by V Clifford
‘He was good at getting other people to join us.’
‘Just so I’m clear, who exactly is “us”?’
‘The Knights of Malta. I thought you knew. I run the youth section. There’s a ball every year and it’s good to get all ages to the same event. The whole thing is about money. We are all trying to make money for Catholic good works. James was good at recruiting people who were willing to part with or at least get rid of cash.’
‘You mean . . .?’
‘Oh no. Nothing illegal if that’s what you were going to ask. Just people have excess and they make informed choices about who or what they give to. James was great at talking a good game and got us huge amounts of funding.’
‘So you don’t know of anyone who would want him dead?’
‘No. Absolutely not and certainly not any one of the Knights.’
They chatted about some of the ‘good works’ then parted swearing coffee or lunch soon as poss. Never going to happen but a good way to end their meeting.
Viv decided that she needed to gather a few things from the West Bow so made her way to the Grassmarket. The traffic was a nightmare and by the time she’d circled for the third time she was ripping her hair out. In the end she dumped the car on a yellow line and jogged up the cobbled street, dodging pedestrians. Outside the flat a crowd of guys were up to high jinks. Ragging each other spilling their beer from plastic pint containers. One guy turned too quickly and swilled his drink over her. She jumped back but it still caught her trousers and her boots.
‘Sorry Ginger. No harm done eh?’
‘I’m no Ginger and you’ve messed up my boots.’
She pushed through them to get to her door but the guy who’d spilled his drink was having none of it and pulled at her arm.
She spun round and said, ‘Let go.’
He tightened his grip. ‘What are you going do about it?’
She planted a Glasgow kiss dead centre of his nose.
He screamed, ‘You bitch!’ Again he started to grab at her. Blood already running down his face.
His mates grabbed him and pulled him away before he touched her a second time.
She, more shocked than he was, slipped inside her door and slammed it. She stood in the passage leaning against the wall listening to them trying to calm him down. She calmed her own breathing, waiting until their voices began to fade as they moved downhill towards the Grassmarket. She put her hand up to her face and felt a swelling rising on her forehead. What the hell had possessed her to do that to him? In a split second it was over but he would have a sore face for a while and she would have the mother of all bruises, maybe even a black eye. ‘Shit!’ She took the stairs two at a time and reached her landing in less time than usual. She pushed the door open against a pile of mail. Ronnie must have brought it up from the passage. She plonked herself on the couch and put her head in her hands. So was this how things would play out? She wasn’t prone to outbursts of violence or aggression: was this how she would recover?
She touched the swelling rising above her eyes. ‘Shit!’ She got up and went to the ice-box in the fridge, grabbed a packet of frozen peas and laid them on the bump. He asked for it. He shouldn’t have touched her. She was defending herself. She was incensed and someone had to cop it. He was the poor sod at the wrong end of her fraying temper. Too late to do anything about it. So with her one free hand she opened a few bills, statements and a couple of journals and threw them into a bag. Ronnie had rescued her mail before when she’d been away. He was the one resident who cared that the passage was kept clean and tidy. Thank God for Ronnie.
She considered taking her new screens up to Doune, but she couldn’t be bothered to carry them all the way back to the Rav. They’d have to wait until another day, another parking place closer to the flat. She pressed the play button on her answering machine; two messages from her mum and one from Amanda. She ought not to neglect them. She’d promised herself to spend more time with them after the debacle with her mum, but true to form nothing had happened since. She glanced at her face in the bathroom mirror. Oh my God! What a mess. Both of her eyes were beginning to bruise. What had possessed her? That was it; she must have been momentarily possessed. If only he hadn’t touched her she wouldn’t have reacted.
The peas were beginning to defrost so she stuck them inside another poly bag, marked it, ‘used for headache’ and tucked them back into the ice-box. She fished out a tube of arnica from the bathroom cabinet and slathered it onto the bump and round her eyes. Worth a try. Her head was thumping. She found an old baseball cap, drew her hair into a pony and slipped the cap on. If she kept the peak down low no one would notice. She snorted. Who was she kidding? Mac would be on it as soon as. Once she’d gathered the few things she needed she headed back down to the Rav. No sign of the group of guys or a ticket on her windscreen. She whispered to herself, ‘There is a God and she’s on my side . . . for now.’
Chapter Sixteen
Just over an hour later she was back in the conservatory in Doune with her laptop on a cushion and Mollie nuzzled into her thigh. She’d sent Sholto an email asking if he would allow her access to his email accounts. Manners maketh not the hacker, but since he was paying her she thought she’d give him second refusal – she’d already viewed one of his accounts at the mews. He replied with the usual reservations. ‘Was it really necessary to trawl through his private conversations?’ Of course it was if he wanted results. Once into his personal account she found her way into Pamela’s as well. Buy one get one free. Pamela’s messages were much more interesting since she had a history of arguing and being indiscreet which probably meant she didn’t know about Sholto’s other accounts that he wasn’t giving up. She’d find them.
In a conversation between Pamela and her stepmother it became apparent that there was a serious family feud. By the sounds of it, the issue had been simmering, possibly for years. They were at loggerheads over Pamela’s lack of contribution to the running of the equine part of the estate, which had originally been her idea. She’d obviously got distracted by something or someone else and had stepped back from the day-to-day shovelling of shit and brushing of manes leaving most of the work to her stepmother, whose love of horses was running thin. Now, what was the distraction that took Pamela away from the stables for days on end - and that she and her stepmother were carefully not naming?
Viv rubbed her eyes back into life then continued to scroll. She was close to giving up and having a walk but she spotted an email sent to Pamela by an account familiar to her, the Vatican Library. Now that was intriguing. Her Italian was rusty to non-existent so she tried Google translate. This email was obviously part of a conversation which had a significant history since the librarian kept saying, ‘further to . . .’, and quoting another correspondence which may or may not have been in emails. Viv scrolled and scrolled, unable to find the earliest one. Then she discovered another email account belonging to Pamela. Once into that account, the Vatican conversation became clearer. Pamela had requested a search into land charters from before the Reformation. ‘Fuck sake!’ Talk about the past being in the present. This was actual archaeology. Pamela’s query was to do with something called a Sasine. According to Google, a Sasine was an ancient way of passing land or resources from one person to another and involved clods of earth and/or boulders.
She said to the screen, ‘You’ve got to give it to the Scots for their ingenuity.’ Passing a handful of earth from one person to another had been legally binding.
Viv’s mobile rang. She tutted but grabbed hold of it and read the screen. It was Mac. ‘Hi, I’m in the middle of something interesting. Can I ring you back?’
‘Would it be interesting to me as well?’
She sighed. ‘It might be.’
‘Just might or actually would?’
‘Okay, it actually, definitely would be of interest to you but you won’t want to know how I got the info so don’t ask.’ She heard him running his hands over his face, a face that sounded i
n need of a serious shave. ‘You okay?’
‘Peachy. I’m in a traffic jam but as soon as it starts moving I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.’
‘I haven’t got anything that’s worth coming here for. Well nothing that I can’t tell you on the phone in two minutes.’
‘Got to go we’ve started moving.’ He cut the call.
She returned to the screen. There were a couple of pathways she wanted to follow but it was a bore to keep switching between one window and the other. Mac must read Italian; he spoke it fluently.
She rubbed Mollie’s ears. ‘Your pal is on his way. We’d better get the kettle on.’ She put her laptop on the couch, moved a very reluctant dog off her thigh and hobbled over to the Aga. She’d been sitting in the same position far too long. How could the dog go from totally static to bouncing around in one slick move? Whatever the dog was on she’d love some of it.
When Mac arrived Mollie raced to the door and jumped up at the handle. Viv pulled it open and watched, not without some green-eyed monster sitting on her shoulder, as Mollie leapt all over him like a rash.
‘What the hell?’
She put a hand up. ‘Don’t ask.’
‘What do you mean, don’t ask. Have you seen your face?’
‘If you hadn’t noticed I actually wear this face, so I do feel what is going on. It was an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘I said don’t ask. You wouldn’t want to know the answer, so best not to keep pushing.’
‘But you’ve got two black eyes. Not one but two which would lead me to think you’d given someone the head.’
She didn’t look up when he said this.
‘Ah, so I’m right. What did they do to deserve it?’
‘Just let’s drop it. I might have over-reacted but it didn’t feel like it at the time.’
He sighed and handed her a bag of groceries. ‘I would have taken these up the hill and forgotten about them.’
‘Yeah, sure. When did you ever forget about food?’
She took the bag and unpacked it on the kitchen table, ‘Oh man. Have I got some juice for you.’
He pulled out a chair and flopped onto it. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘Not God exactly, but as close as you could get to him.’
He screwed up his eyes. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘I’ve got into a conversation that Pamela, Pamela the fiancé of our newest client, has been having with the Vatican.’
‘How the hell did you get into that?’
‘What did I tell you on the phone? Don’t ask.’
He shook his head and stood up. ‘Okay if I put the kettle on?’
‘Too late. Just boiled. Coffee is.’ She pointed to the cupboard and then the draining board. Everything you ever needed right before you.’
‘Tell me about the conversation then.’
She laughed. ‘Did you know that in ancient times if you were handed a clod of earth by a landowner, then that meant you had certain rights on that land. Sasines, they were called Sasines before there were written legal documents. But look I need your help. How’s your Italian these days?’
Mac’s father was Italian and at home they used to speak it all the time but now she wasn’t sure.
‘At home with my mum and sisters we still do anger and frustration better in Italian than in Scots.’ He poured water over coffee grains and wafted the aroma up towards his face. ‘See that? It makes me feel almost human again. And by the way you forget that I read law. I know all about Sasines.’
She sensed he was raising his game for her benefit. ‘Why such a shit day?’
‘Powers that be don’t want feathers ruffled.’
‘Fuck ‘em. They never do. You’d think we were paying to keep the corporate peace rather than find the dickheads who exploit their power by giving dosh to community projects or buying football teams to create pitiful smokescreens for their laundering.’
Mac sipped his coffee. ‘Why don’t you just say it like it is?’ He grinned. ‘You’re right, but it doesn’t help me. Let’s get a look at the Vatican emails then.’
She grabbed her laptop and put it on the kitchen table. She pulled a chair closer to his and pointed at the screen. ‘Look.’ In bold letters it read, The Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. ‘Bit of a giveaway I’d say. I mean who among us is in communication with the Vatican? But look, it goes on and on and on. I’m bored switching between the email and Google translate so maybe you could give me a précis?’
He began reading. The silence in the room was only interrupted by the tick of an old clock that Sal wouldn’t give up. Even Mollie had snuggled into her bed by the Aga. He scrolled and read then scrolled some more. Viv sipped her coffee trying to look patient. She started playing with crumbs on the table, circling them, rounding them up like the enemy. If Mac had done that to her while she was working she’d have had a hissy fit but he didn’t even notice.
Eventually he stretched. ‘You’re right this is juicy. She’s convinced that there was an ancient charter given to her estate, not to her family but the family before them, that is supposed to give them the fishing rights.’
Viv snorted, ‘Fishing rights! What the actual? Who gets their knickers in a twist about a few fish?’
‘Only a townie would be that naive. Salmon fishing in Scotland is a multi-million-pound industry. People pay huge, and I mean huge amounts of money to fish the Tay, the Spey and a whole lot of others. This could make or break a landowner.’
‘But why would she be trying to get the rights to something that she was just about to get the rights to through marriage?’
‘Good question. We’ll need to do a bit more digging.’
‘How come these ancient old charters are still binding?’
‘It’s called the law, Doc. Without it there’d be chaos.’
‘There’s chaos anyway.’
He nodded. ‘Yep, there is, but nothing like the chaos there would be without legally binding documents. You already know that but for some reason you think that this,’ he pointed at the screen, ‘is not important. To anyone who lives in the countryside it is. The fishing industry employs thousands of people. Hotel staff, gillies, it spills into the whisky trade etc etc. Don’t imagine people wouldn’t kill for a slice of all of that.’
‘What, you think these emails about fishing rights could be connected to our mock cardinal? And our mis-pers?’
In unison they said, ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence.’
She stood and checked the groceries that had arrived with Mac. ‘What was your plan for this little lot?’
‘What, you can’t guess from the ingredients?
She sighed. ‘Okay, I’m guessing carbonara, but I don’t see why you’d need eggs for that.’
He smiled. ‘That’s what I love about you. There’s no excess. No frippery.’
‘Don’t you go believing that what you see is what you get ‘cause that’s total bull.’
‘Proper carbonara always has eggs. That’s what makes it silky and creamy.’
‘Easy! You sound like a porn star.’
He shook his head and rolled up his sleeves. ‘Let the art begin.’
‘Get over yourself. You’re making spaghetti.’
He snorted, ‘Just you wait.’
‘It’s not the first time you’ve made my dinner, remember. I’ve had exposure to your culinary delights before.’
‘Ah, but never the carbonara.’
She laughed and turned her attention back to the screen. ‘I’ll stick to where my strength lies.’
So as he chopped and whipped she scrutinised the Vatican Library archive. It was totally moreish to have access to every text that could affect the Catholic Church. They’d always known that knowledge was power and consequently kept every scrap of parchment, vellum and paper that might be used at some time in the future to influence, retain or gain power. She could imagine the most incredible stuff stacked in special air-conditioned vau
lts; she’d even found some original works of Aristotle and Copernicus. But spending time perusing those was for another visit. The search into charters didn’t bring up anything so they must be catalogued elsewhere.
Now if you were a priest squirrelling documents that you’d only want a particular family to discover, where might you put them? She sent Sholto another request, this time to actually search the family papers. Someone somewhere knew about these ‘rights’, although the nerve of anyone who thought they could own a river was beyond comprehension. What was that Buddhist saying about never dipping your toes in the same river twice?
The smell of braising garlic coming from the Aga made her salivate. Mac had a genius touch when it came to cooking Italian. ‘You definitely know that the way to a woman’s heart is through her belly, don’t you.’
‘You hungry now?’
‘Hungry? I could chew your arm off now that I’ve had a whiff of that sauce.’
‘Ten minutes while the spaghetti cooks.’
She turned to look at him and took comfort watching him in the zone. He would say that their spending more time together was by default rather than design but she wouldn’t agree. Grief was very peculiar and every individual reacted differently to it. She stared at his back. How was he really doing? He had known Sal longer than she had, had worked with her on a daily basis. How did that compare to the relationship she’d had with Sal? Two independent women, intent on keeping their identities separate, yet sharing a bed and intimacy had made that separation tricky. Tears pricked her eyes and a weight took up residence where her heart should be. She recalled the way they’d parted. Talk about frosty and jagged, both indicators of deep feelings but also signs that each was determined to remain their own person.
She wiped her eyes but flinched at the pain across her forehead. Her laptop pinged. Sholto’s reply. She could go through the family papers but he’d have to be with her. Some were fragile and were kept in the safe. ‘Got permission to go through the lord’s archive. That should be fun.’
‘You okay?’
