by V Clifford
With a bit of effort he moves over to the chair while she pulls out the bed settee. It weighs a ton and she scratches her arm on one of the springs in the process.
‘Let me help.’
‘No, it’s okay, it’s done. There. All you have to do is climb in and sleep. See you in the morning.’
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday has never been her favourite day. An expanse of nothingness isn’t anything to look forward to. This morning, beyond the chink in the curtains, she can see it’s raining. Much less cold than it was last night, but a lowering sky reaches as far as she can see. Dropping the edge of the curtain she huddles down under the duvet and thinks about John Black next door. After all he’s been through this week he’s still willing to withhold whatever it is he knows. Fear – it’s our greatest motivator. She’s experienced extreme fear herself, always in relation to things beyond her control, like being driven too fast, or hanging off a rope on the In Pin in Skye with adrenaline pumping round her body so hard that she couldn’t get back on the rock. Just thinking about it makes her mouth dry up.
Forcing her mind back to the present, she visualises Max in that photograph with Whiteman, both looking like pillars of middle-class Edinburgh. Wobbly pillars. Yep. Wobbly pillars. No empire is secure, and certainly not if you’re fraternising with a modern-day Caligula. A vision of Whiteman in a Roman toga and a laurel crown makes her smile. It won’t be long before someone sticks the knife in. With her brain in full gear she throws the duvet back. She pads through to the kitchen and pushes the switch on the kettle. On the loo it comes to her that Robbie Croy is cocky enough to think of himself as an alpha male. Liam is too weak. A shiver runs over her at the very thought of the little weasel. He must have a part in this drama, otherwise he wouldn’t have given her the time of day. He’s snubbed her since she shopped him. So she won’t be surprised if he’s told someone that he knows her, trying to be a big shot. He also knows where she lives. The note through the door – delivered by him? No way. He’s just an information peddlar.
There’s nothing she can do until John rouses so she faffs about in the kitchen. She even reads the ingredients on the packet of cereal, and knowing that ingredients are in order of how much is in the product, she baulks that the second on the list is sugar. So much for the healthy option; she might as well have picked up another packet of chocolate biscuits – at least they’re not pretending to be healthy. After her second cup of tea she hears movement from next door. A sleepy John sticks his head into the kitchen and yawns a, ‘Good morning.’
‘Are you sure it is?’
‘Ooh! Who’s an unhappy bunny this morning, then?’
She smiles, surprised that she had sounded so jaded.
‘Not unhappy, frustrated. I’m sure things will start coming together today.’
‘Why do you think that you have to solve this?’
Good question. ‘Well I was asked to do a job, to find out about Andrew Douglas and the story has, let’s say, developed. I can’t start something and not finish it. Especially when they blew up my car.’
‘No way. When did that happen?’
She’s forgotten that he doesn’t know anything that has happened beyond her finding him in Sandy’s flat.
‘Let’s get a tray together and I’ll fill you in.’
He actually looks much better. Must have been the bacon rolls.
When he returns from his ablutions he says, ‘God, what a relief it is to be away from hospital smells. The very thought of that makes me quiver in my boots.’ She looks at him quizzically, and he explains, ‘Had surgery as a young boy. All those memories of being forced to eat. It was bad enough this time round, but back then, I was sure they were trying to kill me.’
‘Well, let’s see how you improve in my care.’ She can’t believe she’s just said this, so qualifies it with, ‘For today, anyway. You’ll soon realise I’m no competition for Florence Nightingale.’
He is open-mouthed when she tells him about the blast and about the drinks party last night, but the state of her dress is all the proof he needs.
‘I’m going to find out a bit more about Leonard Whiteman. So Google and I will be on intimate terms today. What do you need? I imagine you’ll not be going far either? So do we need any ground rules?’ Viv cocks her head.
‘I could do with some things from my sister. I’m sure she’d drop them off if that’s okay with you?’
Now that this is posed as a question, she’s not in the slightest concerned.
‘That’s fine. As long as we don’t have the rest of the family tapping on the door.’
‘There’s no chance of that. I’ll give her a ring.’
While he does this, she boots up. Outside the window the cloud is so low she can’t even see the Pentland Hills; a good day to batten down the hatches. Only once since the car incident has she regretted postponing her holiday, but that bleak sky is a reminder of what she might have faced if she had gone north. Besides, Assynt’s not going anywhere.
Once Viv gets on-line she’s consumed. There is so much information available it’s almost criminal. She smirks as she clicks on another article. Max and Whiteman, it turns out, were at school together. Edinburgh’s impressive old school network is alive and kicking. The photograph makes all four men look much the same, the golf uniform doing its job, unifying them. Viv’s vision of Whiteman is so different from that of Max, who is the epitome of Edinburgh establishment. She imagines Max thinking that Manolo Blahnik is a composer or a chef, unless of course Manolo were floated on the stock market. Whiteman went into the family firm and diversified. ‘He sure did,’ Viv mutters.
‘What was that?’ John stirs from his slumber on the couch.
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that parents have no idea how their hard-earned school fees are going to pay off. I’ve got one guy allegedly a pillar of Edinburgh society, and the other from the same school – Whiteman. You sure you don’t know anything more about him? I’m surprised he shows himself in Copa Cabana. Confident, he’s confident.’
‘I’ve only seen him a couple of times, both of them in Copa Cabana. And then Robbie . . . well he’s always showing off about something, so he’s mentioned him a couple of times.’ He leans on his elbow and turns to look Viv.
‘Can you remember what context?’
‘I can’t stand Robbie, as you’ve probably gathered; he doesn’t think too highly of me either. He plays the big man, but I’m not sure how much is bluff. He’s fucking horrible to Sandy, excuse the French, and I hate that. He threatens him with blackmail then says he was only kidding. I don’t know why Sandy doesn’t dump him.’
‘Sandy, if I’m not mistaken, is an adult. He can look after himself. But what about all those sleeping bags lying around the flat? Who do they belong to? It didn’t look . . .’ She recalls the state of the flat and grimaces. John notices.
‘It’s not what you think. Sandy really is a rescuer. There are so many young guys turning up at the club who, if they’re not careful, are gonna end up in the hands of creeps like . . .’
‘Like?’
‘Like Whiteman. He is one of the worst.’
‘One of the worst what?’
He raises his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I’m sure you can guess.’
‘Humour me.’
He sighs. ‘I’ve heard that he can organise any boy you want. Any age, colour, shape or size. You name it, he’s got it or can get it.’
She presses. ‘All under age?’
‘Not always, but if you like it that way, yes. He has them trawling Calton Hill. They wear specific things if they belong to Whiteman.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Say, white jeans and a bag worn on the left shoulder.’
Viv remembers that, at one time, guys who wore an earring in a particular ear or had a set of keys attached to a particular side of their belt, or even before that, parted their hair on the ‘wrong side’ did so to indicate their orientation. Nothing changes. She runs her
hands over her face. ‘Christ, Whiteman is a total creep. Sandy and he must be enemies?’
‘Well they’re certainly not mates.’
This is what she’d imagined, but hearing it makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise. What could Zoe Whiteman have had in mind for her? Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t an invitation to drinks.
‘When did you last see Sandy?’
‘Thursday, yeah, I’m sure it was Thursday. He brought Robbie, but the nurse gave them an earful and Robbie had a fit. Honestly, when he’s with Sandy, he acts like a naughty toddler.’
‘Only he’s not. He’s a full-grown man keen to throw his weight about. Look, I might need to go out, when is your sister coming round?’
‘She’s on her way.’ He swings his watch round, a huge heavy thing, which makes his wrist look even frailer than it is. ‘She’ll be here any minute.’
Viv goes back to the screen and scrolls down looking for anything else on Max and Whiteman, but the rest are doubles of the ones she’s already looked at.
Opening her email she’s taken aback to see one from Max. She’s never given him her email address. He wants to meet her at the office.
‘Yeah, do I look daft?’ She hadn’t meant to say this out loud. ‘Sorry. It’s this email.’
‘What is it?’
The buzzer interrupts and Viv says, ‘That’ll be your sis.’
She nips into her bedroom and changes into jeans and a sweatshirt, before throwing her swimming kit into a bag. Showing John her sports bag she says cheerfully, ‘I’ll be back in about an hour. Have fun.’
Viv passes a sturdy young girl on the stairs. There’s definitely a family resemblance, but John is more finely built. Viv nods and says, ‘Your brother awaits.’
The girl looks surprised, but replies with an automatic thank you.
As Viv jogs up Candlemaker Row and along Chambers Street, the grey sky threatens to dump its next load, but for now it’s only a threat. Infirmary Street baths has a swimming pool as well as real baths, built by Victorians to cater for the many not privileged enough to have a bath of their own. The heat is wonderful after the cold dampness outside. The smell of decades of carbolic soap still permeates every wooden surface. Somewhere in this building there must be the biggest hot water tank and boiler known to man. Viv has on more than one occasion been known to stand beneath the shower for over ten minutes and the steam hasn’t faltered. It’s one of the rewards for doing her fifty lengths. As she walks to a cubicle the one woman in the pool says, ‘Great once you’re in, hen. But dinny hesitate whitever you dae!’
The water is even more inviting because there’s only one person in it. Viv suddenly regrets not shaving her legs, but it’s too late now and she takes the plunge. After thrashing up and down a few times she slows into a rhythm, leaving a wake that’s kinder to her fellow swimmer.
When Viv pulls herself up and out of the pool she looks at the woman, who must be in her seventies, swimming at a pace that befits her rubber floral cap, and admires the fact that she hasn’t stopped and will probably do as much exercise as Viv has, only in less of a rush. Now for her prize. With towel and shampoo in hand she heads toward the showers. Under the cascade of hot water, she closes her eyes to allow the shampoo to run off. She is startled when a familiar, but out-of-context voice says, ‘Just when you’re ready, Viv.’
‘Didn’t expect to meet you here, Max. Given up your membership at One Spa?’
She continues to rinse her hair; the heat of the water is too good to relinquish. She asks, ‘What’s eating you? You were tetchy last night and your email this morning was less than friendly. What’s going on?’
‘You going to stand there all day?’
‘Will my being dressed make any difference to your story? How did you know where to find me, anyway?’
‘Never mind that.’
‘I damn well do mind.’ Hoisting her towel from the hook she says, ‘I’ll be five minutes,’ and marches off. In the changing room it strikes her that whatever is going on, he must be terrified to go to this trouble. Although she loves swimming she hates the getting dressed bit; not quite dry skin refusing the advances of socks and tee-shirts increases her already significant frustration. Max is waiting in the entrance and points to his car outside, ‘Let’s get some coffee.’
This is a whole different man from the one she’s been preening for the last decade. His hands are shaking as he opens the door for her.
‘Let’s go to the Elephant House,’ Viv suggests. ‘It’ll be quiet and they serve decent coffee.’
He nods, attempting a u-turn in the narrow street, but catches his one hundred and fifty quid a pop tyres on the pavement opposite.
George IV Bridge has God-botherers out in force and parking is tricky. He pulls onto a double yellow, and they join the short queue inside the coffee house. He keeps looking round him.
‘Max, for God’s sake, who are you expecting?’
‘You’ve no idea, Viv. No idea.’
‘No, but I’m hoping that you’re just about to tell me.’
They end up sitting next to the loo door, so that no one will be tempted to join them.
‘Viv, I’m sorry about your car.’
She didn’t expect this and gives him a quizzical look. ‘Fill me in, Max, I must have missed something.’
‘They were trying to scare me.’
Viv is astonished. ‘What? . . . Wait a minute. Are you saying that someone trying to get to you blew up my car, huh . . .’ She catches her breath. This is getting less laughable by the minute.
The look on his face is so serious. Viv feels her suspicion rising and snorts, ‘Who are they? And does this have anything to do with Whiteman?’ He drops his eyes, so she doesn’t have to ask again if Whiteman is involved but goes on, ‘Okay, what have you done to incur his wrath? Or should I just say how much do you owe him? ’Cause it’s bound to be about money, am I right?’
She can’t imagine how Max, on his six-figure salary, plus, plus, plus could be in debt to anyone. Max doesn’t answer, but sits staring into his coffee. Viv isn’t getting it. The face that she’s used to isn’t the one that’s opposite her at the moment. Then suddenly an ugly possibility strikes her. ‘Max, it isn’t boys? Tell me it isn’t boys.’
His face turns beetroot. She wants to jump up and leave, but forces her butt to stay put.
‘Nothing happened. I swear. Nothing happened.’
When anyone says, ‘I swear’ she knows they’re lying. So starting with this premise she nods in the hope that he’ll continue without her goading him.
‘It was . . .’ He struggles to find the word and she struggles to listen to whatever crap he’s making up as he goes along. ‘It was just a bit of fun . . . for a laugh. I should have known not to trust him.’
‘Trust who? Whiteman?’
He nods. ‘Oh God, what a mess. He’s got photographs.’
Viv shakes her head, ‘For fuck’s sake, Max. How stupid are you? He’s one of the dirtiest pockets in Edinburgh from what I’ve gathered, and you’ve known him long enough to know what he’s capable of.’
He interrupts her. ‘I had no idea what he gets up to.’
‘Bullshit. You must have known if you asked him to organise a young boy for your . . . entertainment.’ She shakes her head. ‘If you’re not going to be straight with me we’re not having this conversation.’
Questions are racing round Viv’s mind, but she can hardly bear to be in the same space as him.
‘When he turned up . . . the young man I mean, I freaked out.’
‘Why?’
The look on his face is one of self-disgust. ‘Because he turned out to be the son of one of my clients. That’s why. The boy was completely stoned and I don’t think he recognised me, but I sure as hell recognised him. Nothing happened. You’ve got to believe me.’
‘Why, Max? Why the hell should I believe you and why are you telling me all this?’
‘Because the boy was Andrew Douglas.’
>
She draws in her breath and counts to ten as she releases it. ‘Oh, God. Tell me you had nothing to do with his death.’
He’s silent.
Seizing her swimming bag off the floor she says, ‘Tell this to Marconi.’
He grabs her arm. The place is busy now and she shrugs him off, but he grabs her again.
‘Don’t, Viv. It’s too big.’
‘Keep walking.’
Outside she heads right, along George IV Bridge and he trots at her side.
‘Whiteman says he’s got photographs with the date on them. I don’t know if that’s true or not. If he has there’s nothing compromising in them apart from the fact that the boy was already reported missing by that date. It had already been in the paper. I had no idea who he’d send and freaked out when I saw Andrew . . . I told him to get rid of him . . . I didn’t mean literally. Just to get him out of my flat.’
The fine drizzle is soaking them both but it’s a small price to pay to find out who was behind Andrew’s death. Not to mention the demise of her car. Viv halts abruptly and spins round. ‘You must know if there are photographs. Did Andrew have a camera with him? Was there a third person? Someone hiding in the stairwell as you opened the door? Think Max. You’ll have to think. This is serious. You need to go to Marconi. Now! I’ll come with you.’
‘You think I don’t know how serious this looks? . . . You’re mad if you think I’m going to tell Marconi about this. There’s no way. They’ll hang me out to dry for that young bloke. When he left me he left on his own two feet. I had nothing to do with his death.’
She thinks he’s protesting way too much but pushes him for more detail. ‘Okay. Let’s go back to the photographs. How likely is it that they managed to get photographs? And what would you like me to do?’
‘I don’t know yet, but Whiteman wants you and . . .’ He looks away.
‘And you said you could get to me? Is that right? Have you told Sonia?’