City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

The man put the food away, saying nothing.

  Mr Singh sighed. ‘The husband’s away playing golf till Saturday, and the wife left in a taxi with a rucksack, so I imagine you’ll be all right to move around a bit for a day or two, but then . . .’

  But then.

  The words died away.

  The man said nothing. He didn’t have to. He and Mr Singh both knew they had no meaning. He was going nowhere.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was lunchtime when Grace reached a hipper-looking part of East London. She disembarked the overland train, and looked for a Tube station to return her to King’s Cross and Heathrow.

  Her thoughts were now consumed by a new piece of the puzzle.

  Where were Anna and Valentin?

  The London air was muggy and warm. For a second, she sat on a polka-dot bench outside a vintage clothes shop, to check her GPS.

  A couple in their twenties cycled towards her on matching old-fashioned bikes, he with a handlebar moustache, her in a summer skirt covered in foxes. Grace took out her camera and photographed them. If they noticed or cared, they didn’t react. She guessed this happened a lot round here, with all the fashion spotters and hipsters.

  The GPS told her she was one street away from her Tube station.

  Now all she had to do was book her flight home.

  For a reason she didn’t understand, Grace didn’t move.

  A group of black-clad emos in vertiginous platform shoes towered over a tiny pensioner with a blue-rinse perm and a shopping trolley, asking for directions. She photographed that, too.

  Her phone rang in her pocket.

  ‘Hey. What’s happening?’ Ewan said.

  She updated him about Ali, and the news about Lucian’s missing wife and child.

  ‘Seriously?’ he exclaimed. ‘Ace. So what you doing now?’

  ‘Coming home, I suppose. Start looking for Anna and Valentin. Obviously Lucian didn’t find her in London, so he went to Edinburgh. He must have had an idea she was there.’

  ‘But if he’d found her in Edinburgh, wouldn’t she have reported him missing when he died? Or rung the police when she saw his description in the paper?’

  ‘Would she report it, though,’ Grace replied, ‘if they were both working without being registered? She didn’t report it in Amsterdam when they got separated.’

  ‘True.’ Ewan hummed for a second. ‘Hang on, are you sure she was even in Edinburgh? Just because there’s a poster there . . . There’s one in London, too. For all we know, Lucian’s put them in shelters all over the country.’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘You know what you need to do?’ Ewan said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go to Amsterdam – work backwards. Find out what Lucian Grabole was doing over there. Anna could be back in Amsterdam, looking for him. If that’s where they were living originally, somebody over there must know them.’

  ‘Amsterdam?’

  ‘Why not? What else are you doing this week?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  She heard him typing furiously.

  Ewan returned to the phone. ‘Amsterdam. Five thirty, from Gatwick – sixty-seven pounds single. Oh, come on, Scotty! This could be the big break.’

  She sat thinking. It wasn’t impossible.

  ‘When’s Mac back?’ Ewan asked.

  ‘Saturday.’

  Mac would never do something this spontaneous. Or expect her to, either.

  ‘Oh, go oooonnnn!’ Ewan goaded her.

  ‘You know what,’ she said. ‘Fuck it. I’m going to go.’

  ‘Yay! Want me to book it? I’ll do it on my credit card and you can pay me back.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yup. Got your passport there?’

  ‘Hang on.’ She gave him the number, and held on as Ewan booked her flight, not believing what she’d just done. If Mac were here, he’d be shaking her shoulders, telling her to stop being a loon and wasting her dad’s savings.

  A spraying noise started behind her.

  In a side street, a wiry, shaven-headed man, dressed in a black leather jacket and trousers, was urinating by a railway arch. He zipped up and walked off. Everything about him was pointed: ears, black leather boots, chin, skull. With the sun ahead of him, he turned into a sharp-angled silhouette. There was something primal about the illusion. A human city-rat, his dark stain marking the wall. Grace fumbled for her camera, and fired off one shot. As if he sensed her, the man began to turn. Grace shot him once more, from the side, catching his jagged profile, and turned back before he saw her.

  Ewan returned. ‘Right, I’m emailing you the booking – try and print it out somewhere or the bastards’ll charge you a fortune at the airport.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll sort out the money at the weekend.’

  ‘No bother. I’ll book you a hotel, too. And I’ll ask around – I think someone in Pictures has got contacts in Amsterdam.’

  She stood up to go. ‘You’re a star.’

  ‘Aw – all shiny and lovely?’

  ‘No, all pointy and sharp.’

  It was the first joke she’d attempted since Dad died. Whether or not he found it funny, Ewan, to his credit, laughed, and she joined in, because for the first time in months, for reasons she didn’t really understand, she felt like it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Police Race to Solve Mystery of Two Dead Men Buried In Pit Cave.

  That afternoon, Sula sat in her car reading her freshly posted online story on the Scots Today website.

  Vani had already glowered in her direction on her way into this afternoon’s press conference.

  This would be interesting. Maybe they’d reveal the link between the two victims. Sula followed her in.

  As she’d suspected, the number of journalists had doubled overnight.

  DI Robertson was on his own today. He glared at her, too, and she winked back.

  ‘Right, I’m here to give you a quick update on the discovery of the bodies of David Pearce and Colin McFarlay.’ He scanned the room for impact. ‘This is now a murder investigation.’

  A shocked murmur rippled through the room. Sula rolled her eyes at her colleagues – what did they think it was, two guys having a cheese sandwich on a rock to enjoy the view and – oops! – both fell down the same hole?

  DI Robertson hit his flow. ‘Colin McFarlay was last seen on CCTV in Edinburgh city centre at 2.30 a.m. on 19 October last year. David Pearce went missing on 29 January, after telling family he was hiking. Both men were found on the cliff above Auchtermouth on 4 May.’ He took his time looking around, making eye contact individually. His gaze came to rest on Sula. ‘Now, two men have died. I’m sure you can appreciate this is a very difficult time for both families. So we will not be confirming news reports regarding the circumstances of the men’s deaths or giving out any more information at this time.’ She held his stare. ‘We will, however, be appealing for anyone with information to come forward. In particular, we would like to speak to anyone who knew Mr Pearce or Mr McFarlay, or knows of a link between these two men. Thank you. Any questions?’

  Sula put up her hand, while his eyes were fixed on her. ‘Sula McGregor, Scots Today. Did they die at the same time?’

  ‘No. Next question.’

  ‘Can you give us cause of death?’ she called out.

  ‘I’ve just said, not at this time. Now, is—’

  ‘Were the men dead when they were buried?’

  The room fell silent.

  When you angered Fin Robertson, his eyes blackened and hardened like a shark’s. If he hadn’t been a police officer, he had a great look for a serial killer, and she felt sorry for any poor bugger who tried to play him in an interview room. There was a hushed snigger around the room as he fixed those shark eyes on Sula for three long seconds.

  ‘As I said, Sula, we will not be releasing information at this moment about the nature of the murders. Next question.’ He pointed at the back.

  Jesus, Sula thought, she was right. Poo
r bastards.

  Sula charged back to the office to find Ewan eating a late lunch of Quavers, Coke and a Twix, his big googly eyes fixed on an email. When he saw her, he shut it quick.

  ‘Put it away, whatever it is,’ she snapped. ‘I need addresses for both men’s families in Edinburgh.’

  Ewan held up a sheet of paper. ‘Sometimes I think you underestimate me.’

  She took it. ‘Brown Oaks Nursing Home – that’s Pearce’s father?’

  ‘Aye, Thomas Pearce, aged eighty-eight,’ Ewan crunched, carrying on typing.

  She scanned down. ‘And 6 Banister Road – that’s McFarlay.’ Sula tapped her pen. ‘Or, as it’s so charmingly called, Smack Row.’

  She scratched her head. ‘Tell me again how the hell these two met.’

  Ewan clicked his mouse. ‘Let’s see . . . Oh, hello, handsome.’

  Sula bent across. It was the police shot they’d printed when Colin McFarlay went missing last October. It was everything you’d expect from a lowlife like him. Vacuum-packed cheeks, greasy hair, eyes drained of life after years of pushing crack to bairns. A face full of plooks.

  Beside it, Ewan placed a photo of David Pearce. It was his photo from Perth University Engineering Department. It was everything you’d expect: beard and glasses, suit, club tie, expression of authority.

  ‘Something’s not making sense here.’ Sula’s eyes darted between them.

  ‘You said it, Batman.’ Ewan bit his Twix. ‘By the way, there’s a message there for you.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ she said, not listening.

  ‘From your daughter,’ Ewan said.

  Sula kept her eyes on the photo of Colin McFarlay.

  ‘She said, can you ring her back?’ Ewan continued.

  Sula picked the pink Post-it note from her keyboard, without reading it, and placed it in her pocket.

  ‘I think that’s a Manchester code,’ he continued, crunching his Twix. ‘How did I not even know you had a daughter? Is she single?’

  Sula glared over her glasses. ‘Ewan,’ she said, ‘if I’m Batman, who are you?’

  He stopped chewing. ‘Your girly sidekick.’

  She reached over, grabbed the Twix, and threw it in the bin. ‘Right. Concentrate. Somebody put those poor bastards down that hole, and I’m guessing from Fin Robertson’s face that they were alive when they did it. And we’re going to find out who before he does.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  That evening, Grace changed pounds to euros in the arrivals hall of Schiphol Airport, realizing she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She switched on her phone and found a cryptic email from Ewan about her hotel.

  ‘Lindenkade 401. Go there and . . .’ It ended abruptly, as if he’d sent it before it was finished.

  She texted him.

  No reply.

  ‘Hmm,’ she muttered, not convinced by the unfinished instructions. There wasn’t even a hotel name. She turned off her phone, in case Mac rang and heard the unfamiliar European ringtone. She was too tired and hungry right now to have an argument with him about her ‘weird obsession’ with the dead man at Gallon Street, and, most likely, her ‘irrational’ decision to fly here. Outside the terminal, people sat in outdoor cafes and on ornamental-flowerbed walls, drinking beer and coffee and chatting. It was even warmer than London. She tied her jacket round her waist, found a taxi, and curled up on the back seat.

  The freeway sped past sprawling business centres, and apartment blocks tucked neatly behind trees. The sun was setting. Armies of cyclists on sit-up-and-beg bikes ran alongside them as it became more residential, legs moving to the same hypnotic rhythm. A dark glint of water appeared as they crossed a bridge. The taxi turned sharply down a narrow, square-cobbled street.

  ‘Lindenkade,’ the taxi driver said, pointing at the street sign.

  ‘Thanks.’ She paid and exited onto the canalside.

  OK. This didn’t look right.

  On one side, under elegant old lamplights, there were four-storey red-brick canal houses with tall white windows. On the other were houseboats tethered on the canal, their roofs peeking over the bank. Untidy rows of bikes and cars were scattered above them, among mature lime and elm trees.

  No hotel signs.

  ‘OK. Not good,’ Grace muttered.

  The first house number she checked was 110. The canalside vanished towards a distant bridge lit by dim street lights. Three hundred more numbers till she reached 401?

  A car raced past playing drum and bass. A long, slow whistle came from the open window, and she hid her camera bag under her jacket and quickened her pace. Still the house numbers only progressed in twos. Number 401 must be a mile away.

  She checked the email again. ‘Lindenkade 401. Go there and . . .’

  Maybe Ewan had sent that email by mistake. Or it was a typo.

  Then a small wooden sign by the canal caught her eye: ‘423’.

  A houseboat?

  She worked her way back to a pretty blue one that said, ‘403’.

  It was a houseboat.

  Number 401 was next to it. But still there was no hotel or B&B sign.

  No. This really didn’t look right.

  She rang Ewan again. It went to voicemail.

  Number 401 was tar-black, and anonymous, with a long curved roof and featureless windows draped with voile curtains. A low light shone inside.

  What was the alternative? Walk through the night with her camera bag till she found a taxi or a hotel? She didn’t even know which part of Amsterdam she was in.

  Not sure what else to do, she crossed a ramp to the front door.

  Faint music came from inside.

  This definitely didn’t look like a hotel.

  To be sure, she knocked.

  Steps approached; then the door flew open. A tall, bare-chested man in jeans stood in the doorway. He was deeply tanned like the beach backpackers in Thailand, with dark curly hair, a close-cut beard and dark brown eyes so intense they made her take a step back.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Oh – sorry. I must have got the wrong—’

  ‘Come in. Leave your bag there,’ he said, walking off. Feeling hesitant, she followed him into a living room, furnished with a grey sofa, a woodstove, a scarlet Afghan rug and walls crammed with framed photographs, paintings and artwork. It smelt of cooking and spice.

  ‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he said, heading into a room off the left of the sitting room. His accent was unplaceable, a mix of American, Antipodean and London.

  ‘Who are you?’ she mouthed at his back, as he disappeared. Through the gap in the door, she saw the corner of a bed.

  ‘Nicu,’ an unseen woman said, followed by something in Dutch.

  The man replied fluently.

  Grace stood up to take a closer look at the prints. These were amazing. Seriously good reportage. The work she’d dreamed about at college before real life and paying rent took over. A creak and the man reappeared, pulling on a black T-shirt, still speaking in Dutch.

  Behind him came a woman wearing a bandana over two dark plaits, and a summer dress. She was pulling on a cardigan.

  She nodded coolly at Grace, who returned it, uncertain. Then a second woman appeared. Blonde hair was looped in coils on her head. On her shoulder was a bag. She also nodded.

  What the hell was this?

  The girls were nearly as tall as the man. The blonde one took his hand and made a sulky face, pulling him towards the door. He held up five fingers. The darker one said something harsh-sounding. He waved them off and returned.

  Had he just slept with both those women?

  The man towered over Grace, and she pushed back against the sofa even though there was plenty of space between them.

  ‘OK, I’ve got ten minutes,’ he said. ‘So what do you need?’

  She stared. ‘Um, I’m not quite sure what . . .’

  ‘Scots Today said you need help with Romanian contacts in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Scots Today?’ she s
aid, starting to breathe again.

  His brown-black eyes were so intense she couldn’t read any expression in them. ‘Yeah. Ewan Callow at Scots Today?’ he said, mild irritation appearing on his face.

  ‘Right. Sorry,’ she said, wishing she could get hold of Ewan. ‘How do you know Scots Today?’

  ‘They syndicate my work and . . .’ He put down the pen. ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

  She bit her lip. ‘No. Sorry. Or why I’m here, actually.’

  A ripple crossed his face that might have been amusement. ‘Nicu,’ he said, holding out a hand. She took it. He had huge hands, with long tanned fingers and leather bands round his wrist. ‘Nicu Dragan.’

  With a jolt, she recognized his name. He was a reportage photographer. Internationally renowned. His stuff appeared in the nationals and Sunday supplements. She’d seen his work in an exhibition.

  She tried to remain nonchalant – ‘Grace Scott. Freelance’ – positive he wouldn’t have heard of her. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s been a really long day. OK. That’s great, thanks. Yes, that’s right. I’m trying to find the family of a Romanian man who lived in Amsterdam, possibly working under the radar, without registering legally. You think you might be able to help?’

  ‘Don’t know – see what I can find. Hang on.’ The man headed to a tiny office off the compact wooden kitchen.

  Grace scanned the room quickly. There was a sheepskin over the sofa. The paintings were a colourful mixture of abstract and brash outsider art. A bowl piled with aubergines and peppers sat on the kitchen counter. It was singly the most intriguing room she’d ever seen.

  ‘So what’s the name?’ he said, returning with a pen.

  ‘Oh. Lucian Grabole. His wife and child are Anna and Valentin.’

  His pen froze mid-air. ‘Grabole’s not a Romanian name – you know that?’ His tone was questioning her.

  ‘It’s not?’ she said, taken aback. ‘Sorry, how do you know that?’

  ‘Because I speak Romanian,’ he said. His demeanour was laid-back, yet his eyes seared into her, as if measuring the angle of her bones and the light on her skin – photographer’s eyes. She shifted uncertainly.

  ‘Oh. OK. That’s odd, but anyway . . .’ She gave him the rest of the information.