City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  The prospect of her wedding without him had been horror enough.

  Now this.

  I came home, Dad, and I found a dead body in my flat.

  He would never know.

  Back in the warm bed, Grace checked Mac was asleep, and turned on her camera to ensure yesterday wasn’t a dream, too.

  There had been a moment of panic at Lother Street Station last night, when she’d thought the police might keep her and Mac’s suitcases, and her camera, as part of their investigation and discover her shots of the dead man. The theoretical argument she’d constructed in her exhaustion had seemed robust.

  ‘That’s none of your business. I’m trained in reportage photography. I photograph the story in front of me. You wouldn’t question me about photographing bodies if I was covering a war or the aftermath of a natural disaster, would you?’

  She’d also imagined their scathing reply.

  ‘But, Ms Scott, you’ve just told us you photograph people for diet and fitness magazines, and charity fun-run stories for newspapers. Who the hell are you kidding?’

  They would have been right. Who the hell was she kidding?

  The last photo was the best. The kitchen was ablaze with ghostly storm-light. Empty open cupboards buried into the shadows on one side, a wall of wedding gifts on the other; in the central floor area, a diamond-sparkle of wet, broken glass. A range of contrast, of textures, shadow and light. In the middle was a pair of upturned shoes. It was a slow-burn detail that added a shock-pulse to the image, as the implication of the still feet hit home. Who is this man? the story in the image asked. Why is he here?

  The alarm clock on the bedside table said 9.01 a.m. It was sixteen hours since she’d rung 999. They must know who the dead man was now.

  Grace crept out into the corridor, imagining the conversation that must have taken place with the dead man’s family in the early hours. The shock of waking to a knock on the front door. A grim-jawed police officer bringing life-changing news. She imagined them, right now, like her, staring out of the window on a bleak morning, trying to fathom the first day in a world without their loved one.

  ‘Can I speak to someone about the body at Gallon Street?’ she asked the detective constable who answered her call.

  ‘That’ll be DI Robertson. He’s in an interview, if you want to ring back at ten?’

  She used the time to shower, scrubbing away the vestiges of yesterday’s smell, which seemed buried into her skin. With no warm clothes to hand, she constructed the sturdiest outfit possible from her holiday suitcase: black leggings, layered T-shirts, a blue hoodie, her aeroplane sleep socks, her fleece and trainers.

  Mac slept on, the sun-bleached tips of his light brown hair just visible above the duvet.

  She sat and scrolled through her photos again.

  The minutes ticked by interminably.

  At 9.58 a.m., Grace returned to the corridor.

  ‘Is DI Robertson free yet?’

  ‘No, still in a meeting,’ the detective constable said. ‘Do you want to leave a message?’

  ‘Not really. I just want to know who the dead man in our flat is. Can you tell me?’

  ‘Do you want to try in an hour?’

  A door opened and the drenched jogger from earlier emerged from her hotel room, in a business suit the same beige as the walls. Muzak played. A dour-faced maid rattled a trolley along, replacing yesterday’s sheets. Rain drummed on the corridor window.

  The old restlessness that Grace couldn’t name returned.

  The urge to race forwards, yet with no sense of direction.

  Thailand had just made it worse.

  She had to get out of here.

  ‘No. I’m coming in.’

  Without a coat, her fleece and leggings were soaked by the time she reached the tram. Her hair hung in sodden dark blonde rat’s tails.

  Through the steamed-up windows, she watched wet, grey Edinburgh tenements come into view. Raindrops dive-bombed off shop signs onto granite-coloured pavements. An army of umbrellas battled across roads. Car headlights shone through gloom.

  Grace disembarked at Princes Street, by the Scott Monument, which today looked like a medieval sword thrusting into mist. She pulled up her hood as a vicious wind scratched at her face. A lone bagpiper stood outside the art gallery, blowing strains of a reel into the bluster. Two Japanese tourists watched. Their matching rain-capes were circular and white, translucent jellyfish against drenched black stone.

  Instinct sent her hand to her camera bag. The contrast of black and white would work in—

  Too late Grace saw the puddle. Filthy water broke over her trainers, and flooded her socks to the toe.

  Fuck.

  Steeling herself for the hill ahead, she cut through a skinny alleyway that smelt of urine and rubbish, trying not to think about Thailand.

  The Victorian building that was Lother Street Station sat atop Deansgate, its heavy brown double entrance doors as foreboding as a drawbridge.

  ‘He’s just finished. Come through,’ an officer said. Grace entered a door behind the counter, and passed a tearful young woman in handcuffs being processed by a desk sergeant. It was a different interview room to last night’s. Smaller, but still over-heated and smelling of sweaty feet and cigarette smoke clinging to unwashed clothes. Yelling and banging came from a cell down the corridor.

  She hung her fleece on the radiator, and sat at a burgundy table with a perfect bite mark in it. The door flew open and a new detective appeared with a file. His physical presence immediately eclipsed the tiny room.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ he said in a friendly voice she guessed was designed to neutralize the impact of his size.

  She guessed he was six foot six. His grey hair was shorn over a balding head, and supplemented with a close-cut beard. Rather than create a row of double chins, his excess weight filled out his face like a balloon. His suit struggled to contain his tower-block frame.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, moving closer to the table as steam rose off her damp leggings.

  The detective eased down opposite. ‘OK, so I’m DI Finley Robertson, in charge of the investigation into the discovery of a body at 6A Gallon Street. And you are Mrs . . . Ms . . . ?’

  ‘Ms Scott.’

  There was a faint sheen on his forehead, and he wiped it with a hanky. ‘You haven’t taken your husband’s name, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why? Has he got a stupid name?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled weakly, appreciating his attempt at a joke to relax her. ‘So, thanks for seeing me. I just came in to find out about the man in our flat.’

  DI Robertson ran a meaty hand over his bristles, and opened the file. Without warning, his kindly expression turned as menacing as a storm over the Pentlands. He tapped the page, and the sun returned. ‘Right, no ID. Fingerprints and DNA checks being processed. No match yet for missing persons reports.’

  It took her a second. ‘You still don’t know?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be in the system somewhere. It’s just a matter of time.’

  ‘But he must have been there for days – how can nobody have reported him?’ She didn’t mean for it to but her tone emerged cross, as if she didn’t believe he was trying hard enough. ‘Sorry,’ she added, even though she wasn’t.

  ‘No, that’s OK,’ he said evenly. ‘These things can take longer than you think.’

  She traced a nail along the bite mark. Six perfect teeth. ‘Well, could you tell us how he died, at least?’

  DI Robertson tapped his notes. ‘Post-mortem’s this afternoon. While you’re here, though, do you know anyone from the Netherlands?’

  ‘Was he Dutch?’ she asked, hopeful.

  ‘Not a wedding guest? Someone visiting the flat?’

  Her thumb found a matching tooth-print under the table. Six more teeth. ‘No. We’ve not even lived in the flat yet . . . Oh! Hang on.’ She raised a finger. ‘There were students in the flat before John Brock bought it. Could one of them be Dutch?’

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nbsp; DI Robertson folded his arms. His suit sleeves grimaced at the effort. ‘This is John Brock who sold the flat to you?’

  ‘Yes. Mac’s boss. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Aye, this morning. Said he sold it to you privately?’

  Jet lag tricked her – turned her mind blank. Didn’t they tell the police that last night?

  ‘Yes,’ she said hesitantly. ‘John’s a property developer – he’s an old friend of Mac’s mum and dad. He knocked off the estate agent’s fee for us as a wedding present. He did it for Mac’s sister, too.’

  ‘And he’s doing up a warehouse in Leith at the moment?’

  ‘Yes. He’s turning it into flats and a restaurant, and a gym. Mac works with him on the ground-floor space.’

  ‘Ground-floor space. What’s that?’ The detective’s eyebrows teased her.

  She cracked another weak smile to humour him. ‘A kind of bar-slash-photography-studio-slash-rehearsal . . . space . . .’

  He chuckled. ‘You’ve lost me.’

  Her smile crumbled at the edges. She didn’t want to talk about this. ‘It’s a sort of integrated venue with a photography studio and band rehearsal space and a DJ area – a bar, art gallery, workshop. A kind of big creative space. John got the idea from New York.’

  DI Robertson nodded. ‘Ah. Very good. And your husband runs that?’

  ‘He will do – he’s designing it at the moment.’

  ‘And this flat you bought, 6A Gallon Street, Mr Brock sold that to finance this project?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what John does. Refurbishes flats and sells them on. He sold all his flats and his own house in Atholl Crescent to buy the warehouse.’

  The detective whistled. ‘One of the big Georgian ones?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, that’s fine. Mr Brock explained this all this morning.’

  DI Robertson offered her a pack of fruit chews. She took one, again to humour him. It tasted oddly saccharine. A diet brand.

  He chewed, watching her. ‘And you’re a photographer yourself, right?’

  ‘Yes. Freelance.’

  He flipped to another page in his file. He tapped it with his fruit chews. ‘Early indication from Forensics is that footprints, probably yours, were all around the body. Remind me again why that is.’

  She rested a wet trainer on her camera bag. If he asked her directly, she’d have to tell the truth. Just stick to her argument, although in the cold light of day, it didn’t seem quite so robust. ‘As I said last night, I walked into the kitchen looking for a burst pipe. Saw a man with longish brown hair on the floor, and walked over to see if it was John Brock. I couldn’t see his face, so I had to walk around.’

  ‘Right. And how long did this take?’

  ‘I’m not sure. A few minutes? I was waiting for Mac.’

  ‘OK.’ The detective shut the folder. ‘That’s all fine. Well, thanks for coming in. We’ll let you know when we’ve identified the body.’

  That was it.

  ‘So, have you spoken to other people at Gallon Street?’ she asked.

  DI Robertson chewed his sweet three times, and opened the folder again. ‘We’re speaking to Mr Singh today who runs the newsagent’s underneath you . . . Top floor’s owned by an artist who mainly rents it out as a holiday flat. Empty since New Year. And . . . the geologists above you, on the second floor. They’re offshore at the moment, I believe?’

  ‘Yes. John said they work a few weeks on, a few weeks off.’

  ‘Aye. So we’ll be speaking to them today.’ He shut the file again, and pushed back his seat.

  Determined, she kept her elbows on the table. ‘And where is he – right now? The man who died?’

  ‘Mortuary in Cowgate.’ The detective stood up, the table creaking as he leaned on it, making her elbows bounce a little.

  Reluctant, she got up, and retrieved her damp fleece from the radiator. ‘I just don’t get it,’ she said. ‘If my dad was missing for a week, I’d have reported it. Isn’t that weird?’

  DI Robertson extended a long arm to open the door. ‘Well, I’m afraid not everyone’s lucky enough to have family looking out for them. But don’t worry – as I say, we’ll get there.’

  Then before she could think of another question, he ushered her out.

  Grace’s plan had been to return to the hotel to dry off, but DI Robertson’s news had thrown her.

  How could they not know who the man was?

  Without purposely planning it, she found herself, twenty minutes later, on the corner of Gallon Street, drenched through.

  A police car and a white van sat outside Mr Singh’s newsagent’s. A woman emerged from number 6, peeling off a forensics oversuit.

  Grace’s mobile rang. Mac. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked, voice cracked with sleep.

  ‘Went to Lother Street Station. They still don’t know who he is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The dead man!’

  ‘Oh.’ Mac tutted. ‘Ach, don’t worry about it. He’ll just be some junkie after the wedding presents.’

  A lorry thundered by, splashing gutter water onto her leggings, and she wasn’t sure if it was that or Mac that irritated her. ‘Are you still at the hotel?’

  ‘Yeah. John’s picking me up. We’re going to get some booze for the party.’

  A van turned into the road and she stepped back. ‘What party?’

  ‘Our party, knob-head. The house-warming?’

  Grace froze. ‘Oh God. No. I completely forgot. No way. We can’t.’

  ‘What?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘We’ll have to cancel it.’

  ‘Why?’

  The road cleared and she picked her way across puddles. ‘What are you talking about, Mac? The flat’s full of forensics people. I’m here now.’

  ‘Well, the guy at the police station said they’d be out Thursday, Friday latest,’ he replied. ‘And he’s given me numbers for cleaning firms who’ll go straight in. So what’s the problem?’

  There was a whooshing sound from above and fresh rain came cascading down onto her head, bouncing up from the tarmac like a thousand tiny ballet dancers. ‘The problem? Er . . . the dead man in our flat?’ she said, reaching the other side. ‘Seriously, Mac. We’re not having a party. For God’s sake. His family doesn’t even know yet.’

  Mac’s voice remained on its default setting, midpoint between laconic and laissez-faire. ‘Well, I’m not cancelling it. Asha’s booked to DJ. And anyway, it’ll be good for us – get the flat back to normal after the police have cleared out.’

  Outside the newsagent’s, she stopped. ‘Mac! Will you stop being ridiculous? A party is not going to take my mind off this. It’s going to make it more stressful. Listen, you need to tell people it’s off. If you don’t, I will.’

  She ended the call, and ran into number 6, shaking rain from her fleece for all the good it did. At the top of the tenement stairs, a PC guarded their door. Police tape stretched across it. She showed him ID, and asked to pick up clothes. As she hoped, he rang the station to check, filled in a crime-scene entry log, and pulled up the barrier tape.

  The flat was freezing. Her drenched clothes iced onto her skin. Through the kitchen door, she saw crime markers between the muddy footprints and broken glass. Another forensics officer was brushing dark powder off the back door. It tumbled onto the brand-new white floor tiles.

  ‘So this is the outer cordon,’ a PC was saying, pointing to the kitchen door. ‘There’s no traces of the deceased outside the kitchen. So you’re fine in this part of the flat, but not in the kitchen.’

  The black shoes were gone. Of course they would be.

  ‘And still you’ve no idea who he was?’ Grace said, in case something new had happened in the past half-hour.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Frustrated, she took a rucksack, warm clothes and coats from the bedroom, then crossed to the front sitting room.

  Death seeped through the flat like sea-mist. Mac was insane.
She wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep here, to say nothing of hosting a party. She stuffed her laptop in the rucksack, and leaned against the front bay window. The frame, freshly stripped by John’s guys, was waxy and smooth on her cheek.

  Raindrops battered on. She peered down, and saw Dad’s navy Ford was parked at the end of the street.

  Her stomach lurched. For a second, there was hope; then she remembered.

  Of course. It was her car now, along with a box of his and Mum’s old love letters, his work diaries and photos, her gran’s display cabinet, two pairs of reading glasses and the £4,213.23 left from his savings account.

  A silver car pulled up beside Dad’s. Two police officers climbed out and entered the newsagent’s below. Pushing against the window, she tried to see. Perhaps Mr Singh knew something. The dead man had come in through his backyard after all.

  She zipped up the rucksack, and headed back out.

  Somebody somewhere had to know something.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Downstairs, in the rear storeroom, the man stood behind a tall stack of crisp boxes, trying not to cough.

  It had gone quiet upstairs at about 2 a.m. Nobody had come to search. But they were definitely coming now.

  He stood still behind the box-stack, trying to make out the distant voices.

  The door from the shop into the corridor outside opened. Voices grew. Footsteps approached.

  Mr Singh jangled the lock of the storeroom.

  ‘And what’s in here?’ a male police officer said, walking in.

  The man formed his lips into a long ‘O’ to control his air intake.

  Mr Singh now. ‘Just the storeroom – and toilet.’ Nerves twanged in his voice like a worn guitar string.

  A drop of sweat from the man’s forehead fell to the floor.

  A vice closed on his foot. Cramp.

  Face contorting, the man pointed his toe, and pulled it back sharp. His other leg struggled to balance. Tensing every muscle in his body, he tried to stay still. One inch to the left and he’d crash through the boxes.

  Then a female officer’s voice. ‘The TV and fridge – do you stay here sometimes, Mr Singh?’

  ‘No, no. It’s just a wee break room. Somewhere to get out the way when the wife’s doing the accounts!’