City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  Nicu had only turned on his satnav in the last mile to bring them to a street, mainly inhabited by their hotel, a few North and West African restaurants, and a line of shops selling bright costume jewellery behind iron bars.

  She’d stretched her arms. ‘How do you know this so well?’

  ‘Lived in Paris for a while. Did a job here last year,’ he said, rubbing his eyes.

  He followed a handwritten parking sign into a narrow alleyway, and reversed into a space between two skips and the hotel’s fire escape.

  Bags in hand, they entered the building from the front. Nicu spoke in brisk French to a receptionist with the bloodhound eyes of a night-shift worker.

  The hotel was shabby, and smelt of trapped air. Five exhausted-looking men crammed in the lift with them, and disappeared into a room stacked with bunk beds.

  Their own rooms were on the fourth floor, at the rear.

  ‘Right, see you in the morning – early,’ Nicu said.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Grace smiled, closing her door. At the back was the alleyway, and Nicu’s Jeep. A baby cried somewhere. The room had a mould patch on the wall, and smelt of cheap air freshener.

  With Nicu out of the way, she steeled herself and turned her phone back on.

  There were four new voicemails from Mac.

  She was right. He hadn’t taken the news well.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ one message said. ‘I’ve just cut my golf week in half to get back. Fuck’s sake. Ring me.’

  The later ones – the last at 1.06 a.m. – were even more pissed off.

  Maybe it was exhaustion, but Mac’s voice was starting to squeeze around her, make her feel like she couldn’t breathe.

  Before she turned it off, she checked a second email from Ewan at 1.17 a.m.

  Hey, Scotty,

  Look at you, on a job!!! Your fixer in Paris is HENRI TAYLOR – freelance crime correspondent for French/UK press. Contact number attached. FYI: Henri Taylor KNOWS OF FRANÇOIS BOUCHER – it was his idea to book you into Hôtel Dacoin (so don’t blame me if it’s shite). It is opposite François Boucher’s family bar on Rue Dacoin – PEPINE’S.

  More later, ma peteet amee.

  She climbed into a lumpy bed with unaired sheets, wide awake again in anticipation of tomorrow.

  Henri Taylor knew of François Boucher, the third name for the dead man in her flat. It was another major step forwards.

  The light from the alleyway shone through thin curtains, and she lay watching the shadow of the old fan light on the ceiling.

  All those years of finding excuses not to do this and it turned out it wasn’t that difficult after all.

  Grace sipped bitter coffee in the too-hot breakfast room the next morning, and watched the Bouchers’ bar across the street. The shutters were down, its name just legible in unlit neon above it. Pepine’s. Women passed by with bags of vegetables from a street market that had sprung up overnight, a riot of colourful cheap tracksuits and children’s clothes fluttering like flags against a blue sky.

  Her phone buzzed. Ewan again.

  RISE AND SHINE, SCOTTY!! Meet Henri Taylor at 2 p.m. at Café de Flore on Boulevard Saint-Germain. FYI: Henri says François Boucher is KNOWN TO FRENCH POLICE – but no record of the other two names your guy used, Lucian Tronescu or Lucian Grabole. Editor’s authorized Henri to do private background check on Boucher. In the meantime, this is Boucher’s last known address (from two yrs ago – no record since then).

  Nicu arrived downstairs half an hour after her, his dark hair damp from a shower. He ordered coffee in French, and sat opposite.

  ‘Morning,’ she said. ‘How was your lie-in?’

  A faint smile played on his lips. ‘Any word from the office?’

  She updated him about Pepine’s and Henri Taylor. ‘And I’ve swapped my room to the front to overlook the bar.’

  ‘Good.’

  Maybe it was her imagination, but his shoulders seemed to relax, as if he realized she wouldn’t be a liability, after all. The waiter returned with coffee. Nicu ordered breakfast in rapid French.

  ‘How many languages do you speak?’ she asked.

  He gulped the coffee like fuel. ‘Romanian, English, Dutch, French, bit of Greek if I’m in trouble.’

  ‘Do you get into trouble a lot?’

  ‘Just in Greece.’ It sounded like an attempt at a joke to make up for his grumpiness.

  ‘It’s there, by the way – Pepine’s.’

  He leaned past her. ‘OK.’ His dark eyes trailed to hers, and stayed for a second.

  A photographer’s gaze, she told herself again, reaching for her phone to break it.

  ‘I’ll find out what time it opens,’ she said.

  Together, they made a plan for the day, Grace keen to show this was still her story. After breakfast, they’d visit the last known address for François Boucher to ID his most recent description to see if it matched Lucian Grabole’s, and possibly source a photo. Then they’d meet Henri Taylor in central Paris, and stake out Pepine’s tonight.

  Back in her hotel room, Grace regarded her professional camera bag. It was bulky. The type you took to real-life shoots for magazines, where everyone knew you were a photographer. Here, it would stick out a mile.

  Before she was due to meet Nicu, she visited the street market, wandering through a melee of shouted Arabic, French and African languages, tinny radios, shoppers browsing vegetables, and clothes and electrics stalls. It was the most utilitarian market she’d ever seen. A mound of bags were simply piled up in a jumble on a table, like the chaotic beaded shoes next to them, no attempt at pairing. She buried through till she found a black leatherette rucksack, and waited to pay. An African man beside her was selling corn-on-the-cobs cooked in a barbecue pot, secured inside a shopping trolley. She asked him in school French and he nodded, letting her fire off ten shots, with him both looking at the camera and away, the roasted yellow of the piled corn filling the centre of the shot. Pleased with herself, she then bought cheap sunglasses, a light black beanie and more T-shirts and underwear, at another stall, and met Nicu back at the Jeep.

  It was warm and they opened their windows as he manoeuvred the Jeep through the thin corridor between stalls. The dusty air carried in diesel fumes and rubbish and spice. They drove past the colony of tower blocks from last night. Her fingers itched to shoot more. A hundred balconies were crammed with satellite dishes, ironing boards, bikes, plants, rugs, flower baskets and lines of washing, as if they’d been blown out of the flats. Some tower blocks were clean with new windows; others were old and tatty – the outside shutters broken and hanging, concrete mottled, blankets used for curtains.

  The tower blocks were soon replaced by sloped-roof houses. The avenues grew smarter, the buildings shorter, the fronts better painted.

  The appearance of François Boucher’s former apartment was as unexpected as his suspected alter ego, Lucian Grabole’s Amsterdam one. Shiny black pillars stood guard either side of a double-height black door in a white terraced mansion block. Pristine nineteenth-century railings bordered well-tended shrubbery. The cars parked outside were sleek and low.

  ‘OK. So François Boucher was loaded, too?’ Grace said.

  They climbed marble steps, and rang an elegant black doorbell. The door opened and a balding concierge in his seventies peered out. Nicu spoke French and she heard the name ‘François Boucher’.

  In Amsterdam, Mitti’s face had lit up at the mention of Lucian Grabole.

  François Boucher had the opposite effect.

  This concierge whispered as if he didn’t want anyone to hear, then retreated, a hand extended in apology, before it vanished.

  ‘What just happened?’

  Nicu pressed the buzzer again. ‘Doesn’t want to talk.’

  ‘Does he know François Boucher?’

  ‘Said he couldn’t remember.’

  ‘Why’s he lying?’

  ‘Scared, I reckon.’

  Grace looked up. A curtain tweaked.

/>   ‘Well, we can’t leave. We need a photo – or at least a description of what he looked like, to confirm he’s Lucian Grabole.’

  Nicu started to photograph the house.

  ‘Don’t you need to ask permission?’

  ‘It’s a public place. If they don’t like it, they can come and talk to us.’ He shot off five more. ‘What forensics are there on your dead guy in Edinburgh?’

  ‘DNA and fingerprints – they’re searching for them with European police systems at the moment.’ She paused. ‘We need a photo to confirm they’re the same man, don’t we?’

  ‘Henri Taylor might have one,’ Nicu said, climbing the railings for a different angle. The movement exposed a stretch of tanned back.

  ‘Do you want to try the bell again?’ he said, turning.

  Grace ducked as if searching in her bag. ‘Yup.’

  One by one, she tried the apartment buzzers for all eight residents. ‘What, now nobody’s in at all?’

  Nicu jumped down. ‘Old guy’s told them not to answer, I reckon. Come on – we’ll try later.’

  Deflated, they returned to the Jeep, and drove on into central Paris to meet Henri Taylor. The white terraces gave way to the Paris she recognized, where people conversed over coffee in street cafes, shopped in boulangeries and walked tiny dogs. Café de Flore was located in the grand Boulevard Saint-Germain, surrounded by expensive designer stores and graceful apartment buildings. The balconies here were empty, she noted: lacy, antique wrought iron and simply ornamental. A million miles, not just a few, from where they’d started this morning.

  Henri was waiting at an outside table opposite a Louis Vuitton store. He was in his forties, stocky, with a round, pleasant face, smartly dressed like the men around him, in a suit, with an open shirt. He explained his Welsh accent by way of his father coming from Aberystwyth. He ordered them all citron pressés from a waiter in a white shirt and bow tie, while Grace turned on her phone recorder, hoping to pick up his voice above the chatter from other tables and the traffic.

  ‘Right,’ Henri started. ‘So . . . François Boucher. You’re aware of the Boucher family’s reputation in Paris?’

  ‘No,’ Grace said. ‘We know nothing. Just that the Bouchers own Pepine’s, which frankly looks well dodgy, and that there’s no record of François Boucher living in Paris for two years.’

  Henri poured a carafe of water into glasses of fresh lemon juice. ‘OK. When I say “family”, I mean family. François’s father-in-law, René Boucher, was a big gangster here in the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s. A kind of Godfather in the French criminal world. He ran all sorts of rackets: trafficking, drugs, prostitution, gambling. The bar was his. He named it after his daughter, Pepine, and she still runs it today. It was quite the place, back then. Film stars, celebrities . . .’

  ‘But it seems so run down,’ Grace said.

  ‘Well, the area’s changed. René’s sons, Luc and Marc, still operate out of Pepine’s, but they very much live off Papa’s reputation these days. From what I can see, they do sod all themselves – just survive off René’s cash and get the local youth off the housing projects to do their dirty work – and not very well, at that. I’m guessing the only thing between them and jail is a bit of witness intimidation and an expensive lawyer.’

  ‘Does their reach extend outside of Paris?’ Nicu asked.

  ‘Good question.’ Henri lit a cheroot and exhaled. ‘I don’t know. René’s certainly did. Back in the day, he had fingers in pies all over Europe. But when he died, I know the family lost power. Albanians and Russians moved in on his supply routes. It’s hard to tell how far their reach goes now. But don’t underestimate his sons. René had a code of ethics. Luc and Marc don’t. Really, they’re trouble.’

  ‘So where does François Boucher fit in?’ Grace asked.

  He tapped his cheroot. ‘He’s more of a mystery. As I say, he’s René Boucher’s son-in-law. He married Pepine in 1992. Don’t ask me why he took her surname and not the other way round. The rumours are that François ran René’s dope route from Marseilles. René relied on him like a son. Maybe more. It would be hard to be more useless than his real sons.’

  Grace stirred sugar into her drink. ‘Henri, we have information that François Boucher is not French, that his real name is Lucian Tronescu, and he’s a criminal who escaped the authorities in Romania in late ’89 or 1990. And that until recently he was using a third name, too, Lucian Grabole.’

  Henri exhaled smoke. ‘Oh really? I’ve never heard that.’

  ‘You haven’t?’

  ‘No.’

  Nicu interrupted. ‘Any idea why François Boucher left Paris?’

  Henri tapped ash into an old-fashioned ashtray. ‘Well, it’s only a rumour, but apparently when René died, François started working in Amsterdam . . .’

  Grace stopped stirring.

  ‘I spoke to a retired police contact of mine this morning. He thinks that François left for Amsterdam two years ago, with another of René’s thugs, a bruiser called Mathieu Caron. Really, you don’t want to meet Caron on a dark night. He killed a man with a broken bottle when he was fourteen – did eight years for it. What those two get up to in Amsterdam I don’t know, but I doubt it’s charity work. I do know, though, that François and Pepine Boucher are separated. She’s with a Bulgarian guy now.’

  Nicu nodded. ‘OK. Henri, we need a photo of François Boucher to confirm he’s the man we think was using the name Lucian Grabole.’

  Henri put out his cheroot. ‘I’ll do my best. Give me twenty-four hours. The background check should be back tomorrow. But listen, can I ask you guys to get direct authorization for the payment, so I’m not covering it upfront? I’m sure you know how these things drag on when you’re freelance.’

  ‘Of course. Want me to do that now?’ Grace said.

  ‘Please.’

  Grace stood up. She motioned to the drone of traffic. ‘I’ll ring Ewan.’ She went inside and wove between waiters and red banquettes up to the quieter first floor. In private, she turned on her phone. As she was dreading, four new messages had appeared from Mac since last night. She texted Ewan Henri’s financial request, then sat at an empty table and steeled herself.

  Mac answered on half a ring, already angry. ‘What’s going on now?’

  ‘Calm down. I’m in Paris.’

  ‘Wha-aat?’ His disbelief was so exaggerated it sounded as if he were joking.

  ‘Scots Today commissioned my story.’ She waited for him to congratulate her.

  Silence.

  ‘I got a new lead, so they’re paying for it now. I decided to keep going.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  An elderly woman sat at the next table reading a novel with a glass of red wine, looking as if she had nobody to please but herself.

  ‘Mac, what is this?’ Grace asked, suddenly irritated. ‘I’m trying to work it out. Why are you so upset about me being here? This is my work. I don’t complain when you and John go clubbing in London as “research”. Or go off on golf weekends with clients.’

  ‘It’s nothing like the same,’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re travelling halfway across Europe on your own, pretending you’re Kate fuckin’ Adie. I don’t even know where you’re staying.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell you. It’s Hôtel Dacoin on Rue Dacoin.’

  ‘How do you spell it?’

  ‘D-A-C-O-I-N. And I’m not on my own.’

  ‘Who’s with you?’

  Too late she realized her mistake. ‘Another freelancer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nicu Dragan.’

  ‘Nicu? What, a girl?’

  The strap tightened further round her chest. ‘No, a guy. He’s a photojournalist. And another freelance journalist, Henri. So can you stop panicking? They’re both experienced. And I won’t be here long. I just need to find more evidence and I’ll be back.’

  There was a gentle intake of breath, then an exhalation.

  ‘Mac! Are you smoking?’

  He d
id it again.

  ‘That’s fourteen months! Why would you start again?’

  Then she knew why.

  He was punishing her.

  ‘Listen, forget about that. I don’t want you doing this. I want you to leave it to the police and get back.’

  ‘But this is my job, Mac. This is what journalists do.’

  ‘Not what you do.’

  ‘No, but what I want to do. Do you understand what this could be? An exclusive criminal investigation, with a Scottish angle, commissioned by a Scottish newspaper, possibly a joint byline with Nicu Dragan – he’s huge. It could even go international, with all the Romanian and Dutch and French connections, and Nicu’s American contacts. It’s a huge deal, Mac. This could be a major break for me.’

  ‘What are you on about? Major break – break to what?’ Sarcasm spiked his voice and she saw now he wasn’t angry. He was scared. He couldn’t deal with her being away.

  ‘Mac,’ she said. ‘Please. Just support me on this. I’m keeping my wits about me. I’m not on my own. I’ll be back on Sunday to do John’s restaurant photos. It’s all fine.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever.’

  She bristled. ‘Why are you talking like this?’

  An infantile tone entered his voice. ‘Because frankly I think you’ve gone nuts. Sorry, darlin’, but since your dad died, you’ve been acting like a loon. Going on and on about the dead guy, like you know him or something. Like you owe his family. You don’t. They’re just skanks like him, probably. You need to let this go.’

  ‘Mac. Shut up! This has got nothing to do with my dad. It’s you never wanting me to do what I want to do, and me getting sick of it.’

  A long exhalation. ‘Whoa! This is because of me now?’

  ‘Yes. No. You and me.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘It means, you don’t like me being away. You never do. Like when I got that chance to assist that photographer in Glasgow who went to Asia a lot, after college, you went on at me till I pulled out.’

  ‘You’re still fuckin’ going on about that? It was fifteen years ago! I didn’t stop you.’