City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  Nicu diverted down a dead end, then reversed, to check the gold car wasn’t following, then took the fast road out of town.

  Grace didn’t speak. She didn’t know what to say.

  The evening sun was dropping gently over Amsterdam, turning the high-rise buildings into smudged rectangles against a soft navy sky. In a few hours, she’d be driving towards the tower blocks of Edinburgh, Mac at the wheel, all chirpy again, now he had her back.

  ‘When’s your flight?’ she said to fill the silence.

  ‘I’m driving. It’s five hours this time of night.’ A train shot past on a track between car lanes, the electricity wires above twisting into the sky like lines of starlings. ‘So, can you get me up to speed?’

  It hurt, but she agreed.

  ‘So,’ Nicu started, ‘a guy dies in your flat in Edinburgh. Police think he’s a homeless burglar. Accidental death. Can’t ID him. Three months later, you find a note near his body that says, I am not that man Lucian Grabole?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Police promise to check it out. Meanwhile, you find a Lucian Grabole at a homeless shelter in Edinburgh, last seen about a year before. Apparently, a nice guy. You follow his trail to London. Guy called Ali tells you, yes, the Lucian Grabole he knew in London fits the description of your dead guy in Edinburgh. Also says he was a nice guy and a Romanian, illegal worker from Amsterdam, searching for his wife and kid. Then the Cozmas throw a spanner in the works. Tell you Lucian Grabole is the false name for a “monster” called Lucian Tronescu. This guy’s not harmless at all. He’s a killer, and a conman, hunting down a woman and kid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. So you come to Amsterdam, find Lucian Grabole again. Again, his concierge, Mitti, tells you he’s a nice guy – but now he’s both unmarried and legal, and living in a million-pound apartment. Nothing makes sense. Because, as we now know, he’s a conman. Then we check out his name Lucian Tronescu with Romanians in Amsterdam. They confirm they’ve seen him here, and he’s a gangster. He’s also based part-time in Paris, and uses a third pseudonym, François Boucher. Someone starts following you, clearly wanting to warn you off going further.’

  ‘Yes,’ Grace said, not wanting to give him her story. Wanting to wrestle it back and tell him to get lost.

  Nicu shook his head. ‘Tricksy little fucker, isn’t he?’

  A car with Turkish plates overtook. She imagined driving to Turkey from here, through Belgium, France, Italy and Greece. A Dutch camper van pulled ahead, bikes on the back. It could be going anywhere: Morocco, Switzerland, Spain.

  Unlike her.

  She was going home.

  She always went home.

  Nicu tapped the wheel. ‘So tell me again why you think your dead guy in Edinburgh is Lucian Grabole.’

  ‘Well, the note, obviously. But his physical description the police gave us also matches Lucian Grabole’s, according to Ali. Same height, age, colouring, wolf tattoo and green signet ring. The police also hinted he had Eastern European connections, and Dutch. I don’t know why.’

  ‘Clothes labels, maybe. Surgery or dentistry. They used different fillings in Romania back then.’

  ‘Really? Also, the pinstriped suit the dead man was wearing was handmade, with no label. I think Mr Cozma was wearing the same suit. I think he made it.’

  A blast of violet rocketed across the darkening sky to her right. The street lights came on and she imagined what the journey would be like to Paris.

  ‘But beyond that, nothing else you’ve heard about Lucian Grabole matches this Tronescu-stroke-Boucher gangster guy?’ Nicu asked.

  ‘No. They seem to have very different personalities and lifestyles.’

  ‘Right.’ Nicu took the sign towards Schiphol Airport. ‘OK . . . so what about this . . . ? What if it’s not one man but two? What if teenage psycho killer Lucian Tronescu escapes Romania in 1989 or 1990, when Drac is executed, and changes his name to François Boucher in Paris? Hides out in the criminal underworld for twenty-five years. Decades later, on some dodgy business in Amsterdam, he’s spotted by Romanians from back home and knows he’s blown it. Thinks he’s going to be hauled back to face murder charges.’

  Grace listened, intrigued. ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘So, he finds a Romanian guy in Amsterdam who matches him physically: in this case, hard-working, single Lucian Grabole, a painter and decorator, working here legally. Tronescu steals Grabole’s identity and papers, and kills him to hide his tracks. Makes up a fictional wife and kid for Lucian G. as cover to travel. Maybe hides out in London with his new ID, till things cool down. Puts the screws on his old pals the Cozmas to hide him. Then when they kick off, say they’re going to report him, he moves to Scotland. Starts again.’

  Grace stared. ‘And what – burgles my flat because he’s run out of money and dies by accident?’

  Nicu glanced over. ‘You don’t look convinced.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bit of a stretch. Surely if he’s dealing drugs and stuff, he’d have money stashed somewhere. And it doesn’t explain the note. That man is not me Lucian Grabole.’

  ‘True.’

  Grace slapped her knee. ‘Oh God, Nicu. What if Lucian Grabole was in Edinburgh for a legitimate reason, maybe work, and Lucian Tronescu killed him in our flat? What if Lucian Grabole knew he was going to die? Knew that Lucian Tronescu was planning to steal his identity, and hid that note? That man is not me. Signed, Lucian Grabole.’

  Nicu glanced over. ‘And my idea’s far-fetched? I thought you said it was an accident, anyway?’

  ‘Well, the fiscal called it “non-suspicious”, but there were so many DNA samples from the old tenants, then all the builders and workmen, it just meant there was no clear evidence of a third party when he died. Lucian was drunk and starving, and I think it was the most credible explanation – that he fell and hit his head.’

  ‘So it’s possible he was murdered.’

  Out of the window was a second sign for Schiphol Airport. A thought hit her. ‘Well, if he was, that means Lucian Tronescu is still alive – maybe even hiding out in Edinburgh.’

  Nicu whistled quietly. ‘Which might explain who’s trying to stop you investigating this. The last thing Tronescu wants is the whole thing coming out in a newspaper. You’d blow his cover again. He’s probably relying on Lucian Grabole not being ID’d – waiting to see if his cover is still safe.’

  ‘So what will you do in Paris?’ she said.

  ‘Track down François Boucher. Ewan’s hiring a French fixer tonight to get things going. Can you leave anything else: transcripts, photos, contacts . . . ?’

  Reluctantly, Grace retrieved her folder. A familiar image appeared as she opened it. A print of the city-rat-man shot, from East London, which she’d uploaded onto Nicu’s Mac.

  ‘Did you do this?’ she said, stunned.

  He glanced over. ‘Yeah. Good shot. Shame it’s not part of the story.’

  He’d cropped out the archway, and pushed the image so hard that a single slash of sky above the city-rat man was harsh white, his body twisted, and blackened against it, like a tree struck by lightning. The five points of his boots, chin, skull and elbow made a perfect pentagon. It was a powerful, urban nightmare.

  It wouldn’t have looked out of place among Nicu’s own stories.

  What the hell was she doing?

  The sign said it was a kilometre to the airport. The road had widened to five lanes heading for Rotterdam and Den Haag.

  Nicu crossed to the exit.

  Planes hovered, coming in to land. Mac would be on his way to Edinburgh Airport now from Blairgowrie.

  Stars appeared ahead, lighting the way south to Belgium.

  Half a kilometre to the turn-off.

  ‘I want to come,’ Grace said.

  Nicu acted as if he’d misheard, then shook his head. ‘That won’t work.’

  She twisted in her seat. ‘I know they’ve commissioned you now. And I don’t care about the money. I’ll do it for nothing. For the experie
nce. But I want to do this story. I want to find out who the dead guy is. Please.’

  Nicu’s eyes hardened. He was becoming irritated with her, wanting her gone so he could work alone. ‘Sorry. Can’t do it.’

  ‘But it’s my story.’

  He scratched his head. ‘Listen, I need to be in and out of Paris in two days and . . .’

  The exit approached.

  She should never have rung Mac.

  He talked her out of everything.

  ‘It won’t work nearly as well without the angle of me finding Lucian in my flat,’ she protested, fighting the urge to grab the wheel. ‘Nicu! Really. There’s no point. I’m not getting out. You’ll have to drag me out of the car screaming at the airport, and then you’ll get arrested.’

  Nicu pushed back his hair. The exit was upon them. Without warning, he swerved back onto the motorway. There was a flash of lights, and horns beeped behind.

  Crossing over, he accelerated into the fast lane.

  He was taking her.

  An iPod came flying at her from out of his side pocket. ‘OK, but no more talking,’ he said. ‘And no more bloody lie-ins.’

  The airport disappeared behind them.

  A wave of excitement crashed through her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Edinburgh

  The dream was always the same.

  It had been for years.

  A dark forest, impenetrable with thick-boughed fir and spruce, the light sucked out. A bluish icy mist obscured the sky and slope of the mountain beneath his feet. Then him, running over the snow, the smell of burning behind him, trying to find a way out and being blocked by twists of branches.

  The man woke, sweating, and scrabbled off his bedroll, knowing something was wrong.

  Muffled voices broke into the room.

  The clock said 4.12 a.m. Heart thumping, he crept into the toilet, shivering, without his blanket.

  A cough rose in his chest, and he held his hand over his mouth.

  Two voices.

  His ears strained.

  In the backyard?

  When he’d wrestled his cough under control, he crawled to the stool under the window, and slid onto it, bent double.

  Unfurling his body like a snake, he peered over the windowsill. The backyard and tower block were blacked out. Even the street lights were out.

  Then, in the backyard, a shape.

  A figure in a white hood, face mask and forensics suit walked into the light. A second stepped out from behind him.

  Breath emptied from the man’s body, and he struggled to refill it.

  He sucked and sucked, but the air wouldn’t enter his locked lungs. A grating noise filled his ears as he tried to rip his chest open with the effort.

  His snore thundered through the storeroom and the man sat up on his damp bedroll, heart racing. The storeroom lay in darkness.

  The clock said 1.02 a.m.

  He leaped up and checked outside. The backyard was bare. Four lights on in the tower block.

  It was a dream.

  All of it.

  But he also knew it wasn’t really a dream. It was a premonition.

  They’d be here soon now.

  Coming for him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Edinburgh

  The following morning, Sula arrived at Banister Road before 9 a.m., even though she knew there wasn’t much point. The junkies would all be sleeping.

  It was worse than she remembered.

  She scanned the street for a police cordon, and found none. She wondered why, if Colin McFarlay’s body had just been discovered, and this was a murder investigation.

  Locking her car, she set off. Only one house had an intact number, so she worked up the street till she found number 8. The front door lay open, a curtain pulled across. A bed base of rusty orange springs lay in the garden, but no mattress. A suspicious stinking mess puddled by the drain cover. A toddler played on the step, singing to herself as she chewed on a piece of cardboard.

  Next door was what was left of number 6.

  So that’s why there was no cordon.

  Colin McFarlay’s last known abode was burned out, the white walls and black ash interior like a coconut turned inside out. Purple graffiti of fat letters that made no sense daubed the wall.

  A teenager in a zebra onesie appeared at the door of number 8, her hair tied up in a huge topknot. She picked up the toddler, and glared at Sula. Sula sighed. She’d seen it all before.

  ‘Know when this happened, doll?’ She pointed.

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘You the polis?’

  ‘No, no. I’m the good guys.’ Sula held up a card.

  ‘Aye, right.’ The girl grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. She came over, toddler in her arms, and took the card. There was a reek of dirty nappy. Sula tickled the toddler’s chin and got a gummy smile.

  ‘Was it burned out before or after Colin McFarlay went missing?’

  The girl looked up the street as if she kept a tab on every movement that took place here. ‘After – he was away by then.’

  ‘Was he? You know where he went?’ Sula said.

  The girl turned down her mouth, transforming her pretty face into a grim mask. ‘To his mother’s, someone said – to get off the smack.’

  ‘She here, his mother?’

  The toddler’s nose was running onto her lip. ‘Nah. Colin wasnae from round here.’

  ‘No? So how did he end up here?’

  ‘Who knows? Living the dream, eh?’

  Sula grinned. ‘Right, well, thank you.’ She held out a tissue to the teenager, and a fiver to the baby. The little girl grasped it with grubby fingers. ‘Get your mammy to buy you some sweeties, OK?’

  When she arrived back at Scots Today, Ewan was slouched over his desk, a tumbler of coffee by his hand.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ she said.

  ‘Up late, sorting out a fixer in Paris – editor’s commissioned Grace’s story, chasing down the dead guy in her flat. Nicu Dragan’s on it with her now.’

  He yawned, watching her curiously. ‘So, Sula, what’s your daughter called? Is she my age? Is she single?’

  ‘Oi, you. Listen.’ She clicked her fingers, cross. ‘I need you on this now. That address you got for McFarlay’s is way out of date. Get me one for his mother – apparently he was living with her when he disappeared. Probably nicking everything the poor cow didn’t nail down.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ewan said, sitting up straight.

  He battered the keyboard for a few minutes, as she checked her emails. ‘Right, here you go . . . So that’s . . . OK . . . That’s officially weird.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Number 66 Bowling Road, South Queensferry.’

  ‘So? What am I missing?’

  ‘Well, the one down the road went for £1.1 million last month.’

  Sula leaned back. ‘Colin McFarlay’s family live in a million-pound house?’

  Ewan stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Looks like it. Hang on.’ He typed some more. ‘Right. Colin McFarlay – mother, Anne McFarlay, father, Morris McFarlay, died 2013. Owned a printing equipment distribution company, sold it in 2011.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ Sula checked his screen. Her eyes sailed through the details, then juddered to a halt. ‘Am I seeing things?’

  Ewan followed her finger. ‘Pupil at . . . No way!’

  ‘That is bloody weird.’

  If Ewan’s sources were correct, Colin McFarlay had attended one of the most prestigious boarding schools in Scotland.

  ‘How did we miss that, last year?’ she asked, returning to her desk.

  ‘’Cos he was a junkie gone missing – who cares?’

  Sula slapped the desk. ‘Hang on. Did David Pearce go to that school?’

  Ewan tapped away. ‘Urrr . . . nope. He was at school in Australia, then just one year in Edinburgh at the local . . . Oops . . . excuse me –’ he yawned again, and she rolled her eyes ‘�
� high school.’

  Sula tapped her pen. ‘How the hell does a posh boy like Colin McFarlay end up in Smack Row?’

  ‘Is this a quiz?’ Ewan said, sitting up, bright-eyed. ‘Are there prizes?’

  ‘Aye – your job at the end of the day.’

  The editor passed by with a nod, his tail in the air. Sula knew that look. It said, Exclusive.

  Maybe Ewan’s wee girlfriend was on to something after all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Paris

  A couple strolled hand in hand down the Paris boulevard in the pink frosted light of dawn. She was dainty, with a delicate-boned bare back in an elegant, white-beaded dress, heels over her shoulder, silver-blonde hair. He wore a suit with the collar undone, dark hair pushed back from a tanned, chiselled jaw. In her hand was a glittering designer handbag. Across his white tuxedo was painted the word ‘REVOLUTION’, in foot-high red paint.

  Grace contemplated the graffitied billboard through the greasy window of her hotel in a north Paris suburb. This had been her idealized image of Paris till last night.

  A lot had changed in twelve hours.

  Last night, Nicu had turned up the music, and fixed his gaze on the motorway out of Amsterdam. They’d stopped briefly at a service station to grab fuel and coffee, and do a final check for the gold car. For the first hour, she’d ricocheted between exhilaration and panic, and trying to imagine how Mac would receive the text she’d just sent to say she wasn’t flying home. Then, as they passed into Belgium, the darkening sky filled with orange flares and damson clouds. She’d watched it, mesmerized, lulled by the music and the diesel hum of the Jeep. In northern France, she’d watched scatters of house lights that looked like low-lying stars in the blackness of the night, dreaming about who lived there.

  At 2 a.m., they had entered the north-west of Paris following directions for the hotel booking Ewan had emailed her at midnight.

  For a moment, she thought she’d fallen asleep and was dreaming. Instead of the Paris she knew from the odd weekend trip, this was an area of colossal tower blocks. They stretched into the distance like an abandoned space colony. Graffiti coated walls, and subways and bridges; a relentless pouring-out of nonsensical swirls. It was as far away from this advertising image of the romantic dawn stroll through Paris as you could get.