City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  She stopped mid-jog.

  A new car, a silver four-by-four, had parked behind her, bumper to bumper. There was an inch of space. With only six inches between her and the skip ahead, she was blocked in.

  She glanced in the window of the four-by-four. A green hoodie lay on the floor.

  Fucker.

  He was clever. He must have double-crossed them at the airport, followed her back to Gallon Street, then Anne-Marie’s house.

  Shit. He’d been there all night, with her friends’ kids in the house.

  This had to stop.

  She jumped in and inched forward and backwards, trying to get out of the tiny gap. By the tenth movement, she gave up and slammed backwards into the silver four-by-four, hoping it was his, and that no one was watching. With a screech of locked tyres on tarmac, it jerked back. She jammed down her wheel and edged out, pranging Dad’s wing on the skip. Her phone flew off the passenger seat onto the floor.

  From nowhere, the man appeared out of an alleyway between terraced rows of cottages.

  He looked as startled as she was.

  Close up, their eyes met.

  He had a rattish face, as well as body – small eyes, long, pointed nose.

  She sped past him down Main Street, taking the road out of Lower Largo. Where was her phone? At a junction, she swerved onto the main road back to Edinburgh, watching in her rear-view mirror.

  A camper van pulled out of a junction ahead of her.

  ‘No!’

  It lumbered onto the road, forcing her to drop to its snail’s pace. A long stream of traffic approached from the opposite direction. There was no way to overtake. The silver four-by-four appeared in her rear-view mirror.

  ‘Come on!’ she yelled at the camper van.

  It accelerated to forty miles per hour as they passed a links golf course and the sea.

  The four-by-four was coming up fast. They’d locked eyes. There was no doubt now. He knew that she knew who he was, and he wouldn’t let her get away. Her phone, and the help she needed, lay on the floor.

  Ahead, there was a break in the stream of approaching traffic. A green lorry loomed in the distance. The gap was shorter than she’d usually dare, but right now, the alternative could be worse. Indicating, Grace pulled out and sped past the camper van, making it back in by a hair’s breadth.

  The silver four-by-four pulled out, then dived back in. He couldn’t make it.

  Behind the green lorry was a long stream of cars. It would give her a minute. Accelerating, Grace raced along the sea front, praying for a bend to lose him again. In the mirror, the camper van dropped away. She imagined Caron up its back, blaring his horn, swearing.

  A sign for the seaside town of Leven appeared. Then a bend, followed by a mini-roundabout.

  This was it. Her chance. Grace flew over the roundabout and, instead of carrying on towards Edinburgh, turned sharp right, her wheels squealing, into a small housing estate. One sharp turn into a cul-de-sac and she swung the car round and stopped.

  Leaning down, she grabbed her camera and put it on zoom.

  The camper van was just approaching the mini-roundabout. As she guessed, the silver four-by-four was an inch from its bumper. The man was perched forward, trying to spot her up ahead.

  She fired off three shots and dropped down, hoping he’d missed her. Through the gap in the cul-de-sac houses, she saw him up the back of the camper van, indicator on, trying to force it to let him past.

  Good. Giving him a few seconds, she drove back towards Lower Largo at speed, pulling in at a supermarket, and parked among rows of vehicles in the car park. She turned off the engine, hands trembling, and rang Ewan.

  ‘Same guy?’ he said, alarmed.

  ‘Yup. But now he knows I’ve seen him. Should we tell the police?’

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Yes. But if I do, I’ll have to tell them everything. Which means the whole story goes to waste. Have you got a photo of Mathieu Caron yet?’

  ‘Henri Taylor’s chasing it right now. What you going to do?’

  Grace checked around her. ‘If he works out I’m not ahead of him, which he will, I reckon he might wait for me at the bridge.’

  ‘So come back the long way. Use the bridge at Kincardine.’

  ‘Might have to. Listen, the police have identified Lucian Grabole as the man in my flat – you’ll see a press statement later. I have to be quick. I’ve got an address for the place Lucian used to work as a decorator in Edinburgh. Could you go?’

  ‘Only if Sula doesn’t catch me.’

  ‘Is she there?’

  ‘Popped home for an hour. Is it far?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She doesn’t know the exact address. She says she parked on a cul-de-sac with free parking called Ross Turn, then she walked to the corner, and it was the building ahead, about fifty metres on the right – offices or something.’

  ‘OK. So what – just go there, ask if he worked there?’

  ‘Yes, get anything you can. But be careful.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Checking every minute for the silver four-by-four, Grace sat back to read Lucian’s letters on her phone screen.

  If it wasn’t for you, I’d stop. Walk into a police station. End this. But I have you now . . . In America, I want to go to college . . . Find a good job. Find a way to pay for my sins . . .

  Her phone buzzed. An email from Ewan: ‘Heading off now. Henri sent photo of Caron – attached. Ring me when you’re back.’

  Grace put down her camera, and opened it.

  The image unfolded agonizingly slowly.

  ‘Wha-at?’ she murmured.

  First dark hair, then large brown bovine eyes and a squashed boxer’s nose. Full lips, which on this face looked meaty and cruel.

  The hooded man following her was not Mathieu Caron.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Sula was returning to the Scots Today office when she caught Ewaste-of-Space leaping down the escalator. He spotted her and started backing up, long legs reversing, face as guilty as sin.

  ‘Where you off to?’

  ‘To get some . . . nothing,’ he said, legs whirring to keep up.

  ‘Then get back up there. I need you on research. How many properties has Andrew’s bought up in Edinburgh? Who did they buy them from? There’s a pattern here. We need to find it.’

  He made a face. ‘I was just going to—’

  ‘If this is about Grace Scott, don’t even start.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He ran backwards all the way back up the escalator, like the bampot he was.

  It took two hours, but between Ewan and Sula, they’d made enough phone calls and pulled in enough favours to find out this: Andrew’s had bought and sold fifteen properties in Edinburgh in the past four years. As they’d been bought privately by Andrew’s, only the resale price was available publicly. But after more phone work to Edinburgh estate agents as Rupert Banker, Ewan managed to find the name of one of the sellers – Mrs Fogarty, aged ninety-one – and the clue she was in a nursing home ‘somewhere near Dalgety Bay’.

  ‘Right, Andrew’s now,’ Sula said. ‘Ring them, tell them your mum’s looking to do a distressed buyout. Needs the money fast. How does it work, et cetera.’

  Ewan rang the landline in London on speakerphone. There was a click, then a long beep. ‘Sounds dead to me.’

  ‘Gone under? Bankruptcy?’ Sula frowned.

  ‘See if I can find out,’ Ewan said, tapping away.

  Sula stood up. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Let’s go find this Mrs Fogarty.’

  They tried three nursing homes in the areas closest to Dalgety Bay before they found Mrs Fogarty, who was not quite as compos mentis as they’d hoped. Her eyes drifted between Sula and Ewan’s faces, giving them gentle smiles. She smelt of talc, her white hair neatly brushed, her hand soft as velvet when Sula shook it.

  A nurse brought them a cup of tea, beaming.

  ‘How long she been here?’ Sula whispered.

  ‘Three
years now. It’s lovely for her to get visitors.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘No family.’

  ‘Is that right? No family to come and see you, Mrs Fogarty?’ Sula said.

  ‘No, my daughter died. Meningitis.’ She waved her fragile arm as if conducting an orchestra. ‘No grandchildren.’ Her gaze drifted towards unseen ghosts.

  ‘Mrs Fogarty,’ Sula said. ‘You had a house in Cramond?’

  ‘Oh, I did.’ Her gaze refocused. ‘Bought it after the war, me and Archie.’ She nearly dropped her cup and Ewan took it from her.

  ‘And you sold that house to Andrew’s. Do you remember?’ Sula said.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Can I ask why you did it?’

  ‘Well, it was the penguins.’

  They’d lost her. ‘The penguins?’

  ‘Yes. I liked the idea of them, you see. To go and see them. I was going to go on a cruise, you see, to see the penguins.’

  ‘Oh, you mean real penguins?’ Sula said, relieved. ‘In Antarctica or somewhere?’

  ‘Yes. On one of these big cruise ships, but it was very expensive. I was going to take my friend Rose.’

  ‘Was this Mr Stansfield that bought the house off you?’

  ‘It was! That’s right. I was pleased to get rid of it. It was a big old house. Too much for me. Had damp. He said that he’d give me ninety per cent of the price in cash and do all the paperwork for me. He said most firms like his give you eighty per cent, so I was pleased. There was no fees, too.’ She smiled. ‘I wanted to see the penguins, you see.’

  ‘Did you get a lawyer to look at the contract, Mrs Fogarty?’

  ‘No. That’s what made it so easy. Mr Stansfield said I didn’t need one because it was a package I was buying. His firm dealt with the legal side of it.’

  ‘OK, and who valued your house, Mrs Fogarty?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Well, Andrew’s did, of course. The surveyor at the firm.’

  Sula glanced at Ewan. ‘Did he, now? And can I ask how much it was worth?’

  Her lips formed an ‘o’ as if she had a secret. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but it was £186,000. Me and Archie bought it for fifty pounds!’

  Ewan tapped on his phone and lifted it for Sula to see. Andrew’s had sold the house the same year for £345,000.

  ‘Mrs Fogarty, did you know how much the other houses in your street were selling for when you sold it?’

  She frowned. ‘Now how would I know that?’

  ‘On the internet, maybe – these sites that tell you what your neighbours have sold theirs for.’

  She looked baffled. ‘I don’t know. Is that something I should know . . . ?’ She trailed off.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sula said. ‘Can I ask where you met Mr Stansfield?’

  ‘Oh, he came to the house. Sent me a nice letter saying he was going to knock in a few days; then he made an appointment. You have to be careful, of course, so I had Rose with me, but she thought he was very nice, too.’ Her eyes drifted again.

  ‘Did you go and see the penguins?’ Sula asked.

  Mrs Fogarty made a face as if she’d been naughty. She whispered, ‘No. I need all my money to be in here. A thousand pounds a week, you know.’

  Sula shook her head at Ewan. The woman had sold her house for half of what it was worth, and it was draining away from her week by week. ‘Mrs Fogarty, have you got a copy of that contract? Could I see it?’

  With the nurse’s help, they spent ten minutes working through Mrs Fogarty’s drawers and boxes. In the end, they found it with her will.

  Sula flicked through. ‘Can I photograph this, please, Mrs Fogarty?’ she said, keeping a lid on her tone. ‘Not your name or anything. Just the small print.’

  ‘Am I in trouble?’ The elderly lady laughed mischievously.

  ‘No, but the company who did this to you might be. Don’t go worrying about it now, but if I find anything out, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Do what you want. I’m too old to worry about these things now.’ She beamed. ‘It was nice to have some visitors.’

  Sula leaned forward. ‘You know what, Mrs Fogarty, our Ewan here lives not too far. He loves a chat and a cup of tea. What if he comes to see you at the weekend sometimes? Would you like that?’

  ‘Oh, I would.’

  Ewan nodded eagerly, with a fixed grin. ‘Oh, me too.’

  ‘Good for the soul, Ewan,’ Sula said as they walked out. ‘Good for the soul.’

  On the way back to the office, she wrangled with the information.

  ‘Right, so we’re getting there. These bastards talk old folk into a package where it all looks easy – they get ninety per cent cash straight up, no complications. Except, it’s ninety per cent of their own valuation – going by Mrs Fogarty, it was almost half what the house was worth.’

  ‘They must be counting on the old folk not knowing that.’

  ‘So we’ve got three in the Edinburgh area,’ Sula said, taking a sharp bend at speed, ignoring Ewan’s dramatic dashboard-gripping.

  ‘And maybe another twelve.’

  ‘So fifteen altogether. Sold their properties to Andrew’s cheap at a fake valuation – it sells them on at a huge profit. That’s fraud. Need to get a lawyer on that.’

  ‘So what do these three people we know about have in common?’

  Ewan lifted a finger. ‘One, they’re old. Two, they live by themselves. Three, they’ve got equity in the house, been there long enough there’s probably no mortgage. Four . . .’ He stopped. ‘Don’t know.’

  Sula braked sharply. He flew forwards.

  ‘No bloody relatives, Ewan. No bloody relatives to spot what’s going on.’

  ‘David Pearce and Mrs McFarlay had relatives.’

  She spun round. ‘No, but that’s it. They weren’t supposed to exist. David and Philip Pearce had hardly been in Scotland for forty years. Colin McFarlay – I doubt his mother told anyone about him. She was embarrassed. Told me they’d lost contact since he was eighteen, anyway. She’s only just put his photo back out.’

  ‘But why did they sell?’

  ‘Conned into it. You see it in the papers all the time – old folks so lonely they pay five grand to some smooth-talking bastard who turns up at the door telling them their gutter’s hanging off. Mrs McFarlay’s probably different, though. Probably just desperate to get out of that road after her husband died. Up to her eyes in debt. Can’t imagine there’d be many neighbours popping in to check if she was OK, after what her Colin had been up to there.’

  ‘So they’re betting these old folk don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘That’s the point – they’ve got nobody to tell.’ She accelerated through the lights. ‘This is motive, Ewan. This Mr Stansfield from London comes up, does his dirty work. Then it goes wrong. Colin McFarlay turns up. Tells him he knows what’s going on. Maybe they agree to meet . . . Next thing, Colin disappears. Mr Pearce Senior tells his son what he’s done and he flies over from Australia. Suspicious about this deal. Demands a meeting with Mr Stansfield to discuss it and – bam! – disappears . . .’

  ‘Wowzers,’ Ewan said.

  ‘Mr Pearce Senior’s a proud man – who’s betting David knew that and lied about where he was going that day? Told him he was off hiking, so he could deal with Andrew’s in private, not embarrass his father.’

  As they talked, Sula noticed Ewan fidgeting and going quiet.

  ‘What is it?’

  He sighed heavily. ‘Don’t shout, but Grace Scott—’

  ‘Ewan!’

  ‘She’s in a bit of trouble.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a guy been following her about this story. She thinks he’s followed her round Europe and back here – she saw him in Lower Largo this morning, and she’s trapped on the other side of the bridge hiding from him.’

  ‘She told the police?’

  ‘Not yet. She asked me to wait till she’d checked something out . . .’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘I was going to do
it when you saw me.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That dead guy in her flat, Lucian Grabole – she’s found out where he was working. The police are releasing his name to the press this afternoon, and she’s running out of time – and I said I’d ask if anyone remembered him there.’

  Sula growled. ‘Where is it?’

  Ewan checked his phone GPS. ‘Ross Turn. Half a mile that way.’

  She stuck on her indicator and cut across the lane, causing beeping behind.

  ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’

  When they parked in Ross Turn, it was clear they weren’t the only ones. A number of cars had squeezed into the tiny cul-de-sac to take advantage of the free parking. Ewan led Sula to the corner and pointed over at the building fifty metres to the right. A man at the doorway in a suave suit handed a couple in front of them a brochure and waved them inside.

  ‘Looks like an open day,’ Sula said.

  Ewan put his arm in hers. ‘Let’s pretend you and me are just married – you got me off a mail-order website for sexy young husbands, and we’re looking for our first love pad.’

  ‘I’ll love-pad you.’ She retrieved her arm and smacked him round the head.

  At the main door, they saw a long hall, painted cream, expensive granite tiles on the floor.

  ‘I like theez house very much, darlink,’ Ewan said in a bad accent.

  ‘Shush.’

  The man in the suit returned. ‘Hello. Welcome. Looking at properties today?’

  Sula saw a frown cross Ewan’s face. She thrust a card into the man’s hand. ‘Sula McGregor, Scots Today.’

  ‘Oh, hello. How you doing? Is this for the property section? Great stuff.’

  ‘No,’ Sula said. ‘I’m looking for a man who was working here – Lucian Grabole.’

  The man’s cheery grin didn’t budge. ‘Sorry, who?’

  ‘Lucian Grabole?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Well, he was working here as a decorator a few months back, so you should.’

  Ewan held up his phone with the French police arrest shot on the screen. Again, Sula saw his eyes searching the man’s face.