The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  Viv swung round. ‘But how?’

  Sal shook her head and gestured to the cottage. Viv understood that she’d explain when Mac got back. But he’d gone from sight, and they remained static apart from occasionally stroking the dog, who was restless, tugging at her leash, eager to keep moving.

  Eventually Mac emerged from the trees and strode back down the hill, nodding as he came closer. ‘There’s definitely been someone up there, they’ve left a half empty bottle of cider, and a few fag stubs. Could be a local seeking a bit of peace.’ He shrugged. ‘C’mon, let’s get back.’

  Sal said, ‘Locals use this place as a retreat. I’m always finding little piles of fag butts and empties of one kind or another.’

  Viv interrupted Sal, ‘Sal thinks she’s got an idea.’

  Sal shrugged. ‘It’s only an idea. But a few weeks ago I got an email from a complete stranger claiming to be from a charity, encouraging me to set up a trust to help . . . Oh, I can’t remember, orphans in Somalia or something. It didn’t look kosher. It’s not the first time it’s happened and I thought it was, as you say Mac, some nutter. I ignored it. Don’t know if I even kept it.’

  It was Viv’s turn to shrug. ‘No matter, we’ll retrieve that in a jiff.’

  They approached the house and Viv, still itching to go home, knew she’d have to take a quick look at Sal’s laptop before she left. Mac was a great investigator but IT wasn’t his strong suit and it would be down to Viv to dig the email out from the ether. Sal was luckily not known for deleting info. Viv had experience of Sal’s inbox, which was always choked. Even with a narrow time frame she was confident she’d get it done.

  Viv chewed on the inside of her lip as she clicked on the keys, with Mac and Sal looking over her shoulder. Even if Sal had deleted it, an email was never lost, but some systems were more efficient at hiding, or encrypting them than others. As it turned out, Sal had deleted the message but she was able to identify other emails from the approximate date, so although it took Viv slightly longer than she had thought to retrieve it, it wasn’t that tricky. With the message before her, she trawled through the endless numbers on the server whence it had come, and decided it was from the same server as the hospital. She took out her phone, scrolled, and found what she was looking for. ‘Yes!’ she announced. ‘It’s definitely from the same server as the others. So we’re back to Sanchez’ machine at the Royal. My bet’s on the secretary and her chum, whoever he is. So that’s where I’d go next.’

  Mac coughed. ‘I’m sure you would, Viv, but I think it’s already way past the time for proper police intervention. We’re not the Famous Five.’

  This had Viv raising her eyebrows. ‘What? And this isn’t proper? Watch it, matey, or you’ll be looking for another hacker.’ She tossed her rucksack over her shoulder and headed to the door. ‘I’ve got to get back but if you should need more improper stuff doing, let me know.’

  Mac started to reply. ‘That’s not wha . . .’

  But Viv waved and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Back in her own flat Viv changed into her PJs and buttered a couple of slices of bread straight from the toaster. She licked a trickle of butter off her fingers, sipped a waiting cup of hot chocolate, and dropped onto the couch. She lifted the remote, and idly flicked through the channels looking for something mindless. It was almost midnight and she couldn’t find anything other than cookery programmes that was of any interest, and she knew she was only watching those because she was hungry. After a few minutes she took some deep breaths and felt the familiar tingle of relief flood through her body. The ping of an email arriving in her inbox woke her from what was the closest she’d get to a meditative state. Reluctantly she read the messages. Three had arrived at once, all from clients. This cheered her up. One message, a perceived emergency, had Viv grinning, and musing that all was relative in the world.

  Gail, a friend she’d worked with a couple of times and whose hair appointments were irregular since she worked between Edinburgh and London, said, ‘I’ve left a message on your landline, but I’m getting desperate. I know this is last-minute, Viv, but I’ve squeezed a place at the St Laurent show at Linlithgow Palace tomorrow night. One of my colleagues is sick. I look like a total tramp, and wondered if there was ANY chance . . .’

  This was the perfect excuse for Viv to get her scissors out. She replied asking where and when, not expecting an answer until morning, so she was surprised when her inbox pinged again.

  Gail’s message read, ‘OMG. Are you sure???? All of us, the meagre hacks, have been given accommodation in the most horrendous hotel on the M9, just outside Linlithgow. The broadsheets are somewhere more exclusive. We have to be there early evening. They have to search and tag us before we get bussed to the Palace. My hair looks nothing like the photo on my ID card so I’m sure they won’t let me in. All manner of subterfuge going on; clearly a minor Royal planning to be there, otherwise they wouldn’t be going to this kind of bother. Could you come to the hotel??? Do I owe you or what?’

  Viv grinned and whispered to herself, ‘Sure, but I could do with the distraction.’ She hadn’t registered the importance of the fashion show. Of course it was a real coup for the Scots to get Paris couture, and super-models from around Europe. And Linlithgow Palace was as spectacular a location as you’d get anywhere. She replied, offering a time in the late afternoon and requesting details of the hotel and room number. Time for bed. As she brushed her teeth she became aware that she felt lighter. She shoogled her shoulders, definitely less tight. Must be the idea of regaining some control.

  She woke early, refreshed and keen to go for a run. The streets were quiet as she headed up Candlemaker Row, along Forrest Road and onto the Meadows. This was about as green as she could stand after a week in the country. At least here she had the choice to run on pavement or the equally hard, well-worn, gnarled, tree-rooted edge of the playing fields. She did a bit of both. After a full round of the north pitches she still had the energy for a bit more, so she crossed the road and jogged round the Links as well, finishing up with a sprint back down Middle Meadow Walk. In the forty minutes that she’d been out the traffic had doubled and she had to jostle for a space on the pavement.

  The newsagent in Forrest Road caught her eye and handed her a Scotsman above the heads of a throng of blue-blazered Herioters queueing for crisps and sweets. Liberated by time on her own, she fantasised about industrial strength coffee and fresh croissants at Bella’s. After a hot shower, she checked her inbox and read an email with details from Gail. Late afternoon was fine; she had plenty of time for research after breakfast. With the day free, she skipped up the hall, hoisted her jacket on and headed out the door. The Grassmarket was teeming with people. An overcast sky was clearly not enough to deter the early bird tourists on their way to the castle, or to visit Greyfriars’ Bobby whose nose had been worn down by people touching it. What would the cowelled friars have had to say about such canine idolatry?

  Still, although there were lots of them, tourists were usually in good spirits, especially Japanese groups, who were incredibly polite. By the time she’d reached Bella’s she was grinning from ear to ear. It was like running the gauntlet of the paparazzi, only they weren’t in the slightest bit interested in her. Every building in the Grassmarket had had a famous visitor at some time in the past, even the building that Bella rented had been host to many a body snatcher.

  This morning, though, all Viv needed to do was breathe in the smell of heavenly coffee and plonk herself down in her usual seat by the window. She slipped her jacket over the back of the chair and laid out the newspaper.

  Bella approached wearing a tightly wrapped full-length apron and a tea towel draped over her shoulder. ‘How you doing, Doc? Been away?’

  ‘Yep, fine, just back. Looking forward to some of that coffee of yours.’

  ‘Anything else? Got a freshly made batch of almond croissants.’

  ‘Sold! One of those and a large cappuccino.’<
br />
  ‘Be right with you.’

  Bella was a slim, dark-haired, brown-eyed darling who had no idea of the effect she had on others. Which was of course why everyone adored her. The name above the door was never referred to, and so often when Viv said she’d meet someone in Bella’s they’d look bewildered, since there wasn’t such a place in the Grassmarket.

  On page three of the newspaper was a headline for the fashion show at the Palace and under it three photographs of young women in tartan, each looking as if they could do with a good meal. She snorted just as Bella arrived with her coffee.

  Bella glanced at the photographs. ‘There’s been a lot of talk about that show. Apparently they’re spending four million on it. A couple of limos with darkened windows have been round the market. Takes me all my time to brush my hair and my teeth, never mind all that palaver.’

  ‘Four mill. Sounds obscene.’

  ‘St Laurent’s entourage are staying at the Caledonian. Security is mad on King’s Stables, since that’s where they’re parking all their buses and cars.’

  Although Viv had only been away a week or so she felt as if she’d dropped the ball. Aware that the show was going to happen, she’d not bargained on it being such a big deal. But now she could see that if Yves St Laurent himself pitched up, Scotland’s great and good would be wheeled out to see him. The croissant arrived and Viv tucked in, flicking to the next page of the newspaper. Bit by bit, as the coffee reached the parts she needed it to and the croissant melted in her mouth, she felt herself returning to normal, whatever that was. There wasn’t much news to inspire her so she satisfied herself with the crossword. Defeated three-quarters of the way through, she gestured to Bella for the bill.

  Back on the street she stared at the sky. The cloud had lifted and the sun was making an appearance - summer definitely on its way. She had to remind herself that Edinburgh wasn’t only a destination for festival aficionados, but drew people from all over the world, year round. She dodged a clutch of women who, judging by their hair tint, were Italian, their brightly coloured jackets and clashing scarves a breath of old European bravura. Viv loved living at the hub of the city and could sense its growing insomnia; like London, or Paris, or New York, Edinburgh slept less and less. She approached her stair door, hesitated, then decided to nip up to the City Library to check a few newspapers and back copies of journals. Justified by her interest of ‘know thy enemy’, even if he had died of natural causes.

  The librarians knew her, and were, as ever, incredibly helpful. Even when she gave them little to go on, they usually came up with some idea of where to look. Armed with ring-binders full of neuroscience journals, she went to the far corner of the room and dumped them on a huge oak table. With paper and pad at the ready she prepared to set down whatever had interested Prof Sanchez, and if he was as famous as Ger had made out, his name was bound to turn up within these pages. She spent an hour perusing the contents pages, then the index, for any mention of his name. Zilch. How odd. She went onto one of the computers and typed in his name. She’d already done this at home and very little had surfaced, beyond the conference that she’d seen on the notice board in the hospital. Same again. Zilch. Weird. Geraldine had used words like ‘ground-breaking’, and ‘pushing the envelope’ (a particular pet hate of Viv’s); she might even have called him a ‘genius’. Was Geraldine so smitten that she’d been conned? Viv knew to her cost how easily that could happen.

  Love was an illness, where everything became super-distorted in favour of the lover. Suddenly they were ‘just enthusiastic’ and not the complete bore that, had anyone else appropriated the very same subject, would bring on a session of serial yawning. Had Ger been led a dance by this guy? His screen saver was surely a give-away. Viv thought of her own lovers. If she’d discovered that they had exes all over their screens, she’d have made loud noises. Ger couldn’t have seen the photograph of his wife and girls. ‘No way.’ She said this out loud and was aware that a few eyes had strayed to her side of the room. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered to the man at the next table, who’d managed to raise an eyebrow. She’d obviously interrupted his nap. But he clasped his hands on his ample belly, and settled his bearded chin onto his chest− a sure sign that dozing was the only thing on his mind.

  Frustrated, she returned the ring-binders to the Librarian’s desk and headed over to the National Library. Its grand entrance and reading rooms with club silence reminded her of her PhD days. Hours spent perusing books, often up blind alleys that were irrelevant but fascinating. Once she’d scanned the catalogue and found Sanchez, she handed the man behind the desk a slip with her request. It would take a few minutes before the material was brought up from the miles of stacks that lay beneath the building, so she contented herself with a look at the exhibition of Jacobite letters and memorabilia.

  The material that she’d requested also turned out to be a dead end. This Sanchez had a different first name. Andreas Sanchez must be related. How odd that there were two of them working in neuro-psychology in Edinburgh. Even more frustrated she headed back to the flat. If Stephanos Sanchez was that clever he’d be all over the journals. Her research had taken longer than she’d expected and there wasn’t too much time before she’d have to leave to drive to Linlithgow. She’d made notes of the shenanigans of the last few days, some of which prompted her to email her solicitor, making clear that their system’s protection wasn’t up to speed. She also checked the address for the female she’d followed from Sanchez’ office. Google had fantastic photographs of the big house and grounds in its hey-day. Until the nineteen eighties the house had been home to the Kingston Clinic, where early Nature Cure practitioners had treated patients who’d rejected orthodox medicine. The practitioners had been way ahead of their time, if the testimonies of the cured were anything to go on. The internet was completely moreish, and she had to drag herself away from reading about the history of their organic walled garden and hydrotherapy treatments. Sad that the gardens, tennis courts, and gym had all gone. At least converting the main house into chic flats meant it remained standing. The shabby accommodation of the secretary was probably still in its original state. Viv preferred it that way.

  Viv gathered up her hair kit and tossed a packet of oatcakes into her rucksack − she might need a nibble.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A lorry had jack-knifed on the roundabout at Newbridge, causing a snarl-up. Her patience tested, Viv drummed her fingers on the steering-wheel, and changed the radio station a few times. Eventually she settled for a Simon and Garfunkel CD. Her phone beeped, and she glanced at an email just as the traffic began to move. Sod’s law; it would have to wait. When she arrived she could see what Gail meant by ‘budget hotel’. Reception was busy and Viv looked out for signs indicating where the bedrooms were. Guessing that 209 was on the second floor she headed up the stairs. The management obviously didn’t expect guests to use since its scuffed utilitarian paintwork would have been at home in a correctional facility. Narrow corridors could barely take the width of a suitcase; no space that could be slept on was wasted. She knocked on the door of 209 and it immediately swung open.

  A female, not Gail, beckoned Viv in. ‘You must be the hairdresser.’ Dismissive.

  Not a good start. ‘Yep! That’s me.’

  ‘Gail’s in the shower. I guess you can set up over there.’ She pointed vaguely toward an area in front of a built-in wardrobe with a single mirrored door.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll do that.’

  There were two single beds with matching purple covers. Still, they were only here for an overnight and not much of that she supposed. The sound of running water ceased and in minutes Gail stepped out of the bathroom in a tee-shirt and jeans.

  With her hair dripping wet Gail rushed towards Viv as if she was going to kiss her, then remembering that that wasn’t the kind of relationship they had, she rubbed Viv’s arm. ‘Thanks for coming, Viv. My press photograph looks a whole lot different to the way I’ve been looking recently. But you�
��ll be able to sort that in a jiff.’

  Viv hadn’t seen Gail in a few months but was surprised at how nervy she was.

  The other woman waved and said, ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  Instantly Gail relaxed. ‘Phew.’ She nodded in the direction the woman had gone. ‘She was hoping for a room of her own and then I turned up. She’s frosty. Thinks this is way beneath her.’ She glanced round the room. ‘Fuck sake, it’s beneath all of us, but it’s only for one night.’ Gail pulled a tub chair over to where Viv had set down her cutting sheet. ‘Let’s get this chopped.’ Gail showed Viv a laminated card with an unrecognisable photograph on it, ‘One of those, please.’

  Viv raised her eyebrows but said, ‘No problem. How’s Rod?’

  ‘Persona non grata I’m afraid. Found a receipt. Christ, do they never learn?’

  ‘Could have been a gift for his mum, sister, cousin . . .’

  ‘Or new girlfriend.’

  ‘Ouch. How’re you doin’?’

  Gail grinned. ‘Never going to be on my own for long, but for now, it’s fine.’

  ‘Really fine, or off-the-scale “Fine”?’

  ‘Let’s just say I’m keeping busy, otherwise I wouldn’t have taken on this event.’

  They had friends in common and chatted easily, catching up on people that one or the other had seen recently. It didn’t take long for Viv to reinstate the look on the press card, and within forty minutes she was packing up her kit again.

  ‘You fancy a drink before you head down the motorway again?’

  ‘No, thanks. Not worth having even one these days. Besides you’ve got super-models to meet, and fashionistas to write about.’

  Gail shook her head, ‘Vacuous or what? But it pays the bills. I think the crowds are hoping Kate will turn up. As if! The Royal is much more minor that that. It’s Yves they’re worried about.’ She handed Viv fifty quid and the deal was complete.