by V Clifford
‘I’m on my way to Copa Cabana.’
‘No! Not there. I couldn’t face it. The Moon. I’ll see you at the Moon in half an hour.’
After another vain attempt to find a grown-up reporter, she switches off the TV and goes in search of all that she’ll need for a night of discovery. She throws her rucksack over her shoulder and pats her jacket pockets for keys, gloves and tissues.
He looks rough, eyes swollen, nose red, not a picture of someone on the pull. Viv sits down and looks straight at him across the table.
‘You okay?’
‘Do I look okay? It’s been a bad week.’
‘For me too.’
He looks surprised to discover she might have a life as well.
‘What’s your week been?’
‘Had my car torched.’
‘Wow! That’s quite a big deal.’
‘Yes it is, but nobody died. So what do you know that I don’t? D’you want to help find Andrew’s killer?’
After the slightest hesitation he says, ‘Course I do. But I don’t really have anything.’
In Viv’s world when someone says ‘really’ it means, ‘I have information but don’t know how to use it yet.’
‘Okay. Take your time. Try and recall anyone that you’ve seen him speaking to, arguing with, dancing with, anything, which involved him and someone else. Conversations, asides, the odd touch, anything.’
He looks bleak. Silent tears roll down his cheeks. Shaking his head he looks at the table, ‘The older bloke is the only one I can think of who stands out. It just wasn’t like him: Andrew loved younger guys.’
Something about this comment doesn’t add up and irritates Viv, but she can’t get hold of what it is.
‘Describe the older guy, can you?’
He hesitates again, his eyes raised as if the answer is written on the ceiling.
‘He’s tall, well, taller than me. Dyes his hair. Sometimes has grey bits at the temples. Always tanned.’
‘So he’s known to you. You’ve seen him more than once?’
‘Oh yes, he’s always around. I had him taped as a “viewer”, but it seems I was wrong.’
‘What? You mean some men only watch?’ She is genuinely surprised.
‘God yes! The hetero-camp and the uber hets love to look. They’d love to touch as well but they’re too scared of . . .’
‘Of what?’
‘Of disease, of being found out, of being converted, of not finding a way back to the safety of sex with women. They’re actually generally pretty harmless.’
He shakes his head again as if realising this case may be the exception and says, ‘Shit. You think he’s the killer?’
‘It’s not my job to imagine. I’m looking for facts. What sort of clothes does he wear?’
‘Nothing unusual. Jeans, tight tee shirts, chunky boots. It’s the footwear. It says what he wants. If he’s wearing chunky boots he’s not come out to dance.’
‘Did you ever see him driving?’
‘No, only seen him indoors. Copa Cabana or the Fox. Maybe in here, but can’t remember.’
‘But Copa Cabana? With those big windows? Doesn’t seem a place to hang out if you don’t want to be discovered.’
‘I know. But some of them enjoy the risk. Come to think of it, he was always at the back, by the toilets. Good viewing area I suppose.’
Viv tries to turn a sigh into something less judgmental – it’s difficult and only partially effective. Pete looks at her. She pushes for more detail. ‘Short hair. Long hair? Straight, curly? Dark or fair or in between? I need details. Eyes . . . any idea what colour his eyes were?’
‘Short, mousey, straight hair. Receding, but not in a bad way. Always well cut. Trying to look younger.’
Viv doesn’t know any man who has discovered a good way to go bald, but asks again, ‘Eyes?’
A short silence. ‘Blue. Yes, I’m sure they’re blue.’
You have to get pretty close to someone to know the colour of their eyes, so she takes this with a pinch of salt. He’s young and vulnerable. She wants to cuddle him.
‘Okay, how about a jacket or coat?’
‘I don’t know. How would I know? He’s indoors.’
‘If you saw him with a coat we could work out if it was heavy or light. A heavy coat usually means you’re on the hoof.’
He looks as if he’s computing and Viv gives him time before saying, ‘There are no rules, it’s a process of elimination. If you remember anything else that could be useful let me know.’
‘He . . .’
‘He what?’
‘He has an accent.’
She sighs. ‘What sort of accent?’
‘I don’t know. Not Scottish.’
‘Well, that narrows it down. Now we’ve only got the rest of the world to eliminate. European? American? Australian? South African? Any idea at all?’
‘Definitely European. His English is quite good. Maybe Polish or Czech or something like that.’
She’s not sure if she’d be able to distinguish between those accents either.
‘Oh,’ he adds, ‘he always wears a gold crucifix.’
‘Great. If you think of anything else, ring me.’
Gathering up her things she looks at his face and sees something she can’t make out.
She closes the door of the Moon and pulls her collar up round her neck. It’s as much a gesture to keep what she’s discovered in as it is to keep the cold out. Since she’s almost at Copa Cabana she decides to check it out. If Pete’s right then maybe people’s nerves will betray something. As she waits to cross at the lights at Picardy Place she spots the original barman at the door having a fag. He has his back to her and is shouting into his phone. He swings round just as she reaches the kerb. The shock on his face is a picture. He shuts off his phone without grace and she nods as she heads into the bar, wondering if he would have cut his call had he not seen her.
She’s barely through the door when Liam’s voice reaches her. He beckons her up the stairs and having no excuse not to she makes her way up.
‘Hey, Vivian. You seem to be addicted to this place. How many times you been in here this week?’
His voice is only one of a list of unattractive things about him. She looks at him and tries not to shudder. Then says, ‘Who’s counting?’
‘Well, since Dawn popped it you haven’t been out at all. Now all of a sudden it’s like every day . . .’
Viv could smack him for this, but instead turns and walks back downstairs, her body language louder than any comment. His strained laughter follows her. As she heads for the bar someone grabs her arm. She pivots and pulls free. It’s Red. Neither says anything until Red shouts to the barman and orders two halves of cider. When they appear on the bar Viv pulls out her wallet, but Red slaps a tenner onto the counter. Viv can’t be arsed arguing and takes a long swig, then asks, ‘What now?’
‘Just thought you could do with a drink. After . . .’ She nods in the direction of Liam.
Viv lifts her glass again and says, ‘Cheers. It would be doing a disservice to weasels to call him one. He doesn’t bring out the best in me.’
‘Nor me, but he’s got eyes like a hawk and he’s easily bought. Makes a god of money. Don’t worry, guys like him always get their comeuppance. His can’t be far away.’
Viv isn’t stupid – she knows what Red is after. She also knows what she’ll do to get it. They drink in silence for a few minutes, then Viv says, ‘So what’ve you got on Andrew?’
‘Not much. I hear you’ve been out talking to John Black again.’
Surprised, Viv keeps her eyes on her glass. ‘So you’ll know that he had nothing to say.’
‘I know that you met the psych. And that he warned you off.’
‘Well, you know more than me. I don’t remember any warning.’
‘Look, Viv, I wish you’d stop treating me as if I was the culprit. We’re on the same case.’
Viv raises her eyebrows, drains her gla
ss and walks towards the loo. When in doubt take a break.
As she enters there’s a woman drying her hands. At least the machine’s working tonight. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror it crosses her mind that perhaps it’s time to go home. She looks rough. To call her hair wind-swept would be polite and her lips are chapped. Why is it that even when you know not to lick dry lips the temptation is too great? Sitting on the throne she wonders if all the aggravation is worth it. Will she end up with information that will keep Jules sweet? This story is probably already past its best. On that note she checks her phone, but can’t hear the message, which is being drowned out by the din of the next loo flushing. She waits and tries again. It’s Jules, hoping to persuade Viv to go to Earlston. Not a chance.
Leaving the cubicle she can’t bear to look in the mirror and keeps her eyes on the dirt-engrained floor. She doesn’t pay attention to the footfall. It’s only when her arm is being yanked up her back and her cheek pushed against the cold mirror that she realises the attacker is a man. He whispers in her ear, ‘What kind of telling will it take?’ Her arm is pushed even further up her back. ‘Eh? Lost your tongue, but not lost your nose. Eh?’
Even if she wanted to speak it would be difficult to make herself understood with her lips squashed against the mirror. He grabs her hair and shoves her head into the sink so she can’t see his face. But she can smell expensive cologne and peppermint on his breath from newly brushed teeth.
‘Now, you gonna hear this? Back off. You don’t know what you’re getting into.’
With this he releases her. Rubbing her wrist she turns to face him. Vague recognition.
‘Why is it that people keep telling me that?’
‘Because you’re too stupid to listen. It should have been enough to lose your car.’
‘What? . . .You . . .?’
He is well-built, good looking, but probably the wrong side of thirty. His perfume may be expensive but his manners are cheap. He wipes the heel of his palm up his nose, sniffs.
Viv, trying to think quickly, says, ‘To whom do I owe the pleasure of today’s warning?’
‘You don’t need to know who. You just need to do as you’re told. Have you got that?’ He jabs a thick finger at her face.
She stares at him, thinking how looks can deceive. He seems about to leave, but then wheels round and slaps her face. She kicks out just as Red appears from the doorway, leaps in and grabs him, effortlessly bouncing him off a cubicle door.
‘Know this man?’
Viv, touching her stinging cheek, shakes her head.
‘Robbie, say hello to Dr Fraser.’
Red wheels him round and slams him into the mirror. He groans as his cheekbone meets the glass but doesn’t speak until Red releases him.
‘Fuck you!’
‘Original! Apologise to Dr Fraser.’
Viv has had enough of the show and starts towards the door, colliding with a young woman who is on her way in. Red shouts, ‘Not now!’
The girl, looking from one to the other, backs out. At the door, Viv turns to Red.
‘Nice timing. Thanks.’
‘Wait! D’you want anything done with him?’
Viv hesitates. ‘His name, what’s his name?’
‘Right, sunshine, you heard her. What’s your full name?’ Red thrusts his arm even further up his back and squashes him back against the mirror.
‘Back off a little, he’ll not be able to speak.’
Silence. Red puts more pressure on his arm.
He splutters. ‘Okay, okay. Robert. Robert.’
Viv says, ‘Unless you’re a cocktail waitress, you must have a surname.’
‘Croy.’
‘Ah. That figures.’
Red obviously knows the name and Viv, running it through her brain in search of recent Roberts, remembers Robbie, Sandy MacDonald’s boy. Although he isn’t as youthful as the guy she saw in the hospital car park. It’s the hair. He’s dyed his hair. It was blond and now it’s dark brown. The blond was kinder. Viv asks, ‘Was it actually you who blew up the car? Or are you the puppet?’
This gets Red’s attention. ‘What car?’
Robbie kicks sharply back into Red’s knee-cap and makes a run for it. As Red squeals and goes down Viv grabs his arm but he manages to pull free, leaping over the stair-railing, down the six steps and into the crowd below. Viv watches as he shoves people out of his way and stumbles out through the exit. The crowd look on until the door closes behind him then the noise of chatter erupts again. Viv scratches her head then turns and helps Red up, who has already pulled out a mouthpiece and is shouting into it: ‘Male, late twenties, early thirties, just run onto Leith Walk. Pick him up.’
‘You’ll be lucky . . . How’s the leg?’
Red stretches and flexes until she can put some weight on it and says, ‘So which car was that? If explosions have become part of this case then there’s more to consider than a lost boy.’
‘Dead boy?’
‘We don’t know that for sure yet. There is a body but it’s so badly burned that the ID is difficult.’
‘Shit! Are forensics onto it? And where was it found?’ The first part of this question doesn’t need an answer. Viv knows some of the SOCOs. Their efficiency is legendary. Pete hadn’t mentioned the burning bit.
‘Lay-by on the A68. Right. We’d better go somewhere where we can talk. This has gone beyond a missing person story.’
Viv’s brain is in overdrive. Surely it’s too much of a coincidence that she’d heard a conversation earlier in the week about the black bags in the lay-by on the A68?
‘That leg okay? Can you walk?’
‘Sure, but not fast or far.’
As they make their way through the crowd Viv can feel many eyes on them. Then above the crowd the scraping tone of the weasel can be heard, ‘Bye-bye, Vivian.’
This time she turns and stares at him as if she would bore a hole through him. Red whispers in her ear, ‘Not worth it. Definitely not worth it.’ Once outside she continues, ‘My car’s over in Union Street, let’s start there.’
Chapter Eight
Darkness has already fallen which, coupled with a chilly wind, makes Red’s suggestion more attractive than it would normally be. Red limps. ‘I’ve got an old injury. This won’t have done it any good.’
Despite her instinct, Viv supports Red’s waist and tucks her arm over her shoulder, steadying her until they reach the car.
‘Thanks. I didn’t think you had it in you.’
‘I don’t. It’s too cold to hang about. End of.’
Red laughs an unconvincing laugh. Viv can’t help thinking Red would make a better cop if she would be herself, but some people don’t care about themselves enough to do that, and rely on stereotypical crap to get them through. Red’s veneer is thin. There’s nothing like an injury to bring out vulnerability.
Red says, ‘I think we should head for Fettes.’
Radioing ahead Red alerts HQ that they are on their way, mentioning that if Chapman happens to be in they would like to see her. Viv can’t believe her ears. Chapman, her landlady? Christ, what next?
‘Not Sal Chapman?’
‘The very one. Know her, do you?’
‘Not really.’
Red eyes her with suspicion before attempting to engage the gears, but there’s no way she can drive with this leg. Viv takes over. As they approach the gates to Fettes car park she snorts, ‘Before this week I’d only ever been in here once in my life and now it’s twice in one day. They’ll think I’m addicted.’
Red smiles, ‘What else have they had you in for?’
‘The explosion. My car was torched, remember?’
‘I hadn’t made the connection. That’s Marconi’s department. We’ll need to bring him in as well.’
‘Why? This isn’t a terrorist incident.’
‘Maybe not, but he heads the NTF and if we have anything out of the ordinary which could be connected to an existing case he’ll want to be kept in
the loop. And I’m not going to be the one who keeps him out.’
‘Your call. Waste of police time if you ask me.’
‘I didn’t,’ Red barks.
Silence. Until Red needs a hoist up the front step. In the foyer Viv looks around and feels butterflies in anticipation of seeing Sal Chapman again. One cup of tea and she’s like a lusty school girl. A door opens on the right and Sal walks towards Red with her hand outstretched.
‘DC Nicholson, hello.’ And with her head at a questioning angle, ‘And Dr Fraser! This is an unexpected pleasure.’
Viv puts out her hand. The shake lasts seconds longer than it should. Enough for Red to look at them both and say, ‘I thought you didn’t know each other.’
‘We don’t, but we’ve met. It seems Dr Fraser and I are destined to get to know each other.’
Viv, irritated at being caught off balance, says sharply to Sal. ‘What’s your role here? I thought you were an academic.’
‘To be honest I’m not sure what my role is in this particular case. I work with any department where they need a profiler. It’s supplementary to my real job. Let’s go through to the office.’
Chapman throws this over her shoulder as she leads the way, and Red, looking intrigued, hobbles behind with Viv.
This is a privilege. The suite is quite different from any other police office that she’s seen. It obviously doesn’t house any criminals – too clean. Sal Chapman may be a tiny woman but her presence is substantial. People passing her in the corridor defer to her and already she’s been asked if she would like coffee to be brought. Not bad for someone whose real job is elsewhere . . . or was that stuff about being an academic just a ruse?
A PC brings the coffee but doesn’t hang about. They sit at a round table. Chapman has a pen and paper at the ready, prompting Viv to take out her own little pad. The three of them look at each other until Chapman says, ‘Well, shall we start at the beginning? Dr Fraser?’
Viv is still irritated. ‘If we are here to collaborate then I’d like us to be on first name terms.’
‘That’s fine with me. You okay with that, DC Nicholson?’
Viv notices how ashen Red is and softens, ‘Do you need to see someone about that knee?’