The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  As she scrolled through endless grainy photographs of men and women who hadn’t turned up at places where they should have, she could feel herself being drawn to look for all of them. How many lives would be in limbo because their mother, father, brother, sister, son, daughter, friend, partner or colleague had not been found? Some of them mustn’t want to be found, but still.

  Dawn had had a habit of arranging to meet Viv then not showing up. The first couple of times it happened Viv had been anxious, but she soon got the hang of Dawn’s unreliability. It was sad that some of the faces smiling back at her might no longer be around. Mostly when you’re being photographed you’re trying to look your best. Viv’s eye was caught by one young girl, but only because of her piercings. The date that she went missing didn’t tally with dates Margo had given her. Viv berated herself for stereotyping, until she spotted a stunning young woman whose eyes and smile jumped off the screen. Her dates did add up. The information stated that she was a student who had gone missing from a city centre pub in Edinburgh, no mention of which one, or what kind of pub. Viv decided to give the ‘confidential line’ a call. ‘Hello, I was wondering if any more information had come up for Gwyneth Stott.’

  After a few clicks, and much sighing on the other end, the officer replied, ‘Not much. A few alleged sightings that we’re still following up.’

  ‘How come this hasn’t made it to the TV news? It’s been ten days since she was reported missing.’

  ‘Family.’

  ‘Family what?’

  ‘They’re frightened.’

  ‘But surely they want to do everything they can to find her.’

  The officer sighed again. ‘Yes, they do. But they don’t want a media circus.’

  ‘Are they famous or fabulously wealthy?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  Viv shook her head and with more than a touch of sarcasm said, ‘No. I suppose not.’ Then, echoing his sigh, she ended the call.

  She Googled Gwyneth Stott. One hit on Facebook but not the one she was looking for. Unusual. She tried Gwyn Stott and found a photograph of the smiley, bright-eyed young woman. No postings for ten days. Not good in times of social network addiction. She checked her own email for a reply from Beccs1 but there was nothing.

  Time to eat. The fridge offered up a small bowl of elderly mashed potato hiding beneath a layer of cling film, and a tin of tuna. Within ten minutes Viv was sitting cross-legged on the couch tucking into a poor rendition of fishcakes with a dollop of organic tomato ketchup – better than starving. She pressed the remote and the TV flickered into life. She surfed until she found a Scottish news update. Politics, politics and more politics. There couldn’t be much happening in the world. On the ‘breaking news’ at the bottom of the screen she read that the body of a young woman had been recovered from the Union canal outside Edinburgh. No name – too early for details. Mac might know.

  She dialled his number and he answered with distinctive sounds of a pub in the background. ‘Hi, it’s Viv. Where are you? Or rather, can you talk?’

  ‘Talk to you any time, honey . . . I’m in the pub. After match post mortem.’

  Viv looked at her receiver. He must have had a beer or two, or be putting on an act for the benefit of his mates. He’d never call her ‘honey’. Mac occasionally played for the police football team – and she remembered it was one of his training nights. ‘Look, I’ll call you later.’

  ‘Sure. Sure.’ The line went dead. It wasn’t like him to cut her off either. Maybe he was drunk. She flicked through the channels again, and catching sight of an episode of QI, stood for a second before quickly switching off. Too more-ish and she had to work. Just as she was getting things ready for the night ahead her phone rang. It was Mac with traffic noise in the background.

  ‘Hi, Viv. Sorry about that. I’m actually working on something, so had to act like a dork to keep my cover. What are you after?’

  ‘No. No. It was just that I saw something on the news about a body found in the Union canal. I guess you won’t have heard about it yet?’

  ‘No. I haven’t been in the office. I actually had to play today.’ There was suddenly more shouting and high jinks in the background and Mac, again using a cocky tone said, ‘Listen, I can’t speak now. I’ll ring you later.’

  ‘No, don’t. I’ll ring you.’ But he’d already cut the call.

  Viv wondered what he could be working on if it involved being forced to go to the after match booze–up. Internal trouble? Interesting. A reply from Beccs1 entered her in-box. Viv read a long, rambling, fearful account of the night of the ‘abduction’. The girlfriend’s name was Tessa Grant and Beccs1 didn’t know if Tess’s parents knew that she’d gone missing. It was term time and Tess, a geology student, was meant to be doing ‘fieldwork on Arran’ but had skipped it, so they wouldn’t be expecting her to be in contact. Beccs1 hadn’t heard anything since the night at the Dragon and was terrified for her girlfriend’s safety but only marginally more so than that people could discover that she was having a relationship with a woman.

  Viv, astonished at this still being the case in the twenty-first century, shouted at the screen, ‘For Christ sake! She could be . . .’ All manner of hateful things floated through Viv’s mind so she fired an email back asking if they could meet. ‘Yes,’ came the reply. Relieved, Viv sent another email suggesting a time and place. The coffee shop in Victoria Street just opposite the flat was as good a place as any, and served food until nine pm. It was bound to be busy on a Saturday night because it was a BYOB establishment. They offered her a table at seven thirty but needed it back by eight. She took it. She and Beccs1 could move on if necessary.

  She flicked the TV back on. The news channel now had a team at the scene on the canal, and a female reporter yelled a piece to camera above the noise of a generator, which was providing enough light to cover Tynecastle stadium. They didn’t have much information other than that the body was of a female in her late teens or early twenties. The reporter didn’t look much older than that herself as she swiped at a strand of hair that had blown onto her lipstick. She pointed earnestly at an area on the canal as if the body was still there, but it wasn’t. The site looked grisly nonetheless. Brambles along the water’s edge entangled all sorts of rubbish, making the water inaccessible. The black undergrowth was dotted with polystyrene cartons, and plastic bottles bobbed benignly on the water’s surface. Viv shook her head at the sight of an incident tent. A total waste of time given that the tow path was a well-trodden dog walker’s, jogger’s and cyclist’s route from the west into the centre of Edinburgh. It would take months to eliminate that many tread-marks.

  Viv recognised the area as near the site of the old paintball club that used to be on Slateford Road, and wondered about taking a look. It was hard for a reporter or police constable to give nothing away if she was actually at the scene.

  With a quick glance at the clock she decided, if she got going, she could get there and be back in time to see Bambi. She grabbed her rucksack, mobile, keys and a warm jacket, locked up and took the stairs at her usual pace.

  The car was parked at the west end of the Grassmarket and she had to dodge and duck to avoid high-spirited Saturday night revellers. It took ten minutes to reach the new flats that had replaced the paintball centre, and another four or five to jog back along the towpath to where the police and bright lights were. The young female reporter hovered beside a redundant cameraman, stamping her feet and drawing on a cigarette as if it was life support. Viv felt a pang of pity that they had so much hanging around to do – couldn’t afford to let the opposition get more than they did. The incident tent and blue taped cordon of a suspicious death were a magnet for the nosey parkers, of whom she was one among many. There were a million places that a girl could commit suicide. The Union canal wouldn’t have been Viv’s first choice.

  Viv, with notebook in hand, sidled up to the reporter and smiled, ‘Bet you’ve got better things to do on a Saturday night.’ The woman looked
at Viv with such disdain that Viv checked back over her shoulder. Viv knew a couple of reporters who belonged to Edinburgh’s TV elite, and said, ‘This is the kind of thing they usually give Gavin, he’s always moaning about folk dying and inconveniencing him when he’s planned a night in the boozer.’ The reporter thawed slightly but Viv realised she had a long way to go if she was going to get anything useful from her.

  Then she spotted a police constable she’d met when working on a case with DI Sandra Nicholson, known to Viv as Red because of her long curly red hair. She couldn’t remember the guy’s name but approached him with stealth over the muddy path, ‘Hi, mate, Sandra’s not covering this, is she?’

  Recognition slowly crossed his face, ‘Oh, aye, she is. She’s just gone to get . . . ’ he looked around him, ‘ actually, to have a pee and find a fish supper.’

  Viv smiled, ‘A girl’s got to . . . eat.’

  She watched the reporter’s interest grow as she chatted to the PC.

  The PC clapped his hands against his upper arms to keep warm, ‘Aye, she can fairly pack it away. I think she’s got hollow legs.’ He laughed, warming to his own humour.

  Just as Viv was about to ask him what was happening she heard a familiar voice shout, ‘Doc!’ She turned to see Red on the other side of the canal, with a handful of Scottish nutrition wrapped in brown paper.

  Through a mouthful, Red shouted again, ‘Wait there!’ And Viv watched as the tall athletic figure, dressed head to toe in black, jogged along the other side of the canal and over a pedestrian bridge. The reporter, now beside herself, smiled at Viv as if she was her best pal. Red offered Viv a chip, took out a brown paper wrapping and handed it to the PC. He beamed, opening it and finding a chip roll.

  In her lispy voice Red said, ‘Well, Doc, I didn’t expect to see you here. You telling me you’ve got nothing in the diary on a Saturday night? They’re usually clambering over each other to get to you.’ She winked and punched Viv playfully on the shoulder.

  ‘As it happens I do have something else to do but I thought I’d check this one out. What’s the scoop?’

  ‘Been watchin’ too much American TV if you think all you have to do is ask the officer in charge and she’ll give you tomorrow’s headlines.’

  ‘Come on, Red. It’s already been out to four million viewers. It’s not like an exclusive, and besides I’m not after a story.’

  ‘Aye, sure, Doc . . . but to be honest’ – these last words alerted Viv to the flannel that was bound to come next – ‘we don’t know anything until the post mortem report comes back. The only thing I can say is that she wasn’t in the water for long. And she’s definitely had a bang on the head. With what I’ve no idea. That do you?’

  ‘Meagre pickings, Red, but better than nothing. If I told you that I’ve got a tickle on a missing person, although she’s not been reported, what would you say?’

  Red screwed up her eyes. ‘I’d say . . . ’ With a well licked finger she pointed at Viv then to herself, ‘We need to have a proper talk. Here or back at HQ?’

  ‘I’ve got to be somewhere at seven thirty but if I get that wrapped up quickly I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘You’ll give me a ring anyway, Doc. Otherwise you might be withholding information in a murder enquiry.’

  Viv turned to walk away, ‘I’ll ring you, Red. No worries. And by the way, go easy on the “Doc” malarkey?’

  Red narrowed her large green eyes. ‘You know what I know about you, Doc?’

  Viv stopped. ‘No, surprise me.’

  ‘I know that you were top of your forensic psych class two years on the trot.’

  Viv grinned. ‘Don’t you go believing all the stories you hear.’

  ‘Good source, Doc.’ She tapped the side of her slender freckled nose.

  Viv laughed. ‘And your point is?’ She held out her hands.

  The reporter was eyeing their encounter with interest.

  It was Red’s turn to grin. ‘No point, just sayin’.’

  Viv shook her head and threw a shrug in the direction of the reporter as she retraced her steps along the towpath.

  ‘Shit.’ The car was blocked in. She tooted her horn and blasphemed until a beer belly attached to short legs and a thick neck waddled out and yelled, ‘Hud yer horses, missus. I’m no deif.’

  Viv, knowing it was best to say nothing, couldn’t stop herself, ‘But not as sharp as you could be.’

  ‘What wis that?’

  She started up the engine, and he decided she wasn’t worth pursuing but indicated with his middle finger what he thought of her. It was a long shot that the woman they’d dragged from the canal was the woman from the Dragon, but better pursuing a long shot than nothing at all.

  Chapter Five

  Viv whipped into a parking space at the Castle end of the Grassmarket and jogged back towards the West Bow – this time sticking to the cobbled road and avoiding the high jinks of crowds of drunks staggering along the pavement. As she passed Mo’s she read a billboard with a glitzy news headline that reminded her of Thurza. She smiled, wondering how the event had gone.

  When she reached the café she saw its once shabby chic appeal had become simply shabby, although the smell of coffee was still impressive. There was no sign of Bambi. The waitress recognised Viv and smiled apologetically before offering her a grubby laminated menu and a table for two that hadn’t been cleared, by a window streaming with condensation. Viv shrugged out of her jacket and slipped it over the back of her unsteady wooden seat, then ordered an espresso. While she waited, she checked her phone for messages. If she’d been sensible she’d have given Bambi her number. With only fifteen minutes left before she had to relinquish the table, the door opened, and bashed against the chair occupied by a grumpy red-bearded bloke whose tut-tutting was clearly audible. The girl, rosy faced and flustered, moved directly towards Viv, all the while checking behind her.

  Her first words were, ‘I’m sure someone is following me.’ She unwrapped her scarf and laid it on top of the food remains still lying on the table.

  Viv wondered how the girl knew who she was. Bambi took out a huge, dark blue, spotted handkerchief and blew her nose. Viv winced, imagining the pain with so many studs to negotiate. The girl didn’t seem to notice and stuffed the hanky back into the pocket of her oversized cargo pants. She didn’t remove her equally oversized leather biker’s jacket but scraped the chair opposite Viv out from beneath the table.

  Viv stretched out her hand, ‘Hi, I’m Viv.’

  The girl, taken aback, returned a tentative shake, and in a surprisingly cultivated Edinburgh accent replied, ‘I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Younger. Everyone calls me Beccs, apart from my family that is.’

  ‘Would you like a coffee or tea or something?’ Viv asked as she beckoned the waitress, who looked as anxious to serve them as Viv was to be served.

  ‘Camomile tea, if you have it.’

  The waitress waited, ‘Is that everything?’

  Viv and Rebecca both nodded and in unison replied. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Viv glanced towards the door and back to Rebecca, ‘Now why would someone be following you?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, but since Tess went . . . was taken, I’ve been on edge all the time. It’s probably my over active imagination.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders, causing the leather jacket to move up like a tortoise’s shell. ‘Margo said I could trust you. That you’ll do everything to find Tess.’

  Viv held up her hand. ‘Wait. Margo is hoping that we will find her unscathed, and the longer she’s . . . at large the less likely that is. I’m sure you were hoping that the police wouldn’t have to be involved, but just think how unrealistic that is. She’s made no contact for . . . how long has it been?’

  The girl blinked and dropped her head as silent tears began spilling down her face. She rubbed her hands up and down her cheeks while Viv barely contained her desire to scream, ‘Be careful!’

  When Rebecca raised her head and met Viv’s eyes, she said, ‘My dad
’s a politician.’

  Viv nodded, recalling one politician called Younger. ‘And he doesn’t know about your sexual preferences?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t. But actually, I don’t care now, we’ve got to find Tess.’

  Viv nodded, guessing that Rebecca cared a whole lot about both Tess, and whether her family found out. ‘I didn’t say it was impossible but a week is a long time, unless she’s with friends or something.’ She tailed off. Then, realising how feeble she sounded, Viv continued in a low voice, ‘I think we’ll find it’s the “or something”.’

  The tea arrived in a chunky hand-thrown pottery mug and Viv begged a top-up for her coffee. She started again. ‘Okay. Take me through the days before Tess went missing. Was she behaving normally? Did she mention any odd phone calls or emails? Anything that was out of the ordinary?’

  ‘You’d have to know Tess. There’s not much that’s ordinary about her. She’s not a wild child exactly, but she rarely does anything by the book. Hates authority, but that’s nothing unusual for a student. Not that keen on men obviously. Didn’t talk much about her home life. I always get the sense that there’s something she’s not telling. But that could be because I’m doing psychology and think everyone has cupboards full of skeletons.’

  Viv was tempted to say, ‘Projection or what?’ but held her tongue.

  Rebecca continued, ‘She’s amazingly bright, got firsts in everything. She speaks a couple of languages, although geology is her passion. Her family live in Aberdeenshire: her dad’s in oil and her mum’s a teacher. I’ve only ever met them once and obviously I was just Tess’s “friend”.’

  ‘Why “obviously”? Don’t you think they’d find it odd not to meet Tess’s flatmates? I mean to emphasize that you were friends would surely have been overstating the obvious.’