by V Clifford
Who is She?
A Viv Fraser Mystery
V. Clifford
Inverardoch Press
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Published by Inverardoch Press
Copyright © Vicki Clifford
Also by V.Clifford
The Viv Fraser Mysteries:
Beyond Cutting
Finding Tess
Digging up the Dead
Deception is the Old Black
Non Fiction
Freud’s Converts
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
Wednesday
The flat was hot and stuffy. Her mum belonged to that post-war generation who really did believe that cleanliness was next to godliness and that fresh air was the cure for everything, but today the cocktail of chemicals in the guise of violets and spring flowers had nowhere to escape to. Viv glanced around at the windows, all secured. Very unlike her mum. Fair enough. Edinburgh was known for its formidable east wind and today it was on the wrong side of biting, but still, the flat could do with a serious airing.
‘Mum. Did you hear me? I think he’s probably the same guy and you’ve just forgotten.’
Her mum sat in her usual chair picking at the edges of her nails. ‘No. I have not forgotten. The man that usually cleans the windows is bald and this one had a full head of hair. So unless I’m losing my marbles it was a different man.’
Viv, who uncharitably thought the latter was entirely possible, said, ‘Okay. What do you want me to do?’
Her mum paused and screwed up her eyes as if dredging her memory. She shook her head and blew out a breath. ‘No. It won’t come. But just you watch your back.’
Viv’s eyebrows reached for her hairline. ‘Right. I’ll get away now. I’m sure Mand will be here later with James.’
Her mum’s face transformed from exasperation to adoration in a single motion. Viv marvelled at how many muscles it took to do that and how lovely her mum looked when she was happy. She rubbed her mum’s arm and went to the door, stopped and glanced back. ‘D’you want me to put the TV on or open a window?’ As if the two were connected.
Her mum shook her head, and said, ‘I’m perfectly capable . . . You just mind your back.’
‘Sure mum, see you later.’
‘Sure. How much later?’
Ah, not so out of sorts as to forget the customary dig. Amanda, Viv’s sister, was the golden girl, the regular visitor. And now with James she was more popular than ever. Viv buttoned up her jacket and wrapped her scarf round her neck as she approached her car. She stopped abruptly and hissed through gritted teeth at the sight of a white illegal-to-park-here sticker plastered over the driver’s section of the windscreen. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ It wasn’t the first time the warden of her mum’s sheltered accommodation had been overzealous. She knew Viv’s car, but when she was idle, which she seemed to be too often, she took pleasure in making life difficult for others. Not an ideal trait for a carer. Viv started scraping it off but the adhesive was solid and it took a few swipes with the screen wash before she’d cleared enough of the windscreen to see to drive.
‘Bitch!’ she mouthed at the warden, who was standing with arms crossed glaring out of the window of her own flat. Viv wondered about this vindictive streak and how it translated into the lives of the residents. One of these days she’d report her.
It took fifteen minutes to drive home to the West Bow. What did her mum mean with all that ‘mind your back’ stuff? She was many things, but a conspiracy theorist wasn’t one of them. And why no TV today? Viv couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in her mum’s flat when the TV was off. Also she never had the windows closed. The merits of fresh air had been drummed into them as kids although the cleaning smells that Viv remembered from childhood were Lysol and polish, almond polish. She made a mental note to have a conversation with Mand about it, but it would have to wait until she was in the right mood. Tricky to gauge.
She checked her mailbox in the front passage of the stair. Nothing but junk. Viv bolted upstairs two at a time, arriving at her door slightly out of breath. Her doormat was pitched up against the wall and the landing was damp. She remembered it was Wednesday, the day that the stair cleaners came, when it suited them. What was going on today? Even her stairwell smelled of disinfectant. If only she’d remembered she’d have stayed away. Her key was poised over the lock when Ronnie from next door poked his head out, as usual avoiding eye contact with her.
He said, ‘Eh Viv, you’ve had a visitor.’
‘Really?’ She wasn’t expecting anyone and few people knew her home address.
‘Yes, a man. Tall, handsome stranger, I suppose you’d say.’ He bit the inside of his cheek.
She was intrigued. ‘Did he say who he was or what he wanted?’
‘No. I was just getting my coat on when I heard your letter box . . . snap shut, and I wondered who would walk all the way up those stairs when there’s a place for post in the entrance hall . . . I was on my way out, not being nosy.’
Viv shook her head. Ronnie was the perfect neighbour. She hardly knew he was there, but at times like this he was a valuable ally. ‘What did he look like?’
Ronnie glanced over his shoulder as if to check that no one could hear him and lowered his voice. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this but he looked Germanic, Teutonic. He made me think of Wagner.’ This was as fluent as she’d heard him in a long while. Conversations were not his thing. His speech impediment held him back with strangers, but perhaps he was becoming more at ease with her.
The description wasn’t of anyone familiar to her but she smiled at the idea of Ronnie being a fan of Wagner. She’d never heard music from his flat that indicated a passion for anything other than modern jazz. She unlocked her door and glanced behind it. Nothing there. ‘How odd. I don’t know anyone particularly tall. Was he blonde?’
Ronnie nodded, ‘But not flaxen.’
This also made Viv smile, ‘And handsome? Nope, definitely not anyone that would come to my flat. Thanks for letting me know.’
They both stepped over their own thresholds. Viv’s interest piqued by the idea of a stranger, as Ronnie said, coming all the way up to her door when he’d have found out that she wasn’t at home by buzzing from down at street level. Did he want to leave something but was interrupted by Ronnie? Maybe he was at the wrong door, or just wanted to see exactly where she lived. Well, if he wanted to speak to her badly he’d turn up again.
The light on Viv’s answering machine flashed. She hit the play button and sat down at her desk waiting for the message. The sound of Jinty’s husky voice immediately improved her mood.
‘Hi, Viv. I know you don’t really do this kind of thing but I wondered as a complete one off, I mean complete one off, you might squeeze in an extra trim? We have a composer staying and he hasn’t had time to have his hair cut before his performance tomorrow night, and I thought since you were com
ing here anyway you might blah blah. You know the form. Ring me.’ Her voice lowered to just above a whisper as if she was worried about being heard, ‘Wouldn’t matter two hoots if you can’t do it. I mean really, who goes on tour and forgets to have their hair cut?’ Her voice returned to its original formality. ‘Completely understand. Looking forward.’
Viv nibbled her lip. She knew Jinty well and there was more to this message than the words suggested. What was she trying to tell her? Also it was a long message for Jinty, who hated speaking to machines almost as much as Viv did. Equally unusual for her to ask a favour, so there must be something going on. Viv rubbed her hands together then checked her diary. She couldn’t refuse Jinty anything unless it was impossible. She glanced at her laptop then quickly tapped out an email replying to Jinty.
She had a pile of things to do but couldn’t concentrate to do anything that mattered. Sal’s flight wasn’t until 6pm but she had to be at the airport by 4.30 at the latest, which meant leaving the West Bow at 3.30. She put a washing in the machine, went to the loo, stacked the crockery from the draining board away in cupboards. She flinched when the phone rang, and gave herself a telling-off. By the time she reached the sitting-room the light on the answering machine was already blinking. She pressed the play button. The sound of a telephone handset hitting against its cradle and her mum cursing to herself at the other end before hanging up was all she heard. What could she want? Viv had only just seen her. She called her back. No answer. She tried Amanda’s number but it went straight to voicemail. Her mum was no idle chatterer so only used the telephone if she had something important to say. She was about to pick up her bag and head back to her mum’s flat when her mobile vibrated. Her sister.
‘Mand, how is mum? She just tried to ring here but obviously got bored untangling the cord of her phone. I’m going online right now to buy her a cordless phone.’
‘That’s a waste of money. You know she hates the telephone. Nothing will make her leave a message unless it’s an absolute emergency. But never mind that. How was she when you were here earlier? I’ve come down to the lobby to ring you.’
Viv didn’t want to say exactly how she’d been, since Mand loved a drama and would blow the slightest thing out of proportion. ‘She was fine. Why?’
‘She keeps telling me to mind my back.’
The sound of heavy traffic, then a siren at Mand’s end, made it impossible for their conversation to continue. Viv shuffled papers on her desk until it passed.
‘I can’t think what’s riled her. She said the same to me. But, Mand, you know she’s getting a bit forgetful.’
Mand sighed. ‘Oh you always say that. She’s fine. Did she tell you about the window cleaner?’
Viv raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes she did mention that.’
‘She’s right, Viv. I’ve just checked with the warden and the window cleaner isn’t due for another month. Whoever it was, was casing the joint.’
This had already crossed Viv’s mind but she still didn’t want Mand to go off on one. ‘There must be . . . actually let’s leave it. If they were after something in mum’s flat they’ll return. Now that we know we can make sure the warden keeps a closer eye.’
‘Well that’s just it, the warden did see him and has CCTV of the car he came in. You’ll have to go and see her. She’ll show you what she’s got. She just brushed me off with ‘too busy.’.’
The idea of having to speak to the woman, who’d already cost her an extra fifteen minutes scraping white gloopy paper off her windscreen this morning, wasn’t on the cards anytime soon, but she said, ‘Sure I can do that.’
As if Mand had caught something in Viv’s tone she said, ‘You won’t do it, will you. This is another thing that I’ll have to take on. James . . .’
Viv interrupted her, ‘I said I’d do it.’
Mand, a mistress of emotional blackmail, had had such a different relationship with their mother that Viv sometimes wondered if they were sisters at all. Family photograph albums contained impressive evidence that they were, but they even looked so different it seemed impossible.
‘In fact I’m on my way. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘You always say that and never do.’
This wasn’t true but the usual chain of events when it was to do with their mum went something like, Mand asked Viv to do something, Viv thought Mand was overreacting but got worn down enough to take action anyway, Mand would keep phoning and leaving messages to see if Viv had followed through, and on one of those calls Viv would fill her in, so the need to ring her back to fill her in didn’t occur, because Mand always interrupted the sequence and got her information before Viv had had time to think it through. This often meant that Viv either withheld a load of info, or just spilled whatever she had and let Mand do what she did best, go off on one.
Viv decided to jog back to her mum’s to fill in some of the anxious time before picking up Sal. That way she’d avoid being wound up by the over-zealous warden sticking another of those notices on her windscreen again. She trotted down through the Grassmarket, along King’s Stables Road to the West End then round Rutland Square so that she was off the main traffic route. Only took twenty minutes and she chastised herself for not going on foot more frequently. She pressed the bell for deliveries and the warden answered the intercom, clearly flummoxed to hear Viv’s voice, since there was no car to alert her.
The door clicked open and Viv stepped into the foyer.
The warden waddled towards her, tight lipped and officious.
Viv didn’t give her any preamble, just said, ‘I’d like to see the CCTV footage for yesterday and the day before.’ No explanation, just a request.
‘Oh, I can’t give you access to that. It would have to be cleared by . . .’
Viv put the flat of her hand up. ‘Now, my mum has had a threatening encounter and I, as her immediate family, have a right to look at . . .’
It was the warden’s turn to interrupt. ‘I don’t have the authority to do that.’
‘Perhaps not, but with one phone call, which we are just about to . . .’
She took out her phone and glared at the warden in expectation of her giving up a number. She was not compliant but made a gesture for Viv to follow her to the office. Once there she rummaged through papers and drawers until she realised that Viv was going nowhere, and pressed a single digit on the landline on her desk.
Viv sighed and reminded herself that when people revelled in tiny victories it indicated their actual insecurity. But that didn’t justify inappropriate behaviour. You just had to look at the legacy of Hitler or Stalin to witness what insecure people were capable of. Viv was convinced that her mum was unhappy with the way she was treated by this woman but she had too little proof. Once or twice recently when Viv had said she’d ‘get the warden onto it’ her mum had made excuses so that Viv wouldn’t take action. Viv’s mum was no shrinking violet yet this warden had some sort of power over her. Viv glanced round the small tidy room. A box of tissues disguised under a satin and lace cover crouched on the window sill, a bookcase with a few ‘how to’ books sat beneath a framed certificate on the wall stating that the woman had ‘attended’ a course on communication with the elderly. The warden caught her reading it and glared. The place smelled of mock lavender, definitely more chemical than organic and barely masking another stale smell, which Viv recognised as over-full vacuum cleaner.
The call took two minutes. The warden conceded and turned her computer screen round so that Viv could view it. A few clicks later she watched the film that Mand had talked about. There definitely was a man going directly up a ladder to her mum’s first floor windows. Why would he do that if he was there to do the whole building? Surely he’d start at the top and work down? She stared at the paltry attempt he’d made at cleaning the window. There was more looking in than cleaning. What was he up to? Viv zoomed in to look for a logo on his clothing but she couldn’t see anything. The company that the housing association employed had to wear unifor
ms.
The warden said, ‘He’s definitely not one of the usual men. They’re all vetted and I haven’t seen him before. Also, they’re not allowed to work without uniforms and ID cards.’ There was a knock at the office door. A resident wanted help to open the clothes drier. Reluctantly the warden went with the woman, which left Viv free to download the footage onto a USB stick. It was possible that she’d find the man on another database but not one that she would access easily from a public network computer.
She left the office without saying goodbye and nipped upstairs to her mum’s flat. There was no answer when she knocked. She went back downstairs to the public rooms and through a window in the top of the door she saw her mum with a group of men and women concentrating on a watercolour class. Best leave her to it. She jogged home.
Chapter Two
Viv scraped the mould off a block of cheddar and put slivers of the remains on top of oatcakes. She bit into the first one and spat it out. Mouldy cheese was one thing but soft oatcakes, no way. Coffee with sugar would keep her going.
There wasn’t much time before she had to pick up Sal and take her to the airport. A strange sensation began to curdle in her stomach. Better find a distraction. The new software she’d recently installed would help in the task she was about to begin. People were visible. It wasn’t only China who had sophisticated surveillance. There were cameras and tech all around us gathering data to be used or stored in the event that someone or something needed to be traced. She believed that even the cameras used to deter speeding on motorways were constantly collecting data: registration numbers, the frequency of travel, the times of travel, and more importantly facial recognition of drivers. Big brother was much bigger and more far reaching than he’d ever been, but where there was information there was a desire to access it either by legal, or in her case not so legal means. She wasn’t doing any harm just taking a peek. So she entered her new office space, a small cupboard built into the eaves of her flat. With no window to distract her, she had placed a large desk directly against a wall and bought three large monitors each with a different operating system. She closed the door behind her and settled down. In the safety of her tech-womb she toured cyberspaces that most people would never believe existed, never mind believe that she could access them. The film that she’d acquired from the warden was, as most of them were, grainy, but that wasn’t difficult to remedy. Before installing her new software she’d have had to rely on Mac, or sneaking behind the firewall of the NTF services. She smiled. Her own super software was working a treat. The man who’d pretended to be her mum’s window cleaner had a unique, not to mention convenient, identifying scar above his right eye but even without that she’d have been able to identify him. She ran his face through another system and soon found a name and his police record. He was a petty criminal, with a long history of theft, shoplifting, breaking and entering, mainly small retailers. She snorted. He’d been done once for nicking dozens of boxes of bubbly off a lorry before they’d made it to the supermarket. Nothing sophisticated, but from what she could make out he always had intelligence in advance. Possible connections to a gang or syndicate? No violence recorded didn’t mean he hadn’t used it, just that he hadn’t been caught. Criminals were bright, creative people not to be underestimated. She’d known a few who’d given themselves up for a petty crime in the interest of something much greater going undiscovered. Her speculations helped to create a clearer picture, not always a bad thing. She laughed when people claimed, ‘What you see is what you get.’ Total BS. People were rarely what they let you see. Mostly they were the sum of what they were hiding. Freud was no slouch. She shifted in her chair and cracked her neck; she’d found out enough to dig in other avenues but now it was time to face the music with Sal.