by V Clifford
‘You said . . .’
‘Too bad. You’ve got ten minutes tops.’ And he disappeared.
Stop getting too involved in what people are buying, girl, and get the job done. There was one item that caught her eye from Gordon’s recent Amazon purchases, a blow-up double bed. She wondered if he was having guests. She quickly moved on to Archie’s console. His was another story. No Amazon account. Who in the world today didn’t have an Amazon account? This was the first strange thing. Next were the emails from an online gambling consortium, not quite of the knee-capping variety, but close enough. She found other emails with details of debts he’d run up. Not good. Could this explain the absence of an Amazon account? She clicked on a few keys and whispered, ‘Bingo.’ His credit rating was so far into the negative as to scare even her. No wonder he’d relaxed at the weekend. No one could touch him while he was in the wilds with a bunch of cops. There was one conversation in his emails which Viv thought worth tracking. From it she worked out that there was another email account with a further conversation. She dug deeper. Nothing. Archie, judging by the mess on his desk, wasn’t remotely meticulous so there was a chance that he’d made a mistake somewhere and left a trail on which she would discover the account she was looking for. Nothing. She tried another tack. She checked the time on the screen. They’d be back in the next couple of minutes. She persisted. Still nothing. She heard voices and made a few clicks that would disguise what she’d been looking at. The screen was still live. Nothing she could do about that.
The door hissed open and Gordon and Archie entered, with Gordon holding onto Archie’s arms. The conversation they’d been having outside the door came to an abrupt halt. Gordon screwed up his eyes. Viv bumped the desk she was leaning on and the other consoles also sprang into life.
Gordon kept his eyes on her then glanced around the room as if looking for someone else. ‘What are you doing here?’ His tone unwelcoming, but she was getting used to that.
Archie took a seat at his computer. Viv hoped that she hadn’t left a sweaty handprint on his mouse. He didn’t touch the mouse but shifted a few bits of paper round his desk. Viv thought he was trying to look efficient.
Gordon sat at his place and turned to Viv. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘It seems I’ve to join you on some work. I’m meeting . . .’
‘The blue-eyed boy. Yeah, teacher’s pet. I told you, Arch.’
Viv wondered what he’d told Archie and whether ‘Arch’ meant they were pals.
The door hissed open again and Mac joined them. ‘Ah, Viv . . .’
‘I told them I was joining them on some work. So now you can let us all in on your secret.’
Mac, a smooth operator, said, ‘Well I need to have a quick word with someone first. Leave it with me.’ He retreated from the room, leaving Viv with Gordon and Archie.
Viv said, ‘What have you been working on that he could mean?’
Gordon grunted back, ‘There’s nothing going on that he needs to bring you in for. Nothing we can’t handle.’
‘Well, Mac seems to think otherwise. And if not Mac, someone higher up, or else I wouldn’t be here.’
‘You shouldn’t be here anyway. You should be back behind a hairdryer doing what it is you do best.’
‘Really? Is that your beef? You’ve got a thing about me being a hairdresser?’ She snorted. ‘Crawl out from beneath your rock. There are people in the world who . . .’
Archie interrupted her. ‘You don’t have to justify yourself to him. And you,’ he pointed at Gordon, ‘back off.’
Viv was interested in the way Gordon reacted to this. He coloured, but turned to his screen and began to tap on his keys. The stuff that Viv had been looking at on their consoles could be traced; they were cyber analysts after all, but they’d have to suspect and want to look.
She made for the door. ‘I’ll check with Mac . . .’
‘Yeah, why don’t you do that?’ Gordon blasted at her retreating back.
The door hissed closed behind her and she took the stairs two at a time. She reached the reception desk and asked the sergeant to page DCI Marconi, but Mac appeared and she said, ‘That was close. But one or two things turned up that might be worth looking at.’
Mac’s mobile rang. He walked towards the outside doors and spoke to the caller. ‘Okay.’ He cut the call and turned to Viv. ‘I think they’ve got a lead on Houdini. Walk with me to the car and you can fill me in. I’ve to check what Parker’s lot are up to.’
‘Sure. I’ll come along for the ride.’
He hesitated. Looked at her through screwed-up eyes and nodded. Then walked towards his car. ‘Only if you keep your mouth shut.’
‘You know me. Silent as a lamb.’ She skipped to keep up.
‘I mean it, Viv. Not a word.’
She drew her fingers over her lips like a zip.
‘I’m serious.’
‘Well, if you’re that serious why don’t you tell me about it?’
‘It’s National Secure . . .’
She flinched and yanked the car door open.
‘Okay, the attempt on the Queen’s life is the most determined we’ve had for a while. You do know we get them regularly? Well, not me personally, but the Met get them often and when she’s up here we get them, fewer but still some. I have to work out how “real” they are . . . since you’re involved, by whatever means you got here.’ He stared across at her but she didn’t bite. ‘This particular threat came to light at a different level, I mean the top. You sure it was just a coincidence that you were on the Royal Mile?’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘How many times do I hear that our “National Security” is at risk? Either I’ve signed the OSA or I haven’t.’
‘As you well know, there are different levels of security risk. A threat to the Queen is the highest. There are only a handful of us who have access to that kind of information.’
They stopped at traffic lights.
She turned in her seat. ‘You think? When are you guys going to get the hang of the net being like a giant teabag. There’s stuff leaking through to anyone who cares to listen at the right keyhole.’
He was quiet for a minute. ‘Sure. And that’s why we’ve got the cyber team.’
‘Yes. Yes, it is. But if someone on our cyber team is pushing information or doesn’t choose to pay attention at the right moment . . .’ She left her concerns hovering between them.
They pulled up outside a terrace of Georgian houses on London Street, at the lower end of the New Town.
Mac gestured for her to come. Viv had expected there to be a big police presence, but there was no one around. She followed him to a gate in a row of ornate railings and took the stairs down to the basement behind him. There were thin voiles over the first window, preventing them from seeing in. At the next window the shutters were closed. Viv lifted the letterbox in the door and peered in. Bare floorboards, walls painted in pale mushroom with patches on the walls where paintings or mirrors had once hung.
‘Why are we here? And who does it belong to?’
He surprised her. ‘It’s Archie’s flat.’
‘Wow! Really? Not at all what I’d expect.’
‘No. Me neither.’
She could see a single corridor with two doors off the right hand side and two off the left and one at the far end facing the front door – all closed.
‘Does he actually live here?’
‘Good question. It’s the address we have for him.’
‘It looks empty. Unlived in. Although there’s no junk mail lying behind the door, so someone’s been in.’
‘It’s a pity we can’t get in.’
She stood with her hands on her hips and shook her head. He couldn’t ask her to go in but she sensed he wanted her to.
‘Now or later?’
‘I’ve no idea what you mean. Let’s go.’
They got back into the car, drove up Broughton Street and turned right into Barony Place. This was more like what Viv was e
xpecting. There were three police cars, one with its blue light circling on the top, always a give-away.
Mac headed over towards Parker. ‘Found him?’
‘Not sure. There’s a scared young man inside, but I can’t be sure it’s our guy.’
‘Why not?’
‘This one isn’t speaking English.’ He shrugged.
Although he hadn’t said much, the young man had spoken perfect English without a hint of an accent.
Viv had clients who were bilingual. One second they’d be chatting to her in English about the latest theory of thermodynamics, then the phone would ring and they’d slip seamlessly into fluent Greek, Italian or French. It was possible.
‘We’re not keen to bash the door in if we can talk him out. He must have something to hide if he won’t let us in.’
Viv snorted. ‘You’re kidding me. If you had half a dozen men turn up at your door trying to bang it down wouldn’t you want to hide?’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
Viv shook her head. ‘Well that shows a singular lack of . . .’
Mac nudged her.
‘Okay. What’s your next move?’
‘Negotiator is on her way.’
Just as he spoke a shiny BMW turned into the street and Sal’s lithe new girlfriend stepped out.
‘This is Jones now.’ Parker nodded toward the car.
Viv’s belly clenched. The woman looked shocked, her eyes widening. Having momentarily lost her composure, she turned to Mac and Parker, straightening her posture and offering her hand to all three. She was older than she looked from a distance, but there was no denying her outstanding bone structure. Her cropped blonde hair was meticulously messy, each strand placed to look as if she’d just rubbed it with a towel. Viv saw it for the labour intensive artwork that it was. She wore a navy trouser suit with a pale blue tee-shirt underneath, and black patent loafers. Not dressed for trouble, but professional.
‘I’m guessing he’s inside,’ with the hint of a west coast accent. She buttoned her jacket but missed a hole.
Viv instinctively pointed at the woman’s navel. ‘You’ve . . .’
Flustered, Jones rebuttoned her jacket and curtly nodded her thanks.
Parker said, ‘If you’re done with the fashion parade, this way.’ He took off towards the building, with Jones keeping up with his stride. ‘How many languages do you speak?’
Jones smiled. ‘Enough, usually.’
Viv and Mac stayed back and watched as they entered the stair.
‘Is he on the ground floor?’
Mac nodded. ‘Yes. At the back.’
‘Any way out?’
‘Yes. Into a courtyard that’s shared with properties on London Street and Dublin Street.’
‘So why aren’t officers posted on those streets?’
He stared at her. ‘Because he’s still in the building.’ He walked over to one of the cars sitting at the kerb and spoke to the driver through the open window. ‘Make sure that all streets adjacent are covered.’
He turned back to Viv. ‘Satisfied?’
‘It’s so basic that people forget. If it’s him he had the balls to slip out of Fettes.’ Viv shuffled her feet on the cobbled road. ‘There’s nothing for me to do here. I’ll take a stroll and come back in . . .’ she checked her watch, ‘twenty minutes?’
Mac sighed, ‘Is there any point in me objecting?’
‘No siree.’
Viv wandered back down Broughton Street and along London Street. Have lock picks will enter. She slipped down the steps to Archie’s flat and knocked on the door. The sound echoed down the hallway. She went back up the steps and checked the street. Only a couple coming from Drummond Place on the opposite side – nothing to worry about. She returned and began picking. It took a few minutes before she heard the reassuring click she needed, then she was inside. No matter how many times people were warned about the insufficiency of Yale locks they were too lazy to have them changed. By Viv’s standards it was almost their fault if they were broken into.
She was assaulted by stale air that had had no place to escape to. The wooden floor in the hall was old oak, its varnish worn at the thresholds. She pushed open a door at the far end and entered the bathroom, small and windowless with all essentials present. It smelled of mould. The greenish black edge on the bottom of the shower curtain was the probable culprit. A mirrored cupboard above the sink was stuffed with items. Bottles and tubs of different antiseptics, bandages, boxes of plasters in all sizes, boxes of Neurofen, scissors, an eyebath, razors, Tylenol painkillers – interesting since they were not available in the UK. An out-of-date pack of Prozac prescribed to Archie, a large tube of KY, half full, and most incongruously a packet of tan coloured tights. Such a significant cache of first aid struck Viv as odd. Why so much stuff to take care of minor ailments?
The next room, painted a warm oriental red, had been a sitting room but all that remained was an old television cable, a typical Scottish ‘press’ with shelves and a yellowing newspaper. She checked the date. Not as old as it looked. She flicked through the pages, checking for anything that might have caused Archie to keep it. Nothing obvious, but she folded it and slipped it inside her jacket. There were a number of dents in the oatmeal coloured carpet. Signs of a couch, two chairs and slight indents where a coffee table must have been.
Her eyes adjusted to the gloom but she wondered how anyone could live without natural light. She flicked a light switch – nothing. In the next room a double, dark green blow-up mattress lay in the space where a bed should have been. Interesting considering the blow-up mattress in this very colour on Gordon’s Amazon history. The bed had been slept in. Four pillows and a duvet all looked as if they could do with a wash. Two glasses sat on the floor, one at either side of the bed – could mean that he was too lazy to roll over to the other side for a drink, or he kept company. A condom packet sticking out from beneath the mattress confirmed the latter. A modern wooden kitchen chair was laden with tee shirts, jeans and boxers. A small gap in the shutters let in a sliver of daylight. How could a man in his early thirties with no dependents, from a ‘good’ family and with a decent job get himself into this state? She sidled through to the kitchen. Wooden wall and base units were there but no whites, only three gaps where a fridge, freezer and washing machine had once been. She decided she’d seen enough, but patted her jacket to check that the newspaper was secure. She’d look at it properly later. The place was a man cave, a place where Archie retreated to when he needed to hole up. But that didn’t make sense, since there was no food and no way of storing it if he had it. Was it simply a safe place to have sex? And what was with all the first aid?
She stopped on the way back up Broughton Street, bought coffees, then joined Mac who was sitting in his car with the door open. ‘Here.’ She handed him a cup. ‘How is she doing?’
He wrapped his hands round the cup and nodded his gratitude. ‘The person who reported him thought he was foreign but he “speaks” English with an accent.’
‘So who is he?’
‘Not sure but it won’t be long before he comes out. She’s managed to talk him into coming to the station.’
Viv raised her eyebrows. ‘So did you know that this was what she did?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me.’
‘No. What would be the point? I genuinely didn’t know that she and Sal were becoming an item.’
‘So is that what they are now?’
He sighed. ‘You’d have to ask them. All I know is she’s good at what she does. And this might not be the last time you encounter her, so get used to it.’
Viv had already thought of this but didn’t care to hear it. At least not from Mac. ‘Cheers, buddy.’
‘The work you’re doing is so far removed from hers I wouldn’t get wound up about it. But there are times, like now, that she comes in useful.’
Parker exited the building with a young man at his side. Jones was walking behind them. T
he young man wasn’t cuffed or being held and he got into the car of his own accord. Viv recognised him. He was the young guy who Archie had been with in the loos at Copa Cabana.
She was conscious that Mac would have to know, but wondered if she could invent a scenario that wouldn’t give Archie’s secret away.
Mac caught her look of recognition. ‘You know him?’
‘Eh, no. No, I don’t, but I have seen him. I saw him on Leith Walk a few nights ago. He was coming out of a bar.’
Mac shook his head. ‘D’you think my head zips up the back? I can see you making this up as you go along. But if you are keeping something back there must be a reason. So just when you’re ready, Viv.’
She hesitated. ‘There’s nothing more to tell. I saw him leaving a bar on Leith Walk.’
‘And the bar would be?’
She hesitated again. ‘Copa Cabana.’
‘You still hanging out there?’
An accusation? ‘Yes! And what of it?’
He put his hands up. ‘Keep your shirt on. What night was it? Was he with someone?’
‘He was alone but in a hurry. He looked distressed.’
‘Now that wasn’t too difficult, was it? Leverage, Viv, that’s all we need. A bit of leverage.’
Parker approached them. ‘Apparently he’s not foreign – speaks something called,’ he checked his note pad, ‘“The Doric”.’
Viv laughed. ‘For God’s sake. Who called this in? The Doric is one of our own dialects. Someone thought he was what?’
‘Polish.’ Parker smiled.
‘So did you really need a mediator who speaks five languages to talk someone from Aberdeenshire out of his flat? Mad or what?’
Mac replied. ‘Too late now. All done.’
Viv got into Mac’s car. When the engine turned over he hit play on the CD.
She heard a few beats then he switched it off. Viv, intrigued, put it back on. The most beautiful Latin chanting filled the car. She looked at him. ‘You’ve got secrets.’
‘Once an altar boy, always an altar boy.’
Religion played such a small part in her adult life that she’d forgotten that as children they’d both been indoctrinated in different ways: Mac to mass three or four times a week, and she to the Band of Hope once a week. At least all she’d had to do was sing. Mac and his sisters would have had to kneel a lot. The music made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. There was something hypnotic about pure voices repeating phrases in a dead language. ‘What is this?’
