Free The Face Of Death (Barney Thomson) by Douglas Lindsay Page B
Authors: Douglas Lindsay
saw four bodies lying in a forest, their throats slit. And on the standing stone behind, he saw the face drawn in blood, and it stared at him in its perpetual terror.
His eyes shot open again. He looked at Bobby the barman, and it seemed as if he'd had his eyes closed for several minutes. The vision had left him with goosebumps across his body, the small hairs at the back of his neck standing upright, the colour drained from his cheeks.
'You all right?'
'Aye,' said Barney, 'aye. Four tourists?' he asked quickly, thinking that he might as well get it over with.
'Americans,' said Bobby. 'Found them up at the stone circle. There was a young couple dived off into the woods – between you and me, it was Mhairi Henderson, but that's a secret now, 'cause her mother still thinks she's seeing wee David, you know Mrs Jackson's boy. But the thing is, she split with him about three weeks ago after she met Alec Fairburn, and you know what they say about him. Which is why Mrs Henderson wouldn't be too chuffed to hear that he was on the verge of giving her daughter a good seeing to. Not after all that business with Fiona and Beattie at Sophie's wedding, if you know what I mean.'
The goosebumps had died away, to be replaced by resignation bumps. Forlorn bumps, where his skin, along with the rest of his body, sadly accepted that Barney's place in life was to listen to other men talk an endless stream of drivel; and to consistently find himself in towns with a prodigious murder rate.
'The four Americans?'
'Throats slit,' said Bobby. 'With a pair of scissors.'
Barney nodded. That was hardly a surprise.
'Apparently they'd each been given a bit of a shocker of a haircut before they'd been killed.'
'How d'you mean?' asked Barney. 'Was the style a shocker, even though it'd been well executed by the barber, or was it your actual bad bit of hairdressing?'
Bobby nodded.
'You sound like you know what you're talking about?' he said, eyeing Barney with appreciation.
'Obvious question,' said Barney, shrugging.
'Normal haircuts gone wrong,' said Bobby, and he leant across the bar, drawing Barney into his confidence. 'They're saying that it looked like one guy was supposed to have been given a regulation Sinatra '62 ... you're familiar with it?'
'Aye,' said Barney.
'It was so bad, he looked like Lana Turner,' said Bobby, raising an eyebrow.
'Tragedy,' said Barney. Then he added, 'You seem to be well-informed?'
'I'm a barman,' said Bobby.
And Barney nodded and thought that bartending wasn't so different from barbering or taxi driving or being a priest or a psychologist. You always ended up with more information than you might reasonably be expected to know.
'They're saying that Barney Thomson did it,' said the barman.
Barney nodded. Of course they were.
'Nah,' said Barney, 'he had the Sinatra '62 down pat.'
Bobby the barman nodded.
'You might be right,' he said, sagely. 'Maybe it was one of his accomplices.'
Barney Thomson himself nodded, polished off his pint and wondered just who exactly his accomplices were supposed to be. And the fact that if he had any, the first thing he'd do would be to teach them the Sinatra '62.
2
Here They Come, Walking Down The Street
––––––––
F ederal Agents arrived in the Highlands the following day. Legal Attachés Damien Crow and Lara Cameron, the FBI's representatives in London, England, had been granted authority to become involved in the investigation. Well out of their remit, but the horrible nature of the crime and the uproar that it had caused in their homeland – it'd been a slow news day, with even the Broncos' pasting at the hands of the Patriots making the front page of the New York Times – had led the ambassador in London to seek immediate representation to have two of his officers included in the case.
And so they arrived in Strathpeffer at 1015hrs and by the type of strange coincidence that now seemed to be haunting Barney Thomson's life, they booked into the
His eyes shot open again. He looked at Bobby the barman, and it seemed as if he'd had his eyes closed for several minutes. The vision had left him with goosebumps across his body, the small hairs at the back of his neck standing upright, the colour drained from his cheeks.
'You all right?'
'Aye,' said Barney, 'aye. Four tourists?' he asked quickly, thinking that he might as well get it over with.
'Americans,' said Bobby. 'Found them up at the stone circle. There was a young couple dived off into the woods – between you and me, it was Mhairi Henderson, but that's a secret now, 'cause her mother still thinks she's seeing wee David, you know Mrs Jackson's boy. But the thing is, she split with him about three weeks ago after she met Alec Fairburn, and you know what they say about him. Which is why Mrs Henderson wouldn't be too chuffed to hear that he was on the verge of giving her daughter a good seeing to. Not after all that business with Fiona and Beattie at Sophie's wedding, if you know what I mean.'
The goosebumps had died away, to be replaced by resignation bumps. Forlorn bumps, where his skin, along with the rest of his body, sadly accepted that Barney's place in life was to listen to other men talk an endless stream of drivel; and to consistently find himself in towns with a prodigious murder rate.
'The four Americans?'
'Throats slit,' said Bobby. 'With a pair of scissors.'
Barney nodded. That was hardly a surprise.
'Apparently they'd each been given a bit of a shocker of a haircut before they'd been killed.'
'How d'you mean?' asked Barney. 'Was the style a shocker, even though it'd been well executed by the barber, or was it your actual bad bit of hairdressing?'
Bobby nodded.
'You sound like you know what you're talking about?' he said, eyeing Barney with appreciation.
'Obvious question,' said Barney, shrugging.
'Normal haircuts gone wrong,' said Bobby, and he leant across the bar, drawing Barney into his confidence. 'They're saying that it looked like one guy was supposed to have been given a regulation Sinatra '62 ... you're familiar with it?'
'Aye,' said Barney.
'It was so bad, he looked like Lana Turner,' said Bobby, raising an eyebrow.
'Tragedy,' said Barney. Then he added, 'You seem to be well-informed?'
'I'm a barman,' said Bobby.
And Barney nodded and thought that bartending wasn't so different from barbering or taxi driving or being a priest or a psychologist. You always ended up with more information than you might reasonably be expected to know.
'They're saying that Barney Thomson did it,' said the barman.
Barney nodded. Of course they were.
'Nah,' said Barney, 'he had the Sinatra '62 down pat.'
Bobby the barman nodded.
'You might be right,' he said, sagely. 'Maybe it was one of his accomplices.'
Barney Thomson himself nodded, polished off his pint and wondered just who exactly his accomplices were supposed to be. And the fact that if he had any, the first thing he'd do would be to teach them the Sinatra '62.
2
Here They Come, Walking Down The Street
––––––––
F ederal Agents arrived in the Highlands the following day. Legal Attachés Damien Crow and Lara Cameron, the FBI's representatives in London, England, had been granted authority to become involved in the investigation. Well out of their remit, but the horrible nature of the crime and the uproar that it had caused in their homeland – it'd been a slow news day, with even the Broncos' pasting at the hands of the Patriots making the front page of the New York Times – had led the ambassador in London to seek immediate representation to have two of his officers included in the case.
And so they arrived in Strathpeffer at 1015hrs and by the type of strange coincidence that now seemed to be haunting Barney Thomson's life, they booked into the
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