“Now, having met Mr Jackson, I understand your reluctance to tell the truth, particularly as you were only an impressionable seventeen-year-old at the time. But Jackson was no more with you and his mother that night than I’m a finalist in Strictly Come Dancing.
“On Saturday I rattled Jackson junior’s cage. He responded by throwing out the only piece of evidence linking him to the scene—his trainers—which I now have in my possession. Once they’ve been analysed, I have absolute confidence that we’ll nail him for the murder of his dear old dad. So, you see, Astrid, whether you continue to lie to me or not doesn’t make much difference. We’ll still get our man.”
“Wasn’t him,” she muttered.
“Whatever you say.”
“No, really wasn’t him.” She was murmuring so low Tallis had to strain to hear. He leant towards her, looked into her bloodshot eyes. She wasn’t lying any more.
“One of his goons?”
“Dunno.”
“You get a look?”
“He was wearing a mask.”
Then how do you know it wasn’t Jace? Tallis thought. “All right, you’re doing well,” he said, gently patting her hand. “How tall was he?”
“Same height as you, maybe a little taller, bigger build.”
“Voice?”
“Sorry, not much good at voices.”
“Sound like you?”
“No.”
Not a Midlander, then. “From the north?”
“Maybe, more north than south, I suppose.”
Narrows it down a treat, Tallis thought. “Nothing else distinctive about him?”
“Sorry.”
“Never mind,” Tallis said, standing up.
“Wait,” she said. “This won’t go any further, will it?”
“Not if you don’t want it to.”
“I won’t have to make a statement or nothing?”
“Couldn’t be further from my mind.” Tallis smiled.
The call from Cavall came as he was leaving the hospital. “Why am I not surprised to hear from you?”
“I don’t have time for sarcasm,” Cavall sniped back.
“And I don’t have time for you.”
“We need to talk.”
“Do we? I thought we did enough talking yesterday.”
“Things have changed since yesterday.”
“What things?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“Tell me now.”
“Thought we could meet somewhere discreet,” she said, ignoring him.
“I’m not stupid,” he burst out.
“I don’t doubt that,” she said, cool.
Silence. He could feel a nerve spasm in his face. Calm down, he told himself. “If I meet you, it has to be somewhere public.” Less chance of being shot, or having my throat cut, he thought.
More silence. “All right,” she said at last. “The bandstand, Calthorpe Park, three o’clock this afternoon.”
Tallis looked at his watch: eighteen minutes past eleven. She must be joking—give her far too much time to have the place staked out. “I’ve got a better idea. In fact, it’s the perfect place, somewhere you’ll feel right at home.”
“Where?” she said tetchily.
He smiled. More used to calling the shots, aren’t you, darling? he thought. “The cosmetic department of the House of Fraser. Meet me by the Lancome concession.” Belle liked the cosmetics and it was the only place he could think of.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Take it, or leave it,” he said, hanging up.
It had been many years since Tallis had seen Terry Hyam. A former firearms instructor, Hyam had fallen foul of the law and spent several years in prison on a corruption charge. Since his release, it was well known that Hyam had set up his own little business in the basement of a former factory in Wolverhampton, renting it out to those who wanted to test out their firing skills, no questions asked. It was also reputed that if you wanted a gun, Hyam could source one.
“Mr Tallis.” Hyam smiled, opening the door to his neat backstreet semi. Having driven through a collection of housing estates more akin to shantytowns, Tallis thought Hyam’s home positively wholesome by comparison. There remained, however, the lingering stench of hops from Banks, the local brewery, percolating under the heat of a ferocious sun. “Heard on the grapevine you’d left the force,” Hyam said, inviting Tallis inside. A thin, wiry guy with a salt-and-pepper moustache and big, spaniel-like eyes, which lent him a benign appearance that was misleading, Hyam didn’t look too bad after his spell in prison. Older certainly, but he hadn’t lost any of his spark. Tallis put it down to the fact that, underneath the soft exterior, Hyam was as hard as rock. “Denise,” Hyam shouted up the stairs. “Give us a moment, would you, love? Got a mate wants to do a bit of business.”
“You going to be long?” Denise called back.
“About the same time it takes you to slap on your make-up.” Hyam winked at Tallis. “Just bought us a couple of hours.”
Tallis was shown into a freshly decorated kitchen. Spotlessly clean and tidy, the cupboards and drawers were hand-painted in cream and blue, the flooring expensive. “Nice, isn’t it?” Hyam said proudly. “Did it all myself. Drawers are brilliant,” he said, opening one and letting it slide gently shut. “See, no noise.” He gave Tallis a shrewd smile. “Don’t suppose you came to appreciate my DIY skills. What can I do for you?”
Tallis cleared his throat. Never in a million years had he thought he’d be looking up an old associate—an old disgraced associate, he reminded himself—to make such a grave request. “I need a gun.”
Hyam pinched one end of his moustache. “What for?”
Tallis smiled. “You usually ask your clients that question?”
“You’re not your average client.”
“I’m not planning a bank raid, if that’s what you mean.”
“Protection?”
“Let’s put it like this. If I’m pushed into a corner, I want to be able to look after myself.” Who was he kidding? Tallis thought. The best he could hope for if things cut up rough was to bag a companion to take with him en route to the pearly gates.
“Got anything in particular in mind?” Hyam said.
“Something light, portable that won’t leave shell casings all over the place. Maybe a. 38? Depends what you can get hold of.”
“What about a Colt, Detective Special?”
A powerful revolver designed specifically for the police in the States. “You can get hold of one?” Tallis said, amazed.
Hyam smiled, reached for his keys, signalling to Tallis to follow him. “Just popping out for an hour,” Hyam called up the stairs.
“Well, don’t be long. I want to go shopping later,” came back the prickly reply.
They went in Hyam’s car.
“When was the last time you fired a gun?” Hyam said, thin fingers pulling on the chunky steering-wheel, the car nipping through side streets with agile speed.
“Over a year ago,” he lied. He wasn’t going to admit that in the past few weeks he’d killed a man, even if it had been in self-defence.
“You’ll no doubt want some practice.”
Tallis nodded. The thought had already occurred to him. He glanced at his watch: plenty of time to hone his skills.
Hyam drove to an even less attractive part of town and pulled up outside a red-brick building with large, ugly windows. A vent at the side belched out steam. A sign on the wall said LAWSONS, PRINTERS. Hyam beckoned for Tallis to follow. As they stepped inside, the noise of Heidleberg presses going at full belt was deafening.
“Going downstairs,” Hyam bellowed to a large bloke with small silver-rimmed spectacles and hair that stuck out at angles like that of a mad scientist. The guy nodded with a thumbs-up gesture.
“This way,” Hyam shouted in Tallis’s ear, pointing towards a door. Hyam unlocked it and led the way, switching on the lights as they descended via a wooden flight of steps into the basement
.
“Used to belong to a local radio station,” Hyam explained, the noise from above magically disappearing as the door swung shut. “Then it got taken over by a freelance sound engineer who turned it into a recording studio. Perfect soundproofing, which comes in real handy. When he moved to London, I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Hyam said with a wry grin, pushing open another door, clicking on a light.
Apart from the paper targets and bulletholes in the walls, it was like one of those rooms used by churches for youth clubs or crèches. “Hang about,” Hyam said, disappearing into another room, reappearing minutes later, gasping and grunting, as he manhandled a crate into the centre. He opened it up, lifted out a number of silver alloy cans. Tallis noticed Hyam had put on a pair of leather gloves.
“Printing ink.” Hyam winked, reaching down to the next layer and prising off the lids, drawing out a single gun, wrapped in thick wadding, from each can. Tallis studied the arsenal: Webleys and Rugers, Smith and Wessons and Colts, and a couple of Spanish weapons that he immediately discounted. “Got other stuff in the back,” Hyam said, “including a nice little Mac 10.” The type of weapon that had killed two girls at a New Year’s Eve party in Birmingham some years before, Tallis remembered. The firearms team had been criticised by several members of the public for not turning up sooner.
Tallis eyed the guns with awe. “How do you know this isn’t a sting, that you can trust me?” he said, looking up at Hyam.
Hyam let out a laugh. “Easy, son. I’m too important to too many people. You shop me and you’re a dead man.”
Tallis flashed a nervous grin. “Nice balance of power.”
“I’ll say.”
“What about ammo?”
“Depends what you choose.”
Tallis picked up and handled the Special, pulling back the thumb catch as if he was unloading it. Didn’t feel right. Next he tried a Smith and Wesson model 60. That didn’t feel right either. “Changed my mind, Terry. Screw the casings. Got a Glock or Beretta?”
Hyam grinned, nodded, methodically put the guns back in the cans, returned to the next-door room and reemerged with another case, dragging it across the floor.
Tallis tried the Beretta, standing in front of the target, feet apart, lining it up with his best eye, taking aim, flicking off the safety and squeezing the trigger. “Not bad,” Tallis said, giving it back to Hyam, who handed him a Glock. Tallis went through the same routine again, except with the Glock there was no manual safety device. Much better, he thought, felt as if he’d never left the firearms unit. “Much more your style, if you don’t mind my saying,” Hyam said, as if he were a tailor complimenting a customer on the cut of his jacket.
“Ammo?” Tallis said.
“No prob.”
Tallis wasn’t surprised. Nine-millimetres were as common as paper clips. Hyam scurried off again. The old guy appeared to be getting quite excited. “Here,” he said, handing Tallis a magazine. “Have a crack.”
Tallis did, emptying three shots into each of the paper targets, two in the torso, one in the head.
“Like riding a bike,” Hyam said admiringly.
“Would you like to try our new fragrance, sir?”
Tallis smiled into the pretty blonde’s feline-green eyes. He’d already had two other hits of headache-inducing cologne splashed onto him. He thought what the hell and stretched out his hand.
“Only twenty-seven ninety-nine,” she said, looking up at him from under her lowered lashes.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, throwing her a lingering smile before starting another circuit of the ground floor of the department store. The lighting was bright and it wasn’t particularly busy, not surprising at these prices, he thought, yet amidst so much good-looking totty, Cavall wouldn’t be that easy to spot. He was beginning to think that make-up departments were better places than pubs and clubs to check out the local talent. Not that he was on the lookout any more. Belle had taken care of that.
Gone three, and still no sign of Cavall.
Bored, he wandered into the adjacent shoe department, eyes skimming stilettos in all shades and sizes, crocodile and fake snake, sandals and next season’s boots, not a brogue, Oxford or loafer in sight. He beat a hasty retreat and washed up in a stationery concession. Shit, he thought, he’d completely forgotten his godson’s birthday.
Tallis glanced at his watch again: three-fifteen. He checked his phone for the third time. Yes, it was switched on and, no, there were no missed calls or messages. Knowing how uncomfortable he’d feel in such an alien environment, keeping him waiting was probably Cavall’s idea of payback. Or, he thought, sliding a hand into the pocket of his jacket and feeling the comforting weight of the gun, a means to draw him out into the open and into a trap.
He decided for a less obvious way out, avoiding Corporation Street completely and heading for Temple Row and the crescent of parked cars congregated on the perimeter of the financial sector of the city. About to cross the square, something glancing across his peripheral vision made him turn. Sure enough, parked outside one of the building societies was Cavall’s car, engine running, though he couldn’t see the driver.
Tallis backtracked the way he’d come, crossed over the road and onto the pavement, checking the street for a possible sniper or someone walking towards him with a newspaper strategically placed in front of their shooting hand. Apart from a couple of middle-aged-looking mothers with pushchairs and a number of smartly dressed city types, too old or fat to make convincing assassins, the street looked clear.
Cavall was sitting in the back, as usual, briefcase on her lap. Bait or blarney, Tallis thought, his right hand closing snugly round the stock, ready to draw it out, before wrenching the door open with his left hand and sticking his head inside the interior.
“You’re late.”
Cavall said nothing.
“This had better be good,” he said, climbing in next to her, drawing out the gun.
Silence.
He twisted round to face her, saw the blank-looking eyes, her lips slightly parted as if in a kiss. There was a trickle of blood in the corner of her mouth. It had dripped and stained the white of her collar. Then he spotted the not-so-immaculate hair, the hole behind her ear where the bullet had made its entry, the distinctive rim burn mark around the opening suggesting that the weapon had been held directly against the skin. Hand reaching for the door, he snatched it open, slid out onto the pavement and, closing the door softly behind him, walked swiftly in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE gun was like a burning coal in the pocket of his jacket. As two female special police constables sauntered towards him, he willed himself to smile, nodded a warm hello, kept straight on walking. He felt as if every man, woman, child and stray dog were staring at his retreating form.
For some reason, he couldn’t remember why, he’d caught the bus into town, fearing, he supposed, now that his brain was starting to engage properly, that a car would be too much of an encumbrance.
Cutting into Corporation Street, he suddenly realised his mobile was still on him. Shit, he thought, might as well be bugged. All they, whoever they were, needed to do was triangulate his calls and work out the location. Spying a rubbish bin nearby, he pulled his phone out and dropped it discreetly inside.
The streets were filling up, making it difficult for Tallis to move with any speed. On the plus side, the crowd provided perfect cover. A vision of Cavall’s dead features flashed across his mind. He wondered how long it would be before someone made the grisly discovery, how long before police ordered roadblocks and a lockdown of the city. He hadn’t spent long enough with Cavall’s corpse to know, but instinct told him that she hadn’t been dead that long. Maybe he’d been meant to discover her. Maybe it was a message for him.
Luck, for once, was on his side. A bus destined for Quinton was making slow progress down the street. He hopped on, paid his fare, sat down near the front so that he could make a quick exit if necessar
y. Everything and everyone seemed to burble around him. He had the strange sensation of being in darkness underwater, drowning.
Progress was painfully slow. Streets were packed, the numerous pedestrian crossings changing from green to red with a speed that made his stomach burn and chafe with frustration and anger. As the bus started to chug away, a volley of police sirens could be heard screaming through the city. Tallis stared straight ahead, willing his pulse rate to settle, trying to think out his next move, feeling the most crushing form of claustrophobia. By the time the bus reached the lights at the turning for the Wolverhampton Road, he was already off and making his way on foot. He needed air even if it was filthy. He had to be out in the open, anywhere away from people.
With each step he tried to work out the schematics. He’d thought Cavall had been Darius’s mole. Everything Finn had told him fitted the profile. For God’s sake, he’d witnessed her betrayal with his own eyes, yet if someone inside the Home Office suspected Cavall of treachery, discovered her in the act, would they really react with such open violence? Sure, get rid of her. There were plenty of exits they could have chosen, but to have her slotted in the middle of the day in broad daylight, with all its concomitant risks, was insane.
Unless it was another means to frame him. His prints and DNA were at the crime scene.
Tallis continued to pound the pavement. Darius was in danger, he realised. Should he be warned? Whatever Tallis thought about the man, his ideals, everything he represented, he should be offered at least the chance to protect himself. The fact that he might actually need Darius did not escape him and, though abhorrent and peculiar, Tallis felt he had no choice.
He was almost at the corner of the avenue before the climb up the short hill to home when the most surreal thought crossed his mind. What if Darius had been behind the hit? But why? Tallis asked himself. What would Darius gain by eliminating Cavall? The more he grappled with the possible answers the more confused he felt. Nothing made sense. As far as Darius was concerned, Cavall was in the middle of handling a daring operation. If Darius had dispatched Cavall, how would he trigger the rest of the killing machine? Then another creepy thought flashed into his head. What if his arrival at Darius’s meeting yesterday had somehow jeopardised Cavall’s position? He’d no idea what had transpired after he’d left, what had been said. Had he, unwittingly, signed Cavall’s death warrant? If he had then it gave added credence to the plain fact that Cavall was not who she said she was.
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