The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I get it.’

  Mac had slowed as if he had another question. He looked back towards the dig then across the boggy landscape to a small stone-built house with a few out-buildings sitting on its own, no trees for shelter, its position bleak and unforgiving. It looked as if it had been there for a long time, in some shape or form. Mac pulled out his Harvey map. Viv was impressed. Sal had a few at the cottage and they were almost indestructible. The wind was getting up and whipped the map. Viv grabbed a corner, so that between them they could find exactly where they were.

  Mac pointed to a name, ‘Bog House’.

  There were ruins marked next to it, so Viv had guessed correctly. There had been something on the site for a long time. A spring or a well was also marked adjacent to the rubble.

  ‘Worth a look. You thinking what I’m thinking?’ He looked at his watch.

  Viv nodded. ‘Not far to carry the odd dead body.’

  ‘That’s my girl!’ He dodged the punch that Viv threw at his arm.

  ‘Patronising sod!’

  He dodged another attempt to swing at him. ‘Just sayin’.’

  Sniggering, he took off across the moor and she jogged after him towards the collection of shabby buildings. It was hard going clearing tussocks of reeds and couch grass but they were fit, and since running was their default setting they relished the challenge. After five minutes they’d made it to the yard with good colour rising in their cheeks. Viv noted a pathetic wisp of smoke coming from the cottage chimney. The rear of a pick-up truck stuck out from a small wooden shack with a rusty tin roof at the far end of the yard, a hopeful indication that someone was at home. Viv wondered if the cottage had once had a thatch. She noticed that the quoins on the front entrance changed colour and size half way up, and the remains of an old lintel remained in the stone work three quarters of the way up, a sign that the entrance had once been lower.

  Viv smiled and chewed on her lip. People often thought that the Scots were a miniature race, but the purpose of the low door or entrances was defence. You couldn’t draw a sword effectively and duck at the same time. A house or rather, bothy, as this had probably always been, exposed out here on the moor, would’ve been susceptible to attack. If it was standing in 1715 when the battle was fought, the countryside would have been teeming with people, walking, or on horseback, some with carts full of their wares, looking for shelter or sustenance.

  Mac broke into her reverie. ‘What are you thinking, Viv?’

  ‘Just that all this,’ she spun round, holding her arms out like a dervish, three hundred and sixty degrees, until a gust of wind caught her hair and wrapped it round her chin and face, ‘All this space would once have had loads of folk coming and going. Not the odd one or two having pub food at the inn back there.’ She waved carelessly at the Sheriffmuir pub. ‘The community in Dunblane was thriving then, which meant money, goods, and people, lots of them. Traders moving north and south would have passed this way.’ She tried to push her hair back but again the wind got the better of her. ‘Hard to believe it seeing this desolate place now. Sheep fodder. That’s all it’s worth now.’ Viv saw the curtain on the right of the front door twitch and nodded to Mac. ‘They’re expecting us.’

  Mac turned and stared at the cottage. ‘D’you think they’ll be expecting archaeologists?’

  ‘We sort of are. Digging for answers to crimes. Got to be archaeology of some kind.’

  He grinned. ‘Nice. I like it.’

  They trudged across the muddy yard and Mac knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked again. Nothing. Then the engine of the pick-up gunned and they stepped round to the side and watched as a red-haired woman reversed it out into the yard.

  Mac put his hand up to stop her from driving straight past them. She reluctantly drew to a halt but kept the engine idling, and grudgingly rolled down the window.

  ‘Hi there. Just wondered if you had any interest in the dig over yonder?’

  Viv, surprised by Mac’s accent and the word ‘yonder’, looked away. Was he trying for yokel or what? The woman could be a professor for all he knew.

  But when she spoke Viv realized he’d got the tone just right, professor or not.

  The woman responded. ‘Nah. Too busy for watching what others are up to.’

  ‘D’you mind me asking what you do up here?’

  The woman’s hair, showing white flecks at the temples, was tied back but wayward strands wisped across her forehead. Her face was weather-beaten and her hands hadn’t seen a manicure in a while but these were not enough to distract from stunning, piercing blue eyes. Viv could see that she’d once been incredibly beautiful. She had good teeth, but a smile without mirth exposed a little dent on the right hand side of her bottom incisor. Viv recognized the wear; her dad had been a pipe smoker. She glanced into the truck and spotted a Meerschaum, the Rolls Royce of the pipe world, in the well at the front.

  The woman stared at Viv as she answered Mac’s question with a shake of her head. ‘Look around. What does it look like?’ Then in a weird voice she muttered, ‘Sherpa.’ And a black and white collie jumped from the back of the truck into the front seat. ‘She give you a clue?’

  ‘Shepherd?’

  ‘Good guess.’

  ‘You’ll have been out all hours then with the lambing?’

  Viv was impressed. She’d noticed the lambs up on the hill but wouldn’t have thought he’d put two and two together so quickly.

  The woman screwed up her eyes but didn’t speak.

  Mac was not for leaving empty handed and continued. ‘You lived here long?’

  ‘All my life.’

  ‘So it’s a family home?’

  She screwed up her face again and glared at him as if he was stupid, then turning to Viv, she fixed piercing irises on her and in a proud tone said, ‘Course. Six generations. Not all shepherds, mind.’ And for the first time the notion of fun danced across her face. Before Mac could ask any more questions she stepped on the accelerator and shot out of the yard, forcing them to jump back. They stared at the rear of the truck, then at each other in shock.

  ‘Guilty conscience?’ Mac scratched his face.

  ‘Or just anti-social? I might have done the same myself . . . were I not so nosey. She didn’t want to find out who, why or what we were here for.’

  ‘Don’t give her too much credit for simple uninterest. Remember, she did try to take off. There’s always a why in there.’

  ‘You think there’s anyone else inside?’

  ‘Try the door again if you like?’

  She did, but nothing doing.

  The road that the woman took ran the full length of the boundary of her property, and for half a mile she would be able to keep an eye on them as she drove towards the Dunblane road.

  Viv tried the door again but still no one answered. They had a quick peek around the outside but only saw what you’d expect to see in any small-holding − a couple of hens scratching at very little, bales of hay, plastic buckets probably used for sheep feed. An old fridge stood at the back of the shed. Viv checked inside. It contained vaccines and a glass bottle with clear liquid in it which she stuck under her nose. She didn’t smell anything.

  Viv strolled back to where Mac was crouching on the ground. ‘There’s more than one vehicle usually parked here.’

  ‘They’re bound to have a quad-bike for checking their stock. It’s not like the old days when the shepherd took up a crook and walked the hills in search of lost lambs.’ She nudged Mac’s arm. ‘C’mon, let’s take a quick look to see if we can find the well. I saw it marked on the map; think it’s over this way.’ She wandered off into the field at the back of the house. Mac followed, but after a few minutes of searching they found nothing that could constitute a well or spring, although it was difficult to tell because the ground underfoot was saturated. Perhaps that was the only thing that was left of it, an even wetter area in what was already bog.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Time to head to the Port
of Menteith, and see if we can hitch a lift across to the island. Historic Scotland’s ferry’ll have finished by now, but hopefully one of the fisheries guys will be intrigued enough with the comings and goings today to take us.’

  Viv nodded. ‘It’s bound to be the most interesting thing that’s happened in the area for . . . how long?’

  ‘Watch it, townie. City folks always assume that nothing happens in the country, and you know what − they’d be wrong.’

  ‘Since when did you become one of the county set?’

  Mac snorted, ‘You haven’t seen my country pad yet, have you?’

  ‘Nope. But if the batch pad in town is anything to go by . . .’

  He didn’t rise, just shook his head as they made their way back to the car via the track, which was easier going than the moorland. As they neared the road, a delivery van turned in and stopped. The chirpy driver said, ‘Maggie not in, then?’

  Mac and Viv exchanged a glance and Mac answered. ‘Not that we know of. But if she’s the woman with the pick-up, she headed towards Dunblane a few minutes ago.’

  ‘No worries, I’ve got a parcel for her.’ The driver lifted a package from the passenger seat of his van and held it up. He read the huge black writing, ‘For Maggie O’ The Bog.’ Then, laughing, ‘That’s what folks round here call her, but I didn’t realize she was known further afield as that.’ He laughed again, exposing dark pink gums with small yellowing teeth, ‘Maggie O’ The Bog, eh!’ before continuing on his way down the track, grinning and shaking his head.

  Mac shrugged. ‘Great name. If you’re going to have a nickname you might as well have one that leaves its mark.’ He repeated the name. ‘Maggie O’ The Bog.’ As he said it a questioning look crossed his face. ‘There’s something familiar about it . . . Nope, no idea what, though. Never mind, let’s get a move on.’

  Mac knew his way around the roads, which made Viv think his connection with the area went back further than she’d thought. They returned to Doune, and continued onto the A84 towards Stirling, taking a right towards Thornhill. She’d never been there, and the views to the north were spectacular. Thornhill was a planned town, with one main street lined with neat little cottages whose front doors opened straight onto the pavement. At the first junction stood an odd, narrow, two-storey building, with a terracotta roof. Mac slowed as he took a sharp bend to the right.

  Viv pointed. ‘What do you think that building is?’

  ‘At a guess I’d say it’s the Lodge.’

  ‘What? Masonic?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. Crikey, Viv, you really are a townie.’

  ‘What has my not knowing about a strange building, that I’ve never set my eyes on before, got to do with me being a townie or not?’

  He glanced over to her and raised his eyebrows. ‘Just sayin’.’

  Mac and Viv almost had a history, and at times a frisson of sexual tension rippled between them. The ripple rose up her spine as she examined his strong profile.

  He caught her stare, ‘What?’ He shook his head. ‘I thought you’d have identified the hammer and sickle on the tower. It’s a sure sign.’

  Embarrassed at being caught gawking, she retorted, ‘Oh, sorry not to be astute enough to “identify” an engraving at speed.’ Her tone was more defensive than it should have been. She flushed.

  But Mac either pretended he hadn’t noticed or chose to ignore it. ‘Ten miles an hour max.’ His only retort.

  Viv started to squirm. ‘Who gives a . . . when a girl needs to pee?’

  Mac glanced round. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, seriously. Any time in the last five minutes would be dandy.’

  ‘There should be a loo open in the car park. Can you hold on?’

  ‘Nope. Not an option. Pull over.’

  This was no mean feat on the winding, up and down road. But with Viv wriggling in her seat Mac was under pressure.

  ‘It’ll have to be this farm track up ahead. There’s no cover, though.’

  Viv jumped out before he’d hauled the hand brake on. She left her passenger door wide open and pulled on the rear door handle. With both doors open she had a shield from both directions and crouched in her provisional shelter. Mac, ever the gent, whistled and became engrossed in the landscape opposite.

  Seconds later she closed the back door, jumped in and grinned. ‘There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  Mac shook his head in disbelief. ‘No She-wee in your bag then?’

  She shook her head. ‘How long ’til we get there?’

  ‘Less than ten minutes. Not sure how they’ll have it set up, but with darkness about to descend, I hope the team have taken the full kit, lights and all. Otherwise we’ll have to get our torches out.’

  They pulled into a car park on the edge of the lake. Trees sheltered a large gravel area and a small wooden building sat snugly at the base of a bank of earth. Viv wondered if it ever doubled as a campsite. They watched in dismay as the Historic Scotland boat pulled away from the jetty.

  ‘Damn.’ Mac tooted the horn. ‘Jump out and we’ll try and catch them.’

  He tooted again and Viv bolted to the jetty with Mac close on her heels. He shouted, ‘Ahoy!’

  Viv got the giggles, seeing aspects of Mac that reminded her of Captain Pugwash, and that she’d never encounter when they were in town. But to her astonishment the skipper heard him and about turned.

  Mac smirked. ‘Not so crazy after all, eh?’

  The boat drew alongside and the engine idled until Mac handed Viv in, before he joined her.

  ‘Bit of an adventure. Certainly don’t get to do much of this in our urban jungle.’

  Viv, sensing that he was in his element, grinned and shook her head at his infectious glee.

  ‘Thanks, mate. What are you taking over?’

  The skipper, taciturn, shrugged and nodded at his cargo. Boxes of equipment and plastic containers with wires hanging out lay piled at the back of the boat, barely covered by a tarpaulin.

  ‘I bet some of this is for the lights. They’ll have taken a generator out already.’

  Although this statement was directed at the skipper, he was reluctant to engage but gave a cursory nod in agreement.

  Viv had never been to the Lake of Menteith, but knew it was famous for being the only lake in Scotland, a land of lochs and lochans. But also because of Inchmaholme, the small island at its middle, which had been home to a monastic community since the thirteenth century. The monks, an incredibly sociable bunch, had done lots of entertaining and it seemed that anybody who was anybody had visited. Robert the Bruce, more than once, attempted to woo the abbot, a fan of Edward I, and inevitably Mary Queen of Scots, having slept in almost every other bed in Scotland, had taken refuge there. Now all that existed on the island were the impressive remains of the old priory.

  Viv stepped onto the quay and shivered; the wind had dropped but dampness had descended. She pulled her zip up as far as it would reach and drew in her chin.

  Mac offered her a scarf from an inside pocket of his jacket. Gratefully, she wrapped it round her neck and tucked it in.

  ‘Any idea which direction we should be heading in?’

  The skipper indicated with his weather-beaten balding head.

  ‘Cheers!’ Mac said, before attempting to take Viv’s elbow, which she duly shrugged off, as he led the way off the jetty.

  The island was relatively luscious with mature specimen trees, remnants of shelterbelts, scattered round what remained of the buildings. Large gnarled rhodedendron bushes skirted the shoreline. Beyond and to the far left of the bushes they spotted a group of four men huddled round a hole in the ground. But when they approached they could see the men looked more like green-keepers, in their matching navy blue crested fleeces, than archaeologists.

  Mac introduced himself and a look of confusion crossed their faces. He continued. ‘We’re looking for the archaeologists who’ve found the bones.’

  The tallest of them said, ‘I think you’
re at the wrong hole, mate.’ The others laughed.

  Then it was Viv and Mac’s turn to look confused. ‘What’s so interesting about this one, then?’

  ‘We’ve hit something metal, think it’s a pipe.’

  Mac nodded. ‘So where is the other hole?’

  Another, heavily-built bloke, sounding uninterested, said, ‘At the chancel. Front of the nave.’ Two of them laughed again.

  The shortest guy said, ‘Hard to miss them, though, with all their kit.’

  Mac and Viv took off in the direction indicated.

  Viv looked back and said, ‘If I didn’t know better I’d think we’d landed in a penal colony.’

  Mac furrowed his brow.

  ‘Those thugs looked as if they were in fancy dress or wearing those outfits for a bet. No way they’d seen a day’s work.’

  ‘D’you think?’

  ‘Dah! Come on, Mac, with necks as thick as those I’d lay bets on them having bolts beneath their collars.’

  ‘Christ! I thought I was suspicious.’

  ‘Just sayin’.’

  ‘Touché.’ he said.

  They soon found the other group hidden behind a church wall, cordoned off with blue and white crime tape.

  As they approached Mac said, ‘Why do you think that the skipper let us go in the wrong direction? Was that intentional?’

  Viv didn’t have a chance to answer before they reached the tape. Mac gestured to a PC for some bootees. From beyond the cordon a female police officer stepped away from a gathering of people looking as if they were prepared for bio-warfare, each wearing blue bootees and white coveralls with hoods. They shook hands and she introduced herself as DI Coulson. Mac didn’t seem to know her so their exchange was formal. She explained that the archaeologists were there to record stone carvings, and one of them had noticed that a couple of the stones had recently been moved.