City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  The window rapped again.

  ‘You need to go.’

  ‘No. Please,’ Grace said. ‘I can’t.’

  An insistent beat on the glass now.

  Muttering, Anna’s aunt took out a mobile, rang it, spoke to someone in Danish, then asked for Grace’s pen and paper. She wrote a number and gave it to her. ‘Go to ree-eed. Ask for Dr Karen Molson.’

  ‘Sorry – “ree-eed”?’

  Flustered, the woman wrote, Riget, on a piece of paper, and pronounced it again like ‘ree-eed’. ‘A hospital in Copenhagen.’ She spelled out its formal name, Rigshospitalet, then a street address.

  ‘Go now, please.’ She returned through the gate.

  ‘But who’s Karen Molson?’ Grace called.

  The old man began to bash the glass. Bang, bang, bang.

  ‘See what you are doing!’ Anna’s aunt rushed towards the basement door.

  The man wheeled himself to the middle window, as if trying to get a better view.

  In his eyes, Grace now saw a terrible fury.

  It was only when Grace was back on the train south to Copenhagen that she realized she still had the forwarded letter from Mitti.

  She alighted at Østerport Station in northern Copenhagen, and followed her GPS on foot for ten minutes down streets of willow trees and alongside a pretty city lake, lined with residential flats, and bustling with cyclists and joggers, towards a large park and a modern hospital. This time, she switched on her phone voice recorder and stuck it in her pocket, then rang Karen Molson.

  A tall woman with pale red hair and freckles was waiting for her five minutes later at the entrance door, a pack of cigarettes in her hand.

  ‘Here,’ she said, pointing at a low wall round the corner. The roses behind were the same colour as her hair. ‘I have five minutes.’

  ‘OK,’ Grace said, putting down her phone. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I’m here.’

  ‘Herr Johanssen’s sister is the family spokesperson. He is ill, so she’s asked me to speak to you instead.’

  ‘OK, thanks. So you knew Anna?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Yes. She was an old friend from medical school.’

  Grace got straight to the point. ‘I’m researching Lucian Grabole. Did she ever talk to you about him?’

  The doctor lit a cigarette and blew out smoke. It looked odd on someone in a white coat. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘Because I’m trying to track down his movements. Lucian Grabole was a pseudonym for a Romanian criminal who operated out of Paris. I know he and Anna were neighbours in Amsterdam. I’m trying to find out why he was hunting for her in London and Scotland. Why he told people she was his wife.’

  ‘His wife?’

  ‘Yes. Was Anna in danger from him? Her Dutch concierge said that she left suddenly, the same week that Lucian did. Do you know why? Did she witness a crime?’

  Karen tapped ash.

  ‘Was that it?’ Grace pushed. ‘She was in hiding from him.’

  Karen sighed. ‘No. No. Anna wasn’t his wife, but they did have a relationship.’

  Grace stared. ‘A romantic one?’

  ‘Yes. For about a year.’

  An ambulance drew up, and the doctor glanced over as if assessing if she’d be needed. ‘You know who Anna’s father is?’

  ‘An industrialist?’

  ‘Yes. A very rich one. Very powerful. Very controlling. She took a job in Amsterdam to remove herself from his influence.’

  ‘And met Lucian?’

  ‘Yes. He was very –’ Karen Molson broke off to do a muscleman pose ‘– tough. But he loved to grow flowers. His mother had taught him. He was gentle and kind to Valentin, shy with Anna. I think she was intrigued.’

  ‘And they began a relationship?’

  ‘Not at first. He really wasn’t her type. It happened very slowly. She told me it took her by surprise. They had both had domineering fathers, and I think they found an understanding in each other.’

  ‘Was she happy?’

  ‘Yes, but I worried,’ Karen said, taking another quick puff. ‘He said they had to keep their relationship secret – he was divorcing his wife in Paris and didn’t want her to find out or she’d use it against him in the courts.’

  ‘And you didn’t believe that?’ Grace asked.

  ‘No. I thought he was married and cheating with Anna.’

  ‘Did you tell her?’

  ‘Once.’ Karen smiled. ‘We didn’t speak for a while. I think she really loved him. I’m not sure why, but she did.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the doctor said. ‘Something bad. She turned up here one day, with Valentin. Very shaken. She said she’d left her job in Amsterdam. She lost weight. Wasn’t eating properly. She stayed with her father at first, but then Lucian turned up. He went every day. Banged on the door, rang the bell. It was terrible. The neighbours complained. Anna told him to leave, but he wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t let her father call the police, either. Then she and Valentin moved in with me for a while, but he began to turn up at the hospital and find me, demanding to speak to her.’

  Grace found the arrest shot of François Boucher. ‘Is this him?’

  Karen squinted through smoke. ‘Yes. But he’s older now. His hair is longer.’

  Grace made a note. ‘Was he violent towards her?’

  ‘No. Not that she told me. I think he was just obsessed. In love with her. Eventually, she took Valentin to stay with her mother in Florida, till it blew over. She told me Lucian couldn’t get a visa to the States, so it would pass.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘No. He wouldn’t believe us that she’d gone. He kept going to her father’s house, and coming here. Her father was sick with it. He couldn’t believe Anna had brought this man into their lives. That’s when Lucian disappeared. One day, he was just gone.’

  ‘You don’t know where to?’

  ‘No. I assumed he’d believed she was in America and given up.’

  Grace tried to take it all in. ‘And she never told you why she left him?’

  ‘No,’ Karen replied. ‘I wondered if he’d cheated on her. Or she’d found he was still with his wife and was too embarrassed to tell me I was right. She seemed angry at Lucian, but heartbroken, too.’

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘I don’t know. But she couldn’t sleep, and she wasn’t eating properly.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what caused the crash in America – that she was distracted?’

  Karen shifted, uncomfortable. ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘And did Lucian know she died?’

  Karen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He never came back.’ A beeper went off. She checked it. ‘I have to go.’

  They stood up.

  ‘One last question,’ Grace said. ‘Do you know why Lucian Grabole would be in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Edinburgh?’ Karen said as they headed to the hospital entrance. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because he didn’t give up. I don’t think he believed you that she was in America. He went looking for her in Britain. First London, then Edinburgh,’ Grace said. ‘That’s where he died.’

  Karen halted. ‘Lucian’s dead?’

  Grace nodded. ‘We’re still waiting for DNA confirmation, but yes, I think I found him in my flat, three months ago.’

  Karen went pale. ‘Your flat? Was it suicide?’

  ‘No. He’d broken in. He was starving and drunk. He collapsed and hit his head on the worktop.’

  Karen stubbed out her cigarette. ‘That’s very sad.’

  It hit Grace that it was sad. Anna and Lucian had both died, and neither had known. She gave Karen a business card. ‘If you can think of anything else, would you ring me? Where is she buried, by the way – Anna?’

  Karen’s eyes fixed on a trolley leaving an ambulance. ‘In Florida. Her mother wanted Anna and Valentin buried close to her.’

  ‘Was it reported in the Danish press?’

  Karen wrapped he
r arms around her, her expression pained. ‘The family made no public announcement. Her father is proud. He doesn’t like sympathy.’

  Karen’s beeper went again. ‘Listen, I’m sorry.’ The word ‘sorry’ was laden with guilt, as if she’d caused Anna’s death herself. ‘And I’m sorry about what happened in your flat. It must have been terrible for you. I know Anna loved him, but I wish she’d never met him.’

  Grace bought a sandwich from a cafe in Østerbrogade, then asked directions to Nørreport Metro Station. Her train was unmanned, and she sat at the front, speeding through the tunnel. Karen’s words ran through her head as it burst out overland towards the airport.

  Lucian and Anna had been in love. They’d lived together in Amsterdam and kept it a secret. Anna had left to escape him, and he’d followed her to Copenhagen. She’d been heartbroken, but angry, too.

  At the airport, Grace bought a coffee from a stand, and walked to a contemporary statue of two women peering down at passengers below. She sat beside them, equally still in thought. Why had Anna left Lucian in Amsterdam? Had her father threatened to disinherit her if she didn’t leave him?

  The departure board clicked over: Dubai, Beijing, San Francisco, Bangkok, the Faroe Islands, Moscow . . .

  A hunger came to go somewhere else. Anywhere but home.

  Nicu would be on a plane to Colombia in a few days. The bittersweet ache for him grew.

  A jet raced down the runway, took off and began to rise.

  She was going home now.

  And in that moment, she knew, she was going to tell Mac.

  As she stood up to board her flight to Edinburgh, her phone buzzed again.

  It was an email titled ‘FAO Grace Scott.’

  The email address was new to her, existing of nonsensical letters.

  She clicked it, expecting spam. Yet there was no name or introduction – just one line.

  An address in Lower Largo, the seaside town an hour from Edinburgh.

  As she watched the luggage loading into her plane below, wondering who had sent it, a reflection moved in the glass.

  A pair of shoes, sticking out from behind a pillar.

  They were sharp and pointed, and belonged to a wiry set of legs.

  Pointed boots.

  The figure moved.

  Sharp, jagged angles appeared in the legs and arms, and then a slice of jaw. A pointed shaved head.

  Breath caught in her throat.

  Casually, Grace opened her folder to find the print of the city-rat man in East London.

  She turned from the window, as if checking the time.

  He had his back to her now. A green hood had been pulled up.

  She checked out his black-clad bowed legs. The pointed boots.

  That night in the cafe in Amsterdam.

  She knew she’d recognized those legs. It had seemed impossible.

  Her heart thudded in a long, painful beat.

  This was no coincidence. It couldn’t be. Which meant he’d been following her, what – since London?

  ‘Flight SK301 to Edinburgh is now boarding,’ a tannoy said in Danish and then English.

  The man walked to the gate.

  Who was he?

  Twenty or so passengers stood between them. His hood was pulled up, his gaze resolutely ahead. It was him, she was sure.

  She hung back, and rang Ewan.

  ‘Wotcha.’

  ‘There’s a man getting on my plane,’ she whispered. ‘Dark green hoodie, shaved head, pale skin, dark eyes, black jeans and pointed boots. Can you get to the airport and photograph him without making contact with me? I’ll walk behind him and point.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think he’s been following me.’

  ‘Ooh, how very James Bond.’

  ‘Ewan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think he’s been following me since London. I think he attacked Nicu.’

  ‘Shit. Really?’

  ‘So be careful. And can you check this out, too? Henri Taylor in Paris told us about a French thug called Mathieu Caron who worked with Lucian in Amsterdam. I’m wondering if this is him. It would make sense if he was hanging around the Cozmas in London, searching for Lucian, and heard that I was digging about for information. Could we get that police arrest photo from Henri?’

  ‘Mathieu Caron.’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘Thank you. See you in two hours.’

  The hooded man passed towards the plane. Even though he didn’t look back, instinct told Grace he knew exactly where she was.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Edinburgh

  The man stood in Mr Singh’s storeroom planning his escape.

  The husband would be back.

  There was no other choice.

  He piled all his possessions behind the stack of crisp boxes, plus the plastic bag, checking not a single trace of him was left.

  Then he unlocked the back door, and sat behind the boxes, closing off the gap with some from the top stack. To keep himself occupied, he started a new drawing of her, when she was angry at him, her mouth in a pout, her eyes shooting him down for his arrogance or temper.

  What he would do now to take it all back.

  To have her here.

  At 6.30 p.m., the footsteps started in the flat above. Music pounded down. He readied himself, stomach churning.

  He was there for an hour, knowing the husband wouldn’t come till Mr Singh had left the shop.

  Then the clattering started. A door was flung open at the back of the flat upstairs.

  Shoes clanged on metal stairs. A thump on the back door. The storeroom door banged; then the handle turned.

  ‘Kent! You there?’

  A cold blast of air seeped through the boxes. Maybe his imagination, but it carried in the sweet, yeasty smell of alcohol. The light was switched on to supplement the small barred window.

  The man held his breath, waiting for his absence to become clear. For the husband to give up. Leave.

  The back door closed again, much more quietly, and he thought he was safe.

  Then there was a scrape of footsteps.

  ‘Where are you?’ the husband said quietly.

  Noises began around the room. First, door handles being turned. The drawer on the television table opening. The toilet cabinet opened and shut. The fridge.

  A squeal as it was moved away from the wall.

  The man touched the plastic bag with his toe.

  Then a shudder of legs as the stool was pushed over.

  He’d do anything to make him stop coming here and threatening everything.

  A stronger, more violent tremor went through him.

  Outside was the sound of a carton being torn open. A click, then cigarette smoke floating in. A crisp bag opening.

  A long, deep sigh.

  All of a sudden, the back door opened and slammed shut.

  He’d gone.

  His eyes fell on her face, on the drawing on the floor. Her eyes watched him, crossly.

  The man trembled, realizing what a pitiful creature he’d become.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Grace arrived back at Edinburgh Airport from Copenhagen, willing Ewan to be on time.

  Luckily, the man in the green hood had luggage too, so she kept tabs on him from the collection area, through passport control and customs. Ewan stood among a gaggle of taxi drivers, holding a passenger name board that said, Mrs J. Bond.

  She nodded at the hooded man. Ewan acted like he was reading a text, presumably snapping him. He and Grace hung back till the hooded man had exited to the taxi rank, climbed in a car and gone.

  Grace high-fived Ewan. ‘Did you get him?’

  ‘Yup. Certain he’s following you? Didn’t even look back.’

  They checked his phone. Ewan had only managed to get him from the side, but from the sharp angle of his jaw, she was even more convinced it was the city-rat man from East London.

  ‘We need to get a photo of Mathieu Caron to compare it,’
she said.

  ‘Henri’s on it. So what now?’

  She yawned. ‘I have to go home and see Mac.’

  Ewan gestured towards the exit. ‘My carriage awaits.’

  Grateful, she followed him to his ancient Mini. Just to be sure the hooded man had gone, she asked him to make diversionary manoeuvres on their return to the city.

  ‘Look at you with all the fancy moves, eh?’ he winked.

  ‘Nothing like being followed by a psycho to make you focus.’

  ‘Try working with one.’

  ‘How is Sula?’

  He rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘Working on this story about these two guys buried in a pit cave up on Auchtermouth – probably some kind of gangland thing,’ he said.

  She watched Edinburgh come back into view, not really listening.

  They pulled up in Gallon Street and she got out. ‘Thanks for coming. And for the lift. And for making me do the story – even if you are a pain in the arse.’

  ‘Go, Scotty!’ he said, high-fiving her again.

  She got out and stood outside number 6. Three nights without proper sleep, the adrenalin rushes, what she was about to do to Mac – it all came together and sucked the energy from her. A force field might as well have existed between her and the other side of the door.

  The communal hall of the tenement was chilly despite the warmer weather. Three months ago, she’d sat on these stairs with Mac, the first day in their new home together, embarking on the ‘settled’ life her dad had wanted for her, yet would never see, a dead body upstairs in their kitchen, dread in her belly.

  If she was honest, the dread had already been there when she walked in that day. It had crept up on her on the cramped plane home from Bangkok, as she regretted what she’d done. The differences between her and Mac had never been quite as pronounced as they were over there, away from everything familiar. That same dread had dogged her as they’d tossed a coin on the street to decide who should go to the shop and she’d climbed the steps to their new flat to put on the heating and make tea, knowing Mac would never travel again after that trip. That this was the beginning of the rest of her life.

  And now she felt it again.

  But this time, she wasn’t staying.

  She thought of the words and wondered if she’d even need them. If he’d see it on her face. That’s what happened if you knew someone your whole adult life. Every nuance of movement and expression was a language.