They’d let each other down.
There would be grief when they parted, but this room gave her hope. Mac had his own future to race towards, too. It wasn’t too late for either of them.
Grace imagined Lucian up a ladder painting these walls, secretly planning his own future with Anna and the children.
‘Right, darlin’. What can I get you? Got a nice Sancerre there.’ John pointed at the chiller cabinet. ‘Or a cocktail? Or got a Danish vodka, if you’re in the mood for that after your trip?’
‘Wine’s good, thanks.’
He poured her one with a flourish.
‘So, is the decorating finished?’ she asked casually.
‘Aye – bit of tiling to do in the studio kitchen and toilets. Getting the lift in next week and we’re done. Come and have a look. Did he tell you we’ve sold half the apartments?’
‘No. That’s great.’
‘Yup. Reckon after Saturday’s open day, we’ll get rid of the lot.’
She followed him up to the first floor. Front doors lay open into empty double-height apartments. Everything was white here, too, ready for each owner to make it their own. Kitchen cupboards lay empty; the tall windows over the water were curtain-less. Inside each apartment, more spiral staircases led up to loft-style mezzanine bedrooms.
‘What d’you think?’ John asked, proud.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, touching the fresh-painted walls. ‘The finish is amazing. Are these the guys that decorated our flat?’
No answer. She turned.
John looked up from his phone. ‘Don’t know, darlin’. You’d have to ask the guy that manages the team. Right.’ He headed to the door. ‘That’s a delivery downstairs. Wanna have a wee seat at the bar while you’re waiting for Mac?’
‘Thanks.’
Back downstairs, she sat in Mac’s studio as John exited the front door for his delivery.
Lucian was just part of a team of decorators, she reassured herself.
John had little to do with them.
Even if Mac had met Lucian, he’d only known him as Youssi.
This had nothing to do with him, either.
Lucian must have gone to Gallon Street, knowing it was empty. That Mac was on honeymoon. That must be the link.
She checked her watch, willing Mac to finish his call, dreading it at the same time.
Down the corridor, a key turned in the warehouse’s entrance door, and she thought nothing much about it.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
‘Robbie, Robbie, look at me.’
The man sat on his stool unable to breathe, the thought of being taken from the storeroom making him want to lash out. Fight.
‘No. No. No.’ He waved Mr Singh away.
‘Listen to me. Robbie.’ The newsagent’s voice was tired from the last hour trying to persuade him to do what he wanted. ‘There’s no choice now. What you’ve just told me is that the guy upstairs was killed. That’s serious, Robbie. You’ve got evidence here that someone needs to see.’
‘No!’ His head ached.
Mr Singh persisted. ‘You’re ill, Robbie. They’ll understand. You’re a good man. You’ve saved hundreds of lives in your job. I’m going to tell them what’s happened here. We’ll explain about your crash, and how bad it was for you. And about your Ida dying like that. How you’re ill.’
‘No!’ It was all he could do not to punch him away.
Mr Singh sank to his haunches. ‘Listen, Robbie. I had no idea myself how bad this was till you’ve been staying here. We’ll tell them how the bailiffs put you out your house when you were ill, and nobody was helping you. Just tell them how it happened. That I found you in the street in a bad way, put you up for a few nights here; then you told me you couldn’t leave. How you’ve got yourself locked in here, in your own head. The thing is, Robbie, I’m trying to help, but it’s getting worse. You need proper help. A doctor.’
‘No!’ Robbie held his ears. ‘No!’
Mr Singh patted his back and he flinched.
‘You and Ida were good neighbours to my mum. And I’m looking out for you now. But we’re both getting ourselves into trouble here. I lied about you being in here. I didn’t see much harm in it at the time, but if I’d known what you just told me, I couldn’t have done it, Robbie. So I’m going up to Lother Street now to see DI Robertson. I’m going to explain everything, and get him to arrange help for you tonight, OK? Maybe get you into a hospital.’
‘No!’ He gripped the bars on the window.
‘Robbie, if this guy Mac upstairs tells them first, it’s going to be worse. They’ll be charging in here arresting you on the spot. Sticking you in a cell. And me. We’ll lose our chance to explain what’s happened. Let me go talk to this guy about how ill you are, how I didn’t know what to do to help you. He’ll understand. OK? The important thing is you tell them now what’s gone on upstairs. That’s serious.’
Robbie jerked back in a panic, knocking the fridge.
‘I’ll be back in an hour. We’re going to get you through this, OK?’ He patted Robbie’s shoulder again and left.
Robbie held the bars, watching Ida’s face on the floor, beseeching her pencil-drawn eyes to calm him. To forgive him for the coward he’d become.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
‘Grace!’
She heard Mac before she saw him. Heavy footsteps ran down the corridor from John’s office. The door to the studio flew open and he staggered in.
She couldn’t believe the sight of him.
His light brown hair was dirty and dishevelled, shadows underlined his eyes. He hadn’t shaved for days, and stank of stale cigarette smoke.
‘What’s happened?’ she said.
He walked past her, behind the bar, and glared.
‘Mac? Are you OK?’
‘Oh yeah, fuckin’ fan-dabi-dozi, cheers.’ He opened a beer and the top careered off onto the floor. He leaned on the bar watching her.
In twenty years, she’d never seen him like this. Drunk, yes, but not obnoxious. It was almost like he . . . knew what she’d done.
He took out a cigarette and lit it.
‘Can you do that in here?’ she said.
‘Ha!’ he snorted. ‘Can I do that? Watch me.’
He inhaled deeply, with a contented face.
‘Mac, I need to ask you something. The guy who died in our flat . . .’
He flung up his arm. ‘Oh, don’t fucking start!’
‘Mac, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Fuck off, Grace,’ he sneered.
‘Mac?’ She tried to touch his arm.
‘I said, fuck off!’
Astonished, she shut the studio door before John heard and sacked him on the spot.
‘Mac, calm down, for God’s sake. You’ve got to listen to me. The guy in our flat worked here. He was a decorator. John told a journalist that he was called Youssi. Do you know that?’
Mac stumbled sideways, knocking the chiller cabinet, opening his eyes wide to focus.
She caught his arm. ‘Did you know Youssi who worked here?’
‘Youssi, Youssi, Youssi, Youssi!’ he sang to the tune of the Kaiser Chiefs’ ‘Ruby’, lifting his hand from her and above his head.
Something was terribly wrong with him. ‘Mac, what’s going on?’
He shook his head, almost bewildered.
She felt his arm again, and this time he let it stay there. ‘Mac, I’m sorry. We both know we have to talk about us, but right now, this is crucial. A guy died in our flat and he worked here. We told the police we’d never seen him, and that was a lie. I can’t write my story unless I know the truth.’
He dragged himself onto a stool. ‘Oh, your story. I’m sorry. Your fuckin’ story. Of course!’
She took his hands, and forced him to meet her eyes. ‘Mac, you need to sober up before John sees you, and tell me what happened. Did Lucian break in because he heard you talk about going on honeymoon and he knew the flat was empty? Was he on the team that renovated our
flat? Because if that’s it, then that’s fine. In fact, it explains why he was there. Maybe he just wanted somewhere to sleep to save money. It’s got nothing to do with you. But I need to know.’
Mac banged down his beer, sending the pale liquid across the counter. His blue eyes were bloodshot and contained an expression she struggled to identify. He pointed at her. ‘You’re leaving me.’
Suddenly, she saw him, aged sixteen, his tie undone, sleeves rolled up against the rules, charming the maths teacher with a joke and making everyone laugh. Her sitting three desks behind, thinking if Mackenzie Lowe was all she ever got in life, it would be enough.
That was her mistake.
That wasn’t his fault.
‘Mac, I love you,’ she said gently. ‘That’s not going to stop. You’re my best friend. We’ve been friends our whole lives.’
With one movement, he smashed the bottle sideways onto the floor.
‘Mac!’
He jerked away.
‘Stop it before John sees you like this.’
‘Sees me like this?’ He laughed bitterly, and his voice broke. ‘He’s fuckin’—’ He broke off. His head dipped to the counter. A low groan came from his mouth. ‘Grace, I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up.’
For a moment, she thought she understood. ‘Mac. No. This isn’t about that girl. In the club. It’s really not. It’s about us. It’s probably why you slept with her in the first place, because things were going wrong. I can see it now. We’re just wanting different things from life. Something new.’
‘It’s not that.’ Mac banged the bar, like a teenager whose mother didn’t understand him.
‘What, then?’
To her surprise, Mac fell into her. She caught him, frightened. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I wanted to talk to you.’ His voice broke. ‘I wanted to tell you, but you didn’t come back. You didn’t ring me. I didn’t even know which country you were in.’
She stroked his back. ‘OK, but I’m here now, and it’s going to be fine. We’ll clear things up with the police. And we’ll sort things out with us. We’re always going to look out for each other. That’s not going to stop. I’m so proud of you. This place is amazing. You’ve done . . .’
Over his shoulder, she saw the Danish vodka. A chill went through her.
‘Mac?’
He didn’t move.
She prodded him.
‘Mac? Where was I when I last rang you?’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The Scots Today office was in chaos today. The surprise resignation of a Scottish minister had sent a whirlwind through the newsroom and the editor marched around, shouting for headlines. In the reviews section, the staff were preparing for tonight’s premiere in town of a new Scottish film with two Hollywood A-listers in attendance.
Sula slammed down her phone, trying to hear herself think.
‘Ewan,’ she called across the desk, ‘the lawyer says the Andrew’s contract is bollocks. Complete scam. The postal address is fake, too. Think. If they don’t answer the phone, we need something else to get hold of them.’
But he wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on his screen.
‘Ewan!’
He looked up. ‘You need to see this.’
‘No, I don’t. Not right now.’
She lifted the phone and left a message, not optimistic about a reply.
‘Mrs McFarlay, Sula McGregor. Regarding our investigation into your son’s death, we know you sold your house to a firm called Andrew’s. I’m trying to get hold of Mr Stansfield there and can’t. It’s urgent. Do you have a mobile for him, or a different address? Or another name maybe?’
She was about to hang up when to her surprise, Mrs McFarlay answered.
There was no greeting. Just a question. ‘Why are you asking me that?’ Her voice was cold.
Sula stuck her finger in her ear to drown out the newsroom. ‘I don’t know yet. It’s possible there’s a link.’
‘Are the police following it?’
If Mrs McFarlay rang DI Robertson right now, her lead was blown. ‘If there is, we’ll give everything to the police.’
Silence. Sula gritted her jaw, willing a reply.
Mrs McFarlay spoke again. ‘That headline on your piece – I never said that.’ A bitterness entered her voice. ‘“Why my boy?” So self-pitying.’
‘Mrs McFarlay, I write the piece; the subs and the editor, they sell it. If you want people to read your story, it has to be sold. What can I say? I fight my corner, but I don’t always win.’
A pause. The silence of the lonely bungalow in the background. ‘I got a call on my mobile once,’ Mrs McFarlay said, ‘when I was at the till in Marks & Spencer. It cut off after two rings. I thought it was an emergency about Colin – maybe one of his friends telling me he’d relapsed. So I rang back when I was in the car. Mr Stansfield answered. We were both confused. He was surprised I had the number. I kept it, in case I needed to get hold of him during the house sale, but next time I rang, he never answered. I mentioned it and he said the mobile had been stolen, and always to use the landline.’
‘So you think he’d rung you by accident from his mobile, the first time, then cut off?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think his mobile was stolen?’
‘No. I think he didn’t want me to have it in case I harassed him after I realized what he’d done with my house.’
Sula paused. ‘So he ripped you off, too?’
Her voice cracked. ‘I was widowed. Grieving. In debt. I just wanted rid of it. He was so charming. He sent flowers on the day of Morris’s memorial service. Stayed for a cup of tea and a chat. I just didn’t know how much he’d taken till Colin came out of rehab and checked on the internet. Saw what the one down the road went for.’ A long sigh. ‘You feel so stupid.’
‘How much did he give you?’
A long silence. ‘Eight hundred thousand. It left me enough to buy this place and pay off the business debts, and Colin’s rehab. Then Andrew’s sold it on for £1.2 million.’
‘Did you think of prosecuting him?’
‘How could I? It was all legal – he had a solicitor, and a contract. It was my fault for being stupid. Then Colin disappeared and I just wanted out, tell the truth.’ A catch came into her voice. ‘Did this man hurt my son? Because of me?’
Sula hesitated. ‘I don’t know, Mrs McFarlay, I don’t. But give me today. If I find out what I think I can find out, you can call the police tomorrow, OK?’
‘I’ll give you one day.’
‘Thank you. Now, could I have that mobile phone number?’
‘Hang on.’ Mrs McFarlay read out Mr Stansfield’s contact.
Sula thanked her, and rang it.
The mobile rang out three times; then a cheerful voice answered. Sula pressed ‘end call’ and stood up.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Sula! You need to see this,’ Ewan repeated, his cheeks pink.
‘Not now.’ She waved at the editor, motioned to his office and marched towards it, the voice from the phone ringing in her ear.
Hello. John Brock.
Ten minutes later, she returned, to find Ewan sitting on her desk, holding her keypad above his head in one hand and her mobile in the other.
‘What?’ she yelled.
‘You need to look at Grace’s story.’
‘Ewan, I’m warning you about that girl. For Christ’s sake. We need to get back to Leith.’
She went to pick up her jacket. Ewan grabbed that, and held it above his head, too.
‘Son . . .’ she growled.
‘The guy Grace is chasing, Lucian Grabole. The one that worked for John Brock,’ Ewan said. ‘He and his father put people down wells. Alive. Tied them up.’
Her hand dropped to her side. ‘What?’
‘I’ve just read her first draft. Lucian Grabole’s partner told Grace that’s how they killed people, him and his dad – putting them down wells alive.’
She pushe
d her glasses up her nose. ‘When did Grabole die?’
‘February.’
‘After McFarlay and Pearce were killed?’
‘Yes.’
‘So Grabole could have killed them?’
‘Yes.’
Sula blew out her cheeks. ‘Know what I’ve just found out? John Brock is Andrew’s.’
Ewan’s eyes grew huge. ‘No way.’
‘Aye.’
Sula tapped the desk. ‘What the hell is going on here?’
Ewan sat on the edge. ‘What if John Brock paid Lucian Grabole to kill McFarlay and Pearce to shut them up after they threatened him with the police?’ He hit the desk. ‘I know where I’ve seen John Brock now – a party at Grace’s flat.’ His hands cupped his face. ‘He’s her husband’s boss. Mac.’
Sula took her jacket off him. ‘Ring her. Tell her what’s happening.’
‘I just did. Her phone’s switched off.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Holed up at a hotel near the airport, writing up her story. She sent me the first thousand words to look through.’
‘But hang on – she thinks the guy chasing her is French?’
‘That’s what she said,’ Ewan nodded. ‘One of Lucian Grabole’s henchmen from Paris.’
Sula watched the chaos in the office, knowing she was about to bring a new storm to the place.
‘What if he’s not? What if he’s from here?’
They took Sula’s car out to the airport, turning off into the industrial estate. Ewan sat forward, no longer appearing to care how fast she drove.
‘Hurry up, Sula.’
She overtook a lorry, and screeched to a halt outside the hotel. Ewan ran in, and returned two minutes later. ‘She left an hour ago.’
‘Right. Get in.’
Sula reversed.
‘Where is she, Ewan? Think.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
It was half an hour since Mr Singh had left for the police station in Lother Street.
Yet Robbie still couldn’t let go of the window bars.
Metal cut into his hot, damp flesh. His vision was so blurred he could hardly see to the toilet door. Each time he imagined DI Robertson turning up here, his grip tightened, turning his fingers white.
City of Strangers Page 29
