The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  Beccs continued. ‘“Too busy” is her war cry. She doesn’t get involved in his life . . . unless absolutely necessary. I mean she does, but she hates it. She can see it for what it is.’ The vehemence in her voice betrayed her, and the look of distaste that crossed her face was unequivocal.

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Well, he’s obviously working out some kind of power struggle.’ But then, as if she’d crossed her own line, she turned and stepped toward the bedroom door. Meanwhile Viv had crouched down to look at a series of books on the bottom of her bookshelf. ‘A fan of Buffy, then?’

  ‘Used to be. Brought them with me from home. Should really give them to charity. I don’t imagine ever rereading them.’

  The rest of the shelves had a typical selection of student angst and course ‘must haves’. Psychology at Edinburgh was known as ‘rats and stats’, and the titles here didn’t do anything to persuade Viv that it had changed since she’d been there.

  She reached for her pocket as her phone vibrated. She didn’t answer it but checked the number. It was Mac. Although she would probably have to come back, she had enough leads to be getting on with. Nothing she couldn’t do in the comfort of her own flat. ‘Okay. D’you think you could pass on my email address to the girls? I’d like to speak to them as well.’ Rebecca nodded as Viv continued, ‘I think we’re done here. If anything comes to mind that would help, let me know.’

  ‘I know that they are both going home for the holidays. So if I don’t see them I’ll send them an email.’

  When Viv turned onto Broughton Street the crowds reminded her that it was the busiest night of the week. She shivered seeing young men dressed in skimpy tee-shirts and skinny jeans, the absence of girls in platforms with exposed abdomens was a stark reminder that she was in the gay ghetto. She pulled her own collar up against the chill. Keen to get home, Viv tucked in her chin and marched up the slight rise before taking a right turn onto Albany Street where the noise of chattering high spirits tailed off. An east wind bit into her cheeks so she broke into a jog and within twenty minutes she was home, where the first thing she did was strip off and step into a hot shower. She pulled on brushed cotton tartan PJs before relieving the fridge of the ingredients for hot buttered toast. Her first bite made her groan, as she realised how tetchy lack of food had made her. She wiped her hands on a sheet of kitchen paper then set to work on the net. She hadn’t been at it long when her mobile vibrated. It was Mac again, and this time she answered, between mouthfuls. ‘Hi, Mac, sorry I forgot to ring you back.’

  ‘No probs, Viv. Sorry to ring so late but something you said earlier has got me thinking. When you said I’d confused feminism with lesbianism, it switched a couple of lights on in my otherwise blacked-out head. I’ve been working on an internal thing . . . ’ He hesitated, as if deciding whether to tell her or not, then continued, ‘Say, hypothetically, a female officer is caught with porn on her computer?’

  Viv was glad that he couldn’t see her eyebrows reaching for her hairline.

  ‘From the outset my gut tells me it’s nothing to do with her. So I look at her male partner, a guy who has always been pretty straight and I don’t just mean sexually. I think, he could have done it, but he’s a career cop hoping for a transfer to Strathclyde and I can’t imagine him sullying his reputation before the next board. Then you said that thing about lesbians and feminism. Did you mean that they don’t care about each other just because they share their sexual orientation?’

  ‘Kind of. But Mac there’s no way it’s safe to assume anything.’ She put her hand up as if he could see her and was about to butt in. ‘No wait, lesbians come from all walks of life, and, trust me, they’re as selective about who they spend time with as anyone else. It’s dangerous to think that because we like women, we like all women any more than you would. You hets have a lot of evolving to do before you catch us up.’ She imagined his tall taut frame sitting at his desk running his hands over his shaven face and dark hair. ‘So why are you asking me about this?’

  ‘Well, what if I have another female who is pissed off? Who’s been passed over for promotion?’

  ‘Whoa! Mac, that’s already too much speculating for my liking. You’ve got a woman’s computer with porn on it, and a woman, or possibly a man, with a grudge. Surely all you have to do is find out who has been tampering with the computer? Someone could have her password. Take a closer look at the pattern of use by the accused. You’ll soon see discrepancies. We are creatures of habit – trust me I’m a doctor.’ She snorted then cringed at how crass she sounded.

  ‘Ha bloody ha. I do trust you but this is a hypothetical conversation and also confidential.’

  ‘I assumed that when you said it was internal.’

  ‘But listen, Viv, this male partner, apparently he’s been coming on to her and she’s told him to back off in no uncertain terms. But I don’t think his pride was so hurt that he’d set her up for dismissal. Whereas this other female is a nasty piece of work and I could see her doing something like this. ’

  ‘You of all people should remember, “Deduction Watson. Deduction.”’ She heard him blow out a breath.

  ‘I’m thinking of two words right now. One begins with F and I’m guessing you’ll know the other.’

  Viv laughed. ‘Okay. Okay. Presumably you’ve checked for prints, DNA etc.’

  ‘Sure. Forensics have been over it and they’ve found a tiny amount of DNA at the edge of the mouse but nothing on the keyboard.’

  ‘Which tells its own story. Who has a computer without prints on it. Get them to go over it again. There’s no way it’s completely clean.’

  ‘I’ve already thought of that. Anyway enough of this, d’you fancy brunch tomorrow?’

  ‘No can do, already got a date.’

  ‘Who’s the lucky . . . ?’

  ‘Man actually.’

  ‘Ooh, good for you.’

  She sensed disappointment behind his sarcasm. And began to justify. ‘It’s work. Let me know if you need anything creative done with that computer.’

  She laughed again but she heard him draw in breath. ‘Sure Viv, and jeopardise the whole case? Not a chance.’

  ‘Your call.’

  They disconnected.

  Viv took out a huge sheet of paper and knelt on the floor with a set of coloured pencils. When in doubt, she mind mapped. She jotted down all the information she had about Tess, and from the overview wondered what it was she wasn’t seeing. Who was the bloke that took Tess away? Brother, uncle, father, lover, old friend, new acquaintance, hired hand, fellow geology student, stranger? From Margo’s description it didn’t sound like a total stranger, otherwise Tess would surely have put up a fight. Her laptop pinged with an incoming message.

  It was from Red. ‘Not a mention of Tess Grant anywhere in the system. Not even a single traffic offence. On another note, the tattoo on my canal girl is of a rose.’

  Viv sent Red a thank-you in reply. Then she stretched, yawned and rubbed her eyes, thinking perhaps it was time to call it a day, but not without one last peak at the TV news, which showed no developments. She filled the kettle in preparation for her hot water bottle.

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday. Viv woke early, energised. She pulled back her bedroom curtains to a bright day. High broken cloud, with the odd sliver of blue lurking behind, made her hopeful. She donned jogging pants and a sweatshirt, checked that she had enough shampoo in her kit bag, and headed out to the local swimming pool. A five minute jog took her to the entrance of the Victorian building where a notice, which she read aloud, said, ‘Closed until further notice. Please accept our . . .’

  ‘Shit!’

  She decided to go back and dump her kit before running round Arthur’s Seat. Swimming was what she relished, although with recent scares about the toxic brew in public pools when urine is mixed with chlorine, she wasn’t keen to swim at the end of a day or in the school holidays. But this morning she had been in the mood to risk being submerged for
half an hour and now it wasn’t to be.

  Her kit slung inside the door of the flat, she bolted downstairs for the second time. After a few paltry stretches she was off down the Cowgate and into the Queen’s Park. It was cold with a light breeze, no rain – perfect running weather. By the time she began to climb the Radical Road to Dunsapie Loch she was really into a rhythm.

  A couple of terrifying panic attacks had been her motivation for taking up jogging. Her over-active adrenaline got caught up doing what it was meant to do, and her breath didn’t get the chance to remain shallow. From the south side of the loch she could see for miles over to the east, beyond Cockenzie’s disused power station, to the Bass Rock, and to the west a panorama that took in the Pentland Hills. She stopped, placed her hands on her hips and soaked up the intermittent sun. There weren’t many people about, just a walker striding at a good pace with his collie on an extending lead, and a couple sitting in their VW Polo reading the Sunday papers. They reminded her of her own parents, Sundays in her early childhood when her dad dragged her and Mand along the prom at Portobello, while their mum sat in the car and read the Sunday Mail and Sunday Post. Whatever the weather Viv and Mand had had to march out, with no complaints. Now she loved being in the open air. Besides, once she was outdoors the weather didn’t matter. She picked up her pace and headed back down towards Holyrood Palace, one of the Queen’s Scottish residences. Viv grinned at the drama of the landscape and commended herself for choosing to live in the West Bow with all this beauty on her doorstep.

  As she rounded the bend at the bottom of the Bow she spotted the woman who owned the antique shop unloading her car. She felt colour rising up her neck but justified it after her forty-minute run. The woman’s head was stuck well beneath the boot lid and she didn’t see Viv approaching. She was struggling with a cabinet that was jammed beneath the shelf of the old Volvo.

  ‘Hi there, can I give you a hand?’ Viv wiped her face on the bottom of her t-shirt, exposing her taut mid-rift but dropping the fabric just before the woman turned round.

  The woman pulled her head out. ‘Great timing! If you could hold the shelf up I’ll be able to lever this thing out. Thanks.’

  Viv pushed the shelf up but the woman was staring at her. Viv wiped her nose and mouth on her sleeve wondering if there was something there that shouldn’t be.

  But the woman just smiled. ‘I was hoping I’d see you again.’ Then she edged what turned out to be a nineteen-thirties radiogram onto a blanket that was lying on the pavement. Once the piece was safely lowered to the ground she looked up at Viv. ‘Thank you. I just got lucky with this at the Barras this morning and wanted to drop it off before heading out to another fair.’

  ‘It looks great. Does it work?’

  ‘Well it did when I left Glasgow, but I’ve been swearing at it for about half an hour so it might have become stroppy.’ She gently stroked the walnut surface and said, ‘I didn’t mean it, honest.’

  Viv winced at the anthropomorphism. ‘I’ll give you a hand in with it if you like.’

  ‘I like,’ beamed the woman.

  Between them they walked it across the blanket on the pavement and then with a heave they lifted it up the step and into the shop. The woman was wearing thick wool Edwardian jodhpurs, over-sized enough to require braces, a pale grey striped shirt and a thin black ribbon tied in a bow at the collar. The outfit reminded Viv of the young Coco Chanel; all she needed to complete the ensemble was a hacking jacket nipped in at the waist.

  ‘That’s such a great help. I’d offer you that coffee but I have to get up to Aberdeen before twelve.’ She glanced at a huge watch that was strapped over her shirt sleeve.

  Viv blurted out, ‘I was thinking about going to Aberdeen today.’

  The woman smiled at her. ‘Were you thinking about changing first?’

  Viv glanced down at her joggers. ‘Yes, sure.’

  ‘I’ve got about five maybe ten minutes before I have to be on the road. If you can do it we could go together.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  Before Viv knew what she was doing she had belted upstairs, leapt into the shower and was thinking up an excuse to give Walter. And ten minutes later she was closing the outside door and checking right and left before skipping across the road to where the woman was waiting by the Volvo.

  ‘This is mad. I don’t even know where about in Aberdeen you’re heading.’

  The woman stuck out her hand. ‘Gabriella. The name’s Gabriella.’

  Viv shook the proffered rough hand. ‘Viv. It’s Viv.’

  ‘It’s a start. Now we’re going to be confined together for the next three hours.’ She looked startled, as if she’d only just realised the consequence of her rash behaviour, but jumped into the driver’s seat and in one scoop cleared a load of papers and wrappers off the passenger side into the foot-well. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess. This has been my office for too long. Never had a cleaner.’

  She fired Viv a fabulous white toothy smile, then started up. The Volvo was a battered old thing. If they made it to Aberdeen in one piece they’d be lucky. But Viv fastened her seatbelt, feeling like the cat that got the cream and, with a hamster in her belly, they were off.

  Viv wasn’t usually known for spontaneity, at least not where relationships were concerned, yet there she was sitting next to a complete stranger on a journey that was just an excuse to spend time in her company. She remembered Walter and scrabbled about in her pocket for her phone. ‘D’you mind?’ She held up the phone and Gabriella nodded. ‘Sure. Go ahead.’

  Viv pressed in his number. ‘Yes!’ She exclaimed when it was his answering service.

  She looked at Gabriella who said. ‘Voicemail?’

  Viv felt her face stretching with a smile. ‘Absolutely. Some days there is a God’ She put one finger in her ear and spoke to his machine. ‘Hi Walter, it’s Viv. Something’s come up.’ She looked at Gabriella, who was holding back a snigger. ‘And I’ll have to cancel this morning. Can I ring you tonight and we’ll reschedule?’ She closed the phone, grinning but too nervous to look at her companion. Then she did, and they almost wept with laughter. Good start.

  With the heater on full power they sailed warmly and effortlessly over the Forth Road Bridge. Viv recalled her visits to Dunfermline to see Walter: once, twice, sometimes three nights a week in the hard times. She would cross this body of water, a signal that the therapy had already begun, like journeying into an altered state, to be met by Walter, a man – and that was significant – whose countenance was so peaceful and unconditional that he wouldn’t break into her reverie. He was fantastic. A pang of regret found its way into Viv’s conscience before Gabriella interrupted, preventing it from taking root.

  ‘So, Viv, what are you passionate about?’

  She was surprised by the question and had to think for a few moments before answering. The sky had cleared and the bright light made everything dazzle. ‘I’m passionate about Scotland, specially on days like this . . . I’m not a political animal but I feel passionate that people should take responsibility for themselves. Stop blaming others for their own condition. I’ve a sister who has got every conceivable material necessity and she does nothing but moan. I suppose I’m passionate about gratitude and about making my own glass full to bursting. I can’t stand whinging and whining in myself or in others . . . ’ She sniffed. ‘Says she, whinging and whining.’

  She looked at Gabriella. ‘What about you Gaby? What are you passionate about? By the way, it’s a great question. No one has ever asked me that before. It beats “And what do you do?” That’s a question to filter you into this camp or that, assessing your productivity. It’s a post-Reformation question, because since then our highest value has been in doing, not being. If you ain’t doing, you ain’t of value.’

  Gabriella looked slightly sheepish. ‘It’s never Gaby. And by the way I’m not sure I’m with you.’

  Viv hesitated not sure whether the boo boo with her name was worth following up but dec
ided to ignore it. ‘Well stick around.’

  Gabriella smiled and gestured with her hand for Viv to carry on, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Well . . . Before the Reformation, the good life, the life worth living, was the life of contemplation . . . When was the last time someone said they admire you for your ability to contemplate? Never, right? We don’t contemplate because it isn’t valued. Doing stuff is what is valued. Doesn’t matter that the stuff is useless, or immoral, or at times illegal. As long as we’re seen to be doing, people admire us.’ Viv nodded, indicating that her rant was over.

  Gabriella took a deep breath. ‘Good. I like that . . . I’m passionate about Scotland too. About the landscape and what we are doing to make it ugly. Wind farms, I hate them with a passion. No, that’s not quite right. I don’t hate windmills. I dislike them intensely. I’m passionate about architecture and almost anything from the thirties, but you already guessed that. I like people who care about style.’

  Viv glanced down at what she had thrown on in her effort to beat the ten-minute deadline. Black jeggings, riding boots, a white shirt and a tweed jacket: not bad for unconscious co-ordination. She ran her hands through her damp hair and tried to fluff up the fringe.

  Gabriella said, ‘You look great.’

  ‘And you.’

  The colour rose up Viv’s neck again and into her face. She instinctively covered her cheeks with her hands.

  Gabriella said. ‘Shy?’

  Viv responded too quickly. ‘No. Not usually.’

  They both grinned again, then Gabriella said. ‘I’m an architect to trade. But can’t stand bureaucracy so only do the odd independent job now and again. Rest of the time I’m scouring the country for stock for my new venture.’

  ‘The shop?’

  ‘Yeah. God knows how it’ll take off but Victoria Street’s as good a place as I could think to sell . . . curios. I like that word. Curios.’

  ‘Yep. “Curios” is good. I take it you’re resisting calling yourself an antique dealer for a reason?’