Deception is the Old Black

by V Clifford

  Viv turned and strode back to the cop who, with his hand protecting the man’s head, was guiding him into the back of an unmarked car. Now that Viv could see him clearly he was definitely more boy than man; looked about sixteen maybe seventeen years old. One thing that struck Viv about him was the absence of tats.

  Once the door of the car was closed she said to the security man. ‘What’s your name?’

  He bristled, his jaw tightening. ‘I am the one asking the questions?’

  She handed him her phone. It would be difficult to explain what her role was since she wasn’t clear what it was herself.

  He took the phone and looked at it before putting it to his ear. Mac must have said who he was and asked for his name. ‘Parker. I was going to take him to St Leonards . . . okay . . . okay. We’ll bring him.’ He stared at Viv as he spoke to Mac. ‘Fettes it is.’ He handed Viv back her phone. ‘You have to come along for the ride.’

  She’d thought this would be the case and she followed him to another unmarked car with a driver. He opened the back door but she took a seat in the front and watched Parker raise his eyebrows.

  ‘I get car sick.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘I’m not on a power trip. I genuinely can’t sit in the back.’

  He put his hands up and got in behind her. The driver, a young man with the beginnings of a beard, smirked. Viv smiled then turned round in her seat. Parker was good looking, despite a nose that had clearly been broken, clean shaven, greenish brown eyes, kind of rugged but unassuming. His thick coarse curls had been cut so short that they had no way of expressing themselves other than through his wayward hairline. Viv guessed he’d have to have it cut every three weeks to keep it contained. ‘I wonder if someone got his tee shirt?’

  ‘That’s what we’re about to find out.’

  A voice from the radio cut in from the other car. ‘Arrived at HQ. Shall I wait or hand him over? There’s a welcoming committee.’

  Parker leaned forward and pressed a release button. ‘If it’s DCI Marconi hand him over. No one else.’

  They were only a few minutes behind the other car and as they swung into Fettes’ car park Viv spotted the young man being ‘unloaded’ at the far end of the building. She was intrigued to see what happened next and walked towards them.

  Parker called out, ‘Excuse me, Madam, that’s a restricted zone.’

  She gestured to the end of the building. ‘I thought I’d take a look over there.’

  He shook his head. ‘Please follow me.’

  She shrugged. If she wanted to see down there she’d find a way.

  She nodded to Billy at reception and he grinned, giving rise to a grunt from Parker.

  ‘Who are you? And why is he reacting to you as if you’re the tooth fairy?’

  ‘Maybe I am. All you have to do is believe.’ And over her shoulder as she walked in the direction of the downstairs interview rooms, she threw, ‘I did catch your criminal, after all.’

  He quickly stepped in front of her and opened the door to let her through.

  ‘Thank you. I’m a big fan of gentlemanly conduct.’

  Their steps echoed on shiny grey vinyl tiles as they walked down a barren greenish corridor. The public were not permitted down here unless they were cuffed.

  They met Marconi coming toward them. He shook Parker’s hand and said, ‘He’s being processed. Good work, Viv. I’m sure that wasn’t coincidence.’

  ‘You know how I feel about coincidence.’

  He nodded. ‘Still, it’ll be interesting to find out what he thought he was up to. I can’t imagine he doesn’t realise how grave it is to attack HM. Probably thought it’d be a laugh. Well, he’s just about to find out about the sense of humour failure the royal household is having about this. Not to mention the Archers and the High Constables.’

  ‘Christ, Mac, they are a total farce. There’s no way that lot should be given duties, even ceremonial. In fact delete that unless completely static. They need to do a clean sweep and recruit a whole new army under forty.’ She snorted.

  ‘For God’s sake. The Archers are equivalent to the Beefeaters at the Tower of London. They’re not meant to really guard the Queen. They’re decorative.’

  Parker stood in silence, until Viv realised he thought they were talking about his lot.

  ‘I’m talking about the coffin dodgers with the dark green uniforms and the guys in the toppers. Not . . .’

  Parker interrupted her. ‘I get it. What I don’t get is how you got the heads up on a possible threat.’

  Mac jumped in. ‘Viv’s one of us. If she was in on it she was for good reason. She doesn’t need to justify herself.’

  ‘Look do I really need to be here?’

  ‘Yes,’ The two men said in unison.

  She sighed and stared at Mac, trying to size up how much to say in front of Parker.

  He nodded his understanding and said, ‘Coffee? She won’t function without caffeine.’

  Parker spotted it. ‘I get it. I’ll go and see how he’s settling in while you two have your little tête-à-tête.’

  Parker walked off toward his colleagues and Mac said, ‘ So how come you were in the right place at the right, or was it wrong, time?’

  The fact that he was asking the question meant that he doubted that it was simply a coincidence. ‘Luck.’ She shrugged and turned at the sound of a door opening further down the corridor. Sal stepped out and stopped in her tracks. She looked as if she was weighing up her options. She closed the door gently behind her and waved an acknowledgement but walked off in the opposite direction.

  Viv stood with her mouth open. She looked at Mac, then back at the end of the corridor where the door that Sal had exited was still creaking on its hinges. ‘What the hell . . .’

  Mac shook his head. ‘I’m not getting involved. I’m only interested in how you knew that something was happening at St Giles’.’

  His eyes urged her, but she didn’t bite. If Ruddy hadn’t involved Mac it was also for good reason, and until Viv found out what that was she’d keep her mouth shut. ‘Honestly. I was on my way to . . .’

  Her hesitation was all Mac needed. ‘Fair enough. No point in my wasting time trying to prise it out of you. But you’ll still have to describe what happened for the tape. Come on.’

  She grudgingly followed him until they entered an interview room, where he left her with a DS who took her statement. Viv knew the form and estimated that if she played the game she would be on her way in thirty minutes. Sure enough the DS was efficient and obviously recognised Viv as part of Marconi’s inner circle.

  It wasn’t until Viv was back in the car park that she remembered she was on the hoof. She walked briskly into Comely Bank and turned left toward the busy shopping area of Stockbridge, a village within the city, which valued its autonomy. Good coffee houses and charity shops heaved with middle-class bohemians who either lived in a nearby district called ‘The Colonies’, or were camping with friends for the festivals. She perused the shelves of the Oxfam bookshop, always a must, then, seduced by a waft of real caffeine, retired to a café to luxuriate in an espresso and read her purchase.

  Viv slipped her fleece over the back of the first vacant chair and scanned the room. The tables by the windows were full. This was as close as she could get to a view. She wondered what was unique about Stockbridge. There were many hamlets within Edinburgh. The Grassmarket, Bruntsfield and the Shore also had their own identities, but she was pushed to tease out exactly what they were. Eventually she decided it was the people. It could only be the people who frequented the shops, bars and cafés. ‘Suits’ didn’t make it as far as these villages unless they were walking through them on their way to somewhere else. George Street was for them, with their leather shoes that made feet look much longer than they actually were.

  The West Bow relied on a population of tourists, students and staff from the university and the art college, and at the weekends, hen and stag parties – more evid
ent at night than during the day. She glanced round as the waitress brought her espresso. Most people were reading something, palmtops, even the odd book or newspaper. This made her smile. Trees were not out of danger yet. At the Oxfam bookshop she had picked up a second-hand copy of Darwin’s Worms; she’d lent her first copy to someone and never got it back. Phillips was her go-to non-fiction writer and she had to drag herself away from his tantalising prose. As he says, ‘We are always relaxing in the killing fields’, a reference to nature, and the beauty of what we see as only being a fragment of the whole picture. For nature to flourish things must die. He was so on the money about that. She closed the book and went to pay her bill. The walk home would only take twenty minutes, as long as she didn’t get distracted.

  She’d barely gone ten paces when she caught a glimpse of Sal’s familiar and unique upright walk. Viv stared as Sal tried and failed to compete with other pedestrians on the pavement. She was clearly in a hurry, but couldn’t get moving for window shoppers. Eventually she skipped onto the road, round a parked car and back onto a gap on the pavement. Viv considered calling out to her but didn’t, and was relieved that she hadn’t when she saw why Sal was in such a rush. Just before the bridge over the Water of Leith Viv spotted the female from the car park. She scooped Sal up in an unequivocal embrace before they marched off along Henderson Row, arms round each other’s waists.

  Viv felt a lump rising in her throat. She swallowed, tucked her book and bookmarks into the waistband of her Ron Hills and jogged up Frederick Street, over George and Princes Streets then up the Mound, easier to navigate than the Playfair Steps. ‘You’d better get used to it’ was what she kept telling herself. She wished she had taken the time to do a bit more research on the new woman. There was definitely something familiar about her. But there again, in Edinburgh lots of people looked familiar.

  As she closed the door of the flat, her mobile rang. She looked at the display – it was Mac. ‘Hi . . .’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home. Why?

  ‘He’s escaped.’

  ‘No way! How the hell did that happen?’

  ‘Trying to find that out. But it was Parker’s men who were looking after him.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Hitting the fan as we speak.’ They were cut off.

  She continued pulling off her trainers hopping down the hallway into the sitting-room, and slumping onto the couch flicked on the television, as if that would somehow explain what Mac had reported. How on earth could a young man escape from police custody so quickly? It had to be an inside job. She rang Mac back. ‘Hi. It has to be someone on the inside. CCTV?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve thought of that.’ His tone irritated.

  ‘Don’t get at me, matey. I wasn’t the one who lost him.’

  She heard him sigh. ‘We’ve got footage of two figures in hoodies. They knew the lay-out of the building. I’ll let you know when we find them. Oh and Viv, I’ll get you to take a look at the NTF consoles after all. How soon could you get back here?’

  She sighed and checked her clock. ‘Within the hour.’

  ‘I’ve arranged an emergency meeting. This is definitely an emergency.’

  She was about to answer but he was already gone. She pictured the chaos at Fettes and chewed on her lip. Would now be the best time to check their computers? She knew a way of doing it from her sitting room, but there were other things she could find more easily if she were in situ.

  She packed a few bits and pieces, including an entry card, and headed for the Rav. She wondered if HQ suffered from SAD; it was so dull and uninspiring. She continued past the car park and stopped on the side road outside Fettes’ College. The more discreet she was the better. She hoped there were no smokers lurking at the entrance, although since the ban they shouldn’t be anywhere within the building or grounds. Still, good to see one or two who’d ignored the memo. Once inside she acknowledged the duty sergeant on reception again and headed down to the basement. There were people in the corridors but she hoped the cyber-hub, as they were supposed to call it, was empty.

  She slid the card into the entry slot and the door hissed open. There was a plan for an iris recognition system but the software still had to be fully loaded with the identities of users. She guessed that by the time they got round to putting it in something equally morbid would have been designed to take its place. How odd that all staff’s unique eyeballs were on a database somewhere. Viv stood for a minute, visualising where each of the analysts sat. Mac’s meetings were notoriously quick. So she set to work. Her main task was to find what personal stuff they were doing from their work consoles. If they had wisdom they’d be doing very little beyond the occasional game of solitaire in their breaks, but most analysts liked a bit of risk.

  Viv settled at the first console, which was where Frances worked. The hum of too much electricity coursing round the room was not the most reassuring sound. She could tell a lot from the way people organised their desks, and worried more about those who were uber-tidy than those who were shambolic. The doodles on a pad at the side of her computer were fascinating. Lips, lots of lips; full, thin, coloured in, not coloured in. Telling. She noticed that there were a few who’d ignored the no-wet-substances-at-your-desk rule and there were one or two mugs, half-full of coffee, defiantly in sight of anyone who cared to complain. No bad thing, she thought.

  Frances’ computer sprang into life as soon as she nudged the mouse. Viv scrolled through the history, clicking here and there to clarify a site. Frances played in work time, she ordered stuff online and was a fan of Lara Croft, making it easier to build her profile. Her spending habits were erratic. Recently she’d been on a cosmetics spree. Viv would never have been able to tell from the weekend away. Her concern about cellulite was costing her dearly, although there was no evidence of her having any. Viv whistled at one purchase for face cream costing over £100, which made Viv’s own beauty regime look like a pauper’s. Frances hadn’t struck Viv as a girlie girl who would spend her hard earned on miracle cures, but she’d bought a box of hair crayons and that wasn’t a sign of sanity. Her reading habits were no surprise: a thriller binger. Once she found an author she liked she bought the canon. Viv could empathise with that; she was partial to binge reading herself. Apart from clearly having trouble with her drains, since she’d bought multiple packs of an industrial cleaner, Viv couldn’t find anything untoward – although the Amazon algorithms must have gone awol, since they were targeting her for babies’ nappies. Weird.

  Finally she checked deleted emails, feeling slightly bad that she might now work out whom Frances was dating. Viv uncovered emails from a dating agency, one with recommendations for how to behave on a first date. She became engrossed in details like whom they should tell where, when and with whom they were going. She laughed at the ‘no bed on first date’ rule. After a bit more digging she discovered the most recent date. It had been set up in the last month. She hacked into the man’s details. He wasn’t familiar and although quite pleasant to look at he wouldn’t have floated Viv’s boat – his hobbies included curling – ‘What’s that about?’ she said aloud before realising she was the only one listening and the hum of electricity still the only other noise. He worked in ‘horticulture’, suitably vague, which could mean anything from working on the tills at a garden centre to clambering round the Himalayas collecting plants. Frances’ frequent activity on the site justified her expenses in the body makeover department.

  The next console was Davie’s. She smiled. His mug, half full of cold milky coffee and with the words ‘Don’t Mess With The Best’ printed on both sides, sat at the side of his keyboard. ‘Good man,’ she muttered. Then wondered who had bought him the mug. No one would buy that for themself. Did Davie have someone in his life that thought he was ‘the Best’? Could be an old mug, although it didn’t look over used. His desk was just the right degree of shambolic. He probably knew where every item was, so she had to be careful not to shuffle them. He was a pen chew
er. Since returning from the west coast he’d wasted no time in joining a couple of chat rooms for canoeists, and his buying history indicated that he was serious about taking it up as a hobby; he had ordered a dry-suit. All in work time. His unopened emails were endless. She had scrolled herself into a kind of trance when a telephone rang and she almost leapt out of her skin. The phone, on another desk, rang and rang and rang until she shouted at it, ‘No one’s in!’ and it stopped. She wiped her hands on her thighs and blew out a breath. Her heart rate now higher than when she’d arrived.

  The consoles were all at the same level, on a continuous desktop. No drawers, only the large stationery cabinet at the back of the room. No one could secretly stash a bottle of Bell’s for the odd tipple.

  Satisfied that Davie’s station didn’t have anything incriminating, she moved on to Gordon’s. Too tidy. No mug, not a chewed pen in sight, and ordered piles of paper. So much for a paperless office. Already Viv could feel her judgement shift into overdrive. What kind of person was Gordon, really? Viv believed that stress and/or alcohol didn’t bring out the worst in someone, but magnified characteristics they already had. Gordon’s sarcasm began on the bus, so had he been stressed about the weekend before the start? Having his flak directed towards her had not been much fun. All groups need a scapegoat, but he had got into it early and without any good reason that Viv could discern. Still there must be a reason. What was he afraid of? A safe enough assumption since fear was our greatest motivator.

  Gordon was big on music. His buying history was mainly downloads from iTunes. Surprisingly folksy stuff, even the Corries. Viv also sympathised with him about a few of his emails from his sister, who was giving him grief for not seeing enough of her kids. What was it with siblings? They want to get on with their own lives, but as soon as that life includes kids they want everyone else to share them. His buying history included super cleaner for alloy wheels, seat covers for inside the car. Must be for those pesky nieces and nephews. She laughed. Then on hearing a noise at the door she jumped up and went into the kitchen, hoping that the person entering wasn’t Gordon or his nearest neighbours.