City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  Grace sat back.

  Out of the window, she watched a street performer tiptoeing across the square, doing an exaggerated version of the gait of the pedestrian in front to make the cafe customers laugh.

  Two names now for the dead man in her flat.

  One Lucian described as a kind, family man, the other Lucian a violent killer.

  The clown copied the pedestrian’s confused glances at all those laughing at his expense.

  What was she looking for now, two different men or one man with two names who changed his character to order?

  She rewound her voice recorder, put her earphones in, and listened back to what Nicu had just told her.

  He threw her dog down a well. Took five days to die . . . It means ‘devil’ . . . The guy says people are still scared of them up there, even after twenty-five years.

  What the hell was happening to this story?

  The message she’d found on the wedding present returned to her. I am not that man.

  But which man?

  Amsterdam seemed less friendly this evening. A fire engine raced past them, sirens blaring.

  Roadworks appeared ahead, and a cyclist, forced onto the pavement, had an argument with a pedestrian who objected to his presence there and blocked him. A fight broke out, and Nicu swerved to avoid it.

  Soon, she spotted the play park from this morning. The trampolines were empty. A second fire engine streaked ahead.

  A wisp of smoke blew in her window and she coughed, winding it up.

  A second, thicker ribbon of smoke crossed her window. Nicu said something.

  She took out her earphones. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Where’s that coming from?’

  Grace craned to see.

  Without warning, thick black smoke flew up from the water below onto the bridge they were crossing, twisted demonically in front of them, then smashed into Nicu’s windscreen. He swore and braked. More sirens came, from behind. A police car cut in front, and swerved to the left.

  Down on the bank, lights flashed blue. The acrid smoke parted. People were running – a jet stream of water was aiming at the corner of a—

  ‘Oh shit – Nicu,’ she said.

  He’d already seen it. With a swerve, he accelerated past a bike, and down past the fire engine onto the bank, then jumped out, running towards the fire. The smoke parted and her fears were confirmed.

  Two fire engines were aiming water at the far end of Nicu’s black boat, where his little office was.

  All his beautiful photos.

  The smoke demon contorted on the boat, fighting with the thick jet spray. It twisted and dived away, over the water in swoops of black, then was captured. It broke away into mini plumes, and fought on. The jets corralled it. Then it was over, just like that.

  The air was thick with the stench of burned tar and wood. She saw Nicu, hands on his head, being held back by a fire officer. Guessing what he would do in her situation, Grace opened the door and took a few shots.

  His next-door neighbour Magriet walked towards her, holding the ginger cat in a box. The woman’s face was tense with fear, soot in her white hair and a stripe across her face. Grace photographed her, too.

  ‘Is Nicu here? Are you OK?’ the woman called.

  ‘Yes. Are you? Do you know what happened?’ Grace asked.

  The woman pointed a trembling finger to Nicu’s boat. ‘A man. A man did it. He threw petrol and ran to—’

  ‘Petrol?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the woman said. ‘Hugo and I were trying to use our pump to put out the fire till the fire engines got here, but . . .’ She coughed, three long, hacking coughs, and Grace patted her back.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes. I need water.’

  ‘Did you see what the man looked like?’ Grace asked, reaching into Nicu’s Jeep and finding some.

  ‘Thank you.’ She drank it. ‘It was so fast. A hood, maybe.’

  They watched Nicu remonstrate with a fire officer about entering the boat.

  The new information drip-dripped into Grace’s consciousness.

  A man in a hood.

  Then, as the woman rejoined her husband, she dropped down into a doorway and leaned against the antique blue-and-white tiles, unease crawling through her.

  A crowd gathered on the canalside as news spread along Nicu’s neighbours. She saw the two tall girls who’d been on the boat last night arrive and put their arms around him.

  At first, she wasn’t aware of the boy.

  There was just a growing sense of a presence behind her. A creak made her turn.

  The black cast-iron door of the canalside house was open. A blond boy of about twelve was peering out, his clear blue eyes alarmed.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said, hoping he spoke English. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m looking for my mom.’

  ‘Are you expecting her?’ Grace said, glancing at the police.

  ‘She’s late coming home from work.’

  ‘Well, listen, don’t worry. The police have stopped the traffic because of the fire. She’s probably stuck in it and will be here very soon. And don’t worry, it’s all over now.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Grace. What’s your name?’

  He shook it. ‘Luuk. Where is the man?’ His eyes darted up the street, terrified.

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘Who made the fire.’

  Grace stood up. ‘Did you see him, Luuk?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’s gone now. Can you tell me what you saw?’

  His body remained concealed in the doorway, head poking out. ‘I was waiting at the window for my mom. He went to the blue boat. He was wearing a green hood. Then he went to the black boat with a can and put the boat on fire. Then he got in a car.’

  ‘You saw his car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you remember the colour and the shape?’

  He shrugged. ‘Big and brown?’

  Grace searched for help. The police were with Nicu. ‘OK, Luuk, I’m going to stay with you till your mom gets here, so don’t worry. Then you can tell her what you saw, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  On the bridge, she saw a blonde woman in a suit pushing a bike past the frozen traffic, waving frantically.

  ‘Is that her?’

  Luuk squeezed out, and his shoulders melted with relief. His mother pushed the bike down the bank, and threw her arms around him, talking in Dutch. She looked anxiously at Grace.

  ‘Your son said he saw the man who set the boat on fire. He was wearing a green hood and driving a brown car,’ Grace said.

  The woman repeated her words in Dutch and the boy shook his head.

  ‘Gold,’ the mother translated to Grace. ‘He means gold. Where are the police, please?’

  Grace pointed.

  ‘Thank you,’ the woman said, leading Johann away.

  A man in a hood, in a gold car.

  At the door of the blue boat.

  Fear settled in her stomach like concrete.

  The canalside was chaotic now. Hugo and Magriet were bringing a tarpaulin from their boat. Other neighbours arrived with brushes, buckets and mops.

  Head down, Grace slipped through them into the blue boat, hoping she was wrong.

  She wasn’t.

  On the floor lay an envelope.

  On the front were two words: GRACE SCOTT.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The fire engines left soon after. Traffic started up across the bridge. Nicu’s canalside neighbours hammered a tarpaulin onto the burned end of his boat.

  Grace sat on the bed in the blue boat.

  Ewan answered on the third ring. ‘Oh, hello th—’

  ‘I’m sending you something,’ she said.

  ‘That’s nice, not even a “Hello, and thank you, Ewan, for hooking me up with a world-renowned reportage photog—”’

  ‘Ewan. Open the email.’

  Mutt
ering. ‘Right – what am I looking at?’

  Grace held up the photo, feeling sick. ‘It’s me interviewing the concierge at Lucian Grabole’s old apartment today – taken from a distance. Same guy set fire to Nicu Dragan’s boat half an hour ago, and left it for me.’

  Ewan whistled. ‘Wha-aat? Oh God. Have we burned his boat?’

  ‘It gets worse.’ She relayed the revelations about Lucian Grabole’s alter ego: Lucian Tronescu, fugitive killer.

  ‘Shit, Scotty. You OK?’

  ‘Not really. Bit shaken up.’

  ‘But you’re carrying on, right?’

  A pause. ‘Ewan, I really want to, but—’

  He saw where this was going. ‘Scotty – no!’

  Silence.

  ‘You’re not giving up the story?’ he lamented.

  ‘Ewan, it’s not a story. Not yet. Nobody’s commissioned it. And it was supposed to be a human-interest story about me finding this man’s family. Now I seem to be tracking down some crazed killer who was dodging the police and murdering for kicks. With another psycho following me, warning me to lay off.’

  ‘Scotty . . .’ His tone was ripe with disappointment.

  ‘And it’s not just that, Ewan. Mac’s found out I’m here doing this and he’s really angry. If I tell him about what’s just happened now, he’ll go nuts. He already thinks it’s too serious – that we need to ring the police now.’

  ‘Scotty! No!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fuck’s sake. It’s a good story. Don’t give it up.’

  ‘What if Nicu had been on his boat?’

  Ewan groaned. ‘But he wasn’t. It’s probably just a warning. Come on, Scotty. When are you going to stop shooting all these fatties on watermelon diets and Z-listers doing fun runs? When I met you two years ago, you were doing a journalism MA because you were bored as you’d never used your photojournalism degree and it was bothering you. Well, this is it!’

  ‘Ewan!’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘I’m not sure I did actually say that. And if I did, it was at that bloody student party you made me go to with those Jägermeister cocktails. It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Yes it is.’ He was almost hoarse now. ‘You’re a bloody good photographer, you’ve got a great instinct for a story, and you’re not using it. You finally get an exclusive story that you could pitch to the nationals – words and photos – and you give it up.’

  Her fist clenched. ‘Ewan, I’m not you. I’m not twenty-three and living with my mum. No offence. It’s not that easy to go off and take big risks like these when you’ve got a mortgage and commitments. I could waste all my dad’s money on this and not even get commissioned.’

  ‘Commitments?’ he said sarcastically. ‘What, Mac?’

  ‘Ewan, don’t.’

  ‘This is Mac who stopped you taking that assisting job with the big photographer in Glasgow who travelled in Asia a lot, after your first degree?’

  ‘When did I say that?’

  ‘At that party.’

  ‘God! I was drunk, Ewan. I said lots of things. I probably told you I fancied you, which tells you exactly how off my head I was. Mac didn’t stop me. He just didn’t want me to be away all the time. I decided not to do it. There’s a difference.’ Vaguely, she wondered why she was defending Mac about something she’d secretly blamed him for for years.

  ‘Right.’

  She tutted. ‘I’m not discussing this. I’m coming back tonight. It’s just not worked out.’

  A huffy breath. ‘If I pitched this now to the editor, with the Edinburgh angle, he’d commission you. I know he would.’

  ‘Ewan, I just booked a flight home.’

  A second’s silence. ‘Well, that’s it, then.’

  ‘I’ll come in tomorrow and we’ll talk about it, OK?’

  ‘Whatever.’ The phone went dead.

  Before she could change her mind, she texted Mac her flight number and a message. ‘Coming back tonight. We should talk to the police tomorrow.’

  His reply was instant. ‘ Gonna leave Blairgowrie now, pick you up at airport. LOVE Mxxx.’

  His abrupt change of mood made her bristle.

  Mac had got his own way again.

  Somehow, he always did.

  She always let him.

  The door to Nicu’s black boat was ajar. Despite the open windows, it was still choked with smoke. Soot smattered his beautiful silver prints and artwork, and a rain of ash covered the Afghan rug and grey sofa. Through the door in the kitchen, the office wall was charred, a blue tarpaulin visible through the hole.

  She found him in the bedroom, checking his cameras. This room had escaped the worst. The soot smudged on his cheek was the same colour as his hair.

  He looked up. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah. How are you?’

  He raised his eyebrows wearily.

  ‘What did the police say?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, probably some right-wing fuckwit making a point about the immigration story I did.’

  She leant against the wall, dreading what was to come. ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘The fire’s my fault.’

  His brown-black eyes seared into hers.

  She held out the photo and envelope. ‘The guy who threw the petrol? He left this for me.’

  Nicu took it.

  ‘I saw him sitting outside Lucian’s old house this morning. I think he followed me back here.’

  ‘From Grabole’s apartment?’

  ‘Maybe. Or even from the airport last night. There was someone hanging around outside your boat last night, too. I think someone’s trying to warn me off tracking down Lucian’s identity.’

  Nicu examined the image.

  ‘I feel so bad, Nicu.’ She gestured at the charred plants on the deck. ‘You were helping me out, and then this happened. I’m sorry.’

  He gave back the photo. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, disconcerted by his lack of reaction. ‘Go back to Edinburgh tonight, to talk to the police. I’ll help you clean up before I go, though. And I can give a statement, if it helps for your insurance?’

  He frowned. ‘You’re giving up the story?’

  ‘Nicu. They burned your boat.’

  He held up his phone. ‘So you don’t want to listen to this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A message from the guy we met earlier. He rang back.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  He held the phone away, teasing her.

  She sat down beside him. ‘Please.’

  He put it on loudspeaker and began to translate what emerged. ‘So he’s spoken to another guy he knows in Amsterdam from that region in Romania who swears he’s seen Lucian Tronescu here. At a strip club called Ritzy. He’s a bouncer. Other people have recognized him, too. He says Tronescu uses a false name when he comes, but he’s ninety-nine per cent sure it’s him.’

  ‘What’s the false name? Lucian Grabole?’

  ‘No.’ Nicu listened again. ‘No, a different name – François Boucher.’

  ‘François Boucher?’ A third name.

  Nicu continued, ‘He says Lucian Tronescu – or François Boucher, or whatever he calls himself – comes and goes from Paris a lot. He’s into dirty stuff. Bit of a gangster.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Nicu said. ‘But he says be careful. People are terrified of this Boucher-Tronescu guy. The bouncer never lets on that he recognizes him. Says it wouldn’t be “good for his health”.’ Nicu stopped the message. ‘Still sure you want to give up the story?’

  She blew out her cheeks. ‘No. But I’m going to.’

  His eyes flicked over her, clearly wondering what she was made of. ‘OK, well, I’ll drop you at the airport.’

  She stood up. ‘You don’t need to. I can get a taxi.’

  ‘It’s fine. We’ll leave in twenty minutes.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  His
easy smile had disappeared.

  He got up and headed past her into his burned office, and she took it as her clue to leave.

  François Boucher now?

  Three names for the dead man in her flat.

  Grace returned to the blue boat, updated her notes for DI Robertson, then packed her rucksack, thinking about her decision.

  Through the rear window, two men were making dinner in their boat. Tonight she’d be back in her own kitchen, overlooking Mr Singh’s backyard and the Crossgate tower block, Mac chuntering on about golf, her gearing up for another week of photographing stories that would end up in the recycling bin, consumed once and forgotten.

  She took a last look at Nicu’s prints. In the tiny spare room at Gallon Street was a box of reportage features like these that she’d been cutting out since she was fifteen. Nobody kept her photos.

  She locked the blue boat, and waited by the Jeep. The early evening canalside lights were diffused by the silver velvet ribbons of smoke that still hung in the air. Sooty flakes of ash tumbled gently in the evening breeze.

  She thought of Gallon Street.

  Nicu came out, carrying a travel bag and his cameras.

  ‘Ready?’ he said.

  ‘Yup.’ They climbed into the Jeep. ‘Are you off somewhere?’ she asked, handing him the keys.

  He started the engine. ‘Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘Yeah. Ewan Callow spoke to the editor at Scots Today. He’s asked me to pick up the story,’ he said, starting the engine. ‘With the Romanian angle, it makes sense. I can delay Colombia till Wednesday, so . . .’

  A furious protectiveness of her story reared up inside her.

  He saw her face as he reversed out. ‘Grace, come on. You dumped it.’

  ‘No. I know. It’s just that I was going to speak to the police in Edinburgh tomorrow and tell them what I’ve found.’

  Nicu headed for the bridge. ‘Well, the editor’s asking you not to – till next week. But they might run a photo or two of yours, and give you a credit on the piece – unless you’re worried about putting your name on there? In case Mr Psycho Killer tracks you down, and hangs you out of a window.’ There was a gentle tease in his voice that right now she didn’t appreciate.

  ‘No, I’m not worried about that,’ she said, a lump in her throat. ‘It’s fine.’