by V Clifford
The fridge didn’t offer anything much, but there was some deliciously smelly cheese that would do with oatcakes. She gulped down a glass of fizzy water, then refilled the glass and took it through to the sitting room with the cheese and biscuits. She flicked on the TV and scanned for something that would take her mind off the Byron Ponsonbys. She heard the ping of an email arriving in her inbox, but continued to search for something decent on the TV. There was nothing, so she went to find out who had sent the email. It was from Mac. He’d forwarded a report by the archaeologists from Sheriffmuir. She looked at the time. What was he doing working? The report noted that the bone they’d identified as newer than the rest was a section of fractured jaw. She gasped when she read the next line. It appeared to have recent scratches from a tool, possibly a Phillips screwdriver. Viv shook her head in disbelief. ‘You couldn’t make it up,’ she said to the screen, and continued to read the report. Their interpretation was that an eighteen-carat gold tooth had been gouged out. Traces of gold were still evident in the cavity. ‘Oh, my God. How desperate were they?’ She checked the time again. Ten-thirty. What the heck was Mac doing sending her an email in the middle of his date? Her fingers hovered above the keyboard before she wrote him a reply and clicked send. If he was with someone he should have his phone off.
Viv sat with a note pad and jotted down a few hypotheses, the kinds of ‘what if?’ and ‘what else could that mean?’ questions. If Maggie and Edward were brother and sister she might find something about them online. It didn’t take long. He’d been out of the family frame for thirty plus years. ‘The Black Sheep.’ At sea? She rubbed her temples, wary of getting too close to the scab, which became itchy when she went anywhere near it, a sign it was healing well. She thought she’d call it a night, but before she did she attached her findings to an email and sent it to Mac. It had barely bounced off the satellite, twenty-three thousand miles away, when an answer pinged into her box. She mused at the miracle of technology and read the message.
‘Nightcap?’
‘What the . . .’ She continued to stare at the message while mulling over her options. He wouldn’t know whether she’d read it or not. ‘Your call, Vivian,’ she whispered to the screen. Her stomach was fluttering, but she quickly ascribed that to the idea of conquest and not the reality of Mac. No chase, meant, no point. Was her attitude outdated; shouldn’t she try to get over it? She reflected on the absence of success in her relationship department. This could be her chance for change; or would it add to her list of failures? She closed the lid of the laptop and headed through to the bedroom. She climbed beneath the duvet and was stretching to switch the lamp off, but hesitated, ‘What a fuckwit you are. He’s only asking for a nightcap not, “what are you doing ‘til death do us part?”’ She threw the duvet off and went back through to the laptop. She typed, ‘Just about to hit the sack.’ And clicked send. She waited. Nothing. She waited a bit longer. Then just as she was about to close everything down her inbox pinged.
‘Too late. Just parking up at Learmonth. See you soon. M.’
She frowned. He obviously hadn’t read her reply. Miffed that the choice was no longer hers she retreated to the comfort of her duvet. She lay in the dark, her magpie brain busy with images of recent events. Beams from the occasional set of headlights flitted across the walls, lighting up objects on the chest of drawers. A small Clarice Cliff vase caught her eye. She sighed, reassured to be in familiar surroundings, safe. She thought about the women that she’d shared the container with. What had been their fate? She was in no doubt that whatever it was it would be worse than her own. At least for the time being they weren’t for sale, they weren’t the property of some pimp whose only care was for a buck. Sanchez was just like a pimp. Would a judge be lenient because he was a doctor? Would he find a good enough lawyer to get him off on a technicality? Mac had shored up enough evidence to make that difficult, but the law was not about justice. She rubbed her eyes to try to eliminate a vision of Sanchez’ leering face. Her thoughts returned to Mac. She was being stupid. What she had with Mac was mutuality, which was surely more desirable than any fling.
She rolled onto her good side and pulled her knees up to her chest. Why did she feel judged for being on her own? Wasn’t being single the new black and not the pathological state that Bridget Jones made it out to be? Although at times, not times like now, but at other times, having someone around was a comfort. Gabriella came to mind. How was she doing? Beneath the question was the fact that she hadn’t seen Gabriella around. Was the shop thriving? If not, would Gabriella be forced to move on? With this notion a strange kind of territorial relief seeped into her. Her head swam with the ghosts of girlfriends and boyfriends past as if they had been assigned to the same chamber of nightmares as Sanchez and her experience in the container. She hauled the duvet over her head, time to count sheep off the lorry and back onto the hill.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vicki Clifford was born in Edinburgh and until recently taught Religious Studies at the University of Stirling. She has an unusual background as a freelance hairdresser with a Ph.D on psychoanalysis from the University of Edinburgh. She published her first book, Freud's Converts in 2007. She lives in Perthshire, Scotland. Digging Up The Dead is the third of the Viv Fraser Mysteries.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Nicola Wood. Sue Harvey, Belinda Stansfield, Carolyn Smith, Pauline Wright and David Reith for their continued support. Without Robin Chapman Campbell with me every step of the way life would be too dull for words.
CONTACT
Website: www.vclifford.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/Vicki-Clifford-Author-372804446203766/
Twitter: @VicClifford
