by V Clifford
‘What? He’s not going to make it?’
‘Stranger things have happened here. We’ll see after the transfusion. I wish we could find his family, but he gives us nothing but grief. We know he’s probably from Aberdeen – his accent’s a bit of a giveaway – and he’s also had unusual surgery. A plate in his head after a car accident, carried out at Aberdeen Royal. If you happen to find out about his family, it would be good to let them know where he is. I’d hate to think of them, you know, hearing the worst when it’s too late.’
Viv, looking back down the ward to John Black, can’t believe he could die. When she found him in the flat she thought he might be really sick, but the last time she saw him she thought he’d made progress.
The nurse is busy again with another patient, chivvying him with another type of crack. Viv admires nurses’ commitment, when they’re looking death in the face everyday. She couldn’t do it, that’s for sure. Deciding she’d like to sit with John for a few minutes she returns to his bed. He stirs, but even though his eyes are open they don’t seem to register her.
‘Hey. How’re you doing?’ She doesn’t expect an answer and isn’t disappointed when she doesn’t receive one. He looks desperate. His eyes have sunk into black dents in his head, and his cheekbones, already prominent, appear to be skinless. How can this have happened in such a short time? Viv’s bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired, but words aren’t necessary at the moment. His lips are dry and his attempt to lick them is futile. She looks around for a jug of water and not seeing one goes back to the nurse.
‘I’m looking for a jug.’
‘The Doc’s due back anytime.’
This is apropos of nothing that Viv knows about, so she takes the proffered jug and turns to fill it with water.
‘It’s okay for me to wet his lips? He’s really dry.’
‘Go ahead. It’ll not do him any harm.’
Once back at the bed, she pours a glass and then tilts his head, slipping some water onto his lips then lowering him back onto the pillow. This role is unfamiliar to her. She can’t even do this sort of thing for her mum. Sitting in silence she watches the shallow movement of his chest. Each rise looks as if it could be the last. He whispers.
‘Robbie.’
She thinks he said ‘Robbie’, but can’t be sure. ‘Robbie, Sandy’s friend?’
He nods.
She pushes. ‘What about him?’
His eyes and shaking head indicate his frustration.
‘Is he a dealer?’
He nods.
‘And he’s bad news?’
He nods again. When he closes his eyes she squeezes his hand and leaves. She prays he won’t die.
At the front door she gathers her jacket around her, fending off more of that biting east wind. There isn’t a taxi in sight so she steps back inside. No point in chittering outside when she can see the taxi rank from here. What to do now? Robbie seems to have made enemies with some of the young guys who use the Colonies flat . . . or should she say, have been used at the flat? Her skin crawls at the idea that Sandy is encouraging young boys to take drugs so he can have his kicks. How did he come to be with Robbie? She tries to think how they might have met and what the attraction was, but her imagination fails. Drugs, it has to be drugs. Sandy’s job affords him ample opportunity to meet every kind of criminal. That must be it.
Waiting, Viv checks her messages and sure enough there’s one from Marconi asking where the hell she is. She presses Reply: ‘Hey! It’s Viv Fraser.’
‘I know who it is. Where the hell are you? We need you here right now.’
As he’s speaking she spots a taxi – lucky or what? – and says, ‘I’m on my way. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.’
‘Don’t make any detours.’
Dead tone. She says to the driver: ‘Police HQ.’
Fettes’ architect must have graduated summa cum Lego. A more functional, ugly building you’d be hard pushed to find. Its closest neighbour, Fettes College, built in the French Scottish style, is one of David Bryce’s, and Edinburgh’s, architectural gems. As she approaches the reception desk she does a double take. Sal Chapman slips through a door to her left, wearing what looks like an official card round her neck. What on earth is she doing here? Viv gives her name to the officer behind the desk and pointing to the door, asks: ‘Where does that go?’
The officer looks at her warily and says: ‘This way.’
She trots to keep pace as he marches up a flight of stairs and into a conference room. At least she’s not in an interview room. When she enters, the three men present stop speaking and Marconi pulls out a chair, gesturing for her to take a seat. He sits at her side, but doesn’t introduce her to the two other officers, who remain standing. With more than a hint of irony he says: ‘Glad you could make it, Dr Fraser.’
‘Glad to be of service, Detective Marconi.’
He shoots her a warning look. ‘We need to gather more information about the explosion. Now . . . we understand that you were in the Morgan Clifford building for the purpose of cutting hair, is that correct? And here was I thinking you were some kind of columnist.’
His tone is patronising and her hackles rise.
He continues. ‘Why do I find it difficult to believe that you were only cutting hair?’
She shakes her head. ‘Because you’ve got a stereotypical view of hairdressers.’
‘Convince me that I’m wrong.’ His tone is sharp.
‘As you see. I am a hairdresser who happens to dabble in a bit of story telling.’
‘And the PhD, is that in hairdressing?’
She smiles. ‘No, actually, anthropology.’
It’s his turn to shake his head.
Viv continues, ‘I know it’s hard to believe, but trust me, I’m a Doctor – although not the sort who asks you to go behind a screen and take your kit off . . . Well, not unless the circumstances are very special.’
He clears his throat. ‘Okay, tell us again everything that happened when you went into the building. Every possible detail.’
Being an anthropologist means that ‘detail’ is what she does. There was the walk from the car to the lift, her chat to Ron at security, the dirty looks from the receptionist, then the ‘incident’ in the garage. Her gut tightens as she reflects that she could have been blown sky high if she hadn’t run for it. She remarks, ‘Their security isn’t up to much. By the way,’ she changes the subject, ‘what department are you in?’
‘I head up the NTF, Northern Task Force. A new unit; the name speaks for its self.’
‘So you think this has something to do with terrorism? You’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s . . .’ She halts just in time.
‘It’s what?’
She looks at her nails, horrified at how ugly they look after her session of biting.
‘You’ll not find the answer there.’ Marconi runs his hands through his hair, leaving it sticking out on one side.
Distracted by this Viv continues. ‘No, but I’ll maybe focus on what would be helpful and what wouldn’t.’
‘You could let me be the judge of that.’ With a pen poised over a note pad he waits.
Viv knows a few detectives and hasn’t yet found them too interested in sharing, which means she’s been inclined to be the same. A vision of John Black helps her to make a decision. Marconi seems like a good guy. She may be wrong, but he doesn’t display any of the machismo crap that detectives often do.
She goes on, ‘I was asked to look into the disappearance of a young man who has gone missing.’
‘And who asked you to do this?’
‘Juliet Muir.’
He raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed. ‘A hairdresser who writes for the broadsheets!’
She glares at him. ‘Look, if you’re going to get hung up on the hairdresser thing . . .’
‘No, I’m sorry, it’s just all a bit odd.’
Really losing patience now. ‘Well, tough. You’ve probably already got a copy o
f my CV and my inside leg measurement, so don’t pretend that you haven’t got a clue about what I’m qualified to do.’
‘Okay, okay.’ He puts his hands up as he watches the colour rising in her cheeks. ‘So you’re investigating this missing man and you suddenly find yourself in an attempted . . . what?’ He raises his hands as if he’s about to give a sermon but stays silent.
‘Look, I went into Morgan Clifford, as I do once every month, which, if you’ve done your homework, you will also know because I’m on the sign-in sheets, and met up with Maxwell Scott, as you also already know. I hadn’t a clue I’d been followed. Someone had warned me that I was getting into something too big for me.’ She leans back and runs her hands over her face and through her hair.
‘And who might that have been?’
She ignores his question and says, ‘I think that it was a warning to me. I don’t think they were trying to blow up me, or Morgan Clifford. If they wanted me dead they could have easily done it outside my flat.’
He sits up. ‘Yes, and that’s my problem. They didn’t. They waited until you were inside one of the most prestigious finance houses in the UK. Why do you think they did it there?’
‘Less likely to be seen there than out on the pavement. It could be as basic as that.’ Viv folds her arms and crosses her long legs. Marconi watches and flushes when she catches him looking.
‘It could be. But you can see that it might not look like that to Morgan Clifford who’ve spent a lot of cash on their new security set-up.’
‘What? You think they were testing out the security at Morgan Clifford? They were pretty successful at penetrating the car park. But surely you’ve got them on camera?’
He looks at his nails; immaculate like the rest of him. He hesitates. ‘The camera at the barrier to the car park wasn’t on.’
‘Wow! Why not? Were they testing the system?’ She doesn’t wait for him to answer. ‘It seems strange that just because of some young man going missing I’ve become the object of a terrorist gang!’
‘Help me out here, Viv. Tell me what you’ve discovered about your young man.’
She concedes. ‘Well, I haven’t got much so far. He’s been hanging out with a young gay crowd until recently, when he was seen with an older bloke. There appear to be drugs involved.’
‘What kind of drugs?’
‘From what I’ve seen, soft, but there could be more to it than I’ve uncovered so far. I was given an address in the Colonies and went to take a look. It seemed to be a kind of sleep-over place for young men. I found one guy, who wasn’t very well. In fact that’s why I was held up. I’ve just come from seeing him in the Royal. He’s still not looking good.’
‘What’s his name?’
Reluctantly, she gives him the name. Marconi nods at one of the officers who heads for the door. Before he closes it Marconi shouts: ‘Lewis, could you organise coffee for everyone?’
Viv is not hopeful, but when the coffee comes she’s delighted to smell the real thing. She spoons Demerara sugar into it and wraps her hands around the cup, blowing across the top, and says, ‘One of your lot is already working on the same missing person as I am.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘DC Nicholson. Sandra if she was telling the truth.’
He looks quizzically at the other officer who brought in the coffee but has said nothing so far, not even a thank you for his coffee. He shrugs as if to suggest he hasn’t a clue then says, ‘I’ll check it out.’
Alone with Marconi, Viv wishes she’d held back telling him about the Colonies flat. As if he’s read her thoughts he says, ‘We’ll tread with caution on this one until we know exactly who belongs to what.’
‘The guy who owns the flat could be a prison psychologist.’
He hesitates, then, shaking his head, ‘And you know this because . . .’
‘I’m a bloody nosey parker.’
He smiles and sighs, ‘Anything else?’
‘Well, the bloke that I left in the Royal said that Sandy MacDonald’s boyfriend, Robbie, is bad news. Now this could be because they don’t like each other so I’d not hold out too much hope.’
‘And Sandy MacDonald is?’
‘The prison psychologist.’
Marconi scratches his head but doesn’t take his eyes off her; she drops hers and continues, ‘I’m not sure this is as big as you think. I only became involved to take a quiet look at a story about a missing person. When I looked round that flat I thought it was a bit of a vipers’ nest, but only because of my prejudice. The idea of lots of young men being tempted by a warm place to sleep into having sex with old leches didn’t strike me as entirely . . . moral.’
‘But the fact that you were in the flat, I’m assuming uninvited, didn’t cross your moral radar? Selective.’ He adds. ‘Amazing how selective we are.’
‘There’s moral and “moral”. Everyone has their own compass.’
This is bull, but she can’t be arsed fighting about ethics at the moment. In fact the idea of food is the only thing that might tempt her to move at all. Viv has given him more than she’d wanted to. Strangely, it feels like a weight off her mind. He has the wherewithal to find out what happens next. She scowls and wonders if now is the time to get more information about Andrew Douglas’ death. Marconi notices the change in her expression and throws her a questioning look. ‘Anything else?’
‘Andrew Douglas, the missing boy? I was wondering if he’s turned up?’
Marconi lifts a phone by his side and asks the person on the other end if there’s been any development on the Andrew Douglas case, then replaces the hand set. ‘He’ll ring back. So what we’ve got is a missing boy with a penchant for other boys who has strayed into a vipers’ nest of old men with access to drugs and other bad boys; bad boys who are willing to set fire to your vehicle in the car park of Edinburgh’s most prestigious financier. Forgive me, Viv, but in this job you become cynical and coincidences are never usually what they first seem.’
Viv grimaces. ‘I’m not keen on coincidences myself, but it does seem a bit far-fetched that a drug dealer, who finds out I’m looking for a missing friend of his, sets about blowing up a financial institution because I cut the MD’s hair! Surely even you think that’s crazy?’
They go over it all one more time. She’s cross-eyed with boredom and no one has called back about Andrew.
‘We’ll keep a watch on your flat, just in case.’
‘Fine. Can I go now?’
‘Yes, I’ll get one of the boys to drive you home.’
Too tired to protest she follows him along the corridor. He throws over his shoulder. ‘I heard your dad was in the force.’
She stops as if he’s slapped her. He turns and stares waiting for her to reply. She doesn’t. He nods and they continue in silence downstairs to reception. Once again she sees Sal Chapman, who emerges from the same door as before. The surprise on Sal Chapman’s face almost matches Viv’s.
‘Hi! What are you . . .’
Marconi looks from one to the other. ‘Sal. You two know each other?’
Viv interrupts, ‘Well, not exactly “know”, but have met. Dr Chapman is my landlady.’
Marconi, noticing their embarrassment, says. ‘Right, then. PC Taylor will see you to your chariot.’
Viv starts towards the door, but turns back to Sal. ‘May I ask what you are doing here?’
‘I work here.’
‘I gathered that.’
‘I work in the profiling unit.’
‘Ah! I see.’
Actually seeing nothing, Viv makes her escape, grateful not to have to go in search of a taxi. Resting her head against the cold window she looks at her driver. ‘What exactly do the profiling unit do?’
‘Profiles, I expect.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
For a policeman who has had an irony bypass this makes sense, and there is no further conversation until she thanks him for the lift.
Chapter Seven
The phone rings. ‘Shit!’ She’s tempted to leave it but the incessant ring gets the better of her.
‘Jules?’ The last thing she wants. ‘What now?’
‘The news, Viv! The news! Andrew has turned up.’ Viv is immediately alert. ‘Well charred bits of him anyway.’
This really gets her attention.
‘What the hell do you mean “charred bits of him”?’
‘Never mind the echo, girl. Turn on the TV, it’s all over the news.’
Sure enough, as Viv flicks to the news channel, a young female reporter looks earnestly into the camera and is rounding up with, ‘This fire has been a big shock to the small community of Earlston.’
Jolted by the mention of Earlston, Viv flicks to another channel to see if she can find any more detail. She looks at another fresh-faced reporter, equally earnest, pointing to the scene of a lay-by with lots of police activity in the background. ‘God!’ Surely not the lay-by that Margie mentioned the other day? Jules, still on the other end of the line, barks, ‘Get down there and see what you can get.’
Viv is certain of her ground. ‘There’s no way they’ll let me near the scene. Besides, by the time I get there everyone and his wife will have covered the story. I’ve got another lead I’m going to follow. I’ll be in touch.’
She hangs up the landline, grabs her mobile and scrolls for Pete’s number, then punches ‘Call’. After an eternity, it goes to answering machine. ‘Hey Pete, I’m on my way to Copa Cabana – we could have coffee?’
She’s no sooner cut the call than her phone rings. It’s him. There’s traffic in the background. He says, ‘I don’t know what to do. Everyone is freaked out. I’ll meet you if you like.’
