The Viv Fraser Mysteries Box Set 1

by V Clifford

  The constant clicking of keys must surely fade into the background. Viv tried to imagine being in the room without anyone else there. She recognised a couple of floor-to-ceiling secure cupboards that Mac had brought her to when he supplied her with a special pack and phone for an NTF job. She couldn’t remember returning them. Her own phone rang. Sal looked up but quickly returned her gaze to whatever Gordon had discovered. Viv guessed that Sal’s old account may well have been deactivated but that didn’t mean the information stored there couldn’t be accessed.

  Viv checked the caller ID and answered with one finger in her ear. ‘Hi, Rosanna, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Oh, Viv, something’s come up and I’m desperate to have my hair done. Is there any chance that you could . . .’

  ‘Er, I’m not actually working this week. Could it wait ’til next . . .’ Rosanna was known for her dramatic hair days.

  ‘Not really. I could get a blow-dry somewhere else, but it needs cut and I wouldn’t let anyone else near it with scissors . . . I could come to you if that helped.’

  Viv was thinking on her feet. Where was her hairdressing kit? Could she squeeze in a quick cut while Sal was working with Gordon? She glanced around the room as if the answer was somewhere there. Sal’s head was still down with Gordon’s, and the info they were after would take as long as it took.

  ‘Look, Rosanna, can I ring you back? Give me ten minutes.’

  ‘Sure. I’m going out in a bit, but leave a message if I’m gone.’

  Then, turning to Sal, ‘Sal, any thoughts on how long this might take?’

  Sal stared at Viv as if she was a naughty child who kept interrupting. ‘No idea.’ She sighed. ‘As long as it takes. Why? You got somewhere to be?’

  Viv, pissed off at the irritation in Sal’s voice, tried to put it down to jetlag. She nodded and checked her watch. ‘Actually, I could have somewhere to go, if this was going to take another hour.’

  Sal shrugged and put her arms up in resignation. Viv rubbed Sal’s arm but felt her tense and withdraw it. There was more going on here than jetlag but now was not the time to start unpacking it. ‘I’ll be back within the hour. I’ll take the car and Moll, she’ll need a bit of exercise before we drive back to Doune.’

  Sal blurted out. ‘Do you need to come back to Doune?’

  Viv was shocked, hurt. ‘What? . . . What do you mean, do I need to come back to Doune? All my stuff’s there . . . clothes and . . .’

  Sal chewed on the inside of her cheek but nodded and turned her attention back to the screen.

  Viv, unsure of what to say, headed for the door but couldn’t get out because she didn’t have her own ID card with her. A guy, whose desk was close to the door, stood and flashed his card in front of the panel and the door released.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No probs.’

  Once in the corridor she stopped and scratched her head with both hands. What was going on? Sal wasn’t prone to crazy behaviour. Tiredness aside, she wouldn’t speak to Viv like that. What would she have to believe to act as if Viv was the enemy?

  In no mood now to speak to Rosanna, Viv drove to the other side of Inverleith Park and took Moll for a run. Just within the perimeter of the boundary the council had laid out a military style obstacle course. Viv decided to give it a go. The first challenge she encountered got the better of her. She was too ruffled to concentrate. Two long narrow logs that she had to run over length-wise required spot-on co-ordination. Viv’s inner critic stepped up to the plate and on her second attempt she darted over them without even looking at her feet. The next obstacle, a high bollard, she leapfrogged without hesitation, the only way to do it. By the time she’d completed her first round she felt ready to ring Rosanna but her call went straight to a message service. She could now tackle Sal. Her defences were repositioned.

  Viv knew that she could never know another’s mind but she could infer a lot from their behaviour. She traced Sal’s first sign of annoyance to the phone call where she said she was sick of Stetsons. Something must have happened at the airport, or just before. But what had it to do with Viv? Maybe nothing. Maybe Viv was just the first object around for Sal to target. How much of the email was to do with Viv? And if it was all about Viv, why send it to Sal?

  Too many questions. She tried Rosanna again. Viv hated to disappoint a client and on the whole bent over backwards to accommodate their needs but where was she going to be?

  Rosanna answered. Viv said, ‘Hi, if there was a chance that you could get someone to blow-dry it, to tide you over, I’ll be back in Edinburgh on . . .

  She was interrupted. ‘Actually, Viv, it’s not so desperate. I managed to find my Vent brush. I’d mislaid it and been trying to use an old round thing. Anyway, it’s fine. Everything is fine, and I’ve got something in the diary for two weeks’ time. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have hassled you. You know what I’m like if I can’t get my hair right.’

  Viv did, but Rosanna was not the only client whose life collapsed if their blow-dry didn’t work.

  With one less thing to think about, she rang Mac. ‘Hi, Mac, dinner is off.’

  ‘Oh, okay. How’s Sal?’

  ‘Don’t ask. I can’t work out what’s going on with her. Three days ago she was dying to get back to see me and now she can hardly look me in the eye. She’s had this email which, I think from the way she’s acting, must be frickin’ apocalyptic. Hang on, there’s another call coming through. I’ll have to take it. It’s Sal. Speak later’ . . . ‘Hey, are you done? I’m only five minutes away.’

  ‘I’ll wait in reception.’

  As she drove into the car park Sal trotted down the steps of the front entrance. Nothing about the building was pleasing. Function over form.

  ‘The email came from someone who works for, or around, NHS Scotland. Gordon traced it to a machine in Edinburgh Royal Infirmary. You know anyone who works there, Viv?’

  ‘A couple of people, but no one that’d do anything to hurt me. How about you?’

  Sal sat silently looking ahead as they drove out on the Queensferry Road. The pious Queen Margaret had taken this route to catch a ferry she had organized for pilgrims to cross the river Forth to St Andrews. It ran for almost a thousand years before the bridges were built. But Viv and Sal were no pilgrims and were heading for the Bo’ness turn-off, before the road bridge, then onto the M9.

  ‘Viv . . . someone got into my financial accounts and my files at the solicitors’.’

  Viv snapped, ‘Yeah, I got that back there.’ This came out more abruptly than she’d intended, so she softened. ‘So have you contacted the lawyers yet? There has to be an emergency number for them.’

  ‘They’ve not only hacked my account.’ Sal looked over at Viv who turned briefly and caught her look of concern.

  ‘What? What are you saying . . . or not saying as it seems?’

  ‘They’ve hacked into yours as well.’

  Now Viv was confused. ‘How . . . I mean how is that possible? Why would anyone want both of our account details?’

  ‘I’m only going to guess here, but it may be about inheritance.’

  Viv took her foot off the accelerator unconsciously, but the driver behind didn’t delay in tooting. She gesticulated and put pressure back on the accelerator, digesting what Sal had said. They were used to unpacking what motivated people but at the moment Sal was more qualified to make this judgement since she had all the information.

  ‘But why would you keep this from me? Why wouldn’t you let me check that email’s path? And how do you know that they’ve got access to my account?

  Sal shook her head. ‘Because they quoted from your details as well as mine. So I am assuming that you didn’t hand those over and that they’ve accessed your account and your solicitor’s files.’

  ‘Okay.’ Viv bit her lip and tried to keep calm. ‘What exactly did the email say?’

  ‘I’ve had three. Mostly bad-mouthing you.’

  Viv thumped the steering wheel. ‘Shit! T
his is crazy . . . I can’t talk about it until we get home. I need to see exactly what they’ve sent you.’

  The rest of the journey took twenty minutes and neither spoke until they reached the house. When Viv said, ‘You don’t want me to stay. Fine. But I need to see that email . . . before I head back to Edinburgh.’

  The temperature dropped a few degrees, but they entered the cottage together, where Sal, resigned and exhausted, handed Viv her laptop and trudged upstairs with her case.

  Viv automatically reached for the electric kettle, still not convinced of how efficient the Aga was, but decided against making anything. The laptop was still on with direct access to Sal’s accounts. Her current email account was the one that they’d sent the threatening email to, but first they had hacked into the deactivated one for information. It struck Viv that perhaps there was more than one person involved. But she soon became so wrapped up and appalled by the vitriol of the correspondence that the notion went into the recesses of her mind.

  No wonder Sal was alarmed. She was right, the details they had about both of their finances could only have come from solicitors’ files. Details about Dawn’s legacy to Viv were there in black and white, and ditto Sal’s inheritance from her aunt. Viv, astonished at how much Sal had in assets, was just about to become indignant about Sal keeping secrets when she remembered she hadn’t spoken to Sal about all that she had tucked away. They’d never discussed the ins and outs of their income or their properties. Why would they? But whoever sent this knew everything that mattered and was accusing Viv of being a gold-digger, only interested in Sal for what she could get. Viv snorted when she read this. Money was so far off Viv’s radar that this was clearly from someone who had never met her.

  Viv and Sal had on occasion mentioned how grateful they were not to have to worry about where the next meal was coming from but they’d never spoken about details. Viv had no idea that Sal owned the whole estate, tower house, cottages, barns, fishing rights etc. etc. And seeing in print what she owned herself made her squirm in her seat. Her solicitor had set it out for her at the beginning, but she’d more or less buried the information, not knowing what to do with it. What she did remember was telling the solicitor that she didn’t want it, and that they’d have to find a way of ‘dealing’ with it. But in the meantime it would be held in a trust until she decided.

  A thought crossed Viv’s mind that was so ridiculous that she had to entertain it more than once before enough words formed that she might run them by Sal. She took the stairs two at a time but found Sal curled up on the bed fully clothed with her back to the door. Viv gently pulled the duvet over her, closed the door, and returned to the laptop.

  Viv decided there was no harm in searching where Gordon had already been. Only she’d take the quick route. The NHS system was complicated but not difficult for someone with her techie skill and she soon had the details of the machine where the email had come from. It was live and Viv could watch the activity. If Viv took Sal’s laptop and drove to Edinburgh Royal there was a chance she could catch the person using it in the act, even though they were not making contact with Sal. Suddenly the familiar ping of an email arriving made Viv sit up. They were trying again. How could she track the user? There had to be a way. Could she get to Edinburgh and back before Sal stirred? Viv knew Sal would be livid if her laptop disappeared. But hey ho. It would be worth it if Viv could catch whoever it was. Before she set out she sent an email from her phone to a friend who knew slightly more than she did about tracking, and by the time she’d been to the loo and was heading out the door she’d received a reply. Her own information was up to date but her chum had attached an app that would help maintain the strength of the signal. So long as she didn’t lose the connection on Sal’s laptop she’d be able to go to within a few metres of where the culprit was working. Viv forwarded the app to Sal’s laptop, making a mental note to remember to remove it before she brought it back, then she was off.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a long shot. The Rav’s petrol gauge was showing red, and there was no way she’d make it to a fuel stop on the motorway. She prayed that the village station was still open and punched the air when she saw its lights on. Once the tank was full she felt confident that she could get to Edinburgh and back without Sal knowing she’d been gone. Saturday night before seven o’clock the roads were quiet and Viv belted down the M9 in under an hour. The Royal Infirmary was on the east side of Edinburgh so it meant dual carriageway all the way.

  The hospital car park was busy and she had to circle for five minutes before finding a space. She ignored multiple signs asking if she’d purchased her ticket and headed straight in the front door. Once inside she grabbed a chair and made a few entries on Sal’s laptop. The battery was low but Viv crossed her fingers in the hope that there was enough back-up to get her to the console, and the originator of this activity. She marched along corridors, took the stairs at a pace, then suddenly the signal disappeared. ‘Shit!’

  A young man striding by with his ID card flapping on a ribbon round his neck, glanced at her and shook his head, not because of her expletive, but because simultaneously her mobile rang and she’d automatically reached for it, a total no no in the HDU where she found herself. So intent on watching the signal, she hadn’t noticed straying into an area of the mechanical sighs and beeps inevitable in intensive care wards. She switched her phone to silent and continued to the nearest corridor. Sal’s laptop battery was also on the blink and with gritted teeth Viv marched back down stairs racking her brain for a way to make good this technical hitch. Her first thought was to search for someone in a waiting room with a charger. Even if she got ten minutes plugged in she’d be able to return to the position where she’d lost the signal in the hope that it would kick in again.

  Saturday night in A&E meant far too many drunks but it was still worth a try. So, checking the overhead signs, she followed the arrows to the busiest department in the hospital. It was buzzing, but also had many heads bowed, eyes staring at screens, mainly ipads or iphones. No sign of any leads. A nurse came in and shouted a name, which Viv didn’t catch because of a wailing child, whose super-sized mother, doing little to comfort it, was tutting and grumbling because no one would give her a seat. Added to this, a group of guys wearing matching green tracksuits were having a caper at the other end of the room, taking riotous selfies. One holding another in a head-lock. Nothing in the world funnier.

  Viv about-turned and headed back to the front desk where four receptionists were taking calls and directing people to wards. Eventually one of them had a reprieve and Viv asked, ‘Is there a quiet room where . . .?’

  The woman pointed to a sign, not interested in Viv finishing her request. ‘Try there.’ Then she was distracted as her colleague asked her to do something with the computer. ‘The Chapel.’

  Viv wasn’t looking to pray, she was looking for a charger, although at the rate she was going perhaps prayer wasn’t such a bad idea. There had to be a charger somewhere. Of all the people that she knew who worked here she couldn’t think of one that she’d let in on what she was up to. She wanted to remain anonymous. She leaned against a wall at the bottom of a staircase, the quietest area in the place. She blew out a huge sigh. If she relaxed she’d think straight. Was she on a wild goose chase? The connection was lost, and she hadn’t been intelligent enough to grab a charger before she left. Then she remembered a possibility, another real long shot, in the toolbox in her car. She ran back, opened the boot of the Rav and there, among the shiny unused spanners and locking wheel nuts, she found a carton, bought for ninety-nine pence with so many litres of petrol, which contained a selection of connectors that plugged into the lighter socket − but nothing that would do for the Mac. ‘Fuck!’ was all she could manage as she tossed the carton back into the toolbox.

  She looked heavenward at a clearing sky and felt the chilly air begin to seep in beneath her collar. Leaning against the tailgate it dawned on her that she could swap batteries from he
r laptop to Sal’s. She cursed at herself for being such an idiot and set about it. It took longer than she had thought because she couldn’t see well enough to negotiate the tiny screwdriver into its back panel beneath the Rav’s eco-lighting.

  With the live battery in place she booted up Sal’s machine again, but whoever had been online had disconnected. She thumped the passenger seat. ‘Damn.’ A guy passing pressed a fob to unlock his car, parked opposite Viv, and tossed her an it-can’t-be-that-bad glance. She looked the other way before she told him to go to fuck. She climbed into the driver’s seat and shut the world out. After a few deep breaths another possibility had her changing the batteries back again. She ‘opened’ Sal’s email account on her own computer and convinced herself that since nobody had died Sal would understand why she’d do this.

  Within a few minutes she heard a ‘ping’. ‘Yes!’ The console inside the hospital was back online, which didn’t mean that the same person was using it, but what the heck, she ran back into the building and up the stairs, gripping her laptop. A narrow corridor with light wooden doors on either side was where the signal became most insistent. It was in an area for teaching, with seminar rooms and a lecture theatre, both with partial glass doors and no sign of patients. At the end of the corridor Viv passed through double doors. In this area each door was closed, and if the signal was true, behind one of them someone held a grudge against her and Sal. Most doors had a nameplate with a Doctor or Professor prefix. Viv stopped outside the door where the signal blinked consistently, and was intrigued to find Professor S. Sanchez written on the plate. Interesting. Now what? She hadn’t really thought this through.

  Relieved that the door, although relatively new, had an old fashioned lock, the type that was easy to pick, she stood very still, hoping to hear movement inside. Then the corridor was plunged into darkness. She swore softly, but the second she moved the lights flickered to life again. Her heart raced at the idea of knocking on the door. This connection didn’t make sense. If the Steve that Ger was having an affair with was behind the emails, he would be a formidable opponent, both physically – if the need arose − and psychologically. He didn’t get a chair in neuroscience by being a dimwit.