E.V. Seymour - The Last Exile

“You spent hours shifting stuff about.” His mother laughed.

His mother’s laugh was so rare these days it made Tallis misty-eyed. “No change there,” he told her.

“Still steeped in home alterations?”

“‘Fraid so. Not that I seem to be making a great deal of progress. The garden’s a wilderness and I still can’t decide whether I did the right thing, knocking the sitting room through to the kitchen.”

“Must be costing you a fortune.”

“It is.”

“Thought about getting a lodger?”

Only if they were dark-haired, thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six. Tallis smiled to himself. “I don’t think so, Mum.”

“Might help with the money.”

“The way the place is, I’d have to pay them.”

His mother laughed softly. “Think you’ll stay?” The question was floated like a feather on a millpond. He was aware that his father had suggested he sell up and divide the proceeds with Dan.

“For now,” Tallis said, noncommittal. “Depends on work.”

This seemed to satisfy her. They talked a little more, briefly mentioned his sister, Hannah, her kids, but he could tell that his mum was anxious to end the call. Probably time to administer more drugs to his father. She promised to phone again towards the end of the week. “Doug and Kredge,” Tallis murmured fondly, putting the phone down and returning to the sitting room.

“Jesus!”

Tallis started. He was freezing cold and mildly disorientated. Must have fallen asleep on the couch, he thought, looking blearily around him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed light. Noise, he registered, noise from … Then it stopped. He staggered to his feet, went through the arch into the tiny galley kitchen and stared at the phone. Who the hell was calling on his landline at this time? Then another noise started, less intrusive. He dashed back to the sitting room to where his cellphone was vibrating on the coffee-table. He snatched it up, thinking it might be his mum, but didn’t recognise the number, then, shit, he thought his dad had taken a turn for the worse, that … “Max?” Tallis said, bewildered.

“Sorry to disturb you.”

“It’s all right,” he said, dizzy with relief. “I wasn’t in bed.” He should have been, he thought, checking his watch. It was three-thirty in the morning. “Something wrong?” Tallis said. ‘Course it bloody was.

There was an uneasy silence as though Max hadn’t quite rehearsed what he was going to say. “Just had the police on the phone.” His voice was grave. “They got my name from Felka’s belongings.”

“Something happened to her?” Of course it had. He knew only too well how people dished up bad news. It started in increments.

“She’s dead,” Max blurted out. “Murdered.”

Tallis felt as though someone had drop kicked him in the kidneys. Four questions pounded his brain. Where? How? When? Why?

“Found in Lisson Grove near the Harrow Road Flyover.”

“What the hell was she doing there?”

“God knows.”

“But I gave her detailed instructions. She was supposed to take the tube from Euston.”

“There was some problem with the rail network, an incident on the line. She had to change trains so she arrived at Marylebone instead. I guess she got disorientated.”

“How was she killed?” Tallis said tonelessly.

“Stabbed.”

“You know why?”

“Does there have to be reason?”

“I was wondering whether it was a mugging, or robbery.” Then another thought occurred to him. “Any sign of sexual assault?”

“Christ, not that they mentioned. Would they tell me a thing like that?”

“Maybe not.”

“They’ve arrested a guy, a fucking illegal, Somalian, the police said.”

Tallis briefly closed his eyes. Somalia was a country of extreme violence, some of which had been exported to Britain. Guy was probably zombied out on khat, a cheap, highly addictive drug, which had already crippled the Somalian economy and help fan the flames of civil war.

“Should have been deported months ago but went to ground,” Max continued.

Tallis swallowed. His throat was so tight it hurt. “Her parents been informed?”

“Just coming to that. They’re catching a flight to London later today, should arrive around five o’clock British time. I could get the next plane back, but …”

“You’ve already travelled halfway round the world.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s not that. They don’t speak a word of English.”

“You want me to meet them?”

“Could you?”

“Of course.”

“You sure? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“Not a problem, Max. Let me grab something to write with and I’ll jot down the details.”

Tallis kept a night-time vigil. He didn’t pray for the girl with the flame-coloured hair because, although brought up in the Catholic faith, he wasn’t a believer, but he did plenty of thinking. As darkness made its slow and ponderous passage into the light, Tallis recalled their first meeting. He’d been having a drink with Max. Felka had bounced into the drawing room and introduced herself. She’d seemed so eager to please, to make a good impression.

All sorts of other images flashed through his mind. Felka with the baby juggled on her slender hip, of her playing with the older boy, nursing the kids when they were unwell, cajoling them to eat their meals—quite the little mother. And only eighteen years of age. Snuffed out before she’d even got started. He frowned and drained the last dregs of the Scotch from the bottle into his glass. She’d once told him that her name meant lucky.

As the first rays of sun bled across a pale blue sky he thought of the balletic way in which she’d moved, how she’d spoken, that strange intonation on certain words, how she’d flirted. And, of course, he remembered the sensual way, the very last time he’d been with her, she’d whispered in his ear. Felka, he thought sadly, what a terrible, terrible waste of a life, and what a Godawful way to die—lost, alone, in pain in a strange land. He hoped her little brother would always remember her. Raising his glass, Tallis promised never to forget.

TALLIS paid no attention to the design of Marylebone Police Station in Seymour Street. Copshops were copshops. He’d been inside enough of them during his career not to take much notice.

He approached the Formica-topped reception desk and gave his name to a female desk sergeant, stating the reason for his visit. Instructed to take a seat, he was informed that Detective Inspector Ashby would be with him shortly. Tallis sat down, staring at the various posters on the wall, reading them without digesting a word. All he could think of was Felka and the miserable way she’d died.

“Paul Tallis?”

Tallis started, stood up, shaking the hand of the man standing in front of him. “Tony Ashby,” the DI introduced himself. He was mid to late thirties, small for a police officer, Tallis thought, but the world-weary eyes and the shadows underneath them were one hundred per cent copper. “You’re here regarding Miss Rakowski?”

“I’m collecting her parents from the airport.” Except the flight had been delayed due to a security alert.

“Ah, yes, they’re catching a later plane, I understand.”

“That’s why I came here.”

Ashby inclined his head. Confusion misted his eyes.

“Thought I could help,” Tallis said.

Confusion morphed to suspicion. “In what way?”

Tallis met his eye. “I used to be in the force.”

Yeah, yeah, Ashby’s expression seemed to say. So bloody what? Then something happened, like a light flashed on in his head. “Tallis,” Ashby murmured, emphasising the syllables. “You were one of the firearms officers got roasted in Birmingham.” He said it slowly, meaningfully.