The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  Unambiguous. Viv fills the MG and saunters across the forecourt to pay. The woman behind the counter doesn’t meet her eye, but looks beyond her through the window to Bluebeard, standing beside Viv’s car with his arms folded. Viv, alarmed but also pissed off, thinks, how the hell did he know? Do I look that much like a journo? Just wait till I get my hands on Jules.

  As she gets back into the car he stares, but doesn’t say anything more. She drives off frustrated as he stands watching her. She pulls in at the first lay-by she can find. Her heart pounding, she takes a few deep breaths, and punches in Jules’ number.

  ‘Jules! You any idea what the fuck is going on here? I’ve just left the petrol station out by Dalkeith, and some bruiser gave me a warning.’

  ‘The police?’ Jules sounds unperturbed.

  ‘No, not the police. This guy had more muscle in one pec than the whole force. I’d say he’s his own personal Mafia. Asked if I was planning to ask questions.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Still perfectly calm.

  ‘What d’you think I said? . . . I said no. There’s a lot more going on than Andrew Douglas going missing. What is it?’

  Jules doesn’t address the question and instead says, ‘ Fancy coming into the office before noon tomorrow?’

  ‘No. I haven’t found him yet and I’m picking up some very unsavoury vibes from people who know him. I’m on my way back to the pub where his pals hang out. I’ll check in later.’

  Viv throws her phone onto the passenger seat and starts when it rings as soon as it bounces against the leather. She grabs it in one hand and with the other nudges the lever on the heater. She screws up her eyes at the phone display, the light too poor to make out the caller’s number, but answers it anyway. She is surprised at the voice on the other end. It’s the factor of her flat.

  ‘Hello! Oh, hello. It’s a bit late for you, isn’t it?’ She doesn’t mean to sound rude, but worries that it does.

  ‘I know it’s short notice, Ms Fraser, but I was wondering if there was any chance that Dr Chapman could take a look round the flat. We think it’s time for some up-grading.’ Viv sighs with relief at his affable tone.

  ‘Well not tonight, obviously, but it may be possible tomorrow. Yeah, yeah. Okay. I’ll ring you tomorrow. Bye.’

  She cuts the line and looks at the phone. Curious. Why would her landlady want to pay a visit to the flat now? Viv rents her flat fully furnished and has always been intrigued about its owner. Looks as if she’s going to find out something now.

  Trying to focus on what’s next she slips the MG into gear and heads towards Copa Cabana. It isn’t as busy as last night, but Viv still has to use a bit of elbow to get through to the bar. The barman tonight is more self-assured than the previous guy. He moves as if he’s on a commercial: his jeans hang off his backside, his Jacob’s ladder is exposed above the waistband of his Calvin Klein’s. He has topped all this off with a black tee shirt at least one size too small, which does a grand job showing the muscle definition on his torso.

  This Adonis shouts above the music, ‘What can I get you, ma’am?’

  His mid-atlantic accent has spent the odd year on Sauchiehall Street, but he’s cheerful with a smile that reaches his eyes and lights up his pretty face.

  ‘Cider, organic if you’ve got it.’

  He raises his one eyebrow and grins. ‘Good choice. Anything else?’

  ‘You seen Andrew Douglas recently?’

  ‘No idea.’

  He gestures at the crowd. ‘They could all be Andrew Douglas. How would I know?’

  Polished.

  ‘Well, he’s young, good looking and missing!’

  ‘You don’t look like a cop.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m not.’ Viv grins encouragingly.

  ‘Others are asking the same question. He must be wealthy!’

  He places her drink in front of her and takes the offered tenner.

  Viv nods, ‘Put one in the till.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’ His charm is flawless.

  To avoid any more jostling she makes her way to the nearest free wall and looks back into the crowd. No sign of the young Hibernian supporters. She spots Liam’s back and in a move that’s becoming familiar she slides down in case he catches sight of her. The last thing she’s up for is a conversation with the Devil.

  ‘You trying to avoid someone?’

  Speaking of the Devil, Red emerges from the throng. Viv looks her up and down. She’s wearing the same kit as yesterday.

  ‘Nice uniform . . . You live here?’

  Red is unfazed. ‘Could accuse you of the same thing. Now what say you we pool resources?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s not good to mix motivation. I have a job to do and so do you, but they’re very different.’ Viv doesn’t want to have this conversation, at least not right now.

  ‘There are parallels, though.’ Red perseveres. ‘We are both looking for Andrew and

  . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  During this conversation Viv spots Pete. They make eye contact and he nods toward the corridor where the loos are.

  ‘Sorry – have to go.’ She places her glass on a sill and leaving Red bemused heads to the loo. Viv’s forgotten just how grotty pubs make her feel – even without the smoke. Once she’s washed her hands, she presses the button on the hand drier. Dead. Unable to see a paper towel, she pushes her hands up beneath the drier again. Nothing. Water runs down her wrists and under the cuffs of her jacket.

  Wondering if the men’s loos are as bad, she turns into the corridor rubbing her hands on her jeans, and catches sight of Pete coming out of the men’s doing the same thing. She’s reassured that some men do wash their hands and says, ‘No drier!’

  He shakes his head. ‘I had a text from him.’

  They lean against opposite walls of a narrow corridor, with men squeezing past to visit the loo. It isn’t the ideal venue for this conversation but Viv isn’t sure what to suggest. ‘Where is he? Is he okay?’

  ‘Hold your horses. He didn’t say where he was. He needs money . . . too much for me to get hold of.’ They both fall silent as a couple of blokes in high spirits look in mock suspicion from Viv to her accomplice, then giggle their way to the gents.

  ‘How much and did he say what for?’

  ‘Five hundred. And no he didn’t.’ His harsh whisper is irritating but Viv knows she’ll have to bide her time.

  ‘Why would he ask you for that kind of money? I mean, do you have access to that amount of dosh or is he supposing that you’ll raise it . . . How well do you know him anyway?’ She looks at his tight white sports top. Its logo isn’t one that she recognises but it no doubt sends the right message to those who do. His jeans hang off his taut athletic butt and he, like the barman, makes no attempt to pull them up.

  ‘He knows that I’ll do whatever he asks.’ He sighs. Resigned.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  He looks at his feet and she thinks that his trendy trainers are an unlikely source of answers.

  ‘Were you and him . . .?’ She doesn’t finish her sentence as the two blokes return from the gents.

  ‘I wish. We’ve been through school together. Pals. Only ever pals.’

  She hears disappointment in the ‘only’.

  Here definitely isn’t the place to have this conversation and she says, ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Not much.’ But realising the question isn’t about food he adds, ‘I’m happy to watch.’

  ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘lead on.’

  On the way to the door she senses Red’s eyes on her back and turns. Viv taps the side of her nose – nothing if not competitive.

  The east wind howling up Leith Walk cuts through her as she steps onto the street. Pointing to the trattoria opposite she says, ‘That do?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He’s not going to be good company, but it’s not company she’s after.

/>   Once she’s ordered and the garlic bread arrives his hunger catches up with him, so she hails another waiter and doubles the order.

  ‘Was it from his own mobile number?’

  ‘Yep, I think so. I didn’t check.’

  He slips his mobile out and scrolls through until he finds the message.

  ‘No actually, I don’t recognise these last three digits. Maybe it’s the guy . . .’ He stops.

  Viv sighs, ‘Look, we don’t know each other from Adam, but we both want the same thing – the safe recovery of Andrew Douglas. Would you let me have that number? I may have a way of tracing the last call. It’s not very accurate but it could tell us if he’s still in the country.’

  He looks shocked at the notion that Andrew could be abroad. The order appears, piping hot lasagne, and they are silenced for a few minutes while they blow and stuff it in.

  This young man has got the love bug real bad. If Viv pushes the right buttons he’ll give her the number. She says, ‘We’ll just have to hope that nothing horrible has happened to him.’

  The colour, as she anticipated, drains from his face.

  ‘You really think he’s in danger?’ He hesitates, then slips his phone out again. ‘D’you have a pen?’

  She roots around in her rucksack then hands him a pen and a card. ‘Here.’

  This middle-class boy has the features of a tearaway but is too well brought up to carry it off. He writes the number out and slides it across to her. But before tucking it away she says, ‘Better give me yours as well.’

  ‘No, I’ll ring you.’

  She sighs, ‘It was only to keep you posted.’

  Conceding again he recites his number and she jots it down.

  Back in the flat it’s cold. She’s forgotten to close the bedroom window and all of the doors. Rushing from room to room she switches up panel heaters and draws the curtains. She changes into comfort kit, and boots up. Then, throwing a teabag into a mug she grabs what’s left of a packet of chocolate digestives, staple food for an all-nighter.

  Before making a start on her notes she glances through her emails. There’s one from the factor offering a time for Dr S. Chapman to come and look round the flat at nine a.m. the following morning. Damn nuisance at the moment. Her first hair client tomorrow isn’t until ten thirty and she’d imagined a long lie. She fires a quick email back, knowing he won’t pick it up until morning, saying ‘not convenient’ and requests a time shortly after noon instead. The luxuries that email affords.

  She goes over the events since Jules first rang her. Typically, Jules mentioned something about ‘the gay underworld’. The type of comment only an outsider would make. For insiders it’s simply their world. She recalls the detail of the first pub: the poor chap with the ill-fitting dentures, the tinted mirrors, the worn carpets – an old-style gay bar whose clientele reflected its origins, in an era when desires had to be hidden. The next bar was also a reflection of its clientele: most of them out and proud. With lighting too bright to be forgiving or discreet and big windows onto the street it’s a fish bowl with nowhere to hide. Not to ignore the deafening music blasting from surround sound. Hardly ideal for those in the closet.

  Viv shudders, unable to visualise Sandy MacDonald in this postmodern aquarium. The first bar, on the other hand, is right up his street. Fear of being outed is still a big deal. But where are the other deals done? She tries to walk in the moccasins of a dealer. Are the toilets a good enough place to pass on your wares? Probably. Dealing can be done anywhere there’s money. If she’s right, this is about drugs and not sex, but even as this goes through her head, she reminds herself that it needn’t be either/or. The two are bedfellows. There’s something tugging at the edges of her mind, but it’s not willing to emerge yet. Red’s presence is significant. She wouldn’t be planted in a gay bar as often as she is unless it was worth Lothian and Borders resources. Yep. Must be drugs.

  Her mobile rings and she jumps. She looks at the time on her laptop. Too late for a social call.

  ‘Hello?’

  No response. Only the sound of a car engine idling.

  ‘Hello?’

  She listens intently for anything she might recognise; there isn’t much to go on. Whoever they are they hang up. She checks the number. Not one she knows, but mobile numbers have so many digits that she’s become lazy and now only files the last three digits as an aide-memoire. Crossing her arms over her chest she rubs her hands up and down her arms. She shivers. Then pushes down the switch on the kettle and picks up a biscuit. Was that a real warning from Sandy? ‘Leave it. You don’t know what you’re getting into.’ What did he mean? If this is as big as he implied, how big is big?

  Viv reads over the few notes that she’s produced. It’s not much to go on. Too much speculation. The only fact she’s got is that Andrew is still AWOL. Remembering that she has the number Pete gave her she punches in the digits but is only invited to leave a message on a generic voicemail. She doesn’t, since it’s late. Time for teeth and bed.

  Was it a dream or light edging through the gap where her curtains don’t quite meet that woke her? She glances at the clock. Too early. She pulls the duvet over her head. Sleep doesn’t come . . . too many visions of dry ice, disco dancers and Man Mountain standing over her with his arms folded, looking like a hostile Aladdin’s genie. She doesn’t feel that frightened, more exhilarated. She loves the thrill of the chase but what’s not to like about poking around the human psyche?

  Viv creeps out of bed and pulls back the curtains. Thursday. The earlier light has been exchanged for a grey, drizzly day. She pulls the duvet off the bed and wraps herself in it then pads clumsily through to the living room and boots up. While the computer gets going she drags the duvet behind her to the kitchen to fill the kettle. The thought of unwrapping herself and diving into the shower doesn’t yet appeal.

  Then she spots the piece of paper on the floor at the end of the hall. She has a letterbox, but no one delivers up here. Not if they can leave things in a pigeon hole on the ground floor. The postie must have gone to his union about how many stairs he has to climb in the West Bow. It’s unusual to have something delivered. Perhaps it’s a response from Ronnie. It’s a folded sheet of standard A4; no envelope.

  ‘BACK OFF PRINCESS!’ In black felt tip pen.

  So, not from Ronnie then! Viv isn’t a woman of faint heart, but the hairs on the back of her neck lightly bristle. Whoever doesn’t want her meddling knows exactly where to find her. How come? John Black has her mobile number but doesn’t know where she lives. Man Mountain seemed to know who he was looking for when she turned up at the petrol station. Someone tailing her? Or mobile communication? Who could have alerted him?

  She braves the shower and afterwards feels more able to focus on what to do next. Knowing that she’ll have to face the music with Jules she decides it’s better to get it over with. She lifts the phone.

  ‘Hey Jules, no can do on the noon deadline.’ Jules attempts to interrupt this speech, but Viv won’t let her. ‘I’ve got nothing to say that you haven’t already heard. One thing though is whatever we’re onto has caused someone to drop me a line.’

  ‘What sort of line?’

  ‘Certainly not the kind that you’d take kindly. A note through my door saying, ‘Back off Princess’, in capital letters. Nice to be regarded so royally. I have to figure out what my next step is, but I’ve got hair this morning and a meeting after that.’

  ‘Okay, okay! . . . What kind of meeting?’

  Viv sighs, ‘I do have a life that doesn’t belong to you. But if you must know it’s with my landlady. Speak later.’ She sighs again, but can’t quite believe she got off so lightly.

  Today’s hair is in the penthouse office of a finance company – Morgan Clifford. Not just anyone’s finance, but HRH the Queen’s. Their offices have views across the north of the city but getting to see them is quite something: first there is negotiating a space in their underground car park, then the concierge, and finally two
bolshie receptionists, one of whom thinks she’s protecting the actual Crown Jewels. Once Viv is through each of these defences she sets up her mobile salon in a position where her client, Maxwell Scott, can take full advantage of the view. He’s a nice man, well read, polite, professional and willing to delegate power; a sure sign that he actually has power. He’s a regular, a once a month man, so it’s only a maintenance job. As Viv runs a clipper over the back of his neck the telephone rings so she switches off the machine. He lets it ring and says, ‘It won’t be as urgent as this trim. Carry on. Reception can field it.’

  She carries on and they chat about whether the ISA is all that it’s cracked up to be or whether Viv should put money into a slightly higher risk venture. Not that she’s got lots of disposable, but what she does have she likes to work for her. Maxwell’s chats have proved fruitful in the past so she always takes note whenever he comments on what’s going up or down in the market. Their idle chat turns to family matters.

  ‘How’s Sonia?’

  ‘Oh, fine. Spending lots, so she’s fine.’

  ‘You didn’t imagine that she’d be low maintenance, did you?’

  Sonia, his second wife, is known around town as the ‘dose of salts’. If he’s aware of this he’s never said. Her previous husband died people say, of poverty, emotional poverty.

  Max sighs and says, ‘Off to China in the morning.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Three days.’

  Viv holds the clipper away. ‘Wow! All that way for three days? I daren’t ask what that’ll cost.’

  ‘The cost of not going would be so much more.’ He changes the subject. ‘Viv, have you ever thought of doing something better? I can’t be the only client who’s tickled at having a blue stocking to cut my hair.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about the colour of my stockings and finish your sentence. Better for whom? And who else would listen to your grumbles and cut your hair?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean you could give me up.’ He laughs.

  ‘Besides,’ continues Viv, ‘I do use my brain. In ways that you don’t know about.’