City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

‘How did you know it was here?’ she said, relief pumping through her like a tranquillizer.

  ‘This is the job I did here last year.’

  She turned, wide-eyed. ‘That photo in your office – of the hands at the rave?’

  He nodded. ‘These subterranean tunnels are all over Paris. There’s hundreds of kilometres of them – they used them for illegal raves and artist salons, lots of stuff. Police can’t keep them out – there’s too many of them.’

  The beer hit her system, now, and her limbs relaxed. ‘How do they get electricity?’

  He pointed up. ‘Divert it from the Métro.’

  ‘Amazing.’

  He turned on his camera and she leaned in to look at Pepine Boucher. The last image was the best. Cruel eyes, and a sharp nose. Mouth curled in fury.

  ‘You were never going to ID him with her, were you?’ She nudged his arm.

  ‘No point. She’s not going to tell us anything.’

  Around them people danced, hands snaking in the air.

  ‘This is amazing. I can see why you’d want to shoot it,’ she said.

  Nicu handed her his other camera and took her beer. ‘Go for it.’

  It was a model she could only dream of owning.

  ‘Really?’

  She played with the controls, then stood up and entered the throng. She started to shoot, without a flash, using the laser lights instead. Most dancers ignored her, faces set in ecstasy; others watched her with mild curiosity. She walked and shot, and walked more. She shot a woman with her hands in the air as if praying. Two elegant girls with designer handbags, whitedusted noses, shimmying up to guys in suits, their ties ripped away. The DJ shaking a hand at the ceiling.

  Then she sat on the floor and shot up, creating montages of mouths, eyes and chins, against the laser-pink rock ceiling. Above her, a man walked past, his black quiff rising above the crowd like a shark’s fin. She lifted her camera to shoot. A second, identical quiff walked into the shot.

  Grace dropped like she’d been punched. Trying to breathe away her terror, she crept through the jumping crowd to Nicu. He saw her expression and pulled her in.

  ‘They’re here,’ she said. Her hands began to tremble. They were trapped.

  Nicu put down the beer. ‘Where?’

  ‘How do we get out?’ she mouthed.

  Nicu put his good arm around her, and they moved low against the rock along the side. Through a gap in legs, she saw the bouncer from Pepine’s blocking the hole they’d passed through.

  She crouched. ‘We need to ring the police.’

  ‘No signal down here.’

  Nicu motioned a teenager leaning against a wall. The boy came over. They spoke and he nodded. He crept off, waving behind him. They followed, Nicu taking Grace’s hand tightly in his. Behind them, suddenly, the music juddered to a halt, the echo swallowed by the rock.

  The twins stood on the DJ deck. Boos and shouting started from the crowd, some still swaying even though the beat had died.

  One brother took a mic and spoke. A hush fell. A few looked behind them, eyes wide.

  Behind her, the crowd parted.

  People were looking around, then at each other. The boy motioned her and Nicu into a new tunnel at the back.

  This one was smaller. Immediately, the light died. Water seeped into her shoes and there was a rotting smell. She put out a hand to stop her head hitting jutting-out pieces of rock, trying to control the panic. Nicu’s laboured breathing came from ahead, as he held his rib.

  ‘Arrêtez,’ came a throaty whisper a minute later in the pitch black. The boy brought out a torch and carried on. It hardly helped. This tunnel was smaller, and she hit her head twice, trying not to shout out. It felt like an eternity, but eventually a hiss came from up ahead. She ran into the back of Nicu, making him grunt.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Come here,’ he said.

  His hand guided hers onto a metal bar. She gripped it, realizing the boy was already on it.

  Praying the rungs would hold on the damp tunnel wall, and the boy wouldn’t fall on her head, she climbed after him. Up was good. Up was better than down there. There was a clattering sound above. To her joy, dim blue moonlight appeared. She clambered out behind the boy. Nicu hoisted himself up behind her, with a muffled curse. She and the boy helped him up.

  He spoke in French and held out money. The boy grinned and kept his hand out. Nicu gave him another note, then patted the boy’s back. ‘Merci.’

  ‘Merci, monsieur.’ The boy disappeared into the shadows, clearly not risking going back down there.

  ‘Where are we?’ Grace whispered.

  ‘At the side, I think. Keep low.’

  She could tell by his voice he was struggling, and reached out for his hand. They stumbled across twisted metal, bricks and dirt in the almost dark, to a broken window. Nicu was right. They were at the far right of the industrial plant, on the other side of the hangar that housed the Jeep. From the distant glow of street lights, Grace saw there were now two cars on the forecourt, one of them a white four-by-four. In the other, a faint orange glow flickered. A cigarette.

  ‘There’s someone in there,’ she said.

  ‘OK. Let’s try this way.’

  Tripping and stumbling, they arrived round the back of the hollowed-out warehouse and reached the Jeep. They removed the corrugated sheeting.

  Panic enveloped her. The cars were parked between them and the exit. They were never going to escape. They were going to die here, in this horrible place.

  Nicu reached inside the Jeep with a grunt, came out and spoke in her ear. ‘Get in and put the keys in the ignition. Don’t do anything else till I get back.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ She grabbed his jacket.

  ‘One minute.’

  He crept out through the front entrance. She climbed in the Jeep, eased the door gently shut, and forced her trembling fingers to fit the key in the ignition. Dust covered the windscreen and she leaned out to wipe it off. Through a gap, she saw a faint movement at the back of the two cars.

  ‘Hurry,’ she whispered.

  A minute later, the passenger door opened. Nicu climbed in, face contorted with pain.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What now?’ she said.

  ‘Start the engine when I tell you, but don’t put the lights on. Then reverse like fuck and turn –’ he pointed outside ‘– there. He’ll take a minute to work out where we’re coming from. Then hit that exit like your life depends on it.’

  ‘Does my life depend on it?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Grace gripped the wheel with sweaty fingers.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Nicu dropped his hand and she turned the key. Faltering in the dark, she shoved the gearstick into reverse and accelerated backwards, jolting over broken bricks and wood, the Jeep protesting with a squeal, out into the open.

  Lights came on in the white four-by-four.

  She reversed the Jeep in a semicircle.

  ‘Right, stop,’ Nicu said, flicking on the headlights. ‘And go! Fucking go!’

  Grace slammed down her foot. The Jeep shot across the forecourt. The four-by-four engine started with a growl.

  Foot to the floor, gasping, she sped forwards, the wheels picking up speed.

  ‘He’s seen us!’

  ‘Go, go, go!’

  There was a loud pop as they raced past the car and she saw the brake lights slam on. Far off to the left, figures ran out of the building.

  ‘Through the gate!’ Nicu shouted.

  She made it, just, bashing the post.

  ‘Left! Left!’

  She swerved into the road.

  Nicu checked behind. ‘Keep going.’

  But Grace’s attention was elsewhere. Headlights were coming at them head on.

  ‘Scott in the Centre!’ she shrieked. As Nicu turned, she steered out of the path of the oncoming truck into the right lane. A long, angry klaxo
n ripped through the air.

  There was a shocked silence as she righted the Jeep.

  ‘Fucking hell.’ Nicu laughed, then touched his arm. ‘Ow. Fuck.’

  Grace checked the mirror, desperate. ‘They’re just going to follow us.’

  ‘No, they’re not.’ He pointed at a road sign ahead. ‘Next right. We need to get on the ring road.’

  ‘What did you do?’ she said, wiping dust out of her eyes.

  ‘Used the spike traps on their tyres.’

  She couldn’t help it. A loud laugh burst out. ‘Nicu!’

  With his good arm, Nicu fiddled with the satnav, smiling. A comforting English voice appeared. ‘Turn right at the next traffic lights.’

  She followed instructions towards the autoroute, never wanting to leave a place as much as she did now.

  Her breathing began to slow. ‘What did they say in the tunnel?’

  Nicu shifted his back, with a grunt. ‘That if they didn’t tell them where we were, they’d seal the exits and firebomb the place.’

  Grace accelerated. ‘OK, now I feel sick. Would they do it?’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  He checked in the mirror. ‘Right. We’ve lost them.’

  A ridiculous ‘Whoop!’ emerged from her mouth.

  ‘You did good.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. That was . . .’ She hesitated.

  ‘Fun?’ He turned on his camera. ‘Good photo of Pepine, though, huh?’

  She smacked his leg, and shook her head at him. His face was streaked with dirt like hers, with bits of crap in his hair. She entered the streak of orange that was the ring road, her damp jeans sticking to the old leather seat, her shoes soaked with tunnel water.

  The satnav said four hours and fifty-seven minutes back to Amsterdam. Nicu turned on quiet music, and offered her water from the back. She took it, and saw him throwing back more painkillers.

  When they hit the autoroute north towards Belgium, he found a jumper in the back, too.

  ‘Want it?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He put it around her shoulders with his good arm.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ She nodded at the other one.

  She saw him forcing his eyes open, and knew he was either in pain or struggling against the wooziness of the concussion. His head fell back and he shook himself awake. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Just sleep, Nicu. I’m fine.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Trust me, after today, I won’t sleep for about three weeks.’

  ‘I’ll stay awake for a . . . In a . . .’ She looked over and saw his head had fallen back. His lips were soft, and open.

  She followed the satnav, checking in her mirror till she was positive no one was following.

  Tomorrow, she could take the photo of François Boucher back to Mitti and find out for sure if Lucian Grabole and Lucian Tronescu were the same man or not.

  The story would move forwards again.

  The speedometer said a hundred kilometres per hour, but for some reason, it seemed faster. The Jeep flew through the French darkness like a spaceship.

  It was unbelievable. An instinct about an old envelope in her flat had led to all of this.

  Never in her life had she had such a strong sense of knowing exactly what she was doing.

  It was as if her future had always been on this road, just waiting for her to arrive.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Stirling

  The following morning, Sula McGregor parked her car in front of a garage that said, ‘No parking,’ and climbed out.

  Stirling was bonny in the sunshine today. Lego figures crossed a distant golf course pulling carts, and a green haze kissed the hills.

  She walked up the close, checking numbers.

  Number 42, Mrs McFarlay’s new place, was a modest bungalow in a group of ten. It was neat and tidy. Red brick, double glazing, a glass 1970s front door. No flowers, just clipped lawn and bushes. A hatchback in the drive.

  And no electronic gates.

  She wouldn’t need them anymore, mind you. Now there was no son turning up at all hours, banging on the door, asking for money, no doubt bringing his scuzzy wee pals with him, with their dirty bomber jackets and pavement-shuffling and permofags. Police asking questions about his whereabouts, and him begging her to lie, and the neighbours craning their necks, blaming you.

  Poor cow.

  Mrs McFarlay answered, a tall, broad-jawed, handsome woman in her early seventies, with grey hair. She eyed Sula warily. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sula McGregor.’ She stuck out a hand. The woman took it. ‘Scots Today.’

  The woman threw it back with a loud tut. ‘For goodness’ sake, how do you people find me? I’ve said before, many times, I do not speak to the press.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your son,’ Sula said.

  ‘Oh, are you?’ she snapped, backing inside.

  ‘Mrs McFarlay,’ Sula called out. ‘I know what you’ve been through.’

  The door slammed. She saw the woman’s reflection inside, leaning sideways against the wall.

  ‘I know he was hard work,’ Sula called out. ‘Believe me, I’ve been there myself. But he was your son, and I know you want to know which bastard put him down that hole as much as I do.’

  The door smacked open. Mrs McFarlay emerged, her cardigan held tight around her chest. Intelligent blue eyes sparkled with anger. ‘Don’t give me that. Your paper sells advertising off my boy’s death.’

  ‘I know it does,’ Sula said. ‘We can’t survive if we don’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t conduct a thorough investigation for you and the other family. Was his death drug-related?’

  ‘Oh, you . . .’ Mrs McFarlay wrung her hands, with a bitter smile.

  ‘There were no drugs found at the scene?’

  ‘No,’ the woman retorted. ‘I don’t know. He’d been clean for ten months.’ Sula saw the fight go out of her, as if she’d been battered for so long she couldn’t sustain a strong front.

  ‘Ten months? So he was doing well?’

  Mrs McFarlay sniffed. ‘You know, your readers see boys like mine as scum. You print that photo of him from the police station next to David Pearce in his suit. That’s all anyone cares about. People see it and they think Colin caused this. Caused that man’s death, too. Colin was trying. Nobody knows how hard it is to stop. I didn’t. Not till I saw him try.’ She sniffed. ‘And he did try.’

  Sula nodded. ‘Well, I know. And I know that ten months was him well on his way. And I’m sorry. It’s a shame.’

  The woman looked out into the hills, bewildered, as if she still couldn’t understand how everything she’d worked for had come to this. A plain wee bungalow on a close full of strangers.

  ‘Mrs McFarlay,’ Sula said, ‘I’m not going to lie to you. I’m after a story for my newspaper, but I’m not here to do you or your son over. I want the truth, too. Somebody did a bad thing to Colin and Mr Pearce, and I want to know why. That person is still out there. We need them caught.’

  A man in overalls came out of the house next door and watched, curious.

  ‘Oh, come in,’ she said.

  The kitchen was cold and soulless. The blue Formica table for one was empty. The sitting room next door was free of ornaments, just a thick novel and glasses on a coffee table by a fake gas fire. It was far from the sandstone villa with landscaped garden and sea views.

  Mrs McFarlay made them tea.

  ‘I know you’ve been asked this a hundred times,’ Sula started, ‘but do you have any idea if or how Colin and David Pearce knew each other?’

  Mrs McFarlay stirred in sugar. ‘No. I don’t. I’ve told the police many times – I’d never heard of David Pearce.’

  Her cheeks were stiff. Stretched. Sula recognized that look. She’d seen it on parents countless times in criminal trials, as if they’d gritted their jaws so many times at the failure and disappointment of their delinquent bairns the muscles had turned to shell.

  ‘So not from C
olin’s school, or you and your husband’s business? Not someone Colin met on the internet?’

  ‘He sold his computer for drugs.’ She said it defiantly, as if nobody in the real world with children and computers understood. ‘I’ll tell you what I told the police. I didn’t know my son very well. After he left school, we hardly saw him. We didn’t know his “friends”, and most of the time, we didn’t even know where he lived. Apart from when he was in prison, of course.’

  ‘But he was at boarding school?’ Sula said.

  ‘Yes. That’s where it all started. Some of these boys – the money they had.’ She shook her head. ‘Parents with no sense. One of Colin’s friends had access to this big house up in the Highlands that his parents let him use when they were away. Colin begged us to let him go up to these weekend parties. We found out later about the drugs that were going on up there. Colin told me one of the boys had a gun. A handgun. He was impressionable. He wanted to fit in.’

  ‘And the heroin?’

  ‘Maybe when he was about seventeen. That’s when he began to change. Drop out.’

  ‘And that’s why you had gates put in.’

  She regarded Sula drily, picking at the wrapper for the sugar. ‘One o’clock in the morning he’d come yelling, crying, doing anything to be let in. He knew we didn’t want the neighbours disturbed, so we would. Morris couldn’t take it. He’d be working all hours on the business and then come home to this.’

  She drank her tea as if nothing tasted of anything anymore.

  ‘You get to the point you can’t take any more.’ Her eyes closed for a second or two. ‘He was coming in when we were at work and stealing. We’d change the locks and he’d break in anyway, steal the radio, TV, chequebooks. He knew we wouldn’t call the police. At one point, Morris and I rented out the house and ran the business from the Channel Islands for a year, just to get away. But he kept robbing the house, even when we had tenants in. He knew the way in at the back. Or he’d rob the neighbours’ houses. He was stealing from our family, from our friends. My daughter moved her family down to England to get away from it.’

  ‘Did you try rehab?’ Sula asked, guessing the answer.

  ‘Did we? Six times. A place down in Cornwall, then one in Galloway. Couple more. Last one was in the Lake District. He was back on it each time within a month. That was when we gave up. Got the gates put in, let the neighbours put up with it for a while, and eventually he stopped.’