City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  ‘Aye. Few more hours.’

  Sula pointed to the dog walkers passing by. ‘Poor woman with the dog, eh?’

  Derrick nodded, eyes ecstatic as he chewed.

  ‘I tell you, who needs Search and Rescue?’ Sula said. ‘Wifey with a cocker spaniel, that’s what you need.’

  ‘Could have found him from space this time, Sula,’ he said through the last mouthful.

  ‘Oh. That bad?’

  He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Is it our walker guy?’

  ‘Need to ID him first.’

  Him.

  Sula didn’t blink. ‘Know when there’ll be an update?’

  ‘Morning, maybe.’

  ‘OK, well, you have a good night, then.’

  ‘Thanks for the roll.’

  ‘No bother. Hope the rain holds off for you.’

  She returned to the car. An email was waiting from David Pearce’s brother, Philip. ‘Can you tell us more?’ it said.

  She tapped her reply. ‘Unconfirmed reports man’s body found on cliff above Auchtermouth. Comment?’

  Ten seconds. ‘We’re hopeful for news.’

  Two minutes later, Sula filed her story.

  A man’s body has been found on the cliff above Auchtermouth by a female dog walker. The family of Australian tourist David Pearce, 60, who disappeared on 29 January while hiking in snow, are ‘hopeful for news’.

  She wound down her window, chucked out her half-eaten roll, and drove off.

  CHAPTER TEN

  That night, in Gallon Street, Grace tossed in bed, unable to sleep.

  During the afternoon, she had just meant to Google the name ‘Lucian Grabole’. But when ‘zero results’ had appeared, she’d decided to add each European country alongside the name, and search for that. Also with no luck.

  She’d then found herself going through a list of Edinburgh’s homeless shelters, her phone at her ear.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Grace Scott. I’m trying to find a homeless man who might have stayed with you a few months ago – called Lucian Grabole?’

  The answers had fallen into four categories.

  ‘My manager’s not here right now. Can you call back later?’

  ‘Please leave a message and someone will get back to you.’

  ‘Sorry, we can’t give out that information on the phone.’

  ‘No, sorry, nobody knows that name.’

  Grace had clicked her pen on and off, meaning to stop.

  She was supposed to be going out to buy bedside lamps.

  Each time, she rang just one more number.

  By the time she’d gone to bed that night, she’d rung thirty-six numbers in total. After the homeless shelters, she’d tried food banks and homeless charities. Then repeated the process in Glasgow, Stirling and all other towns of any size within an hour of Edinburgh. Nobody she spoke to had heard of Lucian Grabole.

  Maybe DI Robertson was right. She got up, turned on the main light, and wrote, I am not that man Lucian Grabole, on a piece of paper. Then she wrote each letter in a random order, and moved them around, trying to spot the answer to an anagram. It would be difficult without a clue.

  A memory came of Dad using a computerized anagram solver when he was struggling with his daily crossword.

  She walked into the hall fumbling for the light switch.

  A noise made her stop.

  Eech, eech, eech.

  It sounded like bed springs bouncing in the neighbouring flat.

  Disorientated, she turned on the hall light. But the geologists’ bedrooms were above theirs, not the hall.

  Grace leaned forward.

  It was coming from the kitchen.

  Eech, eech, eech.

  Almost beneath her . . . feet? She knelt and placed her ear over the doorway onto the tiled floor.

  Eech, eech, eech.

  Downstairs.

  That couldn’t be right. The shop was shut. She’d seen Mr Singh leave through the back gate and get into his van at 7 p.m., as he did every night.

  Water pipes? Old plumbing?

  Too tired to work it out, she stood up to switch on the kettle, found an anagram-solving program on her laptop, and entered, ‘I am not that man Lucian Grabole.’

  An animated wheel spun.

  ‘Zero results.’

  The kettle hissed noisily in the still night. She made tea and walked to the window. Three lights on in the tower block tonight. She wondered who they were, and why they were up at this hour.

  It had taken months to lose her raw fear of night-time. That she’d be woken again at 2 a.m. by the image of Dad dead in his chair, thinking it was a nightmare. Realizing it wasn’t.

  Sipping her tea, she realized she hadn’t thought about Dad all evening.

  It should have been a relief, she knew, to feel the lid of grief finally lifting, even for a moment.

  Yet as the lid peeled back, she realized she was starting to remember what had been lurking there before.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Downstairs, in Mr Singh’s storeroom, the man stood in the darkness, on cold tiles, breathing shallow, each wrist wrapped round the ends of a towel straddling the ceiling beams above, sweat dripping off his shaved head.

  A light patter of footsteps crossing the ceiling was followed by the sound of a door shutting.

  They’d gone. He waited ten minutes for whoever it was to fall asleep again, and turned his head torch back on.

  Twenty still to go.

  Gripping the towel ends tightly in each hand, he lifted his body weight between them, his straining neck, biceps and shoulders forming a cross of hard muscle.

  The ceiling beams protested on each lift.

  Eech, eech, eech.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sleep hadn’t come till after 2 a.m., but Grace was still back at her laptop early the next morning, eating a slice of toast, compiling a new list of phone numbers, watching the clock.

  When it clicked round to 9 a.m., she gave Ewan a few minutes to take off his coat in the Scots Today office, then rang.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘If you were trying to track down a homeless man in this area who might have not been registered officially anywhere, and you’d had no luck with homeless shelters and charities or food banks, what would you do next? If you had a name for him?’

  ‘Good morning, Ewan. How are you this fine day?’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, Ewan. So what’s the answer?’

  He tutted. ‘Did you not do the same journalism course as I did?’

  ‘Yes, but you’ve got all the contact numbers in the office. It’ll take me hours to find them. I’m thinking bail hostels, hospitals, social services. Can you think of anything else? And could you email me them?’

  ‘Hang on . . .’ He broke off. She heard Sula’s voice in the background. A minute’s pause. ‘OK, I’ll ask her,’ Ewan replied, ‘but my mum’s not happy with you, Sula.’ He returned to the phone.

  ‘What’s that about?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘OK, so can you help?’

  ‘Is this your dead guy, the one you’re not obsessing about anymore?’

  ‘Don’t judge – you didn’t find him in your flat.’

  ‘OK, but you’ll need to wait. There’s a story breaking, and I’ve got Frankie Five Fingers here giving me daggers.’

  The first list Ewan sent Grace arrived half an hour later, giving her time to shower and dress. It included hospital and clinic numbers in the Edinburgh area, and social services. It was followed by bail hostels and Immigration.

  Grace dived straight in. By 11 a.m., she had made seventeen more calls, without a single hit.

  Flagging, she rang the wedding gift company.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she pressed at the news they didn’t employ a Lucian Grabole. ‘Or do any of your staff do cryptic crosswords? One of the drivers, maybe?’

  That had given them a laugh, at least.

  Dispirited, she popped downstairs to Mr Singh’s
to buy milk.

  The door jangled as she entered. Normally he looked up, but the counter was empty. She walked to the fridge and took out two pints.

  A door at the back of the shop opened. Mr Singh jumped when he saw her. ‘Oh, sorry. Been there long?’

  ‘No, no.’ She took the milk to him. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Can’t complain, thanks,’ he said, ringing it up. ‘Saw your husband heading off with his clubs yesterday.’

  She handed him a five-pound note. ‘Yeah, Blairgowrie. He goes every May with his dad and uncles and cousins. They’ve been doing it since he was wee.’

  ‘Very good.’ He handed her the change.

  She put it away. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything new about the dead man upstairs, have you?’

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘Still waiting. Taking forever, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, seems to be.’

  ‘Right, see you later.’ She stopped at the shop door. ‘Oh, by the way, Mr Singh, there was a weird noise in the flat last night – a sort of creaking under the floorboards. You haven’t noticed anything, have you? Old water pipes or something?’

  For a moment, she thought he hadn’t heard her. He stood still, as if listening to something far away.

  ‘’Cos obviously we don’t want it to turn into a leak,’ she added.

  He unfroze. ‘No. Right. I’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘OK, well, let me know if you do and we’ll get a plumber on it.’

  ‘No problem.’

  She exited and unlocked the front door to the tenement. There was a click behind her. Vaguely she wondered why Mr Singh was locking the shop door at this time of day.

  She was standing by the kettle a minute later, humming to herself, when the red blob on the answerphone caught her eye.

  Banging down the mug, she ran. The caller had an English accent.

  ‘Hi. This is Ebele at Riverside Shelter. Um. You can ring me back!’

  Riverside? She found her list. It was the fifth number she’d rung yesterday.

  The same girl answered.

  ‘Hi,’ Grace said, a little breathless. ‘You rang me. Grace Scott. I called about Lucian Grabole?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s me. Ebele. I’m a student volunteer here.’

  ‘Oh, hi. So . . .’

  The girl continued, ‘You’re looking for a Lucian?’

  ‘Yes. Well, Lucian Grabole?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if it’ll help, but we definitely had a Lucian in last year.’

  Grace doodled the word ‘Riverside’. ‘Really? Can you remember what he looked like or where he was from?’

  ‘No, sorry,’ the girl said. ‘I’m not sure I even met him. I just remember his name in the register.’

  ‘Lucian Grabole?’

  ‘No, as I say, “Lucian”. I only noticed it because my cousin called her son Lucius, and I know it’s stupid, but I . . .’

  Grace drew stars round the word ‘Riverside’, hope already fading. Yet until she thought of more places to try, what else was there to do?

  ‘Could I come over now?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure!’

  The girl gave her directions.

  Riverside Shelter was located on the eastern outskirts of the city in an area Grace had rarely been. Rain started as she drove up in Dad’s car, and parked in a gravel car park beside a red-brick church hall and two tower blocks that had seen better days. The door of the hall was unlocked. Inside, it smelt of antiseptic and cheap washing powder.

  A girl was leafing through a ledger. She had a long braided ponytail, and wore a home-knitted red jumper. She gave Grace a bright smile.

  ‘Hi,’ Grace said, holding out a hand. ‘I’m Grace.’

  ‘Oh, hi! I’ve been trying to find that name for you. I’m just thinking, it must have been last summer, because I was—’

  A side door opened. A tall, pale boy with limp hair pushed in a bike. He had that consumptive poet’s look that worked well fronting indie bands but could be insipid elsewhere.

  ‘Stuart,’ the girl said. ‘This is Grace Scott. I’m trying to find that Lucian we had in. Do you remember?’

  Mild irritation crossed his face as if he had much more important things to deal with. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Hi. Grace Scott.’ He shook her hand reluctantly. ‘I’m trying to find information about a homeless man who’s died. He was possibly called Lucian Grabole and might have stayed here.’

  Stuart walked behind the counter. ‘And you are?’

  Too late she realized she didn’t have a good answer. ‘Um. I’m actually a freelance photojournalist. I was there when he died and I’ve sort of become involved trying to track down his family. They don’t know yet.’

  It was vague enough not to be a complete lie.

  ‘Stuart’s the co-coordinator here,’ Ebele said to Grace, her dark-brown eyes shining, making Grace wonder if Ebele volunteered here because he did.

  ‘Lucian? Uh. Yeah. He was the one who persuaded Joel to have a shower.’

  Ebele’s eyes widened. ‘Oh my God – was that him? I remember you telling me.’ She stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Aw, we have this lovely old guy called Joel. He doesn’t like taking his shoes off in case someone steals them, so he won’t go in the shower. I remember that guy Lucian – you said he was lovely to him, Stuart, didn’t you? Really patient.’

  Stuart flicked through the ledger. ‘Yeah. Haven’t seen him for a while, though . . . Yup, May last year. There.’

  There was a list of men’s names.

  One stood out, halfway.

  Lucian Grabole.

  Grace’s stomach lurched. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, double-checking, in case she’d misread it. From her pocket, she pulled out the envelope from the flat and checked the spelling. ‘That’s him.’

  The pair glanced at each other.

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t actually expecting it to be him.’ She composed herself. ‘Right . . . Can you remember the last time you saw him?’

  Stuart frowned. ‘As I say, a while ago. Last summer. Maybe earlier. May.’

  ‘And can I check – was he about five foot ten, brown hair –’ she held her hand under her chin, then pointed at her shoulder ‘– wolf tattoo here, signet ring with a green stone?’

  Stuart took off his jacket. ‘Don’t remember a tattoo or a ring. The rest of it sounds about right – though, to be honest, it matches a lot of our guys in here. The police were in asking with the same kind of description a few months ago. Told them, too. Could be half our lot.’

  ‘So it could be Lucian.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Can you remember where he’d come from, or where he was going?’

  He took down an apron and put it on. ‘I think he mentioned being in Paris. But no idea if he came from there.’

  ‘So he was French?’ Grace said, praying for any kind of clue.

  Stuart hesitated. ‘I thought you knew him?’

  ‘No, as I say, I was there when he died. That’s how I got involved trying to trace his family.’

  ‘Right. Again, I don’t know. He spoke English here, so . . .’

  ‘With an accent?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t know what it was, though.’

  Stuart picked up a large steel pot from behind reception.

  Grace pointed at the double doors. ‘Is that where the men sleep?’

  ‘Yup.’ He was once again starting to look as if he had more important things to do.

  ‘Stuart, I’m sorry to bother you when you’re so busy, but would you mind if I looked around?’ she asked. ‘Maybe Ebele could show me?’

  He frowned. ‘Um. As long as the guys are not there.’

  ‘No, absolutely.’

  ‘Come this way!’ Ebele took the ledger, and led Grace into a large main hall, the doors swinging back behind them.

  It smelt of school dinners and jumble sales. Around the edges were twenty beds, stripped bare, with folded blankets and bare pillows. On the wall was a
large colourful painting of a robed Jesus, his hands parted. Four tables formed an E-shape for communal eating, and a large, clunky television stood in the corner. An insistent electronic beeping came from a door into a small kitchen.

  ‘So, how does it work, Ebele?’ Grace said.

  ‘Well, we have twenty men most nights. We open at eight and do dinner. Then we sit with the guys and chat and play board games and maybe watch a film or TV. The guys have a shower and sleep. In the morning, we give them breakfast and a packed lunch.’

  Grace watched the hatch, imagining the man who’d died in her kitchen, in his shabby pinstriped suit and scuffed shoes, queuing for food here. It fitted.

  Ebele lowered her voice. ‘Honestly, I thought it was going to be depressing, but it’s actually quite nice. Like a little community.’

  The electronic beeping continued in the kitchen.

  Ebele pointed. ‘That’s the dryer – I’ve just got to put some more sheets in.’

  ‘Sure.’ Grace checked for Stuart. ‘This might sound strange, but would you mind if I photographed the room? In case the dead man is Lucian and I can find his family. Then I can show them where he was. I’m not sure they even know which country he was in.’

  Ebele looked anxiously at the double doors.

  ‘While the guys aren’t here,’ Grace repeated.

  ‘I suppose, as long as they’re not here, it should be fine,’ Ebele said uncertainly.

  The minute the girl entered the kitchen, Grace photographed the bed below the painting, the hands of Jesus parted benevolently above a green waterproof mattress. Then she shot another bed in focus, with the six identical ones beyond blurring into the distance. She turned to photograph the dining table, and noticed that Ebele had left the ledger open. Grace fired off three shots of Lucian’s handwritten name, focusing in tight so the other names were blurred.

  ‘Aw, it’s really sad,’ Ebele called through. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Well, as I say, I’m still not sure it is Lucian, but the man who died had been drinking and hadn’t eaten. They think he collapsed and hit his head.’

  ‘Can the police not find his family?’

  ‘They are looking, but it takes ages for all the foreign police checks to come back.’