The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  Viv decides to leave the MG, knowing she’ll never get parked on the north side of town. She heads up the West Bow, onto George IV Bridge, straight down the Mound via the Playfair Steps, and passing the elegant classical buildings of the National Galleries reaches Princes Street. This street was once the envy of many European cities, but is now full of bland chain-stores, each one an insult to the splendour of its neighbours on the opposite side of the road. Up Hanover Street, a short jog on George Street, skipping between parked cars in the centre of the road, then into Howe Street – takes ten minutes tops.

  She pushes open the door and a warm, over-deodorised atmosphere hits her. The place is begging for a blast of fresh air. It’s busy. As she squints into the back room she decides that if Jules’ information is good the men here are a couple of decades too old, but she orders a half of cider anyway. It’s barely two o’clock and one guy, hanging onto the bar, looks as if he should head for bed. Sidling alongside him she says, ‘I’m looking for my brother.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  No slurring. Hopeful.

  Viv tries again. ‘He’s beautiful. Darkish hair. Tall. About so high,’ holding her hand above her own head. He turns and looks her up and down.

  ‘A lot like you then.’

  She doesn’t expect this. Gay men can be antagonistic towards lone women invading their turf. Viv continues to build her fantasy ‘brother’ with another lie. ‘He hangs out with a young crowd. Not many in today.’

  ‘We’d all like to hang out with a young crowd, dear.’

  He sneers, showing overly white porcelain teeth that should have been made into teacups. They slip as he yawns, and, self-consciously, he raises his hand to cover his mouth before slumping back onto the bar. He should definitely go home; he can’t be good for business. As she moves off he murmurs: ‘Day time, you’ll have more luck in Copa Cabana.’

  ‘Cheers!’

  Copa Cabana is a new bar at the east end of town within easy walking distance. Setting out at a brisk pace Viv takes in the grandeur of Edinburgh’s New Town. This wasn’t called Great King Street for nothing. To the uninitiated these buildings look identical, but everywhere there are discreet architectural details: astragals each slightly different, urns and pillars; all a testimony to neo-classical symmetry.

  Approaching her destination, she negotiates her way anti-clockwise round Drummond Place, a splendid square with gardens in the centre for the use of its residents. A disappointing sign reads ‘No Dogs or Ball Games’. Beyond the square lies the entrance to Edinburgh’s gay ghetto – Broughton Street, where more pink pound is spent at the weekend than any other area of town. Viv’s destination is close, but hasn’t managed a premier spot. As she waits at the traffic lights to cross Picardy Place she can see young men entering and exiting Copa Cabana and her spirits rise.

  This bar isn’t at all like the last one. Here there is a huge plate glass front, wooden flooring and leather furniture framed with stainless steel: designed for exposure not discretion. The bright halogen lights are a secondary source of heat, which after a whole evening must be torture, but are a bonus to her now. Women are welcome here so she looks less conspicuous as well. Taking off her jacket and sitting down she peruses a menu. A panini would be welcome. The waiter who comes to take her order barely looks in her direction. She doesn’t believe he caught what she said, but within a few minutes he’s back with her glass of cider, a napkin and cutlery, so there must be something on its way.

  After a long draw of her drink she scans the room for prospective interviewees. The waiter, as camp as anyone she’s seen in a long time, is entertaining three young guys at the end of the bar. If this were not a known gay establishment, she would have thought they were simply three football fans, their Hibs colours a convincing disguise. On closer inspection they look underage, but most people do now. She’d better tread carefully; mustn’t alienate them before she’s got what she needs from them.

  The waiter, responding to a shout from the kitchen, minces off to collect what Viv hopes is her food. Sure enough he twirls round the end of the bar and ceremoniously places a full plate in front of her. This exhibition was certainly not intended for her amusement – the young guys laugh uproariously and the waiter, satisfied, makes a low bow. The bread smells great and she tucks in, but before she’s finished a woman sits down opposite her and smiles: ‘D’you mind?’ Viv smiles back through a mouthful of mozzarella cheese, which has taken on a life of its own. Grabbing the napkin she struggles to contain it, and blushes like an adolescent.

  Viv is usually comfortable in gay bars; as a trainee hairdresser it was one of her initiation rites. The first time fellow juniors took her out on the town, a town a whole lot different from any Edinburgh she could have conceived of, a woman asked her to dance, and she had yelled, ‘There’s NO WAY I’d ever dance with a dyke!’ It’s mortifying just thinking about it. The woman had subsequently come to the salon to have her hair cut and said to Viv, ‘I only wanted to dance.’ They both laughed at her panic and became friends.

  Now, Viv is relieved that the woman sitting opposite, mucking about on her phone, doesn’t make any further attempt to chat, but wonders why she chose to sit there given the empty seats elsewhere. Feeling better after food, Viv heads over to the bar. She hears the barman saying, ‘O-M-G!’ Then as she gets closer, ‘W-T-F?’ Get used to it, Viv. The Atlantic has become like a puddle. As she nods to the group, they glance at one another, look her up and down, then snigger, before one of them asks what they can do for her. More sniggers until she replies, ‘I’m looking for Andrew Douglas.’

  This puts their gas at a peep. Their frivolity drops a few leagues.

  ‘Who’s askin’?’

  Viv turns to look behind her and says, ‘I don’t see anyone else, do you?’

  ‘Witty, very witty. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Let’s say, I’m making it my business to know. When was the last time any of you saw him? I’m not asking for the good of my health.’

  Of the three, the one who has spoken is the tallest, over six feet. He looks the least healthy. Skinny, with pale grey skin and a fair portion of acne, which doesn’t bode well in this world where youth is only half of the equation. The other two are about five eight, with clear glowing skin, perhaps the residue of winter sun. Middle-class skiing? School chums? None of this sits comfortably with the football colours.

  Ignoring the tall boy Viv sets her gaze on one of the others. ‘So you know who I mean?’

  This boy is not so brave and quickly looks away. Then, returning her stare, he holds it defiantly. He pushes an invisible strand of hair back from his forehead – a movement more camp than she’d expected from his muscular frame. Still looking directly at her, he says, ‘What if he doesn’t want to be found?’ His accent cultured but not public school.

  ‘Well, that would be interesting and I’d respect that. But there’s a reward for information about his whereabouts.’ Viv smiles encouragingly.

  The tall boy’s face twitches a humourless smile into a look of possibility.

  ‘How much?’

  Viv doesn’t actually know the amount, but she’s been here before and responds with, ‘Plenty.’

  He smirks. ‘You’re taking the piss.’

  ‘Come on guys. When or where did you see him last?’

  ‘You’re wasting your time, missus.’

  His accent is an attempt to be more working-class than he is: condescension oozes from the title.

  ‘It’s Doctor, actually.’

  Viv’s PhD was completed exactly because of her contempt for Ms, Miss and Mrs. Not titles, but categories designed to expose a woman’s ‘station’. Pulling her Doctorate out of the bag usually raises a few eyebrows and on cue the tall boy raises his, then with a return to a cocky smirk says, ‘He’s not dead . . . but maybe not as healthy as he’d like to be.’

  ‘Any idea where I might find him?’

  ‘You could try the Colonies.’

  Sh
e’s doing well so far but keen not to push her luck, dips into her pocket, pulling out a ten. He snorts. She extracts a twenty and puts them together. He stays silent. When she pulls out another twenty he puts out his hand. Once he’s got hold of the money he lifts a pen from the bar and writes on the back of a coffee menu and slides it along to her. It’s an address, most likely false.

  Chapter Two

  If she jogs she could be at this address within fifteen minutes. Viv, feeling the three sets of eyes on her back, leaves the pub, relieved to be away from the testosterone-laden atmosphere. But before she crosses at the lights she ducks down and doubles back, looking into the bar. As she thought, the tall skinny guy has one hand shielding his ear while his iphone is pressed against the other. The address he’s given her is bound to be useless but she has nothing else to go on so it’s worth checking out.

  Before she steps up her pace she flips open her mobile and presses Jules’ number. It’s busy so she sends a text instead. From what little the boys have said Andrew could be alive or they could have fed her a load of baloney. As she’s turning the corner into Broughton Street she glances back and spots one of the boys, the one who didn’t speak at all, walking quickly in her direction. As they make eye contact he shouts, ‘Keep walking!’ Slightly bemused she continues and when they are halfway down Broughton Street he shouts again, ‘In here!’

  She turns, retraces her steps and follows the boy into yet another gay bar. This one is tiny, with salsa music, but not many people. Its décor is arty and shabby chic; the Copa Cabana, by comparison, tries too hard. He beckons her through to a small room with a barrel-vaulted ceiling, and pulls out the chair next to him. Viv takes a seat opposite. She checks their proximity to other patrons – all okay. He, oblivious to his surroundings, blurts out, ‘Everything Tommy said back there was true. Only, I think Andrew really would like to be found. The flat will be clear at this time of the day – and certainly now that they’ve been warned.’

  ‘D’you know what’s going on?’ Viv tries not to sound too keen.

  He shakes his head, unwilling to make eye contact.

  ‘Only that there are drugs available if you’ll play their games.’

  ‘What! We talking sex for drugs? Surely not hard?’

  ‘I don’t know. Uppers, I expect.’

  This could mean anything. Most illegal substances will give you a high before you hit the deck.

  ‘Any names?’ She’s tempted to ask for his name, but worried that it might shut him up, she holds back.

  ‘No, I saw Andrew leaving the pub with an old bloke. Really not his scene; he always has young boys around him. I’ve only seen him once since and he was off his face then as well. He asked me to go back to the flat with him. I didn’t go. There’s a limit, but Andrew’s forgotten what it is.’

  Viv lets him run on while filling in the gaps in her mind. This is not sounding like a nice place for a middle-class boy, or any boy for that matter. Viv looks round, surprised that no one seems worried that they’re not ordering anything. She reaches into her pocket, but he stops her, ‘No, thanks. If I didn’t think he needed help I wouldn’t say anything. Helping a mate doesn’t have a price. We’re not all like Tommy.’ His phone rings. His answer is positively upbeat. ‘Hey Ruthie.’ Whatever ‘Ruthie’ said, his voice drops. He turns away from Viv as if she might hear. ‘No.’ He seethes. He blinks and his jaw tightens in frustration. ‘Which bit of no…?’

  The caller hangs up. Viv raises her eyebrows, but he stuffs the phone back into his pocket without reference to the call.

  Viv stands and nods, ‘What’s your name?’

  He doesn’t answer. She shakes her head and says, ‘Thanks.’ Then as she walks towards the door he calls out. ‘Pete.’

  She nods again, not sure whether to believe him, then makes her way back out onto Broughton Street.

  The Colonies aren’t far, so she heads downhill turning left on reaching the clock at Canonmills. She slips onto Glenogle Road, and walks toward Stockbridge, before continuing along beneath a high wall where she stops to read the address.

  Beyond where she stands are rows of Victorian terraced houses. But to her right, set back from the road, is a three-storey block of flats with a flat roof. Built in the nineteen eighties, it is surely an embarrassment to its architect. The residents’ car park is between her and the front entrance.

  She strolls across the tarmac, down a path of concrete slabs, idly looking up at the windows above. At the entrance sit two derelict planters. At eye level is a panel of buzzers; the one that she is looking for has no name against it – she feels for the postie.

  Her finger is on the buzzer for longer than is polite. No answer. She presses the button again. Nothing. Then again. And again. She’s nothing if not tenacious. As she glances round looking for another entrance she hears footsteps from inside the building. Viv makes a pretence of checking names, but the exiting man brushes past without even giving her a look. She jams her boot in the door just before it shuts. Inside there’s a corridor to the left with a glass door at the end, which probably leads out to the back. The staircase is directly opposite and there’s a flat to the right and left of it. She assumes the address that she’s been given is on the first floor so she takes the stairs.

  Each door has a tarnished metal plate with a number on it. Finding the one she’s looking for, she knocks and isn’t surprised when there is no response. Then, hearing the slightest of movements, she draws closer to the door when the sound of retching reaches her, followed by the flush of the loo. Viv turns as the neighbour across the hall comes out of her door and locks up behind her. She looks Viv up and down then asks, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Um, I’m looking for someone.’

  The woman snorts: ‘I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. They’re a bunch of raving paedos if you ask me.’

  Viv hadn’t asked, but it’s helpful to get an idea of whether there’s good will between neighbours: evidently not in this case. In an attempt to humour her Viv says, ‘D’you see much of them?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. The noises from inside make me sick, laughing and screaming at all hours. I don’t think any of them know the meaning of the word work. The police do nothing.’

  If this is true, it won’t mean the cops don’t keep an eye on them.

  The woman hesitates. ‘You from the police then?’

  ‘No.’ Viv hears her own defensiveness and softens her tone. She’ll not get info otherwise: ‘Too bad. Someone ought to do something.’

  While they stand on the landing there’s no further sound from inside the flat. No one has come out of the bathroom as far as she can tell.

  The woman calls back over her shoulder. ‘If I could get them out I’d be able to sell my place. No one will buy it with that lot there . . . big fat bastard.’

  Viv sighs and whispers to herself, ‘Say it as it is, why don’t you!’ She tries knocking again. No luck. Still, at least she’s out of the wind and patience is supposed to be a virtue. Taking a seat on the top step she checks her messages then rings Jules back. The stair is clean, no graffiti and the floor’s pale green mock marble surface matches the walls. It doesn’t smell too bad either, which is a stroke of luck. After leaving a message giving Jules what she’s up to she tries knocking on the door again. Another small sign of life: a groan, but life nonetheless. She knocks again. On her third knock she hears a noise, but even with her ear to the door she’s unable to make it out. It definitely wasn’t an invitation. Too bad. She tries the door handle; it’s her lucky day. The door opens into a warm carpeted hallway with four flush wooden doors: two on the right, one on the left and one directly ahead.

  ‘Hello?’ The hall floor is littered with blankets and sleeping bags. Pushing open each door, she repeats, ‘Hello!’ No one answers. Finally, in the last room, she makes out the shape of a body curled in a foetal position, beneath a pile of bedclothes. The room smells of stale sex and God knows what else. Crouching beside the figure she quietly say
s, ‘Hey.’

  She hopes to God this isn’t Andrew; this one doesn’t look as if he’ll survive. His skin is translucent – not good, especially coupled with blue lips and vomit round the mouth and on the tee shirt. His breathing is shallow; she goes down onto her knees and puts her ear to his chest. Without thinking about it, she’s dialling 999 and asking for an ambulance. As she rubs the back of his soft chilly hand she takes in the little there is of the room. The cheap voiles covering the windows look clean, but there is nothing on the walls; no paintings or posters. Everything apart from the floor is pretty bare. It seems an age before she hears the approach of a reassuring siren.

  When the paramedics enter, they look at her as if she should be scraped off their shoe. She doesn’t explain who she is, just what she found when she came into the flat. They don’t question her beyond asking if she has a name for the young man or any contacts. She reports that she has nothing, but that she heard someone retching and decided to try the door – which sounds thin even to her ears. As the paramedics are busy getting the stretcher set up, Viv tries to work out what actually goes on in this place. It’s a viper’s nest, den of iniquity, call it what you like, but the stench itself is a guarantee that the windows are never opened: it certainly isn’t anyone’s home.

  On the way out one of the paramedics asks, ‘You coming along?’

  ‘No, um, no, I’ll come up later.’

  He looks at her, recognising the lie, and nods. Every room has been slept in apart from the bathroom, and even in here she can’t be sure. There’s a pillow lying beneath the kitchen table. The food in the fridge is all the cheapest ‘value’ labels. The chances of this being a crime scene seem pretty strong so she lifts things with the sleeve of her jersey pulled over her hand. She’s intrigued that there are no unwashed dishes, only a damp cloth over the tap.

  Inside a small wooden cabinet by a king-size bed, she finds masses of ribbed condoms. That there are condoms at all is a good sign. Safe sex. Also there are well thumbed ‘top shelf’ mags and DVDs. The CID guys that she knows have a priority list: stuff that’s not worth bothering about and stuff that is. She’s guessing this is the former. Further raking around turns up a thick folded piece of paper. It’s one of those letters that doesn’t need an envelope, with perforations that you tear. It has the logo of HM Prisons on one side and the name Alexander MacDonald on the other. She slips it into her pocket.