The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  There isn’t any sign of sniffing material: the odd bottle of poppers, but no white powder. This doesn’t mean they don’t have it. Viv is suspicious that there’s so little junk lying around: every home has junk. There aren’t any bags or rucksacks, which is strange, given how many people seem to sleep here. This isn’t a home. It really could just be a camp. This is quite scary. She decides to head home. Apart from the letter she leaves it as she found it.

  Crossing the car park, she spots the woman from the flat next door walking towards her, laden with groceries. Viv stops and asks if she can give a hand with her bags. The woman screws up her eyes, but hands her a carrier anyway, and in her Edinburgh accent says, ‘You get what you wanted?’

  ‘Not really, I came to look for a young man, and I’m not sure what I’ve found. Have you met the guy who owns the flat?’

  ‘Yes! Fat bastard.’

  Not helpful, but Viv perseveres.

  ‘You don’t like him, then?’

  The woman is hostile. ‘No and neither would you if you met him. He’s here in the daytime, but always out at night. There’s no mail for him apart from wee thin parcels and it doesn’t take a genius to work out what might be in those.’

  When Viv cocks her head the woman says, ‘Well it must be films.’ The accent on the last word is almost comically heavy.

  Viv makes no response and the woman continues, ‘That said, he wears a uniform of some sort. He’s had long times on the sick. The local pharmacy delivered his medication then. He’s disgusting; a fat, ugly pervert exploiting young men . . .’ Her sentence trails off.

  ‘What?’ Viv raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Some of them come here in school uniform.’

  Viv makes a face and the woman says, ‘I see you’ve not the mind for it either.’

  Once they reach the front door the woman roots around in her pockets for a key. She must only be in her fifties but she’s slow for that. The crows-feet round her eyes show she’s had some laughs in her time.

  Upstairs, Viv lays the carrier bag on the floor and turns to leave. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Surely it should be me thanking you.’ Less hostile now. Perhaps even a touch of friendliness?

  Viv smiles and retraces her steps.

  Within half an hour she’s home. She grabs what little there is in her post box and takes the stairs, checking to see if there’s anything of interest. Her Hairdressers Journal is the only thing worth keeping. Time for research. A steaming mug of industrial strength coffee and a packet of biscuits are all she needs to keep her eyes on the screen for a couple of hours. Retrieving the letter from her pocket, she reads the HM Prison slip. Alexander MacDonald makes good money. With a dash of creativity she gets into the correct website to gather more information about MacDonald. The Saughton Prison home page is rather smart. Viv used to pass the prison every day on her way to school. She goes down a few blind alleys before finding the staff list, but once she’s in her eyes come out on stalks. There’s an Alexander MacDonald who is a prison psychologist. Do prison psychologists wear uniform? That would be rich.

  Perhaps there’s more than one Alexander MacDonald? After trawling for a further twenty minutes she finds another. ‘Bingo! Mm. A senior officer. He looks gay. So no prejudice there, Viv.’

  She’d better be careful. They could both be gay. She smiles, recalling the one in four statistic. Wondering how the poor young bloke from the flat is doing, she reaches for the telephone, but her hand hovers over it. They will only give her information if she turns up; too easy to fob someone off on the phone. She’s suddenly struck by the contrast between her own tiny, but homely flat, which could never be described as minimalist, and the state of the one she was in earlier. It was like an unloved hostel. Maybe that’s what it is. Curious. The intimate bits and pieces of a home were missing. Not even computing equipment, no printer or wireless hub, no telephone or ornaments. There was electricity, that’s for sure: the fridge was on, and the big screen TV was set up with DVD and video recorders. Strange. Everyone has a mobile phone. But do they all use laptops? It’s easy to tap into wifi from a neighbour without them even knowing. Most homes these days can’t function without a computer. She’d counted at least nine sleeping bags and one king-size bed, and would lay bets that the sales particulars for the flat didn’t claim that it would sleep quite so many.

  She has ways of finding exactly which Alexander MacDonald resides in that flat, and sets about putting her mind to rest. Viv’s computing skills were honed at university, which she hadn’t expected. She’d made friends with a Hungarian woman whose knowledge of the web had made Viv’s look positively infantile. The information age offers up untold riches when used with what Gabby, the Hungarian, called ‘creativity’. Many clicks later Viv discovers what she had secretly hoped not to. The prison officer’s pay slip that she has in hand corresponds to that of Her Majesty’s fifty-six-year-old psychologist. This could get interesting.

  The man in the photograph staring back at her from the screen looks older than his years, more like a convict than he should, and not exactly a picture of health. The prison issue uniform does nothing for his waxy tattie complexion, his screwed up eyes or multiple jowls. Not a bonny sight. Who in their right mind would have intimate relations with this apparition? Who indeed? Perhaps he doesn’t participate; he might just enjoy the Pullman seats. Yuck! She shudders at the idea of one of those young chaps from the bar with him. Enough. Time for a shower.

  Letting the power and the heat of the water do their work, Viv turns her mind to what’s next. First stop is the Royal Infirmary to see how the unknown chap is doing, but before that she’d better have food. Her kitchen is compact: swinging cats are definitely in danger here. The hummus is on its sell-by date, so she slaps some onto a thick slice of bread and eats it on the way downstairs.

  Living in the Old Town is like being in the bohemian quarter of any European city. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries these buildings were constructed to cater for numbers not aesthetics. Although her top-floor flat towers above the Grassmarket and has magnificent views across the south of the city to the Pentland Hills, the lower you go inside the stairwell the darker it is, and at the bottom the light is so poor that anyone who isn’t familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the flagstones is in some peril. Viv knows them well and skips out the front door onto the West Bow.

  The street is bustling with early evening drinkers. The real ale pub next door attracts people who rarely venture from the security of the New Town – men in suits with ties loosened, and women, also in suits, stand outside in the cold, all drawing on cigarettes as if their lives depended on it. Maybe they do? Viv assesses this crowd and although she’s never had rose-tinted spectacles, she compares them to the young man in that nest in the Colonies, The New Town is the epitome of precious and she’s often thought it should be called Parvenutown. Again she decides to leave her car in its treasured space and hails a taxi at the top of her road. The hospital is a jog too far. Besides, she’ll have to watch her time.

  The Royal is an old name for the new hospital recently built to the south-east of Edinburgh, in an area called Little France. A place less like France she’d never set her eyes on. Apparently the area got its name in the sixteenth century, because Queen Mary, also Queen Consort of France, housed her French workers at this side of town in the lee of Craigmillar Castle. It was probably once a lovely country hamlet.

  When Viv leans forward to pay the driver she’s surprised that it’s a woman. It’s unlike her to have missed this, and she reminds herself to keep her wits about her. She hesitates at the automatic doors before entering – her discomfort at being in a hospital always makes itself known. She checks the overhead signs for the male unit. There are lots of visitors outside the ward doors. It may look state of the art, but it smells like any hospital and runs just like its Victorian counterparts. Sure enough, a bell goes and the visitors walk through. Viv attaches herself to a family, to look less conspicuous, but as soon as they reach
their son’s bed she’s on her own.

  Confidence is everything. Viv has always found it difficult to play the role of carer. At first she thinks she’s out of luck, but then spots a boy without any visitors at the end of the ward. He looks frail, and has a drip attached to his hand. His eyes are open.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Wary.

  ‘You probably won’t remember me, I’m the woman who rang for the ambulance.’

  He lifts his head to get a better look at her then drops it back onto the pillow. ‘You had no business doing that.’

  His voice is weak and his eyes fill up. He closes them and tears run down the side of his face into his ear. Viv pulls up a chair. She hadn’t expected to be greeted with open arms but is surprised by his tears. She whispers, ‘You weren’t really trying to kill yourself, were you?’

  He doesn’t answer and she doesn’t push him. The noise of chatter in the ward is phenomenal. She reflects on how difficult it is for the sick to get any peace. He tries again to lift his head but fails. ‘What were you doing at Sandy’s?’ Although he’s weak, he’s still curious.

  ‘I was looking for Andrew.’ There’s no sign of his recognising the name so she adds. ‘Andrew Douglas?’

  She watches as a flash of something crosses his face and he hesitates before saying, ‘You mean Drew? I don’t know his last name.’

  She’s no idea where to go next, but nods in agreement and he continues. ‘Never seen him in the flat during the day.’

  His eyes show suspicion and she quickly asks, ‘So you’ve seen him recently?’

  He screws up his eyes and in a wary tone asks again, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m his sister.’ Her lie flawless. He sighs and she continues. ‘I need to find him. Or if not him Sandy.’

  ‘You know Sandy then?’

  ‘A bit.’

  An insufficient answer, but it’s all she’s got.

  ‘Sandy won’t be around for a while. I think he’s gone back to his wife’s. He needs looking after.’

  The sarcasm is heavy. Viv is intrigued by this.

  ‘Well, I’ll just have to concentrate on finding Andrew . . . Don’t suppose you’d know where Sandy’s wife lives?’

  ‘In the prison quarters, but I haven’t a clue where that is.’

  Viv knows the prison officers’ houses are at Saughton Mains, within walking distance of the prison.

  ‘Was Andrew with anyone when you saw him last?’

  ‘Yup, we were boggle eyed because the bloke was too old and Andrew . . .’ He stops and shuts his mouth.

  ‘I know about his lifestyle.’ Viv speaks gently.

  ‘Well, the guy was older; good looking, but older. They left the flat after picking up . . . Actually . . . maybe you should go.’

  She doesn’t move, but asks, ‘Drugs? Was Drew picking up drugs?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’ He closes his eyes and turns his head away.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  He doesn’t respond. John Black is the name above the bed.

  As she heads back along the corridor her nose is assaulted again by the cocktail of cleaning fluid and poor, over-cooked food. She wonders how anyone could get well in such a place. Spotting a taxi through the automatic doors she breaks into a run, her hand in the air. She jumps in and slams the door.

  Chapter Three

  ‘The Copa Cabana!’

  This time Viv does look at the driver, but he doesn’t return her interest. She feels invisible and that’s just fine. He does a U-turn and heads back into town. The roads are quiet, most commuters returned home for the night.

  Nights at Copa Cabana are always busy. She pushes and elbows through the throng until she reaches the bar. Who’d believe that anywhere would be doing such lively business on a Tuesday night. The barman, with a clean shirt and jeans, acknowledges her order of a half of cider with a nod and a wink, which reminds her of Benny Hill, saucy but not sexy.

  Viv squeezes back into the crowd looking vainly for somewhere to stand without being jostled. She spots Pete who nods and raises his glass slightly. She still thinks he must be under-age, but can’t believe they would take the risk in here. The cops will be on to their every move. In fact as she stands with her back to the wall she sees two officers at the door showing the security guy a photograph. Her heart stops. Behind them she spots a face from her past. God! Liam the Creep.

  Liam was a trainee in a salon where she worked. His flat, unprepossessing face hasn’t improved – still the pinnacle of a hunched body that moves as if it’s three decades older than it is. It must be difficult to be Liam among hosts of beauty queens. His gait is what her mother describes as ‘ten to two feet’; it’s a walk that provides him with the attention he seeks. He couldn’t care that it’s negative attention; attention is attention whatever kind it is. He never had chums until he started throwing money around, too much money to be legal – tips for washing hair were not that good.

  Viv slides down the wall before Liam spots her. She’s head and shoulders below everyone else when she notices she’s being watched – by the same woman who sat next to her before. From her hunkered down position she raises her glass, as if to say, I’ve no idea what I’m doing here. The woman smiles then turns back to her friends. Viv watches them. She can’t imagine why such an odd crew should be here, but then remembers her own relief at not being surrounded by heckling hets. One of them is wearing old-style lesbian gear, the sort that would have been worn at Greenham Common: a big Ban the Bomb tee-shirt over a big tummy and baggy trousers. Three have grey hair and are overweight. The redhead, who just smiled at Viv, is wearing jeans and a tweed jacket and is about the same build as Viv, toned but not skinny.

  The lights are killing, their intense heat creating a broth of sweat mixed with too much deodorant. The voice of Laura Brannigan is so loud everyone is shouting to be heard. Viv’s penny drops. No wonder it’s busy: it’s an eighties night.

  The gay bars of Edinburgh are home to every profession, and Copa Cabana is no exception. QCs mingle with shop assistants and bus drivers, and it wouldn’t be the first time if she bumped into one of her lecturers from university. She’s even seen the occasional unsuspecting husband of a client: those ever so hetero-camps who if they don’t touch can’t resist looking.

  After her cider is gone she slides back up the wall in the hope of catching the eye of her young accomplice, but he’s busy waving to attract the barman’s attention. The redhead on the other hand sidles closer, and in a raised voice says, ‘Hi! My name’s Sandra. What brings you here again?’ Viv notices a slight lisp.

  ‘Probably not the same thing that’s brought you here. The name’s Cath.’

  ‘Is that right? And here was I thinking I’d found Viv Fraser.’ The redhead’s smile looks genuine.

  Surprised to hear her name, Viv has to work hard not to show recognition. ‘Sorry. You’ve got the wrong girl.’

  The redhead smiles again, ‘I don’t think so.’ And nods in the direction of the door. ‘Liam over there said your name’s Viv.’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe all, in fact I wouldn’t believe anything that Liam says.’

  The redhead shrugs and turns, about to go back to her friends, then stops. ‘He wouldn’t lie to me.’ She winks at Viv and Viv snorts as the redhead continues. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure that we’re not here for the same reason.’

  The heat is suffocating and Viv glances longingly at the exit. She knows she can’t call it a day yet. Should she go to the loo, splash water on her face and be more assertive with the young accomplice? Yup – the loo wins. The women’s toilets are rarely a priority in a gay bar, but these aren’t too bad. Directing the cool air of the hand drier up onto her face, she’s almost ready to face the crowd again when the redhead comes in and nods to a young girl, who hasn’t yet started drying her hands. Red nods more vehemently. The girl shakes her hands and gives Red a death stare – a sure sign that she didn’t attend a local comprehensive school
, where death stares were purely for saps – before stomping out.

  Viv tilts her head and grins, ‘We must stop meeting like this.’ She says this to make sure that she leads the conversation.

  Red takes something from her pocket; a movement that has Viv on alert. But Red flashes a CID badge and smiles, obviously anticipating Viv’s surprise. ‘What exactly are you here for, Viv?’

  ‘Well, that would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Shame if we can’t help each other.’

  Viv isn’t stupid. She’s helped the police before, but there’s rarely been any pay-off and she isn’t inclined to help them until it becomes necessary. If Red were not standing between her and the door she’d be out of here.

  Red interrupts her thought process. ‘I’m looking for information on Andrew Douglas, and it sounds to me as if you have been asking similar questions . . . Now why would you be asking questions about Andrew?’

  Viv quietly treads water, grappling for an answer. The boys have fairly been yapping. As a way out she says, ‘If I hear anything I’ll let you know.’

  As she steps towards the door Red goes into her pocket a second time. This time she pulls out a card with her number on it and hands it to Viv. ‘Not difficult now that you have my contact details. We might be on the same side.’

  ‘I doubt it. But I’ll keep it in mind.’

  As she approaches the outside door she hears Liam’s unmistakable shrill tone.

  ‘Vivian!’

  Her skin crawls. Not even her mother calls her that, unless she’s out of favour. She steps up her pace and is out onto Picardy Place flagging a taxi, turning briefly to see him watching her from the door.