“Nothing on Cavall yet,” Finn announced, “but a guy, believed to be Agron Demarku, was found dead.”
Tallis didn’t tell Finn that he already knew. He wanted to find out if Finn had different information or another angle on the murder.
“According to my source at the MET,” Finn continued, “they think he was involved in a turf war with other dealers.” Interesting, Tallis thought. Crow hadn’t mentioned that particular line of enquiry. She was clearly acting on information that only she was privy to. “Apparently the guy tried to escape by hiding in the loo, but whoever was after him smashed down the door. Whether he was pushed, hurled or jumped is unclear. What was clear he was absolutely rat-arsed.”
“You mean drunk.” Just like Djorovic, Tallis thought.
“That’s what that expression usually means.” Finn laughed lightly.
“Demarku was a Muslim. He didn’t drink.”
“Come on, Paul. How many times have you heard about the celibate priest having a fling with his parishioner?”
Wasn’t the same, he wanted to say. The plight of the Lithuanian girl flashed across his mind. What had they done to Elena, whoever they were? “How do you view the investigation?”
“Quite honestly, and this is only my take on it, I’m not sure the cops are that focused.”
That’s not the impression Crow gave, Tallis thought. Something that was clear, however, there was little communication between the police and the Home Office. Finn was still speaking. “The bloke, as you said, was here illegally and was a complete bastard by all accounts. Think they view it as one drug dealer taking out another. Happens all the time.”
Trust Micky Crow to take over and get the bit between her teeth. Just my luck, Tallis thought. “Thanks, Finn. I appreciate all that.”
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound it.”
“This thing with Felka,” he said vaguely.
“Max’s au pair? Yeah, tough one.”
Neither of them spoke. Tallis broke first. “Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“This whole thing with Cavall. Tread carefully, won’t you?” Watch your back was what he meant.
Tallis made a pot of strong coffee and sat and drank and thought, trying to work out the schematic. All three foreign nationals were dead, two by parties unknown, one by his own hand. Like it or not, it looked as if a death squad was at work. Tallis frowned. A killing machine given the full backing of the British Government? Surely not, and, more to the point, why? Killing a few illegals wasn’t exactly something you boasted about, which meant there had to be another motive, another game plan. Christ, if Cavall was working under orders, it left him with nowhere to turn. So what was the other scenario? That she was acting alone, a rogue agent? But her credentials were impeccable. No, Tallis thought, her legend was impeccable. It had happened before. There had always been traitors in the camp. And Cavall wouldn’t be the only one. She was probably a cog in a very large machine. Trouble was, who was fronting it and where did that leave him?
Putting his own position to one side for a moment, he returned to what lay behind the operation. He’d often thought that halfway to cracking a crossword was working out how the architect of the crossword thought. Applying that kind of logic, and working it backwards, there were certain pointers—perfect choreography, manipulation, ruthlessness, above all, power. Conclusion? The people he was charged with tracing, without doubt evil in their own right, were victims. Was there a pattern there? Were there links? Apart from the obvious common denominators, he couldn’t see any.
As for Cavall, his enquiry about Djorovic had been perfectly understandable, arising as it had from the newspaper report. If he called Cavall again, demanding to know what had gone wrong in the arrest of Demarku, she’d know he’d been digging and become alert to his suspicions. So, he concluded, if he were to find out what was really going on, he had to play along, act the willing partner in her plan, lull her into a false sense of security. Cavall was his only contact to someone much bigger and higher up the food chain so he would use her. The last case—except he now realised there would never be a last case, would always be one more job, one little operation—provided him with the perfect opportunity. This time he wouldn’t let the target out of his sight until he could guarantee full and utter security. If that meant taking on Bill and Ben, who he was now absolutely convinced were bogus immigration officers, Cavall and her paymasters, so be it. He had no choice. They’d kill him anyway once he’d reached the extent of his usefulness. He drained his cup. He imagined the scenarios—car accident, falling into a canal, taking his own life after cracking under the strain, too much booze in his bloodstream, a mugging that went disastrously wrong.
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 insi
sted. 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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TALLIS 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.
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