by V Clifford
‘Don’t ask.’
Carol, a polite woman, doesn’t ask, and invites Viv in.
‘You can leave those,’ she points at Viv’s boots, caked with mud, ‘in the utility room! Shall I put the kettle on?’
Not waiting for a reply she does just that, and over her shoulder says, ‘Nice of you to drop in. Unorthodox route, but nice.’
‘Okay, okay. You’ll never believe me but I was being chased by a nut case.’
Carol’s eyebrows shoot towards her hairline and Viv says, ‘Told you. Can hardly believe it myself. Trust me, I was being chased by a not very nice woman, and managed to shake her off down on the walkway.’
‘Now, Viv, we all know that you’ve had . . . shall we say, alternative relationships, but this is taking it a bit far, even for you!’
They both chuckle and take a seat at the kitchen table. Viv has never been in this kitchen. Carol always has her hair done in one of the spare bedrooms. Clients seem to fall into two categories, bedrooms and kitchens. Those who need a mirror, that is, those who are less trusting or less secure, choose the bedroom because there’s always a mirror. The kitchen is for those who both trust and can’t bear to look at themselves. Viv prefers the kitchen. The power points are usually more accessible and the hair doesn’t stick to the carpet. This is the kind of kitchen she’d have imagined Carol in: eclectic, always smelling of something nourishing, today with jars of marmalade sitting on a tray awaiting their labels, the aroma of hot sugar and fruit still heavy in the air. Carol is an artist and Viv has had some of her deepest conversations with her. When they first met Viv got the impression she was snooty and aloof, but it turned out she was just shy . . . and had a wicked sense of humour.
Once they’ve chatted about Beetle not winning any prizes for being the ideal guard dog, and about when Carol’s hair is due for its next cut, Viv stands to leave, brushing earth off the wooden chair and apologising for the intrusion. She also thanks her for the coffee, but Carol says, ‘Wait, I’ll get my keys and give you a lift. You can’t walk about looking like that, even if you are a feminist.’
The glint in her eye makes Viv hold off protesting. Instead she says calmly, ‘Fair enough. The chair will need a proper wipe. I landed on my tush and slid down in the mud.’
‘I can see that. Come on, it’ll only take ten minutes.’
Chapter Seventeen
When Viv puts her key in the door a strange sensation runs through her. After taking her grubby boots off in the hall she dumps her jacket on the floor by the kitchen door, ready for it to go into the washing machine. She calls out, ‘John!’ No answer. She shudders as someone walks over her grave.
When she enters the sitting room the place is empty of both John and his things. The bed linen is folded on the couch. No sign of a note, which is odd, since he hadn’t mentioned going out. The light on the answering machine catches her attention and she distractedly hits the play button then spins back to look at the machine as John’s voice says, ‘It’s weird sitting here on your couch hearing my own voice recording onto your machine. I couldn’t do it any more . . . trespass on your hospitality. I’m sure you’ve guessed by now who has been passing on your movements to the “Mafia”. If you knew . . . Never mind. Maybe you’ll understand anyway.’
She is shocked. Then shock turns to disappointment; she’d enjoyed his company. Unlike many men she found him easy to have around. The place feels empty. She runs over the events of the past week and it all fits. John was letting ‘them’ know when she’d been in to see him at the hospital, and when and where she’d gone swimming. ‘Yuck! What a shit.’
How stupid to think that she could do someone like that a good turn. But, stopping to think it through – what must they have on him? No wonder he was in such a state about Marconi’s visit. At least John had the decency to say thank you, which is something. The next message is from Marconi, asking her to ring him back. She can’t be arsed. The morning is catching up with her and she feels drained, and in need of a quick duvet session she heads for the bedroom, strips off and slides in.
When she wakes she feels better until she remembers what John has done. She sits on the edge of the bed wondering what it can be that the ‘Mafia’ do have on him. Must be drugs. Why did he tell her . . . actually he didn’t tell her, he mainly listened and fed her little snippets, but he gave her nothing of consequence, nothing that would compromise his relationship, whatever it is, with the Whitemans. She shakes her head – my, my, you really have been taken for a ride, Viv, that’ll teach you. In the hall she takes a clean towel from the linen cupboard and buries her face in its warmth, trying to recall what else she talked to him about. He was so easygoing. What kind of guy is he? Desperate?
The pulse of the hot shower works wonders for her anger management, and by the time she’s rubbing her hair dry John has been transformed from a knuckle-dragging troglodyte into a simple lesser mortal. She must phone Fettes.
‘Hi, can I speak to DI Marconi please? It’s Viv Fraser.’
After a short pause, she hears, ‘ Viv, what have you been up to? I’ve tried a few times this morning. Thought you must be having a long lie.’
‘Yeah sure, no such luck. I’ve had quite an adventure with Mrs Whiteman. Listen to this. She tried to stick some sharp file thing into my neck on the upper deck of a bus in Corstorphine.’
‘What were you doing in Corstorphine?’
She looks at the phone in disbelief, ‘What’s it to you? Surely you should be asking why Mrs fucking Whiteman was threatening me on a 26 bus.’ The pitch of her voice is extremely unattractive, so she takes a deep breath and says calmly, ‘What can we do about the Whitemans?’
‘Your Mr Black didn’t give me anything we didn’t already know. Our surveillance team have already got the current uniform of Whiteman’s boys. You could hardly miss them. GHQ on Saturday night looks like a high street in Ibiza.’
‘By the way. He’s not my Mr Black. He’s moved out leaving a confession. Get this. He has been keeping the Mafia, I’m guessing the Whitemans et al, up to speed about my movements. So much for Mother Teresa; Fagin more like . . . What did you ring for anyway? I’ve got nothing for you until you bring in the unhinged Mrs W. Looking forward to the streets being safer without her.’
‘I rang to ask if you’d like to have lunch sometime.’
This comes completely out of left field.
She clears her throat. ‘Did I hear you . . . did you say lunch as in a lunch lunch?’
He laughs and says, ‘Yes. Lunch. Forks and knives. You’ll have heard of it. We could start with lunch.’
‘Whoa!’
‘No, I didn’t mean that. Lunch just seemed more polite than dinner.’
She really is flummoxed. Dawn’s words come back to her. ‘Once you’ve had a woman, you’ll never want a man again.’ At the time Viv thought she was right, but now she’s not so sure.
‘Yes, okay, lunch would be fine.’
‘Fine! Easy on the enthusiasm.’
‘No, no, lunch would be lovely.’ Feeling herself colour she puts her hand to her forehead. Hot.
‘When?’ persists Marconi.
‘I’m off work this week. In fact I should have been touring the Highlands, but all this stuff, and the car and the threats . . . sorry, how about Wednesday?’
‘Wednesday is good. I’ll speak to you before then. I don’t know if we’re going to wrap Mr Whiteman up, but it will be one helluva ding dong if we do. If there’s any development I’ll let you know. And by the way call me Mac. My friends call me Mac.’
‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’
Well, well, how about that? She flicks on the TV, not sure what to do with herself. Surely she can have lunch with him without it becoming a ‘thing’. Then she spots the time. ‘Shit! Oh, my God!’ She’s to be in Stafford Street in ten minutes. Can she do it? Stupid question. She’s done it before.
As she enters the offices of McGrath and McGrath she looks at the old clock on the wall. Three minutes la
te. Miraculous. The room smells established. The receptionist says, ‘He’ll be with you shortly.’
Viv responds breathlessly, ‘Does that mean he’s somewhere busily sawing off a couple of inches of leg?’ The receptionist, already nonplussed, catches Viv’s expression, and scowls like a demon. What is it with receptionists? Aren’t they supposed to be the face of the company? Yet they always seem to be grumpy sods, and it doesn’t matter how beautiful they are. This one is instantly cat-like when she frowns. Viv entertains herself with these musings until a dapper man with dark slicked-back hair, younger than she’d expected, comes out of a polished wood door, and stretches out his hand. ‘Dr Fraser? Thank you for responding to my letter.’ Not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’
As he closes the door to his equally polished office, he looks round at Viv and says, ‘I wondered how long it would take. You’ve had the family on tenterhooks. They’re desperate to find out what’s in the will.’ He smiles, then gestures to a large leather chair and she sits down opposite him. The distance across this tidy desk makes him seem completely inaccessible. So what? It’s not his job to be her chum.
‘I hadn’t thought of the family. She, Dawn, had a . . . turbulent relationship with them.’
He nods, ‘Yes. She put her will together quite a few months before she died. As you’ll have guessed, I am the executor. Have you any idea what might be in it, Dr Fraser?’
The sound of her formal title again grates on her so she says, ‘Viv. Call me Viv.’ He nods again and waits until she continues. ‘Well I know about the mews. I was relieved that you managed to get a tenant for it.’ Nodding her appreciation she continues, ‘I know about the lock-up with the VW in it, but I don’t know if she rented that or owned it. I hope she rented it, but I imagine you would have heard from her landlord if they hadn’t had their money.’
‘The lock-up is owned by her father’s estate. But let me take you through Miss Rhodes’ assets.’
By the time he’s through Viv’s mind is reeling. Dawn was up to something leaving all of this to her. No wonder the family are keen to hear about the will.
His voice floats back into her consciousness. ‘Miss Rhodes, in her letter of wishes, states categorically that the family must gain nothing from her estate. I did say that this would make life difficult for the recipient of the assets, but she was adamant.’
So even in death Dawn’s giving her more than grief. Viv looks directly at him and asks, ‘Do the family know that I’m here today?’
‘No, why would they? And I am under no obligation to let them know.’ He gives a hint of satisfaction as if his pleasure in saying this is too much to hold back. ‘They’ve been . . . shall we say . . . difficult. Yes, difficult.’ He lifts his hand and is about to run it through his hair but stops, remembering that it’s full of wax.
‘I don’t know what to say. It’s all too much. Can we go over again the bit about land in Doune. I had no idea about her . . . ancestors.’
‘She was left an area of land, with a farm which has a long-term tenant, a couple of cottages also with tenants and a ruined keep. She looked into restoring it, but never did anything about it. Now it’s over to you.’
‘I’ll need time for this lot to sink in. How is the flat in London doing? I mean are the tenants okay, or . . .’ She recalls Sal Chapman and her keenness to make improvements for Viv. ‘I mean is the heating and everything up to speed?’
‘I’ll send all of this out in writing to you, but for now let’s just say you are a wealthy young woman.’
This irks her. ‘I’m wealthy already. Only I don’t measure it in bricks, mortar or land rights for that matter. Dawn may have had assets, but they’re not much good to her where she is.’
McGrath sits quite still.
Silently, she looks at her hands, struck by how different they are from Dawn’s. After a few moments, she stands up to leave and says, ‘What next? Am I supposed to do anything? Should I write to the family?’
He raises his eyebrows and pulls himself up out of his chair, expelling a long slow breath, ‘I don’t advise it. They’re prepared to contest her wishes. They’ll never do it, but greed’s a funny animal. If you need any help or clarification feel free to ring. Or if you have your own solicitors I can communicate with them if that suits you better.’
The handshake is generous from both of them.
Outside, she turns right and walks, in a daze, to the top of Stafford Street where excessively bright lights return her to the present. It feels Christmassy, too Christmassy for February. She sinks her hands into her pockets, puts her head down into the incessant wind and heads right onto Shandwick Place. It’s heaving with bodies just finished work. People bump and side-step, rushing for their buses, and at one point she’s pushed off the pavement into the path of an oncoming bus, but someone pulls her sleeve and shouts: ‘Mind out!’
At the junction with Lothian Road she decides to nip over to the pavement adjacent to Princes Street Gardens. It’s not much quieter, and unfortunately she can’t walk through the gardens as they close at dusk, so she has no choice but to elbow her way to the Mound before heading up across the High Street and down onto the West Bow. She turns anxiously as she hears steps behind her, but it’s only another pedestrian with his head down and his shoulders hunched like her own, hurrying to get home.
The flat is cosy, and before she thinks about her messages she flops onto the couch, letting go of a huge sigh. She is not sure whether to be relieved or not and she tells herself that nothing needs to be done at the moment. She glances round the room wondering if it’s her imagination or can she smell John’s cologne. It is empty in here without him, but at least it’s warm and homely. Wondering where he’s gone, she absentmindedly presses the TV remote to catch the six o’clock news. Hopping through channels she stops when she spots a familiar Edinburgh skyline, showing ‘Breaking news’ with Calton Hill as the backdrop. The reporter looks frozen and her hair is being blown across her face and into her mouth. She keeps pushing it back but the wind is the winner in this contest. The poor girl manages to say, ‘The police have four young men in custody after a raid on Calton Hill this evening. They are alleged to have been caught “loitering with intent” and are being questioned . . .’
Viv says, ‘What! Intent indeed.’ She looks over her shoulder at the answering machine, and stretches out her arm to press ‘Play’. She’s heartened to hear Marconi’s voice, ‘Thought you’d like to know that we’ve taken action. Give me a ring. I’d rather you heard the details from me than from STV.’
She rings him back anyway. His voice is distant, as if he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. ‘Marconi here. Oh, hi! Let me just move somewhere more private.’
She can hear his footsteps and a door opening then closing behind him.
‘Glad you got the message. We’ve brought Whiteman in.’
‘Mr or Mrs?’
‘Mr. You are never going to believe this, Viv.’
‘Try me.’
‘Well, a call came in to report an attempted robbery at the Whiteman property but that’s not how it turned out.’
‘What? I don’t get it.’
‘It’s not difficult. Someone phoned in and reported that they saw a young man acting suspiciously on the Whiteman property. How they saw this with defences greater than Barlinnie is a mystery, but I don’t have to tell you how diligent the public can be.’
She is getting the picture, but can’t quite see where he’s going with this.
‘When we responded to the call we found Mrs Whiteman recovering from a beating. No sign of a burglar, only hubby doing lengths in the pool, and her nursing a black eye and a bloody nose.’
‘That’ll have been some door she walked into.’
‘You got it.’
‘No! He didn’t say that! Tell me he didn’t really say that!’
‘He might be creative with young men and drugs, but not so with explan
ations about the state of his wife. Anyway, while PC Aitken checked the rest of the house for evidence of a break-in, I questioned Whiteman on his wife’s injuries. PC Aitken asked me to come and listen to something he’d just heard being recorded on Whiteman’s answering machine. Get this. The call, to a private line, was from a bloke calling to “order” boys. Couldn’t believe my ears. When I challenged Whiteman on this, cool as they come, he slid underwater and continued doing laps. You see, the caller gave an “account number” and thanked him in advance for four blond boys at “the usual place” on the hill at four p.m.’
Viv can’t believe it, Whiteman can’t be that stupid. This stinks of a set-up.
‘Was he set up?’
‘What! By us? Not on your life. You don’t know me if you think I’d entertain that kind of crap. No, it was a gift. I wasn’t meant to be there but luckily it was a good copper who knew about our interest in Whiteman and radioed in that’s where he was headed. We were able to get there as he arrived so he didn’t have to deal with a pro like Whiteman on his own . . . although not quite the pro that he might have been. We’ve got the lads as well. Loitering with intent.’
Viv continues to be amazed. ‘Will you actually get him?’
‘We’ve got the recording of the bloke “ordering” the boys along with his bank details – no name as yet though. We caught the end of the registration plate of a Lexus leaving the hill in a hurry. Must have been suspicious of our unmarked vehicles at the entrance. If we can tie the owner to the account we’ll be onto a winner. Besides, Whiteman’s human, might speak if he thinks he’s the only one taking the rap. Although, if I had to guess, I’d say he’ll not be as brave as he looks on paper.’
Viv sighs and runs her hand through her hair, seeing where this could lead.