City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  ‘Now you’ve got to tell me,’ Grace said. ‘About the artist girl?’

  Nicu stiffened.

  She nudged him. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Lou.’

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘Same gallery in New York.’

  ‘And why did you split up?’

  He poured the last of the wine, emptying the bottle. ‘Because I came back from a work trip to South Africa and she’d taken an overdose.’

  She sat up. ‘Oh God. Nicu, I’m sorry. Because you left?’

  ‘No. Because it’s what she wanted to do. She was an amazing painter, really fucking talented, but there was always a price for it. It was always on the cards. She’d tried it before.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Three years ago. That’s when I moved on – came here for a job and decided to stay.’ He shut his eyes.

  ‘Were you angry with her?’ Grace asked carefully.

  ‘As I said, it was always on the cards.’

  ‘But were you angry with her?’

  A long pause. His words came out clipped. ‘Yes, Grace, I was angry with her.’

  She prodded his leg. ‘Sorry. Are there any of her paintings in the boat?’

  ‘No. They’re in storage.’

  ‘Why?’

  His eyes stayed shut. ‘Because that’s where I want them.’

  The pink light turned white. Traffic started on the bridge, and a sadness gripped her. It was tomorrow. The day she was leaving.

  Grace fetched water for them, and returned to find Nicu’s camera lens trained on her.

  ‘Don’t you dare.’

  ‘Come here.’ He pulled her down, then with a blanket still round her head, began to shoot her. At first she was self-conscious, waving him away. Then he asked her about her story, and Mitti, and what she was going to do next, and she relaxed. She looked in the lens, telling him with her eyes what she couldn’t to his face.

  ‘Here.’ Nicu pulled her back inside his blanket, to show her the images.

  Their hair touched. The blanket fell off his bad shoulder, so she leaned across to pull it over. She wasn’t sure whose lips found whose on the way back, but she knew it was her who pulled him up and led him into the boat.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Edinburgh

  ‘Kent! Kent!’

  The man jerked awake, and tried to push down his sleeping bag.

  Somebody was banging on the back door.

  What was happening now?

  His heart hammering, he rolled over onto all fours and stood up.

  ‘Kent,’ the husband shouted through the door. ‘Got a minute?’

  The clock said 6.01 a.m.

  Wrapping his blanket around him, the man unlocked the door. The music upstairs had gone on till 2 a.m., and it looked like the husband hadn’t slept since. There was a greasy sheen on his pale skin; his hair was pushed sideways. There was a belligerent look in his bloodshot eyes. He smelt of alcohol.

  ‘Sorry to wake you, Kent. Have you got a smoke? Run out.’

  The man shook his head.

  The husband pushed in past him and made his way to a box of cigarette cartons. ‘Ah, that’s what I need. Tell Mr Singh I’ll pay him back later.’

  The man stood against the wall, imagining hitting him from behind.

  The husband swayed a little. ‘Wife didn’t come back last night, Kent. Supposed to be doing the press photos for my boss’s new restaurant, and she didn’t bloody turn up. Still out there trying to find this dead guy’s family. I’m getting to that point, man . . . I’m . . .’ He lifted his finger, then gave up.

  He opened the cigarettes and threw down the wrapper. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking. When we had a party a few months ago, Grace said she saw lights down here. That wasn’t you, no?’

  A tremor broke through him.

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Sure?’

  The husband repeated the question. ‘’Cos it seems weird, you know, you just turning up like this.’ He swivelled round as if trying to remember which way the backyard was.

  Then as quickly as he’d come, he walked out. ‘Right, that’s me. Off to get myself ready for the day, but I’ll pop down later.’

  He slammed the door.

  The man stared after him. Another tremor followed, almost tearing him in two.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Amsterdam

  Her phone alarm woke Grace three hours after she fell asleep in Nicu’s bed.

  Light footsteps walked across the boat’s ceiling.

  Nicu lay beside her, his body warm and tangled up with hers under the cover, the sensation of it still unfamiliar and intriguing. She ran a hand down her side, remembering his touch on her. Her body felt raw and tender and new.

  There was a small thud and the heron flew off past the window.

  Unfathomable.

  Another day of a new world, when nothing would ever be the same.

  She watched Nicu sleep. Although she wanted to wake him, fall into him again, to talk for ten more hours, she knew this wasn’t the time. Her plane left in three hours.

  Groggy, she crept next door, showered, dressed and packed up. Then she returned and shot him sleeping with his Polaroid, and found a pen.

  As she decided what message to write, a thought entered her head.

  She imagined writing, That woman is not me Grace Scott.

  In the light of last night, of these last few days, in the heightened focus of sleep deprivation, the phrase shifted around in her mind.

  New perspectives attached to it.

  I am no longer Grace Scott.

  I was never Grace Scott.

  I am not who people think I am. Signed, Grace Scott.

  Lost in thought, she pulled on her rucksack, left the Polaroid on his pillow, kissed him gently on the shoulder, then let herself out and, checking around her one last time for the gold car, walked to the end of Lindenkade to hail a taxi.

  As it headed to the airport, her chest constricted with the pain of leaving him.

  This was not the right time, in so many ways, she told herself.

  At Schiphol Airport, she checked in, a shiver running through her body each time she thought about Nicu’s touch last night, or sensed the faint smell of him on her clothes.

  She was heading for security when her phone buzzed.

  A photo came by text. It was one he’d taken at dawn. Her expression, framed by a blanket, was strong and striking. There was a new definition and sureness in her eyes she didn’t recognize. The text simply said, ‘Scott in the Centre . . . Nx.’

  Pain and sweetness welled up together.

  She forced herself through the security barrier, so there was no way back.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Edinburgh

  Sula had done her sums, which is why she was sitting in the car park of the Brown Oaks Nursing Home from 11 a.m., waiting.

  According to Mr Pearce Senior, David Pearce’s wife and brother, Philip, were due to arrive in Edinburgh from Australia that weekend.

  Sula gave them twenty-four hours to recover and speak to the police this Monday morning, but not enough time for any other bugger to sneak in there and grab her exclusive.

  Sure enough, early lunchtime, DS Foley drove up and let out a man and woman, with the granite faces of the bereaved.

  ‘Mr Pearce? Mrs Pearce?’ she called across as they walked to reception.

  She held out a card. ‘Sula McGregor from Scots Today. Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Go on, Diane,’ the man said, waiting. Mrs Pearce passed through the double doors.

  The man looked like his brother, with a beard, but betterlooking; the more popular, younger one, Sula guessed.

  He motioned her close. His voice was thick with menace. ‘If I catch you near my father again, I’m going to take you and your paper to court for harassment. He’s an eighty-seven-year-old man with a heart condition whose son’s been murdered, and you slip in here pretending
you’re the police. What the hell is wrong with you?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out about your father’s house sale,’ she said. ‘Was he in debt, to a loan shark or . . . ?’

  The brother’s face turned livid. His cheeks shook as he spoke, spit flying. ‘Let me make myself clear. You are scum, and if I find you here again . . . Actually, don’t worry about the police – I will pay someone to remove you. Do you understand me? I will pay for someone to remove you from this place in a way that will make you think long and hard about harassing another family like mine ever again.’

  Sula didn’t move, wondering if he’d ever met the kind of people – as she had – who would actually carry out a threat like that. ‘I am trying to help you find your brother’s killer.’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘The police will find my brother’s killer, not you, you fucking moron.’

  ‘Mr Pearce.’ Sula held up her phone, the recorder timer ticking. ‘I’m sorry for you. I really am. It was a terrible way for your brother to go. And your dad seems like a nice man. It’s a shame. But a word of advice. If you’re going to threaten someone, don’t choose someone who records conversations for a living.’

  She held out her card again. ‘If you want to talk to me.’

  For a moment, she thought he was going to go for her. It wouldn’t be the first time. Instead, he ripped it and dropped it on the ground.

  ‘Your dad’s got one if you change your mind,’ she called, walking away. ‘And by the way, your dad? He’s eighty-eight.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Copenhagen

  Grace’s plane descended across the green-and-yellow fields of Denmark, then banked round to land. Ranks of giant wind turbines spread across the sea like a defending army, alongside a modern bridge that stretched miles across the water, she guessed to Sweden. Tiny white sailboats whipped along.

  Six hours – the time she had to find Anna Johanssen, before her flight home tonight.

  Grabbing her rucksack from the luggage belt, she asked directions to Kystbanen, the coastal train line.

  The journey north took almost an hour. Another message arrived from Mac, and she again deleted it without listening, consumed by guilt. Not wanting to think about him right now.

  She couldn’t.

  Her mind drifted between the red-tiled houses and trees of the flat landscape, to her night with Nicu, to the mystery of Anna and Valentin. If Mitti knew Anna was living in Copenhagen, why didn’t Lucian? Why had he searched for them in London and Edinburgh?

  She alighted the train at Humlebæk, and walked a kilometre down a quiet residential road, following signs for an art museum. The white building appeared on a promontory, with views over the blue-grey sea. She found the path down below it, following her phone GPS. The little beach was busy, children playing in the water and hanging off the landing stage with sticks. The path continued for five minutes, the houses spreading out, until she found the address. It was a spectacular house. The home of an industrialist. A white four-storey nineteenth-century wedding cake of a house, with a grey Gothic fairy-tale turreted roof, goldpainted windows and a teetering bell tower atop. At the gate, she readied herself. There was no room for mistakes. If Anna Johanssen was here, she could be the key, finally, to the mystery of the man in her kitchen.

  She photographed the house and the view, the path and the gate. With Mitti’s letter retrieved from her bag, and her voice recorder switched on, she then rang the intercom. Faint classical music sounded, and a voice answered in Danish. A woman. She sounded older than Grace expected.

  ‘Hello? I’ve come to see Anna Johanssen.’

  An aria drifted through the intercom.

  ‘Who are you?’ The voice was suspicious.

  ‘My name’s Grace Scott. I’ve been asked to bring Anna a letter by a friend in Amsterdam.’

  ‘There is a letterbox by the gate.’

  Click. The music shut off.

  She pushed the bell again. The aria returned.

  ‘No, I’m here to deliver it personally to Anna. Is she here, please?’

  Click.

  She checked up at the windows, and rang the bell a third time. To her relief, a side door opened at the basement level of the house. A woman in her sixties, slender, in a smart shirt and skirt, hurried down the path, glancing back up at the house. From here, Grace could see her face was strained, grey-blonde hair pulled back in a fierce bun. She made no eye contact as she approached, pressed a release button and walked through the gate.

  ‘Hi,’ Grace started. ‘Thanks for com—’

  But the woman didn’t stop. She grasped Grace’s arm and led her along the path behind a bush. Close up, the woman’s blue eyes were dulled by a yellow film; sagging skin clung tight to a clenched jaw. The harsh lines on her upper lip looked as if they’d been combed through her skin. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m a photojournalist, from a Scottish newspaper,’ Grace said, removing her elbow from the woman’s grasp. She gave her a business card. ‘Sorry – can I ask who you are?’

  ‘Why are you looking for Anna?’

  ‘To bring her this letter, from her apartment in Amsterdam. It was returned. And also because I’m writing a story about her neighbour in Amsterdam.’

  The woman’s lips stiffened into a pout.

  ‘He was called Lucian Grabole?’ Grace said.

  Now, the woman’s eyelid twitched uncontrollably and she put a finger on it. ‘No.’ She catapulted the word at Grace.

  ‘No?’

  A couple appeared from behind the bush with two Labradors. Momentarily, her stance softened, till they passed.

  ‘No,’ she repeated.

  ‘Why no?’

  The woman held up a hand. ‘I have nothing more to say.’ She walked back to the gate.

  ‘Well, could you ask Anna to speak to me?’ Grace said, following.

  The woman strode inside. ‘I am the family spokesperson, Anna’s aunt. We do not speak to the press.’

  To the press? Others had been here before?

  Grace stood her ground. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve come a long way and I do need to speak to Anna.’

  The woman slammed the gate shut and returned to the house.

  Grace called out, ‘If you don’t help me, I’ll wait here till someone does. Till Anna comes home or leaves the house. I can wait all night, if necessary.’ She pointed after the couple with the dogs, who’d entered the next property. ‘And I’ll speak to your neighbours to see if they know where she is. And please don’t threaten me with the police. Lucian Grabole is part of a police investigation in Scotland, therefore it is in the public interest for me to come and speak to you.’ She had no idea if that held sway in Denmark, but guessed the woman didn’t either.

  The woman disappeared back into the house.

  ‘Shit,’ Grace muttered.

  Up on the promontory, in the distance, three women who looked like sisters sat in the garden of the art museum, by a bronze abstract Henry Moore figure, looking out. She followed their eyes out into the pale blue smudge where water and sky met.

  Four and a half hours till her flight back.

  In front of the house was a tree stump. She sat on it.

  Someone inside that house knew something.

  It was half an hour later when the old man appeared at the upstairs window. He had white hair and the unnerving stare of a person who had no idea of its effect on the watcher. At first, she thought he was short, then from the way he moved between windows to get a better view guessed he was in a wheelchair. His mouth was opening and shutting.

  The basement door opened and the woman strode back.

  ‘Will you please leave?’

  Grace lifted her arms. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I want to speak to Anna.’

  The woman approached. ‘Anna is dead.’

  At first, Grace nearly laughed at this ridiculous attempt to make her leave. Then she saw it in the woman’s terse expression. It wasn’t anger – it was pain.

  ‘Anna Johanssen
is dead?’

  A sharp nod.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. What happened?’

  Disgust ignited in the woman’s eyes at the insinuation that Grace knew or cared about Anna. ‘I will give you one minute and then you will leave, and if you don’t, I will call the police. My brother is ill and you are harassing him.’

  Grace decided not to waste her minute arguing, and switched on her recorder.

  ‘No recorder,’ the woman snapped.

  Grace took out a pen and notebook instead. ‘Could you tell me what happened?’

  Anna’s aunt’s statement was flat, as if she’d given it before. ‘Anna and Valentin Johanssen were in a car accident before Christmas in America.’

  Valentin too?

  ‘Where in America?’

  ‘Florida. They were visiting Anna’s mother. In Miami.’

  ‘Right. So when you say killed . . . ?’

  The woman looked out to the sea. ‘A car accident. They were hit by a truck at a crossroads.’

  Another accident.

  ‘This might sound like a strange question,’ Grace asked carefully, ‘but it was definitely an accident?’

  The woman’s gunpowder gaze returned to her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The police didn’t question it?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyelid twitched uncontrollably again. ‘No. Anna missed a red light and was hit by a truck. They were going to the supermarket. An American food truck leaving the same supermarket. It was Anna’s fault. The driver had . . . What do you call it? A video camera in his windscreen for insurance, that filmed it?’

  ‘A dash cam?’

  ‘Yes. There was no doubt. It was Anna’s fault.’

  A rap of glass. The old man at the window.

  ‘Is that Anna’s father?’ Grace said. ‘Is it possible I could—’

  ‘No!’ The aunt’s anger flared again. ‘My brother has lost his daughter and grandson. Show respect.’

  Grace judged that her time was running out. ‘Anna knew a man called Lucian Grabole.’

  The aunt’s face hardened.

  ‘I can tell that you know who I am talking about. I need to find out what Anna knew about him. I believe he was hunting for Anna and Valentin before Christmas. Can you tell me why?’