The Last Exile (29 page)

“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.

T
HE
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 necessary. 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.

With the utmost caution, Tallis approached the bungalow, checking and clearing each room, gun at the ready. There was no noise. No sign of another. Nothing looked disturbed. Next, he examined the undercarriage of the Rover. Satisfied that it hadn’t either been tampered with or had a device fitted, he climbed in and, without a second glance, drove
away in the direction of Max’s house. If he was going to reach London by nightfall, he’d need the Z8.

As anticipated, dogs, the huge slavering type that tore you limb from limb, greeted his arrival, barking and snapping, yowling like banshees. Tallis stayed in the car, doors locked, and put his hand on the horn. Mistake. Both dogs went crazy. One roared up to the car and hurled itself at the door, dashing itself against the steel in a psychotic frenzy. Fuck, Tallis thought, eyes watering at the thought of the cost to the paintwork. Eventually the front door swung open. Recognising the heavy with the white-blonde hair and razor-sharp cheekbones, Tallis took his hand off the horn and flashed his lights twice. The guy walked towards the car, cool as you like, the dogs bounding and howling, neither making any attempt to harm their boss. Tallis slid the window down half an inch. The mutts might be fine with Razor-Bones, but he no more trusted those animals not to take a lump out of the car and then start on him as he trusted in the tooth fairy.

“I’ve come to see John.”

“He’s not expecting anyone.”

“It’s urgent.”

The man blinked, told the dogs to sit, which they both did.

“Tell him Craig’s here to see him.”

“Tell him yourself. I’m not your errand boy.” The voice was big on disdain.

Great, Tallis thought, a heavy with a chip on his shoulder. “Those your dogs?”

“They belong to Mr Darius.”

“Judging by the way they’re behaving, I’d say they only had eyes for you. All right if I get out?”

The man nodded slowly. Tallis opened the door. The more aggressive of the two beasts, the one who’d launched himself at the car, got down on its belly, threw back its head and let out a long heartfelt yowl. The other cast Razor-Bones a pleading look.
Go on, let me have him
, his expression seemed to say. Tallis smiled nervously, felt his knees jackhammering. There was a horrible tingling sensation in his nose, an allergic reaction to the dogs. He pinched his nostrils together with a thumb and forefinger, desperate not to sneeze and frighten the mutts into a violent response. “What was that saying about don’t shoot the messenger?” He’d hoped for a laugh, for something to break the tension. The man looked at him as if he was speaking Latin.

It was the longest walk imaginable. The dogs padded along behind him, one at each side, sniffing at his clothes, tongues flicking with frustration, stinking breath hot against his trouser legs. With every step, Tallis felt as if he was a centimetre away from jaws and teeth and tearing skin, a nanosecond nearer to certain and agonising death. Too frightened to speak, he controlled his fear by humming an old Chris Rea number in his head, ‘Road to Hell’. By the time they reached the steps of the great house, he was wet through with perspiration. Razor-Bones frisked him. Tallis was expecting it, which was why against every instinct he’d left the gun in the glove compartment. Pity, he thought, the walk would have been so much more agreeable knowing he could have blown the psycho-mutts to pieces in the time it took to say Pedigree Chum.

“Go on through,” the man said. “Mr Darius is in the drawing room.”

Which one? Tallis thought, crossing the marble floor. In the lower light, the interior seemed more impressive,
if that was possible. The chandeliers alone were probably worth as much as his bungalow.

“In here, Craig.” Tallis followed the voice and entered a room of extraordinary grandeur. It felt as if he’d walked into the court of the Sun King. Darius was standing by a vast white marble fireplace flecked with what looked like gold onyx. “Hadn’t expected to see you so soon,” Darius said. “Not that I’m complaining,” he added with a brisk smile. “Drink?”

“Scotch, thanks.”

“That was quite some show of courage,” Darius said, crossing the thickly carpeted floor. So he’d watched, Tallis thought, considering what Darius’s response might have been had the animals turned on and toyed with him for their amusement. Darius was more casually dressed than the day before. Oxford weave dark green shirt, fudge-coloured chinos. “Not many people trust themselves to my dogs.”

“I didn’t. I trusted myself to your manservant.”

Darius cracked a smile. “I’m sure Heller would be amused by the phrase. Do sit down, by the way.”

Tallis preferred to stand but did as he was told. As Darius walked towards the drinks cabinet, his limp seemed more pronounced than before. Tallis commented on it.

“Riding accident many years ago. Kneecap’s virtually wasted away. Keep meaning to have the operation but it’s finding the time.”

“Is it painful?”

“Agony. Find this stuff helps.” Darius grinned, lifting a bottle of Chivas Regal and pouring out two generous measures. “That’s better,” Darius said, taking a sip, hobbling over to Tallis, handing him a tumbler. Darius took up a position by the fireplace. Classic ploy, Tallis
thought. By inviting him to sit, Darius assumed an authoritarian stance, he himself the role of supplicant.

“I’ll come straight to the point,” Tallis said.

“Please, do.” The smile was kindly. The eyes were devious.

“Sonia Cavall was found dead this afternoon.” Tallis took a drink, watched the reaction. He had to admit, Darius, if he knew anything, covered it well. His jaw dropped open, eyes went wide.

“My God, I don’t know what to say. I’m absolutely astonished, no, staggered,” he said, sitting down heavily. “What on earth went wrong?” Not how did she die, Tallis thought, suspicions aroused. He remembered Darius’s Oscar-winning performance in the pub, the theatre and heavy reliance on drama. Was this just another example of the same?

“She was shot.”

“Murdered? Oh, dear. Oh, Lord. And her poor mother. She’ll be absolutely devastated. Sonia was an only child, you see. How on earth did you find this out?”

Tallis glanced at the floor. He’d known he’d be asked the question. “We arranged to meet in Birmingham today. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Good God, no. I’d no idea. Were you two …?” he broke off. “No, that’s not possible. Sonia preferred women.”

Christ, Tallis thought. He’d never have guessed. Bang went his cover story. “It was terrible,” Tallis said. “Imagine the shock.”

“You found her?”

“She was in her car, sitting on the back seat, driver nowhere to be seen. To be honest, it looked like a professional hit.”

“Really? My Christ. But who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what I was hoping you might be able to tell me.” Tallis’s voice was neutral but his eyes were anything but.

“Me?” Darius said, a curl to his lip. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You had no inkling of her aspirations?” A much nicer way of putting it than murderous ambitions, Tallis thought.

“Depends what you mean, but …”

“And I’m afraid I did something really stupid.”

“Oh?” Darius said, eyeing him over the rim of his glass.

“I panicked and ran.”

“You poor fellow.”

“Sounds ridiculous, what with me being an ex-copper, but, you see, I know how these things pan out. You know, wrong place, wrong time. And my prints all over the damn place.”

“Yes, I see,” Darius said slowly, gravely. “Probably best to lie low. See what transpires.” There was a shifty expression in his eyes, suggesting that he was most definitely not in the market for offering help should it be asked for. Darius took another pull of his drink. “I’m extremely sad, of course, and I’m grateful for you letting me know, but I’m still not quite clear what you think this has to do with me.”

“I thought you might be next.”

Darius let out a hearty laugh. “This some sort of warning?”

“More a tip-off.”

“I’m touched. I really am. To think you’ve driven all this way, but there was absolutely no need.”

“No?” Tallis threw him a penetrating look. Because
you ordered the hit, he thought, or knew the identity of the person who ordered it? He was starting to think he wouldn’t get anywhere with Darius by playing softball.

Darius took another thoughtful sip. When he spoke there was more grain to his voice. “You never said why you were meeting her.”

“It rather followed on from our conversation over lunch. Sonia led me to believe my skills could be more fully utilised.”

“Still not sure I follow,” Darius said—making a good attempt to look confused, Tallis thought.

“Remember I told you I favoured armed struggle?”

“And both of us pointed out the disadvantages, as I seem to recall.”

“So you knew nothing of her plan to remove illegal immigrants?”

“Remove?”

“Kill.”

Darius’s jaw dropped open. “I most certainly didn’t.”

“You weren’t sponsoring the programme?”

“Do you realise what you’re saying?” Darius snorted. “You’re accusing me of plotting to murder.”

Oh, I’m doing a lot more than that, Tallis thought. He had to hand it to Darius. He was very, very good at playing the innocent. “Only words.” Tallis gave a playful shrug. “You said yourself you wanted the freedom to say what you thought.”

Darius’s response was to smile broadly. He leant towards Tallis in a paternal way. Something snagged inside Tallis. He realised that his dad had never looked at him with that kind of fond regard, never engaged him in argument without allowing his fists to fly. No wonder his brother had beaten Belle. He’d learnt it from their dad. “You don’t start
a revolution by knocking off a few illegals,” Darius said. “All that happens is a tit-for-tat response.”

“Leading to full-blown civil unrest.”

“Not a very appetising prospect,” Darius said. “If what you say is true, I’m not surprised Sonia wound up with a bullet in her head. She always did play fast and loose. But tell me, Craig, I find it a little hard to believe that you found out so much about Sonia’s venture on such short acquaintance. Am I right in thinking that you’d met before?”