by V Clifford
‘Best not to touch. You never know when your prints will be used against you.’ He pulled out two pairs of latex gloves. ‘Here.’
The many layers of suspicion within the service were as sticky as a stack of pancakes with maple syrup.
‘Is this what you want me to look at?’ She pointed at a screen.
He nodded and rolled a chair across from another console. She sat and began tapping on the keyboard.
He rolled another chair over. ‘You won’t be able to get in without the pass . . .’
‘Oh paleeeze.’
He hovered as she continued to tap and the screen went black before suddenly becoming covered in thousands of characters. She scrolled and scrolled until she spotted something. ‘See that?’ She pointed to the screen. ‘You want me to explore that. I think Gordon was scared and if I was in house I’d probably have done the same. I mean lied. There’s no way that he didn’t spot that.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because that row of numbers on the end means . . .’
Mac glanced around as if there was someone else in the room. There wasn’t.
She said, ‘What? There’s always someone listening. I’m surprised you don’t all have a corn plaster over your cameras and cotton wool over the mics. Simple solutions.’
‘So what exactly does that mean?’
‘It means communication with an outside source.’
‘Outside where?’
‘If I said go to Europe and travel east.’
‘We thought that was it but we couldn’t be absolutely sure. Is there only one entry?’
‘So far, but that one entry takes you off this server. Shall we take a look?’
He glanced around him again. ‘I’m nervous of . . .’
She laughed, ‘You don’t say. I’ll send you this Url and you can decide if it’s enough and if not you can take a look at the other stuff. Got a spare USB stick?’
He handed her one. ‘No, just do it. We’re running out of time.’
She stared at him, ‘I take it the “we” you mean isn’t us?’ She pointed to herself then back to him.
‘No, you’re right. It’s bigger than the two in the room.’
‘How big?’
‘Pretty big.’
She continued to search and download information. ‘You shouldn’t ever ask your in-house guys to do this kind of stuff. They just feel trapped between a rock and a hard place. I mean if they find something, it means they weren’t vigilant the first time round. Also, if whoever this console belongs to gets off, they’ve got some poor cyber analyst to come after. Either way it has to be someone neutral-ish.’ She grinned, ‘Like me.’
‘No one is neutral.’
‘No, they are not, but I’m not worried about losing my nine to five. Oh and another thing, once you’re ahead in this game you have to keep at it and I’m not sure your guys do. Too easy to become complacent when you know there’s a pension coming. Me, well, I’m just a hungry, nosey sod. Here,’ she handed him the USB. ‘Now that does contain enough to hang them.’
‘You make it look so simple, but it’s not.’
‘It is simple once your eyes have been trained to spot anomalies. It’s like a wallpaper pattern. If you stare at it you see all sorts of shapes repeating but if one of those rolls hasn’t been hung straight and you get an overlap or a kink, you can’t unnotice it. Just like that on a page of encrypted info.’
He shook his head. ‘I appreciate you’re trying to give me the idiot’s guide but there’s more to it.’
She shrugged, ‘Have it your own way, babe. You usually do. Now if we’re done entrapping your colleague I’ve got other work to do.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘Hope it works out. I’m confident you’re on the side of the angels.’
She walked to the door and put one of her cards up to the sensor; it hissed open. Mac rubbed his hands over his face. ‘You are the limit. But thanks, I really do appreciate your help.’
‘Invoice will arrive in your inbox before you can say . . .’
He interrupted her, ‘Actually . . .’
She got the message, ‘Okay, cash invoice next time we meet?’
He nodded and held up the USB. ‘This is the icing on the cake if we need it. Hopefully he’ll go voluntarily without any noise. We’ll see.’
Chapter Four
Thursday
Viv huffed and puffed as she scrapped a thick layer of ice off the Rav’s windscreen. Not the start she needed on a busy hair morning. She’d forgotten her gloves and had to blow warmth back into her hands. Nothing worse than a cold car – apart from all the things that were worse. It took ten minutes to drive down through the Canongate and round the back of Abbey Hill to reach Jinty’s house on Regent’s Terrace. She hadn’t heard back from her and wasn’t feeling inspired by the idea of fitting in a new head of hair. Once she’d parked and put a ticket inside the car she grabbed her kit from the boot and walked over an expanse of cobbled road to the grand Georgian townhouse. She rang the bell, listening to it peal through the cavernous hallway while appreciating her distorted image in a highly polished, brass lion’s-head knocker.
She stamped her feet on a giant coir mat to prevent her toes from freezing up. Jinty opened the door and said in a pitch that was even lower than usual, ‘Hi Viv, soooo lovely to see you.’ This was normal, but the look on her face didn’t match her words, and she was shaking her head with her eyebrows knitting together. No mean feat. Viv tried to work out what the message was as Jinty took hold of her sleeve and guided her in.
Jinty whispered, ‘I’ve told him you are too busy to do it.’
Confused, Viv said, ‘Did you get my email?’
Jinty nodded furiously, ‘Yes.’ Then raising her voice. ‘That’s no problem. We completely understand. He’ll look fine. It just needs a good wash and blow dry and I’ll help with that before he leaves.’
Jinty swept upstairs with her forefinger to her lips and beckoned Viv to follow. Once inside Jinty’s bedroom with the door closed firmly behind them Jinty dropped her shoulders and said, ‘He’s too weird. Too weird.’ She pointed to the room below indicating where he was. ‘I’m convinced he has an ulterior motive for meeting you. At first I could see what he meant about his hair but then he said something that didn’t make sense. As if seeing you was part of a plan. He doesn’t make eye contact and he’s been too inquisitive about your life. I mean you are a very interesting woman, no one believes that more than me, but why would he want to know about a hairdresser in a city that he’s never been in before. Tell me that’s not odd.’
This certainly grabbed Viv’s attention. ‘Why would he do that? I don’t know any composers and where was it you said he was from?’
‘He’s from Berlin.’
‘No, I definitely don’t know anyone from Berlin.’ She thought of Ronnie and his Wagnerian description of her visitor. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Oh, he’s a handsome devil, but there’s something not quite right about him, and I’m not sharing you with anyone who doesn’t deserve you. Now let’s get this,’ she held a few strands of her hair aloft, ‘sorted. I have to look half decent for the concert.’
‘Okay. But is he tall and blond and handsome?’
‘Yes, he is. Was that a guess?’
‘You don’t happen to have a photograph of him, do you?’
‘Sure. I have a flyer for the concert. I don’t care how famous he is; he doesn’t deserve you . . . I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. His name is Kurt Hahn. I’ll get that flyer for you.’ She moved towards the door.
‘No. Let’s get it when I’m on my way out.’
Jinty looked concerned, ‘Why do you want to see him?’
‘It could be nothing, but I’ve had a visitor to my flat. I wasn’t there, but my neighbour told me that there’d been a tall blond man at the door. You know me, not one for coincidences.’
‘Why on earth would he come to your flat? And how would he know where you live?’
‘Good questions.’
Viv set up her hairdressing kit and made a start on Jinty’s hair. She was one of Viv’s best adverts. She even looked glamorous when she was gardening. The cut was easy but the blow-dry would have to survive a tsunami. Jinty was an Edinburgh society hostess, whose parties were the talk of the town. Viv had had so many people who’d tried to ingratiate themselves with Jinty via her; anything to wangle an invitation. Viv did everything possible to avoid them.
Once she’d switched the drier off they continued their conversation. Not that the drier usually stopped them but because he was somewhere in the house it seemed prudent to keep their voices down, impossible over 2,000 revs a minute.
Jinty said, ‘I had thought of having a few people in to celebrate, but I’m glad that I didn’t. He’s leaving early tomorrow, thank goodness. When will I ever learn? People ask me to do them favours and you know how difficult it is to say no.’
‘So, you don’t really know him?’
‘No. Never set my eyes on him before. Just got an email from a London friend begging me to put up this wonderfully talented, rising star . . . he’s terribly abrupt . . . and why would he seek you out?’
Viv racked her brain for anyone that she might have bumped into and not remembered but shook her head – she wasn’t the type to let a tall handsome German slip her mind. Once Jinty’s hair was sprayed within an inch of its life they made their way back down stairs. Jinty slipped into the kitchen, leaving Viv in the hallway, then returned with the flyer. Just as she handed it to Viv a door adjacent to the kitchen, which Viv knew to be the snug, opened and Kurt Hahn stepped out, filling the space between the two women.
Jinty, a consummate diplomat, said, ‘Ah, Kurt, this is Vivian Fraser.’
He offered Viv his hand and they shook briefly, ‘Very good to meet you, Miss Fraser.’
Jinty said, ‘Oh, it’s Doctor, actually.’
A look of confusion crossed his face but he recovered, ‘Apologies. Doctor Fraser.’ Formal. Too formal, with a nervous tic under his right eye.
‘No need, everyone calls me Viv.’
He made a slight gesture with his head to one side as if he was expecting her to continue, but she was silent.
Jinty said, ‘Viv’s terribly busy.’ And she hustled her towards the door. ‘Speak soon,’ was all she said as she ushered Viv out onto the front steps, obviously in a flap.
As Viv walked over the road towards the Rav she heard Jinty squeal and come running after her, ‘I forgot to pay you. Here. Let’s have coffee. I’ll ring you.’ She handed Viv a cheque, rubbed her forearm and bounded back inside. The whole experience was totally surreal. Ronnie was right; he was handsome, but what the devil could he want with her? She started up the Rav’s engine and looked at the flyer. She’d check with Ronnie that it was the same guy. She already knew the answer to that, but best be sure.
It was unlike Jinty not to have coffee on the go and now Viv was slipping into caffeine deprivation. She started the Rav and glanced back at the house, wondering if Jinty was scared. She was a good judge of character, you can’t entertain so many people and not become an anthropologist, but her performance today was off. Viv’s phone vibrated. An incoming text from Sal read, ‘Arrived in snowstorm. Landed after third attempt’ with a tearful emoji. Oh God, Sal hated flying and was particularly terrified of landings. Thank God she was safe now.
Viv’s next client, an archivist at the National Library, had her hair cut during her lunch break, down in one of the miles and miles of stacks. Illicit visits to the nooks and crannies, places the public would never see, was a perk of Viv’s job. She’d been doing this one for a couple of years. In the same tiny spot surrounded by narrow corridors with floor to ceiling shelves of ancient boxed documents. Miles of knowledge stored underground made her palms damp with anticipation. She’d spent many a long day upstairs in the National’s special collections department wearing white cotton gloves, reading first edition books on Freud. She imagined some poor sod walking and walking these stacks then having to climb a ladder in search of an obscure tome. There had been times when she’d waited half an hour, more, for a book to be delivered to her. She reminded herself to pay more attention to what was actually in the stacks where she’d be cutting hair today.
Melanie, a small elfin-faced woman, with a habit of changing her hair colour as regularly as her socks, pushed open the emergency door of the basement, the staff access from the Cowgate, and ushered Viv into their usual space, barely two metres square. Today Melanie’s hair was pale blue. Her outfit an array of clashing reds and violets finished with a pair of rainbow DMs. Viv quickly laid out her sheet on the floor and positioned a folding chair that Melanie brought out from a cupboard where stationery was stored. Melanie was tetchy, which was nothing new; she was always concerned that they’d be caught by her boss. Viv wasn’t sure what the result of being caught would be, but she didn’t imagine it would incur quite the wrath that Melanie thought it would. The process only took twenty minutes, with Melanie dismissing the idea of a blow dry as too noisy, and terrified that hot air might set off the sensitive alarm system, in place for the security of the manuscripts. As Melanie rummaged around in her huge tapestry bag for money to pay, Viv scanned the shelves for catalogue identification marks on boxes. If she could remember what the first few letters were, she’d be able to go into the online catalogue and find out what the boxes contained. Appalled that she hadn’t asked about their contents until now she said, ‘Don’t you ever tire of running these corridors for other people?’
Melanie’s forehead creased. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I love my job. I love that all this knowledge is available to anyone – anyone who wants access to it. It’s one of the greatest collections that exists and it’s growing every day.’
Viv, infected by Melanie’s passion, said, ‘So what’s in these?’ She patted the shelf nearest to her and immediately released the musty smell of old paper.
Melanie stepped forward and glanced at the identifying tape on the front of the box. ‘These contain estate maps. Not terribly interesting unless you’re into old houses that were requisitioned during the Second World War.’
Viv was not particularly interested, but she knew a woman who would be. Sal’s place in the country had been requisitioned. Sal had pointed out a row of old, now disused, telegraph poles that had been erected on the estate by the army. Melanie was right, this vast library was evidence of the democratisation of knowledge. Joe Blogs could walk in the front door, get himself a reader’s ticket and access anything in the archives. Amazing.
As she was leaving Melanie said, ‘Would you like a proper tour?’
It hadn’t occurred to Viv that that would be possible but she said, ‘I’d love one. When?’
‘I can arrange it with my boss. I’ll email you with some dates. It’ll take a couple of hours. So best do it at the end of a working day.’
‘Great. Look forward to that.’
Once an academic always an academic. Anything to do with books and knowledge got her fired up. At times like this she regretted not taking a full-time teaching post, but she had had her hair clients to think about. They’d stuck with her through thick and thin and she hadn’t wanted to let them down. Besides she was as addicted to cutting their hair as they were to having her cut it. A full-time lectureship may have made life simpler but simple had never been her thing.
Her next client was in the Grassmarket, an antique dealer with a passion for miniature portraits. What new acquisitions might he have today? She pushed her hair back from her eyes and smiled. He was always going to find an undiscovered Rembrandt but so far, no luck. She pressed the buzzer for his flat. No answer. She pressed again. Still no answer. She took out her phone and rang his number. It went straight to voicemail. She left a message then wandered back towards her own flat, stopping to have a look at the knitwear in the window of Bill Baber’s.
Chapter Five
As she approached her building she was surpri
sed to see Mand with one foot hovering on the step outside the front door.
‘Is everything all right?’ Her first thought was that something had happened to their mum.
Mand, dressed in cream skinny jeans, a cream down jacket and cream ankle boots, pushed off the step to make space for Viv to open up, and shrugged, ‘I’m not sure.’ She tucked an imaginary hair behind her ear with beautifully manicured, pale pink nails.
‘What do you mean you’re not sure? Mum’s either all right or she’s not.’
‘I think mum’s okay but . . . let’s go inside.’
Viv unlocked the door and they made their way up to Viv’s flat. It was the first time that Mand had visited and Viv hoped she’d left it in a fit state. Mand’s house was an immaculate minimalist space where little evidence of life was to be found outside of a cupboard door. James, Viv’s nephew, would no sooner stop playing with a toy than it was picked up and put back in its rightful place. White carpets and shiny objets d’art were not the ideal play things for a toddler and yet Mand didn’t seem able to give them up. Mand stepped over the threshold and looked around but said nothing. Nothing in words. Viv dropped her rucksack in the hall and went straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
‘Coffee?’
Mand followed, ‘How long have you been here now?’
‘Couple of years. Not counting. But what’s up? It’s not like you to venture over to the dark side.’
Mand bristled. She was every bit the New Town woman, preferring wide streets and invisible neighbours. The Old Town was crammed with people coming and going, pubs spilling over and restaurants leaking the smells of exotic ingredients. Mand wouldn’t live here if someone paid her to, but it was what Viv loved about it.
Mand said, ‘I don’t know if I’m overreacting.’
Viv couldn’t stop herself from raising her eyebrows. Mand was the mistress of overreaction.
