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

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