The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  Too fragile to argue she sat down tentatively. Everything about the place shouted ‘money’. She couldn’t imagine it had all been Mac’s doing, and ungraciously thought he’d inherited someone else’s taste. It was pretty fabulous. The same dark green carpet from the hallway continued into the room, but she couldn’t see much of it with the selection of oriental rugs that covered it. She looked up at the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling, but regretted it when her head started to spin. She sat back and closed her eyes for a few minutes while her head settled. Mac returned carrying a tray adorned with a white linen cloth and a china tea set. She really had missed the measure of this man. She’d imagined a domestic life of minimalism, wall-to-wall white, with unlived in echoing rooms.

  He poured. ‘Viv, the guy in Aberdeen. They think his name is William Harvey. He denies any knowledge of Tessa Grant. No surprises there, but I think since he was willing to whack you the way he did, there’s no telling what he’s capable of. I’m pretty concerned to find Tess. The Grampian guys will have to question everyone down here who knows anything, which will include your mates Margo et al. I’ll do what I can. I was at Tulliallan with a guy who’s pretty senior up there.’

  Viv sighed and rubbed her temple. ‘I’ll get onto Margo as soon as . . . ’

  ‘No. That’s not what I was getting at. I was hoping you’d give me all those details and I’d be able to delegate them to . . . How about Sandra? Would it help if you worked with Sandra? You do realise this could have been, in fact may still be, a murder enquiry and . . . ’

  She had considered this when she was lying in hospital. ‘I know. I was lucky he didn’t kill me.’ She lifted the thin porcelain cup and blew across the tea: an oddly reassuring ritual. She sat back, the sofa so wide that even her long legs draped over the edge without reaching the floor, and continued. ‘I’ll pass on Margo’s email, and Rebecca Younger, Tess’s girlfriend, will need to be handled with kid gloves.’

  His brow wrinkled.

  ‘Her father is Malcolm Younger.’

  ‘Oh! I see.’ He nodded knowingly. ‘The Malcolm Younger, campaigner against same sex marriage?’

  ‘The very same. But get this, that means her mother is Dr Betty Bates.’

  He looked confused. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Psychiatrist. Campaigner for women’s rights, also pro ECT. A bit of a crazy herself, if you ask me.’

  He gave her a wry smile, ‘Never a dull moment for you, is there, Viv?’

  ‘I must say this . . . ’ she pointed to her head, ‘isn’t at all what I signed up for. I thought I’d find Tessa’s family and they’d have some ideas on where she might be. But if they’ve scampered, and crowbar William is now the keeper of the gate, there must be something to hide up there . . . I did find some details of the Grants’ involvement in a church that has recently been having financial issues. As you found for yourself. Looks as if their pastor has bolted with the church funds, which, by the way, is not our issue.’

  He nodded. ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty.’

  ‘That’s peanuts. Why would . . . ’

  She interrupted him. ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand is quite a lot in my book.’

  He nodded again. ‘And mine. How did you find out about this?’

  ‘The net. No details.’ He knew not to press her and shook his head. ‘Could we use any of this?’

  She knew what he meant and nodded. ‘I think so. Tess’s father was the treasurer or secretary or something, but when he started to question Pastor Rawlins on one or two unauthorised withdrawals, the pastor didn’t like it. Now Mr Grant is nowhere to be found and his daughter has been taken in mysterious circumstances.’

  ‘And you know all of this . . . illegally?’

  ‘No, some of it comes from Tess’s girlfriend, some from Tess’s emails.’

  He shook his head again then dropped it into his hands. ‘Shit, Viv. You can’t look at someone’s emails and get away with it.’

  She didn’t say anything. He raised his head and looked at her, sighing before shaking his head again.

  She stared at him over the top of her teacup. ‘You’d better watch. If you keep shaking it like that it’ll fall off.’ She smiled. ‘Come on, Mac, spare me the dramatics. Everyone is at it. You don’t need to know or say how I got my information. I can say I’ve got sources. Which is true.’

  ‘Okay. So you have your sources and I have a concern about the girl that was pulled out of the canal, Aberdeen student. And now, all of a sudden, having never been in Aberdeen since I was a lad, I find myself racing up the road to rescue you.’

  ‘Sir Galahad. Thank you. But you don’t . . .’

  He cut in. ‘No, Viv. I’ve got a sense that there could be a connection between the girl from the canal and this stuff that you’re working on.’

  ‘How do you figure that out?’

  ‘Oh I haven’t figured it out; it’s just a possibility.’

  Viv knew him well enough to understand that he was not likely to speculate without good reason. They had had many discussions about their resistance to New Agey stuff. Intuition must be followed by deduction. She wondered what was tickling at his brain for him to believe there was a connection. She looked round the room, now warmed by the fire, and guessed that the central heating had also kicked in.

  ‘Is this your doing?’ She gestured with her free hand.

  He smirked. ‘You think someone else must have done this, don’t you? Well you’d be wrong. The carpets were here but everything else was designed, if I can say that, because it wasn’t really a design, more happenstance. But, yes, all my own work. Even that muckle thing.’ He pointed up to the chandelier.

  She lay back, trying to find a position that wasn’t so painful, to get a better view of his fantastic acquisition. She wondered how on earth it stayed attached. The weight of the glass could surely bring down the plaster ceiling.

  ‘It is amazing. Amazing! How the hell . . . ?’

  ‘Quite something to hoist it up there. Took us . . .’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘I had a team of guys from Lyon and Turnbull help me get it in here.’

  She shook her head in marvel. ‘This is your very own place then?’

  ‘Yep. Parking for guests can be a bit of a bummer, which reminds me, I’d better go and put a notice on your car before it gets a ticket.’ He jumped up and from the top drawer of an oriental cabinet scooped out a laminated sheet of A5 and flashed it at her. ‘This should do the trick.’ And he was off. The warmth of the room was soporific. She struggled to lever her boots off but once they flopped to the floor she pulled her feet up, curled onto her good side and allowed her eyelids to drop. The next thing she felt was Mac gently covering her with a duvet then she heard him tiptoe out of the room.

  Tuesday. She woke up in a bed, bigger than a single but not quite a double, wearing over-sized tartan pyjamas. She snuggled into their brushed cotton and caught the smell of lavender water from the pillowcase and white duvet cover. The small room was painted pale blue. A dragging technique had been used on the walls and continued onto the headboard: impressive. She dropped her legs over the bed and ran her feet over a thick silk rug in creams and greys. Motivated by a whiff of frying drifting up from below, she wandered into the hall and pushed a door to the left of Mac’s desk. Relieved to find it was a bathroom, she struggled with the necessities, then headed down the wide staircase to where the smell of bacon began to canter round her system.

  Mac didn’t hear her approach and Viv leant on the doorjamb, taking in the view of Fettes College through the kitchen windows. The College, a magnificent Victorian building, with towers and turrets and an entrance that would put a palace to shame, is one of Edinburgh’s architectural gems. To its right sat the ugly seventies monstrosity that was Mac’s home turf, Edinburgh’s police HQ. The radio was on and she watched as Mac, standing with his back to her, sizzled bacon in a pan. She coughed. ‘Good morning.’

  He tu
rned and smiled, his wet hair plastered across his scalp. ‘You look better. Feel better?’

  ‘Yeah. Much.’ She looked down at the pyjamas and asked a question with her hand.

  ‘It took a bit of negotiating but, promise, I didn’t compromise your modesty.’

  She did feel much better and was so grateful for his help that she grinned and forgot to be alarmed at how easily and how often she’d been undressed in the past few days.

  ‘I believed you when you said you’d shoot if you hadn’t seen it before.’

  He held up the pan. ‘Bacon?’

  She nodded eagerly and wandered round the kitchen as he elegantly flipped the bacon over and shoogled the pan.

  ‘Work today. For both of us if you can take it, Viv.’

  Not sure what he meant, she tilted her head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think we should head back up to Aberdeen. The sooner you identify your assailant the sooner we can press charges. He’s bound to start talking when he knows we’ve had a positive ID.’

  ‘Can’t we do that from here?’

  He paused. ‘We could, but it would speed things up if we went.’

  Viv ran through all the things that she should be doing. The first was to contact Gabriella who probably thought she’d done a runner. She hated the idea of having to explain what had happened and yet it wouldn’t be possible to hide the bruising, which was already developing the most amazing deep purple hues.

  She crossed the warm tiled floor, stepped into a small glass-roofed porch, leant on a chair, and looked back into the kitchen, comfortable with what she saw. Copper pots and pans hung above a solid wood workstation, their handles hooked onto a circular rack. The ceilings were lower down here, which made it cosier. Viv’s client, Ailsa, lived at the other end of this street but her flat didn’t have the views, or such stunning décor.

  She swept her good hand round the room. ‘Is this also your doing?’

  He grinned. ‘Most of it. I like to cook, to wind down somewhere completely different from the grey corridors of Fettes. But so do you. Sherlock Holmes would be at home in your place. And I’d like to think he wouldn’t be out of sorts here either. We’ve got more in common than you think, Viv.’

  This sent off an alarm bell inside her head. ‘Those bacon butties ever going to be ready?’

  He fiddled about with rashers of bacon, roasted tomatoes and garlic mayo on warmed ciabatta rolls with olives in them. She salivated, and with her good arm, pulled the chair out from the table. It was heavier than she’d imagined and the reason soon stirred. Two cats curled up on a green velvet cushion opened their eyes and peered at the strange apparition who was disturbing their peace. She took another chair and watched as one of the cats jumped onto the floor, stretched and sauntered towards a shaggy sheepskin rug. Adjacent to it sat a pagoda shaped box decorated with red and gold oriental motifs. Viv stared as the cat disappeared through a flap in one end. On reappearing it sat licking its back paw, in a posture that would take even the most committed Yogi a lifetime of practice.

  Mac brought the plates over and they tucked in with only the odd ‘Mmm’ and ‘Ahh’ by way of appreciation. After a second cup of blow-your-head-off coffee Viv said, ‘My God. Dee-bloody-licious. D’you always make this kind of effort?’

  ‘Not all the time. It’s nice to be nice. Food’s about commensality, building allies.’

  Surprised by this, she exclaimed, ‘But I’m not your enemy, Mac!’

  ‘No. But you still don’t trust me. Do you?’

  ‘What’s . . . Nearly. I nearly trust you.’ She grinned and nodded gently, aware of the pain that was lying in wait if she moved too vigorously. ‘I must get going. If we’re going back up today I’ve got people to see and things to do.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re still in my care, remember?’

  She wiped her mouth and hands on a napkin then pushed her chair back and headed towards the stairs. She threw over her shoulder as she went, ‘Yeah, my cordon bleu minder, not about to trade you in anytime soon.’ She giggled on her way to the bedroom where she found her clothes in a neat pile on a chair opposite the bed. How had she missed them?

  Once she’d dressed she made for the kitchen. ‘I’ll come back when I’ve got through the things on my list.’

  ‘List, eh? Nice try, Viv. But you ain’t going nowhere without me.’

  ‘I don’t need you to come with me. I’m going home to change and have a shower. I’m not about to exert myself in any way. I’ve a few emails to catch up on and someone to see. Then I’ll be back.’

  He looked at her, resigned, and heaved a huge sigh. ‘Okay. How about we meet at Fettes.’ He checked the clock on the kitchen wall. ‘Midday?’

  Viv looked at the clock as well. ‘Should be able to do that. If I’m running late I’ll ring you.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Viv walked towards the stairs again, but turned. ‘Thanks, Mac. I’m really grateful that you came to fetch me.’

  ‘I’d rather you were glad.’

  She thought about this a moment then slowly nodded. ‘I am . . . Thanks again.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The West Bow had been closed off for filming, and an outside broadcast lorry was taking up six parking spaces, forcing Viv to circle even more than usual. She cursed and eventually had to leave the car on King’s Stables Road and walk slowly back through the Grassmarket.

  When she reached the Bow a man in a day-glo vest with a walkie-talkie stopped her. ‘No access this morning. You’ll have to . . . ’

  Viv squeezed with some effort between him and the metal fence. ‘I live here.’

  He started to splutter but she ignored him. She wanted to see Gabriella. The door to the shop was locked so Viv tapped on the glass door in the hope that Gabriella was down in the basement. She looked around. There was no sign of the Volvo but it was no wonder. The street was empty of cars and there was a layer of muck over the street covering any evidence of the twenty-first century. A carriage with a man in a top hat stood outside what used to be a church, now converted into a variety of eateries. Viv knocked on the glass again, convinced she could hear music coming from inside. No luck.

  As Viv put her key into the lock of her outside door something made her glance round. Gabriella stood staring at her from inside the shop. Viv removed the key and started back towards the shop but Gabriella turned and disappeared down into the basement. Viv banged on the door, to no avail. ‘Shit.’ She took out her phone, scrolled for Gabriella’s number and waited. She heard it ring on the other side of the door; Gabriella’s bag must have been beneath the counter, but wasn’t visible. It rang and rang but Gabriella ignored it. Viv checked her own messages and counted twenty-seven missed calls from Gabriella’s number. Disconsolate, she returned to the flat. She’d find another way to explain. The mailbox in the passage was full of correspondence, which she loaded into the sling on her arm as she climbed the stairs. There wasn’t anything beyond junk and she’d bin the lot. When she reached the top landing Ronnie, her next door neighbour, was at her door wearing an apron and rubber gloves. ‘What . . .?’

  ‘Oh hello Viv.’ He continued wiping down her door. ‘I came out and interrupted someone. They’d smeared marmalade all over your lovely brasses.’

  Viv couldn’t think straight. Who would do such a senseless thing?

  Ronnie said, ‘I’m almost finished.’

  Viv realised that Ronnie wasn’t stammering. Then he turned and looking straight at her opened his mouth but couldn’t get his sentence started. ‘Thanks Ronnie. I owe you.’

  He smiled, picked up his bucket of soapy water and retreated inside his own flat. Viv put her Yale key into the lock and made a note to self to buy Ronnie a bottle of wine. Who would do such a thing? Surely not Gabriella.

  Her in-box had a number of messages requiring attention, not least a pleading request from Margo on behalf of Rebecca, who had changed her tune about her father getting to know about her sexuality.

&
nbsp; ‘Too late was the loud reply,’ Viv muttered to herself. ‘Too late.’

  She didn’t have an email address for Gabriella but found a website for the shop which she could use. Unsure where to begin she wrote and deleted, wrote and deleted three or four attempts, no easy task with one arm out of commission, then sighed, staring at the screen. She leaned back and said out loud, ‘Okay, Gabriella, what do you need to believe in order to behave like this?’ A number of scenarios ran through Viv’s mind, but the one that made the most sense was that Gabriella believed that Viv had lied and had been with someone else. Which was actually true, but not in the way that it might look to a potential new playmate. In her NLP days Viv remembered doing an exercise with a woman who didn’t trust her husband. Whatever he did, the wife made up her own fantasy about what he was up to, and never gave him credit for doing what he actually was doing, which was usually work. What fantasy was Gabriella entertaining at the moment, in order to demonise Viv? She decided to tell Gabriella every detail of her story and if Gabriella couldn’t hack it perhaps she was not for Viv anyway. In fact, as she typed, doubts began to settle in, and she guessed it was already too late. Once the email was winging its way Viv sat on the couch and looked round her little flat. She could see what Mac meant, that they had a lot in common. His flat was on a much grander scale but they definitely had a similar theme going. Deep coloured walls and lots of old velvet made for a spooky Victorian stage set. If it wasn’t for the hundreds of modern books on her shelves, she could certainly convince herself that Mrs Hudson might come through the door any minute. Her own Persian rug was shabbily frayed at the edges but was all the more welcoming for that. She stroked the dark red velvet curtain that she used as a throw for the chesterfield, gaining a strange comfort from the way the colour changed as light caught the weft.

  She put a hand up to her neck and gently pressed the bruise. ‘Ouch!’ How lucky she had been that the crowbar didn’t hit the top of her head. She’d have been a goner. If he had wanted her dead, he could have killed her while she was unconscious. And why had he left that light bulb on? He mustn’t have had a plan otherwise her keys wouldn’t have been left exposed in his truck. What exactly was he hiding? Was it Tess or the others or both or something else entirely? The phone ringing startled her. ‘Hello.’ Silence. ‘Hello. Gabriella is that you?’