City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  The stuffy smell hit her as she entered the flat. Mac had smoked, even though she hated it. A full ashtray sat on the sitting-room coffee table, empty bottles of beer beside it and a dirty food plate.

  Punishing her.

  ‘Mac?’ She checked the bedroom and box room. From the doorway, the kitchen was empty, too.

  Then a breeze blew the back door open.

  A door slammed down in the backyard, followed by a clang, clang, clang.

  The top of a familiar head appeared on the fire escape.

  He was here.

  Grace imagined the conversation that was to come and her exhausted body begged for no more.

  Not tonight.

  Quietly, she closed the kitchen door, grabbed her laptop from the bedroom and Dad’s car keys off a hook, and left the flat with her rucksack.

  She exited the tenement, climbed into Dad’s car and sat watching the dark sitting-room window of their flat, smelling the old mud from Dad’s walking boots, and the mints he always chewed. From the glove compartment, she removed his whisky flask and took a swig. A light came on in their sitting room, and she ducked as a figure appeared at the window.

  Mac.

  If she did what she planned to do, it would mean life now without both Dad and Mac.

  Unfathomable.

  She flicked through Dad’s maps, his marked-up hiking routes, tracing his handwriting with her finger.

  The lights went out again in the sitting room.

  Grace started the engine.

  Anne-Marie’s cheeks were flushed when she answered the door, a basket of washing under an arm. Laundry smells wafted out.

  ‘Oh, hello, stranger, where’ve you been?’ she said, hugging Grace with her free arm. The ironing board was up in the kitchen, the radio on.

  ‘Where are the kids?’ Grace said, kissing her.

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘Is Craig here?’

  ‘Nope. His night in Glasgow.’

  Grace dropped her rucksack in the narrow hall and shut the door. ‘Can I ask a favour? Or two favours?’

  ‘Go for it.’

  ‘Can I stay the night?’

  ‘Course. What’s the second one?’

  ‘If Mac rings, will you not answer?’

  Anne-Marie swept dark hair from a pink face. ‘OK. Now I’m worried.’

  Blown up behind her, Grace saw the photo-booth strip of the pair of them when they were twelve, on a Saturday-afternoon jaunt into town.

  ‘I’ve slept with someone.’

  Anne-Marie’s mouth opened. ‘Oh my good God. Who?’

  ‘Someone in Amsterdam.’

  Anne-Marie dropped the basket and held out her arms. ‘Come here.’ Grace fell into the girl who’d come to fetch her, alone, from a wall to play on her first day at primary school.

  ‘I don’t know how to tell him,’ Grace said.

  Anne-Marie held her away. ‘Is it serious, with this guy?’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Honestly, it’s not about him; it’s me. We shouldn’t have got married or bought the flat. I’m just so stupid. I knew it was wrong.’

  At that moment, her mobile rang out. Mac’s name appeared on the caller display.

  Sighing, she showed it to Anne-Marie, then turned it off.

  ‘Oh Jesus. Now you’re scaring me. Right, come on.’ Her friend led her into the kitchen. ‘You, me and a bottle of wine. Let’s start at the beginning.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  ‘I Keep Asking Myself, Why My Boy?’

  The following morning, Sula sat in her car in South Queensferry reading her double-page exclusive with Mrs McFarlay in the first edition of Scots Today. It was a classy job, if she said so herself. The photographer had taken a good shot of Mrs McFarlay at her window, Colin’s school photo in her hands.

  She guessed Mrs McFarlay would see it today, and feel the weight of exposure. Hate it. Pick over individual words in her quotes that she hadn’t meant. Convince herself she’d been tricked into talking and misquoted. It often happened. But it was done now. Maybe some scumbag with information would feel sorry enough for her to make an anonymous phone call.

  The sun rose in a blustery blue sky over the Firth of Forth.

  As the clock ticked round, she looked at the photo she’d borrowed of Colin McFarlay in the newspaper, with his angelic curls.

  Her fingers reached for the pink Post-it note in the well by the gearstick. She uncrumpled it and read it for the first time. It was a different number to Joanne’s last one. Probably some mobile that skank Jimmy had nicked for her.

  8.09 a.m.

  Sula fingered the note, and rang the number. It answered after three rings.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said quietly, trying to imagine the state of the tiny bedsit she’d rented for her daughter down in Manchester before Christmas.

  Her last stand.

  A groggy Manchester accent. Male. Not Jimmy. Younger. ‘Who you after, love?’

  ‘Joanne. Is this her phone?’

  ‘Yeah. Think so.’

  ‘And are you in her flat?’

  ‘Yeah . . . just for a few days, like. But she’s not ’ere.’

  ‘Where is she, then?’

  ‘Haven’t seen her. Not since Saturday, I don’t think.’ Curiosity entered the stranger’s tone, wondering, Sula guessed, if there was a buck to be made here. ‘What’s it about, love? I can tell her you rang.’

  Before she could answer, Sula made herself hang up.

  Slowly she wound down the window, crumpled the Post-it note and dropped it out.

  She glanced at the newspaper photo of Colin on his mother’s lap. ‘Nobody’s to judge us, Mrs McFarlay,’ she said quietly.

  Her guess was that the new owners of Mrs McFarlay’s former home would drop the wee one off at the nursery on their way to the city. Right enough, the electronic gates opened at 8.15 a.m. and a large SUV appeared, with all three in it.

  As they sped off, Sula dived out and craned her neck to see the estate agent’s sign by the side of the garage.

  McDoughty & Steele.

  The gates came at her.

  Good.

  The nearest branch was a five-minute drive. It was a high-end one, catering for the bankers and media types.

  A free agent with an eager-to-please face waved her to her desk. ‘How can I help you?’ she said, casing Sula’s jeans.

  ‘Well, I’m just wondering. Bowling Road. Can you tell me what I’d be expecting to pay for a house there?’

  ‘Well, it’s all changing at the moment,’ the agent said, ‘but the bungalows go for about six hundred and fifty thousand.’ She grimaced, waiting for Sula to fall over in shock.

  ‘Right,’ Sula said thoughtfully. ‘Well. That seems very reasonable.’

  The woman’s gaze refocused. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘Around a million?’

  ‘A million?’

  ‘But I’d want a view for that.’

  The estate agent hid it well, but not well enough. ‘Actually, there was a big sandstone villa up at the far end by itself. That went for £1.2 million recently. Great views.’

  ‘Twice as much money. Was it twice as big?’ Sula said.

  ‘No. But it was owned by a business who pushed the price quite high and just sat and waited. I think they were lucky to get it. You can do that when you’re not worrying about chains and so on.’

  ‘A business?’ Sula said, surprised. ‘Not a person.’

  ‘Yes. They bought it off the original owner privately.’

  Sula remained composed. ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘Oh, it was a distressed buyout.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Distressed buyout? It’s when firms offer maybe eighty or ninety per cent of the asking price for people needing a quick sale, and pay cash.’

  ‘Right,’ Sula said, acting thoughtful. ‘OK.’

  ‘So, would you like particulars of other houses?’ the woman asked, looking as if she wanted to move on now. ‘There�
��s nothing in Bowling Road, but there’s some other smashing properties around there.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  She gathered her glossy brochures of dream houses.

  ‘Distressed buyouts. That’s interesting,’ Sula said, flicking through photos of indoor swimming pools and kitchens drowning in islands and wine coolers. ‘My mother’s got a seven-bedroom Georgian property in . . .’ She named one of the most prestigious streets in Edinburgh. ‘But it’s got subsidence. She’s got herself in a state about it. I said she should just sell it and move in with me. Maybe this would be a way forward. Just sell it for a discount and cash – this distressed-buyout firm could worry about the building work.’

  The woman’s eyes grew hungry. ‘Gosh, well, if she does decide to sell, you’d be surprised how many private buyers are happy to take on building work in the right property, if the location is right. I’m sure we’d get your mother more than eighty per cent. I’d be very happy to arrange a valuation for her.’

  I bet you would. Shame she’s been dead ten years.

  ‘I’ll let her know. Maybe you could do a valuation for her, and I could call these other guys, too – let her have all the options. Who was it?’ Sula asked.

  ‘Let’s see.’ The woman checked on her computer, obviously gambling she’d be able to win the deal if she got her foot in the door. ‘Andrew’s Equity in London.’

  ‘Andrew’s. Right. Thanks very much,’ Sula said, standing up. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  As she walked back to the car, she shoved the brochures of the dream family homes in a dog-mess bin.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  After eight hours’ solid sleep on Anne-Marie’s sofa bed, Grace felt her energy return.

  Once the kids had piled in on her for hugs and headed off to school, she left mid-morning, checking her phone. Mac had called twice more last night, asking where she was. The frantic anger in his voice had been replaced by a quiet sadness, which just made her more determined to put them both out of their misery.

  She crossed out of Edinburgh over the Forth Road Bridge, and stopped a few miles on at a filling station, where she texted Ewan the address in Lower Largo.

  Her phone rang back as she stood at the pump. Thinking it was him, she answered with her free hand. ‘I was just telling you in case I’m never heard of again.’

  Silence. ‘Ms Scott. DI Robertson here.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’ She stopped and let go of the pump trigger.

  ‘You OK there?’ he said.

  ‘Sorry. Thought you were someone else.’ If he had any idea what she’d been up to the past week . . .

  ‘Just to let you know, we checked that name Lucian Grabole on our systems. Nothing came back. But we have had a fingerprint hit on one of the European checks.’

  ‘Really?’

  A car pulled up behind her. The driver watched her inaction at the pump impatiently.

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a match in France.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, scared to speak in case she gave anything away.

  ‘Our guy’s called François Boucher. Paris police say he’s known to them, but he’s been out of France for a couple of years. What he was doing in Edinburgh we have no idea. We’re releasing his name to the press this afternoon, so I wanted to let you know first.’

  She stood there, lost for words. ‘Thanks. That’s great.’

  ‘Told you we’d get there, eh?’

  ‘You did. Thanks.’

  ‘Now, was there anything else?’

  She hesitated. ‘Not at the moment, but thanks.’

  There was another pause. Clearly he was expecting a bigger response after her months of chasing him. ‘OK, well, I’m here today if you want to get hold of me.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ she repeated, wondering how their next conversation would go when Scots Today informed him about the story they were about to run, with her byline on it.

  The sea was metal green today in Lower Largo. She drove down a winding road onto the front, and parked up on the narrow pavement in front of a skip, outside a row of nineteenth-century cottages hunkered against the east-coast wind. The seagulls welcomed her with an urgent call.

  She checked the address again, recalling who she’d given her business card to this week in London, Amsterdam and Paris. Who was it?

  The sun was out, but the wind was strong. It pushed her hair back as she opened the car door, and stole inside her coat. It had been years since she’d been here. Memories returned of Mum and Dad, and weekend trips. Rock-pooling, and digging for lugworms with sticks, drawing words in the damp sand. Then of trips with Mac, Anne-Marie and their other school friends on a Saturday: eating fish and chips, sitting on the swings, running into the sea in their jeans, screeching, tangled up on rugs together on the sand, her watching the sea, dreaming of the future.

  What if she’d known that it turned out like this?

  A plane left a trail across the sky and she thought of Nicu.

  The address she’d been emailed was a little way out of town, up on a headland lush with vegetation. It was a two-storey cottage overlooking a wide expanse of beach, next to an alleyway down to the rocks and sand below.

  Grace stopped before she reached it. There was nothing to give away the identity of the resident. No car outside, or ornaments on the windowsill. She knocked, and stood back, her recorder and camera ready.

  The front door opened.

  Her mind whirred, trying to understand what she was seeing.

  ‘Come in, Grace.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Sula returned to the Scots Today office from her trip to South Queensferry, and yelled at Ewan.

  ‘Mr Pearce Senior’s house – sold for what again?’

  ‘Um . . .’ He checked his notes. ‘Two hundred and thirteen thousand.’

  ‘Did you check – did he sell it, or is that just the last sale figure for the property?

  ‘Don’t know.’

  She threw herself into her chair. ‘Right. I’m betting this firm down in London, Andrew’s, sold that house, not him. I’m betting they bought it off Mr Pearce a few months earlier, at an eighty or ninety per cent discount. Same as Mrs McFarlay. Get me Philip Pearce’s number.’

  Ewan made a face. ‘The one that hates your guts.’

  ‘Aye, him.’

  ‘OK.’

  Philip Pearce’s phone went straight to voicemail. ‘Mr Pearce,’ Sula said. ‘Sula McGregor here. It’s about your father. Can you give me a call? It’s urgent. I have some important information.’

  She and Ewan sat staring at her phone for ten minutes.

  ‘Oh, come on, you bastard,’ Sula muttered.

  Ewan drummed his fingers. ‘Probably out arranging a hit on you.’

  She stood up. ‘I haven’t got time for this. Find the estate agent.’

  Ewan tapped away. ‘Got it. McGaskill.’

  Sula explained what she wanted him to do.

  ‘Got it,’ he said. He rang the estate agent, switched to loudspeaker and adopted an accent worthy of Downton Abbey.

  ‘Good afternoon. This is Rupert Banker of Andrew’s Equity in London. Could I speak to the agent who sold 77 Fry Road in Colinton for us last year, please?’

  ‘Hold the line, please.’

  He gave Sula a dramatic wink.

  A new voice came on the line. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Euh, he-llow,’ Ewan started. ‘Andrew’s here. Your company acted as an agent for our property 77 Fry Road last ye-aar?’

  A confused voice. ‘Oh yes, hello. Sorry, Mr Banker – was it you we dealt with?’

  ‘No, no. That was my colleague.’

  A tapping on a keyboard. ‘Just looking up your file. That’s right. I remember now. Mr Stansfield. Yes. What can I do for you?’

  ‘We-ell,’ Ewan said, as if something of huge significance was about to be imparted. ‘Mr Stansfield and I are visiting your fine city this week –’ Sula banged his shoulder before he went too far ‘– with the intention of expandin
g our Edinburgh portfolio. Could we schedule you in for a meeting? Maybe Thursday?’

  More tapping, this time faster. ‘Yes, absolutely. What about 2 p.m.?’

  ‘That’s soo-oper for us,’ Ewan drawled. ‘Now, I’m out and about at the moment. Could I trouble you to email confirmation of that to our main office?’

  .‘Ah yes, let me just . . .’

  ‘You still have the details?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, got it right here, Mr Banker. It’s . . . office@ andrews—’

  ‘Ah,’ Ewan butted in. ‘I must apologize. My PA’s just informed me she’s booked us in for another appointment on Thursday. Let me get back to you on that. Toodle-oo.’ Ewan put down the phone.

  ‘Toodle-oo?’ Sula yelped.

  Ewan stood up and bowed. ‘I thank you. Oh yes, I thank you.’

  But Sula was already typing, ‘Andrew’s Equity,’ into Google.

  This was confirmation. Both the dead men’s parents had sold their houses to the same firm in London in a distressed buyout. No wonder Mr Pearce Senior’s kids were angry – 20 per cent of £213,000 was over £40,000.

  This was sounding less of a gangland incident by the minute. And if she wasn’t mistaken, she’d just positioned herself one step ahead of Fin Robertson.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Grace stepped into the cottage in Lower Largo, all points on her inner compass smashing into each other.

  ‘Come in.’

  She’d recognized her immediately. In her late thirties. Blonde hair pulled back, small nose, wide cheeks and clear blue eyes. Close up, she had fine stress lines on her forehead and around her eyes that the photo hadn’t shown.

  Anna Johanssen.

  Her voice was fragile, eyes and nose pink from crying. The dark interior of the cottage was in disarray. Wet towels lay on the floor, dirty dishes on the table. It was the scene of someone barely coping.

  Grace put down her bag. ‘I’m so sorry. I must look shocked. Your aunt said that you were in a fatal car accident in Florida. And your friend Karen.’

  Anna turned on the kettle. She wore baggy clothes over a too-thin frame. ‘I asked them to. They’re doing it to protect me. When you told Karen about Lucian, that he’d di—’ She broke off and took a breath. ‘She rang me last night. I told her to send you. To tell me what happened.’ She made coffee and led Grace out onto a terrace that overlooked the beach. Children’s play equipment littered it. ‘My son,’ Anna said. ‘He’s at school.’