Deception is the Old Black

by V Clifford

  With the sound of an intake of breath Viv visualised Jules at her desk drawing in a lungful of nicotine, not a care for the non-smoking law.

  ‘You know me. Not the sharing type.’

  ‘It’s not what I’ve heard. You and Buchanan the biographer . . .’

  Viv shook her head. So it was the FM Jules was interested in and not the Queen after all. ‘Bye, Jules. I’ll let you know.’ Too late, she was speaking to the dead tone.

  Viv glared at the handset. Nothing in this town was sacred. She sighed. Then a message pinged into her inbox. One of the guys from the ‘Hacker Cracker’ site had come up with a code to track Roderick’s phone. It took her a few minutes to install but once completed she was ready to follow him wherever he was heading.

  She packed her rucksack then made for the loo. She locked up and took the stairs two at a time. The screen on her phone had a map showing a flashing red dot following what she prayed was Roderick on the move with his phone. The dot was moving too quickly for him to be walking or running so she assumed he must be on a bicycle or in a car. When the red dot began to speed along a straight trajectory she realised he was on the old railway track and the only way he’d be going that speed was on a bike. It wouldn’t take him long to reach the Turkish café, if that’s where he was going. Fingers crossed.

  Heavy traffic meant much drumming on the steering wheel, but once she made it onto Inverleith Row and turned right onto Ferry Road it was a clear run. She kept an eye on the flashing red dot until it came to rest. She reversed into a parking space and got out. With her phone in her palm it was easy to trace the actual building where the flashing dot had ceased to move at speed. It was the Turkish café. He would recognise her if he caught sight of her so she made her way back to the car, which at fifty metres from the café gave her an excellent view of the door and a row of bikes chained to the railing on the opposite side of the road. All she had to do was wait and see who else turned up or came out.

  Leith had had a makeover in the last decades. Old bonded warehouses had been transformed into chic flats, and corner shops had become delis. Pubs and restaurants occupied sites which had previously harboured sailors and prostitutes. Not so long ago a woman wouldn’t have dared walk the streets here unless she was for sale, and those women were always at risk. She wondered where they were now. Her phone vibrated. ‘Hi.’ It was Mac.

  ‘Where are you?’

  She hesitated. ‘Em, I’m in Leith.’

  ‘And what would you be doing there? You sound cagey.’

  So far she hadn’t let on to Mac that Roderick had been in Archie’s flat or that there was a connection between Roderick and Martin. ‘I’m near the Turkish café on the docks. I’ve traced Roderick’s phone. I haven’t laid my eyes on him yet so maybe someone else has his phone, but I’m hoping he’s there. I just want to see who he’s meeting.’

  ‘You and me both. I’m on my way.’

  ‘No, wait! There’s no need to come here. I’ve got this covered. It’s not as if I have to do anything other than watch . . . I’ll report to you what I see.’

  ‘Sure, Viv. We’ve enhanced that section of film with Martin Martin that you pointed out and although we can’t be absolutely sure we believe there’s a high risk that he was carrying something metal.’

  ‘But even if he was I’ve only made the connection between Roderick and this Neo-Jacobite group . . .’

  ‘We wondered if you would get there.’

  ‘What do you mean you wondered if . . .?’

  ‘Hang onto your hat. Nobody is keeping anything from you – we just couldn’t be sure and there are some things that it’s best we don’t get caught snooping around in.’

  She interrupted him. ‘No, but it’s fine if I get caught and hung out to dry for it.’

  He didn’t rise.

  She continued. ‘Oh, never mind – you don’t need to come . . . hang on.’ The door to the café opened and a group began walking towards her car. She swung round in her seat and kept her head down, pretending to search in her rucksack as Roderick, Martin and another man walked right past the car in animated conversation.

  ‘Shit. He’s on the move with Martin and another guy.’ Her brain went into overdrive. ‘I know it’s a leap but the third guy has an arm missing.’ She took the risk and said, ‘Ruddy showed me photographs of severed limbs with tats on them that look a lot like a motif that I came across again on these guys’ Facebook pages. I’ll need to move and follow them on foot. They’ve just turned into a one-way street.’ She grabbed her rucksack and with the phone pinned to her ear, set off at a safe distance behind the three men.

  Mac said, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The tattoo?’

  ‘Well, I’d need to see those photographs again, but it seems too much of a coincidence that both of the limbs had the same tat that turned up on the Facebook page of . . .’

  ‘Spit it out. What else?’

  She was conscious of not getting too close to the threesome, but had to make sure she wouldn’t lose them.

  ‘I may have spotted the motif on a jacket that Martin was wearing. It was from a newspaper cutting. A grainy photograph of him with colleagues from the Botanics. I’m almost sure he had the shield with the thistle and the swords but he had like a name badge over it so I could only make out the edges of it.’

  She heard him heave a huge sigh. ‘And you were going to tell me this when?’

  ‘I’m still not sure how they all connect but it seems more than bizarre that Roderick and Martin are meeting with some geezer who is missing his arm, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Does the guy with the arm missing have a beard?’

  ‘No. He’s tall, reddish brown hair over his collar, reddish complexion – probably a boozer. He’s wearing a khaki shirt with one sleeve tucked in on its self, jeans and trainers. Apart from the missing arm he looks innocuous. I mean he wouldn’t stand out in a crowd if it wasn’t for the arm. Martin is carrying a cycling helmet and wearing a pale blue Lycra top and skinny jeans. Roderick is wearing . . .why am I telling you this?’

  ‘Because you know that whatever they are up to Roderick has to be brought in. I’ve got a car on its way.’

  ‘But if he’s part of something bigger isn’t he more useful out and about? If you have him in for questions . . .?’

  He interrupted her. ‘It’s the law, Viv. He absconded and he’s at large – not out on a jolly.’

  ‘I get that. But he could still be more useful out here, even for the day? Hang on.’ A set of car sidelights blinked and all three men stopped and got into a vintage Nissan Bluebird. She stepped into a doorway and took a photograph on her phone of the registration number. Once they moved off she reported the number to Mac and raced back to the Rav.

  ‘Be careful, Viv.’

  ‘I’m in my car, Mac. I’m not about to jump out in front of them.’

  ‘I know you. The guy with his arm missing is no gentle giant, not the kind of man who cares about gender.’

  She heard the clunk of Mac’s car door and the engine start up. It wasn’t difficult for her to catch up with the Bluebird, since it was queuing in the lane to turn right off Constitution Street towards Leith Walk. ‘I’ve got them in my sights. They look as if they’re heading up the Walk towards town. I’ll keep following until you join me. The traffic’s dense, so I’d have to try hard to lose them.’ It suddenly occurred to her that they might be on their way to Martin Martin’s flat. Sure enough. They took a left onto his street, parked and got out. She doubleparked behind a delivery van. ‘They’ve stopped on Iona Street. This is where Martin has a flat.’

  ‘Stay on the line.’ A serious warning tone, unlike his usual self.

  She flicked the mobile onto speaker. ‘They’re not going to his flat, they’ve gone into a pub. I wonder . . .’

  ‘No wondering. Stay put. I’ll be ten minutes, tops. There should be a patrol car there any second now. Bye.’

  The van driver
in front of her closed his back doors, jumped into his cab and indicated to pull into the traffic. She was so busy watching the van that she almost missed the armless man come out of the pub and walk in her direction. She lifted her phone again and put it to her ear keeping her head tilted down until he passed. He passed by but went round the back of her Rav, stepped up to the driver’s door and yanked it open.

  He glared at her. ‘Out!’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Get the fuck out!’ He grabbed her arm and began to haul her from the car.

  She glanced around to seek help but there wasn’t anyone on foot. She kicked out at his groin but he jumped back. Before she knew what was happening he had her by the hair and pulled her head clear of the car.

  ‘What the fuck are you up to? You’ve been tailing us from the docks. Now, who are you working for and what do you want?’

  ‘Let go of my hair, fuckwit,’ she fired back, in no doubt that her words would be inflammatory.

  He gripped her hair tighter. She squealed. Only having one hand didn’t inhibit him. Now that she was up close to him she could see how worn his face was. His nose was a map of thread veins, and his eyes showed that his liver had worked overtime. Still, however hard his body had been taxed his grip was plenty strong enough and he was determined to hold on.

  ‘I repeat. What the fuck do you want?’

  She swallowed. Disgusted by his sour breath. Through gritted teeth she said, ‘Not you, so let go of my hair, you shit!’

  He screwed the hair tighter. She squealed again and punched out at his gut. It was hopeless. There wasn’t enough space for her to pull her arm back and land a decent blow. He had trapped her between the car seat and the door. She kicked out at his shin and connected. He swore and twisted her hair so tight that she thought she felt the roots snap.

  ‘Bastard. I couldn’t give a toss about you.’

  ‘So who are you giving a toss about? You’re not following my wheels for nowt.’

  ‘Wheels? More like a pram you’ve got there with two . . .’

  He pushed his body against her, then brought his knee up in a ferocious blow to her groin. It might not have done the damage that it would have to a man, but she doubled over. She remained bent for a few seconds then whipped her head up and connected with his chin. She heard something crack.

  ‘Bitch! You’ll regret that.’ He bundled her back inside the car, pushing her over the handbrake and gear stick, clambering in clumsily. Then he pulled the door closed and released her hair. He clicked the locks. She rubbed her scalp and fingered a handful of hair that fell onto her shoulder, no longer attached. Incensed, she punched out at the side of his head, but he now had an open flick knife pointed at her thigh.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she said.

  He brandished the knife close to her face. His gums were bleeding. ‘Never mind who I am. What are you doing tailing me?’

  ‘I told you I couldn’t care less about you.’

  ‘So if it’s not me it must be Martin.’

  She didn’t answer.

  He drew the knife up to her neck. ‘Don’t think this is for decoration.’ He suddenly jerked around to check out the back seat, as if expecting someone or something to be there.

  A patrol car drove past on the other side of the road. Sweat trickled down her sides. The knife reminded her of a barber’s cutthroat razor. Its edges paper thin and sharp. One silly move could slice an artery. She took a deep breath.

  But as if he sensed she was building up to move, he sneered, ‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’ He brought the knife up to her cheek. The sun caught it and it glinted dramatically.

  She took another long breath, glanced in the rear view mirror and saw two police officers walking along the pavement towards the Rav. They were chatting then suddenly stopped and one of them spoke into a little microphone on the edge of his uniform. He began looking around. To her dismay they about turned and walked back the way they’d come. She bit her lip.

  ‘Aye. You can bite your lip all you want. But you’re no going anywhere until you tell me who you are and why you’ve been tailing me.’

  ‘Christ! Listen to yourself. You’re like a broken record.’

  He shook his head. ‘You’ve got balls.’ He raised the knife and with a tiny flick nicked her cheek. Blood trickled down her face. ‘Your face could be destroyed in a second with this.’ He turned the knife from side to side, staring at it with admiration.

  She wiped the warm blood with the back of her hand, catching it before it dripped onto her shirt. Where the hell had the cops gone? She glanced again in the rear view mirror. No sign of their returning. She persisted. ‘What’s your name?’

  He snorted. ‘What, we becoming fucking mates now?’

  She shook her head. ‘My name’s Julia. I work as a PI. One of Martin’s exes has paid me to . . . ‘

  ‘Don’t make me laugh. You think I zip up the back?’

  ‘No. But if you don’t believe me you should ask him.’ She nodded towards the door of the pub where Martin Martin had appeared with helmet in hand and was looking right and left.

  Martin shifted from foot to foot. He hadn’t spotted them inside the car. Both Viv and her captor watched as he ran his hands through his hair. He was definitely edgy, his head moving from side to side. He glanced back into the pub, then turned left and marched off in the direction of his flat at the other end of the street.

  Her captor screwed up his eyes and held them on Martin’s back until he disappeared into his building. Then he twisted round to face her. ‘No way of checking that now,’ still brandishing the knife.

  Viv was in no doubt that having one arm didn’t make him less of an opponent. His upper body was toned and his grip had been vice-like, but she had to get out of the car before he really lost patience and used the knife to greater effect. She stretched her arm down to the floor as if about to pick something up.

  ‘Don’t fucking try . . .’

  Too late, she balled her fist, flicked her wrist backward into his face, and with all her strength and agility pushed the release button on the door and stumbled out. He dropped the knife but grabbed at her shirt. The sound of linen tearing gave her the impetus to give one almighty yank and she was free. He scrambled over the passenger seat but she was already too far away for him to catch her. She ran and ran until she reached Leith Walk. Mac had said ten minutes tops. Where the hell was he? Glancing back there was no sign of anyone following – if he’d any sense he’d have taken himself in the opposite direction. She was about to continue up the Walk when a patrol car raced round the corner. She ran onto the road as if she was going to jump in front of it. It screeched to a halt.

  ‘Were you sent by DCI Marconi?’

  The female driver nodded. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Never mind, I’m fine, but I think Roderick Howarth is in that pub.’ She gestured along the street. As she pointed she saw Roderick and the one-armed guy getting into the Bluebird. ‘Quick. They’re getting into that car.’

  The patrol car shot off and managed to cut in front of the Bluebird. Both men jumped out and ran in different directions. Roderick towards her. He spotted her and dodged round a car and into the middle of the road. She followed, causing a four by four to do an emergency stop. The man inside shouted at her as she waved an apology and bolted after Roderick. He made the mistake of glancing back and bumped into a large delivery man carrying a box which he let fall. The van man stumbled and took Roderick down with him.

  As she caught up he lay on the ground in submission and smiled at her. ‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this.’

  She couldn’t help but smile back. She grabbed his hand, noticing that her own hands were covered in blood. She pulled him to his feet. He squeezed her hand then released the tension as if he might take off. She pushed one arm up behind his back. ‘Now don’t make me hurt you.’

  He relaxed. ‘I don’t think you . . .’

  Another police car turned and parked across the mi
ddle of road, blocking traffic from entering.

  Roderick whispered. ‘Shit.’

  She said. ‘You didn’t think I’d come alone?’

  He shook his head. At the far end of the road she saw another couple of police cars block the way and the officers got out and ran towards Martin Martin’s building.

  Roderick laughed. ‘They’ve got the wrong address.’

  She knew if it was Martin they were after then they had the right address. Another police car arrived. Buses, they were just like buses. More officers joined the others outside Martin’s flat. They had earpieces and were obviously listening to orders. The four of them left the door to the flat and walked toward the pub. But before they reached it the door burst open and a group of men, she counted seven, ran at the officers screaming a chant that she couldn’t make out.

  ‘You know what they’re saying?’

  Roderick shrugged. ‘It’s “freedom”, in Gaelic.’

  ‘For God’s sake, do they think they’re in a Mel Gibson movie?’

  He bristled. ‘You’ve . . .’ He didn’t get the chance to finish.

  Mac appeared with another officer who smartly snapped a set of handcuffs onto Roderick’s wrists.

  Viv grinned.

  Mac started at the sight of her. ‘What happened to you?’

  She’d forgotten that she had a bloody face and put her equally bloody hand up to wipe it again. It was dry. She left it alone. Viv turned to Roderick as he was ushered to a patrol car. ‘What’s your friend’s name?’

  He grinned. ‘Which one?’

  The bravado of youth. She pointed to the man who’d nicked her face with the knife. ‘Him.’

  Mac shouted back as he jogged away toward the dispersing men. ‘Don’t worry. We know who he is.’

  Roderick was bundled into the back of the car. Viv stared at the men that the officers had rounded up and recognised one from a photograph on Facebook. What the heck were they all up to? She wandered back to the Rav and grabbed her phone and her rucksack.

  She read a text message from Ruddy. ‘You can stand down. Mac and his cavalry will sort out the rest.’

  There were a lot of officers around now, as if they’d been expecting more trouble than they’d got. A van arrived and the men who’d been rounded up were put into the back and driven off.