The Last Exile

by E. V. Seymour

  “Barzani had some mental health problems, didn’t he?”

  “Considering what the guy had been through, he seemed remarkably well balanced.”

  “Been through?”

  “In Iraq. Saddam Hussein did his best to wipe out most of his tribe in 1983. Rasu managed to escape but all twenty-nine members of his immediate family were killed in the most appalling fashion. Then the village he fled to was caught up in the notorious Anfal campaign.”

  “The gassing of the Kurds?”

  “Frankly, no horror was unimaginable to this guy.”

  If that wasn’t bad enough, Tallis thought, remembering the history, when the Kurds and Shi’ites had rebelled after the 1991 Gulf War—fuelled by plenty of Western encouragement—the Allies had fucked off, leaving them to a terrible fate. No surprise Barzani had gone mental. Any brush with authority would evoke horrific memories of his past. “And the brief, violent episode after his arrest?”

  “The only one. As you know, his mental state deteriorated considerably after his initial interview, and he was sectioned for a period of twelve months during which he received medication. Once convicted and sent here, he was drug free.”

  Explaining why there were no medical reports suggesting otherwise, Tallis thought. “I remember he barely spoke a word of English. We had to get an interpreter for him.”

  “Viva Constantine. We still use Miss Constantine periodically.”

  “Any chance of getting her number?”

  “Don’t see why not. Hold on.”

  Tallis started to relax. This was going much better than he’d dared hope.

  “Yup. Got a pen?”

  Tallis took the number down. “One last thing. How did Barzani strike you as a person?”

  Farrow took his time to answer. “I liked him. He seemed a very genuine, a very dignified man. As you know, offenders who refuse to acknowledge their guilt receive a rougher time in prison. Privileges can be axed. Journalists who might want to dig into the case are discouraged from doing so, visits limited.”

  “Did he have any?”

  “Visitors? Miss Constantine kept in touch.”

  Kind of her, Tallis thought.

  “Over the years, Rasu became resigned to what had happened to him without ever losing sight of his unshakable belief in his innocence. If I had to sum him up, he was a man of stoic endurance.”

  “You wouldn’t say he deserved to be hunted down and kicked out of the country?”

  “He’s here illegally,” Farrow said, sounding as if he was sticking to the party line.

  “Off the record, think I got the wrong guy?”

  “The system got the wrong guy.” There was a moment’s pause. Farrow let out a laugh. “But, of course, I never said that.”

  Len Jackson’s garage on Cape Hill wasn’t listed in telephone directories—probably went out of business after the murder, Tallis thought. Determined to find out, he drove to Smethwick.

  It was a blazing summer day, sun high in a sky of powder blue. Nothing, however, lifted the pall of dirt and deprivation hovering like a dark noxious cloud as he drew towards the town. Faces, black and white, young and old, looked careworn. Row upon row of terraced houses lined depressing-looking streets strewn with litter, vomit and cigarette ends. Razor wire the most common accessory to factory and warehouse security. It hadn’t occurred to him before but the entire area seemed to borrow names from other places—Londonderry, Soho, Waterloo. Something and nothing, he guessed.

  Cape Hill was a reservoir of pubs, accountants and firms selling cash registers and stationery supplies. He saw two ambulances, one with lights blazing, siren blaring, heading for City Hospital. There was no sign of the garage, although plenty of possible sites were boarded up.

  He pulled up outside the Dog and Gun pub and walked into a dark and dingy interior, lights on in spite of the odd blade of sunshine trying to force its way through windows coated with grime on the outside, decades of nicotine on the inside. Four men had their backs to him. Four heads turned, stared and returned to their mild and bitter. A surly-looking bloke with a thin body and shaved head was standing behind the bar. Looked like a skull on a stick, Tallis thought. He asked him about the garage.

  “Gone,” he said, the upward inflection of his Black Country accent making it sound like a question.

  “Gone or located somewhere else?”

  “Ah.” Tallis did the translation. He was fluent in Black Country: yes.

  “Know where?”

  “Cor help you.” Can’t help you.

  “Remember the murder?”

  Skullhead viewed him as if he’d just crawled out of a swamp. Tallis eyeballed him, took out his wallet and slapped two ten-pound notes on the bar. Both stuck to the surface. Four pairs of eyes swivelled to the counter then fastened on him. Skullhead peeled off the notes with a bony hand and slipped them into his pocket. “Darkie battered the old man’s head in.”

  Old man? Tallis didn’t think fifty-four was that ancient. Unless, he realised, Skullhead was differentiating between father and son. “Follow the case much?”

  “Hard not to. Cops all over the fuckin’ road, pokin’ their noses in. Dunno why. Clear who the murderer was.”

  “Fuckin’ blacks for you,” one of the drinkers muttered. Tallis smiled at him. Tosser, he thought. “And the old site?”

  Skullhead answered. “Which way you come?”

  Tallis told him.

  “Driven past it. Between the newsagent’s and the bookie’s.”

  “Business just died, then?”

  The bloke who’d made the racist remark chipped in. “New garage, ay it?” New garage, isn’t it? “Moved to Harborne.”

  “Gone up in the world,” Tallis said.

  “Ay called Jackson’s any more neither.” Not called Jackson’s any more either. “Poncy fuckin’ name. Trans Logistics and Distribution.”

  Tallis met the man’s expectant gaze. Ordinarily he’d have bought him a drink for volunteering the information. Fuck him, he thought, walking out.

  Boarded up and cordoned off, the old site was a wasteland of footings, broken bottles, syringes and fly tipping—home to nobody other than rats and junkies, Tallis thought, peering through a hole in the fence. Stepping back onto the pavement, something connected in his brain. He stopped, went back to the fence, looked again, thinking, wondering, the vague thought that had briefly penetrated his consciousness floating away.

  The betting shop was awash with punters so he went to the newsagent’s on the other side.

  A small very dark West Indian was serving. He wore a Rasta hat even though it was hot as hell.

  “Wonder if you can help me?” Tallis smiled. “The site next door, know much about it?”

  “Been talk of developing it for the past fourteen years,” he drawled.

  “Who owns it?”

  “Jace Jackson.”

  “Jace as in Jason?”

  “Jace as in Jace, man.”

  Tallis guessed there was a whole generation of kids whose parents had decided to call them something weird in order to give them a direct in-road to celebrity. “Any relation to the previous owner?” He knew but wanted to check anyway.

  “Guy who had his head smashed in?”

  “Len Jackson.”

  “Son,” the West Indian said.

  “He runs Trans Logistics and Distribution?”

  “You got it.”

  Tallis smiled, thanked him, went to the door then turned. “You ever have any trouble with rats?”

  The West Indian frowned. “This is a food shop, man. We sell sweets and stuff.”

  “It’s cool.” Tallis grinned. “I’m not from Environmental Health or anything. Just curious, what with the site being empty next door.”

  “To tell the truth,” the black guy said, lowering his voice, “we always had a problem, bats as well, but you can’t do a damn thing about them, protected species and all.”

  “The rats, where do they come from?”

&n
bsp; “Canals, waterways.” The black guy shrugged.

  “Much you can do about it?”

  His eyes lit up. A broad smile stretched across his face. “Kill them, man.”

  An early memory of his dad cornering a rat in the garden shed flashed through Tallis’s brain. His dad had hit it with a shovel, virtually decapitating the poor creature. Tallis had run away crying. Dan, waiting in the wings, had catcalled him, telling him he was a sissy. Tallis could still remember his old man’s laughter ringing in his ears. “How?”

  “Rat poison. Kills them stone dead.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  RAVENOUS with hunger, Tallis stopped off at a pub in Harborne and, breaking all the rules, ordered a pint in a straight glass and a BLT sandwich with a side order of chips. The barmaid had as much vivacity as a dead slug. Fortunately, she wasn’t on duty long enough for him to mind. Her replacement, a bright-eyed blonde with the most beguiling smile, more than made up for her. He made a point of sitting at the bar.

  “All right if I eat here?”

  “Darling, you can eat wherever you like.” She beamed. He watched as her pert little body busied about, picking up glasses, serving customers, everything done with a minimum of fuss and maximum of good humour—a joy to behold.

  His food came and he ate slowly, waiting for business to slacken off.

  “Haven’t seen you before,” he said at last.

  “Haven’t seen you before.”

  His eyes twinkled. Her eyes twinkled. He smiled. She smiled. Advantage Tallis, he thought. “Know a bloke by the name of Jace Jackson?”

  “Unfortunately.” This time the smile was less intense. “Mr Big Mouth we call him. Fuck,” she said, looking suddenly worried. “No relation, is he?”

  “Best mate,” Tallis said, deadpan, watching the mortified expression on her face before he winked and flashed a grin.

  “Bastard,” she said, giving his arm a playful slap, letting her hand linger longer than it should have done. “Christ, you had me going there.”

  “Couldn’t resist. You usually so frank?”

  “‘Fraid so.” She broke off to serve a customer. When she’d finished she wandered back to Tallis. “I’m Fliss, by the way.”

  “Dan,” Tallis said.

  “Well, Dan, why do you want to know about Jace Jackson?”

  “Thinking of doing some business with him.”

  “Don’t.” Her blue eyes darkened. She suddenly looked quite serious for a cute little blonde.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dodgy.”

  “In what way?”

  “In every way.”

  “This based on female intuition, or something more concrete?”

  “I had a friend who went out with him.”

  “And?”

  “He’s not nice.”

  “Like to elaborate?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, looked back, leant towards him, put her lips close to his ear. “He almost raped her.”

  “Almost?”

  “A bloke walking his dog disturbed them.”

  “Sure it was rape? Sure it wasn’t one of those situations where things got a bit steamed up and out of control?”

  She drew back. “You normally make love with a knife in your hand?”

  “Really?” he said, astounded.

  “Really.”

  “Did she report it?”

  Fliss gave him a sharp look. “Got to be joking. She left and went back to Scotland. Another pint?” she said, hiking an ash-blonde eyebrow.

  “Better not, I’m driving.”

  “Soft drink?”

  “Why not? Straight tonic, plenty of ice and lemon.”

  Tallis watched as Fliss took out a fresh glass and did the honours. “Get you one?” he said, pulling out his wallet.

  “Thanks.” She smiled, helping herself to a fruit juice.

  “I’m not defending the guy …”

  “Should bloody hope not,” she said, taking his money.

  “But doesn’t necessarily mean he’s bad in business.”

  “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit. He’s got lorries transporting stuff all over Europe. God knows what he’s up to.”

  “Think he’s doing something illegal?”

  “Put it this way,” she said, smoothing her hips with her fingers. “If the cops arrested him tomorrow, I, for one, wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised.”

  Smart outfit, Tallis thought. CCTV everywhere, the yard neat and tidy, lorries clean, and of those he could see, tax discs were in order, tyres in good nick. He watched as a trucker backed up a huge pantechnicon into a warehouse that resembled an aircraft hangar. The skill employed to reverse the beast of a machine into its bay was awesome.

  Tallis entered a glass-fronted reception area. Apart from the usual office gadgetry, the walls were festooned with huge maps of Europe and the UK. No smell of diesel oil but rather the olfactory-jerking heavy citrus scent of cheap perfume. A bleached blonde with hair extensions and a formidable tan swayed in and beamed at him. “Help you?”

  “Like to talk to Jace Jackson.”

  “Let’s see if he’s in.” She smiled, picking up a phone. He noticed her nails were very up to the minute, square cut, French manicured. “You are?”

  “Name’s Craig Jones,” Tallis said, falling back on one of his invented names. “He won’t know me.”

  “What shall I say it’s in connection with?”

  “Rasu Barzani.”

  “That all one word?”

  “Just say Mr Barzani.” Tallis smiled tactfully.

  Two minutes later, he was sitting in Jace Jackson’s office with the man himself. Jackson was a stocky five-ten, mid-thirties. He had black hair, wide features, Latino colouring and a passion for bling, judging by the gold earring, thick gold chain around his neck, gold wristband and heavy signet ring on his pinkie. He wore a black T-shirt and black tailored trousers, the waistband a little too high for his trim torso. His feet were clad with white top-of-the-range trainers, giving him a slightly bizarre appearance. Jace, as he insisted Tallis call him, clearly loved himself. Mouth working around a wad of chewing gum, he invited Tallis to sit down. “Coffee, tea, drink?” he said, affably.

  “Coffee would be good.”

  Jace winked at him, pressed a button on an intercom. “Bab,” he said, in thick Birmingham dialect. “Get us two coffees, will you?” He looked at Tallis. “About all she’s capable of. Now, what can I do you for, Mr Jones? Destiny said something about Barzani. Murdering fucker been caught yet?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Pity,” Jackson said, parking his feet up on the desk. “Nike, Airmax,” he said, pointing at his trainers like they were a work of art.

  “Sound,” Tallis said, doing his best to look appreciative. “Me, I’m more of a K.Swiss man.”

  “Nah, mate, they’re shit.”

  “You an expert?” Tallis grinned.

  “The expert. Been collecting for years. Got a room at home just for my trainers.” Seeing Tallis’s baffled expression, Jackson burst out laughing. “Gotcha.” Slow to see the joke, Tallis was glad when Destiny interrupted with two mugs of coffee, which arrived on a tray with a paper doily. Bending over in Jackson’s direction, Destiny exposed several acres of cleavage. “Help yourself,” Jackson said to Tallis with a louche grin, pushing a sugar bowl in his direction so that Tallis wasn’t entirely certain what was on offer. “Watching my waistline,” Jackson added, smoothing his six-pack, flicking an appreciative glance at Destiny’s departing rear. The door closed, Jackson leant back expansively in his leather office chair. “So, Craig, not quite following the drift here.”

  Tallis slowly helped himself to sugar, plopping one cube in and stirring it then the other. “I’ve been asked to track down Barzani.”

  “Going to deport him?”

  Good, Tallis thought. He thinks I’m from Immigration, or some other body dealing with illegals. Might as well play along. “Uh-huh.”<
br />
  “Thank Christ for that. With a bit of luck he’ll be shipped back to Iraq and blown to smithereens.”

  Tallis worked a smile onto his mouth then moved on swiftly. “First, I’d like to say how sorry I am about the dreadful way in which your father died, and I apologise in advance for any distress I might cause. Thing is, Jace, I need your help.”

  Jackson looked doubtful. “Not sure how. It was a long time ago. I was only a kid really.”

  “How old were you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Hard.”

  “Fuckin’ hard.”

  Tallis waited a respectful beat. “Remember where you were at the time?”

  “Here. Well, not here, working for my dad at the garage in Smethwick. I mean not at the time of the actual murder. I was at home then.”

  “You knew Barzani?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jackson said, rolling his eyes. “Never liked him. Shifty-looking bastard. I warned Dad about him.”

  “Warned him of what?”

  “Not to trust him.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about him, I guess. The way he was always watching, snooping. You get an instinct with people.”

  Certainly do, Tallis thought. “I understand your dad had no idea that Barzani was an illegal immigrant.”

  “That’s right. Went mental about it. My dad was a real stickler for rules, obeying the law. He’d panic if he thought his library book was overdue, know what I mean?”

  Tallis nodded with a smile. “How did he find out?”

  “Find out?” Jackson frowned.

  “About Barzani being an illegal.”

  “Bloody good question. You know,” Jackson said, thoughtfully stroking his chin, “I never considered it. Perhaps Barzani gabbed to one of the employees.”

  “Difficult as he didn’t speak much English.”

  “Well, there you go. No idea, mate.”

  “Keep records of staff?”

  “Do now. Didn’t then.”

  “Seems a bit out of character.” Tallis took a sip of coffee.

  “Not sure I follow.”

  “What with your dad being a stickler for rules.”

  “Oh, right.” Jackson grinned. “What I mean is we kept records but got rid of loads of stuff in the move.”

  Tallis nodded, looked around the office with an expansive smile. “Certainly got a pretty cool place here.”