City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  ‘What about Luc, Marc and Pepine?’ Nicu said.

  ‘No photos of Pepine, but the Boucher brothers, yes.’ He handed them a grainy shot from the file.

  Grace focused. ‘That’s them.’

  ‘What this?’ Henri peered over his glasses.

  She explained about the previous night.

  His eyes opened wide. ‘These guys were at your door? OK, listen, you need to be careful. These guys are dicks. Like stupid dogs with a nasty bite.’ He pointed at Nicu’s arm. ‘Are you sure this wasn’t them?’

  ‘I still don’t reckon they know we’re here. Or didn’t, anyway.’

  ‘So who put the photo of us outside my hotel door?’ Grace asked.

  Nicu shrugged. ‘I’m not convinced it’s them.’

  Henri took off his glasses and tapped them, thinking. ‘Are you sure, Nicu? That they don’t have contacts in Amsterdam who could have followed you here?’

  ‘Because . . . ?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Because they’ve heard a newspaper – i.e. you – is investigating their brother-in-law. Remember, François knows the Boucher family business going back nearly twenty-five years – which means he knows, literally, where the bodies are buried.’

  ‘You mentioned François’s sidekick, Mathieu Caron – what does he look like, Henri?’ Grace asked.

  ‘I can find out.’

  ‘You’re thinking he might be the guy following us? Who did this?’ Nicu asked, nodding at his arm.

  ‘Could be. Maybe he still works for Luc and Marc, too.’

  ‘It’s interesting that he hasn’t really hurt you. Not yet,’ Henri said. ‘Caron’s not shy when it comes to breaking legs. Or heads, for that matter.’

  Nicu shifted in pain. ‘He kills me or Grace, everything changes – there’s police all over. He doesn’t want that heat.’

  ‘Well, there’s a positive,’ Grace added.

  ‘I still think whoever’s doing this just wants us off the story.’

  Henri stretched back. ‘Well, be careful. As I said, whatever those Boucher twins do, they always seem to get away with it.’

  They ate lunch in a cafe, then Grace drove them back to François’s former apartment.

  They agreed that Nicu’s thuggish appearance wouldn’t help, so Grace tried the door buzzers alone.

  Again, no answer.

  A tiny security camera swivelled above the front door, and too late she guessed the concierge had spotted the Jeep outside.

  ‘I’m not moving,’ she said through gritted teeth. From here she could see Nicu had fallen asleep in the front seat.

  She waited on the steps, checking her phone. Nothing new from Mac since she’d spoken to John last night. Suddenly she remembered. John had told him she’d be back tonight. There was no chance. She texted him quickly.

  ‘Sorry. One more day. Back tomorrow now. Talk then. Gx.’

  A car drew up outside. A woman in an exquisite red coat-dress and black heels was dropped by a driver. She clicked towards Grace, finding her keys in a leather handbag that looked like it cost a month’s mortgage at Gallon Street.

  Grace waved. ‘Hello? Excuse me – do you speak English?’

  The woman stopped. A waft of expensive perfume floated over. She surveyed Grace as if a dog had deposited her on the pavement. ‘Yes,’ she said through perfectly lined red lips. ‘Do you speak French?’

  From her expression, it wasn’t a joke.

  ‘Could I please ask you about this man?’ Grace lifted the photo of François Boucher.

  The woman’s snooty expression changed to abhorrence.

  She knew him.

  ‘Is this François Boucher, who used to live here?’

  The woman headed past her up the stairs.

  ‘Please,’ Grace said. ‘I’m trying to gather information for the police.’

  The woman stopped.

  ‘La police?’

  ‘Yes. Is it him?’

  Her eyebrows raised. She gave a short, sharp ‘Oui.’

  ‘And his hair – is it longer now? To his chin?’

  She took out keys. ‘Oui.’

  ‘And does he still live here?’

  ‘Non. Dieu merci.’ She opened the door.

  ‘And—’

  The door slammed shut.

  ‘Positive ID for François Boucher, then and now,’ she said, waking Nicu back in the Jeep.

  Nicu’s eyes flickered open. ‘Good.’ She gave him water, and he drank thirstily.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Painkillers just knocking me out.’

  ‘And the concussion probably. Let me just . . .’ She lifted his T-shirt and checked the bruises, pressing them and making him wince. The redness hadn’t spread. To be sure, she took a pen and drew round the bandages on his arm.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I like drawing on people.’

  He frowned.

  Grace used the same stern voice he’d used about her lie-ins. ‘Better watch out. Next time you fall asleep in the middle of a story, I’m going to draw glasses round your eyes.’

  His baffled look made her laugh.

  That evening, they found a coffee shop to hide out in for a while, the owner watching Nicu’s bruised face suspiciously.

  Grace checked her phone. Predicatably, there were four new messages from Mac. She deleted them without listening to them.

  Leave me alone. Let me do this.

  Nicu unfolded a map he’d brought from the Jeep. ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  ‘OK . . .’ He drew a zigzag line from their current location two miles due south.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Back-up plan.’

  ‘Is it the route out of Paris?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Can you do one without roundabouts, please?’ she asked.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said.

  She tapped the map. ‘Do you think we’ll need one?’

  ‘You heard Henri,’ Nicu said. ‘We don’t want to hang around in there. If they do know who we are, we need to get out fast. I reckon we go early, when Pepine’s on her own. Get her reaction to the photo, then get the fuck out of Dodge.’

  She nodded, nerves knotting.

  That night, Grace drove back towards Rue Dacoin.

  Nicu directed her to the parallel street behind Pepine’s, and they parked up, out of sight. When it was time for the club to open, they waited half an hour, then took Nicu’s camera and crossed down one street to Pepine’s. Nicu pulled down his baseball hat. Her legs began to weaken as she faced the prospect of coming face to face with the twins from last night. The bulldog bouncer was on the door. They waited till a group of men went in, and squeezed in behind them.

  Nicu murmured in French. The man glared at Nicu’s bruises and then looked away. If he recognized them, he didn’t react.

  The inner door was made of darkened glass. They opened it into a large red-lit circular room. The relentless thumping beat rushed out. The place smelt of beer and disinfectant and baby oil.

  The club was smaller than she’d guessed. The curved walls were host to red PVC booths. A glittering set of illuminated shelves behind the bar displayed rows of alcohol. Beside it was a platform where a woman danced topless, with tired moves.

  The place wasn’t even a quarter full. The men who’d just arrived were making themselves comfortable as if they were staying for the evening. Others leaned over beers at the bar, watching the dancer.

  ‘Get a seat,’ Nicu said. ‘I’ll be back.’

  ‘No. Where are you going?’

  But he disappeared towards the toilet sign. Grace crept into a booth.

  A blonde woman appeared behind the bar from a back room and examined the newcomers. It was the woman the waiter from the North African restaurant had identified last night as Pepine Boucher. Her nose was sharp and curved between vacant, cruel eyes. She shared her brothers’ angled cheekbones, and had hard, suspiciously round breasts.


  Her eyes braked at Grace, and she shrank back.

  Where was Nicu? What time was this to go to the bloody toilet?

  Then he was back, easing himself painfully into the booth.

  ‘Right, there’s no one else here. Just the bouncer.’

  ‘And her,’ Grace said, nodding.

  ‘You ready?’ Nicu held out his hand for her to take. She flushed as a volt passed between them. They climbed out and went to the bar.

  Nicu ordered them bourbon in French.

  The woman’s eyes widened, travelled his bruises, then moved to Grace as if auditioning her for a lap-dancing job.

  ‘Deux bourbons,’ she said in a grating voice.

  Nicu pulled out euros. The woman poured the liquid into the glasses, with worked-out, sinewy arms.

  The bouncer outside stepped away from the door to speak to someone in the street.

  The woman gave Nicu change, with long green-painted talons.

  Nicu beckoned Pepine Boucher closer. He slipped the photo of François Boucher on the bar, and spoke in fast French.

  The woman stiffened. Her eyes flew to the bouncer.

  ‘Qui êtes vous?’

  Nicu whispered in Grace’s ear. ‘Get ready to go,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  Nicu lifted a small camera from under the counter. Pepine Boucher watched it, hypnotized. The flash lit up her amazed expression.

  Before she could move, Nicu photographed her twice more. The mask crumpled and she swiped with green talons, with a roar. Nicu kept shooting.

  The bouncer returned to the doorway, back to them.

  ‘Go,’ Nicu said calmly, heading for the toilet, taking Grace’s hand again. They moved as quickly as he could go. Now she saw – there was a fire escape.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she gasped.

  He pulled her harder. ‘Come on. We need to move.’

  They stumbled through it, out into the alleyway. Now she understood. The Jeep was parked at the end.

  She helped him in, then got in the driver’s side and scrabbled to get the keys in the ignition.

  ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

  There was a bang from the alleyway and the bouncer came flying out of the fire escape.

  ‘Grace, go,’ Nicu repeated.

  She started the Jeep and screeched out of the parking space. The bouncer ran behind them talking into a phone.

  ‘Well, he was faster than I gave him credit for,’ Nicu said.

  Grace accelerated, trying to control the swerve as they approached a junction.

  ‘Right,’ Nicu said, checking the rear-view mirror.

  She overtook a cyclist too fast. ‘Argh – I’m going to hit someone.’

  ‘No, you’re not . . . Fuck.’

  ‘What?’

  He was looking in the side mirror.

  ‘Nicu, what?’

  ‘Nothing. Right. Change of plan. Take the next right, straight on, then left at the junction.’

  She bumped along the narrow street, then did what he asked.

  Nicu was still watching the mirror, not answering.

  ‘Nicu, what is it?’

  ‘Keep going.’

  A long beam of light appeared in her rear-view mirror. ‘Please tell me that’s not them.’

  He checked the map he’d drawn on earlier. ‘We’ll be fine. Just do what I say. Left, then left again.’

  Trying to concentrate on not crashing, she followed his instructions for two minutes, turning into a long, dark road lined by warehouses. The beam disappeared in her mirror.

  ‘To the end and left again . . .’ Nicu said.

  The beam reappeared just as she took the turn.

  ‘They’re still there!’ she said, starting to panic. ‘Nicu! We shouldn’t have done that. Ring the police. If they catch us here, they’ll kill us.’

  ‘They’re not going to catch us.’

  ‘They are!’

  Nicu touched the wheel. ‘Right, take the next bend up ahead. When I shout, “Now,” I want you to turn off your headlights.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Just do it.’

  She raced round the bend, trying to grip the wheel.

  The beam disappeared out of her mirror.

  Nicu shouted, ‘Now!’ and she turned off the lights. He pulled the wheel down hard and they shot into the open driveway of a huge derelict building.

  The Jeep hit a pitted surface.

  ‘Put your foot down. Keep going.’

  ‘But I can’t see!’ she said as the Jeep hit a pothole.

  ‘Grace, do not stop,’ he said, twisting behind him.

  The Jeep hit a brick with a bang and they jerked onwards.

  Nicu pointed ahead, squinting in the dark. ‘Right. Through that gap.’

  In the moonlight, she now saw what looked like the entrance of an abandoned hangar. Just as they entered it, a beam sped past behind them, the other car tricked.

  ‘They’ve gone!’ she said, twisting round.

  ‘Right, turn it round, then reverse up to that.’ A sheet of corrugated iron lay against the wall.

  She did it and turned off the Jeep. Nicu got out and, with his good arm, started to pull the sheet in front of the truck, hiding its lights and windscreen. She jumped out to help, feet crunching on glass and broken brick, hands shaking. The only sound now was the distant rumbling of a train.

  ‘What if they find us in here?’ she whispered, searching the shadows.

  ‘I’m counting on them not knowing this place. Come on.’

  He took her hand again, and walked out into the open. In the pale moonlight, acres of dirt and rubble stretched ahead. It smelt of urine. They passed burned-out fires to a wall that was daubed in graffiti. Nicu put his good arm around her and led her on into the building. ‘Give them half an hour to check around; then we can head off.’

  Inside, it smelt even worse. They picked over more rubble in the dark, keeping each other steady.

  Ahead of them, there was a flutter. Two shadows moved. Grace’s heart banged in her chest, and the power in her legs simply stalled. She yanked back, hissing, ‘There’s someone in here.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Nicu said, pulling her onwards. Even injured, he was much stronger than her.

  ‘No!’

  She tried to pull back, but he pulled her on towards the waiting figures.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The shapes, she saw, as he dragged her on, were teenagers.

  The whites of their eyes shone as they watched her. A trembling started in her legs as Nicu pulled her towards them. They were boys, about fifteen. Nicu spoke in rapid French and they replied. One bent down and there was a grating noise. The boy’s arm came round her and she pushed him away angrily. ‘What the fuck is this?’

  ‘Go with him.’

  To her shock, one of the boys simply disappeared.

  The second teenager put a hand out to her.

  ‘Go with him,’ Nicu repeated.

  ‘No!’

  Swearing, Nicu grabbed her hand and gave it to the boy. He pulled her towards him and motioned to her foot.

  It was a hole.

  He grabbed her ankle and placed it on a metal bar.

  Stairs.

  ‘Grace, getting a fucking move on,’ Nicu said. ‘Climb down.’

  Having no option but to trust him, she did what he said. The first boy was shining a torch up, giving him a ghostly appearance. The train rumbling grew inside.

  Marginally more scared of the Bouchers right now than these boys, she began to descend, finding more metal bars under her feet. A hand came from below and guided her down into the dark. Her feet landed in stinking water.

  Nicu came next, grunting with the effort. Despite her anger at him, she reached up a hand to help. Then the other teenager came last. There was a scraping above and the manhole shut. The light vanished and her heart jolted into a long, slow, painful beat.

  She was going to die in here.

  Nicu held out his hand and she p
ushed it away again, panicked. ‘What is this? Who are they?’

  ‘Just somewhere to wait till they’ve gone.’ He grasped her hand again. ‘Come on.’

  The teenagers headed off, taking the only light source with them. Nicu turned on his phone light, and she did the same. A dim glow appeared in the distance.

  As they approached, she saw it was a pale orange light dusting the walls. As things became brighter, she realized they were in a tunnel. Except the sides were not the smooth concrete of a sewer, but roughly hewn from rock. They rounded a bend, sloshing through the shallow water, and the lights brightened. Grace pulled back on Nicu’s hand.

  This made no sense.

  Up ahead, a floor-standing candelabra was encased in a rock alcove. A mass of candles burned in its holders. It sat in a volcano of dried wax, as if it had been burning here for years.

  The train noise became louder. Yet now she realized it wasn’t a train.

  ‘Come on, nearly there,’ Nicu said. The water disappeared, and the light brightened further, casting longer shadows on the ground. A stream of graffiti appeared on her left and carried on alongside them. The ground began to shudder with the thumping noise.

  Music?

  Any will she had to resist was gone now. She didn’t understand. She was lost in a tunnel with strangers, being chased by someone who wanted to hurt her and Nicu, for reasons she didn’t really understand.

  Ahead was a hole in the wall. The teenagers disappeared through.

  She stopped at it, not believing what was on the other side.

  The tunnel opened like whale jaws into a cavernous hall.

  There were people here. A hundred or more of them, their backs to Grace and Nicu.

  Dancing.

  An astonished laugh burst from her mouth.

  It was incredible. Strings of globe lights hung on the ceiling. Laser lights strobed the walls, and a DJ stood at decks at the far end.

  By the entrance was an oddly neat row of assorted rubber boots people had clearly used to walk through the tunnel water.

  She cupped her face. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  Nicu smiled. ‘Come on.’

  They continued through the crowd to low rocks by the side, covered in Moroccan cushions, where people lounged. They found a free space and sat beside a woman selling beer at a table. Nicu bought two and came back. They banged bottles, with wry grins.