City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  ‘No, but you sulked till I didn’t go.’

  ‘Well, of course I didn’t want you to go.’

  ‘No, but you should have told me to go. Made it easier. Like now – you should be telling me to go for this story. Supporting me. Not making it more stressful.’

  The elderly woman looked over her pince-nez.

  The phone went quiet.

  Grace sighed. ‘We’re not getting anywhere here. We’ll talk about it when I get back.’

  He laughed.

  For a moment, she thought he knew he was overreacting and was going to be reasonable. Instead, his sarcasm hit a new gear. ‘You know, I love your timing, Grace. You wait till we can afford to buy our own place and start talking about kids, then – hang on . . .’ He mimicked her voice. ‘“It’s been fifteen years since I did my photojournalism degree, but now I want to get serious.” Jesus Christ, darlin’. I’m telling you, I don’t know whether it’s your dad or you’re having a midlife crisis, but you have gone nuts.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Mac!’ she retorted. ‘I didn’t say I’d decided I wanted kids. You have.’

  There was another long exhalation of cigarette smoke. Loud and clear.

  This was hopeless. It wasn’t something to discuss on the phone. Nicu and Henri were waiting. She adopted a conciliatory tone. ‘Look, let’s just leave it. I’ll be back at the weekend. We’ll talk then. And I will talk to the police. I’m just not doing it now. And I don’t want you to, either.’

  A metallic clattering echoed onto the line, followed by Mac swearing.

  ‘What was that?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She waited, but he had clammed up. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Bye.’

  A foot-high model of an old-fashioned French waiter sat beside her inside a glass cabinet. Downstairs, art deco mirrors lined the walls. She was in Paris, sitting in Café de Flore, once frequented by Ernest Hemingway and Simone de Beauvoir. She was here on a job with Nicu Dragan. Yet Mac had managed to travel seven hundred miles through a phone and drag her back to where he wanted her to be, in just a few minutes.

  Your choice, a voice said in her head. Either you keep letting him do this or you don’t.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Edinburgh

  It was twenty-four hours early, and the wrong time of day, but the man had become unsettled, so changed his routine for once.

  That afternoon, he squirted shaving foam on his head and, with practised movements, ran a razor over a week’s worth of grey fuzz, working round his ears, skimming over scars from previous nicks.

  A loud clanging noise burst into the room.

  He crouched, razor in hand.

  He waited.

  Nothing more.

  Drying his head with a towel, he stood on the stool.

  An intruder was bent over in the backyard. The expression on his face was thunderous, a cigarette in his lips, a phone in one hand. He was picking an ashtray from the ground.

  This was no dream.

  No.

  Scrabbling to the side, the man hid, scanning the room, to see the view from the window. A sleeping bag on a bedroll. The TV on. A plate with an empty tinfoil wrapper. The drawing of a woman’s face pinned to the wall.

  Fool.

  After all this time. To be this careless.

  Tensing for a kick on the door, he shut his eyes.

  Nothing came.

  A mobile rang outside the window and he held his breath.

  ‘Hello?’ The voice of the intruder drifted through the glass. ‘Yeah, I’ve just spoken to her – she’s in Paris.’ The voice faded. The fire escape creaked.

  Upstairs, a door slammed.

  The man sank down.

  He was safe.

  It was the husband from the couple upstairs.

  Music started up through the ceiling.

  Sweat ran down the man’s face, bringing with it the pine-scented watery residue of dried-on shaving foam.

  This time, he’d been lucky.

  One day, that would change.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Paris

  Back at Hôtel Dacoin early evening, Grace spread out the press cuttings Henri had brought about René Boucher, pushing Mac firmly from her thoughts. He’d have to deal with it.

  The cuttings were mostly from the 1960s and 1970s. François Boucher’s father-in-law had been handsome, with hooded, long-lashed eyes and a heavy jaw, wide shoulders, groomed thick hair. A famous American film actress stood by his side. The news story implied a possible affair.

  The report said René had been jailed in 1952 for ten years, for racketeering. There was a more recent cutting of him, dated 2008, bloated, his hair gone, the power of his eyes hidden by loose skin.

  There were no cuttings about his children, Pepine, Luc and Marc, or his son-in-law, François Boucher. His family stayed below the radar.

  She showered, dressed in her new clothes from the market, wondering again why François had taken Pepine’s surname, and not the other way round, and prepared her camera at the window.

  Pepine’s was still shut, the steel shutter closed.

  The street market had vanished as magically as it arrived, the only evidence a pile of empty boxes on the corner, ready for pick-up.

  Her phone rang.

  ‘Mac Work,’ it said on the caller display. His number at the warehouse in Leith.

  She checked the time. Ten minutes till she met Nicu. ‘Oh, Mac. Leave me alone,’ she groaned. ‘What?’ she said, answering it.

  A second of hesitation. ‘Grace, it’s John.’

  ‘Oh, John. Sorry, I thought you were Mac.’ Why was he ringing her? ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Fine, darlin’. Just wanted to give you the heads-up – I’ve had that daft man of yours on the phone. He’s on his way to Paris.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ach, I think he’s just worried about you. Got it into his head you’re in trouble.’

  The constriction round her chest tightened again. He wasn’t worried. He just wanted her home. ‘John, I’m fine. He can’t do that.’

  ‘I know. I’ve told him it’s a bad idea, but he’s not listening.’

  She checked outside, panicked at the idea of Mac appearing and dragging her off in front of Nicu Dragan. ‘John, he can’t come here.’

  ‘Darlin’, I’ve told him. I’ve tried. To be honest, I need him here tomorrow, on site. Got the architect in.’

  ‘Oh God, sorry.’

  ‘Ach, don’t worry about it on my account – he’s just got himself in a state.’

  The lie emerged before she considered the consequences. ‘The thing is, John, I’m not in Paris.’ She picked at an old sticker on the windowsill. ‘We left this afternoon. We’re driving back to Amsterdam now.’

  ‘Amsterdam?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not even sure we’ll make it tonight. It’s five hours, so we might stop off in northern France or Belgium. So it’s just stupid, him coming. Pointless.’

  He tutted. ‘Listen, I’m going to get off the phone – see if I can catch him before he gets on that plane. He said it was delayed, so we might be lucky.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, grateful. ‘Sorry to ask. But if I ring, he won’t answer in case I try to talk him out of it. And, John, will you tell him I’ll be home tomorrow night? And that I’m fine. Safe.’

  ‘OK, leave it with me, darlin’,’ he said cheerily. If he was cross with Mac for skiving off work to go and find her, he was hiding it from her. ‘And listen, good for you. That’s you with your big break, huh?’

  ‘Well, I hope so.’

  ‘You’re doing well, darlin’. Proud of you. We all are. I know your dad would be, too.’

  ‘Thanks, John,’ she said.

  After the call, she pondered that thought. What would Dad think about this? He’d probably be so worried, too, he’d be in the car with Mac on
the way to the airport. They’d always been as bad as each other.

  She leaned on the windowsill. To her right, she saw the space-colony high-rises in the distance, and wondered how far you could see from the top floor.

  At eight, there had still been no word from John to say if he’d stopped Mac, so she went to meet Nicu. Even if Mac was already on the plane, she hoped that he’d never find his way out here tonight. It was miles from the airport, and a long walk through the space colony from the train station.

  The restaurant was at the corner of Rue Dacoin, with a limited view of Pepine’s.

  Nicu was at the door, watching a man load two mannequins into a van from a shop. She liked that about him, she realized. He never had his eyes on his phone screen like everyone else; always on the world.

  He raised his eyebrows in greeting and opened the door for her. It was North African, the tables communal, the air heavy with spice. Arabic music pounded towards them and waiters spun between tables with large plates, calling out to each other in Arabic and French. It was packed with families and groups.

  They were waved to a spot side by side on a bench, beside a family with teenagers. A plate of pistachios, peppers and bread was put in the middle. Nicu ordered couscous berbère and she asked for the same, checking out of the window.

  ‘So what do you want to do about Pepine’s?’ she said, to distract herself from Mac.

  Nicu chucked a nut in his mouth. ‘Get in there. Act like tourists stumbling into the wrong place. Then go back tomorrow night, when we know what’s going on.’

  ‘OK. I was just thinking that—’ Her phone buzzed and she stopped to read the text.

  ‘Hi, Grace. Caught him! Back at the flat now – give him a ring when you can. JohnX.’

  ‘THANKSXXX,’ she texted back.

  ‘News about Grabole?’ Nicu said.

  ‘No. No, just my husband, sorry,’ she said, turning it off. ‘He didn’t know where I was. But it’s sorted now.’

  Nicu called for water. ‘Is he a photographer?’

  They’d been together a couple of days and it was the first personal question he’d asked her. ‘No. He designs clubs and bars.’ The teenage girls opposite were listening, eyes round and curious. ‘He works for his dad’s friend. John refurbishes old buildings into flats and venues. Mac oversees the venue side.’

  A waiter opened the door into the alleyway and a warm breeze blew in. The pounding drumbeat was replaced by a haunting wail. She realized she didn’t want to talk about Mac. More people arrived, forcing her and Nicu to squeeze up, their legs jamming together.

  ‘Can I ask a work thing?’ she said, trying to ignore it. ‘With this job, how much time do you spend away?’

  ‘Depends – a day, a month. Two. Why?’

  She bit a green pepper, bitter and sharp. ‘So, how does that work with family? Relationships?’

  Nicu watched her side on. Their eyes danced together for a second, and she turned away to find nuts.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  The teenage girls opposite whispered again and their mother called out in Arabic and they looked away, admonished.

  ‘Just wondering.’

  He shrugged. ‘You need to be with someone who understands. My last girlfriend was a painter. She liked having the place to herself for a while, so it worked out.’

  A painter.

  ‘Is she in Amsterdam now?’

  The waiter arrived with food. Nicu leaned past her to fetch hot sauce, brushing her arm. She waited for him to answer. But he didn’t.

  ‘So you don’t normally travel?’ he said.

  ‘Um, the odd day up north or to the islands, but no, most of my work’s in Edinburgh or Glasgow.’

  ‘Why?’ he said, eating.

  ‘I get a lot of freelance work there – for the Scottish newspapers, and a few diet and fitness magazines down in London – people who’ve had makeovers, done an interview about their small businesses, opened a new gallery, that kind of thing. I’ve been lucky.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘Right.’

  ‘How long have you lived in Amsterdam?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘Straight from New Zealand or—’

  Nicu waved his fork. ‘Now, see, this always happens.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dinner with another journalist. Turns into a two-way interview.’

  She grinned, feeling relaxed in his company for the first time since they’d met. ‘I’m interested! I’ve never travelled – unless you count two weeks in Thailand. I mean, where did you learn all those languages?’

  He chewed, thoughtful, then spoke. ‘Got my first job in London.’ He named a well-known photographer he’d assisted after college, which made her bristle with envy. ‘Then I travelled. Mostly across Asia. Lived in Greece for a year with a girl I met in India, then Paris for a year, at an agency. New York for five, then Amsterdam.’

  He took a forkful of food. ‘Right, my turn. So why this guy? Why marry him?’ He stuffed it in his mouth.

  ‘Mac?’ she said, surprised he was interested. ‘Um, we’ve just always been together.’

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Since we were sixteen. But I’ve known him since day one of primary school.’

  He reached for water. ‘And you’re still together.’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘Well, we’ve never had a reason not to be. We both went to college in Edinburgh and moved into student flats together, then rented our own. It just sort of evolved. We bought a place this year.’

  ‘So when did you get married?’

  His interest confused her. ‘February. Why?’

  He put down his fork. ‘What, after . . . how many years?’

  ‘Nineteen.’ She traced a path through the couscous, realizing she was too nervous about Pepine’s to eat. ‘We never talked about it before, but my dad was ill last year and wanted me “settled”, as he called it, so we did it for him, really. Then he died a few months before the wedding and we just went ahead . . .’

  ‘Shit. Sorry,’ Nicu said.

  The music changed again. The primal beat of a hand-held drum thumped through their seats. She felt the heat of his leg against hers. The atmosphere heightened in the room. Right now, she could be anywhere. Seven thousand miles from home, not seven hundred. So far from normality her bearings were changing faster than she could keep up.

  She fought to stay focused, and asked Nicu more about the photos she’d seen in his boat. He asked about her degree in photojournalism, and they discovered they shared two favourite American photographers. The teenagers opposite were whispering again now, watching with huge, round eyes.

  Suddenly, Nicu leaned right across her. ‘The bar’s opening.’

  He was right. The shutters were being pulled up at Pepine’s by a blonde woman in a tight black dress. Nerves punched her insides.

  ‘Do you think that’s Pepine?’ she said.

  Nicu motioned the waiter, and pointed at the woman. Grace heard the names ‘Pepine’ and ‘Boucher’. The waiter nodded and looked sour.

  ‘Did you see his face?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Yup. I don’t think he likes her.’

  Pepine Boucher disappeared inside the club, and a heavy-featured bull of a man in a black suit appeared, and planted his feet firmly across the doorway.

  Grace stopped eating, the implication hitting home. That woman knew François Boucher. She’d been married to him. They were close to a real answer about his identity. This woman could confirm if he was also Lucian Tronescu and Lucian Grabole.

  ‘I don’t know how you can eat,’ Grace said, pushing back, as Nicu continued to wolf down his food.

  ‘Don’t go into battle on an empty stomach.’

  The word ‘battle’ set off alarm bells. ‘You don’t think they know we’re coming, do you? That we’re walking into a trap?’

  ‘Because of the guy following you in Amsterdam?’

  ‘What if he’s their guy?’ she said.

  Nicu
tapped his fork. ‘I’m not convinced.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you hear Henri? I’m wondering if François Boucher split from the Bouchers when René died. What if there was a power struggle between his three kids and François, the son-in-law? What if François took the Marseilles route for himself and extended it to Amsterdam? Cut out the brothers, Luc and Marc.’

  ‘What, so they’re all rivals now?’

  Nicu pushed away his plate. ‘We know he and Pepine split. Sounds like he got out of the family the minute René copped it.’

  She bit her nails, watching the bar. The bouncer was picking his nose.

  ‘What if you’re wrong?’

  Nicu called for the bill. ‘Tell you what, we’ll walk past the bouncer. If they know who we are, he looks too stupid to hide it.’

  The teenage girls had given up all attempts not to stare. As they stood up, the mother spoke to her and Nicu in throaty French. Nicu replied with something that made her and the girls laugh.

  ‘What did they say?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he smiled.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He opened the door. ‘The mother told them to stop staring at us – she said, “Leave them alone – can’t you see they’re in love?”’

  To her horror, Grace’s cheeks went on fire. ‘What did you say?’

  He waited for her to pass under his arm. ‘You’ll have to learn to speak French, Grace.’

  It was dark on Rue Dacoin now. Mortified, Grace followed Nicu up the road; then they stopped by the bouncer as if checking directions. The bulldog measured Grace’s chest with his eyes, then turned away to watch a teenage girl from behind.

  ‘He’s got no idea who we are. Right – ten minutes in reception?’ Nicu said, as they returned to the hotel.

  ‘Yup,’ she said, still embarrassed.

  When she returned back downstairs with her camera, calmed down, the black leatherette chairs and grubby glass tables of reception were empty. Stomach still fluttering with nerves, she wandered outside. The red neon light was lit now in the front window of Pepine’s. Faint music drifted from inside. The bouncer was on his phone now.