The Last Exile (25 page)

“Do we stay in touch?” Constantine said anxiously.

“Too risky.”

“How will we know if we can come back?”

There was optimism for you, Tallis thought. “Watch out for the personal ads in the Friday edition of
The Scotsman
.”

T
IME
to shake things up a little, Tallis thought, driving onto the forecourt of Trans Logistics and Distribution. He walked into Reception. Destiny was filing her nails. She looked up and beamed at him. “Your lucky day.” He beamed back. “You can go home early.”

Destiny glanced at the door leading to Jace Jackson’s office. “You sure?”

“Absolutely positive,” Tallis said, reaching for her jacket and popping it round her shoulders. “I’m sure a pretty girl like you has got better things to do with her time—Saturday night and all that.”

“Well …” She grinned awkwardly. “It is tempting.”

“There you go, then. Don’t worry, I’ll square it with the boss,” he said, breaking down any further resistance by guiding her firmly and purposefully towards the door.

When Jackson appeared twenty minutes later, Tallis had his feet up on the desk and was eating an apple Destiny had left in her drawer.

“Fuck you think you’re doing?” Jackson said, shock swiftly superseded by anger.

“Thought that was obvious.”

“Where’s Destiny?”

“Bit of a philosophical question for a Saturday afternoon.”

“Now, look here, if you don’t get out—”

“You’ll call the police,” Tallis finished, parking his size tens on the floor and standing up. Jackson really was a little squit, he thought, towering over him. “You know, that’s the second time someone’s said that to me this afternoon. Gets a trifle dull after a while. Thing is, Jace, I am the police, or rather I’m bigger than the police. I don’t have to do things by the book. I don’t have to caution you, or observe PACE—Police and Criminal Evidence, for your information—or follow procedure. I really am a law unto myself.”

Jackson stared in confusion then broke into a nervous smile, a feral expression in his eyes. “Hey, Craig, it’s cool. I’m cool. You should chill. Why don’t you and I have a drink? Got a lot going down at the moment, business and stuff, but I can take time out for a mate.”

Tallis batted back the smile with a withering version of his own. He was neither in the mood for being humoured nor given the brush-off. “Talking of mates, you never said you knew Dan Tallis.”

“Dan who?” Jackson frowned, putting a hand to his forehead.

“The copper who arrested Barzani.”

“Fuck me, why would I? I told you, Craig, I wasn’t there.”

“Of course,” Tallis said, a facetious note in his voice. “You were with your mum and girlfriend, having a quiet night in.” A belt-and-braces alibi, Tallis thought. “You deny ever meeting Dan? Used to pop in quite a bit, as I understand.”

“Well,” Jackson said, blowing out between his teeth,
“now you come to mention it, there was a bloke by that name. The garage was on his beat. Like you said, he’d drop by, have a chat, proper community policing before they had all them cutbacks. Spoke to my dad more than me. Let us know if any cars had been stolen, plates nicked, that kind of thing.”

“Tipping you off,” Tallis said darkly.

“Not the way you mean,” Jackson said, clipped.

“And which way’s that?”

Jackson said nothing.

Tallis let it lie. “Why didn’t you tell me about Barzani’s accident?”

“Nothing to tell.”

“You said it wasn’t serious.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Is that why you told him not to go to hospital?”

“I did no such—”

“What were you trying to protect?”

“You’re talking shit, know that?” Jackson said, an unlovely twist to his mouth.

“See, I’ve been doing some thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“For you, yes,” Tallis fired back. “Did you know you’re in exactly the right business for smuggling in illegals?”

“That’s bollocks,” Jackson burst out.

“Shit, bollocks—my, you’re coming out with everything today, Jace.”

Jackson scowled. Tallis wasn’t giving up. “Is that how Barzani got here? Travelled in one of your trucks? Was your dad in on it, or did he find out and blow his stack?”

“You’re mental,” Jackson sneered.

Tallis leant towards him. “First thing you’ve said today that’s true. I’m not sure exactly what happened that night
your father was killed but, educated guess, you were involved. In fact, I reckon you’re in shit up to your eyes. Think about that. Nice trainers, by the way.” Tallis glanced down before heading for the door.

“Found Barzani yet?” Jackson screamed after him. “Found the real fuckin’ murderer?”

“Yes,” Tallis said, without looking back. “Standing behind me.”

Jackson locked up the premises ten minutes later and climbed into his car, a silver Mitsubishi Evo VII, a shit off a shovel motor in Tallis’s opinion. Tallis followed several cars behind, thanking God it was rush-hour, both vehicles similarly impeded by traffic.

Jackson drove south-east towards Selly Oak. In spite of the rain, the city was a river of colour—buildings, people, all shades of faces and dress. Still heading south, they passed through the leafy avenues of Bournville, home to the Cadbury chocolate family. At last, the traffic freed up, the Evo putting on a deliciously quick show of speed, wheels sticking like chewing gum to the hot tarmac, before finally slowing down as it approached King’s Norton then speeding back up again. Tallis eased back. The Evo, with its rear spoiler, was easy enough to spot. Weaving its way surely down streets and across junctions, the Evo finally slowed and turned right into Grassmoor Road, which Tallis knew to be a cul-de-sac. Pulling over, he got out, locked up the Rover, and went the rest of the way on foot.

Tallis found Jackson’s car on the drive of a large family-sized detached house with a white two-door garage fixed to the front. Divided from the next-door property by trees on one side and fencing on the other,
the house backed onto natural woodland—probably explained why it had the rather unoriginal name of The Spinney, Tallis thought. At the end of the drive stood a large green wheelie-bin.

The flash of activity coming from upstairs was unmissable, Jackson moving from one bedroom to another with the same urgency as a man intending to flee the country. Tallis smiled with satisfaction. He’d probably put enough wind up Jackson to goad him to do something really stupid. He returned to his car and called Belle.

“Hi, stranger,” she said.

“Missed me?”

“Sound as if you’re fishing for compliments.”

“Sorry I put you in a tricky position yesterday.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Find anything out?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And insatiable.”

“Coming over?”

Tallis looked at his watch. “Later?”

“How later?”

“Couple of hours, maybe more.”

“Could be less?”

“Why?”

“I fancy going out to eat.”

“OK. I’ll do my best,” he said, cutting the call.

Heavy rain darkened the sky. Some summer it was turning out to be, Tallis thought, and all that stuff about global warming. He wondered idly where they’d eat out for dinner later. There were a number of places round The Mailbox: Thai, Indian, Italian, French. Be like old times but without the deception. Much against his will, his thoughts turned to Dan again. As much as he despised his
brother, he found it hard to believe that Dan had malign connections with Jackson. When they’d been kids, Dan had always mixed with the right crowd, the good lads. He’d always been a bit of swat, truth be told. He himself, on the other hand, had always been attracted to bad boys, to the thrill of breaking rules, of taking risks. Homework and learning had been for dullards.

Tallis looked at his watch. Unbelievably an hour had passed. Maybe he wouldn’t get to eat at all. Maybe Jackson would stay in for the evening, phone a mate, rent a thug …

Suddenly the Evo blasted out of the driveway and sped off towards the main road. Tallis climbed out of his car and walked quickly back to The Spinney. Fortunately, the road was quiet. Most people were either inside or rescuing the remnants of washed-out barbeques. A smell of burning impregnated the air. Opening up the wheelie-bin, he pulled out several black bin-liners, each tied neatly apart from one at the bottom, which he opened. Inside was another bag. It felt as if it contained a box—cardboard, judging by the feel. Tallis drew out the parcel and unwrapped it, lifting his elbow up so that his jacket formed a natural shield from the rain. Sliding off the lid, he looked inside and smiled. Nestled in the box like a baby in a crib was a single pair of old Adidas trainers.

“Present for you.”

“Rubbish?” Belle looked confused.

“Evidence.”

Confusion was swiftly replaced by disapproval. Didn’t make any difference. She still looked gorgeous to him. She was wearing a dress the colour of crushed garnets, sleek-fitting, displaying her wonderfully lithe figure. Her
legs were tanned and bare, heels high. If they weren’t going out to eat, he could think of a much better way to spend the evening. “Come on,” he said, putting the bag down and taking her hand. “We can talk over dinner.”

They went outside and crossed over the bridge, Belle’s heels clicking against the metal supports. “Where do you fancy?” he said. He felt in an incredibly good mood. Things weren’t exactly going his way but the small triumph of finding the trainers, which would, he was certain, implicate Jackson, made him feel a lot better.

“Not fussy. Somewhere simple. Café Rouge?”

“You sure? It’s a bit ordinary.”

“I like ordinary.”

“Is that why you like me?” He gave her slender waist an affectionate squeeze.

“Nothing ordinary about you,” she said, squeezing him back.

They went inside and received the warmest greeting imaginable. A table was found, menus produced, drinks orders taken. Out of five staff, three were Polish, including the young woman running front of house. The service was charming and the waitresses, Tallis thought, were all easy on the eye. The Poles had probably done more to improve the service industry in the UK than any other nation, Tallis thought. If this was the Polish invasion, bring it on.

Their drinks arrived—lager for Tallis, white wine for Belle—the food order taken.

Belle leant across, took his hand. Her eyes looked tawny in the muted light. “Where did you get to last night?”

“Home. Things to do.”

“You weren’t cross with me?”

“No,” he said, taking a drink. “You with me?”

“A little.” She smiled.

He smiled back. Belle blushed. All of a sudden she looked utterly vulnerable. He guessed that was what had first attracted him, long before Dan had married her, or laid a finger on her. Not that he’d ever acted on his attraction. Belle had been his brother’s girlfriend and later his wife. To cross the divide would had been like breaking the biggest taboo imaginable.

“I spoke to one of the SOCOs involved in the original case,” she said.

“They remember that far back?”

“Memories like PowerMacs.” She took a sip of wine. “I’ll start with the easy stuff first. Warfarin is prescribed in varying doses, anything from three or four milligrams up to twenty. The dose is dependent on the clotting mechanism, which is measured by what’s called an INR test, basically a blood test carried out on the patient. Varying factors, which might influence this, are weight gain or weight loss and whether he or she has consumed alcohol. In Barzani’s case, he was on a relatively low dose, didn’t drink, weight low. The most it could stay in his bloodstream would be around thirty-six hours. As you suggested, in theory it’s possible that the rat poison at the scene could have contaminated the sample.”

He nodded, motioned for her to continue. It wasn’t a critical factor any more.

“No sign of break-in, which figures.”

“No, it doesn’t. Len Jackson returned to the garage at around ten o’clock that evening. Chances are he’d have locked the door after him, meaning that if Barzani was the killer, he’d have forced his way in.”

“Surely, as an employee, he’d have a key?”

“Maybe,” Tallis conceded. “But not necessarily.”

“Could easily have stolen one.”

“All right, point taken, but there was the small problem of how he got there. No record of him travelling by bus or cab.”

“Maybe he hitched.”

“Wouldn’t someone remember?”

“Doesn’t mean to say they’d come forward.”

Tallis flashed a smile. “You seem to be shooting all my theories down in flames.”

“Not quite,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Remember, this was the early nineties. DNA technology wasn’t as advanced as now. According to my very observant source, there were lots of overlapping footwear impressions from victim and assailant, but there was also a fresh single print that didn’t match the rest.”

“You mean it belonged to a guy with one leg?”

Belle burst out laughing. “Hadn’t thought of that. No crutch marks were mentioned.”

“A guy with no legs.” He grinned. “They manage to isolate the prints?”

“The assailant wore trainers, universal brand so not much help.”

“Barzani known to wear trainers?”

“Yes, but there was no direct link.”

“You mean a trainer belonging to him wasn’t found to have blood on it?”

“No.” She took a sip of wine, her eyes suddenly widening. “That explains the trainers in the box.”

Tallis flashed a knowing grin.

“Where did you get them from?” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“You tell me.”

She leant towards him. “You want me to analyse them?”

“No, wear them. Of course I want you to analyse them,” he said with a sharp smile.

“We might not have the wearer’s DNA on our database,” she protested.

“Odds on you will.”

She let out a long heartfelt sigh.

“Please, don’t give me all that stuff about your job,” Tallis said. “There’s a bloke out there who’s a murderer and a thief.”

“A thief?”

“He stole fourteen years from Rasu Barzani.”

The food arrived. He’d ordered a pancake stuffed with smoked haddock. Belle had ordered the mussels. After he’d taken the edge off his hunger, he reminded her about the single foot impression.

“Right,” she said, popping a mussel into her mouth and licking her fingers. “It belonged to a heavy-duty shoe, size eleven.”