City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  ‘Grace, I’m in too much pain to argue.’

  ‘OK.’ She climbed onto his bed, grateful, and pulled the top blanket over.

  The street light from the rear alley shone through the flimsy curtains.

  At least if they came back, there were two of them now. Nicu could ring the police.

  As his breathing deepened again, she watched his outline in the night shadows.

  She’d never be able to tell Mac this. How odd. After all this time to have a secret she’d carry from him for the rest of their lives.

  Now they’d both have secrets.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Edinburgh

  That Saturday morning, the rain-sodden clouds sat heavy over the dull grey waters of the Firth of Forth, the Forth Bridge disappearing into the mist like a red caterpillar.

  Sula sat in her car in South Queensferry, outside a large sandstone villa that stood on its own at the far end of an avenue mostly populated by bungalows. Rain dripped on the windscreen, as she waited for the clock to tick to 9 a.m. and a decent hour for calling.

  She checked Ewan’s notes from when Colin McFarlay went missing last year. He was right. Mrs McFarlay lived in a bloody huge house. There was only one other on the street, at the far end.

  There were spiked railings and electric gates in front of the modest driveway, which had room for one car and a garage. Probably to keep out her son.

  The car in the driveway was a brand-new Mercedes. Printing equipment had obviously paid dividends. She wondered how much they’d spent on a boarding school for a boy whose career was pushing crack to bairns.

  At 9 a.m., she pulled on her raincoat, and rang the gate buzzer.

  Through the sitting-room window, she saw one of those stupid fancy mock-chandeliers. Cartoons were playing on a huge wall-mounted TV.

  An English man answered the intercom. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sula McGregor to see Mrs McFarlay.’

  ‘Oh, hang on,’ he said.

  The gate buzzed. She walked in and crossed the wet dark pink gravel. The front door opened. A man in the banker’s weekend outfit of chinos and a striped shirt, hair in a side parting, and a smile designed to be charming, came onto the porch eating toast. In his hand was a card. Close up, Sula saw another four-by-four in the garage.

  ‘Hi!’ he said in his well-educated voice.

  She stood in the rain in front of him, her glasses steaming up. A toddler came running behind him, followed by a slim woman in jeans and a navy cashmere jumper, with a highlighted bob. ‘Darling, come here.’ She grinned with mock irritation at Sula.

  The man handed Sula the card. ‘Mrs McFarlay doesn’t live here anymore, I’m afraid. We’re the new owners. That’s the address for forwarding mail.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Sula said, taking it. There was a ‘Sold’ sign stuck down the side of the garage. Bloody Ewan. He’d not updated last year’s research – too tied up with that bloody Grace Scott story. From the postcode on the card, it looked like Mrs McFarlay had moved to Stirling.

  ‘Can I ask when you moved in?’ she said, wondering if there was any chance their well-to-do manners would include asking her out of the rain.

  ‘Uh, October.’

  ‘Right. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Come on, monster.’ The man turned and swung the child up in the air, checking back for Sula’s admiring look.

  ‘She needs a change, darling.’ The woman pushed past him. ‘Excuse me, do you know her? Mrs McFarlay.’

  ‘Why d’you ask?’ Sula questioned.

  ‘You’re not a friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well . . .’ the wife said, adopting a conspiratorial tone.

  Rain ran down Sula’s face and glasses.

  No, don’t you get yourself wet there.

  ‘It’s just that people on the road keep giving us funny looks and saying things like, “We’re so glad you’ve moved in,” as if they’re grateful Mrs McFarlay’s gone. I was just wondering if there’d been something going on here.’

  Sula decided to have some fun. ‘Ah, now that sounds familiar. You mean was she a high-end escort?’

  The toddler ran back out, chased by the man, now also wearing an expression of fake frustration that really meant, ‘Isn’t our life marvellous?’ The woman turned them both back inside hurriedly. She crept closer to Sula, but still under the cover of the porch. ‘Really?’ she said, aghast.

  ‘Well, you get them in these residential areas,’ Sula said. ‘Older madame. Men coming in and out at all hours, upsetting the neighbours.’ She pointed. ‘Electronic gates to keep out nosy parkers and the police.’

  The woman looked up at her spanking-new house with its freshly painted windows and potted olive trees.

  Sula lifted her eyes to the first floor. ‘God, you can’t even imagine what went on.’

  ‘Oh God,’ the woman said. ‘Do you think?’

  Sula shrugged. ‘Have you had it checked for hidden cameras, that kind of thing? In the light fittings and bathrooms? You know what these people get up to with their secret filming. If it was me, I’d have the place pulled apart.’

  She turned and stomped across the wet gravel. ‘Right. Thanks for your help.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Edinburgh

  Back in Mr Singh’s storeroom, the man finished his lunch, starting to believe he’d had a lucky break. The husband from upstairs had not appeared again.

  It looked like he’d got away with it for now.

  Dropping the paper plate in the bin, he put on his headphones, and sat on the stool to watch his first randomly picked TV programme of the morning: about buying a new house at auction.

  The tapping entered his consciousness slowly.

  The first house up for auction was a two-bedroom dump in Devon with a rotten roof. At first, he thought the tapping was coming from the television; an off-screen suggestion of the roof being fixed.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The adverts broke in and he took off his headphones.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The man swung round, to see the husband from upstairs at the storeroom window, polite astonishment on his face.

  ‘Hi,’ he shouted through. ‘Got a minute?’

  A tremor rumbled through the man. His fists balled.

  ‘Listen, man, don’t worry. It’s just Mac – from upstairs. Wanted to say hello.’

  Tap, tap, tap.

  The man stood up, and faced his enemy. The husband was in his mid-thirties. He had a stupid cheerful face with pretty girl’s eyes; the thunderous expression from yesterday in the yard was gone.

  ‘Hey. There you are!’ the husband called out. He stuck up a thumb and pointed to the back door.

  The man walked towards the door, each foot dragging as if through thick mud. The silver key in the lock burned his flesh.

  He turned it, opened the door and the husband bounded into view like a clown.

  ‘Hey, how you doing?’ He stuck out a hand. He was shorter than the man, broad-shouldered but not muscular. The man knew he could knock him over with a finger.

  The husband’s hand quivered in mid-air like an arrow.

  The man didn’t take it.

  Yet the husband wasn’t thrown. He simply turned it to point at the barred window.

  ‘Didn’t mean to startle you. Didn’t know you lived here. Just moved in?’

  The man gave a small nod. Behind the husband, the backyard stretched ahead. People from the tower block could see him. His chest tightened.

  ‘What, last week or something?’ the husband said.

  The man nodded another lie.

  ‘Funny. We thought this was Mr Singh’s storeroom and . . .’ The husband’s eyes roamed inside to the boxes of crisps and sweets. ‘Oh – and it is!’ New curiosity filled his eyes. ‘So, what, you just crashing here for a while?’

  The man fought the urge to knock the husband’s stupid smile into the back of his head.

  He nodded again.

&
nbsp; ‘Oh, right.’ The husband winked. ‘Not exactly legal. No bother. None of my business. I just saw you in there yesterday and thought I’d say hello. Did I say – I’m Mac from upstairs, by the way? And you are?’

  The man decided to try to speak, knowing it was his only chance to get rid of this fool. Yet it had been so long since he’d spoken that nothing came out. He tried again and a hoarse whisper emerged. ‘I . . . can’t . . .’

  The husband dipped his head. ‘Sorry – Kent, did you say?’

  The man froze.

  ‘Well, Kent, nice to meet you – listen, don’t be on your own down here. Come up and have a cup of tea. Maybe later today? Just give us a knock at the back.’

  He blinked again, and the husband took that as a yes, walking off with a wave.

  Staggering back inside, the man slammed the door. A breeze pushed its way in with the movement, bringing with it smells that set off a longing so painful it was unbearable.

  Through the barred window, he saw the husband clatter back up the fire escape, two stairs at a time.

  Then a creak above. Now he was on the fire escape. Seconds later, fresh cigarette smoke drifted in under the door.

  The man stood on his stool.

  The back gate and the tower block were blurred now, as if a giant had smudged them with a wet finger. He rubbed his eyes to make them focus again, but it was no good.

  Somebody else knew he was here.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Paris

  Heat woke Grace, warming her cheek.

  It was sun, shining through the hotel-room window.

  She sat up in Nicu’s bed, disorientated, her mouth dry, trying to remember why she was here, then remembered.

  The twins.

  ‘Nicu?’ she said hoarsely.

  His side was empty. The curtains were half open. To her shock, her phone said it was lunchtime.

  Swearing came from the bathroom. She saw the indent where Nicu had been lying next to her, and felt it. Cold. ‘You OK?’

  ‘No, I’m . . . Fuck.’

  ‘D’you need help?’

  Silence.

  She got up. ‘That’s yes, then, is it?’

  He opened the door, a towel round his waist. His hair was wet and she saw he’d managed to have a bath, and wash the rest of the blood off, while keeping his arm dressings dry.

  ‘Here,’ she said. She guided him to the window, grabbed her camera, and began to shoot him.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, realizing what she was doing. ‘I thought I was bad.’

  ‘All part of the story.’ The swelling round his eye was pale blue. A purple-blue bruise the size of a saucer was splattered across his ribs, as if it were food thrown there by a toddler. Smaller blue bruises that looked like toe-prints dotted his back and torso. He held his arm stiff, as if it wasn’t part of his body, but made of wood and strapped on.

  When she finished, he motioned to it. ‘I can’t move this. Can you . . . ?’

  ‘You should have woken me,’ she said, finding tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt in his bag.

  ‘You needed sleep.’

  She tried to stay practical. ‘Can I cut this one?’ She held up the T-shirt.

  He nodded and she cut away the arm.

  ‘Tell me again about last night,’ he said as she turned her back, to let him start dressing. When he’d finished the bottom half, she showed him the shot of the twins, then recounted the story as she stood on the bed, lifting the cut hole of the T-shirt over his injured arm.

  ‘You think they’re the Bouchers?’

  ‘Well, they’re twins and they were going into Pepine’s. And they were nasty bastards, so . . .’

  ‘Well. If they didn’t know someone’s watching them, they do now,’ Nicu said.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No. It’s a good shot. I’d have done the same.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He said nothing more. She wondered why. Then their eyes met ahead in the bathroom mirror. She realized her hand was resting on his bare back.

  ‘Right,’ she said, pulling down his T-shirt and jumping off the bed. ‘So I’ll go ring Henri.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘In my room.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  ‘Welcome. And thanks for having me.’ This was getting worse. Rolling her eyes, she opened the door and crossed to her room, telling herself to shut up.

  Then stopped.

  An envelope lay outside her doorway. GRACE SCOTT, it said on the front. Picking it up, feeling sick, she returned to Nicu’s room.

  ‘Look.’

  It was a photo of them last night in the North African restaurant, taken from the alleyway.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we need to get out of here.’

  They checked out, twenty minutes later, and crept out the back. Grace piled their bags in the Jeep, and went to the passenger side, only to find Nicu already at the door.

  ‘You’ll have to drive.’

  She froze. ‘I can’t. I’ve never driven on the right.’

  He opened the door. ‘No choice. I can’t move my shoulder, and I’m concussed.’

  ‘Shit. OK.’

  She walked behind the Jeep. Her foot kicked something metal by the wheel and she stopped.

  ‘Nicu?’ she called, confused. ‘What’s this?’

  He came round and stared.

  ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Leaning down with a grunt, he pulled from under the wheel what looked like a grey rubber tube with long nails sticking out of holes spaced roughly five centimetres along it. ‘It’s a spike trap – someone’s made it. Police use them to blow tyres during car chases.’

  ‘Look,’ Grace said, ducking down, not believing what she was seeing. ‘There’s one under the other wheel.’

  Nicu shook his head, throwing them in the Jeep. ‘Someone really doesn’t want us here. Come on.’

  Grace checked the front tyres were clear, then climbed in beside him, and pulled his seatbelt over him, then her own. He grimaced as his bruised back touched the seat. In the driver’s seat, she regarded the back-to-front instruments with horror.

  ‘It’s as good a place as any to learn,’ Nicu said.

  ‘Paris. Is that a joke?’

  At least it was automatic. She put it in drive, and drove slowly to the end of the alleyway, nosing out. A motorbike shot past on the ‘wrong’ side and she slammed on the brakes.

  Nicu jerked forwards, and held his rib. ‘Ah, you bastard.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m going to kill us.’

  ‘What’s your surname?’

  ‘Scott.’

  ‘Right, think, “Scott in the Centre.” The Jeep’s steering wheel is on the left, and French roads are right-hand drive. So as long as you’re nearer the central reservation than me, you’re on the correct side.’

  Not convinced, she pulled out and made it to the junction of Rue Dacoin, then turned onto the main road, shrieking feebly as cars came at her from unfamiliar directions. Nicu gave her calm instructions, grunting each time she slammed on the brakes in a panic. At the second T-junction, it was easier. At the third, she began to anticipate the turn. Apart from a roundabout, where she tried to go the wrong way, there were no mishaps. When they arrived at Henri’s office thirty minutes later, and parked, she felt as if she’d run a marathon.

  She helped Nicu out, and into the rattling lift that took them up six floors to Henri’s office. He met them with a handshake, and concern for Nicu’s condition, then led them to his desk in a shared freelancers’ office.

  ‘So, please sit. I have news.’

  Outside the turret window was a run of rooftops, the attic windows of the elegant nineteenth-century buildings pinched, as if out of clay.

  ‘Right,’ Henri said, pushing across a file. ‘This isn’t complete yet. The good news is, you were right. François Boucher simply appears in Paris in 1992.’

  ‘From Romania?’

  ‘Doesn’t say. But there’s no record of him before 1992, so I’m guessing he used false p
apers. It’s not impossible that René arranged the marriage with Pepine to bury François’s false ID. Keep his star worker safe from deportation.’

  ‘Lucky Pepine,’ Grace said. ‘So he definitely could be Lucian Tronescu, hiding in Paris, under the name “François Boucher”?’

  ‘Yes. And I have a photo.’

  Grace practically tore it from his hand. It was a 1994 police arrest shot. The face was strong-featured and striking. The subject was in his late teens, and had eyes so black they sucked out light. The eyebrows were thick, as if drawn with a marker pen. He had wide cheeks like a bull terrier, a small pointed nose and a defiant stare. His hair was short and brown, the texture thick and tightly curled, like Velcro.

  ‘Is this the dead guy?’ Nicu asked.

  Grace held up the photo. ‘I can’t tell. It’s too old and I didn’t see his face. His hair was this colour, but it was below his chin.’ She checked the arrest details. ‘But look, the height’s the same – 1.78 metres.’

  ‘So what next?’ Henri said.

  Sun shone into the attic, and Grace realized how pale Nicu was, his skin almost pearly and translucent.

  She took control. ‘We’ll go back to François’s old apartment here, and find someone to confirm this is definitely him, and find out what he looks like now, twenty years later.’

  Nicu nodded.

  ‘Then back to Mitti in Amsterdam to ID this photo as Lucian Grabole,’ she continued. ‘If she doesn’t recognize it, then maybe Lucian Grabole is an innocent man who got caught up in this.’

  Henri peered over gold-rimmed glasses. ‘But why was Lucian Grabole in Edinburgh?’

  Nicu shifted his arm, frowning.

  ‘Water?’ Henri said, offering some.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, and swallowed a painkiller. ‘Henri, you said René had drug routes all over Europe. Could you check if that included Scotland?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Then, with Henri’s permission, Grace photographed the scene for the feature. She shot the photo of François Boucher on Henri’s desk among his scattered notes, then the Parisian rooftops beyond his desk with Henri in silhouette at the window. Then she shot the photo of François Boucher at Nicu’s suggestion, held by Henri’s hands. He had strong hands, with manicured nails and a chunky ring.