The Last Exile (20 page)

He got up, went into the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of Scotch from the cupboard under the sink, found it virtually empty. Cursing, he grabbed his keys, walked to the off-licence, the sun like a blowtorch upon his back. On his return, he thought how only weeks ago he’d taken his existence for granted. It hadn’t been great. He’d felt unfulfilled personally and professionally, but he’d got by. And now …

There looked like some kind of scuffle up ahead, three white youths swinging punches at a foreign-looking lad, no more than fifteen or sixteen by the look of him. The lad had both hands up in a defensive gesture, trying to reason with them, his shoulders bowed with fear, but mindless violence was what the blunt-heads wanted. Everything about them, from the pale snarl on their faces, the erratic eye movement to the way they moved, jerking
around the pavement, circling the boy, confirmed Tallis’s worst suspicions: they were looking for prey.

Tallis called out, but his shout was lost in a sudden clamour of fists and kicks. The lad went down heavily onto the pavement to whoops of delight by his tormentors. As the boots went in, Tallis dumped the Scotch in the hedge and ran, charging the biggest and most aggressive of the trio, sending him flying into a telegraph pole. For good measure, he picked him up by the collar of his shirt and threw his head back against the solid wood, knocking him unconscious, then turned and started on the others. As one lad came straight towards him, Tallis parried with his left hand and threw a right hook with his other, connecting with the youth’s leaden jaw, pole-axing him. The third lout, a thin stick of a guy with greasy long hair and bent features, was continuing to scream abuse at the youngster on the pavement, calling him a Paki, vicious toecaps connecting with the victim’s groin.

Tallis felt a red mist of anger descend. Grabbing hold of the youth by his hair, he forced him to his knees, and bumped him along the pavement. “You’re a fucking moron, know that?” Tallis yelled at him, dragging him back and forcing him close enough to see his victim without giving him the chance to hit him. “Now say you’re sorry.”

“Fuck off,” the youth spat.

Tallis changed position, grabbed the guy’s arm, pushing it back, straight, making him howl. “Say sorry.”

The lad gasped.

“
Say
it.” More bend, more snap.

“Sorry,” the lad screamed.

“Louder.”

“Sorry.”

“Better,” Tallis snarled, letting him go. Tallis wondered, as the stringy-looking youth took to his heels, hugging his injured arm, if it was mere coincidence that the number on the back of his shirt was 35, or whether it spoke of a secret allegiance to Fortress 35.

He went over to the lad on the ground, helped him to his feet. He was clearly in pain, looking shocked and shaken, but no lasting damage seemed to have been inflicted. “Are you all right?”

“Si, si. Gracias, signor.”

Tallis smiled, responded to him in Spanish, asked his name.

“Jose.”

“And what are you doing here, Jose? where are you staying?”

“I am on holiday with my family. My uncle has a house nearby. He lives there.”

“Come, I’ll take you back,” Tallis said.

“It’s no problem.”

But Tallis insisted. After retrieving his bottle of whisky, he saw the youth to his door. He left before he was invited in and treated like a conquering hero.

Back home again, he pulled out a pad and pen, considered pouring out a large tumbler of whisky, but settled for a pot of tea instead. It wouldn’t have the same kick but it would keep him alert and on the straight and narrow. He began to read the latest file. It concerned one Rasu Barzani, an Iraqi Kurd who’d fled his homeland in the 1990s, at the same time as the Balkans had been engulfed in one of the bloodiest conflicts in modern Europe. Tallis gave a self-deprecating smile. Serving in the British army
with the Staffordshires at the time, and feeling a familial pull, he’d hoped to be posted there.

Instead, he’d been sent out to liberate Kuwait as part of Operation Desert Storm. The conditions had been horrendous—one hundred degrees, weighed down by webbing, weapons, Kevlar and ammo, respirator and biological suit at the ready. He instantly recalled the filth, the taste of dry sand in the mouth, the smell of burning oil, eyes stinging. He also remembered sweating with fear, terrified by the very real prospect of chemical or biological attack in addition to the more straightforward, if no less deadly, threat of being cut down by machine-gun fire. He’d been scared, if he was honest, not so much that he might be killed but that he would have to kill. How would it feel to take another man’s life, to see the fear and desperation in his eyes? The older, experienced soldiers assured him that anxiety was part of the deal, a good thing, a safety valve. Those who professed not to give a fuck were madmen. Sadly, Matt, Finn’s brother, had been one of them. Tallis sighed, took a swig of tea and returned to the file.

Via a main transit route for asylum-seekers, Barzani had apparently been smuggled out by Turks on a boat heading for France, from where he’d continued his journey into the United Kingdom by lorry via the Channel. Since Barzani spoke little English, how he’d fetched up in Birmingham was a mystery. Tallis made a note on the pad and pulled out Barzani’s mug shot. The last exile, Tallis thought, staring into the man’s sad eyes. He had a wide forehead, high pointed cheekbones, bridge of his nose straight, unbroken, skin slightly pitted. Couldn’t call him a handsome man, Tallis thought, yet there was something deeply compelling about him. His
was a face you couldn’t easily turn away from. The dark, liquid eyes seemed to hold histories of painful secrets. Tallis returned to the main file.

Barzani had found employment as a paint sprayer in the body shop of a garage and haulage firm in Smethwick owned by a Mr Len Jackson. Nasty occupation, Tallis thought, especially if Barzani didn’t have all the right protective kit. Poor bastard must have thought he was back home and being gassed again by Saddam Hussein. According to the prosecution, when Barzani’s boss found out that he was living in the UK illegally, he went round to Barzani’s bedsit in Oldbury, some miles away, and threatened to turn him in to the authorities. Tallis wrote another note.
Surely the guy knew about his illegal status from the off?
He read on. A row ensued between employer and employee. Tallis checked the time noted in the report. It said nine-thirty in the evening. Jackson left ten minutes later to go back to the garage. Barzani panicked, followed his boss, planning to persuade him to change his mind with the help of an iron bar, a popular weapon used by Turkish and Kurdish criminals with Mafia-style connections. A fight broke out and Barzani smashed the guy’s head in.

Taking another drink of tea and putting the mug to one side, Tallis pulled out the crime-scene shots, which were horrific. Walls and ceiling were coated with blood spatter and viscera. From the mess of overlapping footwear impressions, it was clear that a ferocious struggle had taken place.

Interestingly, Tallis noted, returning to the file, at first Barzani was deemed too violent to interview. Taken to a police cell, he was left to cool off while a full risk assessment was carried out to see whether it was safe for a
doctor to talk to him via an interpreter. Six hours were lost. Eventually, Barzani was seen and interviewed but was later sectioned under the Mental Health Act and sent to a secure unit. Tallis made a further note.
What was wrong with Barzani?
He knew that in instances like this embassies sometimes got involved. The Home Office had agreements with certain states regarding crimes committed by foreign nationals with mental health problems, but Tallis guessed that Barzani, probably because of his refugee status, had fallen through the net.

Whether Barzani was given any form of medication wasn’t clear, but eighteen months later he was considered fit enough to stand trial at Birmingham Crown Court, where he was sentenced to twelve years, serving his time at Winson Green Prison. Tallis made a note to try and talk to someone in the welfare department. Throughout the trial Barzani maintained his innocence. He admitted that he’d argued with his boss but over his working conditions not his illegal status. Apparently, Barzani had been injured a couple of weeks before and had broken some ribs in an accident at work, for which he blamed Jackson. Further, Barzani maintained that his boss had attacked him, cuffing him round the head, giving him a bloody nose, treating him like a dog, he said. Barzani agreed that he had defended himself but denied ever leaving the bedsit, maintaining he’d been nowhere near the garage when the killing had taken place. Unfortunately, he had no alibi.

Turning the pages, Tallis cut back to the interview notes. Even making allowances for the cold-blooded nature of a black-and-white transcript, the line of questioning came across as positively medieval. It appeared that even very basic procedure had been thrown out of a very high window. Recorded times of the interview beginning
and ending looked as though they had been scrawled in as a hasty after-measure, and the fundamental rule of allowing a detainee continuous eight hours’ rest during any twenty-four-hour period simply hadn’t taken place. It pointed to a gross failure in duty of care. That it should happen to a man who spoke no English and had a history of mental problems was unforgivable.

It got worse. Barzani was linked in time and place to the murder scene and indeed had sustained a minor injury during the row, yet a conviction could not be secured simply because the suspect’s blood had been found at the scene. Moreoever, there was no record of Barzani ever boarding a bus from Oldbury to Smethwick, or getting a taxi, and no weapon was ever found. And, Tallis thought, nobody seemed to have considered the fact that Barzani’s overalls and clothing were clean when they should have been soaked in blood.
Forensics
, he scrawled, thinking of Belle, feeling that old, familiar tug on his heartstrings.

Tallis spooled back the pages, skimming over the text. A cleaner was first on the scene and made the grim discovery. Police were called, family informed. Jace Jackson, the son, identified the body of his father. Tallis sat back. Nobody at the Jackson household seemed to register that Len Jackson was missing. Why not? Did it point to sticky relations between husband and wife, or a simple oversight, misunderstanding? He went back to the file, his retinas almost detaching as he caught sight of a name buried in among the rest. Blinking in disbelief, he read it again, feeling the blood congeal in his veins. The first police officer on the scene of the killing was none other than a young constable: P.C. Daniel Tallis.

T
ALLIS
went for a run. He’d read the entire contents of the file twice. Could be coincidence, but he was starting to get a very queasy feeling about his elder brother. The more he thought about the fraternal connection, the worse it became until in the end he just gave himself up to pounding the pavement, anything to drum out the questions circling in his head. Sweat pouring off him, he ran back home and took a long shower, dressed and went through the motions of preparing something to eat, which wasn’t easy when he hadn’t visited a supermarket for a bit. Working on the premise that an army didn’t march well on an empty stomach, he fell back on an old standby and knocked up a passable pasta sauce, adding some chopped bacon and half a tin of mushrooms, combining this with a pan of well-cooked Fusilli—he detested the fashion for eating pasta al dente.

A further rummage yielded a bottle of wine he’d bought for a party and somehow managed to leave behind. Wine wasn’t the same as whisky, he told himself, and a little might do him some good, steady his nerves. One glass later, he realised that certain wines were for pleasure, others for getting hammered. At a blowsy
fourteen and a half per cent, this one fell into the latter category. He put the cork back in, paced the sitting room, sat down, switched on the television, watched half of one soap, switched to another, considered the possible merit of an
X Factor
for stand-up comedians and caught the ten o’clock news. Two black guys had been beaten up and knifed in a Nottingham park by a gang of Asian thugs. More doom and gloom. Switching off the TV, he picked up his mobile and stared at it. He knew she’d be up, knew she’d be there, knew that she’d let voice mail take the call just like she always did, except this time he didn’t want only to hear her voice. This time he needed her.

Taking a breath, he punched in Belle’s landline number. It rang three times. He was waiting for the message service to kick in. It didn’t. It kept on ringing. Puzzled, he hung up and called again. Same result. No matter, he thought, punching in her mobile number. This time it didn’t even connect. Rattled, he picked up his car keys, walked outside. Breath caught in the fading light, he got into his car and drove to the house Belle had once shared with his brother.

He’d never liked Victorian properties, semi or detached. There was something too austere about them, he thought, drumming his fingers on the steering-wheel, wondering what sort of reception he’d get. He glanced at his watch for a second time. It was approaching eleven.

Lights were still on downstairs. He could hear the faint sound of classical music drifting through an upstairs window. Strange, he thought. Didn’t know Belle was a classical music fan. So much he guessed he didn’t really know about her. He looked at his watch again. Thirty seconds had passed. This was ridiculous, he thought. He
felt more nervous now than he’d ever felt before attending a firearms incident.

He got out of the car, locked it, walked the short distance to the house and rapped on the door. His hands were sweating. The sound of heavy footsteps rang hollow in the hall. The door swung open and a middle-aged man with thick black spectacles stared at him with a quizzical expression.

“Belle in?” Tallis said, wondering who the hell he was.

“Belle?”

“Belle Tallis. She lives here.”

The man’s face suddenly brightened. “Oh, Mrs Tallis. Not any more. Moved two weeks ago.”

“Any idea where to?” Tallis said, feeling as though someone had punched him in the stomach.

“Well, I’m not sure whether …”

“Police,” Tallis smiled, taking his wallet from his jacket and flashing it, hoping to God the man didn’t ask to examine his credentials.

“Right,” the man said, nodding his head slowly, digesting the latest piece of information with great seriousness. “Hold on a second.” He disappeared, leaving Tallis nervously on the doorstep. The music dipped in volume, replaced by the sound of low male voices. Had a woman answered the door, Tallis doubted he could have pulled it off. Women were more suspicious than men. They thought in terms of stalker, ex-husband, serial killer. The man with the spectacles returned, followed by a younger guy dressed in a smart suit. “There you go,” he said, handing Tallis a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.

“Serious, is it?” the young man said shamelessly fishing. He was coarse-featured and his voice had a suggestive quality.

“Nah. Need her to help us with some enquiries,” Tallis smiled, pocketing the note, thanking them, moving quickly down the steps and away.

He drove towards the city centre with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Why hadn’t Belle let him know? Why had she cut all ties? Christ, all the time he’d been thinking of her being there, she’d been somewhere else. All crap, he thought sternly. Why should she let him know? Why wouldn’t she cut all ties? That’s what they’d agreed. He was behaving like a sentimental schoolboy.

He turned off Broad Street and into Gas Street, parking the car outside the Tap and Spile, an old pub with waterside views of the canal. Royal Mailbox, the note said, a B1 address. Certainly a step up in the world, Tallis considered, walking back up the street and into the wide entrance of a newly built development of apartments lit up like a Christmas tree. He’d always fancied a place like that—modern, with style, appliances new and fully functional. Worlds apart from his decrepit bungalow. Passing the gates to the underground car park, he drew the collar of his jacket up. The night was clear and it wasn’t particularly cold, yet he felt a chill as though a light inside his heart had fused.

The apartments had a concierge service. A big black guy was sitting at a desk that stretched from one wall to another. He was reading a magazine and eating a sandwich. On seeing Tallis, he bundled both away, wiped his mouth with a paw of a hand and nodded. This was the provider of eyes and ears, Tallis thought, rather than security. Probably there to log people’s comings and goings, take the odd delivery. Even so, he was worth getting onside.

“Come to visit 313.”

“She expecting you?” The man beamed, unaware that in one simple question he’d given away the sex of the occupant.

“Yes,” Tallis said. If he said no, he’d raise the man’s suspicions. Just hoped to God Belle played along. Hell of a long shot.

The man waved him through. Tallis walked up the slight incline and came to a set of electronic gates. On the wall was an entry system not dissimilar to the one he’d advised Max to install. It had an infrared camera enabling the occupant to view all visitors. Underneath was a panel of numbers with a search name and call facility. Taking a deep breath, Tallis punched in the number and pressed the call button. There was a small pause then the sound of Belle’s low voice.

“Hello?”

“Belle, it’s me, Paul.”

“Paul?” she said, astounded.

“I need to see you.”

“But we had an agreement.”

Tallis felt his blood pressure rise. Please, he prayed, don’t blow me out. “I know. I’m not doing this lightly. I wouldn’t have come but this is really important. I need your help, Belle.”

“But—”

“Please. I’m in trouble.” He waited for what seemed like minutes. A motorbike roared down a road nearby. The sound of summer evening revellers punctuated the warm night air.

“All right,” she said, buzzing him through. “Second door to the left across the courtyard.”

Tallis let out a breath, thanked her and went inside, following
her instructions. On his approach, the door clicked open, allowing him in. Impressive security, he thought, taking the lift. He wondered if Belle had deliberately chosen it, if she feared that one day Dan would come back and give her a hiding.

The apartment was directly opposite the lift. To his surprise, the door was open. It led into a small hall with a large chrome mirror on the back wall, the entry phone with visual display to his left. His was given the impression of complete white-out—white walls, white furnishings, pale, bleached wood.

There were two doors on each side, the one furthest away on the left revealing an extremely feminine bedroom, all crisp linen, Belle’s red stilettos keeled over on carpet so thick he felt guilty for not removing his shoes. Opening the second door to his right, he entered a large open-plan living and dining area, ultra-modern kitchen, with glass-topped dining table and two chairs, Venetian in style. The sofas were squashy leather, caramel-coloured. Stairs led down to another level, which he presumed was a second bedroom or study. Like a man with a burning thirst, he took it all in—prints on the wall, low lights, everything in muted soothing shades.

Belle had her back to him. She was looking out of a window facing the courtyard. From the set of her shoulders, he could tell that her arms were tightly folded. He sensed her anger.

His shoes were noiseless as he crossed the floor. Belle didn’t turn, made no motion. She was wearing a bright white shirt and pale denims brilliantly cut to accentuate her tightly formed rear. An image of her naked and him fucking her flashed through his mind. The closer he came, the more her perfume scented the air. The night felt electric. The
sight of her dark hair cascading down her back made him shiver. Closer now, he thought, feeling a familiar thrust of desire, one more pace and he could touch her, put his arms around …

“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, whirling round, dark-chocolate eyes flashing. “We had an agreement. We made promises.”

She looked angry and sounded desperate, yet she was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him. Her finely boned face was as exquisite as the day he’d met her over a decade before. Two years older than him, fine lines were just starting to appear at the corners of her eyes. Made her look sexier than ever, if that were possible.

“I know,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t have come but—”

“Paul,” she pleaded. “There can’t be any buts. Why do you think I left no forwarding address?” Her face suddenly fell into a deep frown. “How did you track me down?”

“By stealth and deception.” He smiled.

“You shouldn’t have done,” she said, her mouth a short straight line. “You had no right. You—”

“For God’s sake, Belle, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” she railed. “I’m trying to get my life together and then you come along and—”

“Spoil things?” His voice was shot through with anger. Christ, was it always this exhausting between them? He’d forgotten.

“Typical of you to put words into my mouth.”

“Fuck this. I haven’t come to fight.”

“No, then what have you come for?”

“This,” he said, taking hold of her, his mouth searching hers, feeling her lips resist then open, her tongue
entwine with his, her body firm against his own. The rest was a blur of teeth, skin and lust. Only afterwards when they’d stumbled to the bedroom did he realise that they’d done it in full view of anyone looking across from the other side.

“You look tired, Paul,” Belle said, tenderly tracing his eyelids with her finger. He noticed, as if for the first time, she no longer wore her wedding ring.

“‘Course I’m tired.” He grinned. “I haven’t had sex in over a year.” Not that he hadn’t tried. If he had an undeserved reputation, might as well have a bash at living up to it, he’d thought foolishly. Somehow he hadn’t been able to work up the requisite amount of enthusiasm. Combined with the undesirability of the bungalow as a potential love-nest, it had left him shamefaced on more than one occasion. He couldn’t quite admit that making love was more than just sex. That if it wasn’t with Belle he wasn’t interested. Sounded too much like angst.

“That all you wanted?” Her eyes were smiling.

“If I say yes, you’ll be offended. If I say no, you won’t believe me.”

She let out a laugh. Her eyes sparkled, lighting up her face. “How like you to cover all the options.”

“How like you to ask all the questions.” He grinned again.

“I’m a scientist, remember.”

He let his hand rest comfortably on her slim waist.

“Ah,” she said shrewdly. “You’re after my professional services.”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to sleep with me.”

“You complaining?”

She brushed his lips with her own. “No.”

He squeezed her flank. A look of concern flashed over her features. “You said you were in trouble.”

“Remember when Dan first joined the police, did he ever discuss the case of an Iraqi guy called Barzani?”

“God, you’re going back a long way.”

“Barzani worked for a bloke running a garage in Smethwick.”

Belle shook her head. “Not that I remember.”

“One night, Barzani beat his boss’s brains in with an iron bar.”

Belle frowned. “Why the interest?”

“Curiosity.”

Belle poked his ribs with her elbow. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

He grinned. She always knew when he was lying. “Seem to be a few anomalies with the case.”

“What sort of anomalies?” she said, jacking herself up onto the pillows, revealing her wonderful breasts. He tried not to get distracted.

“Lack of certain evidence, for starters.”

“Christ, Paul, what are you suggesting?”

“Not suggesting anything.”

“Dan’s a lot of things but he’s not bent.”

Tallis wasn’t so sure. He’d always wondered how Dan and Belle had afforded the house they’d once shared in Moseley even on combined incomes. Park Hill wasn’t exactly a housing estate. You didn’t get much for less than five hundred K. However, it had to be admitted that Dan, as a young PC at the time, wouldn’t have had that much influence. Tallis said the same to Belle.

Belle’s face revealed little. He wondered, however, whether he detected a gleam of relief in her eyes. “So why the doubts?” she said.

Tallis told her. The intelligence in her expression made him feel as if every word he spoke was important. When he’d finished, she asked him again about the overalls.

“There wasn’t a spot of Len Jackson’s blood on them.”

“Impossible. You say he was hit with an iron bar.”

“That was never found.”

“Imagine the impact. You’d have blood and bits of brain and tissue everywhere.”