by V Clifford
On her way back to the West Bow Viv wandered through the National Gallery. Not in search of a Velasquez or Ramsay, but the first free loo. There were so many people with their necks cricked staring up at the walls she imagined everyone with a migraine by the end of the day. Eventually she found what she was looking for but had to join a snake of women with the same purpose. As with counting sheep on a sleepless night she’d learned a couple of visualisations to take her mind off peeing. But it was the same business as how not to think of an elephant. You had to think of one before you could discard the image. That’s why when parents say things like, ‘Don’t put your finger in that socket’, their toddler’s finger reaches for the socket before the parent screams the next order. The image of lying on a beach in the Seychelles helped for a short time until a light wave broke on the shore, then she was in real trouble.
She rubbed her hands beneath the drier, cursing its design. Were they always fixed to the wall by men who never washed their hands after going to the loo? If they did they’d understand why the height of the drier matters. Too high and the water rushes down your wrists and forearms onto your cuffs, too low and water drips onto your new Louboutins. Not that Viv was a fan of anyone who’d made shoes that continued the tradition of foot binding. So with damp sleeves she returned to the gallery and sloped through to the back. As a child she’d visited here with the school. She recalled the sense of reverie, the silence. Her teacher’s forefinger glued to her lips in a constant reminder of hush. It felt smaller now, but no less awesome. The notion of quietly contemplating art was a thing of the past. The galleries buzzed with conversation and guards loudly clearing their throats to prevent transgressive selfies. For Viv this was a local haunt, but today it was a tourist fest. She exited into a different kind of fest, where entertainers jostled for space to perform samples of their shows. Keeping audiences rapt was no easy job. Competition was cut-throat and the temptation to move from one act to another was overwhelming. Viv squeezed along the flagstone path leading to the Playfair Steps. Traders selling felt hats to silver jewellery beneath covered stalls took up more than half of the pavement. Once at the top of the steps she dodged over the road in front of a bus, the driver giving her a blast on his horn before she reached the other side. She waved, imagining how pissed off he must be, then continued to make her way towards the West Bow on the quickest route she could.
When she reached the Lawnmarket, the upper section of the Royal Mile, she took a right and stood in the exact position where Frances’ beau had stood on the day of the attack. She glanced at the doorway to the Woollen Mill then up at the roofs. There was no way that the security guys who’d been up there wouldn’t have been aware of Martin. She’d have to find a way of speaking to them, but how? She guessed they’d be wherever the Queen was. Where might they hang out when off duty? She knew a woman who’d know. She took out her phone and scrolled.
So much for a quiet night in. George IV Bridge was packed with posh coaches parked for the evening while their passengers sat, chilled to the bone, on the Castle esplanade watching the Military Tattoo. It was tricky to get from one end of the bridge to the other but she made it to Forrest Road without killing anyone. Sandy Bell’s, a famous folksie pub that sold excellent beer, was within spitting distance of an MOD training hall. She now pushed vainly at the door. Then she tried again and it opened a few inches.
A man holding up his pint said, ‘What’s the password?’
She replied, ‘John Brown’s b . . .’ but before she had finished the door swung open and half a dozen men whose body language wasn’t without menace surrounded her. Using both palms she tried to push the one closest, close enough to smell his beery breath, but he was solid and didn’t budge.
He said, ‘Was that meant to be a joke?’
Two of the others jostled closer and she felt heat rising up her neck. Claustrophobia. ‘Back off, guys. We’re probably on the same team.’
One of them said. ‘I doubt that.’
The others laughed. But not because it was funny. They stood in this formation for too long for comfort, with Viv sensing it was a test that she’d have to pass before she’d get to the next level. She locked eyes with the beery-breathed man and held the stare until his mouth showed a hint of a smile.
He stood back and said, ‘What can we do for you?’
Viv said, ‘I need help?’
They laughed in unison. Then one of them said, ‘I’m sure we’d be up for that.’
Raucous laughter again.
Viv sighed. ‘For fuck sake, this could be a matter of national security.’ The words stuck in her throat. She almost gagged at the irony of using them for her own gain. No matter. It got their attention.
Beery breath said, ‘How might that be of interest to you?’
‘I work for the NTF.’
He raised his eyebrows and made a gesture to the others, and without further question they backed off and continued drinking. Three of them were on pints of orange juice. The other three looked as if they had the real thing, but given the seriousness of their duties she guessed it was probably non-alcoholic beer.
Viv glanced round the room and seeing no one that looked civilian guessed it had been taken over for military personnel.
He pointed to a seat at the back. They made their way through bulky bodies in tee shirts with graphics that strained to make sense over taut pecs and thick necks.
He said, ‘This had better not be some kind of joke.’ He nodded to the collection of guys they’d left behind. ‘They’re not keen on jokers.’
She launched in. ‘The other day when Her Majesty was at the High Kirk there was a man standing in a doorway on the Royal Mile. I think he had something in mind. I could be wrong but from the footage . . .’
He held up his hand. ‘You got any ID? Why would I speak to you about my job? If indeed . . .’
She didn’t let him finish, but raked around in her pocket and showed him her NTF card. The photograph was poor but he nodded his acceptance. ‘From the way he stood I think he was carrying.’
The guy snorted. ‘We’re not in some kind of US crime drama where the Marshal is a broad.’ He faked an American accent.
Viv sighed a fuck-off sigh and shook her head, but continued. ‘I think he didn’t take action because he was beaten to it by the young guy running at the Archers’ line-up.’
‘You had a ringside seat by the sounds of it. Why?’
She didn’t answer. ‘I didn’t see him on the day but have checked out the CCTV footage and I’m almost sure . . . ‘
He interrupted her. ‘Well, that’s where I become uninterested. See that “I’m almost sure”? That means no info from our side until you’re absolutely sure.’ He took a draw of his pint and Viv sensed she’d lost him. Still, at least she’d made contact.
She got up to leave.
He said, ‘You got any contact details?’
She dug back into a pocket and retrieved a card with her email address on it and handed it to him. ‘We’re on the same side, for God’s sake. Spare me the histrionics.’
Once back onto Forrest Road she ran her hands down the sides of her trousers. Then rolled her shoulders to avert the headache creeping up her neck. Must be testosterone overload. As she reached the end of the street she turned and looked back just in time to see someone step back into the doorway of Sandy Bell’s. She rubbed her eyes. Tired. Was she imagining things? She continued down Candlemaker Row but stopped halfway and spun round. She wasn’t imagining it, one of the heavies from the pub was following her. She should have expected nothing less.
He came straight up to her and stopped. One of the guys who’d been on orange juice.
‘Been sent to watch over me?’ Bravado, being the lesser part of valour.
To his credit he nodded. ‘Only seeing you home. Hope it’s not far.’
She gestured to the back of her building. ‘Barely a stone’s throw.’ She pointed. ‘See that top floor window.’ They both stopped in the middle of
the pavement.
He nodded.
‘That’s where I live. West Bow, top floor. Fraser on the buzzer. There, now does that save you the trouble?’
‘Not really. I still have to see you home.’
She shrugged. No skin off her back.
Less than five minutes later they reached her door. She said, as she put her key in the lock, ‘This is me then. Thanks for your company.’ She closed the door behind her but stood for a few seconds and thought about what he would do. If she’d been told to follow someone home and had completed the task she’d retrace her steps. She opened the outside door again and looked right and left. He was propped against the wall to her left with one finger in his ear and the other hand holding his mobile phone. She closed the door and waited.
She texted Mac and asked him to send her more CCTV footage. If she could trace Frances’ friend’s journey to the Royal Mile it could help. But in the meantime she rooted around in the junk mail in her pigeon-hole. She had an idea and stuck her head back out of the door. No sign of her companion. She jogged back up to George IV Bridge, turned right towards Chambers Street. At the end of Chambers Street she made a right onto South Bridge. Up on the left she found that increasingly rare breed, an internet café.
Under a pseudonym she created an account for the dating agency that Frances used. Logged in and found Martin Martin’s page. With a few more details she Googled him and eventually found a photograph of him with a group from the Royal Botanical Gardens, but not before being sidetracked by an earlier Martin Martin. An eighteenth-century tacksman whose tour of the Western Isles preceded Boswell and Johnston’s. Fascinating, but it would have to wait. She printed off the photograph, then as an afterthought sent him a message. Enjoying how easy it was to adopt a disguise. Her next step, a trip to the Botanics, would have to wait ’til morning.
At home she checked to see if Mac had sent the CCTV footage. He had, along with a snippy message. ‘I can guess what you’re up to but I’d prefer you let me in on it.’
She replied, ‘So far only following a hunch. Will get back to you when I’ve been through the lovely new footage you’ve lovingly sent me!’ She could almost hear him shout obscenities at his screen on the other side of town.
The latest footage was jumpy and grainy. She swore in frustration at having to go back and forth, back and forth. ‘Is this the best the digi age can come up with?’ Eventually, through piecing one set of footage together with another, she managed to trace his route all the way back down the Royal Mile to where the road divided. He entered the screen from the Abbeymount side of the Palace. There was no way that she could ask Mac for even more footage so she’d have to find an alternative way.
By the time she headed to bed her eyes were so strained she could hardly see. It took a while to find sleep but when it came she was dead. From this unconsciousness she was sure she heard a doorbell ringing. Was it part of a dream? Her psyche having a laugh? It turned out to be reality and she almost exploded out of bed. Hearing Mac’s voice through the entry system did nothing to smooth her ruffled state. She was tempted to tell him where to go, her finger paused over the release button.
‘C’mon, Viv, you know you’re going to in the end so you might as well press it now.’
He wasn’t helping his cause. She shouted, ‘Fuck off. It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Ah well, that depends on which continent you’re on.’
‘Did you hear me?’
‘I heard you. Now let me in. I’ve got news.’
She pressed the button and strode back to her bedroom for an over-sized pullover.
He entered tentatively as if expecting her to throw something at him. If only she’d thought of it she would have.
‘Coffee?’ he asked.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t push your luck.’
They went into the sitting room, where Viv realised she had stuff on her desk that she didn’t want him to see.
‘We had a call from the Holyrood household. They’ve had an intruder. Only as far as the garden but still, game enough to get himself over the boundary wall, which is no mean feat.’
‘Is that all? Surely that could have waited until morning. I need my beauty sleep.’
‘Been burning the midnight oil?’
‘No, I haven’t. Just staring at a screen for too damn long. Did anyone see who it was? I mean did they get close enough to identify that it was male?’
‘Yes. There are cameras all over the palace grounds. We’ll find him. But what have you got? I know you well. There’s no way you’d have given up a cyber chase halfway through. Spill.’ He glanced at her desk.
She stepped proprietorially in front of it. ‘Not a chance, buddy.’
‘C’mon, what have you got to hide?’
She weighed up the pros and cons of telling him now rather than later. She pulled out the photograph of Frances’ beau and handed it to him.
He screwed up his eyes. ‘Is this the guy from the footage?’
She nodded. ‘Sure is. His name’s Martin Martin. He’s Frances’ new boyfriend. You know – the one she wouldn’t tell us about.’
‘How did you . . .?’ He waved the question away. ‘Was this on her computer?’
‘No. I found it on . . . well, less said about that the better. I think he’s used Frances as a way of getting details on the Queen’s movements. If you think about it, her engagements for these couple of days were relatively last minute, only known by a few privileged souls and her inside team . . . You think the guy who broke into the garden at Holyrood knew HM was in residence? Does she sleep with the light on?’ She sniggered at his disdainful expression. ‘Just sayin’, some people can’t sleep without. And talking of sleep, are we done?’
‘Not yet. Tell me exactly what you found in the cyber hub. You haven’t given me any detail.’ He tried to make eye contact with her.
She looked at her feet. ‘I told you there wasn’t much to find.’ She glanced up. He wasn’t stupid and ultimately she’d be safer if he knew what her plans were.
Her procrastination was obvious and he said, ‘Well, what did you find that might be interesting? There’s something you’re not saying. Spit it out.’
‘Apart from the fact that I’m sure Martin is the guy standing behind Archie on the CCTV footage. He has his hand . . . actually it’ll be easier if I show you.’ She took her laptop over to the ottoman and found the footage she wanted. ‘There.’ She pointed to the screen. Mac stepped closer then perched on the edge of the couch. She knelt beside him.
He zoomed in, which made the image even more grainy. ‘I’ll get someone to enhance this.’
‘I think he’s holding something inside his jacket. Look at his right hand.’
‘We need to see more clearly. It’s too poor to tell. He could be scratching an itch.’
‘Sure.’ She shook her head. ‘I think I know what he does.’ She edged in and found the dating website, and brought up his details. ‘Seems to have trained in horticulture at the Botanics. I wonder if he was the guy in the Palace gardens?’ Thinking out loud.
‘We’ll soon find out . . . Surely Frances knows the score?’ He sighed, rubbed his elegant fingers over his face. ‘Christ sake. She knows she . . .’
‘What? That she shouldn’t have a life? I found this.’ She pointed to the photograph of the man with a group of colleagues from the Royal Botanical Garden. ‘I thought I’d go and check them out. See if they know where he is now.’
‘And when were you going to let me in on this little nugget?’
She shrugged. ‘It might be a red herring. I’d have let you know when I found him.’
‘This is serious, Viv.’
‘Who’s laughing?’
‘What else have you been up to? And don’t give me that look.’
‘I’ve been and spoken to the marksmen who were on the roof.’
‘For fuck sake! How did you find them?’
‘I have my ways.’ She grinned, but he wasn’
t buying it. ‘Okay. You know that you’re not the only person who asks me to do the odd job.’
He conceded but still looked peeved. ‘You might keep me in the loop.’
‘If you’re meant to be in the loop then you’ll be in the loop. It’s not worth my telling you. Ditto if you give me work you wouldn’t want me blabbing to anyone one else, especially not another branch of SIS.’
‘Thank you, that’s all I needed to know.’
She gave a little bow. ‘Now can I get some sleep?’
He moved towards the door. ‘You all right otherwise?’
‘Never better.’
He batted her response into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The following morning Viv had clients to visit, but had her sights set on checking out the Botanics later in the day. The sky was overcast, but so long as the rain stayed away the streets would still be heaving with tourists. With her usual slice of hot buttered toast and a cup of coffee she scanned her emails.
Angus had sent a reminder about his having friends round for drinks and the fireworks to mark the end of the Festival. She didn’t really have an excuse not to go and was keen to see him again, although she wasn’t sure about meeting his chums. She sent a brief reply, saying she’d do her best to get there. Good to keep her options open.
Edinburgh was a small place when it came to who knew whom. Rosie Hacket, Viv’s first client, was a known gossip, a freelance graphic designer, with lots of work from the National Galleries’ book department. However, her main occupation was networking and she never missed a single private view in town. Viv would be exhausted by the time she’d heard about her social exploits. Rosie had an Oxbridge radar. Everyone she’d met had ‘double firsts’ from Oxford or Cambridge or was sleeping with Prince Andrew. Access to such information made Viv nervous, since in the past she’d been blamed for passing on private information, which she hadn’t, but it took a bit of convincing as to who the real source had been. Rosie lived in a lovely colony house off Pilrig. It was one of Edinburgh’s hidden gems. Easy parking in a quiet street a stone’s throw from the main artery of Leith Walk.
