City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  ‘So what changed?’

  ‘Morris dying.’ Mrs McFarlay stopped and breathed in and out slowly three times, as if a counsellor had taught her the technique. ‘Colin came to me in a state, begged me to help him one more time. I said no, but I was scared of him, to be honest. Without Morris there. People don’t know what that’s like, to be scared of your own child. To see them intimidated by the people they think are their friends and not be able to stop it.’

  ‘No,’ Sula said. They didn’t.

  ‘I used every penny of our savings to send him for nine months this final time, to a place in Yorkshire. I did it just to get him away from me, really. I couldn’t deal with it alone – it was bad enough with Morris here. But he came back a different boy. I think this time he really wanted off it. Saw what it had done to his dad. A drugs charity put him on a training course fixing bikes and he got a job doing that. Found a room in a hostel.’

  ‘So he wasn’t dealing anymore?’

  ‘No, I believe not. He was talking about getting into college and redoing his Highers. He was a bright boy, could have done anything. Morris always wanted him to take over the business. He never quite gave up on that.’ She stopped and did the breathing exercise again, pain etched into her features. ‘The funny thing was, our finances were in a bit of a mess, because of the business, when Morris died. Colin tried to help me out with it, like a real son. He’d taken every penny I had, and now he was trying to protect me.’

  There was a catch in her throat. She rubbed loose skin on her arm. Sula guessed the weight had fallen off her recently.

  ‘Mrs McFarlay, have you got any photos of Colin, before all this happened?’

  She shot Sula a scathing look.

  ‘OK,’ Sula said, raising a hand. ‘I know what you’re thinking and I’m going to be frank. The shot of Colin in the newspapers – his arrest shot. Nobody cares about that boy. You know as well as I do they’re glad there’s less scum on the streets to sell their bairns drugs.’

  The woman flinched, but Sula carried on.

  ‘Now, you give me a photo of Colin before this happened, the wee boy that you’ve told me about, and those same people will see a victim. A wee boy, just like theirs, who became a victim of something bad that could get their kids, too. You tell me about him, before all this happened, and I’ll write it up. A story about an ordinary boy from a good family, who fell into bad times, but worked hard to get out. Who tried to make amends and help his mother. I write it. You take control of the way people see your son, and who knows – you might just jog a bit of sympathy somewhere. Somebody might take the time to think of a detail that helps the police with what happened up on that cliff.’

  Mrs McFarlay stared at her, and for a moment, Sula didn’t know if it had worked or she was about to be thrown out. Then the woman got up without speaking. She returned with a primary-six school photo of a boy with blond curly hair, a shy, cheeky smile and eyes full of fun.

  ‘Aw, look at that,’ Sula said, lifting her glasses. ‘Those curls.’

  ‘Morris had them, too,’ Mrs McFarlay said. A smile started at her lips, then puttered out.

  Sula stayed for another hour, interviewing Mrs McFarlay about her son, Colin, until she had enough for a double-page exclusive. Before she left, Mrs McFarlay handed her three more photos, of the family of four on holiday in Spain, Colin on his dad’s back in the sea, Colin playing football for the local youth team and then sitting on Mrs McFarlay’s knee, aged five, birthday chocolate on both their faces.

  ‘Don’t make me regret this,’ she said, letting the photos go.

  ‘I can’t promise that,’ Sula said, ‘but I can promise I’ll write what you tell me.’

  Mrs McFarlay’s eyes searched Sula’s. ‘You said you understood. What I’d been through?’

  Sula put the photos in her bag, and opened the front door.

  ‘It would be a sorry thing to lie about,’ Mrs McFarlay said.

  Sula headed down the driveway. ‘It certainly would, Mrs McFarlay.’

  Back at the car, she found a furious man pointing at the ‘No parking’ sign she’d blocked, and got in muttering, ‘OK, OK, keep your hair on, pal.’

  Leaning over to drop her bag on the passenger floor, she saw the pink Post-it phone message Ewan had taken, crumpled, unread, where she’d thrown it the other day.

  How many times had that woman nearly let go of Colin? Thought it was the last time?

  Those wee curls.

  Ignoring the irate man, Sula picked up the note and wound down the window, to throw it out.

  Mrs McFarlay appeared at the upstairs window of the bungalow.

  Sula sighed and dropped it back on the seat.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Edinburgh

  The man sat on the stool in Mr Singh’s storeroom, waiting.

  He’d been waiting twenty-four hours now.

  The husband from the flat upstairs would be coming back. There was no question about that. It was when, rather than if.

  Music had started upstairs at ten last night, and continued till one. Through the window, he’d watched the tower block extinguish like a candle, then start to come alight again around 5 a.m.

  The man sat, thinking about what had brought him here, and wondering how this would all end.

  By mid-morning, his eyelids felt like anchors were attached. His body was raw and nervy with anticipation.

  Unable to continue, he tore a crisp box in half, stood on his stool and placed a ripped sheet of it across the window. The storeroom fell into semi-darkness and he told himself he’d have to bear it.

  His vision blurred again; his chest tightened. He must not cough. The husband could knock all he liked, but there would be no answer. No way to see inside now.

  It was Sunday, too, so Mr Singh’s nephew would be in the shop today. Even if the husband asked him questions, the nephew would have no idea what he was talking about.

  Headphones on, the TV droned on about an Italian pasta recipe. After a while, his limbs felt heavy, so he let them fall to the side.

  He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he did.

  Which meant he didn’t hear the husband return.

  ‘Whoa! Kent, you OK?’

  The man shook awake. A tug at his head.

  ‘Kent! Are you all right in there?’

  Bewildered, he sat up.

  The husband, Mac, his face split in a grin. He was tugging at the headphones.

  ‘You OK? Need some help?’

  The back door was open. To his horror, he realized he hadn’t locked it last night when the husband came.

  He’d slammed it shut and not locked it.

  Fool.

  ‘Didn’t mean to give you a fright. Just knocked to see if you wanted a cup of tea,’ the husband continued. ‘Talking to Mr Singh in the shop yesterday. Says you’re an old mate, crashing here for a while? Not to tell his missus or she’ll go ape? No bother, Kent. Secret’s safe with me. If I can help you out, let me know.’

  The husband went in and out of focus. The man blinked, trying to breathe.

  ‘Look at this,’ the husband said. He pointed at the dot drawing on the wall. ‘Who’s this? Your girlfriend? Your wife?’

  He touched it. Touched her. The curve of her cheek. The volcano started inside the man. He forced his hands down, to stop the eruption.

  The husband laughed. ‘I drew my wife once. Second year at high school, in art. She went nuts.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘I drew her like she was an alien. Put antennae on her.’ At the window, he stood on the stool, pulled the cardboard away and checked the view, then replaced it. ‘She was weird-looking, back then, though. I can say it now. We called her “Casper” at primary – like the ghost. She had these big, spooky eyes and white hair and a wee tiny white face.’ He pinched his chin. ‘Smooth, you know, like a sculpture? But then she changed overnight. You wouldn’t believe it. Walked into school one day in fifth year and – pow! My heart’s going . . .’ His hand pumped his chest.
>
  He jumped down, checked out the tiny toilet, then sat down on the stool and stretched out his legs. ‘Between you and me, Kent, I’m a bit pissed off with her. She’s back tonight from Amsterdam, so if you hear a row upstairs, apologies in advance. She’s been over there, trying to find out who the dead guy was in our kitchen. Completely bloody obsessed with it. Can’t let it go. Police says the guy fell and hit his head, but she thinks someone killed him.’

  The volcano pushed up, a thunderous explosion, inside the man. He fought to control it.

  ‘Oh, I forgot. You don’t know about that, do you, Kent? You weren’t here then, no? It was a weird business. Came back from honeymoon and found a dead guy lying in our kitchen. I was thinking last night, it would have been useful if you had been here. The police would’ve asked you, though, if you had been. Might have heard something.’

  To control the volcano, the man knelt down, and began to draw a new page in his notebook. Dot, dot, dot.

  ‘Is that how you do it?’ the husband asked. ‘Clever.’ He sat back. ‘Yeah, that would’ve been useful. Could get this thing cleared up quick so Grace can drop it.’

  Dot, dot, dot.

  ‘She’s a photojournalist. Got it in her head to do a big story about it,’ he continued. ‘Between you and me – again – I feel sorry for her. At school, she had these dreams about being the big global reportage photographer and it’s not worked out for her. Now she’s got it in her head again – a sort of midlife crisis. They say it happens when your parents die.’

  He stood up and stretched. ‘Her mum died when she was sixteen. I stepped in. It’s what you’ve got to do, isn’t it? Step in. Now her dad’s gone, too. It’s just me.’

  Dot, dot, dot.

  He walked to the door. ‘Right. That’s me, Kent. Got a big day – restaurant opening tonight. But listen, you think of anything, you let me know.’

  The man dotted his page, wanting to stick the pen in his eye.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Amsterdam

  Two swans glided down the canal in Amsterdam, moving to the side as a two-seated boat puttered past. Grace stood at Nicu’s kitchen window, trying to wake up, after two sleep-deprived nights and the long drive back from Paris. The cleaner Hugo and Magriet had arranged for Nicu had done a good job. The walls and floor had been scrubbed, the voile curtains washed. The sofa cover and red rug were missing, presumably at the cleaner’s. A sorry pile of artwork and prints had not fared so well. They were waiting for assessment and repair.

  From here, she could see Nicu through the bedroom door, asleep. She’d checked him every half-hour since she’d woken in the blue boat this morning. Dark shadows were smudged under his eyes; his injured arm was placed awkwardly to find relief, her marker-pen lines still in place, with no sign of spreading infection.

  All night she’d woken intermittently at the sound of passing cars, and checked outside, but the canalside had been quiet. She prayed they’d lost whoever had been following them back in Paris. There had definitely been nobody behind them on the road last night.

  Fear, exhaustion, Mac – everything inside her felt as if it had been tossed out of drawers and not put back yet.

  There was one thing she did know, however.

  Out on the deck, desolate and half bare now the burned plants had been removed, she rang a freelance photographer friend Jenny in Edinburgh, then texted Mac and John in the same message, to tell them Jenny would do John’s restaurant opening tonight, and she was sorry. She turned off her phone, but not before deleting three new messages from Mac that had arrived last night and this morning.

  She wasn’t finished here.

  He would have to deal with it.

  Life carried on, on the canal. People read books and cycled, watered plants and chatted and smoked on their decks.

  Flower baskets of vibrant colours hung from the bridge.

  Right now, it was hard to imagine ever going home.

  She wandered back into the boat, to make coffee. The cleaner had left a pile of singed papers from Nicu’s damaged office on the floor. She leaned down to move them.

  A smoke-damaged black-and-white photo sat on the top.

  Checking for Nicu, she held it to the window. It was a woman, in her early thirties. There was a wildness about her. Thick, messy hair fell about her face. She was scowling, her lip curled like Elvis, a challenge in her eye.

  The artist. Was this her? She slipped the photo back inside the papers.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Early afternoon, she left Nicu’s painkillers by his bed with water, and asked Hugo and Magriet to check on him.

  Climbing in his Jeep, she followed the satnav. Despite all the bike lanes to navigate, she managed to do a couple of diversions without knocking anything or anyone over and, satisfied she wasn’t being followed, arrived at Lucian Grabole’s former residence.

  In the Jeep, she examined the 1994 arrest shot of François Boucher. Her pulse raced. In a few minutes, one piece of the puzzle would fit.

  Lucian’s apartment block was busier today. One resident sat in the front garden with a dog, drinking wine and reading a newspaper. A couple were heading out through the gate as she arrived, dressed smartly, she guessed for lunch.

  Mitti waved her inside. ‘Have you found something out about Lucian?’ she asked, her hands clasped. ‘Is it good news?’

  Grace touched her arm. ‘Mitti, this is going to be difficult. Would you sit down?’

  Mitti fought back fresh tears. ‘OK.’ She found a chair.

  ‘I have a photo I need to ask you to identify,’ Grace said, ‘but it’s over twenty years old.’

  She held out the 1994 arrest photo of François Boucher, and Mitti popped on her glasses.

  ‘Could you tell me if this man is Lucian Grabole?’

  The hall was filled with the heavy heartbeat of the grandfather clock.

  Mitti thrust the photo away. ‘Yes. It’s Lucian.’

  Grace tried not to react. ‘You’re sure – this is definitely Lucian Grabole, who lived here for a year?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mitti pointed at his cheeks. ‘But it’s not a kind photo. His face looks hard here. In real life, it is softer. He has a nice smile. More gentle in the eyes. His hair is longer now, too. But yes, this is definitely Lucian.’

  The front door opened and the man with the newspaper nodded at Mitti, and headed upstairs with his dog.

  Grace waited, dreading what she was about to do.

  A door closed above them.

  ‘Mitti?’ She turned. ‘I am so sorry, but this man’s name is not Lucian Grabole. He’s a Romanian criminal called Lucian Tronescu, and as far as we can work out, he was hiding from the Romanian authorities in France for about twenty years under another name – François Boucher. This is a police photo of him, taken when he was nineteen. He is a very unpleasant and dangerous man. A gangster. We know that he moved to Amsterdam two years ago, possibly to run a drugs route here from Marseilles. I think he lived in this house under a false name.’

  Mitti’s face boiled with anger. She stood up. ‘Absolutely not! Incredible. This is not possible.’ She flung up her hands. ‘You keep saying these things about Lucian. He was my friend. He had a job. Every evening, I saw him leave for work – he had a van, with his ladders, everything. Selling drugs? No!’ She held a tissue to her eyes.

  Grace pointed around. ‘But how could he afford to live here?’

  Mitti sat back down with a whump on the stairs, like a sulking child. ‘I don’t know.’ She waved the tissue. ‘He paid his rent six months in advance. It wasn’t my business to ask.’

  Confusion and hurt entered her eyes, as she realized her answers simply made no sense.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Grace said. ‘This must be a terrible shock. Is Dr De Jonker here? Could we maybe speak to him?’

  Mitti sniffed and, without speaking, stood and led Grace upstairs. She knocked and a small, tidy man in horn-rimmed glasses and a smart jacket answered.

  Mitti spoke
in Dutch, her distress clear. ‘Come in, please,’ he said to her and Grace. ‘Let me see if I can help.’

  Her instincts had been right. Lucian Grabole’s apartment would be beyond most people’s pockets. It was expansive, with high ceilings, antique wood panelling and polished floors. The sitting room was vast, with a stately fireplace, and three tall picture windows overlooking the rear rose garden. Antique bookshelves lined the sitting room. Indian rugs lay on polished floors. Elegant objets d’art lined antique tables.

  ‘You have a beautiful home,’ Grace said.

  ‘My mother’s things, mostly,’ Dr De Jonker said modestly. ‘Now, how can I help?’

  Mitti stood quiet and sad.

  Grace explained. ‘Mitti is very upset. I wanted to ask if you also met Lucian Grabole?’

  ‘No. The apartment was empty when I arrived.’

  ‘And Lucian didn’t leave anything behind?’

  He pointed to the bottom shelf. ‘Just a few books, but nothing else.’

  ‘What kind of books?’ she asked.

  ‘They were all in English.’

  What was Lucian doing with English books?

  ‘Really? What kind?’

  ‘Well. A few novels. A dictionary and language tapes. A couple of children’s books, and a cooking book.’

  ‘Do you have them still?’

  But the doctor’s eyes were on Mitti. Her eyes were rheumy again with tears. ‘Sorry, no.’ He spoke in Dutch, and Mitti sat down.

  ‘OK. Well, thank you. I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Grace said. ‘I just wanted to make sure that someone was keeping an eye on Mitti today. She’s had a bad fright.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said kindly.

  There didn’t seem much more she could ask. She pointed to the rose garden. ‘What a beautiful view to have in a city.’

  Dr De Jonker smiled. ‘Oh yes.’ He spoke in Dutch again, and Mitti replied.

  One word stood out to Grace’s untrained ear. She held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry – could you repeat that in English?’