Deception is the Old Black Read online

  Deception

  is the

  Old Black

  A Viv Fraser Mystery

  V. Clifford

  Inverardoch Press

  Copyright © Vicki Clifford

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

  Also by V.Clifford

  The Viv Fraser Mysteries:

  Beyond Cutting

  Finding Tess

  Digging up the Dead

  Non Fiction

  Freud’s Converts

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  It was the first hot day of August and Festival revellers filled the streets. Viv Fraser blew out a long breath before slamming the Rav’s door – an illegal parking space in King’s Stables Road was better than none. Irritated, she wove her way through crowds milling around the cobbled heart of Edinburgh’s Old Town.

  She mumbled curses to herself at the sight of white awnings stretching as far as the eye could see. How much council tax did she pay for unknown traders to set up stalls on her parking spaces for a month? Distracted, she cut straight through a group of tourists huddled round a map then raised her hands by way of an apology. She didn’t comprehend their language but it ceased for a moment before resuming as if only a breeze had disturbed them. She stepped off the pavement to avoid a cluster of men staggering out of the Black Bull. Two of them, arms round each other’s shoulders, fell to their knees red faced, laughing and completely uninhibited. Nervous of the kind of laughter that preceded vomit or collapse, Viv skipped ahead but had to dodge another drunken man stumbling backward into the road. The drunk was narrowly missed by a cyclist who swerved and gesticulated by ripping out his ear-buds and holding them up as if they were good enough reason for his cycling the wrong way up a one-way street. No bell either, Viv noticed. Since medieval times drovers had brought their animals here to fatten for sale before blowing their gains on whisky. It felt as if things hadn’t changed.

  The pavement outside each pub and café was crammed with tables and chairs. Creative publicans had installed plastic shrubs to mark their boundaries – occupation being nine tenths of the law. Viv glanced in through the door of Bella’s bistro and waved to her friend who squeezed on tiptoe between seated customers. With her hands full Bella could only raise her eyebrows and grin in response. Viv knew that the Festival caused bedlam but was vital to keep businesses going through fallow months. Right now the street was an international melting pot, but come September the battle to fill tables would commence.

  Viv edged into Mo’s mini-market to pick up supplies. She’d left that morning on an empty stomach because the cupboards were bare. Most days she could rely on clients to offer sustenance, even home baking, but today not a muffin or scone had been in sight. She lifted a pack of espresso and a bottle of gold top milk: the bread shelf was empty. She grabbed a box of oatcakes then decided she’d bake bread and added a bag of flour. She was a trier.

  As she stood in the queue to pay, a tall man stretched his head round to look at her and said, ‘Do I know you?’

  His accent was typical of Edinburgh, a city colonised by those who’d gone to one of its many public schools.

  Viv, startled by his proximity, stepped away. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Yes, yes I do. You used to cut my hair.’

  Viv stared at him. A flicker of recognition came to her but she was certain she’d never cut his hair. If she’d fingered round someone’s neck and ears, been close enough to count the open pores on their nose, she never forgot. Cutting hair was intimate. ‘I used to work in the West End. Maybe that’s it?’

  He looked doubtful. Disappointed. ‘Oh. Well, maybe. I’ve seen you in Bella’s.’

  ‘Now that is a possibility. You must be local.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Only locals call it Bella’s. That’s not the name above the door.’

  ‘Right enough.’ He reached his hand out and said. ‘Angus. Gus to my friends.’

  She swapped the grocery basket to her other arm and shook his large calloused hand. ‘Viv. I live in the West Bow. You?’

  ‘Two doors up. Top floor. The one with the tiny roof garden. You’ve maybe seen it from the other side of the main road.’

  ‘Oh, my God. Really? Wow. I’m so jealous. Have you been there long?’

  ‘A few years.’

  It was her turn to look doubtful. If he’d lived there that long surely she’d have noticed him before now.

  As if reading her thoughts he said, ‘I’ve been away a lot.’

  Mo coughed from behind the counter; it was Viv’s turn to pay. ‘You make a good pair,’ he nodded. ‘Look, he’s addicted to chocolate digestives as well.’

  Viv checked to see what Gus was carrying. ‘Alas, no good, I’m an exclusively milk chocolate woman.’

  Gus interrupted. ‘I’m easy. I can eat either.’

  Viv laughed. No one was that easy but his piercing blue eyes intrigued her. ‘What is it you do up there in your garret?’

  ‘I’m a writer.’

  She laughed again. ‘You and everyone else I meet these days. What sort of things do you write?’ What kind of writing caused such rough hands?

  ‘Biographies.’

  ‘Plural? So you’ve written more than one?’

  He flushed. ‘Getting on for six.’

  Viv was impressed. ‘Anyone I might know?’

  ‘I ghost. A few politicians. No one that would interest you, I don’t suppose.’

  ‘Well that’s a leap from not knowing my name to knowing my politics.’

  ‘Oh I didn’t mean it as a . . .’

  She waved her hand. ‘It’s fine. I’m teasing.’ She felt colour rising up her neck. What the heck was going on? She packed her groceries into her rucksack and squeezed past him to get to the door. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  He paid for his biscuits and followed right behind her. ‘Don’t suppose you’d fancy a coffee sometime?’

  Her flush deepened. She wasn’t usually the bashful type but she was bordering on it now. ‘Sure. That would be great.’ She walked off.

  He called after her. ‘When? You should come up and see my roof terrace.’

  She stopped, turned and laughed. ‘I thought you were going to say puppies. But the terrace is just as much of a carrot. I’d love to.’ She swung her rucksack off her shoulder and rummaged around in the side pocket. ‘Here.’ She handed him a card with her email address on it.

  He grinned, exposing a set of slightly crooked white teeth, offset by his tan. It couldn’t be Scottish. And those
cool blue eyes? He probably soaked them in a solution overnight.

  ‘How about now?’

  She hesitated, grotty after a day of cutting hair. But he was nodding, eager with anticipation. She relented. ‘Okay, just a quick visit.’

  Chapter Two

  They reached his building and he led the way to the top floor of the close. Paint flaked from the walls, rubbish bags and boxes full of Heineken empties occupied threadbare doormats and each door had many names taped to it. She felt grateful for the sedate neighbours that she had in her own stair.

  ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘A transient student population doesn’t make for a loyal stair committee.’

  She laughed. ‘I struck lucky. In our building there are only a couple of flats that change hands, and almost always to post grads or visiting fellows. Although we’ve had our moments.’

  His home couldn’t have been more different from hers. With blond wooden floors and flush doors, steel and leather furniture with white curtains, it was all too minimalist for her. They did, however, share a love of books. She ran her fingers along shelf after shelf crammed with titles from history of art to engineering, cooking to container gardening. She could have spent the rest of the day scanning them. She said. ‘Eclectic . . .’

  ‘Thanks. I sometimes think it’s an illness. I can never say no to a book. Come on, it’s up here.’

  She followed him into a small sitting room. ‘But it’s not an illness you’d want to cure?’

  ‘No.’

  He pressed the heel of his hand against the wall and an invisible panel clicked open. They stepped into a steep, narrow staircase that wound up towards the roof through an open glass hatch. They emerged onto a wooden platform.

  She blinked, adjusting to the bright sunlight. ‘Oh, my God. This is fabulous. Unbelievable. And not so tiny.’

  The terrace shared much of the view that she had from her windows in the West Bow, the magnificent towers of George Heriot’s School and the Old Royal Infirmary both significant architectural landmarks. Her own building was further up the hill and had the full panorama of the Pentlands, but this flat had the bonus view of the castle perched on its volcanic rock, transcending the chaos of the street. To the north, the tenements on Johnston Terrace defied Newtonian logic and looked as if they might slide down into the gardens at any moment. ‘Do you have a garden as well?’

  ‘Yes.’ He pointed to some neat grassy terraces. ‘It’s not much to look at, but it’s somewhere else to sit away from the crowds at this time of year.’

  ‘I’m so envious. There is nowhere to sit out in the Bow. I genuinely have stared up at this place and fantasised about having one on my roof.’

  A small gazebo, painted a National Trust shade of green, sat at the back corner of the decking. A few large pots with energetic plants spilling over their tops surrounded its entrance. He pushed the door inwards. ‘Here, take a seat and I’ll go and put some coffee on.’

  She stepped inside and the noise of bustle from the Grassmarket below abated. Two white basket-weave chairs and a matching table with coffee stains and crumbs took up a third of the floor space. A newspaper rack crammed with old copies of The Guardian sat to the side of one of the chairs. She wouldn’t have tagged him as a Guardian reader – FT if anything. Nice to be wrong. She plonked herself down on one of the chairs. With windows on all sides it was like an aquarium. Viv wasn’t big on acquisitions but this definitely brought out her green-eyed monster.

  After a few minutes of planning one of these for her own patch of roof, a tray appeared through the hatch and she went out to help him. But he had the process down to a fine art and was already lifting it back up from the decking. ‘No worries, I do this every day.’

  ‘I can’t believe how fabulous this is. Who built it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘No way! Really! Oh my God.’ She flushed, cringing at the sound of a Hollywood bimbo coming out of her mouth. What was she up to?

  He grinned. Her enthusiasm infectious.

  She stood inside the gazebo and made a turn of 360 degrees. ‘It’s perfect. I thought my place was good because of the views but you have the whole . . .’ She didn’t know what to say. So she sat down and looked at him. ‘How the hell did you do it? I mean how did you get all the material up those stairs?’

  ‘Same way you’d eat an elephant. One bite at a time.’

  Viv laughed. She’d rarely heard anyone else use the phrase. She loved it – it was a good way to slow people down. Now that they were inside she sensed that the space was more suited to one person. She imagined him sitting with his laptop on his knees, long legs stretched out, or feet perched up on the extra chair. What a great place to work. The smell of coffee floated round the confined space. He’d brought a plate of digestives, both milk and dark chocolate.

  He handed her a demi-tasse. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘No thanks.’ She examined the tiny cup. ‘Posh wee cup.’ She sipped the strong velvety brew and made noises of appreciation. ‘So what are you working on at the moment? Or does a ghost have to keep it entirely to himself?’

  He nodded. ‘Afraid so. First Ministers hate their public to think they can’t write their own stuff.’

  She almost choked on her coffee. ‘I see.’

  He handed her a paper napkin. ‘Everything all right?’

  She nodded as she dabbed her mouth. ‘I’m fine, thanks. But how does it work? I’m guessing you tape an interview where they tell you everything that they want people to know, but nothing of importance?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it. Anything that I write that they don’t like is taken out, so it’s not worth straying. They even line up interviews with “friends” and family for me. So everyone’s primed. Although occasionally, just occasionally, someone blurts out a nugget that’s worth knowing but can’t go into the book.’ He smiled.

  Intrigued, she continued. ‘So you have stacks of notes on famous people that could destroy their reputations?’

  ‘I have to sign a clause.’

  She thought as much. ‘But what if they're stolen?’

  He stared at her, his eyebrows knitting. ‘Now where might this be going?’

  Viv, realising that she’d shifted into interrogation mode, shook her head. ‘Oh, ignore me. I’m a nosey sod.’

  ‘So what is it that you do?’

  ‘I am a hairdresser . . . But I’ve absolutely never cut that hair.’ She pointed at his head.

  He looked puzzled, as if the hairdressing question had been a ruse that had backfired. ‘Okay, okay. So where do you work?’

  ‘I’m independent. But I do other things as well.’ This was her least favourite conversation and frustration had crept into her tone.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, I’ve written the odd column for a newspaper.’

  He stopped short with his cup almost to his lips and nodded. ‘Well, that’s unusual.’

  She couldn’t be bothered justifying her existence. Time to take her leave. She nodded and swigged the remains of her coffee. ‘Thanks for that. I’ve got loads to do.’ She gestured at the cup. ‘Delicious.’

  ‘Good. You’ll come again.’ It was a question disguised as a statement.

  ‘I might. But only since you had milk chocolate digestives.’

  ‘But you didn’t have one.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But it was nice of you to make the effort.’

  As he stood up he said. ‘Do you know Sal Chapman?’

  ‘Yes . . . I did . . . I mean I do. I bought the flat from her.’

  He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. ‘She came to see this place when I was building it.’

  It had been a while since she’d thought about Sal’s previous life. Now her mind skipped into overdrive, trying to make sense of what his relationship with Sal could be. How well had he known her? How long had they been friends? What should she now make of the ‘coincidence’ of him stopping her? Wary, she walked back over
to the hatch.

  ‘Go down backwards. It’s safer.’

  She swung round and descended in seconds. Her rucksack wasn’t where she’d left it. She glanced round as he stepped into the room.

  ‘Oh, I put your bag into the fridge since there was milk in it.’

  How domestic. Had he gone through it? Was she paranoid? Yes, she was. She rolled her shoulders.

  ‘It was good to meet you.’ He said it tentatively, as if he sensed he’d lost her.

  ‘Yes. Likewise.’ Then she heard a strange voice, sounding bizarrely like her own, saying, ‘We must do it again sometime.’

  ‘Great, I’d like that.’

  His hallway was cramped and she didn’t want to get trapped in it with him. She made for the door, opened it and in one smooth move was on the landing swinging her rucksack over her shoulder.

  Chapter Three

  Viv lived just above the curve of the West Bow, at the lower end of Victoria Street. As soon as the heavy outside door clicked behind her, quiet descended and she sighed, relishing sanctuary in the midst of chaos. She took the stairs at her usual pace, two at a time, reaching the top floor slightly out of breath, and unlocked her door. Her landline was ringing. Few people used it and since she’d seen her sister earlier, she’d lay money on it being her mum. She missed the call but her mother’s number registered in the display. Within seconds the light on the answering machine began blinking. She pressed Play.

  Her mum’s voice said, ‘I’ve just spoken to Amanda.’

  Viv braced herself for what was coming next, but was surprised when her mum sighed and said, ‘Oh, never mind. I’m going to a tea dance so you’ll not get me in.’

  The clatter of her mum unravelling the cord on her phone before resting it on its cradle took up another minute of tape. Viv smiled. Her mum was no shrinking violet, but she was averse to technology, and especially suspicious of the telephone.

  She stripped off to have a shower. The downside of being a hairdresser were tiny bits of newly cut hair that got stuck everywhere. She’d once spent forever trying to remove a shard embedded in her nipple. Adjusting the water temperature she stood, allowing a cool stream to rinse her working day down the drain. She towelled her hair then pulled on joggers and an over-sized tee shirt. Not yet adept at making bread, she measured ingredients into a bowl and kneaded them as if she was in a gestalt session. She covered the bowl with a linen tea towel and sighed with satisfaction, but as she rinsed her hands she wondered what Angus’ ulterior motive could be.