The Last Exile

by E. V. Seymour

  “Belle in?” Tallis said, wondering who the hell he was.

  “Belle?”

  “Belle Tallis. She lives here.”

  The man’s face suddenly brightened. “Oh, Mrs Tallis. Not any more. Moved two weeks ago.”

  “Any idea where to?” Tallis said, feeling as though someone had punched him in the stomach.

  “Well, I’m not sure whether …”

  “Police,” Tallis smiled, taking his wallet from his jacket and flashing it, hoping to God the man didn’t ask to examine his credentials.

  “Right,” the man said, nodding his head slowly, digesting the latest piece of information with great seriousness. “Hold on a second.” He disappeared, leaving Tallis nervously on the doorstep. The music dipped in volume, replaced by the sound of low male voices. Had a woman answered the door, Tallis doubted he could have pulled it off. Women were more suspicious than men. They thought in terms of stalker, ex-husband, serial killer. The man with the spectacles returned, followed by a younger guy dressed in a smart suit. “There you go,” he said, handing Tallis a piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.

  “Serious, is it?” the young man said shamelessly fishing. He was coarse-featured and his voice had a suggestive quality.

  “Nah. Need her to help us with some enquiries,” Tallis smiled, pocketing the note, thanking them, moving quickly down the steps and away.

  He drove towards the city centre with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Why hadn’t Belle let him know? Why had she cut all ties? Christ, all the time he’d been thinking of her being there, she’d been somewhere else. All crap, he thought sternly. Why should she let him know? Why wouldn’t she cut all ties? That’s what they’d agreed. He was behaving like a sentimental schoolboy.

  He turned off Broad Street and into Gas Street, parking the car outside the Tap and Spile, an old pub with waterside views of the canal. Royal Mailbox, the note said, a B1 address. Certainly a step up in the world, Tallis considered, walking back up the street and into the wide entrance of a newly built development of apartments lit up like a Christmas tree. He’d always fancied a place like that—modern, with style, appliances new and fully functional. Worlds apart from his decrepit bungalow. Passing the gates to the underground car park, he drew the collar of his jacket up. The night was clear and it wasn’t particularly cold, yet he felt a chill as though a light inside his heart had fused.

  The apartments had a concierge service. A big black guy was sitting at a desk that stretched from one wall to another. He was reading a magazine and eating a sandwich. On seeing Tallis, he bundled both away, wiped his mouth with a paw of a hand and nodded. This was the provider of eyes and ears, Tallis thought, rather than security. Probably there to log people’s comings and goings, take the odd delivery. Even so, he was worth getting onside.

  “Come to visit 313.”

  “She expecting you?” The man beamed, unaware that in one simple question he’d given away the sex of the occupant.

  “Yes,” Tallis said. If he said no, he’d raise the man’s suspicions. Just hoped to God Belle played along. Hell of a long shot.

  The man waved him through. Tallis walked up the slight incline and came to a set of electronic gates. On the wall was an entry system not dissimilar to the one he’d advised Max to install. It had an infrared camera enabling the occupant to view all visitors. Underneath was a panel of numbers with a search name and call facility. Taking a deep breath, Tallis punched in the number and pressed the call button. There was a small pause then the sound of Belle’s low voice.

  “Hello?”

  “Belle, it’s me, Paul.”

  “Paul?” she said, astounded.

  “I need to see you.”

  “But we had an agreement.”

  Tallis felt his blood pressure rise. Please, he prayed, don’t blow me out. “I know. I’m not doing this lightly. I wouldn’t have come but this is really important. I need your help, Belle.”

  “But—”

  “Please. I’m in trouble.” He waited for what seemed like minutes. A motorbike roared down a road nearby. The sound of summer evening revellers punctuated the warm night air.

  “All right,” she said, buzzing him through. “Second door to the left across the courtyard.”

  Tallis let out a breath, thanked her and went inside, following her instructions. On his approach, the door clicked open, allowing him in. Impressive security, he thought, taking the lift. He wondered if Belle had deliberately chosen it, if she feared that one day Dan would come back and give her a hiding.

  The apartment was directly opposite the lift. To his surprise, the door was open. It led into a small hall with a large chrome mirror on the back wall, the entry phone with visual display to his left. His was given the impression of complete white-out—white walls, white furnishings, pale, bleached wood.

  There were two doors on each side, the one furthest away on the left revealing an extremely feminine bedroom, all crisp linen, Belle’s red stilettos keeled over on carpet so thick he felt guilty for not removing his shoes. Opening the second door to his right, he entered a large open-plan living and dining area, ultra-modern kitchen, with glass-topped dining table and two chairs, Venetian in style. The sofas were squashy leather, caramel-coloured. Stairs led down to another level, which he presumed was a second bedroom or study. Like a man with a burning thirst, he took it all in—prints on the wall, low lights, everything in muted soothing shades.

  Belle had her back to him. She was looking out of a window facing the courtyard. From the set of her shoulders, he could tell that her arms were tightly folded. He sensed her anger.

  His shoes were noiseless as he crossed the floor. Belle didn’t turn, made no motion. She was wearing a bright white shirt and pale denims brilliantly cut to accentuate her tightly formed rear. An image of her naked and him fucking her flashed through his mind. The closer he came, the more her perfume scented the air. The night felt electric. The sight of her dark hair cascading down her back made him shiver. Closer now, he thought, feeling a familiar thrust of desire, one more pace and he could touch her, put his arms around …

  “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, whirling round, dark-chocolate eyes flashing. “We had an agreement. We made promises.”

  She looked angry and sounded desperate, yet she was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him. Her finely boned face was as exquisite as the day he’d met her over a decade before. Two years older than him, fine lines were just starting to appear at the corners of her eyes. Made her look sexier than ever, if that were possible.

  “I know,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t have come but—”

  “Paul,” she pleaded. “There can’t be any buts. Why do you think I left no forwarding address?” Her face suddenly fell into a deep frown. “How did you track me down?”

  “By stealth and deception.” He smiled.

  “You shouldn’t have done,” she said, her mouth a short straight line. “You had no right. You—”

  “For God’s sake, Belle, calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down,” she railed. “I’m trying to get my life together and then you come along and—”

  “Spoil things?” His voice was shot through with anger. Christ, was it always this exhausting between them? He’d forgotten.

  “Typical of you to put words into my mouth.”

  “Fuck this. I haven’t come to fight.”

  “No, then what have you come for?”

  “This,” he said, taking hold of her, his mouth searching hers, feeling her lips resist then open, her tongue entwine with his, her body firm against his own. The rest was a blur of teeth, skin and lust. Only afterwards when they’d stumbled to the bedroom did he realise that they’d done it in full view of anyone looking across from the other side.

  “You look tired, Paul,” Belle said, tenderly tracing his eyelids with her finger. He noticed, as if for the first time, she no longer wore her wedding ring.

 
; “‘Course I’m tired.” He grinned. “I haven’t had sex in over a year.” Not that he hadn’t tried. If he had an undeserved reputation, might as well have a bash at living up to it, he’d thought foolishly. Somehow he hadn’t been able to work up the requisite amount of enthusiasm. Combined with the undesirability of the bungalow as a potential love-nest, it had left him shamefaced on more than one occasion. He couldn’t quite admit that making love was more than just sex. That if it wasn’t with Belle he wasn’t interested. Sounded too much like angst.

  “That all you wanted?” Her eyes were smiling.

  “If I say yes, you’ll be offended. If I say no, you won’t believe me.”

  She let out a laugh. Her eyes sparkled, lighting up her face. “How like you to cover all the options.”

  “How like you to ask all the questions.” He grinned again.

  “I’m a scientist, remember.”

  He let his hand rest comfortably on her slim waist.

  “Ah,” she said shrewdly. “You’re after my professional services.”

  “That obvious?”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t have to sleep with me.”

  “You complaining?”

  She brushed his lips with her own. “No.”

  He squeezed her flank. A look of concern flashed over her features. “You said you were in trouble.”

  “Remember when Dan first joined the police, did he ever discuss the case of an Iraqi guy called Barzani?”

  “God, you’re going back a long way.”

  “Barzani worked for a bloke running a garage in Smethwick.”

  Belle shook her head. “Not that I remember.”

  “One night, Barzani beat his boss’s brains in with an iron bar.”

  Belle frowned. “Why the interest?”

  “Curiosity.”

  Belle poked his ribs with her elbow. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  He grinned. She always knew when he was lying. “Seem to be a few anomalies with the case.”

  “What sort of anomalies?” she said, jacking herself up onto the pillows, revealing her wonderful breasts. He tried not to get distracted.

  “Lack of certain evidence, for starters.”

  “Christ, Paul, what are you suggesting?”

  “Not suggesting anything.”

  “Dan’s a lot of things but he’s not bent.”

  Tallis wasn’t so sure. He’d always wondered how Dan and Belle had afforded the house they’d once shared in Moseley even on combined incomes. Park Hill wasn’t exactly a housing estate. You didn’t get much for less than five hundred K. However, it had to be admitted that Dan, as a young PC at the time, wouldn’t have had that much influence. Tallis said the same to Belle.

  Belle’s face revealed little. He wondered, however, whether he detected a gleam of relief in her eyes. “So why the doubts?” she said.

  Tallis told her. The intelligence in her expression made him feel as if every word he spoke was important. When he’d finished, she asked him again about the overalls.

  “There wasn’t a spot of Len Jackson’s blood on them.”

  “Impossible. You say he was hit with an iron bar.”

  “That was never found.”

  “Imagine the impact. You’d have blood and bits of brain and tissue everywhere.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which leads me to draw a very simple conclusion.” She smiled impishly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Barzani did what a lot of killers do—he destroyed his clothes.”

  “Maybe, but the more I think about the fight, the more uncertain I feel. Barzani claimed that Jackson was the aggressor. He gave him a bloody nose so, of course, his blood was on Jones’s clothes.”

  “Linking him in time and place.”

  “But that’s my next problem. Barzani’s bedsit was in Oldbury. You telling me he travelled all the way to Smethwick on a bus, an iron bar in his hand, to duff his boss up? Barzani was apparently the last to see Jones alive, but what if Barzani was telling the truth? What if someone else went to the garage?”

  “Is that likely?”

  “Why not?”

  “Motive? Anything stolen?”

  “No.”

  “Police would have covered all the angles.”

  Tallis was silent for a few moments. “DNA testing has improved over the years, right?”

  “Lots. Coming out with new techniques all the time. Problem we have is that analysis doesn’t always keep step with DNA detection methods. The latest breakthrough is in disseminating between mixed DNA samples from crime scenes. We can work with what was originally classed as too poor in quality or too small. We’re looking at cold cases as far back as ten or twenty years ago. Should put the fear of God into those who think they’ve got away with murder.”

  Yeah, Tallis thought. He hoped so.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  HE LEFT the next morning against a breaking light. They made no plans to see each other—it was implicit they would. With his dad so ill they’d just have to take special measures to keep it a secret. Walking back to the car, he felt lightness in his step, warmth in his heart. Whatever else was going on around him, he could deal with it if he had Belle. A faint noise behind him broke his concentration. He kept on walking, conscious of footsteps shadowing his own. As he got to the car, he whipped round, peered into the morning shadow. Nothing. Nerves, he thought.

  Once home, he checked the place for electronic bugs—found none—showered, dressed, nipped to the nearest Tesco Express and stocked up on basics then bought himself a new mobile phone to match any new identity he might want to assume. As before, he ensured that the number was untraceable by anyone wishing to return or check his call. Back home again, he phoned the prison. Answered by a recorded message offering a range of options, Tallis waited patiently for an operator. Next followed a short spell of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons before an unusually bubbly telephonist with a Yorkshire accent greeted him with a ‘Hiya’. Tallis cranked himself up into flirt mode and explained that he was writing a book and wanted to check some basic facts with someone in the prison service.

  “Ooh, is it a thriller?”

  “‘Fraid not.”

  “Shame. I love that Wire in the Blood. Tony Hill, he’s gorgeous.”

  “You mean Robson Green,” Tallis said, referring to the actor playing the part in the TV programme.

  “What? His name’s Tony.”

  “Yeah, ‘course,” he said, thinking asylums and lunatics. “Who’d be best to speak to, do you think?”

  “Our governor. He’s ever so nice. Comes from the north, like me. Hold on.” After a lot of clicking and whirring, the telephonist came back. “Sorry, he’s tied up in a meeting. How about you speak to the deputy? She’s the youngest female deputy governor in the country. We had the BBC down last year doing an interview.”

  “Good for her,” Tallis said, feeling himself carried away by the telephonist’s rampant enthusiasm. Unfortunately, it wasn’t shared higher up. Stonewalled by a humourless secretary, he was told to contact the press office in London. Thanks but, no, thanks, he thought. Press officers were paid to sell a line, not give out information. Deciding he needed a different approach, he had some breakfast and left it an hour before he rang again. Same opening rigmarole, different telephonist. This time he asked directly for the probation and welfare department, most specifically the individual in charge of lifers. More clicking and buzzing and a guy called Ron Farrow picked up the call. Sounded warm and friendly enough, Tallis thought. From the seasoned tenor of the man’s voice, he estimated Farrow’s age as around mid-fifties. Tallis explained that he was writing a book and wanted to include an account of the Barzani case.

  “Rasu Barzani?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask why?” Slight edge.

  Tallis took a deep breath. Impersonating a police officer was a serious offence punishable by a prison sentence. He’d already transgressed once when he’d waved his wallet instead of
a warrant card in front of the new owner of Belle’s house. In for a penny, he thought. “I was the original officer on the scene. My name’s Tallis.”

  “Right,” Farrow said. “Writing your memoirs?”

  “Such as they are.”

  “You know Barzani was due for deportation?”

  “I did, actually. He got away. Some sort of data-sharing cock-up, wasn’t it?”

  Farrow wisely resisted a comment. “I’ll have to run a background check.”

  “Sure,” Tallis said.

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll call back.”

  No, he wouldn’t, Tallis thought. People in institutions never did. He managed to cram in a Thanks, really appreciate it before the line went dead.

  Tallis paced up and down, filled the kettle, spooned coffee and sugar into a mug, deliberated whether he really wanted a hot drink and decided he didn’t then changed his mind. The cellphone rang as the kettle was boiling.

  “Tallis,” he said confidently.

  “Hi, Dan. Ron here. You related to Paul Tallis?”

  “Brother.”

  “Rotten business, all that.”

  Damn right, Tallis thought.

  “So what did you want to know?”

  “Gather Barzani continued to protest his innocence throughout his sentence.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you think?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “That’s a very unusual question, especially from someone who arrested him.”

  “I’ve had years to consider it.”

  “Well,” Farrow said, “while we get a fair number of lifers who show little or no remorse, some protest their innocence. Of that small percentage, I’d say, there’s a tiny proportion that are either extremely good actors or, and this is strictly off the record, are telling the truth. You have to understand it’s not my job to have an opinion or pass judgement. My role is simply to look after their welfare.”