The Last Exile (14 page)

“I can’t just leave.”

“You can.”

“But the police …”

“You have to find her.”

Tallis ran a hand over his chin. He hadn’t a clue where to look. “Put out an alert on ports and airports.”

“Don’t tell me my job—just find the fucking woman.”

Ordinarily Tallis found the combination of upper-class accent and obscenity a turn-on. Not this time. “What about the stiff? My DNA’s all over the place.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

How? Tallis wondered. Cavall wasn’t above the law, even if she thought she was. “Look, something you should know—both women were recently interviewed by Devon and Cornwall police. They were in a pub in which a stabbing took place. Somebody is going to make the connection.”

“How many more times?” she railed. “I told you, it will be taken care of.”

“The woman’s committed murder, for God’s sake. She needs to go through the judicial system.”

“Tallis, I don’t have time for this.”

“Well, have time for this,” he snapped, staring at the body. “The girl was pregnant.”

The seaside resort of Salcombe was heaving with musos, wannabes, locals and luvvies. Finding nowhere to park, Tallis left the car at the top of a hill in a residential area of whitewashed houses and walked down a steep incline, curved like an upside-down coat-hanger, and into the town. A favourite with yachtsmen and holidaymakers, Salcombe’s tiny streets reeked of history and smugglers’ tales of derring-do, the natural harbour providing a dramatic portal to hundreds of creeks, making it, Tallis thought, a drug importer’s dream. But would Djorovic be there? If he were Djorovic, he’d be legging it up the M5. Jesus, maybe he’d gone the wrong way entirely. Maybe
he was wasting more precious time. Then he thought of Cavall. Would she have the sense to have the motorway covered? He looked around him in an agony of indecision, trying to focus. Who the hell in their right mind would go to a music festival when they’d just committed the most appalling act of murder? Conversely, Djorovic didn’t strike him as a particularly sane individual. To catch her, he needed to think with her illogical, superstitious mindset.

Tallis pushed his way through crowds of people, and inhaled the strong smell of salt and alcohol mixed with sweat and high spirits, the vibrant sound of salsa music pulsating and growing louder and louder in his ears as it funnelled down the narrow street. Mums and dads clutching their children close to them, it was as much a family event for locals as it was for marauders, Tallis thought, watching a bloke wearing shorts and flip-flops do a moonie in front of some shrieking teenagers. Further on, drunken nautical types cavorted with braying women spilling drinks with lots of greenery in them while a couple of coppers looked on, benign. Would the sight of the law be enough to spook Djorovic?

Slowly and tenuously, Tallis found his way to the centre of town and a square used routinely as a car park, judging by the location of some toilets. At the end was a quay signposted Whitestrand.

Set against the exotic backdrop of Salcombe Harbour, a large stage, where a ten-piece band were belting out a hip-twisting number to the obvious delight of the crowd, formed the main attraction. Tallis pushed, cajoled, smiled his way to the front near the music and turned round and faced the assembled crowd. Combing through any number of eager-looking faces, he came to one painful
conclusion: he’d have difficulty identifying his own mother in the crush. After a few lame attempts at
‘Have you seen this woman?’
and flashing the photograph, he beat a retreat and walked past the ferry steps and a pub of the same name, up the hill away from the noise and clamour, trying to think.

The shops looked more expensive, as did the restaurants. A smell of garlic and cooked onions in wine pervaded the salt sea air. As if to illustrate the cultural divide, a high-class estate agent, with windows lit by soft halogen, displayed vast seaside retreats at eye-watering prices. Tallis walked up to the furthest end, where the road dipped and narrowed and led past a yacht club and the Marine Hotel, sensing that he was going nowhere. Turning round, retracing his steps, his mind nauseously flashbacked to the girl on the garden seat.

By now the band had finished one set and was about to embark on another. Tallis walked back down the main street, ignoring the route he’d first taken into the town. After exploring a short quay and peering into the windows of the Custom House, he continued past a shop selling rock and ice creams, a deli and restaurant, past The Fortescue pub at the end, weaving his way along by the harbour wall, feeling a light evening breeze play upon his face. The sun looked as if it had fallen and dashed itself on the ocean, shards of gold and red shooting up into the darkening evening sky.

He found himself in a quieter zone of seaside flats and terraced hideouts with gardens lit by lamps and candles, their owners sitting drinking wine, territorial. The less privileged congregated on the few available wooden benches along the quay, eating pasties and listening to the soothing beat of small boats bobbing against the sea wall,
threads of light casting a silver sheen across the water. Hearing a mewing sound behind him, Tallis stopped, turned, stepped aside with a smile to allow a woman pushing a pram to get by. As the pram drew level, he glanced down at the crying child, a newborn by the look of it, not that he knew much about babies other than his sister’s brood. This one was blotchy-faced with a milk spot on its lips. Weeny, he thought. Then he saw the hands that pushed the pram. He looked up, met the stranger’s eye, felt as if someone had thumped him with a cattle prod. Part of him wanted to grab her then and there but, aside from the child, those weren’t his orders. Instead, he watched, slipping into the shadows behind her, and called Cavall.

Wide road of terraced houses, junk shop on the opposite side, nameplate: Island Street. He relayed the information. “There’s a problem. She has a baby.”

“Fuck,” Cavall said. “Stay with her. Team will be with you asap.”

“What about—?”

“Do it.”

“But—”

“I forbid you to make an approach, understand?”

Tallis closed the phone, kept moving. The baby was really crying now. Djorovic, seemingly oblivious, wearing a long flowing coat too warm for the time of year, walked with a sure stride, heading, it seemed, to a chosen destination. Either that, or she was trying to escape the night. Tallis wondered how long he’d got to spring her, how difficult it would be with a baby involved, how soon Bill and Ben would reach them.

The landscape was changing—houses one side, boat-builders,
yards, sailing shops the other. Something inside told him that Djorovic knew he was in pursuit. At any second he expected her to veer off down one of the side streets or alleys, into one of the nooks and crannies, and face him down. Maybe some of the superstitious nonsense had rubbed off on him. Suddenly a flurry of teenagers appeared from nowhere, jostling and leaping like frogs on speed. Without warning, Djorovic shoved the pram hard into the middle of the group and took to her heels. In slow motion, Tallis imagined the pram spin, keel over, throwing the child headfirst out onto the road. He broke into a run, shouting. One of the lads made a grab, catching the pram inches from hitting a brick wall. Another lad was already lifting the screaming baby out, comforting it. Tallis yelled at them as he flew past, told them to contact the police.

Another wave of late-night revellers rounded the corner, not too pleased to be forced aside by a man perceived to be running full tilt after a woman. Fortunately for Tallis, they were too apathetic to do anything about it. But his momentary lapse in concentration had cost him. He found himself in a boat park, Djorovic nowhere to be seen. Christ, he thought, regretting the call he’d made to Cavall. Bill and Ben wouldn’t be too pleased at a no-show.

The man drove the car at speed. The woman followed the map reference and issued instructions. Belonging to MI5, they were playing the role of immigration officers, taking their orders directly from the Home Office. Unlike real officials, both were armed. They didn’t want another screw-up like last time.

Their mission was crystal clear—pick up the woman, without force, weapons only to be used in exceptional circumstances.

More crucially, they were to be as convincing as possible to those they encountered, their brief to identify, watch and observe the players, find out their contacts and see where they led.

“What’s that ahead?” the man said.

The woman glanced up. “Shit, looks like a car’s gone off piste and into the wall. Slow down, there’s a body lying in the middle of the road.”

“Fuck, we don’t need this.”

“Can’t just drive away.”

“All right, you call an ambulance. I’ll check it out. Be two ticks.”

The man stopped the car, got out, and ran towards the body. He didn’t make it. Only saw the flash and black. Startled, the woman reached for her weapon, the last thing she did before she, too, was shot in the head at point-blank range.

Footsteps masked by the eerie clank of halyards, Tallis darted up and down, hugging the boats for cover, peering behind yachts, dinghys, gin-palaces, fishing craft, sensing that Djorovic was near but unable to locate her. At any moment police would arrive, he thought, worried. Deciding his only option was to hide and sit it out, he positioned himself behind a large yacht lying like a sleeping dog waiting for its master’s return.

Minutes thudded by. With the only light from a blossoming moon, Tallis adjusted his eyes to the shifting shadows, hunkered down, kept absolutely still, letting his breath out in short, shallow bursts. In the distance, he heard the sound of a car engine and saw two gauzy beams of light spread over the hill and power across the horizon. The cavalry, he thought, conscious of the net closing and
Djorovic hidden. Somewhere. Shifting his gaze desperately back to the boats, he heard another noise, a popping sound, like gunfire, followed by an almighty explosion that made him jolt. As he gazed up towards the hill, great flames of light flashed into the night, illuminating the sky. Must have been wrong, he thought. Not the cavalry at all, just lads torching a car, having a laugh.

A scuffing noise, the briefest sound, nothing more, suggested someone else had heard.

Tallis tuned his ear. Unfurling his body, he snaked to the left, eyes scanning a ramp that led down to the water. Heart beating, a warm glow radiated in the pit of his stomach. She was there. He knew it. To hell with containment, he thought. If he didn’t get her, she’d escape.

He moved noiselessly, almost within reach of the ramp when, screaming like a banshee, she exploded from behind a pile of wooden crates and lobster pots and came straight at him, splitting his cheek open with one flick of her wrist. In pain, and with blood pouring down his face, he lost the advantage, and she came at him a second time, hand stretched out, nail glinting in the moonlight, sharp as a razor, this time aiming for his eyes. Tallis countered by twisting his head, flicking blood into the fast-cooling air and following up with a straight finger jab to her throat that felled her and sent her to her knees. Her weapon arm partially paralysed, so great was the damage to her throat, she flailed wildly, staring at him, eyes rolling, voice guttural, cursing. Only the sound of a car racing across the yard prevented him from giving Scissorhands a follow-up blow. He turned: Bill and Ben. The bloke, Tallis noticed, seemed a little out of breath, as though he’d had to bust a gut to get there. A smell of petrol hung in the air.

“Should get that looked at,” the woman said, jumping
out and marching past him, seizing hold of Djorovic. Her colleague followed and clamped on the handcuffs.

“Should get
her
looked at,” Tallis said, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his cheek, which hurt like fuck. “Don’t suppose either of you carries a pair of nail scissors.”

“Could just pull it out,” the man said deadpan, manhandling Djorovic to her feet.

“Joke,” the woman cut in, amused by Tallis’s perplexed expression.

From somewhere, he heard the distant sound of police sirens. Shit, he thought. Strangely, neither Bill nor Ben seemed concerned. The woman pushed Djorovic towards the car.

“She had a baby with her,” Tallis said. “Some lads rescued it. They called the police.”

The man traded glances with the woman. Tallis picked up on it. “See any?”

“No.”

“Hadn’t we better check?” Tallis said. “Make sure the child’s all right.”

Another exchange of glances.

“Can’t.”

“But— …”

“Don’t worry,” the woman said smoothly. “We’ll call Cavall, get her to follow it up.”

“Right,” Tallis said, uncertain.

“Anyway, looks like you need some hospital attention.”

He was already coming to that conclusion. Gently probing the wound told him that he needed at least three stitches. “Cadge a lift?” Tallis said. He didn’t fancy walking back through town again, even if most of the revellers had gone home.

“Jump in,” she said.

The woman drove, Tallis riding passenger, Djorovic in the back with the minder. Silence descended, punctuated only by Djorovic raining down a curse on all of them.

They dropped him off by the Z8. His last vision as their car disappeared from sight was of Djorovic and the hatred alive in her eyes.

Suspecting fish hooks, heat exhaustion, sunburn and alcohol poisoning were more their line, Tallis took his chances and turned up at South Hams Hospital in Kingsbridge, hoping to find and persuade a young, good-looking nurse to sew him up.

“Looks nasty,” a nurse said, neither young nor good-looking. She prodded the wound as if he were insensate to pain. “How did you do it?”

“Slipped with a razor.”

“You’ll be telling me next the moon’s made of cheese,” she said, eyeing him perceptively.

Tallis said nothing. She could think what she liked. He wasn’t budging.

“Been quite a night of it,” she said, ruthlessly fishing. “Mothers mislaying their babies, drunk and disorderly, scuffles, road accidents …”

“And here’s me thinking Devon’s such a sleepy place.”

“Not local?”