The Last Exile

by E. V. Seymour

  “Think so?”

  “I do. Didn’t know haulage could be quite so glamorous. Must have invested a fair amount of money.”

  “Got to these days if you want to get anywhere.”

  “What about the night of the murder?”

  The fast change of subject barely caused a blink of Jackson’s eye. “Yeah? What about it?”

  Agile mind, Tallis thought. “You said you were at home.”

  Jackson flicked him a suspicious look. “It’s all in the police reports.”

  “Ever read one of those things? Dull as shite. I was hoping to get a more personal account. See, Jace, I’ve really got very little to work with …”

  “I was at home with my mother and my then girlfriend.”

  “They ever meet Barzani?”

  “Think Astrid did once. She didn’t like him either.”

  “You and Astrid still an item?”

  “You with the same bird you were with fourteen years ago?” Jackson grinned. “Me, I like the single life. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that’s my motto.”

  Tallis flashed him an all-guys-together smile. “Know where Astrid is now?”

  “Not a clue, mate.”

  “Got a surname for her?”

  “What is this?” He was smiling but his eyes were hard.

  “I’m following every available lead. I want Barzani off the streets and up and away as badly as you do.”

  “Silly bitch won’t remember.”

  “You’d be surprised what women remember. Memories like elephants.”

  “Right there, mate.” Jackson laughed.

  “So?” Tallis smiled.

  The laugh faded. Jackson, unless he wanted to look a complete prat, had no choice but to answer. “Stoker,” he said. “Probably married with kids.”

  Tallis took a gulp of coffee. “Any idea where Barzani would have gone?”

  “Back with his own kind,” Jackson said darkly. “Anywhere there are immigrants, which means half the sodding country.”

  Tallis flicked a smile. “I gather Barzani met with an accident when he was working for your father. Know much about it?”

  “Tripped and hit a piece of machinery. Tried to make out it was my dad’s fault.”

  “Broke a couple of ribs, I understand.”

  Jackson pulled a face. “Not sure I remember. They don’t do much about that nowadays. Don’t even bother strapping you up.”

  Tallis knew. He’d cracked some ribs several years before. He’d been amazed by how painful it was. “So he didn’t see a GP or go to hospital?”

  “God, no. It was nothing, really.”

  Tallis nodded thoughtfully. “The murder weapon …”

  “Iron bar,” Jackson said ruefully.

  “Seems odd. You’d think he’d have used something from the garage, a jack, wrench or hammer, something close to hand.”

  “Premeditated, wasn’t it?” Jackson said, tapping the side of his head. “Thought about it, thought what he was going to do, got it all worked out in that nasty little foreign head of his.”

  “Still seems an odd choice. I mean, I’ve got all sorts of stuff at home I could use as a weapon if I had to, but iron bar, clean out.”

  Jackson shrugged. “Probably part of their culture. Bit like all them Eastern Europeans carrying knives. It’s what they’re used to.”

  Tallis stood up. Jackson sprang to his feet.

  “Thanks for your time,” Tallis said. “Sorry to rake it all back up again.”

  Jackson seemed philosophical. “No worries. Get on and make the best of things, I say. No point whingeing.”

  They both walked back out towards Reception.

  “What type of goods do you transport?”

  “Carry anything,” Jackson replied, flashing a warm smile in Destiny’s direction.

  “Bit like the old Martini ad,” she chimed in. “Any time, any place, anywhere.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  TALLIS returned home and combed through the file again. He’d noticed it before on the second read-through, buried in the medical notes from the secure unit, which was why he’d made the connection, but hadn’t put it into context until now. He contacted Belle. “All right if I come over?”

  “You eaten?”

  “Not since lunchtime.”

  “I’ll fix something.”

  “Bring a bottle?”

  “Wine, make it red.”

  The concierge beamed at him and waved. Tallis got the impression that the man approved of what he considered a fledgling romance.

  His entrance went a lot smoother than the previous time. The door was open, as before. Tallis walked in. He could hear the sound of a fan, bathroom probably. “You really should be more careful,” he called. “I could be a serial killer.”

  “That I doubt,” Belle said, popping her head round the door. She was wearing a slate-blue towelling robe with nothing underneath. Her hair was wet and swept back from a face still glistening with water. He felt an urgent stab of lust.

  “Want some help?”

  She sneaked a smile. “Last time someone dressed me, I was in kindergarten.”

  “Who said anything about dressing?” He took her hand and pulled her towards the bedroom.

  “No.” She smiled lasciviously. “This way.” She led him through the living area and down the five stairs that led to the other room, which was, as he’d rightly guessed, a second bedroom doubling as a study. There was a full-length mirror in the corner. To the right was a door.

  “What’s through there?” Tallis said, nuzzling her neck.

  “Leads out onto another floor.”

  “Sneaky. The perfect escape route for a lover.”

  He let Belle set the pace, which meant obliterating. Neither of them had been much good at slow, languorous sex. He guessed it was due to the clandestine circumstances in which their affair had been cradled. And she was visual. Unashamed to use her glorious body, she was happy for him to watch, to have the lights on, to try anything. She rolled back over, starting on him again, her appetite for sex mind-blowing.

  “Christ, you’re killing me, Belle,” he growled, watching her eyes as she took him in her mouth and glanced mischievously up at him.

  Afterwards, they bathed, and went back to bed. Much later, Belle went to the fridge, pulling out smoked salmon, salami, cheese, olives and salads. Girl food, he thought, not really giving a toss. Excluding his mother, it had been a long time since he’d shared a meal with someone. He realised how much he’d missed it.

  While he opened the wine, Belle piled everything onto trays and brought it back downstairs. The conversation took a predictable turn. “Heard you were working at a warehouse,” Belle said.

  “Security.” He broke off a piece of baguette.

  “But not any more.”

  “No.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  Tallis chewed slowly, buying time, thinking. “Can’t say.”

  “You mean can’t tell?”

  Tallis let out a sigh. “Not yet.”

  She nodded pensively. He knew Belle well enough to know that she wouldn’t let it go. “Is that why you’re in trouble?”

  “Sort of,” he said evasively.

  “And why you were asking about Dan and the Barzani case?”

  “Partly.”

  “This isn’t a vendetta, is it?”

  “Vendetta?”

  “Against Dan.”

  “God, no.”

  She suddenly looked sad, drew her knees up to her chin. “What are we going to do?”

  “About what?”

  “About us?”

  “We have to do anything?” Can’t we just see each other, stay together, be together? he thought.

  “People will know,” she said anxiously.

  “Only if we tell them.”

  “I don’t like living a lie.”

  “We’ve been doing that ever since we decided to cover Dan’s sorry arse.”

  She flashed him a
sharp look. “You sure this isn’t about you and him?”

  “Promise.”

  She twitched a smile, leant over and kissed him. “What was that for?” he asked.

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Nothing?” he said, reaching out and stroking the inside of her thigh.

  “For coming back,” she whispered.

  “Belle?” he said. It was three-thirty in the morning and he’d been awake for the past hour, his mind coruscating with questions.

  “Uh-huh,” she said sleepily.

  “What happens when you break your ribs?”

  “They hurt,” she murmured.

  “No, I mean, what’s the treatment?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I had a friend in the army fractured his ribs. About two weeks later, he had a pulmonary embolism.”

  “Did he die?”

  “No.”

  “Bloody lucky. It’s fatal in one in three cases.” She was starting to sound more lucid, more awake.

  “But when I did my ribs in, I was fine.”

  “People generally are. It’s only if you have a predisposition to clotting. Other factors are being on the Pill, long-haul flights and post-operative complications. Sometimes it can be the joker in the pack in the case of cancer, the embolism striking before the cancer gets to the final stages. Paul?” she said, looking at her watch. “Do you know what the time is?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Why all the questions anyway?”

  “Barzani was on warfarin. That’s what they found in his DNA.”

  “Which they found traces of on Jackson?”

  “Yes.”

  Belle turned over and snuggled down. “So he did it, then.”

  Viva Constantine lived in Saltley, a suburb to the east of Birmingham, roughly one and three quarter miles from the city centre. It felt more like a suburb of Islamabad, Tallis thought as he attempted to drive down the high street, the morning sun beating down on streets overflowing with colour. Everywhere he looked there were fruit and vegetables, market stalls and people. The shops were mostly Asian. Even the amusement arcade was run by Khan Bros of Kandor. Food shops advertised pure ghee sweets, clothes shops the finest saris.

  The driving style was foreign, lots of horns blaring, lots of undercutting and gesticulating. Everyone seemed intent on putting a dent in his Rover, including two police officers in a patrol car racing down the road, siren blazing. Nobody as much as glanced up, let alone broke off from conversation. Tallis wound down his window, expecting an aroma of spices and curry. Instead, the air smelt of fried English breakfasts. Strange.

  He was in a logjam. Undeterred by the traffic or the double yellow lines, a white Mercedes with blacked-out windows forced its way down the inside lane, half of the vehicle on the pavement. It pulled up outside a halal shop. The door flew open, almost hitting Tallis’s wing. A heavy-looking Asian man with wraparound sunglasses got out, not the sort of bloke you engaged with, Tallis thought, instinctively looking away and catching sight of the Saltley and Nechells Law Centre. It was all metalled up, closed, lots of bags outside full of litter.

  At last, he was on the move again. Indicating left, he pulled off into a side street of tiny terraced houses. Two blokes in full Islamic dress were walking side by side deep in conversation, their trainered feet their only concession to Western culture. Tallis followed the road to the end and turned right into another road solid with parked cars. He eventually found a space some distance away near a twenty-four-hour corner shop.

  Walking back, he came to a house that looked different from the rest. The small garden was a tumult of colour. Hanging baskets in full bloom hung both sides of the Lincoln-green front door. Windows were clean, the frames freshly varnished. There was a small slate house sign fixed to the wall. It read THE HAVEN.

  Viva Constantine was not what he’d expected. Her green eyes were so deep set you couldn’t see the lids, features heavy, almost jowled, skin sallow. Her mouth was her best feature. Full, the top lip was a perfect Cupid’s bow, giving her the appearance of a pre-Raphaelite. He guessed that when she smiled, her face shone. Big boned rather than overweight, she was dressed in a long green linen skirt. Her blouse was burnt orange. She wore fashion flip-flops, around one ankle a thin gold chain. Her toenails were painted silver. The overall impression was one of Bohemia. For some unfathomable reason, he’d thought she’d be academic looking, thin, in her fifties. Constantine was difficult to place, but she was probably only ten years older than him, maybe less.

  She stood at the door with a hovering expression in her eye. “Yes?” Softly spoken, he noticed.

  “I understand you acted as interpreter for Rasu Barzani?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I wonder if it’s possible to talk about the case?”

  “You a journalist, police officer?”

  “Neither.”

  “Then who are you?”

  “Someone who wants to protect him.”

  Constantine’s expression was cool. “You’re fourteen years too late.”

  “I know,” Tallis said, “but if I don’t find him, someone else might.”

  She cast him a hawkish look. “Really? And what makes you think I can help?”

  “I need to know where to find him.”

  “Why would I know where he is?”

  “Because you visited him every week he spent in prison.”

  Her face revealed nothing. He expected her to close the door. “How did you get my name?”

  “Ron Farrow.”

  She nodded, her eyes giving nothing away.

  “Can I come in?” Tallis said, glancing behind him.

  “You haven’t told me your name.”

  He hesitated. If she checked with Farrow and found he’d been lying, she’d never trust him. “Tallis,” he said.

  “Any relation to Thomas Tallis, the sixteenth-century composer and master of counterpoint?”

  “Not a clue.” He smiled.

  “All right,” she said slowly, “but I have to go to work soon.”

  “What do you do?” he asked, stepping into a narrow hall with two closed doors on either side. A flight of stairs went straight up to the first floor.

  “I work at the library.”

  A large hand-painted mirror hung on the wall, framing a slender side table on which sat a Buddha. The floor was stripped pine. Constantine led him towards a kitchen then apparently changed her mind. “Here,” she said, pushing open a door. Inside mirrored outside. The woman was clearly courageous with colour. Furnishings were in purple, red and gold, all colliding with each other. It was glorious and terrifying. Suddenly, his own home improvements looked drab and British and boring.

  “Sorry about the mess,” she said, gathering up a pile of newspapers.

  “It’s fine,” he said, sitting down on a large squashy sofa festooned with cushions. Constantine shoved the papers into a magazine rack. It had an ornamental elephant design on it. In fact, there were elephant ornaments all over the place, giving him the impression of sitting in the middle of an Indian bazaar. Constantine sat down on the floor, tucked her legs gracefully underneath her.

  “It’s an unusual skill to speak Arabic,” Tallis said.

  “Only certain dialects,” she said self-effacingly. “Pity more people don’t. They might understand a little better, criticise a little less,” Constantine said provocatively. “My father was a diplomat. I spent most of my childhood in Tripoli.”

  “We share common ground. I’m half-Croatian.”

  “Speak the language?”

  “Yes, and a few others. I’d like to get around to Chinese one day.”

  “‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’”

  “‘They have their exits and their entrances,’” Tallis finished. Constantine’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. He hardly knew the woman yet he felt as if he understood her. It felt as if a pact had been made. She fell silent. He had the idea that silence was somet
hing she prized.

  “You’ve made it very nice here,” he said, trying to find another foothold.

  Constantine wasn’t buying the warm-up routine. She came straight out with it. “I don’t know where he is,” she said, eyes unblinking.

  Tallis didn’t say anything at first. Just let the weight of her words invade the room and glide in the air. “He gave no indication of where he might go?”

  “You obviously don’t know Rasu.” She flashed an embarrassed smile. It was true. Her face really did shine, especially when she mentioned Barzani’s name. “I’d be the last person he’d tell.”

  “But why?”

  “What I don’t know, I can’t reveal. Rasu would never put me in a position where I might be hassled.”

  “Or might betray him.”

  Constantine said nothing, her face a mask.

  “Anyone else come calling?” he said.

  “No.”

  But he was supposed to have been deported, Tallis thought. Police were supposed to have been on the case. Surely somebody had asked questions? Then he remembered Crow, the conversation about workload and targets. “You certain?”

  “Think I’d remember.” She flicked another smile. “You said you’d come to protect him.”

  “You know he’s officially on the run?”

  “You make him sound like a criminal.”

  “Wasn’t he?”

  “No. Rasu’s seen too much cruelty and bloodshed to inflict it on someone else.”

  “You believe his story?”

  “I do.” Her expression was unwavering.

  “You sound confident.”

  “It’s the easiest thing in the world to pin a crime on a man who shouldn’t be in the country, who barely speaks the language.”

  “But he had the motivation. Len Jackson was going to turn him over to the authorities.”

  “Wasn’t what the quarrel was about,” she said simply.

  “No?”

  “Rasu was fed up with the conditions. He was paid a dirt wage for doing a dangerous job.”

  “The paint spraying?”

  “You’re supposed to have protective equipment, a mask at the very least. He had nothing. It was making him sick. His lungs couldn’t cope with it. Then he had the accident. Stupid, really and so avoidable,” Constantine said, her eyes sparking with anger.