by V Clifford
Once armed with a proper sized cup of industrial strength coffee she booted up her laptop. As she waited for it to come to life she glanced round her sitting room, reflecting on what it said about her. It might be described as anti-minimalist, since although tiny, it was decorated in a way that would have been a comfort to the Victorian Holmes and Watson. A large Chesterfield covered by a deep red velvet throw took up almost one wall. Embossed French wallpaper, terracotta on terracotta, provided a lush background for numerous paintings and prints in gilt or black frames. A huge oak desk sat to the right of a window that faced south onto the spectacular view that she shared with Angus.
She Googled ‘Angus Buchanan’ since that was the name on his buzzer. He was a Fettesian, which accounted for his clipped accent, a journalist for The Independent and he’d travelled a lot, which accounted for the tan. No sign of a partner, either in the flat or online, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have one.
She groaned as her inbox pinged and pinged, filling with message after message. As her finger hovered over the delete key the door buzzer sounded. She was tempted to ignore it – she’d already taken in deliveries for a couple of neighbours this week – but whoever it was persisted and she stomped up the hall and pressed the button on the entry system. ‘Yes?’
A familiar voice shouted, ‘You letting me in or what?’
She released the catch, allowing Mac in, and nipped through to the kitchen to put the kettle back on. He arrived at her door a few seconds later breathless, but leant against the doorjamb pretending not to be.
‘Here, I haven’t seen you in a while.’ She held out the cup of coffee.
‘Ah, you’re a mind reader.’
She pointed to a high cupboard. ‘Sugar’s in there.’
Marcus Marconi, known to his close friends as Mac for reasons that we know and others just guessed at, rubbed a hand over his flat belly. ‘No extra calories for me.’
Viv snorted and shook her head. ‘What would possess you to police your food?’
‘Well, since you mention it, I’m going on an outward-bound weekend.’
Viv grinned. ‘You’re taking the piss.’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll be fantastic. Team building.’
‘Now I know you’re kidding. You. Outward-bound. What have you been on?’
‘That’s why I’m here.’
The mock serene look on his face made Viv guarded. ‘No. No way. Absolutely no way.’ She backed up the hall into the sitting room.
‘I haven’t even asked you yet.’
She studied his face. ‘You don’t need to. I can tell by that look.’
‘What look?’
‘That look.’ She pointed at his face. ‘The look that’s saying, how the hell am I going to persuade her that it’ll be fantastic when I’m lying my pants off.’
‘At least let me tell you about it.’
She held up her hands. ‘No. No. And triple no. There is nothing you could say or do to persuade me.’
‘What if it was an order?’
‘I’d tell you to go f . . . ‘
‘Okay, I get it.’ He held up his free hand. ‘Great coffee by the way.’
‘Don’t even go there with the smooth operator routine.’
‘How do you stand living here at this time of year? It’s like the United Nation’s end of year party out there.’
‘I’m warning you. I won’t be bought with smarmy comments.’
He held up his cup. ‘Any more where this came from?’
‘Sure. I’ll get it. How you doing anyway? Heard from Ruddy recently?’ She threw this over her shoulder as she went back to the kitchen for his refill.
‘You know you shouldn’t call him that. But now you mention him . . .’
‘Shit,’ she whispered to herself. She should have kept her mouth shut.
'He asked me to recruit you for this weekend.’
She handed him his cup, trying to work out whether he was serious. If he were, that was a game changer. Suddenly the room was stifling and she tugged open the window to let in some air, but the noise of a piper warming up made her push it shut again. She loved the pipes but they sounded like an animal in pain until they were in full flow.
‘So what are you saying?’
‘Beats me why he’s so keen on you coming along but I’m only following orders.’
She tossed a cushion at him. ‘Liar! You hate following orders.’ This wasn’t exactly true but it allowed her to vent.
He dodged the cushion, managing to keep the coffee inside his mug. Mac was the head of a police unit called the National Task Force (NTF), which seemed to have an opaque remit that included responding to terrorist threats, whatever that happened to mean. Viv was their go-to-girl when they needed help with unorthodox cyber stuff. She wasn’t really part of the official team. But having informal status suited both her and them. Being ordered around wasn’t her kind of thing. It was unusual for Mac to pull rank with her. She was intrigued.
She felt herself relaxing so she stiffened her shoulders in an attempt to bolster her psyche against its own curiosity. ‘Sorry Mac, as much as I’d like to help you out, no can do.’
He went to speak but she held up her hands. ‘Don’t. Please.’ As soon as ‘please’ was out she wished she hadn’t said it. It was a sign of weakness but it was too late.
Mac placed his cup on a coaster on a large metal chest that doubled as a side table. He squared the edge of the coaster with the edge of the chest. ‘Okay. Your call.’
Why would he say that? Viv got the feeling this wasn’t going to be his last attempt at persuasion but she replied, ‘Yes, it is my call.’
‘Great coffee. No one else I know can make coffee that . . .’
She cut him off with a shake of her head. ‘Okay, okay, are we done here?’ She nodded towards the door.
He shrugged and headed back down the hall. ‘If you change your mind . . . it’s in the interest of National Security.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do me a favour . . .’
Once she’d closed the door behind him she stood with her back against it. What was he up to? Viv had done outward-bound stuff at school and with the OTC at university. She’d found it hard going although nowhere like as tough as the course that Ruddy had forced her to complete before he’d let her loose on any job for the service. She could think of nothing worse than spending a weekend with a group of office staff forced to push their physical limits. The real challenges were psychological. Everything was in the mind.
A memory surfaced of that last outward-bound weekend. She’d returned to find that Dawn, her then partner, had gone off with a younger model – a much younger model. Viv had collapsed, too exhausted to do anything, until Dawn’s hysterical phone calls in the middle of the night, crying with shame and regret, had worn her down – and she’d taken her back. It hadn’t been Dawn’s first betrayal, but it had been her last.
Surprised and cheered by how little this recollection now disturbed her, she pushed herself off the door and headed through to resume deleting emails. She was meeting Ellie, a friend who had been working in the Netherlands for the last three years. They had a lot to catch up on.
Chapter Four
What was Mac up to? Making a fuss about a weekend away wasn’t his style. She considered what his next move might be. If Ruddy had requested she go with him, Mac would find a way.
The evening was still warm but that could change in a heartbeat, so she chose layers, a tee shirt beneath a shirt with a pullover and a jacket round her shoulders.
Neither Ellie nor Viv had had much luck in the relationship department. Ellie only dated married men, a sure sign of her commitment phobia, but also a reason for her never to judge Viv. As soon as a man edged towards leaving his wife or hinted for her to move in, Ellie donned her super Nikes and took off.
Viv’s relationships hadn’t been much to recommend her, but so far she had avoided the married. Since Dawn’s death she had had the odd fling, but nothing se
rious enough to frighten her – until Sal. Tonight the plan was to have a good gossip with Ellie over a pizza and a few Peronis.
She punched back her dough and said, ‘Prove it!’ Then scrubbed her hands again, before slipping into the kit she’d laid out on the bed. They were starting off in Carwash on the Mound, which was an easy walk from the flat. She nipped her cheeks, messed up her hair and headed out, pulling the street door firmly behind her, then rechecking that it was secure – Friday nights carried the high risk of a passing drunk availing him or herself of a place to rest or worse. She crossed the road and walked up Victoria Street. At the steps leading to Victoria Terrace a young woman struggling to bump a baby in a pushchair blocked the way. Viv took hold of the bottom of the pushchair and in seconds they’d carried it to the top. The woman looked exhausted but grateful and opened her mouth to say thanks. Viv waved a hand at her. ‘No worries.’ She peeked at the baby. ‘Cutie.’ Then carried on to the Upper Bow.
The Old Town was a maze of higgledy-piggledy closes and vennels. Locals could scurry between high tenements and arches and cut twenty minutes off a journey. Thus it was for Viv. She’d no sooner stepped onto the High Street, also known as the Royal Mile, than a few more steps would take her through Lady Stairs Close onto the Mound, right to the door of the pub. It was a short safe journey in daylight, not so much after dark.
Viv squeezed through a throng of drinkers outside the pub, their pints held aloft, when someone called her name, ‘Vivian.’ Instinctively she turned and spotted a hand beckoning to her from inside a dark blue saloon parked at the kerb. She cursed and wandered over.
‘No one calls me Vivian except my mother. And even then I’d have to have done something badly wrong.’
Ruddy smiled from the passenger seat. ‘I hear you’re too busy to join the circus.’
She leant against the car roof and grinned. ‘You heard wrong then.’
Ruddy’s eyebrows appeared to move independently of the rest of his face. His complexion, the kind associated with a bottle of scotch before breakfast, was entirely natural. In the genes with a dash of Scotland’s extreme weather.
‘It’s not that I’m too busy. It’s that I don’t need another, “She’ll be Wearing Pink Pyjamas” moment any time soon.’
He frowned. ‘Ah! So that’s it . . . Marconi needs you there. It’s the NTF. We have a mole.’ His tone was determined as he checked the immaculate fingernails on his solid freckled hands. He raised his eyebrows again and pursed his lips. This time not so much in a question as, refusal was not an option.
Viv looked skyward and blew out a breath. ‘Why me?’
‘You already know that.’
‘So what sort of digging do you want?’
‘Whatever it takes.’
She bit the inside of her cheek. ‘When is it?’
‘Leaving tomorrow at 9.30am from Fettes.’
‘No can do. I’ve got a wedding . . .’
‘You can sort that. We’re relying on you, Viv. I know you won’t disappoint.’ The glint never left his eye.
The car window rose as the saloon pulled away from the pavement. Viv stood and watched as Ruddy’s driver steered seamlessly into the flow of traffic heading down towards Princes Street. Ruddy’s power over her was of her own making: she wanted to please him. He reminded her of her father. He wasn’t physically like him but rather everything her father stood for. She turned and saw Ellie standing at the pub door, looking well, not as skinny as she often was.
‘Hi you. I see you’re still into that undercover malarkey.’
Viv didn’t rise.
Ellie nudged her arm. ‘C’mon, what was all that about?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
They hugged, but Ellie pressed her. ‘Didn’t look like nothing to me.’
Viv grinned, ‘I see you’re still on the demon fags.’
Ellie lifted her hand and stuck a mock cigarette under Viv’s nose. ‘No longer the real thing. Looks good though, eh? What d’you think?’
It was convincing. ‘Brilliant. I’d never have been able to tell. Well at least not until you kept smoking the same fag with the same amount of ash teetering perilously close to dropping onto your new trousers.’
They hugged again. ‘Great to see you, Viv, but come on who was that?’
Ellie, a lawyer in The Hague, at the Court of Human Rights, was as sharp as a tack. She’d never let Viv off the hook.
Viv linked her arm through Ellie’s and said, ‘C’mon, let’s get a drink and I’ll fill you in.’
The bar was heaving but Viv managed to catch the eye of a barman who gave her the thumbs up.
Ellie pointed to a couple folding up their street guide. ‘Guess where I’m heading.’ And off she went, pressing past bodies to get to the table. The couple were in no rush and Viv watched as Ellie hovered conspicuously. Discretion was not her forte. It didn’t need to be.
Eventually the barman nodded. ‘Right, what’ll it be?’
By the time Viv made it to the table she’d lost at least a third from both pints. ‘Half measures at this rate.’ They clinked glasses and gulped their cool beers.
Viv was first to come up for air. ‘So I’m guessing you’ll never let it rest until I tell you, so here’s what you want to know. The man in the car with the red hair and the ruddy complexion is the all-but-invisible-boss of someone that I’ve done the occasional job for.’
‘I’m guessing you’re not talking about cutting hair?’
Viv shook her head. ‘Not exactly, but I did meet up with Mac . . . actually you probably remember him, Marcus Marconi. Used to live in the Grove. Four older sisters.’
Ellie screwed up her eyes. ‘The Catholics?’
Viv shook her head. ‘Crikey Ells, is that the only thing you remember about them?’
‘I never really knew them.’
‘Well never mind. Mac, that’s what he was called in primary school. I met up with him on a hairdressing job. We’d also clashed at uni so it was good to catch up.’
Ellie nudged her arm. ‘So what’s he like then, this Mac?’
‘It’s nothing like that.’ Viv raised her eyes. ‘You’ve got a one-track mind. You know I’ve done a bit of cyber stuff?’ She hesitated, waiting for a wisecrack from Ellie.
‘So that’s what you call it now, is it? In my world we still call it illegal intrusion, or simply hacking. Which is what you also used to call it if my memory serves me correctly.’
‘Oh piss off. You know what it means. Anyway, Mac dropped by earlier and asked me to go on an outward-bound course – allegedly to bond with other members of the department. Actually I don’t mean “other” because I’m not officially a member of the department.’
‘What department is it?’
Viv looked around. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not in any department. I just help out now and again.’
It was Ellie’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘Give me some credit, Viv. I haven’t been on the game in The Hague.’
Viv nodded but hesitated again. Signing the Official Secrets Act wasn’t something she had done lightly. But it occurred to her that Ellie might also have signed it. She decided that the NTF itself was no secret. ‘Fair enough. It’s called the NTF, National Task Force.’
Ellie seemed to know what Viv was talking about and nodded. ‘Yes I remember something about the time it took for them to choose a name for it.’ She sniggered. ‘Bureaucrats – you gotta love them. The Hague’s hoatching with them. That’s why I’m back.’ She gestured with her hand for Viv to continue.
Viv took another gulp of her pint. ‘I’ve got to make a decision asap. I told Mac that I wasn’t up for it, but he’s been out-ranked. Otherwise I wouldn’t have had that wee visit.’ She pointed out to the street. ‘Oh, never mind that. What’s brought you back?’
Ellie wasn’t ready to be distracted by her own story. ‘If I know you there’s no way you’ll pass up a bit of action. What else would you be doing this weekend?’
Viv wrapped her hands round
her glass and brought it up to cool her forehead.
Ellie continued. ‘Exactly. Nowt. I can already see how bored you are. Look at you. Slumped or what? Not to mention the look on your face. Get yourself into the zone, girl. You’ll only mope for the weekend if you don’t go.’
‘I’m doing hair for a wedding!’ Her tone sounded more defensive than she intended.
Ellie changed tack and launched into what she’d been up to, giving Viv a blow by blow account of the latest married man who, as Viv had already guessed, was threatening to leave his wife. Viv and Ellie had known each other since their early teens and lived within spitting distance of each other but gone to different schools and universities. Viv often thought that that was probably what had kept them together. Ellie, a couple of years younger than Viv, did law at Glasgow then a post grad on international law at Durham, while Viv went to Edinburgh to read anthropology, before a post grad in psychotherapy, which led nicely onto her doctorate on Sigmund Freud. Viv, a late developer, had spent her weekends in a salon washing and sweeping hair, while Ellie had been an impressive athlete who’d played for the east of Scotland hockey team, although was unable to beat Viv in a sprint.
They finished their pints and wandered down the Mound, stopping occasionally to listen to a street performance. Eventually, after trawling along George Street, being knocked back by every eatery, they secured the last table in Pizza Express on Queensferry Street. They chatted about their families, spending too much time on their sisters, and Viv managed to wheedle the real story of Ellie’s latest man friend, who had got too close for Ellie’s comfort and been given the heave. They laughed and laughed at the inevitability of their circumstances, so familiar with each other that they barely needed to finish their sentences. Weird to think that in the passage of three years neither had done anything that was a surprise to the other. Perhaps that was the definition of friendship.
