The Last Exile (24 page)

“How appropriate,” Tallis said drily. “Where?”

“A meeting room over a pub in Axe Street.”

“Gets better. When?”

“Sunday morning.”

Tallis pulled a face. “Odd time for a meeting.”

“Imbues it with a religious flavour, I guess.” Finn’s face was engulfed by sudden worry. “You’re not thinking of going?”

“Straight into enemy territory? Shouldn’t think so.”

Finn threw him a disbelieving look. “There must be someone you can turn to?”

“The police?” Tallis’s laugh was bitter. “Have to hand it to her, Cavall picked the right guy when she came to me. Remember all that stuff in the newspapers about being trigger happy, about us being racist pigs? I fit the profile brilliantly.”

Finn looked pained. “Anything I can do?”

“Done enough already.” Tallis flicked a smile.

“Sure?”

Tallis let out a sigh. “You could check out the whereabouts of a woman called Astrid Stoker. Fourteen years
ago she used to go out with the garage owner’s son, name of Jace Jackson.”

“Same garage owner who wound up with his head smashed in?”

“Yup. Astrid gave Jackson Junior an alibi for the night.”

“Gotcha. Could be tricky. Might have got married.”

“Thought you were good with names. You managed to trace Cavall.”

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Finn said, draining his drink. “What are you going to do?”

“Only one thing I can: stop it before they kill anyone else.”

H
E
DIDN’T return to Belle’s that night. He should have done, wanted to, but something in his psyche made him hold back. Everyone he touched and came into contact with these days seemed to wind up dead.

On his way home, he popped into one of the charity shops and bought a navy and tan baseball cap. As soon as he reached the bungalow, he checked for signs of intruders: none. Checked for electronic listening devices: none. After a thrown-together supper of bacon and tinned tomatoes, he played CDs, early Oasis, attempting to loosen his thinking without the lubricant of alcohol. So what had he got? Cavall working in partnership with Darius, her old mentor, who had links to Fortress 35. Cavall must have gone to Darius and leaked the Home Office policy. Perhaps she’d even been instrumental in setting the policy in motion. Either way, it didn’t matter. Somehow the real immigration officers had been intercepted and agents from Fortress 35, Bill and Ben as he so fondly thought of them, had infiltrated.

His mind returned to the night of the Djorovic handover. He remembered the popping sound of gunshot, the flash of fire and subsequent explosion. He remembered
Bill and Ben’s blank looks when he’d mentioned the baby. They hadn’t known anything about it. He scratched his head. But surely Cavall would have told them about the child when she’d given them the order to pick up Djorovic? Unless, Tallis thought, there was no direct line between Cavall and the pick-up team. Maybe she communicated via Darius or, more likely, simply tipped Darius off once she’d made the call to the real immigration officers and then Darius tipped off whoever at Fortress 35. So, there was a two-way traffic system with Darius at the centre, Darius the educated man. But Tallis thought, coming full circle, feeling a chill crawl down his spine, what had happened to the real pick-up team, the real immigration officers? And who was the founder of Fortress 35? Was he or she, too, an educated individual, or a different animal altogether? Was the relationship between BFB and Fortress 35 the equivalent of the old relationship between Sinn Fein and the IRA, one the respectable political voice, the other lawless and violent?

Belle didn’t call and he didn’t call her. Turning in at midnight, he spent a restless night in bed and got up the next morning around five. Donning his new headgear, he drove a circuitous route to Saltley, checking in his rear-view mirror for signs of being followed. Around five-forty, he parked the car metres from Viva Constantine’s house. Tipping the seat back, he waited and watched. At seven, heavy drapes from an upstairs room were drawn open. At nine, a Tesco delivery van turned up. Tallis counted the bags, a lot of home shopping for one person, he concluded. At nine-thirty, he watched as Constantine walked out of the house and down the road to wait at a bus stop with several other people. Abandoning his car, Tallis followed, at the last moment sneaking onto the
same bus as Constantine, riding with her until she got off and covered the short distance to Birmingham City Library. While she was inside, he hung around outside, amusing himself by watching the rolling news on a big screen in Chamberlain Square. A temporary kiosk nearby, providing burgers and coffee, kept him fed until lunchtime when the sky darkened and it started to rain. Around a quarter to two, Constantine emerged and crossed the square, walking down the main steps, past the fountain and into a dispensary in New Street. She had an easy gait, unhurried, blissfully unaware of being followed.

Tallis skulked in one of the aisles, ostensibly viewing the selection of shampoos and conditioner, and watched while Constantine handed in a prescription and took a seat alongside two other women. She didn’t look nervous or in the least bit agitated. By the familiar way she was chatting to one of the shop assistants, he guessed she’d been there before.

Several minutes later, a male pharmacist appeared. “Repeat script for Mr Smith,” he said, looking around the dispensary. Constantine stood up. “Two lots of tablets,” the pharmacist explained, “three mills in one, one in the other. Single payment as they’re all one drug,” he instructed the shop assistant so she could charge the right amount. Constantine signed and paid and, collecting the package, walked back to the library. Tallis took up his old position again, hanging around, buying a copy of the
Big Issue
and making small talk with the vendor, both of them sheltering from the wet by standing on the steps of the City Museum and Art Gallery. An hour later, Constantine left the library and caught the return bus to Saltley, Tallis in pursuit. He waited until she had the key in the door and was already turning it before rushing her.

“No,” she cried out, half fear, half protest. He let his gaze rest on the package of drugs in her hand. “It’s not what you think,” she said, trying to push him back out, difficult with Tallis’s tall frame filling the entrance.

“What do I think?” Tallis said pointedly.

She dropped her hands to her side. “I can explain.”

“What is it, warfarin?” he said, snatching at the bag, reading the attached note. “Thought you said he was on a short course, but he wasn’t, was he?”

“Please, leave—now,” she said, eyes flashing to the phone in the hall. “I didn’t invite you in.”

“What are you going to do, call the police?”

She swallowed. “If I have to, yes.” She didn’t sound very confident.

“He’s here, isn’t he?”

“No.”

“You’re lying again.”

“No, I—”

“Look, you’ve nothing to fear.”

“Are you crazy? You barge your way into my home, make demands and tell me I’ve nothing to be afraid of.” She was pale with rage.

“OK,” Tallis said, putting both hands up in a defensive gesture. She glared at him. “Truly, I want to help.”

Constantine shook her head, chewed her lip.

“How long do you think you can live like this?” he said.

“Like what?”

“Sheltering him, providing sanctuary. Isn’t that what your house sign says—The Haven?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You have no idea the danger he’s in.” Or me, he thought grimly.

“You’re lying.”

“No,
you
lied, and if you want me to help you, both of you,” he added with emphasis, “you have to tell me the truth.”

“Nothing to tell.” She flicked a cold, belligerent smile.

The sound of footsteps made both of them turn. A figure stood in the kitchen doorway, dark and lean, the crushed expression on the man’s clean-shaven face one of acute suffering. He reminded Tallis of a tiger he’d once seen in a zoo. The poor thing looked as if it would rather die than live another hour in captivity. “I will co-operate with you,” the man said in English, his sorrowful eyes fastening on Tallis. “And if I have to go back, I’ll go, but, please, Viva is innocent. She has done nothing wrong other than take pity on me.”

Slack-jawed, Constantine looked in desperation and pleaded with him in a language Tallis instantly recognised. “This man is the one I spoke of, Rasu,” she said in Kurdish. “He has come for you. He will take you away, put you in detention, have you deported and then they will kill you. Please, if you think anything of me, flee. You cannot go with him. You cannot trust him.”

“Yes, you can,” Tallis said, extending his hand to Barzani, speaking his language. “I give you my word, Mr Barzani. Believe me, I need your help as much as you need mine.”

“They’ll kill you,” Viva insisted, ignoring Tallis, eyes only for Barzani.

“They?” Tallis said looking from one to the other.

Barzani smiled. “I am a Kurd. My life has been in danger since the day I was conceived.”

“When was the last time you were in Iraq, Mr Tallis?”

“‘Ninety-one” A sudden desperate vision of a canvas-sided
truck, peppered by machine-gun fire, flashed through his mind. The young Iraqi occupants lay mutilated inside. They hadn’t stood a chance. So many hadn’t stood a chance.

“Then you know that you left my people to be crushed.”

“And they’re still being crushed,” Constantine said hotly. “When an Iraqi is kidnapped or abducted, nobody, apart from his family, gives him a thought. When an American or a British soldier goes missing, or an Israeli, you have drones flying over, cities closed down, checkpoints, and war.”

“I was a soldier,” Tallis said. “I didn’t make the policy.”

Barzani nodded gravely. “Is that where you learnt my language?”

“A little.”

“You never said.” Constantine’s voice was lacerating, full of injured pride and fury.

“Look,” Tallis said softly. “I’m sorry for blasting into your home and your life like this, but I’m speaking the truth. I really have been asked to find Rasu.”

“Well, now you’ve found him,” she said, bitter tears in her eyes.

“Who has ordered this?” Barzani said.

“The British Government, or so I thought.”

“Don’t you know?” Constantine said, flashing with anger.

“I’ve come to warn you,” Tallis said. “You need to get out of here, go somewhere safe.”

“This was safe,” Constantine glared at him.

“Why would you want to help a convicted murderer?” Barzani said simply.

“I don’t believe you killed Len Jackson, but that’s
really not the issue. If I hand you over, you’ll be murdered before your foot hits Iraqi soil.”

Barzani narrowed his eyes and gave him a curious look. “Your name is Tallis. Aren’t you the officer who arrested me?”

“His brother.”

“Oh, I get it,” Constantine flared again.

“I’m afraid you don’t,” Tallis said. “Think we could sit down and I’ll explain?”

When he’d finished, both of them stared at him. “As long as I stay alive, you stay alive,” Barzani said slowly.

“Yes. I need time to eliminate the threat.” Christ, Tallis thought, he was reverting to firearms-speak. “To find out who’s behind it.” And what’s really going on, he thought. “Afterwards, I’ll help clear your name.” If there was an afterwards.

“You do not see me as an illegal?” Barzani said.

“I see you as a refugee, my friend.”

“Friend.” Barzani’s face drooped a little. “So long since I had one of those.”

Tallis looked down, embarrassed.

“You say this man, Darius, is connected?” Constantine said.

“Would seem so.”

Constantine looked at Rasu who took and held her hand. She leant into him close. It was a perfect gesture of love between the two of them, Tallis thought. He found it immensely moving. Feisty and difficult, the woman had remained constant. Throughout fourteen years of Barzani’s arrest, committal to trial and prison sentence, she’d never given up on him.

“Is there anywhere you can go?” Tallis said.

“I have an aunt in Kent,” Constantine replied. She was much calmer now, less threatened, he supposed. That, and the fact Barzani had that kind of effect on people.

“Too obvious. Think of somewhere with no connections.”

“Cornwall?”

“No offence, but Rasu will stand out like a sore thumb. Head for a city.”

“Somewhere multi-cultural,” Constantine said, irony in her voice. “What about Glasgow?”

Tallis thought of Stu. If he was a typical example of the inhabitants, he wished them well. “Why not?”

“When should we leave?”

“Tonight.”

“But—”

“I can’t overstate the danger you’re in. It’s quite possible I’m being followed.”

“You said there were others,” Barzani said, looking at Tallis.

“Other foreign nationals,” Tallis said. “Do you think there are any links?”

Barzani shook his head.

“You never met these people?”

“No.”

Damn, Tallis thought, he wanted a different angle to the one he’d come up with.

“Why do you believe I am innocent?” Barzani said.

“Two reasons. If you’ve committed a crime, like entering a country illegally, the last thing you do is draw attention to yourself by committing another.”

“People do,” Constantine pointed out reasonably.

“Yes, but it’s not as common as we’re led to believe,” Tallis said. “Secondly, in every murder inquiry, you have
to look at who stands to gain the most. The answer, in this case, is Jace Jackson.”

“Your brother’s friend?” Barzani said.

Tallis felt as if someone had cauterised a wound on his skin without anaesthetic. “They knew each other?”

“Why, yes.”

Tallis frowned. “No, it’s not possible. Anyway, how do you know?”

“I saw them together.”

“When?”

“Your brother often came to the garage.”

“In uniform?”

“Sometimes, sometimes not.”

“Perhaps he came to have his car fixed?”

“To talk. That’s why I recognised him when he came to my home.”

“You’re absolutely certain? I mean, by your own admission, you spoke little English back then. It would be hard for you to judge, surely?”

Barzani shrugged. “I assumed they were friends. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“And the warfarin?” Tallis said to Constantine, endeavouring to break an ugly train of thought clattering through his brain. “You lied about that, didn’t you?”

She glanced down. “I thought if I told you, admitted that Rasu has a problem with his blood, that you’d never believe me. Thing is, at the time of the murder, Rasu was off the medication.”

“It is the truth,” Rasu said. “It wasn’t until ten months later I went back onto it.”

“While you were at the secure unit?”

“Yes.”

So that’s why the date wasn’t mentioned in the medical
reports from the prison. By the time of the court case and trial, Barzani had already been routinely prescribed the drug. Ron Farrow’s assertion that Barzani had been drug free had simply been a reference to the fact he’d stopped taking medication for his mental health problems. “Did you know there were rats on site?”

Rasu smiled. “Everywhere. English people make a lot of fuss about them. Where I come from they are commonplace.”

“They used rat poison to get rid of them. Warfarin, of course,” Constantine gasped in realisation.

“Contaminating Rasu’s blood sample at the crime scene. Well, that’s the theory. Not sure about the science yet but I’m working on it.” At least, he hoped Belle was. He stood up. “I’d better go.”