The Last Exile. E.V. Seymour
presume.”
Tallis shook his head sadly. “She was given very specific directions to get to the airport, but from Euston. I even drew a map for her.”
“We found it. It was in her hand luggage. Thing is, there was an incident at Coventry, which meant a change of train and change of destination.”
“What type of incident?”
“Cow on the line.”
Tallis nodded for Ashby to continue.
“Know what kids are like. Any deviation and they panic. Can’t find their way out of a paper bag, most of them, and what with her being a foreigner.”
Tallis cast Ashby a sharp look. He didn’t think any offence was intended, probably just the way it had come out, and to be fair to the guy there was truth in the statement. He let his eyes drift and rest on a folder on the desk. Ashby seemed to recognise the manoeuvre. The shine went out of his good-natured expression. He threw Tallis a penetrating look. No, you don’t, he seemed to say. “Knew her well?”
“She’d worked for Mr Elliott, a good friend of mine. Yes, I knew her well. Good kid,” Tallis said, cringing at the phrase. “I presume you’ve logged her movements from the station.”
“Witnesses are hard to come by. Nobody seems to remember her.”
“Could always do a scene reconstruction.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Because you have your man.” Tallis smiled. “Fast result.” It sounded critical, even though he hadn’t meant it to be.
Ashby smiled back, cool. He pushed the folder over to Tallis. “Warn you, it’s not nice. Stabbed five times and throat cut for good measure.”
Tallis didn’t react, didn’t miss a beat. He opened the file, took out the crime-scene photographs, studied them. The first frames displayed the outer perimeter of the scene, shots taken from a distance—the road, the sign for the car park, the outline of bottle recycling bins. Then he looked at the close-ups. She was on the ground at an awkward angle, face to one side, barely identifiable. Too much blood. Too much chaos. It was an appalling scene, even to Tallis’s experienced eyes.
“Good job we’ve got the piece of shit off the street,” Ashby said.
“Post-mortem carried out?” Tallis said, looking up.
Ashby nodded.
“Any sign of sexual assault?”
“None.”
Thank God, he thought. Not that it made any difference. Felka was dead.
“There was extensive bruising,” Ashby said. “She put up quite a fight.”
“Weapon found?”
“Not yet. Serrated blade, judging from the nature of the wounds.”
“And the offender?”
“Fits the profile—young, opportunistic, disordered. Blood was found on one of his trainers and a substantial amount on his clothing.”
“So pretty conclusive?”
Ashby agreed. “We’re not looking for anyone else.”
“Think robbery might have been the motive?”
“Quite possibly. We’ve several reports from witnesses that he’d been hanging around the area, begging and behaving in a threatening manner to those not disposed to give him money. He was the last person to be seen with her.”
Tallis nodded, took one last look at the photographs. He didn’t doubt Ashby. It looked like an open-and-shut case. “Your suspect,” he said, “still banged up here?”
“Waiting for his brief.” Ashby exchanged a conspiratorial smile with Tallis. Duty briefs were busy people. It could take time for one to materialise. In the meantime, they could sweat the Somalian.
Ashby stretched back in his seat. For someone in charge of a murder investigation, he seemed very laid-back, Tallis thought, probably because the investigation was buttoned down and there was a distinct lack of urgency.
“Possible for me to see her?”
Apart from mortuary staff and investigating police officers, only close relatives of the deceased got to see the bodies of their loved ones, mostly for identification purposes. As the Rakowskis spoke no English, and he was to act as interpreter, he’d be needed to accompany them to the mortuary, but he really wanted to see Felka alone. Somehow, he felt as if he owed it to her.
Ashby frowned, studied him for a moment, his look one of extreme doubt. “Bit irregular,” he said.
“Not to worry,” Tallis began. “It was—”
“But I guess, as it’s you …” Ashby suddenly smiled “… we could stretch a point.”
Ashby drove. Conversation en route to the mortuary revolved around Arsenal, Aston Villa’s performance under Martin O’Neill and the latest cricket score. “Used to play a bit myself,” Ashby said, “but don’t get the time now.”
The formalities swiftly dispensed with, Tallis was shown into a viewing suite. The contrast from the crime scene shots was powerful. Cleaned up, Felka resembled a statue. Apart from where the gaping wound to her throat had been sewn up, and the bruising on her arms, her skin was the colour of old alabaster. In death, Tallis thought, she seemed childlike. He resisted the temptation to bend over her pale cheek and kiss her.
“That her?” Ashby said.
Tallis affirmed it was. “Extensive cuts to her hands,” he murmured.
“Defence injuries.”
Tallis nodded sadly.
“Come on,” Ashby said, giving his elbow a nudge. “I’ll buy you a drink. You look as if you could use one.”
Tallis cracked a smile, allowed Ashby to guide him back out into the world, to cleaner air untainted by death and decay.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE Rakowskis eventually arrived six hours later. They looked like any other bereaved parents—shocked, red-eyed and frightened. Tallis did his best to convey his condolences, but there was no language in the world that could soften the blow of losing a child, especially in such horrific circumstances. He stayed with them at the police station, acting as interpreter, escorting them to the mortuary and eventually booking them into a small hotel nearby. As he left to travel back to Birmingham the following morning, Mr Rakowski, a small man with ginger hair and a wispy, greying moustache, clasped his hand with both of his, thanking him profusely. Mrs Rakowski, handsome in spite of the emotional drain on her features, tipped up on her toes, kissed him on both cheeks, just as her daughter had done less than forty-eight hours before. As Tallis walked away, he felt choked.
Driving back up the motorway, exhaustion started to play games with his concentration, the misery he felt at Felka’s sudden and violent death inexplicably triggering thoughts of another long past miserable episode in his life when he and Dan had engaged in a fistfight in the middle of their parents’ kitchen. For weeks, Tallis had suspected that Dan had been stealing money from him. What had most upset him was that the loot had been so hard earned—he’d saved it up from many nights of laborious washing up in a rathole of a pub, then the only avenue to making money for a twelve-year-old schoolboy living out in the sticks.
He couldn’t remember now on what pretext he’d challenged his brother. Try as he may, he’d had no hard evidence that Dan was stealing yet he could come to no other conclusion.
Dan threw the first punch. “You little tosser,” he snarled, missing Tallis by inches.
“Tosser?” Tallis sneered back. “You’re the one with the mucky magazines. I’m surprised the whole village hasn’t heard you jerking