The Last Exile

by E. V. Seymour

At last, Alder’s place snapped into view. Flanked on both sides by orchards of apples and pears, the road was a switchback. Turning off at the sign, Tallis drove down a long beaten-up track, pitted and rutted with potholes. As Tallis rumbled up and down the gears in the Rover, he wondered if the suspension would hold.

  Parking next to Alders’ Range Rover, Tallis climbed out of the car into a day that seemed to be getting hotter and hotter. On hearing his arrival, two Jack Russell terriers scooted out of the house and snapped at his heels, followed by a red-faced Alder. “Kick the little bastards,” Alder roared.

  Sorely tempted, Tallis managed to resist.

  “Mitch, Chalkie, get your arses here. Now!” Alder bellowed, his face the colour of a burst tomato. Mitch and Chalkie had other ideas. Breaking off in different directions, they did a quick circuit round Tallis’s car, peeing up the wheels, and came back, nipping and snapping at his legs before finally disappearing back inside.

  “Sorry about that,” Alder said.

  “Good guard dogs.”

  “It’s their size. Makes them bolshie. Bit like people,” Alder gave a wheezy laugh, both shoulders shuddering. Pint-sized himself, his wide girth supported by extraordinarily bandy legs, Alder was no stranger to aggression, particularly when he’d had a few. “You here on your dad’s behalf?”

  “No.”

  “That’s all right, then.” Alder’s cheeks puffed out like a pair of bellows. “How is the old man? Heard he wasn’t too clever.”

  “Not so good,” Tallis agreed.

  “Fancy a snifter? Got a nice glass of cider on the go and the missus won’t be back for hours.”

  Tallis didn’t particularly care for the stuff but thought it the best way to pump Harry for information. They walked inside to a wide, flagstoned hall with doors off both sides. Fortunately, the dogs were nowhere to be seen.

  “In here,” Alder said, showing Tallis into a vast kitchen with a big refectory table and chairs running down the middle of the room. Alder gestured for Tallis to sit down while he fixed the drinks, but Tallis wandered over to the window. The views extended across much of Alder’s land and a fair slice of Herefordshire.

  “Those new buildings over there?” Tallis said, narrowing his eyes against a brilliant sun.

  “Converted pig pens.”

  “Converted to what?”

  “Accommodation,” Alder said, handing him a glass of what looked like a urine sample.

  “Really?” Tallis frowned, taking a cautious sip of liquid so strong it felt as if his salivary glands had been grabbed and squeezed dry.

  “For the workers.” Alder grinned.

  “Locals?”

  “Must be joking. Won’t get out of bed for less than a fiver an hour, lazy buggers.”

  “Where from, then?”

  “Poland and Hungary, mostly.”

  “No Romanians?”

  “Wouldn’t have a clue.”

  “You don’t check?”

  Alder’s piggy eyes suddenly narrowed with suspicion. “What’s this all about, Paul?”

  “Sorry, Harry,” Tallis said with a wide smile. “There’s me rolling up without any warning, taking your valuable time without a word of explanation. Thing is, I’m looking for someone—a woman.”

  Alder smirked and slapped Tallis’s arm. “Always appreciated a bit of skirt, right from when you were a lad.”

  Tallis did his best to smile. Alder was just another in a long line who’d fallen for Dan’s crap about his so-called womanising. “Not like that, Harry. This is work. Thing is, she’s here illegally, in trouble with the law.” A worried look sped across Alder’s face. “It’s all right.” Tallis smiled. “Nothing for you to worry about. Strictly between you and me.”

  Alder’s piggy little eyes examined him over the rim of his glass. “Heard you left the police.”

  “Yes.”

  “So it’s not official.”

  “A private job.”

  “Got you.” Alder grinned sagely, taking a deep pull. “And you think she might be here?”

  “It’s a real long shot, to be honest.” He pulled out the photograph from his wallet, showed it to Alder who shook his head doubtfully.

  “What sort of trouble she in?”

  “Theft. Bit handy at casing joints, houses where it’s assumed there’s stuff worth taking.”

  “Bloody hell,” Alder said, looking around him, suitably alarmed.

  “All right if I go and take a look, talk to a few people?”

  “Be my guest,” Alder said, downing his drink. “As long as you don’t keep them too long from their work,” he added with a grin.

  There was no shortage of workers eager to talk to him about the fifteen-hour days they were forced to work, the inadequate food, the denial of proper dental and medical care when necessary, but nobody had either heard of Djorovic or seen her. That would be too easy, Tallis thought as he made his way past the bank of strawberry fields and back to the farmhouse.

  He found Alder sprawled out in an easy chair on a veranda, half-dozing in the afternoon sun. “No luck?” Alder murmured sleepily.

  “Thanks, anyway,” Tallis said, making to leave. “Oh, one thing, Harry.”

  “Yeah?” Alder said, prising open one eye.

  “Word to the wise,” Tallis said, tapping the side of his nose. “Make sure your workers get a better deal. They might not live here but they still have rights. Wouldn’t like Health and Safety or one of those rabid trade unions getting wind of their conditions.”

  Alder was still gesticulating and swearing as Tallis drove down the drive. Looking into his rear-view mirror, Tallis laughed at the fat little man jumping up and down like a spitting gremlin. The only surprise was that Alder hadn’t set the dogs on him.

  The rest of the afternoon and the next three days were spent travelling around fruit farms in Herefordshire, Shropshire and Worcestershire. Rolling countryside, fabulous weather, response mixed, result negligible. Some farmers were cagier than others. Of those who were helpful, a few allowed him free rein to talk to their workers, but nobody could give him the information he wanted. Driven mad with frustration, Tallis was resigning himself to scouring Kent, Somerset, half of Cambridgeshire, maybe even Perth for the raspberry season, before ditching the entire idea and going back to first principles when he experienced a minor breakthrough. It was right at the end of Thursday afternoon. He was talking to a local woman called Chrissie at a small fruit farm in Great Witley, twelve miles from the cathedral city of Worcester.

  “I’ve seen someone like her, but not here.”

  “Where?”

  “The village shop up the road.”

  “You think it was her?”

  Chrissie nodded. “The woman I saw had dyed chestnut hair, but you don’t see many tattoos like the one you described,” she explained.

  “When was this?”

  “Month ago, maybe more.”

  Tallis’s heart sank. A month was a long time. She could be anywhere by now. “Remember what she said?”

  “Only that she was looking for work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Picking, farm labouring, that kind of thing.”

  “Say anything else?”

  Chrissie smiled. Late thirties, maybe older, she had a lived-in face, worn, weather-beaten features, like she spent a lot of time outdoors. She had a nice way about her, sexy with it, Tallis thought appreciatively. “She offered to read my palm.”

  “What—just like that?”

  “Not quite.” Chrissie laughed. “Ever been to a village shop?”

  Last time had been twenty years ago. “I’m more of a city dweller.”

  “You can spend all day there talking about nothing and everything. It’s quite an education.”

  “Take your word for it.” Tallis grinned. “So you got talking?”

  “Yeah. She seemed all right.”

  “All right?”

  “You know. Not spooky, like those gypsies who shove a piece of h
eather in your hands and ask for money, or visit a curse on you.”

  “Notice anything else about her?”

  “One of her hands was bandaged.”

  “The left one.” The one with the sharpened nail, he thought.

  “Yeah,” Chrissie said, surprised. “How did you know?”

  “Because you saw the tattoo,” Tallis said, quick thinking, “and that’s on her right hand.”

  “Right.” Chrissie laughed. “There’s me starting to think you’re the mind-reader.”

  She leant forward showing an impressive expanse of cleavage. Tallis caught a whiff of strong scent, vanilla and rose at a guess. “So what did she say about your palm?”

  “Oh, no, I’m not into all that stuff. Have a hard enough time dealing with the past without knowing where my future lies.”

  It was the classic tell-me-more trap, Tallis thought, and he wasn’t falling for it, no matter how wide and inviting her smile. “Mind, there was something else,” Chrissie said, this time less enigmatically.

  “Yeah?”

  “Told me I hadn’t got any kids.”

  “And have you?”

  “No.”

  “Fifty per cent chance either way.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I had an accident when I was younger. I actually can’t have children. She said she knew.”

  And that wasn’t spooky? Tallis thought. He’d never understand women as long as he lived.

  “Any idea where she was heading?”

  Chrissie shrugged. “Annie in the shop mentioned her brother’s place near Evesham. He farms there, always looking for casual workers this time of year. Don’t know whether she followed up on it, though.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Roger Addison. Honeysuckle Farm. Sounds quaint, doesn’t it?” She laughed. Lots of little ridges appeared on the bridge of her nose. Made her look cute, Tallis thought.

  “Thanks, Chrissie, you’ve been really helpful,” he said, climbing back into his car.

  “Wait,” she said, scooting round to the driver’s side. “Got a phone with you?”

  “Well, yeah …”

  “Take my number in case you need another chat.” She beamed invitingly.

  The land surrounding the vale of Evesham was flat and peppered with landfill sites, the town itself a cobbled-together mixture of ancient and modern. Tallis preferred the older part, he thought, admiring the black and white half-timbered buildings and remnants of original medieval wall. It wasn’t hard to imagine the scene of the great battle that had taken place there between Henry III’s son and a rebel group of barons led by Simon de Montfort. De Montfort had been annihilated. Over four thousand men had died that August day in 1265.

  Honeysuckle Farm lay several miles outside the town near the charming picture-postcard village of Fladbury. On arrival, Tallis made out he belonged to a private agency responsible for locating Ana Djorovic. “The information I have to relay to her is of a personal nature,” he added obtusely. Addison, a tall giant of a man with a big smiling face and a gentle disposition that belied his size, was keen to help. “Yeah, that’s her all right,” he said, looking at the photograph in Tallis’s hand.

  “She on site?” Tallis said, hardly daring to believe his luck.

  “Too late, I’m afraid. Moved on a week ago.”

  “Reason?”

  “I fired her.”

  “Oh?” Tallis said, casual with it.

  “She wasn’t a good worker. Spent too much time talking.”

  “About what?”

  “What most women talk about,” Addison grinned loosely. “Men.”

  “That it?”

  “Not quite,” Addison said, sudden seriousness in his expression. “My wife, Jackie,” he said, concern in his voice. “Ana bothered her.”

  “Bothered?”

  “Jackie’s pregnant with our second child. Ana was always pestering her about the baby—when it was being born, where, what plans she’d made, whether she was going to hospital or opting for a home delivery.”

  “An unhealthy interest,” Tallis interposed.

  Addison nodded. “Sometimes my wife would catch Ana staring at her. Made her feel uncomfortable.”

  “Threatened?”

  “Really upset her.”

  “Can I talk to your wife?”

  “She’s in the sitting room, feet up, doctor’s orders, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Let me have a word first.”

  Addison disappeared, leaving Tallis in the large quarry-tiled hall that doubled as an office. A battered old filing cabinet stood in one corner, and a table littered with papers, mugs and an ancient-looking computer butted up to the far wall. Addison reappeared moments later. “Go on through,” he said, indicating a door. “Sitting room’s on the left.”

  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 he
r, 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.