City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

That was odd.

  Tossing it aside, she undid the wrapping. A frying pan poked out.

  ‘Ooh dear,’ she muttered. Instead of the black from their wedding-gift list, it was a violent canary yellow. It also contained a second envelope, addressed to Mr and Mrs Mackenzie Lowe, containing a card from Mac’s elderly great-aunt Peggy in Canada. Well, the colour might be hideous, but it was sweet of her to go to the trouble.

  Grace opened the last few boxes, discovering a kitchen recipe-holder, two more picture frames, two pillows, a juicer, a ruby tartan throw and a white cotton duvet cover.

  Considering they’d only invited a small number to the registry office, the evening guests had been unbelievably generous, as if, feeling helpless in the face of her grief, giving her a beautiful gift was all they could think of to reduce the pain of a wedding without Dad.

  She gathered the wrapping. Heading for the recycling bin, she bent to pick up the discarded envelope addressed to GRACE SCOTT.

  And stopped.

  On the back, was writing.

  It was fussy and looped, and reminded her of her French school pen pal’s letters.

  The words listed sideways, and were difficult to read.

  I am not . . . that man . . . Luc-ian . . . Gra-bol-e.

  Lucian Grabole – who was that?

  Mentally, Grace summoned the guest list. She’d been so immersed in grief in the months before the wedding Mac had arranged it all.

  The name was not familiar.

  She texted Mac: ‘Do you remember Lucian Grabole at the wedding?’

  She waited. No reply.

  If he was out on the golf course, it could be hours till he saw it.

  She crumpled the envelope with the wrapping paper. Maybe it was a cousin or a friend’s boyfriend. A plus-one who’d only known her name, not Mac’s.

  Losing interest, she threw it away, picked up the unwrapped gifts, and headed for the hall.

  Into the airing cupboard she squeezed the new pillows and duvet cover. Then she tried the ruby tartan throw on the Victorian red velvet chaise longue she’d bought for the sitting-room bay window with a little of Dad’s money.

  She bent down to put the frames in a cupboard and—

  Lucian Grabole.

  It sounded foreign. Italian or French, maybe.

  From nowhere, a thought crashed into her head like a coin in a slot.

  Dropping the new frames, she returned to the kitchen and yanked out handfuls of recycling, sending tins clattering onto the tiles.

  Flattening out the torn envelope, she checked the handwriting. Blue ink, back and front. Grace waved it under her nose. Why was it empty?

  The forensics people had fingerprinted and checked around the wedding presents in the kitchen, but as none was missing, and all were sealed, no presents or cards had been opened.

  As she sat, thinking, a text arrived from Mac. ‘Nope. Why?’

  That was disappointing.

  ‘Found his name on a present. Just wondered.’

  His reply pinged back. ‘No idea. See you Sat <3 <3 xxx.’

  Grace sat at the kitchen table with her phone.

  At some point, after the dead man was found, DI Robertson’s voice had become less patient when she’d rung to ask about progress.

  No, still nothing, I’m afraid. Still making enquiries.

  No, nothing since last week, no.

  No, nothing for you, sorry.

  It had been two months now since her last call, to ask why he hadn’t issued an e-fit to the local newspapers. His tone had grown terse as he schooled her on shrinking police budgets, wasting resources on weak lines of enquiry, and murder investigations taking priority over non-suspicious deaths.

  When she’d found herself passing the mortuary at Cowgate every time she was in town, in a warped vigil for a dead stranger, she’d known she’d have to let it go, before it drove her insane.

  The envelope sat on the table in front of her.

  But if there was any chance, any chance at all . . .

  She picked up her phone.

  It wouldn’t hurt to remind him they’d been waiting three months for news.

  His voicemail promised to ring her back.

  She’d just put the plastic carriage clock in a charity-shop box when he did.

  ‘Hello, Ms Scott. What can I do for you?’ His kindly tone had returned.

  ‘Oh, hi. I just wondered if there was anything new on our guy.’

  ‘Hang on.’ A rustle of paper, but no sigh, like last time. ‘Let’s see where we are. Right. No match for DNA, fingerprints or physical markings. No match with missing persons reports. Checks done with homeless hostels, bail hostels, social services, hospitals, prisons, immigration and . . . The list goes on here. Hang on . . . and let’s see . . . No, all negative.’ A pause. ‘No, I’m sorry not to have anything new for you. It’s very unusual, I have to say. We’ve flagged up alerts with European police forces, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. It can take months, especially if the death’s non-suspicious. But we’ll get there in the end. You were told about the post-mortem, right?’

  ‘Just a few things, in case we knew him: his height and age; a tattoo of a wolf on his shoulder; the signet ring with a green stone. And you said there was a chance he was working here without being legally registered, and that he possibly had Eastern European or Dutch connections. And you said he was starving and that he’d been drinking heavily.’

  ‘That’s right. Pathologist said he fell and hit his head. “Blunt-force trauma” on the granite worktop. Subdural haemorrhage. Fiscal called it “non-suspicious”. So I’m afraid that’s where we still are.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But he’s not going anywhere. He’ll stay in the mortuary till we get a hit, or someone notices he’s missing. Don’t worry, we’ll get there.’

  ‘OK,’ Grace said, wondering how many times he’d said that.

  ‘Anything else?’ DI Robertson asked.

  ‘Well, it’s probably nothing, but I found something in the flat this morning.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She described the note.

  There was a rustle of a sweet wrapper and she wondered how his diet was going. ‘Have you had many people in the kitchen since the body was found?’ he asked.

  The back gate opened and Mr Singh walked in carrying a box. She saw him give a slight nod in the direction of his shop, and wondered who it was to. ‘Quite a few. We had a house-warming party in February. And our friends and family are round a lot.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  Where was this going?

  ‘Uh, plumber for the washing machine . . . Oh, and the two flats upstairs – they all came in for a drink. Mr Singh downstairs brought up some post. So, yeah, quite a few. Why?’

  ‘So, in theory, any one of those people could have stuck the envelope on the present?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, yes, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t. Why would they?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that we’d need to eliminate each of them. And who touched the presents before they were delivered?’

  ‘The people at the wedding-list firm?’

  DI Robertson’s tone sharpened. ‘And would they have, say, grouped your presents together, maybe on a pallet?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And what name did you put the wedding list under?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Possibly mine – Grace Scott.’

  He continued, ‘So a warehouse worker could have scribbled, GRACE SCOTT, on an old envelope, and stuck it on there, to keep your pile separate?’

  She fingered the envelope, trying to work out if GRACE SCOTT, in capitals, was written in the same hand as the lowercase message on the back. ‘Yes. But why would they write that? That man is not me Lucian Grabole.’

  ‘You know what it sounds like to me?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A crossword clue. No punctuation.’

  ‘Like an anagram?’

  ‘Are any of the letters crossed ou
t?’

  ‘No. But—’

  ‘So, just in theory, a guy in the warehouse, doing his crossword – or the delivery-van driver – writes down his clue. Then he needs to separate your gifts, turns it over, writes, GRACE SCOTT, on it and sticks it onto the nearest box.’

  ‘Right,’ she said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It’s just . . .’ She sighed.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, is it not worth considering? I mean, it’s been three months now and . . .’ It’s more than you’ve come up with, she wanted to add.

  DI Robertson’s tone softened. ‘Listen, it’s frustrating for us, too. Thing is, if your guy’s from Europe – and we don’t even know he is – that’s a lot of different systems to check. And we still don’t even know if he entered the UK legally. But why don’t you spell this new name out for me and I’ll run it through our systems – see if we can get a hit, even just to rule him out? And I’ll get someone to chase up those European police checks. See where we are. OK?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She spelled it, not feeling optimistic.

  ‘And drop that envelope in to me.’

  ‘Will do. Thanks.’

  ‘And don’t worry, we’ll get there.’

  After the call, Grace made herself lock Lucian Grabole out of her thoughts. There was nothing else to be done now. She decided to go out and buy the bedside lamps at a shop to distract herself.

  She walked around the kitchen fetching her keys and coat.

  Her eyes strayed back to the envelope on the table.

  It could be days or weeks till DI Robertson checked the name Lucian Grabole. For all she knew, budgets would force him to wait for the European checks first.

  She would drop the envelope in to him – in her own time.

  She threw down her keys, sat, opened her laptop, and typed two words into Google.

  Lucian Grabole.

  CHAPTER NINE

  That afternoon, Sula McGregor burst into the office of Scots Today from a meeting with the minister in charge of cyber-crime and stopped.

  A gang of people were huddled around the printer, eyes on the floor. Shouting came from the editor’s office.

  ‘What’s going on there?’ she said to Ewan, throwing down her bag.

  ‘Oh, you’ll find out,’ her assistant said, pushing his greasy hair out of his spots.

  She sat down. ‘I know I will, because you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘I know I am.’

  ‘But first you’re going to get me a coffee.’

  ‘That’s not in my job description.’

  ‘Neither’s being an arse. Off you go.’

  He stood up. ‘Would you like that coffee with one or two bodily functions?’

  She ignored him, piling her interview notes and voice recorder onto the desk. A muffled shout came through the partition wall from the editor’s office. She recognized the agitated tone of the sub who’d misspelled a headline on her story last week. Sula opened up her screen.

  Ah well. He’d had it coming for a while.

  She could have told him the trick to longevity in this job was knowing where the bodies were buried.

  Sula was just finishing up her report on proposed amendments to Scottish cyber-crime law when Ewan held up a hand.

  ‘Sula, seen this?’

  ‘What?’

  He pointed at the Police Scotland Twitter feed. ‘“Body found at Auchtermouth.”’

  ‘No. Is that right?’ She typed the last sentence quickly and looked over.

  ‘Think it could be that Australian hiker David Pearce?’ Ewan said.

  ‘I think it could, son.’

  The old instinct came to ring Donnie or Joe. Not for the first time, Sula cursed bloody Leveson and the fear of God he’d put into her coppers.

  All above board now, Officer.

  These days, a woman had to be creative.

  Sula filed her story, stood up, and grabbed her bag. ‘Right. I’m going up there. Stay on Twitter, Ewan. Check the Pearce family Tweets in Australia, and Twitter from around Auchtermouth – shops, library, the usual.’

  This was the missing hiker David Pearce up on that cliff – she knew it.

  The sun disappeared as Sula drove out of the city up the coast to Auchtermouth, and she wondered why David Pearce would have been here, when he’d told his father he was miles away, hiking in the Pentlands.

  ‘Oh, hello. Now, where’ve you come from?’ Sula muttered, as she pulled into a lay-by, by a police car. A serious-incident vehicle had parked just in front of her. A PC climbed in the side door, presumably to set up an interview space for any passers-by with information about the discovered body. Sula checked around to see who else was here. This would have made sense for a murder – ‘I’ve just remembered, Officer, I saw this red car outside my house last month, acting strangely’ – but for a pensioner who’d gone missing hiking in bad weather? What use was that?

  With her binoculars, Sula searched the body recovery scene up on the cliff, behind blue-and-white barrier tape. Every time she attended one of these, some smart-arse had found a new way to hide it from any passing nosy parker with a camera phone and a Twitter account.

  This time, a black crime scene barrier flapped in the east-coast wind, in front of the roof of a white evidence tent. Just to make sure, a police van and a four-by-four were parked either side of the barrier screen.

  Sula put down her binoculars.

  Something wasn’t right here. She checked the police Twitter accounts again. Nothing new. Still saying ‘a body’ had been found.

  Maybe this wasn’t Pearce.

  She checked her GPS. To the left of the crime scene, the coastal cliff dropped steeply down to the fishing village of Auchtermouth. She’d already seen two dog walkers. Must be a path. If this was Pearce, and he’d collapsed in the snow on a hike, how the hell had the old fella lain here for four months without being seen?

  Three more cars drew up and parked on the verge. The usual suspects from the local media got out of two, and walked to the police tape with cameras and recording equipment. From the third came two detectives she didn’t recognize. They pulled wellies on over their grey Slaters suits and spoke to the PC in the lay-by.

  Right. Time to go.

  Sula grabbed her hiking stick from the back seat and followed them. At the barrier tape, she turned left towards the locals milling around, bored dogs at their heels. Their expressions said they were terribly sad, and terribly curious.

  Making like she was off for a refreshing walk on the cliffs, Sula arrived among them.

  ‘Oh dear, what’s happened here?’ she said to a wifey with a poodle.

  The woman told her that a body had been found by a woman ‘from the village’ walking her dog. She was ‘very shaken up’. No, she didn’t know her name.

  Sula sized up the scene.

  Down in a dip stood another PC on guard duty.

  Derrick Gillespie.

  Bingo.

  He was guarding a vulnerable spot at the bottom corner, where the tape ran out by a gnarled tree. He stood, hands wrapped in front of his neon-yellow jacket, with the pinched features of a man who’d guarded a crime scene for hours without going for a piss.

  Sula turned on her heel. No harm making him wait.

  Back in the car, she wrote a draft of a short news story that a body had been found on the cliff above Auchtermouth by a female dog walker.

  Then she logged on to the Twitter accounts of David Pearce’s brother, other Pearce family members, and the ‘Find David Pearce’ campaign. All was silent. It was night-time in Australia, though. Next she checked Twitter news alerts from Edinburgh, and Australia, to ensure nobody was getting ahead of her.

  Nothing new.

  It would be ten o’clock in Perth, right now. She emailed David Pearce’s brother, hoping he’d still be up.

  ‘Body found on cliff outside Edinburgh. Do you have a comment?’

  Two of the journalists drove off, clearly decidi
ng there was nothing else to do now till a news conference was called.

  Fine by her.

  Sula grabbed an insulated bag from the back seat, removed two still-warm bacon rolls from the cafe in Auchtermouth, unwrapped and took a bite of one, and headed back up to Derrick Gillespie with the other.

  ‘God’s sake, Derrick,’ she called. ‘This weather. Can’t make its mind up.’

  His eyes were defeated, his nose pink. ‘You’re right there, Sula.’

  The smell of warm bacon wafted between them. His eyes flickered with longing, then away.

  ‘Been here hours?’ Sula said, taking another bite.

  ‘Coming up five.’

  ‘I don’t know how you guys do it, Derrick.’

  ‘Bladder like steel, Sula.’

  She laughed. ‘Just like your dad. How is he?’

  ‘Oh, good, thanks, fine.’

  ‘Enjoying his retirement?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Good for him.’ She looked around. ‘Have you seen that daft new assistant of mine?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  She tutted. ‘He should come with an instruction manual, that one. Brought him this up an’ all. Gonna have to eat it myself.’ She held the packet out in front of him. ‘You don’t . . . ?’

  Derrick’s nostrils quivered.

  ‘Can’t eat on duty, no?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame. Never mind.’ She took another bite of her roll.

  Derrick sniffed to stop his nose running. He sighed. ‘Oh, go on, then, Sula.’

  ‘Sure? I’ll stand in front of you. Nobody’s looking.’ She took a ketchup sachet out of her pocket. ‘Want one of these?’

  ‘Cheers.’

  He unwrapped the roll, squirted on the sauce, turned to the bushes, and demolished a third of it in one bite. Sula sneaked a look to the back of the crime scene. That was odd. Two guys who looked like Mountain Rescue, with hard hats and coiled ropes, were heading into the tent.

  She wrapped her coat around her. ‘Nearly didn’t make it up here – traffic’s mad on the bridge.’

  ‘Aye?’ Derrick chewed fast, cheeks bulging.

  ‘Better tell your Fiona if she’s bringing you up some nice warm soup later.’

  He snorted. ‘Ha! I’ll be lucky.’

  ‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ she laughed. ‘Right. Well, looks like he’s not here, so that’s me, Derrick. I’m heading off. You here a while longer?’