City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  Counting numbers, Grace found number 137 by a junction into a side road, opposite a closed cafe. A security light triggered as she approached, illuminating a red-, yellow-and-blue plastic sign that said, ‘Cozma’s.’

  It was a factory. Lucian’s former place of work, maybe?

  Taken aback, she stopped. Apart from a faint light behind the front door, there was no sign of life. A tired mannequin sat in its shop-style front window, with a drawn brown curtain behind. Its false eyelashes were long and defined, hair missing. A split silver sequinned maxidress parted at plastic orange legs.

  The evening sun dimmed into a beautiful crystalline glow, scattering the road with gold dust. Grace looked around. If she did do what Ewan suggested and turned the mystery of Lucian Grabole into a freelance story, she’d have to start recording now. And this light was too good to miss.

  Behind her, there was a sharp crack at ground level.

  She spun round, peering into each shadowy alleyway and doorway.

  A fox maybe.

  As sure as she could be that nobody was watching, she photographed the factory, with the long row of shuttered buildings beyond it down to the black stork-like cranes. Then she shot the mannequin, and the barbed wire above the side entrance. Using the harsh security light, she photographed the factory sign from below, lending it the look of an American neon motel sign.

  It was when she bent down by the window, for an alternative angle, that she heard the rumbling.

  A mechanical noise, insistent and rhythmic.

  Inside.

  Stepping closer, she listened at the window.

  Someone was in there.

  Grace checked her phone. Nearly nine o’clock.

  Probably too late, but no harm trying. She walked to the door and knocked.

  The rumbling continued.

  She rapped harder.

  This time, it stopped.

  She stood expectant, listening to the distant horn of a boat on the river, carefully forming her words about the possible bad news about Lucian Grabole.

  The sun dropped in the sky, like a plane coming in to land, and the gold haze she’d just captured dissolved into a harsh cold blue. With a pop, street lamps came on beside her. A rat ran across the road. ‘Come on . . .’ she muttered, shivering.

  Nobody came to the door.

  ‘Hello?’ She rapped the window this time.

  Nothing.

  Running out of ideas, she rang Lucian Grabole’s contact number from the Riverside register. A phone rang out inside the factory.

  This was definitely the right place.

  But still nobody answered.

  From somewhere a car started up. Backing onto the pavement, she was just in time to see a people carrier with blacked-out windows emerge from behind Cozma’s and accelerate up towards the main road.

  ‘No. Stop!’ She waved uselessly.

  It didn’t.

  At the junction, it turned left and disappeared along the main road. Inside the factory, she now saw the faint light was off. If the building hadn’t been unoccupied before, it certainly was now. Had they really not heard her?

  Aware of how fast darkness was falling, she marched back in the car’s direction, wanting to escape the deserted little industrial estate and its unlit doorways. She’d have to come back tomorrow.

  It was as she reached the junction that Grace saw the people carrier again.

  It was parked on the kerb, hazard lights flashing.

  Shadows seemed to watch her from the windows.

  She started to raise a hand and it roared off again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Edinburgh

  ‘Right, you, stupid head – it’s time.’

  Shortly after eight the next morning, Sula opened her car door in the lay-by at Auchtermouth, and regarded the miserable greyhound on the back seat, doing a good impression of a kidnap victim. Good. The sun was coming out, which should make what she was about to do easier.

  ‘Come on.’ She grabbed its lead, and set off onto the cliff.

  The police cordon was still there, but now both bodies had been removed, the four-by-four and the white van were gone. Any chance of a journalist – or bystanders – photographing something that would upset families, and lead to a lawsuit, had passed.

  As she’d calculated, Derrick had been replaced down in the dip by a new PC. She didn’t know this one, although from the misery on his face, she guessed he’d just done a night shift and was as likely to rip her arm off for a bacon sandwich as Derrick had been.

  ‘Morning,’ she said, approaching the officer.

  ‘Morning,’ he replied, standing to, finally with something to do.

  She pointed further up the cliff. ‘Officer, is it OK for me to take my dog up there?’

  ‘Aye, that’s fine. Just stay to the side of the cordon.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She pointed to the tent. ‘It’s a terrible business, eh? That poor man.’

  ‘Aye, it is.’

  ‘Do they know who the second man is yet?’

  ‘No. Won’t know that for a while.’

  ‘OK, well, thank you.’

  Two men? Up yours, Fin.

  Further up the cliff, at an elevated point, Sula hung the dog’s lead over a rock, and ducked behind a bush. Crouching, she focused her binoculars back down the slope. The evidence tent was side on from this angle, its flap closed. She settled on the ground, and the dog did the same, head on paws. Half an hour later, there was movement. The flap opened as a forensics officer exited. She zoomed in.

  The flap closed.

  She blinked, pulling back. What the hell was that?

  Sula waited for him to return. This time, he opened the flap for longer, calling back to a colleague at his van.

  She focused tight and knew she was right.

  Instead of the shallow gravesite she’d expected, there was an existing fence surrounding a hole in the ground. An official-looking sign was stuck to it. The fence had been removed from half the hole.

  Above it was a cable winch, a rope dangling inside.

  Maybe it was the perspective from here, but the hole looked only a few feet across.

  Ewan was on his way out the door to work when she rang. ‘Stop where you are, get on your laptop, and find something about the geological or geographical structure of this cliff up at Auchtermouth. I want to know if there’s a well or a natural hole in the ground.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  She sat and smoked two fags, waiting. The dog whined and chased its tail miserably.

  Ewan rang back. ‘You know how good I am, don’t you?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s a twenty-foot-deep pit cave up there. Council’s fenced it off for safety, so might have a sign on it, or a grate over the top.’

  ‘Pit cave? What’s that?’

  ‘Well, according to my expert, Professor Wikipedia, it’s a natural cave that is found in the ground or in caves, usually made by water erosion in limestone.’

  ‘How can a cave be on the ground up on a cliff?’

  ‘Because it’s not a normal cave. It’s vertical, not horizontal.’

  ‘What, like a chimney in the ground that goes down the way and not up?’

  ‘God, that’s beautiful,’ he sighed. ‘Has anyone ever told you you should be a writer?’

  ‘Thank you, smart-arse.’ Sula turned off her phone. ‘Jesus,’ she said out loud.

  The hole she’d glimpsed had been two or three feet across. One guy she might have bought, falling in there by accident. But two? And if someone had put them in there, there was only one explanation.

  They’d been buried upright.

  One on top of the other.

  Sula wasn’t in the business of spending much time thinking about the victims of her stories, but in this case, she hoped the poor bastards were dead first.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  London

  Easter Way looked very different in the morning sunshine.

  Grace
walked along, trying to find her bearings from last night. A constant stream of vehicles ran through the industrial estate. Trolleys rattled along the pavement. Radios blared from doorways. Rails of clothes were loaded onto vans, and bales of paper and cardboard dropped by gates. On the corner, by the cafe from last night, men in overalls climbed into an unmarked minibus.

  The cafe was open now, windows steamed up with a breakfast crowd. The curtain at Cozma’s was still drawn, though. So far, there had been no movement.

  Grace leaned against the cafe wall, wondering what to do. Either the Cozmas really hadn’t heard her last night or they were purposely avoiding her. It occurred to her that her phone call about Lucian Grabole had rattled them yesterday lunchtime and they were now on the lookout for strangers. But why?

  Hoping the machine noise had just drowned her out last night, she crossed the road, undoing her camera cover and turning her phone to voice record to save time if someone answered.

  At the window, she listened out. No rumbling.

  She checked her watch: 8.55 a.m. If that was the evening shift last night, maybe the day shift started at 9 a.m. She knocked, to be sure.

  With the sun out, and nobody around, she decided to risk a few more shots. The factory sign looked different under the blue sky. She knelt down to shoot it and— A sharp rap at the window made her jerk back.

  The Cozmas’ curtain had been yanked back. A woman was watching her, from behind the mannequin. She had olive skin, and short brown hair, the deep groove between her eyes accentuated by an astonished frown. Behind her was a long industrial table. On it were sewing machines. The rumbling noise. Beside it, a rail of clothes covered in plastic slips.

  A tall man appeared beside the woman.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ Grace said. She waved at them, and pointed at the front door.

  It flew open seconds later, and, to her alarm, the man charged out, his face furious. He had thick greying hair that started low on his forehead, and wore a navy pinstriped suit. The woman, she guessed his wife, rushed after him. Behind her came another older, white-haired woman who shared the man’s low hairline.

  ‘What are you doing? Why are you photographing my business?’ the man yelled.

  She took an involuntary step back, raising a hand in peace. ‘Oh. Hi. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here. I’m a photojournalist, Grace Scott.’ She held out a card and he snatched it from her. ‘I’ve come down from Edinburgh to speak to you. Do you have a minute?’

  ‘About what?’ the man asked, thunder in his voice. Behind him, down a corridor, she saw a back exit, and the people carrier parked outside. His hand chopped the air like an axe. ‘My business is legal.’

  ‘No, no. Please. I’m not here about that. At all. As I say, I’m a freelance photojournalist. I rang yesterday. I’m trying to track down a man who might have worked here.’

  His eyes slanted with suspicion.

  ‘He left your phone number at a night shelter in Edinburgh,’ Grace added. ‘Was it you I spoke to yesterday?’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘Lucian Grabole.’

  The man’s hand wilted mid-air.

  Grace pushed on, less sure than she’d been a minute ago. ‘I’m just worried something might have happened to him. I’m trying to find his family. That’s all.’

  With his eyes fixed on Grace, the man spoke in another language she didn’t recognize. The women crowded behind him, eyes widening with anxiety.

  ‘What about Lucian Grabole?’ he snapped.

  Grace composed herself. ‘Well, I don’t want to worry you unnecessarily, but a man died in Edinburgh three months ago, and I found the name “Lucian Grabole” written on a note near his body. It’s completely possible he is nothing to do with the dead man, but I’m trying to find out.’

  The man’s face flickered, as if trying to check he’d heard correctly. ‘Lucian is dead?’

  The women peered up at him.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Grace said. ‘Sorry, that’s the point – I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to find out. So, it would be incredibly helpful if you could eliminate the Lucian Grabole you know, so I can look elsewhere. I mean, have you seen him recently? In the past three months, say?’

  She saw a calculation take place in the man’s eyes. His face was turning pale in front of her, as if he were giving blood.

  ‘What did he look like, the dead man?’

  She shifted, increasingly uneasy. ‘About forty. Brown hair, to here.’ She touched under her chin. ‘About 1.78 metres tall, wearing an old navy pinstriped suit –’ her eyes flicked to his, which was not dissimilar ‘– and black lace-up shoes. Oh, and he had a tattoo of a wolf on his shoulder. And a signet ring with a green stone on his little finger.’

  A gasp escaped the man’s mouth.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Grace said, taken aback. ‘Is it him? I’m so sorry. I really didn’t think it would be.’

  Before she could speak again, the wife fired off questions in an agitated tone. The words weren’t familiar, but the sense of panic was. The man answered sounding like he was in shock. A wail came from the wife’s mouth. She pulled at his jacket beseechingly. The older woman, Grace suspected his mother, cupped her face, tears filling her eyes.

  This was awful. Grace held up a hand again. ‘Listen, I’m so sorry. Can I ask, are you Mr and Mrs Cozma? Are you Lucian’s family?’

  But the wife was becoming increasingly hysterical, her voice rising, hands gesticulating. The man pulled her into him. ‘Nu, nu, dragă,’ he murmured.

  Grace gave him a second, then tried once more. ‘Again, I’m so sorry, but please, if this sounds like the Lucian you know, could I ask where he was from, and what he was doing in Edinburgh?’

  The man let go of his wife. His eyes bored into her. A tone of disbelief entered his voice. ‘You want to know this for a newspaper story?’

  His wife tugged at him again and he translated. Her eyes grew wide, and she marched towards Grace, planted her feet firmly, and started to talk even faster. The words flew like gravel. Startled, Grace took a step back.

  The man grappled the woman into his arms again. ‘My wife is very upset. You must leave.’

  Leave? Grace put out a hand. ‘Listen, I’m so, so sorry, really, but, honestly, writing a story about this is not the most important thing. Not at all. I’m not even sure I’m going to write it. I just want to find Lucian’s family. I need to be sure that it’s him who died in my flat. And if it is, I want to make sure they know, because—’

  Without warning, the wife ran at Grace again, shouting, her face contorted with distress. Grace stepped further back into the road. ‘Please, I’m trying to help you. I can give you a name. Tell you the authorities to contact in Edinburgh and—’

  But nothing she said worked. The man now turned on her. ‘You will do nothing else here,’ he said, gathering his wife back into his arms. ‘Thank you for bringing this news, but from now, this is not your business. Now please, I must ask you to go. Please leave my family in peace. We will not speak to you again.’

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  What had she done?

  So close to an answer about Lucian’s identity and yet so bloody far.

  Grace returned to the cafe, and put down her rucksack. Those people knew who Lucian Grabole was. And she’d completely messed it up.

  She couldn’t go home, not yet.

  Hoping he was at work, she rang Ewan.

  ‘Scotty. Wassup?’

  ‘I’ve just blown it,’ she said, describing the past five minutes.

  He listened without interruption. ‘Wow. But it’s the same guy?’

  ‘Well, it sounds like it. They acted like they recognized his description and hadn’t seen him for a while. They make suits and the dead guy was wearing a suit like Mr Cozma’s. I swear it’s the same one but much older.’

  ‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, because then they got upset and wouldn’t talk. I think they thought I was from the
tax office or I was writing a tabloid story about illegal workers or something.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re on to something, though,’ Ewan said. ‘Where are they from?’

  ‘I didn’t get to ask.’ She sat on a low wall. ‘They were really upset. I’m thinking I should ring DI Robertson. Then he can send someone to confirm it officially with them.’

  ‘Scotty – no!’ Ewan shouted. ‘Don’t be stupid. There’s a good story here. You’ve got to go for it. You’ve got the personal angle of finding the body – in Edinburgh – then an international angle. Then this big mystery about who the guy is. I’m telling you – an editor’s going to go for this.’

  ‘I don’t know, Ewan—’

  ‘Think about it,’ he interrupted. ‘If their Lucian Grabole is the guy in your flat, and they’re so upset that he’s dead, why haven’t they reported him missing? It doesn’t make sense.’

  It was a good point. ‘I don’t know. Because he worked for them cash in hand, maybe? And they don’t want to get into trouble?’

  ‘Well, something’s weird about it. Don’t do anything till you’re sure.’

  She leaned over. She loved Ewan like an annoying little brother, and she’d forever be grateful for the way he’d not cared she was in her thirties and partnered up with her with such friendly enthusiasm on their MA course while the rest of the twenty-one-year-olds ignored her. But he had no idea of the way grief smashed your life into pieces, then left you scrabbling to put them back together in a way that made sense. Even she couldn’t explain it. She just knew that finding the dead man’s family would replace one piece for her.

  ‘Ewan, I know what you’re saying, but honestly, this is personal for me,’ she tried to explain. ‘The guy died in my flat, and finding his family’s the most important thing. They need to know. When my dad died, I spent ages in his flat, thinking about that day he died there on his own. Wondering what he’d felt, if he’d been in pain. What the last thing he saw was. You need to ask these questions. It’s part of the process. I want to find out why Lucian Grabole was in my flat, but I want to help his family, too.’

  ‘Oi, Scotty!’ Ewan snapped. ‘You’re talking to me here, not a girl. Focus! Let’s backtrack. Where are they from?’