City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  ‘Shame.’ Ebele returned with an armful of sheets. ‘But if you’re not sure it’s Lucian, why don’t you just contact someone who knows him?’

  Grace put away her camera. ‘I wish it was that simple.’

  Ebele pointed at the ledger. ‘Can’t you just ring them?’

  On the facing page, Grace saw a list of phone numbers – one opposite Lucian Grabole’s name. She swallowed. She’d completely missed it. ‘Lucian wrote that number?’

  ‘We ask all the guys for a contact, even if it’s just their social worker.’ Ebele folded the sheets and dipped her head coyly. ‘Actually, I’m thinking about journalism when I graduate.’

  Grace wrote down the number. ‘Well, if you do, give me a ring – I might be able to help.’

  ‘Really? Wicked!’

  The fire door opened and Stuart carried in the catering-sized pot, eyeing her with suspicion.

  Grace slipped her camera behind. ‘Well, listen – thanks. That’s so useful. I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘So will you let us know if it is Lucian?’ Stuart said. ‘Joel might like to know.’

  ‘Absolutely. And if you hear anything else, would you ring me?’

  She gave them her freelance card, and headed into the corridor. Through the door-window, she saw rain and reached for her hood. As the fire doors slammed behind her, something fluttered. It was a pinboard, crammed with notices. In between health-advice posters and charity helplines, a gallery of photocopied faces stared out.

  Missing persons notices.

  ‘Kevin’, a spotty nineteen-year-old from London in an army uniform, had gone missing in December. ‘Anna and Valentin’, a blonde woman and child, were just ‘missing’, the message in English and another language. ‘Aiden’, a ruddy-faced man in a wedding suit, had last been seen in Dublin in 1989.

  All these families not knowing if their loved ones were alive or dead. Lost in a city of strangers. Grace whipped out her camera and shot the board.

  The fire doors banged open and Stuart came out. He saw her camera.

  ‘God, raining again,’ she said, pulling up her hood and leaving.

  She arrived back at Gallon Street around midday, and sat at the table, examining Lucian Grabole’s contact number, unsure of what to do next. 0208 . . . That was a London code.

  Grace lifted the receiver, then replaced it, considering the gravity of what she was about to do.

  If this was Lucian Grabole’s family and he was missing, she’d potentially be giving them life-changing news.

  She tapped her pen.

  She could always just ask if they knew him. Then if it was Lucian’s family, ring DI Robertson with the information so he could inform them officially.

  She made a cup of tea, drank it, and decided to go for it.

  On the fourth ring, someone answered.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  A pause, then a woman’s voice, a foreign accent, quiet and suspicious. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hi. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for someone called—’

  A click. A muttered conversation. A new voice appeared. A man.

  ‘Hello?’ His accent was thicker, his tone equally wary.

  ‘Hi. Sorry, do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hi. I wonder if you can help. My name’s Grace Scott. I’m trying to find a man called Lucian Grabole.’

  Silence, then more whispering.

  The phone went dead.

  She looked at the receiver. ‘What the . . . ?’

  Grace rang again with no reply. She tried three more times.

  Nobody picked up.

  Her eyes strayed to the floor. The light from the back window caught a faint rubber shoe mark imprinted on the white tiles. She leaned down and rubbed at it, thoughtfully, wondering who’d been on the other end of the line.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The day dragged on into early afternoon. Grace made herself a sandwich and ate it, pondering her next move.

  She could just ring DI Robertson right now, pass on this new information, and go and buy her bedside lights.

  Yet each time she lifted the phone to ring Lother Street Station, she put it down.

  Once she’d given them him this number, it would be his. He could do what he wanted with it. And as his interest in the torn envelope and the name Lucian Grabole appeared to be about zero, she found herself reluctant.

  Grace clicked her pen off and on till her thumb ached, then rang another number. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Oh God. Piss off, Scotty. I’m busy,’ Ewan said, tapping away.

  ‘Do you want to hear what happened or not?’

  The typing stopped. ‘What?’

  She told him.

  ‘OK, now I’m interested,’ Ewan said. ‘What you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You know what you should do?’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Do it as a story.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Write it. “I Tracked Down the Mystery Man Who Died In My Flat.” There’s loads of that stuff in the papers right now – all that catfishing stuff: “I Tracked Down My Internet Troll”; “I Tracked Down My Internet Stalker and Discovered It Was My Ex”; “My American Internet Boyfriend Turned Out to Be a Granny In Hull.” It’s good – human interest with a –’ he mimicked a posh arts-programme presenter ‘– twenty-first century urban-alienation angle. Go for it. Do the story and the photos.’

  She frowned. ‘Hmm. Not sure how that would work.’

  ‘It’s easy. Come on, Scotty. You’re always talking about wanting to do the big stories. You need to hurry up. You’ll be retiring soon.’

  ‘I’m thirty-five, Ewan. But cheers.’ She doodled on her pad.

  ‘Look, if you do it as an investigation,’ he continued, ‘you’re in control. You’re not under obligation to tell the police anything. Not till you’re about to go to press.’

  That was true. ‘Yeah, but who’s going to commission me to write a story based on an old envelope?’

  ‘Do more research. You’ve got all week. Then pitch it. Pitch it here. It’s got the Edinburgh angle. Editor might go for it.’

  She screwed up her nose. ‘I’ll think about it. Will you do me one last favour, though? Can you get an address for this number in London?’

  ‘Hang on.’

  She gave it to him and heard tapping.

  ‘Right, it’s 137 Easter Way. East London postcode. Name’s “Cozma”. C-O-Z-M-A.’

  ‘Cozma? Not Grabole?’

  ‘Nope. I’ll email it over.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So, are you going?’ he teased her.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘London. Knock on doors, ask questions . . .’

  Sula’s voice appeared in the background again. ‘Ewan, will you get off that bloody phone? I need you to . . .’

  ‘Fuck. Frankie’s back. Gotta go.’ Ewan cut her off.

  She sat back thinking about what he’d said. London. Do the story and the photos.

  She circled the address. That was a stupid idea. Yes, Lucian Grabole might exist after all, in real life – she’d had a lucky break with that – but he was still just a name on an old envelope. It didn’t mean there was a link to her dead man.

  She made more tea, imagining what Mac would say if he was here.

  Don’t be nuts. It’s a stupid idea. That Ewan talks bollocks.

  On a whim, she checked the online balance of the money Dad had left her. Then, on another whim, she looked up flights to London.

  The next one was 4.15 p.m.

  Grace glanced out of the back window at the locked gate, and the tower block looming above, cutting out the afternoon light.

  It was Tuesday lunchtime. Mac wasn’t back till Saturday.

  She could be down to London and back before anyone even noticed.

  The envelope sat on the kitchen table.

  I am not that man Lucian Grabole.


  What the hell did that even mean?

  She clicked her pen on and off.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘Come on, big man, where are you?’

  That same afternoon, Sula sat in the car park of the police station nearest to Auchtermouth, checking her watch. The 5 p.m. press conference on the discovery of the body on the cliff would start in ten minutes.

  She checked each approaching car till she spotted a familiar one.

  A green saloon pulled in and parked in the corner. DI Robertson hauled himself out, a hefty arm on the roof for leverage.

  When he’d entered the police station, she moved her car next to his, then went inside.

  Today’s conference was held in a hastily located small room. It was already packed with cameras and lights, and people jostling for space for their mics on the desk. Sula stood at the back.

  As she’d expected, it was mostly Scottish press, with a few stringers for the Australian media. If this body was David Pearce, nobody else would be bothered with a missing retired walker.

  ‘All right, Sula?’ a voice said beside her. One of her old cronies from the Mail.

  ‘How you doing, Kenny?’ she said, squeezing by.

  ‘You’re back, then?’ he said, letting her past. ‘Someone said you were away down in . . . Where was it? Man—’

  ‘Mind Your Own Business Land?’ she said, watching the side door.

  Kenny chortled. ‘Oh, come on. What was it? Bit of freela—’

  ‘Here we go,’ Sula said, cutting him off with a hand.

  A door opened and three people trooped to the front. The senior investigating officer, Detective Superintendent Lady Muck, with her sparrow frame and plastic bob, took centre stage, as usual. To her left was that irritating wee press officer Vani, whose catchphrase was ‘I’ll get back to you’ and never did, then Lady Muck’s deputy, DI Robertson, towering above them both. Christ. The big guy looked like he was going to eat them for his tea.

  Lady Muck waited for silence.

  ‘Right, thank you for coming. I’m now going to read a statement. Yesterday at 7.40 a.m., a dog walker discovered a body on the cliff above Auchtermouth. I am very sorry to say that we can confirm that the deceased is David Pearce. Mr Pearce, an Australian tourist, disappeared while hill-walking in poor conditions on 29 January.’ She paused to allow a ripple of reaction. ‘Mr Pearce’s body has now been removed from the site, and his family has been informed. I would like to thank the many local volunteers who joined the extensive search for Mr Pearce. At this time, I am not able to give you a cause of death.’

  There was a rush of raised hands.

  Lady Muck glanced at DI Robertson and he nodded.

  Sula’s hackles raised. Oh aye – here we go.

  Lady Muck cleared her throat to get their full attention.

  ‘While recovering Mr Pearce’s body, a second body was discovered at the scene.’

  A collective hush filled the room. Recording lights were double-checked, mics pushed closer.

  Sula’s hand reached for the door. Two bodies in the same spot. The story would go national in minutes.

  ‘As yet we do not have an identity for the second body,’ Lady Muck said. ‘We are currently removing the deceased from the site. I will update you when we have further news. That is all for now.’

  A flurry of hands and calls.

  ‘Is the second body male or female?’

  ‘Is it an adult or a child?’

  ‘How long has the second body been there?’

  ‘Is this an accident site or a murder site?’

  Sula crept out and leaned against her car. Ten minutes later, following their useless one-to-ones with the detectives, the other journalists spilt out, along with Vani, who climbed into a silly wee button-sized car. Next came Lady Muck, clicking past, nose in the air, to her waiting driver. Soon enough, the big guy came towards her.

  Here we go.

  Sula rang the old pager inside her bag. It beeped.

  ‘Ach, where is it?’ she exclaimed.

  She turned the bag upside down as if taking a closer look inside. The pager and some pound coins kept for this exact purpose crashed onto the tarmac.

  ‘Oh God, what am I like?’ She knelt down.

  ‘Here you go, Sula.’ DI Robertson stood on a coin as it approached a drain, and helped her grab the rest with a grunt.

  Sula stood up, hand on her back. ‘Thank you. Getting old here, Fin.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, opening his car.

  Sula kept her tone casual. ‘Well, that’s some news, eh? Two men dead. They’ll all be here tomorrow, eh? Sky, BBC . . .’

  DI Robertson chortled. ‘Sula, you’re something else. Try it on someone who’s not been round the block a few times.’

  She dropped the grin. ‘Oh, come on, Fin. Is it another guy?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait like everyone else.’

  She zipped her bag up crossly. ‘You lot are tighter than a cat’s arse these days. Can’t blame a woman for getting creative.’

  He squeezed himself inside. ‘Oh, I don’t. In fact, it’s very entertaining to watch.’

  ‘See you,’ she said, waving a dismissive hand. ‘On your way.’

  He chuckled. ‘See you soon.’

  She watched him heading out of the car park, his car listing to the right with his weight.

  ‘You’ll see how creative I can get, big man.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  London

  Grace stood on the Tube platform at Heathrow Airport, not quite believing what she’d just done. An hour after her phone call with Ewan, she’d found herself in a taxi to Edinburgh Airport, rucksack beside her, passport in her camera bag for ID, fighting the urge to ask the driver to turn round.

  In the end, she’d left Mac a handwritten note, on the off chance he came home from Blairgowrie early and freaked that she wasn’t there. If she rang him now, it would only cause an argument. His patience with her obsession with the dead man had run out at about the same time as DI Robertson’s. You’ve spent your dad’s money on what?

  She boarded the next Piccadilly Line train to King’s Cross, then took more Tube and overland train connections to East London.

  Out of the window, she watched as the city shape-shifted. Multicoloured new-build flats slotted into every conceivable space along the track. Seventies tower blocks stood like wild oats among fields of Victorian terraces. The train turned a bend and the sun glinted off a hundred high-rise windows like a discoball. A curl of dual carriageway veered above her head and vanished. Residential homes gave way to warehouses, and wasteland. Evening sun gathered in golden puddles on a scrubby marsh. Two roof-running teenagers somersaulted in silhouette off an industrial shed.

  She wondered if Lucian Grabole had seen this. Even sat in this carriage, doing the journey in reverse to Scotland. If he had, what had been on his mind?

  So ensconced in thought was she, she nearly missed her stop. The platform was quiet, the rush hour finished. She climbed up to a scruffy street, and turned past overflowing bins, a funeral parlour offering foreign repatriation, then a row of cheap international call centres and fried chicken and kebab shops.

  The hotel she’d booked was five minutes’ walk.

  ‘Lovely,’ she muttered as she approached.

  It was a double-fronted porridge-coloured house. Its plaster was crumbling, the ‘0181’ London phone number on its sign years out of date. It had cost per night the same as the Edinburgh conference hotel she and Mac had stayed in while Forensics were in their flat. A sullen man on reception showed her to her room. Once a double, it had clearly been divided in half into two thin singles, the middle section carved into a minute shower room and wardrobe for each side. A ridiculously narrow corridor now led past the wardrobe and shower room to a seven-foot-square space by the window, crammed tight with a single bed.

  She threw down her rucksack, wishing Mac could see this. There was a cheap telly on the wall, and a lamp on a Formica shelf abo
ve her head.

  Rubbing her eyes, she sat on the polyester bedcover. A plastic cigarette wrapper lay on the floor. Through the wall, a man held a phone conversation in a Slavic language.

  She lifted the grey voile curtains. Men were working on a car in a repair garage at the back. The sun had dipped, but it would be light for at least another hour.

  She turned on the television. The digital signal flickered weakly, and cut out to a black screen. A squealing noise came from the repair garage.

  The prospect of an evening in here was not appealing.

  Her map had said the Cozmas’ house wasn’t far. She checked her watch. If she went now, she might get an answer tonight. Even be on the morning flight home.

  According to her phone’s GPS, Easter Way was a half-mile walk. The route took her along the main road, then left at a church whose spire was half missing into a labyrinthine housing estate. Teenagers kicked a ball under a ‘No ball games’ sign. Clothes hung on balconies. Metal gates were locked over front doors. Three elderly women with floral headscarves sat on the grass. Intrigued, she saw they were cooking over a handmade fire, chattering in a language she didn’t recognize. She itched to ask to photograph them, but carried on, knowing it would be dark soon.

  The estate opened out the back onto a quieter road, lined on one side by a tall fence with an industrial building behind, and scrubland on the other. Giant river cranes loomed in the distance. According to her GPS, Easter Way led from this road to the river. This looked right.

  The road fell quiet, just the odd truck or van speeding past. Grace reached the right turn into Easter Way, and stopped to check. This didn’t seem right. Smaller industrial buildings stretched along it towards the cranes. The scrubland either side was littered with dumped fridges and sofas, and broken bottles. Street lights were unlit.

  Where were the houses?

  She double-checked the map in case there was another Easter Way.

  No, this was definitely it. Cautiously, she turned in, and began counting numbers. The estate seemed shut for the night. Up close, she saw the brick buildings were small clothing and packaging factories, with corrugated iron roofs, and side entrances secured by barbed wire and chained shut. A guard dog barked somewhere in the distance.