by V Clifford
All through the dream Viv’s emotions were tested and her heart pounded; and now the weight in her chest felt as if it would crush her. She lay in the dark with the reassuring sound of the odd car driving down Candlemaker Row, their headlights searching her bedroom wall. Viv kept her palm resting on her chest. Slowly her breathing regulated as she unpacked the narrative of the dream. In dreams, however bizarre the story was, there was always a beginning, a middle and an end. Viv was stunned at people who dismissed their dreams as garbage. The brain functioned twenty-four seven; thoughts that came in the form of dreams were as important as any other. Viv paid attention to whatever her mind kicked up, regardless of the time of day.
Slowly, she began to reason with the drama. For starters she and Dawn had never lived together, but perhaps unconsciously she’d hankered after that. It had never been an option. Dawn was incapable of fidelity, endlessly claiming she was married to her work. True, when work involved the new younger members of the orchestra. Unbeknown to Viv, during the last six months of their turbulent relationship, Dawn had been seeing two girls from Edinburgh and one in Inverness. Although at some level Viv had suspected as much, love was cockeyed, and not wanting to believe it she ignored the signs. In the end Dawn’s crazy, erratic behaviour wore Viv down. Phone calls in the middle of the night from Dawn, weeping and regretful, confessing her undying love, until the next time she didn’t show up for a date. Viv was no doormat and with each call, her commitment was eroded, but there was something about Dawn that kept her wanting, and it was more than between the sheets chemistry.
She heaved a breath. As for the pool, who didn’t dream of having a swimming pool? Jungians were always banging on about water as the universal symbol of the unconscious. But whatever Jungians thought, every time she used public baths she had to suspend her beliefs and disbeliefs about what was lurking in the toxic brew.
A further snippet of dream emerged. An unlikely version of her mother entertaining a church committee, since in real life ‘Holy Marys’ as her mum called church goers, were not part of her mum’s life. She’d always criticised them for only doing good works for their own gain and wouldn’t have them in the house.
‘Go frickin’ figure, girl,’ was as much as her brain could manage at this time of the night. She jotted the details down, with the intention of giving them her full attention in the morning. She shivered, bundled herself in the duvet, and counted hundreds of sheep off the abattoir lorry and back onto the hill, eventually falling into a fitful sleep.
On waking the next morning Viv felt as if she’d had a kicking. Aching, she rolled over, drew the duvet over her head, and closed her eyes. Worth a try. She wasn’t the type to languish in bed. She groaned and reached for the switch on the radio. They were running a piece on the death of a man ‘alleged to be one of Edinburgh’s most eminent neurologists’. She sat up and stared at the radio, tweaking the volume when her head could no longer stand the high pitch of the female reporter’s voice, who screeched into her microphone in an attempt to transcend the traffic noise of a busy hospital car park. The reporter claimed that the professor had died of a heart attack while at work on Saturday night.
‘Someone is yanking your chain, girl,’ Viv whispered to the radio.
Recalling his screen saver, Viv wondered how Sanchez’ wife and children would react to this news, and questioned what Geraldine had told her about their divorce. Ger would be devastated to hear this announcement . . . or would she? Viv groped around her bedside table in search of her mobile. She scrolled through her contacts, determined that she had Ger’s number, but no, only an email address. She sent her a quick message but within a few minutes an out of office reply bounced back.
Swaddled in the duvet, she padded through to the kitchen, flipped the kettle on, either for tea or a hot water bottle, she couldn’t decide. Every movement took an effort and the person that looked back at her from the bathroom mirror was unrecognisable. Dark rings framed dull eyes, and her skin, usually translucent, looked a khaki shade of grey, and worse still, her tongue felt like a seventies shag pile rug.
Hot water bottle in hand she flopped into bed and was lulled back into a superficial reverie by the low tone of the radio. Eventually her mobile phone vibrated and brought her back to life. It was Sal’s number. In no mood to have a deep and meaningful, she let her answering service pick it up.
A tinge of regret tickled at her conscience, but not for long. She cuddled the remaining warmth of the hot water bottle and for the next hour or so indulged in drifting in and out of feeling sorry for herself.
Her phone vibrated again. This time it was Mac. She held her nose and answered with, ‘Hi, leave a message. I’m feeling lousy . . .’
‘What’s up? You think you’ve overdone being a country girl? I take it you’ve heard about Sanchez?’ Mac might be her friend but he was first and foremost a cop.
Sal must have given him all the details about what she’d done yesterday and this was his none-too-subtle way of checking her out.
‘Mind if I drop by for a cup of coffee?’
She groaned. ‘No, I really am unwell. I’ve got a raging head and my muscles . . .’
‘I’ll take the risk, if it’s okay with you? And since you’re not going anywhere anytime soon I’ll leave it until after lunch. That’ll give you time to get a shower and your story straight.’
She stuttered at the last comment. ‘What d’you mean . . . get my story straight? Sal gave you a straight version.’
‘What? Sure. Straight as a nine bob note. I didn’t come up the Clyde, Viv. See you about half one.’
He rang off and she threw her phone onto a chair laden with clothes that needed sorting. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Viv had gone to Sal’s for some R&R. She should have holed up and not been tempted to go running round the moors or out with soaking wet hair to pursue a long shot. Or for that matter bolting off to Edinburgh in search of that signal. The clock read twelve ten. She decided that if she was going to be of any use to herself or Mac, she’d better pop a few pills.
The cupboard in the bathroom offered an out-of-date box of Paracetamol, two of which she downed with bottled water that had long lost its fizz. She gagged as one of the pills lodged in her throat, but continued towards the shower in anticipation of a modern day miracle.
As ever, she felt a whole lot better with clean hair and exfoliated skin. She slipped into some jogging pants, an over-sized flannelette shirt, and her favourite bed-socks, knitted, as a Christmas gift, by a uni friend. One of the best presents she’d ever had. Three-ply, homemade bed socks, what’s not to like about a friend who does that? She checked her emails and listened to a message of apology from Sal on her phone. She answered messages from hair clients. No emotional turmoil required for that.
When the buzzer went she blew out a sigh but wandered to the speaker, and was just about to release the door when a voice, not Mac’s as she’d expected, said, ‘Doctor Fraser?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘You don’t know me, but I was wondering if we might have a chat?’ The voice was male and cultured.
Flustered, Viv hesitated before deciding. ‘Er, no, this isn’t a good time. What’s it about anyway?’
‘I’d rather not say . . .’
Abruptly Mac’s familiar voice interrupted. ‘Hey, Viv, you going to let me in?’
Then there was a scuffle and Mac shouted, ‘Back in a minute.’
Viv stood listening for any sign of action but hearing nothing save traffic on the cobbles outside she left the door and went to put the kettle on. It took a few minutes before Mac returned and she buzzed him in.
‘What the hell was that about?’ Seeing Mac back in an immaculate suit and crisp white shirt caused her insides to flutter. She laid her hand across her front, reminding herself not to go there.
He grinned. ‘Oh, nice to see you too . . . you at the end of the queue for social graces or what?’
‘Fuck off, I’m not in the mood.’
‘I ga
ther that. I followed the guy who was speaking to you. There was something weird about the way he was hogging the entry phone, and when I leaned over him he shoved his elbow into my sore rib . . . well anyway he backed off at speed, and jumped into a black Toyota with a female driver waiting for him outside Bella’s. I’ve got the registration number.’ He handed Viv his phone. ‘Recognise this?’
Viv nodded. ‘The other night when I was tracking that email account, the one that Sal . . .’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know the one you’re talking about.’ He gestured with his hands for her to keep her story rolling.
‘Well, I found a secretary or PA in Sanchez’ office and I followed her. She got into a Toyota, but it was dark and I couldn’t see the exact colour. Coincidence?’ She went through to the bedroom to fetch her mobile. ‘Here. I took a note of the number.’ She compared their screens. ‘Yep, same car.’
‘I’ll have it checked.’ He pressed a quick dial and read his PA the number before turning back to Viv. ‘So you want to run through what you did yesterday?’
She glared at him. ‘No. I’ve got nothing to say that Sal won’t have told you.’
‘How about you humour me? Let’s pretend that you didn’t tell Sal absolutely everything.’
Like a recalcitrant child she sighed ostentatiously. ‘I went in search of the signal from the computer that had sent the emails to Sal. It wasn’t difficult.’
He raised his eyebrows.
She ignored him and continued. ‘I traced it to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary and when Sal zonked out I thought I might as well take a look.’
He raised his eyebrows again. ‘And you did this how?’
She eyeballed him. ‘You really want to know?’
He nodded. ‘Indeed I do.’
‘Well there’s a way to set . . .’ She sighed, knowing how dull the explanation would sound. ‘You know when you use Facebook and there are a list of names that are active on the side?’
His eyes widened. ‘Yes, I do. But with Facebook we’re still in legal range.’
‘Oh, for fuck sake, you don’t really want to know then. Let’s just say I found a way to follow the signal.’
‘Illegally, all the way to Edinburgh?’
Choosing to ignore the bit about whether it was legal or not, she replied, ‘God, Mac, it’s a fifty minute drive not the dark side of the fucking . . . oh anyway. When I got there I lost the signal for a bit. Then Sal’s battery ran out and I had to do a bit of fiddling around before I found the signal again. Naturally I went to investigate, and found a woman inside the office which had Sanchez’ name on the door.’
‘And you know Sanchez how?’
‘Well, I don’t. I only saw him for the first time the other day. A friend of mine is having a relationship with him and . . . well never mind that.’
‘No, no, go on. Fill me in. That’s exactly the kind of stuff that you didn’t tell Sal or . . .’
She glared. ‘I bumped into my friend from university days, Geraldine, in the café in Doune. She was upset and was going to come back to the cottage and have a chat but when we went outside she spotted her man, the very one that she was upset about. Some guy . . . a professor of neurology. I’m sure she said Stephanos Sanchez − a huge brute of a guy. Anyway she, Ger, went off with him. End of.’ She shrugged. ‘I could have passed him for all I know: some of the corridors at the hospital were packed. It makes sense that he was there now, though.’
Mac rolled his hand again for her to continue. ‘I’m still listening, and by the way, when exactly did you bump into her? Was it before you were attacked or what?
VIv thought for a moment. ‘Actually I saw her before. What? . . . you seeing a connection?’
He nodded. ‘Could be. But carry on.’
She heaved another sigh and glanced heavenward. He smiled and gestured again for her to keep going.
Peevishly she continued. ‘As I’ve said, I followed his PA from the hospital car park to where I think she lives, which luckily wasn’t far. Then I returned to the hospital. To take a quick peek.’
Mac shook his head. ‘No notion of abiding by the law, I suppose?’
She frowned at him. ‘Why would I start now? Anyway, as I was saying, it wasn’t difficult to get into his office and there, lying face down on the floor, was a huge body. I immediately retreated and drove back to Sal’s, but things weren’t so good there and as I left, I bumped into you on the drive home. Voila! That’s the whole truth and nothing like the truth.’ She crossed her heart.
‘Freudian slip, though. Nothing but the truth is what you should have said.’
She was about to deny that she’d said it incorrectly but didn’t think it was worth the hassle. ‘What-fucking-ever!’
‘I think we’ll eliminate your prints from the office. So, what did you touch?’
She feigned shock. ‘Me, touch anything?’
‘Yes, you.’
‘I had frickin’ gloves on. So there won’t be any prints.’
‘What, you had gloves on when you saw the secretary?’
‘No, but I only opened the door and stuck my head in.’ Then as a second thought she added, ‘My boot prints will be there, though.’ SOCOs wouldn’t miss a trick they were bound to get a partial of one, or both of her boots. Again she’d be eliminated from the enquiry so long as she was above board about that.
‘I rest my case. Your prints are in the system so we can call those up and count you out . . .’ He stared at her questioningly.
‘Of course you can . . .’
He nodded. ‘Okay. But you know the risk I’m taking if I do?’
She stifled a yawn. ‘Yes, I do. Thank you.’
‘I’m serious, Viv. If they find any sign of you in that office . . . even a single hair.’
With mock assurance she replied, ‘They won’t. I promise they won’t.’
‘Still, you’d better get your boots and I’ll photograph the soles.’
Viv stepped out to the hall and returned with her boots. He took photographs with his iphone. Then her landline rang. Her eyes widened as she listened to the caller. A shrill voice made its way into the room. ‘Mand, slow down. Tell me where you are and I’ll come . . .’ She was cut off in her stride as her sister, Amanda, screeched into her ear. ‘Okay. Cameron Toll. I’ll be ten, fifteen minutes tops.’
Before Mac could say anything she was pulling on her boots, grabbing her bag and jacket at the same time.
Chapter Sixteen
She raced out leaving Mac at her front door. She leapt downstairs four at a time, missing the worn step. By the time she reached Manda in the car park of the shopping centre, she was surrounded by strangers trying to help. Manda was hysterical.
A woman said, ‘I’ve called an ambulance.’
Mand spotted Viv and shooed the others away. Her waters had broken and the driving-seat of her brand new Lexus looked beyond recovery. Viv managed to edge Mand out of the car and tentatively guide her into the Rav. Mand, trying to remember how to breathe, had very few words, other than expletives, to say to her sister.
Viv drove like a maniac to the hospital with Manda screaming and breathing loudly in equal measure. Viv knew there was no point in trying to comfort or reason with Mand, whose temper, even on a calm day, was never worth competing with. Viv took control by being practical. On arriving she shouted for a porter to bring a wheelchair and elbowed the smokers out of the way. Once they were on their way down the correct corridor Viv thought about her car being clamped. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘No!’ Mand screamed. ‘No! . . . Please don’t leave me. Please, Viv, don’t . . . I’m terrified.’ With tears streaming down her face, her pleading touched something primal in Viv, and she took hold of her sister’s hand and closed her eyes at the pain of Mand’s returning squeeze.
There was no question of rescuing the car. They were swept up by an adept porter, who’d clearly done this many times before. As they reached the maternity unit everything began to move into slow moti
on for Viv. Manda’s screams were replaced by a horrible whimpering noise that Viv could hardly believe was human, far less her immaculate and controlled sister. Viv’s hand was still being crushed but there was nothing she could do. At one point it occurred to her to ask where her brother-in-law was, but when she opened her mouth it was as if Mand anticipated what she was going to say and shook her head so violently that Viv just said, ‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’
A midwife approached and pointed to a cubicle, and the porter, who Viv imagined was grateful that English was not his first language, pushed Mand through, then, along with a nurse, helped her onto a trolley-bed. Viv’s own aches receded in the drama, although she distractedly massaged the hand that Manda had squashed, relieved that the professionals had taken over. There was no mention of the hypno-birth plan that Mand had talked incessantly about. Even Viv’s mum seemed able to remember exactly how Manda’s birth would go. Mand looked and sounded pitiable.
Viv could hear her mother’s voice saying, ‘She’ll no have her worries to seek now.’ Which was exactly how Viv felt. She and her sister had a chequered adult history. Their childhoods were far enough apart for competition not to be a problem. Viv had always looked up to, and admired Mand, who was the beautiful one, the one with the brains, always stylish, a head turner. Viv, athletic in body and mind, wasn’t worried about getting muddy. It really hadn’t been until Manda met her husband, a corporate whizz, who travelled the globe leaving Mand, adorned in Escada, to take care of their clinical white house, that things deteriorated between them, as if Viv and her mum weren’t good enough for her new company wife image. Seeing her sis in this state suddenly dissolved their differences and reminded Viv of how much they had in common; how the family bond really did matter.