The Last Exile (13 page)

Jackie sat resplendent. Dark-featured, she had the typical bloom of a woman in late pregnancy. One dainty hand rested casually over her large tummy in a sweetly protective gesture. Kind eyes, Tallis thought as he went inside and asked if it was all right to sit down.

“Help yourself.” She smiled. “Nice to have some company. Gets a bit dull, sitting here like a beached whale. Rog said you’re looking for Ana Djorovic.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s working here illegally.”

Jackie’s face clouded. She put a hand to her breast. “Rog isn’t in any trouble, is he?”

“No, not at all.”

She shook her head. “My husband doesn’t always ask the right questions,” she said apologetically. “He’s way too trusting.”

Tallis did his best to reassure her. He knew nothing about pregnant women but the last thing he wanted was to upset her and send her into labour. “Tell me about Ana. I understand she intimidated you.”

“So stupid of me.” She smiled with embarrassment.

“Stupid?”

“Pregnant women are prone to strange ideas.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“But?”

“I felt as if I were the only reason for her being here. Ana’s ghoulish interest in the state of my health went way beyond ordinary curiosity. Sometimes,” she said, leaning forward, anxiety imprinted on her face at the memory, “I’d catch her looking at me.”

“Uh-huh?”

“She’d have this sly smile, like she knew something terrible was about to happen.”

“You felt in danger?”

“Not just me, but my child,” she said, patting her tummy. “You read such terrible things these days about women who attack pregnant women so that they can steal their babies. And when Rog fired her, my God, Ana called down every curse imaginable upon us.”

“Just as well she’s gone, then.” Tallis grinned, wanting to defuse the tension in the room. “No idea where?”

“Didn’t leave a forwarding address.” Jackie Addison laughed.

That was better, Tallis thought. He didn’t think a sensible woman like Jackie was going to suffer any lasting repercussions. Problem was, what next? He was still no closer to finding the wretched woman. Looked as though his luck had finally given out. “The rest of your workers, where do you recruit them from?”

“Not recruit exactly. You make it sound like we’re far more organised than we are.” She laughed again. “A lot of them are school-leavers or students who come back every year. Good way to make some easy cash. And, of course, we’re always inundated with foreigners.”

“Work must be fairly backbreaking.”

“Have to be fit,” she agreed, “but a lot of them enjoy it. Rog doesn’t run a terribly tight ship. I think most of them feel it’s a bit of a laugh.”

“Ana associate with anyone else?”

“Kept herself to herself.”

“Not that popular?”

“She was a good deal older than the rest of the pickers. Don’t suppose she felt they had much in common.”

“Not unless they were pregnant,” Tallis reminded her, smiling.

“Yeah,” she agreed, her dark eyes flickering for a moment. “Actually, now you mention it, there was a girl, Kelly, I think her name was. Came from the West Country, pretty little thing, all blonde hair and smiles. Like a lot of kids her age, she had boyfriend problems, packed her bags one night and left.”

“And Ana was friendly with her?”

“Overstating the case. I saw them talking together on a couple of occasions, that’s all. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe Ana was offering advice.”

Acting maternal, Tallis thought, another idea formulating in his mind.

“When did Kelly leave?”

“Two weeks ago, maybe more.”

“Know where she went?”

“Back to Plymouth, I suppose. One of the other girls mentioned something about a festival or carnival.”

Madness, he knew, but with no other lead, Tallis thought it his only option. Any excuse to cruise down the motorway in Max’s Z8. Returning to the house in Belbroughton, however, stirred up an avalanche of emotions. All he could think about was Felka, her smile, her laugh, the way she’d looked that very last time: happy and excited. He wondered if he’d ever be able to go back to Max’s place without feeling taunted by her spirit.

After the initial thrill of stabbing the ignition and hearing the sumptuous roar of the V8 spring to life, he slipped out of Max’s drive, eventually joining the dual carriageway at a speed normally reserved for Formula One racing drivers. Fortunately, the left-hand drive meant that he had a better view than most of what looked like a police paddy wagon tucked up on an incline with the miserable title SPEED ENFORCEMENT UNIT emblazoned on the side. Slowing to a respectable forty miles an hour, he almost waved to the boys as he drove past, his eyes riveted upon the driver watching him while talking urgently into a radio—marking my card, Tallis registered.

Traffic was typical of a Friday in late July—dense, sweaty and slow. Although the car had a sport facility for a sharpened response, there was sadly no facility for the elimination of caravans and roadworks. Arriving in
Plymouth around noon, he booked into the only available room at a Travelodge near the city centre.

Flattened during the Second World War, Plymouth had been rebuilt with little sympathy, Tallis thought, walking up the broad road that swept up to The Hoe and gave a brilliant view of Plymouth Sound. In spite of its historic links to Sir Francis Drake and the Pilgrim Fathers, much of the city seemed to have fallen prey to architects and designers who seemed to find concrete alluring. Fortunately, the Barbican, an area around Sutton harbour, had escaped the onslaught of architectural vandalism.

Blisteringly hot, the air distilled with salt and the rowdy caw of seagulls, Tallis was suddenly reminded how hungry he felt. There were any number of small eateries and bistros in the shape of former warehouses around the harbour. Without much thought, Tallis decided on a pub that served fresh crab and lobster. Ordering a pint of Heavitree, he went outside and watched the fishing boats bobbing up and down on water the colour of deep purple. As he listened to the ebb and flow of passing chatter, he became acutely aware that for every second wasted Djorovic was on the run for that little bit longer, that there was an increased risk of some innocent girl falling victim to her obsession.

Within the hour, and vaguely suffering from indigestion, he was back on streets that were higgledy-piggledy, and cobbled underfoot. It was like walking around a
souk
without the guttural backdrop of Arabic, Tallis thought. In fact, he heard no foreign accents at all, only the warm burr of West Country competing with the odd blunt nasal of West Midlands. Most shops were geared to tourists, and sold local art, pottery, bric-a-brac with fishing themes,
gaudy trinkets, home-made pasties, clotted-cream fudge and ices. A design centre with more up-to-the-minute creations vied with the late Robert Lenkiewicz’s now defunct art gallery, both mausoleum and memorial to the great painter’s art.

Avoiding yet another band of holidaymakers, he questioned what the hell he was doing there. Djorovic was hardly going to pop round the corner and slap into him, however much he willed it to happen. His was an absurd idea and it was time to face the horrible truth that his hunch was nothing more than that. Worse, without it leading anywhere, he was finished. He was just debating what to do when his mobile rang. It was Darren.

“Got something for you.”

Tallis had the feeling that Darren was about to become his new best friend.

“Been doing a bit of careful asking around. Turns out your woman’s been sighted.”

Where? How? Had she been arrested? Tallis asked none of these things, simply listened.

“Got a mate who works in Stonehouse, rough end. He was called out to a pub where a stabbing had taken place. Usual procedure: pub closed off and everyone at the bar interviewed.”

“Djorovic was a witness?”

“Not exactly. Just happened to be there. Said she was from Slovenia, on holiday here, staying with a friend.” Darren paused, clearly reading from his notes. “A Kelly Anne Simmons.”

“This Kelly, she was with her?” Tallis asked, hardly daring to hope.

“Yup, bit the worse for wear, I gather. Pissed as a fart, Dean said.”

“And Dean didn’t think to investigate Djorovic’s credentials?”

“To be fair, not exactly uppermost in his mind. What stuck with him was her tattoo.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve got an address for Miss Simmons?”

“Just about to give it to you, my son.”

Tallis took it down, thanked Darren profusely and promised that he owed him big time.

“Don’t talk so soft,” Darren said. “Remember Desert Storm? If you hadn’t come to the rescue, I’d be playing a fucking harp.”

It took him longer than expected. Terrified he’d scratch the Z8’s beautiful bodywork, he spent a lot of time in reverse, making way for caravans and trailers and people who didn’t know how to drive. Some clown had driven down one of the narrow lanes at speed and straight through a tribe of ducks that had somehow lost its way and ended up on the road. Tallis pulled over, helped another driver gather up the remaining ducks and shoo them into a field and safety. Afterwards, he swiftly dispatched the dying.

By the time he found a free slot in the car park at the top of town, parked and walked down the road towards a street market, traders were already packing up, though it was still quite busy. A dark-skinned man selling rolls of brightly coloured fabric flashed him a gold-toothed smile. He had an impressive leopard-print pattern tattooed onto his head.

Stepping into a lane littered with people, Tallis was immediately struck by the alternativeness of Totnes, mostly in the way the inhabitants dressed. It was as if
he’d gone back in time to the hippie generation, except these folk appeared more grounded; there was a lot of talk of organic food and drink, bartering goods in return for favours.

Armed with the address, he walked into the nearest shop, a greengrocer, and asked for directions.

“Walk down the hill and there’s a turning to your left, about halfway down, leads you into a courtyard with a café. Go past there, past the supermarket, out the other side and you’ll find a row of houses tucked away in a cul-de-sac. Kelly’s ma lives in the double-fronted last but one from the end, number five.”

Tallis thanked him and walked on. His initial impression of the town was further confirmed by his journey down the high street. Shops on dark arts and crystals, mystic therapies and homeopathy cuddled up to organic greengrocers and second-hand bookshops, and places selling hippie kitsch. The faintest whiff of aromatic oil and cannabis mingled with sea air. Half the population must be stoned, Tallis thought.

Number five was exactly as described, handsome, tended, everything in its place, except Tallis thought, glancing to the left, the green aspect as it was known in firearms speak, something wasn’t quite right.

He went up the short gravelled path and knocked at the door. If Djorovic was there, he was going to come up with an excuse about getting lost while delivering goods in the area then turn her in. If she wasn’t, he intended to find out where he could locate her. He knocked again, took a step back, looked briefly up at a bedroom window.

“Help you?”

Tallis turned. A thin, reedy-faced man was standing over the other side of a small picket fence in the next-door
front garden. Tallis walked over. “Looking for Kelly or Kelly’s mum. They in?”

“Kelly’s mum isn’t—on holiday in Ibiza. Not sure where Kelly is. Got a friend staying with her, foreign woman. Some talk about them going to the music festival in Salcombe, last I heard.”

“Right, thanks.”

“Take a message for her?”

“No worries. I’ll maybe call back later.”

Tallis made to go, moving slowly, waiting for the sound of the neighbour’s retreat, the slam of the front door. Alone again, he went back up the path, noiselessly, followed it round the side of the house to where the garden gate had been let open. The bolt, he’d already noticed from when he’d first observed the property, hadn’t been shot.

Glancing behind him, making sure he was unseen, he walked inside and across a minimalist area of coloured gravel and tropical-looking plants and into a walled garden with vines and fig trees and bamboo, each small section broken up by statues, an ornamental waterfall, a table with two chairs and a brick-built barbeque. It seemed as if a great deal of thought and love had been lavished on it, Tallis thought, glimpsing an old swinging garden seat. Like one his mum had, it had metal supports with a candy-stripe canopy, and tasselled side panels to enclose and protect anyone seated inside from too much sun. It was set in an arbour near the boundary wall.

Tallis entered the cool swathe of green, the enveloping darkness, hearing the buzz of insects, and stopped. Something was wrong, badly out of place. Heart bumping in his chest, all his senses alert, he dropped his gaze, saw where the grass was roughly flattened and bent, the
ground disturbed. A light warm breeze picked up, travelling through the tunnel of green, rocking the covered garden seat. Next, he saw blood.

He knew before he saw. Wasn’t mind-reading, wasn’t sixth sense or instinct, or clairvoyance. As he began to unzip the awning, experience confirmed that inside was a body.

He looked down. No gasp, no muted cry, only pity and fury.

The girl was on her back, eyes half-open, chest a mess of stab wounds, some deeper than others. The weapon, a vicious-looking barbeque fork, was impaled in the swell of her stomach. Jesus, Tallis thought, feeling faintly sick. Not just one victim, two. In no doubt that the dead girl was Kelly Simmons, he wondered how long she’d been there, wondered if he could have moved sooner … Perhaps if he hadn’t rested that weekend, hadn’t trolleyed about the countryside, consumed that pint …

Now what? Tallis thought. Ought to report it to the police but, fuck, I’m not supposed to be here, double fuck, I’ve been seen by the bloke next door, and my dabs and footprints are all over the crime scene. Pulling out his phone, he contacted Cavall, explaining the situation.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she cursed. Tallis said nothing, wondering if her ire was for him or the situation. Certain police departments viewed firearms officers as thugs without brains. Was Cavall thinking the same? He waited for her to calm down, which she did in less than a heartbeat. “Move out of there. Find Djorovic.”