The Last Exile (28 page)

He looked up at the moss-encrusted tower. The clock said half past midnight. Liz would be asleep. She wasn’t a particularly clever woman but she was compliant, by far the most important characteristic in a spouse. He pulled out his cellphone and called a number.

“John here,” he said. “I think we have a problem.”

T
ALLIS
drove back to Belle’s. She wasn’t happy.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Had something to do.”

“The sort of something where you drink vast quantities of alcohol?” She had a hand on her hip. Her face was tight with anger. “You’re almost combustible. And you’ve been driving.”

“I can explain,” he said, contrite. Had he really had that much to drink?

“It’s Sunday, in case you’ve forgotten. I thought we were going to spend the day together.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“And you switched your phone off.”

“I know.”

“Well?”

Tallis let out a sigh. “It wasn’t pleasure.”

“Don’t tell me.” She let out a cool laugh. “Someone forced your mouth open and poured booze down your throat.”

He stared at her.

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

“It’s nothing. Just something you said, the way you said it.”

“Said what?” She stamped her foot. She only did that when she was really mad, he thought.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Look, I’m knackered and I certainly don’t want to fight. Things are tricky at the moment, but I swear, once I’ve got them sorted, we’ll spend more time together.”

“That’s what you always used to say.”

Was it? he thought. He supposed he must have done.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

He put a hand to his temple. Christ, he was tired. “Remember what?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He shot her an angry look. Why was it that when a woman said it didn’t matter, it did—more than ever?

“Is this connected to the trainers?” she said at last. That was better, he thought. She looked less loopy. He actually had time to notice what she was wearing: a low-cut white shirt over a gypsy-style skirt. Her feet, he noticed were bare, nails blood red.

“Kind of.” He took a step towards her.

“Are you all right, Paul?” she said softly, moving towards him, her anger dissipating then gone.

He nodded. In his imagination, he saw himself sliding his hand under her skirt, running two fingers along the inside of her thigh, feeling them disappear inside her. He put his arms around her, drew her close, felt himself harden under her touch.

This time Belle left him. “Be here when I get home?” she said, dropping a frisky kiss on his forehead.

“Not sure. I’ll phone.”

“All right.” She smiled. “Try and stay out of trouble.”

He turned over, buried his face in her pillow, inhaling Belle’s perfume, her skin, trying to block out the events of the day before. Finn would suggest he turned himself in, spill his guts to the Home Office, but what he had to tell them would seem so preposterous to the grey men in suits, either they wouldn’t take him seriously or they’d arrest him for murder. Whatever he did, he bet Cavall had her tracks concealed. Barzani was his only bargaining chip. He couldn’t deliver him, would never deliver him.

Glumly, stepping out of bed, he wondered when Cavall’s dispatch team would come calling, how long he had to spend looking over his shoulder.

He took a shower, dressed, foraged for something to eat in Belle’s refrigerator, finding the healthy options contained in it too damned healthy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a pot of yogurt masquerading as a breakfast choice. He was just pouring out some juice, orange with mango, when his mobile phone rang. It was Finn.

“Astrid Stoker,” Finn announced.

“You’ve found her?”

“Yup, but you won’t like it.”

“Try me.”

“She was badly beaten up on Saturday night by an unknown attacker. She’s currently in Heartlands Hospital.”

Tallis closed his eyes. This was his fault. That little shit, Jackson, he flared inside. “Hello, Paul. You still there?”

“Yes. Is it serious?”

“Broken arm, smashed-in face.”

Tallis groaned inside.

“Any other developments?” Finn said.

He hesitated. “No.”

“Everything OK?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-huh?” Tallis said cautiously.

“Isn’t this a matter for the security service? Defence of the realm and all that?”

“Probably.”

“Can’t you go to someone there?”

“I don’t know.” For once, he was speaking the truth.

Tallis had often seen women with their faces mashed, Belle no exception, he thought with a shiver, but Astrid Stoker’s still managed to shock. With her grotesquely swollen features, the crisscross of stitches in her cheek and chin, it was impossible to tell whether the woman had been pretty before her facial injuries or not. Her right arm, encased in a cast, lay like a dead elephant’s leg on the bed. Passing himself off as a friend, he was warned by a harassed-looking nurse, who seemed far too young to be running a ward, that Miss Stoker was still a little woozy from the painkillers.

Tallis drew up a chair next to the bed. “Astrid,” he said softly.

The woman inclined her head. “I know you?” she croaked.

“No.”

The woman’s entire face and body visibly froze.

“It’s all right. I’m not here to hurt you. I’ve come to talk about what happened.”

“Police again,” she hissed. “Already told you I fell down the stairs.”

“No, not that,” he said. “About what happened fourteen years ago.”

Blood drained from her cheeks. Cursing, she started to fumble for the switch to ring for a nurse, but was too incapacitated to reach it.

“I’m not here to make trouble for you,” Tallis insisted.

“Sure,” she said, caustic.

“I mean it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I do. Did Jace do this to you?”

“No, I told you,” she said, a mutinous look in her eye. “I fell.”

Feeling a pair of eyes bore into his back, Tallis turned, caught the eye of an old man watching them, a suspicious expression on his lined face. Tallis smiled and turned back to Astrid. “You sure?”

“Yes,” she snapped.

“Fair enough,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him as if he was making a morning of it.

She looked at him again. “That it?”

“Guess so,” Tallis said, without moving a muscle.

“Then fuck off.”

Tallis broke into a smile. “How old are you, Astrid?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’d say you’re about thirty-three.”

“Thirty-one,” she countered.

“Know anything about alibis?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “An alibi is when someone vouches for you being in one place at a certain time. If that person says you’re in one place at a certain time when, in fact, that person is somewhere else, that’s not an alibi. It’s a lie. And you can be sent to prison for it.

“Now, having met Mr Jackson, I understand your reluctance to tell the truth, particularly as you were only an impressionable seventeen-year-old at the time. But
Jackson was no more with you and his mother that night than I’m a finalist in
Strictly Come Dancing
.

“On Saturday I rattled Jackson junior’s cage. He responded by throwing out the only piece of evidence linking him to the scene—his trainers—which I now have in my possession. Once they’ve been analysed, I have absolute confidence that we’ll nail him for the murder of his dear old dad. So, you see, Astrid, whether you continue to lie to me or not doesn’t make much difference. We’ll still get our man.”

“Wasn’t him,” she muttered.

“Whatever you say.”

“No, really wasn’t him.” She was murmuring so low Tallis had to strain to hear. He leant towards her, looked into her bloodshot eyes. She wasn’t lying any more.

“One of his goons?”

“Dunno.”

“You get a look?”

“He was wearing a mask.”

Then how do you know it wasn’t Jace? Tallis thought. “All right, you’re doing well,” he said, gently patting her hand. “How tall was he?”

“Same height as you, maybe a little taller, bigger build.”

“Voice?”

“Sorry, not much good at voices.”

“Sound like you?”

“No.”

Not a Midlander, then. “From the north?”

“Maybe, more north than south, I suppose.”

Narrows it down a treat, Tallis thought. “Nothing else distinctive about him?”

“Sorry.”

“Never mind,” Tallis said, standing up.

“Wait,” she said. “This won’t go any further, will it?”

“Not if you don’t want it to.”

“I won’t have to make a statement or nothing?”

“Couldn’t be further from my mind.” Tallis smiled.

The call from Cavall came as he was leaving the hospital. “Why am I not surprised to hear from you?”

“I don’t have time for sarcasm,” Cavall sniped back.

“And I don’t have time for you.”

“We need to talk.”

“Do we? I thought we did enough talking yesterday.”

“Things have changed since yesterday.”

“What things?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.”

“Tell me now.”

“Thought we could meet somewhere discreet,” she said, ignoring him.

“I’m not stupid,” he burst out.

“I don’t doubt that,” she said, cool.

Silence. He could feel a nerve spasm in his face. Calm down, he told himself. “If I meet you, it has to be somewhere public.” Less chance of being shot, or having my throat cut, he thought.

More silence. “All right,” she said at last. “The bandstand, Calthorpe Park, three o’clock this afternoon.”

Tallis looked at his watch: eighteen minutes past eleven. She must be joking—give her far too much time to have the place staked out. “I’ve got a better idea. In fact, it’s the perfect place, somewhere you’ll feel right at home.”

“Where?” she said tetchily.

He smiled. More used to calling the shots, aren’t you, darling? he thought. “The cosmetic department of the
House of Fraser. Meet me by the Lancome concession.” Belle liked the cosmetics and it was the only place he could think of.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Take it, or leave it,” he said, hanging up.

It had been many years since Tallis had seen Terry Hyam. A former firearms instructor, Hyam had fallen foul of the law and spent several years in prison on a corruption charge. Since his release, it was well known that Hyam had set up his own little business in the basement of a former factory in Wolverhampton, renting it out to those who wanted to test out their firing skills, no questions asked. It was also reputed that if you wanted a gun, Hyam could source one.

“Mr Tallis.” Hyam smiled, opening the door to his neat backstreet semi. Having driven through a collection of housing estates more akin to shantytowns, Tallis thought Hyam’s home positively wholesome by comparison. There remained, however, the lingering stench of hops from Banks, the local brewery, percolating under the heat of a ferocious sun. “Heard on the grapevine you’d left the force,” Hyam said, inviting Tallis inside. A thin, wiry guy with a salt-and-pepper moustache and big, spaniel-like eyes, which lent him a benign appearance that was misleading, Hyam didn’t look too bad after his spell in prison. Older certainly, but he hadn’t lost any of his spark. Tallis put it down to the fact that, underneath the soft exterior, Hyam was as hard as rock. “Denise,” Hyam shouted up the stairs. “Give us a moment, would you, love? Got a mate wants to do a bit of business.”

“You going to be long?” Denise called back.

“About the same time it takes you to slap on your
make-up.” Hyam winked at Tallis. “Just bought us a couple of hours.”

Tallis was shown into a freshly decorated kitchen. Spotlessly clean and tidy, the cupboards and drawers were hand-painted in cream and blue, the flooring expensive. “Nice, isn’t it?” Hyam said proudly. “Did it all myself. Drawers are brilliant,” he said, opening one and letting it slide gently shut. “See, no noise.” He gave Tallis a shrewd smile. “Don’t suppose you came to appreciate my DIY skills. What can I do for you?”

Tallis cleared his throat. Never in a million years had he thought he’d be looking up an old associate—an old
disgraced
associate, he reminded himself—to make such a grave request. “I need a gun.”

Hyam pinched one end of his moustache. “What for?”

Tallis smiled. “You usually ask your clients that question?”

“You’re not your average client.”

“I’m not planning a bank raid, if that’s what you mean.”

“Protection?”

“Let’s put it like this. If I’m pushed into a corner, I want to be able to look after myself.” Who was he kidding? Tallis thought. The best he could hope for if things cut up rough was to bag a companion to take with him en route to the pearly gates.

“Got anything in particular in mind?” Hyam said.

“Something light, portable that won’t leave shell casings all over the place. Maybe a. 38? Depends what you can get hold of.”

“What about a Colt, Detective Special?”

A powerful revolver designed specifically for the police in the States. “You can get hold of one?” Tallis said, amazed.

Hyam smiled, reached for his keys, signalling to Tallis to follow him. “Just popping out for an hour,” Hyam called up the stairs.

“Well, don’t be long. I want to go shopping later,” came back the prickly reply.

They went in Hyam’s car.

“When was the last time you fired a gun?” Hyam said, thin fingers pulling on the chunky steering-wheel, the car nipping through side streets with agile speed.

“Over a year ago,” he lied. He wasn’t going to admit that in the past few weeks he’d killed a man, even if it had been in self-defence.

“You’ll no doubt want some practice.”

Tallis nodded. The thought had already occurred to him. He glanced at his watch: plenty of time to hone his skills.

Hyam drove to an even less attractive part of town and pulled up outside a red-brick building with large, ugly windows. A vent at the side belched out steam. A sign on the wall said LAWSONS, PRINTERS. Hyam beckoned for Tallis to follow. As they stepped inside, the noise of Heidleberg presses going at full belt was deafening.

“Going downstairs,” Hyam bellowed to a large bloke with small silver-rimmed spectacles and hair that stuck out at angles like that of a mad scientist. The guy nodded with a thumbs-up gesture.

“This way,” Hyam shouted in Tallis’s ear, pointing towards a door. Hyam unlocked it and led the way, switching on the lights as they descended via a wooden flight of steps into the basement.