by V Clifford
Viv notes the names he has most contact with and his pattern of activity. He’s also as camp as frilly knickers, so obviously ‘out’. Johnny’s page is entirely different. He doesn’t communicate as if he’s ‘out’, and his friends are mainly sporty. He also has long periods without posting anything at all, including the night of Andrew’s death. Doubting her own observations she scrolls through them all again. Shit! All three of them out of communication on one night. What are the chances of that not being suspicious? Viv chastises herself for not thinking to ask Colin about these two but it didn’t occur to her at the time. She rings Red back but her mobile goes to answering machine, and Viv has to settle for leaving a message. ‘Red, been taking a look at the Facebook pages of the three Harpies, and I’d say it’s worth you lot asking them some questions about it. None of them have any postings on the night of Andrew’s death – a really glaring absence of activity if you ask me. Give me a call.’
Viv kneels on the floor, scouring a pile of CDs. She uncovers the Mamas and the Papas Greatest Hits, slips it into the machine and turns up the volume. Within a few moments she’s singing her heart out. The first shave of the season takes longer than she’s planned, but once performed she is at liberty to select what to wear. After several false starts, she’s in a ‘that’ll have to do’ mood. Her hair won’t behave and should have been cut over a week ago. Still, it is shiny. Everyone comments on how glossy it is. It’s a complete fluke. The telephone ringing gives her an excuse to abandon her titivation. It’s Red.
‘Hi, I hoped it’d be you. Did you get my message about the boy’s Facebook pages?’
‘Yeah, good call, Viv.’
‘Any chance I could come in and …’
‘Oi, Doc, stop right there. I’m the one who’d get her head in a sling.’
‘C’mon, Red, I’ve just handed them to you on a plate. There’s got to be a way.’
Viv can hear the cogs in Red’s brain clicking, searching for a solution.
‘Leave it with me.’
She hangs up and Viv stares at the receiver convinced that Red will work something out. Just as she’s about to have another go at her hair, the phone rings. It’s Red again.
‘If you’re really quick I can let you into the observation gallery. We’re talking within the next twenty minutes. Sal’s just left for another meeting . . .’
‘I’m on my way.’
As she steps out onto the West Bow she hears the familiar sound of a diesel engine labouring on the steep bend and sure enough a black cab, whose catalytic converter can’t possibly be legal, slips into view. Soon she’s at Fettes, pays the driver and races up the steps. Red is already in the reception area and looks furtively right and left before shuffling Viv in through a door.
‘You do realise if I had balls they’d be for the chop?’
Viv smiles. ‘I’m grateful, I’m grateful.’
Red unlocks the door of a room with a huge window on one wall. Two tubular seats face the window but Viv can’t see anything until Red lowers the lights by turning a switch on the back wall. As Red is heading back out, the door of the room on the other side of the window opens and an officer leads in Pete and another bloke, who must be his solicitor. Viv recognises the guy in the suit as a partner at the same firm as her chum Margo. He’ll not be cheap. It’s weird watching an interview without being able to hear anything. Pete is blethering, panicked, his eyes darting around the room as if he’s expecting the Archangel Gabriel. His counsel keeps tapping his arm and shaking his head. Pete’s not listening. It doesn’t take long before he’s being lead back out. As he reaches the door, and as if he knows she’s there, he turns and stares at the wall. His eyes are not the eyes of an innocent. For years Viv has been watching people’s behaviour in the mirror; it’s given her insights. Pete’s body language was a terrific give away. No specific eye contact, arms crossed over his abdomen, hands gripping his elbows. She doesn’t feel like cuddling him now.
Five minutes later the door of Viv’s room swings open and Red, shaking her head, says, ‘Well, what did you make of that last gesture? I’ve been in here when someone has done that. Completely unnerving or what? It’s not gonna be too tough to crack but . . . we’ll get there.’ She rubs her hands over her face and into her hair. A gesture which Marconi does all the time.
Viv notices Red’s hesitation. ‘You’ll get there. Look, I’m meant to be somewhere but can we talk later?’
Red draws in a deep breath. ‘Sure thing, Doc. Sure thing. But Pete’s telling better stories than the Brothers Grimm. Says he’s confused about who, where and what he was doing on the night of the murder. The forensics report said that Andrew was already dead before the car was torched. This one isn’t going to be easy to untangle. Because he was so charred we can’t tell whether he had any wounds, and even the tests that might show whether he was toxic are going to be problematic with so little of the body uncooked.’
Viv gives an involuntary gasp and Red says, ‘Sorry, I keep thinking you’re one of us . . . I’ve got someone onto the net to check those Facebook accounts and we’ve brought Thomas and John in, but they aren’t saying anything without their solicitors. Almost an admission of guilt in itself.’
Viv interrupts, ‘Don’t even go there. But listen. Don’t suppose there’s any chance I could see . . .’
Red’s face contorts. ‘For fuck sake, Doc. What are you trying to do, get me lynched? If I get caught with you in here . . .’
‘I know. I know. I just thought . . .’
‘What, Doc? You just thought what? It’d be nice to see the charred remains of a young lad? Trust me, it ain’t no picnic . . . Look, how about I let you see some of the photographs from forensics?’
‘I don’t think that would work. I need to see the body.’
‘Christ! I didn’t take you for a resurrectionist.’
Viv starts off toward the exit but turns. ‘It sort of isn’t real until you see it in the flesh . . . but if I have to, photographs are better than nothing.’
Red marches up behind her. ‘You can’t get out until I scan my card.’ Gently says, ‘Honestly you really don’t want to see what’s left.’
Frustrated at being infantilised, Viv no longer wants to argue and just nods. When they reach the entrance doors Red says, ‘Look, I’ll have a go. I really appreciate the tip. If anything dramatic happens, or a nice neat confession, I’ll let you know.’
Chapter Twenty
By the time Viv approaches the Outsider she’s half an hour late and distracted by fantasy images of the remains of Andrew. When she reaches the door her belly begins an edgy dance. She slows her pace, takes her hand back off the handle, questioning what she’s doing. Maybe Dawn was right; perhaps she can’t go back to men, after all. She takes a couple of deep breaths before she rounds the corner, pushes open the double glass doors and wanders as nonchalantly as she can into the restaurant. He stands when he sees her and waves her over, kissing her on both cheeks. She flinches as his two-day growth scratches her cheek. Her hand touches the spot, still tender from last week’s encounter with Croy. A memory of Dawn, the gentleness of her soft skin, rises in contrast. Viv swallows. Her mouth is dry, and she is aware of her sudden longing for a female touch. She tenses even more as the waiter helps her take her jacket off. This isn’t the kind of establishment where, whatever they cost, they allow coats to hang on the backs of their designer chairs.
‘Hi, Viv. This feels weird, nice weird, but weird.’
She smiles. He seems as nervous as she is. She’s surprised he isn’t cross that she’s late. Maybe he was too.
She’s hesitant but hears her own words, ‘Hi . . . Mac, it is strange, I agree, and yes, nice strange.’ She sounds as if she’s underwater.
Pushing her chair in he says, ‘Good kit.’
Distractedly she notices his lemony cologne and says, ‘Thanks.’
‘You didn’t strike me as the type who’d wear a pelmet.’ He registers the look of surprise on her face. ‘I mean . .
. you look fabulous. I’ve only ever seen you in jeans before.’
‘You’ve only ever seen me on the job before.’ Her tone is more defensive than she means it to be, and she catches a look crossing his face that she can’t make out. He continues to be chipper. Too chipper.
‘True, but we’re not on the job now, so we should get work out of the way. Two things. First, Pete still hasn’t spoken, but they had a match on the goat shit. Beats me how forensics do it, but I’m ever grateful for their efforts.’
She waits, hoping to get the chance to mention that she’s spoken to Red already.
‘And second, have a look at this number.’
He takes out his mobile and shows her a number on the display. She doesn’t recognise it, but takes out her own phone and scrolls through the messages wondering if by any chance it’s the same number as the strange late night call without a voice. It isn’t. About to close the phone she remembers something else. Bingo! It’s the same number as the ‘U r safe’ text.
‘Look.’ She holds her phone up for him to view the text. ‘You want me to ring it?’
He glances around at other diners who look suitably engaged and says, ‘Don’t see why not.’
A male answers, and through a din of music says, ‘Hi, Viv.’
She’s baffled but recognises the voice. ‘John? John Black?’
‘ Viv, I just wanted to tell you . . . I’m so sorry. I feel so guilty.’
Viv, still baffled, says, ‘I can’t speak now. I’ll ring you later.’ She stares at the phone, then at Marconi. ‘Would you credit it? John bloody Black.’ It takes her a second but she manages to put two and two together. ‘Shit! So he’s your man for the tip off at the Whitemans?’ Marconi nods, and Viv lets out a huge breath. ‘Well, well. What next?’
Marconi looks pleased. ‘I like ticking boxes. By the way, on another note, Sandy’s wife turned up at the hospital and took him home. He’d had a serious asthma attack. We’ve also searched Robbie’s own flat and turned up evidence enough for a chemistry class, so we’re bringing him in again and I imagine he’ll give us more than we need to secure Whiteman. But listen, there’s something else – unrelated. He hesitates. ‘I had a call this morning from an interesting colleague who’s keen to meet you. Asked if I could set up a meeting. I told them we were having lunch here, so there’s a good chance they’ll drop in.’
She picks up the menu. ‘Curious.’
He looks confused.
‘Not the menu, Mac – your colleague. Why don’t they just ring me?’
‘You’ll find out. I bet every time the door opens you’ll be wondering if it’s them. Now the garlicky fries are exceptional, but not great for only one person . . .’
He looks over the top of his menu and smirks.
‘I’m not sure I could eat fries.’ She keeps her eyes on the menu. ‘But I think we deserve some fizz. How about Prosecco?’
Viv is relieved at the idea of a visitor and wonders if it could be Sal.Chapman, but he starts by saying, ‘Sal sends her best.’
So she knows that they are having lunch. ‘How is she, and what is it she does exactly?’
‘She’s an academic who does profiling for us.’ He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt so that they extend just so from his jacket.
‘Yeah, but what is that? What exactly does it mean?’ Viv feels her concern rising, wondering what Sal must think of her.
He exhales a deep breath. ‘She looks at patterns of behaviour and predicts the possible next moves of the criminal. She’s come up with some invaluable stuff for us.’
‘But she’s not working on this case, is she?’
He shakes his head, clearly disappointed at the direction the conversation is taking. ‘Not officially, but with a brain like hers available it would be daft for us not to keep her in the loop. She hasn’t led us a merry dance yet. Why are you so interested?’
‘Just wondered about interviewing her.’ A blatant lie, but now that she’s said it it mightn’t be a bad idea. The wine arrives and the waiter pours two glasses.
‘You could try but I don’t imagine she’d be up for it. She likes the quiet life. Anyway I’d rather hear about you, Viv. How come you’re a hairdresser and a journalist? That sounds like a journey.’
‘It’s not as strange as people think.’ She takes a sip of wine. ‘Hairdressers are, or rather have to be, anthropologists. I went back to school as it were, while still doing hair. I had to pay my way through university somehow, and hairdressing financed it. Besides it’s an addiction . . . and I’m as loyal as a cat. How about you? How did you get to where you are? Fast track or up through the ranks?’
He looks apologetic. ‘Fast track, I’m afraid. Law. I looked at anthropology but much as I’d have loved to read The Sexual Life of Savages, I couldn’t see how it would improve my career prospects. I should’ve known better!’
She laughs, relaxing into safe territory. ‘You’re taking the piss. I never met a single student in George Square who was doing law. The law faculty, or whatever they call it now, was an anthropologist’s dream all on its own – a community in isolation, stuck out there in Old College. Says it all really.’
‘You should have arranged to do your field work at Old College.’
‘Actually,’ Viv says, ‘you’re not too far off the mark. I did a gender study of the lawyers in Parliament Hall.’
He grimaces. ‘That couldn’t have taken long . . . Find anything worthwhile?’
‘Yeah, I did, but it wasn’t to do with gender so much as hierarchy.’
Their food arrives and she stops mid-sentence, but he prompts her to go on.
‘It’s not that interesting . . .’ She leans forward and centralises the white, angular porcelain salt and pepper pots. Then noticing what she’s done, continues, rather flustered, ‘I was keen to observe the way the genders use space, but ended up obsessing about the way the doors into the Signet Library were used.’
She stops again, wondering if he’s really interested or just humouring her, but again he says, ‘I’ve used that Parliament Hall myself a few times when I was training, and never noticed anything except the way advocates are fearful of someone overhearing their case. That’s why they keep on the move – pairs of them incessantly walking up and down the length of the hall.’
‘Yeah, I noticed that too.’
Their conversation dots from one safe topic to another, without halting, until a shortish, stout man, in ‘shoulder season’ tweed, appears next to the table. ‘Sorry to butt in like this.’
Mac stands and introduces the man, saying, ‘Ah, this is the colleague I mentioned.’
He puts out his hand and says, ‘Glad to make your acquaintance at last, Dr Fraser.’
So she has a name . . . and he doesn’t. Strange. He has a plummy, slightly Scottish accent and sports what looks like a dead rat on his top lip, but otherwise his countenance is pleasant and ruddy, in fact not unlike the man in her recent dream. Mac pulls a chair from another table, eliciting a testy look from the waiter.
As the man speaks, Viv has a vision of Mycroft Holmes and lets out an involuntary snort. Mac gives her a funny look. Feeling the need to explain herself she says, ‘I’m sorry, but you speak in a way that I imagine Mycroft Holmes would . . . that is, if he existed.’
He and Mac look at each other, then at her and break into broad smiles. The man says, ‘Funny you should say that,’ as he takes a seat.
Mac says to the man, still with no name, ‘Would you like lunch?’
‘No, thank you. Just passing and thought it best to speak to Dr Fraser directly.’ He turns on full charm and grins at Viv. ‘Now, I don’t suppose Mac here has mentioned why I’d like to meet you. But I’ll try and be quick. We need help. Your help, with a case we’re working on.’
Viv looks bemused and shakes her head.
‘No. Hear me out if you will. One of your clients is up to something and although we’ve been following his progress we could do with someone who has inside information. You
, my dear, are the very person.’
The waiter interrupts and asks if they’re ready to order. Mac gestures to Viv to go first.
‘I’ll have the sea bass and fries.’
‘Ditto.’
The waiter says, ‘Ordinary or garlicky?’ And turning to the new arrival. ‘May I get you a menu, sir?’ He shakes his head in answer.
Mac replies, ‘Garlicky. Thanks.’
Viv says, ‘Ordinary,’ and turns to the man in tweed, ‘I may well be perfect for the job in your eyes, but there’s the little matter of ethics. You see I have an unspoken code not to interfere with any business of my clients’ beyond their hair. It’s taken me a long time to build up their trust. Besides I’m unqualified for this.’
‘I can see your point but if . . .’
‘No buts or ifs. I’m not interested.’
He looks at Mac and says, ‘I see what you mean.’
Viv looks at Mac then at the nameless man. ‘Am I invisible? Whatever you two have had up your sleeve is out of my remit unless you’d like me to write a story on it.’
This certainly has their attention. ‘That wouldn’t be wise, Dr Fraser. If we told you it’s in the national interest that we gain access . . .’
Viv laughs, ‘For God’s sake, we’re surely beyond the days of 007? There’s nothing you can’t access. Sorry, I’m not your girl.’ Then, looking regretfully at the waiter, as he approaches with an appetiser of bread and oil, she stands and gestures to him that she’d like her coat.
But Tweedy says, ‘No need to go. I’ll leave you to think it over.’ He stands, and she realises he’s not as small as she had thought. His girth must act like an optical illusion.
As she shrugs into her coat she says, ‘I don’t need time to think it over.’ Then, turning to Mac, she says, ‘“Forks and knives. You’ll have heard of them.”’ Her exit isn’t as smooth as she’d like when she has to yank her coat free of the restaurant door, and blaspheming under her breath thinks so much for lunch lunch!