by V Clifford
‘Curious. What would make you spill the beans?’
‘Nothing that you could give me.’
They laugh at the double entendre. Viv has seen him through a divorce, his two children married off and the birth of his first grandchild. They know each other pretty well. But however well people think they know one another there are always gaps. Some gaps bigger than others.
As Viv leaves his office the pretty blonde receptionist looks at her as if she’d like to kill her. She must have heard them laughing and has never quite managed to get the hang of Viv’s relationship with her boss. What little conversation Viv has had with the woman has shown that she’s the kind of person who can’t allow someone to be more than one thing. Hairdressers are supposed to be thick and blonde. Viv defies both categories, which leaves those of shallow mentality confused and resentful. Tough! Viv smiles and flashes her security card against the laser, or whatever the funny blue light is that reads the card, before she walks out to the lift. The security in this building has been much tighter since the Twin Towers, but here she’s a known face and no one gives her a second glance. The novelty of the boss’s hairdresser coming in once a month has long since worn off.
The lift doors open and she steps out into the flickering lights of the car park. Someone must have activated them. Viv walks purposefully back to her car, but feels uneasy. She slows and glances round. Nobody about. Her own footsteps echo around her as she passes car upon car. She mumbles to herself, ‘You’re having a moment, girl.’
She steps round to the back of the MG to store her kit but gets a whiff of petrol, too much even for her old banger. Then she notices the flames licking the side of the car. Black smoke starts billowing up. ‘Shit!’ She runs, then dives to the ground. The place is filling with smoke. She hears the rev of an engine and the squeal of rubber and suddenly wide-eyed watches a car heading towards her at full pelt. She rolls and it narrowly misses her before disappearing into the smoke and screeching towards the exit. Viv leaps up but can’t see anything. She hears the crash of the barrier as the car bursts through it. In that same moment the wail of the smoke alarm splits the air. And there’s an almighty explosion as the petrol in her MG ignites. The blast flings her to the ground and she’s showered by shards of glass and bits of metal. A voice reaches her out of the din yelling, ‘Stay down!’ And before she knows what’s happening there’s someone kneeling on her back and hauling her hands behind her, as handcuffs are clicked onto her wrists. Her captor pulls her to her feet. Her eyes are stinging and she coughs roughly as she inhales the smoke. She tries to shrug off her keeper, but he’s gripping her arm and marching her towards the building. It’s pandemonium. The police Special Unit have arrived and there are people in uniform running all over the place. She half-turns and catches sight of a firefighter in full gear pounding the remains of the MG with foam. The man yanks her arm again.
‘Shit! Will you back off?’
This is all too Hollywood for Viv. The pain in her ears competes with the pain of this moron gripping her arm and she can’t think straight. He keeps pushing her and she screeches, ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘We’ll ask the questions.’
A man in security gear joins them and says, ‘Who are you?’
‘A friend of Maxwell Scott’s.’
The two of them look at each other and one of them speaks into his radio. Then, ‘You’ll have to come with us.’
‘You’re not giving me much option are you? Shouldn’t you be more worried about that maniac in the car?’
‘We’re onto him.’
She has her doubts, but stumbles between him and his buddy, back into the building, leaving behind a throng of uniforms and blue lights. They climb the stairs to the first floor where Max is just coming through a secure door.
‘Viv! For God’s sake! Are you okay?’ He spots the cuffs. ‘Take those things off her, she’s not a criminal.’
Relieved of bonds and captors, she rubs her wrists and shakes glass from her hair. Adrenaline courses through her and she hops from foot to foot as if she’s just finished a run.
‘Max. I’ve no idea . . .’ She feels a lump rising in her throat and swallows it back. ‘I’ll tell you everything I saw.’
‘Let’s get you a cup of tea and a seat then we’ll go over it.’
Slumped on a chair, she buries her head in her hands. Then she lifts her head. She’s surprised to hear the voice of DI Marcus Marconi, one of a few police officers that Viv respects and who now heads up the National Task Force. They’ve met a couple of times, most recently at a conference on knife crime in Scotland. Their conversation that day established that they might, on occasion, be useful to each other. What is Marconi doing here? He looks equally surprised.
‘Hi, Viv. I didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘You and me both.’
Viv turns to look at Max while Marconi introduces himself and his PC. Not sure who to defer to she directs her answers to Max, although he is no longer asking the questions. If she thought this would be over in a few minutes she was mistaken. A security breach and a ‘car exploding’ is a big deal in most people’s books, but the location for this crime has caused huge complications. By the time Marconi has covered all bases and is convinced that she’s not a suspect, she’s knackered and begs to go home.
Chapter Six
She’ll never have to worry again about the MG not starting. What remains of it will spend the next few months in police custody with a forensic team crawling all over it. Max brought her home, giving her an awkward hug before she climbed, without her usual bounce, upstairs. Hugs are never easy for Viv, but when she’s distressed it’s even worse. She had choked back another lump and assured him she’d be fine.
Locking her door she leans against it trying to make sense of her morning. She heads into the bedroom where she strips everything off. Tiny slivers of glass fall onto the rug. She kneels to gather them up while silent tears trickle down her face.
With the shower on full pulse, and the heat almost too much to bear, she allows the water to beat the tension out of her head. Is this what Sandy had in mind when he warned her off? Or is it a coincidence? How did they get into the car park? They must have followed her from home and sneaked in. So much for post-9/11 super security. An insider? This idea takes a stretch even with Viv’s imagination. How could someone tail her without her noticing?
With the taste of shampoo in her mouth she throws her head back for a final rinse. She’s not paid enough to put up with this sort of crap and she steps out of the shower intending to give Jules an earful. The sound of the door buzzer is the only thing between her and telling Jules to stuff it. She presses the button on the intercom.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh hello. It’s Sal Chapman here.’
Viv can’t think if she knows anyone by that name.
‘And?’
‘I’ve come to look round the flat . . . Is this a bad time?’
‘Shit!’ The penny drops. It’s her landlady. ‘No. No, it’s fine. I’d forgotten the time. Just come up.’
Viv races back to her bedroom and throws on a tee shirt and jeans, quickly rubbing her hair with a towel. Too soon she hears a gentle knock and after a tussle with the locks swings back the door.
‘Hi! Come in.’
Viv sticks her hand out to shake, and looks down into the most amazing green eyes. The woman returns her grip and beams up at her. Feeling her colour rising, Viv points to the sitting room.
‘I expect you know your way round. There’s not much to see.’
‘I don’t actually. I’ve never been here before. Too painful!’
Viv has never met this woman nor does she know her circumstances and, wondering what might have happened to her, she scuttles round rearranging things, tidying, pushing clothes into the laundry basket as if she’s entertaining her headmistress. Her visitor notices and smiles, as if she would do the same.
‘I’m sorry to put you out, but I think it’s time I did some ren
ovations. The place could do with central heating for starters, and if I remember correctly the oven’s been dodgy for a while.’
‘It doesn’t worry me. I don’t cook much. I had a relationship with the microwave, but that didn’t last.’ Viv notices the nervousness in her voice as well.
‘Me neither. Jamie the factor is trying to keep me right. The place looks nice.’
It’s Viv’s turn to smile. She has done very little to the flat and most of the furniture was here when she came. She hasn’t even given it a lick of paint. Pointing towards a Chesterfield with a brocade throw over it she says, ‘Tea?’
‘That’d be lovely. Thanks, but don’t . . .’
‘I’d love one myself. I’ll put the kettle on.’
As she walks out to the kitchen she can’t imagine why she’s suggested tea, but it’s too late now and pushing the button on the kettle, shouts, ‘I’ve only got chocolate digestives.’
‘Great. They’ve seen me through many a long night.’
This catches Viv’s interest, and she wonders what kind of Doctor she is. ‘Are you hospital based?’
‘No, not a real Doctor at all. Only a PhD.’
‘What do you mean “only”? I think a PhD is the real thing.’
Viv puts a tray on the ottoman in front of the couch. ‘Take a look round while this brews.’
It’s Sal Chapman’s turn to look embarrassed. She says, ‘You could show me.’
Viv gets up from her knees and shows her the bedroom. It’s small with a deep recessed window. Like in the rest of the flat the curtains of dark red velvet are slightly shabby, but obviously good quality. The bed, an old Scottish double with turn of the century wooden bed ends, has white linen and a tartan throw folded at the bottom. Viv spots a stray sock peeking out from beneath the bed and edges it under with her toe. There are only four rooms, all in a row off the same corridor, so the rest of the tour doesn’t take long. The tiny bathroom is entirely steamed up and still smells of eucalyptus.
‘Probably needs a new extractor fan.’ Sal sounds apologetic.
‘No, the current one was disconnected.’
‘Why? I’ll have it fixed . . .’
‘No. I couldn’t stand the racket. I disconnected it myself.’
Sal looks mildly impressed. Viv considers her lie – she’d disconnected it because her former partner couldn’t stand it. Viv revisits spaces where Dawn’s possessions were in the flat. They’d never lived together. So there weren’t many of her things, and strangely it’s because there were so few that their absence is more obvious. Dawn’s toothbrush had always looked lonely in a glass, Viv’s electric one standing to attention beside it but without contact. It was a reflection of their relationship. If only Viv had realised. Aware of a voice, Viv shakes her head into the present.
‘Oh. That’s fine.’
Viv can’t remember what they were talking about. Silently they return to the sitting room. Pouring tea into huge china cups and saucers with lilies of the valley painted on them, Viv is regretful that she offered it in the first place. As they sip in silence she notices that the wooden sculpture, cunningly placed over an iron burn on the carpet, has moved a bit, exposing a charred curve; she edges her foot towards it but catches her landlady watching. The morning is definitely catching up with her. Sensing her time is up, Sal says, ‘I’m sorry to take up your time,’ and gets up to leave. Viv jumps up too quickly and catches the edge of the tray, spilling the milk. She shakes her head and sighs, ‘I’ve had a bad day.’
‘Then I’m doubly sorry. Thanks for the tea.’
‘No trouble. Nice to meet you Dr Chapman.’
‘Sal. The name’s Sal.’
Sal follows Viv down the narrow hallway. Then in a gesture as intimate as Viv can handle, Sal gently places her hand on the small of Viv’s back. It takes all of Viv’s concentration not to snake her body out of reach. Then they return to formality with a handshake, both avoiding eye contact.
Viv leaves the tea cups in the sitting room. She opens her laptop. As it’s coming to life she rings Jules. Viv fills her in on what happened at Morgan Clifford’s, surprised the news hadn’t already reached her. Jules, a mistress of understatement, when it suits her, says, ‘Viv, I think we should be cautious with this, it’s a wee bit meaty.’
Unsure how much more meaty she wants life to become, Viv makes a non-committal sound. Morgan Clifford’s must have friends in the right places for this not to have reached the wire by now. They won’t want to be the centre of attention because of what will be interpreted as a terrorist strike. She lets Jules rattle on then gives her what she knows about Andrew Douglas. As she says goodbye she tries to imagine what could connect Andrew to the blast this morning.
Who are these guys that are willing to take the risk of blowing up a car? Although any idiot can set fire to a petrol tank. It was only a warning. Some warning! Maybe they’re not local and don’t have any knowledge of the prestige of Morgan Clifford. Or perhaps that’s the point. Too much speculation. From what appeared to be a missing person investigation this is getting out of hand. If Andrew’s involved in this kind of stuff who knows where it will land him.
The landline rings and she hesitates, recalling last night’s silence. The answering machine kicks in and the voice leaving a message is familiar from earlier in the day.
‘Hi, it’s Marcus here. Could you give me a ring as soon as. Thanks.’
Viv takes out the card he gave her this morning. It’s like her own business card – no detail beyond a name and number.
He answers immediately. ‘Dr Fraser. Thanks for ringing back. Any chance you could get yourself down here? We need your help.’
She is taken off guard by his formality. ‘I don’t think there’s anything more I can say.’
‘You don’t sound sure about that. I’ll send a car for you.’
She thinks for a moment. ‘Okay, give me ten minutes.’ But spending the next few hours in Fettes isn’t part of her game plan. She punches in Pete’s number and bites at a ragged nail while waiting for an answer – she hates bitten nails and does her best to tidy it without taking it down to the quick. Eventually a nervous voice speaks. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi. It’s Viv Fraser.’
‘Thank God. Have you heard? They’ve found him. He’s dead.’
‘What?’ She’s silent. Then, ‘. . . Are you sure?’
‘Well . . . that’s what I was told.’ His voice begins to crack.
‘Who told you?’
‘Thomas.’ He sniffs.
‘And how did Thomas know?’
‘I don’t know . . . I overheard.’
There’s traffic in the background. Then, as if he’s stepped into a doorway, all goes quiet. ‘Where were you at the time?’
‘Moonshine Café. We go there after schoo . . .’
‘I’m not the police, and I’m not interested whether you’re legal or not. I’m only interested in Andrew.’
She can hear him sniffling at the end of the line. Crying? The beeping noise of a pedestrian crossing and a change in his breathing indicate he’s on the move.
‘Where are you now?’
He manages, ‘I’m on my way home.’
‘Will you be all right?’ She hears him sob. ‘Well, I’ll ring you later once I’ve done a bit of searching.’
She cuts the call and rings John Black. It goes straight to answering service. If he was getting out she should have heard from him by now. Glancing at the clock she decides she could make it to the Royal in twenty minutes, before visiting’s over. Marconi’s questions will have to wait.
At the Royal, as she’s paying the taxi-driver, she spots Sandy getting into a car with a younger man. They look as if they’re arguing, but she’s too far away to hear. The young man slams his door. Not happy.
John Black looks worse than he did before. He doesn’t even turn when she sits on the edge of the bed. Unable to work out if he’s asleep she peers at the chart behind the bed. No use pretending she knows what an
y of it means. She stands and makes her way to the nurses’ station. The same nurse as last time is on duty, but is busy with a patient on the other side of the ward. Viv stands around, knowing that no amount of trying to catch her eye will work. Eventually, having completed her task, the nurse saunters over and looks at her.
‘It’s John Black, isn’t it? His visitors seem to think this is a hotel. You know I can’t tell you anything unless you’re family. Are you family?’
‘Yes. Cousin.’
‘Yeah and I’m the Virgin Mary!’
Her Irish accent gets stronger as she continues, ‘He’s not well enough to go anywhere. Had a blood transfusion today. We’re hopeful that’ll make him pick up.’
‘Did you speak to his earlier visitors?’
‘No, why? . . . I heard them arguing. Not John, he’s too weak, but the other two. It’s a bad mix.’
Viv isn’t sure what she’s talking about.
‘D’you mean the couple?’
‘No,’ corrected the nurse, staring at Viv, who understands she needs to make a more educated guess.
‘Drugs?’ The nurse’s solid frame looks as if it could withstand anything, but her watery eyes tell a different story.
‘That’s it. He’s not the only one we’ve had. It’s a really bad mix. I hope to God the police get to it before it does any more damage.’
‘What is it? Cocaine and . . .?’
‘We don’t know yet. Of course the Hippocratic Oath isn’t very addict friendly if you get my meaning. Doctors think they’ve got better things to do with their time than rescue “idiots”,’ she jabs the air with the quote marks, ‘who take risks like these guys do.’ She shakes her head, drawing in a breath, and, none too discreetly, looks at the ward clock.
‘Do I get the impression that you don’t agree with the Doctors?’
‘I’ve a young brother with a problem. I see it from the other side.’
‘The guys that were in earlier . . . did you hear what they were actually talking about?’
‘The older fella was trying to keep the young one from being nasty to John. The young one kept saying, “It’s your own fault. Nobody made you take it.” The old guy told him to back off, but he wouldn’t. John has barely the strength to eat or pee let alone argue. In the end I said they’d have to leave as it was time for his bath. I could still hear them at it at the end of the ward. I’m not one to make judgments, but that young one isn’t destined to dine with St Peter. You won’t have to worry about John dossing on your couch for a while. He really isn’t a well boy. It was nice of you to offer though.’ She turns away from Viv and steps back inside the low gate of the central nurses’ station.