The Barbershop Seven Read Online Free PDF Page A

posted, but there hasn't been anyone who stayed in more than one of them. We've spoken to everyone from Glasgow who stayed overnight in these towns on the relevant dates, but they all had their reason for being there, and there was nothing suspicious. There've been a few people that we can't trace, and it could be that he left false names and addresses, but it could also mean nothing. There's no reason why someone couldn't have got the train to any one of they places and back again in the same day.'
    Holdall nodded, then grunted.
    'That's about it, isn't it, Stuart? Everywhere he goes is on a main rail route, so we can maybe assume that he's been taking the train. So that narrows it down.'
    'Sir?'
    'All we have to do is arrest everyone in Glasgow who doesn't have a car.'
    MacPherson smiled. The idea appealed. Too bad it wasn't practical.
    'Anything else, Sergeant?'
    MacPherson marshalled his thoughts, then continued in his low voice.
    'There's no connection with the body parts that he's sending back. So far we've had an ear, a right hand, a right hand and left foot together, a left leg, and then on Friday we had a head.'
    Holdall shook his head, still unable to comprehend the awfulness of the crime. Killing someone, beheading them, and then mailing the head back to the family, when they'd probably still been under the impression that the bloke had run away to Blackpool for a few days. Couldn't think about it too closely. You couldn't do that on this job and stay sane.
    'This is a sick bastard we're dealing with, Sergeant, a sick bastard.'
    MacPherson nodded, continued talking.
    'So far we've no idea what he's doing with the remainder of the bodies. Certainly, if he's got rid of them, we don't know where.' He paused, thinking for a second or two. 'I don't think there's anything else, sir.'
    Holdall shook his head, staring wearily at the floor.
    'No, Sergeant, you're right. There isn't. We've got some sick bastard carving up the citizens of Glasgow, they're expecting us to do something about it, and we haven't the faintest idea what that is.'
    For a fleeting second MacPherson felt pity for him. He knew he took his cases personally. But it was all part of the job, and Holdall had been doing it long enough to accept the weight of expectation.
    Holdall turned round in his chair, placed his hands decisively on the desk, looked MacPherson firmly in the eye.
    'There's nothing else for it, Sergeant. Take the list off the system of everyone in Glasgow who owns a car, and then arrest everyone else.'
    MacPherson raised his eyebrows, until the look on Holdall's face told him he was joking. Of course he was. If they did that they would have to arrest too many councillors currently off the roads on drink driving charges. The stink would be unbelievable.
    They smiled and, with a wave of the hand, Holdall dismissed the Sergeant from his office.
    'Have a good evening, Sergeant. Who's playing?'
    MacPherson thought about it then shrugged. 'Who cares? Football is as football does, eh, sir?' He turned and walked from the office.
    Holdall nodded. 'You can't say fairer than that,' he said to the empty room. He looked out at the Gothic darkness of early evening, the rain now hammering against the window. Allowed his chin to slump into the palm of his hand. 'Fuck,' he said softly, before rising slowly from the chair.
Death Row
    ––––––––
    B arney looked on proudly as his finest haircut of the month walked from the shop. The lad had wanted his hair cut by Chris, but there had been too many people in the queue ahead of him, forcing him to settle on Barney. And he had shown him what real barbery was all about. The haircut had been a peach. A non-technical short back and sides job, low difficulty certainly, but executed with beautiful panache nonetheless. Even and neat on the top, tapered to geometric perfection around the ears and the back of the neck. Barbery at its finest, he thought to himself, from one of the best exponents of the art