by V Clifford
‘What does he look like?’
‘Broader than he is tall, looks fit but not athletic, always wears a suit and a headset. Short mousey hair, thinning. Looks as if he might have played rugby.’
Viv relaxes at this. He must be one of Marconi’s lot. They said they’d get someone to guard her. Wondering if they report her every movement to Marconi she reminds herself to pay attention when she leaves. Either her tail is really good or she’s not much of an investigator. Lanky, dark-skinned, brown-eyed, beautiful Bella. There isn’t a man who comes here who doesn’t mainly come to look at her. She could be on the cover of Vogue if she wasn’t so self-effacing.
The food comes piping hot with a basket of bread. It smells amazing, but Viv waits, knowing her weakness for gobbling and burning her tongue. Bella plonks herself down. ‘So why are they tailing you, Doc?’
‘I think they’re looking out for me. At least I hope that’s what they’re doing. How about you? Being quiet is only a blip, eh? Although I don’t see anyone queuing at the other bistros either.’
‘It’s since they put the price of parking up. It’s out of the box. Three quid an hour means six quid on top of lunch. Too much. And where are they going to park anyway? ’Cos I don’t know about you but we can never get a space, and we’ve got permits!’
‘I don’t have that problem at the moment. MG’s been blown up!’
Bella laughs then sees that Viv is serious.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I am.’
‘Shit! What happened? You weren’t in the car? . . . Obviously not or you wouldn’t be here telling me. Christ, Doc, what is it you said you do?’
Viv smiles and scratches her head. ‘Sometimes I wonder. But don’t you worry. I can look after myself.’
Even she can hear the lack of conviction in her voice.
Lunch does the trick and Viv, feeling better after her reality check with Bella, decides to nip back to the flat to do a bit of on-line research. Starting with Facebook she looks up ‘Robbie Croy Scotland’, and finds his profile, which is nothing if not creative. If only he’d been as selective with his photographs as he had with the info in his profile. She hadn’t imagined he’d have so many friends, although Robbie seems to use the word ‘friend’ loosely. He looks better in the flesh than in any of his pics, in most of which he looks drunk or worse. Scrolling through this little lot is going to take hours, but there’s no time like the present. Armed with the remaining chocolate digestives and a pot of tea she settles down.
It’s laborious work having to enlarge each photo so that she can make out the other people in them. A few familiar faces jump out and she reminds herself to be vigilant next time she’s in Copa Cabana. Eventually one photograph does make her stop. It’s Liam and Robbie in an embrace. ‘Yuck! What is that about?’ Viv can’t believe that Robbie, who is as vain as they come, would even be in the same room as Liam. The only explanation is drugs. Got to be drugs . . . or money. She doesn’t know what to do with this little nugget and realises that she really has to go back to the very beginning. She types in ‘Andrew Douglas Edinburgh’, but the phone rings and without thinking she reaches to answer it. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s Sal.’
This wakes her up. ‘Oh, hi!’
‘I rang earlier and left a message.’
‘Oh, I just got in and went straight on-line. I haven’t checked my messages.’
The phrase, ‘Liar liar, your pants are on fire’ comes to mind. ‘I’m doing a bit of work on Croy. I now think he’s even more dodgy than I suspected. Have you guys heard anything about John Black?’
‘He’s in a bad way, but hanging on. They did a blood transfusion. Waiting to see if that was successful. But there’s no chance of speaking to him.’
Viv, keen to keep the conversation on business, ‘Have they identified the substances?’
‘I don’t know. Marconi didn’t say.’
She sounds petulant. Perhaps Marconi is still in the huff. As if she’s noticed, Sal returns to her normal tone.
‘The body – the one that we thought could have been Andrew Douglas. It isn’t him. The dental records didn’t match. I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Wow, that’s a huge blunder. How did that happen?’
‘You should ask Marconi about that.’
‘Yeah, thanks. That’s a relief . . . Well, I’d better get on.’
‘Sure.’
‘Cheers.’
‘Yes, cheerio.’
Viv looks at the handset. What did I do there? Picking up the phone again, she punches in Jules’ number. ‘Hi, Alice, Jules around?’
‘My God, Viv, is she gunning for you? Are you ready for this?’
Jules, never one for social graces, bellows, ‘Where the fuck have you been? Did you get my message? This isn’t working. I need more contact. We should speak . . .’
Viv interrupts her, ‘No, we should speak when it’s necessary. It hasn’t been necessary. There was nothing that either of us could report when we thought he was dead. Now what have you got that you think will help me? A decent more recent photograph of Andrew would help by the way.’
‘Okay, okay. It’s just so frustrating.’
‘What? When you can’t control everybody?’
‘Don’t you . . .’
‘Jules! Stop! Let’s just get on with the task.’
After a brief, frosty silence Jules concedes. ‘I’ll email a photograph. His parents are offering a reward.’
‘I thought rewards were for finding killers. We don’t know whether he’s alive or not.’
‘They’re desperate. Offering it for any information.’
‘Christ! They’ll have every Tom, Dick and gay boy who has never known him on the phone. Whose idea . . .’
Jules doesn’t answer but Viv hears her sighing – Jules has clearly had something to do with the reward. Viv also sighs and says, ‘Speak later.’
Clattering the phone back into its cradle she checks her email before heading for the kitchen to refill the kettle. She needs more tea like a hole in the head but it’s something to do. By the time the kettle has boiled there’s an email from Jules. Opening the attachment isn’t successful at first and her Mac has to change the format, but finally a vision of Andrew Douglas appears on her screen. He’s bonny, no doubt about that: fresh faced, no trace of acne and managing to make his school uniform look stylish with the collar of his blazer up and his tie in a huge knot. The gel on his dark hair would last anyone else a month and the marks on his ears indicate he wears earrings, but obviously not for the school photo. He’s definitely got style. He hardly looks fifteen let alone eighteen. This image of Andrew differs from the one that she’d created from the earlier photograph where he was even younger. She had him chunkier and not so beautiful. When she’s had enough gazing at the screen she sits back and stretches her back, which makes a cracking sound. Kneeling on the floor she does a few back lifts until it loosens up.
In preparation for her next Copa Cabana visit, the pockets of her jacket are freighted with stuff that she’d usually put in a wallet or rucksack, but tonight she wants to be able to run. The West Bow is busy with traffic and she realises how liberated she is without the MG. Another car can wait for now. At the top of her street she turns left then immediately right onto the Royal Mile, now almost a pedestrian precinct, with only the odd taxi permitted to use it. She passes the City Chambers and the many signs advertising ghost and literary tours. Edinburgh has more than its share of ghosts, ghouls and literary giants, which has created opportunities for entrepreneurs who concoct tours round their haunts. Even on this late January day there is a smattering of people queueing.
She turns smartly onto the North Bridge, where the stench of carbon monoxide is almost enough to make her choose another route, but she tucks her chin inside her collar and fastens the button, so that she can breathe into the fabric of her jacket. This route may be grubby but it is the quickest. It’s also Suici
de Row. The North Bridge straddles the main railway lines from the south and has become a popular spot for people to jump. It’s a long way to the ground.
Viv designed her life so that she wouldn’t have to do nine to five or work for anyone else. Being freelance must have its downside but she can never think what it is. Just as the air brakes of a bus startle her with a raucous hiss, her mobile rings and she fumbles about, freeing her hands from the chest pockets of her jacket. Whoever it is, they’re not hanging up. ‘Jules! What now?’
‘You’re never going to believe this but we’ve just had it down the wire. It was him after all!’
‘But you said the dentals weren’t his.’
‘No, I didn’t. I just said it wasn’t him. Who’d you get the dentals from?’
‘You. You said . . .’
Jules loses the rag and shouts. ‘No I didn’t, because I didn’t have any detail at that time. Viv, what are you up to?’
Viv tries to recall what Sal said; convinced that it was Jules who had mentioned it. ‘What the hell does it matter? We both know it’s standard procedure to do a dental check if the body is unidentifiable. But how could they get that wrong? It’s so basic.’
‘The father is also called Andrew Douglas and it’s the same dentist. Apparently he’s mortified.’
‘I should think so. Look, I’m on my way back to Copa Cabana. I’ll get what I can but I expect they’ll have heard as well. Christ, what a disaster. The parents must be . . .’
The phone cuts out. Nice, Jules, nice.
Carrying on down Leith Street she comes to the pub and damn it, it isn’t as busy as she’d hoped. It is, however, warm and she unbuttons her jacket, rooting for her wallet. The barman from her first visit is on. His glare of welcome could have been worse.
‘I’ll have a half of organic cider, please.’
‘That’s not all you’ll have if you poke your nose . . .’
He looks over Viv’s shoulder and she turns to see a man coming through the door. The only way to describe him is suave, not to be confused with sophisticated. His dark green, boiled wool coat didn’t come from M&S and his Manolo Blahniks are testimony to vanity beyond repair. Despite his tan appearing more tartrazine than Tenerife he is very good looking. The barman seems to have lost his tongue and a little line of sweat appears above his upper lip. Viv looks from him to the man walking towards the bar, but doesn’t say anything. The barman looks relieved as she strolls up the few steps that take her to the back of the bar. She slides into one of the booths, leaving the barman to attend to his new customer. She has a grandstand view of what’s happening. The newcomer has a glass of wine in his hand and is surveying the premises as if he owns them. Perhaps he does?
Liam appears from behind the bar. Her skin crawls, but she keeps her eyes fixed on him for his reaction to the good-looking new customer. Judging by Good Looking’s face, his own skin is beginning to crawl. As she expected, Liam is fawning. Liam catches her eye, but quickly looks past her. Interesting. He’s been determined the last couple of times he’s seen her to make a point of irritating her. GL must have power beyond his brown eyes. GL is wiping something from his coat with a look of disgust on his face. Liam takes a step closer as if to assist but, if GL’s reaction is anything to go by, is told in no uncertain terms to back off. For a millisecond she feels pity, remembering that Liam spits when he speaks.
The next move is pathetic. Liam backs away – she could swear he’s almost genuflecting. Who is this guy? Draining her glass she approaches the bar, but the barman gives a tiny shake of his head. GL turns to see who the gesture is aimed at. Viv keeps moving and hands her glass back, ‘Stick another in there, would you?’
‘Sure!’ Too enthusiastic. He keeps his eyes on the glass as he pours another half. GL turns away as if he’s lost interest. Leaving her money on the bar she walks back to the booth, retreating from the tension pumping out of the barman. Liam has disappeared back through the door he emerged from and GL is leaning on the rail in front of the bar questioning the barman, who is shaking his head nervously. If only Viv could hear what is being said. She decides against moving closer. She sips her cider. Is she imagining it or is the bar quieter than when he came in? He surely can’t be the owner? He has money, he’s ostentatious, and Liam and the barman are afraid of him. What does he do that makes them nervous? Or what do they not have that he needs? Are they in his pay?
Suddenly he stands to his full height and gripping the rail leans back and says, ‘You’d better.’ This threat is the only thing that he’s said loudly enough for her to catch. His back is impressively broad, and as he reaches the exit he turns back and makes a shooting gesture at the barman, whose face pales as he nods. After a few minutes she approaches the bar. The barman, clearly terrified, says, ‘Don’t!’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Ask me anything.’
‘Doing coffee?’
He sighs, and reluctantly hands her a slim menu.
‘An Americano, please.’
While his back is turned the two guys from her first visit walk in. No sign of their football colours tonight. She is surprised when they approach her. ‘Hi!’
She returns the greeting.
The taller of the two asks, ‘You get anything interesting on Andrew yet?’
‘What? Apart from his being . . .’
They don’t look as if they’ve heard that he is dead. They just look hopeful. Viv manages, ‘Apart from still being AWOL, you mean?’
It sounds lame, and looking confused the stocky one turns to his pal, ‘What does that mean, then, Thomas?’
Thomas is irritated. ‘It means they still haven’t found him . . .’
Viv senses that he was about to say ‘stupid’. ‘You guys have probably got more than me.’
‘We’ve got nothing. Otherwise, we’d have told the cops, after that scare. What a relief that it wasn’t him.’
They do look young. And they’re trying so hard to be grown up. Her Americano arrives and the barman quickly turns his best smile on his new customers.
‘What can I get you, my beauties?’
Thomas turns on the camp charm, but Stocky looks embarrassed.
‘Whisky and coke for me, luvvy. How about you, Johnny?’
‘I’ll have something soft. I’m driving.’
Sensible chap. He looks at Viv’s coffee and says: ‘I’ll have a cappuccino.’
He pays for both of their drinks. Thomas doesn’t even offer.
The barman says, ‘Len’s just been in.’
This wipes the smile off Thomas’ face. ‘Shit! What did he want?’
The barman gives Viv the evil eye and says, ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Shaking her head, Viv lifts her coffee and goes back to the booth, hoping that eventually they’ll want to ask her more questions. They must have heard what happened at the flat with John Black.
The place is starting to fill up and she doesn’t have the booth to herself for very long. Two guys move into the other side and proceed to pass an iphone back and forth, laughing and cooing as if they’re looking at something illicit. Viv could be wallpaper. Being the only female here isn’t that comfortable. She slips out again, knowing that she’ll lose her seat, then ventures over to Andrew’s pals and asks if she can buy them a drink. Thomas’ eyes narrow. ‘What’ll it cost us? Look what happened last time we spoke to you.’
His chum interrupts, ‘You speak for yourself. I said nothing.’
‘Aren’t we all on the same side?’ Viv tries.
Thomas sneers, ‘Look around you, dear, haven’t you missed something?’
‘No, I haven’t missed something. I still think we’re on the same team where Andrew’s concerned.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘No. What am I supposed to get?’
‘He doesn’t want to be found.’
‘How would you know that? . . . Who did he leave here with the last night you saw him?’
Johnny is just ab
out to say something when Thomas says, ‘Shut it.’
But Johnny, pissed off, says, ‘And Tommy, when did you become the communication police? He’s got to be found. How scared were you when you thought he’d been torched? Shit scared, that’s what. Just like me and everyone else. So give up on the tough guy routine.’
Viv would like to punch the air but instead ventures, ‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes, he left with Len.’
‘And does Len have another name?’
‘Not that I know, but he’s around here often enough. We’ve seen him since Andrew went missing. He says he left him outside. I don’t know if I believe him, but . . .’ He looks at Tommy.
Viv looks from one to the other and says, ‘But what, Johnny?’
Tommy shakes his head. ‘That’s enough. Don’t say any more.’
‘Christ! What are you all so scared of? If Andrew was dead would you talk?’
‘Of course, we’d have to. It’d be a murder enquiry. But we wouldn’t have to talk to you. You’re only after a story.’
Viv, thinking it’s worth the risk, says, ‘He is dead.’
The look of horror on their faces is real. Thomas croaks, ‘You’re making that up. You bitch. How could you say that?’
He turns and walks toward the door without looking back.
Johnny is wide-eyed, ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. I wouldn’t lie about something as serious as that.’
She didn’t even cross her fingers behind her back. Johnny swallows, his face sheet white. Viv thinks she’s been pretty mean, but what choice did she have? Not to tell them when they’d find out anyway wouldn’t be right. Now that she’s got Johnny on his own she suggests another drink.
‘No. I’d better go.’
‘I suppose I’ll head home too. Where are you heading?’
‘The Grange.’
‘We could share a taxi?’
She knows he’s driving. Well brought-up boy that he is, he offers her a lift.
Chapter Eleven
Outside, Viv as usual pulls her jacket up round her chin. The temperature can’t have got above zero today and the wind chill, whatever that is, means the cold bites her hard. Johnny motions towards Royal Terrace. He walks quickly and although her legs are longer than his she has to run a step, walk a step to keep up with him. In the small car the smell of its newness is overwhelming. She’s glad that he’s sensible and wasn’t tempted to have ‘just one’. The car starts first time.
