The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1
Page 11
‘Police again, sorry to bother you.’
Miss Walker doesn’t say any more, but buzzes her in. Viv, preparing her story, is surprised that Walker isn’t on the landing. From inside the flat, Marconi’s voice is recognisable, then Sandy MacDonald’s, pathetic but protective. ‘He was just . . .’
A harsh voice cuts in, louder than the others. ‘Oh, shut it, you. What do you know?’
Then Marconi again. ‘And what is it that he doesn’t know?’
‘Now that would be tellin’.’
‘You can either tell us here or at the station.’ Marconi’s voice has a sharp edge to it.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’
‘I told you to shut it!’
There’s a scuffle and MacDonald shouts. ‘Stop!’
What the hell’s happening in there? Viv approaches the door and gives it a gentle push. It opens. It creaks. The noise is enough to make her shrink back against the wall. She hears another noise, like a stifled sneeze, coming from above. Edging her way to the bottom of the next flight of stairs she looks up and sees a man’s back. Not sure what to do next, Viv sidles her way back downstairs and out into the car park. She can hide behind the transit van, which won’t be going anywhere if they’re off to Fettes. It’s freezing – Edinburgh isn’t called the windy city for nothing. Viv pulls her hands up inside her sleeves, which isn’t much help. Before long Marconi, Sal and Robbie come out of the building. MacDonald is clearly lurking behind one of the voiles at the window. Within moments another bloke trots out and into a separate car.
All clear. Viv makes her way back to the building and buzzes MacDonald. He doesn’t answer. She buzzes again. He still doesn’t answer. She tries one long and three short blasts.
‘What the fuck?’
‘It’s Viv.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s Viv Fraser. We met at the hospital.’
After a few seconds he shouts, ‘Just fuck off. Did you get that? Fuck . . . Off.’
‘I can help.’
‘Yeah! You can help by pissing off!’
‘I’m staying here until you let me in.’
Silence. Then the buzzer releases the door and she punches the air before running upstairs.
Pushing the door open she steps into the hall. Sandy grunts from the kitchen, ‘You’re an interfering shit. Why don’t you back off like I told you before?’
‘You know I can’t do that. I’m being paid to do a job just like you.’
He raises his eyebrows then smirks. ‘If only I could.’ And as if demonstrating why he can’t, takes out an inhaler and gasps in whatever legal poison it contains. He looks pretty awful, but his dark eyes maintain their appeal.
‘So what else has Robbie been up to?’
‘Why ask me? You probably know more about what Robbie does than I do. He’s open – you might say boastful – about his conquests, and his economy with the truth has always been a strength. I never listen to anything he says. I was his counsellor, you know. So I have privileged access to the way he operates.’
‘Would he kill someone?’
His hesitation says it all.
‘How much would it take?’
He shrugs. ‘I can’t see it somehow.’
‘How come you stay with him?’
‘You women never get it, do you? Robbie’s given me what I’ve wanted. Okay, he’s a bit of a drama queen and he thinks he’s got me over a barrel . . . but what he doesn’t realise is that my wife knows, and she’s even less interested in my hobbies than he is. It suits all of us really.’
‘Who did all the sleeping bags belong to?’
‘Christ, how would I know? I only own the place. Robbie runs it. But even he won’t know. It’s not what you think, though. It’s just somewhere for young guys to doss down if they haven’t got anything else . . . organized.’
‘Not to mention school boys.’
‘No one who stays here is under eighteen.’
Viv makes no effort to hide her scorn. ‘Please! You can’t believe that. The neighbours have reported seeing boys in uniform going in and out.’
‘Well they must be eighteen.’
‘God, MacDonald, you really have convinced yourself that that’s true. You’re kidding me and yourself.’
He is defiant. ‘Robbie and I have a deal. Nothing unlawful under this roof.’
‘So the whacky backy and poppers – and God knows what else – don’t count? Spare me.’
‘I don’t have to spare you a fucking thing, lady. Now why don’t you take your slender arse out of here before I get mad.’
This is rich coming from someone who couldn’t fight his way out of a damp
tissue. He may have been fit once, but that time is long past. Viv thinks about Robbie Croy: tall, dark and handsome, with a loathsome attitude . . . not to mention time in prison for drug possession and cottaging. It must have been there he seduced Alexander MacDonald whose weakness for dark, over-sexed young men outweighed his reason.
MacDonald’s first mistake was becoming involved with Robbie. Once on the outside Robbie saw Alexander, now Sandy, as a source of revenue and a free roof over his head. Viv imagines Robbie is the kind of man who has sex with anyone, but that relationships are off his radar. In fact anything related to morality wouldn’t register on his internal compass: his true north is Robbie Croy. He believes he’s got Sandy where he wants him because of the wife, but he’s made the mistake of underestimating Sandy, and equating compliance with ignorance. The wife must, in many ways, be no better than Robbie, also exploiting Sandy, seeing him as a source of money, an eternal roof over her head. ‘She leads her life and I lead mine.’ Imagine marrying a man not knowing that he was more interested in the waiter. Still, we all make choices.
‘Before I take my arse out of here, have you heard anything about Andrew Douglas?’
‘Only that he’s dead, but you already know that. So why bother me?’
‘I was hoping you might confess.’
‘You’re off your . . . He looks at her and sees that she’s taking the piss. ‘Time’s up.’ He points at the door. ‘Robbie’s lost the plot a bit recently, but he’s not that bad.’
‘Bad is relative, though. If he’s been selling contaminated stuff then he’s for the chop. When you see him next remember to thank him for doing my car.’
He looks at her with knitted brows. He obviously has no idea what she’s on about.
It’s definitely time for a shower and bed. Outside, she heads towards Dundas Street in the hope of a cab and it’s not long before she flags one down. Within ten minutes she has negotiated the smokers outside the Bow Bar at the bottom of her stair and pushed her key in the outside door. On reaching her landing she can hear the phone ringing inside. She lets it ring. Today’s been a marathon even for her. Then she recognises Sal Chapman’s voice and runs to pick up. Too late. Yawning, she decides it will be no bad thing to sleep on today’s developments, so she steps into a long, hot shower, which she follows with a cup of lesbian tea. Soothed by the fragrance of peppermint, she slips beneath the duvet.
Chapter Ten
Opening the curtains, she watches rubbish blowing around the gateway of Greyfriars graveyard, a sign that it’s not as benign out there as the blue sky would have her believe. Breakfast consists of a stale oatcake and a cup of lorry driver’s tea, her belly objecting to such an assault. An oat catches between her teeth and no amount of prodding with her tongue will dislodge it. Only a second brushing will do the trick so she heads back into the bathroom. The phone rings mid-excavation and she hesitates, waiting for the answering machine to kick in. Hearing Jules, she decides not to answer.
It’s Friday so she makes a mental note to ring Jinty to say she’s not going to manage drinks. Her clients today are good fun. The first is Ailsa, who is writing a history of an East Lothian village. The last time Viv saw her she’d uncovered all sorts of family skeletons that she wasn’t sure she could include without causing a major fracas. She’ll be
having colour, which takes a bit of time; then it’ll be on to Niall, a retired headmaster who always comes up with exciting nuggets of science.
She checks her wallet for pound coins and finds two, which will only get her an hour. After a bit of rummaging in pockets she finds another three. That should do it. Then she remembers she has no car or kit. Shit! She has some doubles – scissors, combs and brushes, even a drier – but the rest means a trip to Ogee.
She calls Ailsa: ‘Hey, I have to go for supplies and could be a bit late. Is that still okay? Great! See you then.’
That takes the pressure off. To Ogee by taxi, which idles outside while she makes her purchases, then the short journey to Learmonth Terrace. She’s only twenty minutes late. The daily opens the door. She smiles and points to the bedroom asking, ‘How’s it going, Viv?’
Viv shakes her head and says, ‘Hi Sue, not bad. I’ve had worse. She’s having colour today; we usually do that in the kitchen.’
She can hear Ailsa on the phone, and leaving Sue on the landing she goes down into the kitchen and sets up. Before she’s done Ailsa comes in and lets out a huge groan. ‘Pressure, the pressure. God, you’d think I was writing a new chapter for the Encyclopaedia Britannica, not a pamphlet about Tranent.’
‘It’s more than a pamphlet.’
‘Don’t you start! They are paying me for a pamphlet and a pamphlet is what they will get. If they want more then they have to pay me more. They’re giving me peanuts as it is . . . Viv, it’s great to see you. Let me get the kettle on.’
One of the really reassuring things about Ailsa is her ability to switch from rant to reality in a second.
‘They should pay you more. You’re worth . . . in fact you’re priceless.’
‘And you are an angel for saying that. I always get stressed at the end and they always want something extra. The concept of “less is more” hasn’t reached them yet.’
‘What shall we do with you today?’
‘Just make me look like, what’s her name . . .’ She clicks her fingers trying to recall the name. ‘Angelina Jolie. That’s it.’
‘So you want a dark brown tint and twelve inch extensions?’
They both laugh. Ailsa’s hair is short and blonde and has had very few variations over the last decade. Viv sets to work and they continue their discussion about Ailsa’s writing and her tendency to sign contracts that tie her in to producing fantastic research for below the minimum wage.
Before Viv leaves Ailsa says, ‘What are you up to this weekend? Fancy coming to dinner on Saturday? We have an old friend, a journalist, coming and he’d love to meet you. I keep talking about my fab hairdresser.’
‘Too bad, I’ve already said yes to another invitation.’
‘You going to Jinty’s?’
Damn. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I am.’
‘I’d rather be going there than having to put up with this bore . . .’
Viv shakes her head. ‘That wouldn’t be the bore you were about to set me up with, would it?’
They laugh and Ailsa playfully pushes her through the kitchen towards the stairs. Viv is almost out of the main door when Ailsa shouts, ‘I haven’t paid you!’ She runs downstairs and hands Viv a cheque. ‘You’re worse than me!’
The case she’d had to buy this morning looks as if it should belong to a photographer – one of those shiny, silver cases. If it hadn’t been half price she’d have made do with a carrier bag. This is way too flashy. She knows that she’ll walk the distance in about the same time as it would take a cab to negotiate the traffic jams, so she sets off into Stockbridge and along St Stephen Street. It’s one of her favourite streets in Edinburgh. The shops have been through so many incarnations that she knows there’s bound to be something different to catch her eye, and sure enough there’s a new deli.
The window looks great, she thinks, but I’ll give it six months. Hoping that she’s wrong she opens the door and is tickled by an old-fashioned bell alerting the owner to come out. He has a pure white pinny on, an indication that there hasn’t been much custom this morning. He’s trying really hard to sell good food, so she orders as much as she can carry. She now seriously regrets buying the huge work case.
The rest of the walk is less comfortable than she’d like, with the case banging against one knee and the weighted bag of groceries the other. The wind has dropped and wisps of vapour trails linger across the sky. She can barely remember the last time she took a holiday abroad and next week’s trip to Assynt is now a no-goer. Since Dawn died she’s been pretty static. No sooner is the idea of a trip becoming possible than guilt kicks in, wiping pleasure off her radar. By the time she reaches Niall’s her arms are aching and she dumps the bags at her feet while she buzzes him. No answer. She tries again, this time with a smidgen of irritation, not least because she needs the loo. Still no answer. Strange. Looking at her watch, she’s about three minutes late, so he should be here. She gives her arms a good shake to relieve the tension in her shoulders. One of his cars is there but she can’t see the other.
Resigned to waiting an obligatory ten minutes before heading home, she decides to check her answering service. The remote interrogator takes a minute to claim the messages and sure enough there’s a garbled one from Niall to say he’s stuck in the dentist’s waiting room with a frozen jaw, and could he reschedule. Time to hail a cab. Walking out onto Bellevue Crescent there’s no sign of one, so she decides to stay put for the moment. It takes five minutes before she spots one, and she puts her arm out. It drives straight past, as she stands with her jaw dropped. Then in a voice that should be selling fish, she shouts, ‘Your light’s on!’
The next taxi appears only seconds later. It stops, revealing a driver who is way too chipper for Viv’s liking, so she keeps her head down as if she’s looking for something. He isn’t deterred. Eventually she looks up and sees his eyes staring at her in the mirror. A vague recollection touches her, but nothing tangible.
‘The West Bow, please.’
‘Sure, sunshine. I’ve lifted you before. Wasn’t it from . . . now where was it? Oh yeah, it was the Royal, yeah. That’s it. The Royal. You weren’t havin’ a good day that day either.’
Viv sighs, thinking, ‘If I wanted a shrink I’d bloody well get one,’ but she grins up at him and says, ‘Hard times, mate. Hard times.’
‘You should talk to somebody about it then.’
Is he real? He’s only getting paid to drive her a mile and a half. Sighing again, this time more emphatically, ‘Yeah, sure, I should.’
It’s the longest mile and a half she’s had in a while. As she drags her bags out onto the pavement he rushes round to help her. She snaps, ‘Look, I’m fine. Here,’ handing him a tenner. As he goes to get her change, she mutters, ‘Forget it.’
Once inside the stair she leans briefly against the door, wondering why she’s feeling quite so snippy. The thought of the eighty-six steps between her and a pee is almost too much, and there’s less than no chance of doing them two at a time today.
Viv’s done enough soul-searching to understand that her reaction to the taxi driver was out of proportion. He’s no idea what’s been happening in the last few days. Feeling guilty for the second time today she zips into the loo before unpacking the goodies from the deli and shoving the kettle on. She ignores the phone ringing, relieved when she hears Jules’ voice again. So what! She can wait. There’s no deadline now that the story has completely changed. Then she hears, ‘. . . It wasn’t Andrew.’
This catches her attention. How does Jules have this information when Marconi didn’t even know last night? She checks her mobile again. There’s another rather cautious message from Sal saying there’s been a development, with such a generalisation that she must be referring to the case. Sorry that Sal had left so few details Viv rings back, but it goes straight to answering machine. She leaves a message saying thanks for the message and she’ll ring again – equally vague.
After unpacking the food she realises that she hasn�
�t got anything for lunch apart from a bag of organic coffee; everything else is just a component part of something. Sundried tomatoes on toast? Not ideal. The freezer compartment of the fridge throws up an ancient tart, which has lost its box. She wonders what it might be. Too hungry to wait she heads back out and down the Grassmarket to Petit France, her favourite bistro, known locally as Bella’s, which does excellent lunches at reasonable cost. She seizes a newspaper off the stand as she walks in, and Bella catches Viv’s eye and points to a table by the window. Viv nods and gives her the thumbs up, then acknowledges Benny, an old chap who regularly sits all morning purchasing one cup of coffee but drinking many more. Bella says, ‘The usual, Doc?’
‘Yep, and extra bread if you’ve got it.’
Bella calls back over her shoulder. ‘More than we know what to do with. It’s been quiet.’
‘Maybe they know something that we don’t.’
‘Well, they shouldn’t be doing it on an empty stomach.’
Viv laughs and Bella shouts through the hatch for the dish of the day. Viv used to spend ages looking at the menu, and then when a waiter or waitress came she’d ask for their recommendation. She always took what they recommended and got far better food than if she chose from the menu.
Bella sidles up to the table and lowers her voice. ‘Hey, Doc, do you know that you’ve got a guy on your tail?’
Bella’s not kidding.
‘What have you seen?’
Bella and Philippe spend a good deal of time out on the pavement either serving the smokers or joining them.
‘The last two . . . or is it three days, every time you pass the same bloke passes a minute later. You and I don’t believe in coincidence, so I watched him one day and you stopped abruptly as if you were going to come back, and he leapt into the stairwell next door.’