by V Clifford
‘Thanks, by the way. It’s good of you to give me a lift.’
‘I’m so shocked about Andrew. Are you absolutely sure? It couldn’t be another mistake?’
‘No. I heard it through official channels.’
‘What? Are you working with the cops?’
‘Well, not officially. But they have asked me for the information I’ve got on what’s going on at that flat. Have you any idea? Have you ever been there?’
‘I’ve been once. Wasn’t my scene. The old guy who owns it is a good bloke.’
This is a surprise to her. ‘Sandy?’
‘Yeah. He looks after people. There are tons of guys who make their way to Edinburgh thinking it’s the gay capital – and you’d think it was if you believed the pink mags. But the reality can be bleak. Accommodation is expensive, booze is expensive – everything is really. So they end up having to get work, and what could be easier than renting?’
Viv takes a second to get his meaning. ‘Rent boys?’
‘Yeah. Renting your arse isn’t that different to just giving it away night after night, which is what they end up doing. At least they’ve got a chance of a bed for the night. Maybe even breakfast if they’re lucky.’
Viv can’t help herself and interrupts. ‘You’re a bit jaded, aren’t you?’ She waits, tempted to add ‘for one so young’, but that’ll not win her any favours. ‘You’re an intelligent bloke. What’s Len’s part in this?’
‘I’m not sure. But he’s rich and rough and straight.’
Viv turns in her seat. ‘Christ!’ This is getting beyond curious. ‘Straight? Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, he runs the boys.’
‘He’s their pimp?’
‘Don’t know if that’s what he’d call himself. But he gets them set up. I’ve never done it, so I don’t really know. But Andrew . . .’
‘What – he sold himself? I wouldn’t have thought with his looks he’d have had to. I mean sugar daddies an’ all that.’
‘He’s got a habit . . . had a habit. And doesn’t . . . didn’t like older men. Not as straightforward as you think.’ They sit in traffic at the top of Leith Walk waiting for the lights to change.
‘Oh, I don’t think there’s much about this case that’s straightforward, but you’re right, I have made assumptions. So, Len? You sure he doesn’t have a last name?’
‘No idea. Always just known him as Len. I’ve never spoken to him or anything. Tommy has, but he wouldn’t do it for him. There’s so many who will. Len doesn’t need to push anyone into it. They all do it by choice.’
How naïve.
‘Where will I drop you?’
On their way up South Bridge she says, ‘Anywhere around here. The end of Chambers Street’s fine.’
He pulls over and she tries to open the door but they are too close to the railing.
‘You’ll have to pull forward a bit.’ He does and she jumps out. ‘Thanks.’
He nods and drives off.
With a good deal to think about she jogs along Chambers Street, past courts, museums and libraries, until she reaches the West Bow. Home.
She feels slightly nauseous. Bad idea to combine coffee with cider. She flicks on the TV and tucks her feet under her bum. The news channel has nothing about Andrew, which is strange. She looks for another news programme, but at five fifteen she’s between bulletins. Her eye is drawn again to the iron mark on the carpet. The sculpture that used to cover that mark was moved to accommodate her ex’s music stand and her double bass. The gap hardly seems big enough now. Dvorak’s Serenade for Strings floats through her head. Viv visualises Dawn perched on her high stool balancing her bass. Viv’s knowledge of classical music was all gleaned from Dawn. Wiping her wet cheeks on her sleeve she flicks through more channels.
Why she’s so emotional is anyone’s guess since they weren’t exactly the ideal couple. At best their relationship would have been described as volatile, but love is a weird anaesthetic. While her laptop boots up on the desk in the corner she decides to move the furniture to cover the mark. The Chesterfield weighs a ton, and as she edges it round bit by bit, a fingerless woollen mitt is exposed. Viv gently lifts it, idly picking at the fluff that’s gathered on it. It’s unmistakably Dawn’s. She was paranoid about her hands being cold, too cold to play. Get a grip, Viv. She’s been dead for nearly two years. Startled by the phone; she pockets the mitt and lifts the handset.
‘Hi, Viv, it’s Marcus here. We’ve got Robbie Croy in with us. Tried to be brave to begin with but he’s beginning to squeal a bit now. Mentioned a guy named Leonard Whiteman. Have you heard of him?’
‘Funny you should ask, but this very evening I didn’t quite meet someone called Len; suave chap. Been almost barbecued under a sun lamp. Saw him in Copa Cabana.’
‘And you were there because . . .?’
‘I was looking for those young guys, the friends of Andrew.’
‘And? Any luck?’
‘Yep. One of them told me about a Len – no idea what his second name is, but it’s bound to be him. There can’t be two unsavoury Lens hanging about the gay scene. This one is apparently straight.’
‘Yeah, that must be him. We thought it was weird, but money is money whatever way you look at it. Young gay men are as vulnerable as young women and just as easily exploited.’
‘He was scary. Had the barman and another guy licking his boots.’
Viv reflects on Liam’s reaction. It makes her skin crawl again.
‘Viv?’
‘Still here. The guy that’s supposed to be the manager is not a nice man. Liam Doyle.’
‘We’ve just had a look at his file. Dirty Doyle.’
She sniggers at this. ‘You bet. He’s totally unscrupulous. I don’t know what he’s had to do to get the job. In fact it could be a partnership.’
‘Yes, it looks as if he has an “interest”, shall we say, in Copa Cabana.’
‘Red, I mean Sandra Nicholson, shouldn’t rely on anything he says. He’s never known the difference between fact and fiction.’
‘You seem to know him quite well. I take it you had met before this investigation?’
‘Yes. Liam and I worked together. He was caught thieving. My money as it happened. You could say there’s no love lost between us.’ Is he really as ugly as she’s painting him? Recalling his voice, that pernicious whine, she decides he is. ‘Although he’s unscrupulous I’m not sure he’d have the brains to set anything up, but I’ve no doubt he’d want to play if there was money to be had. By the way Len, whatever his name is, treated him as if he was a bit of shit on his shoe. If I know Liam he’ll hold a grudge against him for that.’
Marconi is a good listener, not prone to interrupting unless he really does need clarification. He says, ‘Worth having a chat with him them?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Anything to add on Mr Croy? We can keep him for a bit; he had a quarter ounce in his possession.’
Playing for time she says, ‘I’ll go over my notes and if there’s anything, I’ll ring you back. By the way could we lose the tail? It’s unnecessary.’
He doesn’t answer immediately then says. ‘Okay.’
They end the call and Viv looks around for her notebook, not expecting to find any major revelations. If this guy Len is a pimp what’s the difference between buying young boys from eastern Europe or young boys from round Scotland? It’s surely still trafficking? No one has mentioned the T word, which is unusual since it’s the buzz word that ticks the most funding boxes.
She finds the notebook beneath the tartan rug on her bed. Curious. She can’t remember leaving it there. As she flicks through it the skeleton of something begins to emerge, but it’ll take a few more bones before its identity is known. When she returns to the sitting room the Chesterfield is still out of place. She drifts into thinking again about Dawn. They had been moving in the direction of breaking up. Viv, a devoted monogamist, couldn’t cope with Dawn having other ideas of what that meant. Dawn died
before they had an opportunity to talk. Her things lay in the flat for weeks before her sister picked them up. It was messy. The sister, an Episcopalian priest, hadn’t known the truth about her sis and was less than polite when having to confront the reality. Not too chuffed about the eighty-six stairs either. Thank God that’s all in the past.
The light on her answering machine is flashing. She presses the button and the voice of Sal Chapman says, ‘Hi, Viv, it’s Sal here. It was just to let you know that Mac, I mean Marconi, is going to ring you. He’s looking for anything you’ve got on Robbie Croy. Hope you’re okay. I expect the shock of the blast is catching up with you. My mobile number is . . .’ Viv rakes around for a pen, grabbing one only to find its ink has dried up. By the time she’s found another, the number has gone from her head and she has to play the message again. A tingling sensation runs through her. It’s warming, but scary, to hear concern in Sal’s voice. Others have worried about Viv, but she hasn’t been able to handle their concern, and even her few years of therapy didn’t resolve that. Although having therapy did make her clear about the difference between hearing and receiving, it’s like the difference between hearing the rain and being out in the rain. Neither is going to harm you, but the effects of being under rain are immediate.
Her notes aren’t very comprehensive, and there are one or two anomalies that she’d like to follow up. The description from his crying friend of the guy who Andrew left Copa Cabana with, sits uneasily. He could have been describing Len. Still, that can wait. She also needs to see John Black again, which will have to wait too. Time for bed.
After a night of unbroken sleep and with no hair clients to see today she relaxes, knowing she can spend her day with the duvet. After coffee and toast she settles in on-line. Nothing shows for Leonard Whiteman in the UK. Leo Whiteman comes up on Facebook, but he’s only about sixteen. Too young for the Whiteman she’s looking for. After endless scrolling down, she finds a number of newspaper articles and the first she opens is about her Whiteman’s wedding. A grand affair. He’s described as a ‘philanthropist’, which is stretching it by anyone’s standards. Married a beauty – with no brain? – a model. Viv wonders if Mrs Whiteman knows what her husband’s sidelines are. Feeling stiff, and realising she’s been at this for hours, she refuels with tea and biscuits before returning to see if she can find more on the wife. Just as her hand is hovering on the mouse pad she hears a noise in the hall. On opening the sitting room door she can see a hand holding the letterbox open and a pair of eyes staring back at her.
‘Who is it?’
A faint voice. ‘It’s me.’
She doesn’t recognise it and feels the hairs on the back of her neck rising.
‘Yeah, and?’
‘It’s John.’
It takes a few seconds for this to sink in before she rushes to the door. ‘John Black?’
‘Yours truly. How many John Blacks do you know?’
‘For God’s sake. I told you to ring before you came.’
By the look of him he must have discharged himself; there’s no way they would let him out looking like this.
‘How did you get here? And how did you know where to come?’
His breathing is laboured, and sweat’s trickling down his waxy brow.
‘As you see, it wasn’t a picnic trying to find you, but I remembered Robbie saying something about ‘that bird from the West Bow’, and gathered that he meant you. I’ve been up and down the street looking at every name, and narrowed it down. Because there are surprisingly few flats with no name, I guessed that one of these was likely to be yours and this is my third try. Could do with a seat after that climb.’
All this time he’s been leaning against the wall in the hallway.
‘Shit! Sorry. Come through. You look hellish!’
‘Thanks, you’re all heart!’
Once she’s got him into the sitting room she heads back to the kitchen to put the kettle on before returning to ask what he’d like.
‘You couldn’t get closer to God, could you? I counted eight-nine steps.’
‘Three too many – there’s only eighty-six.’
‘Pardon me for exaggerating.’
It’s nice to hear him raising his game, but the cost sounds too high if his breathing is anything to go by.
‘Tea? Or something stronger?’
‘I could start with something stronger.’
Viv’s drinks cabinet isn’t exactly overflowing, but there’s a bottle of malt whisky she got from a client one Christmas, which hasn’t been opened. Reading the box it says 70 per cent proof. Firewater; it’ll kill or cure. She’s not much of a drinker and rarely drinks alone, but pours them each two fingers. They both sip and he looks at her with respect.
‘You make this yourself?’
‘Got the “still” out back.’
He smiles. If he wasn’t so ill he’d be nice to look at.
‘So, John, how come you’re here?’
‘They kept pushing me for information.’
‘Who did, you mean Robbie and Sandy?’
‘No, the nursing staff. Wanting to know about family. But the family didn’t want to know about me when I was well, so why would they now?’
‘Families are weird things, John. Any hint of losing one of the brood and they come clucking.’
‘Trust me, there’d be no clucking from my family. My mother’s terrified of my dad. I’m their only son. Big disappointment, not having a son to carry on the line. We farm. Well “we” don’t, which is the problem. Dad’s the fourth generation of cattle farmers in Aberdeenshire. They don’t have gay sons, although Grindr would tell them otherwise.’
She knows how difficult families can be when things don’t go as hoped. They see everything as a reflection of themselves. She guesses John’s father is embarrassed by his son, and wonders when he’ll realise his loss. She sometimes tries to imagine how her own dad would have been with her choices, her mum has always been fine with her varied ‘friendships’, at least on the surface. She did hear her mother once saying to someone, ‘Oh, Vivian’s a career girl.’ That over-worked euphemism is at least better than ‘spinster’.
‘I’m not sure I get your meaning entirely. So, who is Grinder?’
He smiles, ‘An app for gay men. My dad has got no idea just how many of my school pals were gay. Never heard of the one-in-four statistic. My school had more like one-in-two.’ He laughs, which morphs into a racking cough. As he calms down Viv thinks about her own school chums. Not many of them were gay, but how would she have known if they were? She’d been clueless about such things then. The bruisers in the hockey team that she thought were certs were churning out babies before they got their exam results. Not that that means anything.
‘So, Viv, how come you’re in on a Saturday night?’
‘Shit!’
She leaps up and checks the time on her laptop. Six-fifteen. She’ll make it if she rushes. If only she’d phoned Jinty when she said she would. She’d forgotten and really needs to show her face – she owes it to Jinty – and one drink will cover her duty.
‘I have to go out for an hour but you can make yourself at home and I’ll sort out the bed when I get back.’
‘You said I’d be on the couch.’
‘Yeah, that thing you’re sitting on is a bed settee. Even has springs. All mod cons here. It’ll be too heavy for you to pull out on your own. I really will only be an hour. It’s a duty call.’
He’s not in any state to argue or ask any more questions so he unzips his jacket, and with a bit of effort, manages to get it off and swing it over the back of the couch.
‘Thanks for this, Viv. You don’t even know me.’
‘The silver’s in the second cupboard on the left; help yourself! But if my guess is right you can barely lift your eyebrows so my silver is the least of my worries.’
Viv puts another whisky in front of him. ‘Go easy.’
In a few minutes, she emerges from her bedroom in a little black dr
ess and pumps. She pinches her cheeks and asks, ‘Will that do?’
‘Christ! Women are amazing. How could you look like the most normal dyke one second and as if you’d be at ease on the cover of a magazine the next? You look great . . . not my type, but glam.’
She takes that as an okay and heads for the door. Running back she fishes about down the side of the couch and hands him the remote.
‘See you in an hour.’
Chapter Twelve
When the taxi pulls up outside Jinty’s, the front door is open and a couple are having their coats taken. She slips past them – she’s no intention of leaving her jacket – and bumps into Jinty with a bottle of champagne in her hand.
‘Viv! You came. Excellent. I’m thrilled to the tits. Come through and I’ll get you a glass.’
The inner hall, usually a gallery of oddities, is now obscured by many bodies, each holding a glass of bubbly. The bust of Flavia – a loved family pet – can just be made out behind the legs of a very glamorous blonde, who has glazed over at whatever her companion is saying. The woman’s lack of interest is so obvious that she bends to the side to look beyond his head, and following her gaze both he and Viv see Jinty’s husband Rod holding court; nothing unusual in that. The group, just inside the dining room door, are hanging on his every word; there are two blondes of a certain age and a couple of men, one of whom is Max Scott. Spotting Viv, Max excuses himself and squeezes through the crowd towards her. He’s wearing that public school uniform of mustard corduroy trousers and a raspberry V-neck, no doubt cashmere, with a shirt and tie underneath. Why does he need to pull the sweater so far down? It makes him look out of proportion; as if his legs are too short. He’s getting on for six foot four so there’s nothing short about his legs.