by V Clifford
Eventually she tucked the phone back onto its charger and held up two fingers. ‘Two minutes. Promise it’ll take me two minutes.’ Off she bounded upstairs to have a shower, leaving Viv in the tiny kitchen to set up.
She was more than two minutes, but it gave Viv time to read the Scotsman lying on the worktop.
Rosie returned, rubbing her blonde hair to within an inch of its life.
Viv gestured to Rosie. ‘You’d better leave me some.’
‘Oh God, sorry. Habit.’
‘What are we doing today?’
‘Not much. It’s going through a good phase. And I’m wearing it up more . . . out tonight though, so got to look glam.’
Viv raised her eyebrows. Rosie never looked anything else. Even now first thing in the morning she had on clothes that Viv might choose for a wedding. ‘Anywhere nice?’
Rosie had already moved somewhere else in her head and looked quizzically at Viv as she sat down, and was wrapped in a cutting gown. ‘Oh! Yes, there’s a drinks party at the Parliament. Everyone’s going. Since Her Maj is in town I think folks will attend, thinking she’ll be there. But there’s no way.’ She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Even if she is their closest neighbour.’ She snorted. Then in a rare flourish of interest she said, ‘You out tonight, Viv?’
Astonished ,Viv hesitated and her chance was lost.
Rosie continued, ‘You know I’ve bought the most divine top from . . . oh, never mind. I’ll show it to you when we’re done. The First Minister will be there. I’ve not met her yet.’ She said this as if at some time the whole population would get to meet Scotland’s leader.
Viv said, ‘I hear she’s . . .’
Rosie interrupted, ‘A pain in the arse.’
Viv sighed. ‘Well, no actually . . . How’s the book design world?’ Better not to be drawn into that particular conversation. Alas, no luck.
‘Actually, I’ve been approached to do the jacket of her biography. Not that I imagine she wrote it.’
Another subject Viv had to keep her lips firmly zipped about.
‘If you could just bend your head forward slightly.’ Scissors to the rescue.
‘Apparently the Duke of Atholl will be there, though. Damn nerve. South African shop keeper.’
Rosie was vague about her own background, although it wasn’t grand – she’d gone to Napier University, still regarded by the literati as a ‘poly’, and hated to talk about it. She never asked Viv anything about her time at Edinburgh University. Viv had heard that Rosie’s dad was in insurance, but they’d never had that conversation either. As long as the ball was in Rosie’s court the chat went swimmingly.
‘You know the director is getting a divorce?’
Worried that she might unwittingly know who the ‘director’ was, Viv changed the subject. ‘Any chance that you’ll get to see the fireworks?’
‘If the party goes on long enough we’ll be able to see it from the roof. Doubtful, though. The forecast is for cloud.’
Viv took out her hairdryer and was about to plug it in.
‘Oh, actually I think I’ll put it up. So you won’t have to use that.’ She pointed at the dryer as if it was a weapon.
‘Fair enough.’ Viv twisted the damp hair up into a chignon and pulled out a few strands round the front. Rosie was pretty. Pale skin, pale blue eyes and a heart-shaped face, but there was something unattractive about her. Job done, Viv wandered back to the Rav, knowing it wasn’t just the gossip that put people off Rosie.
What would life be without variety? Her next client, a pharmacist and musician, was as shy as Rosie was not. Viv parked in Thirlestane Lane at the rear of his Marchmont shop and banged on the staff entrance. Brian stuck his head out as if checking for the enemy and looked right and left before inviting her in. She smiled. It was what he did. He self-consciously stroked the top and sides of his head, his thin dark hair as precious to him as the golden locks of a princess. He was so convinced of their imminent extinction. Yet, if Brian had been about to lose the lot she’d have recognised the change in his follicles, and it would have gone by now – but there was no persuading him. He was a minimum-conversation, no-nonsense client, and it took less time to cut his hair than it ever took to find a parking spot. She noticed that he was shy but vain, since his appointments coincided with his orchestral events. He played the clarinet and once had invited Viv to a charity concert. Each member of the orchestra had been told to bring ten guests while Brian only brought Viv. The others were amazed that he had found anyone at all.
Today he was flustered and began by blurting out, ‘Member of staff off sick. Not good for business. Meant to have all the answers at our fingertips.’
This she thought was code for ‘As quick as you can’. And so she set to. ‘Concert tonight?’
‘Yes, five-night run for the Festival. Too many unnecessary rehearsals.’
‘Shall I just do what . . .’
‘Absolutely. No change.’
She felt a giggle rising and coughed to head it off. ‘How are your audiences? The Mound is . . .’
‘Good enough. We’ll cover the hall rental.’
She knew she was pushing her luck but she said, ‘What’s the programme?’
‘Crowd pleasers. Mozart, Albinoni’s Pachelbel. You know, nothing too testing.’
‘The clarinet concerto?’ He shuddered and she almost sliced the top off his ear. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Someone walking over my grave.’
This was out of character – the scientist in him wouldn’t normally think in those terms. She wondered what else was going on but didn’t ask. He wouldn’t allow her to use the hairdryer, in case the staff next door heard it, so she was through within fifteen minutes. She brushed him down, disposed of the hair in a bin outside the back door, accepted the cheque, which, as always, he’d written in advance, and with his next appointment in the diary, she was on her way. As she swung her kit bag into the car she remembered how generous he’d been when she’d needed info about drug cocktails and their effect on different body types. He’d sent her a link to a forum he was on which debated that very subject. She liked him, he was a ‘ladder down’ kind of guy.
Next stop the Botanics. The new entrance and shop had seriously boosted the number of visitors to the gardens and today was no exception. She dumped the car on Inverleith Place and jogged back to the front gates. What felt like a million yummy mummies with four-wheel drive push chairs were blocking the entrance. She couldn’t work out whether they were going in or coming out, but eventually she managed to squeeze by them and find the information desk. A young woman, whom Viv guessed was probably a student working the summer break, smiled and said, ‘Can I help you, madam?’
Viv drew out the photograph and passed it over the desk. ‘Just wondering if you recognise any of the guys in this photograph.’
The woman stared at the photograph for a few seconds. Then pointed. ‘This man works in the glasshouses. Not sure what his name is, but . . .’
Viv watched the woman’s eyes dance away to the left over her shoulder. Viv turned and saw the man that the woman had identified. He walked straight towards them. Viv nodded her thanks to the woman and went to meet him. ‘Hi there. I wonder if you can help me? Does this man work here?’
The man took the photograph and nodded. ‘Yes, he did two summers.’ He gestured to the woman behind the desk. ‘Same sort of thing as she’s doing. Filling in when permanent staff are on holiday. Could be trimming edges or working the till.’
‘D’you remember his name? And where he moved on to?’
‘I’m sure his name was Mark or Michael . . . no, wait, Marty. Yes, Marty. He was planning on going back up north. Trying to get full-time work at Inverewe Gardens. Lucky man if he managed.’
Viv nodded and said, ‘Thanks, that’s really helpful.’
‘What’s he done?’
Viv shrugged. ‘Not sure yet. Got any idea what he might have done?’
‘He was a live wire when h
e had a drink in him. During working hours you hardly knew he was here, he was so quiet. Always wandering about with headphones on. Big Corries fan.’ He patted his chest. ‘I’m a big Corries fan myself, but that was as much as we had in common.’
Something in his eyes made Viv think they’d had more in common than he was letting on, but she let it go. ‘Thanks again.’
Chapter Twenty Eight
Viv laid her hand against the outside door of Angus’s building and to her surprise it opened. She closed it behind her and ran up the stairs. The door to his flat was ajar. She knocked but received no answer so stepped inside.
Angus was standing with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. He grinned the most exceptional grin. If she needed persuading about his enthusiasm, that was it right there in that smile. He put his arm around her shoulder, careful not to get wine on her. He whispered in her ear, ‘You’ve no idea how happy I am to see you.’
She kissed him, catching the side of his mouth. A voice she recognised called her name. She turned. ‘Hello. I didn’t expect to see you here?’
The First Minister replied, ‘I could say the same thing. Good to see you, though. I’m glad I made an effort with my hair.’
Angus stared from one woman to the other. ‘Well, I take it you two know each other.’
‘Viv knows more about me than any other single human being. Whatever you do don’t ask her for any quotes for the book.’ She looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. ‘Actually if you did she wouldn’t tell you anything. Viv is the soul of discretion.’
‘She sure is.’ Angus stared at Viv as she glanced around the room avoiding his eyes.
‘I’m going up to the terrace. See you up there with a drink in your hand instead of your scissors.’ The First Minister disappeared up to the roof.
Angus stood with his mouth wide open.
‘Catching flies?’
‘You never said.’
‘As she said, “soul of discretion”.’ She play-punched his arm then kissed him on the mouth, since he didn’t have a free hand to punch her back. ‘What does a woman have to do to get a drink around here?’
He handed her his glass and filled it. ‘I guess there are going to be many more surprises.’
She nodded. ‘I hope so, don’t you?’
He grinned. ‘So, you going to give me the scoop on our FM?’
‘Not a chance. But if you play your cards right I might scrub your back again.’
‘I’ll settle for that. Come on, let’s go up, there are nibbles and lots more people I’d like to introduce you to. You’ll probably know them better than I do.’
It was good to see the FM in jeans and a jersey. Viv couldn’t imagine why she wore hideous immobilising heels and the tight dresses that she did. It surely wasn’t in the rule book. The FM beckoned her and Angus over. Viv thought of Rosie, desperate to meet her, yet willing to badmouth her despite not having done so.
The FM said, ‘This is Gordon.’
In unison Viv and Angus spoke then laughed. Angus said, ‘You first.’
So Viv said, ‘Glad to meet you.’
And Angus said, ‘Delighted you could come.’
After acknowledging admiration of the roof terrace Angus excused himself to make sure the loudspeakers were working and that they’d hear the music for the fireworks. It was getting close to time and it would be a shame not to hear the concert broadcast on the radio.
He gestured with his head for Viv to follow him.
‘I thought you wanted to introduce me to your friends?’
He laughed, ‘A ruse, my dear, a ruse. I’m sure you saw it for what it was?’ He dumped the bottle and pulled her hand to squeeze next to him in a position where they’d get the best view. Rosie had been right – it was cloudy and an east wind had got up, but at least it was dry. He engulfed her to stop her from shivering. Felt good. For the next forty minutes there was nothing to do but stare skyward and listen to the booms and bangs, oohs and ahs from everyone on the roof. She wasn’t keen on huge displays of fireworks since the amount of money that was spent could keep an animal shelter going for a few years. Still, the up side of these was that after the last bang there would be a mass exodus of tourists, signalling Edinburgh’s return to business as usual. She had felt Angus tense when the first bang went off, but he held her tight and relaxed into it. He wasn’t being a very good host and as soon as the concert music finished his chums began to thin out. He didn’t seem to mind.
‘There’s someone inside I’d love you to meet. Follow me.’
They descended the stairs and went into his study, where there were stuffed bookcases, a huge oak desk, with a large iMac and all surfaces shambolic with papers. There were two shabby wing-backed chairs. One occupied by an elderly man with a book open on his lap and spectacles low on his nose. ‘Dad, this is Viv. The woman I told you about.’
He started to get up but Angus said, ‘She’ll not be worried if you stay put.’
Viv stepped forward and offered him her hand. He took it in both of his and looked straight at her, as if examining every blemish on her face.
‘How do you do, young lady? It is very nice to meet you. I hope Angus will bring you to the house so that we can become better acquainted.’ Very posh and very formal.
Not at all what she’d imagined. Not that she’d given his parents much thought. A man in tweeds and an army tie shouldn’t be completely out of left field, even if a tad over-dressed for the occasion. She guessed this was a uniform for him. Then it occurred to her that he’d probably spent his life in uniform. That would account for the accent. Marbles abounded.
Viv glanced up at Angus, then over to the desk. His untidiness reassuring. Among the papers her eye caught a familiar face. She edged closer. Her shoulders tensed. It was Sal. She couldn’t see the whole thing, but the photograph was definitely an image of Sal. She swallowed. What was going on?
‘She’s a busy woman, Dad. But I’ll try and persuade her.’
The old man nodded and pushed ill-fitting specs back up his nose.
Angus guided her through to the kitchen. ‘Thank you. I said I’d introduce you. He’s been on his own for too long. Too much time to worry about his children. You might like the house though. It’s less than an hour’s drive away. It’s thoroughly eccentric. Freezing cold and damp but eccentric.’
She considered her reply. ‘I’m not much of a country girl. Too green. Makes me queasy.’
He looked disappointed. ‘I see you as an outdoorsy type.’
‘Don’t be fooled. I’m not really a type at all. But pavements suit me.’
He removed his arm from round her shoulder and shrugged. ‘Let’s introduce you to some of the stragglers.’
‘Actually I need to get going. Work.’
He nodded. Uncertain. ‘Oookay. Does that mean that we might catch up later? Or will you be washing your hair?’
She laughed. ‘I’m always washing my hair. But no, since we’re sticking with the hairdressing analogies, it wasn’t a total brush-off. I do have work to do.’
He rubbed her back. She tingled on her short trip home, but not in a good way.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Viv sat at her desk and wrote a list of things to do, prioritising the tracking guys she’d messaged earlier. Lists were a good way of allowing the knotted chaos inside her head to untangle. Martin Martin emerged as the next priority. She Googled him again and with every new snippet of his life, was struck by how odd his profile was. He’d make a good subject for Myers Briggs. He had a Facebook page but didn’t post anything. The few photographs that were on it were only there because he’d been tagged in someone else’s post. Still her search kicked up some detail from his past that she hadn’t expected. Another photograph posted a year ago, taken outside the glasshouses at Edinburgh’s Botanic Garden, reassured her that he was indeed employed in the horticultural world. She stared at his image. He didn’t seem to be engaged with the group, standing slightly apart and lookin
g away from the camera. Camera shy? What would she do without social media? Time to call it a night.
After an early coffee the following morning she returned to her desk, dissatisfied at seeing Martin only in photographs, and decided that serious measures had to be taken to locate him. She smirked at the screen as she discovered details of his latest home address. Nowhere near Inverewe. Within an hour she sat in the Rav outside Martin’s flat in Iona Street hoping to catch a glimpse of him. It was early and she anticipated him heading out to work, but had no way of knowing whether he’d already left and she was edgy. Could she be sure of finding the right guy from such poor visuals? Yet surely if she saw him in the flesh she’d be able to confirm it was definitely the same person. Conan Doyle had triggered an interest in footprints, but now forensics were much more sophisticated and the recent discovery of a person’s ‘gait cycle’, their unique walk, had become as reliable as DNA. It exposed things about a person that the uninitiated wouldn’t notice. She hoped she had his walk imprinted on her memory from tracking him on the CCTV footage.
The radio was on but she kept switching between channels. Eventually someone came out of the stair door. She sat bolt upright and put her mini-binoculars up to check if it was Martin. It wasn’t. She sighed. Patience wasn’t her friend. She picked and worried at a thread on her jeans before realising she’d made a hole. Again the stair door opened, but this time a woman with a buggy and a toddler by her side backed out and took off towards the main road. Finally, a few minutes after the eight o’clock news, Martin appeared, wheeling a bicycle. That scuppered her intentions to analyse his walk. He looked right and left as if deciding which route to take, then threw his leg over the bar, clipped on his helmet and cycled towards Leith Walk. She started up and followed him, almost losing him at the junction where he dodged into the middle of the road. She waited an age before filing out into the traffic. He took a right by Pilrig church, which made following him easier. There was nowhere for him to go until he reached the junction with Bonnington Road, where he turned left onto Broughton Road and continued toward Stockbridge. At the end of Hamilton Place he finally stopped, dismounted and parked the bike against a streetlight, and crossed the road to a café. Minutes later he appeared with a cup of something, and she wondered how he would negotiate the drink with getting back onto the bike to continue his journey. But he didn’t get back onto the bike. He walked over to a bench in the square in front of Saunders Street and sat sipping his drink. She was parked on a yellow line facing west with her fingers crossed, hoping that wherever he was going next would be in the same direction. A traffic warden, edging ever closer to where she sat, forced her to make a decision. But just at that moment Martin was joined on the bench. Frances. Now this was interesting. She had to move or get a ticket. She drove up the first left on Leslie Place, round into Dean Terrace and dumped the car. She ran back to the bridge over the Water of Leith.
