by V Clifford
When they reached the office Red turned. ‘Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw these.’ A large table in the office was obscured by photographs. Viv recognised the event they showed immediately. They’d been taken at a staff party in her early salon days. She could name everyone in them. Face by face she gave Red their names. She pointed to Mazza, aka Mary Smith – who wouldn’t want to lose that name?
Red nodded. ‘That’s her. That’s Nancy McVee.’
After a few minutes of bending over the photographs Viv slumped into a chair and Red said, ‘How you doing? I’d forgotten about last week’s shenaningans.’
‘I’m okay. I can’t believe this, though. You see, only week before last someone, a friend, asked me to talk to Nancy McVee, clearly not her real name . . . have you found other pseudonyms?’
‘Yes. She’s obviously been changing her name like you change your socks. You think that back then she was called Mary Smith?’
‘I can see why she’d want to ditch that. But why change it to Nancy McVee? That wouldn’t exactly sweep the nation with excitement. Anyway I emailed her and got a reply that made me think that whatever my friend was concerned about there wasn’t anything I could do to help him.’
‘And your friend’s name?’
Viv hesitated and Red pressed. ‘C’mon. Don’t you go holding out on me.’
‘Dr Walter Sessions. But he won’t have anything to do with this.’
Red raised her eyebrows and Viv smiled. ‘He can’t have. He’s a friend of mine.’
‘What – you think that all the guys we have banged up are friendless?’
Viv tutted. ‘Of course I don’t. But Walter?’
‘Go on. Walter. What about him?’
‘Well, he’s a desperate man at the moment.’ She glanced at Red. ‘But not desperate enough to kill anyone.’
‘You’ve got his details and we’ll follow this up. No need for you to be involved any more. In fact, if I were you I’d lay low for a bit.’
When Viv looked up at Red there was compassion in her face. She really did seem concerned about Viv’s wellbeing.
She took out her phone and scrolled through for Walter’s details, handing the phone to Red when she found them.
As Viv drove back to the West Bow she considered how complicated silences were. Often the weight of their content became the most powerful of motivators. One act, swept under the carpet, could, years later, jump out and wreck a life. She recalled how many times she had leapt into something without thinking through the repercussions? Too many . . . and yet she’d lived to tell another story.
She parked in a residents bay and strode back towards the flat. No sooner had she closed the door and slumped against the back of it than her phone rang, it was Mac. ‘Hi Viv, we’re having a wee get together tonight and wondered if you’re up for it. Nothing fancy, but since we’ve put a few tricky things to bed in the past week we thought we’d celebrate . . .’
Viv, exhausted, checked the clock. ‘What time are you thinking of?’ The idea of going back out filled her with dismay. She’d fantasised about a long hot soak and a night by the telly, but she was torn, he sounded really keen.
As if sensing her reluctance he added. ‘We can make it early if that suits you.’
She heard herself agreeing to go, and grimaced with annoyance. ‘Okay. Seven o’clock and I’ll just stay for one.’
‘Great! Sal and Sandra need to have an early night so that’s ideal. Want me to pick you up?’
Still without enthusiasm she said. ‘Can you be bothered?’
‘Sure. For you dear anything.’
She imagined him grinning at the other end of the line. ‘You taking the piss?’
‘No . . . No actually I’m not. So I’ll see you at five to seven.’
He hung up before she had time to renege. She punched the cushion on the sofa and blasphemed. Then sat for a few minutes thinking of a viable excuse to back out. But by the time she’d had ten minutes tussling with what she could say the idea of getting changed wasn’t so drastic. She had an hour and a half before he’d ring the bell so she pulled her feet up onto the sofa and dragged the heavy velvet throw over her legs and fell into a deep, dream-disturbed sleep.
When she woke she lay still, the noise of Edinburgh going about its business virtually imperceptible in its familiarity. She looked around her eccentric little sitting room, its walls concealed by paintings and prints so that the red wallpaper was barely visible. A series of six Victorian cartoons of Dr Syntax, arranged above her desk, reminded her of how much the room had become her own. Sal had surprised her by offering her the chance to buy the flat and Viv hadn’t needed to be asked twice. The proud owner of a garret in the West Bow with its contents thrown in, she’d set about giving it her stamp.
The buzzer going made her jump and seek out the clock. She answered it thinking that Mac was early so would have to wait while she got ready. As she pressed the door release she heard footsteps on her landing.
The shock on Viv’s face made Sal laugh. ‘I know you weren’t expecting me but I’m not that scary.’ When Viv didn’t reply immediately she hesitantly moved back.
Viv stepped forward and embraced her. Dropping her head onto Sal’s shoulder. ‘Sorry I was . . .’
‘It’s okay Viv.
They turned and walk down the hallway into the sitting room. ‘I fell asleep.’
Sal stepped over the red velvet throw lying on the floor. ‘You sure you’re up to a night out?’
Her gentle voice touched a place in Viv that made her defences rise. ‘I’m fine.’ She said, her tone too high. ‘I’ll just get changed.’
Sal ran her hand down Viv’s arm and squeezed her hand. Viv looked away but returned the squeeze. Still holding hands they stood in silence until Viv wiped her cheek with the back of her free wrist. Sal rubbed Viv’s back then pulled her onto the couch where she held her until the sobbing had run its course.
Viv pulled away and leaned back, then grabbing a cushion she held it like a transitional object. ‘Sorry Sal, what a mess I am. I’m such a bubbly bairn.’ She laughed. ‘It’s a disaster if someone’s nice to me. You should be majorly pissed off.’ She stared at Sal, whose generous blue eyes were more than she could cope with.
‘I’ve been keeping track of what’s happened the last couple of weeks and decided you didn’t need a limpet clinging to you. So, difficult though it was, I took a step back to give you space and see what emerged.’ She nodded at Viv. ‘And this is it.’
Viv took Sal’s hand again and rubbed it over her lips. ‘Thanks. I feel as if there’s light at the end of the tunnel with the proverbial train coming my way.’
‘One day at a time Viv. Remember, how do you eat an elephant?’
Viv’s shoulders dropped and she smiled. ‘You’re right, but I’ve been a real ass and stuffing huge lumps in.’
Sal took out her mobile phone and while dialing said. ‘Haven’t we all? Now, I’ll ring Mac and tell him we’re not going to make it. Then I’ll get the kettle on. How does that sound?’
Viv drew her legs up beneath her and pulled the velvet throw back over her knees. ‘Music to my ears.’
Digging
up the
Dead
Chapter One
Was he scolding her? Viv Fraser hunched in the doorway of the village paper-shop, and watched in frustration as her friend Geraldine stood on the pavement opposite, with torrential rain bouncing all around her. There was no indication, from the couple’s body language, of love, unconditional or otherwise. The man with his hands thrust deep inside his jacket pockets and his large square jaw jutting out from an oversized hood. He towered above Geraldine and from where Viv was standing he seemed intent on violating that invisible boundary which no one should transgress. Geraldine displayed none of the confidence that Viv was accustomed to: she looked strained, her knuckles white as she gripped the strap of her leather shoulder bag. Geraldine’s eyes roved over the pavement seeking anything to keep her atte
ntion away from him. Suddenly he stepped closer, wrapped an arm around Ger’s shoulders and guided her back towards her car. At first Viv thought Ger was objecting, but she conceded and allowed herself to be led. He glanced back towards Viv but his hood prevented her from getting a proper look at him.
Viv, unconvinced that Ger was doing the right thing, decided that he was bad news, but was in no position to interfere. As soon as they were out of sight she pulled up her own hood and raced back towards the cottage. Doune was an unplanned village with a hotchpotch of architectural styles. Small elegant Georgian houses stood cheek by jowl with bothies, once lived in by pistol makers or bakers with extended families. The Catholic Church, positioned high off the road with a wall marking its boundary, was where Viv turned off the main street into the kind of lane that you’d find decorating a shortbread tin. She passed a row of cottages on her left, and continued over one of General Wade’s hump-backed bridges, moving like a fell runner, avoiding potholes rapidly filling with muddy water flowing from the field above. Soon she was through the estate gates, up a long drive, part of an old military road, with leafy branches overhanging one side, and where deep tyre ruts desperately needed a top up of gravel to bring them level with the grassy mound in the middle, a mound that made it impossible for any car other than a 4x4 to reach the top without damaging its undercarriage.
Dripping wet, she reached the stone cottage and huddled beneath the porch at the side door. The sound of Molly, Sal’s bearded collie, barking broke into her concerns for Ger. She toed off her boots and shook her jacket before taking them inside. The tack-room, once home to halters, yokes, and saddles, was now a drying room for Sal’s outdoor gear. Walls panelled with dark varnished tongue and groove were studded with large brass hooks laden with ropes, chalk bags, and an assortment of garish waterproof clothes. What could be seen of a flagstone floor had evidence of hobnails on a few of its slabs, but was otherwise crowded with neat rows of boots and trainers; lots of stuff but everything in its place.
She relished the warmth of under-floor heating rising through her socks. Molly bounced and twirled round her as if she’d been away for hours. She cuddled Moll and rubbed her ears as they rolled onto the sofa in mutual admiration, until her phone vibrated perilously close to the edge of the table, and she abandoned play to grab it before it fell to the floor. She missed the call, but recognized Jules’ number, who, had she been desperate to speak to Viv, wouldn’t have given up so quickly.
She padded through to the kitchen, flicked the switch on the kettle, still nervous of using the Aga. She chewed on her lip and hugged her upper arms, relieved that the rain beating on the conservatory roof couldn’t get to her. It had taken a few days to settle here, but now she’d relaxed, as much as she ever could, into the slow rhythm of her days. Meeting Ger was a fly in the ointment that she hoped to shake off. What was not to like about being with a dog whose enthusiasm couldn’t be matched? And catching up on reading that she’d been too tired to concentrate on was no bad thing either.
Viv almost missed a second call but reached it as her message service kicked in. It was Mac’s number. She called straight back. ‘Hey, Mac! How you doing? You’re not supposed to . . .’ Mac’s Sunday name was DCI Marcus Marconi. He headed up the NTF (National Task Force), originally set up as a counter-terrorism branch of Police Scotland with reaches into National Security. Viv had been ‘invited’ not to ask about details. She’d done the odd job for them and satisfied with her results they’d asked her back again and again.
Mac’s voice sounded tinny, on a speaker-phone in his car. ‘I’m in the area and wondered if you’d like a late lunch?’
‘I’ve had lunch, but swing by. I’ll stick the kettle back on.’
‘Great. Ten minutes.’ He hesitated. ‘Is Sal back yet?’
‘No. Her flight’s delayed in Houston so she’s not getting in until tomorrow. Mightily pissed off I might add, but there’s nothing she can do. Did you want to see her?’
‘I’ll explain when I get there.’
Intrigued, she briefly mused on Sal’s relationship with Mac, until she noticed that she was tidying on his behalf, folding newspapers, plumping cushions and gathering mugs that had built up over the week. She reminded herself that she wasn’t expecting her auntie Jeannie, her mother’s sister, whose ability to seek and find dust was unparalleled. She shook her head to relieve her mind of faces from the past, intruders who appeared when she least expected them.
Viv told Molly that they were having a visitor but unsurprisingly the dog made no attempt to move from her snuggled position on the sofa. Her ears twitched when Mac’s car pulled up, and as Viv walked toward the front door she deigned to bang her tail. Hearing Mac’s voice was a test too far, and she bolted to greet him as he came in the front door.
‘Hey, Moll.’ Mac bent down and fussed with the dog until she was satisfied and trotted back into the sitting room. ‘She’s looking great.’ Then turning to Viv with raised eyebrows. ‘Not looking too shabby yourself. Enjoying the rest?’
Viv grinned. ‘What are you after, you charmer?’ She gestured for him to follow her into the kitchen, where a pot of coffee stood covered with a tea cosy.
‘I’ve got the weekend off. Thought I’d come and do a bit of work on my place. It’s badly in need of some TLC. But if this rain continues it will put paid to me doing the outside stuff I’d planned.’
She handed him a mug and smiled. ‘I didn’t have you down as a DIY man.’
‘I’ll bet there’s a lot you don’t have me down as.’ He smirked and nodded to the conservatory. ‘In here?’
‘Sure, grab a seat.’
The windows were running with condensation, making it impossible to enjoy an uninterrupted view of parkland and mature specimen trees that lay beyond. Viv went in search of a cloth to clear them. Once she’d returned the cloth to the kitchen, she said, ‘So what’s on your mind?’
Mac blew over the top of his coffee before taking his first sip. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
She hated it when he did this. ‘You wouldn’t be here if it was nothing. Stop bullshitting.’
He raised a conciliatory hand. ‘Okay. Well, we got a call about an archaeological site this week. Up on Sheriffmuir.’ He waved in the direction behind his head. ‘Central have a brilliant team up here, but there were so many bits of bodies turning up that it became clear that we were dealing with . . . I’m too nervous to say this out loud, ’cause if the media got hold of “mass grave” they’d whip themselves into a frenzy.’
Viv raised her eyebrows. ‘So, multiple bodies? Old or new?’
‘That hasn’t been established yet. And anyway how old is old? We wouldn’t normally get to know much about this kind of thing, but when the body count rises, and journos get interested, we’re forced to take a look. And I have to confess that since I know the area I was more than a little intrigued. Don’t suppose you fancy a bit of a hike?’
‘Where exactly is this site?’
‘It’s a huge area. I’ve got map references, but I’d rather just drive up and see the lie of the land for myself. It’s near, maybe even on, the battle ground at Sheriffmuir. Not that anyone seems to know where the actual battle took place.’
Viv stared out at the rain, assessing the sky. ‘In that?’ She pointed outside.
‘Fair-weather investigator or what?’
‘You accusing me of being soft? I’m no fair-weather freak, but let me check the forecast. I’ve already been soaked today.’
Viv nipped upstairs to where she’d left her laptop. On returning she said, ‘Wifi’s not great here and in this weather it’ll be even worse.’ She moved the laptop from place to place until she found a hot spot where the signal kicked in. ‘Look, it says it’s going to clear later in the afternoon, why don’t we leave it until then?’
Mac shrugged. ‘Fair enough. The bones won’t be going anywhere. I’ll go to mine, switch the heating on and disturb the mice. The place is bound to be damp. I haven’t been up for wee
ks.’
Viv, distracted by the novelty of having an internet connection only heard the word “mice”. ‘Did you say mice? Shit! I’d forgotten that small country matter of indoor rodents.’ She screwed her face up and shook her head to rid her mind of its mousey vision. ‘Nothing’s coming up about your bodies, which means they can’t be that interesting, or there’s tons of other grisly news. Anyway you go and do your stuff, and I’ll catch up on my emails before I sort out the wood situation here.’ She gestured towards the stove. ‘Sal’s none too hardy and I’d like the place to be cosy when she gets home.’
‘Very domestic.’
Viv placed her hands on her hips, and smiled. ‘We can but try. The chance of me salvaging any dry wood and hauling it in here is remote. What’s with these April showers dipping into May?’ She ruffled her hair. ‘What time, then?’
Mac blew out a breath. ‘It’s two thirty now. Say half four, five? We could grab something to eat at the Sheriffmuir Inn after if you like?’
‘Sounds like a plan. Do we need to book? Friday night could be busy.’
He pointed at her laptop screen, ‘Since you’re already up and running could you Google the number and give them a ring?’
‘Sure.’
Viv watched as Mac scanned the room. Bookshelves occupied all available floor space. Old paintings and prints crammed every patch of wall that wasn’t glass. ‘You’ve got this place looking . . . lived in. As if it’s a permanent home and not just a weekend place.’
Viv and Sal had been taking tentative steps to becoming an item, but it was early days and she could see his statement for the fishing expedition that it was. She shook her head. ‘As you well know, none of this is my doing. Sal’s aunt left it more or less as you see it. Sal’s done very little to change the character, although tons of insulation and the under-floor heating in the boot-room is a godsend.’ She shrugged. ‘It is really comfortable, and the views when you can see them, are spect . . .’ Then she remembered that Mac and Sal went way back. ‘Sorry, granny and sucking eggs.’