The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  They each acknowledged with relief the quiet, cool night air. Viv, like a frog in a well, looked up to the entrance where Debs, the owner of the pub, spotted the trio, broke her conversation with a couple of blokes on their way out, and leaned over the railings. ‘Hi, Viv. Where have you been hiding?’ Viv had been here a few times with Dawn, but had also done some work for Deb’s father, a well-known Edinburgh business man whose hairdressing salons had opened in the days when precision cutting wasn’t in vogue, and setting hair in rollers covered a multitude of sins. He’d called Viv up and asked her to bring his staff up to date. Viv had been happy to oblige.

  Viv was fond of Debs, whose consistent good humour was a God-sent management asset. She made time for everyone. Her beautiful chubby face, with its clear skin and cherubic smile, helped maintain an atmosphere of fun. Viv had never seen trouble in The Dragon, which may also have had a little to do with Deb’s partner Karen, who was as chiselled as Deb was cherubic, and whom Viv avoided at any cost.

  Viv took the stairs up to the street and was enveloped in a soft fleshy hug. ‘You’re looking well, Debs.’ Then she stood back to take a proper look at her.

  ‘You’re not looking so bad yourself. Business isn’t treating me too badly. You’ve been a stranger though. We’re trying to organise a women’s quiz night. You’re brainy, you could come to that.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan. Nice to see you.’ Viv kissed Debs on the cheek and headed back down to Lindy and Margo.

  Margo, keeping her voice low, said, ‘Thanks a lot for pitching up, Viv. Lindy and I were hoping you’d be able to help us.’

  ‘Well I hope I’m your woman. What’s up?’

  ‘That’s the problem, Viv. We’re not sure. And . . . ’ She looked at Lindy. ‘In fact we’re not sure there is a problem. It’s only a gut feeling. We were in the pub upstairs last Sunday, a women-only night, and one of the young ones, who we’ve seen a couple of times, and Lind has spoken to briefly in the loo, was dragged out by a guy claiming to be her brother.’

  Viv raised her eyebrows and shook her head in a gesture that screamed she wouldn’t get involved in a family feud.

  Lindy cut in. ‘Wait, Viv, hear her out.’

  ‘Well the woman, girl really, has a Scottish accent and the chap sounded . . . How can I say this without you jumping down my throat for being racist or whatever? He was definitely not Scottish, spoke . . . sounded like a made-up language. You know the kind of thing you did at school . . . but not a hint of Scottish.’

  Viv drew in a breath. ‘You getting to the point?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the second time in the last couple of weeks that a bloke has turned up at the women’s night and taken a girl away.’

  Viv scratched her head, ‘But “taken away” is different from “dragged out”. Which was it? And what’s happened to sisterhood, didn’t anyone try to stop them?’

  ‘That’s the thing. Neither of the girls really made an attempt to resist. Just looked petulant and went without a fight. Lindy stepped in front of the girl last Sunday when she was being led out, but she just brushed Lindy aside. Neither of them has been seen since.’

  ‘And the time frame is only what? A week? Ten days?’

  ‘Yeah . . . But they both came every week and the girl from last week has a girlfriend who is distraught and too scared to tell anyone because . . . ’

  Viv let go of a deep breath and rubbed her face. ‘Oh God. Let me guess. She’s not “out”?’

  ‘You got it.’

  Viv took another deep breath and slowly let it go. ‘And what d’you think I can do?’

  They glanced at each other and Margo said, ‘No idea. But don’t you think it’s weird? We’d hate to do nothing if something is going on.’

  Viv nodded. ‘Yep. Have you seen the girlfriend recently?’

  ‘Yeah, I was just dancing with her.’ Margo turned and gestured inside. ‘We could go back and see if she’s still there.’ The three went back in and scanned the cramped dance floor but there was no sign of her there or at the bar. Margo indicated with her thumb that she’d check the loos, but returned shaking her head.

  ‘Look, okay, I’ll make a few enquiries. Any chance that you could get me the partner’s email? I’m guessing she won’t want anyone poking about her home.’

  Margo dropped her shoulders. ‘I’m sure I can get hold of her email and send it to you. She sings in a group, and a couple of the other members are here.’

  Viv’s vision of a head-banging racket must have registered on her face because Lindy cut in again, ‘It’s an a cappella group, not what you’d imagine.’

  Once Margo had what she wanted from Viv, she was happy to be led back onto the dance floor, leaving Viv and Lindy shaking their heads in amazement. Viv took this as her cue to head home. She drained her glass, hugged Lindy, then made her way through the throng towards the door that led upstairs to another bar in the hope that she’d bump into Bambi. No luck.

  Chapter Three

  Saturday morning. Viv had a couple of hair clients to see. But before heading out she checked her inbox. She frowned as he read a message from Oppenheimer1, aka the guy with the almond eyes, thanking her for the other night. She wasn’t frowning because it hadn’t been pleasant, but because it was way too easy to get hold of anyone these days. Viv specifically withheld her contact details.

  She rang Walter. ‘Hi Walter, I got your message and guess we should meet.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘How about we have breakfast tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure, Viv. Where and when?’

  ‘How about the little French bistro in the Grassmarket? At eleven or eleven thirty?’

  ‘Eleven it is.’

  Viv stared at the receiver. He’d never been chatty, but this was economical even for him.

  She perched on the sill and glanced over to Greyfriars graveyard, her window on the weather. On more than one moonlit night she’d fancied she’d seen grey hooded monks roam those medieval grounds, but by morning she’d realised that drink had influenced her sightings. After the Reformation the land had been gifted to the city by Mary, Queen of Scots, as a burial ground for the souls of her subjects, which prevented it passing into the hands of the ungodly. To use it simply as a gauge for the weather seemed disrespectfully pedestrian.

  Viv rubbed both hands over her face and considered ringing Sal, but was easily distracted again by the silver birches bending and swaying along the boundary of the churchyard, a sign that it was a day to wrap up. She showered and dressed quickly then grabbed a slice of toast to eat on her way to the car. Her clients, Louise and her sister Emma, were civil servants who were always vague about the work they did. Consequently Viv guessed they must be in tax. She’d never met anyone who had owned up to working for the Revenue. They both had fabulous thick, dark, glossy Catholic hair and were committed to doing Viv’s work justice. She’d suggested new looks for them both many times, but they’d said, ‘If it ain’t broke, why fix it?’

  While she cut their hair they spent a good-natured hour and a half discussing books and chatting, during which she was entertained by their animated descriptions of some attendees at a new evening class they’d signed up for on nineteenth-century literature at Edinburgh University. Viv had once stood in for a tutor who was sick and she’d spent most of her evening fielding comments, never questions, by Edinburgh’s worthy intelligensia: she could imagine exactly what the sisters meant. So passionate were they about keeping their little grey cells in good order that they attended a different class each semester, which meant their conversation had a different flavour every time Viv saw them.

  Viv had heard, although they’d never said, that they were from a family of devout Apostolic Catholics, devastated by the deconsecration of Mansfield church; a building known more for its frescoes by Phoebe Anna Traquair than for apostolic religion. Viv, out for a run one Sunday morning, spotted the sisters, wearing fine hats, on their way into St Mark’s in Market Street – a high Piskie establishment. Religion
rarely came up in their conversations. Their hair appointment was always on a Saturday at ten o’clock and followed their pilates class. Afterwards, come rain or shine, they had lunch in one of the city’s many museums or gallery cafes. Their home was immaculate, a huge ground floor flat overlooking Bruntsfield Links, full of family heirlooms. Photographs of their father in uniform, and one of a brother in vestments, were proudly displayed. Dust never deconsecrated any of the dark wood surfaces, and yet Viv didn’t feel she had to tiptoe round.

  Neither had married, and although the subject had come up on a couple of occasions they never showed any sign of regret or of being attracted to women, and they’d never questioned Viv’s proclivities. This particular day they were off to the museum in Chamber Street, after its multi-million pound make-over. Viv adored them, and at times envied the steady rhythm of their lives. Had they been born to a previous generation she could have imagined them taking walking trips in the Tyrol wearing stout tweeds with brogues, not knowing what the word ‘casual’ meant.

  Once she’d finished with the sisters Viv drove home, uplifted. She unfolded herself from the car and slipped onto Victoria Street, teeming with Saturday shoppers in search of eccentricities – from whisky to Willow pattern and everything in between. Viv returned the salute of Pierre’s chef, who stood at the top of the hill leaning on the door jamb having a roll-up. His black-and-white checkered trousers were hemmed in by a long white apron too tight to flap in the wind; and his grey complexion and tousled hair were a sign of a much-needed break, and a blast of fresh air. The shop next to Pierre’s was only open when the rather smelly, bearded, and always kilted owner could be bothered to get out of bed. It was never worth visiting in the mornings, and even in the afternoons there was no guarantee that he’d show up. Boxes brimming with books on makeshift shelves now lined the pavement – the owner had braved the spring noon time, perhaps turned over a new leaf, but more likely run out of cash to purchase more books. He didn’t advertise as a rare book dealer but Viv had been in the shop when there’d been serious negotiation going on for a tome that never saw the light above the counter.

  As she checked the window of the new tea emporium, her eye was caught by a lithe figure in bright red tartan trews to her left. The shop next door had been empty for weeks. Windowlene smeared across its plate glass frontage had now been cleared, and inside Viv spotted a woman with red braces that matched her lipstick. Dark framed glasses teetering low on the bridge of her nose lent her an air of self-conscious intellectualism. She fiddled with a new display. It took Viv a few minutes to realise that the woman was smiling at her, so, red faced, she pretended to be interested in a piece of pottery in the display. The woman beckoned her in, and Viv looked over her shoulder to check that there wasn’t someone else behind before turning the brass handle and entering the shop. An old-fashioned bell tinkled as she pushed the door to. Viv shivered: it was chillier inside than out, and the noxious smell of some poison used to restore old furniture hung in the air.

  ‘Hi, can I interest you in the Clarice Cliff? That is what you were looking at, wasn’t it?’

  Viv looked around into the display. ‘No, actually I was looking at the Susie Cooper plate.’

  ‘Ah, you look like a woman who knows her Susie from her Clarice.’

  Viv flushed. The woman began to sing, unashamedly, to an Annie Lennox track playing on a CD, trying but failing to reach the same sort of heights that Annie did without effort. Viv couldn’t help smiling as the joy on the woman’s not unattractive face conveyed itself. Unwittingly Viv pulled the collar of her jacket close to her neck, and said, ‘I have a magpie collection of thirties’ tea sets. That plate is one I don’t have.’

  The woman returned to the window and retrieved the plate before handing it to Viv, who grasped it as if it were the crown jewels.

  ‘It’s a good piece. It’s getting harder and harder to find things that haven’t been chipped. There’s a whole generation out there who don’t see this stuff as “valuable”.’ She made inverted commas round the word.

  Viv turned the plate over and spotted the unmistakable mark of Susie Cooper. ‘I’ll take it. And while I’m here I’ll look at the Clarice Cliff as well.’

  The Cliff salt and pepper set was one that Viv already had, but she couldn’t resist. ‘Okay, I’ll take them both.’ This wasn’t Viv’s normal way of purchasing Deco – she usually took pleasure in haggling. The woman noticed her slight hesitation, ‘I’ll give you ten per cent off since you’re my first customer.’

  Viv was about to argue but realised that it was part of the deal. ‘Thanks, that’s generous. I had no idea I’d be your first customer.’

  ‘Yes. Just brought the stock in this week and had one or two pieces that needed cleaning up.’ She pointed to a wooden staircase leading down into a basement. ‘Repairs happen down there, in the dungeon. So if you need anything rescued I’m your woman.’

  Viv lifted her purchases, now carefully wrapped in tissue paper, and handed over the cash. ‘What days will you open? Some of the guys in the street only open at the weekends and then only if it’s not raining or . . . ’

  ‘No, I’ll be here Tuesday to Saturday ten ’til four, Sundays I go to fairs or the Barras to get stock, and won’t get in until nearer twelve thirty.’ Her pale blue-grey eyes looked directly at Viv. ‘Come and have a coffee sometime. I can see myself getting bored during the week and it’d be nice to chat about china . . . Oh, and I promise to have the heater on.’

  Viv, although surprised, grinned. ‘Yeah, okay.’ The tinkle of the bell as she left had a reassuring effect, as if something of her childhood had been recovered. Although desperate to look back she was too nervous, and when she eventually stabbed the key into her stair door she grinned all the way up to her top flat.

  The Annie Lennox tune had attached itself to her head like an ear-worm, and she hummed as she unwrapped her new acquisitions. She gently placed them alongside her other prizes on the top half of a Victorian dresser which, although parted from its bottom half, had been screwed to the wall above a bookcase. It had been a while since she’d been enthusiastic for anything other than work, and the flutter in her heart should have been as alarming as the flutter of two nights previously.

  Chapter Four

  The light blinking on the answering machine gave her a reality check. The first voice belonged to Mac, but the next was her sister’s. This immediately punctured Viv’s high spirit. As she felt her energy slip she made a conscious effort to recall the open face of the woman in the shop, singing without a care, and wished that she’d asked her name. Lennox suited her, despite the fact that she was nowhere near those top notes: at least she gave them her best shot. Viv grinned again and her belly gently contracted at the idea of finding an excuse to have that coffee. Then she warned herself off. She dialled Mac and left a message. Then before she talked herself out of it she rang her sister.

  Manda picked up, ‘Did you get my message?’ Always keen to state the obvious.

  Viv, never known to ring Manda without a prompt, bit the inside of her cheek and raised her eyebrows. ‘Yep. Got it. About Mum, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Manda hissed like the Disney version of Kipling’s Kaa.

  Viv visualised her sister’s eyes spiralling. ‘I’m going to Mum’s tomorrow . . . ’

  She was interrupted. ‘Not before time. She says you haven’t been for weeks.’

  ‘She says the same to me about you. When are you going to get the hang of that? She doesn’t remember when either of us, or anyone else for that matter, has been in to see her.’

  ‘You always make her sound worse than she is.’

  This was a tired argument and not worth getting involved in again. So Viv buttoned her lip. Manda wanted their mum to be more able, and to improve. Viv had done her homework and knew that was never going to happen, as much as she’d love to think there might be a cure round the corner. She reflected that her mum was happier now than she’d ever been.

  ‘Well, the
re’s never any evidence that you’ve visited.’

  Viv lost it. ‘What! Because I don’t leave garage flowers, or cheap boxes of chocolate brazils? Even you must notice she’s had her hair cut!’

  Manda stuttered. ‘Dot said that they’d had a hairdresser in to do their hair and nails.’

  ‘You think what you like, Mand. I’m doing my bit whatever you care to imagine. Now I’ve got work to do.’

  True to form there was an explosion. ‘What? You think I’m sitting here on my . . .’

  Viv interrupted. ‘We’ve been here before, Mand. Speak later.’

  Manda slammed the receiver down.

  ‘Phew!’

  Viv banged her knee against the desk and woke up the laptop. There were a couple of unread emails. The first from Margo, with the email address of Bambi from last night; the other from a client about a future appointment. Viv flicked through her diary and sent a quick reply giving options for dates. Sitting down she drew in the chair and began to scribble a few questions on a pad before rephrasing them in an email to Beccs1 alias Bambi.

  What Viv needed to know was who had gone missing; where and when she was last seen; and if there could be any explanations to account for her not being around. Viv had worked on missing people before and, once recently a pissed-off teenager had gone on a ‘trip’ because he’d fallen out with his father. He was gone for four days before he decided that home comforts weren’t so bad after all. Viv wanted to cover as many bases as she could before getting anyone else involved. With the email winging its way she checked the Dragon’s web pages. Viv grimaced. Their photographs, advertising the ‘women only’ nights, could attract more than the odd lusty lesbian.

  She took a note of the contact details, and switched her laptop off and then on again, cursing that she hadn’t checked the Lothian and Borders missing persons website. The idea of two young women going missing and their families not reporting it was pretty unlikely. Until she had names for them her enquiries were a waste of time, but she wondered if the dates that Margo mentioned might match any girl on the site. There were far more missing people than she had imagined – that’d keep L&B busy.