The Barber Surgeon's Hairshirt (Barney Thomson series) Read Online Free PDF Page A

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