhere within the monastery.' Brother Steven stared at the floor and wondered whether or not to keep his own counsel. 'With the weather the way it is, he's not going to be going anywhere. Therefore, we all need to be extremely vigilant. Already six of your number and one of ours have died, and we have to do everything in our power to make sure those numbers do not rise.'

He paused and looked around the small pond of worried faces. Poor bastards, he thought, then the thought was gone. If they were going to be so stupid as to live in a place like this, shit was going to happen. But then, the shit that was happening here was a product of the outside world.

'So, from now on, gentlemen, we go everywhere in twos. You pair off before you leave this room and, after that, you never let your partner out of your sight until this weather clears and we get some relief. And I don't care if there are some things which you'd prefer to do in private. You don't let your partner out of your sight until we have been evacuated from this place and the threat of Barney Thomson has been removed.'

He looked around the room again, from face to face. Trying to convince them. Not even sure that twos would be enough. Maybe they would have to stick together in twenty-sixes.

'Hey, it's that whole murder thing,' said Brother Steven from within the midst of the monks. 'The Cat and the Canary, And Then There Were None, all that jazz. Picked off one by one. Kinda freaky, but exciting in a strange way. But you know, about all this stick-together stuff. What are we supposed to do once darkness comes and sleep takes us, Chief Inspector? Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep," the innocent sleep, sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, the death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, blame of hurt minds, great nature's second course.'

'Aye, what he said,' said Brother Edward, nodding vigorously.

Mulholland took a deep breath. Fixed Brother Steven with his best shut up and stop talking pish look. 'Very good, Brother, keep talking like that and you might bore the guy out of hiding.'

Steven smiled ruefully, then retreated behind the cloak.

'I reiterate,' said Mulholland, wondering if anyone in the Highlands had words of their own, 'we do nothing alone. Not pray, not eat, not shit, not change clothes, not jerk off, if that's what you lot do to relieve tension. None of that stuff alone. Limpets, gentlemen, be limpets to each other. And if we can cut down the number of rooms we visit and places we go in the monastery, we do it. Those of you who sleep in rooms at the other end from this hall, when we're done, go and get your things and move them to a room within the vicinity. We don't stray, gentlemen, and it's very important that you all obey this rule. Furthermore, if any of you have had any contact with Barney Thomson or Brother Jacob or whatever you want to call him, then please come forward. No matter how trivial, no matter any of it, if you've got something to say, please say it. Co-operation is the only way we're going to protect ourselves and hopefully catch the bloke in a place like this.'

He stopped and looked around the room once more. He wondered how many more of them would die before the blizzard relented. Did not doubt that he would survive himself, however. A life this miserable was bound to continue for a long time.

'That's it. You can go now, but not too far. I don't want to order everyone to spend most of the day in here, but that might be for the best. So, can I suggest that if there's something you want, go and get it now and then spend the rest of the day in this room. Now, are there any questions?'

'Why is he doing it?' edged a voice from the front. Brother Martin. A man who had had words with Brother Jacob, but had not seen him in two days.

'To be honest, we don't know,' said Mulholland. 'And frankly, I don't think it matters. There doesn't appear to be any pattern to his victims, and so we can only surmise that he's after everyone. No one is safe. No one can afford to be complacent. I know that's not an answer, but until we've made further investigations, that's all there is. We'll be speaking to all of you during the day, just in case there's something that one of you might know which you don't realise is relevant. Anything else?'

They all had questions, but none of them asked. Maybe it was God whom they should be asking questions of at this time. It was He who appeared to have deserted them all.

Mulholland removed himself from the firing line and sat at a lone table, where he was joined by Proudfoot. Slowly a murmur grew among the thrall, and quickly rose to its low zenith; and so the monks began the jealous practice of pairing themselves off and deciding how best to spend their time until the blizzard cleared or Barney Thomson was caught. And many of them searched their souls and wondered if they would ever be able to sleep safe there again, even if the monster was caught; and whether they would ever be able to trust in God again, and whether this would be the end of the abbey as they knew it.

And in the midst of them all, one man knew all the answers. He had made many decisions in the night; he knew that none would walk free from this place, and that this house of God would be left as a graveyard of Hell. A necropolis to his revenge; a mausoleum to the injustices of the self-righteous against the honour of a simple man; a cemetery to all that was bad in this House of God and the perfidious nature of this band of Judas men.

Frankenstein

––––––––

Mulholland and Proudfoot stood at a first-floor window and looked out across the glen, as far as they could see. About twenty yards. The snow had temporarily given in to the day, but the air was still thick with low cloud and the promise of more. The landscape was white, the shapes of trees evident but hazy, and the sky merged with the ground with nothing defined against anything else. The wind screamed past the walls of the abbey, but in the direction they were facing, so that all that came in through the open shutters was the cold of day.

'Maybe one of us should have made a break for it this morning,' said Proudfoot. 'Taken Brother David and tried to get to Durness.'

Mulholland considered the wind and the snow, the landscape before them. Not a chance. He had already given it much thought, but they had barely made it to the abbey in the first place; even Sheep Dip, for all the Northern hard-man stuff, had been suffering at the end. There had now been a much heavier snowfall, the winds were heavier, the blizzard more violent, and if this temporary respite was to become more than that, how were they to know?

'No point. And what if one of us had made it to Durness? It's hard to imagine that the roads west or south are open.'

'We could have come back from Durness with some of the townsfolk.'

'What, you mean like in a Frankenstein movie? An angry horde of villagers charging towards the castle, torches in hand?'

'Something like that.'

'The torches would have blown out in this weather,' he said and Proudfoot smiled.

The sound of the wind died for a second and they saw their first movement for ten minutes as a snowflake danced down past them. The herald of much to come; and though they didn't know it, and although it made little difference, the snowstorm which now beckoned was worse than the one which had moved on across Sutherland to Caithness.

'It's beautiful,' said Proudfoot, into the hush. 'I've seen pictures of snow like this, but not in real life. It's wonderful. If you take away the seven murders and the serial killer, this could almost be romantic.'

'Seen pictures? So you read something other than Blitz!, then? National Geographic or a Thomson's Winter Sun catalogue?'

Proudfoot laughed. 'Right the first time, actually. How To Stop Your Man's Cock Shrinking in the Snow, I think the article was called.'

'Right. I think I read that one. Load of mince. There were much better snow scenes in Why Gretchen Schumacher Loves To Do It With Strudel In A Ski Lift.'

Proudfoot laughed again. For a moment she could forget where she was and what was happening. This was indeed romantic, looking at this obscured landscape, the latest object of her affections beside her and in a good humour for the first time since they'd got drunk in Durness.

'I preferred the one where she was demonstrating how to achieve fifty orgasms a second with a choc-ice on your nipples in Lake Tahoe in January.'

'You see, I don't know if you're joking now.'

'Well, I am, but so are they. They're just taking the piss.'

'Oh.'

Leaning on the window, out into the cold, their arms touched; although neither of them gave in to it or leaned closer to the other.

They had had a long day of pointless questioning. Wherever Barney Thomson was hiding within the old building, he was doing it well. Not one of the twenty-six had had anything to say that could have helped them. Plenty of them had suggestions about places he could have been, but there were so many of them that they were hardly worth knowing about. Another idea – to launch a search party, to spread out through the monastery in groups of four until they'd flushed him out – had been rejected by Mulholland. These were not twenty-six policemen he had, they were twenty-six frightened monks, and for all that he had thought Barney Thomson weak and insipid, the way he'd been going through the angelic horde, Mulholland would have put his money on Thomson against four of the monks any day.

The two of them had had a look around the monastery, but it was so large, the halls and corridors so labyrinthine, that there was hardly a chance of stumbling across him. It needed more than the two of them, but a search party was not an option. Sending a messenger out into the cold was not an option. Calling in the army was not an option. He had a mobile phone with him, but it couldn't reach from one side of the kitchen to the other in this weather. They were stranded, there was no way they could get help, and they were sitting ducks to the most notorious killer in Scottish history; they could do nothing but wait.

These thoughts once more intruded upon him, and the moment was snapped. That first flake of snow was belatedly joined by another, and then they started to come with greater frequency. The noise of the wind returned, and Proudfoot felt the chill and became aware of Mulholland's distance once more. The walls going up, as they ever did with the man.

'Come on,' he said, 'we should get back downstairs. Find out how many more of them he's got in the last half-hour.'

'So what, we just sit and wait?' asked Proudfoot.

He shrugged, leading the way to the door. 'I know it's crap, but if you've got a better idea I'll take it. If we stick together as much as possible, I think we should be all right. I don't doubt the guy could take out more than one of these guys at once, but so far he hasn't. No one goes alone. And hopefully, this weather will clear in the next day or so and we can head west. Get back to some sort of civilisation.'

'And what if it doesn't clear?' she said, as they headed back down a cold, dark corridor towards the main hall. 'What then?'

Mulholland walked in front, his candle lit. We're done for, he thought, and Barney Thomson will find a way to pick us off one by one.

'It'll clear, Sergeant,' was all he said. 'That's what weather does.'

***

The evil Barney Thomson sat in the attic. He had ventured out briefly during the day and had pilfered a few more blankets, so that he was now almost warm for the first time since he'd effected his disappearance. He'd been aware at one point of someone coming up into the attic, searching for him presumably, but he knew where to hide, and knew that unless ten men with searchlights came up, he could easily avoid detection. Two of them, it sounded like, with nothing but candles. The police probably. His heart had raced, but he'd been in these situations before had Barney Thomson. Getting to be an old hand.

And so he'd sat quite comfortably most of the day, nothing to think about except his hunger and how he could possibly turn in the monk-killer while at the same time exonerating himself. Had realised the mistake he'd made with the threat to Sheep Dip. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but he'd expected to be able to convince Sheep Dip of his innocence. He hadn't considered the possibility of the big guy getting murdered, leaving the note to be found; which he presumed it had.

And so, through his own stupidity, there was now evidence linking him with the murders. If he'd been vilified before, it was nothing to what would happen now.

As usual, Barney was wrong, but he was not to know of that morning's newspaper headlines. The Sun: Barber-Surgeon Innocent, Claims Blair. The Guardian: Thomson A 'Dumb-Ass' But No Killer, Says Clinton. The Times: Barney Thomson, the Alibis Stack Up. The Independent: Thomson 'Asleep' While Murders Took Place. The Express: Thomson Framed by Porn King in Camilla Scandal. The Daily Record: It Was The English! The Mirror: That Guy Couldn't Lace My Boots, Claims Saddam. The Press & Journal: Dons In Nil-Nil Thriller with Forfar: 'We Need Thomson On The Wing,' Says Boss.

The eddies and currents of public opinion, as dictated by a fevered press ever on the lookout for a new angle.

Barney knew nothing of this and, indeed, it mattered not at all. The outside world might have been twenty yards away through a thick stone wall; the nearest town might have been only twenty miles across a snowfield; Glasgow might only have been three hundred miles as the crow flew; but none of it mattered. He was trapped in a monastery with twenty-five monks and two police officers who thought him guilty of seven murders; and one other monk who himself was guilty of those murders, and who would presumably be more than willing to take care of Barney if the opportunity arose.

He listened to the angry noises from his stomach and thought of his fate. It was impossible to imagine an outcome from this that he would welcome. Already he had accepted much. He would never again see Agnes; he would never again see his brother Allan and his delicious wife Barbara; he would never again work in a Glasgow barbershop, cutting hair and talking nonsense; he would never mix with his own folk and simply be one of the crowd.

But what else? Would he ever walk free from this prison? Would he survive to see another summer and feel warmth on his back? Would he ever again sit in a quiet pub over a game of dominoes and drink a freshly pulled pint of lager?

If he was to do any of that, if he was to taste anything good, from beer to freedom, he would have to be as determined as he had determined he would be only two nights previously. And here he sat, hungry, scared and broken. The man Mulholland believed could take on four monks and win. How many more murders would there be? How many more crimes would he be falsely accused of, how many more crimes would he have to prove himself innocent of?

And so he slid unhappily into a world of dreams, and when he awoke he would discover the answer to those questions. And many more. Many, many more.

The Knight Of The Long Knives

––––––––

As far as you knew you had eleven people to take care of. Forget the euphemism. You had eleven people to kill. Eleven monks. And so far you've taken out four of them. The four whose identity you were sure of before you started. Which leaves seven more. The only problem being that you don't know who they are. There are twenty-six monks remaining in the monastery, of whom fifteen could have been at Two Tree Hill twenty-seven years ago. But there are no records of that day in the library, as you had assumed there would be. You know that, because you've checked – and had to kill two librarians because of it. One of them was on your list anyway.

So, quick quiz question. What do you do?

Answer: You take them all out.

That modus operandi which had been working so well has already been thrown out of the window, carried away as you are by the euphoria of murder. Anyway, you have to grow and adapt to situations if you're going to be a serial killer in the modern world. Can't live in the past. It would take an age to gradually work your way round the monastery, knifing all these monks in the throat; and the chances are that eventually your work is going to get the better of you, and you're going to come up against a monk who is not so easily overcome. Or a policeman. It had been a close-run thing the night before with Sergeant Dip. Someone might fight back; and you, the hunter, become the hunted. All that stuff.

So, it is time to adopt a long-distance scatter policy; yet something prevents you from putting poison in that evening's dinner, and potentially wiping out the entire complement in one go. A need to feel more blood on your hands. So you opt instead for poison in a single carafe of wine; something which you know will be passed around maybe four or five of the brothers. A fair little cache of victims, almost doubling your tally. You can sit it out at the side, take note of who will die in the night from the slow-acting poison, and then deal with the others as you see fit. You might not get to watch the poisoned actually die, but it gives you a thrill just to think about it.

Curciceam perdicium – a strange-shaped insect of the Bornean rainforest, the blood of which decays into a deadly, slow-acting toxin. Seven to eight hours after ingestion, there begins the hideous seven-stage consequence of the body's reaction. a) The victim breaks into a cold sweat. Nothing too hideous or worrying, but uncomfortable. b) From this gentle opening, the body leaps into convulsions and erratic spasms, lasting for nearly three minutes. c) There follows a period of intense pain, likened to that endured during childbirth, but concentrated in one small area just above the kidneys. d) Then there is the shortness of breath, manifesting itself in a dryness of the lungs and an intense craving to swim naked underwater. e) As the body temperature rises, the mind is besieged by hallucinations of the 'large insects and spiders crawling over your face while your hands are tied' variety. f) The victim has an unstoppable desire to break into the second verse of Fernando, as strange liquids begin to ooze from the head. g) Then finally, as the body convulses, pain shoots through every cell, the victim froths at the mouth and the demons of Hell are unleashed with venomous panache on every sensory perception in his possession. He will see strange visions in the darkness, and there will come a dramatic easing of the pain so that in a moment of epiphany he might imagine that he has found salvation. Then he will die and be deposited in his own private Gehenna.

Or worse...

You are not sure how many you can dispose of in one glorious night of hell-bent revenge, but the first will have to be your idiotic partner, then after that as many as possible so that the police, if you don't manage to take care of them, don't become suspicious about your partner being dead.

It will all start slowly at dinner, as they come in their twos for evening repast, and you can have the fun of seeing who drinks the poisoned wine. Those monks will die slowly, and as they lie in tortured agony, you will do the rounds of the monastery and take care of as many of the rest as you can.

A simple plan, but why not? All the best plans are simple.

***

'It's a big bunch of stones.'

'Stones? It's more than that, Brother.'

'Get out of my face. All these stone circles are the same. They may have been built without the aid of heavy engineering equipment, they may be precisely aligned with the sun, they may be a conduit to some mystical higher force, they may indeed be the Westminster Abbey or Parkhead of their day, but when push comes to shove, they're just a big bunch of stones.'

'And I suppose you think the pyramids are just a big bunch of rocks on a polygonal base, and that the Amazon rainforest is just a big bunch of flowers? You are wrong, Brother, terribly wrong. Perhaps Stonehenge was built to some pagan god with whom we have no business, or perhaps not. Either way, there is no denying the beauty and the complexity of those stones. They are a wonder of invention; a glimpse at the grand delirium of the dreams of prehistoric priests; a portentous apocalypse of maniacal conglomeration; a majestic colossus of ethereal inspiration, glorying in the reverie of divine light and the eternal battle with the incubus of destiny; they transcend the thoughts of men, they exalt in the gemmiferous presumption of the whims of fate; they grasp the effulgence of assiduity, yet mould it with the miasmatic corruption of opprobrious indolence.'

Brother Pondlife walked slowly down the final flight of stairs towards the dining hall; Brother Jerusalem came close behind, head shaking.

'You don't half talk some amount of shite sometimes, Brother,' he said. 'They're just a big bunch of stones. And you know the incredible thing? They charge a fiver or something to get in. You go by that place and there's all these people standing there pointing at them, having paid their fiver, don't forget, and saying things like, "There's a big stone." "Aye, right enough, there's another one." Load of shite.'

Brothers Pondlife and Jerusalem walked into the dining room and fatefully took their seats at the table with Brothers Sledge, Brunswick and Columbane; the latter two of whom had already tasted the wine and declared it exceptional.

The killer was fascinated, even though he knew that nothing was going to happen as he sat and watched. He was going to miss the good part, but he had other fish to fry. And as Brothers Jerusalem and Pondlife took their first sip of the wine that would kill them, the serial monk drank water and thought of the night to come. For the Night of the Long Knives had begun...

***

Brother Joseph first. The killer's partner. Simply and easily strangled where he lay sleeping. The killer took much pleasure in it, for he had never liked Joseph; had always found it tedious the way he brought every conversation around to the subject of why televisions didn't have wheels. An old man screaming towards senility with blundering haste, and someone whom he felt certain must have been at Two Tree Hill.

And so he prolonged the death; allowed him to wake, allowed him to know his killer, allowed him to breathe desperately through the strangulation, for an extended five minutes, his arms wafting ineffectually at his side. And then, cruelly, he finished him off with ten seconds of biting hatred, the rope cutting Joseph's frail old neck, and he died with no knowledge of why. Discovered that in heaven televisions could have wheels if you wanted them to.

Brother Solomon and Brother Ezekiel. Prone to nipping down to the cellars after dinner and sharing another bottle or two of the monastery wine between them. They knew fine well that they shouldn't, not with the notorious Barney Thomson on the loose – Thomson Innocent Of Everything Except Boyd Own Goal, said that day's Evening Times – but they liked their wine and there was a good red down there that Brother Luke just never seemed to bring to dinner. Either they were fatalistic, thinking that they would die anyway so they might as well die drunk, or they were thinking that it wouldn't happen to them.

The great door to the cellar closed over them, and on a night such as this it locked them into their doom. The door was closed, the walls were thick; no one could hear their screams. In this intense cold that was all that it took and, notwithstanding their attempts at shared bodily warmth, they would not see the break of day.

Brother Mince and Brother Joshua. Walking with trepidation down a long, dark stairwell; wall on one side, vertiginous drop on the other. Constantly in fear of an encounter with Barney Thomson, cloven hoofs and jaggedy-arsed tail and all. And so, when the real killer approached them, they did not recognise him for who he was. They bid a pleasant evening greeting and, for their pains, were both sent tumbling to their deaths. Despite the efforts of his flailing arms, Mince's head smacked into the stone floor. Brother Joshua landed on top of Mince, and his fall was broken. Along with his neck.

The library was set on fire, the door was locked, and again the natural soundproofing of the rooms would mask the screams of Brothers Adolphus, David and James. Men who would die believing they were being punished by God, as shortly before their deaths they would be gathered around the library's illicit collection of nineteenth-century Vatican retro-porn; the pages of which were well fingered and, indeed, stained in one particular case, the result of an embarrassing incident involving Brother Edward after a particularly hard day of repentance and three carafes of wine.

For Brothers Luke, Malcolm and Narcissus, he adopted a slightly different approach. In fact he was carried away with the essence of what he was doing. He stumbled across them while they were in the midst of panic, Brother Sledge dying painfully in front of them from the slow-acting poison. They asked the Demon Brother for help, and for a brief second or two the killer played the part. Then, suddenly, he was caught up in the hedonistic pleasure of seeing the poison at work; his nostrils flared, his cheeks ballooned; and then it was as if some higher force took over and he lost control. The knife was in his hands, his body buzzed, and he swished and swung through the air, this way and that, slashing wildly at the three desperate monks around him, until all lay dead. It was like walking on air; a dance in the clouds. A rush that no amount of drugs could mimic.

Brothers Sincerity and Goodfellow were caught in a certain position. Fear and cold had brought them together to share solace and warmth. They lay in bed, their naked bodies pressed against one another; at first trembling with nerves and trepidation and cold, but finally relaxing into one another so that at last, after years of undisclosed yearning, they had their first kiss. Long and warm and moist.

Fatally, they both thought the other had locked the door.

It did not open silently, but the quiet movement of heavy wood was swallowed up by the roar of the storm; in any case they were oblivious, lost in the ecstasy of love.

The killer was pleasantly surprised. Two at once. Something suitable. Something good enough to match the heinous crime they were committing as he watched. Something simple.

He carried thick duct tape, a prerequisite to the travel kit of every serial killer. He had intended to use it on these two individually, and hadn't thought he would be so lucky as to find them in such a clinch. Had to be quick. Quietly extended the tape, then, with the swift movement that had led to his sobriquet of Cheetah at school, he passed the tape under the neck of Brother Sincerity – on the bottom, the submissive partner – then up and around the neck of Brother Goodfellow, so that by the time their panic had set in, they were already bound at the neck.

The next few seconds were a frantic thrash of arms and legs and various other appendages, but Sincerity and Goodfellow had been surprised and were instantly confused; they were naked; they had erections. No man is in a fit state to fight when he has an erection. Soon they were bound; bound but not gagged.

If they wanted to kiss, they could kiss, he thought. They watched him as he went about his business of binding their frantic limbs. They knew who he was, and this he didn't mind, for they would not live to tell.

Tape around their nostrils, so they must breathe through their frenzied mouths, raging against the inevitable. Then he forced their heads together, mouth against mouth, and bound them tightly with tape.

He satisfied himself that virtually the only breaths they could take were from the empty sacs of the other's lungs, then he politely excused himself, and went about his business. There might have been a gap there, enough to let in a fraction of the air they needed, enough to extend their lives by an extra minute or two, and he smiled at that gently extended torture as he closed the door behind him, staring wildly up the corridor, wondering with whom he should next deal.

Before they departed, before they squeezed their final, inadequate breaths, Brother Sincerity managed to croak his dying words from the recesses of his throat, and from the very well of his being.

'I love you, Goodfellow,' he tried to say; and Goodfellow sensed and felt the words, rather than heard them. And so he himself summoned one last monumental effort to produce his own stated memorial, the words dragged from some pit of desperation.

'Bugger that,' he tried to say. 'Can you not undo this sodding tape?'

And Brother Sincerity felt and sensed the words, rather than heard them, and no more fevered breaths did he attempt to take, and soon his lungs were filled with used air, then he slipped into unconsciousness, and then he died. And he would join the rest of the monks, his Colleagues of the Damned, in their eternity of Hell for all his unforgiven sins.

Goodfellow had more fight, but he could not break free, could not get enough air; and soon he too was dead and plummeting into the abyss of purgatorial infinity.

***

The night had worn away. The killer was in a fever, his blood rushing, the heady ecstasy of genocide causing his heart to pound. But he was tired also, and maybe it was time to leave the others until morning. He was bound to enjoy it more if he was awake. He could spend a leisurely couple of hours pottering around the monastery, picking off monks as he went. They'd hardly notice, until they were all dead.

It was like eating a box of chocolates, however, and he couldn't immediately put them down. Another couple, that was what he thought, and then he could put the knife and the duct tape and the matches, which had been his weapons, away for the time being. A few hours to recuperate, and then he could start his work again in the morning. It was not as if he would forget to finish them off.

Brother Frederick and Brother Satan shared a room. An odd combination, but they seemed to get on well. He knew that neither had been involved in Two Tree Hill. Satan wouldn't have been here then, and Frederick had already been too old for that kind of business. A studious man, a learned man of books, and always had been.

However, both had to die. He tried to push the door open, but it was locked. At least these two had a little more sense than those idiots Goodfellow and Sincerity, he thought. He knocked lightly on the door, and waited in vain for a reply. Too quiet, or were they awake inside and quivering in fear? He knocked a little harder.

'Who is it?' came the strained voice from within. Brother Satan. Now if ever someone did not live up to his name, thought the killer. (He was not to know, or care, of the dark secrets which Satan held. A dark past – many lives were on his hands, such misery had he caused. This was not just any Brother Satan.)

'It is I,' said the killer.

'Oh, Brother, is there a problem?' asked Satan.

Just open the door!

'I am afraid, Brother. Brother Joseph has disappeared. I awoke from a troubled sleep and he was gone.'

A hesitation on the other side, then the killer smiled as he heard the bolt drawn back, and then the great door was slowly opened. A head poked round.

'Come in. Quickly, Brother, one never knows who is without.'

The killer walked into the bedroom shared by Frederick and Satan. A small candle flickered, almost burned out, on Frederick's bedside table. The old man looked at the killer and nodded. It was obvious that neither of these men had slept.

'You say Brother Joseph has disappeared?' said Satan.

'Indeed,' said the killer, and he looked Satan in the eye.

In times gone past Satan would have been able to read the killer like a religious pamphlet. Piece of cake. One look at the guy and he would have picked him for a murdering scumbag, then he would have recruited him for his own bedevilled flock. But the years of repentance and honest living had ruined the man's instinct. It would be only too late that he realised his fate.

The killer wondered. He had charged into the room without any aforethought. How to take care of Satan and Frederick? Obviously it had to be Satan first, for even if Frederick watched, there would be nothing he could do about it.

'We agreed that we would only leave the room to answer the Lord's call, and even then we would wake the other to accompany us. But I awoke more than an hour ago and Joseph was not there. I have awaited his return since then, but he has not appeared.'

And as he was speaking, he edged a little closer, so that he was well within striking distance. He was tired, and had had enough of exotic elaboration. He would strike with his knife and be done with Brother Satan; then he could murder Frederick as he struggled from his bed and made his pathetic attempt at a getaway.

And then it suddenly hit Brother Satan. Joseph's room was nowhere near. Why come all this way down the corridor when there were nearer rooms? And all the old evil came malevolently back to him, and he knew. These evil deeds within the monastery were not the work of Brother Jacob – the desperate Barney Thomson – they were the work of this man before him. And he knew instantly that it was not he who had killed Brother Festus, and he knew instantly why he was doing it and, of all of them, he was the only one who understood.

And the knife stuck Brother Satan at that moment of Awakening and pierced his Adam's apple, and plunged through the neck, and came ripping out, so that Satan collapsed to the ground, body in spasm, arms waving futilely in the air, as he desperately strained for a final breath and tried to claw back the powers he had foregone. And failed.

Brother Satan lay dead. The killer turned to Brother Frederick. Frederick had not moved.

'Why?' asked the old voice, for he knew it was time to die, and since he'd expected to be killed eighty-three years previously in the trenches of Passchendaele, this was no great trauma. He'd had much longer than many of his friends.

'Two Tree Hill,' said the killer, walking slowly forward.

Frederick raised his head and looked curiously at the man. And even in that pale light, his last candle beginning to fade and die, he could see it. The resemblance in the eyes.

'You must be Cafferty's son,' he said.

'Yes,' said the killer, standing over him.

'And all of this is to wreak revenge for what happened that day?'

'Yes.' The knife was raised high, ready to sweep down into the soft flesh of one more victim.

Frederick shook his head. 'That has got to be the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my entire life,' he said.

And the knife plunged from on high into Frederick's forehead, and cleaved the skull, and scythed through human brain. Like cutting into an apple crumble which had been left in the oven so long the top had gone hard and crusty.

Good Day Sunshine

––––––––

Some sort of daylight began to penetrate the room; a shaft fell across Mulholland's face. He was deep in a dream, two victims to his assassin's knife lying at his feet, a third refusing to die, so that he was repeatedly stabbing at the head, and was finally reduced to sawing through the neck; and only then, as the eyes of his victim stopped rolling, did he begin to stir to the stream of white light.

He opened his eyes, had that immediate feeling of relief that the dream had been just that. But the ugly feeling would stay with him, until it was overwhelmed and surpassed by the much uglier feelings to come.

A few seconds adjusting to the day – where he was, why he was there, what had gone before – then he was up on his elbows and looking around the room. Still in darkness, still asleep, Proudfoot lay on the other side. He watched her for a while, made sure he could see her breathing, then laid his head back on the pillow. Looked at his watch; they had been asleep for eight hours. At least they had woken from it, and the fact that no one had come knocking in the night to tell of some new victim was another bonus. Perhaps, he wondered, wandering off into the realms of fantasy, Barney Thomson had decided to take his chances with the snow and had fled the monastery.

The thought of anyone going out into the storm made him listen for the wind, and for the first time he realised there was silence. No wind, no storm blowing, no creaks and groans from the old building.

He braced himself for the cold, then eased out of bed and away from the protective warmth of a hundred blankets. Stood at the window, undid the catch and pushed the shutters open. Had the same thought for the twentieth time about why they were so insane as not to have glass in the monastery when they had the stained windows in the abbey church, but nothing up here made any sense.

The shutters swung back, creaking to a halt before they banged against the walls, and the early morning lay before him. Blue, blue skies and snow stretching to a blue horizon. No wind; the day crisp and cold and clear and blue, the sort of day that makes winter worthwhile.

He felt it to his feet. Relief, pleasure, some prehistoric feeling within still generating excitement at such a day. Maybe they would be able to get out, he thought. Troop across the snow, like some gigantic, brio-laden von Trapp family, until they got to Durness, where the snowploughs would have cleared a road to the south and he could get the rest of the monks to safety.

He wondered how long the storm had been over and if Barney Thomson had indeed made his freedom run. He looked over the fields of snow and considered that even he would be able to track someone across this.

They had only been at the monastery for two nights, but already it felt like a month. Entrapment would do that to you. Minutes like hours, hours like days, and so on. Now they had the chance to escape and they would have to take it before the blizzard returned. The snow might have been thick on the ground, but Brother David, or one of the other inmates, would be confident of the way back. He could taste the steak in his mouth at the Cape Wrath Hotel; ignored the fact that there would be a million years of work to be done, and that he would be castigated to Hell for what had already happened – the death of Sheep Dip.

No time to stand around – they had to grab this opportunity while they had it.

'Hey, Proudfoot,' he said, turning round, and there was a moan and mild stirring from the bed. 'Proudfoot, wake up!'

There was the Standard Morning Delay of about ten seconds, and then her head was lifted from the pillow and she squinted into the sunlight, which had worked its way around to where she lay.

'Come on,' he said. 'The weather's cleared. We should get going.'

'What?' was all she could manage.

'The weather. It's cleared. We should be getting a move on.'

She turned over, dropped her forehead to the pillow; shook her head to try to clear the gunge. Woken from some elaborate dream of Freudian construction, involving shoes, cornflakes, Mulholland and her mother.

'Right,' she said eventually. 'Right. Can I wash first?'

'Good idea. You look like the Borg Queen.'

'Thanks.'

He turned and looked back out of the window. Breathed in the air, like drinking ice, and felt his nightmare attacked and the torture of the last few days taken from him. Everything was clean and white and fresh. A new start. A blank page on which to write a new, and maybe final, chapter in the search for Barney Thomson; and maybe a new chapter in this bloodied life of his.

He began to think abstractly about snow; the good and the bad of it. Terrible while you were closed in and you never knew when it would stop; glorious when the worst was over. Nowhere in the world looked bad with a covering of snow.

Proudfoot stood at his side and looked over the white-out scene. They were transfixed for several minutes, while their bodies edged closer together. Snow and silence. The long summer of a cold winter's day.

'We shouldn't stand here too long,' said Mulholland eventually, making no effort to move.

'Aye,' she said.

'Must get these guys out of here and back to Durness or Tongue. We can sort the mess out from there. How many are there again?'

'About twenty-six or so. Twenty-seven if we count Barney Thomson.'

'Oh aye, right. We'll just see him safely back to civilisation, then give him, say, ten minutes' start, then we can chase him again.'

'Aye, that's what I was thinking. Maybe give him a car as well.'

'A car? I thought a helicopter.'

The aimless conversation drifted into silence, and they were once more consumed by the landscape. Proudfoot was not long consumed, however.

'Do you think they'll continue here? Come back after all this is over and go on as if nothing has happened?'

Mulholland felt the cold again; this time the stiff blast of reality. The snow-covered landscape had just been an illusion, and soon it would be obscured by another blizzard or removed altogether by some minute rising of the temperature. Nothing ever lasts. Not in this life. And he thought of Sheep Dip and wondered what kind of family the man had left behind.

'Who knows? I wouldn't think so, but twenty-six of the sorry band is probably enough if they wanted to carry on. And the amount of publicity they're going to get when all this gets out, they'll probably have a queue of strange no-lifes waiting to join up.'

There was a sudden, frantic rapping at the door; a desperate man outside, that much they could tell from the knock alone. They both felt it immediately; this was what they had been thankful not to have had when they'd woken to find it already morning. Now it had arrived, like a shot bolt in the chest; and they were each bludgeoned by dread.

'Fuck,' was all Mulholland said, and he walked to the door. Almost didn't want to open it, to unleash the demons which waited behind; although his imagination could not have begun to conjure up the things he was about to discover.

The door opened. Brother Steven stood in the hall. Unshaven, hand red from knocking, but otherwise in the manner of a monk.

'Brother?' said Mulholland.

'There's some bad stuff going down,' said Brother Steven. 'Really, really bad stuff.'

There was a pause. Mulholland raised an eyebrow.

'That's it? Not some bad stuff like Aristotle talked about?'

'Come with me,' said Steven. 'Aristotle didn't know anything about bad stuff compared to this.'

***

Try to describe the feeling and you couldn't. Like getting your guts ripped out, that was as close as you could get. But that didn't really cover it. Getting your guts ripped out was just going to be bloody sore and then you'd die. This was something else.

They had left the bodies where they were; everyone was now accounted for. Took a while to find Brother Solomon and Brother Ezekiel, but all the others were where they should have been. Not too far from the dining room. Not too far from the dining room, but still dead. The monks in the library had been hard to identify, but they had got there by a process of elimination.

Somewhere during their monastery tour of murder and death, Proudfoot had been sick. The charred, tortured library bodies had been grotesque, but it hadn't been that in particular. It had been the overall effect; the realisation of what had happened. Murder upon murder. One bloody death after another, so that every corner they'd turned and every door they'd opened had heralded a new corpse. All this death, while they had slept. The police. Supposedly protectors of these people. The Abbot had been delighted when they had arrived; had called them as if from God. And what had they done while this had been taking place? That was what she thought, and as a result the whole became even worse than the sum of the parts, bad enough though that was.

Mulholland had gagged in the library, had felt everything he had eaten the previous day display an interest in coming back to the surface. None of it appeared, as if his stomach had nothing to offer in reply to this massacre.

They had found the odd live monk along the way, cowering in rooms. Alone, afraid, wondering what had happened to their partners. The men who had been supposed to stay by their sides until the cavalry arrived.

There were five left. The Abbot, Brother Steven, Brother Edward, Brother Martin and Brother Raphael. One of them had defied orders and slept alone; three of them had woken to find their partners in terrible pain, victims-to-be of the poisoned carafe; and one of them had had Brother Joseph as his room-mate.

They had all received regulation Brother Cadfael, Name of the Rose or Robin Hood haircuts from Barney Thomson. All men who still felt the cold steel of those scissors at their neck, who wondered why they had been spared, who looked into the pit of Hell which undoubtedly awaited them, and faced the desperate fact that their time was fast approaching. All except one. One who knew that Barney Thomson was no man to be feared.

Edward and Steven were busy packing provisions. Food from the kitchen randomly placed into rucksacks, to be carried on the journey to safety; for there was no option now but to make the break across the desert of snow. Any food would do, and they gave it little thought.

Mulholland stared from the window of the hall, some three hours now since he'd first looked out. It was almost eleven o'clock and they would have to leave soon. Already it was too late for them to reach civilisation by nightfall. Not a chance at this time of year, and in this weather. So they would take equipment for sleeping out, and hope the blizzard did not return in the night.

And, of course, they could expect to be trailed all the way, and picked off one by one if they were not careful. For surely Barney Thomson would not rest where he was. He would have to keep going until everyone was dead, and only then would he escape blame.

If, indeed, Barney Thomson was the man behind it all.

'This is stupid,' Mulholland said to Proudfoot.

'What?'

'This. Running from Barney Thomson.'

'So, what's the alternative? We stay here and wait to die?'

He shook his head, watched some of the snow fall from the branches of a tree.

'It's just Barney Thomson, for goodness sake. Barney Bloody Thomson. I could have sworn before we got here that the bloke had nothing to do with it. I still can't believe that it's him.'

'Mild-mannered and boring and he killed at least one of his work colleagues, possibly two, and either chopped up six other bodies or at the very least happily disposed of them. Mild-mannered, maybe, but weird as fuck all the same. Even if he was normal before all that, and he was covering up for his mother, it's got to do something to his head.'

'Aye, but why come here and start killing all these monks? If he'd arrived, kept his head and his mouth shut, and got on with praying and self-flagellation and all that other monk stuff, we might never have found him.'

Proudfoot glanced over her shoulder. Felt the shiver down her back. 'But the note?'

'Aye, the note,' said Mulholland. 'That's it, isn't it? The note. Written in Barney Thomson's handwriting, found on Sheep Dip, and as incriminating as you can get. It points right to the guy. It makes him centrefold, cop-killer of the month. But it just doesn't feel right.'

'So, what are we saying? That there's someone else hiding in the rafters? Or do you think that one of these clowns is the killer? I wouldn't have thought any of this lot could kill a bug.'

Mulholland shook his head again, stared into the trees.

'You never know, though, do you? What brings a man to a place like this? It's bloody awful at the moment, but do you think it ever gets any warmer within these walls in the middle of summer? What kind of life must you have had in the past to want to come to a place like this? This lot have got to be the weirdest-fuck bunch of weirdoes I've ever met.'

Proudfoot took another furtive glance over her shoulder. Edward and Steven prepared the food; Martin and Raphael were in low conversation; the Abbot sat alone. A broken man, a man who had now lost everything, for where had God been when they'd needed him most?

'Which one, then?'

Mulholland shook his head. Doing a lot of that.

'That's what I've been standing here thinking about. Which one? Absolutely no idea. Having said what I just said, this lot seem like a normal bunch of sad people with no lives. They're all pissing in their pants. I know we can't expect our serial killers to all wear hockey masks, but there's nothing about any of this crowd to make them stand out. If it's one of them, I'd only be guessing. We really need to sit them down and talk to them for a couple of hours, but we haven't got the time for that.'

'So, you think there might be someone else loose in the asylum?'

'Very possibly, Sergeant. Very possibly. Or maybe Barney's our man after all.'

'If we can't come up with any other explanation for the note he left Sheep Dip, then we have to assume it's him, don't we?'

'Aye. Aye, I suppose you're right.' He turned round and looked at the band of unhappy thieves who minced around the great hall. 'You see, Sergeant, this is where we could do with a decent, relevant Blitz! article. How to Tell a Serial Killer by the Length of His Cock.'

'I know where I can lay my hands on the issue with Gretchen Schumacher on Why She's Shagged Her Last Detective.'

'Gretchen Schumacher's shagged her last detective?' said Mulholland, beginning the short walk back into the midst of human sadness. 'And there was me thinking I still had a chance.'

'She's too thin,' said Proudfoot.

Their eyes met; they knew what the other was thinking. Nothing said, for this was not the time.

'Right,' said Mulholland, turning to the demented and tortured few. 'We should be getting on. We need to get as far as we can before nightfall.'

They looked at him with little enthusiasm. Even Brother Steven, the philosopher-bard, had no emotion. Nothing to say, despite the quote from John Wilkes Booth nestling neatly in his subconscious.

'Where's the camping stuff you talked about, Brother?' Mulholland said to the Abbot. But the Abbot stared mournfully at the floor; if he heard the words he ignored them, for there were others who could answer the question. His time for speech had passed.

'A bit all over the place,' said Steven. 'There's some of it in Herman's room on the second floor, and some of it in the cellar. With Brother Ezekiel and Brother Solomon.'

'Right.'

Mulholland looked at the floor. How were they going to do this? All seven of them trooping around the monastery, dragging the poor bastard of an Abbot along with them? It could take hours.

And so he took the decision to split the group; and there would be more blood shed.

'Look, we need to get on. We sort out what's where, and we go and get the stuff.' He hesitated, looked around the room. Unknowingly decided who would play on, and whose part in the match was coming to an end. 'Right, the Sergeant and I will go to the basement. Edward, Raphael and Martin can go to Herman's room, and Steven can stay here and look after the Abbot.' He knew as he was saying it that he and Proudfoot should split up; but given what had happened to Sheep Dip, would that make any difference anyway? Barney Thomson, or whoever it was, was no respecter of the police. And besides, there was no way he was letting her out of his sight. Not now.

'You happy?' he said, and regretted the word the second it was out of his mouth. The monks nodded and raised their tired, worried, pathetic bodies from the cold wooden benches. All except the Abbot, who stayed where he was, wallowing in his pain.

'No more than ten minutes, if you can, all right, you three?'

Edward nodded. Raphael and Martin trooped along behind. Mulholland thought about saying something to the Abbot, but there were no words.

'Look after the bloke,' he said to Steven.

Steven blinked.

***

'This is a bad day, Brother.'

No reply. When you wake up on the wrong side of the bed, your car breaks down on the way to work and your team gets knocked out of Europe by some mob from Latvia that evening, that's a bad day. This? There wasn't a word for it.

So thought the Abbot, and he did not answer Brother Steven. Steven drummed his fingers. Watched the Abbot. A lamentable figure in brown. Head down, drowning in the vomit of his own self-pity.

'Heard a rumour,' said Steven. A small smile came to his face. The Abbot did not look up. This time the words did not even register. He had no need for conversation. Steven drummed his fingers.

'Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues,' he said in a low voice; the smile stayed there, then was suddenly gone. The eyes clouded over. The Abbot did not respond. The fingers stopped.

'Not interested in rumours, Brother? You should listen to them sometimes.'

Slowly the Abbot raised his head. At the tone of voice, more than the words. The words hadn't registered.

'Brother?' he said. He had never had much time for Brother Steven.

'I was saying that I'd heard a rumour,' said Steven.

'A rumour?'

'Yes. Like a curse from the gods.'

'The gods, Brother?' said the Abbot. 'I thought we only had one. Although I have my doubts about Him now, as well.'

'Oh, there are lots of gods, Brother Abbot. Whispering gods. Whispering rumours.'

The Abbot looked into the depths of Steven's eyes, but saw nothing there. He might have done at one time but, like Brother Satan before him, he had lost the ability to see the true hearts of men.

'And what is this rumour of which you speak?'

The smile returned to Steven's face. He lifted a finger, moved it in time with his talk.

'They're saying that all this, all this murder, is about revenge.'

'Revenge? Revenge for what?'

Steven paused. For effect, but it was lost on his audience. Too confused to be impressed.

'Two Tree Hill,' he said. Awaited the response.

The Abbot shook his head. 'Two Tree Hill? What do you mean?'

'Two Tree Hill, Brother Abbot. Where the late Brother Cafferty was disgraced and expelled from the Holy Order of the Monks of St John. Condemned forever to walk the streets of normal men, condemned forever to be apart from the God whom he loved.'

The Abbot was even more confused. Tried desperately to think of Two Tree Hill, and it returned beneath a hazy fudge.

'The small hill at the foot of Ben Hope,' he said.

'Yes,' said Steven.

The Abbot waited for something more, but Steven glared through narrowed eyes.

'I don't understand, Brother,' the Abbot said.

'Not just any hill, Brother Abbot,' said Steven, spitting the name. 'The last hill of all. A very Calvary of the north, where a man might meet his destiny.'

The Abbot stared at him, his eyes widening. Trying to recollect the last time they had been there; but it had been so long ago. Slowly it returned, however, and the memory came back through the mist. An ugly incident, a man alone, cast from their midst. A ruined man.

The Abbot's head still shook; he looked at Steven in wonder and confusion.

'You are saying that Brother Cafferty is back amongst us, and is taking his revenge? That is absurd. Cafferty is dead. He lived an unhappy life in Edinburgh with a woman he never loved and a son who came to noth...'

Realisation dawned. He noticed the eyes at last. The similarities. Because, for all the time that it had been, he could still see Cafferty's face; the anguish and the dismay. And in the eyes of Brother Steven, he saw Brother Cafferty. Steven's father.

The Abbot's mouth dropped. 'But, Brother. You cannot be serious.'

Steven stood up, slowly drawing the knife from within his cloak. Prodded the end of the blade with his finger, drawing blood.

'I can be serious, Brother, and I am. You ruined his life. It is time for my father to be avenged.'

'You killed them all? You, Brother? You killed gentle Saturday and Morgan? Ash and Herman, Adolphus and Ezekiel. Gentle Brother Satan. Brother Festus?'

'Oh, not Festus,' said Steven, glad of the chance to interrupt, impressive though that list sounded to him. 'I had nothing to do with Festus.'

'I don't understand.'

'I can't be sure, but I think God took care of Festus. The man was a pervert, after all. Don't tell me he never regaled you with one of his three-breasted, cocaine-snorting fantasies? God hates that stuff.'

'But, Brother?' said the Abbot, and his voice was filled with wonder and incredulity. Slowly he raised himself from the bench, the better to accept the knife which awaited him. For he knew he was to die.

'This does not make sense, my son,' said the Abbot.

Steven's teeth ground together; he took a step forward.

'Don't you call me that, you bloody bastard. You must have been there. You were part of it. He was unjustly punished by a collective of bigots. His objections were more than merited but as a result of them you expelled him from the abbey. The man was never the same.'

The Abbot spread his hands. Looked like he was appealing to a referee.

'But, Brother, it was nothing. No one cared about it. Your father made a mistake. If he'd accepted it, it would have been forgotten ten seconds later. But instead, he confronted the Abbot Gracelands from Burncleuth Abbey. He punched the man, for goodness' sake. Punched him, Brother. It was an abomination. We had no choice.'

Steven shook his head. Stood poised with the knife. His anger with the Abbot had gone. The speech he'd had prepared for years no longer seemed worthy; or relevant. They were all going to die, and now it was nearly over. They deserved what had come to them, each and every one.

'Choice? White shall not neutralise black, nor good compensate bad in man, absolve him so: life's business being just the terrible choice.'

'Oh, for God's sake, Brother,' snapped the Abbot, 'will you stop quoting all that nonsense! Can you not say something for yourself for once? I simply cannot believe this.'

The handle of the knife twitched in Steven's fingers. Another victim in his sights, but he could not be long about it, for the police would be returning soon; and he had business to take care of with the good Brother Abbot after he had killed him.

'It's just how you see it, Brother, isn't it? It's all just words. It's like the Bible, it's like the Apocrypha; it's like any words that anyone has ever written or said. We think them, we write them, we say them, but they're nothing. It's deeds that matter, Brother Abbot, deeds are the thing. Words aren't cheap, they're nothing. Deeds are where that whole psychic thing pokes its dysfunctional head out of the womb, kicks off the umbilical cord of avarice and jealousy, and starts to breathe the good clean air of truth.'

The Abbot looked from Steven to the knife he held in his hand.

'For God's sake, Brother, there you go again. If you're so full of contempt for words, why do you come out with so much bollocks?' The Abbot had truly lost himself. 'This is the most absurd thing I've ever heard in my life. You've committed nearly thirty murders because of a lie, because that's what your father must have told you. A lie!'

'It was not!'

'Brother, dear Brother, it bloody was. I was there. Right was seen to be done. Your father had no leg to stand on. He lost his temper for nothing. It was a tragic overreaction, and one which merited admonishment.'

'Hah!' barked Steven. He had heard all this before. From his father, Brother Cafferty. 'I know what it was all about. It was the politics of the abbey at the time. There was a power struggle and there were some of you just looking for a way to get rid of Cafferty. I know it to be true!'

Brother Steven was becoming ever more forceful; especially since he was now not so sure. Enough people had said it now; maybe his father had made a mistake after all. Maybe he shouldn't just have killed twenty-six of them. Maybe this great rash of murder and death had just been a pointless waste of time. Great fun, but a waste of time.

However, the Abbot hesitated. It was all coming back. Brother Steven was right. That was exactly why they'd had Cafferty expelled from the abbey. Politics. The man had been too much of a liberal. Hadn't approved of hairshirts; hadn't liked self-flagellation; hadn't approved of sandpapering your testicles to cleanse the mind. Of course, those Caffertyisms had come into vogue over the years, but the time hadn't been right. He'd had to be silenced.

Steven saw the hesitation, saw the look in his eyes. So he did not hesitate. The knife was thrust forward; the Abbot had every intention of receiving it, and within seconds he lay bleeding on the floor, close to the death which would inevitably follow.

Steven stood over the body; the smile came to his face as the adrenaline pumped wildly through his veins and he got the massive rush that came with murder. He watched the eyes of the Abbot close and he knew him to be dead.

But he still held the knife in his hands, and he bent over the Abbot and lifted the sleeve of his cloak out of the way. And then once more his knife pierced the skin; cooling blood was drawn, and the Abbot's tortured soul could do nothing but watch.

For Steven was not finished with his body.

Carnival Of Death

––––––––

If the truth be told, Barney Thomson was going a little mad. Not stark raving, never see the sense of day, screaming loony mad, but a gentle slide into insanity which could still be arrested. But soon. It would have to be soon.

He had woken early from the happiest of dreams – there he was again, back behind his chair, his magical fingers creating a magnificent Bill Clinton (Post-Monica), the very latest in millennium proto-chic, with mercurial panache, engaged in idle discussion of the origin of the Turin Shroud – Experts have now decided that it was first worn by one of the Bay City Rollers on a tour of Italy in 1975, he was saying – while a queue of placid customers waited upon his golden hands – to crash frighteningly into the world of living nightmare.

More death, more murder, more bloodshed, more stained floors. If he ever got his job back washing the stone, it was going to be Hell. And so finally, all those months after casually handling pound after pound of frozen human meat, he was being toppled over the edge. Not over some vertiginous cliff, where the bottom was a long way away but reached quickly nevertheless. This would be a slow slide down a grassy bank. But there was still manure at the bottom, no mistake.

Barney was mad. He spent the morning in his dismal haunts, looking through holes, watching what was going on. Eyes wide, yet stumbling into pillars and walls in the dark. He hadn't viewed the full carnival of death, but he'd seen much of it. A bit like the Bible, he'd thought at one point. There was a lot of it, but you didn't have to read it all to get the picture.

At some other point he'd drifted off into a waking dream. Stood six feet away from a wall, imagined there'd been a customer sitting in front of him facing an imaginary mirror, and his hands had automatically worked the thin air, the pretend scissors clicking in the dark. Giving a Harry Houdini. Smooth yet ruffled, elegant yet rakish.

For ten minutes he'd stood like this, lost in this nether world. Such was the state of his mind after this latest catalogue of death. Murders of biblical proportions. Murders of which the God Formerly Known as Yahweh would have been proud. Barney was mad.

He didn't know what it was that had dragged him from the trance, but he'd escaped it. Had gone about his business, sometimes focused, sometimes lost.

Until the strange incident of Brother Steven and the Abbot.

He lay on the floor above the great hall. Watched through a hole as Brother Steven stabbed the Abbot, Brother Copernicus, through the stomach. Could not hear what was being said, their voices low and muffled, but he saw everything. The repeated stabbing; and then, as the Abbot lay dead and bloodied on the floor, Steven lifted the Abbot's sleeve and firmly and swiftly severed his left hand from the wrist and left it lying on the table.

This was new. Barney squinted into the hole, trying to look a little more closely. Until now there had been no mutilation. This reminded him of his mother. And then Brother Steven lifted the right sleeve of the Abbot, and swiftly, precisely, neatly sawed the hand from the wrist, then placed it on the table beside the left. It was a bloody mess, Steven himself covered in it.

He's not going to be able to pretend now, thought Barney. And as he wondered what Steven's next move would be, Steven began to drag the body of the Abbot from the hall, bloody stumps and bloody stomach wrapped in the confines of the thick brown cloak, so as not to leave a trail of blood.

Barney looked down in wonder. Two hands removed in under a minute; could his mother have been so efficient? And he didn't move. Not for a second did he think that Steven might have been aware of his presence – and he was right – and so he looked with awe on these two hands which lay on the table.

Slowly the eyes and mind of Barney Thomson began to work in tandem. The hands began to take shape. The fingers; the hair; the thumbs; the nails; the wrinkles and the moles; the blood and the shredded skin where the knife had brutally cut them apart from the body. Not such a clean cut on closer inspection.

A pair of hands. They lay silent. As hands do. Particularly when they are both left hands. Funny that, thought Barney.

Bloody hell!

He pressed his eyes closer to the floor, a millimetre closer to the hole, looked with greater concentration at the detached appendages. Two left hands! They were two sodding, no questions asked, absolutely thumped in the bollocks left hands. And he'd seen them cut from the arms of the Abbot. No wonder the old man had never shown his right hand in public. It had been the wrong way round. And he'd had everyone thinking he'd lost it at Arnhem.

Barney pulled away. Two left hands. How would you tie your shoelaces? Or undo a bra strap? Or hold a golf club? Or give someone a Jack Lemmon? And Barney had a fleeting glimpse of why the Abbot had found himself at the Holy Order of the Monks of St John. But he was not interested in that, and his thoughts moved swiftly on.

Not so swift, however. This was Barney Thomson, not Sherlock Holmes. And so he waited and watched, knowing that the others would soon return.

A few minutes later he could more clearly hear their voices, as they had no need for the low tones of the conspirator. He heard their footsteps before they were in his line of vision; then the footsteps stopped. He imagined them staring at the table; heard the muted exclamation from the woman. Then Mulholland came into view, and he stood over the table and stared at the severed hands. Stared for a minute or two. Didn't speak. The other three monks returned and stopped in the doorway. Sensed immediately that something was wrong, although Barney could not see the looks on their faces.

'Two left hands,' said Mulholland.

'Do you think they might still be alive?' Barney heard the woman ask; could see Mulholland shake his head.

'No, no I don't.'

Mulholland turned, took in the presence of the other three, then looked back at the human refuse on the table.

'Why, then?' said the woman. 'Why not just leave the bodies?'

He shook his head again. 'Don't know. Christ.'

From where he lay, tense, bemused, slightly odd, Barney could hear the deep breath exhaled.

'So what are we saying?' Barney heard Proudfoot say. Almost a minute later, the silence absolute. Although somewhere in the monastery, Brother Steven must have been dragging the body of the Abbot noisily along a stone cold floor.

'What are we saying, Sergeant? We're saying that this fuck-up, this Barney Thomson, came in here the second we all left – which means he was watching us, listening to everything we were saying – came in here, killed the Abbot and Brother Steven, and for some reason best known to his own warped head, cut the left hands off each of them and left them as a calling card. That's what we're saying, Sergeant. Just the sort of thing his mother, or he himself, did last spring.'

Barney watched. Incredulous. Of course they were going to think it was him, but he still hadn't been expecting it. His meagre thought processes finally caught up with those of Brother Steven. A brilliant frame-up. He must have known all along about the Abbot's disability. His weirdness. The Amazing Double Left-Handed Boy, he might have been called at the circus. And somehow Steven had known all about it. And for the frame-up to work, Steven must also be confident that Edward, Martin and Raphael did not know.

It wasn't me! he wanted to shout through the hole, but he didn't. So he lay, surrounded by the dark, unaware of anything going on around him. And if this happened to be the room where Steven decided to hide the body of the Abbot, he would come across Barney and Barney would never be aware; not until the knife sliced into his back. Barney was beginning to take another roll down the hill of temporary madness. He watched Proudfoot come and stand beside Mulholland; they looked at the hands.

'What about someone else being loose in the monastery?' she said.

Mulholland continued the head-shaking, which had become a permanent feature.

'Don't think so. If it wasn't Thomson, I thought it might be one of this lot. But this proves it. These two idiots are dead, and those three stuck together.'

'Maybe it's all three,' said Proudfoot, but at last the words were lost to Barney as the voice was lowered; and neither did Mulholland's negative reply reach up to him.

Anyway, he had lost concentration. He was imagining cutting hair with two left hands. It would be tricky, obviously, but once you'd got used to it, maybe it would be all right. In fact, he thought, sliding deeper into the fantasy, seeing himself behind the chair, two left hands working away, maybe it would make him even better. It would certainly be distinctive. Something else to help draw the crowds to his shop, on top of his awesome abilities.

Barney was lost, oblivious to the dark room around him and to the scene of gruesome murder below. Deep in his fantasy, the contented smile forming around his face. Imagination could never be said to be as good as the real thing, but it might as well be up there. When it felt real, it was real.

That was what the mad Barney thought.

And so wrapped up was he in the phantasmagoria of his delusion that he did not hear the door partially open behind him; he did not see the shaft of light which poked its way into the darkened room; he did not hear the laboured breaths of Brother Steven, nor the faint whooshing sound of Brother Copernicus's body being dragged along the floor; he saw nothing and he heard nothing, while his mind wandered off and he could smell and feel and breathe the inside of a barber's shop.

Barney was a little bit mad.

Barney Thomson Must Die

––––––––

'What now?'

Mulholland looked at her. Too shell-shocked by all this death to make a sarcastic comment. What now? Nothing had changed. They were about to leave and get to safety as quickly as possible. However now, for the first time, he felt the spectre of death lurking behind him. He hadn't come here to die, and no matter how miserable he was, he certainly didn't want to. But at last the import of what was going on here, all this carnage, was beginning to hit him.

Strange, that; there could be so much death but he hadn't thought for a second that it had been going to affect him. Suddenly, standing over two left hands on a bloody table, he realised that he and Proudfoot were on the menu, just the same as everyone else. And there were only three of them left. He shivered. Sensed the weight of foreboding which made him want to turn and look behind; not only that, it made him want eyes on every side of his head.

'What now? Now, to quote no end of movies, we get the fuck out of Dodge, Sergeant. Saddle up the horses, get these three cowboys to get their backsides in gear and let's get going.'

***

Barney Thomson watched from above, but he was no longer paying attention as Mulholland and Proudfoot moved away from his line of vision and started distributing orders to the three lamentable surviving monks. Instead, his fingers twitched in time with his waking dream.

And all the time, unlike Mulholland, he did not feel the spectre of Death at his shoulder; even though, in his case, Death was right there, in the flesh, manoeuvring the corpse of Brother Copernicus into the little-used store room. Death quietly closed the door, then continued to pull the body farther into the room. He did not light a candle and did not try to open the shutters. Death, as a rule, was not afraid of the dark. Tough bastard, Death, no mistake.

Had Barney just been dreaming, he might have heard by now. But this hallucination went beyond that. He was sliding down that hill; madness beckoned, in all its glorious uncertainty. Everything could be as you wanted it to be in madness. You wanted to spend your life working in a barber's shop, never killing anyone and never being suspected of mass murder? No problem, you could be there any time you liked, and you could stay forever. And at the end of your day, you didn't have to go home to your own wife, you could go home to any woman you wanted; and before this fantasy had run its course, Barney would go home to Barbara, the most attractive sister-in-law on the planet; and he wouldn't have to construct a place for his brother, because in this perfect dream-world his brother wouldn't exist.

Barney closed his eyes, but sleep was a long way off. Why sleep, when you could have everything you wanted? And all the while Death went about his business behind, opening a cupboard door and moving the leaden, de-handed body of the Abbot inside. He closed the door; there was a quiet murmur of a hinge, but no more. Barney would have heard it in other circumstances.

Brother Steven made sure the door was closed properly, although it would be some time before anyone would go looking there. The adrenaline rush had slowed, and now he had that wonderful post-stabbing afterglow to which he'd become addicted.

His eyes had become accustomed to the light.

He noticed Barney.

A body on the floor, and not of my doing, he thought. And he looked at it with some curiosity. Too dark to see who it was, and so he took a tentative few steps towards it, bending low to better identify the suspect.

'Well, help m'boab!' he said upon realisation; for it was inevitable. If you are going to spend your life reciting the words of others, eventually you will quote Paw Broon. 'Barney Thomson; the great killer himself.'

The words were spoken quietly, but not so quietly that Barney should not have heard. But Barney was mad – for the moment. And so Death approached, then knelt down and looked at the face of Barney Thomson from no more than a few inches. The eyes were shut, the breathing even and regular.

Brother Steven fingered the knife which had once more been stashed inside the confines of his great cloak. This could be the easiest of the lot. One sweep of the arm and the knife would be embedded in Barney's back.

He was fascinated. Brother Jacob. Seemingly mild-mannered and innocent. And yet, the talk had been about nothing else between the monks since they'd learned of his true identity. The Great Glasgow Serial Killer, they were calling him. Brother Jacob; couldn't hurt a fly.

Brother Steven had sometimes wondered if his own exploits would be remembered. Once all this became known, would people talk about it for generations? Sometimes these things captured the imagination of the press and public and sometimes they didn't. Jack the Ripper, the great example. Five victims. Good medical work, stacks of blood, a city held in the grip of terror, a whole bunch of movies and an episode of Star Trek; but small potatoes in the serial killer game. There had been others who had done much more for their art, but who'd only received a tenth of the infamy. There had just been something about Jack the Ripper.

So how would it be with him? Would he get the kind of acclaim now being enjoyed by Barney Thomson? What had they said? Seven or eight deaths? He had now done that fourfold. Of the two, he was much the greater headcase. Of these two princes of the serial killer game, he was the man who should be king.

He hadn't started out thinking like this. He had initially, of course, intended to frame Brother Jacob. But that had been back then, when his plans had been small. Somewhere along the way, when the blood and the excitement had begun to infest his mind, he'd become consumed with the immensity of the whole. Of what he was achieving. And now he thought of something for the first time; only now, when Barney Thomson lay in front of him, did all the threads come together to make a Balaclava of unease.

When this was out, when all these great events at the Abbey of the Holy Order of the Monks of St John became known, when the magnificent revenge for Two Tree Hill had been revealed and popularised and turned into a Hollywood movie with Anthony Hopkins and Sean Connery, would they not all think that Barney Thomson was the killer? How, in fact, would Two Tree Hill become known at all? The press and public, those ravenous fools, feasting on mistrust and misconception, would think it a continuation of Thomson's Glasgow rampage. Would the truth ever come out?

Barney's eyes remained closed; his face lay still above the hole to the world beneath. He had moved on to a Madonna 'Like a Prayer', just a really weird haircut to give to a bloke, but in his mind his hands wove their magic and the drier blew hot air like breath from a sun-kissed Mediterranean island.

Bastard, thought Brother Steven. He will steal my thunder, my name, my infamy. This bastard will steal my place in history.

Steven breathed deeply; an angry sneer invaded his face, his lips curled. Suddenly he hated Barney Thomson as much as he had hated all those morons who'd driven his father from the true path of his life. It was bad enough to steal a man's possessions or to steal his wife, perhaps even bad to take his life, but it was nothing to match that of taking his name and his reputation, of stealing the honour of having committed the deeds for which he should be known. From Alexander the Great pretending that it was he who'd conquered the known world, and not his half-brother Maurice, to Milli Vanilli achieving fame on the back of Pavarotti's early studio work, history was replete with those living off the deeds of others.

He, Steven Cafferty, could not allow this to happen. Before he was done, the world would know who he was and what he had achieved. Men would bow before him; presidents would drink from the poisoned chalice of his vision; kings and queens would bow in honour of his accomplishments; God himself would pay homage to him in celebration of his munificence. But, most of all, before he did anything else, before he walked down any other road, before he continued his extraordinary peregrination around the world of revenge, before he sank his teeth into the apple of retribution, Barney Thomson must die.

The knife hovered in the air above Barney's back. Steven's grip was light but steady; he could feel the blood meandering limply through Barney's veins, he could smell and taste it. This death would be sweeter than the murder of Herman, sweeter than the murder of the Abbot.

He could smell it, while Barney did not move. And so the knife began its pungent plunge towards the waiting spine of Barney Thomson.

A Walk In The Hills

––––––––

They set out on the walk from the Abbey of the Holy Order of the Monks of St John to Durness. Twenty miles across fields and glens and hills of the deepest snow. They had to wade through it at some points; at others they had to plough through drifts nearly five feet high; everywhere the snow was at least two feet deep and the going was painfully slow. Proudfoot was at the back, walking in the cleared paths of the others. This was indeed an incredible journey; of the octopus, lion and snake variety.

Mulholland, Proudfoot, Brother Martin, Brother Raphael and Brother Edward. The monks had discarded their robes, so that this looked like any normal collection of seriously deranged hikers prepared to go out in all weathers. The sort of people who would be best booking mountain rescue in advance.

They would do well to get a third of the way through their journey before nightfall, Brother Raphael having delayed departure further by insisting on praying; in the end, he had only reluctantly left the abbey, being more than prepared to die and meet his maker. God will take care of us, he had said. He's not done much of a job so far, Mulholland had thought.

Martin led the way. He had sat and prayed along with Raphael, not wishing to upset his brother, but that had been for the last time. When he got to civilisation, if he ever reached it, he intended throwing off the shackles of the cloak forever. If he lived through this, the first thing he was going to do was get in touch with one of the tabloids, sell his story – 'I Was Too Cool to Die,' Says Brave Monk Hunk Hero – then go on a world tour, taking large quantities of drugs and alcohol and whatever else there was on the planet to dull, remove or pervert your sensibilities; while at the same time sleeping with everything – woman, man, animal, inflatable or cardboard – he could get his hands on. Strange that only one week earlier he'd had it in mind himself to murder Brother Herman, for the man had been a bully who'd deserved all he'd received. He had thought of using Barney Thomson's scissors, little knowing that that was exactly what Barney had had in mind himself. Stupid that he'd gone to see Barney to threaten him to keep his mouth shut. Ironic.

Funny how life pans out, thought Martin, as he led the way through the snowfields.

Raphael slotted in behind. A man with an unshakeable belief in God. When it had become apparent that the killer's agenda included everyone in the monastery, he had been the only one not afraid. The test of true faith. When Death was near, or an inevitability, were you afraid of what came next, for if you truly believed in the Lord, then you need not be afraid. That was the ultimate test, and one which all of the brothers had failed, even Copernicus, as this demon had laid waste to the complement of the monastery. All except Brother Raphael. The man's faith was unyielding. He faced the prospect of Death with certainty and he knew that should he survive this fantastic ordeal, one day he would return to the abbey to start afresh.

All this, of course, did not mean that he hadn't decided to sell his story to the papers. Any one of them would do; Life and Work if necessary. He could use the money to get the monastery restarted. And as he walked, he made his plans for the future – not knowing that his future consisted of little more than five hours' ploughing through snow. A refurbished monastery, Spartan but comfortable. They would attract tourists, who could come and see life as it had been in simpler times. People fell for that stuff all the time, he thought. A brilliant idea. They'd get all sorts of tourists wanting to go for it. Prince Charles for a start, and then the Americans would come in droves. Women too – they could accept them. They would get all sorts of Scandinavian Uberchicks, like the lassies in Abba, only with sensible hair. They could have mixed saunas, with Gregorian chant playing over the Tannoy; massages; all kinds of things. The investment opportunities were endless; for why couldn't money and religion mix? The Vatican had been doing it for centuries. They could get production companies in to make movies and stuff. They could steal Cadfael from whomsoever had it at that time; they could get The Name of the Rose follow-up; maybe some entirely new monk detective scenario; then, of course, there'd be the Barney Thomson biopic with Billy Connolly; or, if the worst came to the worst, they could always fall back on the Nordic connection and get sleazy low-budget Scandianavian porn flics, with names like Swedish Nympho Nuns Go Sex! and Lesbian Monastery Bitches Get Ugly. And so, the longer he walked, the more Brother Raphael was lured by Mammon, the further he got away from the abbey – in more ways than one.

Brother Edward faced the inevitability of the future. This business had merely confirmed what he'd already known – that the life of a monk was not for him. He would have to return to the real world and deal with the demons which awaited him. If it meant that he had to sleep with hundreds of women, casting them aside like so much chaff to the winds of fate, then so be it. If his life was to be one long inferno of endless sex and bitter retribution from long-distance telephone boxes, then that was how it must be. Perhaps he would even be able to do it for a living. Gigolo Ed, working the holiday resorts in the south of France, escorting the old and infirm to casinos and restaurants, then slipping from their beds while the night remained young and they lay snoring; making off with their jewellery, maybe – although that was another game altogether – then ending up with some young Mediterranean floozy at two o'clock in the morning, knee deep in sangria and pubic hair. It was a black future and it lay heavily upon his shoulders; he knew, however, that there would be no escape.

Mulholland was still in some sort of daze. He would have liked to have been consumed by determination to get them all to safety and to bring Barney Thomson to justice, but he was sapped of enthusiasm to the point of capitulation. He wanted Proudfoot to escape, but no longer cared about the other three. A sense of duty would drive him to protect them, but what did he care now? For, as he walked, he surveyed the battlefield of his future, and it was barren and laid waste. His life was Flanders Fields.

Melanie was gone, who knew for how long. Possibly forever, and in his heart he couldn't have cared less whether she returned or not. He tried picturing her in the arms of some bloke from Devon, but the image induced nothing in him. No anger, no jealousy, no pain. And what of the job? What was his future to be in the police after it was revealed that approximately three hundred monks had been murdered under his nose? Dispatched to catch Barney Thomson, and instead the man had gone on a mass murder spree while Mulholland had slept.

And so his thoughts turned to what else he could have done to ensure the safety of this pathetic band. Should he have kept them all together in the main hall from the minute he'd arrived? Made sure they'd gone to the toilet in sixes and sevens? What else could have kept them safe? Not the twos he had suggested. Even then, he'd repeated his folly that morning with the Abbot and Brother Steven.

He hadn't imagined glory when he'd set out on this investigation; hadn't imagined much of anything. But that it would come to this: in future years this would be taught in police colleges as a perfect example of an investigation gone wrong. How not to handle a murder inquiry. How not to protect the public. How not to chase a serial killer across the country. From now on, whenever an officer made a hash of a case, they'd be said to have done a Mulholland. Hear about Jonesy staking out the wrong house and arresting the Chief Super's daughter? Aye, mate, the daft bastard did a Mulholland.

The monks all thought about women, in their way; and like Mulholland, Proudfoot was dazed. She hadn't encountered this much death since Die Hard II, and while that may have been a seminal piece of film-making, it just hadn't prepared her for two left hands lying on a table, warm blood still oozing. That, and everything which had gone before.

So, as she walked, Proudfoot did not think about the future. Her mind was concentrated on two left hands on a table. And as she watched them, mostly they lay still, but sometimes the fingers twitched; sometimes there was no blood, and sometimes the blood still pulsed from them; sometimes they looked inanimate, almost inhuman, as if they'd never had life, and sometimes they moved around; they walked on fingers, they danced, they cavorted, they fought. It was not the worst that she'd witnessed in these past two days, but it had captured her imagination. Imprisoned it, so that it held her mind captive to the vision. Two amputated hands were all she saw. As she walked, twice her feet slipped into freezing streams, twice she banged her knees on rocks, but nothing fazed her. The walk through the snow was slow and tortuous, but she barely noticed. Proudfoot's mind was on those two left hands. Occasionally she escaped the vision, but only to wonder in a detached way – as if it wasn't her at all – why it was that they held such an entangling grip on her mind, and why Barney Thomson would do something so bizarre; because that was what it was. Everyone who commits murder has their reasons, but why two left hands? Very eccentric behaviour. And so she contemplated the criminal mind, but only briefly, before she was brought back to those two hands on the table. Sometimes still, sometimes animated, sometimes in conversation. 'Here, Billy, give us a hand, mate.' 'You make that so-called "joke" one more time, you moron, and I'll punch your head in.'

In her way, Proudfoot was also going slightly mad; just not as mad as Barney, and with a much greater chance of recovery. She walked at the back; occasionally Mulholland turned to enquire after her well-being and she found the words to answer, and she didn't notice the cold and the snow and the blue skies turning to grey.

***

It was slow going, but they did not stop until darkness was almost upon them; by which time they were a little over a third of the way through their journey. Martin stopped ahead of the others, some fifty yards in front, and waited for them to catch up. He was in a small area of flat ground, the snow some two feet deep. As they approached, they could hear the sound of a small river somewhere underneath, and they all walked with trepidation down the line of Martin's footfalls. The skies were grey, turning darker, and were it not for the brightness of the snow, the light would have completely disappeared.

The four struggled up almost as one, none of them happy. Raphael's fantasies had given way to tiredness and cold; Edward was numb, mentally and physically; Mulholland was numb, trying to retain some semblance of authority; Proudfoot was numb, two hands dead in front of her. They arrived a sorry bunch, and Martin did not waste much time.

'I don't think we should go on much farther in the dark. Who knows where we could end up? If we clear away the snow from around here, it'll probably be flat enough to pitch the tent.' And as he said it, he pulled a spade from his backpack, as if he was pulling a rifle from its holster, and immediately got to work on an area in the middle of the flat ground.

There were two more spades among the party, and these were taken up by Mulholland and Edward. Raphael chose to pray, while Proudfoot thought about two detached hands crawling up her chest and tightening around her neck.

***

Brother Steven watched from close range, lying on the ground – suitably attired in white, becoming one with the snow – behind a hill. Darkness had fallen, the clouds had returned. There was the hint of snow in the air again, the first faltering flakes, but there was no wind and there would be no blizzard. No drifts, no swirling tumult, just another few inches onto the layer of snow already covering the ground.

Steven had benefited from the snow, and now he suffered by it. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. All that stuff. The blizzard had kept the desperate horde from fleeing the abbey in the first place; now it stopped him stealing stealthily across the ground towards the tent and the two figures on watch, huddled around the fire. They had positioned themselves well, chosen their location wisely. It would be difficult for him to make an approach unseen; not until one of them fell asleep.

He could just have shot them, of course, now that he was in possession of Sheep Dip's gun, but that would be his last resort. Guns were so unnecessarily vulgar. To be any fun, he had discovered, the poison being a valuable lesson, murder had to be hands-on. The feel of the victim's blood on your skin, warm and delicious; the sudden relaxation of their muscles at the moment of death; that last breath, so much richer and deeper and fuller than any other. Like a Château Lafite '61.

So the gun would be his final option. If it looked as if the police might make it to Durness, then he would do what he had to do. Otherwise the gun stayed tucked away.

Brother Steven lay and watched and waited. It would have to be that night, for if they set off early enough in the morning they would make Durness before nightfall the next day; but it was not yet midnight and there were many hours of darkness ahead. Steven settled further into the snow, his eyes narrowed, and he waited.

***

It was cold and the two figures huddled close to the fire, although not close together. Erin Proudfoot and Brother Edward. An explosive combination; at least in the eyes of Brother Edward. For now he was a man alone, free of the confines of his cloak and of his vows before God; a man alone with a woman, a possible contender for his first boat trip down the river of mistrust.

Proudfoot stared into the flames, trying to concentrate the warmth of them into her bones; while all the time she thought about two hands dancing on a table, like Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. Had no thoughts for Brother Edward, despite his assumptions. If she turned away from the flames it was to look around the field of snow in which they sat, but she knew that their position made a surprise attack difficult. Her main concern was staying awake, but at that moment it wasn't a problem. Fred and Gene were making sure of that.

'So, you're in the police, then?' said Edward, breaking the silence. It had taken him nearly an hour to work out his best opening line, and in the usual way the one he'd chosen was the first he'd thought of. Uninspiring, certainly, but better than What's a stunning bit of crumpet like you doing in the police? or If we're quick we could probably get a session in before this Thomson bloke knows what we're up to.

'What?' she said, some thirty seconds later; Edward was beginning to think that he was going to get the same reaction he'd once got from Wee Betty Barstool in first year.

'The police?' he said. 'You're in the police.'

She nodded, still distracted. She could talk and think about Fred and Gene at the same time.

'Aye,' she said. Why was it that every single bloke on the planet who hit on her had to express surprise that she was in the police?

'Right,' he said. One-word answers, he thought; this might be tricky. Still, he had fried tougher fish. 'Must be hard, you know, a good-looking bit of stuff like yourself. Must be hard sometimes with these criminals, you know.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, you know, a good-looking bird. It must be hard getting respect from criminals and all that, when they probably just see you as a bit of tottie.'

Fred and Gene briefly vanished and she switched on to ex-Brother Edward. Was strangely fascinated that anyone would try and hit on anyone else at a time like this; before, all too soon, the dancing twins came waltzing back.

'If you're looking for a shag, forget it, creep,' she said, before disappearing once more into the void.

'Oh,' said Edward. She must be gagging for it, he thought.

There was a movement behind and they both turned quickly; instant adrenaline, instant fright. Mulholland emerged from the tent. They relaxed. Proudfoot lost herself once again; Edward accepted defeat.

'Couldn't sleep,' said Mulholland. 'If either of you want to go in, it's all yours.'

Edward waited a decent interval of a few seconds, heard nothing from Proudfoot, then stood up to accept the offer. And so Mulholland took his place at the fire, as Edward disappeared back into the tent. Believing as he went that he would have had her if the idiot hadn't appeared. Would add her to his list in any case; it'd been close enough.

'You all right?' said Mulholland after several minutes of looking at the grey landscape.

She shrugged; he sensed the movement without looking at her.

'Don't know,' she said. 'Can't get the image of those two hands out of my head. Stupid, I suppose.'

'It's not stupid.'

'I mean, given everything else we've seen in the last couple of days, that was hardly the worst of it. But I'm haunted by them. I've even given them names.'

He turned and looked at her. The cold face, with lips full and warm. Sucking him in.

'Names?' he said. 'Mr Left and Mr Right? Or rather, Mr Left and Mr Left II?'

'Fred and Gene,' she said.

'Oh.' He continued to look at her; she stared into some indistinct patch of snow. Pale cheeks, lips a delicious purply-red, that glorious air of vulnerability and the chance to protect her. I'm never letting her out of my sight, he thought.

Something which he would be forced to deny within five minutes.

'Fred West and Jean... I don't know, somebody loony?' he asked.

'Astaire and Kelly.'

'Right. I don't think I want an explanation for that.'

'I don't know,' she said, 'maybe there's some weird psychic thing going on. Trying to tell me something about those two hands. Like there might be something strange about it.'

'What? You think there might be something strange about two left hands lying on a table? Bloody right there is, Sergeant. It's way strange.'

'That wasn't what I meant.'

'You mean Fred and Gene are embedded in your subconscious for a reason? Your inner detective self is trying to tell you something?'

'Aye, I think so.'

'I don't buy any of that stuff, Sergeant, I'm afraid. You know what you know in this job. When you start relying on some loony sixth sense, you're usually desperate.'

She looked round at him for the first time since they'd started talking. Something of an ironic smile on her face.

'Of course. And at the moment we're not even remotely desperate. There are still plenty of us left to kill. Won't be any need to panic until there's at least another ten dead.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Well, what's instinct, then? We all rely to some degree on instinct.'

Mulholland stared at the white landscape, wondering where Barney Thomson was hiding. Wondering if he was out there at all. Wondering if within himself there should be some gut instinct telling him the answers to all their problems. He found no inspiration, but realised that he was looking at the snow through more snow. Large white flakes drifting down in straight lines, increasing in intensity as he watched. Christmas snow, of the type which ought to have been accompanied by Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, sleigh bells ringing, children singing, reindeer, Nat King Cole, presents, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, the peal of a bell and that Christmas-tree smell, turkey, mistletoe and mulled wine.

'Fuck.'

'Aye,' said Proudfoot. 'Fred and Gene don't seem to mind, though. They're still dancing.'

'Oh, that's what they're doing.'

'What did you think?'

Another noise from the tent behind, and the former Brother Edward reappeared, pulling his jacket on as he came, shivering noisily. Mulholland turned; Proudfoot didn't even bother.

'Sorry, I'm dying to take a slash,' he said. 'I'll just nip over here.'

'Don't go too far,' said Mulholland, thinking that he really ought to accompany him, but having no intention of leaving Proudfoot alone for even half a minute. With a killer like Barney Thomson, that could be all he needed.

From a short distance, the white-clad figure of Brother Steven noticed Edward's appearance. This would be the distraction he'd been looking for. A chance. Immediately his blood boiled, his heart began to thump, hormones gallivanted triumphantly around his body. He began an unseen crawl towards the campfire, an expectant smile coming to his face, already tasting splattered blood on his tongue.

'One of us should go with him,' said Proudfoot.

Mulholland watched as Edward walked off twenty yards and started looking for a decent place to pee in the snow. Like a dog.

'We can see him from here,' said Mulholland, knowing she was right. But there was a conundrum with it, of course. 'One of us goes after him, it means there's one of us left on our own at the fire.'

'I can take care of myself, Chief Inspector, just as I'm sure you can.'

'Just as you're sure Sheep Dip could've.'

'Well, I'll be fine, but if I go after him he'll think I want to have sex. On you go.'

Mulholland looked at her; had his doubts. A few minutes ago he'd never been going to let her out of his sight again. He looked round at Edward, who had decided on the right place and was now trying to wrestle the business end of his genitals free from fifteen layers of clothing. Mulholland thought about it, knew his duty, but also knew that every other decision he'd taken since they'd left Glasgow had been wrong.

'Right,' he said eventually, standing up. 'But the first sign of anything and you scream your head off. You got that?'

She nodded without looking at him. Somewhere in her confused head she recognised his concern for what it was, but, having finished the conversation, she now went back to watching the dancing all-stars.

His mind made up, another bad decision, Mulholland walked quickly over to where Edward stood with his back to the campfire, tackle bared to the elements, making his mark.

And so, Brother Steven saw his chance. It had fallen kindly for him, for Edward had moved to the other side of the campsite, away from him. The chances of him being able to get around there in time, undetected and in the thick snow, were impossible. Now he had a clear path to the middle of the camp, where Sergeant Proudfoot sat alone, her mind elsewhere, easy prey for a killer.

Proudfoot stared into the fire, occasionally prodding at it with a stick, stirring up the embers, moving wood. She didn't look over her shoulder at the two men to her right, one doing a tremendous Matterhorn of a pish, and the other doing his best to watch the man, but not what he was doing.

Brother Steven crept ever closer. Like a lizard he crawled through the snow with tremendous speed, his nose scything through it, knife gripped commando-like between his teeth, with only a few inches of his body visible, and that blending with the snow on the ground and the thick, heavy flakes now coming down in a wall. Proudfoot was looking in the opposite direction anyway; Mulholland was constantly scanning the surroundings, watching for a sudden attack, but in this white-out, white falling against a white background, he did not see the figure in white advance upon the fire.

Proudfoot's instinct was overloaded by the presence of the two hands. There was no sixth sense to tell her that her killer approached from behind. No warning, no alarm bells, nothing to tell her that the frigid steel of death was about to be ripped across her throat.

Mulholland scanned again, as Edward went about the business of re-establishing everything where it was supposed to be. His eyes went around the camp area in a quick circle, but these were eyes trained to spot a drug dealer in a nightclub, not a man dressed in white against a background of white; and so he missed the creeping figure of Brother Steven as he scurried over the final few yards towards Proudfoot.

Steven transferred the knife to his hand; his eyes sparkled in the dull light; his body heaved; he began to rise above the snowline. He could taste Proudfoot's blood; he wished he had time to linger over this, his first female victim, but he would have to be quick. Didn't want to get into a bun-fight with the other four.

Ten yards became five. The snow passed in a rush. Too late, Proudfoot suddenly sensed the danger behind her. Mulholland watched the snow and had vague thoughts about football games played with orange balls.

There was another movement in the night. Steven was on top of Proudfoot as Brother Raphael staggered blindly out of the tent, bleary-eyed, in some need of answering the Lord's call. As Steven hung in the air over Proudfoot, waiting to bring the knife plunging fully down into the back of her neck, his distracted eye caught that of Raphael. Raphael's eyes ignited; and Steven's mind was made up.

A flurry in the snow. Proudfoot swivelled round, leaping to her feet, crying out as she did so; Mulholland was finally alerted to the predator; and Steven stabbed the knife viciously through the inadequately raised defences of Raphael's arms and into his face. Another thrust, and Raphael fell, the knife embedded.

Steven stared down at his latest victim, caught sight of Mulholland pounding, Edward floundering through the snow towards him. Felt Proudfoot about to pounce from behind. Did not turn; no thoughts of tackling everyone at once – murder should be measured – and he quickly took to the snow again, in lizard-like fashion. Proudfoot pounded after him, was almost there; but she was trained to chase vandals up busy streets. She slipped; her head was buried in the snow. And by the time she lifted herself up and Mulholland stood beside her, Brother Steven had vanished behind the vertical wall which descended upon them.

'You all right?' said Mulholland, breathless, kneeling beside her. Didn't care about poor Raphael, knife in his face.

She didn't answer, but stared towards the snow where Steven had disappeared. Barney Thomson, as she assumed. Eventually she nodded.

'Aye, I'm all right. Don't know about that poor bastard, though,' she said, indicating the wretched Raphael with her head.

They both turned and looked at him, and they watched the blood go cold on his face. Edward arrived, panting and scared, and saw the knife in his brother's face.

'Bloody hell,' was all he managed. But it was heartfelt.

There was a noise from the tent, then Martin's head protruded into the cold.

'Would you lot keep the sodding noise down out here,' said the monk. 'Some of us are trying to get a bit of kip.'

Hall Of Fame

––––––––

Brother Steven lay in wait. Heart still thumping, even though it was now three hours since he'd sent Brother Raphael on his way, red-carded, to the great changing room in the sky. Or down below – that was where he thought he'd sent Brother Raphael. All that praying crap had been a cover.

The four remaining victims-to-be were sat around the fire as, at last, with everything they could find to burn having been burned – including the clothes off the woebegone Raphael's back, and including the tent, as Mulholland had decreed that they took no covered shelter – it began to dwindle and die. Still some five hours before daylight, and Steven remained the most alert, the most stimulated by this feast of death.

And all the time he watched, all the time his thoughts changed. He still had no intention of letting any of them get to Durness, but the odd death after the arrival of daylight could be fun. Everyone preferred light to darkness, and we serial murderers are no different, he thought. He had begun to consider that maybe he might use the gun after all. It wouldn't do any harm to his reputation. Couldn't imagine Bundy turning to Dahmer in Hell and saying, 'What a woose; used a gun.' Not now, after all this carnage.

And besides, he could imagine the torture they were currently going through. The cold; the fear; the waiting. That would be the worst part for them. Not knowing when he would attack next. Having to be on edge, adrenaline pumping, for second after second, into minutes and hours, all through the night, when daybreak must seem years away. And he took as much pleasure from this thought as he did from the fact that eventually they would all die by his hand. There were stalkers and there were super-stalkers. He, Steven Cafferty, was the first mega-bumper, super-deluxe, thirty victims for the price of one, going all the way to Madame Tussaud's on an abattoir of desire, sure-fire Hall of Fame stalker.

And this part of it, this endgame, had been the best of the lot. Like a hungry wolf, he thought, then changed his mind. Like a sated wolf, but a wolf who just killed for the Hell of it. And he was destined to spend the next few hours smiling; smiling and going nowhere.

***

'I cannot believe that you burned the tent. It's three o'clock in the sodding morning, it's not going to be daylight for another gazillion years, it's absolutely bollock bloody freezing, and we've got no shelter because you've gone and burned the sodding tent.'

Mulholland stared into the dying fire. Had been wondering for some time now how effective it would be to place Raphael's body in it, but knew that it was not an option. If the only reason he was to live was because of that, he didn't think he wanted to. Barney Thomson might have killed the equivalent of half the population of Belgium, but if he, Mulholland, placed one dead body on a fire, the news would be all about him.

'I thought you were supposed to be a monk,' he said to Martin, looking up at last.

'Bugger the monk thing,' said Martin. 'I want to talk about you burning the sodding tent. What were you thinking? It's snowing like bollocks.'

'I didn't hear you protesting at the time,' said Mulholland.

'I assumed you knew what you were doing, being the police 'n all, but it's pretty bloody obvious you've no idea. It's snowing like fuck, the only shelter we have is a tent; what should we do? I know! Let's burn the bloody thing. Jesus Christ.'

Mulholland turned his aching, cold, exhausted limbs to face Martin. On a quick list of ten things he could really have done without at that moment, this would have been up there at the top, along with toothache, haemorrhoids, and Japanese viral encephalitis.

'So what do you think, heid-the-ba'? That we should all just have hung out in the tent? No one on watch, so that Barney Thomson could come charging up here and torch us where we huddled? He could see us, and we wouldn't have been able to see him.'

'Oh, and that's different from what we have at the moment, is it? Don't you call me heid-the-ba', you stupid bastard. You see Barney Thomson right now? Well, do you? Well, I'll tell you this, mate; that bastard can sure as fuck see us.'

'If we were in the tent we'd never see him coming.'

'You didn't see him coming the last time, did you, Mr Smartarse Wankstain. Brother Bloody Raphael didn't see him coming!'

'That's 'cause I was watching this eejit taking a piss.'

'Don't bring me into it,' said Edward, aroused from cold slumber by the raised voices. 'What, you're saying that I should just have pished in my breeks?'

'Oh, shut up, you 'n all,' barked Mulholland. 'The snow's falling, so there's cloud cover, so it's not as cold as it could be. We're all wrapped up well enough, and there's no reason why the four of us can't make it to Durness tomorrow.'

'Aye there is,' said Martin. 'There's one bloody good reason why we're not making it to Durness tomorrow.'

'Not if we're careful, not if we don't take our eyes off each other, and not if we stop the fuck arguing.'

'What? You think I'm going to trust you? I wouldn't trust you with my sister's tits.'

'Oh, for God's sake!' snapped Proudfoot, finally joining the fray. 'Would the lot of you just be quiet. However close he is, Barney Thomson is probably watching us and killing himself laughing at you lot. So can we all just shut the fuck up, stay awake, and keep a good lookout for something moving quickly over the snow at a low level?'

A few deep breaths were taken; a few words thought about; but nothing said. The words away and shite were on the tip of Martin's tongue, but this was life and death here, not some pointless argument in a pub after a long night's drinking.

Silence descended.

***

But, in her way, Proudfoot was wrong. Barney Thomson was not watching them and laughing. He lay no more than twenty yards away, low behind a small rise in the ground. He heard every word, but had not made an effort to look at them, knowing that they would not be going anywhere before daybreak. He had seen the drama with Brother Raphael, he had heard the raised voices, though not the subdued. He didn't know the whereabouts of Brother Steven; indeed, did not know that Steven's knife had hovered no more than two inches above his back before the killer had decided at the last second to spare his life; however, he knew Steven was at that moment doing the same as he himself, watching the small group around the dying fire.

At times since they had all left the monastery within fifteen minutes of each other, he had been aware of Steven; he had followed him, as Steven had followed the others, but since darkness had fallen and the snows returned, Steven had been lost to him. But all this time he had been waiting for something. The same thing which had so miraculously transformed his fortunes all those months earlier.

He had been waiting to come up with a brilliant idea. He had done it once before, so he assumed he should be able to do it again. A bit like Jim Bett; played a good game once – although no one could remember whom it was against – and everyone waited for him to repeat the performance. It just never happened. Barney had never heard of Jim Bett; he was not aware of the analogy, but he thought he could create another brilliant plan.

He knew he couldn't just barge into the middle of this little group, reveal all and expect everyone to believe him. The lynch mentality would probably take over. There had been too much said about Barney Thomson for everyone to readily believe anything he said. Honestly, Chief Inspector, the Abbot had two left hands... Not a hope. Unless he could think of some brilliant and spectacular plan, he was screwed. Condemned to be on the run for ever more. Of course, he'd been on the run even before he'd arrived at the monastery, but that had been another matter. Getting out of that would take a different plan altogether.

The group went silent for a while, then Barney could hear low voices starting up again. No arguments this time, so they were not clear enough for him to hear. He lay on his side, pulled his topcoat more closely to him, and settled down. He was tired, but there was little chance he would fall asleep. Too many things to think of. Or only one thing to think of, but it was a big one.

A brilliant plan; Barney needed a brilliant plan. And if it wasn't for the fact that he kept going slightly mad every now and again, imagining he was in a barber's shop, he might have got on a lot better.

***

'What happened to the monk in you?' asked Proudfoot.

The snow fell around her and she could feel herself giving in to tiredness and to the cold and to desperation.

Both Edward and Martin looked up, then Edward dropped his head when he realised she wasn't speaking to him. I'm not much of a monk either, he thought.

'What's the point?' said Martin. 'The Abbot, Herman, Saturday, Steven. All these guys with their God, it hasn't helped them. Look at Raphael, the poor bastard. What did he get for believing in God? A knife in the chops. Hallelujah, I don't think.'

'You must have believed some time, or you wouldn't have gone there,' said Mulholland. Despite the argument, despite being called a wankstain and not reacting by either a) arresting the bloke or b) kicking his head in, he had the same need for conversation as the rest.

Martin grunted. He would have reacted more favourably if the question had come from Proudfoot. Saw the opportunity for his first post-monastic conquest; knew there was stiff competition to come from Edward.

'I don't know, I suppose. But everyone who goes there has to have a reason. You don't shut yourself off from the world and its temptations if you're not seriously messed up in some way in the first place.'

'Ha, ha,' said Edward. 'The man's on the ball. You've just got to look around at the sorry collective. Too many weird guys with secrets to hide. We all went there with them, but they'd all come out in the wash eventually.'

'Yep,' said Martin, beginning to warm to Brother Edward, a monk he had barely spoken to in the past. 'Herman's a great example. The stern, deeply religious monk and all that. Mince. The guy killed a man once, you know. Committed murder, and ended up at the monastery on the run. I suppose he felt he had to stay there for a while, and eventually just got used to it. His true home, bullying weirdoes and secret-keepers like himself.'

'Adolphus, ridiculed out of his home town for cross-dressing.'

'Common enough these days,' said Proudfoot.

'You think? He was cross-dressing with donkeys. Used to walk around the town centre at two in the morning wearing nothing but a nosebag and a harness.'

'But you see,' said Martin, 'it's not just the idiosyncrasies, it's the men who had them. Sure, some guys are delighted to be put in nappies and get breast-fed when they're thirty, like Brother Jerusalem, but some folks just can't handle it. The shame or whatever. Drives 'em nuts, so that they end up at places like that monastery.'

'So, you're saying that everyone there was a total pervert of some description?' said Mulholland. Fully prepared to believe it, too.

'No, no,' said Edward. 'You have to give some of these characters their due. Frederick's been there since the Great War, the poor guy. Driven there by shellshock. There are a bunch of us sent by women in some way or another; nothing wrong about that. Festus went just because he couldn't be accepted anywhere else. A bit weird, but not any kind of a loon. But you see, that's the point; maybe we weren't all perverts 'n all, but we did all have some serious mindset problems which drove us there. Drove us away from society, you know what I mean?'

'The lad's talking a lot of sense,' said Martin. 'Not all perverts, certainly, but a bigger bunch of social screw-ups you couldn't hope to find.'

'So what was your thing?' asked Mulholland. A bit sadistically, he had to admit, hoping that it still upset the man.

'Doesn't matter,' said Martin, which was certainly true. 'It was a long time ago. It was a woman that did it, though, a bloody woman. No offence there, miss.'

'None taken,' said Proudfoot.

'And what about the Abbot?' said Mulholland. 'Until just before the end there, he seemed like a reasonably normal bloke.'

A look passed between Edward and Martin, then it was lost in the snow.

'No one was really sure,' said Martin. 'There was a guy with secrets that no one could uncover. Sure, there were all sorts of rumours and stuff, but nothing any of us could ever get to the bottom of.'

'It might have been something to do with the right hand,' said Edward.

'Yep,' said Martin. 'That was the big one. The big rumour.'

'What do you mean?' said Mulholland. 'What about his right hand? I didn't notice anything odd about it.'

'That, Chief Inspector, was because you didn't see it at all. I thought you police were supposed to be observant?'

'What d'you mean, I didn't see it?'

'Think about it,' said Edward, and Proudfoot got to it before Mulholland, although the man was not far behind.

'Right,' she said. 'He kept it tucked away in his cloak the whole time. I just presumed he was cold.'

'Right,' said Mulholland. It had registered at the time, then had moved slowly into that part of the brain from where thoughts were rarely retrieved.

'None of us knew the score. There were a hundred guesses, but no one knew the right answer. Webbed fingers, a claw, a talon...'

'A third eye on the end of his thumb...'

'Exactly,' said Martin. 'Who knew? The guy could have had anything up there. It could have been something onto which he screwed stuff, like drills and razors and electric toothbrushes. But whatever it was, it was way weird, and that's why he was at the monastery.'

Fred and Gene, who had vanished with the near-attempt on her life, suddenly danced across the front of Proudfoot's vision; and then, before she could pin them down and ask them why they'd returned, they were off again.

'So I reckon he was toying with us, this Barney Thomson character,' said Edward.

'How come?' asked Mulholland. Stupid question, he thought. Barney Thomson had been toying with the police since the very first time he'd been interviewed by MacPherson and Holdall.

'The hand thing. He knows every one of us was dying to know what the Abbot's right hand was like. So what does he do? He taunts us. He cuts off the bloke's left hand and leaves it lying there.'

'Some sort of weird Freudian thing,' said Martin.

'No,' said Edward, 'I'm not so sure. I think it was more of a subtle irony kind of a business. Freud didn't do subtle irony.'

'Get out of my face!' said Martin incredulously.

'Yeah, all right. Maybe it was Sigmund Freud, maybe it was Ziggy Stardust. Whatever, the guy was taunting us. Messing with our minds, even more than he's messed with them already. And it's the jouisance of it all, the sheer revelling in barbarism. Really cool in a way, but not when it could happen to us.'

'Cool?' said Mulholland.

'Aye, well, cool, aye, sort of,' said Edward.

'You people are even more screwed in the head than I thought.'

'But you can see his point,' said Martin, warming still to Edward, despite the gentle altercation over Freud. 'He's been killing monks with general alacrity all over the shop, leaving the evidence for everyone to see. Tied to one another, propped against a tree, burned to a crisp, whatever. Then, suddenly, he changes his method. For no apparent reason, rather than leave the two bodies lying around, he only leaves the hands. The left hands. We know they're both dead, and yet the bodies are missing. And mixed in with that you've got the symbolism of the left hand, when he knows full well that Ed, Raphael and me would love to see the right. If that ain't cool, Chief Inspector, what is it?'

Mulholland stared at him, his mouth slightly open. A snowflake landed on his bottom lip. He didn't blink. Turned his head slowly to look at Proudfoot, and she stared back at him, the same look on her face and in her eyes. At last, for the first time since they'd set out on their journey to find Barney Thomson, they were beginning to think like detectives. Something didn't sound right; something demanded an explanation; and it was staring them in the face. Fred and Gene lay dead on the table in front of Proudfoot, while the same vision came to Mulholland. Two left hands. Different sizes, but the same colouring.

Killers don't just change their methods overnight for nothing. And Barney Thomson was no killer. There was always an explanation.

'This right hand of the Abbot. Any other suggestions as to what it was? Were any of the rumours stronger than the others?' asked Mulholland. Not really concerned with the answer, just giving himself more time to think. But already he felt the fear beginning to creep up his back; the hairs on the back of his neck slowly lift against the collar of his jacket; a shiver cascade across his body. The knowledge that Barney Thomson, the harmless killer, had not been murdering these monks, knowledge that he'd had all along, and which had been denied by the evidence, was making a late entrance to the party of the investigation.

'There were a stack-load of other things,' said Edward. 'Some said he had a cloven hoof, and you can guess why he'd want to hide that. Some said it was a gangrenous stump, some said leprosy, some said he had two left hands, some said he had a pincer. There were all sorts of things. All sorts. Don't know that any of them... what?'

Mulholland and Proudfoot stared at one another. Immediately they both took quick looks over their shoulders and around the unprotected, vulnerable field of snow which marked their territory. Suddenly the enemy had become much, much more dangerous.

'What?' said Edward. Martin said nothing, but his eyes squinted at the two police officers, his mind slowly beginning to catch up. 'What?' said Edward again.

'Two left hands,' said Martin.

Mulholland stood up and took a more solid look around the area. Vulnerable didn't cover it. They were sitting ducks. But then there were four of them and one of him, and as long as they stuck together and kept their eyes open.

'No,' said Edward, 'no way. That was just about the weirdest of the lot. How can you tell? Just because his left hand was there and so was Brother Steven's... Oh.' The slow process of Edward's thoughts. 'Steven? Steven? What are you saying?'

'What do you know about him?' said Mulholland, directing his question at Martin. He could ask questions of Edward some time in the future, when his brain was in the same time zone as the rest of them.

'Not sure,' said Martin. 'He always played the straight man, you know. Knew a lot of stuff, was quite literary. Used to quote stuff all the time, philosophers and that, but that was it. I suppose none of us knew the guy. He seemed to be friendly enough with Brother Jacob, mind you.'

'In it together?' said Proudfoot.

Mulholland shook his head. 'We're not making the same mistake twice. Barney Thomson isn't killing anyone. In fact, I'd bet your gran's arse that the bloke's dead already. Shit, we've been stupid.'

'How were we supposed to know that the Abbot had two left hands? How could we know that?'

'Not just that,' said Mulholland, 'it's everything, right from the off. We both knew it wasn't Thomson. It had to be one of the monks, and we never investigated it properly.'

'Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute,' said Edward, voice slightly fevered.

'What?' said Proudfoot and Mulholland in unison.

'Are you saying that those two left hands both belonged to the Abbot, and that it was Brother Steven who killed him rather than Barney Thomson?

'Brilliant, Brother,' said Proudfoot. 'Well caught up. The rest of us realised that about eight minutes ago.'

'Help m'boab,' said Edward. 'Help m'fucking boab.'

And the words disappeared into the snow, and nothing else was said for some time. Mulholland stood and looked at the snow, moving in a slow circle. Wondering where Brother Steven lay, wondering to what advantage they would be able to put this new knowledge.

While fifty yards away, Steven lay and watched, toying with the possibility of taking Mulholland out where he stood with a single shot. However, this he decided against, and instead he pondered what it was that had suddenly brought Mulholland to his feet. That, and why they'd been so stupid as to burn their tent.

Getting Very Near The End, And We'd Like To Thank You All For Coming

––––––––

Inevitably the day dawned. Low, cold skies, the snow no longer falling, the white on the ground reflected dull grey with the clouds. The four of them were still huddled around the fire, although it had long since extinguished; a strange clutch at a straw of comfort. Edward was asleep where he sat, cross-legged, hands clasped as if in prayer in his lap, his head hung. Martin was in exactly the same position, but his eyes were open, staring at the circle of charred wood and black ash which was all they had left to cling to. Proudfoot was sleeping in an uncomfortable position, her legs splayed, her arms tucked, her head in Mulholland's lap. And only he sat alert, constantly on the lookout for Brother Steven. The new threat.

Occasionally he wondered what had become of Barney Thomson, but it was an irrelevance. Suddenly it was no longer about him, and their situation appeared all the more perilous. Regardless of how many had already perished at the hands of the killer, when he'd assumed it had been Barney Thomson there had still been something unlikely about the whole thing; he still held the firm belief that, if it came to it, he'd be all right because there was no way that the miserable barber was doing anything to him. Murderer or not, he had it in his head that Barney was a big girl's blouse.

However, now the goal posts had been shifted. In fact, not so much shifted as had been transported to a different pitch for a different sport on a different planet in a different universe. It was like being 5-0 down with twenty minutes left, thinking you're playing Sprackly Heath Ladies' Over-60s Dominoes XI, and that you'll be able to come back no problem; when it turns out that in fact you're playing the 1970 Brazil team, and that not only are you not coming back, you're about to get pumped even more.

Mulholland's mind was rambling.

He looked down at Proudfoot, her face cold and blue; at ease, nevertheless. He felt like he could stay that way; he could sit there for days, with this cold face in his lap. But he had to be willing. He had almost totally failed in his duty to protect the monks, but he could at least make sure that she made it back to safety. As for himself, did he care anymore? Wife gone (good riddance), job down the toilet (good riddance), and that was all there had been in his life up to that point. Could he go and start from scratch?

The whole thing was getting near the end. He felt it; he knew that Steven must make his move before they reached Durness. It seemed like they'd been ambling through the Highlands one day and the next plunged into confrontation, death and terror; a confrontation that was screaming towards a conclusion. And the weight on his shoulders that was the manifestation of this thought dragged him farther and farther down, so that he no longer cared. And yet the fear was still there, so from where did that emotion come?

He shook Proudfoot's shoulder, felt her muscles tense; her eyes opened and she sat up. A moment's hesitation, then she looked about her, saw the dawn of the day, felt the embarrassment of having fallen asleep on his lap and moved away from him.

'We should get going,' she said.

'Aye,' he replied. He turned to Edward and nudged his ribs. 'Come on, we've got to move.'

Edward's head lifted slowly up, his eyes opened and wrinkled, a low groan escaped the back of his throat. He immediately thought of Brother Raphael, and avoided turning his head to where the naked body lay covered with snow.

'Right,' he said, and was the first person to stand up. The quicker they moved, the quicker they could return to civilisation, the quicker he could get on with his life. Not for a second did he allow himself to think about death. Death happened to other people, and not to him. Not for a long time yet. That was what he thought.

As the others stood up, brushing themselves free of snow, starting the painful, uncomfortable process of getting their muscles moving and the warmth charging through their bodies, Brother Steven watched from afar.

He had backed off some since dawn had poked its uncertain head into the day. Disappointed that the night had not presented further opportunities, but murder was a waiting game. Everyone knew that.

He could probably have managed to take them on with two of them sleeping, but why bother? He'd come so far, achieved so much, why risk everything at this stage? His plan: to give it another couple of hours, see if he was presented with any more propitious moments, and, if not, bring out the Colt. And he had another, altogether more exciting plan for that. And so, let them taste the bittersweet tang of hot lead; let them feast on the brutal pungency of a steel bullet; let them enjoy the festival of punishment that manifested itself in the searing heat of the monster which was spewed forth from the gun; let them wallow in a cauldron of ballistic Parmesan and let their heads drown in a plate of bloody ordnance.

Steven's mind was also rambling. But he watched closely, preparing to move. He would track them all the way; if they slipped, if they strayed, if they wandered slightly from the course, he would pounce. And if they did not stray, he would shoot them.

A bloody good plan.

And as the four shook themselves down and prepared to start the final long haul to Durness, and as Brother Steven watched every move, Barney Thomson was still far from coming up with that brilliant plan. In fact, Barney slept. Soundly, eyes firmly shut, mind not even dreaming, head lodged in the pillow of a cloak, he slept. And as the others moved off and Steven shadowed them as closely as he could, Barney let it all pass him by.

***

Progress was slow. Men who walk through snow for a living, if there are such men, would have had trouble with this terrain. And as the morning passed, Mulholland began to doubt that they would reach Durness by evening. But he also knew they could not stop and be sitting ducks again. Whatever the weather and whatever the light, they had to limp on until they reached the safety of the town. He knew, however, his beating heart and his fevered mind told him, that they would not even get close to Durness before they had to answer the challenge. It was imminent. He could feel it. Everywhere.

As for how much ground they were covering and their exact location, he had no clue. Brother Martin led the way, claiming to know where he was going; and Mulholland had to trust him, for he himself could not have been more lost. Visibility wasn't bad, but it could have been a hundred miles and it wouldn't have made any difference. When everything was white, it was white.

He made his way past Edward and came up behind Martin, who he could tell was only grudgingly waiting for the rest of them.

'Martin!' he called out from some fifteen yards back to save the final effort of catching him up. Martin turned slowly and waited for him. Plucked himself from the dream of a Swiss chalet in winter; snow outside, a roaring fire and a strumpet of naked women inside.

'You know where we are?' asked Mulholland.

'No problem,' Martin said. He pointed to his left without looking. 'That's Ben Fleah over there, behind it is Beinn Achrah.' Made-up names, but he knew Mulholland wasn't going to know any better. Mulholland looked into the impenetrable white, one snow-covered physical feature pretty much blending into another.

'How can you possibly tell?' he asked.

Martin shrugged. Behind them, Edward and Proudfoot trudged slowly along their footfalls. Heads down, dreaming or depressed, their minds on other things. Neither of them looked up, or behind; and so Proudfoot did not notice that she was becoming detached at the back, and neither did Edward. Brother Steven noticed, however. Brother Steven noticed everything.

'Just can,' said Martin. 'I know these hills pretty well. When you're living with a bunch of goons like that mob, you like to get out sometimes.'

'To the town?'

'That would've been totally awesome, but I could never do it, you know? A guilt thing. Masochistic too, because I always teased myself. Allowed myself the chance to get there, but didn't do it. I don't know what that was all about, but I wasn't the only one doing weird stuff.'

'Well, you can do it now,' said Mulholland.

A large smile began to spread across Martin's face. 'You're right about that,' he said. 'Bloody right.'

Despite the tension, and his cement-mixer stomach, Mulholland laughed. Relief. Another clutch at a straw of comfort.

'So, what are you going to do, then?' he said. 'What's first on the list?'

The smile remained plastered to Martin's face. 'Sex,' he said. 'Stacks and stacks of sex.'

'Available in Durness, is it?'

'Don't care. I'll get it somehow. There's sex to be had in most places, and I'm gagging for it. So that's first, then I'm going to get steaming pished out of my face, then I'm going to have some more sex, then get a decent night's sleep in a warm, comfy bed, then I'm going to get up, have the fullest breakfast they have to offer, then I'm going to have stacks more sex.'

'Fine words for a monk,' said Mulholland, the smile still on his face. 'Think I might join you in getting pished out of your face, but I don't know where you're going to find all these women.'

Martin casually indicated the back of their line with a role of his eyes. 'Might try that wee bit of crumpet you've got there, mate, if you don't mind.'

Mulholland stopped smiling. Took another couple of quick steps and was alongside the man. Lowered his voice.

'One word, one suggestion, one anything in her direction, and I'm ripping your nuts off and stuffing them down your sodding throat. You got that, monkbrain?'

Martin also stopped smiling. But he nodded his head and immediately switched off. Typical police, he was thinking, but he didn't really care. Erin Proudfoot was all right, but there would be plenty more babes in the Sango Sands Oasis in Durness; even at this time of year.

Mulholland gave him another few seconds of hard looks, then gave up when he realised that Martin wasn't interested. So he turned round to check on the back of the line, looking to see that Proudfoot was all right. And that was how he came to notice that Proudfoot wasn't actually there.

The Bloody, Bitter End

––––––––

Mulholland immediately turned and started heading back, struggling through the snow. He nearly fell over a couple of times, the snow suddenly seemed a foot deeper. Edward stared at him as he approached, stepped gingerly out of the way as Mulholland reached him and pushed past.

'Proudfoot!'

Again he nearly fell. All this death he had encountered, but suddenly his heart was beating like it hadn't for years. Fear? What he had felt earlier, running this gauntlet, was not fear. This was it now, bloody and raw, and his chest heaved, his breaths came in uncomfortably tight spasms. He looked wildly around the grey-white blur, hoping that she had merely stepped from the path, modesty having got the better of good sense, but he knew she wouldn't be that stupid; and he had the gut-churning, sick-to-the-teeth feeling of the certain knowledge that this was serious. This was it. For all the build-up, they had suddenly, brutally, come to the bitter end.

Brother Steven waited.

Mulholland came to the point in their path where the snow was blurred and trampled to the side; tracks led away behind a hill; enough of a disturbance in the snow so that it was apparent she had been dragged off. He turned back to Martin and Edward, who were staring at him with only vague interest. He breathed deeply, knew that the only way was to be calm. There was no blood in the snow; Proudfoot's body had not been left dismembered where she'd been accosted; it could be that she was not yet dead.

Steven had been toying with them since they'd arrived; maybe he intended toying with them even more.

'You two come on,' he shouted back, the words muffled and dying under the weight of cold and snow and low cloud.

Martin held his hands out at his side, in that Referee! gesture. 'Accept it, Chief Inspector,' he shouted, 'she's already dead. Steven hasn't been messing with us. You go off our track and you're walking straight into his trap. What's the point? If we keep going, if the three of us stick tog...'

'You two get the fuck up here right now, 'cause if he doesn't kill you, I'll arrest you, you stupid bastards! Do it!'

But these were two liberated ex-monks, men who had only just shaken off the shackles. They were free, and that freedom rested gloriously on their shoulders, and tasted sweeter even than Steven's revenge. There was no way they were taking orders from anyone.

The three men stared at one another, long and hard. An eternity of a few seconds.

'Right. Fuck it,' barked Mulholland. 'Get yourselves killed.'

He turned from the path they had made and began following the marks of commotion through the snow. He knew he was walking exactly where Steven wanted him to walk, but he had no option. He could try another route, try sneaking up on the bloke, but this was no time for trickery. He had run long enough; he had been uninterested or worried, and a minute earlier he had been frightened. Now it was time to confront the enemy.

Edward watched him go, was prodded by guilt. He ought to go with him; especially if he wanted to lure Proudfoot to his bed. Of course, the woman would probably already be dead, so it didn't make much of a difference.

'Come on,' said Martin to him, 'we don't need the guy. It's not as if he's protected any of us so far. It's me who knows the way anyway, so we don't need some sad, sexually deprived eejit to look after us.'

Like every other sound in this winter landscape, the sharp crack of the gun was muffled by the snow. In its way, the dull thud of the bullet into Martin's forehead was as impressive a noise as the muffled, crumpled thump of his body as he collapsed, dead, into the snow. A clean shot, immaculately into the centre of his brow.

Brother Steven had never fired a gun in his life, but a man possessed has the aim of the gods.

Instinctively, Mulholland and Edward dived into the snow, no thought for the pointlessness of their action, for they were totally exposed. Edward covered his head with his arms and breathed ice; Mulholland looked in the direction of the gunshot, but there was nothing to see but the wall of white. He gave himself another five seconds on the ground, then slowly lifted himself up. He knew, if Steven had been intending to kill him, he would have done it already.

He stood open and unprotected, looking at Steven's palisade, vague outlines of slopes and edges, behind any of which the man could be hiding. And hopefully Proudfoot too, held captive. Mulholland breathed deeply once more; calm. The sort of moment that gave you the willies to imagine; but when you were in it, you swallowed your fear, you forgot the other guy had a gun, and you got on with it.

'Come on, you,' he said to Edward. 'We're going up this bank and looking over the other side.'

'No chance,' said Edward, from the ground. 'I'm staying right here. At least, until I start heading towards the town.'

Mulholland started tramping through the snow. He had wasted enough time on these pathetic bastards. 'Suit yourself, Edward, but you've just seen what he did to your friend. You want a bullet in the napper, you stay right there. You're not just walking out of this, monk.'

Edward deliberated for a further half-second, then was out of the snow, catching up, and then a pace behind Mulholland as he headed up the hill; although the pace became three paces back as they neared the top.

It was a time for caution, but Mulholland was not for that. He had stepped away from the fight for long enough. His nerves were settled, his mind was set; and if he was to die in the next half minute, then he would have it happen while looking out for one of his fellow officers.

'Very fucking noble,' he muttered to himself, and five seconds later he was at the top of a small ridge, and down below, in the dip, not more than twenty yards away, they awaited them.

Proudfoot was on her knees, roughly bound and gagged; eyes open, staring wildly up at him, as Edward joined him on the ridge. Brother Steven behind her, gun at the back of her head. Proudfoot looked scared, although the frantic eyes were screaming at Mulholland to get away while he could; Steven looked serene. His job almost done, just the dénouement to come. The last of the Holy Order of the Monks of St John; and a couple of hapless police officers to boot. The perfect end to a perfect crime of retribution.

He had not yet faced the great unanswered question of what life offered once a long-held burning ambition had been achieved; the question which haunts everyone who has the misfortune to achieve all their dreams.

'And then there was one,' said Steven, looking Edward in the eye. He had enjoyed toying with Mulholland. Fevered blood swept around his body at the presence of Proudfoot on her knees before him, but this had always been about the monks.

Edward trembled; his resolve did not stiffen. He would have liked to tell Steven to let the woman go if all he was interested in was him, but the words did not make it all the way from his determination to his mouth. At least he did not immediately turn and run, because he accepted that this had to be faced. But still he was incapacitated by fear.

'Let her go,' said Mulholland. 'If this is just about the monks, let her go and the boy and I'll sort it out with you.'

'Come on, Chief Inspector, you'll have to do better than that, gallant though it may be. You don't seriously expect me to relinquish one of my weapons, do you? This is some karmic game of chess we're at, Chief Inspector, and I'm not about to throw away my queen.'

'Very deep,' muttered Mulholland. 'But before you talk any more shite, you want to tell us what this is about? Did they make you pray more than you wanted, or not enough maybe? You a religious zealot or an out-of-place atheist?'

Steven toyed with the idea of their immediate future; a bullet in the back of Proudfoot's head, followed by a couple of quick shots to take care of Mulholland and Edward; or a more drawn-out climax, as he had planned. The villain in a Bond movie climax, taking the time to explain himself before the execution.

Of course, it had to be the latter. No fun in expeditiousness.

'You'll never have heard of Two Tree Hill, Chief Inspector,' he said. Statement rather than question.

Mulholland shook his head; Edward narrowed his eyes. Mild confusion.

'Two Tree Hill is a place of such abomination, of such hideous repugnance and shame, that it eats at the hearts of men like some insidious cancer. It is a place where the veracity with which men decry was at once naked in our vengeful Lord's undying light. It speaks of fear and loathing and shouts to the very insouciance which separates the faithless from the godly. I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God. Indeed, Chief Inspector, Two Tree Hill is about that and much more. It's that whole life-blood thing – the battle of concupiscence against frigidity, unethical materialism against the rejection of immorality, the ignoble plagiarism of convention against the gemmiferous spontaneity of requited vehemence. It is a great Mahabharata of disenchantment, carved into the path of righteousness. Two Tree Hill is in everything; it is in this snow, it is in the hills, the air that we breathe, the gun I hold at your able sergeant's neck, the clothes we wear, the Abbot's two ridiculous left hands. It is all around us; it holds us and binds us and sucks us into its persecuted province.'

The damning words sat in the air; they begged the snow to fall, the ground to soak them up. They haunted and possessed, they taunted and teased.

'I thought Two Tree Hill was about a game of football?' said Edward.

Steven did not immediately answer.

'What?' said Mulholland.

'I've heard the old guys talk about it. There was some football match at Two Tree Hill. That was about it, wasn't it?'

'Football?' said Mulholland. 'A sodding game of football? Well, was it? All that shite you've just been spouting's over a bloody game of football? No one ever spoke like that when Thistle got relegated to the Second Division.'

The gun trembled slightly in Steven's hand; Proudfoot felt it against her skull.

'It was more than a football match, Chief Inspector. It was about injustice and oppression. It was about one decent man's obfuscation, his descent into a Hades of women and shattered aspiration.'

'Would you stop talking like that for God's sake,' barked Mulholland, 'and just tell us what bloody happened at this Two Tree bloody Hill?'

Steven seethed; the gun twitched in his hand. He could fire right now. Be done with the ridicule. How could any of them hope to understand?

'It was a game of football,' said Edward. 'In the seventies, some time. Way before I got there. Anyway, our mob were playing a crowd over from Caithness somewhere. Twenty-two guys in robes kicking a ball about a bit of a field. Their abbot was refereeing the game. Near the end it's still nothing each, or something like that, when one of our mob sticks the ball in the net, or whatever it was they had for a net. In the middle of the bloke's celebrations, with no one else really bothering, this abbot guy chops the goal off for offside.'

'It was never offside,' said Steven, and the line had never been uttered more dangerously.

'Whatever. The goal is chopped off, and our guy goes ape-shit. Attacks the ref, does the whole pissed-off player thing. This fixture's been getting played for over two hundred years, and your man becomes the first player to be sent off. So, everyone's a bit embarrassed, the game gets abandoned, and the guy not only gets his marching orders from the match, he's sent packing from the abbey as well, head hung in shame and all that. A bit like Christopher Lambert in Highlander without the physical abuse. And the fixture's never been held since. In fact, I don't think we've spoken to that lot in years. It's a bit like England and Pakistan at cricket after that Mike Gatting business, except it's still going on.'

Edward shrugged. The tension had eased from him with the explanation. It almost seemed normal again; to be having a discussion about football.

'And?' said Mulholland, still searching for the thing that would incite a man to murder.

'That man was my father,' said Steven.

'Which man?'

'The man who scored the goal.'

'What? The offside one?' said Edward.

'It wasn't offside! Don't you fools see that? It was a perfectly good goal, and they ruined his life over it. He was never the same.'

Mulholland waved his hands in front of him, trying to shake away what had just been said. His head shook in time.

'Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You're telling us that you've just murdered over thirty men because of a bad offside call?'

'It wasn't bloody offside!' said Steven.

'I heard it was a mile offside,' said Edward.

Steven raised the gun and pointed it at him.

'Fuck it!' shouted Mulholland. 'I don't care if it was offside or if there were fifteen fucking monks standing on the sodding goal line. You're saying that you've just murdered all these men because of a refereeing decision? Over thirty men dead for that? Are you serious? Are you seriously serious? Are you really serious, you weird-as-fuck, stupid, ignorant, cretinous moron? You numpty, brainless, twat-faced, shit-brained, heid-the-ba'd, twat-brained, shit-faced, couldn't-piss-in-a-blanket Spam-head? I've eaten fish suppers with more brains than you. You can't honestly be saying that you've just killed more people than live in the suburbs of Shanghai because of a bad offside call. That would just have to be the most ridiculous, fuck-witted piece of stupid fuck-headedness I've ever heard of.'

Steven frowned. He should have known they wouldn't understand. Such was the abuse that the enlightened must face.

'It was a really, really bad decision,' he said.

Mulholland didn't know what to say. This was stupid. Most crimes were stupid, but this was up there in the Top One of really stupid crimes he'd investigated. This was beyond stupid. This was the Real Madrid 1960 European Cup-winning side of stupidity.

'Well, why didn't you go after the referee?'

Steven smiled, lowered the gun from his aim on the shaking Edward and rested it once more against Proudfoot's head. 'I did, several years ago. But it was this mob I really wanted. It was them who drove my father away from the place he loved. It was them who ruined his life. It was them who forced him to die a broken man, and it was on his deathbed that he told me about the injustice of Two Tree Hill. I knew then that he must be avenged.'

Mulholland was still aghast; and aghast at himself for even indulging in conversation about it.

'So why kill them all? If it was in the seventies, most of this lot couldn't even have been here.'

Steven shrugged. The gun was raised, then came back down to rest on Proudfoot's head. She had wondered if Mulholland would manage to effect her escape, but she had now resigned herself to the bullet in the back of the head. Someone this insane would not spare her.

'I took my time. I tried to find records of the day to see who'd been here at the time, then I was going to take them out. Spare the innocent, you know? But, of course, they had long ago destroyed any record of their Day of Shame, so there was nothing to find. And none of them would talk about it, of course. Then I was discovered in my searches by Brother Saturday. I had to kill him and that kind of opened up a bit of a wasps' nest. Got rather carried away, I have to admit, but I tell you, it's been one Hell of a ride. Anyway, when I realised you lot were coming, I thought I'd better get a move on. Otherwise, I'd have lingered a lot longer over it.'

Mulholland still shook his head. Staggered. He was used to stupidity, but this was unbelievable.

'But a bad offside decision?' he said, still incredulous.

'That's the point,' said Edward. 'It wasn't a bad decision. Everyone says he was a mile offside.'

'Hey, you can think what you like, Brother Shagger, but the fact is, I know it was a good goal, and I know that your lot deserved to die.'

'What about Sheep Dip?' said Mulholland.

'That idiot? Just stumbled into him in a corridor, thought I might as well take him out. He was dangerous, you see, so I had to get rid of him when I had the chance. You two? I stood over you two nights ago as you lay sleeping, and I decided to leave you alive for a while longer. I wasn't that bothered about whether you died or not, and to be honest, there's no way you were ever going to catch me. So, I might kill you now, and I might not. Who knows? There is one thing I want from you first, though. You do this, and I might let you and your girlfriend here live.'

All stupidity aside, it had to come to it eventually. They weren't going to stand there forever, discussing bad offside decisions and their consequences.

'What can I possibly do for you?' said Mulholland.

Steven smiled. He lifted the gun from Proudfoot's head, waved it at Edward, and then lowered it again. This time he ostentatiously exercised his trigger finger and pushed the gun harder against her scalp.

'You can kill him,' he said.

'What?' said Edward. 'What are you talking about?'

Mulholland glanced out of the corner of his eye at him, looked back to Steven. 'What's the point?' he said.

'Oh, I don't know, Chief Inspector. Just having a bit of fun. I'm curious to see how keen you are on your girlfriend here, you know? Just how much are you prepared to do for her?'

'She's not my girlfriend.'

'Aye, all right, whatever. But you want her to be, it's pretty obvious. So, let's just find out how much. You want her to live, you kill sad little Brother Edward.'

'Wait a minute,' said Edward.

'She's a police officer,' said Mulholland. 'She knows I'm not going to do it. She's prepared to die in the line of duty. It comes with the job.'

'Yes, Mulholland, but are you prepared for her to die in the line of duty? Think about it, my friend. If you don't do it, all three of you are going to die anyway. But you kill Edward here, I might well let the two of you go. In fact, I will let you go. And I'm a man of my word. All you have to do to get your freedom is put your hands round the boy's neck, squeeze for two minutes, kill someone who is as good as already dead, and you and your friend are out of here.'

Mulholland looked into Proudfoot's eyes. Pale blue and frightened. His mind raced through the alternatives. The distance between himself and Steven, the time it would take for a blind charge; how to communicate to Edward the possibility that Steven's plan presented – that Edward could feign death; the alternative of doing as Steven suggested, keeping him talking until something else came to mind. His mind was a mess, but not once did his eyes stray from those of Proudfoot. Scared and nervous, but something about them which said that if this was it, then so be it. You've got to go some time, and rather this than a car crash or a debilitating illness. A bullet in the back of the head in the line of duty. She wriggled, wishing that she were free to taunt Steven about being such a total moron; at least get a good sneer in before he brought the curtain down.

'Can't decide, eh?' said Steven. 'The clock ticks, my friend. Ten seconds and your girlfriend gets a bullet in the brain.'

'Leave her out of it, for God's sake.'

'Eight... seven... wasting time, Mulholland.'

Mulholland took a step towards him, his mind in confusion. He turned and looked at Edward; maybe if he could just fake it, but would Edward know to play along? He tried doing something with his eyes at the man, but Edward stared back, frightened. Contemplating a dive over the other side of the hill. It'd be a job to run away, but how many bullets was the man going to have left?

'Four seconds, Chief Inspector.'

Proudfoot closed her eyes. Would she die instantly, or would there be some sort of sensation before she went? Searing pain? Heat? Epiphany?

Mulholland hesitated. Three seconds, two seconds. Made his mind up, but only on an attempt to buy more time. He turned towards Edward. Hands around the throat, look him in the eye as he strangled him, and hope the guy worked it out before he had to kill him. Feigning death was the only way.

'One second...,' said Steven, intending to drag that second out a little longer, to increase the agony.

Proudfoot took her final breath; Edward saw Mulholland coming and went with instinct. It made sense. If either way he stayed here he was going to die, then he might as well make a run for it. Feigning death did not occur to him, and at the sight of Mulholland turning he was gone. On the back foot, then he turned, sprinting heavy-legged through the snow and the few yards until he could disappear over the other side of the ridge.

The gun cracked its subdued explosion; a firework of blood sprayed across the snow.

Mulholland turned back to Steven, heart thumping again; mouth open; ears singing. The bullet had sung past his head on its way into the late Brother Edward's back. And by the time Mulholland turned, Steven once more held the gun to Proudfoot's head.

'Hey, Chief Inspector, I didn't think you were going to play. So, what the hell. They're all dead now. Bastards.'

Mulholland calmed down quickly, though he could yet hear the bullet. His eyes engaged with Proudfoot's once more, and they were now more settled. She had already faced the inevitability of death, and it had passed her by. When it came for real in the next few seconds, she would be ready.

Mulholland knew he was going to have to run at them, he knew he was going to be too slow, he knew that he would be shot and then so would Proudfoot. And the game would be done. He could try talking to gain more time, but what use was more time?

'Right then, dick-face,' he said, 'get it over with.'

Steven twitched. The gun shook in his hand. About time, thought Proudfoot.

'What do you mean, dick-face? I'm the one with the gun. Who are you to call me dick-face?'

'I'm the guy who knows that you're a dick-face, that's who.' Mulholland smiled – might as well go down verbally fighting; on another level, trying to get the madman annoyed and distracted, standard police stuff – and waved his hands. 'I mean, what am I supposed to call you? You've spent all your life planning to avenge some crap refereeing decision when, as far as anyone can tell, it was right. Your dad was just an idiot, and you're an even bigger idiot. What kind of sad, pathetic moron spends his life planning to avenge a lousy refereeing call? I'll tell you what kind. The dick-faced kind, that's who, dick-face.'

All the time he was taking slow, mincing, invisible steps towards them. Pointless words, but if he could keep it up, get the balance between keeping Steven interested and getting him so annoyed that he shot instantly, he might get close enough. But it was a long fifteen yards, which had become a long ten yards, and it was still too far on a good surface, never mind with the snow between them.

Steven twitched again. Saw Mulholland coming. Debating with himself whether or not to let him get nearer so that he could answer the outrageous taunts. But no, the closer he got the more chance there was of him making a move.

He lifted the gun, hand steady, perfect aim. One and a half centimetres above Mulholland's right eye. Get him there and he'd twitch; he'd read that in a book once. Proudfoot could watch it, and then she could get hers.

Mulholland hesitated, recognised the look. Had seen it once from a moron in Hyndland who'd come at him with a knife. This was it.

One last look at Proudfoot – the eyes said everything – and then, mouth open and screaming, he charged towards Brother Steven.

An Ordinary Man

––––––––

From nowhere he came. Dressed in white, invisible to all until the last second, a man possessed, Barney Thomson sprang from behind Brother Steven, his hands reached his shoulders before the finger squeezed the trigger, so that when the gun went off the bullet flew harmlessly away into the low cloud.

Proudfoot fell forward into the snow; Mulholland raced towards her. Barney pushed Steven under him, grabbing at his right wrist to stop him manoeuvring the gun. He had the benefit of surprise for a few seconds, and so Steven wilted, but he was the stronger man. Barney struggled, managed to avoid the knee that Steven tried to thrust up into his groin.

Steven pushed back at him, raised him up, then pushed him over onto his back. Still Barney grabbed at his wrists, still Barney struggled to remember what it was about this particular plan that had been brilliant. Steven's forehead came accelerating down, but Barney spotted it and took the blow to the side of his skull rather than to the bridge of his nose. Steven reeled for a second, hurt as much as his victim.

Mulholland undid the restraints around Proudfoot; they watched from no more than two yards away. A strange fascination. Then suddenly the realisation that he had to do something. Too late.

The gun was brought down into the midst of the wrestling match. Barney screwed up his face; Steven tried to steer the gun into Barney's stomach, muscles tensed.

But Steven was a man who had lived his dream; a man whose time had come and gone; and a man who suddenly doubted his entire life. Barney was a man who had not come this far to go down like this.

The gun went off as Mulholland dived on top of them, another muffled thud. Sometimes it is not always the one who doesn't care who loses...

Mulholland pulled at them, nothing yielded. Then slowly Steven's shoulder gave in, and his body fell away from that of Barney Thomson. There was blood on them both, but the blood was Steven's, and when he fell into the snow, the gun still clutched in his hand, he didn't move.

Barney Thomson looked up at Mulholland, chest heaving, breath coming in short, desperate bursts, and he somehow managed to say a few short words. He knew he was looking at the police; he knew this would be the epitaph to his years of freedom. He knew that these very words might dictate the course of the rest of his life.

'It wasn't me,' he said.

***

They had moved back over the hill, away from the final scene of bloody carnage, and far enough away from Martin's body that it was out of sight. They had a vague idea in what direction they should be heading, and had retrieved Martin's compass. One day they would get back to a road, or one day their bodies would be found on a hillside.

The clouds were still low, but they did not promise any more snow and they were stopping the temperature plummeting. So they took a rest before they set out on the final road, to sit in a small circle eating some of the food which they now had aplenty.

Barney had said nothing since he'd killed Brother Steven. Still could not believe that that had been the extent of his brilliant plan. How do you make yourself look innocent of murder? Run out and kill someone, then say, 'It wasn't me!' That would convince anyone. Perhaps the circumstances would have helped, but you could never tell with the police. Bastards, most of them.

'How did you find me?' he said, deciding that it was time to get it over with. The temporary madness which had afflicted him in the monastery had gone. The tiredness which had allowed him to fall asleep while watching them had gone. He had tracked them by their footfalls, he had brought everything out in the open, and now he had to face the future.

'By accident,' said Mulholland. 'We knew you were in Sutherland somewhere, but we only came to the monastery because of the other murders. How did you end up in a place like that?'

'Nowhere else to go,' said Barney. 'I knew I had to go some place that no one would've heard of me. How was I supposed to know that there'd be some murdering eejit there 'n all?'

'Just like your mum?' said Proudfoot.

Barney nodded, staring sadly at her. 'You know about her, eh? I thought you might have worked it out. Does the press know, 'n all?'

Mulholland shook his head. 'Don't think so. We've been stuck out here so long, who knows? The press have probably moved on by now, anyway. You know what they're like. We just couldn't work out the story with the other two. Henderson and Porter.'

Barney Thomson drew a deep breath. This was it. No more running; no more lies; no more fantasies. He might as well tell the truth, and face the music. Maybe he'd get to cut hair in prison.

'I know you're not going to believe me, but they were both accidents. Yon Wullie slipped on some water and fell into a pair of scissors I was holding. A couple of days later, that eejit Chris confronted me about it, we had a fight, and he fell and cracked his napper. You know.'

Mulholland took a bite from a stale sandwich. Proudfoot drank some water. Barney played with snow.

'Is that really true?' asked Mulholland.

'Aye,' said Barney, without any pleading in his voice. 'Stupid, but true. Not as stupid as yon bampot Steven, mind you.'

'So why didn't you just go to the police after the first one? If it was an accident, what did you have to fear?' asked Proudfoot.

Barney shrugged slowly, shaking his head. How many times had he asked himself that in the last few weeks? If only he'd gone to the police in the first place.

'Don't know. I was just stupid, like I says. Stupid.'

'And what about the four police at the lochside? Did you have anything to do with that?'

'Ah well, talk about stupid. I was there, and all that, you know, but they all just shot each other. Don't know what they were on. Internecine, you know, stuff. It was like The Godfather.'

Mulholland stared at the legendary and infamous Barney Thomson close up. An ordinary man. If the press and public who so vilified him could see this... This was the great killer. Just a wee bloke, sitting in the snow looking slightly bemused and eating some cheese which had not been well served by the journey.

How would they take to him when they got back? How would he and Proudfoot fit into the whole Barney Thomson story when they were disclosed as the ones who'd caught him?

He shook his head, looked at the innocent in the snow. Caught him? What was he talking about? Barney Thomson had just saved their lives. They had no more caught him than they'd caught Steven. If they had finally found Barney it was because he'd wanted to be found. He'd trailed them across the snow, when he could have gone in the opposite direction. He'd given up his chance of freedom for them. How could he repay that?

'You'd better get going, then,' he said.

Both Proudfoot and Barney looked at him. Barney had cheese crumbs on his lips.

'What d'you mean?'

Mulholland sighed heavily. Looked at Proudfoot. Initial surprise aside, she knew what he was thinking.

'You saved our lives. You're no more a killer than either of us two. The real evil in this is dead, and it was you who did it. If we take you back you never know how you're going to get treated. You might as well just disappear. Go and make a life for yourself somewhere, if you can.'

'Are you serious?' said Barney, standing up.

Mulholland nodded. 'Aye, I'm serious.'

Barney Thomson stared down at the two police officers. He had never known that the police could be like this. Bloody hell, he thought; and wondered again if it would have been this easy if he'd confessed right from the off.

'Can I take some food for the walk?' he asked. 'I don't have much left.'

'As much as you like,' said Mulholland. 'We've got a stack-load.'

And, still in some state of shock, Barney set about loading up his rucksack, a sack which contained a torch, some firelighters, some matches, a compass, a change of clothes, and his scissors and a comb. Everything a man needed when he was on the run.

Suitably laden with food, his heart lighter than it had been in many weeks – and if he was honest with himself, possibly lighter than it had been in years – he looked down at Mulholland and Proudfoot for the last time.

'Thanks,' he said.

'You saved our lives, Barney,' said Mulholland. 'Thank you.'

'Aye, right. Whatever.'

'Where'll you go?' asked Proudfoot.

Barney drew a deep breath. He took a quick look over his shoulder at the snowscape which awaited him.

'Not sure,' he said. 'Just somewhere I can cut hair, I suppose. Some place where they need a barber. Wherever there are men in search of a steady pair of scissors; wherever there is injustice against the noble art of barbery; wherever there is evil being perpetrated in the name of hirsutology; wherever men are forced to grovel in the pit of abomination in order to receive what every man deserves, you will...'

'Barney?'

'What?'

'If you don't shut up I'm going to arrest you for talking pish. Now bugger off and get going. I've heard enough people talking mince in the last week. So you've got twenty minutes and then we're moving, so you'd better get a shift on 'cause I never want to see you again.'

'Oh. Right then.'

And so, with a wave of the hand, the world's last remaining barber surgeon took his leave of the police officers who had been sent to bring him to justice. Rucksack over his shoulder, boots sinking deep into the snow, Barney Thomson set off on his way. The world ahead was clean and white and untouched and, as long as he did not look back, there was no one else within sight. He was free.

They watched him go for a few minutes without a word, until finally he was lost in the snow and the grey gloom. They turned and looked at one another, but no words were said on the matter. Barney Thomson was gone. Proudfoot wanted to tell Mulholland that he had done the right thing, but the words didn't come out. They saw the tiredness in each other; they both felt it in their bones. But there was nothing that would stop them getting back to civilisation, although who knew what awaited them there. An entire colony of monks had been wiped out before their eyes.

'Right,' said Mulholland, beginning to move. 'It's over. We should get our stuff together and get going. We might still be able to make it back tonight, if not before it gets dark. Then, who knows, we can have a fun-filled few days doing paperwork and talking to pissed-off chief superintendents.'

Proudfoot stood up, realising that her legs were weak. She had faced death; she was exhausted. But she would make it back to the town, no question. There were things to be taken care of.

'When we get back to the hotel, before we announce our return or complete any paperwork...' she said, starting to move necessary items from Edward's rucksack to her own.

'What?' he asked.

'Fancy a shag?'

Mulholland stared at her across a ham sandwich, which he had been contemplating taking a last bite out of before storing it away. Their eyes disappeared into one another, and he bit erotically into the stale bread and dry ham.

'Aye, all right then,' he said.

###