The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  ‘It’s good news if you get a result.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Viv. This is just the beginning of the fall. Mrs Whiteman won’t speak, but we’re thinking if her father sees the state of her face, he’ll be more than happy for Mr Whiteman and his little empire to crumble.’

  ‘Unless the father-in-law is one of the “pillars”.’ Viv recalls the photographs of them together. Both smiling directly into the camera, each with an arm draped over the other. The euphoria of their win or what?

  ‘Viv, do you know something that I don’t, but should?’

  ‘Only that when I was researching – don’t you love that word? It covers so many possibilities. Anyway when I was researching I found quite a bit on-line about Whiteman. He and his father-in-law were in a number of photographs together, they play golf on the same team, and are members of the same club, so I got the impression they’re quite thick. I wouldn’t be too sure that seeing his daughter’s bruises will push his buttons as much as you think. But take a look at their Facebook pages – you’ll be amazed . . . There’s one other thing. I wonder if Whiteman has a stash of photographs somewhere. It’s just a hunch but could be worth checking his computer.’

  ‘I’ll get someone onto that now. We’ve got some material from the web already, which shows the father-in-law’s antagonism towards Whiteman, but we’ll look at that other stuff before deciding which angle to take. Thanks. If anything else comes to mind you know what to do.’

  ‘Yep. Thanks for keeping me in the loop.’

  ‘No problem. You feel like one of the team. Cheers.’

  Sinking back onto the couch Viv can see that if Zoe’s father has too much to lose by squealing on Leonard, he’ll find another way to punish him. What can she do now, since the Whitemans appear to be taken care of?

  She changes into comfort kit and immediately feels less out of sorts. Her brain is now more interested in how to prioritise it all. She goes through a list of people she still would like to speak to. The small matter of Andrew’s death hasn’t yet been cleared, unless they’ve got Whiteman primed for that as well. There are the three Harpies. It wouldn’t do any harm to speak to them again. Copa Cabana will be a different place without Whiteman around. The temptation to go along there tonight is strong but she’s had enough for today, and needs to curl up with a book. Copa Cabana will still be there tomorrow. Trick of the Dark wins and she settles down on the couch wrapped in her duvet. When she wakes a couple of hours later with a crick in her neck, she staggers through to bed pulling the duvet behind her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  When morning comes after another turbulent night she’s glad to see a slash of blue through the gap in her curtains. It’s late and she’s starving. Having missed dinner last night the idea of going out for breakfast strikes her as appealing. She justifies it by telling herself she would have been in a B&B somewhere in the north having a full fry up, had it not been for the shenanigans of the last week. Slipping into clean clothes she looks toward the graveyard – her window on the weather – and is heartened that there’s no evidence of yesterday’s wind.

  The bistro has only two tables left and she settles as close as she can get to her regular one, which is occupied by two teenage girls in white shirts and green skirts. Their green blazers hanging on the backs of their chairs confirm that they’re from St Jude’s but one jacket has the yellow piping of a prefect round its edges. Before Viv can speak to them Bella greets her, wearing a white tea towel over her shoulder and a long clean apron that looks spanking new, ‘The usual, Doc?’

  ‘Yep.’ Viv’s distracted. ‘You don’t have the Guardian, do you?’

  ‘It’s through the back. Jacques is having a go at the sudoku.’

  ‘He can keep the sudoku. I just need the main section. Feeling out of touch.’ She keeps an eye on the girls but soon her food arrives, and as she makes a start on breakfast they prepare to leave. As they slip on their blazers Viv scrapes her chair back and steps towards them. ‘Excuse me, I notice you’re from St Jude’s . . .’

  She doesn’t get the chance to finish her sentence as the prefect interrupts her, ‘So? What of it?’

  ‘I just wondered if you knew a friend of mine.’

  The girl softens, realising that Viv isn’t on the look-out for truants.

  ‘And who might that be? It’s a big school.’

  ‘Pete, he hangs out with Tommy and Johnny.’

  The girls look at each other. The prefect’s eyes widen and she imperceptibly shakes her head when her chum looks as if she might speak. A warning.

  She looks defiantly at Viv, ‘Even if we did know him we’re not permitted to discuss school matters . . .’ She falters, her cockiness failing, and pulls her friend towards the door. The friend objects, ‘Don’t Ruthie.’

  Viv blurts out, ‘Wait!’ But there’s no question of them doing that. She turns to look at her rapidly cooling croissants and sighs, returning to the table. Their uniform reminds her that Colin, a ‘friend’ stroke pain in the arse from university, worked at St Jude’s. Wondering if he’s still there she takes out her phone and scrolls down her contacts. She obviously never had a mobile number from him, so it’ll have to wait until she gets back. They stayed in touch largely because the woman he married is worth the effort. Last time they met up he had some spurious reason for being none too pleased with Viv. What the hell – her pride will have to take a back seat. Colin was employed to teach physics, but spends most of his time on the rugby field. He should have a view on what’s been going on.

  Before anyone else can take the table by the window she moves. Now she can relax and enjoy her industrial strength coffee and basket of not so hot croissants. There’s another teenage girl at a table beyond, no uniform though, listening to her iPod – too much matt make-up isn’t doing anything to disguise her spots. She’s nodding to the beat of God knows what while doing her homework. When she catches Viv looking at her she instinctively curls an arm around her page. Viv smiles at the idea of being able to read anything from this distance.

  Viv shoogles her shoulders and rotates her neck then looks down at her breakfast and selects an almond croissant – this is just what she needs. A few minutes of normal activity without interruption to make her feel grounded again. She turns to the review section of the paper and immerses herself for the next half an hour.

  On her way home her phone vibrates and checking it she doesn’t recognise the number. The message reads: ‘U r safe now x.’ Interesting. The temptation to press ‘Reply’ is strong, but she reaches the stair door and while she’s opening it tucks her phone away. Maybe it’s from Marconi. He’d surely have signed it. Not his style anyway.

  Once inside the flat she checks the number against Marconi’s, then scrolls through her other numbers. Definitely not Marconi or anyone else she rings regularly. She presses ‘Reply’, but it goes straight to an answering service. She doesn’t leave a message, but texts Colin instead. She wonders if he’s forgiven her. He accused her of using him. Unable now to remember the details, she just recalls his face turning red with fury and him stomping off. He was a total ‘yes’ boy at uni so she’s not got much hope that he’ll risk getting into trouble, but he might give something away.

  With the sun streaming into the flat for the first time in too long, the place looks grubby. A good opportunity for displacement activity She dons her Marigolds and sets to.

  She’s been at the cleaning malarkey for an hour before she stands back and looks round at the improvement. Presbyterianism has its pay-offs and she’s had a work-out into the bargain.

  She checks her phone and to her surprise Col has left a message saying, ‘Coffee at midday, free period. Petit France.’

  ‘Wow. Good on ya, Col.’ She always forgets that Bella’s actually has a name. If she’s quick she can do it.

  Bella greets her as if it’s been years instead of a couple of hours since she was in. Viv’s table is free, so all is well with the world.

  Colin is one of those p
eople who disturbs the air whenever he arrives and today is no exception. He rushes in, leaving a wake of scraped chairs and quivering tables, wearing undistinguished joggers and a towelling scarf, which he proceeds to unwrap from round his neck as he plonks himself down opposite her.

  ‘Well, Viv, it’s been a while.’ He doesn’t make eye contact, but shifts the table mat into a central position, then does the same with the salt and pepper. Then he looks up at her. ‘I’m guessing this is about Andrew?’

  ‘That transparent, eh?’

  ‘’Fraid so! The last time we met you were looking for tickets for one of our rugby matches. I don’t for the life of me remember why. But, hey, what are friends for?’

  She ignores his sarcasm and fires him an endearing smile. Colin is younger than Viv. At uni. she was regarded as a ‘mature’ student, a laugh in itself, since she is only three or four years older than him.

  He hasn’t worn well, for all his jogging and rugby. It’s that pale blue skin that lots of Scots revert to in the winter. She thanks the Lord for her own tinted moisturiser. Both Colin and Ann-Marie, his wife, teach at St Jude’s. She’s in the infant school and is one of life’s angels.

  ‘How’s Ann-Marie?’

  ‘She’s great. Loves the job. No sign of any offspring for us yet.’

  Viv reads his disappointment. Not sure what to say she looks away and is relieved when Bella comes to take his order. Col knows that Viv writes but he’s never been able to get over the fact that beneath it all she’s ‘just’ a hairdresser. She glances back at him, noting that his hair is thinner, which is saying something because he didn’t have much to begin with. He’s tight with his cash and his hair has never been a priority. He has no idea that the less you have the more you need a good cut. Consequently he’s on his way to becoming more Bobby Charlton than Bobby Dazzler.

  Even a tiny white lie is hard with friends, but she does it anyway.

  ‘I’ve been doing a story about young people who have gone missing, and yes, Andrew Douglas was one of them. D’you know much about him?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to speak about him . . .’

  She keeps looking at him until he breaks eye contact but continues. ‘I do know that he was rapidly going off the rails. Drugs mainly. I expect you’ve spoken to his boyfriend?’

  ‘No, is he at the school?’

  He looks at her as if she’s not done her homework – which she clearly hasn’t if Andrew had a steady boyfriend all this time and she didn’t know.

  ‘Well. That’s surprised you. He and a guy called Pete Brendan were inseparable. From third year until . . . well now. In fact another bloke, Thomas Clancy, used to hang around with them as well but he seemed to have fallen by the wayside last term.’

  Feigning ignorance, she says, ‘Has this Pete Brendan been at school through all this?’

  ‘I think so. I didn’t teach either him or Andrew. They, not surprisingly, opted for cross-country running. Wouldn’t look at a rugby ball.’

  His sarcasm isn’t lost on her, and this time her response is defensive. ‘Sound like wise young men to me. At least they’ll . . . I was going to say keep their looks, but Andrew won’t.’

  ‘Sad, and a bit curious if you ask me. He and Pete were joined at the hip; even applied to the same universities. I got the sense Andrew was the one doing the chasing.’

  Viv can’t believe her ears. ‘Really, how’d you make that out?’

  ‘Well, Pete was popular with the girls as well. He teased them as if he’d change his batting order any minute. Not a chance. But actually, when I think of them together

  . . . I can hardly bring myself to say this, but they did look as if they were besotted. Apart from the usual school rules, there was nothing we could do to stop them . . .’

  ‘Stop them what? Being in love?’

  Viv stares out the window, dismayed at herself for being taken in by Pete. She should have seen it coming. That one time when she saw something cross his face. She couldn’t make it out at the time, but it didn’t match his words. Thinking of it now it could have been disgust. But she’s getting ahead of herself. ‘How’s the rugby going? St Jude’s seem to be up there with the best.’

  ‘Yeah, but up there isn’t good enough, is it, Viv? The top’s the only place to be.’

  She shakes her head. How could she have forgotten how obsessive he is about the game? His competitiveness knows no bounds and he lives his life by proxy. God help his poor pupils.

  As if he can tell that she’s got what she wanted, he stands. ‘Well. Sorry not to be of help, Viv. I’ll have to get back. I’m on monitor duty for lunch.’

  Viv stands and awkwardly they manage to hug, barely touching. Watching him jog back across the Grassmarket and up the steps to Keir Street, she imagines his route past the Eye Pavilion, down onto the Meadows, across the Links. He’ll be back in school in no time. What now? Taking out her phone she texts Pete.

  Bella asks if she’d like a top-up, but Viv declines, and sits leaning on her elbow, staring out the window. Does Pete know more than he’s said? He must do. Lies are like mice; there’s never only one. But why?

  A small round woman with bowed legs walking her dog catches Viv’s attention and distracts her. The dog is interested in every smell, and even when the owner tugs at the lead, the dog, determined to get that last sniff, digs its heels in. We are only their custodians. Viv had a Beardie once, and when Mollie died she vowed never to go through that pain again, but seeing this tenacious little cross-breed, wagging its tail at nothing that we know about, makes her wonder if she could have another one. Out of the question in her top-floor flat, but maybe one day. Dogs never lie about love. Dogs never lie about anything. But why did Pete? Maybe he was embarrassed to say that Andrew was keen on him, or perhaps Colin has got it wrong and Pete wanted Andrew more than Andrew wanted him. But killing him?

  At a bit of a loss, she remembers that she still has to organise the finance for the Rav. This perks her up. As she strides back towards the flat, she passes the woman with the dog, who turns and grins toothlessly at Viv saying, ‘I’m no’ sure who’s walkin’ who.’ Not looking for an answer the woman chuckles as she tugs on the lead. Spring must be in the air.

  Viv whispers, ‘What now?’ as she steps on a sheet of A5 paper lying on the carpet when she opens the door to her flat. The note is handwritten in an unfamiliar, slightly feminine script, in green ink with a proper fountain pen, and says, ‘Will be around for a bit longer – changed my mind about selling. Ronnie.’ She smiles and wonders if her comment to him about missing the Bow had made a difference – still, that’s one less thing for her to think about.

  The woman at her bank arranges everything for the new car without any hassle. She suggests a bank transfer and Viv rings up the owners of the Rav and gets the okay from them. As soon as that’s done she can pick up the car this afternoon. It’s such a great day and a walk would help get her thoughts in order. If she starts off for Corstorphine now it will give the car owners time to have lunch, and no doubt their afternoon zizz.

  She has no intention of re-enacting the journey of her last visit. Just thinking of Mrs W’s perfumed breath on the bus makes Viv shudder. After Haymarket, the walk is quite pleasant. The road is busy but it’s wide and in places opens onto huge green spaces; the playing fields at Donaldson’s; the pitches at Murrayfield and mature gardens. It takes her longer than she thought it would and the final hike up Clermiston Hill takes its toll on her thighs.

  The look on their faces when they open the door is one of remorse. Strange the relationship we have with inanimate objects. They are sad to let their car go, although complimentary about her, and hopeful that she’ll take good care of it. She vows that she will.

  She stalls as she inches out of their drive and makes the mistake of looking in the rear-view mirror, catching sight of him flinching and covering his mouth with his hand. Wishing they’d go indoors and stop making her nervous, she indicates right and heads out west towards the by-pass
, planning to get to know the car better on the open road. It’s luxurious. She’d got a faint smell of cigarette smoke off him, but you’d never know it from the car. It smells of newness. As soon as she touches the accelerator it responds smoothly, unlike the MG, which needed much petrol pumped through it before it would get her up to speed.

  To begin with she is too heavy on the pedals, but soon she gets the hang of it and sits back smiling from ear to ear. Doesn’t get any better than this. What’s really good is the height. In the MG she felt as if her butt was being dragged along the ground; in this she feels as if she can see for miles. She takes the by-pass as far as the Hillend junction, then slips off down the road towards Peebles. They were generous enough to leave it with half a tank of petrol, which means it’ll be a while before she has to fill up. Viv presses a button and the radio springs to life. Classic FM without crackles sounds amazing.

  She gets all the way to Peebles before she thinks about turning back, but first she needs a pee break. When she parks she looks at the car and understands why the couple were sad to lose it. She’s already in love.

  The public conveniences in this charming little market town are cleaner than most. They have their own attendant which means there’s scented loo roll, remarkable plastic flowers and enough air freshener to test the healthiest lungs. On her return to the car she passes one of those rare independent boutiques, and seeing an interesting shirt in the window decides to go in search of her size. The assistant is really astute and Viv is soon armed with two large bags.

  Back on home territory, she reflects on having bought a car and a complete outfit all in one day. Profligate or what, Fraser? Before guilt gets a chance to take hold she checks her emails, reading one from Jules: ‘If you can salvage anything from your “researches” we could use a feature on “Entertainment on the gay scene in Edinburgh”.’ Good old Jules; not one to waste an opportunity. There’s one from her sister, just back from skiing and wondering how their mum has been while she’s been away. This nudges Viv into action. Lifting the phone she dials her mother’s number, which rings and rings. She hates it when her mum doesn’t pick up quickly – all sorts of fantasies start flitting into her mind. Is she lying dead on the floor? Then an out of breath voice pipes up. ‘Yes?’ The irritation is obvious.