The Last Exile. E.V. Seymour
at him like a lion taking down an antelope. The rest was a blur of shouts, blows, scrapes and fingernails in skin. That’s why Tallis didn’t realise that his father had stepped into the fray. Until it was too late.
“Come here, you little bastard,” his dad cried out, his cheek already beginning to swell where Tallis had landed one on him.
“What’s going on?” Tallis heard his mother cry.
“Stay out of this, Sandra.” Dad never called her by her Croatian name, Sanja.
“Accused me of stealing,” Dan said, bloated with indignation. “More likely, one of your mates. Right little tykes.”
“This true, Paul?” his dad demanded, eyes cold with fury, fists jabbing the electric air.
But Tallis’s gaze was on his mother. A curled hand was pressed hard against her mouth, the white knuckles making indentations in her skin. Her eyes were full of anguish.
“What, Mum?” Tallis said, suddenly feeling his skin crawl.
His mum turned imploringly to her husband. “I meant to put it back. I was going to,” she insisted. “It was just to tide us over, money being tight,” she mumbled, apologetic.
His father stared at her with belligerent eyes for what seemed like minutes then everyone gaped at Tallis. He, the accuser. He, the one who’d hit his father in anger. Dan, by contrast, wore the triumphant expression of someone who’d just won a phenomenal game of poker.
His father ensured that his youngest son was sorry for making such a poor error of judgement with a beating cut short only by his wife’s intervention. Neither of them noticed Dan looking on, mouthing Stupid cow in his mother’s direction.
He spent the rest of the journey wishing he’d taken Max up on his offer of the BMW. The Rover had about as much acceleration as a snail, and there were too many lorry drivers playing boy racers. Knights of the road, he thought grimly as yet another beast of a vehicle veered out in front of him without warning in a vain bid to overtake a similarly sized juggernaut.
His thoughts meandered to Cavall, the visit, illegal immigrants, what Finn would dig up, if anything. Questions that shouldn’t have concerned him spiked his thoughts. How do people go to ground? If they want to become invisible and lead an invisible life, where do they go? How do they reintegrate into a society when they never had a stake in it anyway? Easy, he thought, they don’t. They’re much too hard-wired for bad. All right, but I’m good at bad, he thought. So how would I go about finding someone who is hell-bent on disappearing into the ether? No National Insurance number to check, no Inland Revenue, no bank accounts, no driving licence. All the usual routes blocked.
He pulled off at the next service station, got out, stretched his legs and bought a shot of high-voltage caffeine. Taking a thoughtful sip, he reckoned the best place to look for people on the run would be in the kind of traditionally low-paid industries where nobody asked questions—building and construction, fruit picking, food preparation, kitchen work. In spite of threatened government clampdowns, unscrupulous employers still exploited those ripe for exploitation. But this was all obvious stuff. The guys Cavall was talking about had either returned to their criminal careers or gravitated towards people of the same ilk: in other words, one and the same. That’s why his skills undercover all those years before were important to Cavall, he realised. Infiltration was key to information.
He climbed back into the Rover, slotted Eminem into the CD player, jacking up the volume, and swiftly joined the M6. His first assignment undercover had been to chat up and gain the trust of a known drug dealer by posing as a dealer from another part of the country. For a short, adrenaline-spiked period of time, Paul Tallis hadn’t existed. Whether it was because he’d been a tearaway as a kid, or the dark side of his nature had come to the fore, he’d slipped into the role with unsettling ease. Humans, even the male of the species, were predisposed to gossip, and most secrets were leaked not because arms were twisted up around backs but in the natural course of trading information and friendship, usually down the pub. Two important lessons he’d learnt were never underestimate the enemy and always treat them with respect. But that was all a very long time ago. Undercover was all right, but it was the buzz of firearms that had turned him on, which was why, as soon as he’d been able to get back into it, he’d leapt at the chance.
Eminem was cracking on about one shot, one opportunity when Tallis’s mobile rang. He pulled over onto the hard shoulder, turned the volume down. It was Finn. “Cavall’s a political adviser with a formidable reputation. Educated at Cheltenham Ladies College and studied Political Science at Cambridge, where she was awarded a first class honours degree. Recruited by the Home Office, she worked for four years as a research officer before moving further up the food chain. Known to be a real babe with an obsession for meeting targets.”
Tallis scratched his ear. He couldn’t imagine Sonia Cavall being anyone’s baby, more the type of woman to freeze a guy’s plasma. “So you’re saying she’s above board?”
“As much as anyone in the department,” Finn said in a voice tinged with cynicism. “Gather she’s a bit of a cause merchant.”
Tallis thanked Finn and promised him a pint then pulled Cavall’s calling card from his pocket. He had meant to chuck it away, but Felka’s death had changed everything. Maybe a cause was what he needed.
After a hot shower and coffee, he rang Cavall’s number and listened to the click and buzz of the call being rerouted.
“Cavall speaking.” Not Sonia, not hello.
“Paul Tallis. That job you wanted me to do, I’ll take it.”
Silence.
“Hello, you still there?”
“I am.”
More silence.
Suffering Christ, the woman was a ball-breaker. What did she want him to do, beg? “Of course, if you’ve appointed someone else …”
“Why the change of mind?”
Change of heart would be more accurate, Tallis thought, but he wasn’t going to discuss his motives with Cavall. “Something to do with my bank balance. You’re all that stands between me and penury.” Actually, he hadn’t checked his finances for ages. He tried not to. Every time he did, he was deeper into his overdraft.
“So it’s money.” Her tone was scathing.
This time Tallis said nothing. After suffering at the hands of his father, he was no longer easily humiliated, and if she were going to be sodding difficult, he’d rather forget the whole thing. “I suppose I could fit you in tomorrow,” she said, finally. Sounded like a huge favour was being bestowed.
“Can’t,” he countered. No apology, no excuse, no reason. He had nothing planned, but he was fucked if Cavall was going to exert that much power over him.
“All right,” she said crisply. “Botanical Gardens, outside the Orangery, thirty minutes.” Click. Tallis closed the phone. Females for you, he sighed, unpredictable, capricious and utterly enthralling. No doubt about it, this was going to be a battle of wills. And in his experience, women always won.
He was three minutes early. Puffy clouds scudded across a sky the colour of a cormorant’s egg. The air seemed quieter because of the sunshine. It was going to be a nice day, he thought. Well, maybe.
Apart from staff, there were few people about at that time on a Thursday afternoon. Tallis paid the admission charge and made his way through the entrance, following a designated route outside and across landscaped gardens skirted by vibrant borders of rhododendrons and azaleas. According to the information sheet, there were more than four hundred trees, a rose garden, rock garden and terraces, as well as cactus, tropical and palm houses, but all Tallis could think about was Cavall, the job, what lay ahead.
She was already there. Wearing a white fitted jacket over black trousers and top, she looked more formal. He glanced at his watch: she was bang on time.
Cavall acknowledged