The Last Exile (12 page)

“Only those engaged in criminal activity.”

“Such as?”

“Minor theft, getting pissed on wages day and falling into fights—mostly triggered by hostile locals.”

“Which nationalities are we talking about?”

“Eastern Europeans.”

“Be more specific?”

“Albanians, some Poles, Lithuanians, Romanians, Hungarians.”

“Come across many women?”

“Only those who find themselves pregnant and want to go back home.”

“Pregnant?”

“Up the duff, in the club …”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what it means, Darren.”

“Then why all the questions?”

“I’m looking for a forty-three-year-old woman by the name of Ana Djorovik.”

“Go on.”

“She has a penchant for conning desperate women into giving up their babies.”

“Bloody hell. Got form?”

“Did time in Holloway for murder.”

“What makes you think she’s here?”

“I don’t. Just following a hunch.”

“I’d normally say instinct’s highly overrated but, in this instance, you might be onto something. The beauty of fruit-picking is that it’s still pretty unregulated, doesn’t have the same risk attached to it as cockle-picking, and doesn’t require much skill. If you want to disappear under the radar, it’s as good an environment as any. Want me to keep an ear to the ground?”

“I’d be grateful.” Tallis furnished his old friend with a full description, including details of the tattoo. “And, Darren?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my enquiry to anyone.”

“No problem, mate. Mum’s the word.”

They parted in the main car park in town with the promise to talk again soon. Tallis followed his mother out of the city, flashing his lights as she forked right to go and pick his father up and he forked left, following the route to Harry Alder’s place. Tallis didn’t know exactly how many acres were cultivated, but it was one of the largest farms in the area, a mix of arable and dairy, cider production in the autumn, strawberries in the summer. Like most successful farmers, Alder had diversified. The handsome black and white farmhouse provided bed and breakfast for tourists, and Alder’s wife was a frequent presence at farmers’ markets supplying the discerning shopper with home-grown meat, cider, perry, fruit and jam.

At last, Alder’s place snapped into view. Flanked on both sides by orchards of apples and pears, the road was a switchback. Turning off at the sign, Tallis drove down a long beaten-up track, pitted and rutted with potholes. As Tallis rumbled up and down the gears in the Rover, he wondered if the suspension would hold.

Parking next to Alders’ Range Rover, Tallis climbed out of the car into a day that seemed to be getting hotter and hotter. On hearing his arrival, two Jack Russell terriers scooted out of the house and snapped at his heels, followed by a red-faced Alder. “Kick the little bastards,” Alder roared.

Sorely tempted, Tallis managed to resist.

“Mitch, Chalkie, get your arses here.
Now!
” Alder bellowed, his face the colour of a burst tomato. Mitch and
Chalkie had other ideas. Breaking off in different directions, they did a quick circuit round Tallis’s car, peeing up the wheels, and came back, nipping and snapping at his legs before finally disappearing back inside.

“Sorry about that,” Alder said.

“Good guard dogs.”

“It’s their size. Makes them bolshie. Bit like people,” Alder gave a wheezy laugh, both shoulders shuddering. Pint-sized himself, his wide girth supported by extraordinarily bandy legs, Alder was no stranger to aggression, particularly when he’d had a few. “You here on your dad’s behalf?”

“No.”

“That’s all right, then.” Alder’s cheeks puffed out like a pair of bellows. “How is the old man? Heard he wasn’t too clever.”

“Not so good,” Tallis agreed.

“Fancy a snifter? Got a nice glass of cider on the go and the missus won’t be back for hours.”

Tallis didn’t particularly care for the stuff but thought it the best way to pump Harry for information. They walked inside to a wide, flagstoned hall with doors off both sides. Fortunately, the dogs were nowhere to be seen.

“In here,” Alder said, showing Tallis into a vast kitchen with a big refectory table and chairs running down the middle of the room. Alder gestured for Tallis to sit down while he fixed the drinks, but Tallis wandered over to the window. The views extended across much of Alder’s land and a fair slice of Herefordshire.

“Those new buildings over there?” Tallis said, narrowing his eyes against a brilliant sun.

“Converted pig pens.”

“Converted to what?”

“Accommodation,” Alder said, handing him a glass of what looked like a urine sample.

“Really?” Tallis frowned, taking a cautious sip of liquid so strong it felt as if his salivary glands had been grabbed and squeezed dry.

“For the workers.” Alder grinned.

“Locals?”

“Must be joking. Won’t get out of bed for less than a fiver an hour, lazy buggers.”

“Where from, then?”

“Poland and Hungary, mostly.”

“No Romanians?”

“Wouldn’t have a clue.”

“You don’t check?”

Alder’s piggy eyes suddenly narrowed with suspicion. “What’s this all about, Paul?”

“Sorry, Harry,” Tallis said with a wide smile. “There’s me rolling up without any warning, taking your valuable time without a word of explanation. Thing is, I’m looking for someone—a woman.”

Alder smirked and slapped Tallis’s arm. “Always appreciated a bit of skirt, right from when you were a lad.”

Tallis did his best to smile. Alder was just another in a long line who’d fallen for Dan’s crap about his so-called womanising. “Not like that, Harry. This is work. Thing is, she’s here illegally, in trouble with the law.” A worried look sped across Alder’s face. “It’s all right.” Tallis smiled. “Nothing for you to worry about. Strictly between you and me.”

Alder’s piggy little eyes examined him over the rim of his glass. “Heard you left the police.”

“Yes.”

“So it’s not official.”

“A private job.”

“Got you.” Alder grinned sagely, taking a deep pull. “And you think she might be here?”

“It’s a real long shot, to be honest.” He pulled out the photograph from his wallet, showed it to Alder who shook his head doubtfully.

“What sort of trouble she in?”

“Theft. Bit handy at casing joints, houses where it’s assumed there’s stuff worth taking.”

“Bloody hell,” Alder said, looking around him, suitably alarmed.

“All right if I go and take a look, talk to a few people?”

“Be my guest,” Alder said, downing his drink. “As long as you don’t keep them too long from their work,” he added with a grin.

There was no shortage of workers eager to talk to him about the fifteen-hour days they were forced to work, the inadequate food, the denial of proper dental and medical care when necessary, but nobody had either heard of Djorovic or seen her. That would be too easy, Tallis thought as he made his way past the bank of strawberry fields and back to the farmhouse.

He found Alder sprawled out in an easy chair on a veranda, half-dozing in the afternoon sun. “No luck?” Alder murmured sleepily.

“Thanks, anyway,” Tallis said, making to leave. “Oh, one thing, Harry.”

“Yeah?” Alder said, prising open one eye.

“Word to the wise,” Tallis said, tapping the side of his nose. “Make sure your workers get a better deal. They might not live here but they still have rights. Wouldn’t like
Health and Safety or one of those rabid trade unions getting wind of their conditions.”

Alder was still gesticulating and swearing as Tallis drove down the drive. Looking into his rear-view mirror, Tallis laughed at the fat little man jumping up and down like a spitting gremlin. The only surprise was that Alder hadn’t set the dogs on him.

The rest of the afternoon and the next three days were spent travelling around fruit farms in Herefordshire, Shropshire and Worcestershire. Rolling countryside, fabulous weather, response mixed, result negligible. Some farmers were cagier than others. Of those who were helpful, a few allowed him free rein to talk to their workers, but nobody could give him the information he wanted. Driven mad with frustration, Tallis was resigning himself to scouring Kent, Somerset, half of Cambridgeshire, maybe even Perth for the raspberry season, before ditching the entire idea and going back to first principles when he experienced a minor breakthrough. It was right at the end of Thursday afternoon. He was talking to a local woman called Chrissie at a small fruit farm in Great Witley, twelve miles from the cathedral city of Worcester.

“I’ve seen someone like her, but not here.”

“Where?”

“The village shop up the road.”

“You think it was her?”

Chrissie nodded. “The woman I saw had dyed chestnut hair, but you don’t see many tattoos like the one you described,” she explained.

“When was this?”

“Month ago, maybe more.”

Tallis’s heart sank. A month was a long time. She could be anywhere by now. “Remember what she said?”

“Only that she was looking for work.”

“What kind of work?”

“Picking, farm labouring, that kind of thing.”

“Say anything else?”

Chrissie smiled. Late thirties, maybe older, she had a lived-in face, worn, weather-beaten features, like she spent a lot of time outdoors. She had a nice way about her, sexy with it, Tallis thought appreciatively. “She offered to read my palm.”

“What—just like that?”

“Not quite.” Chrissie laughed. “Ever been to a village shop?”

Last time had been twenty years ago. “I’m more of a city dweller.”

“You can spend all day there talking about nothing and everything. It’s quite an education.”

“Take your word for it.” Tallis grinned. “So you got talking?”

“Yeah. She seemed all right.”

“All right?”

“You know. Not spooky, like those gypsies who shove a piece of heather in your hands and ask for money, or visit a curse on you.”

“Notice anything else about her?”

“One of her hands was bandaged.”

“The left one.” The one with the sharpened nail, he thought.

“Yeah,” Chrissie said, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Because you saw the tattoo,” Tallis said, quick thinking, “and that’s on her right hand.”

“Right.” Chrissie laughed. “There’s me starting to think you’re the mind-reader.”

She leant forward showing an impressive expanse of
cleavage. Tallis caught a whiff of strong scent, vanilla and rose at a guess. “So what did she say about your palm?”

“Oh, no, I’m not into all that stuff. Have a hard enough time dealing with the past without knowing where my future lies.”

It was the classic tell-me-more trap, Tallis thought, and he wasn’t falling for it, no matter how wide and inviting her smile. “Mind, there was something else,” Chrissie said, this time less enigmatically.

“Yeah?”

“Told me I hadn’t got any kids.”

“And have you?”

“No.”

“Fifty per cent chance either way.”

“No, you don’t understand. I had an accident when I was younger. I actually can’t have children. She said she knew.”

And that wasn’t spooky? Tallis thought. He’d never understand women as long as he lived.

“Any idea where she was heading?”

Chrissie shrugged. “Annie in the shop mentioned her brother’s place near Evesham. He farms there, always looking for casual workers this time of year. Don’t know whether she followed up on it, though.”

“Got a name?”

“Roger Addison. Honeysuckle Farm. Sounds quaint, doesn’t it?” She laughed. Lots of little ridges appeared on the bridge of her nose. Made her look cute, Tallis thought.

“Thanks, Chrissie, you’ve been really helpful,” he said, climbing back into his car.

“Wait,” she said, scooting round to the driver’s side. “Got a phone with you?”

“Well, yeah …”

“Take my number in case you need another chat.” She beamed invitingly.

The land surrounding the vale of Evesham was flat and peppered with landfill sites, the town itself a cobbled-together mixture of ancient and modern. Tallis preferred the older part, he thought, admiring the black and white half-timbered buildings and remnants of original medieval wall. It wasn’t hard to imagine the scene of the great battle that had taken place there between Henry III’s son and a rebel group of barons led by Simon de Montfort. De Montfort had been annihilated. Over four thousand men had died that August day in 1265.

Honeysuckle Farm lay several miles outside the town near the charming picture-postcard village of Fladbury. On arrival, Tallis made out he belonged to a private agency responsible for locating Ana Djorovic. “The information I have to relay to her is of a personal nature,” he added obtusely. Addison, a tall giant of a man with a big smiling face and a gentle disposition that belied his size, was keen to help. “Yeah, that’s her all right,” he said, looking at the photograph in Tallis’s hand.

“She on site?” Tallis said, hardly daring to believe his luck.

“Too late, I’m afraid. Moved on a week ago.”

“Reason?”

“I fired her.”

“Oh?” Tallis said, casual with it.

“She wasn’t a good worker. Spent too much time talking.”

“About what?”

“What most women talk about,” Addison grinned loosely. “Men.”

“That it?”

“Not quite,” Addison said, sudden seriousness in his expression. “My wife, Jackie,” he said, concern in his voice. “Ana bothered her.”

“Bothered?”

“Jackie’s pregnant with our second child. Ana was always pestering her about the baby—when it was being born, where, what plans she’d made, whether she was going to hospital or opting for a home delivery.”

“An unhealthy interest,” Tallis interposed.

Addison nodded. “Sometimes my wife would catch Ana staring at her. Made her feel uncomfortable.”

“Threatened?”

“Really upset her.”

“Can I talk to your wife?”

“She’s in the sitting room, feet up, doctor’s orders, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Let me have a word first.”

Addison disappeared, leaving Tallis in the large quarry-tiled hall that doubled as an office. A battered old filing cabinet stood in one corner, and a table littered with papers, mugs and an ancient-looking computer butted up to the far wall. Addison reappeared moments later. “Go on through,” he said, indicating a door. “Sitting room’s on the left.”