The Last Exile (8 page)

But tomorrow would be different, he promised himself. Tomorrow he was going to a pub in Earl’s Court. According to a snippet of conversation gleaned from two unsuspecting Croats rabbiting away on the tube, the place was well known for its eclectic clientele.

S
UNDAY
morning in London, beautifully warm and sunny, with only a few wisps of cloud in a sky panelled with light. Perfect. Resisting the temptation to visit the Imperial War Museum, Tallis decided to meander down the Kings Road, and eventually found himself staring into the branch windows of some very expensive estate agents. Their business cards, he noticed from a display, were printed in both Russian and Arabic. He wondered where the average well-heeled Albanian was buying property these days.

Walking up to Sloane Square, Tallis took a tube to Earl’s Court. By one o’ clock, he was sitting in a ratty-looking pub on the corner of Earls Court Road. Two days without a shave, his clothes slightly rumpled, he blended into the scenery well. The pub was crawling with down-and-outs and those whose dissolute hue suggested that they were recovering from last night’s hangovers. Not easy, Tallis thought, when your head’s throbbing with the blast of sound from Big Screen Sky TV and three pool tables.

Tallis took his drink and sat down at a beer-stained table overrun with last night’s empties. Scouring the
blunt-featured clientele, it wasn’t long before Tallis heard the sound of
hrvatski
, the official language of Croatia, and traced it to two men standing at the bar. They looked to be in their mid to late twenties. Both had shaved heads. Both had flat, slanted cheekbones. One had the triangular physique of a bodybuilder on anabolic steroids. The other was smaller, less pumped up. They were rattling away, joshing one another, excited about something. Tallis pushed his way through to get closer. They were talking about a VAT scam with mobile phones. After five minutes or so the conversation switched to drugs: heroin and amphetamines.

Tallis listened. From the way they were talking it was clear they were small fry, runners for someone else. Tallis wondered who their supplier was. He listened some more but no name emerged.
“Oprosti!”
he said, breaking into the conversation. “Excuse me.” The two men threw him slow, suspicious looks. Keeping his voice low, he asked whether they could supply him with some cocaine for personal use. He was careful to ask only for a small quantity so that he didn’t alert their suspicions. The triangular-shaped guy ignored him. The other issued a flat, ‘
Ne razumijem’
. I don’t understand.

“Come on, guys,” Tallis said persuasively, continuing to speak in their native tongue. “I’m off my own patch. It’s just to keep me going. Blood brothers and all that.”

Triangle shape burst out laughing.

Tallis looked him straight in the eye. “If you can get more, I’ll take it.”

The big guy stopped, stared. His sludgy-coloured eyes were unblinking. “Where are you from?”

“Vukovar.”

Both men exchanged glances. As Tallis already knew,
Vukovar struck an emotional chord in the heart of every Croat. It wasn’t a place readily forgotten. A prosperous pretty little town on the Danube, Vukovar had once been the showcase for baroque architecture. No more. In the early 1990s, it had become a battleground, laid siege to by Serbian forces, a siege in which more than two thousand people had died, many more afterwards, a lot of them buried in mass graves. Tallis had visited once. The weather had been cold and damp and miserable, yet even if the sun had shone, the place would still have felt tainted. He thought of the town as a beautiful woman who’d had the misfortune to catch smallpox. Every street corner was pitted and made ugly by gunshot and mortar. Tallis remembered his grandmother weeping over its destruction.

The triangular-shaped man clapped a thick and meaty arm around Tallis’s shoulders. “Drink, my friend,” he said, ordering brandy. “A pity it isn’t
slijvovica
,” he added, referring to the fierce plum brandy traditionally drunk in Croatian restaurants. “My name is Goran,” the big guy explained. “This is Janko,” he said, indicating his waxy-faced friend.

“Marko Simunic,” Tallis said.

Two hours later, they were all drunk and the best of mates. Goran and Janko were originally from Split. Both had come to the UK at the start of the hostilities in Kosovo in 1999. Lying about their ages, they’d worked as bartenders for a couple of years before getting into a more lucrative line of business. As Tallis had guessed, they were runners for someone else. In return, Tallis told them that he’d been involved in a drug smuggling operation in the South-West. At this, Goran’s flat, almost Slav features twitched into life. “All you need is a fishing boat, a dinghy and some lobster pots.” Tallis laughed. He wasn’t so
drunk that he didn’t know what he was saying. “There are many small beaches, all of them accessible.”

“What about Customs?” Janko said.

“Non-existent.” Tallis grinned. “They used to run small inshore boats but they got sold off. Officers now spend most of their time patrolling Dover, the major airports, this neck of the woods.”

“So you think it would be a good way in?”

“Oh, sure.”

“And you have contacts?” Tallis decided that Janko was the smart one.

“Yes.”

“Then what are you doing here?” A cunning light in Goran’s eyes suggested that the brandy had not even begun to seep into his brain.

“Lying low.”

“From what?”

“A guy I pissed off.”

“How?”

“I wanted a slice of his action. It’s being sorted.”
He’s
being sorted was the implication.

Janko seemed to accept the story. Goran didn’t. “Why do you choose to do business with us?”

“I told you.”

“Why
us
?” Goran persisted, evil-eyed.

“Hey,” Janko said. “This is our friend, our brother.”

“More drinks,” Tallis said, standing up, feeling the heat.

“Sit down,” Goran snarled.

“Fuck you.”

The air was electric. Tallis had visions of thrown fists, thrown chairs.

Janko stepped in. “Guys, guys, calm down. We are as
one. Our enemies are the same.” He meant the Serbs, Tallis thought. “Go get the drinks, Marco.”

Tallis felt more rattled than he should have done as he pushed his way to the bar. He took a few deep breaths. Told himself not to be so bloody unprofessional.

On his return, Goran had softened. “This operation in Devon, it’s easy to import the goods?”

“Dead easy.”

“We know someone,” Goran said, trading a look with Janko, “someone we work with. He might be interested.”

“Yeah, who?”

“Our boss,” Janko chipped in. “We need to run it past him. We’ll let you know what he thinks.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Zivjeli!”
Goran said, raising his glass. “As a sign of good faith, Janko has a tester for you. You like it, we can discuss more.”

Without a word, Janko stood up. Tallis knew the routine. They both headed for the toilets. Janko discreetly passed him a wrap, which Tallis pushed into his trouser pocket. Job done, they went back to Goran. “You like girls?” he said.

Tallis grinned in what he hoped was a convincing manner. These guys were into machismo. To state otherwise would have displeased them.

“We fix you up,” Goran said, knocking back the rest of his brandy. “Come.”

Tallis stood up and followed him. He didn’t feel he had much choice.

They travelled in a bottom range Mercedes-Benz E-Class, still an impressive ride. Janko drove and broke into raucous song. Goran turned round, laughing. Tallis joined
in, more as a cover than amusement. He was watching where they were taking him. They were headed for Hammersmith. Tallis thought they’d go over the flyover and join the Great West Road. Instead, they dropped down underneath it.

Traffic seemed heavy for a Sunday. The sky was losing some of its light, the day its energy. The brandy was starting to kick in just behind Tallis’s eyes. He closed them for what seemed a fraction of time. When he opened them they were outside a chip shop. Great, he thought. It would soak up some of the alcohol. The boys had other ideas.

Exchanging greetings with two men behind the counter, Janko and Goran led the way. Tallis followed them through a scullery and into a small, enclosed, paved yard. Encased in glass, fruitless vines hung from the roof, it smelt like a greenhouse. Instead of tomatoes growing, big hessian sacks of potatoes lined the walls. The yard formed a bridge between the chip shop and another building in which there was a closed door with an entry phone next to it. Goran pressed a button and spoke his name. There was a click and the door sprang open, leading into a narrow hall with a flight of stairs leading steeply up to a short landing. Carpeted in worn deep purple, the stairs had seen some action. They went up another flight, and through another door which opened out onto a dimly lit bar with barstools in faded leather. Tallis took it in at a glance—furnishings dark and indecipherable, three sofas, one of which looked badly sprung, door off to the right, one man, nervous looking. And no surprise, Tallis thought as a fat woman emerged from behind the counter. Well, not fat exactly. Not even overweight—more a human hulk with a pockmarked jaw and teeth like an Orc.

“This is Duka,” Goran said, grinning like a demented hyena.

Tallis looked at Goran, looked at the woman, stunned, thinking, Please, God, no.

“Duka looks after the girls,” Janko explained, with a laugh.

“Oh, right,” Tallis said, grinning now, sharing the joke.

“You want girl?” Duka probed a tooth with a dirty nail.

“Give him the new one,” Goran said. “On the house,” he added, a sly expression in his eyes. Tallis wondered what was expected in return for the favour.

Duka waddled along the length of the bar and out of sight, flesh sliding over flesh. Tallis heard a grunt, a curse then a jangling sound of metal. When Duka returned, she was sweating like an elephant on heat. “Eleven,” Duka said, belligerently handing him a key.

“Through the door,” Janko explained. As Tallis pushed it open, he heard Goran order more brandy.

He stepped into a dingy corridor, doors off, not unlike a cheap hotel. He could hear nothing other than his own feet creaking on the thinly carpeted floor. Either business was lax or, as he suspected, the rooms were soundproofed. Number eleven was at the very end. He waited outside, collecting his thoughts, then slipped the key in the lock, turned it, tapped on the wood with his free hand as he entered, the sound hollow in the surrounding silence.

Inside smelt of cheap perfume and damp. A double bed dressed in black satin sheets, more funeral pyre than love nest, rested in the middle of a room that took seediness to another level. There was a cracked sink in the corner with a bottle of baby oil resting on the ledge. The window, from which hung faded brown polyester curtains, had
bars. To the right of the window was a single wooden school chair on which a girl was seated. Dark-haired, pallid, she gazed straight ahead with big eyes, seeing but not seeing. Tallis recognised the expression. He’d witnessed it before in the eyes of war-hardened civilians who had lost everyone and everything. The girl, no more than Felka’s age, wore a black bra and panties. Her feet, resting square on the floor, were bare, nails polished but chipped. She possessed a full figure, the skin close knit and youthful. Her right arm was crossed over her left breast as if to protect herself, the fingers of her hand resting on the shoulder strap. She had a large, recent bruise on her thigh. She was breathing fast.

He approached her softly. She turned to him with large eyes and pushed the strap off her shoulder, allowing him a tantalising glimpse of her nakedness.

“No,” he said, looking around him for something to cover her with. Seeing nothing, he took off his jacket, put it round her shoulders. For the first time, she lifted her eyes and looked at him, whispering something he couldn’t make out.

“It’s all right,” he said, sitting down on the bed. “I only want to talk.”

She swallowed hard, nodded.

“What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer, wouldn’t answer. He wondered how long it had been since she’d felt like a person instead of a thing. “Where are you from?”

She shook her head, sudden fear in her eyes. She glanced at the door. “Nobody will hear us,” Tallis assured her.

Still the big-eyed stare.

“Do you understand me?”

The flicker of light in her eyes told him she did. “Were you brought here?”

She opened her mouth very slightly, closed it.

“Against your will?”

Her dark eyes filled with tears.

“I can get you out of here,” Tallis said urgently, “but first I need your help.”

Her face sagged. She looked down at the floor. He’d blown it, he thought. “My name is …” He wanted her trust but knew that telling the truth could get both of them into a lot of trouble. He started again. “The guys out there know me as Marco,” he told her, “but my real name is Max.”

“Max,” she said softly, as if committing his name and her lifeline to memory.

“Yeah.” Tallis smiled warmly. “I have a wife and kids and I live in a lovely big house in a village called Belbroughton, not far from Birmingham.” Then, meshing fact with fiction, he told her about where he’d grown up, that he hadn’t always been so successful, that he, perhaps like her, had come from humble beginnings.

She gazed at him in awe. “Thing is,” Tallis said, wondering how long he’d got before the others became suspicious. “I need to find this man.” He pulled out the most recent photograph of Demarku, showed it to her. “You recognise him?”

The girl drew back, shook her head sadly, disappointed that she couldn’t help.

“His name is Agron Demarku. He’s an Albanian with a history of violence towards prostitutes.”

Again, the closed-down expression.

“Do you talk much with the other girls?” Tallis said.

She gave a mournful shrug.

“All right,” he said, gently slipping the jacket off her shoulders. “See what you can find out. I’ll return tomorrow night.” Without looking back, he left the room.

There was no sign of Janko or Goran. “They left,” Duka said tonelessly.

“They say anything?” Tallis said.

“Nothing.” Duka glowered.

Retracing his steps, Tallis found his way back to the chip shop. He caught the eye of one of the two men who’d greeted Goran and Janko. “Here,” the man said smiling, handing Tallis a portion of fish and chips in a small plastic tray. Small and wiry, he had a broken front tooth and blunt features. He spoke Croatian, his accent suggesting that he, too, was from the north. “Goran says to meet him back at The Courtfield tomorrow night at eleven.” Tallis thanked him and began to eat. Food customers came and went. Other punters, knowing the ropes, walked straight through. Tallis dismembered a piece of fish. The batter was chewy, but he was hungry and didn’t care. During a lull Tallis turned to the small guy.