The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As she drove down the slip road and onto the motorway a vision of Manda and the baby ran through her mind. Should she? But no sooner had she reached ‘should’ than she decided against doing anything. Listening to Radio Scotland, she cruised down the M9. It was during this reverie that she noticed the strobe of blue lights approaching in her rearview mirror. The car drew up behind her, too close for comfort. It was unmarked but with a temporary light attached and rotating on its roof. She knew she needn’t pull up for any car, even if they were police. She had a vague notion that as a woman on her own she wasn’t obliged to get out of her car, but she was unnerved by their proximity.

  She wasn’t speeding, but she slowed and continued to drive. The car didn’t back off. It got closer and closer until she imagined it hitting her rear bumper. She’d report this as harassment once she’d found out what they were after, but they’d have to wait until the next services at Linlithgow. She thought about ringing Mac, but her phone was in her rucksack in the foot-well of the passenger seat. She lunged for it, but swerved onto the hard shoulder. The car following reissued its warning with a siren blast. She was irritated and couldn’t be arsed with this. What could they possibly have on her at this time of night? Everything was paid up, she hadn’t been speeding, or swerving for that matter. They should be chasing out-of-control boy racers from Falkirk, but no, they were bugging her, when all she wanted was to get home to bed. She indicated at the turn-off for Hopetoun House, but they had other ideas, and speeded up on her inside to prevent her from entering the slip road. ‘What the fu . . .?’ This time she did have to swerve or they’d have put a serious dent in the side of the Rav. A high-speed driver in the outside lane tooted her a long loud warning as she straddled the lanes.

  She swiped at a hair that kept falling over her brow. There was no way that a police car would do this, at least not with other drivers to witness their actions. Who the hell were they? She kept squinting in her mirrors but with reflecting headlights bobbing up and down it was impossible to see them. She made another attempt to reach her rucksack and this time caught the edge of the strap, but still couldn’t grab enough of it to pull it onto the seat. She tried again and caught it, but as she did they tapped her rear bumper and she jolted forward, losing the bag in the process. Infuriated, she put her foot to the floor and hit her hazard lights. She’d draw attention to this caper one way or another. Some busybody was bound to report them. It occurred to her that they must want attention, otherwise why approach her this way at all. They obviously wanted to scare her, but why? Was this an arbitrary intimidation or did they know her? Was it actually her they were after? The next mile took forever, but she managed to retrieve her bag, although not yet her phone.

  Viv considered the other incidents of the past few days and decided that it was too infantile, too random, to be connected to the other attacks. Those had relied on someone watching the cottage. Had these guys followed her from the hotel? She hadn’t noticed anyone tailing her, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t been. It struck her that they always seemed to know when she was on the move. Was her car bugged? That wouldn’t account for them attacking her outside the cottage, unless it was she who was bugged. The most obvious thing was her mobile phone, an easy device to track if you had the wherewithal. She stretched again to retrieve her phone. Her followers shunted into her rear bumper again and she cursed. They were able to see her, but she couldn’t see them. Their headlights, now on full beam, prevented her from even telling what kind of car it was. If only she’d managed to grab her phone.

  It rang, which made it easier to locate. She’d jammed it into a pocket on her rucksack, the one specifically designed for mobiles. By the time she held it in her hand the caller had hung up. And she couldn’t see what the number was. The occupants of the car behind were willing to take a huge risk: the penalty for falsely claiming to be the police was a jail sentence. Between bouts of frustration and anxiety she tried to reason what they were up to. Since they hadn’t hurt her so far, they must need her in one piece. Neither of the previous attacks had left her anything more than stunned and a bit sore.

  She toyed with the idea of pulling onto the hard shoulder and remaining locked in the car. Would they attack her with other cars passing? It might be one way of getting a better look at them. Was it worth the risk? ‘Think Viv, think,’ she whispered to herself, thumping the steering wheel. ‘You’re not using your head. Think, woman.’ Within a couple of minutes she’d be on the outskirts of Edinburgh where the traffic would increase; surely her followers were bound to back off then. She held her nerve, their headlights still menacingly close in her mirror, and as anticipated the traffic did increase and her attackers were forced to turn off their high beam. At the Newbridge roundabout, they drove along her inside again and prevented her from taking the main route to the Gogar junction. Instead she was forced to continue until they pushed her onto the city by-pass.

  She still couldn’t see them, only that there were definitely two of them. She stretched for her phone, and after almost losing the Rav to the hard shoulder again, she grabbed hold of it and pressed digit two, which was Mac’s fast dial.

  It went straight to his messaging service, so she screamed, ‘I’m on the by-pass being harassed by people pretending to be cops . . . they’re trying to force me off the road . . .’ The phone beeped, the battery dead. Unsure how much of her rant he’d hear, she felt her panic rise. The car continued to tail her, still far too close for comfort. Viv flashed continually, hoping that someone would report the crazy behaviour to the real police. She began to snake over the central line back and forth, back and forth. The pursuers put their siren on but she was unfazed and continued her zig-zag progress. When she reached the slip road to Sighthill she put her foot to the floor as an articulated lorry was turning off. She just sneaked in front of him and rejoiced at the blare of his horn. At the top of the slip road she accelerated to the right on the roundabout towards Heriot Watt University. They’d probably expected her to go straight into town. Her ploy worked. When she’d gone full circle she returned to the city-centre route, and watched their tail-lights ahead. She slowed at the next roundabout, her adrenalin pumping so hard she thought she could have a coronary. How could all that mad driving go unnoticed? Normally if you dared to step out of line you’d have an army of people on their horns or making gestures unfit for human sight.

  Once her attackers realised that she wasn’t in front of them, what would they do? Unwilling to wait and find out she took a right into Wester Hailes and for a few minutes trawled round the scheme before heading onto the Lanark Road. It struck her that they could be waiting in the West Bow, but if she timed it right the Bow Bar would be spilling out its punters, and they wouldn’t be able to touch her. She drove back, slowing at amber lights, and being more courteous than she would normally. When she arrived in the Grassmarket she circled but didn’t see any sign of them. Again unwilling to take an unnecessary risk, she dumped the car in a motorcycle bay at the bottom of Victoria Street, ran across the road through the throng of smokers outside the bar, and after fiddling with her entrance’s dodgy lock, jogged up the stairs. With her super-strength lead lined door double locked and bolted, she leaned heavily against its panels and drew in a breath too great for her lungs.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  She woke in the middle of the night, sweat-soaked and parched. She stretched for the glass of water and a pack of Paracetamol that she’d taken to bed, a just-in-case-measure. After gulping down two pills she fell back onto the pillow and eventually back into a restless sleep. The next morning there was no direction in which she could move that wasn’t excruciating. Her head was pounding and her muscles objected so badly that she thought maybe a visit to the surgery was on the cards. She weighed up the pros and cons. Could she cut anyone’s hair in this state? She decided she’d have a go.

  She had one email from Karen, a client, and she shot back a reply saying she could see her later that
morning, then had to twiddle her thumbs until Karen confirmed. Her inbox pinged and she read a message from Geraldine, requesting to meet up, which sounded urgent. She replied saying, ‘no can do’, but asked her to ring. Within seconds her mobile rang but the caller didn’t speak. Viv waited and waited, then cut the call. She wasn’t in the mood for a poor connection or intimidation.

  It rang again and she cursed. Ger’s shaky voice said, ‘Viv, it’s Geraldine. I don’t know who else to call but . . .’ The line clicked. Dead.

  ‘Shit!’ Viv tried to call her back but it went straight to an answering service.

  Her landline rang and Viv snatched up the handset expecting Ger. ‘Hi, Viv, it’s me.’

  ‘Mand! How are you doing? . . And the baby?’

  ‘They’re letting me home, could you come at 10.30 . . .’

  Viv checked the time. It was nine-forty-five. ‘ Em . . . sure, I can do that.’

  But Manda picked up the hesitation. ‘Actually don’t bother, I can . . .’

  The dead tone.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ She yelled at the receiver.

  Then dropping it onto the cradle she immediately picked it up again to check that there wasn’t something wrong with it. There didn’t appear to be. She tried to ring back but that also went straight to a message service. This was so typical of her sister, who was just too tight to unravel, volatile to the last. Viv wasn’t in the mood to act as a salve for a woman whose hormones were leaping every which way. Frustrated, she flicked the TV on, scanned for a news channel, and waited for Karen or Ger to reply. The Scottish news had a story about Sanchez’ death running in the red line at the bottom of the screen. She screwed up her eyebrows, unable to work out why they’d still be interested in such an old story, surely now dead in the water.

  She increased the volume just as a familiar female reporter read, ‘There are a number of unanswered questions that Lothian and Borders . . .’

  She shouted at the screen as if that would make a difference to the life of the reporter. ‘Come on, Beeb, wake up! That’s not what they’re called now!’ This was ironic, since Viv couldn’t shake off the L&B label herself, but she expected higher standards of the BBC.

  The reporter continued. ‘The police are interested in speaking to Mr Sanchez’ brother, Mr Andreas Sanchez, but he has, as yet, not responded to repeated requests to come forward.’ Her emphasis hit a hopeful note on the ‘as yet’.

  Viv stood, staring at the woman, trying to read signs or keywords between the lines. What angle were the police taking? Should she call Mac again? He wasn’t based at St Leonard’s, the station nearest the crime scene, but he could still find out what was going on. Was he still up in the wilds of Stirlingshire? ‘Unanswered questions’ could mean anything, but surely concerned the death not being a ‘simple’ coronary as first reported. If she were having a coronary the last thing she’d describe it as would be simple. Nonetheless, something had made L&B suspicious, and although they hadn’t mentioned murder she sensed it wasn’t far off their radar. The brother was clearly a suspect, otherwise why would they be using the media to flush him out? Her inbox pinged again. It was Karen, desperate to take up her offer of a cut that morning.

  With her rucksack flung over her shoulder, Viv took the stairs in her usual fashion and stepped out onto the West Bow, checking in both directions before she trotted down to the car. She gave a low air punch when there wasn’t a ticket on the windscreen. It was a short but slow drive to Karen’s, down the Cowgate, weaving past tourists trying to get a good look at the incongruent parliament building. She took a left, then an immediate right, underneath the railway bridge at Abbeyhill. The row of small, Victorian houses in Spring Gardens backed onto Holyrood Park. Dr Karen Anderson lived at number three with her parrot Pongo, and endless collections of socio-medical journals, press cuttings, or anything remotely connected to her research interests. She was always promising to have a clear-out, but, as far as Viv could tell, the piles only grew. When Viv rang the bell she heard footsteps shuffling up the hall, and imagined Karen’s heavy hips rotating to avoid toppling the two hip height lines of piled papers and periodicals she had to negotiate before reaching the front door.

  Karen was a woman of contradictions; a Canadian who had lived in Scotland for most of her adult life. Like many others, she came to study, fell in love with Edinburgh, and couldn’t bring herself to leave. Viv cut her hair into a precise little bob, but Karen coloured it herself, too often and not well; consequently it was over-processed and rarely a consistent shade. Today, when she opened the door and peeked round, it took all of Viv’s energy not to stagger back. Karen’s hair was luminous pink, and with her spectacles pushed off her forehead it was sticking out as if she’d put a damp finger in a live socket. She must have picked up the wrong number of tint from the shelf, and trusted that the colour on the front of the box was actually the colour she’d turn out.

  Karen’s first words, ‘Don’t! I know, I know, I know. I’ve made a big mistake.’

  Viv bit the inside of her cheek so that she wouldn’t blurt out what she was thinking, but nodded her agreement. ‘I didn’t know that you wanted me to do colour.’

  Karen’s face contorted and her eyes filled.

  Viv, seeing this distress, continued. ‘But I’ll nip back to the car. This is only my cutting kit.’ She lifted her case.

  Tears spilled down Karen’s cheeks, and through a stifled sob she managed, ‘Oh God, I’m supposed to be giving a paper at a conference at the weekend. Can you sort it? I look like Zandra Rhodes.’

  Viv, taken aback that Karen, the epitome of an absent-minded academic, had even heard of Zandra Rhodes, thought unkindly, if only! At least Zandra Rhodes wore her lilac hair with aplomb. Karen, a rosy-cheeked, vertically challenged professor came nowhere close to avant-garde. Still wearing threadbare cheesecloth shirts and linen bags with drawstring waists as in her student days, style had never been on Karen’s horizon. Although she was partial to the odd necklace − today’s extravaganza was more like a breastplate.

  ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll check what’s in the boot.’

  ‘I’ll leave the snib off; just come straight through to the kitchen.’

  Viv returned with a selection of tints, one of which would hopefully correct Karen’s woeful home-do. She pushed open the door and lifted her kit bag above her shoulder, and edged down the hall to the kitchen. Karen was sitting with her head in her hands.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ Viv said without conviction. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage to improve it.’ Improvement was a relative term with what she called the burst mattress look. After laying her large tarp on the floor and plugging in her hairdryer, she cleared a space on the kitchen table and set out tinting equipment on top of the sports section of a newspaper − since Karen was averse to any kind of vigorous movement, Viv thought this a safe bet.

  Karen handed Viv a glossy sheet of A4 with a list of speakers’ names; Karen’s own impressive titles in bold advertised the keynote.

  Viv rubbed Karen’s shoulder. ‘What exactly did you use? Did you keep the box?’ It would be useful to know what she was up against in the correction department.

  Karen rose and left the room, returning with a box with even brighter drips of pink obscuring the ingredients. Viv would have to guess from these remains what the base number had been and try to take it down a few shades, by neutralising the red with ash.

  She gowned Karen up. ‘Look, the best we can try for is a mid-brown. I’ll have to counter the pink with . . .’

  Karen held up her hands. ‘I don’t care what you do as long as it is no longer . . .’ Karen grabbed at the frizzy locks, her eyes filling again, ‘This!’

  Luckily, although the colour was bad, there wasn’t a great deal of hair to treat. Karen hadn’t been blessed with thick tresses, so the application only took ten minutes. Viv crossed her fingers and prayed for a miracle cure. Karen was one of Viv’s many clients who hated salons. She found staring at herself in a
mirror for long periods too distressing. Having her hair done without this trauma was one of the main reasons Karen so willingly relinquished herself into Viv’s trusted hands.

  Not only did Karen collect journals and magazines, but she constantly entered, and won, competitions offering prizes. She also took every opportunity to complain eloquently, with very little reason. She’d told Viv that she’d even once complained about a squint label. The company had sent her a huge crate of replacements. Viv spotted three large boxes with a famous cute puppy on the side, and a couple of cartons containing Swiss bottled water.

  Viv knew Karen and the house well enough to fill and switch the kettle on, ‘Tea or coffee?’

  Karen looked forlorn. ‘I don’t care. Either.’

  Viv searched in the dresser cupboard and eventually found a coffee pot. ‘It’s going to be fine. You’ll look lovely for the conference.’ She lifted the sheet of A4 and read the location: Edinburgh University Medical School at the Royal Infirmary. Was it just her or were there too many things connecting her to the Royal? As Viv read through a couple of the abstracts, she was reminded how mind-numbingly dull she’d found rats and stats, mainly the stats, since she’d avoided the rats at all cost. The kettle clicked off. She’d never seen Karen look so down, and wondered if there was more to it than the hair disaster.

  Viv tried to lighten the mood. ‘Apart from having techni-coloured hair, are you okay otherwise? You don’t seem quite yourself.’

  Karen smiled. ‘I’m fine, it’s just that there’ll be someone at the conference who I haven’t seen for years and I’d like to look my best . . . not my absolute worst.’ She snorted.

  Viv grinned back, relieved to be doing work she felt relatively confident about. ‘We’ll make you look a million dollars.’

  Karen snorted again and shot back, ‘Now I know you’re lying. But I’m so grateful that you could come today. If I had had to sleep on this, I might have shaved it off or done something equally drastic.’