Deception is the Old Black Page 3

  Ellie kept stifling yawns and soon Viv shouted above the racket, ‘Look why don’t we call it a night? You’re knackered, we can catch up properly when the Festival’s over.’

  Ellie gestured for the bill. ‘This is on me.’

  Viv started to argue but Ellie held up her hand, ‘No point. You did it last time.’

  ‘Fair enough. It’s good to have you back, Ells.’

  They strolled up Queensferry Street and waited among queues of tourists on Shandwick Place, then bear-hugged as Ellie’s bus approached. Viv wandered home via King’s Stables Road, her mind full of questions about the outward-bound weekend. Why her? What was really at stake? Whatever it was had to be significant. Mac wouldn’t pull the ‘National Security’ number without good reason. Or would he?

  As she turned into the West Bow she spotted the saloon from earlier. She sauntered over to it and the window lowered. Ruddy smiled at her. ‘Slight change of plan. Get in.’

  She checked inside the car. Only Ruddy and his driver. She opened the back door and slipped in. ‘So what’s this about?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ He handed her a folder. Inside there were photographs of boats. Some splendid cruisers, some sailing boats. ‘Taking me on a cruise?’

  His eyebrows twitched.

  The car pulled away from the kerb and drove towards the West Port. She flicked through the folder. At the end there were two gruesome pictures of a severed forearm, both showing the same tattoo but from different angles.

  She screwed up her face. ‘Extreme way to lose your tats.’ She stared at him. ‘Still not sure what any of this has to do with me.’

  They had reached Corstorphine Road, the main route to the west of Edinburgh. ‘Where are we off to?’

  Ruddy smiled. ‘Patience, Vivian.’

  The driver glanced in the rear view mirror and smiled. They turned onto the old Turnhouse road and stopped at the gates of an airfield. With a few words from the driver to a uniformed man in a small sentry box the barrier rose and they drove through. They parked on a strip of tarmac secured by a fence, twenty feet high topped with a round of rip wire. Ruddy got out and made his way to her side but she’d already jumped out. The blades of a nearby chopper began to turn.

  She swung round and stared at Ruddy then pointed. ‘Is that for us?’

  He nodded. She tried but failed to stifle a grin. Excitement brimmed into every area of her body. ‘I haven’t been on one of these since OTC.’

  He nodded.

  She shook her head. ‘Silly me. You already know that.’ Her words tailed off as the blades gathered momentum and the chug chug chug became too much to compete with. Once on board they were both given a headset and goggles.

  Ruddy confidently put on his headset and raised his voice above the engines. ‘Welcome to Special Services.’

  Her belly was knitting socks. This was more Hollywood than Edinburgh. Once she was strapped in with her own headset on the chopper took off. She felt as if she’d won the lottery for free rides at the fun fair. If this was what Special Services meant, she was in. Trying to keep her wits about her she glanced down at the fields and the ribbon of the M8. It was not yet dark enough for drivers to have their headlights on, but the twinkle of sidelights made an impressive snake far into the distance. They were definitely travelling west. At some point the chopper scudded round on a more northerly trajectory. Light pollution receded and they raced through valleys where mountains rose above them on either side and lochs glistened below. Eventually they made it to the coast. The sun dipped close to the horizon. Her jumper wasn’t adequate for this 2,000 feet high adventure. She hauled on her jacket.

  Ruddy must have noticed her shiver and rooted around behind his seat and pulled out a blanket. Nice touch. She wrapped it over her knees and tucked her hands inside. They circled over a small bay where there were three boats, all lit up; the largest of them a white and silver gin palace. The other two most likely fishing boats.

  The pilot spoke into his microphone. ‘You can use the infra-red now. Put your goggles on.’

  She was intrigued at how clear the stars were before it was completely dark. She put the goggles on and immediately the world beneath her changed. She could actually see the skeletons in shades of green of everyone on board the vessels.

  She couldn’t help herself grinning. Amazed that she was circling around in a chopper and that she was using military tech as if she were one of the boys. ‘Wow! These things are excellent. Couldn’t they be used in medical diagnosis?’

  Ruddy ignored her question. ‘The cruiser. What do you see on the cruiser?’

  There were four people above deck and two, maybe three, lying below deck. ‘I can see people lying below deck.’

  Ruddy nodded. His head swivelled and he pointed to one of the fishing boats.

  Same thing. Four above and perhaps three below. The magnification was terrific.

  Viv laughed. ‘If these were any stronger I could see their Adam’s apples moving.’

  Ruddy said, ‘You think fishermen bring crew aboard to take a sleep?’ He coughed and pointed again.

  She followed the line of his finger. There was a faint trail of heat beneath the water. Not skeletons but definitely a line, or transmission, something showing up with pockets of green, making a connection between the gin palace and the fishing boat. These goggles were amazing and she briefly wondered if Special Services would miss a set.

  ‘We know that there’s a ring using this area of coastline. We’re just not sure what they’re bringing in.’

  She was fascinated. ‘People. D’you think it’s people?’

  He shrugged. ‘We’re hoping you’ll find us a few more clues.’

  She hauled the goggles off. Her eyes took a minute to adjust. ‘Me?’

  He nodded. ‘Killing two birds with one stone.’

  ‘They must know that you’re on to them. This chopper isn’t exactly discreet.’

  ‘They’re pretty cocky. Don’t seem to think they’re at risk.’ He pointed to a couple of buildings on the shore. ‘That’s your destination tomorrow.’

  She pulled the goggles back on and made out five people sitting round a table. In the gloaming the landscape was vague but she spotted a herd of deer and grinned again at the weird movement of their entire frames. Perfectly designed. She turned her head to face the boats again. One of the fishing boats was moving out to open sea.

  She nudged Ruddy and nodded.

  He shouted. ‘They’ll have to be efficient sailors to get to the other side of the Old Hag. She’s taken down far bigger boats than that.’ He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and made an upward spiral gesture. The chopper immediately rose and banked, turning back in the direction they’d come. She reopened and scanned the folder with the photographs in it. The tattoos were very specific, botanically accurate. Must have been done by a steady hand. By the time they were parallel with the M8 again headlights were on full. The sky was as clear as it had been in the west, but she couldn’t make out nearly so many stars here. The same driver was waiting for them when they touched down.

  Ruddy said as they got back into the car, ‘We think that the west coast stuff is probably drugs, vodka, maybe even mock designer labels, but that’s not all they’re up to. It’s as if that stuff is a decoy.’

  She swallowed and buckled up. ‘You thinking trafficking?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who knows? But we suspect ties to an extremist cell.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense. Are they extreme nationalists? . . . Why would they bring in foreigners? Surely they want to get rid of them?’

  He shook his head. ‘Or . . .? Wakey, wakey, Viv. Take a guess at what they’d do with them. This is all unconfirmed but we’re hoping something might turn up at the centre.’

  ‘What exactly am I supposed to do on this dreaded outward-bound weekend?’

  He grinned. ‘Do what you’re best at.’

  She thought of what she’d done for him in the recent past. Her most fruitful results came from
cyber snooping. She was about to say that the west coast of Scotland was hardly a cyber hot spot when she remembered how well equipped even nomads in the furthest reaches of the Gobi desert were. ‘Okay. I’ll do what I can.’

  He gave a nod. ‘I thought you would. Like father, like daughter.’

  Surprised by this she said, ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stuttered. ‘We . . . well what did you know about him?’

  ‘Nothing that you probably couldn’t guess. He was committed to justice and . . .’ He gave the slightest shake of his head.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Best we stick to the present.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  She could see that he wasn’t going to be drawn.

  They dropped her on the West Bow and she stood on the pavement staring at the saloon gliding slowly up towards George IV Bridge. What was she getting herself into? How had Ruddy known her dad? Her dad had been an ordinary detective, or so she believed.

  She put her key into the outer door of her building and turned to wave, but the car was already gone. She even wondered for a moment if she’d dreamt the expedition. In the flat she was greeted by the smell of fresh dough. She stuck it into the oven and while waiting for it to bake packed a few things into a rucksack. The hair she was doing in the morning was a favour for a client and not the client themselves, so she didn’t feel too bad when she changed the time of her arrival. Besides, brides-to-be never slept the night before the big day. The loaf hadn’t risen and felt like an oversized brick. Baking clearly wasn’t her strong point, but she still went to bed with the smell of fresh bread lulling her into a sense that all was well.

  Chapter Five

  Viv was an exceptional time-keeper and arrived with two minutes to spare at the home of the bride’s mother. As she rang the bell she heard a screech coming from upstairs. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. This could be fun. The mother of the bride swung the door open and with a dramatic flourish bade Viv enter, while the screeches continued from above.

  The mother said, ‘This way. We thought it would be useful for you to have a mirror and lots of space. We’ve put you in here.’ She opened the door to a large bedroom with wall-to-wall mirrored wardrobes. The wedding gown was hanging on a high window catch blocking out the light. Next to it hung a row of small puffy bridesmaid’s dresses in lilac. Fortunately Viv had only agreed to sort out the bride’s hair. The bridesmaids were being taken care of by their parents.

  After about five minutes, with Viv becoming increasingly tetchy, the bride waltzed in. Her swollen eyes and veined cheeks would take a miracle to calm before the ceremony. Not Viv’s problem. They’d had a trial run for the hair the week before and Viv set to. Mother brought in a bottle of champagne and poured a glass for her daughter. She offered Viv one but she refused; she would need to be alert for the rest of the day. Mother and daughter couldn’t have cared less. They gulped it down as if it was water. If she needed this much alcohol to get married perhaps there were questions to be asked. Viv noticed that the bride was wearing a bra and ankle socks.

  ‘I wonder if it might be an idea to take off your bra and socks.’

  The girl looked sideways at her.

  ‘Your dress is strapless. All you’ll see are bra marks. Ditto the socks. I’d lose them and not have deep tracks for the photographs.’

  The bride swung round and shrieked at her mother, ‘You should have told me. If these marks spoil my photographs . . .’

  Her mother, obviously used to being spoken to in this way, just about turned with her glass in her hand and left the room without a reply. Viv continued without missing a beat and, once she was finished, silently packed up her kit and retreated to the front door, where Mother smiled and said, ‘I’ll send you a cheque.’

  Viv nodded, relieved to escape the asylum. When she reached the Rav a woman had double parked, blocking her in. Viv drummed on the steering wheel as she waited for three young children to be strapped in and given whatever toys they needed to keep them quiet. By the time she got going time was tight.

  An architectural carbuncle built for function, Police HQ at Fettes hadn’t improved with time. As if crime didn’t happen at weekends, its large car park was almost empty and Viv pulled into a space opposite the minibus. She hauled her rucksack from the boot of the Rav and swung it over her shoulder. It was 9.25am, and there were people already on the bus. She saw Mac and one other man, storing luggage in a hold at the side.

  Viv coughed.

  Mac didn’t look up but said, ‘Nice you could make it, Dr Fraser.’

  Either he was seriously pissed off or he was an excellent actor. He stood and held out his hand. Viv slipped her rucksack off her shoulder and handed it to him. She tried to make eye contact but he turned away and shoved her sack into the hold. She guessed this was part of the deal and stepped inside the bus. There were fourteen seats but only four aboard so far, a great ratio of people to seats. Lynx deodorant made a big impression as she passed the three blokes sitting nearest the front, although the cheese and onion crisps one of them was scoffing added to the cocktail.

  Her heart sank when she recognised Gordon, a cyber analyst she had worked with before, who immediately said, ‘Ah, if it isn’t our very own Bletchley girl.’ His tone more facetious than she remembered it.

  At the mention of this name the others looked up from their various technologies and in turn introduced themselves. ‘Hi, I’m Archie.’ His mouth still full of crisps.

  And with a wave, ‘I’m David, Davie.’

  And a nod from, ‘Robert, Robbie,’ who was now busy checking the tachograph at the side of the driver’s seat.

  The only female aboard mumbled something incomprehensible before returning to scrolling through her phone.

  Viv slipped onto the long seat at the back and stretched her legs into the aisle. She placed her jacket on one side and her ipod on the other, her territorial imperative showing no signs of diminishing. From this position she could keep her eye on the horizon and check out her companions – not a decent haircut amongst them. No one had used their full name, and consequently they sounded like a bunch of cocktail waiters. She was the only person who’d been graced with a last name and it wasn’t her own. She glared at Gordon, wondering what he was up to and why he had introduced her in that way. She wasn’t yet sure what any of their jobs were – even Mac’s, if she thought about it hard enough. But they all worked together in some capacity for the NTF cyber unit.

  Mac came aboard and handed out folders. ‘Right. Read these and sign at the bottom of the last page.’

  Viv glanced at the first page, decided she wasn’t signing anything and closed the folder, then slipped it beneath her butt.

  Mac saw her and frowned a warning.

  It was too early in the morning to start toeing the line but she sighed and retrieved the folder. Since when did the police start giving out welcome packs? She rubbed a hand across her face and through her hair. The woman glanced at her and smiled. Viv shook her head and raised her eyes skyward in a what-the-fuck gesture.

  Robbie fired up the engine but Gordon said, ‘Wait!’ and rushed off the bus and back into the building. Five minutes later he sauntered back and took his seat without apology.

  Robbie glanced at Mac, who nodded. They were off with only seven on board. Time for reading was over for Viv. She leaned her head against the window, but caught a reflection of Archie gnawing on his fingernails. She shuddered and closed her eyes, wondering what he was so worried about. For the first twenty minutes she visualised the route along the Queensferry Road, out towards the Forth Bridges then the turn off towards Bo’ness. Once they reached the M9 she settled down properly with a fleece behind her head. There was an hour of motorway ahead and other than the Kelpies and Stirling castle, which she’d had an eyeful of recently, there was too much flat green land to look at. Once they were onto the Callander road and into the Trossachs the scenery would be more dramatic.


  She dozed until their first stop at the Green Welly Cafe, about two hours from the outskirts of Edinburgh. The bus began to empty. The female bumped into Archie and shot him a schoolgirl death stare as if it had been his fault.

  He said, ‘Sorry, Frances.’ Then skipped in front of her to join the others as they headed inside the building. Mac was chatting to the driver outside the bus and as much as she wanted to ask Mac a few questions she didn’t feel it was right to interrupt them. Besides, she was getting the hang of his silent treatment. Mac took off into the building, but Robbie just stretched and cracked his knuckles at the door of the bus. No opportunity for her to snoop around the others’ stuff.

  One by one they returned to the bus, except Gordon. Eventually, just as Mac was about to go to look for him, he wandered out reading a newspaper. Not in any hurry.

  Mac said, ‘Move it, Gordon.’ But all Gordon did was slowly fold his paper.

  On the next leg of the journey Viv remained alert. To work in the NTF they’d all have been to Tulliallan for training, but she wondered how they would fare this weekend. Gordon was carrying a little too much weight and Archie moved as if he was in pain. Being a cyber geek still meant you were a police officer, although looking at a screen all day did nothing for physical fitness.

  Davie, sitting next to Gordon, started singing, ‘Nellie the Elephant Packed her Trunk’. There was an outburst of laughter as they realised he was tipping the wink at John Le Carré, who had called MI5 ‘the circus’ before they adopted it as their own. They all joined in for a couple of choruses before the song fizzled out and they bowed heads again to the church of technology.

  The first opportunity Viv saw to chat she engaged Archie, then Davie joined them. She learnt that both were ‘listeners’ in the cyber side of policing. Archie said he’d studied law, not gone into the family firm of solicitors but bummed around the Far East before doing a post graduate course on software development, for which he found he had a flair. Davie on the other hand had been a computer geek ever since he’d set fire to his dad’s shed while making some sort of electronic device when he was eleven. Safe to say that although he was a geek he reckoned he was a creative geek. They told her that Gordon had actually been a cop, on the beat, but had done in-house training in computing and worked his way through the ranks. Gordon himself occasionally chipped in to the conversation but only to add a sarcastic comment. Frances kept her head down reading her book.