The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  ‘Think gravity T, when biology picks up its pace use all the engineering available to arrest it.’

  Thurza was a handsome woman who had been on the wrong side of nicotine for long enough to lose her bloom. But on such a day as this, Viv, Marie-Therese the manicurist, and Rosanna the beauty therapist were all booked in to perform their miracles.

  Thurza, stealing a peek at her reflection in the door of the microwave said, ‘It looks better up. Let’s have it up. Have you seen Petrea recently?’

  Viv hesitated. What was at stake here? ‘We’ll get to Petrea. But let’s get this hair sorted out first. What are you wearing? High neck? Low neck? No neck? Are the jewels coming out? They must be. White tie isn’t exactly for the discreet.’

  Thurza chuckled and began to describe what she was wearing. ‘It has no real neck but a lace thingy across the top.’ She stood and beckoned. ‘Follow me.’ And before Viv had the chance to answer they were marching back past Beattie Brown and upstairs to Thurza’s bedroom. The dress, wrapped in acid-free paper, was draped over the mahogany four-poster. Thurza whipped off the paper and with no little effort, held the bejewelled spectacle up against her body.

  Viv reached out to touch it. ‘May I?’

  ‘Sure. Toddy’s mother wore this to Elizabeth’s coronation.’

  There were more pearls and jewels on the fabric than you’d find in Garrard’s. ‘My God, T, it must weigh a ton. How could she stand up?’ Toddy’s mother, the old countess, must have shrunk in her last years, because this bit of kit had been made for a sturdy frame.

  ‘Oh, she wasn’t always frail Viv. Even when I first knew her she could out run me on the tennis court.’

  Viv caught Thurza’s slightly defensive tone, and, ever keen not to get caught up in family politics, concentrated on the dress. Its heavy, pale golden silk was barely visible beneath rows of gleaming stones following the cut of the fabric. ‘Okay. I’ve got the measure. The dress is the star of the show tonight, so we’ll have your hair up as inconspicuously as possible.’

  Thurza carefully laid the dress back on the bed. ‘My family in Pennsylvania wouldn’t believe it if I told them where that dress has been. Think of all the titled people that it has encountered. It’s quite something, isn’t it? Oh, by the way, you won’t mention that it’s in the house . . . ’

  Viv shook her head. ‘You should know me by now. Besides, I won’t need to. It’ll be all over the press tomorrow. But by that time I’m guessing it’ll be back in the bank.’ Viv visualised Jules, her editor, cocking a snook at those she called ‘Scotland’s Tinea Corpus’. Jules hated ‘freeloaders’, banishing any news of them, that wasn’t damaging, to a left hand page between car sales and sport.

  Thurza grinned. ‘It comes with an armed guard.’

  Viv laughed, but then realised that she was serious. ‘No?’

  ‘Yes. Look at this.’ She pointed to a particularly large pink stone placed at the centre of the detail on the bodice. ‘This diamond was given to Toddy’s great grandmother when her husband was the Viceroy of India. It’s called the ‘Vicereine Stone’. Queen Victoria made a huge fuss about it at the time. She believed it belonged to her because, as Viceroy, he was her ‘representative’, but the Maharaja insisted it was for the Vicereine. Victoria never forgave them for not gifting it to her and dropped them from favour, like a rock – no pun intended.’ She chuckled.

  Viv stretched her hand out and gently touched the cool surface of the stone, and wondered why, if the Newhalls had these jewels to sell, did they force their sons across the pond to find wives within the families of American industrialists. ‘Come on, let’s get your hair started. I take it you washed it before I came?’

  Thurza laughed, bringing on her smoker’s cough. ‘Of course. Do you think I’d be seen by anyone but you looking like this?’ She lifted her limp locks and dropped them.

  Viv shook her head. ‘How many times have I said if there’s a chance that you’ll want to have it put up to leave it, however grubby it is. Clean hair is the hairdresser’s enemy. At least when we’re trying to defy gravity.’ Viv set to work, first spraying it with water, then cutting a centimetre off the baseline, before graduating the front sections. She’d learned that less really was more when it came to fine hair like this, and without the benefit of her two monthly tint, to swell the cortex, Thurza’s hair would have been even more of a challenge. Viv used enough pins and hairspray to survive a hurricane, but knew Thurza well enough that even with her army of helpers, she wouldn’t be able to resist meddling in the plans downstairs. Viv imagined the new hairdo rushing between the kitchen and the ballroom, and applied another layer of spray. Pleased to leave a vision more glamorous than she could have believed possible, she didn’t envy those left caught up in Thurza’s frenetic spin. With a cheque for sixty quid in her hand Viv’s parting shot was, ‘Don’t, whatever you do, go anywhere near a magnet.’

  Thurza laughed. ‘Wish me luck.’

  Down in the main hallway, Roy had been replaced by a group of tall, broadly built men wearing black suits, earpieces, and postures that would put the FBI to shame. They couldn’t all be there to look after the dress.

  Chapter Two

  On the short journey to her next client Viv reflected on how much Thurza reminded her of her own sister: two women with no notion of the traps they’d made for themselves, or the vacuousness of their values. Lynn couldn’t be more different from them, but was connected to Thurza by circumstance. Lynn used to live in a cottage with Ben, one of the gamekeepers at Newhall. But after his death she moved to the edge of South Queensferry, a lone parent, whose children went to the local primary school with Thurza’s boys. Viv didn’t know the details but when Ben died, Lynn left the tied cottage, and moved to a little modern block of flats within walking distance of the village, and with panoramic views over both Forth Bridges.

  As soon as Viv buzzed, the door clicked open and Lynn’s voice came through the entry phone. ‘Come on up.’

  Viv took the stairs two at a time to the first floor. ‘Hiya. I can never get over that view. It’s breathtaking.’

  ‘Glad you think so. I sometimes wonder if I’m mad to be so enthusiastic about bridges.’ She beamed and gestured to take Viv’s jacket. ‘Good to see you, Viv. I’m guessing you’ve just come from the House.’ Lynn nodded in the direction of Newhall. ‘Big do on tonight. They haven’t had a white tie event for years. It’ll be the real deal for Thurza.’

  Whatever had happened between Lynn and the estate she remained generous about Thurza. Viv had often wondered about Ben’s death but Lynn actively avoided speaking about it, and Viv hadn’t asked.

  Lynn took Viv’s jacket out to a hook in the passage and called over her shoulder. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’

  Viv replied as she moved a small coffee table to make space for her sheet. ‘That’d be great. The possibility of coffee at the House faded in all the excitement.’

  ‘Give me two minutes.’

  She really did take two minutes. Viv sipped her coffee and winced. Lynn didn’t do ‘real’ and added two sugars as a matter of course. But Viv smiled, grateful for a little hot sustenance, as she set up in Lynn’s tiny living room. Everything was immaculate and matching, a total contrast to the mock confident shambles in Thurza’s kitchen. Lynn, out of habit, ran a brush through her reddish brown, slightly frizzy, shoulder length hair before she took a seat.

  ‘The boys are helping with the parking tonight. Thurza rang earlier in the week. She’s worried about the events guys not knowing the lie of the land.’

  Viv rolled her eyes. She’d spotted pantechnicons as she left, with the same company logo on them as those who do rock concerts at Murrayfield and the Festival fireworks. ‘Yeah. I’m sure she has cause to be worried. The blokes she’s got only happen to be the best in the business.’

  Lynn nodded and smiled. ‘You know what she’s like. Everything has to be just so.’

  This description of Thurza’s off the scale, control freakery was typical of Ly
nn’s understatement; her loyalty did her credit.

  Lynn rubbed her upper arm. ‘I was decorating and pulled a muscle in my shoulder, about three weeks ago, and my hair has been a nightmare. I haven’t been able to reach the back properly.’

  ‘I have the very thing . . . ’ Viv scrabbled about in her case and pulled out a tiny set of straightening irons.

  ‘It’s all right, Viv. I was going to say it’s much better now.’

  Too late. By the time Viv had finished cutting Lynn’s wavy layers, the rods were hot and her hair had almost dried off. ‘Watch this.’ Viv gave the hair a quick blast with the drier then deftly slid the slim titanium plates down the hair shaft from roots to tips, careful to keep them slightly curved, then released and let the hair cool before taking up another section.

  Lynn sat erect and motionless with her feet planted shoulder width apart. ‘I thought those things were lethal.’

  Viv shook her head. ‘God almighty. What next?’ She suddenly had a vision, ‘Imagine the Scottish countryside becoming a grid system because of boy-racers from . . . Falkirk. Dangerous roads are not dangerous. People who drive dangerously are the hazard. A road is a road is a road, and entirely benign. Ditto, straightening irons. If you leave them lying on the duvet without switching them off, there’s a chance that you’ll have a hole in your duvet. But that would mean you were at fault, not the irons.’ Viv glimpsed Lynn’s confusion. ‘Not that you would do such a thing. Besides, these come with a stand.’ She held up the straighteners and their stand.

  Lynn chuckled. ‘I’m getting it . . . Let me have a go.’ She took the irons and copied Viv: smooth, straight hair in an instant. ‘Reeesult! How good is that?’

  ‘If you get it right first time you shouldn’t get too much static.’ Viv stood back. ‘That looks great. I wish I’d thought of these for your hair ages ago.’

  ‘How much are they?’

  Lynn was one of the few of Viv customers on a tight budget, or rather that she cared about being on a tight budget.

  ‘Actually, you can take these off my hands. I’ve been carrying them in this case for months and never used them. I got them free with a couple of Wigos.’

  Lynn screwed up her face. ‘And Wigos are . . . ?’

  ‘Professional hairdryers.’

  She looked doubtful. ‘You sure you’re not just saying that?’

  Viv grinned. ‘If you don’t want them someone else will.’

  ‘As long as you’re sure.’

  As Viv started her car and waved back up to a delighted Lynn swinging new silky locks at her first floor window, she grinned and sighed with satisfaction. What was not to like about being able to transform the way people looked and felt? Lynn wore her gratitude for all to see.

  Friday night. In her bedroom with its coombed ceilings and views to the Pentland hills, Viv gave her own hair a quick blast with a dryer. She was on her way to see Margo but hadn’t yet had the courage to ring Sal back. Viv realised that Sal’s tone had been fine; it was her own remorse that made her think otherwise. Even the voice of Walter Sessions had sounded anxious as it floated through her head. Was he anxious or was it just her? Perception was everything. Whatever. Sal had touched something way deep inside Viv. Not a good thing.

  Walter Sessions had been Viv’s psychotherapist for five years, and apart from a couple of appointments after Dawn had been killed, when Viv couldn’t drag herself out of the mire, she hadn’t seen him. Dawn Rhodes had been an exceptional classical double bass player with the RSO, and Viv’s lover. Their relationship had been turbulent but death had camouflaged the horrors or their last six months together. Distraught she’d returned to Walter.

  But why would he ever want to employ her? If she agreed, there’d be a few ethical issues to contend with, although he’d gone more than the contracted mile for Viv on more than one occasion. She recalled his gentle Irish voice, his impeccable professional track record and swithered. Viv was fond of private investigations but preferred when they resulted in news headlines. But for Walter she felt obliged, and more than a tiny bit intrigued.

  Walter’s message, ‘Trouble with an ex patient,’ could mean a myriad of things. ‘Trouble’ was the meat of psychotherapy. After all, if people were treading a steady path to happiness they didn’t seek out the likes of Walter. Viv wondered if it could be a transference gone wrong. That was a common issue, but disproportionate emotions were what Walter was used to. He was a pro. She heaved a sigh. No point in speculating. He’d tell her in his own words.

  Viv switched the dryer off and tossed it onto an old tartan rug that had belonged to her dad and she now kept at the end of her bed. She groaned, wishing he hadn’t called at all, and slipped on a new, pale blue linen shirt, tucked it into her jodhpurs. She pondered the notion that his patient might be in love, and love, as Viv knew to her cost, made us court the demons of madness more than most things. But none of this mattered. Walter must be struggling, otherwise he wouldn’t have called.

  She cut the price ticket off a light tweed jacket and shrugged into it, pulled down her shirt cuffs while staring at her image in the mirror. Once she’d ruffled her silky dark hair and pinched her cheeks she was ready to go. Walter would have to wait.

  Viv pulled up her collar, modest protection against the chill in the air, and trotted up a double flight of stone steps that led from the West Bow onto Edinburgh’s medieval High Street. For those in the know the Old Town’s endless dark, damp nooks and crannies served as handy short cuts: as well as for clandestine activities. Viv skipped to avoid a paper cup but managed to kick its remains over the spilt contents of a brown paper bag. Its ubiquitous M made Viv smile, thinking how much better off the purchaser was for not finishing it.

  She bounded down the Playfair Steps, struck by how often they’d had their name changed. Originally known as The Mound Steps they were, bizarrely, for a short while in the nineteen seventies, named John Knox Way. Their stone was worn by thousands of feet trampling the route to and from Edinburgh’s Old Town. Viv jogged across Princes Street, up onto George Street, before beginning the steep descent of Dundas Street, reaching the Dragon Bar in a little more than ten minutes.

  Margo was popular, so it would be chock-a-block. Sure enough, when Viv pushed the door she encountered wall-to-wall bodies. As Viv squeezed inside, anonymous women apologised with, ‘Sorry, doll!’ Her response, ‘No problem,’ superfluous. She couldn’t make up her mind what was worse, the din of unfamiliar music, or the constant jostling by women who had already had too much to drink.

  The invitation to Margo’s thirtieth had been expected but when it arrived Viv was overwhelmed with work and replied to say she’d try to make it but couldn’t promise. She’d received an email straight back pleading with her to go, and sensing Margo’s urgency, replied in the affirmative. That morning’s call had piqued Viv’s interest. So there she was, already hoarse with shouting banalities, embarrassed at dancing to music she didn’t know, with women she’d never met and probably never would again. Besides she’d had enough indiscretion for one week.

  Viv spotted Lindy, Margo’s long-term partner, looking ill at ease. Viv raised her glass above the shoulders of the crowd, and with cider dripping inside her cuff, made her way to where Lindy was self consciously nodding her head to a beat too erratic to be mimicked. They hugged and Viv, in a raised voice, said, ‘Hi Lind, how you doing? It didn’t cross Margo’s mind to have a quiet dinner for a few friends then?’

  Lindy shook her head with a gleam in her eye, ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Not aging gracefully yet.’ The words may have gone unheard but their sentiment was understood. They’d laughed and Lindy ran her free hand through her dark shoulder length hair, a habit which she repeated so regularly Viv marvelled that it never looked lank.

  ‘She’s fine, Viv . . . considering.’ Lindy nodded towards the tiny dance floor where Margo was bopping with an unenthusiastic baby lezzie half her age and wearing enough ironmongery on her face to impress a smithy.

&
nbsp; Viv laughed, ‘She certainly looks happy.’

  ‘Yeah, but you won’t wake up to what I will tomorrow. Has she spoken to you yet?’

  ‘Only at a distance to say, “Hi”. Nothing earth shattering. I expect she’ll get round to it when she’s done with Bambi.’ Viv nodded toward the dance floor.

  They smiled knowingly as the doe-eyed dancing partner looked around, eager to escape. Margo at thirty was probably the oldest woman at the party, but had energy to equal them all. When Viv, Lindy and Margo met through the OTC at university, the couple were already an item as comfy as an old pair of slippers.

  The music faded to a slow track and Margo made a deep bow to Bambi who shot off before Margo regained her full height. Viv nudged Lindy as Margo, wearing denims, a white shirt, and outrageous lilac cowboy boots with diamante studs across the front that probably cost more than any outfit there, jostled her way through all her chums to reach them. A corporate lawyer by day, Margo had made partner before she was twenty-eight. A faithful civil unionist by night, she could single-handedly support Edinburgh’s pink economy if she had to.

  ‘Hey, Viv. Great to see you.’

  ‘You too, Marg. What was with all that metal work?’ Viv gestured to her own face, then continued shouting. ‘God, remember at uni when we did that sit-in and chained each other to those railings? I was totally freaked out by the noise the cuffs made when I tried to move.’ She shuddered. ‘Was worse than chalk scratching down a blackboard. Eeek!’ She gritted her teeth and shuddered again emphatically as Margo and Lindy tried to contain their mirth.

  Margo, no longer a rebel, with her townhouse in Stockbridge and a cottage by the sea in Aberlady, wore her lefty past very lightly. She gathered Viv up in a tight hug and, after accepting birthday wishes, loudly whispered in her ear, ‘Outside.’

  She linked arms with Lindy and Viv, guiding them towards the exit. They squeezed along a passage with doors off to the loos, which, like the rest of the basement, were painted midnight blue. Bright halogen lights shaped like stars and recessed into the ceiling illuminated their passage. Viv pushed down the bar of the emergency exit, which took them out onto a flag-stoned area a dozen steps below street level.