by V Clifford
He nodded. ‘I took my time. But when you’re a writer there are huge swathes of time when you’re waiting to hear from editors or readers. So I like to keep occupied by doing stuff like that.’
‘Well the next time you need a wee project just nip over to the West Bow.’
He raised his eyebrows and she flushed.
‘Here, take a seat.’
‘I hope you don’t mind my stealing your gown.’
‘Not at all. Makes you look more approachable.’
Surprised, she said, ‘Do I come across as unapproachable?’
He laughed. ‘Well it’s not so much that. It’s your forty-metre intimacy zone. Look, but don’t touch.’
She was more shocked. ‘God. Do I really give that impression?’
He handed her a plate. ‘Come on, help yourself.’
He had slices of sourdough bread on a board. Small colourful ceramic bowls containing olives and tiny sweet chillies stuffed with goat’s cheese. A platter decorated with a dark blue and gold middle-eastern pattern held a selection of Parma ham, prosciutto and cheeses.
She hesitated, still unsettled by the idea that she was unapproachable. She knew men that she wouldn’t let within a five-mile radius never mind forty metres, but hoped Gus wasn’t one of them. That her defences had shot up with the mention of Sal was understandable to her but perhaps not to him.
Leisurely he put bread and a few olives on his own plate. ‘I seem to offend you easily and my intention couldn’t be further from that.’
She stared at him. Tall, tanned and rugged was what she saw, but she sensed that he was another of those swans, paddling like fury to maintain his calm façade. Gently she lifted a slice of bread and to her utter dismay felt herself welling up. He was such a gentleman in the literal sense of the word. He’d touched a nerve. She swallowed and tried to look anywhere but at him. He put his plate down and turned her head up to him. A tear dared to escape and she batted it into oblivion.
‘I’ve no idea what’s going on.’
She said, ‘I think you’ve hit something raw with that unapproachable thing. I’d be sorry if you saw me like that.’ When she turned to look at him his eyes were also full.
‘Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. What have I said.’ It wasn’t a question.
He rubbed his hands over his face then laughed. ‘What the heck’s going on?’
She edged closer to him and wiped his face with the back of her hand. ‘What a pair we are. That was such a lovely thing you did.’
His brows knitted.
‘The shower. It was so unexpected.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve . . .’
She sat back in her chair and let go of a long breath. ‘Let’s start again. How about you tell me about yourself.’
He copied her, breathing slowly. ‘Okay. I will if you will.’
‘Deal.’
‘I’ve only been writing for civvies for about seven years. Before that I was in the army.’
This made sense of the stuff that she’d found online.
‘I spent quite a bit of time in the Stans and in Turkey, as you’ve already gathered.’ He gestured towards his wet room. ‘After that I needed time to, how shall I put it, heal, recover? Doesn’t really cover it. I have difficulty sleeping. Fixing up the bathroom, especially those tiny mosaics, was a good way to keep me occupied in the middle of the night. Tiling is a silent occupation.’
She tucked her bare feet beneath her and nibbled on her bread. She was tempted to get a bottle of red wine sitting on an old blanket-box behind his chair but she didn’t want to stop his flow.
‘I’ve had treatment. I mean I’ve seen people, experts who helped as much as they could. But I find keeping busy with things that require complete concentration works best. How about you?’
‘I’ve had more therapy than you could shake a stick at and I’m still crazier than a bag of ferrets.’
They laughed. He lifted his plate. ‘That’s good to know. I’d like to free some of those ferrets.’
‘Be careful what you wish for . . . Sadly I’m the only one who can set them free.’
‘Fair enough.’ He nodded his understanding.
She didn’t abdicate her own responsibilities. She didn’t expect anyone else to sort her. At times this was admirable, but to allow someone to help occasionally was something to aspire to. He’d already pierced through a barrier with the shower routine. ‘What made you offer me a shower? I mean you have to admit it’s a bit of a weird thing to do.’
A worried look crossed his face.
‘Nice weird,’ she continued.
He suddenly remembered the wine. ‘Shit! Wine. I’m not a huge drinker and I forget.’ He poured, they chinked glasses and he returned to his seat. ‘Apropos the shower, I suppose it’s that business of doing for others as you’d have done unto yourself.’
‘So you’d like someone to run you a hot shower . . .’
‘Well that or . . . oh I don’t know. If someone did I imagine I’d get worried.’
‘Worried about what?’
‘Well, that they’d want to be intimate.’
This was interesting, since intimacy had certainly crossed her mind. ‘So, does that mean that you don’t do intimacy or . . .?’
‘Oh God, yes. It’s just that since I can’t sleep I haven’t been able to live with anyone.’ He stared at her as if weighing up whether or not to continue. ‘I scream occasionally.’
‘PTSD?’
‘Yes. Seems to be a coverall.’
She shifted in her seat.
‘Are you getting cold out here?’
‘No. Well, yes. A wee bit. It’s just my feet.’
He hurried inside and returned with a pair of woolly socks. He knelt on the floor. She unwrapped her legs. He held her foot in his warm hand. ‘You are freezing.’ He pulled on the socks one at a time. Then returned to his seat. If tension could be sliced, Sabatier were in business. The heat rose by more than a few degrees. He dipped his bread into the dish with olives in it. ‘There’s balsamic at the bottom. Dig in.’
She did as he suggested and for the next ten minutes they ate and admired the food. Then out of nowhere he pushed the table forward and put a cushion from his chair onto the floor. He didn’t ask but she followed suit. So there they were both on the floor without chair arms protecting their personal fortresses. He topped up her glass and they drank in silence.
She laid her glass on the floor and in a move more assured than she felt she straddled him. Then she placed the palm of her hand on his heart and stared straight into his eyes. ‘Is this okay?’
His eyes avoided her, flitting right and left. She drew his head into her.
He whispered, ‘What a dork I am.’ He cleared his throat. ‘By the way, I haven’t been this nervous before. There must be something in the water.’ He kissed her neck. Then gently worked his way up until he found her mouth. He was tentative. In fact, were it not for his stubbly jaw, she might have imagined she was being kissed by a woman. She kissed him back. Tender at first but building. Then, breathless, she pulled back.
He looked shocked. ‘What is it? Are you okay?’
‘I was just checking that you were okay.’ They laughed.
‘I can see how this is going to work.’
He pushed her hair back from her eyes. She pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingertips. He closed his eyes. She studied the creases and contours of his face, the tiny white fissures where he’d been squinting in the sun, his eyebrows bleached blonde on the surface, a strong chin with full lips. She bent forward and kissed them. Then she leaned back, took both of his hands in hers and held them. She smiled, got to her feet and said, ‘Wait here.’
She slipped downstairs to the bathroom. She ran the hot bath tap and the room filled with steam. Once the temperature was right she climbed back up to the roof terrace where he was still sitting on the floor sipping his wine. ‘Come with me.’
He raised his eyebrows but
followed her downstairs. He laughed when she led him into the bathroom.
‘I couldn’t find any bubbles.’
‘They’re next door.’ He pointed to the wall. He pressed a panel and a door that she would never have known was there clicked open. Three steep narrow steps led down to his bedroom. The flat was like a Tardis.
He returned with a small bottle of shower gel. ‘This should do.’ He handed it to her.
She ran the tap again, pouring the mixture into the flow. Then turned to him and rubbed her hands up and down his arms before gently undoing his shirt buttons then unzipping his jeans. After that awkward moment of him unsteadily kicking off the jeans, he stood in his boxers. She held him, running her hands up and down his taut back. She wondered if he was this tense because of his vulnerability or his pilates. She pulled back. ‘Right, in you go.’ She returned to the gazebo. She piled the food, wine and glasses onto a tray and brought it down to the sitting room. She knocked lightly on the bathroom door and entered.
He was lying with a halo of bubbles round his head. ‘This is so good. It’s a pity not to share it.’
She let the gown drop to the floor and stepped in behind him, wrapping her legs round his waist. Brushing her lips against his ear she whispered, ‘Don’t suppose we can have the power on?’
‘Not supposed to be a good idea when there are bubbles in the water. But I’ve never tried it.’ He pressed a button on the rim and jets kicked in. The bubbles expanded and expanded until they could hardly see the other side of the tub.
She squealed, ‘Oh, my God. It’s going to fill the room.’
They laughed as he tried to find the switch to stop the jets. Eventually he found it and silence resumed.
A real sponge and a loofah sat on a shelf behind the tub. She reached for the sponge, soaked it and poured water over his head and back. She’d not had a bath with anyone for ages and was amazed that they’d made it this far.
He said, ‘What had you planned for tonight?’
This punctured her reverie, since she was supposed to be finding ‘Houdini’. ‘I’m supposed to be working. In fact.’ She drew herself up and reached for the towel she’d used earlier.
‘Oh shit! I shouldn’t have asked. You surely don’t have to work. Can’t it wait?’
She turned and seeing the disappointment on his face kneeled on the step of the tub and wiped hair off his forehead. She kissed him on the mouth. ‘I’m not going far.’
‘But I don’t want you to go anywhere. I want you to stay right here.’ He pointed to the tub.
He made to get out but she laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Stay. It’s a waste to get out so soon. How about we make a plan?’
The relief on his face was sweet. ‘Okay. Dinner proper . . . or actually I’m having a few people round on the last night of the Festival for the fireworks. Would you come to that?’
‘Let’s see how dinner goes before you risk introducing me to your friends.’
He nodded. ‘Sure. Tomorrow?’
‘Sounds perfect.’
He bit on his lip and stared at her as she pulled on the jogging pants and tee shirt she’d left in a heap on the floor. She scrunched her underwear into a ball, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
She kissed him, then left, skipping downstairs like a young Giselle as yet unaware of any danger, until she recalled the magnets.
Chapter Twenty Five
Being in his flat was like being in a personal spa, so hitting the busy street was a reality check. And with that she reminded herself of how easily her hormones could get the better of her.
Back in her own flat she settled at her desk waiting for her laptop to boot up. The name the young attacker had given to the police was Roderick Howarth. She thought if he’d made that up it wasn’t very creative. He could at least have gone for Roger Rabbit or something. Roderick Howarth sounded real. She Googled it and found a few Facebook entries and eventually one story not on Roderick’s own page, but by following a number of tags to other people’s pages. Many a trail led to nothing of consequence, but this one tweaked a memory of a news story about a Roderick Howarth, the son of an MSP. Roderick had been caught swigging vodka in the kitchen at Bute House, the home of the First Minister for Scotland. The First Minister’s son’s school-leaving party had got out of hand – she’d found some lousy, jumpy footage on YouTube. Technology, you’ve got to love it. She rubbed her hands together. Suddenly life was more interesting.
She emailed Mac, hoping he’d be back in the office, and asked him to forward the CCTV footage with the attacker being brought into and leaving Fettes, and anything they had from Cockburn Street. There was bound to be a camera there, but was it even working?
He responded almost immediately. ‘Dinner not a success, then?’ He had attached three different files and a huge laughing emoticon.
She didn’t rise to his jibe about dinner, but played the footage over and over. A person’s gait was like their DNA, peculiar to them. If you tried to change your walk, it was obvious. The time frame that Mac had sent from the Cockburn Street coverage didn’t go back far enough. Roderick must have got to the High Street somehow, and that was what she should be looking at. She emailed him again with another request.
He replied by ringing her mobile, ‘I’ve already been through the footage. We have him wandering up the High Street from the Canongate with about fifteen minutes to spare before the Queen exited the High Kirk. What’s on your mind?’
‘What else have we got from earlier than that? Just wondered if we could follow him backwards. Find out where his journey started.’
‘We have an address for him in . . . ’ She heard him flicking paper over. ‘Royal Terrace. A basement.’
‘What is it with guys who want to live underground? Troglodytes! I don’t know how they survive without daylight.’
‘Not everyone has the luxury of . . .’
She interrupted him. ‘Yeah, yeah. I get it. I was just thinking out loud. Could you send me anything else you’ve got?’
‘We’re on it, Viv. You don’t have to . . .’
She interrupted him again. ‘You know me. I’m a nosey sod. Humour me.’
He sighed. ‘How come you’re not with lover boy?’
‘Too conscientious.’
‘I guess that’s a “mind your own business” answer?’
‘You’re a good guesser. Send me the stuff if you get a minute.’
Mac was super-efficient and another email arrived within fifteen minutes.
On that footage she managed to trace Roderick exiting a café near the old Tolbooth. The quality of the film was poor but something made her continue to watch the café door. Two minutes after Roderick’s exit, a man she’d swear was Archie, his build and his funny little limp, wearing a hoodie, exited and followed Roderick up the Royal Mile. What were they up to? Archie turned left onto the North Bridge. She needed more CCTV footage from there. She was pushing her luck but risked it and sent another email to Mac. This time there was no reply so she used other means to find the footage, but the bootleg was worse quality than the last one. As she’d anticipated, Archie turned into Chambers Street and made his way to George IV Bridge. She had to work pretty hard to get access to the next section of footage but she caught up with him at the entrance to Ondine, chewing his nails. Not a good look. He didn’t stay there for long. He sloped up to the High Street, and this is where she got really interested, because she saw herself in a frame crossing Bank Street and standing beside the statue of David Hume while Archie, who had failed to notice her, loitered outside the Woollen Mill, which was less than thirty feet behind her. How could he have missed her?
She went back to the original footage to see the view from the east. Frustrated by the poor quality, she screwed up her eyes and drew closer to the screen until she could make him out. Still chewing his nails; not exactly a picture of confidence. But standing a few feet behind Archie was a man that she had also seen recently. She sat forward and rubbed her palms down her trouse
rs. What the hell was he doing there? She zoomed in on his face. Was she seeing things? Was it actually him? ‘Shit!’ She hacked back into the dating site where she’d seen him but couldn’t find his record. She tried Frances’ emails again. Bingo. She needed details of times and places where they’d met to build his profile, and she needed access to more CCTV footage. She rang Mac but his mobile went to voice mail. She emailed him instead. He didn’t respond. She twiddled a pen on her desk then chewed the end of it, trying to decide how urgent this new info was. There was no way this man’s appearance at the scene was a coincidence. She had a number for Ruddy but it was only to be used ‘if-and-when’. Was this an, ‘if-and-when’ time? She tried Mac’s mobile again. Still voice mail. His landline was a last resort.
He picked up, out of breath. ‘Marconi!’ he barked.
‘I think I’ve found something. But I need more CCTV coverage.’
‘Christ, Viv, I’m already pushing my luck giving you access to what you’ve got.’
‘You want results? Get me more CCTV.’
‘What exactly have you found?’
‘I tracked Archie through the footage up the Canongate, North Bridge, back along George IV Bridge to the Lawnmarket. But there’s another guy worth checking out – he’s standing a few feet behind Archie. He’s dating Frances. He was the mystery man that she wouldn’t tell us about in case we knew him. Well, I don’t know him, but it seems odd to me that he’d turn up in this video.
‘Got it. I’ll have to go back into the office to view this. Give me twenty minutes. In fact why don’t you join me? It would be easier than me sending huge files through to you.’
She guessed that what he meant was that he’d get his balls chewed off if anyone found out he’d passed them onto her and he didn’t want to risk any more. ‘Okay. I might take a bit longer than twenty minutes. See you as soon as I can.’
Still stiff after the yoga, she thought the only way to loosen up was to keep moving. She pulled on her trainers and clipped on a bum-bag containing her essentials. Once on the West Bow she decided to take a detour. From the Royal Mile she turned left onto the North Bridge. It took this far to find her rhythm but once she had she could have continued for miles. At the junction with Princes Street she ran down to the roundabout at Picardy Place then down Broughton Street and along London Street.