by V Clifford
At the mention of her name his eyes almost pop out. ‘You’re kidding. Her father would kill me.’
‘I’m not asking about her father. What the fuck has he got to do with anything?’
‘She’s Sonia Morgan. That’s what.’
‘So all you’re worried about is your reputation and your job. And a young boy is dead. Max, you’ve lost it. Totally lost it.’
The door to her flat is about twenty paces away and she says, ‘Go away, Max. Think about this again. I’m going through that door and I’ll speak to Marconi. I don’t give a shit about Mr Morgan – or Mr Whiteman for that matter.’
‘Don’t, Viv. I said I’d talk you round. That we’d be able to come to some agreement.’
‘You thought you could buy me off to save your arse. You don’t know me. Or such crap would never have crossed your mind. Whiteman isn’t stupid even if you are. Where is he?’
Her key is in the door and she can see him glancing round. The gods are on her side – her neighbour Ronnie comes round the corner huddled up against the rain with his papers tucked inside his coat.
‘Hi Ronnie, what a horrible day.’
Glaring at Max she closes the door and chats at Ronnie on the way up stairs.
Chapter Fourteen
Ronnie has a calming effect on Viv, so by the time they reach their landing her breathing has slowed and she’s much less irritated. Bidding him good day brings a smile to her face. What an all but invisible neighbour Ronnie is.
Once she’s inside her own flat, the smile drops from her face. John looks bigger today, taking up more space in her sitting room than he had even this morning. His sister wasn’t exactly laden with things as Viv passed her on the stairs, but whatever it was has expanded. Her face gives her away and John says, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tidy up. I couldn’t find my account book and had to empty everything out.’ He holds up a red book, grinning as if he’s won the Lottery. ‘This little baby is the only thing standing between me and abject poverty. I can now buy you dinner tomorrow.’
It’s her turn to grin. She likes him. Likes the fact that he notices things and he isn’t a freeloader – although she was willing to put up with that if he had been. He looks up at her from the couch and asks, ‘How was the swim?’
‘Interesting.’ Viv hesitates, not sure how much to tell him, but decides he’s not on the side of the bad guys. As her tale unfolds his face becomes a picture of disbelief.
‘So, you’re a hairdresser? . . . and a journalist?’
She is quickly on the defensive. ‘Look, John, you’re not exactly in a position to make judgments, are you? But for now let’s say, yes I am a hairdresser, and yes I happen to write for our national broadsheet.’
Her tone has a warning and his response is, ‘Well you have to admit it is unusual.’
She retorts, ‘Yes, it’s unusual, but only because people have fixed ideas of what hairdressers do. Avoid stereotyping and you’ll get fewer surprises. I’ve never spoken to a single person who has said that their hairdresser was thick. Quite the contrary. I met a guy recently who is writing a book about his hairdresser, and he’s having her edit it. I have a theory about hairdressers . . .’
Seeing the look on his face and losing interest in her own rant she decides it can wait. ‘Okay, I’ll save the lecture for another day. I need to make contact with the police.’
‘You’re turning him in? This Maxwell Scott guy?’
‘I don’t see it as turning him in. It’s damage limitation. If Max keeps quiet much longer Whiteman will have more to blackmail him with. Then Max will really be up to his neck in it.’
‘Don’t you think . . .?’
Viv, as quick as a flash, turns on him, ‘No, I don’t think. You can probably tell that I never think about anything. I’m the type to jump straight into every situation without giving it the slightest thought.’
John comes back equally quickly. ‘Okay, okay. I get it. You know that there’s no way he’ll go to the police, and if he doesn’t he’s in even more . . .’
‘He’s already lied and withheld information as it is, but he could still get off with a warning.’
She notices that as they speak his colour drains. ‘Look, let’s get you a cup of tea. Then I’ll ring someone I know at Fettes.’
‘What’s Fettes?’
She’s forgotten that he’s not from Edinburgh, and it’s oddly reassuring that he isn’t familiar with Edinburgh’s main cop shop.
‘Fettes is police headquarters.’
She must be careful; he’s still pretty frail.
Once they’ve had tea and digestives, Viv checks her email, reading an earlier one from Max. He does sound scared, but there are worse things in life than offending the in-laws. There’s one from Jules saying she’s just heard about the shenanigans at the drinks party last night. Viv wonders who Jules’ source was, and rattles off a quick reply that she’ll fill her in later. Then she picks up the phone and dials Marconi. It rings and rings before going to voicemail. Not sure who else to try, Sal Chapman comes to mind, but she decides against – nervous that Sal interprets such a call as a curved ball to something else. What now?
The phone rings. It’s Marconi.
‘Hi, Viv, Marcus here.’ First name terms, a good start. He sounds breathless.
‘Thanks for ringing back. I think it would be useful for us to meet.’
‘Why, what have you got?’
‘I’d rather we met. So that I can go over the whole thing.’
‘What have you been keeping from us?’
‘No it’s not that, it’s . . .’
‘Okay Viv, we can meet. I’m out running at the moment, but I could be back at the office in fifteen minutes. If you give me half an hour you won’t have to put up with me in running kit.’
‘Fine. See you in half an hour.’
The idea of him in running kit isn’t as off-putting as he thinks. He’s in good shape and not bad looking. Something stirs in Viv that hasn’t been awake for a while and she quickly shakes it off. A feeling of anxious excitement is the last thing she needs.
‘John!’ She calls from the bedroom. ‘If you’re up for a DVD you’ll find every possibility in that cupboard at the bottom of the bookcases. Or if you fancy reading, as you see there’s no shortage.’
It was one of the things that made Viv want the flat. In fact she was almost desperate to get it when she saw that bookcases took up the length of the hall, still containing a smattering of titles she recognised as ‘progressive’. Her own books now take up 70 per cent of what’s here. Now that she knows that Sal is the owner it seems weird, having made all sorts of presuppositions about what kind of person the collection must belong to. Radclyffe Hall and Kate Millet were a bit of a give-away.
Viv changes into warmer clothes. With a rucksack thrown over her shoulder she goes through the ritual of checking her pockets for keys, mobile, tissues and gloves.
‘I’m off. I should be back . . .’ the clock reads midday, ‘. . . two, two-thirty.’
‘It’s fine, Viv, I’m not your mum.’
‘Thank God for that!’
They both laugh and she trots downstairs hoping that a taxi will be around. There isn’t one. She finds one waiting at the lights on the High Street and runs over before the lights change. The driver gives her a disapproving look. ‘You’ll get me shot, hen. Where to?’
‘Fettes, please.’ She adds, ‘ HQ’ before he asks if she’s going to the school.
It’s never been quiet on any of her visits. Criminals never sleep. Marconi looks fresh, with his hair still wet and skin that looks shaved to within an inch of its life. The office smells faintly of lemon, a nice change from testosterone. The PC who has shown her in leaves them and suddenly there’s an awkwardness that has never been there before. Perhaps they’ve never been alone before. Viv pulls out a chair and it clunks against the legs of the one next to it. The sound is amplified in the large, empty room. Last time she was in here Sal and another couple
of officers were in and out. She could be wrong about Sundays; criminals might have a long lie. The only time Viv wants a long lie is during the week, but it’s sod’s law that at weekends the lights come on the instant her eyes open.
Marconi twirls his pen, and even the noise of that sounds too loud. She must be hypersensitive after her swim. ‘How was your run?’
‘Not bad. You’re not a runner, are you?’
‘Occasionally. Not keen on pounding pavements, though. Prefer natural terrain. Had a swim this morning . . . Not much that’s natural about chlorine, I suppose.’
She’s justifying herself without cause. She takes a deep breath and launches, ‘This morning I had a surprise visit from Mr Maxwell Scott. He wanted a chat, but also to get me to back off. But the thing is I’m not sure what exactly he’d like me to back off from. Last night I went to a drinks party . . .’
Marconi interrupts. ‘Whoa! Slower please.’
Viv takes a breath and continues. ‘Max was there and unbeknown to me had brought along a friend, who, it turns out, is the wife of Leonard Whiteman.’
Marconi nods and raises his eyebrows.
‘This Mrs Whiteman, according to the hostess, had asked if she could come along. Now what’s interesting to me is why did she want to come? She sidled up to me at one point and whispered in my ear, and it wasn’t sweet nothings. But when I didn’t respond in the way that she expected she grabbed me, tearing my dress in the process. I only managed to get away from her by throwing a drink at her and throwing myself on the mercy of my hostess. Whiteman’s language was choice. But what I want to know is, did she ask to be invited just on the off-chance that I’d be there? Jinty was fuming.’
Marconi shoots her a questioning look. Viv clarifies. ‘Jinty Stewart was giving one of her famous drinks parties. I usually have a good enough excuse not to go but this time I didn’t.’
Again he raises his eyebrows. ‘Jinty Stewart, as in wife of Rodney Stewart, as in Lord and Lady Glencalder? Don’t look so surprised. Jinty is a client of mine. I know that you’re not keen on coincidences, and I’m not getting a good feeling about the coincidences that have happened this week. I get involved in a story about a young boy who subsequently turns up dead. My car is blown to smithereens in the office car park of a man who is at drinks with a friend who happens to be an arch-hood’s wife. Then he turns up again as I am washing my hair at the swimming pool.’ It’s her turn to raise her eyebrows, inviting a response from Marconi.
‘I can see your point,’ Marconi admits. ‘What else did Max want?’
‘He confessed to me that Whiteman had arranged for him, Max, to have a taste of youth in the form of Andrew Douglas.’
She was never in doubt about his attention, but Marconi now leans forward over the table and nods, his hunger for information definitely fuelled. ‘Go on.’
‘Max didn’t know who or what to expect and was horrified, at least this is his story, when he saw Andrew. He recognised him from the TV and the newspapers, but he also knows Andrew’s father, who is a client of his. Messy or what? I don’t condone what Max was doing, even though Andrew is, or rather was eighteen. So in legal if not moral terms there isn’t anything that could be done about Max’s encounter with Andrew, which he swears wasn’t an encounter at all. Max apparently freaked. The difficulty is that Andrew has since died, so I’m guessing that Max was one of the last people to see him alive. It doesn’t look good for Mr Scott, but he sounded genuinely scared of what Whiteman might do. I’ve always seen the tough, cutting edge financier, but this morning he was quaking in his boots. So perhaps there’s more to his part in this than he is saying, or Whiteman is even dirtier than I had imagined.’
Marconi hasn’t spoken in a while, and almost whispering he says, ‘We’ve got to get him in here before Whiteman gets to him.’ He’s up and across to the phone in three strides. ‘Viv, you don’t have an address for him, do you?’
‘I do. He lives in Royal Terrace. I always see him at the office. After this morning I wonder if he’d feel safer at the office. It might be worth . . .’
Marconi pre-empts her and asks the constable to find out the number at Royal Terrace and get someone to both addresses.
‘Well, Viv,’ he smiles, ‘I must say you look pretty good on drama. You want a coffee or something?’
‘Actually, I’d love a cup of tea if there’s one going.’
He looks pleased. ‘Sure. We could run to that.’ Then he continues, ‘We’ve got nothing on Whiteman. He’s clever. Manages to keep whatever he’s washing rotating. Got nothing on the wife either, apart from the fact that her father did time in the nineteen seventies for fraud. How convenient is that? Having pa-in-law a seasoned fraudster!’
Viv says, ‘I heard that Whiteman’s involved in “arranging” young boys for a price. If they work for him they wear a specific outfit. At the moment it’s white jeans with a bag over the left shoulder. Just like in the old days, when a pierced ear or a dangling set of keys could get you a kicking. They still hang out on Calton Hill; you’d think they’d find a new location.’
‘Where did you get that information?’
‘Don’t remember. One of Andrew’s school chums maybe? I think they’re scared now. At the beginning it was intriguing, a bit of a novelty, but not now. There’s nothing intriguing about burning to death. By the way I’ve got a visitor for a couple of days. He said the flat in the Colonies really is a safe haven. I think it was Robbie who sold him the stuff that put him in hospital.’
‘What’s he doing with you? You didn’t know him before you found him?’
‘No, but he had nowhere to go. And I offered.’
He looks a mixture of impressed and suspicious. No mean feat. Viv, once again feeling the need to justify herself, adds, ‘He’s just a boy, well, young man. He’s looking better now than he did in the hospital. Besides he did give me information. Not much, but I only need a little to get things moving. Sometimes less actually is more. What did you do with Croy?’
Marconi shrugs. ‘His lawyer came and arranged bail, and we couldn’t keep him. He’s been charged with possession. Would your young man testify that he’d been sold stuff by Robbie?’
‘I doubt it, but it’s worth a try. He’s . . . shall we say disenchanted with Mr Croy at the moment. Sees him as a very bad lot. You might be lucky. Look, I’d rather not be around when Max comes in, but John Black isn’t going anywhere soon, so you could come to the flat later and speak to him.’
He nods. ‘Thanks, I’d like to do that.’
As she heads toward the door he remarks, ‘Your flat made a bit of an impression on Sal Chapman. She thought it was pretty eccentric. I’ll see for myself later.’
Outside Fettes, there’s no chance of a passing cab so Viv starts the trudge towards Stockbridge. It’s still a surprise to her that shops are open on a Sunday and she takes the opportunity to browse in the charity bookstores. The difficult thing is leaving them without more than one’s own bodyweight in books. Today she’s in luck. They have the Shorter Oxford English, both volumes. They weigh a ton, and any notion of a brisk walk home is dismissed before she’s reached Stockbridge, where she does manage to hail a taxi. Once seated she turns to look out of the back window. She could be wrong, but she could swear she recognises a bloke frantically hailing another cab. Annoyed at herself for feeling paranoid she nonetheless checks the rear view mirror to see if they are being followed. They are. She is. The man following is the nicer of the two barmen from Copa Cabana and definitely not one of Marconi’s men. Maybe another ‘coincidence’.
The other cab is still tailing them when they reach the top of Victoria Street. If it turns down here she’ll assume that he’s on her tail. She gets her key out, ready to leap from the taxi and straight up stairs. The two vehicles turn into her street. She jumps out and aims the keys towards the street entrance, but drops them and, laden with the books, makes a clumsy retrieval. She manages to make it inside and closes the heavy outer door behind her. She pauses i
nside, breathing too heavily for one so fit. She can hear footsteps, then someone trying the door. For a second she thinks she hasn’t secured it properly, and it gives slightly when he pushes it, but it holds and she lets out a huge sigh. Wondering what he’ll do, she hovers with her back against the wall watching the shadow of his feet moving back and forth outside. Eventually, with nothing to be gained by staying where she is, she makes her way to the top.
When she walks into the hall she’s struck by the unreality of her life as the sound of Julie Andrews’ voice reaches her from the sitting room, and grins. She dumps the books and fills the kettle. She imagines how nice it would be to veg in front of The Sound of Music and forget everything for a couple of hours. So she changes into baggy bottoms and cosy socks.
John tries to jump up from the sofa when she opens the sitting room door.
‘Stay where you are. I think I’ll join you. What could be better than an afternoon with the von Trapps? You warm enough?’ She shudders. Let’s have a bit more heat. We could get this place up to a bikini state in no time.’
After she’s turned up the heater she’s about to settle down, but then she remembers the kettle. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please, if it’s no bother.’
Within minutes she’s back with a tray. Complete with tea and a bucket of Maltesers.
John laughs and shifts onto his elbow. ‘You’re quite a hostess, Viv. By the way I had another bacon roll. I’ll see you all right tomorrow when I can get some cash.’
‘I’m not worried – well, at least not about that. Malteser?’
With a grin he says, ‘I’m beginning to think I’ve died and gone to heaven.’
For the next couple of hours they sit like old companions, who don’t feel the need to fill in gaps. Neither of them is inhibited about singing along, which makes them both giggle. There’s something very nice about being with a man without having to worry if he’s going to make a move on you. Perhaps he feels the same about her. Viv is aware that relationships – whatever they are – never go in a straight line. One swallow doesn’t make a summer and all that. Viv’s relationship with Dawn was the first serious one she’d had with a woman.
