Free The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) by Douglas Lindsay

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